h
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE
 
 HAI.I.ANTVNE, HANSON ANn OCX 
 EDINBl'RGJI AND LONDON
 
 LANETON PARvSONAGE 
 
 ^ 2rale for CfjiUireit 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 
 
 Oh ! say not, dream not, heavenly notes 
 
 To childish ears are vain, — 
 Tliat the young mind at random floats, 
 
 And cannot reach the strain. 
 
 Dim or unheard the words may fall. 
 And yet the heaven-taught mind 
 
 May learn the sacred air, and all 
 The harmony unwind. 
 
 T}iE Christian Vear 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, 
 
 AND CO. 
 
 1886 
 
 

 
 7=7? 
 
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * A/T-'^MMA,' said little Madeline Clifford, as she looked up 
 IVl from the work which she had been industriously hem- 
 ming for nearly a quarter of an hour, ' I want very much to ask 
 you a question.' 
 
 * Well, my love, what is it ? why should you be afraid ?' 
 
 * Because, perhaps, you will think it is curious, and would 
 rather not answer.' 
 
 * I can but say no, if I think it wrong.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is not wrong, I am sure ; but sometimes you tell us 
 not to trouble ourselves about other persons' concerns ; and 
 what I wish to know has nothing really to do with me, or with 
 any of us.' 
 
 Mrs Clifford smiled : ' Shall I tell you, Madeline,' she said, 
 
 * what you are going to ask ?' 
 
 ' You can't, mamma ; how should you know .'' you cannot 
 look at my thoughts.' 
 
 * But I can guess them, which sometimes does as well. What 
 made you listen so much to what Mrs Mortimer and I were 
 saying just now ?' 
 
 ' Oh, then, mamma, you do know : but I did not understand 
 when I did listen ; because I could not make out what Mrs 
 Moi-timer meant when she said that Lady Catharine Hyde was 
 going to adopt Alice Lennox. What is adopting?' 
 
 ' Taking her to be her own child ; and having her taught, and 
 clothed, and fed, as a mother would.' 
 
 * And will she love her ? ' inquired Madeline. ' I should net 
 
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 a LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 care for all the eating and drinking in the world if no one loved 
 me.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt Lady Catharine will,' replied Mrs Clifford, 
 * because she is a very kind-hearted person ; and AHce is most 
 fortunate in having found such a friend, now that she has lost 
 her mother.' 
 
 ' Lady Catharine was very fond of Mrs Lennox, was she not, 
 mamma?' asked Madeline. 
 
 * Yes, my dear, very ; and she promised, when Mrs Lennox 
 was dying, that Alice should live with her, and be to her as her 
 own little girl : and the fact of her keeping her word so strictly 
 in the one case, is a reason for believing she will do so in the 
 other.' 
 
 ' WiU Alice like it?' said Madeline, quickly. 
 
 ' I don't know, my dear ; and she is too sorrowful now for 
 
 any one to judge.' 
 
 'But, mamma, will she be Alice Lennox still?' 
 
 Mrs Clifford could not help smiling : ' Yes, my love ; why 
 
 should she not ? ' 
 
 ' But if she is Lady Catharine Hyde's child, how can she be?' 
 ' She will not be hers really, but only what is called adopted.' 
 
 * And so her name will not alter,' said Madeline. ' Persons' 
 names do alter though, sometimes, mamma : yours was Beres- 
 ford once.' 
 
 * Yes ; that was my surname ; I changed it when I was 
 married ; but my other name — my Christian name — I kept, and 
 nmst keep always.' 
 
 ' Mary, you mean,' said Madeline ; ' is that your best name?' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Mrs Clifford : ' Beresford is the name I had 
 when I was born into the world, of human parents ; but Mary 
 was the name given me when I was baptized, and made a child 
 of God. The one you see I have lost, but the other I keep.' 
 
 ' And Madeline is my best name then ; but I don't remember 
 that it is, when I am called.' 
 
 ' I am afraid we are all apt to forget,' replied her mother ; 
 ' and though a great many persons have never been baptized, 
 and yet are called by two names, that is no reason why we 
 should think nothing of our Christian names, and of the occa- 
 sion on which they were given to us.' 
 
 Madeline waited for an instant, and then said, ' So Alice 
 will be Alice always ; and yet she will seem different when she 
 lives at the Manor.' 
 
 • AC.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 3 
 
 * She will belong to a new family,' said Mrs Clifford : ' and 
 if Lady Catharine were to wish it very much, she might by and 
 by take the name of Hyde besides Lennox ; though I do not 
 think this is likely. Surnames can be altered ; Christian names 
 cannot. But you must not ask me any more questions, my dear 
 child : I have told you all I know ; and I am going out.' 
 
 Madeline looked as if she would willingly have kept her 
 mamma a few moments longer ; but Mrs Clifford was gone 
 almost before she had time to determine upon what was next to 
 be said ; and Madeline's only resource was to sit with her work 
 in her lap, and her head resting upon her hand, while she 
 thought upon what her mamma had said, and the sudden 
 change which had occurred in the life of her young companion. 
 
 Madeline's meditations, however, did not last very long. 
 They were interrupted by the sound of a child's voice pro- 
 nouncing her name ; and a stranger, on hearing the tone in 
 which it was repeated, would probably have started with surprise, 
 for the voice seemed Madeline's own. And still more, on turn- 
 ing to look at the little girl, who walked slowly into the room 
 with a book in her hand, upon which her eyes were bent v/hilst 
 she moved, it might almost have been supposed that two 
 Madelines, alike in every look and feature, were present. 
 There was the same fair complexion, the same light glossy hair, 
 the same blue eye, the same height and size. It was, to all 
 appearance, Madeline's second self. And if Madeline had been 
 asked, she would have said that her twin-sister, her darling 
 Ruth, was indeed her second self ; that what one liked the other 
 liked ; what one wished for the other desired too ; that they had 
 never been separated for a single day — scarcely even for an 
 hour ; that they had learned the same lessons from one book ; 
 that they had played, and walked, and slept together, day after 
 day, and night after night ; and that without Ruth she could 
 not imagine it possible to be happy for a moment. Ruth would 
 have said the same : yet the two sisters were not really alike ; 
 and even in their manner and appearance, it was possible for 
 a person who observed them carefully to discover many 
 differences. 
 
 Madeline's voice was clear and merry ; she ran about the 
 house singing and laughing, as if her heart was too full of 
 happiness to allow her a moment's rest. Ruth laughed and sang 
 also ; but her laugh was low, and her songs were quiet ; and 
 she was most frequently seen walking along the passage or up
 
 4 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 the staircase, reading as she went, in the same way as she was 
 doing when she just now came into the room. There was joy- 
 ousncss in Madehne's glance, and her mouth seemed formed 
 only for smiles ; but Ruth's clear, blue eye was thoughtful ; and 
 when she joined in Madeline's laugh, she was the first to become 
 serious again, and to remember a lesson, or a piece of work, 
 or something they had been told to do, but which they were 
 likely to forget. 
 
 In temper they were still more different. Madeline was hasty 
 and thoughtless, quickly put out of humour, but as quickly 
 recovering herself. She never hesitated to confess a fault when 
 she had committed it ; but perhaps the next minute the con- 
 fession was forgotten, and the offence repeated. 
 
 Ruth was said to be shy ; and many persons thought her 
 gcntie and humble ; for she blushed when she was reproved, 
 never made excuses, and always bore punishment without com- 
 plaining ; but her mamma sometimes grieved to find, that after 
 her little girl had done wrong, she kept away from her ; and 
 that instead of throwing her arms round her neck, as Madeline 
 always did, and begging for forgiveness, she sat silent, reading 
 or ^vorking, or learning her lessons ; and now and then allowed 
 hours to pass without expressing any sorrow. 
 
 Still, on the whole, Ruth was careful and attentive, and it was 
 but seldom that Mrs Clifford had occasion to correct ber; and 
 perhaps it was from this cause that the evil in her disposition 
 was not so easily perceived as in Madeline's. Ruth Clifford 
 was shy, and liked to keep to herself, and not to be obliged to 
 go into the drawing-room to speak to strangers, and she was 
 heartily ashamed whenever she had done wrong. But it was 
 not because she v/as humble that the colour rushed to her cheek 
 when she was reproved, but because in truth she was very 
 proud. As soon as she began to understand the difference 
 between right and wrong, Ruth learned to think herself much 
 better than Madeline. The servants scolded Madeline for 
 being hasty, but they praised her because she was gentle. They 
 complained of Madeline's thoughtlessness, but they declared 
 that Ruth scarcely ever required to be reminded of the same 
 thing twice. As they grew older, Madeline used to forget her 
 lessons, but it seldom happened that Ruth was not perfect in 
 hers ; and Madeline herself, when in disgrace, would frequently 
 cry, and wish she was half as good as her sister. Scarcely 
 any one guessed the great defect in Ruth's character to be want
 
 LANETON PAkSONAGE. 5 
 
 of humility, except her papa and mamma ; for pride is one of 
 those very serious faults which are oflen but little perceived, 
 and therefore the more difficult to correct. 
 
 But though Madeline and Ruth Clifford, like other little girls 
 of their age, had many faults which it required lime and care to 
 overcome, on the whole they were good children, whom every one 
 felt inclined to love. True and open, generally speaking, in all 
 that they did, good-natured and generous, and anxious to please 
 their parents, no one could live with them without being 
 interested in them. 
 
 Mr Clifford was a clergyman ; he was not rich, and he had a 
 large parish to attend to, a number of poor people to see every 
 day, and many duties to make him anxious, and sometimes sad ; 
 but he was a man whose first wish and endeavour was to obey 
 God, and therefore, whatever trouble he might meet with, he 
 had a peaceful, contented mind ; and when the labours of the 
 day were over, and he could enjoy a walk or a conversation with 
 his wife or with his children, he often said with a sincere heart 
 that the blessings of his earthly lot were such as to overwhelm 
 him with the sense of God's bounty. And certainly his home 
 was placed in a scene where the beauty of nature alone must 
 have given him enjoyment. 
 
 The parsonage of Laneton was situated at the farthest end of 
 a little village about half a mile from the sea coast. It was a 
 cottage, built upon a hill ; rather low, and long, and standing 
 upon a smooth piece of turf, with some pretty flower-beds in 
 front, and a row of large elm-trees upon a grassy bank at the 
 side. The road through the village passed it on the right, and 
 on the left it was bordered by a thick copse and some green 
 meadows ; while, directly in front, beyond the scattered dwell- 
 ings of the poor, and the trees which skirted the extensive 
 grounds of Haseley Manor, lay a broad expanse of the blue sea, 
 the curling waves of which broke upon a sandy beach shut in 
 by the steep red cliffs that formed the little bay of Laneton. 
 Laneton was but a small village, and in itself had no particular 
 beauty, but scarcely any one passed through without admiring 
 it. There was a peculiar air of neatness in the cottages and 
 gardens ; the flowers were bright, the Avindows clean, the 
 palings well kept. No thatch torn as if on purpose to admit 
 the rain and wind ; no broken fences, or mud walls ; no gates 
 off their hinges ; — it was a place which every one saw at once 
 was cared for. Some thanks for all this were due to Lady
 
 6 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Catharine Hyde, the possessor of Haseley Manor, and the 
 owner of nearly every cottage in the place ; but there was 
 gratitude of a still higher kind due to ]\Ir Clifford. It was his 
 goodness which had been the means of gaining an influence 
 over the poor people, and making them more constant at 
 church, and more attentive to their families ; it was his instruc- 
 tion which had brought the children of his parish into such ex- 
 cellent order, that to belong to Laneton was a recommendation 
 to the whole neighbourhood ; whilst his constant self-denial and 
 devotion made him spare neither time nor labour if he saw the 
 least hope of being of use to the humblest of those committed 
 to his care. All this trouble was shared by his wife — Mrs 
 Clifford did not indeed teach and advise the poor in the same 
 way as her husband, but she could and did work for them, and 
 visit them, and tell them how they were to take care of their 
 little ones. She helped them when they were ill, and com- 
 forted and felt for them when they were unhappy ; and thus 
 took from her husband half the labour of his heavy duties. 
 With such parents, Madeline and Ruth had spent a very happy 
 childhood, for they were taught to employ their time usefully, 
 and to be contented with the blessings which God had granted 
 them, and they had no idea that any home could be prettier, ot 
 any station in life better, than their own. They had scarcely 
 ever been away from Laneton, and they heard little of what 
 passed in other houses, for there were but few children in the 
 neighbourhood, and there was only one with whom they were 
 allowed constantly to play. 
 
 Alice Lennox was the only child of a widow lady, whose hus- 
 band had been an officer in the army. Mrs Lennox was a great 
 invalid at the time when she first came to live at Laneton, in 
 the small white house which fronted Lady Catharine Hyde's 
 lodge. No one seemed to know much about her except Lady 
 Catharine herself, and her attentions never ceased. Whether 
 it were from being lonely also, from having lost her husband 
 and having no child to interest her ; or merely from natural 
 kindness of heart ; or, as some people said, because they had 
 been friends in years gone by, and had promised, even in their 
 school days, that they would never forsake each other when 
 trials should come upon them ; certain it is, that Lady Cathar- 
 ine's affection for Mrs Lennox was very unlike that which is 
 generally seen. Few days passed without their meeting, for 
 scarcely any engagements were allowed to interfere with the
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 7 
 
 accustomed visits. Books, pictures, flowers, and fruit, were 
 regularly sent from the Manor, though Mrs Lennox had nothing 
 to offer in return but her gratitude and love ; and when the ill- 
 ness, which had been gradually increasing for many months, at 
 length was pronounced to be dangerous. Lady Catharine spent 
 days and nights by the side of her invalid friend, and seemed 
 to forget that it was possible to be weary whilst she could afford 
 a moment's comfort to one she loved. 
 
 Mrs Lennox was fully deserving of this affection, though few 
 praised, or spoke of her, except in pity. Only Mr Clifford often 
 expressed to his wife his surprise at the patience with which she 
 bore the most painful sufferings, and wished that he had been 
 acquainted with her in the days of her health, when he might 
 have been able, from conversation, to learn more of a character 
 which appeared so meek and so resigned. Sometimes, also, 
 when he returned from one of his frequent visits with a counte- 
 nance of sorrow, he would say that his grief was not for her, 
 for that she was fitted for the peace of heaven, and he could 
 not wish to keep her from it ; but that he mourned for her 
 orphan child, and for the dreadful loss which the death of such 
 a mother must be. It was no matter of surprise to him when 
 Mrs Lennox had breathed her last, and her child was left with- 
 out any relations who were able to protect her, to be told that 
 it was Lady Catharine's intention to adopt Alice Lennox, and 
 take her at once to live with her at the Manor. It seemed a 
 natural step for one who had shown so much affection to her 
 mother ; and when the wish was mentioned to him, he could 
 but say that it was a merciful arrangement of Providence, and 
 be trusted it might be a source of blessing to both Lady 
 Catharine and her little charge. The change would have been 
 a great event to any other person, but Alice was too unhappy 
 to understand it. When she was told that she was to leave the 
 small house which had been her home for the last two years, 
 and go to live at Haseley Manor, and be treated as the daughter 
 of Lady Catharine Hyde, she only cried bitterly, and said that 
 she would i-ather stay with her mamma's maid Benson ; she 
 did not like the Manor, it looked so gloomy ; and Lady Cathar- 
 ine was not her mamma, and she did not want to go to her. 
 A few persons wondered at the little girl's dislike to the notion, 
 and said that it was not natural, and showed that she had no 
 gratitude, and was very cold-hearted ; but Madeline and Ruth 
 Clifford, who had been Alice's playfellows for many months,
 
 8 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 understood a great deal more of her real feelings They knew 
 that she was not insensible to Lady Catharine's kindness, though 
 there were some things which made her feel frightened at the 
 thoughts of living with her. 
 
 * It is really true, Ruth,' said Madeline, as she jumped up 
 from her scat when her sister came into the room. ' Mamma 
 says that Alice is to live at the Manor. I wish she would let 
 me go and see her first.' 
 
 ' I don't think she will want to see us to-day,' said Ruth ; 
 ' we couldn't play, you know.' 
 
 ' No, not play, exactly, but I should like to talk to her, and 
 make her tell me whether she likes going. Do you know 
 that, perhaps, by and by, she will be called Hyde as well as 
 Lennox ? ' 
 
 ' Does mamma say so ?' inquired Ruth, in surprise. 
 
 * Mamma says she 7night be, but she does not think she will 
 be ; but she must be Alice always.' 
 
 ' Why imisi?' asked Ruth ; ' why may not Alice be changed 
 as well as Lennox ?' 
 
 * Because Alice is her Christian name,' replied Madeline, 
 ' and mamma says people keep that always.' 
 
 * I never thought before whether I had a Christian name,' 
 said Ruth ; * but I suppose that is why we answer Ruth and 
 Madeline, and not Clifford, when we say the catechism.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Madeline, pleased at having given her sister a 
 new notion ; * but if you were Alice, should you like to be called 
 Miss Hyde?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Ruth ; ' I think I should choose to 
 have my own name.' 
 
 * I like Lennox better than Hyde, too,' said Madeline ; ' but 
 it would be such fun to have a new name : shouldn't you like 
 to be adopted .'" 
 
 * I should not like to be Lady Catharine's child,' replied 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' No, of course, not to give up one's own papa and mamma ; 
 but Alice has none now.' Ruth looked grave. * It is very 
 dismal, I know,' continued Madeline, her bright face becoming 
 sad also j * but there will be a great many pleasant things at 
 Haseley which Alice never would have had if she had gone on 
 living in that little, poky house. All I should dislike would be 
 to have such a strict mamma ; doesn't it sound odd ? — I never 
 can fancy Lady Catharine a mamma, can you ? '
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 9 
 
 * No,' said Ruth, laughing ; ' she is just like a governess.' 
 
 * So she is — a stiff, starch governess, all set up and prim, 
 like Miss Meadows, who came here in the summer with Emma 
 Ferrers. If I were Alice, I would call her governess.' 
 
 ' No,' said Ruth ; ' that would be wrong, because you know 
 she is really so kind.' 
 
 ' And mamma says, too,' continued Madeline, ' that all gover- 
 nesses are not prim, and that she loved one of hers very much ; 
 but she lived a great many years ago. I should like to see 
 some more governesses, and then I could tell.' For a few 
 moments Madeline forgot Alice Lennox, whilst endeavouring to 
 remember exactly what Miss Meadows was like, and determin- 
 ing whether she would rather live with her or with Lady 
 Catharine Hyde. 
 
 Ruth was silent likewise ; but after a short pause she 
 exclaimed, * What I should like, would be to be as rich as if I 
 were Lady Catharine's child when I grew up. I wouldn't live 
 ivith her now, but I should like to have some great thing to 
 look forward to.' 
 
 ' That is such a long time to come,' said Madeline; ' I never 
 can think of things that are far off.' 
 
 ' Not so many years,' obscr\'ed Ruth ; ' we are ten now — in 
 eight years' time we shall be eighteen ; it docs not seem so very 
 long.' 
 
 ' It docs to me,' observed Madeline ; ' I can't understand 
 ^vhat it is for things to be going to happen so far off as one 
 year ; and that is a reason why I should not care to be Alice. 
 It would be no good to have pleasure to come by and by ; I 
 should want to have it at once.' 
 
 * I daresay Alice will have some pleasures,' said Ruth ; ' but 
 I don't know that I should much enjoy them, if I had to live 
 with that strict Lady Catharine, instead of our own dear papa 
 and mamma.' 
 
 ' I wonder whether we shall ever go and play at Haseley .'" 
 said Madeline. ' I heard Benson telling Alice it was such a 
 beautiful place for hide and seek.' 
 
 ' Lady Catharine does not like a noise,' said Ruth ; ' you 
 remember how she always kept on hushing whenever we went 
 into the white house, and she was there. Somehow, I don't 
 think I could play at the Manor.' 
 
 * Oh I as for that,' exclaimed Madeline, ' I can play any- 
 where ; and 1 don't diink Lady Catharine is cross exactly,
 
 10 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 though si'.a docs hush so much. I dare say she will not care 
 when tlicrc is no person ill in the house.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not/ replied Ruth, as if scarcely attending to what 
 her sister was saying ; and, after thinking for some minutes, she 
 added, ' it is the odd feeling I can't understand. It would be 
 like plaj'ing at being her child as we play with our dolls. I 
 don't think I should like it — no, I am sure I should not.' 
 
 * Well, I should,' said Madeline ; ' it is very strange of you, 
 Ruth, not thinking of things as I do. I don't mean, of course, 
 that it would be pleasant going away from home ; but if I could 
 go to a new house and a new place, with papa and mamma, 
 and you '■ — 
 
 ' And be Lady Catharine's child all the time,' said Ruth, 
 laughing ; ' she should be your mamma, Madeline — I would 
 not have her for mine.' 
 
 ' How I long to see Alice ! ' said Madeline. ' I fancy she 
 must be difterent, though it is such a little while ago that we 
 were with her. Mrs Mortimer said to mamma, that she heard 
 she was to go to the Manor to-morrow.' 
 
 ' To-morrow is the funeral,' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, I know it is ; shouldn't you like to see it ?' 
 
 * No,' replied Ruth, quickly. 
 
 ' Oh ! why not ? Cook said, that if we looked out of the 
 nursery window we should be able to watch it all the way to 
 the churchyard. Lady Catharine's great carriage is to be there, 
 and Mr Mortimer is going in a caiTiage too ; — there can be no 
 harm in looking.' 
 
 * I don't suppose there would be any harm in it,' replied 
 Ruth ; ' but I know it would make me cry, and I think it would 
 make you cry, too, Madeline. Don't you i-emember how kind 
 Mrs Lennox was whenever we went there, and how she used to 
 give us oranges and baked apples?' 
 
 Madeline looked a little ashamed : * I was not thinking of 
 Mrs Lennox,' she said, ' only about the carriages ; but, Ruth, 
 don't you think she is very happy?' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Ruth, ' yet I don't like her being gone at all 
 the more for that ; and when nobody lives at the white house, 
 1 shall hate passing by it.' 
 
 ' You are always thinking of something on beyond,' said 
 Madeline. ' I wish I could. I am sure no one would love me 
 if they knew I wanted to see the funeral — no one but you, Ruth ; 
 but you can't lieli) it^ because we are sisters.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 11 
 
 ' If Alice had a sister!' began Ruth. 
 
 *Ycs, wouldn't it be nice for her? She asked me one day if 
 you and I were not just like sisters to her, and I did not know 
 what to say. I don't think we can be like sisters to anybody 
 but ourselves — do you think we can?' 
 
 * No,' replied Ruth, earnestly; ' and papa and mamma would 
 not wish us to be. You know they said, only last Sunday, 
 when we were sitting in the arbour after church, that all our 
 whole lives, if we lived ever and ever so long, there would be 
 nobody to love us in the same way, because of no one having 
 just the same things to remember.' 
 
 * We have quite the same.' said Madeline, ' all the way back 
 as far as we can think.' 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Ruth, 'all from that red spelling-book which 
 uncle George gave us when we were three years old.' 
 
 ' And the work-boxes,' added Madeline ; ' and that time 
 when old Roger used to dip us in the sea — and the new cur- 
 tains to our bed, Ruth ; only I cried, and you did not, when 
 mamma would not let us pull them close ; and, oh, so many 
 things!' Ruth's memory was the clearer of the two, and one 
 thing recalled another, till the principal events of their short 
 and sunny lives had been named ; and then Madeline ended, 
 by throwing her ami round Ruth's neck, and repeating, ' Mamma 
 says there is nothing like a sister.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was in the cool of the evening, when the lessons were all 
 finished, that Ruth seated herself in the arbour at the 
 bottom of the garden, from whence she could see the boats 
 and vessels which were in the bay, and watch the fisher- 
 men mending their nets, or sauntering about on the sandy 
 beach, or leaning against the rocks waiting for the return of 
 their absent companions. It was Ruth's favourite spot ; and 
 she generally found great amusement in the sea and all that 
 was connected with it ; but on this day her eyes were not fixed 
 upon the blue waves, or the white foam, or the red sandy shore ; 
 but upon the old turret-like chimneys of Haseley Manor, which 
 were seen peeping above the trees to the right of the bay.
 
 12 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Whatever Ruth's tlioughts might have been, they employed her 
 £0 deeply, that Madeline called to her several times without re- 
 ceiving an answer ; and at last she begged not to be inter- 
 rupted, and allowed her sister to run races with Rover down 
 the long, green walk in the kitchen garden, without feeling any 
 wish to join her. Ruth was fond of sitting by herself, and 
 thinking about the things which she heard and saw every day ; 
 and trying to fancy what she should be like when she was a 
 grown-up woman. She seldom, however, spoke of her own 
 fancies ; and even her mamma often observed her grave moods, 
 without being able to find out their cause. The person who 
 made Ruth talk most was her papa. She had been taught to 
 look up to him with great reverence ; and when he asked her 
 questions, it seemed wrong not to answer them, though it was 
 often difticult to find proper words for explaining what she 
 meant. But Mr Clifford had a sort of power of guessing what 
 was in his little girl's mind before she had even attempted to 
 tell him ; and often repeated her very thoughts aloud in a way 
 which made Ruth start, as if she imagined he must be one of 
 the magicians or conjurors of whom she had sometimes read. 
 It\vas in the same arbour in which Ruth was now sitting, that 
 she had most frequently talked with her papa. Mr Clifford 
 liked it as much, or even more than Ruth herself; since he 
 could enjoy it not merely because the view was pleasant, but 
 because the sea, and the sky, and the steep cliffs with their 
 jagged edges overhanging the shore, and even the masses of 
 sea-weed tossed to and fro by the tide, made him think of the 
 unspeakable goodness of that Almighty God who has given so 
 much beauty to this sinful earth. 
 
 Ruth liked these conversations almost more than any amuse- 
 ment, though she felt sometimes that it would be difficult to say 
 anything in answer. She often listened silently, or only re- 
 peated yes and no, till her father had finished talking, and then 
 ran away to tell Madeline all that he had said, and beg her to 
 stay with her in the arbour the next evening and listen too. 
 But perhaps the next evening came, and Mr Clifford was en- 
 gaged in his study, or walking with her mamma ; and Made- 
 line thought it tiresome to wait for him, and chose to play 
 instead ; so days and even weeks passed before Ruth again 
 liad what she was accustomed to call a long talk. This even- 
 ing, when the air was sultry, and the sea looked motionless, 
 and not a leaf was stirring upon the trees, was just fitted for
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 13 
 
 sitting still. Ruth hoped her papa might perhaps come into 
 the garden, for she had seen her mother set oft" for the village ; 
 and she thought, if her father was left alone, he would be the 
 more likely to find his way to her ; and thus it proved. Ruth 
 had scarcely begun to think about the life which Alice Lennox 
 would be likely to lead at the Manor, when her papa's hand 
 was placed upon her shoulder : ' You are alone, my child .'' 
 where is Madeline ?' 
 
 '■ Playing with Rover in the green walk, papa ; but it is so 
 hot.' 
 
 'And you like best to sit still ; but I am not sure that it is 
 as good for you, Ruth — that is, generally ; perhaps to-night 
 tlicre is no harm in being quiet.' 
 
 ' We played last evening, and the evening before, and the 
 evening before that,' said Ruth, ' and I don't care for it to- 
 night ; and there is not room in the walk for two to run with 
 Rover.' 
 
 ' Is that the only reason for liking to sit still, and be alone ?' 
 inquired Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' Not the only one, papa. The sea looks so beautiful, and 
 the fishing-boats are just going off; and, besides that, I was 
 thinking about Alice Lennox.' 
 
 ' Poor child !' sighed Mr Clifford ; 'to-morrow will be a sad 
 day for her.' 
 
 ' Worse than to-day, papa, do you think 1^ 
 
 ' Yes, my love ; for many reasons. Some of them, perhaps, 
 you would not quite understand, for you have never known 
 what it is to lose any one you have loved very much ; and you 
 cannot tell how dreary and lonely everything seems, when we 
 have laid our friends to rest in the earth, and are obliged to go 
 back ourselves to our common duties.' 
 
 ' But Alice's life will be different after to-morrow,' observed 
 Ruth ; 'for Madeline says she is to go directly to live with Lady 
 Catharine.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mr Clifford, ' it will indeed be very different ; 
 but I do not think that is likely to make her less unhappy, be- 
 cause at first everj'thing will be strange.' 
 
 ' I was thinking of that, papa, when you came. Madeline 
 and I were talking about it all this morning, and Madeline said 
 she should like to be adopted.' 
 
 'And should you like it too, Ruth.?' 
 
 Ruth coloured, as she generally did when she was asked any
 
 14 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 questions about herself. ' I don't know, papa/ she said. * We 
 don't mean either of us, that we could bear to go away from 
 you, because it would make us very unhappy ; but only that 
 everything would be new and' 
 
 'And what, Ruth?' The answer was interrupted by the ap- 
 proach of Rover, who was quickly followed by Madeline. ' Now, 
 Rover, down ! down !' said Mr Clifford, as the huge black dog 
 put his paws upon his knees. 
 
 Rover and I have been having such fun !' exclaimed Made- 
 line : ' we have been running races ; and he is so good ; he 
 came directly I called him, though I knew he wanted to go into 
 the pond.' 
 
 ' And papa and I have been having pleasure too/ said Ruth ; 
 * at least I know I have.' 
 
 'Pleasure ! what pleasure.'" said Madeline, quickly. 
 
 * Talking pleasure,' replied Ruth ; ' and I like it much bettei 
 than running.' 
 
 ' I shall like it too, now,' said Madeline, taking off her bonnet, 
 and throwing it upon the ground ; ' I am very tired.' 
 
 Mr Clifford took up the bonnet, and placed it upon her head; 
 ' Prudence, Madeline, my darling ; there is no surer way of 
 taking cold than that ; and I am not inclined yet to see you 
 become ill, and perhaps die.' 
 
 ' You would be as sorry to part with us as we should be to go 
 away from you, papa,' replied Ruth. 
 
 Mr Clifford only smiled in answer ; and after a few moments' 
 silence, said, ' And yet Madeline thinks she should like to be 
 adopted by some one else.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, papa ! ' exclaimed Madeline, whose quick feelings 
 were instantly touched ; ' that was only when I was silly this 
 morning ; I did not really mean it.' 
 
 * But is there any harm, papa,' asked Ruth, timidly, 'in liking 
 to have something to look forward to when one is grown up, as 
 Alice Lennox will have, if slie is to be such a great person as 
 Lady Catharine Hyde's daughter.?' 
 
 ' No harm, my dear, if we look forward to the right things.' 
 Ruth's countenance showed that she did not entirely comprehend. 
 'You don't know what I mean, do you, Ruth .''' said Mr 
 Clifford. 
 
 ' Not quite, papa.' 
 
 ' It is rather difficult to understand; but supposing I v.-erc to 
 tell you that I had been adopted myself, and that you had both
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 15 
 
 been adopted also, and your dear mamma, and all your friends, 
 and that we had much greater things to look forward to than 
 any which Alice Lennox can have from merely being treated as 
 Lady Catharine Hyde's daughter, should you believe me ?' 
 The children did not answer ; but Madeline gazed wonderingly 
 in her father's face. 'It is not the first time we have talked 
 about it,' continued Mr Clifford : ' I think only last Sunda> I 
 heard you repeat words which spoke of it.' 
 
 'Sunday, papa?' repeated Madeline, hastily; but Ruth con. 
 sidered, and then said, 'In the catechism.?' 
 
 Mr Clifford rested his hand fondly upon her head. 
 
 ' Thank you, my child ; I am sure you understand me now. 
 What is it you say, Madeline, in the answer to the first question 
 in the catechism, when you are asked who gave you your Chri;;- 
 tian name.?' Madeline repeated the sentence; and, when she 
 had finished, Mr Clifford said, 'Ruth, you can tell me in your 
 own words why I have reason to declare that you and Madeline 
 have both been adopted.' 
 
 ' I can't tell, papa,' interrupted Madeline : 'I wish you would 
 teach me all about it.' 
 
 ' Then we must be grave, Madeline; and I think you are more 
 inclined to go for another run with Rover.' 
 
 * No, please stay ! ' exclaimed Ruth ; ' I like having you here 
 too.' 
 
 Madeline looked rather wistfully at Rover; but he was sooner 
 tired of play than his young mistress, and now lay with his eyes 
 shut, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sun. ' I 
 would rather stay, papa; and I will try and be grave, like 
 Ruth.' 
 
 ' It is a hard matter, I know,' said Mr Clifford; 'but when we 
 are talking about God and our blessed Saviour, we must endea- 
 vour to put away idle thoughts for the time, or else we sl^.all 
 do ourselves more harm than good. What I wanted to say to 
 you both is nothing new ; for you have heard a great many 
 times that you were made at your baptism children of God, 
 and inheritors of the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps, howescr, 
 you will be able to know better what this means when you have 
 an example, as it were, before you. Alice Lennox is to be Lady 
 Catharine Hyde's adopted child ; she is to have a fortune, and 
 to be what people call very well off in the world, when she grows 
 up, if she is good now. It seems as if she were a very fortunate 
 little girl, and so indeed she is ; but she had a much greater
 
 i6 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 blessing given her when she was baptized ; and so had you, for 
 then you were made God's children, and were promised a home 
 of perfect beauty and happiness in heaven, where no one can 
 ever feel pain, or hunger, or thirst, or cold, or heat, but w^here 
 you will live with God and the saints, and the holy angels for 
 ever. There is something, however, which we must always 
 remember, or we shall lose these great blessings. If Alice 
 Lennox were to be very ungrateful, and to disobey Lady 
 Catharine, do you think she would receive the same kindness 
 as if she were to endeavour to please her ? ' 
 
 * No,' said MadeHne ; ' but I don't think AHce will like to 
 do what Lady Catharine says, because Benson always lets her 
 have her own way.' 
 
 ' So much the worse for her,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' but that 
 would be extremely naughty in her.' 
 
 ' She is naughty very often,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Perhaps she is, but I think we had better leave her faults, 
 and think of our own. I am afraid we are all naughty very 
 often, and far more ungrateful to God than Alice can be to Lady 
 Catharine. And there is one great fault, Ruth, which we are 
 much more likely to commit against God than we are against 
 any human being. I do not suppose Alice will ever be wicked 
 enough to forget who gave her all her blessings ; but we do so 
 constantly.' 
 
 ' I don't think we do, papa,' said Madeline ; ' whenever any 
 one asks us who gave us our home, and our garden, and all our 
 things, we always say that it was God.' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear child, I daresay you do ; but there is some- 
 thing more required than merely to say it, especially when Ave 
 remember how much greater the blessings are which God gives 
 us than any we can receive froni our fellow-creatures. We are 
 really made God's children, but Alice Lennox is only adopted. 
 Do you know what the difierence is 1 ' Ruth thought she did, 
 but it was rather difficult to explain ; and Mr Clifford went on : 
 ' Look at that large tree on the bank,' he said, ' see how it 
 stretches out, and how thick the leaves are. There is a branch 
 lying on the ground close to it ; if I were to tell you to go and 
 fasten it on to the trunk, do you think it would grow ? ' 
 
 Madeline laughed at the idea. ' Oh no, papa ; we are not 
 so silly as that.' 
 
 ' Pnit what would prevent it from growing .? It would be like 
 the other, and be as near the trunk : what would it want ? '
 
 LA ^' ETON PARSONAGE, 17 
 
 * The sap,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, Ruth, you are right, it would want the sap, which is 
 constantly passing through the twigs and leaves, giving them 
 life and beauty, and making them parts of one tree. But do 
 you remember what was done with the pear-trees in the orchard 
 last year 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa ; they were grafted.' 
 
 ' Well, and what became of the grafts .'' ' 
 
 * Oh ! they are all living, and growing quite fast.' 
 
 * So, Ruth, there is a way of letting the branch of a tree into 
 the stock of another, so as to become one with it ; although no 
 mere fastening them together will ever make them one. Now 
 this, perhaps, will serve as an example to you of the diffe cice 
 between what has been done for Alice Lennox by Lady Cathar- 
 ine Hyde, and what has been done for us by God. Lpdy 
 Catharine may adopt Alice, she may in a manner fasten her on 
 to herself, that is, take her into her house, and treat her as hct 
 child, but she can never actually make her her own. They can 
 never have the same relations. But when God received us at 
 our baptism. He made us members of Christ ; He joined us to 
 our blessed Lord, as one of those living branches is joined to 
 the trunk, by giving us His own Holy Spirit ; and therefore as 
 Jesus Christ is the Son of God, so are we also the children of 
 God.' 
 
 ' Then, papa,' said Ruth, ' we are all certain of going to 
 heaven.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, my love, very far from it ; you told me that the 
 dead bough would not grow because it had no sao in it, but 
 that was not always the case, was it ? ' 
 
 ' No, papa,' exclaimed Madeline ; ' Thompson told me 
 yesterday, that it died away, he d'd not know how— the blight 
 destroyed it, he thought.' 
 
 * And so the blight may destroy us, my dear child ; the blight 
 of evil tempers, and vain thoughts, and idle words, until that 
 blessed Spirit which was given us at our baptism shall have 
 departed from us, as the sap from the dead branch ; and in 
 the eye of God we shall cease to be members of Christ, and 
 at the day of judgment shall not be acknowledged as His 
 children.' 
 
 Madeline seemed considering what had been said. ' I hope 
 we shall go to heaven,' she replied. 
 
 ' We all hope so,' said Mr Clifford, gravely ; ' yet we are as
 
 i8 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ungrateful for that hope, for having been made inheritors of the 
 kingdom of heaven, as we are for having been made the mem- 
 bers of Christ, and the children of God.' 
 
 * Inheritors means that wc are to have it by and by, doesn't 
 it, papa?' inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; but suppose that instead of looking forward, we were 
 to look back, and think of the means by wliich it was purchased 
 for us.' 
 
 The children were struck by the solemnity of their father's 
 manner. ' We should not go to heaven, if our Saviour had not 
 died for us,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' No, my dear child ; assuredly we should not. It is only 
 because He suffered for us, and bore the punishment wliich 
 our sins deserved, that we have any title to the happiness of 
 a better world. And how often do you think we love our 
 Saviour and thank Him for it ? ' 
 
 * It seems so hard, dear papa,' said Madeline; 'but I will try 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' To-night also, m.y darling, I hope ;' and then, after a short 
 pause, Mr Clifford added, ' see, Madeline, how lovely the 
 water is, with the waves all sparkling, and that broad light 
 upon it !' 
 
 ' And the sands,' exclaimed Madeline, ' they are quite shining; 
 there is old Roger standing by his boat, just by that large rock. 
 Ruth and I call it the white horse.' 
 
 ' How well the trees in the park look too !' continued Mr 
 Clifford. ' I don't think I ever saw them such a rich green as 
 they are this year.' * 
 
 ' The garden is better than all,' added Ruth ; ' mamma's 
 geraniums are so bright, and the roses and verbenas smell so 
 sweet.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Mr Cliflbrd, fervently, ' it is a most beautiful 
 world. But in that dark lane in Cottington, Madeline, where 
 you went with mc the other day to visit the poor man who 
 had broken his leg, there was nothing like this to be seen, was 
 there .? ' 
 
 * Oh no, papa ; the streets were all dirty and narrow, the 
 tops of the houses nearly touched ; and don't you remember the 
 naughty children quarrelling.?' 
 
 ' The poor man was in great pain,' said Mr Clifford, ' he had 
 nothing to eat, and no one to take care of him properly ; I
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 19 
 
 daresay he would like a change. There would be room for hius 
 here, if you and Ruth were to go and stay there,' 
 
 Madeline started, and looked at her father in fear. * O 
 papa ! how could we ? we should die.' 
 
 Mr Clifford was silent, and Ruth raised her eyes to see his, 
 to see if she could discover the reason. ' Our blessed Lord did 
 die,' he said, at length. ' The home where He dwelt, Made- 
 line, was brighter than the sun, and more glorious than the 
 vast blue sea. No sound of sorrow was ever heard in it, and 
 no feeling of pain was ever endured in it. Millions of angels 
 knelt before His throne, and worshipped Him for His unspeak- 
 able greatness, and not one amongst them had ever known a 
 thought of sin ! and in that home there was room for us — but 
 only upon one condition— that He should leave it.' 
 
 A pause followed, until Ruth said, in a gentle voice, ' Our 
 Saviour did leave it, papa.' 
 
 ' Yes,' continued her father, * He came upon earth, which, 
 even in its greatest beauty, was to Him but a land of darkness; 
 and He lived, not as we live, in comfort and peace, but in 
 poverty and shame, amongst the sinners who hated Him. And 
 when He had taught them all that it was good for them to 
 know, and had cured their diseases, and helped them in their 
 difficulties, He gave Himself up to a death of agony, to save 
 them and us — to save you, and me, and Madeline, from the 
 punishment due to sin.' 
 
 Again Mr Clifford was silent, and Ruth's gaze turned in- 
 voluntarily to the clear sky, whilst Madeline whispered, ' It is 
 not hard now, papa.' 
 
 * It ought not to be hard at any time, my dear,' replied her 
 father ; * and that it is so is the greatest proof we can have of 
 the sinfulness of our nature.' 
 
 ' It would be much easier if we could see our Saviour,' said 
 Ruth, timidly. 
 
 * And, perhaps, you think that for that reason it might be 
 easier for Alice to love Lady Catharine for her kindness than 
 for us to love God for His ; was not that in your mind, Ruth?' 
 Ruth looked half pleased and half friglitened, as she generally 
 did when her thoughts were read. ' It may be so,' continued 
 Mr Clifford ; ' but it is to our shame and sorrow that it should 
 be ; and when we are called to give an account of our lives to 
 God, it will be a fearful thing to have to confess, that we have en- 
 joyed His blessings, and yet have never been thankful for them,'
 
 20 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 • But if we can't be ?' said Madeline. 
 
 ' ^\'c can pray that we may be,' replied her father, * and we 
 can repeat to ourselves all the good things which God has done 
 for us. We can read the Bible, and go to church, and we can 
 try to please our Saviour by being good-tempered, and humble, 
 and sincere, and giving up our money for the poor, and going 
 to visit them. If we do all this, w'e shall certainly in time lo\e 
 God with all our hearts — better, yes, far better, than we do our 
 dearest earthly friends.' Madeline became more thoughtful 
 than before; and as Mr Clifford rose to leave the arbour, she 
 turned to Ruth, and said, ' I liked talking to papa to-night 
 more than any play.' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 NEARLY a week passed by, and little was heard of Alice 
 Lennox. On the day of the funeral she had been taken 
 to the Manor, and since then she had been seen walking with 
 Lady Catharine through one of the long avenues ; but whether 
 she was happy, or how she behaved, or whether Lady Catharine 
 really treated her as she had said, like her own child, no one 
 could find out. Mr and Mrs Cliftbrd talked of her very often, 
 and Madeline and Ruth always chose to walk in the road by 
 the park to the sea-shore, in the hope of catching a glimpse of 
 her in passing. But the peoi^le in the village talked more than 
 tlie family at the parsonage, for in a country place every event is 
 thought a great deal of ; and though few of the cottagers knev/ 
 anything of Alice, except from having seen her playing in the 
 garden, or walking with her nurse, they all felt interested about 
 her, and wished much to find out whether she was likely to be 
 satisfied and happy in her new home. The person from whom 
 most had been learned about the affairs of the white house, was 
 Benson, the lady's maid, or nurse, or housekeeper — no one 
 knew exactly what to call her, for she seemed to do everything. 
 She was a little, bustling woman, with a quick, sharp voice, yet 
 a very civil manner, extremely fond of finery, and a great gossip. 
 The poor villagers thought at first that she was much too smart 
 a person for them ; and only Mrs Dawkins, who kept a good 
 sized shop for tea, sugar, oatmeal, and other neccssar)' tilings,
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 2 x 
 
 and wlio was considered a very important person, h:id dreamed 
 of asking her to drink tea. But Benson soon gave her neigh- 
 bours to understand that she hked going amongst them better 
 than staying at home, and that as long as she could have a 
 comfortable seat, and a warm cup of tea, and permission to 
 talk, she cared for little else. From her, therefore, all that 
 could be learned about Mrs Lennox was learnt; and a great deal 
 more which was not at all true. Benson had only lived in the 
 family a few months before she came to Laneton, and when she 
 found herself at a loss in answering the questions which were 
 put to her, made no scruple at inventing. She gave a whole 
 history of Lady Catharine's acquaintance with Mrs Lennox, 
 though she had only been told that it began at school. She de- 
 scribed Mrs Lennox's marriage, though she knew nothing moie 
 than that her husband was an officer. She repeated long conversa- 
 tions between her mistress and Lady Catharine, not one syllabic 
 of which she had ever heard, beyond a few words which passed 
 while she was preparing the tea, or putting the room in order. 
 Benson's besetting sin was vanity, which showed itself gener- 
 ally in a love of talking and being listened to ; and when per- 
 sons indulge in this fault, there is no saying into what mischief 
 it may lead them. She was not indeed aware of what she was 
 doing, but this did not make the fault at all the less, nor did it 
 liinder her from the painful consequences which are sure to 
 follow it. 
 
 To the great surprise of the villagers, Alice Lennox was taken 
 to the Manor, and Benson was left behind ; it was thought at 
 first to put a few things in order at the house, or to take care of 
 the little property which was to be sold. But Benson did not 
 stay at the house; it was given in charge to a woman whom 
 Lady Catharine had known for many years ; Lady Catharine's 
 own maid packed up the few articles which were to be kept for 
 little Alice, in remembrance of her mother; and the very morning 
 after the funeral, when every one was expecting that Benson 
 would call on Mrs Dawkins, and give the history of these strange 
 doings, it was declared by two or three persons, whose word could 
 not be doubted, that Benson, with a large trunk and a band-box, 
 had been seen on the top of the London coach, and that she was 
 certainly by that time many miles from Laneton. Different 
 feelings were expressed when this news was brought. Some 
 wondered a great deal about Benson, others pitied poor Alice, left 
 without the only person whom she had really been fond of, except
 
 23 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 her mamma, for amongst the many things which Benson repeated, 
 the one she persisted in most, was the fact that httle AUce could 
 not bear the sight of Lady Catharine Hyde. 
 
 The intelhgence of Benson's departure soon reached Mrs 
 Cliftord, who, though she said less, thought a great deal more of 
 Alice tlian any one else, and did truly wish to know if the poor 
 child had suffered much from the separation. She was not sur- 
 prised at receiving no communication as to anything that was 
 done. Lady Catharine Hyde had always her own peculiar v/ay 
 of doing everything, and no one could at all judge what was likely 
 to be her conduct, from knowing how other persons would prob- 
 ably act in a similar case. Madeline and Ruth were from this 
 circumstance separated from their little companion at the very 
 moment when she was most likely to want them ; and Mrs 
 Clifford now and then began to think that it might be Lady 
 Catharine's intention to put a stop to their being together for the 
 future. One morning, however, at the beginning of the second 
 week of Alice's removal to the Manor, just as Mrs Clifford had 
 seated herself at the breakfast-table, and was bidding the children 
 summon their papa from his usual saunter round the garden, 
 jMadeline perceived Lady Catharine's footman approaching the 
 gate. 
 
 ' News, news, mamma ! ' she exclaimed, returning quickly, 
 and allowing Ruth to obey the orders alone, ' news of Alice ! 
 Griffiths is come from the Manor, and he has a note, I am nearly 
 quite certain.' 
 
 * And I am nearly quite certain that you are deciding, as you 
 generally do, rather hastily, my dear.' 
 
 Madeline was hasty, but for once she had guessed rightly. 
 There was a note from Lady Catharine, begging that Mrs 
 Clifford would call upon her that afternoon, if possible, and 
 bring her little girls with her. No reason was given for the 
 request, and Mrs Cliftord, having an engagement for the day, was 
 inclined to send an excuse; but her husband begged her not. He 
 told her that it was an opportunity for knowing something of 
 Alice's situation, and might be a means of being of use to her, and 
 that Lady Catharine never wished to see any one without some 
 good motive ; it was therefore settled that as soon as the chil- 
 dren's dinner was over, they should set off for the Manor. Tlie 
 lessons were not done as well as usual that morning, for Madeline 
 thought it necessary to run often to the window to decide if it 
 were likely to rain, and Ruth asked several times what o'clock
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 23 
 
 it was, and complained of her sum as being very hard, when in 
 fact it Avas just hkc one she had done only the day before. 
 Dinner too was hurried over, though Mr Chftord came in to 
 huicheon at the same time, and generally there was nothing the 
 children liked better than making their papa stay and talk to 
 them till they had finished. Even before Ruth was ready, 
 Madeline was playing with her knife and fork, and longing to 
 leave her chair ; and when at length Mrs Clifford gave permis- 
 sion to go, there was a race from the bottom of the stairs to the 
 top, and a scramble to see which could be dressed the first. 
 
 A visit to the Manor was an e\ent which had never happened 
 before; ard, notwithstanding their shyness, they were anxious to 
 know what the place was like, and very desirous of seeing Alice. 
 Though living in the same village, they had seen but little of 
 Lady Catharine Hyde, only meeting her occasionally in a. walk, 
 or when she had been with Mrs Lennox; at which time the chief 
 notice she had taken of them was to hush, as Madeline said, and 
 tell them that they must be sent home if they did not learn to play 
 quietly. Lady Catharine was not a pleasant person for children 
 to be with. She was tall, tiiin, and stately ; she moved slowly, and 
 talked in a firm, decided way, as if sure that no one could think 
 of differing from her. Her- voice was. low, but not very gen-tife-; 
 and her manner, which was particularly grave, often gave the 
 idea that she was not entirely pleased at what was going on. 
 Then her features were rather plain, and she was always dressed 
 in black, with a widow's cap, which seemed peculiarly unsuited 
 to anything like play ; and all these trifles put together made 
 her rather an awful percon, particularly as she was known to 
 be extremely precise in all her ways, and never to have been 
 accustomed to children. Madeline and Ruth were afraid of Lady 
 Catharine, and they knew that Alice was the same ; and this 
 was their reason for thinking that no one could be cheerful and 
 happy at the Manor : but if they had been a little older, they would 
 probably have seen that Lady Catharine Hyde was a person to be 
 loved as well as feared; that she was in her heart kind, and con- 
 siderate, and careful for every one ; that she was self-denying in 
 all her actions ; and full of holy thoughts and vv'ishes to do 
 God's will ; and they would then have learned to think more of 
 her goodness, and less of that sternness of manner which many 
 excellent persons acquire without being aware of it. But it was 
 very natural that such young children should stand in awe of a 
 lady who seemed so far above them in everything ; and even the
 
 24 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 house in wliicli Lady Catharine hved, and the garden and park 
 belonging to it, served to increase the feeUng. 
 
 Haseley Manor was a large red brick mansion ; it had seven 
 windows in front and five at the side ; a very broad flight of stone 
 steps, with an ornamental iron railing, led up to the door; and 
 from the top of these steps could be seen the whole length of a 
 splendid beech-tree avenue, at the end of which was the lodge- 
 gate. There was a large space of ground about the house, but 
 though it was called a park, it was principally planted with trees 
 in straiglit rows, and looked somewhat formal and dull ; and the 
 garden close to the house was laid out in the same style, with 
 long walks and narrow flower-beds, divided by low box hedges, 
 and clipped yew-trees, and the whole shut in by a high wall. 
 This garden was kept with extreme care ; scarcely a weed was 
 to be seen in the borders, or a leaf -(ipon the walks ; and Lady 
 Catharine Hyde's greenhouse and hothouse were considered as 
 patterns for all the neighbourhood. Madeline and Ruth had 
 great notions of the grandeur of everything they were to see at 
 the Manor; and whilst they were with their mamma they thought 
 it would be less alarming to be in Lady Catharine's presence, 
 than when they had been left, as it were, under her care whilst 
 playing with Ahce at the white house ; so that they set off for 
 their visit in high spirits. As they drew near, however, they 
 began to walk quietly, instead of running in and out amongst 
 the trees. Ruth put her hand within her mamma's, from a 
 feeling that she would be a protection ; and when they stood 
 upon the top of the steps, and the great bell was rung, even 
 Madeline's smiles went away, and her voice almost sank into a 
 whisper. The door was opened by a tall, gray-haired man, 
 having a stiff, soldierlike manner, who, to Madeline's eye, looked 
 quite like a gentleman ; but she soon forgot him, in wonder at 
 the size of the square hall into which they were admitted, and 
 tlie broad oak staircase, with its carved railings and polislicd 
 steps, which led to the upper rooms. Mrs Clifford and the two 
 children followed the butler through a long passage lighted by a 
 window of painted glass at the farther end ; and then, turning 
 to the right, the man pushed aside some folding-doors covered 
 with green cloth, and they entered a small apartment, hung with 
 pictures in dark frames, and containing nothing but some high- 
 backed chairs, and one or two curiously-shaped tables. Both 
 Madeline and Ruth were a little disappointed, but in another 
 moment their highest expectations were satis.'icd : for, witliout
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. ■ 2$ 
 
 stopping, the butler opened a second door, and they were ushered 
 into the drawing-room, in which Lady Catharine was sitting. 
 So large a room, so beautifully furnished, with gilt chairs, and 
 sofas covered with crimson damask, and glasses reaching from 
 the ceiling to the floor, and inlaid cabinets ornamented with 
 china vases and figures, they had never seen or imagined. Yet 
 it was not a cheerful nor even a very comfortable room. There 
 was a quaint, formal look about it. The chairs were placed in 
 regular order against the walls ; the sofas appeared as if they 
 were never intended to be used ; and the tables had no books, 
 or work, or flowers upon them ; except, indeed, the little round 
 one covered with purple cloth, which stood in the deep bay- 
 window by Lady Catharine's side, and on which lay one or two 
 handsomely bound volumes, and a small rosewood work-box. 
 
 The two children sought eagerly for Alice Lennox ; but they 
 did not discover her until Lady Catharine rose, and then they 
 perceived that Alice was seated on a stool, with her elbow rest- 
 ing on the window-seat, and a book before her. She looked up 
 as soon as she heard Lady Catharine speak to Mrs Clifford, and 
 smiled when she saw her little playfellows ; but, except this, she 
 took no notice ' f them, and the children almost doubted, as 
 they watched he/, whether this could be the Alice Lennox who 
 had always been so delighted to see them, and had expressed 
 herself so warmly. The change appeared at first to be in her 
 deep mourning dress, at least Madeline fancied that was the 
 only thing which could make her seem so different ; but Ruth 
 thought that her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and 
 she remarked a certain curl of the under lip, which was always 
 to be observed when Alice was out of humour. Certainly either 
 the dress, or the manner, or a little ill-temper, had made her 
 far less pleasing than she usually was. Not that Alice had any 
 particular beauty to boast of, but she was generally noticed as 
 sensible-looking and well-mannered, with a very good-natured 
 expression of face. She was nearly a year older than Ruth and 
 Madeline, and very unlike them in appearance, for her hair and 
 eyes w^ere brown, and her complexion was so dark, that she had 
 sometimes been taken for a foreigner. She was extremely quiet 
 in all her ways when with strangers, but exactly the contrary 
 when with those whom she knew ; and her very quick, brigiit 
 eye now and then had an expression which made people think 
 she was cunning ; but this was not entirely the case, for Alice 
 had been well taught by her mamma, before she became too ill
 
 26 . LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 to attend to her ; and she had not yet acquired any settled bs.d 
 habits, though by nature she did hke to contrive means for 
 gaining her own point, and was apt to make excuses which were 
 not really true. She had great faults, certainly ; but one thin;( 
 there was in her character which gave reason to hope that she 
 might in time improve. She could respect and admire other 
 persons for their goodness, though she did not try to be like 
 them; and notwithstanding her fear of Lady Catharine, she had 
 some pleasure in being with her, because she knew that she was 
 a great deal better than common people. 
 
 Lady Catharine having welcomed Mrs Clifford, next turned to 
 the children ; and her manner was not as stern as they had before 
 thought it. She held their hands in hers, and stooped to kiss 
 them ; and then, as she looked at Alice, some painful thought 
 seemed to cross her mind, for some moments passed before she 
 again spoke to Mrs Clifford. What she said neither Madeline 
 nor Ruth cared much to hear, for they were longing to be alone 
 with Alice, who now came up and stood by their side, but with- 
 out taking any other notice of them. Mrs Clifford wished to 
 tell them all to go into the garden, but she did not know whether 
 Lady Catharine would like it ; and a conversation began, during 
 which the three children sat together, not venturing even to 
 whisper. 
 
 If this was to be their visit to the Manor, Ruth thought they 
 might as well have stayed at home. 
 
 At last, however, most fortunately for her, a name was men- 
 tioned, which gave Lady Catharine an opportunity for bringing 
 forward the subject she desired. Mrs Clifford alluded to Ben- 
 son, and the colour mounted to Alice's cheek, while Lady 
 Catharine drew herself up, and said, * If you like to go into 
 the garden, my dears, you can. Not the kitchen-garden, mind, 
 Alice,' she continued ; ' and you must not ask for any fruit ; 
 and be sure you don't gather any flowers ; and, Alice,' slie 
 added, as the children reached the door, ' keep away from the 
 fish-pond.' 
 
 Alice said ' Yes ' rather quickly, and, as if thankful to be 
 released, ran out of the room, leaving the door open, which she 
 was immediately called upon to come back and shut. * Now, 
 run,' she said, when they had passed the ante-room, and the 
 green doors were closed behind them ; and, without another 
 word, she led the way through the long passage, into anoth.er 
 just like it, and down a few steps into a small stone hall, which
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 27 
 
 opened upon the garden. Madeline and Rulh followed in de- 
 light. To have Alice all to themselves was a pleasure they had 
 not ventured to expect ; but they were nearly breathless before 
 Alice stopped, so quickly she ran along the broad walk and the 
 raised terrace at the end, till she reached a small building with 
 a porch supported by two pillars, round which clustered roses, 
 and honeysuckles, and clematis. Within this porch was a 
 neat, little room, containing only a common table and some 
 rough chairs ; in one of which Alice seated herself, and, catch- 
 ing hold of Ruth's dress, exclaimed, ' I am so glad you are 
 come ! — kiss me, Ruth, do ! ' 
 
 ' Why didn't you kiss us just now?' said Madeline; 'I thought 
 you were cross.' 
 
 ' How could I .-* I was afraid,' replied Alice, ' Lady Catharine 
 would have said it was odd.' 
 
 ' Lady Catharine ! but I thought she was to be your' 
 
 ' Hush ! Madeline,' interrupted Ruth. ' Alice, dear, do you 
 like it?' 
 
 ' Like it — like what ? — like being here ? — no, and I never 
 shall' 
 
 ' But what do you do ? — have you many lessons ? — is Lady 
 Catharine strict ?' inquired Madeline. 
 
 * It 's not the lessons,' continued AHce; ' I don't care for them.' 
 
 ' But you want some one to play with, don't you ? ' said 
 Ruth ; ' Madeline and I knew you would.' Poor Alice leaned 
 her head upon the table, and sobbed. ' Don't cry so,' said 
 Madeline, putting her arm round her neck ; ' we will ask 
 mamma to let us come and see you very often, and it won't be 
 so bad by and by.' 
 
 Alice shook her head, and exclaimed, almost passionately, 
 * It must be just as bad ; they won't let me see Benson — and 
 I can talk to Benson, and I love her ; but I don't love any 
 one else.' 
 
 Ruth drew back a little vexed. ' Then it is no use for us to 
 come and see you,' she said. 
 
 ' O Ruth, how foolish !' exclaimed Madeline. ' Don't mind, 
 Alice, we will come whenever we can ; but v/hy won't they let 
 you see Benson ?' 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Alice, becoming a little more com- 
 posed ; ' Lady Catharine says she teaches me wrong things, 
 and Marsham thinks she tells stories ; but I don't care for all 
 that.'
 
 ;3 LA. YE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Is Benson gone quite away?' asked Ruth. 
 ' Yes ; the very day I came, Lady Catliarine made me say 
 good-bye — and Benson cried so much ; but slie will come back 
 again, I know, for sh.e said she would.' 
 
 ' That will be no good to you, if you are not allowed to be 
 with her,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' But I shall see her, for she told me just before she went, 
 tiiat she should come back to Laneton to live ; she is to help 
 Mrs Dyer, work, make caps and things, and she will find some 
 v.-.ay of seeing me.' 
 
 ' Well, I hope she will,' said Madeline, without considering 
 whether what she was saying was right. ' I can't bear to see 
 \ ou cry, Alice ; but should you like Lady Catharine if she was 
 kinder about Benson ?' 
 
 ' I should like her better than Marsham,' replied Alice ; ' I 
 can't bear her ; Lady Catharine tells me stories sometimes, and 
 she gave me some sugar-plums yesterday ; but Ivlarsham ne\cr 
 gives me anything.' 
 
 * And does Marsham put you to bed, and help you to dress, 
 like Benson ? ' inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' Oh no, Lady Catharine says I must learn to do what I 
 want myself; so Marsham only fastens my frock. I don't caie 
 about it at all in the day time, but it makes me cry very much at 
 night. I want my own dear mamma back again, and I think 
 Lady Catharine wants her too.' And Alice cried again. 
 
 ' But about going to bed,' said Ruth, trying to divert her 
 thoughts ; ' do you sleep in a room alone ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, a little sort of closet, inside Lady Catharine's bed- 
 room ; she comes to kiss me every night.' 
 
 ' Then she loves you very much,' said Madeline, 
 Alice looked up suddenly, and dashing her hand across her 
 eyes, and trj-ing to smile, she answered, ' I like her now ar.d 
 then, when she talks kindly, and doesn't look so tall' 
 ' Docs she " hush " now ? ' inquired ALadeline. 
 ' Sometimes, a little. ' I don't run about here as I did at 
 liome ; but she makes a great many rules. I am forced to get 
 up and be dressed by half-past seven ; and she is so particular 
 about putting things away — and then I must never go into the 
 kitchen-garden or the greenhouse, and must not run upon the 
 green walks— and I am obliged always to go directly I am 
 called.' 
 
 ' So are we/ said ALadclinc.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 39 
 
 * Yes, but I am sure your papa and mamma never look as 
 Larly Catharine docs, if you stay a few minutes longer ; aiid 
 you are able to go wherever you like all over the house.' 
 
 * And so are you too, 1 suppose,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, indeed, I am not ; there is one whole set of rooms 
 which I am never allowed to go into. Look, do you see .'' ju^t 
 behind the evergreens and the large yew-tree.' 
 
 ' Where those three windows are .'' ' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, and there are some others looking out into the servants' 
 court ; Anne the housemaid told me. I do so want to see what 
 is in them.' 
 
 * I daresay you will by and by,' observed Madeline, ' when 
 you grow older.' 
 
 ' 1 don't know ; I try to peep through the key-hole now, but 
 I can see nothing but a dark passage.' 
 
 ' But if the door is locked, it is just the same to you as if 
 there were no rooms,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, indeed, it is not. I should not think about them if 
 they were not there ; but when I look at the windows, I can't 
 help longing to go in ; and, besides, the door is not always 
 locked.' 
 
 'Would Lady Catharine be very angry if you were to do any- 
 thing she told you not.'" asked I\Iadeline. 
 
 The question seemed to bring back something disagreeable to 
 Alice's mind ; for the curl of the lip, which Ruth had noticed 
 when she first saw her, was again visible. ' Wouldn't she be 
 angiy !' she exclaimed. ' If you had only heard what she said 
 to me this morning ! — that if I was her child, I must do ex- 
 actly, in all things, what she wished. It was because I wanted 
 Benson that she talked so ; and she told me that I must give 
 up thinking about it ; and that I must believe her when slie 
 said that it was better for me not to be with Benson ; and then 
 she began again about going into those rooms ; and at last she 
 declared that if she e\-er found me there, she would send me 
 away to school.' 
 
 'And do you really think she would ?' asked Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, indeed ; but I don't know that I should much mind. 
 I don't seem to mind anything now.' 
 
 ' Only you will like having us to play with,' said Ruth. 
 
 Alice did not answer, for her thoughts were wandering back 
 to her own mamma and the white house ; and before Ruth had 
 time to repeat her words, the sound of a little bell reached them
 
 JO LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' That is for us ! ' exclaimed Alice ; and she sprang from lier 
 seat. 
 
 * O Alice ! one moment,' said Madeline, catching hold of her 
 frock ; ' when shall you come and see us ?' 
 
 ' I can't tell ; you must ask for me yourselves ; don't keep 
 me now.' 
 
 ' You ne\er used to care about waiting,' said Madeline. 
 
 * No, I know I did not ; but Lady Catharine will be angry.' 
 
 ' I should not care for making her angiy if she is so cross,' 
 replied Madeline. 
 
 Alice's foot was on the step of the doorway ; but she stopped, 
 and, turning round, said, ' I do care for making her angry some- 
 times ; and so would you too, if you were me ; ' and she ran 
 towards the house followed by Madeline. Ruth waited for an 
 instant behind, feeling quite puzzled by all that had been said, 
 and as much at a loss as ever to understand whether Alice was 
 likely to be happy at Haseley Manor. 
 
 The children did not go into the drawing-room again, for 
 Lady Catharine and Mrs Clifford met them in the passage. 
 Alice became stiff and quiet ; but her face brightened when 
 Lady Catharine, looking at her kindly, said, ' that Mrs Clifford 
 had promised that her little playfellows should often come and 
 see her ; ' and she ventured to whisper to Ruth, at parting, that 
 she hoped they would ask their mamma to bring them again 
 very soon. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THERE was much for Madeline and Ruth to talk about 
 when they were again alone with their mamma. They 
 felt certain she could tell them more about Alice than they had 
 learned themselves, as it was only natural to suppose that Lady 
 Catharine had said a great deal about her, and they immedi- 
 ately began asking questions : but Mrs Clifford silenced them 
 by saying, that she never repeated what was mentioned to her 
 in private conversation, and after this they knew it would be in 
 vain to try to find out anything. They consoled themselves, 
 however, by detailing all that had passed in the garden, and 
 asking their mamma's opinion as to the kind of life which 
 Alice seemed to lead. Ruth was especially struck with the 
 difference between the constant restraint which Alice was now
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 31 
 
 coligcd to bear and tlic freedom she had enjo}-cd at licr own. 
 home ; and Ivladehnc thought more of the longing which she 
 felt certain she should have to explore the rooms which Lady 
 Catharine had forbidden to be entered ; whilst both of thcui 
 pitied Alice extremely for having to part from Benson, and 
 declared that Lady Catharine must be very hard-hearted. JMrs 
 Clifford told them that whilst they were so young they had 
 better not attempt to judge of the actions of grown-up people, 
 as they frequently had some good motive which they did not 
 think it right to explain. As to Benson, she had been very 
 kind to Alice, but it was certain that she had taught her many 
 wrong things ; and Lady Catharine could not do better than 
 place Alice out of the reach of a person who would be likely to 
 lead her into mischief 
 
 The answer satisfied Madeline,but not Ruth. The more she 
 thought about it, the more sad it seemed that Alice should be 
 thus almost taken aw'ay from everything which had before given 
 her pleasure, and be remo\'cd to a new home amongst strangers : 
 she recollected her tears, and the sorrowful tone in which she 
 had said that she wanted her own dear mamma back again, 
 until at last her own heart grew heavy, and she felt as if she 
 could almost sit down and cry too. As the evening closed in, 
 the weather became gloomy, and Ruth's spirits were more and 
 more depressed. Instead of running in the garden she was 
 oljligcd to stay in the house, for the sky was of a thick, dull 
 gray, and the rain pattered cheerlessly against the windows. 
 Poor Rover came and looked into the room, but found no one 
 inclined to join him in a game of play ; and he shook his 
 shaggy head in disappointment, and slunk back to his kennel. 
 Generally speaking, Ruth managed to occupy herself very well 
 within doors, and sometimes even preferred it to going out ; but 
 this wet e\ening came when she was not prepared for it, and 
 she could not so easily overcome vexation as Madeline, who, 
 when she saw it begin to rain, provided herself with a puzzle 
 and a book, and made no complaints to any one. 
 
 ' The school children will have a wet walk, I am afraid,' said 
 Mrs Clifford, as her husband came into the room. 
 
 ' What school children, mamma .'' ' inquired Ruth ; ' what 
 are tliey all coming for .'' ' 
 
 ' Not all, my dear,' said Mr Clifford ; ' only the first class. 
 You know they generally do come to me on a Wednesday 
 evening.'
 
 3* LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I forL^ot ; but, papa, I wisli you would let me hear 
 what you say to them.' 
 
 ' It would not interest you much, my dear ; you would only 
 listen to a great many things which you know ; and if there was 
 anything new, probably you would not understand it.' 
 
 ' But, papa, I should like it,' said Ruth, glad of any excuse 
 for something to occupy her thoughts when she v/as uncomfort- 
 able. ' Will you just let me sit in the room ; I won't speak or 
 interrupt.' 
 
 ' And me too, please, papa,' said Madeline, leaving her seat, 
 and in her hurry throwing the puzzle to the ground. 
 
 ]\Ir Clifford laughed at this sudden fancy, but made no objec- 
 tion ; and a few minutes afterwards the two children were in 
 their papa's study, each with a piece of work in her hand, wait- 
 ing the arrival of the first class of the village school. ' What 
 will they say to-night, papa ? ' asked Madeline : ' anything that 
 we know ? ' 
 
 ' One of the Psalms, and the Catechism,' replied Mr Clifford ; 
 ' and then I shall try and explain any parts which may be 
 difficult.' 
 
 ' As you explained to us, the other night, that first question,' 
 said Ruth ; ' but, papa, they won't be able to understand it all 
 as well as we do, because you cannot talk to them about Alice 
 Lennox.' 
 
 ! ' No ; but I may give them some other example, which may 
 serve as well ? ' 
 
 ' What you said came into my head this morning at the 
 Manor,' said Ruth, ' when we sat quiet in the drawing-room, 
 and mamma w^as talking to Lady Catharine ; but I think now, 
 papa, that it will be harder for Alice to love Lady Catharine 
 than for us to love God, because Alice has so many things to 
 give up, and we have not.' 
 
 ' Nothing, Ruth .'' ' asked Mr Clifford, laying down the book 
 which he held in his hand. 
 
 ' Nothing that I can remember, papa.' 
 
 ' We will ask the school children presently,' continued Mr 
 Clifford ; * they are older than you, and probably will be able to 
 answer better.' Ruth's face flushed, and she bent her eyes upon 
 the ground ; for her pride was hurt in having it supposed that 
 the children of the village could answer any questions better 
 than herself. Mr Clifford went on reading ; and Madeline, who 
 was quick in seeing when her sister was vexed, stole gently to
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 33 
 
 her Side, and gave her a kiss. Ruth remained in the same 
 position for several minutes, trying to find out what her papa 
 meant ; not so mucli because she cared to know, as because she 
 did not hke to appear ignorant. Presently the tread of footsteps 
 was heard in the passage, followed by a short knock, and Mr 
 Cliflbrd, opening the door, admitted the six little girls who were 
 come for their weekly instruction. Madeline looked up, and 
 smiled, and nodded, and asked two of them how their mothers 
 were ; but Ruth took no notice. She had a knot in her thread, 
 and it seemed as if she could think of nothing but how to undo 
 it. Mr Clifford looked towards her, and became rather thought- 
 ful, but he said nothing ; and after a short delay, the class 
 repeated the thirty-fourth psalm. Ruth observed all that went 
 on, and was forced to own that she could not have done better 
 herself ; but she had no notion that they could answer her papa's 
 questions, and was annoyed at the idea of poor children, who 
 were dressed shabbily, and had learned neither French nor 
 music, being put in comparison with her. Madeline, too, looked 
 up from her work, and drew her chair nearer to a little pale 
 child, not much bigger than herself, with the intention of 
 prompting her if required ; but no such help was necessary. 
 Margaret Dawson had been at school since she was six years 
 old, and from ill-health had been obliged to spend much of her 
 time in-doors, where she had nothing to amuse her except her 
 work and a few books ; and from early instruction, and strict 
 attention, she was as well-informed upon all the important 
 points of religion as many of the best educated amongst her 
 superiors in rank. She knew well what was meant by the great 
 gift bestowed upon Christians in their baptism ; she understood 
 how awful a blessing it was to have been made ' a member of 
 Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of 
 heaven ;' and when Mr Clifford asked her the same sort of 
 question which he had put to Ruth — as to what things persons 
 were obliged to give up when they were admitted into the catholic 
 church of Christ, she answered at once — ' That they were to re- 
 nounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and \ anities of 
 tliis wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.' 
 
 ' The children knew more than you expected, Ruth, did they 
 not?' said Mr Clifford, when the class was dismissed. 
 
 Ruth said ' Yes' in her usual quiet tone, and taking up her 
 work was going to leave the room. 
 
 ' You are in a great hurry to run away,' said her papa : ' I 
 
 C
 
 34 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 thought you would have wished to stay and talk a little with 
 me.' 
 
 ' I understand about giving things up now, papa,' replied 
 Ruth ; ' it is in the second question in the catechism.' 
 
 * You understand because little Margaret Dawson told you/ 
 said Mr Clifi'ord, gravely. 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Ruth ; and again she seemed anxious 
 to go. 
 
 ' Not now, my dear child,' said Mr Clifford, drawing her 
 towards him, and making her stand by his side : ' Madeline 
 may go if she likes it, but you must stay a little longer.' Made- 
 line was curious, but she did not venture to ask any questions, 
 and went away. Ruth felt that her papa perceived Avhat was 
 passing in her mind, and she did not dare look in his face. Mr 
 Clifford waited to see if she would be inclined to speak, and then 
 said, ' Is it really true, Ruth, that you do not know how you 
 learned the answer to my question ? ' Ruth was silent. ' Or,' 
 continued Mr Clifford, ' is it that you are too proud to confess 
 it ? — that you do not like to own that one of the village children 
 was able to answer better than yourself?' 
 
 ' I could have told when she did, papa/ said Ruth : ' I thought 
 about it just before she spoke.' 
 
 ' But you could not have done so at first — which shows that 
 Margaret Dawson was quicker at understanding than yourself.' 
 
 * You did not ask her the same question, papa,' replied Ruth. 
 Mr Clifford looked extremely distressed. ' This is not honest 
 
 in 30U, Ruth,' he said ; ' it is trying to escape from confessing your 
 ignorance by saying what you know is not strictly true. I did ask 
 INIargaret the same question, though I put it in different words ; 
 and now I will ask it you again : " Wliat is it we are all required 
 to renounce, or give up, when wc are made by baptism members 
 of Christ's holy catholic church?"' Ruth repeated the answer. 
 ' And what is meant by renouncing the works of the devil ? ' 
 
 ' Giving up naughty things,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' And what are the naughty things which children are most 
 often tempted to do ? ' Ruth twisted the thread of her work, 
 and did not appear willing to speak. 'I will tell you,' con- 
 tinued Mr Clifford : ' lying is one ; and selfishness is a second; 
 and ill -temper, and envy, and disobedience, are others, besides 
 many more which I need not name now ; but 1 do not bclic\c 
 that your great temptation, my dear Ruth, lies in any one of 
 LUese things. 1 think you have in a degree broken the promise
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 35 
 
 of your baptism within the last quarter of an hour — ■ that 
 perhaps you arc breaking it now ; but it is not by ill-temper, 
 or disobedience — will you think, and tell me how?' Si'ill Ruth 
 hesitated. * I cannot see your thoughts,' continued Mr Clifford, 
 *but if I were able to do it, should I not have discovered just 
 now that you considered yourself very superior to the school 
 children ; that you were proud of having had more instruction, 
 and considered it impossible that they could know anything as 
 well as yourself? and is not pride one of the works of the devil 
 which you have promised to renounce ? ' 
 
 ' I did not know I was proud, papa,' murmured Ruth. 
 
 * Very likely not,' replied her father, ' the fault is one of the 
 last which v.-e are likely to see or own ; but there is a story told 
 us in the Bible of two men — -one proud, and the other humble — - 
 when you have heard it, perhaps you will be more able to see 
 which of the two you are like. The words are our blessed 
 Lord's : He says, "Two men went up into the temple to pray, 
 the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican. The Pharisee 
 stood and prayed thus with himself : God, I thank Thee, that I 
 am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or 
 even as this publican, I fast twice in the week, I give tithes 
 of all that I possess. And the publican, standing afar off, 
 would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote 
 upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner," 
 We will ventui-e to change these words, and suppose them to 
 be, " God, I thank Thee, that I am not as these children are, 
 poor, and dull, and ignorant. I am clever in reading, and 
 quick in remembering " ' 
 
 * Papa, papa ! ' interrupted Ruth. 
 
 * You are shocked, my dearest child,' said Mr Clifford, ' and 
 so am I, but thereis One who must be infinitely more shocked — • 
 the God who knows all your blindness, and sinfulness, and sees 
 that you, notwithstanding, boast to yourself of wisdom. Do you 
 think your thoughts have appeared to Him like the humble 
 thoughts of His children ? ' Ruth's eyes glistened, and the work 
 dropped 'from her hand. ' I need not say to you,' continued 
 Mr Clifford, 'that the reason I am speaking seriously upon this 
 subject, is not because you could not answer me. It signifies 
 little whether you are clever, and able to reply to anything 
 which may be asked you ; but it signifies a great deal that you 
 should be humble, because without humility no one can enter 
 into heaven.' Ruth for the moment did feel humble, and,
 
 36 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 scarcely daring to raise her eyes, asked to be forgiven. ' And 
 is my forgiveness all you want ? ' said Mr Clifford, as he 
 kissed her fondly ; ' can I keep you from being proud another 
 time ? ' 
 
 Ruth blushed, and then said, ' she would remember at night 
 in her prayers.' 
 
 ' And not at night only, but at once,' continued her father : 
 ' we may neither of us live till night ; and if, besides asking 
 Clod's pardon, you like to show me that you are really wishing 
 to be humble, you can do it by thinking whether there is any- 
 thing else in the question we have been talking about, which 
 you do not quite understand ; but you must go away now, 
 because I am busy.' Ruth left the room, and instead of going 
 to play with her sister, spent the next ten minutes alone, reading 
 over the catechism, and asking God to give her a humble spirit, 
 that she might not be tempted again to forget the promise of 
 her baptism. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RUTH'S wishes were very sincere, and for several days she 
 really did try to remember what her papa had said ; but 
 no fault can be cured without trouble, especially one which is 
 hidden in our hearts like pride. Ruth was indolent, and did 
 not watch herself, and, moreover, she soon forgot that it was 
 necessary to seek assistance from God. When her papa spoke 
 to her, she went directly and prayed against her fault, because 
 she was told to do it ; but she did not continue doing so every 
 night and morning. Generally, she omitted what she ought to 
 have asked, till her prayers were ended, and then she put off 
 doing it till the next opportunity ; and thus, though she formed 
 very good resolutions, she was not able to keep them, since, if 
 the wisest of men cannot make themselves good by their own 
 efforts, still less can children. Ruth's pride, therefore, was even 
 a greater difficulty than Madeline's thoughtlessness ; and though 
 sometimes, when her sister was complaining of the trouble of 
 being good, Ruth's conscience smote her because she did not 
 try more earnestly herself, she used more frequently to indulge 
 her self-conceit, and to join in condemning Madeline's conduct, 
 without inquiring into her own.
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 37 
 
 Three weeks went by, and Alice Lennox was kept at the 
 Manor — Uke a prisoner, the children said — for she was not 
 seen beyond the gates, except when she went to church on a 
 Sunday and in the week days, and then she walked demurely by 
 Lady Catharine's side, and never noticed her former com- 
 panions, except by a little nod, if they happened to meet in the 
 churchyard or the road. Once they had been asked to drink 
 tea, and they were in high spirits at the idea of going ; but 
 Lady Catharine was suffering from a bad headache when the 
 evening came, and wrote to put them off, and they had not 
 been invited since. Madeline and her sister began to despair 
 of ever seeing Alice, but Mr Clifford assured them that this 
 was not at all Lady Catharine's wish ; and in the course of the 
 next week a second invitation came. It was accepted directly, 
 and at four o'clock (the time particularly mentioned in the note) 
 the two little girls were sent to the Manor under the care of a 
 servant. They were shown into the drawing-room, but to their 
 surprise no one was there. The room, in other respects, looked 
 just as it had done at their first visit, except that the rosewood 
 workbox was shut instead of open, and that there were no signs 
 of any one having occupied the apartment that day. The two 
 children waited for several minutes before any one came to 
 them. The house seemed perfectly empty, and they could hear 
 nothing but the ticking of the handsome, old clock, which was 
 placed in a recess in the ante-room. Madeline began to think 
 that what Ruth had once said was true, and that it would be 
 very difficult to play at the Manor. Presently, the quick shutting 
 of a door told them that some one was approaching ; then a 
 sharp voice called out to Miss Alice, ' to put her books up ; ' 
 and directly afterwards, a heavy footstep sounded along the 
 passage ; and when the drawing-room door opened, there 
 appeared, not Lady Catharine, but her maid Marsham, a prim, 
 plain-looking woman about forty years of age. 
 
 Now Marsham was in reality as excellent a person as Lady 
 Catharine, but she was yet more severe in her manner ; and 
 when she smiled at the two little girls, and told them to follow 
 her, it was with a sort of grim good-nature, which showed that 
 she was not in the habit of smiling upon every one. ' Lady 
 Catharine is gone out, young ladies,' she said, as she walked 
 with a solemn step up the great staircase, ' but she hopes you 
 and Miss Alice will play together till she comes back ; and you 
 are to drink tea at six o'clock. Perhaps you had better take
 
 i8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 your bonnets off before you go into the study.* The study 
 sounded rather awful, for MadeHne and Ruth always called their 
 room the school-room ; and Ruth, who had wished to go into 
 the garden, felt disappointed. They passed along an open 
 gallery, from which they could look down into the hall below, 
 and were just going into a bedroom, when an opposite door 
 opened, and Alice's bright face peeped out. Marsham turned 
 quickly round : ' Miss Alice, you'll be pleased to put that room 
 tidy ; ' and the door was immediately shut. Ruth could not 
 help wondering at Alice's obedience, when she remembered how 
 she used to have her own way with Benson ; but as she watched 
 Marsham's manner, she was obliged to own that it would 
 require a good deal of boldness to neglect anything which such 
 a person ordered. When the children were ready, Marsham 
 opened a different door from that by which they had entered, 
 and showed them into another apartment, much smaller, and 
 v/ilhout any bed in it, and fitted up so .prettily and comfortably, 
 that they both longed to stop and examine everything atten- 
 tively ; but Marsham carelessly said, ' Miss Lennox's dressing- 
 room,' and then, passing along, led them into the study. It 
 was of a moderate size, lighted by two large sash windows with 
 deep window-seats. The walls were panelled, and ornamented 
 by a few pictures of scenes from English history. A map of 
 Europe hung over the fire-place, and a pair of globes stood in 
 two of the corners. In the middle was a round table covered 
 with a green cloth, upon which were placed a large, bronze ink- 
 stand, a writing-desk, and some copy-books ; and at the lower 
 end was an old-fashioned, carved, mahogany book-case — the 
 upper shelves filled by neatly arranged well-bound volumes, and 
 the lower given up for Alice's school-books, which were at that 
 instant in anything but proper order. A few handsome chairs, 
 and one with a remarkably straight high back ; a walnut-tree 
 cabinet, with open brass wire doors, lined with green silk ; a 
 large clock, and a faded Turkey carpet, completed the furniture 
 of the room. Ruth felt that it was a study, and was more 
 certain than ever that no one could play or be merry at the 
 Manor. Alice, however, did not appear to be of the same 
 opinion ; she was seated on the floor by the book-case when 
 they came in, her lap filled with books, and a heap lying on 
 the ground beside her ; but all were thrown down as Madeline 
 and Ruth appeared, and her smile and welcome were veiy like 
 what they had been when she lived at the white house.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 39 
 
 • Now don't get into mischief, that "s all,' said Marsham ; 
 *mind, Miss Alice, you don't go down-stairs.' Alice said 'very 
 well,' in a humble tone, and Marsham went away. 
 
 ' We can go to play when I have put the books up,' said 
 Alice, turning again to her employment ; ' won't you help me ? ' 
 
 'What a number !' exclaimed Madeline, as she knelt down 
 to be near the lower shelf ; ' you don't learn out of them all, 
 do you?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Alice, laughing ; ' but I am to do it by and by, 
 Lady Catharine says, and such a heap of lessons I have now 
 every day — more a great deal than you.' 
 
 ' It is so strange,' said Ruth, who stood by, thinking ; ' you 
 don't seem to mind it, Alice.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I do, I hate it sometimes ; but it is all regular, and 
 I think I like that ; and Lady Catharine says I get on, and she 
 looks pleased. I don't want to talk about lessons now, though ; 
 just give me those French books, Madeline, and then we shall 
 have done ; and you shall come and see my dressing-room.' 
 The books were soon arranged, but not carelessly, as would 
 have been the case some months before. Alice took pains that 
 every one should be in its proper place, and even brought a 
 duster from a drawer to wipe one which required it ; and at last, 
 after casting a satisfied glance at the result of her labours, 
 opened the door into the dressing-room. ' It is all my own,' 
 she said, as she pointed to the neat book-shelves, and the china 
 inkstand, and the pretty little cabinet in which her special 
 treasures were kept ; ' for you know,' she added with some 
 hesitation, ' I am like Lady Catharine's daughter now, so it is 
 fit I should have such things.' 
 
 ' No,' said Ruth, rather abruptly, ' you are not like Lady 
 Catharine's daughter, and papa says you never can be.' 
 
 'Why not.'' ' inquired Alice, quickly; ' who is to prevent me?' 
 
 ' But you can't be — it is impossible,' persisted Ruth ; ' you 
 can never have the same relations.' 
 
 ' Oh ! as to that,' replied Alice, ' I don't want them. Lady 
 Catharine says I am her child, and I shall have all sorts of fine 
 things when I grow up ; I shall be much richer than you.' 
 
 ' I would not change with you,' said Ruth: but Madeline said 
 nothing. 
 
 Alice felt a little provoked at Ruth's indifference. ' Look 
 here,' she said, opening some drawers ; ' these are all my clothes 
 . — frocks, and capes, and riljbnns ; don't thcv look pretty ? '
 
 40 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Yes, very,' said Ruth, quietly ; ' but, Alice, papa told me 
 that wearing fine dresses had something to do with poinps and 
 vanities ; and that it was wrong. He said so one evening when 
 I asked him .what pomps and vanities meant.' 
 
 ' No, but indeed, Ruth, it can't be wrong,' said Madeline ; 
 * because we have our best frocks on now.' 
 
 ' I forget,' answered Ruth, looking a little puzzled ; ' but I 
 know he did say something about it.' 
 
 ' Never mind ! ' exclaimed Alice ; ' what does it signify?' 
 
 ' It does signify,' continued Ruth ; ' because I don't like for- 
 getting.' Alice seemed rather surprised ; and, turning away, 
 called Madeline to come and admire her beautiful sashes ; and 
 she spread them out upon the table, whilst Ruth stood apart by 
 the window. ' I have it !' exclaimed Ruth, at length : ' he said 
 that it was not naughty to like what we have if it was grand or 
 pretty, but that we ought not to feel proud about it, and think 
 ourselves better than others ; and he wouldn't like you, Alice, 
 to talk about being richer than us.' 
 
 * I can't help it,' said Alice, ' if it is true.' 
 
 * But you boasted,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' And you would like to be rich, I know ; so there is not 
 much difference.' 
 
 Ruth coloured, and was going to reply, when Madeline ex- 
 claimed — ' Papa scolded one of the girls at the school the other 
 day, about pomps and vanities ; don't you remember, Ruth ? ' 
 
 ' Hester Mon-is, wasn't it .''' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; do you know, Alice, she spent all her money in buying 
 a new ribbon, when her father and mother had no meat for 
 dinner.' 
 
 ' That was wrong, certainly,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes ; and papa talked to us a great deal besides ; it was 
 one evening when we went down to the shore ; but I forget it 
 all now.' 
 
 * I remember what he said,' continued Ruth : ' he told us we 
 ought not to wish for anything more than we have ; and that 
 we ought to be quite willing to be poor ; and not to want to 
 have fine names, and to have people thinking a great deal about 
 us ; so, Alice, you will be very wrong indeed if you care about 
 those things when you grow up.' 
 
 * And he said that sinful lusts of the flesh meant greedinecs 
 for us,' added Madeline. 
 
 ' Well I' exclaimed Alice, growing impivtient at having what
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 41 
 
 she considered a lecture, * 1 can't be greedy ; Lady Catharine 
 won't let me have anything except at dinner-time — I mean 
 lo7cngcs and sweet things, as Benson did.' 
 
 ' I thought you said, last time we were here, tliat she ga\e 
 you some sugar-plums,' observed Ruth. 
 
 * Oh yes ! just that once ; but she has never done it since.' 
 
 ' Then you are not as well off as we are,' said Madeline, 
 opening a black silk bag which hung on her arm : ' see here ! 
 they are bonbons — real French bonbons, which our aunt Wilson 
 sent us ; and we thought you would like some.' 
 
 ' Oh, what beauties !' exclaimed Alice; and her eyes sparkled 
 with delight : 'all silver, and gold, and pink, and blue, and green 
 1 never saw any so pretty.' 
 
 ' Madeline and I are going to keep some of ours to look at,' 
 said Ruth : ' it seems a pity to tear them.' 
 
 * I don't see that,' replied Alice ; ' they are made to be 
 eaten. This blue one is chocolate, 1 am sure : don't you both 
 like chocolate very much ? ' 
 
 ' No, not very much,' answered Madeline ; ' I don't, at least. 
 All those I have put by are chocolate, I think.' 
 
 * Dear me ! then you don't care for them. I wish you would 
 let me have them : and I am so much obliged to you for these' 
 
 Alice immediately began eating the bonbons ; and Ruth was 
 uncomfortable, fearing they might have done wrong in giving 
 them. ' I thought Lady Catharine did not like you to have 
 sugar-plums and things,' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, that is all nonsense ! they never do me any harm ; and 
 Benson bought me heaps : besides, these are different — they 
 are bonbons ; so do, Madeline, dear, give me the others.' 
 Madeline pretended not to hear, for she was not inclined to 
 sacrifice her treasures ; she thought them as valuable to be 
 looked at, as Alice did to be eaten ; and in an awkward 
 manner she began turning over the coloured sashes. Alice, 
 however, was not to be easily diverted from her wishes ; the 
 more bonbons she had, the more she v.antcd ; and after again 
 wamily expressing her thanks for the present she had received, 
 slie once more returned to the charge : ' You know, Madeline, 
 I don't want to do anything you dislike ; but if you are not 
 fond of chocolate, they can be no good to you.' 
 
 ' Yes, but they can be,' persisted Madeline, ' if it is my 
 pleasure to look at them.' 
 
 'Besides, Alice,' interrupted Ruth, 'you know Lady Catharine 
 would not like it.'
 
 42 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'And it is being greedy,' said Madeline, delighted to find 
 support from her sister ; ' and if papa were here, he would talk 
 to you a great deal about not being greedy.' 
 
 Alice looked angry. ' No, it 's not being greedy ! ' she said : 
 ' I don't want to take them from you, if you can eat them your- 
 self ; but you don't care for them.' 
 
 ' But it is being greedy,' said Ruth ; ' because if you did not 
 think so much about sweet things, you would not ask so often. 
 You know, Alice, how you used to tease Benson to buy you 
 lemon drops whenever she went out.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' exclaimed Alice ; ' I remember who used to eat 
 them when they were bought.' 
 
 * I did,' replied Ruth ; ' but I would not have done it if 
 mamma had wished me not ; and you don't think anything 
 about Lady Catharine.' 
 
 Alice felt from experience that there vs^as nothing to be gained 
 by arguing with Ruth, who generally contrived to see the right 
 and the wrong of every case clearly, and when she did see it, 
 never gave up. Madeline was a more persuadable person ; and 
 Alice did not in the least lose the hope of obtaining her wishes, 
 though she continued silent after Ruth's last speech ; and gather- 
 ing up the bonbons from the table, put them into a drawer of 
 the cabinet, and went on displaying her sashes. ' You never 
 saw all these before,' she said : ' Benson used to keep them. 
 I never did till the other day ; but are they not beautiful } ' 
 They certainly were very handsome : bright green, and purple, 
 and pink, and figured satin, and white with coloured roses — 
 such an assembla.ge as had never been seen by the two children 
 except in a draper's shop at Cottington. ' They belonged to 
 an aunt of mine ; — all but this one,' said Alice ; and she held 
 up a very pretty green ribbon with white spots ; ' that was 
 given me yesterday.' 
 
 'Yesterday ! ' exclaimed both the children, in surprise : 'how 
 very kind of Lady Catharine ! ' 
 
 ' It was not Lady Catharine,' said Alice, with a peculiar 
 smile ; and then she added, gravely, ' you know it is no exact 
 good to me now.' 
 
 ' Then it must have been Marsham,' observed Madeline ; 
 * but she does not look good-natured.' 
 
 ' No, nor Marsham ; but never mind ; somebody gave me 
 this ribbon, and I think it is beautiful.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but Alice, do tell us ; we v/on't say anything about it,' 
 said Madeline, with her usual tlioughtlcssness.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 43 
 
 * No, no !' exclaimed Alice, shaking -her head, and delighted 
 at a little mystery; 'I shan't tell you anything; so there will be 
 no use in your guessing.' 
 
 ' Besides,' observed Ruth, ' I don't like to promise that I 
 won't say anything ; and I don't think you ought to do it, 
 Madeline.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Madeline, recollecting herself, ' I suppose I 
 must not promise not to tell ; but I should like to know for all 
 that.' 
 
 Alice held the ribbon up to show it off to the best advantage, 
 and Madeline again began guessing, when Marsham came in 
 hastily to say that Lady Catharine desired to speak with Miss 
 Lennox. The ribbon was thrown down, and Alice was gone 
 in an instant. Ruth took up a book, but Madeline could not 
 withdraw her eyes from the beautiful ribbon. The taste for 
 finery was a folly which her mamma had early discovered in her, 
 and often desired to correct ; but she was always dressed plainly, 
 and she had, therefore, no great opportunity of displaying it. 
 Now that there was no one to caution her, she gave way to it ; 
 and passing the ribbon round her waist, and holding it together 
 that it might not be crumpled, she called to Ruth to admire it, 
 and observe how well it suited with her white frock. 
 
 * You will spoil it,' said Ruth, scarcely raising her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh no, I shall not, it would be impossible ; I am not 
 tying it. Just see, Ruth, only once.' 
 
 ' Yes, well, very pretty,' replied Ruth, looking up again. 
 Madeline went to the glass, and stood before it at a little dis- 
 tance that she might see herself plainly. ' If Alice is greedy, I 
 know some one else who likes fine clothes,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Not clothes,' answered Madeline ; ' it is only a ribbon.' 
 
 * That is just the same, papa said so ; and he told you that 
 mamma often talked to him about it, and that it was as bad in 
 us to love to dress ourselves out, as it was in the girls at the 
 school.' 
 
 Madeline felt a little ashamed, but still persisted that as the 
 ribbon was not her own, there could be no harm in liking to 
 see herself in it ; and Ruth, having given her opinion, again 
 returned to her book. Madeline continued to amuse herself 
 with the sashes, putting them round her, one after the other, 
 but finding none which she thought at all ecjual to her first 
 favourite. ' How I should like to have just such a one ! ' she 
 exclaimed at length, her admiration having increased to a long-
 
 44 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ing desire to possess the prize, especially as it suited so well 
 
 with her white frock. ' I wonder whether Alice would give ' 
 
 The sentence was interrupted, for Madeline caught the sound of 
 footsteps ; and feeling that she was indulging a foolish wish, she 
 threw the ribbon aside. Lady Catharine entered directly after- 
 wards, and Alice with her. She kissed the two children almost 
 affectionately, and said she hoped they had managed to enter- 
 tain themselves pretty well ; but on glancing round the room, 
 and observing the display of Alice's finery, she grew stern again, 
 and desiring that all that nonsense might be put away, she told 
 Madeline and Ruth to fetch their bonnets and capes, for they 
 were to go into the garden, and drink tea in the summer-house. 
 Madehne cast a wistful look at the green sash as Alice began 
 folding it up, and offered to remain behind and help her ; but 
 Lady Catharine waved her hand, and pointed to the door, and 
 Ruth whispered to her to be quick ; Alice, too, gave a sign not 
 to speak, and Madeline felt she must be careful not even to ap- 
 pear to disobey. 
 
 What had passed was but a trifle, and in itself seemed of very 
 iittle consequence. Madeline knew that the mere admiring a 
 pretty ribbon could be no harm, and she did not think that any 
 one could find fault with her for merely putting it on, and wish- 
 ing she had one like it ; but she did not remember that a love 
 of finery was one of her great faults, and that her mamma had 
 often told her to try and not think about her dress at all, lest 
 she should grow up to be silly and conceited, and should forget 
 the promise of her baptism to renounce the pomps and vanities 
 of the world. Madeline was thoughtless about everything — 
 especially her faults ; she never saw what she was doing till she 
 had committed some serious offence, and the consequence was 
 that she made but little improvement ; for to be watchful over 
 trifles is the only sure way of advancing in goodness. Alice, 
 beii'Sj very quick in all her movements, joined Ruth and Made- 
 line before they had reached the bottom of the stairs. Lady 
 Catharine's presence made them all feel shy, but Ruth remarked 
 that Alice did not walk away from her, but kept close to her 
 side ; and when some cjuestion was asked as to what lessons 
 had been done, and Alice gave a good account of her day's 
 work. Lady Catharine's face looked quite gentle, and her smile 
 was so sweet, that Ruth for the first time thought it might be 
 possible to love her. 
 
 The table in the summer-house was spread for tea, with
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 45 
 
 bread and butter, and cakes and fruit ; and to the children's 
 great pleasure, there were the small brown cups and saucers, 
 and plates with gilt edges, which they had been in the habit of 
 playing with at the white house. None of them had believed 
 it possible that Lady Catharine should think of such triiles ; and 
 when, after seeing them comfortably seated, she left them 
 to themselves, they were loud in their exclamations of sur- 
 prise and delight. Madeline declared that it was not at all 
 like Lady Catharine, and she was sure some one else must 
 liave begged for them ; but Alice said that Lady Catharine 
 often remembered kind things, and Marsham had said one 
 day that she never forgot a poor person in her life. Ruth, 
 as being the steadiest, was fixed upon to pour out the tea, 
 and the little party went on very comfortably ; the principal 
 amusement being Alice's description of what had happened 
 since she came to the Manor. Sometimes, indeed, Alice's manner 
 altered, and tears were in her eyes, if anything which was said 
 brought back a particular remembrance of her dear mamma ; 
 but she was much more reconciled to her new life than she had 
 been at Mrs Clifford's first visit, and did not protest, as she had 
 done before, that she never should like living at the Manor. 
 
 The heat of the afternoon had by this time gone off, and 
 when the tea was over, Alice proposed that they should play 
 hide and seek. There were capital places in the garden, she 
 said, and they might go into one or two of the back courts if 
 they liked it ; ' not into the farthest one though,' she added, 
 pointing to a wall adjoining the outhouses : ' there is a way 
 up there into the strange rooms, and so it 's forbidden.' 
 
 * Oh ! how I wish it was not ! ' exclaimed Madeline ; ' it 
 would be such fun to go ; there must be something wondcrRd 
 there.' 
 
 ' No, there is not,' replied Alice. ' I asked Marsham about 
 them once ; and she said they were the rooms which Lady 
 Catharine had a great many years ago, when Mr Hyde, her 
 husband, you know, was alive ; and that his bedroom and 
 study were there, and that makes her so particular, because she 
 wants to keep everything just as it used to be, and she thinks 
 that if every one was allowed to go there, they would be put 
 out of order ; so Marsham goes in and dusts it all herself. I 
 would ask her to take me with her, if Lady Catharine had not 
 made such a fuss, and declared she would send me to school if 
 1 ever did.' Ruth looked at the windows, notwithstanding this
 
 46 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 account, with a great deal of interest ; and felt that she would 
 rather have seen those few shut up rooms than any others iii 
 the house ; but there was no good to be gauied by wishing, and 
 the game began. It was a long and a merry one. Behind old 
 yew hedges, and large trees, and projecting walls, and half-open 
 doors, the children hid, in the certainty that no one would 
 dream of finding them there ; and, unmindful of Lady Catharine, 
 or Marsham, or the dull garden, they made the air ring with 
 their shouts of joyous laughter as loudly as if they had been 
 playing in the shrubbery at the Parsonage. 
 
 Alice was naturally the most successful in concealing hci-self; 
 she knew every turn and corner, for when left alone her chief 
 amusement was to spy out all the odd places belonging to the 
 house ; and, at length, after the game had continued for about 
 twenty minutes, she was declared by her little companions to be 
 quite lost. They had looked everywhere, and called, and even 
 entreated that she would show herself, but no answer had been 
 returned. 
 
 ' She is gone into the house,' said Ruth ; ' and that is so 
 foolish when it was against our rule.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Madeline, * and if we had done it she would have 
 been very angry.' 
 
 ' I don't think she can be, either,' continued Ruth, after a 
 little thought : ' she said to me again that we were not to do it 
 just before she ran away.' 
 
 ' That might have been for fun, to deceive us,' replied Made- 
 line ; ' you knov/ Alice will do such things sometimes.' 
 
 As she said this Madeline turned down a long walk leading 
 to the door of the forbidden court, and when she reached the 
 bottom, she leaned against the wall to rest herself, feeling tired 
 with play, and ^•excd with Alice ; whilst Ruth, determining to 
 make another search, walked away in a different direction. 
 Madeline began calling again for Alice, and when she stopped, 
 the sound of voices in the court was piainly heard. Some per- 
 sons were talking together, and Madeline fancied that one of 
 them was Alice. The tone seemed the same, though she did 
 not hear what passed. Once more she repeated her name, and 
 a moment afterwards a door was shut hastily, and Alice, steal- 
 ing round the corner of the wall, stood by her side, laughing 
 heartily. Madeline was eager in her questions as to what she 
 had been doing, and where she had been hiding ; but Alice 
 would give no account of herself, and only insisted on their
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 47 
 
 joining Ruth. Madeline agreed ; but as she turned round to 
 pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen down, she was sur- 
 prised to see the door of the servants' court open, and a woman 
 dressed in mourning, and looking extremely like Benson, ap- 
 pear, who, after spying about, walked quickly towards a dooi 
 in the garden wall which adjoined the park. 
 
 * It is Benson, I am sure,' exclaimed Madeline, and she was 
 going to run after her, when Alice pulled her back. 
 
 ' No, no, nonsense, never mind,' she exclaimed, colouring 
 deeply ; ' let us find Ruth.' 
 
 ' But it looked just like her ; I am sure it must be her ; do 
 let me go and speak.' 
 
 ' How foolish ! ' exclaimed AHce ; ' she is gone now — see.' 
 The garden door was closed, and the woman, whoever she 
 might be, was gone. Madeline persisted that it was Benson, 
 and Alice laughed, and again called it nonsense ; and Madeline, 
 whose attention Avas soon drawn away from any subject, re- 
 turned once more, though, without success, to the question of 
 Alice's hiding-place. They found Ruth in the summer-house ; 
 she had given Alice up, and began to complain that she had 
 broken the rules of the game. Alice, however, persisted that 
 she had not, for she had not been in the house. 
 
 * Then you were talking to Benson in the servants' court,' 
 said Madeline, ' and that was against the rules, for you told us 
 we must not go there.' 
 
 Alice blushed again, but before she could answer, Ruth ex- 
 claimed, ' Benson ! is she come back 1 and may you see her, 
 Alice?' 
 
 Alice looked still more uncomfoi table, and in an awkward 
 manner said, ' Benson was to have stayed in London a month.' 
 
 ' But she did not,' obsei"ved Madeline ; ' I am sure it was 
 Benson who went through the garden, and I know I heard your 
 voice, Alice, in the court.' 
 
 * Listening ! listening ! for shame !' exclaimed Alice, the 
 crimson in her cheeks spreading itself over her forehead and neck. 
 
 ' It was not listening,' replied MadeUne, angrily ; ' I could 
 not help myself.' 
 
 * Well, it is of no consequence,' said Alice ; 'it is no one's 
 business but my own, and we won't talk any more about it. I 
 want you to tell me, Madeline, where you got your bonbons.' 
 
 'Why, what good can it do you?' asked Ruth, who was 
 striick bv the awkwardness of Alice's manner.
 
 48 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * You can't have any like them, because they came from 
 France,' said Madeline. 
 
 Alice looked disappointed. 'Arc you sure?' she said. 
 
 * Yes, quite ; and I know there arc none to be had here, 
 nor at Coitington ; for mamma tried the last time we were 
 there.' 
 
 This seemed to settle the question, for the shops at Cottington 
 contained, in the children's belief, all that was most wonderful 
 and beautiful in the world. Alice showed her vexation in her 
 countenance, and instead of proposing another game, sat down, 
 and began pulling off the leaves of the evergreen-honeysuckles 
 %-hich twined round the summer-house. ' There is no use 
 in staying here, if you are so stupid,' said Ruth, after proposing 
 several plays, all of which were disliked ; ' I shall go and feed 
 Marsham's rabbits ; ' and she walked away. 
 
 Madeline was going to follow, but Alice pulled her back. 
 ' Stop, Madeline,' she said ; * why won't you give me the bon- 
 bons ?' Poor Madeline felt a little surprise, for she had for- 
 gotten that any claim had been made upon her. ' It is very 
 ill-natured of you,' continued Alice ; ' you can't eat them your- 
 self, and you won't let any one else ha\e them ; and I would 
 give you anything you like in exchange.' 
 
 'Anything!' exclaimed Madeline, who had a notion that 
 since Alice had been adopted by Lady Catharine Hyde, she 
 must of course possess many more beautiful tilings than she had 
 done before. 
 
 ' Yes, anything,' repeated Alice; 'I will tell you what I would 
 give you, if you liked; one of the sashes — one of those beauti- 
 ful sashes you sj-.w in my dressing-room.' 
 
 'Would you, indeed.'" and the remembrance of the green 
 ribbon with the white spots came clearly before Madeline's 
 mind ; ' but you would not be allowed.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! trust me ; I may do just as I like in those things ; 
 let me have the bonbons, and you shall have the sash.' 
 
 The temptation was great, for Madeline had never during her 
 whole life possessed anything so handsome. * I should like it 
 very much,' she said, ' but then ' 
 
 ' Well, what.'' make haste — why don't you say yes?' 
 
 * It would be no good,' said Madeline, sorrowfully; 'mamma 
 would not let me wear it ; she likes Ruth and me always to be 
 dressed alike.' This was rather a difficulty ; but Alice, having 
 once made the proposal to exchange something for the bonbons,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 49 
 
 was not daunted, and began to recijunt her list of valuables, in 
 hopes that Madeline would find something else which would do 
 as well. But it was in vain. Madeline cared neither for wafer- 
 boxes, nor coloured sealing-wax, nor mother-of-pearl winders, 
 nor transparent slates ; she wished only for the ribbon, and if 
 she did not have that, she did not want anything. ' It is the 
 green sash I should like,' she said ; ' that is the prcUiest of 
 them all.' 
 
 Alice's face brightened, as if a happy thought had struck her. 
 * Well,' she said, ' I don't know, perhaps it might be managed ; 
 would you really give me the bonbons, if I were to give you 
 and Ruth a sash alike ?' 
 
 Madeline, surprised at the offer, considered for a few mo- 
 ments, and then said, ' Yes,' though not without a little feeling 
 of reluctance ; adding, * you may let me take them home, antl 
 then I will ask mamma to send Smith, the gardener, with the 
 bonbons to-morrow.' 
 
 * No, no, indeed ! ' exclaimed Alice, ' that will never do ; 
 Lady Catharine might know about it then.' 
 
 To Madeline this sounded as a reason for not having them 
 at all ; but Alice was not thoroughly sincere, and when self- 
 indulgence came in her way, she was unable to overcome the 
 temptation of gratifying it, even at the risk of doing wrong. 
 Madeline's scruples were therefore laughed at, and she was told 
 that it would be necessary to keep the bonbons till they met 
 again, for that it would not be safe to send them ; that, in fact, 
 it would be as well not to say anything about them.' 
 
 ' But I must to mamma,' replied Madeline ; ' I shall show 
 her the sashes to-night, and she will ask directly how I came 
 by them.' 
 
 At this difficulty Ahce began to laugh, and exclaimed, ' But 
 you don't expect to carry back the sashes with you to-night, do 
 you ? why, I have not got them yet.' 
 
 ' Not got them ? ' repeated Madeline, with a blank face of 
 disappointment, ' I thought you said you would gave us eacli 
 one alike.' 
 
 ' So I did ; but the other must be bought first.' 
 
 Madeline was puzzled. She knew that Alice was scarcely 
 ever allowed to go beyond the park — never, indeed, unless Lady 
 Catharine was with her ; and how it would be possible to pro- 
 cure another ribbon, equally beautiful with the one she has just 
 seen, in any place but Cottington, was a mystery which she was 
 
 D
 
 ^o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 unable to comprehend. Madeline did not know that the green 
 ribbon had been a present from Benson, who liad brought it 
 from London only the day before; and, without L^dy Catharine's 
 knowledge, had managed to see Alice and give it into her own 
 hands. Benson had been careful to keep this fact secret, for 
 she knew that Lady Catharine was aware of her great fault — 
 her love of gossiping and repeating strange stories, and was 
 determined not to allow Alice to see anything more of her. 
 She had, moreover, offended Lady Catharine very much, by 
 being impertinent to her when she was first informed that Alice 
 was to be taken from her care ; and, in consequence, she had 
 been foi'bidden ever to come near the house. 
 
 Benson was a foolish woman, and did many wrong things ; 
 but she was really fond of Alice, and it cut her to the heart to 
 be told she was to leave her. Having a sister living in Lane- 
 ton, a dressmaker, she resolved to settle with her, and take part 
 of her business ; and accordingly, after a journey to London to 
 see some relations, she had returned only two days before the 
 visit of Ruth and Madeline to the Manor, bringing with her the 
 gay ribbon which they had so much admired. Alice was proud 
 of finery, and pleased with the sash, but she knew she should 
 not be able to wear it for some time ; and even if she could do 
 so, she liked something to eat much better than something to 
 wear. The love of eating was as strong in her as the love of 
 dress was in Madeline ; and she had that afternoon been trying 
 to persuade Benson, whom she met whilst she was seeking for 
 a good hiding-place, to bring some bonbons with her the next 
 time she came. Benson knew nothing about bonbons, or how 
 dear they were ; and fancying it would be only the expense of 
 a fev/ halfpence, agreed to buy some in the village ; but she 
 told Alice that she could not undertake to bring them up to the 
 house to her, because it was only for those two days, whilst the 
 upper housemaid was away, and the under housemaid, who was 
 her cousin, was able to keep watch for her, that she had been 
 able to come, contrary to Lady Catharine's order. If Alice 
 wanted to see her again, they must meet at the garden gate, 
 which opened into the park. Alice had agreed to this, without 
 once considering what a very wrong thing she was doing ; she 
 remembered neither Lady Catharine's commands, nor the great 
 sinfulness of deceit, nor anything but her own wishes. For 
 the sake of the bonbons, for the pleasure of indulging her taste 
 for eating, she was willing to displease not only a human being,
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 5; 
 
 who had adopted her when she was a friendless orphan, but 
 One infinitely greater and kinder, the all-seeing God, who 
 hates deceit, and from whom no thought or action can be con- 
 cealed. Madeline saw that something was wrong, and she 
 knew that Alice was going to disobey Lady Catharine ; but 
 though her conscience whispered that it would be better to give 
 up all thought of the sashes, and that even if she had them her 
 mamma might not like them to be worn ; and that, at any rate, 
 she was indulging the love of fineiy, which she had been 
 warned against, still she allowed herself to hesitate, and think, 
 and wish ; and the consequence was what might easily be 
 imagined — she agreed to give Alice the bonbons when next 
 they met, and to receive the two sashes in return. She half 
 repented, indeed, when Alice told her that she must not say 
 anything to Ruth ; for she had never kept anything secret from 
 her before ; but the idea of surprising her in some degree made 
 up for the restraint she was obliged to put upon herself ; and 
 though unable to find out from Alice how the ribbon was to 
 be procured, she persisted in her resolution ; and when the 
 three children were summoned into the house by Marsham, no 
 one would have supposed, from their merry voices and light 
 steps, that two of them had determined upon doing what they 
 knew to be wrong. Whilst we think only upon indulging out 
 own wishes, our consciences are often silent ; it is only when 
 we have gained our point that we begin to see how sinfully 
 we have acted. If Alice and Madeline had been reminded of 
 their baptismal vow, and asked whether they had broken it by 
 gratifying their desires for the pomps and vanities of the world, 
 and the sinful lusts of the flesh, they would most probably have 
 answered ' No.' They might even have supposed that it was 
 only grown-up people who could ever be tempted to be guilty 
 of such sins ; but this is not the way in which God judges. He 
 sees the working of our evil hearts in our slightest actions, and 
 the faults of children are in His eyes very grievous, because 
 He knows that they proceed from the deep corruption of their 
 nature ; and that if they are not checked, they will assuredly 
 end in great offences. Alice and Madeline knew all this — that 
 is, they had been taught it, but they did not think about it. 
 They played, laughed, looked at pictures, and told stories, and 
 enjoyed the dish of raspberries and milk which Lady Catharine 
 provided for them in the study, without any misgiving ; and it 
 v/as only when, an hour afterwards, they knelt down, each in
 
 52 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 her separate chamber, to ofier their evening prayers, that any- 
 thing like a doubt crossed their minds as to whether God was 
 indeed well pleased with them. Alice thought of it, but the 
 thought was disagreeable, and she turned away from it ; and, 
 as soon as the words were repeated, hurried into bed, that she 
 might forget it. But Madeline's conscience was more tender ; 
 her mamma had taught her to try and recollect the principal 
 naughty things which she had done during the day, and to 
 mention them in her prayers at night, and the agreement with 
 Alice immediately struck her as one ; but then if it was wrong 
 it ought to be given up — she ought to refuse to take the sashes, 
 or to give Alice the bonbons ; but she had promised, and Alice 
 would think it unkind ; it seemed to her difficult to know how 
 to decide, and in the middle of her prayers she stopped to con- 
 sider. The servant looked into the room at the time to see if 
 she was in bed, and Madeline thought it would not do to deter- 
 mine then ; so she finished her prayers with an unhappy mind, 
 and instead of lying down in peace, ?nd falling asleep im- 
 mediately, she tossed about restless and uncomfortable for more 
 than a quarter of an hour, with all sorts of confused thoughts in 
 her head, and with a consciousness that the right way of acting 
 was clear, but that she had not strength to follow it. Why did 
 not Madeline pray that God would help her ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THERE are few children who have not at some time or other 
 experienced the same feelings as Madeline when she 
 awoke the next morning, with the dim consciousness that some- 
 thing disagreeable had happened, or was going to happen — • 
 that there was some cause why she should be less light-hearted 
 than usual. The truth was easily recollected, but, unhappily, 
 Madeline was less inclined to do her duty, and give up her 
 wishes in the morning, when the sun was shining, and the birds 
 were ainging, and everything looked cheerful around her, than 
 she had been in the dark night, when she lay in her bed, with 
 nothing to distract her thoughts from the remembrance that she 
 was in the presence of the great God, who knew all that was 
 passing in her lieart. Ruth saw that something was making
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 53 
 
 her sister uncomfortable ; and fancying that it was because she 
 was not ready with her lessons, she helped her to finish dress- 
 ing, and promised to hear her repeat them when she went 
 down-stairs ; and Madeline did not say that this was not the 
 reason, though the day before she would have shrunk from the 
 idea of hiding anything from Ruth, She only hurried over all 
 she had to do, that she might not be asked any cjuestions, and 
 then knelt down to say her prayers, as usual ; but as it had 
 been the night previous, so it was now. Madeline was afraid 
 lo use holy words, and ask God to keep her from sin, when she 
 was resolving to commit it ; she knew well that this would only 
 be a mockery. There was a great difficulty in her mind, and a 
 long struggle between her conscience, which told her what she 
 ought to do, and her inclination, which told her what she ought 
 not. Still she did not pray to be enabled to act rightly ; she 
 tried to decide by herself; and the consequence was, as it al- 
 ways must be, that she went wrong. She put off determining the 
 question till another occasion, because she said to herself that 
 it was not necessary to settle then ; there would be no chance of 
 her meeting Alice that day, so she would not be obliged to give 
 her the bonbons, and she would think about it again, when she 
 had more time ; perhaps it would be as well to have nothing to 
 do with the matter, but she would see ; and having thus quieted 
 her conscience, Madeline said her prayers in haste, making, at 
 the same time, the excuse for herself that she was late. This 
 was but a bad beginning of the day, for when we are careless 
 and inattentive to God we may be quite sure that we shall not 
 be able to do well in other respects ; and before breakfast was 
 ready, Madeline had spoken several hasty words to Ruth, be- 
 sides wasting her time, and failing to have one lesson as perfect 
 as it ought to be. 
 
 Mrs Clifford, who soon found out if anything was amfss, 
 would probably have made some remark upon her little girl's 
 manner, which was far from being as cheerful as usual, if her 
 attention had not been occupied by a letter which had arrived 
 by the post, and the interest of which prevented her from paying 
 her usual attention to what was going on. She read it twice 
 through, though it was rather a long one, and then gave it to 
 her husband ; and, when he had ended it, they began talking 
 of the contents. The two children, however, could not at all 
 understand what was meant. They heard something about 
 their aunt Mary and their grandmamma, and a marriage which
 
 54 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 was to take place soon ; but who was to be married, or what 
 their aunt Mary and their grandmamma had to do Avith the 
 matter, they could not make out. It was clear, however, that 
 the business of the letter was important ; for, directly after 
 breakfast, Mrs Clifford called the children to her, and, after set- 
 ting them some writing copies, told them they were to go on by 
 themselves, for that she should not be able to attend to them for 
 the next hour ; and soon afterwards they saw her walking in 
 the garden with their papa, and talking to him earnestly. 
 Madeline felt glad in the hope that she should not be called so 
 soon as usual to repeat her imperfect lesson ; and, as it hap- 
 pened, Mrs Clifford was detained until she had had time to 
 look over her French and geography, and to find out some 
 places in the map which she had read of the day before ; no 
 fault, therefore, was found, and her mamma even praised her. 
 But Madeline was not happy at being praised ; she knew that 
 she did not deserve it. The dinner hour arrived, and still there 
 had been no opportunity for thinking ; and in the afternoon Mr 
 Clifford took both the children for a walk with him ; and they 
 came in only in time for tea, and afterwards went out again 
 upon the shore, where they stayed so long that it was very 
 nearly their bed-time before they returned. Madeline's mind 
 had been quite occupied, and slie had almost forgotten her en- 
 gagement with Alice ; and the pain she had felt the night before 
 was nearly gone. Yet Madeline was not better because she 
 was happier ; her happiness was caused by forgetfulness ; but 
 God ne^•cr forgets. To Ruth the day had been an unpleasant 
 one, though she had not the same causes for self-reproach as 
 Madeline. She was uncomfortable ; not about herself, but 
 about her papa and mamma, who, she could plainly see, had 
 something in their thoughts which distressed them. Mrs 
 Clifford stayed at home all the afternoon, writing a long letter ; 
 and once, on going into the room, Ruth remarked that tears 
 were in her eyes, though she tried to hide them ; and directly 
 afterwards Mrs Clifford called her little girl to her, and kissed 
 her so often, and gazed upon her so sadly, that Ruth longed to 
 ask what was the matter. Her papa, too, was not at all like 
 himself when he took them for their walk. He was silent, and 
 looked very grave ; and sighed when an old man, at whose cot- 
 tage they stopped, observed what a pleasure it must be to him to 
 have his little girls with him. Mr Clifford scarcely ever sighed; 
 and Ruth was sure it must be something serious which could
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 55 
 
 make him do so. What it was, however, she could not in the 
 least find out, though she thought it must have something to do 
 with the letter ; but when she began talking to Madeline her 
 fears rather passed away, for Madeline laughed at her for worry- 
 ing herself about it. Ruth went to bed that night with much 
 more serious thoughts than Madeline ; and when she prayed, as 
 she had been taught, that God would bless her papa and 
 mamma, she really thought about the words, and used them frona 
 her heart, and then she felt relieved, for she knew that if any- 
 thing disagreeable was going to happen, God would be not only 
 able but willing to help them to bear it. 
 
 The two next days Ruth watched anxiously when the post 
 came, but it did not bring any letters of consequence, and the 
 cheerfulness of her papa and mamma began to make her tliink 
 she must have been fanciful. On the third day they were 
 rather earlier at breakfast than usual, and the children were sent 
 into the school-room before the post came in ; and as they were 
 leaving the breakfast parlour, Mrs Clifford said, she hoped they 
 would be careful at their lessons, for she had some intention ol 
 taking them out with her in the afternoon ; perhaps they might 
 go to the Manor. Madeline's countenance changed, and she 
 ran quickly out of the room. It seemed certain at first that 
 she must decide at once ; for Alice would expect the bonbons, 
 md had no doubt procured the sashes. It did not seem 
 possible to draw back ; but Madeline could not make up her 
 mind to fulfil her agreement, and again she put off the 
 evil hour. It was the time for their writing, and she knew 
 her mamma would be displeased if she was not ready ; so 
 she resolved not to settle positively to do wrong, but to 
 take the bonbons in her bag, and then talk to Alice a little 
 more upon the subject. If she did not determine to give them, 
 she persuaded herself there could be no harm in carrying 
 them with her. So Madeline reasoned ; and so a great many 
 other persons reason. They cannot resolve to forsake what is 
 wrong at once ; and they put themselves in the way of tempta- 
 tion, and then say they cannot help yielding to it. Madeline 
 went to her writing, and took more pains than usual with it, 
 and really fancied that she was trying to do right ; and when 
 Ruth began looking at the door, and wondering why tlicir 
 mamma did not come, she reproved her, and said that she 
 ought not to talk and look about her. Ruth, however, could 
 not help feeling wonder, though after Madeline had spoken slie
 
 56 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 did not express it ; and when, at last, Mrs Cliiiord came into 
 the room, all her past fears about the letters and bad news re- 
 turned. Mrs Clifford looked uncomfortable ; she sat quiet for 
 some time without speaking ; and when she began to hear 
 them repeat their lessons, it seemed to be a trouble to her, and 
 not a pleasure as it usually was. She smiled, however, at the 
 end, and told them they were good children, and that she hoped, 
 as she had promised, to take them with her to the Manor in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 * I should like to know what is the matter,' said Ruth, as 
 they went to their rooms to prepare for dinner : ' didn't you see 
 to-day, Madeline, how very strange mamma looked .f" 
 
 ' Once I did,' replied Madeline, ' when I said something about 
 liaving a new geography book next month. I almost thought 
 she was going to cry ; but you know mamma never cries, and 
 I am sure that could not have made her.' 
 
 ' No,' said Ruth, laughing ; ' but it was not only then ; it 
 was all the time she was hearing us.' 
 
 Madeline merely said 'Was it.'" Had it been any other 
 time she would have asked a great many questions, and guessed 
 all sorts of reasons ; but just then she was turning over her 
 beautiful bonbons, and putting them into a bag that she might 
 not be hurried after dinner. 
 
 Mr Clifford did not come to luncheon, which was still another 
 reason for Ruth's thinking that something must be going wrong, 
 or at any rate that something important was about to happen. 
 She was sure he was not gone out, for she had caught a glimpse 
 of him at his writing-table as she passed the study door. When 
 they were dressed for their walk, Ruth observed the bag hang- 
 ing on Madeline's arm, and asked her why she was going to 
 carry it, as they had nothing to take with them. Madeline did 
 not know what to reply, but muttered something indistinctly. 
 She did not wish to tell a story ; but having begun to do what 
 she did not like to own, she was induced to say anything for 
 an excuse ; and besides this she was obliged to crumple the 
 bag up, though it was very pretty and easily spoiled, and put it 
 in the pocket of her frock, in order that nothing more might be 
 said about it. But the visit to the Manor was not to be paid 
 that afternoon ; for at the park gate they met Lady Catharine 
 driving in a little pony-carriage, and Alice with her. Lady 
 Catharine was pleased to see Mrs Clifford, and telling the page 
 to hold the ponies, she got out and walked with her up and
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 57 
 
 down the straiglit piece of road in front of the park paHng ; 
 whilst the children, delighted at being left together, talked fast 
 and merrily. Madeline hoped that Alice had forgotten tlie 
 bonbons ; for, notwithstanding her wish to possess the ribboix 
 in exchange, she had been too uncomfortable during the last few 
 days not to feel glad to be out of the way of temptation. She 
 did not, however, escape so easily. Ruth went to gather some 
 wild flowers in the hedge ; and then Alice, catching hold of 
 Madeline's hand, exclaimed: 'Well, where are the bonbons?' 
 
 * I — I — do you really want them ?' replied Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, of course; you don't mean to drawback? oh, how 
 mean!' Madeline blushed, half with anger, half with shame. 
 ' After all my trouble,' continued Alice, ' seeing Benson and all 
 — for I was obliged to beg for another from her.' 
 
 ' Then you have the sashes,' said Madeline, whilst, notwith- 
 standing her confusion, her eyes sparkled with delight and ex- 
 pectation. 
 
 ' Not yet, but I shall have the other ; Benson says so.' 
 
 * Have you seen her again, then?' inquired Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, once at that gate — the garden gate into the park. Do 
 you know, Madeline, I did not half like it, because of Lady 
 Catharine; but I had promised you, and so I was forced to do 
 it.' Poor Madeline felt vexed when she recollected how foolish 
 she had been in receiving such a promise ; and keeping to her 
 resolution of reminding Alice that they were doing wrong in 
 deceiving Lady Catharine, she now proposed that they should 
 give up the notion altogether. To her surprise, Alice seemed 
 at first a little inclined to listen ; for although she did not feel 
 what Madeline did, when she knew that she was grieving her 
 papa and mamma ; still she had lately become more desirous 
 of pleasing Lady Catharine, whose few words of praise were 
 particularly valued, from the fact of their being but seldom 
 given. 
 
 ' Then I may take them back,' said Madeline, as soon as she 
 found that Alice agreed with her scruples ; and, as she spoke, 
 she opened her bag, and displayed the gay paper and gild- 
 ing, in which the bonbons were wrapped. Alice's ej'cs 
 brightened. 
 
 ' O Madeline ! I don't know ; how beautiful they are ! and 
 so many ! Are you sure they are chocolate ? ' 
 
 * Not sure, because I have not opened them all ; but sever£d 
 are, I know '
 
 58 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * And you don"t like them, and I do, it seems such a pity — . 
 and I know they won't hurt me, I ate all those you gave me 
 the other day, and I was not at all the worse for it. Just let 
 me look at them one minute.' Madeline gave up the bag, and 
 Alice put a few in her lap, looking round cautiously at the 
 same time, to see that Lady Catharine was not near. ' I don't 
 believe it would be so very wrong,' she continued ; ' it is all 
 nonsense thinking they would do me harm ; and, besides, 
 Benson is to bring me the other sash to-morrow, and I shan't 
 know what to do with two.' 
 
 ' To-morrow.?' repeated MadeHne, 'then you are quite sure 
 of having it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, quite ; Benson's sister, the dressmaker, has it, and 
 she is to get it from her. Your white frock would look so nice 
 with it, Madeline.' 
 
 ' Better than it does with this old pink one,' said Madeline, 
 looking down at her dress. At that minute Mrs Clifford was 
 heard calling to Ruth, who had wandered away to some little 
 distance. Alice caught up some of the bonbons to put them 
 again into the bag, but, in moving, several fell down. 
 
 ' What shall we do?' she exclaimed, as she stooped to look 
 for them ; ' Lady Catharine will be sure to see them.' Madeline 
 drew nearer to the pony-carriage to help in the search, but she 
 was not able to be of much use, for Ruth came running towards 
 her, telling her that her mamma was gone into a cottage with 
 Lady Catharine, and that they were to follow directly. 
 
 <■ Coming, coming,' exclaimed Madeline, hastily ; going closer 
 to Alice, she then whispered, ' Shall I take the bag .? ' 
 
 'No, no,' replied Alice, ' I may as well have all now ; ' and 
 hiding the bag in the corner for Ruth not to see, she v,'ished 
 both the children <■ good-bye,' and began looking again for the 
 stray bonbons. Madeline walked slowly away, with a feeling of 
 greater pleasure than pain. She had gained her v/ishes, and 
 not entirely by her own doing, and so she fancied herself free 
 from blame, and yet her conscience still told her that all v.'as 
 not right. If she had not brought the bonbons with her, Alice 
 would not have kept them ; but Madeline was glad instead of 
 sorry at being forced to give them up, and when the idea crossed 
 her mind that she might even now refuse to receive the sashes, it 
 gave her a pang, and she said to herself that it would only be 
 foolish, since all the harm was done. Alice had seen Benson, 
 and taken the bonbons, and it could neither make things better
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 59 
 
 nor worse for her to give up her part of the busuiess, and part 
 with what she hkcd, without having anytliing in exchange — ■ 
 and after all it was Alice who had disobeyed. This seemed 
 very true, and it passed ciuickly in Madeline's thoughts, as she 
 followed Ruth in silence to the cottage. But the sound of Lady 
 Catharine's voice brought the dread, that what had been done 
 might be found out, and Madeline's heart sank within her. Yet 
 why should it — if she had done no harm ? 
 
 The next day was Sunday : there were no letters, but Ruth 
 had not less cause for uneasiness than before, for there was no 
 longer any doubt that something had happened to distress her 
 papa and mamma — their manner showed it too plainly. Made- 
 line likewise was altered : she was fretful and discontented ; 
 but Ruth did not think much about it, and was so occupied in 
 watching her mamma, that she did not observe a little scene 
 which passed between her sister and Alice Lennox, as they met 
 at the church door, when the service was over. Alice managed 
 to draw Madeline aside, and pulling a small brown paper parcel 
 out of her pocket, she offered it to her. Madeline shook her 
 head and seemed shocked, and Alice coloured, and laughed, 
 and tore off a piece of the paper to show something green within. 
 Madeline looked, and Alice whispered, ' Promise you won't 
 show it to your mamm, till I say you may.' Madeline drew 
 back, and pushed the parcel away, but as Alice was about to 
 put it into her pocket, she caught hold of it to inspect the ribbon 
 more closely. That second look completed the temptation. 
 
 ' Why must not I tell mamma, now .'' ' she said. 
 
 * I can't say ; there is no tin>e : will you or will you not "i ' 
 Alice laid her hand upon the parcel. Madeline gazed with a 
 longing desire to possess ; then yielded, promised, and took 
 possession. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PERHAPS it might be interesting if we were to go back 
 with Alice Lennox to the ]\Ianor, and see what kind of 
 afternoon she spent with Lady Catharine Hyde after they had 
 returned from the second service, and had looked in at the 
 school to inquire how many girls had been present at church, 
 and which were to have prize-marks for good behaviour. Alice
 
 6o LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 was IcGs talkati\'e than usual (for, strange though it may seem, 
 she was sometimes very talkative when alone with Lady 
 Catharine); she did not make any remarks upon the singing, 
 nor repeat anything which Mr Clifford had said in his sermon ; 
 neither did she once mention the names of Madeline and Ruth. 
 She had a weight upon her mind which prevented her from 
 turning her thoughts to other things. Lady Catharine, too, 
 was silent ; — indeed she seldom said much except when Alice 
 began : — but she held her little companion's hand in hers, and 
 once or twice patted it, and looked smilingly in her face ; and 
 these trifling marks of affection Alice had lately begun to under- 
 stand meant as much, or more, than other person's words. She 
 could not, indeed, tell how much — few children can fully com- 
 prehend the love which grown-up people feel for them — but if 
 Alice had known how, when Lady Catharine rose in the early 
 morning, one of the first prayers was offered for her ; how, 
 during the long day, she was forming schemes for her improve- 
 ment and her happiness ; how she watched the changes of her 
 countenance, and joyed in every symptom of amendment in her 
 disposition ; and how, when night had closed in, and Alice was 
 asleep, she would steal to her bedside, look at her, and try to 
 discover a likeness to her mother, and then bend over, and kiss 
 her, and silently ask God to bless and guard her from harm ; if 
 Alice had known all this, she would perhaps have been even 
 graver than she was, for she would have felt sorrow and shame 
 at the idea of liaving done anytliing that might vex the dearest 
 and kindest friend whom she possessed on earth. 
 
 Lady Catharine went to her room for nearly half an hour when 
 they reached home, and, during this time, Alice looked over her 
 collect, and hymn, and a certain portion of the catechism which 
 she did not remember correctly, in order to repeat them when 
 she was called. She was obliged to be more particular than even 
 in her common lessons in having them perfect ; for Lady Catharine 
 always dcclai^ed that it pained her to hear sacred things said 
 blu-nderingly, as if they were not thought about or cared for. In 
 general, Alice dined when Lady Catharine had luncheon, and 
 drank tea with Marsham; but on Sundays, in the summertime, 
 she ^^•cnt into the garden, to walk up and down and learn all 
 that she had to say, and then returned to drink tea with Lady 
 Catliarine in a little room called the study, which opened out of 
 the drawing-room, and which, from its having a large bow 
 window and pretty pink furniture, and containing a number of
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 6l 
 
 books and pictures, was the most cheerful in the house. Ahce, 
 perliaps, would have liked better to have had tea in the summer- 
 house, as Madeline and Ruth did, but Lady Catharine was afraid 
 of her taking cold, and Alice did not venture to ask. This even- 
 ing, however, it was so warm that Lady Catharine herself pro- 
 posed that they should go out for a little while. Taking a book 
 with her, she led the way to a bench at the lower end of the 
 broad middle walk, and desiring Alice to seat herself on a stool 
 at her feet, she began to read aloud. The book was one of which 
 Alice had already heard a considerable portion. It was the story 
 of a man who, having lived for many years in a large city with 
 his wife and children, was told by a person, whose word he 
 thoroughly believed, that, if he remained tlaere, he must, without 
 doubt, miserably perish ; that the city was doomed to destruction ; 
 and that his only hope of escape was by immediately leaxing all 
 he loved — unless he could prevail on his family to join him — and 
 setting out on a wearisome journey towards a bright and lovely 
 home, prepared for him in a distant land by the Lord, whose 
 servant he was. It described the sorrow of the poor man, and 
 the obstinacy of his wife and children ; the difficulties of his way, 
 and the hope which cheered him in the midst of them ; and. 
 though it was written in old-fashioned language, and there were 
 many parts hard to understand ; and some which Lady Catharine 
 explained in words different from those used in the book ; yet, on 
 the whole, Ahce was interested. She knew well that the city 
 was intended to represent the evil world ; and the man the 
 Christian, who resolves to give up all wicked practices, and live 
 according to the law of God ; and that by the lovely home in a 
 distant land was to be understood that glorious heaven where all 
 who have served their Saviour here shall be happy for ever and 
 ever. At times. Lady Catharine stopped, and asked Alice ques- 
 tions, or answered any which were put to her. Her manner was 
 not winning, like Mr Clifford's, and she did not always explain 
 things clearly; yet Alice, who for many months had had no person 
 to instruct her except Benson, was glad to meet with some one 
 who was willing to attend to what she had to say, and to try, at 
 least, to give her a reason for the things which puzzled her. 
 Lady Catharine had read but a few pages, when, laying down 
 the book, she said — 
 
 ' Alice, was there anything in Mr Clifford's sermon at all like 
 the history of Christian's journey .'' ' 
 
 Alice looked a little confused, for during the last part of the
 
 63 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 sermon she had not been attending, and she did not Immediately 
 recollect. At length, liowever, she said, ' I think Mr Clifford 
 mentioned something about every one's having a journey to go.' 
 ' Yes,' replied Lady Catharine ; ' but can you tell me what 
 he said was the first thing which made people set out on it in 
 earnest.?' Alice was silent. ' It was the same thing,' con- 
 tinued Lady Catharine, ' which made Christian leave the city 
 of Destruction, it was a belief in what was told him ; and Mr 
 Clifford said also, that that was the reason why when children 
 arc baptized they are obliged to promise that they will " believe 
 all the articles of the Christian faith," because if they do not 
 believe rightly, they will be sure not to act rightly. I think, 
 Alice, we read a little while ago in the Bible, something which 
 will give an instance of this ; of a man who believed, and his 
 sons-in-law who did not believe, and what happened to them in 
 consequence.' 
 
 * Was it about Lot ?' inquired Alice. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Lady Catharine ; ' if you remember, v/hen Lot 
 went to tell his sons-in-law that the city of Sodom would be 
 destroyed, it is said that, " he seemed to them as one that 
 mocked ; " and so, when Lot escaped to the mountain, they 
 persisted in staying behind, "and were burned up with all the 
 other miserable inhabitants of that wicked city. They did not 
 believe, and it is just the same in these days.' 
 
 ' But no one has come to tell us that we shall be destroyed,' 
 said Alice. 
 
 Lady Catharine looked vexed, and taking up a Bible, which 
 she had with her, she turned to the third chapter of the second 
 epistle of St Peter, and pointing to the tenth verse, saiJ, 
 ' Read it.' 
 
 And Alice read, ' The day of the Lord will come as a thief 
 in the night, in the which the heavens shall pass away with a 
 great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat ; 
 the earth also, and the works that are therein, shall be burned 
 up.' 
 
 ' You see,' observed Lady Catharine, almost sternly, '■ that 
 you spoke without thought.' Alice felt ashamed, and Lady 
 Catharine continued : ' This is one of the great things we are 
 bound to believe, but there are many others ; where are they to 
 be learned?' 
 
 ' In the Creed.'" asked Alice. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Lady Catharine, more kindly ; * they are to be
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 63 
 
 learned from the Creed ; and the Creed teaches us shortly what 
 the Bible tells us in full ; and it was taught by the apostles to 
 the early Christians, and by them to those who came after 
 them ; and so on down to these days. We arc certain, there- 
 fore, that it is true.' 
 
 ' But,' said Alice, who had a little recovered her courage, 
 and was becoming more attentive, ' it can make no difference 
 whether persons believe every single thing, if they .do what they 
 ought.' 
 
 * It does, though, make a great difference,' replied Lady 
 Catharine ; ' and no persons can do what they ought, in every- 
 thing, if they do not believe what they ought. You, for instance, 
 Alice, if you did not believe what I told you the other day about 
 Benson, that she was an ignorant person without proper prin- 
 ciples, who would lead you into mischief, would be unhappy 
 without her, and would think me unkind, and perhaps might 
 even be tempted to do something wrong in order to see her.' 
 At the mention of Benson, AUce was thunderstruck. The colour 
 forsook her cheek, and again rushed to it, till her forehead be- 
 came crimson, and in an agony of confusion she turned her 
 face away, at the risk of bringing upon herself a reproof for 
 inattention. She thought instantly that Lady Catharine knew 
 all she had been doing ; but Lady Catharine did not know, nor 
 suspect ; she only mentioned Benson's name as an example. 
 and Alice was much relieved when she went on : ' You will be 
 able, I daresay, to remember many instances in which if you 
 had not believed what was told you, you would have been led 
 into mischief.' 
 
 Alice could not think of any at the moment, for she was still 
 rather frightened, and could only answer, ' Yes.' 
 
 Lady Catharine again took up the book, and continued read- 
 ing ; and Alice, while she listened, forgot her fears, but after a 
 time they returned again. Lady Catharine v/as tired, and said 
 she thought tea must be ready in the study, and they walked 
 towards the house ; but as they passed the serv-ants' court Lady 
 Catharine recurred to the same subject — the duty of children 
 to believe what their friends tell them, as it is the duty of all 
 persons to believe what God tells them. Pointing to the sliut- 
 up rooms, she said, ' Alice, I think you have every reason to 
 believe my word, for I have never deceived you.' 
 
 Alice murmured, * Yes.' 
 
 ' Then,' pursued Lady Catharine, ' you must think that wl\it
 
 64 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 I tell you I shall do, is my real, firm intention. I daresay you 
 cannot understand why I should forbid you to enter those rooms, 
 and I am noi going to give you any reasons ; 1 only want to 
 remind you that as certainly as I find you have been there, so 
 certainly I shall send you away from me ; where, I cannot tell ; 
 but I will have no one in my house, whom I cannot trust.' 
 Lady Catharine drew herself up and looked very tall, and Alice 
 breathed quickly, and did not know what to say. Instead of 
 going into the house, Lady Catharine turned in the walk again ; 
 and fearing that she had spoken harshly, she said in her kindest 
 manner, ' It is my love for you, Alice, which makes me say this ; 
 I should be so sorry — so very sorry — to be obliged to part with 
 you ; and yet if I could not depend upon you, I must do it. 
 But you would travel far over the wide world, and find no one 
 who loves you as I do ; ' and Lady Catharine, stooping down, 
 kissed Alice's forehead, and added, ' you are my own Alice, my 
 child.' This was one of the few occasions on which Lady 
 Catharine had shown something of her real affection ; and Alice 
 could have been happy and pleased, but for the remembrance 
 of lienson, and the sash, and the bonbons. She was indeed 
 glad when Lady Catharine went on talking to her in the same 
 tone ; and allowed her, when they went in, to pour out tea ; and 
 then began to tell her some stories about some of the old family 
 pictures : all these things made her feel at home, and she was 
 sorry when Marsham came to tell her it was bed-time ; but 
 when she was left alone she thought of Lady Catharine only as 
 being severe, and when she laid down to sleep it seemed as if 
 she could still hear her repeating — ' I will have no one in my 
 liouse whom 1 cannot trust.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 MADELINE and Ruth passed the evening somewhat in the 
 same way as Alice Lennox ; but they were not able to see 
 as much of their papa as usual, for besides the two services, the 
 school, and a funeral, there was a sick person to be visited; and 
 when all this was done, Mr Clifford was tired and obliged to 
 rest in his own room. The tea, however, was prepared in the 
 irbour, and the children looked forward to it with pleasure; but
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 65 
 
 when llie time arrived, they fuund less enjoyment than they had 
 anlicipated. Both their papa and mamma were silent ; and 
 after the tray was removed, Mrs Clifford went away, and her 
 h.usband appeared engaged in his own tlioughts. Madehne and 
 Ruth looked at each other, but did not move, and the idea came 
 into Madeline's mind ih.at her papa might be vexed about some- 
 thing connected \\\\\\ her. A few minutes afterwards, Mr 
 Clifford called them to him, and made them sit down by him, 
 and then he said, ' We have been very grave to-night, my dar- 
 lings ; don't you think so ?' 
 
 ' You have been grave several nights, papa,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes,' and Mr Cliftord tried to smile ; ' I am afraid I have, 
 though I don't know exactly why I should be; but people often 
 are grave, without being unhappy, and your mamma and I have 
 had a good deal to make us thoughtful lately. Do you know 
 your aunt Mary is going to be married.^' 
 
 ' Married ! papa,' exclaimed both the children at once; 'and 
 will she go away and leave poor grandmamma 1 Oh ! what will 
 she do '^. ' 
 
 ' Your grandmamma will not be left, I hope,' replied Mr 
 Clifford ; ' at least, I am sure that your aunt would never con- 
 sent to be married, if there were not some one to take her place. 
 But your mamma is your grandmamma's child, as well as your 
 aunt Mary.' 
 
 * Mamma does not live with grandmamma,' observed Made- 
 line, ' so she can't read to her as aunt Mary does.' 
 
 ' Suppose your grandmamma were to come and live with us,' 
 said Mr Clifford; 'would not that do away with the difficulty?' 
 
 Ruth considered a little — she did not express much pleasure 
 at the prospect, for her grandmamma, Mrs Beresford, was vei7 
 old, and a great invalid ; and whenever the children were with 
 her, they were obliged to be extremely quiet, and scarcely ran 
 about or talked at all. ' If grandmamma lives here,' she said, 
 at length, ' and mamma reads to her all day, there will be no 
 one to hear us our lessons.' 
 
 ' That difficulty may be done away with, too,' repHed Mr 
 Clifford, with a little hesitation. ' You and Madeline may go 
 to school.' 
 
 Ruth raised her eyes to her father's face with an expression 
 of complete bewilderment ; whilst Madeline exclaimed, ' To 
 school, papa, away from you ! when should we come back
 
 66 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Wc should not like it,' said Ruth, sorrowfully. 
 
 ' I do not think we should any of us like to be separated, my 
 dear child,' said Mr Clifford ; ' and yet it may be necessary.' 
 
 ' But will it be, papa?' inquired Madeline ; ' and when shall 
 v?e go ? will it be to Miss Freeman's ?' 
 
 ' No, not to Miss Freeman's,' rephcd Mr Clifford, with a 
 smile ; ' Miss Freeman has too many little girls already to 
 take care of ; but I think very likely it will be to a lady near 
 London, a ]\Irs Carter, who is a great friend of your mamma's.' 
 
 ' But papa,' began Ruth, ' I don't think — it seems ' here 
 
 she stopped, not knowing how to proceed. 
 
 ' You don't think, perhaps, that I am in earnest, Ruth, be- 
 cause the thought seems sudden ; but your mamma and I have 
 been talking about it for several days.' 
 
 Poor Ruth looked miserable, and when she tried to speak, the 
 words failed, and she burst into tears. Mr Clifford kissed her, 
 and soothed her, but he did not tiy to comfort her by giving 
 her any hope of remaining at home ; for, in fact, from the first 
 moment that he had known that Miss Beresford would be mar- 
 ried and go to India, if it were not for her dislike to leaving her 
 mother when she was old and ill, he had detemiined to propose 
 that Mrs Beresford should come to Laneton to live. Mrs Clif- 
 ford's time would then be constantly occupied, and there was no 
 room for a governess in the house ; it would be right, therefore, 
 to send Ruth and Madeline to school, in order that their educa- 
 tion might be properly taken care of. Mrs Clifford, who loved 
 her mother very much, was pleased at the notion of having her 
 with her, and trying to make her happy ; but the prospect of 
 parting with her children was a great trial ; and nothing but 
 her firm trust that so long as she acted rightly, God would order 
 all things for good, had enabled her to consent with readiness. 
 There were many questions asked as soon as the two little girls 
 understood that their papa really meant what he had said, but 
 they were principally put by Madeline ; Ruth, although she 
 dried her tears, and even tried to smile, still looked distressed, 
 and scarcely liked to listen to anything that was said upon so 
 disagreeable a subject. To Madeline, the idea, after the first 
 moment, was rather agreeable than not. Of all things she 
 liked seeing new places and new people ; it would be delightful 
 to go to London, and they should have a great deal to talk 
 about when they came back ; and, besides, it would be so 
 strange to go to school, and to have new playfellows ; and
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 67 
 
 very likely (.hey should have prizes. Altogether, she thought 
 there would be a good deal of fun in it ; but she hoped Ruth 
 would not cry, for all the girls would laugh at her. 
 
 ' I shall not cry, you may be (juite sure of that,' said Ruth, 
 in an offended tone ; ' I don't do it half as much as you do, 
 Madeline ; only you like going about, and 1 don't, and that is 
 the reason you don't care as I do about school.' 
 
 'There is no cause to be ashamed of crying, my dear Ruth,' 
 said Mr Clifford ; ' I am not sure that I could not cry myself, 
 if I were to try, about it.' 
 
 Ruth laughed. ' Oh no, papa ; men never cry.' 
 
 * Not often when little girls see them, certainly ; but I have 
 more cause for it now, perhaps, than you have, because I see 
 more things to make me uneasy and afraid.' 
 
 ' Afraid of what, papa } ' inquired Madeline. 
 
 ' Afraid lest my two children should not behave well at 
 school, and should forget what they have been taught, and re- 
 turn home spoiled in any way.' 
 
 ' But our governess will teach us properly, as mamma does,' 
 said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, I fully believe she will, or I should not trust you to her ; 
 but school is a very different place from home. There are 
 many more temptations and trials, and you will have more com- 
 panions to lead you into mischief.' 
 
 ' But we shall not attend to them, papa,' said Ruth, whose 
 spirit was now roused by the idea of seeing more of the world, 
 and being placed in difficulties. 
 
 ' Ah, Ruth ! that is the danger ; we think we shall not do 
 wrong, and so we do not keep ourselves humble, and do not 
 pray to God to guard us. It is very much safer to feel that 
 most likely we shall wish to do as others do, because our hearts 
 are as sinful ; and then we shall learn not to trust to ourselves, 
 and through the mercy of God we may escape.' 
 
 ' But Ruth is always good at home,' said Madeline. Ruth 
 blushed, and felt pleased ; though her conscience reminded her 
 of several faults which none of her friends knew. 
 
 * God only can judge whether Ruth is always good,' said Mr 
 Clifford ; ' but I think, if we read the Bible, we shall find that 
 all persons have sinned, and come short of the glory of God : 
 it is said repeatedly. We sometimes fancy we are good, 
 because we are not aware how perfect we ought to be. You 
 know we are to keep the commandments of God, and to walk
 
 68 L.iXETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 in them all the days of our life. Not to keep one or two com- 
 mandments sometimes, but all of them at all times.' 
 
 ' It is impossible,' sighed Aladeline. But Ruth said nothing. 
 
 * Imagine what you would be if you were to keep all God's 
 commandments,' continued Mr Clifford : ' you would get up 
 early in the morning, and your first thought would be about 
 Him, and His goodness in taking care of you ; you would say 
 your prayers without any wandering thoughts ; all the day you 
 would be endeavouring to please Him ; you would never use an 
 unkind word, or give way to a proud thought, but you would be 
 humble and gentle, constantly trying to do what you could to 
 make other persons happy, and never seeking your own pleasure 
 instead of theirs. When you read the Bible, you would not do 
 it irreverently, as if it were a common book, but as if you really 
 felt and believed that it was God's holy word ; and besides this, 
 you would never be envious nor discontented, but you would 
 take everything that happened quite cheerfully, because it was 
 ordered by God. Least of all, would you ever for an instant 
 attempt to deceive, or say anything which was not strictly true, 
 or do anything which you thought your mamma and 1 should 
 not like.'" Poor Madeline felt so guilty as her papa spoke, that 
 her check became of a burning colour ; and Mr Cliftbrd re- 
 marked it. ' You are not well, my love,' he said, anxiously. 
 
 ' Oh yes, papa ! indeed I am — quite ; only it is so hot.' 
 
 It was the second time that Madeline had been tempted to 
 say what approached to an untruth, and from the same cause, 
 —a wish to conceal another fault ; so dangerous is it ever to 
 yield in tlie least matters. 
 
 ' We will come into the open air,' said Mr Clifford, ' under 
 the bccch-tree ; I think it is rather too warm here for comfort.' 
 Madeline liked the summer-house better than the beech-tree, 
 but she did not dare object, and they went. Ruth was think- 
 ing upon what had been said ; it had given her a clearer idea 
 than she had possessed before of what was meant by being 
 really good — keeping God's commandments ; and she began 
 to suspect, that after all she might not be so perfect as she was 
 sometimes inclined to imagine. ' There is no use in wishing 
 to be good, then, papa,' she said. 
 
 Mr Clifford seemed a little jjained. 'But if we liavc pro- 
 miscd, Ruth,' he said, ' and if, when we promised, God gave us 
 His Holy Spirit to help us, what are wc to say then.?' 
 
 ' But we cannot Ijc quite— quite good,' said Madeline, who
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 69 
 
 was trying \\\ hor own mind to find some excuse for licr late 
 iKiUL^hty bcliaviour. 
 
 ' Not quite,' rcjilicd Mr Clifford, 'but always endcavouriiiLj 
 to be; which is all that God requires of us, \\hcn He requires 
 us to promise that we will keep His holy will and command- 
 ments, and walk in the same all the days of our life. How 
 good, indeed, we might be, if we were to serve God from the 
 beginning of our lives. He alone can tell ; certainly, very, very 
 much better than we are ; and that is the reason, my dear chil- 
 dren, why I am so desirous that you should commence early,' 
 
 'When we go to school?' said Madeline. 
 
 * No,' replied Mr Clifford, ' now — this very moment. Per- 
 haps you will not live to go to school.' Madeline was frightened. 
 It seemed more dreadful then to think that she might die than 
 it had ever done before ; yet, with her usual thoughtlessness, 
 she forgot her dread as Ruth began asking some more questions 
 about Mrs Carter, and where she lived, and how old her mamma 
 was when she went to school ; and at last, when Ruth ran away 
 to meet her mamma in one of the walks, Madeline ran too, and 
 was soon talking as fast as if nothing was the matter. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A FEW days afterwards, Mrs Clifford was seated in the 
 -^4- drawing-room at the Manor, conversing with Lady Ca- 
 tharine Hyde, and Madeline and Ahce were together in the 
 school-room. Ruth had a cold, and was therefore kept at 
 home ; and Madeline was not ^'ery sorry for this, because she 
 wished extremely to see Alice alone, and to prevail on her, if 
 possible, to allow the sashes to be shown to Mrs Clifford. She 
 had an excellent opportunity on this occasion, for they were 
 sent out of the room, and told not to return till they were sum- 
 moned J and nearly an hour elapsed before any one came to 
 ihem. All this time Lady Catharine and Mrs Cliftbrd were 
 engaged in an interesting conversation ; Mrs Cliftbrd was re- 
 peating to Lady Catharine the history of Miss Beresford's 
 intended marriage, and the difterence it was Ukely to make in 
 the plans for the education of Ruth and ALadeline ; and Lady 
 Catharine W'as giving Mrs Clifibrd some idea of her thoughts
 
 70 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and wishes about Alice. Lady Catharine's notions did not, 
 indeed, entirely suit Mrs Clifford ; slie considered some oi 
 them strange and not likely to answer, but she was pleased to 
 hear them, because of the deep interest she took in the child, 
 who had been the playfellow of her own little girls ; and who 
 seemed left without the usual advantage of near relations to 
 take charge of her. Lady Catharine thought Mrs Clifford per- 
 fectly right in all she meant to do, and inquired many particu- 
 lars of Mrs Carter's school ; saying, that if she were ever 
 obliged to part from Alice, it would be a satisfaction to knov/ 
 some place to which she might be sent without danger ; * not 
 that I have the least idea at present,' she continued, ' of mak- 
 ing any change in Alice's life ; if I do, it vvill be entirely from 
 her own fault.' 
 
 ' She seems gentle and well-disposed,' observed Mrs Clifford. 
 
 ' Yes, I think she is,' replied Lady Catharine ; ' at least, if 
 she has a bad temper, she never ventures to exhibit it either to 
 Marsham or me ; and she is quick at her lessons, and obliging, 
 and contented ; but all this is not sufficient for me, my dear 
 Mrs Clifford ; I must have sincerity ; and sincerity, I am sadly 
 afraid, Alice does not possess.' 
 
 ' She has not had much care, then, taken of her, I suppose,' 
 answered Mrs Clifford. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, she has, at least till within the last year, just as 
 much care as you, or I, or anyone else. She could have learned 
 
 nothing that was evil from ' Lady Catharine paused — 
 
 even then, after so many months, she could not mention Mrs 
 Lennox's name without tears. ' I wish but for two things,' she 
 added — ' truth and obedience ; so long as I have these I am con- 
 tented, but if I ever have reason to suspect that Alice is deficient 
 in them, in truth especially, I shall think it my duty to send her 
 away to some place where she will have fewer indulgences.' 
 
 ' I do not see that she can have many temptations to do 
 wrong here,' said Mrs Chfford ; 'she has seldom any companions.' 
 
 ' No ; but if it is in a child's heart to be deceitful, she is sure 
 to find out some occasion of being so ; and Alice, I am afraid, 
 wa:5 tauglit much that was bad by that foolish woman, Benson. 
 At any rate, I have so arranged that I shall soon discover 
 whether she is really to be trusted. I have given her one com- 
 mand — a very easy one, which if she should break, my confidence 
 in her will be gone, and then the sooner she leaves Hascley 
 Manor the better. The discipline of a school will in such a
 
 LANETON PARS OX AGE. T\ 
 
 case be the only fit education for her.' JNIis Clifford knew Avhat 
 command Lady Catharine meant, but before she could tell 
 exactly what to reply, Lady Catharine went on : ' There are, you 
 know, some rooms in this house for which I have a peculiar 
 feeling of reverence. The happiest moments of my life were spent 
 in them ; and, since my earthly joy has been destroyed, I have 
 taken a kind of sacred pleasure in keeping them just as they 
 were during my dear husband's lifetime ; all his books, and 
 pictures, and writings, remain in precisely the same position as 
 when he left them, and so it is my wish that they should con- 
 tinue till my death. Perhaps it may be a fancy — a very peculiar 
 one, but still I have it strongly, and I do not see why I should 
 not indulge it. I have therefore forbidden any of my servants, 
 except Marsham, to go into these rooms, under any pretence 
 whate\'er ; and the same order I have given to Alice, and if she 
 should disobey it, I shall have no difficulty in finding it out 
 immediately : it is her trial, and upon her going through it well 
 must depend, not my affection (that can never change, for I love 
 her for her mother's sake), but my trust in her. The rooms are 
 often locked, but at times they are purposely left open ; and 
 hitherto I have had no cause to think that Alice has been un- 
 grateful enough to disregard my wishes.' 
 
 At this account, part of which only was new, Mrs Clifford 
 felt uncomfortable. She did not agree with Lady Catharine, as 
 to its being a good thing to put any such temptation in Alice's 
 way ; but she was not asked to give her opinion, and Lady 
 Catharine's very decided manner made eveiy one shy of differing 
 from her. Yet Mrs Cliftbrd was so honest and open in her 
 character, that she could not prevent her feelings from being 
 expressed in her countenance, and Lady Catharine immediately 
 inquired whether she had any reason for suspecting that Alice 
 had, as yet, been guilty of deception. 
 
 ' Oh ! no, none in the least ; I was only thinking that if the 
 door were kept locked, it might be safer. To see it open must 
 excite her curiosity.' 
 
 ' That is the very point. As she grows older she will con- 
 stantly meet with temptations of the kind, and it is right that 
 she should be early trained to resist them ; at any rate (and 
 Lady Catharine drew herself up) it is my will.' There was 
 nothing to be said against this, and if there had been, Mrs 
 Clifford saw that nothing was to be gained by an attempt at 
 argument. Lady Catharine had a natural fancy for tryin|f
 
 72 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 experiments, doing things in a different way from everyone else; 
 and as she had succeeded in malting the cottagers rear chickens, 
 and raise potatoes, according to her own pecuHar views, so she 
 imagined that she should also succeed in educating Alice 
 Lennox. 
 
 In the meantime, Alice and Madeline had been tolerably 
 amused and happy. Not as happy as they were before either 
 of them had had anything to conceal, but still rather meny than 
 not. Madeline did as she had resolved : she asked Alice to 
 consent that the sashes should be shown to her mamma ; and 
 so far she did right ; but when Alice refused, she did not trouble 
 herself any more about the matter. Both were \-ery well con- 
 tented to make out a game with the bonbons, which Alice had 
 left — a game in which Alice kept a shop and sold them, and 
 Madeline went to buy, and paid for them v.ith some shells which 
 had been picked up on the shore. After a little while, Alice 
 began to think that it would be pleasanter to go into the passage, 
 and play upon a high window seat which had two steps up to it, 
 and this accordingly they did. Alice took a number of other 
 pretty things, pincushions, and beads, and coloured papers, out 
 of her play drawer, in order to make what she called a bazaar ; 
 and when they were all spread out they looked extremely gay, 
 and Madeline was delighted, and heartily wished tliat Ruth had 
 been there too. By and by, however, they grew a little weary, 
 and sitting down on the steps they began talking ; whilst Alice 
 amused herself by tossing the bonbons up in the air, and 
 catching them again in her hand. Presently, one fell on the 
 floor, and, being round, it rolled along the ground and behind a 
 door which stood a little way open. Alice started up, gathering 
 the remainder of the bonbons together in her lap : ' Oh,' sh.e 
 exclaimed, ' it is gone, quite gone, and into that passage ; what 
 shall I do .? ' 
 
 'Why.? what do you mean.?' said Madeline, ' v.'e shall find 
 it directly.' 
 
 * No, no,' exclaimed Alice, hastily, and catching hold of 
 Madeline's frock, she prevented her from moving ; ' don't you 
 remember "i I told you just now that is the very door, the way 
 into those rooms 1 I don't dare go.' Madeline looked rather 
 aghast. 
 
 ' If Lady Catharine finds the bonbon there, slie will think 
 vou have been in,' she said. 
 
 * No, not if I tell her how it happened. If it were a ball or
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. jz 
 
 aiiytliing, I should not care, but one of those stupid bonbons. 
 What shall I do ? How I wish I had never had them ! and I 
 don't like them so very much now, there is a nasty taste in the 
 chocolate.' 
 
 * If Lady Catharine asks how you came by them, what shall 
 you say?' inquired Madeline. 
 
 ' Oh ! the truth, I must, of course — that you gave them to 
 me.' 
 
 ' And mamma will hear about it, and be angry,' continued 
 Madeline ; ' and perhaps she won't let me keep the sashes, if 
 she knows how we exchanged. Oh, that tiresome bonbon !' 
 
 * There is no use in talking of all that,' said Alice ; ' what 
 shall we do now.'" 
 
 * Yes, what shall we do.'*' It was a question which neither 
 of the children knew how to answer. 
 
 At length Alice said, ' It must be just behind the door ; 
 looking for it there won't be going into the rooms.' 
 
 ' No,' said Madeline ; ' let me go, and I shall find it, I dare- 
 say.' Alice hesitated a little ; she fancied that Madeline would 
 not see as well as herself, and perhaps would only roll it along 
 farther, or do something equally awkward ; for Madeline was 
 rather flimous for doing awkward things. * If it were known,' 
 continued Madeline, ' Lady Catharine would not scold me as 
 she would you.' 
 
 ' But,' exclaimed Alice, who, with all her faults, was not un- 
 generous, ' I should not like that. The bonbon is mine, and I 
 threw it there, and if any one goes for it I must.' 
 
 ' You must be quick then,' said Madeline, ' mamma wont 
 stay much longer.' Alice stood upon the step, uncertain how 
 to act. ' You need not go in, only just peep round,' said Made- 
 line ; ' but make haste.' The slamming of a door was heard 
 at the same instant, and Alice thought Lady Catharine was 
 coming. 
 
 ' I can't go,' she said, and she reseated herself. But again 
 there was stillness, the slamming of the door was merely acci- 
 dental, and there were no signs of Lady Catharine or Mrs 
 Cliiiord. 
 
 ' Now, then,' half whispered Madeline, who, to do her justice, 
 felt more for Alice than for herself; ' don't go in, but just try 
 behind for it.' 
 
 Alice moved slowly forward, pushed back the forbidden dooi*, 
 and put out her hand in hopes of feeling the missing bonbon ;
 
 74 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 but no, it was not to be felt, and she was obliged to advance 
 one step into the passage. Still it was in vain, and the next 
 moment Alice was fairly within, searching for it in every direc- 
 tion. The light was not very clear, for it came through a 
 stained glass v/indow, and in the passage — which was broad, 
 but not long — there were some old lumbering pieces of furni- 
 ture. Alice was about to give up looking, and resign herself to 
 her fate, Avhen her foot touched something small and round, and 
 t]-!c bonbon rolled away still farther. Alice thought she could 
 not then give it up as lost ; but again it Avas nowhere to be 
 seen, and Madeline, who was keeping watch, became frightened, 
 and, fancying she heard some one coming, entreated Alice in a 
 loud whisper to return. Alice, however, notwithstanding her 
 fears, was now too curious and too interested to listen. She 
 h.ad disobeyed, and she must take the consequences ; and since 
 she had ventured so far, she was resolved to take one peep round 
 the corner, although with a very faint hope of finding what she 
 wanted. Heedless, therefore, of Madeline's words, she m.oved a 
 few steps, and then saw to her disappointment that a door, 
 apparently closed, prevented any farther advance. The bon- 
 bon, too, was gone — or, at least, it was beyond her reach ; for, 
 on stooping down, she saw it safely resting far underneath a 
 very heavy ebony cabinet, which it would have been impos- 
 sible for any single person to move. Ahce was so far satisfied 
 that she was nearly sure no one would notice it ; but, now she 
 was there, v>'Ould it not be worth while just to push aside the 
 door, and see what was to be discovered within 1 Certainly it 
 was a great temptation. The door stood ajar ; and, without 
 delay, Alice put out her hand, and it was opened. There 
 were the forbidden rooms — two, opening one into the other ; 
 large and high, and hung with crimson curtains ; and panelled 
 by a dark, oak wainscot. They were handsome and gloomy, 
 like many in the other parts of the house, except that there 
 were more pictures, and larger ones, against the walls than 
 v/ere to be seen elsewhere, and that, at the bottom of the inner 
 room, there was a glass reaching from the ceiling to the floor. 
 Chairs there were also, and tables, and a writing-desk, and 
 books, and pens, and papers, and an inkstand, besides a heavy 
 leathern arm-cliair — pushed aside, as if some one had only 
 just risen from it. And yet years had gone by since any one 
 had sat in that chair, or used those pens, or opened those 
 books. Since the day when Mr Hyde was seized with the ill-
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 73 
 
 ness •which caused his death, not one of the articles which lay 
 upon his table, or were used for the furnishing of his room, had 
 ever been displaced. Many, many changes had there been 
 since in his native village ; old houses were demolished, and 
 new ones built up ; walls were raised, and gardens planted, ar,d 
 trees were cut down and sold ; even in his own home there 
 were alterations in the walks and shrubberies, and changes in 
 the arrangements of the house, but still there remained the 
 scattered papers, and the pen resting in the inkstand, and the 
 old-fashioned easy-chair, precisely in the position in which 
 they had all been left on that fearful, sorrowing day, which had 
 been the most miserable of Lady Catharine Hyde's existence. 
 Alice knew this, and she felt it ; even at that time, when slie 
 was so full of haste and alarm, she felt that there was some- 
 thing strange and awful in looking at things just as they had 
 been used and left by one who was long since gone to the 
 unseen world. A shuddering came over her, and, without 
 attempting to move, she stood at the entrance, with her eyes 
 fixed upon the large glass, which by reflection increased the 
 length of the apartments. The house was always ciuiet ; but 
 now there was not the least sound, not even the ticking of a 
 clock, to disturb the stillness of those solemn chambers, which 
 seemed to belong, not to the living, but the dead. Alice was 
 frightened ; a thought, a horrible thought, entered her head. 
 It had been the will of God that he who had lived in those 
 rooms should die almost suddenly. It might be His will that 
 she should die also ; and if it were, should she be ready to go ? 
 Was she really honest, and tme, and earnest ; tiying to do 
 everything she knew was right, and practising no deceit ? 
 Would God indeed receive her as His child, 'a member of 
 Christ, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven ? ' or would 
 He cast her away with those terrible words, ' Depart from me, 
 I know you not.' The questions take some moments to 
 write, but only one to think ; and when Alice had thought, a 
 wretched remembrance of all her naughty actions came across 
 her, and in an agony of terror she turned away and ran back 
 along the passage. The door at the end was nearly closed, and 
 Alice softly called Madeline, but no Madeline answered. She 
 peeped out, but no one was in the gallery ; only Lady Catharine's 
 voice in the hall below was heard repeating her name angrily. 
 Alice ran out, and at the same instant a door near her was 
 opened, and Anne, the housemaid, Benson's cousin, met her.
 
 76 LANETON rARSOyAGE. 
 
 Alice blushed and trembled, and would have willingly passed, 
 but she was stopped. 
 
 'Miss Alice ! out of that passage ! What will my mistress 
 say ? ' 
 
 Alice's face became white with fear. 'Anne — pray — you 
 won't — you can't tell,' she exclaimed ; ' I only went to look 
 for ' 
 
 ' Alice — Alice — where is Miss Lennox ? ' asked Lady Catha- 
 rine from below. 
 
 ' Hark ! I must go — it would be so cruel — Anne, pray — 
 pray,' and poor Alice caught hold of the girl's hand entreat- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' Well ! there, we '11 see — I can't tell— don't pinch so. Miss 
 Alice.' 
 
 Lady Catharine's step was heard ascending the staircase, and 
 Alice felt as if she should have fallen to the ground. She 
 looked so ill that Anne saw it would not do to trifle with her, 
 and, hastily whispering, ' Don't look so. Miss Alice, pray don't 
 look so — nobody will tell,' she left her. 
 
 Alice did not stay a moment longer, laut, summoning all her 
 courage, she ran down-stairs, and met Lady Catharine just as 
 she reached the first landing-place. ' Did you want me ? I 
 thought I heard some one calling me,' she said, in as free and 
 open a manner as she could put on. 
 
 Lady Catharine looked exceedingly displeased. ' Yes, Alice,' 
 she said, ' I did want you, but it is too late now ; Mrs Cliflbrd 
 and IVIadeline are gone. Strange behaviour, indeed, it is to 
 leave your young companion by herself, and not to take the 
 trouble to come and wash her good-bye.' 
 
 ' It w^as only for a minute,' replied Alice ; ' and I did not 
 know she was going so soon.' 
 
 ' Madeline Clifford is very good-natured,' continued Lady 
 Catharine, ' and she tried to make the best of it ; but I could 
 see from her way of talking that she was vexed ; and you look 
 strange, too ; I am afraid you have been quarrelling.' 
 
 ' Oh no, no !' exclaimed Alice, * indeed we have not ; I like 
 Madeline — I like to play with her very much.' 
 
 ' Then you must be careful in your behaviour ; Mrs Clifford 
 will never allow her little girls to come here to be neglected. 
 AVhat have you here ? ' and Lady Catharine put her hand upon 
 the bonbons, which AJice still held in her frock : this was the 
 climax of Alice's alarm, for she had forgotten them till then.
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 77 
 
 She paused, and looked confused, and many thoughts rushed 
 instantly to her mind ; and the next moment she said, in a 
 clear, firm voice, ' They are Madeline's : we have been playing 
 with them.' 
 
 ' Oil,' was ail Lady Catharine's reply ; ' tlien I shall keep 
 them, and return them to her the first opportunity ; and I shall 
 tell her that for the future she must not bring such things here : 
 I do not approve of your eating them.' 
 
 Alice silently delivered up the bonbons, and Lady Catharine 
 told her to go to the school-room and finish her lessons, as 
 she wished to take her with her into the village in the evening. 
 Alice obeyed, and for the first moment with a relieved mind ; 
 but immediately afterwards a dark cloud of miserable feelings 
 overpowered her. She had escaped a present danger, but at 
 what a price ! she had told a lie, firmly, openly, without any 
 liesitation ; she had spoken words which were utterly false. A 
 deadly sin, perhaps the greatest a child can commit, was on 
 her conscience, and how could she know a moment's happiness? 
 And was it likely that she could remain without being found 
 out .'' Madeline would surely speak the truth at once ; and 
 even if Lady Catharine were to forgive the grievous fault, 
 which she would then discover, there still remained the lost 
 bonbon behind the ebony cabinet, which at any instant might 
 be the means of betraying her act of disobedience in entering 
 the forbidden rooms ; or, what was still more possible, the 
 housemaid might take it into her head to tell upon her, and so 
 be the means of her losing Lady Catharine's favour for ever. 
 Alice had many faults, but she had also by nature a warm 
 heart, and it was this idea more than any other which made 
 her utterly wretched. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CAN it be supposed that Madeline was happy when she 
 returned home, and met Ruth's bright, smiling face, and 
 heard her declare that she had been longing for her to come 
 back ; that she wanted of all things to know all they had been 
 saying and doing ; and to hear if Alice had asked after her, or 
 seemed sorry that she was not there "i Madeline, for almost 
 the first time in her life, was unwilling to stay with Ruth ; she
 
 78 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 did not like to see her — indeed she did not hke to see any one. 
 It was \Q.ry true that she had done nothing so wrong as Ahce, but 
 her fauU, her folly, in wishing for the sashes was at the beginning 
 of the mischief, and the belief that she was the only person who 
 was aware of Alice's disobedience made her feel uneasy. If 
 Alice were discovered, she might be blamed also ; and oh ! 
 how heartily did Madeline now repent having indulged that 
 first seemingly little sin, a taste for the vanity of dress. 
 
 ISIadeline's unhappiness, however, though it was noticed, was 
 not thought strange by her papa and mamma, especially when, 
 the next day, a letter aiTived from Mrs Beresford, accepting 
 the invitation to Laneton ; and another from Mrs Carter, 
 saying that she was very willing to take charge of the two 
 children, and that at the end of September she expected to 
 have two vacancies in her school, vdiich would enable her to 
 receive them. Ruth and her sister were not positively told 
 that it was fixed for them to go, but it was considered almost as 
 a certainty ; and neither Mr nor Mrs Clifford felt surprised 
 that they should both at times look grave at the prospect of 
 soon leaving their home. Mr Clifford did not allow this idea 
 to interfere with their usual way of going on ; they were still 
 kept to their lessons, and required to attend to their regular 
 duties, for he knew that it could neither be for their improve- 
 ment nor their happiness to have their minds unsettled ; and 
 this, perhaps, was rather a comfort to Madeline. It occupied 
 her ; and she had not so^ much time for wondering how Alice 
 • was engaged, or whether her disobedience had been found out ; 
 and though something was constantly happening to recall to her 
 thoughts what had been done, yet she was less uneasy than she 
 would have been if she had had nothing to divert her mind. 
 Madeline was growing used to the feeling of having somelhiiig 
 to hide ; it was dreadful to her at first, but by degrees it grew 
 less and less painful : and it is the way with us all ; but it is 
 not because we do not see our faults, or think about them, 
 that we are really good in the eyes of God; rather we 
 ought to be very much frightened at ourselves when we find 
 that we are becoming accustomed to doing wrong. Occa- 
 sionally, however, Madeline's conscience seemed to v/ake up, 
 as it were, and reproach her .? but this v/as not, as miglit 
 have been expected, when she knelt down at night, and 
 in the morning, lo say her prayers : for persons soon 
 become accustomed to repeating the most solemn words- without
 
 tANETON PARSONAGE. 79 
 
 any thought of what they mean ; neither was it when she read 
 over a hst of questions which her mamma had drawn out to 
 help her to remember what she had been doing, and whether 
 she had been careless, or deceitful, or cross, or inattentive at her 
 prayers and Scripture reading, or otherwise sinful. Madeline, 
 as yet, did not know the real use of this habit of what is called 
 self-examination — how necessary it is for every one who would 
 li\e so as to please God — she read the questions over, as a 
 matter of course ; and sometimes one or two things would 
 suggest themselves, but she did not in general try very much tu 
 remember, and now there was something which she would 
 rather have forgotten. 
 
 The occasions when Madeline did feel that she had been 
 behaving ill were when her papa was talking to her. Mr 
 Clifford's manner was so earnest and reverent, and yet so 
 affectionate, that it was impossible for any one to listen to him 
 without paying attention; and Madeline loved her papa dearly; 
 and when she reflected that if he knew what she had done he 
 would be vexed and unhappy, she was vexed and unhappy her- 
 self. This feeling was increased to the utmost one afternoon 
 when she had been for a walk with Ruth r.nd her papa. On 
 their return Mr Clifford proposed that instead of going at once 
 to the parsonage, they should turn down the lane which led to 
 the sea-side, and rest a little while on a ledge of low rocks, 
 which always afforded a dry seat. It was not quite high tide, 
 but the waves were stealing in nearer and nearer, rippling 
 gently over the sand, and sparkling as they caught the rays of 
 the evening sun, which was sinking low in the western sky, 
 and casting a long line of golden light across the smooth waters 
 of the bay. There was something soft and soothing in the 
 stillness and beauty of the scene and the hour ; something 
 which Madeline and Ruth felt, though they did not speak of it. 
 They became more silent, and their steps were slower ; and 
 instead of wandering away to look for sea-weed, or gather 
 pebbles, they stayed contentedly by Mr Clifford's side, waiting 
 till he should choose to speak ; but they w'aited for a long, or 
 at least what seemed to them a long time. Mr Clifford's eyes 
 were fixed upon the far distant line, which, indeed, could 
 scarcely be distinguished, where the deep colours of the sea 
 melted away into the paler tint of the sky, and he seemed to 
 be in deep meditation. Perhaps he was thinking upon the 
 .iwfulness of that glorious work of God, the broad, deep ocean ;
 
 8o LANL TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 so broad that millions and millions of human beings might 
 find space to travel over its surface together ; and so vast and 
 deep, that they might all in an instant sink beneath it and 
 perish, and yet not a single mark remain to tell wliere they had 
 died : or he miglit have been considering tlie immensity of the 
 sky which was above him and around liim ; how it was formed 
 by llie same Being wlio made the little insects which we tread 
 under our feet, and how that Almighty God, the Lord and 
 Creator of all things, had in His w>)nderful mercy given up 
 His blessedness and His power, and condescended to live in 
 this sinful world, and die in agony and shame for the sinners 
 who had rebelled against Him. Some such thoughts were 
 certainly in Mr Clifford's mind, for they were there constandy ; 
 he had learned to remember God everywhere ; and all the beau- 
 tiful things which he saw in nature brought with them some 
 idea of religion, in the same way as the presents given us by 
 friends teach us to recollect, and love, and feel grateful to them. 
 Yet Mr Clifford's look was different from usual ; he had a 
 sense of something painful which was going to happen ; and 
 when, after his long silence, he turned to speak to his children, 
 his voice was not really cheerful, though he tried to make 
 it so. 'A few more weeks,' he said, 'and then you will 
 probably have very different things to look at, Ruth : how do 
 you think you shall like all the gay carriages, and horses, and 
 the fine shops, and the crowds of people, and the noise and 
 bustle of London i 
 
 ' I shall be glad -o see it all,' said Ruth, in a timid voice, as 
 if unwilling for her papa to suppose that she was looking for- 
 ward to any pleasure in going from home. 
 
 ' That is right, my dear cliild,' he replied, ' always speak the 
 truth. You don't dislike the notion of going to school as much 
 as you did, do you ? ' 
 
 'No, papa, not the going to school; but the going away from 
 you I do, just as much.' 
 
 ' School will not be at all unpleasant to you, if you make a 
 point of doing all that you are told, and being quite sincere in 
 everything you say,' replied Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' Mamma says Mrs Carter is very kind, and is not fond of 
 making rules,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' No, and so you ought to be the more particular. But do 
 you know, Madeline, my fear for you Ijolh is, not that you will 
 do great naughty things, 1)ut little ones,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. £t 
 
 ' Oh, papa, why ? ' cxcLiimcd the children tor^cthcr : ' it 
 can't signify half as much.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not ; but I think you are tolerably safe from some 
 great sins — lying and stealing, for instance ; but I do not 
 think you are at all safe from what are thought little ones- 
 indolence, and pettishness, and carelessness, and equivocation ; 
 and shall I say pride, Ruth, or is that one of the greater 
 oiTenccs ? ' Ruth blushed. 
 
 ' Ikit if we never do anything more than these little things, wc 
 shall be pretty good,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Ikit, my dear Madeline,' replied Mr Clifford, ' we are not 
 told in the Bible to be pretty good, but very good ; perfect, 
 even as our Father which is in heaven is perfect' 
 
 ' And will God be angry with us just the same as if we divl 
 tell lies and steal ? ' asked Ruth gravely. 
 
 'Little sins unchecked, Ruth, become great. You know, 
 in cases of illness, people die from the results of colds and 
 seemingly trifling complaints, as well as from dreadful accidents, 
 or the plague, or horrible fc\-ers ; and so we may die what is 
 called in the Bible the second death, not because we have ap- 
 parently anything very shocking the matter with our souls, but 
 because by giving way to little sins we have brought ourselves 
 to a state in v/hich we have no love to God in our hearts.' 
 
 Madeline considered for an instant, and then said, ' Careless- 
 ness does not seem to be very naughty.' 
 
 ' Few of our faults seem to be very naughty,' answered Mr 
 Clifford, 'and that is the danger. I daresay Cain's fault in 
 l)eing envious of his brother, because he had more of God's 
 favour than himself, did not seem very naughty — it was only 
 something in his mind ; but if envy was the beginning of his 
 sin, murder was the end.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, papa,' exclaimed Ruth, ' it would be c^uite im- 
 possible for us to be like Cain.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Ruth ! I cannot see it. It is not impossible for us 
 to be anything that is wicked, if we do not try, by the help of 
 God's grace, to keep ourselves in that state of salvation in which 
 ve were placed at our baptism.' 
 
 ' I don't understand about a state of salvation,' said I^.Iade- 
 line, quickly ; ' I never do when we say it in the catechism.' 
 
 Mr Cliflord did not reply immediately ; he seemed to l>e 
 occupied in watching a boat which was just putting off from the 
 shore. Old Roger was in it, and one of his grandsons ; and
 
 gs LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 after a slight exertion, it was pushed into the deep water, and 
 the two men, with their oars skimming the waves, were swiftly 
 borne away over the sea. ' It looks smooth and pleasant,' 
 observed Mr Clifford, as his eye followed the boat till it dwindled 
 almost to a speck ; ' but I am afraid there is a storm coming 
 up : do you see that black cloud in the west ? ' The children 
 looked in the direction in which their papa pointed, and, though 
 not experienced in the signs of the weather, saw at once that a 
 change was to be expected. ' I am always rather in alarm 
 when old Roger goes out,' said Mr Clifford, ' he is so helpless ; 
 and William is a mere child in point of strength, especially since 
 he had that bad fever.' 
 
 * But the boat is such a beautiful one, papa,' said Ruth, 
 ' quite new ; I heard Roger say yesterday, that it would take a 
 great deal to upset it.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is very true,' replied jNIr Clifford ; ' and, whatever 
 storms may arise, as long as he can keep in the boat, he will be 
 safe ; but a little carelessness, or the violence of some unexpected 
 gust, may put him in fearful danger. There is one thing, how- 
 ever, which would make me trust Roger more than any other 
 fisherman on this coast — he is always on the look-out.' Mr 
 Clifford stopped to see whether his children at all understood 
 what he meant by speaking in this way. Madeline v.-as amusing 
 herself with some pebbles which she held in her lap, and did 
 not appear to notice that her father had left off talking ; but 
 Ruth looked at him, and said, ' Papa, are you really thinking 
 much about old Roger ? ' 
 
 Mr Clifford smiled. ' Why should you doubt it, Ruth ? I 
 am thinking a little about him ; but, perhaps, I am thinking 
 more about you and Madeline.' 
 
 * About us, papa .? ' exclaimed Madeline ; '■ nothing can come 
 to hurt us.' 
 
 ' Is it, indeed, so ? ' asked Mr Clifford, in a grave tone ; 'what 
 should you say to Roger, if he laughed at the notion of guard- 
 ing against a storm, because he is now safe in his boat ? would 
 you not call him foolish and presumptuous, and warn him, that 
 his not being in danger at this moment is no reason why he 
 may not be so in the next ? ' 
 
 * Is that like us, and our doing wrong ? ' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mr Clifford, and his face brightened with plea- 
 sure; 'just now, Madeline said that she could not understand 
 about a state of salvation, but now, perhaps, she will be able to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE 83 
 
 do it. If a silonn were to conic on, Roger Dyson would not be 
 safe, because he is on tlie sea ; his boat miglit be upset, and he 
 might be drowned ; but as long as he could keep in the boat, 
 he would be in a state of salvation — that is, a state in which, if 
 he were to continue, he would be saved. Now there are other 
 dangers much more terrible, of which the stormy sea is a type 
 or figure, and through which every one who is born into the 
 world has to pass, before he can reach heaven. These dangers, 
 as you well know, arise from our own evil inclinations, and the 
 temptations of the devil ; and in order that we may be enabled 
 to escape them, God, in his great mercy, has placed us all in 
 a state of salvation. How has he done this ? ' 
 ' By letting us be baptized,' replied Ruth. 
 
 * Exactly so ; when we were baptized we were taken into what 
 is called in the Prayer Book the Ark of Christ's Church.' 
 
 * Like Noah,' said Madeline, eager to show that she under- 
 stood something of what was said. 
 
 ' Yes, like Noah,' replied her papa : ' we were not, indeed, 
 taken away from our friends — there was no change in our 
 homes ; what was done for us, was done in our hearts by the 
 gift of God's Holy Spirit. But outwardly there are some great 
 advantages granted to all persons who are baptized. Those 
 who are not cannot, for instance, be admitted to the Holy 
 Communion, and cannot, therefore, receive the especial bless- 
 ings which God gives us through that sacred rite. The sprink- 
 ling with water at the font ; the signing with the cross ; the 
 being brought up to go to church and join in public worship ; 
 and the being taught to read the Bible and learn the catechism ; 
 and then being confirmed and allowed to receive the Holy 
 Communion, are outward marks of our having been taken into 
 the Ark of Christ's Church, and so being in a state of salva- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' Then I am sure we are in a state of salvation, papa,' ex- 
 claimed Madeline, ' because we go to church eveiy Sunday, and 
 we can say the catechism all through.' 
 
 ' Except the duty towards your neighbour,' observed Ruth ; 
 * you can't say that, Madeline.' 
 
 * No, all but that, it is so long ; but I can say it a great deal 
 better than I did.' 
 
 ' And we shall be confirmed when we are old enough, papa,' 
 added Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, I hope so, my dear : and yet you may do all this — ^
 
 84 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 you may say your catechism, and repeat your prayers, and rcc^d 
 the Bible ; and you may even grow up to be confirmed and to 
 receive the ?Ioly Communion, and stiil, in the sight of God, 
 not be in a state of salvation — the inward mark may be want- 
 
 ing.' 
 
 ' We ought to be good too,' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, good in your hearts — in all your thoughts, and words, 
 and deeds — trying earnestly, and praying constantly, for the 
 help of God's Holy Spirit : if you do this, all the privileges of 
 religion will be an unspeakable good to you ; but if you do not, 
 they will only make you worse, because you will be hypocrites.' 
 
 'Hypocrites are grown-up people, are they not?' inquired 
 Madeline. 
 
 ' Very often they are ; but children can be like hypocrites. 
 When they know they ha\e been doing naughty things, and 
 kneel down to say their prayers without being sony, or when 
 they say they are sorry, and don't try to behave better — then 
 they act like hypocrites. Or when they do what they know 
 will please their friends whilst they are with them, and dis- 
 obey them when they are out of sight, they resemble hypo- 
 crites. There are many ways in which children can be 
 hypocritical.' 
 
 ' I should be very sorry to be a hypocrite,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Not so sorry as I should be to see you one, Ruth. I mean, 
 really one — going on constantly in deceit, and yet pretending 
 to be good.' If Mr Clifford had looked at Madeline as he 
 spoke, he would have seen her countenance change, and her 
 hands tremble as she tried to lift some pebbles which lay in her 
 lap. The thought that she was a hypocrite was very dreadful ; 
 but what had her papa said .? He had told them, that those 
 were really hypocrites who went on deceiving, while they pre- 
 tended to be good ; and she had gone on for days, and even 
 weeks, keeping what she was afraid to show even to Ruth, en- 
 couraging Alice in deceit ; and, at the same time, saying her 
 prayers every night and morning, and reading the Bible, and 
 listening to all her papa and mamma said very attentively, rather 
 more so, indeed, than usual. It seemed extremely like hypocrisy ; 
 but that was such a dreadful word, surely it could scarcely be 
 meant for her. There was a question which she very mucJi 
 wished to ask, but she did not dare, for she could not lift up 
 her eyes. Ruth, however, put it for her : — ' Are hypocrites in 
 a state of salvation, then, papa ?' she said.
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 85 
 
 ' We cnnnot decide about any persons whilst ihey are living,' 
 replied her father ; ' so long as they are members of the Church, 
 they certainly arc not cast out of the state of salvation in the 
 sight of men, but in the eye of Cod we know they may be. 
 The condition of a wicked person is, in our sight, as if Roger's 
 Ijoat were to be tossed about till it was all but upset ; you would 
 be very much frightened for him ; but he would not be without 
 any hope of safety.' 
 
 ' I should not like to see him so nearly falling into the water 
 at all,' said Ruth. 
 
 * No, and neither should we like to see the danger \V2 are in 
 ourselves when we persist in doing wrong. It is very, very 
 fearful ; for death, we know, may be really as near to us, as it 
 would appear to be to Roger, if he were struggling in the stormy 
 sea, and a wave were just about to pass over him. And the 
 condition of men who die without having sought God's forgive- 
 ness through the merits of our blessed Saviour is more awful 
 than we can bear to think of.' Madeline felt more frightened 
 than ever ; she moved a little farther from her papa, that he 
 might not observe her. ' The reason I talk to you in this way,' 
 continued Mr Clifford, ' is not because I am afraid you are very 
 wicked now, but because I am afraid lest you should become so. 
 You are watched over carefully here, and have not much op- 
 portunity of doing wrong, but it will be different at school.' 
 
 ' It would take a long time to make us very wicked, papa,' 
 said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, Ruth, indeed it is not so ; whilst we are heartily trying 
 to do God's will, we may trust that the Holy Spirit will be given 
 us to keep us from harm ; but the moment we leave off trying, 
 wc have no reason any longer to hope that God will help us ; 
 and when we are left to ourselves, we shall most certainly go on 
 doing worse and worse. It is the beginning of sin wh ch we 
 have to dread ; the unkind word, or vain thought, or deceitful 
 action, which, like the whistling of the wind, tells us that a 
 storm is near. If we do not guard against this, it may end by 
 upsetting our boat and plunging us into the sea ; or, in other 
 words, by casting us out of that state of salvation in which the 
 mercy of God placed us at our baptism. And now, Madeline,' 
 continued Mr Clifford, ' you have been saying very little ; but 
 can you understand bct'.er than you did what is meant by a 
 state of salvation ? ' 
 
 Madeline answered in a low voice, ' Yes ;' and her jjapa,
 
 86 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 thinking she felt shy, drew her towjirds him, and kissing her, 
 said, * I should like to hear you say that answer in the cate- 
 chism, which mentions our being in a state of salvation, and 
 then we must think of going home. We have been talking of 
 the storm, and I really think it is coming. The question is— 
 " Dost thou not think that thou art bound to believe and to do as 
 they (that is, your godfathers and godmothers) have promised 
 for thee .'' " What is the answer .'' ' Poor Madeline had never 
 before found it so hard to speak. Twice she began, and then 
 stopped and stammered. Mr Clifford smiled kindly, and said, 
 'Is it quite gone out of your head.'' Suppose you help her. Ruth.' 
 
 But Madeline did not choose to be helped, and this time aa 
 she began, the words came more easily, and she went on with- 
 out hesitation. ' " Yes, verily ; and by God's help so I will. 
 And I heartily thank our Heavenly Father, that He hath called 
 me to this state of salvation, through Jesus Christ our Saviour. 
 And I pray unto God to give me His grace, that I may con- 
 tinue in the same unto my life's end." ' 
 
 Mr Clifford rose from his seat when Madeline finished 
 speaking, and as he turned to look once more for the fisher- 
 man's boat, which was still seen as a speck in the distance, he 
 said, ' Yes, there is nothing but prayer for God's help which can 
 keep us safe from the storms of the sea, or the storms of sin. 
 You will find it thus as you grow older, though now, I daresay, 
 you often wonder why so much is said about the duty of pray- 
 ing constantly.' 
 
 Madeline murmured something in reply, but very indistinctly. 
 ' We never forget our prayers, papa,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, my love, I trust not, indeed ; but prayers, if they are 
 not said carefully and earnestly, are but a mockery.' 
 
 ' Can people ever be so good as not to think of other things 
 at all, when they are saying their prayers ? ' asked Ruth. 
 
 * No,' replied her papa ; ' I do not think they can. The devil 
 puts thoughts into the minds of even the best persons, but they 
 are very sorry for it, and do not attend to them ; and when we 
 arc afraid that God will not hear us because we do not pray 
 rightly, we must remember that we end all our petitions in the 
 name of our blessed Saviour. If we endeavour to keep our 
 thoughts from wandering, God for His sake will accept us.' 
 
 ' I should like to be very good,' said Ruth ; 'very good indeed, 
 I mean, like the holy persons, the saints, whom mamma reads to 
 us about sometimes.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 87 
 
 Mr Clifford smiled, and then he stopped and looked at Made- 
 line. * And you, Madeline,' he said, ' should you not like to be 
 very good too ? ' 
 
 Madeline was by this time extremely unhappy. Her papa's 
 serious manner had made her sensible how infinitely important it 
 was to be good ; a truth which, when she was away from him, she 
 was often inclined to forget. She was conscious that she had 
 been wrong, not only in taking the sashes, and giving Alice the 
 bonbons, when she knew that Lady Catharine would not like it, 
 but also in a great many other instances ; and whilst her voice 
 faltered, and the tears fell down her cheeks, she said, ' I never 
 shall be very good, if I try ever so hard.' 
 
 Mr Clifford did not seem pained or surprised at this speech : 
 he took no notice of it then, for the storm which he had been 
 fearing was now coming nearer ; some heavy drops of rain were 
 falling, and the muttered roll of thunder was heard from the 
 black clouds which were gathering over the sea. When tliey 
 reached home, however, he made Madeline go with him into his 
 study, and taking her upon his knee, he began to talk so kindly, 
 that Madeline's distress increased. Mr Clifford entreated her 
 to be comforted, and to tell him what made her so unhappy, 
 but her sobs prevented her from answering. At length he said, 
 * If it is anything wrong which you have done, my dear child, it 
 will be far better and happier to say it at once.' 
 
 Madeline's tears suddenly ceased, a deep flush spread itself 
 over her neck and forehead, and, hiding her face upon her 
 father's shoulder, she exclaimed, ' It was very wrong in me, I 
 know, papa, now — but it did not seem much then.' Mr Clifford 
 perceived that some confession was at hand, but he did not like 
 to press her, and Madeline continued in the same hurried 
 manner : ' Mamma lets us wear sashes sometimes, and I 
 thought she would not care, and Alice liked the bonbons, so 
 
 I gave ' but before Madeline could finish her sentence, a 
 
 Iniock was heard at the door, and Ruth begged to know if she 
 might come in. 
 
 ' Here is a note for you, papa, just sent from the Manor : 
 Lady Catharine's servant is waiting for an answer.' 
 
 Madeline had no sooner heard the word Manor, than her 
 thoughts turned to Alice. * Oh ! papa,' she exclaimed in great 
 agitation, ' pray don't let Lady Catharine be angry. Alice did 
 not mean any harm, it was my fault — indeed it was ; I gave her 
 the bonbons ; please beg her not to be angry.'
 
 88 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * I cannot understand all this, Madeline,' replied INIr Clifford ; 
 • Lady Catharine begs me to go to her instantly, so I must know 
 in few words what you have been doing.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the grave and decided tone in which Ii3r 
 papa spoke, i\Iadelinc was relieved at having at length an 
 occasion for freeing her conscience. She began at the first visit 
 which they had paid to the Manor, and gave a history of all 
 that had passed ; ending with, ' I would rather a great deal be 
 punished than Alice.' 
 
 Mr Clifford was silent for a moment when Ma.deline finished 
 speaking, and then he said, ' I cannot talk to you upon this 
 subject now, Madeline ; probably I shall not be very long at 
 the Manor, but I shall tell your mamma that you must stay here 
 ■till I return;' and he left the room. Madeline was panic- 
 struck ; she had never seen him seriously angry before. Yet 
 it was not exactly anger ; his voice was quiet and gentle, but it 
 was plain that he thought the afi'air of consequence. 
 
 Vvhen the door was closed the two chikh'en looked at each 
 other in fear, and Ruth exclaimed, ' O Madeline ! how could 
 you do it .'' ' 
 
 ' I don't know — I can't tell,' sobbed Madeline ; ' it did not 
 seem veiy naughty.' 
 
 * I said you had better not,' continued Ruth, proud of her own 
 superior judgment ; ' I said niamma would not like it, and you 
 know she is sorry for your caring to be dressed out. And then to 
 keep it so quiet — not to mention a word ! not to me ! it was so 
 very unkind.' 
 
 ' I thought you would tell, and I meant to show them by and 
 by — and — but it would not ha^•e signified if Alice had not gone 
 into the room — do you think Lady Catharine knows that .'' ' 
 
 ' I daresay she does,' replied Ruth ; ' and that she will be 
 horridly angry, and send Alice away. I heard nurse talking 
 the other day about her, and she declared that she always kept 
 her word ; and that when she said she would do a thing, she 
 always did it. Only think, ALadelinc ! all because of the 
 Ijonbons : how could you do it ? ' Madeline could only reply 
 by tears ; and then Ruth for the first time began to see that her 
 pride and self-conceit had made her behave, it might almost be 
 called, cruelly. Instead of comforting Madeline, she had added 
 everything which could increase her distress. Ruth was naturally 
 very warm-hearted, and loved her sister most dearly ; and now, 
 S.S she stood by her, and saw her grief, she began to feel great
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 89 
 
 sorrow and self-reproach. INIadeline was generally so full of 
 happiness, it seemed something quite new and strange to hear 
 her sob as if her heart would break. Ruth kissed her, and 
 called her 'dear Madeline,' and wished that their mamma 
 would come to them ; but when she offered to go and fetch 
 her, Madeline held her fast, and protested that she would rather 
 not see her, she would be so very much displeased ; besides, 
 she was gone out. 
 
 ' She must be in by this time,' said Ruth : ' look how black 
 it is ; the storm is coming.' 
 
 Madeline, however, did not raise her eyes ; but when a 
 distant rumbling sound was heard, she caught Ruth's hand and 
 held it tight. ' Papa thought it would come ! * she exclaimed : 
 ' it frightens me so.' 
 
 ' Think of old Roger,' said Ruth : ' it does not matter to us.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I don't like it : do you think it will be very bad.'' 
 
 ' I don't know ; it looks very black, very black indeed. 
 There I I saw the lightning, didn't you ?' 
 
 Madeline shook with terror ; she had always had a great fear 
 of thunder and lightning, and her papa and mamma had often 
 tried to overcome it, but without success. Madeline felt what 
 was quite true, that the dazzling flash and the loud peal were 
 very awful ; and she did not consider that she was equally under 
 the protection of God when the sky was lowering, as when it 
 was bright without a cloud. At that moment it was especially 
 fearful, for her mind was not at ease. All trials become worse 
 to us when we are not at peace with ourselves, and happy in the 
 consciousness of striving to serve God ; and as Madeline cast 
 her eye upon the window, and saw the heavy cloud hanging 
 before it, and the next instant watched the sharp, vivid light 
 rush ibrth across the skv, and heard the crash of the thunder, 
 she became speechless in alarm. Ruth was nearly as fright- 
 ened ; she had never seen such a storm before. ' I will call 
 mamma,' she said, in a very low voice, when the peal died away. 
 Madeline caught her dress as she was about to go ; but Ruth 
 escaped into the passage. She ran along it quickly ; looked 
 into the dining-room, and found that no one was there; knocked 
 at the drawing-room, and received no answer ; and was just 
 going up the stairs, when she heard some one exclaim, ' How 
 dreadful ! what, both lost ?' 
 
 ' Not both ; only the old one,' was the answer : ' the boat 
 wont to pieces at once.'
 
 90 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth stopped, for she remembered the fisherman and his son ; 
 and, forgetting Madehnc, she called loudly to the housemaid to 
 come to her. Almost at the same instant she appeared, very 
 pale, and with an eager manner, evidently shov/ing that there 
 was something of consequence to repeat. * Only think. Miss 
 Ruth ! ' she began ; ' such a storm ! and your poor papa and 
 mamma both out ! and that terrible upset ! the boat went all to 
 pieces.' 
 
 ' Whose boat ? papa and mamma were not in it, were they !' 
 exclaimed Ruth, in her agitation. 
 
 ' No, miss, not they ; but the poor old man ! Isn't it 
 dreadful ? ' 
 
 Martha seemed c^uite awe-struck by the shock, and scarcely 
 less so by the thunder, the sound of which v/as indeed alarming, 
 rolling heavily along, and then bursting, as it seemed, im- 
 mediately over the house in repeated claps. Martha caught 
 hold of the balustrade, and shook from head to foot, but Ruth 
 only remained the more still, as she generally did when she was 
 feeling very much. ' Was it Roger's boat .-'' she said, at length. 
 
 Martha replied by a sigh ; and then recovering herself, she 
 began to describe the circumstances of the accident : how the 
 storm had come on, and, in consequence, Roger and his grand- 
 son had given up their fishing expedition, and tried to reach the 
 shore ; and how the people had been watching them, until, as 
 they were nearing the land, the lightning struck the boat and 
 shivered it to atoms. 
 
 ' But if they were so close,' said Ruth, ' they could not be 
 drowned.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but 'twas the old man, Miss Ruth,' replied the servant : 
 < he couldn't swim, do you see ; but young William did, so he 
 got to shore ; but poor old Roger 's gone, cjuite gone ; they picked 
 up his body, but there wasn't a bit of life left in it.' 
 
 Whilst Martha spoke, the tears gathered in Ruth's eyes. She 
 had never before heard of the sudden death of any person whom 
 she had actually known ; and the thought that the man whom 
 she had beheld so short a time before full of health and strength, 
 notwithstanding his age, was now taken from the world, com- 
 plctely bewildered her. Ruth had never seen a person 
 dead ; she could not imagine what death could be like ; and 
 she longed for her mamma, and entreated Martha to try and 
 find her, fancying that the merely being with her would be some 
 protection. Martha said that Mrs Clifford was out, and begged
 
 t> 
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 91 
 
 her not to take on, for it. could do no good to the poor old man : 
 but Ruth did not think much of this comfort ; and finding that 
 there was not any hope of her mamma's return, slie took hold oi 
 Martha's hand, and begged her to go with her to the study ; 
 for it thundered so, that she did not like to go alone, and she 
 wanted to tell Madeline about poor old Roger. Martha con- 
 sented, saying, at the same time, that the place she wanted to 
 go to was the cellar : she had heard that was the best place in a 
 thunderstorm. Ruth seized upon any notion of what she was 
 told might be safety ; and, running back to the study, she opened 
 the door, and called Madeline, intending that she should go with 
 her. When she looked round, however, to her great surprise, 
 Madeline was not there. She walked to the window and called 
 again ; and went down the passage which led to the kitchen, 
 and inquired there ; but no one knew anything of Madeline, 
 except that the cook had heard her sobbing in the study, and 
 the gardener fancied he had seen her running down the green 
 walk. This every one declared was not at all likely ; and, after 
 a hasty search, the servants began to be alarmed, and were 
 thinking of sending for Mr Clifford, when a loud knocking and 
 a well-known voice announced their master's return. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THAT stormy evening was an important one to other persons 
 besides Madeline Clifibrd. It was now a week since 
 Alice had entered the forbidden rooms ; and the days had 
 passed, in appearance, exactly as before. Alice had risen al 
 her ordinary hour — half-past six ; she had dressed, and learned 
 her lessons, and then gone in to prayers, and breakiasted with 
 Lady Catharine, and spent the remainder of her time in read- 
 ing, writing, working, and walking, just as usual. Yet the week 
 was in reality very unlike any other week which Alice had ever 
 spent ; — -much longer, and more unhappy ; and all who kno^v 
 what it is to have something on their minds which they arc 
 afraid may be found out, will understand how this was. Alice 
 had not only to keep her own secret, but to persuade Anne, the 
 housemaid, to keep it too ; and this was a rather difficult task. 
 Anne was a young girl, thoughtless and selfish ; and in about
 
 9» 
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 a fortnight's time she was intending to leave the Manor, and go 
 to anothci- situation. It did not signify to her, therefore, what 
 happened to AHce ; and she took a malicious kind of pleasure 
 in teasing her, by threatening to tell Lady Catharine. When- 
 ever they met in the gallery, Anne would shake her head, and 
 point to the door, and say, ' Ah, Miss Alice ! you know ! ' 
 and then poor Alice would entreat her not to tell, and promise 
 to give her anything she wished, and to be kind to her all her 
 life, if she would only declare that she would never say any- 
 thing about it. Anne never did promise, really ; all she said 
 was, ' Well, we '11 see ; I won't tell to-day ; but then, you 
 know, I must have just a little something for being so kind.' 
 This was a signal for Alice to go to the play-drawer, and bring 
 out some one of her pretty things — a housewife, or a pincushion, 
 or a little box — and offer it to Anne as a bribe ; though know- 
 ing all the time that if she made Anne angry the promise would 
 be broken, and Lady Catharine would be told all. A bought 
 promise is never to be depended on ; and even v>'hen Anne was 
 the most kind in her manner, Alice knew that she was deceitful 
 in her heart. She soon began to feel a great dislike to her soft 
 words ; and Marsham's rough sincerity was, in comparison, 
 c[uite agreeable. Once during the week she had seen Benson 
 for a few minutes at the garden gate, and she had then some 
 thought of confessing to her ; but Alice had sense enough to 
 know that a person who will deceive in any one instance is not 
 to be trusted in others ; and, much as she liked Benson, she 
 was not at all certain that her secret would be safe with her. 
 Yet Benson was very kind ; she kissed her, brought her some 
 sugar-plums, and promised to make her a beautiful new pin- 
 cushion ; and when she went away, her parting words were : 
 ' I will be sure to come and see you again, and we won't care 
 anything about Lady Catharine.' Alice, however, did care for 
 Lady Catharine, even with her stern features and her cold 
 manner, for she knew that she was true, and that Benson was 
 not ; and the slightest smile from the one was really of more 
 value to her than all the sugared words of the other, whom she 
 could not in her heart respect. Each day was to Alice a day 
 of anxiety. Sometimes she thought that Anne would tell; then, 
 that by some means or other Lady Catharine would find the 
 lost bonbon in the passage, and inquire how it came there ; or 
 else, that when the rest were returned, and Madeline '.vr;s 
 ordered not to bring any more sweet things to the Manor, she
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 93 
 
 nni^iit say something which might betray vvhat had been done ; 
 tliough for her own sake, to conceal about the sashes, Ahce 
 trusted that she would not speak of the exchange. If Lady 
 Catharine mentioned Mrs Clifford's name, Alice's colour went 
 and came as though she were ill ; if a walk into the village was 
 proposed, she was in dread lest they should meet some one 
 from the parsonage ; and if anything was said about the two 
 children's coming for another day's amusement, Alice did not 
 dare express much wish to see them ; she felt that she could 
 be safe nowhere. Perpetually she wondered whether Lady 
 Catliarine had sent back the bonbons ; and, if she had not, 
 when she intended to do it ; but the fact was, that what to her 
 was of great consequence, was a mere trifle to Lady Catharine. 
 The bonbons had been put aside, with the intention of their 
 being returned the next time Mrs Cliftbrd came ; for having 
 many engagements that week. Lady Catharine had not con- 
 sidered it worth while to write a note. But perhaps the most 
 painful thing of all to Alice's i'^elings was Lady Catharine's in- 
 creasing kindness. She was growing more accustomed to a 
 child's habits ; and, being naturally considerate, she was learn- 
 ing how to give Alice pleasure in many little ways which at first 
 slie would not have thought of. Alice really was improving ; 
 she answered her Scripture questions much more readily ; slie 
 wrote her exercises more carefully ; and slie was beginning to 
 work to Marsham's satisfaction. The pleasure which this 
 gave to Lady Catharine could only be understood by persons 
 who observed the difference between her present manner 
 and what it had been before, ever since her husband's death. 
 There was now some one again to love and care for ; and Lady 
 Catharine's affection for A.lice was becoming the great charm of 
 her life. Even the villagers noticed the change ; and declared 
 that my lady was quite another creature since she had taken 
 little Miss Lennox to go about with her. She seemed to care 
 for all children now, and really would pat them, and speak to 
 them, instead of scolding them as she used to do ; and the first- 
 class girls in the school actually looked forward A\ith pleasure 
 instead of dread to the fortnight's examination ; for Lady 
 Catharine made allowances for them when they were wrong, 
 and praised them when they were right ; whereas before, she 
 had expected them to be perfect, and if they were, scarcely 
 seemed to think they deserved to be rewarded. Alas ! that 
 children should by tlicir own misconduct throw away the love
 
 94 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and tiie attention which God has given to be the greatest bless » 
 ings of their hves ! 
 
 It was the same day on Avhich the conversation had passed 
 between Mr Clifford and his httle girls, held on the sea-shore. 
 Alice had been more alone than usual, for Marsham was gone 
 to see her mother, who was ill, and lived at a considerable dis- 
 tance from Laneton, and Lady Catharine had kept very much 
 to her own room. She was thinking particularly of her hus- 
 band ; for at that same seasoii, fifteen years before, she had 
 been first married ; the first arrival at the Manor was fresh in 
 her memory ; she recollected his affectionate words, and his 
 anxious endeavour to make her happy, and how she had looked 
 forward to a long life of enjoyment ; and now ten years had 
 gone by since he had been laid in his quiet grave, and she had 
 been left a widow indeed, and desolate. Kneeling in her 
 chamber alone, Lady Catharine recalled all the circumstances of 
 her great loss, and the blessings which had still followed her in 
 life ; and as she repeated them one by one — the opportunities 
 for public and private prayers, God's holy word and sacraments, 
 His minister to be her friend, her health, and strength, and 
 rank, and fortune — tears of thankfulness mingled with her 
 sorrow ; and when at last the name of Alice Lennox passed 
 her lips, she prayed earnestly, most earnestly, that it might 
 please her Heavenly Father still to preserve to her this one 
 great blessing, which had made the last few months happier 
 than she had dared to hope her earthly life might ever be again. 
 The prayer was ended, and Lady Catharine rose ; and going to 
 her bureau, took out a packet of letters, which she had received 
 from her husband in the early period of their married life : they 
 made her very melancholy, yet the satisfaction which she felt in 
 reading them induced her to occupy lierseL with them much 
 longer than she had at first intended. Something was said in 
 one of them about a roll of old papers which contained some 
 interesting anecdotes of Mr Hyde's family. Lady Catharine 
 well remembered having been engaged at the time when she 
 received this letter, so that she could not look for the papers ; 
 and afterwards various circumstances prevented her from think- 
 ing much about them : now a strong desire seized her to find 
 them ; and taking the keys belonging to her husband's rooms, 
 she determined upon searching for them ; for a long time, how- 
 ever, she looked in vain ; neither in the desk, nor the writing 
 tables, neither in the drawers, nor the cabinets, were any such
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 95 
 
 papers to be seen. As a last hope, she detcrmir.cd upon ex- 
 amining the bureau in the cntrajice passage, though she believed 
 it to be empty ; and so, indeed, it proved ; but just as Lady 
 Catharine was moving away in disappointment, she discovered 
 a httle edge of paper betvv'een the bureau and the wall ; and 
 on trying to draw it out, she found that it was part of a large 
 packet, which had slipped down, and could not be taken up 
 v.'ithout danger of tearing it. Lady Catharine's dislike to allow- 
 ing her husband's apartments to be entered made her doubt, at 
 first, whether she would call any one to move the cabinet ; but 
 as it was probable that this roll of paper was the very one for 
 which she was looking, she at length summoned the men-ser- 
 vants, and the bureau was with some difficulty removed from 
 its place. The papers fell to the ground ; and as the butler 
 stooped to gather them up, he picked up, also, the lost bonbon : 
 it was put into Lady Catharine's hand, but she scarcely looked 
 at it ; the papers were all, that she, at the moment, cared for ; 
 and finding that they proved to be the same for which she had 
 been seeking, she carried them to her room. As she placed them 
 on the table, however, the bonbon caught her eye : she supposed 
 that it must have been a stray one from those which she had 
 put away ; but no : she was certain the butler had given it to 
 her with the papers — he had found it behind the bureau — and 
 how did it come there? Alice! was it possible? could Alice 
 really have been so disobedient, so forgetful of all the kindness 
 which had been shown her, as to break the only command upon 
 which Lady Catharine had strongly insisted? But the bonbons 
 were Madeline Clifford's ; Alice had said so ; and Lady 
 Catharine felt relieved, for her mind was immovably fixed to 
 keep to her determination ; and if Alice proved deceitful, to 
 send her from the Manor. When Lady Catharine made 
 the resolution, she had not known how hard it would be 
 to keep it ; she had cared but little for Alice, except 
 for her mother's sake, but now the thought of parting from her 
 was cause of the deepest sorrow ; and yet she did not for an 
 instant think of changing her mind. What she had once settled 
 upon, she was certain, as far as any human being can be certain, 
 to carry into effect. The papers were put away as things of no 
 consequence ; the bell was rung, and Alice was summoned to 
 Lady Catharine's presence. The message v\'as taken by the 
 housemaid ; and when she delivered it, she added, v^ith a laugh 
 — ' There is something in store for you. Miss Alice, I '11 bs 
 bound ; my lady looks as black as thunder.'
 
 96 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Alice's face became deadly pale. ' O Anne !' she exclaimed, 
 * you have not told ?' 
 
 * No, no, jMiss Alice, never fear me — I 'm quite safe ; but my 
 lady has found out something, that 's certain.' 
 
 ' I low ! she can't — it is impossible. Madeline never would 
 tell, and no one else knows,' said Alice, feeling at the same time 
 very distrustful. 
 
 ' Jf she has,' continued Anne, 'you've nothing to do but to 
 face it out ; it will be only her word against yours.' 
 
 Alice looked excessively shocked. ' How wicked ! how 
 dreadful !' she exclaimed : ' Anne, how veiy naughty of you to 
 think of such a thing ! and I should get Madeline into such 
 disgrace.' 
 
 ' Well, that 's as you think,' continued Anne ; ' but there 
 couldn't be much disgrace for little Miss Clifford, because she 
 wasn't told like you, and her papa and mamma never scold her 
 a bit ; they arn"t at all like my lady : but there 's the bell again : 
 you must go.' 
 
 * And you v/on't tell — you are sure you won't tell ; you will 
 be a good, kind Anne,' said Alice, hesitating. 
 
 ' Trust me ; but if I were you I should get out of it somehow, 
 and Miss iMadeline 's so good-natured she won't care what you 
 say,' 
 
 * Don't you really think it would signify? but it would be very 
 wrong ; ' and Alice held the handle of the door, unwilling to 
 open it. 
 
 ' As to its signifying, I am sure it won't ; but it 's no good 
 staying here to think.' This Alice herself knew cjuite well ; 
 and, making a sudden effort, she ran out of the room. Her 
 knock at Lady Catharine's door was not very loud, and the 
 voice which bade her come in did not tend to make her less 
 frightened. 
 
 Lady Catharine was seated with her head leaning upon one 
 hand, whilst the other held the lost bonbon. She looked pale, 
 and there wg.s a dark colour round her eyes, and a pressure of 
 her lips, which told that her mind was unusually disturbed. 
 Alice stood before her Avithout daring to speak, and Lady 
 Catharine looked at her as if she would have discovered the 
 truth from her countenance. There was a pause for som.e 
 instants, and then Lady Catharine, without any preparation, 
 placed the bonbon before Alice, and said, ' I have found this : 
 tell me where i ' 
 
 Alice raised her eyes, which she had fixed upon the ground
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 97 
 
 She looked first at the bonbon, then at Lady Catharine ; her 
 only hope of escape was in evasion : ' Tlie bonbons were 
 Madeline Clifford's/ she said, rejoicing at having avoided an 
 actual falsehood. 
 
 ' I know it,' continued Lady Catharine, in the same voice ; 
 ' my question was not to whom it belonged, but where it was 
 found.' 
 
 * It must have dropped in the passage,' replied Alice, ovni- 
 moning courage to reply more boldly. 
 
 ' And in what passage } Where were you playing ? ' 
 
 * In the gallery, by the window-seat.' 
 
 Lady Catharine thought a little, and then went on ; ' Was 
 the door into the east room open at the time?' 
 
 * Yes — no — no — yes; I can't remember,' stammered Alice, 
 for she could not perceive at the instant whether it would be 
 better for her to tell the truth or not. 
 
 ' You can't remember .'* then you have no idea how this bon- 
 bon was lost under the large bureau ?' 
 
 Alice quailed under Lady Catharine's eye, but a second time 
 she evaded the question : ' Madeline was playing with them,' 
 she said, 
 
 ' And Madeline went into the passage,' continued Lady 
 Catharine, in a softened tone ; ' was it so, Alice ? do not be 
 afraid to tell me.' 
 
 But Alice was afraid. Even after her first falsehood, in 
 saying that the bonbons were Madeline's, she scrupled to be 
 guilty of a second. Lady Catharine rose, and drawing up her 
 stately figure to its full height, she folded her hands, and 
 waited patiently for an answer. Alice's heart beat so that she 
 could hear it; she tried to say something, but it was impossible ; 
 till at length, bursting into tears, she exclaimed, ' Indeed, I 
 cannot tell.' 
 
 Lady Catharine made no attempt to stop her tears, but again 
 repeated the question : 'Was it so?' Still Alice only cried; 
 and Lady Catharine, convinced by her distress of the truth of 
 her suspicions, said, in a faint, yet bitter voice, ' Alice, it was 
 my only command, and you have disobeyed it.' 
 
 * No, no !' exclaimed Alice, urged at length by fear to do 
 what under difierent circumstances she would have shrunk from, 
 * it was not me — Madeline had them.' 
 
 ' Are you sure — quite sure .'' — remember, Alice, there is no- 
 thing so dreadful as falsehood !' But Alice had committed the 
 
 G
 
 98 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 sin, and there M-as now but little difficulty in persisting in it. 
 With a firmer voice than before she repeated her assertion, 
 adding, that she hoped Lady Catharine would not be angry 
 wath Madeline. Lady Catharine, however, was very distrust- 
 ful ; it did not seem natural that Alice should feel so much, if 
 she had done nothing wrong, and she determined to sift the 
 matter to the bottom. She placed herself at her writing-desk, 
 and wrote a few lines to Mr Clifford, begging him to come to 
 her instantly ; and then saying, ' The truth must be discovered 
 by some means, Alice,' she went out of the room ; the door 
 was locked on the outside, and Alice was left to her own 
 thoughts. And they were far from agreeable. The first step 
 in sin, the indulgence of an idle wish, had led her into the un- 
 truth, which she had told on the previous week, and now it was 
 dragging her on in many others : she had wilfully departed 
 from the safe path — who could tell where she might now be 
 led.? She cried bitterly, and from the bottom of her heart 
 wished that she had never been tempted to do wrong. But 
 Alice's sorrow was not the true Christian sorrov^', which God 
 accepts for the sake of Jesus Christ. It did not lead her to 
 confess her faults, and submit without murmuring to whatever 
 punishment might be inflicted upon her — rather, it made her 
 the more determined to conceal what she had done, at any risk. 
 She felt certain that no one would be very angry with Madeline, 
 and she did not know what might be the consequences to her- 
 self. This at least was the way in which she argued ; for, 
 being really good-natured, she would not willingly have done 
 anything which could ha\e brought another person into diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 The minutes seemed long before any one came to interrupt 
 her ; and the clouds, which were gathering quickly over the 
 sky, made the hour appear later than it really was. Alice be- 
 gan to be afraid lest Lady Catharine intended to lock her up 
 for the night. Presently she heard footsteps along the passage 
 — slow, heavy ones — not at all like Lady Catharine's ; then 
 there were voices, but she could not discover what was said ; 
 and immediately afterwards the key turned in the door, and 
 Lady Catharine entered, followed by Mr Clifford. Alice thought 
 she must have sunk upon the floor ; of all persons, the one 
 whom she most dreaded to see, the one in whose presence she 
 felt the greatest awe, was Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' We are come to hear your story again, Alice,' said Lady
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 99 
 
 Catharine, adsancing towards her ; ' repeat to Mr CUfford what 
 you have said to mc.' AUce could remember nothing ; her 
 head seemed turning round, and her mind was confused. ' Per- 
 haps,' said Mr Clifford, kindly, yet very gravely, ' Lady Catha- 
 rine will allow mc to ask one or two questions myself. You 
 know, Alice, I must be anxious and sorrj'', when I think that 
 Madeline has been doing wrong.' Alice w^as comforted by Mr 
 Clifford's manner, for he did not appear to suspect her of un- 
 truth. ' Was it the last time Madeline was here that she brought 
 the bonbons.'" continued Mr Chfford. 
 
 Alice answered, ' Yes.' 
 
 'And you had never seen them before?' 
 
 ' No, never.' Alice answered at random, for she had no 
 time for thought. 
 
 'And you did not take any yourself? are you not fond of 
 them?' 
 
 ' Yes — a little — sometimes ; I don't much care.' 
 
 ' But what was the reason of your not taking them?' 
 
 ' I don't know : Lady Catharine does not like me to have 
 them.' 
 
 As Ahce said this, a smile of pleasure stole over Lady Calha- 
 riije's face, but Mr Clifford looked gravei than before : ' And as 
 Madeline was playing with the bonbons, one rolled into the 
 passage, and she went in to fetch it — was that it?' Alice made 
 no answer. ' Or,' continued Mr Clifford, in a tone so very 
 quiet, and yet so severe, that Alice trembled, ' was it that Ma- 
 deline and you had made an agreement to exchange the bonbons 
 for some ribbons ? that the bonbons were yours, not hers ? that 
 you took them, though you knew Lady Catharine would be 
 displeased? that it was you who were playing with them, and 
 that it was you who went after them?' There was a dead 
 silence. The muscles in Lady Catharine's throat w^ere working 
 with agitation, and she passed her hand across her eyes to brush 
 away a tear. Mr Clifford's countenance was perfectly still, but 
 his eyes were fixed upon Alice. ' Your ladyship must be the 
 judge,' he said at length, turniiig to Lady Catharine ; ' I have 
 already heard some of this stoiy before from Madeline : her 
 version is very different from Alice's, and I ha\e never yet dis- 
 covered her in telling an untruth.' 
 
 ' Madeline is cross — she is unkind — very unkind,' exclaimed 
 Alice ; ' I never do such things to her.' 
 
 * Hush ! Alice,' and Lady Catharine held up her finger to en-
 
 lOo LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 force her words, ' we will have no complaints. One of } on is 
 wrong, worse than wrong — wicked. God knows, though we 
 do not.' 
 
 ' I will bring Madeline here, if you wish it,' said Mr Clifford, 
 perceiving that Lady Catharine was not inclined to believe in 
 Alice's guilt ; ' perhaps when they are together it will be easier 
 to discover the true state of the case.' 
 
 ' I would rather ' — Lady Catharine paused, doubting whether 
 Mr Clifford would like the offer. ' I should judge, I tliink, 
 better — if you did not care — if I were to go to her.' 
 
 Air Clifford looked rather surprised, but Lady Catharine's 
 c\ idcnt distress was not to be reasoned against. It was no 
 light matter to her, if Alice should prove guilty. ' I am afraid 
 the storm will be increasing,' said Mr CUfford ; but Lady 
 Catharine was in no mood to think of or care for storms. She 
 would not delay — she would not even hear of the carriage being 
 ordered — but after one look at Alice of sorrow, yet of deep af- 
 fection, she went to prepare for her walk to the Parsonage, and 
 in a few minutes Alice was again left alone. This time she 
 was free. No doors were locked ; she might wander wherever 
 she chose ; but where could she go, and what could she do .? 
 who could help her in her difficulty.-' who could recall her sinful 
 words 1 That which has been done cannot be undone : we 
 may repent, and God may forgive, but when we have oiice 
 committed an evil deed, or spoken an evil word, or thought an 
 evil thought, it must remain recorded in the awful book of re- 
 membrance, to be a witness against us on the day when we 
 stand before the judgment-seat of the Almiglity to answer for 
 our lives upon earth. Alice Lennox could never again be as 
 she had been before. She had ' let her mouth speak wicked- 
 ness, and with her tongue she had set forth deceit ; ' and nov.', 
 to save herself from punishment, she was about to ' sit and 
 speak' against her friend — to slander her playfellow and com- 
 panion. When Alice wished for the bonbons, how little did 
 she imagine into what guilt she should be led ! But she was 
 not then sensible of her grievous fault ; she considered only the 
 chance of escape from punishment ; for her heart had become 
 more hardened, and even Lady Catharine's look of sadness liad 
 made no impression upon her. Still less was she inclined to 
 have compassion upon Madeline, or to consider the distress it 
 would occasion her to have her word doubted ; it was not a 
 moment for thinking upon any one but herself She hid her
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. i o i 
 
 face against the wall, whilst a crowd of confused thoughts passed 
 tlirough her mind. Presently, there was a slight noise at the 
 door, and some one touched the handle, but Alice did not look 
 up ; it was then softly turned, and two jjcrsons stole very gently 
 into the room. ' This is my lady's own room,' said the one who 
 came in first. 
 
 ' Ah ! very beautiful ! to be sure — but, dear me ! ' and at 
 Benson's voice, Alice started up, and ahnost screamed. 
 
 ' Miss Alice ! La ! but I thought you were out with my 
 lady,' exclaimed Anne ; ' and the storm, did you ever hear 
 anything like it? she won't be back for this hour, that 's certain.' 
 
 The presence of Benson, and tlie assurance of Lady Catha- 
 rine's absence, gave a little comfort to Alice's spirit ; but it was 
 soon gone. She had not time to ask how Benson came there, 
 or why she had ventured into the house, before Anne poured 
 forth a torrent of questions : ' what had been the matter ? why 
 was she left alone .'^ what had shebeen crying for.'' had my 
 
 lady been very angry ? did she know about ' and Anne 
 
 shook her head, and pointed to the passage. Alice had no 
 heart to answer : she felt as if Anne had led her into mischief 
 by suggesting the second falsehood which she had told, and she 
 only longed for her to be gone. But Anne was not inclined to 
 go, and neither was Benson. They stood by her, and petted 
 her, and said a great many foolish and w-rong things about 
 Lady Catharine's cruelty and whims, till at length Alice began 
 to think that perhaps after all she had been treated hardly, and 
 then, in her turn, she recounted all that had taken pLice. 
 
 ' Well, to be sure ! ' exclaimed Benson, when she had finished ; 
 * 'twas fortunate enough that I chanced to come this evening. 
 To think of your being left all alone, and treated so bad ; and 
 I never should have found out a v>'ord about it, if it hadn't been 
 for Marsham's mother being ill, and she away, and 'cook gone 
 out for an hour ; and so, you see, we had the coast clear ail to 
 ourselves, and I thought if I could just keep out of my lady's 
 sight, I might manage to see you, my pretty dear, and the 
 house too. But 'tis a real blessing that my lady 's gone, and 
 the thunder will be positive to hold her where she is. So, now 
 cheer up, IVIiss Alice, and tell us what we can do.' 
 
 ' I can tell what's to be done,' exclaimed Anne ; ' there is no 
 one knows better than me bow to get out of a harl. If I just 
 keep the same story as Miss Alice, there'll be two to one; 
 and who 's to go against us then ?'
 
 I02 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Alice could not feel thankful : she felt her selfishness, yel 
 she could not bring herself to put a stop at once to such a plan. 
 * Ah ! yes, that 's just right, anything to serve a friend,' said 
 Benson ; ' nobody knows, and nobody will tell, and 'twill all 
 do very well ; though I can't, for the life of me, think why you 
 should care for the notion of being sent to school. If 'twasn't 
 just for me, you'd be buried alive like here.' 
 
 'It's not about school altogether,' said Alice, ' but Lady 
 Catharine looks so' 
 
 ' Well, so she docs ! she looks as if she could cut one's head 
 off; not a bit like your poor dear mamma, she was an angel ; 
 but there, we won't talk of her,' continued Benson, seeing that 
 Alice's eyes were dimmed with tears. Alice, however, was not 
 crying for the reason which Benson imagined ; it was not so 
 much the remembrance of Lady Catharine's harshness, or her 
 iiianima's affection, which had touched her heart, as the thought 
 of her own wickedness, and the difference between her past 
 conduct and the advice which had frequently been given her. 
 She felt, in truth, that if her mamma could know all she had 
 been doing, her sorrow would be very great ; and the convic- 
 tion crossed her mind that none could enter the state of happi- 
 ness, in which she believed her mamma now to be, except those 
 who lived a life of holiness, and it was the last prayer she had 
 heard from her mother's lips, that God would grant her the un- 
 speakable blessing of meeting her child again, when the trial of 
 her life should be over. Benson was sorry that she had said 
 anything to make Alice more unhappy, and now again began to 
 cheer her by assuring her that Anne would be her friend, and that 
 two to one against Miss Madeline would be sure to beat. Anne 
 also repeated the same thing, but she was tired of trying to give 
 comfort ; and as the time was passing on, she begged Benson 
 to go with her over the other rooms, that she might see them 
 before Lady Catharine came back. Benson consented, and 
 v.'as leaving the room, when a sudden fancy struck Anne, 
 and she stopped : ' To be sure ! ' she exclaimed ; ' I never 
 thought of it ; there couldn't be a better opportunity ; just the 
 very thing. I say. Miss Alice, my dear, where does Marsham 
 keep the key ? you know what I mean :' and Anne nodded and 
 winked. 
 
 ' I don't know. What key do you mean ? Marsham has a 
 great many,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Ay, but the key of the rooms : they are shut up to-day :
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 103 
 
 they always are when Marsham isn't here, and I should so hke 
 cousin Benson to see them. 
 
 * That 's a good notion,' exclaimed Benson ; ' ' it would just 
 pass away the time, and keep me from thinking about the 
 thunder. What a storm there is ! I declare if it doesn't turn 
 my heart upside down.' 
 
 ' But, Anne, indeed you must not. Lady Catharine will be 
 excessively angry,' said Alice. Anne laughed. 
 
 ' As for that, she 's had plenty of causes to be angry before 
 now. What a goose, to think I should have lived so long in 
 the house, and up early and late, and never done more than 
 peep in at that door when half the times it was open : no, no, 
 if my lady wants to keep it all quiet, she had better lock it up, 
 and keep the key herself. So now tell me. Miss Alice, dear, 
 where 's the key ? I'll be bound you know.' 
 
 Alice again protested, and Anne looked impatient and 
 threatening ; at that instant a vivid flash of lightning illumin- 
 ated the room, followed instantly by a roll of thunder. 
 
 * It 's quite dangerous, I declare,' exclaimed Benson, turning 
 pale ; * they say it 's always worse when the thunder comes so 
 soon.' 
 
 ' It's setting in this way,' said Anne ; ' if we were wise, and 
 went to the other side, there wouldn't be a bit of fear. Come, 
 Miss Alice, come, it won't do to stop here.' 
 
 ' But Lady Catharine ' — began Alice. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Lady Catharine ! What should I. care for 
 her ? I'm going away.' 
 
 ' But I can't, indeed I can't,' continued Alice. 
 
 ' Then I can't, indeed I can't,' repeated Anne, contemptuously. 
 * If you can't for me, I can't for you, and what 's to be done 
 then } ' 
 
 Here Benson stepped forward, and began to entreat in more 
 gentle terms. * She was sure her own dear Alice would be 
 good-natured ; it was such a little thing, and they had done so 
 much for her, and Anne would be certain to keep her own 
 counsel, and never to tell tales upon her.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! ' said Anne, angrily ; ' and if I don't keep my 
 own counsel now, I know who '11 come badly off.' 
 
 ' But what shall I do? I can't be left — I can't stay here,' 
 replied Alice, as she gazed at the lowering sky, and hid her face 
 when the lightning broke through the gloom. 
 
 ' No, that you can't,' said Anne ; ' at least if you do, I 'm
 
 I04 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 sure I shall not ; ' tis a storm not fit for a dog to look at, and 
 I'm going.' She moved to the door, but no one followed. 
 
 'Come, there's a dear,' said Benson, coaxingly, taking 
 Alice's hand. ' My lady -will be I^ack when it leaves off, and I 
 never shall have such an opportunity again. You know Anne 
 says we shall be quite safe there — and what's the harm of going 
 into a room .'' It 's only my lady's whim.' 
 
 ' But you won't leave me,' cried Alice, imploringly. 
 
 ' No, certainly not ; you come too — the more the merrier,' 
 said Anne ; who, notwithstanding her boasting, had always had 
 a superstitious dread of the shut-up rooms. ' We can be out 
 the moment it begins to clear,' she continued ; ' my lady need 
 never know a bit about it ; and when she comes home, I '11 say 
 anything you like, and get you out of your scrape, and then 
 you'll be quite happy.' 
 
 ' Besides,' persisted Benson, * it isn't anything for you ; you've 
 been in once, so the mischief's done.' 
 
 Anne's sharp eye saw signs of yielding, for Alice gazed wist- 
 fully at the window ; but the storm still raged violently. To be 
 left alone with the lightning and the thunder — and alone with 
 an evil conscience, seemed more terrible than any other punish- 
 ment. 
 
 'The key is in Marsham's room, isn't it ?' said Anne. Alice 
 nodded an assent. ' With the large bunch .'' ' 
 
 ' No.' Alice was so nervous that she could scarcely speak 
 the word. 
 
 ' Well ! where ? where ? — make haste,' said Anne. 
 
 ' In the — in the — the left-hand drawer of the large chest.' 
 
 Anne scarcely waited for the last word before she was gone 
 to fetch it ; and a minute afterwards she returned, holding it 
 triumphantly in her hand. ' Come along, come ; we've no time 
 to lose.' She led the way, and Benson and Alice followed. 
 
 CHAPTER Xir. 
 
 WHEN Madeline Clifford was left by her sister in the study, 
 her inclination was to go after her. She was thoroughly 
 frightened by the storm, and she had no power to reason ; and 
 onlv the recollection of Mr Clifford's commands induced her to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 105 
 
 remain for an instant in the room alone. Madeline, however, 
 had never been suffered to disobey in the least particular ; and 
 she had been made so unhappy by her late fault, that the dread 
 of her father's displeasure was at first greater even than her 
 terror at the thunder and lightning. She stood at the door, and 
 hstened to Ruth's footsteps, and caught a few words of the con- 
 versation between her and Martha ; till at last, just as the 
 loudest clap of all burst over head, she heard Martha's speech 
 about the cellar, and in sudden alarm, forgetful of all her former 
 anxiety to obey her papa's wishes, she ran towards it. The 
 door opened not far from the study ; and before Ruth entered 
 the room to tell of the terrible accident which had befallen old 
 Roger, Madeline was safe at the bottom of the cellar stairs, 
 hiding herself among some wood and coals which were kept in 
 a dark hole at the entrance. 
 
 It was no wonder that Ruth was puzzled to know what was 
 beconie of her. Few persons would have thought of looking 
 for her in such a place ; and there had been scarcely time to 
 determine what was to be done, when Mr Clifford appeared, and 
 Lady Catharine Hyde with him. The servants eagerly told 
 their story, and Ruth stood by without speaking ; but Mr Clif- 
 ford was not a person easily to be frightened ; he had no 
 doubt that Madeline would soon be found, but he was distressed 
 at her attempting to conceal herself It seemed to show that 
 she was conscious of greater guilt than she had confessed ; and 
 his heart sank as he thought that, after all, Alice might ha\e 
 spoken the truth, and his own child, whom he had entirely 
 trusted, might have deceived him. ' Leave it to me,' he re- 
 plied, calmly, when he had heard all that was to be said ; ' no 
 one need be alarmed : Madeline is far too great a coward to 
 venture out of doors ; and if I call her, she will come directly.' 
 
 Lady Catharine seated herself in the arm-chair with a coun- 
 tenance of determined patience, and Mr Clifford began his 
 search. For a little while it was unsuccessful, and he began to 
 be slightly uneasy ; but the truth was soon guessed, when he 
 observed that the door leading down the cellar stairs was open. 
 He gently called Madeline ; but receiving no answer, he went 
 down a few steps, and again repeated her name. A timid voice 
 answered, ' Papa ! ' and Madeline, with a very white face, but a 
 dress covered with coal-dust, appeared. ' It was the thunder, 
 papa,' she said, before Air Clifford attempted to make any 
 inquiries.
 
 io6 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * I hope it was, Madeline/ was the reply ; ' ' but I shall know 
 more about this presently ; Lady Catharine Hyde is here.' 
 
 * Must I see her ?' and Madeline looked very much dismayed ; 
 * my frock is so dirty.' 
 
 ' It must not be changed, though ; she is waiting to speak to 
 you.' 
 
 Madeline could do nothing but obey ; and Mr Clifford 
 opened the study door, and ushered her into the awful presence 
 of Lady Catharine Hyde. Madeline glanced around for Ruth 
 as the only hope of comfort ; but her father had signed to her 
 to leave the room, and poor Ruth, feeling certain that some- 
 thing dreadful was going to happen, ran off to watch from the 
 drawing-room window for her mamma's return, which, as the 
 storm was rather going off, would not, she thought, be long 
 delayed. 
 
 Lady Catharine Hyde had by nature a great dislike to all 
 mysteries, and never could consent to gain her object by any 
 but the most direct means. She had no idea of questioning 
 Madeline so as to find out the truth by degrees ; but, acting by 
 her as she had done by Alice, she drew forth the bonbon from 
 her reticule, and, holding it up, said, ' This is yours ; I am 
 come to return it to you.' 
 
 * No, it is not ; it was — it is not mine now,' stammered 
 Madeline : and the crimson colour spread itself over her face 
 and neck. 
 
 ' No equivocation, Madeline,' said Lady Catharine, in a re- 
 proachful tone, whilst Mr Chfford's countenance showed his 
 distress ; ' is it yours, or is it not ?' 
 
 ' It is not mine,' repHed Madeline, growing bolder ; ' I gave 
 it to Alice.' 
 
 Lady Catharine coughed drily. 'You do not know, then, 
 where it was lost ? ' 
 
 'Speak, Madeline!' said Mr Chfford ; 'tell at once all that 
 you can.' 
 
 ' I have told you, papa,' replied Madeline, sobbing ; for she 
 dreaded to be obliged to repeat the story again. 
 
 ' That will not do ; I must hear from your own lips,' con- 
 tinued Lady Catharine. ' I am afraid, very much afraid, that 
 you have been a most wicked child.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' began Madeline, in a broken voice ; but 
 her papa internipted her. 
 
 ' True soiTOW, Madeline, is shown in something more than
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 107 
 
 words. If you have spoke an untruth, and have laid blame on 
 Alice which should have been yours, the least you can do is to 
 own it.' 
 
 ' Me ! me, papa ! ' exclaimed Madeline, raising her head in 
 amazement. 
 
 ' Yes, you !' continued Lady Catharine : ' you were aware, as 
 well as Alice, of my orders against any person's going into the 
 east rooms at the Manor; and you chose to disobey; and then, 
 when you had disobeyed, you tried to make your papa believe 
 tliat it was Alice, and pretended to confess, as if you were un- 
 happy about it. O Madeline ! I could not have supposed a 
 little girl would have been so wicked.' Madeline looked at her 
 papa, but said nothing. She was confounded by the accusation, 
 and could not comprehend who had ventured to make it ; and 
 she expected him to undertake her defence. Having acknow- 
 ledged the truth, she imagined, as a matter of course, that he 
 would uphold her. ' I was right, you see,' said Lady Catharine, 
 turning to Mr Clifford. ' When the facts are put before her, 
 she has no excuse to make. I am grieved, very grieved for 
 you.' 
 
 ' But,' exclaimed Madeline, recovering from her first surprise, 
 and speaking in great agitation, ' it was not me ! it was Alice : 
 I said so ; papa knows it, and Ruth too ; I told them both. 
 Alice went in, and I waited for her till mamma called : and the 
 bonbons were not mine; I gave them all to Alice for the green 
 and white sashes.' 
 
 Lady Catharine coughed again. ' I don't see how the truth 
 is to be determined,' she said. ' It is only one child's word 
 against another's ; and we are both naturally inclined to believe 
 as we wish.' 
 
 ' I own I am very much inclined in this case,' said Mr 
 Clifford, mildly. * Madeline, you have never, that I know, 
 told me a falsehood before ; but your story is very different from 
 Alice's. She says that the bonbons were yours, and that you 
 lost this one, and went in after it.' 
 
 * Alice is I don't love Alice, she tells lies ! ' exclaimed 
 
 Madeline, in extreme indignation : ' I don't want ever to play 
 with her again.' 
 
 'Hush! hush!' said her papa, putting his hand upon her 
 mouth : ' whatever Alice may have done, you have been very 
 naughty yourself. The giving the bonbons and taking the 
 sashes, was wliat you knew your mamma and Lady Catharine
 
 io8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 would disapprove ; and that was the beghining of all this mis- 
 chief.' 
 
 ' Yes/ observed Lady Catharine; 'and a little girl who could 
 do that, could do anything.' 
 
 ' It was a mutual fault,' quietly observed Mr Clifford; 'they 
 were both equally to blame.' 
 
 Lady Catharine was ve.xed. ' I see, Mr Clifford,' she said, 
 rising proudly from her seat, 'that your affection is too great for 
 your judgment : perhaps I had better return, and leave you to 
 consider the matter more at your leisure. For myself, I can 
 put but little faith in the word of a child who has evidently 
 shown herself confused and uncertain in all that she has said, 
 and who was so alarmed at my appearance that she ran away 
 to hide herself.' 
 
 ' No, it was not to hide ! it was the thunder ! I did not care 
 a bit about you; I only cared for the thunder 1' exclaimed 
 Madeline, vehemently ; and, in her desire to prove her inno- 
 cence, forgetting the awe which she had hitherto felt. 
 
 ' Possibly,' said Lady Catharine, in a tone which showed that 
 she did not believe it. ' But what is to be done, Mr Clifford 1 — 
 what would you advise ? Shall I return, and leave you to exa- 
 mine your little girl alone, till you are as convinced as I am of 
 the true state of the case?' 
 
 ' Your ladyship will pardon me, I hope,' replied Mr Clifford; 
 * I do not believe that any examination is likely to convince me; 
 and there is one thing you have forgotten — Madeline says that 
 she gave the bonbons in exchange for some sashes. These 
 sashes she has now ; she can bring them to you if you like it. 
 So far there is evidence that her word is true.' 
 
 ' Yes, very probably it may be ; but that docs not alter the 
 case. I care nothing about the bonbons, they are not worth 
 thinking of; all that I wish to know is, who went into the east 
 rooms, and of that there is not the shadow of doubt.' Lady 
 Catharine spoke positively, as persons very often do when, 
 without being aware of it, they begin to waver. ' My mind is 
 relieved,' she continued, taking up her reticule ; ' I shall return 
 much easier than I came ; the storm I think will soon be over, 
 and Alice will be impatient.' 
 
 Mr Clifford felt very much annoyed ; he had never before 
 seen so full an evidence of the strength of Lady Catharine's 
 prejudices. ' Excuse me,' he said, ' we cannot part in this way. 
 Your ladyship's mind may be relieved, but mine is not ; for my
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 109 
 
 own happiness, and I'ur the sake oi' my child, I must beg to go 
 back with you to the Manor, and talce Madehne with me ; 
 Avhen we have examined her wiili Ahce, we shall be far better 
 able to judge what is the truth. If you will allow me I will 
 speak a few words to Mrs Clifford, who, I think, must be re- 
 turned, and then I shall be ready to attend you.' 
 
 Mr Cliftord's manner was so decided, that even Lady Catha- 
 rine was a httlc struck by it. He left the room, and Madeline 
 remained alone with her. No word was spoken. Madeline 
 pulled the strings of her bonnet, and Lady Catharine patted her 
 umbrella on the floor, and coughed several times. The five 
 minutes were the longest that Madeline had ever spent — it 
 seemed as if they never would end ; but they did end at last. 
 Mr Clifford returned, and Madeline was sent up-stairs to put on 
 a clean frock. In the passage she met her mamma and Ruth. 
 Both looked at her very sadly, and Madeline saw that Ruth 
 had been crying ; and then her heart smote her for all the 
 trouble and anxiety she had caused. \\\ her indignation at 
 being falsely accused she had forgotten that any blame could 
 attach to her for her own faults. Ruth turned away ; but Mrs 
 Clifford went with her to her room, took out her dress, and 
 fastened it, but still did not speak ; and this silence touched 
 Madeline's heart more than any words. If her mamma, who 
 was always so gentle, and ready to excuse, and unwilling to 
 believe that any one had done wrong, was thus altered in her 
 manner, she was sure that the pain she had occasioned must 
 be very great. Lady Catharine was standing by the door when 
 Madeline re-entered the study, and Mr Clifford was by her side, 
 his hat in his hand. Both were impatient to go, and the 
 quarter of a mile between the Parsonage and the Manor was 
 quickly passed. The storm was dying away. Dark masses 
 of the thunder-clouds were heaped together, leaving glimpses 
 of the blue sky, across which there flitted occasionally a light, 
 fleecy, golden vapour, tinged by the brightness of the setting 
 sun. Still, however, some remains of its fury were heard, in 
 the heavy rumbling sound which murmured in the distance — 
 and at any other time Madeline might have felt timid at ven- 
 turing out of the house until it had entirely subsided, but all 
 her thoughts were now engaged in anger against Alice, and 
 dread of Lady Catharine. The house seemed even more than 
 usually silent when they entered it ; and Lady Catharine, wish- 
 ing to speak a few words with Alice alone, begged Mr Clifford
 
 1 1 o LANE TON PA RSONA GE 
 
 to stay in the drawing-room with Madeline, whilst she went 
 up-stairs. Her footsteps were scarcely heard as she passed 
 along the open gallciy, treading the soft velvet carpet Avith 
 which it was covered ; and with some curiosity to know how 
 Alice had borne her absence, she noiselessly opened the door of 
 her own apartment — but it vras empty. Lady Catharine was 
 surprised, yet she did not suspect anything amiss, and remem- 
 bering that she had given no orders to Alice, she imagined that 
 she would be found in the school-room. Again she was mis- 
 taken ; there were the lesson-books, open on the table, and a 
 work-box, and writing-desk, and a story-book, which Alice had 
 been reading just before Lady Catharine sent for her, but she 
 herself was not there. Lady Catharine called, ' Alice,' but her 
 voice sounded hollow and lonely in the stillness of the house. 
 A foreboding of evil came over her, she could scarcely tell 
 why. There was nothing really unnatural in Alice's being 
 away ; yet Lady Catharine again repeated her name hastily, 
 looking round at the same time to see if she were near. She 
 went into the passage, and stood by the window with the raised 
 steps, the same at which Alice had played, and began to think 
 where it was most probable to find her. Marsham's absence 
 did not occur to her, and she supposed that Alice might be 
 ■ttnth her. Nothing was easier to ring the bell and inquire. 
 But no, that could not be ; Marsham was gone ; so she 
 directly afterwards remembered. Yet she certainly thought 
 that she had seen the entrance to the east rooms unclosed, and 
 that never was the case unless Marsham was at home. Lady 
 Catharine's foreboding of something wrong became painfully 
 strong; she moved a few steps forward; the door was a-jar, the 
 key was in the lock, and as she fixed her eye upon it, a miserable 
 distrust of Alice crossed her mind. With a stealthy step she 
 entered the passage, listened, and heard nothing. She walked 
 on, but the desolate chambers looked lonely and deserted, even as 
 they had ever been since the death of Mr Hyde. Yet, as Lady 
 Catharine paused before the desk, on which lay an unfinished 
 letter, the last her husband had commenced, and gave way for an 
 instant to the affectionate regrets which the sight of all things 
 connected with him never failed to produce, she heard, or fancied 
 she heard, a muttering of voices in the adjoining apartment. A 
 moment's attention convinced her that her suspicions were correct. 
 Some one was there, certainly ; and Lady Catharine became 
 motionless with indignation. It was her husband's study, a place
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. in 
 
 whicli, of all others, she had wished to guard as sacred. Yet 
 it was plain, from the sounds, that not only had some persons 
 intruded into it, but that they were actually employed in open- 
 ing the drawers, and examining the contents. Lady Catharine 
 recognised a careless, vulgar laugh. It was Anne's ; and she 
 breathed more freely, hoping that Alice might not be there. 
 But the hope soon vanished. ' Pray, take care,' she heard in 
 the well-known voice of the child she loved so well ; ' Benson, 
 do make Anne take care, indeed she will let it down.' Lady 
 Catharine stood riveted to the spot. There was, seemingly, a 
 little contention as to who should gain possession of some dis- 
 puted article. Quick, sharp words were heard, and a scuffling 
 of footsteps ; and directly afterwards, a loud exclamation 
 escaped from all, and with a crash the ornament, or whatever 
 it might be, fell to the ground. Lady Catharine advanced to 
 the doorway. Alice, Benson, and Anne, were on their knees, 
 gathering up the fragments of a small, but rare and beautiful, 
 china vase— a vase which Lady Catharine had received as a 
 present from Mr Hyde, and which had been put aside as too 
 precious to be seen by common eyes. Alice was with her back 
 to the door, and Benson and Anne were too much alarmed at 
 the accident to notice anything but the broken china. ' Here 's 
 a pretty mess ; what shall we do now ? ' exclaimed Benson, as 
 she looked at the jagged pieces, and saw that there was no 
 possibility of repairing the mischief. 
 
 ' You just go back to my lady's room, and keep her c^uiet, 
 Miss Alice,' said Anne, hurriedly, 
 
 Alice rose, and remained standing in the middle of the room. 
 She did not attempt to go, for she was overcome with alarm. 
 There was a moment's silence, whilst Benson and Anne searched 
 carefully for the smaller fragments, and then a stern calm voice 
 said, ' Alice ! ' Alice started and screamed. Her eye glanced 
 quickly round, and as it caught the tall dark figure of Lady 
 Catharine, she fell back into a chair almost fainting. Benson 
 and Anne rushed to the door, but there w^ere no means of 
 escape. Lady Catharine gazed on them with a countenance 
 and manner, before which even a man's spirit might have sunk. 
 * You will leave my house,' was all she said ; and Benson and 
 her companion prepared mechanically to obey. Alice, e\^ery 
 limb trembling with agitation, waited for the coming sentence ; 
 but it was not given. For a few moments Lady Catharine 
 stood, with a fixed, upbraiding eye; and when Alice moved her
 
 1 1 2 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 
 
 lips, and raised her hand, as if begging for pardon, she said, 
 witli a voice of perfect composure, ' Alice, I need no words,' 
 and led her from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ^T ADELINE CLIFFORD returned to her home on that 
 J- evening witli very different feeUngs from those wliich 
 she had experienced on leaving it : yet few would have envied 
 her reflections. Lady Catharine had repaired to the drawing- 
 room after receiving from Alice a full confession of her guilt, 
 and had openly acknowledged Madeline's innocence. She gave 
 scarcely any explanations beyond the fact that Alice had owned 
 her falsehood ; her agitation would not pennit it ; but she 
 allowed that she had been mistaken, and with the meekness of 
 a burdened heart she entreated Mr Clifford to forgive her for 
 having done injustice to his child, in suspecting her. Both 
 iMadeline and her papa were surprised, but it was not then the 
 lime to ask for information. Lady Catharine was evidently 
 longing to be alone ; and Mr Clifford, without venturing to 
 express the sympathy he really felt, took his leave. Madeline 
 walked by her father's side, silent and sorrowful : she felt re- 
 lieved that the accusation had been proved to be untrue, and 
 her anger against Alice was greatly lessened in consequence ; 
 but how much was there still to grieve over ! She had given 
 her parents reason to distrust her ; she had deceived and equi- 
 vocated ; and but for her Alice might never have been brought 
 into such sad disgrace. Madeline was unhappy, yet she could 
 never know all the pain she had caused. 
 
 Lady Catharine sat in her lonely room, and her thoughts 
 turned sadly to the future. The voice that had cheered, the 
 smile that had delighted her, could now awaken no feelings but 
 those of regret. Alice had proved false, and her presence could 
 only be painful. Silence and solitude must be her punishment 
 now ; and when the necessary arrangements could be made, she 
 must be removed to another and a stricter care. Such was Lady 
 Catharine's determination ; and Alice, though she had not been 
 told, had little doubt that it would be so. The few attempts 
 which she had made to excuse herself during the short time
 
 LANE TON PA RSONA GE. 1 1 3 
 
 which T-ady Catharine remained with her had been instantly 
 silenced ; her tears and prayers had been unheeded ; and when 
 the door of her chamber was closed and locked, Alice, in despair, 
 threw herself on her bed, and sobbed hysterically. The evening 
 was rapidly closing in ; the sun had set, a-nd the bright lights 
 which had tinged the clouds were fast fading away. IJut Alice 
 was too miserable to observe anything ; and it was not until 
 the dusk had spread itself over the earth, and a few faint stars 
 twinkled through the cloudy sky that she began to think of 
 weariness, or conjecture whether she should see any one again 
 that night. 
 
 Two long hours passed by, still Alice was alone ; and this was 
 no common suffering. Imprisonment was added to solitude : 
 and imprisonment must in any case be a great trial. Vet there 
 have been persons who have borne all the desolateness and pri- 
 vations of a dungeon itself with peace, and even joy. We are 
 told that Paul and Silas, who were amongst the first of those 
 who were persecuted for their Saviour's sake, being ' thrust into 
 the inner prison,' and having ' their feet fast in the stocks ; 
 nevertheless, at midnight, ' prayed, and sang praises unto God.' 
 The prison was not like a prison to them ; it shut them out 
 from the sight of their fellow-men, but it could not shut therii 
 out from God ; and 10 be with Him, to know that He was 
 watching over them, and ordering every event for good, was a 
 comfort which could make any affliction to be endured with 
 thankfulness. 
 
 God is, in truth, equally near to us all ; but when we are 
 conscious of having broken His laws, and sinned against Him, 
 the thought of this awful fact can but add to our misery, T;) 
 be alone with Him, then, is to be in the presence of our Judge, 
 the Almighty, All Holy Lord, 'unto Whom all hearts are open, 
 and from Whom no secrets are hid ; ' and until we have re- 
 pented and prayed for forgiveness, for the sake of our blessed 
 Saviour, we can but feel terror at the knowledge that He is 
 looking upon us. Alice Lennox did not think of prayer ; 
 she was wretched, but her spirit was proud ; and instead of re- 
 pentance she felt anger. Lady Catharine seemed the most cruel 
 of tyrants, her own lot the most miserable which any child could 
 be called on to bear ; and when, as the clock struck nine. Mar- 
 sham appeared with a candle, and an order that Miss Lennox 
 should go to bed, Alice undressed herself, quickly repeated her 
 prayers, as a matter of form, and lay down to sleep without any 
 
 H
 
 114 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 remembrance that God was displeased witli her for her 
 sin. 
 
 When r^Iadeline reached home she still thought much of 
 Alice ; but Ruth, after she had heard what had passed, thought 
 still more ; for Madeline had her own troubles to occupy her 
 mind. There was something in the manner both of her papa 
 and mamma which showed that they were dissatisfied with her, 
 
 Mr Clifford took but little notice of what had occurred that 
 evening, for Madeline looked pale, and complained of a bad 
 headache ; he kissed her, though with a grave face, as she bade 
 him good-night, and said, ' You are tired and unwell, I see, 
 Madeline, but I hope you will not hurry into bed too fast. 
 There are many things for you to remember, and ask God's 
 forgiveness for, even though you have not been so wicked as to 
 tell a falsehood.' 
 
 Madeline coloured, and the tears stood in her eyes. ' Are 
 you angry with me, dear papa ? ' she said. 
 
 ' Anger, perhaps, is not the proper word, my dear child. I 
 am grieved, not angry ; your faults have been more against God 
 than against me.' 
 
 ' But Madeline was not so bad as Alice,' said Ruth, in a 
 coaxing tone. 
 
 'We must not compare, my love ; a little fault in a person 
 who has been well taught is as bad as a great fault in a person 
 who has had fewer advantages : and Madeline will not say that 
 hers were little faults.' 
 
 Madeline burst into tears ; she had not before believed that 
 her papa thought thus seriously of her conduct. At that mo- 
 ment Mrs Clifford came into the room ; and being afraid that 
 staying up longer might be bad for Madeline's health, she urged 
 her going to bed immediately. Madeline would willingly have 
 remained to hear all that her papa had to say ; but Mrs Clif- 
 ford was anxious when she saw her looking so different from 
 usual ; and after another injunction not to forget the many 
 faults which she had committed, Madeline went to her room. 
 Ruth, however, lingered behind. She felt pleased, notwith- 
 standing her regret that Madeline should be in disgrace. It 
 seemed as if she had a greater claim than before to be petted j 
 and, as she drew her stool to her mamma's work-table, 
 she said, * You are not angry with me, and you will let me 
 stay ? ' 
 
 ' We arc not angry with Madeline,' replied Mrs Clifford.
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. i j j 
 
 * No ; but you are not so — I mean — I think — it was not right 
 in her to take those sashes.' 
 
 * Certainly it was not/ said Mr Clifford. ' I don't think you 
 r/ould have done it.' 
 
 Ruth's countenance brightened. ' Then you are pleased with 
 me, papa?' but Mr Clifford did not appear pleased ; he waited 
 before replying, and then said ' It is your bed-time, Ruth ; 
 nearly, at least. Suppose, instead of reading up-stairs, you were 
 to read to your mamma and me here ; there would just be time 
 before I begin my writing.' Ruth noticed her papa's manner, 
 though she did not understand it : she brought her Bible, and 
 inquired what she should read. ' It shall be my favourita 
 chapter, if your mamma likes it also,' rephed Mr Clifford ; ' the 
 thirteenth chapter of St Paul's first Epistle to the Corinthians.' 
 Ruth turned over the pages of her book, and began to read, 
 but her thoughts were wandering. She spoke of the charity 
 which ' suffereth long, and is kind ; ' which ' envieth not,' whicli 
 < vaunteth not itself,' which ' is not puffed up,' which ' thinketh 
 no evil,' and ' rejoiceth not in iniquity ; ' but at that veiy time 
 she was comparing herself with her sister, and feeling glad at 
 the events which had shown how much better she could behave 
 than Madeline. The chapter was finished, and Ruth laid down 
 the book. Mr Clifford opened it again. ' Yes,' he said, re- 
 peating the last words ; ' " the greatest of these is charity." 
 Charity, or what, Ruth .? What is the other meaning of the 
 word .'' ' 
 
 ' Love, mamma says,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' Even so — charity, or love, which makes us full of kind 
 thoughts, and prevents us from envying other persons, or think- 
 ing much of ourselves ; and which causes us to be sorry, instead 
 of glad, when others do wrong. It would be very pleasant to 
 have such a spirit of love or charity, don't you think it would.?' 
 
 * Yes, very ; ' replied Ruth, in a timid voice, for she was be- 
 ginning to see that her papa had some particular meaning in 
 what he said. 
 
 ' And if we find that we have not such a spirit, that we are 
 apt to think much of ourselves, and are pleased at finding fault 
 with our companions — that, in fact, we do vaunt or boast, and 
 are puffed up, and rejoice instead of grieving at their iniquity 
 or sin, we ought to be very much shocked ; and should at once 
 humbly ask God to forgive us as well as them, and to give us 
 a better mind. Is not this so, Ruth }
 
 1 1 6 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Whilst Mr Clifford spoke the colour in Ruth's check had 
 been gradually rising, and, by the time he ended, her face and 
 neck were crimson. ' You always know about me, papa,' she said, 
 as Mr Clifford looked at her kindly, yet requiring an answer. 
 
 ' I know about you, because I know what is natural to all 
 persons, and what you especially have in your disposition — a 
 love of exalting yourself in comparison with others — but, my 
 darling, you must learn very differently before you can hope to 
 act as becomes a baptized child of God.' 
 
 * I did not know that I exalted myself,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' Most likely you did not. It is not the first time I have 
 told you of a secret fault — but, Ruth, you shall answer me one 
 question honestly ; do you think that it would please you to be 
 told that the notion of Madeline's having behaved ill was a 
 mistake, that she had done just as well, perhaps better, than 
 yourself.'" 
 
 ' I — yes — I don't know — I should be very glad,' stammered 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' Honestly — quite honestly,' repeated Mr Clifford ; ' from your 
 heart, can you indeed say \t}' Ruth was silent. ' If you can- 
 not,' continued her papa ; ' you may be certain the reason is 
 because you like being put first, and made the most of.' 
 
 ' I should like Madeline to be good too,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, you would like it, if it did not interfere with yourself ; 
 but this is not the mind which God requires of us. It is not 
 being humble like our Saviour ; He was grieved, not glad, that 
 men were sinners.' 
 
 ' But He was so good,' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes ; our Lord was perfect, quite perfect ; but if we wish 
 to live with Him, we must try to be like Him. Do you know 
 the way to make yourself like Him }' 
 
 ' By praying to Him,' was the reply. 
 
 ' That is the first and best v/ay ; but there are others which 
 I should like you to remember. One is by thinking of Him.' 
 
 ' But I can't, papa,' began Ruth, and then stopped. 
 
 'Yet,' said Mr Clifford, 'there was a promise made once 
 that you should believe all that is told about our blessed Lord ; 
 and if you do not think, it is impossible you should ever believe 
 rightly.' 
 
 ' No persons can make themselves think/ persisted Ruth. 
 
 ' Not so, my love ; we all can, if we set about it in the 
 proper way.'
 
 LAN ETON PARSON A GE. 117 
 
 ' I don't know how, papa/ said Ruth, in rather a mournful 
 lone. 
 
 ' It is difficult, I know, but we can try to fix our attention ; 
 and if we are taught to repeat words, we can endeavour to 
 understand what they mean : this you will own, I am sure.' 
 
 Ruth said ' Yes ; ' but she did not appear to comprehend at 
 all more than before. 
 
 * You remember, I daresay,' continued Mr Clifford, ' how I 
 have sometimes talked to you about the Lord's Prayer, and told 
 you that if you would try to repeat it carefully, from your heart, 
 you would in time learn to pray rightly. Now there is some- 
 thing else which we all say often, that w'ould in the same manner 
 teach us to think, if we would attend to it. What is it that we 
 repeat in church which contains a short account of all which we 
 ought to believe ? ' 
 
 ' You mean the Creed, papa '^. ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and though it may seem very strange, I am quite sure 
 that if we were frequently to say it, not as a lesson, but with 
 thoughtfulness, it would go a great way towards making us every 
 day become better.' 
 
 * And especially humble,' said Mrs Clifford, as she looked up 
 from her work, whilst a gentle, but rather a melancholy smile 
 passed over her face. Ruth became very grave. 
 
 ' Are you too sleepy to listen to a little story, Ruth ? ' said 
 Mr Clifford ; * perhaps I may be able to tell you one which will 
 show you how it is possible to teach oursehes to think ; and if 
 we do that, we can never be proud.' Ruth's eyes brightened at 
 the proposal, and in a moment eveiy feeling of fatigue w-as for- 
 gotten. ' It will be a story of two children,' continued Mr 
 Clifford; 'two little girls, like you and Madeline; but they 
 were not blessed, as you are, with a happy home, for their 
 mother was dead, and their father was living in a foreign land, 
 and school was the only place to which they could be sent. 
 Now these two little girls were alike in their faces and their 
 voices, as you may be, but they were very different in their 
 hearts ; the elder one, Mary, was very fond of her papa, and 
 when first he went away she wished to please him, and tried to 
 think of him ; but the younger one, Julia, cared only for herself 
 and her playthings. A long, long time went by after the father 
 had left them, and these little girls, from not having seen him, 
 almost forgot what he was like, and they became so accustomed 
 to school, that it was quite natural to them to be there ; it
 
 1 1 8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 seemed their home. Their papa was not able to write to them 
 often, and so, by degrees, e\'en the good one, Maiy, seldom 
 thought of him. But one day, when they were playing with 
 their companions in the garden, they were told that a lady 
 \\ished to speak to them — a friend of their papa's who was just 
 come from India. Mary was glad, and ran into the house 
 quickly ; but Julia stayed behind, for she enjoyed a game of 
 play much better than the idea of seeing a stranger. The lady 
 was kind and winning in her manner, and after she had kissed 
 Maiy several times, she said, that she had been wishing to see 
 them for many weeks, e\'er since she came to England, because 
 she had made a promise that she would do so, if possible ; and 
 she was sure that they would be longing to hear everything 
 about their papa. Poor little Mary felt quite unhappy when 
 she heard this, being conscious that she did not care half so 
 much about it as she ought. She did not love her papa as 
 most children do, because she never thought about him. The 
 lady went on talking, and constantly she said, " I am sure you 
 must be delighted to hear of your papa; he is so good and kind, 
 and so fond of you, and it will be such a pleasure to you to go 
 and live with him." Mary did not know what to say, at first ; 
 but after the lady had told her some stories about her papa, 
 she began to feel that she knew him better, and asked a few 
 questions, which the lady was very vv'illing to answer. At last 
 Mary became so interested, that she did not think at all how 
 the time was passing on ; all that she cared for was, to be told 
 something about her dear papain India. After some time Julia 
 came in, but she did not pay any attention to what was said, 
 and soon went back to her play. By and by the moment came 
 for the lady to go av/ay, and when she wished Mary good-bye, 
 she said, that this might probably be the last time she should 
 ever see her, for she was going to leave England again immedi- 
 ately. This was really sad news for poor I\Iary, who had been 
 thinking all the time how nice it would be to see her new friend. 
 .She looked very sorrowful, and the lady asked her what was the 
 matter. Mary did not much like to own ; but when the question 
 was repeated, she said that she wanted to hear again about her 
 papa, and she was afraid that if the lady went away she should 
 forget it all. This was very likely, yet the lady could not help 
 going, and there was no one besides vv'ho could talk to her in 
 the same manner. Mary felt then how nice it was to have a 
 papa, and she wished very much to do what would please him ;
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 119 
 
 but if she had nothing to remind her of him, she knew tliat 
 she should soon think just as mucli as ever of school, and just 
 as little of India; so what do you think she did, Ruth? — - 
 she asked the lady to write down for her all she could remem- 
 ber, and leave it with her that she might read it over. Thii5 
 request was readily granted, and the next day a short account of 
 her papa's life was sent her, written out plainly, and she might read 
 it without trouble. Now, many little girls would just have looked 
 at it once, and then put it aside ; but this was not Mary's way. 
 She used to read it over regularly till at last she knew it by 
 heart, and the words came one after the other by rote, witliout 
 any effort. Mary then tried more to attend to them, and she 
 would sit by herself, and endeavour to fancy what India would 
 be like, and what sort of life she should lead there. By degrees 
 it became natural to her to think of her papa, and her home ; 
 and she grew anxious to go there, and learned to count the months 
 v.hich were to pass before she should be sent for. It was very 
 different with Julia ; she had not cared to hear anything about 
 her papa, and you may imagine that she did not care to read 
 about him. At first she looked over what the lady had written, 
 but when she knew it by heart, she took no more interest about 
 it ; and at length the time came when they were to sail fcr 
 India, and poor Julia was very wretched. All her happiness 
 had been at school, and to go to India was going entirely 
 amongst strangers, even though her papa was to be there to 
 receive her. She begged to be allov\'cd to stay behind, but this 
 was impossible. There was no one to take charge of her, and 
 Vi'ith a very sorrowful heart she set out on her long voyage. It 
 was a storniy and wearisome one, and many times even Mary's 
 heart sank as she remembered her friends in England, and 
 thought, that when the dangers of the sea were over, she should 
 find herself in a foreign land. But one hope cheered her, and 
 that was, the prospect of seeing her papa. Julia could find no 
 comfort in this. Day after day she sat upon deck, with her eyes 
 fixed in the direction in v.hich she was told that England lay. 
 She would scarcely eat or speak, and when Mary tried to rouse 
 her, and talked to her of the pleasure they should both have in 
 meeting their father, and begged her to listen again to the lady's 
 account of his kindness and goodness, Julia only shook her head, 
 and in a sullen voice said, that her papa was not like a father 
 to her, for she knew nothing about him. 
 
 * It was a lovely morning when they first came in sight of land.
 
 1 20 LAN ETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 I\Iary stood iiijou the deck, watching the preparations for going 
 on shore. She looked at the crowds of people who were assem- 
 bling to welconie the arrival, wishing to discover her father 
 amongst tlicm ; and the hope of at length really knowing him 
 raade her feel agitated, but very happy. A considerable time 
 passed away, and, one after the other, the passengers landed. 
 The lady who had charge of Mary and Julia begged them to 
 remain where they were, as she knew that their papa would be 
 likely to come on board to them. Mary's attention \vas then 
 given to the boats which were putting off for the vessel ; and 
 each one, as it came near, she thought must be that which she 
 expected. There were several disappointments ; for other 
 parties were waiting in the same way, and Mary envied them 
 the pleasure of the greetings. But her own turn came at length. 
 A gentleman, with a telescope in his hand, was seen looking at 
 the great ship. Mary knew it must be her papa, for slie had 
 read the description of him till she fancied she knew every 
 feature ; and when he sprung up the side of the vessel, and 
 folded her in his arms, and whispered a prayer that God would 
 bless her, she felt that wherever he was, there her happiness 
 would be. He was no stranger to her, for she had read of him, 
 and thought of him ; and even that foreign land became to her 
 from that moment a home.' 
 
 ' But about Julia, papa,' interrupted Ruth. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is the sad part of the story,' replied Mr Clifford. 
 'Julia's manner was not hke Mary's ; she had some curiosity 
 to see her papa, but that was all ; he was little more than a 
 stranger to her ; she had no love to give to him. She received 
 him coldly, with a melancholy smile, and her eyes filled with 
 tears. She scarcely listened to what he said, and took but a 
 slight interest in all the new things about her. From this be- 
 ginning there followed much sorrow for all. Julia felt that Mar}' 
 was more pleasing to her papa than she was, and therefore that 
 it was probable he would love her the best ; and this made 
 her jealous of the sister who before had been so dear to her. 
 Jealousy caused unkind words, and they brought vexation and 
 shame. Julia believed that her father and sister would be 
 happier without her; and, notwithstanding their endeavours to 
 n^ake her comfortable, nothing could overcome the wretchedness 
 slie felt in thinking that she was not a favourite. When I last 
 heard of her, she had returned to England to live by herself; 
 but with her temper so soured, that there was little prospect of
 
 LAA'iZ TON PARSON A GE. 1 2 1 
 
 her being really happy. And there, Ruth, is an end of my 
 story. I wonder whether you are much the wiser for it.' 
 
 ' I hked it,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' But can you find out why I told it you .'' ' 
 
 ' Was it because Mary read over the paper, and learned to 
 think, papa .'' ' 
 
 * Yes. Mary's reading over the account of her father, is, in a 
 certain way, like our repeating the Creed ; because you know, 
 Ruth, the Bible tells us that we are all strangers upon earth, 
 and that our home is in heaven ; and the Creed reminds us of 
 the great God, and our blessed Saviour, and the Holy Spirit, 
 with whom we hope one day to live in that home. We will 
 talk more about it to-morrow, when Madeline is with us ; but 
 one thing I must ask you before you go : how is it that repeating 
 the Creed properly would help to make you humble .'' ' Ruth 
 did not know what to answer. ' Whom do you speak of in it?' 
 continued Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' Of God,' replied Ruth, reverently. 
 
 * Yes, of God, " the Father Almighty, the Maker of heaven 
 and earth ; " the Maker of the dazzling sun, and the moon, and 
 the planets, and the millions of worlds which shine above us in 
 the darkness of night. The Maker of the trees also, and the 
 fields, and the flowers ; the Maker of everything that moves — 
 all the little insects, and the birds, and the fishes of the sea, 
 and the cattle which are in the fields, and the fierce beasts which 
 roam about in distant lands. Do you not think, Ruth, that 
 such a Being, who is perfectly holy, and knows every thought 
 and action of our lives, must be glorious beyond what we can 
 imagine .'" 
 
 Ruth murmured ' Yes.' 
 
 * And when that Almighty Lord looks into our hearts, and 
 sees all that passes there, what must He think of us ? ' 
 
 ' That we are very wicked,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' But if, instead of believing ourselves to be wicked, we fancy 
 that we are good, and set ourselves up ; do you suppose God is 
 pleased with us then.'" Ruth coloured, and made no reply. 
 ' And still more,' continued Mr Clifford, ' if that great God came 
 down from heaven, and humbled Himself to die because of our 
 sins, how must we appear to Him, when we pride oursehes 
 upon anything we do ?' There was a short pause ; and Ruth's 
 countenance showed what was passing within. * These are 
 some of the truths which are taught us every time we repeat
 
 12 2 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 the Creed,' continued Mr Cliftbrd. * I am sure I was right in 
 saying, that thinking of them would help to make us humble. 
 There is a great deal m.ore which I shall like to talk to you 
 about to-mon'ow, when IMadeline is with us.' 
 
 ' The Creed will not be so much of a lesson for the future, 
 Ruth, will it ? ' said her mamima, kindly. 
 
 ' I only thought it like a lesson in the catechism,' replied 
 Ruth. 
 
 < It can never really be one,' said Mr Clifford. ' Ceitainly, 
 it has the most solemn sound, when we all join in repeating it 
 in church ; but it cannot be a common thing, because it has 
 come down to us from the time of the apostles, and tells us of 
 such awful subjects. It is sacred, like a prayer.' Ruth could 
 not help remembering how frequently she had said it, both in 
 church and at home, as a mere set of words, almost w-ithout a 
 meaning. She hesitated to wish her papa good night, fearing 
 she had vexed him. But Mr Clifford's manner was full of 
 tenderness ; and, as he fondly stroked her head, he said, ' Will 
 my darling Ruth remember what is to be done before we lie 
 down to sleep, when we are conscious of having displeased God ?' 
 
 ' We must pray to be forgiven,' said Ruth, timidly, 
 
 ' Yes ; pray fervently, and for the pardon of that particular 
 offence, for the sake of our blessed Redeemer ; lest, if we should 
 continue in our sin, and God should call us to die before we 
 have repented, we should be shut out from His glorious 
 Presence.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A LICE LENNOX, in her solitaiy chamber, fancied that she 
 r\. alone was the sufferer from all that had passed : and she 
 was indeed the most unhappy ; but if she had known all Made- 
 line's feelings, when, on the morning succeeding the storm, she 
 was sent for to her papa's study, she would scarcely have been 
 wiUing to change places with her. Mr Clifford was in general 
 so affectionate, that anything like coldness was doubly felt ; and 
 the expression of his face, when Madeline opened the door, and 
 asked if he wanted her, was grave, and even severe. The 
 reason was, that lie did not consider Madeline to be sufficiently 
 aware of the naughtiness of her behaviour. She did not appear
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 123 
 
 to care about it as she ought ; and it was for this reason that he 
 required her to go to liim. At first he said a few words about the 
 grief which it caused him and lier mamma, to find tliat they 
 could no longer trust her ; and then, by aslcing questions, he 
 made lier repeat again the whole Iiistory of lier fault, and drew 
 from her the confession that she had once or twice been tempted 
 to equivocate, in order to conceal what she had done. He de- 
 scribed to her the distress which she had brought upon Lady 
 Catharine, and the sin which Alice had been induced to com- 
 mit, from having, like herself, yielded to a slight temptation. 
 He had received a particular account of all from Lady Catha- 
 rine that morning ; and her note, written in great wretchedness 
 of mind, proved how bitterly she felt the disappointment of her 
 hopes of Alice's good behaviour. ' If you had been firm, Made- 
 line,' said Mr Clifford, ' all this could not have been. I do not 
 say that your conduct is any excuse for Alice — she must answer 
 for herself ; but I do say that it is very frightful to think hov/ 
 much mischief we may cause by one fault, and that not at first 
 sight a very great one.' 
 
 ' I never thought Alice would tell stories about anything,' 
 said Madeline. 
 
 * Perhaps not, yet she has done so ; and you, if you had 
 acted properly, might have prevented it. Just think how differ- 
 ently you would have felt, if, instead of following an idle fancy, 
 you had shown Alice that you were wishing to the veiy utmost 
 to keep the promise of your baptism ; and because you had de- 
 clared that you would give up pomps, and vanities, and sinful 
 lusts, and keep God's commandments all your life, therefore 
 you were determined, even in such a little matter, to do right, 
 and try and overcome the liking for finery, which your mamma 
 had warned you against. Do you think Alice would have been 
 made the better or the worse by such an example.'" Madeline 
 did not reply. ' Whatever may happen now,' continued Mr 
 Clifford, ' whatever pain Alice may have to bear, you must 
 consider that you might in a great measure have prevented it ; 
 and I am afraid there will be a great deal of sorrow in store 
 for her.' 
 
 * Indeed ! indeed ! I did not intend to make her unhappy ; I 
 did not think I was doing so very wrong,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' But you did intend to do a little wrong, and you did it 
 wilfully, and went on with it. Could God love you all that 
 time 'i '
 
 12 4 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 * I don't know ; I did not think,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' All ! that is the mischief ; the fault with us all, grown-up 
 people as well as children ; we do not think ; and the great 
 thing we have to learn is the way to think — the way to remem- 
 ber, at all times, that God is seeing us.' 
 
 * I will try, papa, really I will,' replied Madeline. 
 
 ' But you are going to school, Madeline ; you will have many 
 things there to make you forget — lessons, plays, new friends, 
 new subjects to talk about. If you forget at home, how will 
 you remember at school ?' 
 
 * I can't tell; but I will try to be good, dear papa; won't you 
 believe me .'' Please don't look so grave at me.' As she spoke, 
 Madeline was about, as usual, to throw her arms round her 
 father's neck and kiss him ; but she drew back as soon as the 
 thought crossed her ; she did not dare, for he had not told her 
 that she was forgiven. 
 
 ' You say you will try to-day, Madeline ; and to-morrow 
 temptation will come again, and you will be as before ; you 
 will laugh, and play, and be led to do wrong, merely because 
 you do not think ; and when you have done wrong, you will 
 make excuses, and by and by you will be sorry, and beg to be 
 forgiven ; and so, probably, you will go on. Who can trust 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! I wish you would not say so. 1 am very sorry.' 
 Poor Madeline's tears now began to flow fast, but Mr Clifford's 
 manner did not change. ' Who can trust you, Madeline .'' ' he 
 said again. Madeline heaved a deep sigh ; and, leaning her 
 head against the back of her papa's chair, she cried bitterly. 
 There was a silence of several moments. Mr Clifford took up 
 his pen and coinmenced writing, whilst Madeline remained in 
 the same position. ' If I were to punish you,' he began, with- 
 out raising his eyes from his employment — 
 
 ' I would rather be punished,' exclaimed Madeline ; ' only if 
 you would not look so grave at me.' 
 
 ' My looking grave is not the principal thing for you to fear,' 
 replied Mr Clifford ; ' the important question is, how God is 
 regarding you.' 
 
 ' I was very sorry, indeed 1 was, papa,' said Madeline ; ' and 
 I did try to say my prayers last night.' The words were spoken 
 with sincerity ; and Mr Clifford, laying down his pen, turned 
 lo his little girl, and in a \oice which showed that he loved 
 her truly, notwithstanding the severity of his manner, he said,
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 125 
 
 • If God has forgiven you, my dear child, if I could hope 
 that you have really prayed to him, then, indeed, I should be 
 happy.' 
 
 ' Cut I did say my prayers, just as you told me ; and I men- 
 tioned all the naughty things, about the sashes, and not speak- 
 ing out plainly, and doing what mamma would not like ; I said 
 it all, and the prayer for when I had been very naughty.' 
 
 * And were you really very sorry }' asked Mr Clifford. ' Cut 
 suppose you were not sorry enough.' 
 
 *I don't know; how can I tell? Indeed I was sorry; in- 
 deed I said it all, and I thought about it,' repeated Madeline, 
 miserable at the idea of doubt. 
 
 ' But what right had you to expect that God would listen to 
 you, such a naughty child as you had been ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! I don't understand ; you never talked so before,' 
 exclaimed Madeline, again bursting into tears. 
 
 * Because I never had an occasion. Your prayers, and mine, 
 and every person's, are the prayers of sinners ; and God is per- 
 fectly holy, and, the Bible tells us, " of purer eyes than to be- 
 hold iniquity;" that is. He cannot bear to look upon sin. If 
 we go before Him in our own name, what hope can we have that 
 He will listen to us .-" 
 
 ' But I said through Jesus Christ our Lord,' said Madeline, 
 and she bent her head reverently, 
 
 Mr Clifford smiled, as he was accustomed to do. * You were 
 right, Madeline,' he replied, 'and if you did indeed say through 
 Jesus Christ, our Lord, because you knew that God would only 
 listen to you for His sake, then I can hope that you are forgiven. 
 To think of our blessed Lord, and to ask Him to pray for us, 
 because we are too sinful to be heard ourselves, is our great 
 duty and comfort when we have done wrong. I think, now, 
 you are sorry.' 
 
 Madeline at these words looked up with greater confidence ; 
 and venturing once more to approach her father, she said, 
 
 * Can you kiss me, papa.'" Mr Cliftord's manner showed how 
 truly he could pardon when he had reason to believe that repent- 
 ance was sincere; but Madeline was not yet fully satisfied. 'Am 
 I to do anything, papa.?' she said. 
 
 'Anything disagreeable, you mean, for a punishment : do you 
 think you deserve it?' 
 
 * I was very naughty, I know,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' And if I were to give you a punishment, how would you 
 bear it?'
 
 1 2 6 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 * I would try not to mind/ said Madeline, though she trembled 
 at what might be coming. 
 
 ' If I were to punish you, my dear child,' said Mr Clifford, 
 ' it would be in order to make you remember, not to make you 
 sorry ; for that I hope and believe you are already. It was 
 God's punishment which did that.' 
 
 Madeline looked up rather wonderingly. 
 ' You have been very unhappy lately, have you not ? ' 
 ' Yes, very.' Madeline spoke heartily, for she began to feel 
 what a weight she had had upon her heart. 
 
 ' That unhappiness was sent by God ; it was the consequence 
 of your sin, and at last it led you to confess it ; the great thing 
 now is to prevent you from forgetting, and going wrong again ; 
 perhaps that might be done without what you would call punish- 
 ment.' Poor Madeline's face brightened ; she had fancied that 
 she should be forbidden to play in the garden, or should be sent 
 to bed an hour earlier for the next week or ten days. ' I think,' 
 continued Mr Clifford, ' that if you were to come to my study 
 eveiy day at half-past twelve o'clock, just when your morning 
 lessons are finished, and were to repeat to me what I shall think 
 right, it would help you to remember all you have done, and 
 teach you to be on your guard. I should like you to try at 
 least.' 
 
 ' Is it anything I am to learn .?' said Madeline. 
 ' No, something you know perfectly already — the Creed ; 
 and if you want to understand why I fix upon that, I must tell 
 you the same story which I did to Ruth last night, and try and 
 explain more particularly what the Creed means.' 
 
 ' I heard about the two little girls when we were dressing this 
 morning,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Then you know hov/ the elder one learned to remember and 
 think about her father, by reading the account of his life ; and 
 did Ruth tell you, also, what I said that was like }' 
 
 ' No ; the bell rang,' replied Madeline, *and we were obliged 
 to go down-stairs.' 
 
 ' It was like the way in which we learn to think of God and 
 our blessed Saviour, by repeating that short history of the 
 great things the Bible teaches us, which is contained in the 
 Creed : but the difficulty is to repeat it, not as a lesson or a 
 thing of course, but a.s something very important ; and this I 
 hope you will do by and by. Now, go and fetch Ruth, and we 
 will see if we cannot understand better than before what wc 
 learn in the Creed.'
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 127 
 
 Ruth was soon found ; she had been wondering a little what 
 was going on ; and wishing, above all things, to know whether 
 Madeline was forgiven. Since the last night's conversation she 
 liad really felt ashamed of her own conceit ; and she had been 
 trying all the morning to make Madeline happy, and to show 
 by her manner that she did not mean to set herself up, although 
 Bhe had not been guilty of the same offence. Ruth was in 
 earnest in desiring to be good ; and when she was told of a 
 fault, she really did try to improve, at least for a time. That 
 she went back again was, indeed, frequently the case ; but this 
 was from forgetfulness, and not because she had never cared 
 about it ; it was, therefore, a real pleasure to her to see how 
 much more at ease Madeline looked when she came into the 
 school-room ; and when she was told that her papa had for- 
 given without punishing, Ruth's face lighted up with a sweet 
 smile ; and, throwing down her work, she exclaimed, ' O 
 Madeline ! that is so nice, and we will go on hajDpily now ; v/e 
 will not be naughty again, either of us, ever.' 
 
 ' And papa will talk to mamma, I am sure,' said Madeline ; 
 * you know he always does when he wants her to forgive us 
 too.' 
 
 * I never fear about mamma,' observed Ruth, ' she wanted to 
 make it all up last night, I know. She looked quite miserable 
 when you went to bed.' 
 
 Madeline was struck by this, and presently said, ' Was she 
 really miserable, do you think, Ruth ? ' 
 
 * Yes, very : I am certain.' 
 
 ' And papa was grave, and so were you ; and poor mamma 
 V, as miserable,' continued Madeline. ' 1 did not think I had 
 done anything so very bad.' 
 
 ' 1 don't think you had,' replied Ruth, fancying it right to 
 make the best of her sister's conduct. ' At any rate, it was not 
 like the stories which Alice told. I can't think how she could 
 ha\e done it. How Lady Catharine will punish her ! ' 
 
 ' O Ruth, please don't say so ! ' exclaimed Madeline, remem- 
 bering that her papa had said that whatever Alice might have to 
 bear, she might in a great measure have prevented ; ' it makes 
 things seem much worse. But I didn't mean to make you all 
 unhappy. Is there any harm, I wonder, in making people un- 
 happy, when we don't mean it ? ' 
 
 This was not an easy question to answer ; and Madeline at 
 that instant recollected that all this time she ought to ha\e been 
 in her papa's study. ' No more work. Ruth,' she said, taking
 
 1-8 LANE TON PARSONAGE, 
 
 the needle and thread from her sister's hand ; I don't want you 
 to tinish before mc ; and papa is waiting.' 
 
 Ruth wilhngly replaced her needle in its case, folded up her 
 work, and closed her basket. Talking to her papa, even upon 
 grave subjects, was much plcasanter than learning to stitch wrist- 
 bands ; and witli a light, merry step she followed Madeline. 
 Her smile was checked, however, when she looked in her papa's 
 face. He was plainly more careworn than usual ; and Ruth saw 
 ■ n a moment, from his look, that anything like play and laughter 
 would be against his wishes. All that had occurred seemed 
 trithng to her ; but to him it was a cause for much anxiety. A 
 child's fault is like the bud on the tree, which, if allowed to 
 grow, must one day become a full blossom ; and the evil dis- 
 position which made Madeline thoughtless and Ruth conceited, 
 might end in that neglect of God, and that pride of heart, which 
 would at length shut them out from heaven. This, however, 
 was not the principal thought in Mr Clifford's mind at that 
 moment. He hoped and believed that his children were con- 
 scious of their errors ; and his only wish was to impress upon 
 them the sense of what they had done wrong, so that under 
 other temptations they might be afraid of yielding. ' Here is a 
 place for you, Ruth,' he said, pointing to the seat in the half- 
 open window, through which came the sweet scent of the 
 jessamines and roses which grew over the house : ' and Made- 
 line shall bring her chair next to mine.' This was a sign of 
 Madeline's complete forgiveness ; and as she drew near, and put 
 her hand within her papa's, she wondered how it could ever 
 have entered into her head to do anything which would displease 
 him. ' We were talking of the Creed last night, Ruth, if you 
 remember,' said Mr Clifford ; ' and I was trying to shov/ you 
 why it was a good thing for us to learn and repeat it; but 1 dare- 
 say even now it does not seem very clear to you,' 
 
 ' I remember about the story,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yet perhaps the account of her papa's life, which little 
 Mary read o\'cr so often, sounds as if it must have been more 
 interesting than the Creed.' 
 
 ' I think it must ha\-e been a great deal more,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Most likely,' replied her father ; ' the Creed is not a prclty 
 story, and it requires an effort to attend to and understand it ; 
 but so it does to say our prayers, or read the Bible. God does 
 not teach any of us to be religious without trouble ; and the 
 great question is, whether we will take it, or whether we are 
 /esolved to be indolent. What shall I say for you both ? '
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 129 
 
 * I mean to try, papa,' replied Madeline, speaking humbly , 
 for she was not inclined to trust herself after her late faults. 
 
 ' And Ruth will try also, I am sure,' said Mr Clifford ; and 
 he smiled to see the earnest way in which his little girl bent her 
 eyes upon him, as if her face would promise much better thar. 
 her words. ' If you could both fully understand and believe 
 what is told us in the Creed,' he continued, ' you would no 
 longer find it difficult to be religious. Suppose that, instead of 
 having learned it by heart, you were to hear it for the first time 
 to-day, what do jou think you should feel about it 1 ' The 
 children did not know what to answer, and Mr Clifford went 
 on. ' We will fancy,' he said, ' a little heathen child — an 
 Indian, accustomed to live in the forests, and never having been 
 taught anything about God ; would it not be very astonishing 
 to him to be told that there was a glorious Being, who had 
 always lived before the sun, or the moon, or the stars were 
 created, and who must live always, even if everything else were to 
 be destroyed.? When he repeated the words — " I believe in God, 
 the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth," and then 
 looked upwards to the blue sky, and abroad over the \ieautiful 
 earth, I do not think he would consider them, as we often do, 
 a lesson. He might not, indeed, rightly understand them ; but 
 he would feel that they meant something wonderful. Or let 
 us take a case from among ourselves. Let us imagine ourselves 
 tempted to do something wrong — to be deceitful, or dishonest, 
 or inclined to tell a falsehood ; and that just before we actually 
 did this wrong thing, we were called on to repeat the Belief— 
 W'hat would it remind us of .'' ' 
 
 * Of God and our Savioiu-,' replied Ruth, 
 
 ' Yes ; not only that there is a God, but of all which He has 
 done for us. We should say, in fact, though not actually in 
 words, that we have now in heaven a P'ather who is able to do 
 all things, because He is the Father Almighty ; that we have 
 also a Lord and Master, our Saviour Jesus Christ, the only Son 
 of God, who, in order to save us from the punishment due to 
 our sins, undertook to suffer for us ; that this gracious Re- 
 deemer was, by the power of the Holy Spirit, born like our- 
 selves, of a human mother, the blessed Virgin Mary ; and, 
 having left the unspeakable happiness of heaven, came down 
 upon earth to live amongst sinners, without a home, or riches, 
 or comforts of any kind. We should be reminded that after 
 thirty-three long years had gone b\', which He spent in teach- 
 
 I
 
 I30 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ing and trying to make people good, and curing their sick- 
 ncsse<;. He was allowed by the governor of the country where he 
 lived, named Pontius Pilate, to be crucified — that is, His hands 
 and feet were nailed to a cross, and He was left to endure more 
 horrible agony than we can even imagine, until He gave up His 
 earthly life, and suftcred His body to be laid in the grave, as 
 QVLxr, must one day be, when God shall call us to die. Plis 
 Spirit descended into hell — that is, not the place of torment 
 (as the name, indeed, often means), but the abode of the spirits 
 of the dead, who are waiting for the day of resurrection. Be- 
 sides these avsful truths, we should remember also that, on the 
 lliird day after our Saviour's death, He by His own power rose 
 from the grave, and went up again into heaven, to that glorious 
 vv'orld which, for our sakes, He had left, and where now He 
 dwells with God the Father, and God the Holy Spirit, and the 
 holy angels, who are ever loving and praising Him. If we re- 
 collected and thought of this Friend, and of all the suffering He 
 went through for us, do you think we could go away and do 
 directly afterwards the naughty thing which He has told us not 
 to do } ' 
 
 Mr Clifford looked at Madeline ; but tears were in her eyes, 
 and she did not venture to answer. She was thinking of 
 the temptation to which she had so lately given way, and wish- 
 ing that she had before remembered all that her papa was now 
 bringing to her mind. There was a pause for some moments, 
 and then Ruth, in a tone of surprise, said, ' That is not all the 
 Creed, papa.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' but it is sufficient to give us a 
 great deal to think about. It is very awful ; yet that which is 
 to come will perhaps seem still more so. It concerns each of 
 us particularly, whether we are young or old. What is it that 
 follows the words — " He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on 
 the right hand of God the Father Almighty } "' 
 
 ' " P>om thence He shall come to judge the quick and the 
 dead," ' rephed Rulh. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' continued Mr Clifford, ' we might be so hard- 
 liearted as not to care to please our Saviour, because of His 
 lo\e for us ; we might repeat the Creed as far as we have yet 
 gone, and still resolve to sin ; but there is something else to be 
 tliought of, which, if we said the words with any attention, 
 would, I hope, frighten us, or at least make us stay to consider 
 whether it would be safe to displease our gracious Lord. We
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 131 
 
 are told that, some day — it may be a hundred, or fifty, or twenty 
 years hence, or it may be in a few months or weeks, or it may 
 be (no man knows) to-morrow, or, more fearful still, it may be 
 this very day before the sun goes down — that same merciful 
 Saviour, who died upon the cross, and rested in the grave, and 
 then ascended to sit at the right hand of God, will appear again : 
 but He will come, not as the Son of a human mother, but as 
 the Son of His Almighty Father, as the Lord of heaven and 
 earth. He has Himself warned us what the manner of thac 
 coming will be — " with power and great glory." The sun, 
 which now shines so brightly, will be darkened, and the mooii 
 will not give her light, and the stars will fall from heaven. The 
 sound of a mighty trumpet will be heard ; and the voice of the 
 archangel, the chief of all the angels, will call upon the quick 
 and the dead — those who shall at that time be living, as you 
 and I may be living, and those who have died before — to 
 appear before the judgment-seat of the Almighty. It is im- 
 possible for us fully to imagine that scene : but once — it is now 
 more than 1700 years ago — a human being was permitted to 
 have a vision of what it shall be. St John the Evangelist, the 
 disciple whom Jesus loved, saw " a great white throne, and Him 
 that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled 
 away, and there was found no place for them. And he saw the 
 dead, small and great, stand before God ; and the books were 
 opened, and another book was opened, which is the book of 
 life, and the dead were judged out of those things which were 
 written in the books : and whosoever was not found written in 
 the book of life was cast into the lake of fire." This was the 
 vision, the representation of what will be. We must have been 
 amongst that infinite multitude ; do you think St John saw our 
 names written in the book of life ? ' Madeline hid her face upon 
 the table. ' I would not wiUingly frighten you, my child,' con- 
 tinued Mr Clifford, ' but indeed it is necessary that we should 
 think of these things ; that when we say we believe that Christ 
 our Lord will come to judge the quick and the dead, we should 
 understand that He will come to judge, not grievous sinners 
 only — the drunkard and the thief — not merely our neighbours 
 and our friends, but ourselves.' 
 
 ' Will He forgive us, if we are very sorry then .? ' said Ruth, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' The time for seeking forgiveness will be over on that day,' 
 replied Mr Clifford ; ' that time is now.'
 
 132 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' But if we are very sorry, \cry sorry indeed,' said Ruth. 
 
 Mr Clifford shook his head : ' Ever)' one will be very sorry 
 indeed then, Ruth. The greatest sinner wlio ever lived, the 
 man who was most careless, who even laughed at the thought 
 of death and judgment, will be very sorry indeed ; but his 
 sorrow will come too late.' 
 
 ' Too late I ' repeated Ruth, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Yes ; it is not a strange thing, is it, to find ourselves too 
 late even in this life .'' There are instances happening daily, 
 and they are warnings, if we will but profit by them, I will 
 give you one, which I am sure you have not forgotten. Do 
 you not remember the very last time we went from Cottington 
 to Ring^vood, when I said I would take you by the railroad ? 
 You were called early, your box was ready, your breakfast was 
 prepared, there was nothing wanting, but that you should be 
 dressed in time. Instead of dressing, you played; you thought 
 one minute could not signify. Your mamma warned you, but 
 you did not listen. You did not understand that there was 
 anything in the world so fixed that it would not stop for you, 
 even though it might be a question of life and death. At 
 length we set off; we walked quickly, and looked about us 
 continually, and often I said that I feared we should be too 
 late ; but you did not comprehend how it could be possible. 
 It was but a short walk, and we saw the great steam-engine as 
 it stopped opposite the station-house ; we even watched the 
 people moving about the carriages, and we heard the panting 
 noise of the engine, and the calling of the policemen. We 
 drew neai-er and nearer, and you thought we were quite safe ; 
 — there was a slight motion in the train, and the smoke 
 ascended into the air, and as the people who were standing by 
 stood still, and fixed their eyes upon the long line of carriages, 
 it rushed swiftly away, and we found ourselves one minute too 
 late. No exertions, no entreaties, could avail us then. That 
 was being one minute too late for an earthly journey, but it is 
 equally possible to be too late for heaven.' 
 
 ' But must children repent ? ' asked Ruth quickly. 
 
 Mr Clifford waited for an instant, and leaned his head upon 
 his hand, as if some painful thought had struck him: 'All 
 who sin must repent,' he said ; ' and death may come suddenly 
 upon any one. If you had been in the boat last night with old 
 Roger, you might have sunk in the waves, and been drowned, 
 as he was.'
 
 LANE TON PA RSONA CE. 133 
 
 Ruth seemed alarmed even at the idea : ' But we never go 
 on the water when it looks stormy, papa/ she said. 
 
 * Yet what do you say to other clangers, Ruth ? — accidents in 
 carriages, or in walking, or by lightning, or by sudden ilinessc-i.? 
 The present is the only time on which we may reckon for 
 repentance, for there is no moment at which we may nnt die.' 
 As Mr Ciift'ord spoke, Madeline sighed heavily, but she aid 
 not look up. 'It is enough to make us grave, is it not, 
 Madeline ? ' continued her father, placing his hand fondly on 
 her head, ' God means that it should do so. But whenever we 
 feel this fear, and begin to think, as you said the other day, that 
 it is impossible to be good, we should remember that there are 
 other things told us in the Creed to support and give us hope. 
 If we believe in " God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven 
 and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord," so we 
 believe also in God the Holy Ghost, and this belief is one of 
 the greatest possible blessings ; can you tell me why .? ' 
 
 ' Because He will help us to do right,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. He will. We have but to pray to Him con- 
 stantly, and there is no difficulty which need be too great for 
 us. From the moment when, as little infants, we were made 
 at our baptism members of Christ's holy Catholic Church, that 
 Holy Spirit was given to us to be our guide ; and if, when we 
 say our prayers, we ask Him to continue with us, we may be 
 certain that He will ncvei- forsake us. We shall not be able to 
 tell exactly how He assists us, but we shall find good thoughts 
 coming to our minds just at the moment we want them ; and, 
 instead of giving way to our evil tempers, we shall find that we 
 have a power of overcoming them. It will be strange, even to 
 ourselves, to observe, how much easier it will become every day 
 to be good. And all this is to be done by praying.' 
 
 ' But if we only pray,' said Ruth, ' will that do as well as 
 trying -^ ' 
 
 'o 
 
 ' If I were very ill, Ruth, and knew of a medicine which I 
 believed would cure me, would it do me any good if I would 
 not send for it } ' Ruth smiled at the idea. ' Or supposing I 
 actually held it in my hand, would it be any use to me unless I 
 opened my mouth and swallowed it? In both these cases I 
 should have something to do myself, and yet it would not be 
 the doing it which would cure me ; and so it is with our hearts. 
 We have to pray and to try with all our strength, and if we do 
 pray and tr\', God will give us His Holy Spirit to make us
 
 1 34 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 good, iDut if we neglect eitlicr of tlicsc commands, even the 
 the power of that blessed Spirit will be of no avail to us.' 
 
 During this conversation it was difficult to know how far 
 Madeline was listening or not. She did not try to speak, or 
 show that she took an interest ; only every now and then she 
 drew her hand across her eyes, to wipe away the tears which 
 were fast falling down her cheek. Mr Clifford saw that she 
 had been struck by the solemnity of the subjects on which tliey 
 had spoken ; and, motioning to Ruth, he told her to leave them 
 for a little while alone : ' We will finisli talking another time,' 
 he said ; and as Ruth left the room he turned to Madeline, and 
 added, mildly, ' there has been enough to think of to-day.' 
 Madeline felt even Ruth's absence a relief in her present state 
 of mind ; and when she found that her sister was gone, her 
 fears were told without any reserve. Mr Clifford's manner had 
 lost every trace of sternness ; and as he listened to Madeline's 
 anxious question, ' Whether he thought that God had really for- 
 given her ?' he had no longer any doubt of her true repentance. 
 He did not speak to her then of the awfulness of the Almighty, 
 but of His mercy. He reminded her how long years before 
 God had loved and thought of her, and sent His blessed Son 
 to die for her, and at her birth had taken her into His Church, 
 and made her one of that happy family to whom the glories of 
 heaven are promised for the sake of Jesus Christ : ' You arc 
 God's child now, my love,' he said ; ' His child more fully than 
 you are mine ; and Jesus Christ is your Saviour, and will ask 
 for pardon for you : you do not doubt my assurances ; but if I 
 can forgive, much more can He, for His mercy is infinite.' 
 
 Often and often before had Madeline heard the same words, 
 but she had little attended to their meaning, for she had not 
 felt the need of them. Yet, if a child can sin, so also a child 
 can repent ; and as Madeline listened to her father's words, 
 she understood something of the comfort which the knowledge 
 that we have a .Saviour who will pray for us, and have ci-m* 
 passion upon us, ought to give to all.
 
 LANETON parsonage. 1 35 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Mr Clifford's thoughts were so much engaged 
 with his own children, he did not forget Alice Lennox. 
 She was not indeed his charge in the same way as Ruth and 
 Madeline, but she was living in his parish, and he felt himself 
 bound to watch over her. Notwithstanding Lady Catharine 
 Hyde's formality of manner, he thought it possible that she 
 would like to see and consult with him, what was best to be 
 done with a child who had shown herself so little to be trusted 
 as Alice ; but Mr Clifford did not undcrs':,ind Lady Catharine's 
 character. She did not require any advice, for she hadmade up her 
 mind from the beginning as to the course she was to adopt. She 
 did not ask whether Alice was sorry, or whether it was likely tliat, 
 if allowed to remain at the I\Ianor, she would improve more than 
 if she went to school ; but having once discovered that Alice had 
 disobeyed her, her only idea was to punish her severely, and 
 then send her away. The determination seemed harsh, and yet 
 Lady Catharine's disposition was full of benevolence and kind- 
 ness. Even Alice, in her solitary room, did not feel more dis- 
 tress than did her truest earthly friend, as she walked througli 
 the large but desolate apartments of her house, and missed the 
 light footstep and the cheeiful voice which had for the last few 
 months enlivened her sad life ; and felt, that for the future, ex- 
 cept in the holiday weeks, she must again be lonely. 
 
 When Mr Cliftord appeared in the afternoon at the Manor, 
 he was accordingly received, not with entreaties for advice, but 
 with a request that he would give the terms and the direction 
 for Mrs Carter's school. ' I shall make a few inquiries myself,' 
 said Lady Catharine ; ' and if the answers pro\'e satisfactory, 
 which I have no doubt from your report they will be, I think I 
 cannot do better than place Alice there immediately.' 
 
 Mr Clifford was rather at a loss what to say, for he did in his 
 own mind think that Lady Catharine could do better. He be 
 lieved that, to allow Alice to remain at home, and to treat her 
 with gentleness and firmness, would be more likely to strengthen 
 her principles, and enable her to resist future temptations, than 
 to send her amongst strange companions at school. So he had 
 thought with regard to Madeline ; but in her case there was no 
 choice. It v.-as now settled that Mrs Beresfordwas to come to 
 Laneton ; the two children could not therefore remain at liome;
 
 1 36 LAN ETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 and Mr Cliftbrd could only tiust that constant care, and the 
 influence of early instruction, would, with the blessing of God, 
 be the n.eans of keeping his child in the straight and narrow 
 May of goodness. He did, however, venture to say to Lady 
 Catharine, that he thought it possible that, with Alice's unsteady 
 mind, she might run great risk of evil amongst new com- 
 panions ; but Lady Catharine's answer silenced him. She said, 
 ' That the subject had been well considered— that it was not 
 her custom to act hastily; ' and she again asked for Mrs Carter's 
 direction. Mr Clifford gave it, and rose to take leave, when 
 lo his surprise Lady Catharine said, ' Will you not see Alice.'' 
 'J'iie advice of the clergyman of the parish, and such a friend 
 as you have always shown )ourself, may perhaps have an effect 
 upon her. I shall not go to her myself till the evening.' Mr 
 Clifford was pleased at the offer, as it showed that, notwith- 
 standing her determination. Lady Catharine was desirous to 
 give him an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with 
 Alice's state of mind, and, perhaps, of being of real service to 
 her ; and with willing steps he went up-stairs. The door of 
 the dressing-room was unlocked and opened, but Lady Catharine 
 did not enter. She only motioned to Mr Clifford to do so, 
 and withdrew. The shutters were more than half-closed, and 
 tlie dim light of an afternoon of pouring rain scarcely penetrated 
 into the little room. Alice was kneeling at the window-seat. 
 .She was gazing through the chinks of the shutter upon the 
 avenue road. It had been her sole amusement during the 
 whole of the long, weary day ; but there was nothing passing, 
 not even the butcher's cart or a stray beggar ; and as a last 
 hope of occupation, Alice was trying to count the tiles on the 
 blablc-roof, in order, if possible, to divert her thoughts from the 
 wretchedness caused by her own faults. 
 
 ' Alice,' said Mr Cliftbrd ; and, upon hearing his voice, Alice 
 looked up quickly ; ' Lady Catharine wished me to come to jou. 
 I daresay she will come herself by and by.' Alice made no 
 rcj)ly. ' Should you like to see her?' continued Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' I don't know ; she docs not care — she is very angry with 
 mc,' said Alice, speaking with difticidty. 
 
 ' Has she not reason to be angry, Alice 't Have you not 
 deceived and disobeyed her .? And do you think it possible she 
 should ever trust you again '< ' AWce rested her head again upon 
 the window-seat, while Mr Clifford went on speaking. He 
 talked kindly, but seriously ; he reminded her of the duty and
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE 137 
 
 afTection which she owed to Lady Catharine for hei care ; of the 
 positive necessity of submitting to her in all things ; of tlic 
 ingratitude which she had shown in breaking the only command 
 which had been specially laid upon her ; and then he pointed 
 out to her how much sin and suffering had been caused by the 
 commission of one fault. The indulgence of one wish,' he 
 said, ' the desire to gratify your liking for the bonbons when yuu 
 knew they were not allowed, led you to be deceitful to Lady 
 Catharine, and selfish, almost cruel, to Madeline ; who, though 
 she had done wrong, ought never to have been accused unjustly ; 
 and at length it brought you to be guilty of that great sin of lying, 
 which, in the Bible, is spoken of in such fearful language. O, 
 Alice ! can you really be indifferent to such conduct ? Does it 
 give you no pain to think that your earthly friends doubt you, and 
 grieve over you, and that God, the all-holy, all-merciful God, 
 your Father in heaven, is angry with you ?' Mr Clifford paused ; 
 lie hoped that Alice would speak that he might discover whether 
 she had any sense of the evil of which she was guilty; but Alice 
 still appeared immovable. Yet it would have been a mistake to 
 suppose that she was hardened, and did not feel Mr Clifford's 
 words . she did feel them in her heart, but she did not choose to 
 confess it ; perhaps towards Lady Catharine she would have been 
 more humble, but with Mr Clifford she was partly shy and 
 partly obstinate ; and a sudden determination seized her not to 
 answer to anything which was said ; she was wilful by nature ; 
 and the consciousness of having behaved very ill made her still 
 more so. Finding that serious words took no effect, Mr Clifford 
 tried more gentle ones : he had seen that Alice was really fond 
 of Lady Catharine ; and he described how much she was grieved; 
 how pale and worn she looked, and what an effort it was to her 
 to talk upon all that had passed ; and then Alice was more 
 wretched than before, and more resolved that she would not 
 show it. Mr Clifford was extremely disappointed ; he was 
 accustomed to see his own children give way whenever he 
 reproved them ; and he did not know how to deal with a 
 disposition so perverse. He again addressed Alice kindly, and 
 begged her to look up and answer him ; but his words were 
 entirely thrown away. Every moment that Alice continued 
 obstinate strengthened her resolution of taking no notice, because 
 it made her more ashamed of doing better. It would ha\e 
 l)een easy to have spoken at first, but when many minutes 
 had gone by it became almost impossible ; and Mr Clifford,
 
 138 LANETON PAkSONAGE. 
 
 finding that his persuasions were useless, gave up the attempt, 
 ' As you will, then, Alice,' he said : ' I came in the hope 
 of finding you penitent, and begging for Lady Catharine's for- 
 giveness ; since you Avill not listen to me, you do not need it; 
 v.-hen I see you next I trust you may be in abetter mind.' He 
 turned to leave the room, and pausing in the doorway, cast 
 one more glance upon Alice, trusting even then that she would 
 have spoken ; but whatever might have been her grief she 
 suffered nothing of it to appear. Lady Catharine was waiting 
 for him at the foot of the stairs ; she did not ask any ques- 
 tions, but her countenance expressed anxious expectation. Mr 
 ClilTord shook his head : ' It is a disposition I cannot un- 
 derstand,' he said ; ' but I do not really think she is as insen- 
 sible as she tries to appear ; your ladyship probably will be 
 more successful' 
 
 'And will she not own that she has been wrong?' exclaimed 
 Lady Catharine. 
 
 ' She will own nothing ; but she has been crying, and is evi- 
 dently in great distress of mind ; it might have been shyness 
 which prevented her from speaking to me.' Mr Clifford hoped 
 by tiiis observation to induce Lady Catharine to go at once to 
 Alice ; but the resolution to ^vait till the morning was made, 
 and it was not to be brolcen. Mr Clifford took his hat, and 
 prepared to go. Lady Catharine's face was pale, and her man- 
 ner agitated. Mr Chfford would willingly have said something 
 to console her, but she did not give him the opportunity : she 
 held out her hand, and warmly returned his cordial pressure, 
 but she said merely the ordinary words at parting j and Mr 
 Clifford returned home, disappointed both with her and with 
 Alice. 
 
 And so that day passed, and the next, and the day after ; 
 nothing was known of what was going on at the Manor ; even 
 the servants did not meet ; and whether Alice was forgiven, or 
 whether Lady Catharine was still resolved upon sending her to 
 school, remained a mystery. The children at the Parsonage 
 were now busily occupied ; for the day was fast approaching 
 when they were to leave home. There was a good deal of 
 amusement in the preparations, notwithstanding the unpleasant 
 thoughts connected with them : new dresses were to be iried 
 on, new books to be ordered, workboxes and drawing- boxes to 
 be fitted up, and a visit to Cottington was in contemplation to 
 buy whatever was still wanting. All this was agreeable enough;
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 139 
 
 but when Madeline went each day to her papa's study at the 
 appointed hour, to repeat the Creed, as he had desired, a rc- 
 nienibrance of shame and self-reproach came to her mind; and 
 when Mr Clifford made her stop to collect her thoughts, and 
 then said a few words to her upon the awfulness of the subjects 
 of which she was about to speak, Madeline's mind was sobered : 
 she felt that she was forgiven, but she was not allowed to 
 forget. 
 
 There were other circumstances which at that time served to 
 cast something of gloom over the Parsonage. The sudden death 
 of the old fisherman had been a great shock to almost every or,e 
 in Laneton ; and Mr Clifford, as he went from house to house, 
 and heard the regrets, and \\'itnessed the tears which were slicd 
 for his loss, could not help sympathising with the general grief. 
 The children also saw that such an awful event must be intended 
 as a warning ; and when the Sunday arrived which was fixed 
 for the funeral, they thought it sad to see the sun shine bright 
 and hear the birds sing, when the old man who, only the week 
 before, had been able to enjoy himself likewise, v/as about to be 
 laid in the darkness and stillness of the grave. Mr Clifford was 
 silent in the morning at breakfast, and walked alone in the 
 garden before the service began ; and when he read from the 
 pulpit the text which he had chosen for his sermon : ' Watch, 
 therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord do'Ji come,' — - 
 there was a little hesitation in his voice. But the death of the 
 righteous (and such there was every reason to belie\-e Roger 
 Dyson might with truth be called) must ever be a cause rather 
 of hope and thankfulness than of sorrow, and when Ruth and 
 Madeline joined their father after the funeral service was over, 
 there was even a cheerfulness of manner which showed that to 
 him the remembrance of death could never be unwelcome. 
 
 * It seems such a sad day,' said Ruth, as she took hold of her 
 papa's hand : ' I wish people would not choose to be buried on 
 a Sunday.' 
 
 * It is not often a choice,' observed Mr Clifford : ' generally 
 speaking, it is necessity, or at least a matter of convenience. 
 But, to my notions, Sunday is the best day to fix en for a 
 funeral, because it is the one which brings with it the greatest 
 comfort : it is the memorial of our Lord's Resurrection.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Ruth, 'mamma said so too, just now; but it 
 does not seem right either ; it makes every one melancholy ; 
 and you know, papa, Sunday ought always to be happy.'
 
 1 40 LANEl ON PARSON A GE. 
 
 ' It would not make us inelanchoI\', if we thought rightly, my 
 love. Even if we liad lost a dear friend, there would be as 
 much of peace and joy, as of grief in our feelings.' 
 
 ' Not about any person,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, certainly not ; but I am speaking of cases, like the 
 present, in which we have every reason to believe that our loss 
 is another's gain. Roger Dyson was, I most truly think, a 
 faithful member of the Catholic Church, and we may without 
 presumption trust that his spirit is at rest.' 
 
 * You mean, because he was baptized, don't you, papa ?' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' Not entirely, my dear. There are a great many persons 
 who are baptized ; but, I am afraid, they cannot all when they 
 die be really accounted, in God's sight, members of His holy 
 Catholic Church. Of course it is not for us to decide in any 
 particular instance, because those who have done wrong may 
 have repented ; but when we know that persons have been 
 thieves, or drunkards, or liars, or passionate, or have, in fact, 
 given way wilfully to any sin, we cannot feel sure that they will 
 be accepted at the day of judgment as belonging to the Church 
 of Christ. We know that they will not be, if they have died 
 in their sin.' 
 
 ' But they belonged to it once,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; but they may by their own fault be cast out of it, as 
 a child may be turned from his home, and considered as no 
 longer one of the family. Even here on earth, sinners are 
 sometimes cast out of the Church — they are excommunicated ; 
 that is, they are publicly and solemnly cut off from the 
 privileges and blessings of the Church ; and especially are not 
 allowed to receive the Holy Comnumion.' 
 
 ' Old Roger always w^ent to Laneton church,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, but when we talk of Laneton church, or Cottington 
 church, or Winslow, or IMarkland churches, we mean only 
 different buildings ; when we speak of the Church of Christ, or 
 the Catholic Church, we mean the people who go to worship 
 in those buildings. Catholic, you know, is not the name of 
 a place — it means universal, that is, belonging to all countries, 
 and all ages.' 
 
 ' Then there arc a great many built churches,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, but only one Catholic Church.' 
 
 * I think I know what you mean, papa,' said Ruth ; * all the 
 pe(^l)le who are baptized and go to church.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 141 
 
 'Those belonging to the Catholic Church in England,* said 
 Mr Clifford, ' but the Catholic Church is also in America, and 
 Scotland, and France, and Italy, and many other countries 
 besides.' 
 
 * That makes a great many,' said Ruth ; ' they cannot all be 
 one.' 
 
 * Are you sure of that, Ruth ? You have an uncle in America, 
 and another in India, and another in Jamaica : do they not all 
 belong to one family.'" 
 
 * Yes, I see, papa, but ' 
 
 ' But what .'' do not be afraid to speak, my lo\e.' 
 
 * Are the churches in other countries quite like ours, papa ? 
 Do the people say just the same prayers, and have they books 
 like ours t ' 
 
 ' Not exactly ; but I daresay your uncles do not live exactly 
 alike. It is impossible they should, indeed, yet that does not 
 prevent them from belonging to one family. They may dress 
 differently, and get up at different hours, and have a great 
 many different habits, but they are still brothers, the children 
 of one parent.' 
 
 ' And the churches in Scotland, and France, and America, 
 and all the places you mentioned, are brothers .'" said Ruth. 
 
 ' Sisters rather they are called, but I cannot explain the 
 reason to you now.' 
 
 ' But,' said Ruth, and a shade of perplexity came over her 
 face, ' it is not the sam.e either ; all the churches in different 
 countries cannot have the same parent.' 
 
 ' They may be descended from the same,' replied Mr Clifford; 
 * your cousins in America, for instance, belong to our family ; 
 but your uncle Edmond is their father, and I am yours : and 
 the same with your cousins in India and Jamacia. There may 
 be several different fathers, but all will have come from one 
 person, that is, your grandfather.' 
 
 ' And the churches all over the world must have come from 
 one,' said Ruth, still looking confused. 
 
 ' Yes, from our Lord Jesus Christ, the great head of the 
 Universal Church.' 
 
 ' But who are all the fathers .'" asked Ruth, quickly. 
 
 ' The bishops are,' replied Mr Clifford ; * they are called 
 Right Reverend Fathers in God. You know the first bishops 
 were the twelve apostles. Our Saviour gave to them a special 
 gift of the Holy Ghost, and before their death they were
 
 142 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 directed to choose other persons to be bishops Hkevvise ; and to 
 ordain them lay laying their hands upon them, and praying for 
 the blessing of God. Our Lord then gave to these persons 
 autliority, such as apostles had, and so it has gone on down to 
 the present day.' 
 
 ' Then the bishops are all like brothers,' said IMadeline. 
 
 ' Yes, and they all have the same power given them by God 
 to rule the Church and to make clergymen, like me and Mr 
 Monckton of Cottington.' 
 
 ' Then who is it we read about to mamma in our history?' 
 asked Ruth, ' the pope, I mean.' 
 
 ' He is a bishop — the bishop of Rome.' 
 
 ' But in the history,' said Ruth, ' it talks about him as if he 
 were bishop of England.' 
 
 ' Yes, some hundred years after the apostles, the bishop of 
 Rome set himself up above the others who were his broihers ; 
 and because he had been looked up to, and allowed to decide 
 in cases of difficulty, just as an elder brother might do, he 
 declared he was to rule in everything.' 
 
 ' But w^hy did the others let him do it?' asked Ruth, 
 
 ' They did not at first, they said constantly that he was very 
 wrong ; but he and the bishops of Rome wlio came after him, 
 persisted, till at last people began to believe them, and then they 
 had their own way, and ruled everything in England and 
 France, and everywhere.' 
 
 ' They don't do so now,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, because three hundred years ago, the king and parlia- 
 ment of England, and the bishops of the Catholic Church in 
 England, said that they had no business to do it; that they 
 might rule Rome, but they had no right to rule in England. 
 There was a great cjuarrel about it, and since then, the bishops 
 in England have not paid any attention to the false claims of 
 ilie bishops of Rome.' 
 
 'Did a bishop make you a clergyman, papa?' asked Madeline. 
 
 'Yes, no one else could do it. The first Christians did not 
 allow any persons to teach and administer the Holy Sacra- 
 ments, except such as had been what is called ordained by a 
 bishop.' 
 
 ' And that is the reason you were ordained,' said Ruth. 
 
 'Yes; first of all, I was made a deacon, by having the 
 bishop's hands laid upon my head, after he had prayed for me. 
 When this v/as done I was allowed to pcrfjim the greater part
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 143 
 
 of the service, but not the wliole. I could not pronounce the 
 absolution or forgiveness of sins, nor consecrate the bread and 
 wine in the Holy Communion. When I had acted as deacon 
 for two or three years, I was made a priest in the same way, by 
 the authority of the bishop, and now I may perform the whole 
 duty,' 
 
 ' Did old Roger understand about it all ? ' inquired Ruth. 
 
 iVIr Clifford smiled. ' It is not very likely he did ; yet he 
 may have been more truly a Christian than you or I are. It 
 is not knowing, but believing and doing, which will, for our 
 Saviour's sake, gain us admittance into heaven.' 
 
 'And does Roger belong to any Church now.'" asked Ruth. 
 
 * To the Catholic Church still. Those who have been holy 
 members of Christ's Church upon earth, continue to be so, 
 only in a far more blessed state of peace and safety, after they 
 die.' 
 
 ' God takes care of them,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, just as He took care of them upon earth, and as He 
 takes care of us ; and our Saviour loves them, and the Holy 
 Spirit comforts them ; they belong to God's family exactly the 
 same, whether we see them or not ; and after the Resurrection 
 they and we, I hope, shall all live together in heaven. So that 
 we have a great deal in common with all good and holy persons, 
 even when they are gone from this world, because they are 
 living still, and have the same God to protect them, and the 
 same home of perfect happiness to look forward to.' 
 
 ' And, papa, do you think old Roger knows anything about 
 us now .'' ' 
 
 ' It is impossible for me to say,' replied Mr Clifford, ' because 
 there is so \cry little information upon such subjects in the Bible. 
 God has not seen fit to reveal to what degree the friends we 
 have lost from our sight can still take an interest in us, or care 
 about us.' 
 
 ' Roger was not qne of our friends, exactly,' said Ruth, ' so he 
 would not care about us.' 
 
 ' That docs not follow, Ruth ; wherever his spirit may now 
 be, he must understand far better than we can hope to do, the 
 importance of all which passes here. He feels the peace which 
 our Saviour has promised to all who love Him ; and he knows 
 how dreadful it would be to be looking forward to the punish- 
 ment of sin, instead of the great joy of heaven. The other world 
 is hke a dream to us, but it is all real to him, just as real as that
 
 144 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 we are walking in this garden, and looking upon the trees and 
 the sea. And if he could know that we are risking the loss of 
 heaven by giving way to any known sin, whether it be a great 
 one or a little one, it must be more frightful tlian it would be to 
 us to watch a man hanging over that high cliff by a single 
 thread.' 
 
 ' But, papa,' said Ruth, ' good people now care when they 
 see wicked ones, because mamma was very unhappy the other 
 day when Ralph Haynes had been stealing.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mr Clifford, ' the better we are, the more sorry 
 we shall be for sinners ; especially for those who are members of 
 the Church, and yet disobey God.' 
 
 ' But we ought to be angry with them, ought we not 1 ' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' How do you think Madeline would feel if you had done 
 wrong?' inquired Mr Clifford. Ruth blushed; she knew why 
 her papa did not ask her how she would feel if Madeline were 
 m fault. 
 
 ' I should be very sorry,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' I am sure you would : you love Ruth, for she is your sister, 
 you belong to one family. God has a family too ; some upon 
 earth, and some, like old Roger, in the world of departed spirits, 
 and those who are particularly our brothers and sisters upon 
 earth, are the members of the Church. We ought to attend to, 
 and assist, and think of them before any others. It will be no 
 good to recollect about the Communion of Saints in heaven, if 
 we forget those who are living.' 
 
 'But, papa,' said Ruth, in surprise, * Church people are not 
 saints .'" 
 
 ' Some are, Ruth, and ail ought to b&.' 
 
 ' A great many are very wicked, I know,' continued Ruth. 
 
 ' Then their punishment will be the greater. God has given 
 them the opportunity of being good, by taking them into His 
 Church, and bestowing upon them His Holy Spirit.' 
 
 ' And must we care about them if they are ever so bad?' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' We must care by trying to teach them better. Church 
 people are more our relations than others, I think you must 
 understand now.' 
 
 ' I am glad Roger was a Church person,' said Ruth. 
 
 * So am I, Ruth ; it gives me a feeling that he belongs to 
 us ; and it makes nie happy to tliink that he is surely
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 145 
 
 * 
 
 forgiven and accepted, because he trusted in his Saviour, 
 and tried to live to (jod.' 
 
 ' Me can never be sinful now,' observed Ruth. IMr Qifford 
 walked on a few paces in silence. Rutli had said what had 
 been in his own thoughts often during the day. 
 
 ' His grave is made under the old yew-tree, in the cast corner 
 of the churchyard; shall we go and look at it?' he asked- 
 Ruth put her hand within his, whilst Madeline went forward to 
 open the little gate which led into the lane, dividing the church- 
 yard from the Parsonage garden. 
 
 It was a sheltered, quiet spot which had been chosen fur the 
 last resting-place of the old fisherman. The ivy-covered wall 
 protected it from the keen blast of the east wind, and the knotted 
 branches of the dark yew spread over it, as if to guard it from 
 the rays of the mid-day sun. There were not many graves 
 near it ; only a few crumbling stones marked the spots where, 
 in long past years, others, humble like himself, had been com- 
 mitted to the dust ; beings, whose names, forgotten upon earth, 
 were scarcely to be discovered from the half-defaced letters 
 which had recorded them, but whose souls, resting in the hands 
 of God, were awaiting the unchangeable sentence either of con- 
 demnation or of mercy. * His trial is over,' were the first words 
 which Mr Clifford spoke ; ' the end of ours is yet to come.' 
 Ruth fixed her eyes on the newly turncd-up earth ; it seemed 
 impossible that one who had so lately lived and moved amongst 
 them, should then be lying motionless beneath it. 
 
 * Did he never do anything wrong ? ' asked Madeline, in a 
 whispered voice. 
 
 ' Yes, Madeline ; often, very often ; no day passed with- 
 out it.' 
 
 ' But, papa, he is happy.' 
 
 ' Happy, we may believe, as surely as we can believe it of 
 any human being ; but it is not because he never sinned, but 
 because for the sake of the Saviour in whom he believed, his 
 sins are forgiven.' 
 
 ' And God will forgive us, too,' said Madeline, in a half 
 anxious, half confident tone. 
 
 ' Yes, if we repent and amend here ; the forgiveness of sins 
 is promised to us now, but we are not told of forgiveness in 
 the world of spirits.' 
 
 'Only now?' said Madeline, as if the thouglit had struck 
 her for the first time.
 
 146 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 < Only now ! ' repeated IMr Cliftbrd ; and, leaning against the 
 old wall, he covered his face with his hands. There was a 
 silence of some minutes ; the children stood at the head of the 
 fisherman's grave, and gazed mournfully around. Sweet summer 
 flowers were springing amidst the green turf, and insects were 
 buzzing in the warm, misty air ; the songs of birds fell blithely 
 upon the ear, and the distant lowing of cattle, and the tinkling 
 of sheep bells, mingled with the low murmur of the waves which 
 were breaking upon the sandy shore. At that moment all were 
 unheeded, and a sense of the awfulness of death came o\er them 
 such as they had never felt before. 
 
 ' It seems so still, so quiet,' said Ruth, as she drew nearer to 
 her father's side. Mr Clifford looked at her and smiled. 
 
 * It is right that it should be so, is it not, Ruth ? They who 
 dwell here have given up all interest in the noise and the busi- 
 ness of this world ; they are quiet themselves, and the place of 
 their rest should be quiet likewise.' 
 
 ' They will never hear anything again/ said Madeline, and 
 the thought seemed full of sadness. 
 
 'Yes, Madeline, they will; one sound there is for which they 
 are all waiting — the sound of the archangel's trumpet, which 
 will summon the dead and the living to judgment. The bodies 
 that are now mouldering away will then li\e, and mo\'C, and 
 breathe again, even as we wake from our nightly rest to the 
 business and the pleasures of the day.' 
 
 ' But it does not seem that it can be,' said Ruth, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 ' It is hard to think so when we look upon the graves of the 
 dead,' replied her father ; ' but it is not hard when we look 
 upon the earth and the sk\-. The God who could make the 
 universe can do all things ; and the Saviour who raised Him- 
 self from the tomb will not fail to raise us likewise.' 
 
 ' To wake again ! ' said Ruth ; ' it is so strange ! ' 
 
 * And more strange still, Ruth, the life which we shall then 
 begin to live will not be a short life like this one. It may be 
 happiness so vast that we cannot conceive it, or misery so sad 
 that the sorrows of earth are as nothing in comparison, but 
 there will be no sleep to break it.' Again there was silence, 
 interrupted only by the light, gentle sounds of the summer 
 evening. Mr Clifford's eye wandered over the churchyard ; and 
 as it rested upon a lonely grave, apart from all others, in the 
 farthest corner, he slightly shuddered, and an expression of
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 147 
 
 great pain passed over his countenance. 'Are you ill, papa?' 
 said Ruth, anxiously, when she noticed it. 
 
 ' No, my love ; ' and the look of peace which accompanied 
 the words made Ruth happy again ; ' but there are some things 
 which always come to my mind in a churchyard, especially in 
 this one, and they naturally make me serious ; perhaps you would 
 say melancholy.' 
 
 ' Ought we to think of them, too, papa?' 
 
 ' It is not possible you should, my love ; but there are many 
 here whose lives were sinful, and their deaths, I fear, without 
 repentance, for whom the thought of the life everlasting is full 
 of anxiely ' 
 
 ' Did you know them, papa?' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes ; some I knew long, and I tried to warn them, but they 
 would not listen ; and there was one, he who is buried by him- 
 self beneath the thorn ; he had lived a wicked life, and when I 
 spoke to him of his evil ways he mocked at me, and even closed 
 his door against me ; and at last, after some time had passed, 
 I thought I would try once more. I went to him, and entreated, 
 as if he had been my own child, that he would repent while yet 
 there was time. He turned from me in anger, and said that he 
 would never suffer me to open my lips to him again ; and I 
 never did ; God did not suffer it ; that very night he was 
 brought home dead.' 
 
 ' I remember, papa,' said Ruth ; ' nurse told me of it ; but 
 she did not seem frightened.' 
 
 ' Because she did not think of that which was to come after- 
 wards. If we could imagine what it must be to enter upon 
 the life of ages upon ages, we should never speak lightly of 
 death.' 
 
 * But we may be happy,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' God in His mercy grant it, my child !' said INIr Clifford, 
 earnestly. ' Yes, we may be happy — happy, as the Bible tells 
 us, in a home so blessed that " eye hath not seen, nor ear 
 heard ; neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con- 
 ceive " its blessedness. But we may also be miserable, and 
 now is the time of our trial.' 
 
 • And when will the end come ? ' asked Madeline. 
 
 ' We know nothing about an end in the next world,' replied her 
 father. ' If we were to take a grain of sand ft-om the millions 
 upon millions on the shore, and, moving so slowly that our steps 
 could scarcely be perceived, were to begin our journey towards.
 
 1 4 8 LAXE TON PA RSONA GE 
 
 the \ery farthest of those distant worlds which shine above us 
 in the evening sky, and when we had left it were agai^i to return 
 for another, and another, and another, till every one of those 
 tiny particles, both here and throughout the world, had been 
 carried away, yet even then, when that immeasurable time had 
 passed, we could not say that we should be nearer to the end 
 of the ages upon ages of the next world, than we are now.' 
 
 Madeline tried to think, but she could not ; she could not 
 understand, and she felt unhappy. 
 
 ' We cannot hope to comprehend this clearh-, my love,' said 
 Mr Cliftbrd, 'but we shall do well to think about it sometimes. 
 It is easy to speak of the resurrection of the body, and the life 
 everlasting ; the words come like any other words ; they pass 
 our lips easily, but they are, like the name of the all-holy God, 
 awful and vast, and only to be mentioned with the fervent hope 
 that when our bodies are raised, and our souls re-united to 
 them, and we enter upon that wonderful life, it may be a life 
 of joy in the presence of God.' There was a tear in Madeline's 
 eye as she turned to leave the churchyard ; it was a tear, not 
 for the dead who were resting there, not for the fisherman, 
 whose cottage was empty, but it was a tear for her own faults — 
 for the sins which, though they had been forgiven, were still so 
 frequently recalled to mind, and which, if she had persisted in 
 them, would have unfitted her for the happiness of heaven. 
 Madeline was learning by degrees that her life on earth, even 
 her life as a little child, was the preparation for the life ot 
 Eternity. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOW quickly time passes ! so we all say, upon meeting 
 friends after absence, or when an e\ent happens which 
 has raised our expectations, or even when we stay quietly in our 
 homes, and occupy ourselves in our daily duties. It is only 
 when we look forward that time seems long. When Ruth and 
 Madeline were first told that they were to go to school, the 
 period seemed years off. Two months appeared as if they 
 would never be over. Yet the davs slid bv almost Without no- 
 tice, and in the midst of lessons, and p'ay, and the business of
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 14Q 
 
 preparation, came, almost as if it had never been thoug1-.t of, ilie 
 very week fixed for their departure. Time was short to them, 
 for they were usefully engaged, and notwithstanding the pro- 
 spect of separation, there was much to give them pleasure. 
 But time was very long to one who, like them, had lessons and 
 occupations, but who was conscious that she had forfeited tlie 
 good opinion of her best friend, and who could never look in 
 her face without being reminded of the grief she had caused her. 
 Alice Lennox was forgiven — forgiven, that is, so far, that after 
 two days of solitary punishment, when her proud heart was in a 
 measure subdued, and Lady Catharine went to her and found 
 her crying, and heard her confess how wrongly she had acted, 
 and beg that Madeline might be told she was sorry, then, and 
 not before, she was allowed to leave her room and return to her 
 usual pursuits. But Alice saw that everything was changed. 
 Lady Catharine never reproached her, and even Marshani 
 ceased to find fault with her. She w-as allowed to employ her- 
 self as much as she chose ; but there was but little notice taken 
 of anything which she did. If her lessons were well done, Lady 
 Catharine scarcely looked pleased ; if they w'ere badly done, 
 she scarcely seemed to think it worth while to reprove her. 
 And no one spoke to her of the future. No one s^iid, ' This day 
 week, or this day fortnight, such a thing will most probably 
 happen; do you think you shall like it?' and when Lady 
 Catharine once mentioned her intention of paying a visit to a 
 friend, she gave Alice no idea of what would becorrie of her in 
 the meantime. There was an air of mystery over everything, 
 and Alice saw herself suddenly shut out from all the attention 
 which she had before been accustomed to receive. She was no- 
 body. What she did, or what she did not do, seemed equally 
 a matter of indifference. Why, she dared not ask. Lady 
 Catharine was so silent, so occupied, she could not interrupt 
 her. It was not now as it had been, when Alice felt something 
 of a child's privilege with a mother, and knew that she should 
 be listened to with pleasure. Strict though Lady Catharine had 
 formerly been, it had been merely the strictness of over-anxiety 
 and affection ; and Alice could better have borne any rules, than 
 she could the being allowed to follow her own will, with no one 
 apparently to care for her. 
 
 .She began to repent her misconduct far more truly than she 
 had done when shut up in punishment ; then she had, indeed, 
 shed tears of sorrow, because she was weaiy of being alone, and
 
 I Jo LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 vexed at her own folly for having brought upon herself so much 
 suffering ; but she was proud — she thought herself hardly used. 
 Now she had nothing to complain of; — she was fed, and taught, 
 and allowed to walk about and amuse herself. The persons 
 who came to the house saw no marked change in the manner in 
 which she was treated, and yet Alice was wretched. Night 
 after night she laid her head upon her pillow, and cried herself 
 to sleep; and morning after morning she awoke with a heavy 
 weight upon her heart, and a dread of the long day that was 
 before her, without the prospect of a single word of encourage- 
 ment ; and, worse than all, Alice felt that she was no longer 
 trusted. Her word was doubted She was not told so, but she 
 found, that if anything happened in which there was occasion for 
 her to say what she had done, or what she had seen, immedi- 
 ately there Avas a hesitation — some one else was called in to 
 answer likewise ; or, if that could not be, even the servants 
 Avould pause, and say, ' Well, it might be so, iDut they could 
 not be certain.' Alice's assurances were no longer taken for 
 truth : this was a most severe trial. Alice Lennox was by 
 nature proud, wilful, and insincere ; but she was also warm- 
 hearted and energetic, and full of respect for those whom she 
 knew to be good. Their approbation was the one thing which 
 she longed for, and it was this which had attached her to Lady 
 Catharine when she had been what many persons would have 
 called severely treated. Even, during this heavy time, Alice 
 did not dislike Lady Catharine ; she trembled before her, 
 dreaded her appearance, gladly escaped from the breakfast or 
 the dinner table to be out of reach of her eye, but it was only 
 because she was ashamed of herself, because she was conscious 
 that she had forfeited any claim to confidence. Lady Catharine 
 was still religious, benevolent, and self-denying, devoted to 
 C]od, and unwearied in relieving the wants of her fellow- 
 creatures ; and Alice, when she most shrank from the sound of 
 her voice, still felt that it was llie voice of one whose goodness 
 she ought sincerely to strive to imitate. Yet a change did 
 come at last. Slowly as the hours passed ; yet they did at 
 length bring an alteration in Alice's life. There v/ere prepara- 
 tions for some event ; what, she could not tell ; but her drawers 
 were overlooked, her linen was counted, her frocks were brought 
 out and tried on, and one whole afternoon Lady Catharine 
 spent in examining her school-books, and putting aside a cer- 
 tain number. There were long consultations between IsLirsham
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 151 
 
 and her mistress ; and Mr Clifl'crd came frequently to the 
 Manor. His coming, however, made but little difference to 
 Alice ; he had scarcely noticed her since the day when he had 
 so vainly tried to make an impression upon her. The names 
 of Madeline and Ruth never in her presence passed his lips, 
 except on one occasion, when he had particularly mentioned 
 that Madeline sent her love ; and Alice could not bring herself 
 to speak of them. On one day Mr Clifford paid a third visit, 
 a most unusual occurrence, and Alice, having escaped from 
 the drawing-room as he entered, found her way into the gar- 
 den. It was not for pleasure that she went there. She had 
 her flowers, it is true, but Lady Catharine never asked now how 
 they were looking ; and she had a rabbit to pet, but Madeline 
 and Ruth were not there to see how tame it was, or to pick 
 cabbage-leaves to feed it. There was the summer-house to 
 go to, but there was no particular amusement in being in it 
 alone ; and there was always something uncomfortable in 
 Alice's mind when she sat there thinking — a recollection of the 
 beginning of her faults, and a remembrance of Benson appear- 
 ing at the garden gate, and of the day when she had stra)ed 
 into the servants' court. From thence was to be seen also the 
 end of the house, and the windows of the forbidden rooms. 
 The summer-house could not be agreeable, and Alice preferred 
 sauntering up and down the walks, or sitting upon the steps 
 with her back to the green door into the park ; anything rather 
 than be so constantly reminded of how much happier she might 
 have been than she was. She thought of what might be going 
 to happen to her — of the probability that she would be sent to 
 school, the same school with Madeline and Ruth ; she should 
 like that ; but perhaps Lady Catharine would tell upon her, 
 and all the girls would know that she had been a story-teller 
 and deceitful. It was dreadful to have done something which 
 she was afraid might be known, and the slight feeling of 
 pleasure which Alice had entertained in the prospect of school 
 was gone in an instant. She was lonely and wretched. Now 
 that her dear mamma was gone, it did not seem that there was 
 any one to take an interest in her. Alice had not felt so before, 
 but the misery of her own heart made her overlook every 
 blessing which she still enjoyed. She remembered Benson, but 
 the remembrance did not give her pleasure. Benson had been 
 very kind, and when she was quite a little girl, and did not 
 know any better, she had been satisfied with her ; but Alice,
 
 IS* LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 within the last few months, had learned that persons were to he 
 vahied for something beyond kindness ; she had no respect for 
 Benson, and without respect no love can be lasting. Besides, 
 Benson had never ventured near the Manor since the day of the 
 discovery in the east rooms, and Alice had accidentally heard 
 the cook tell Marsham that she was gone away for some time ; 
 and even if she had been at Laneton, Alice would not have been 
 tempted again to brealc Lady Catharine's commands, and meet 
 her by stealth. It was a long hour that Alice stayed in the 
 garden. She did not know whether Mr Clifford was still in the 
 house, and she disliked seeing him. At length the glass door, 
 which opened from the stone hall, was opened, and Lady Catha- 
 rine appeared alone. She walked slowly up the path, stopping 
 as she went to gather a few flowers, and to give an order to the 
 gardener. Alice kept at a distance, waiting till some notice 
 should be taken of her. Lady Catharine drew near, and whilst 
 still examining some flowers, she said, coldly, ' Alice, you had 
 better go in ; Marsham wants you.' 
 
 Alice obeyed instantly, but she was chilled to the heart, and 
 her eyes filled with tears. Marsham was impatient ; she had been 
 looking for her, and calling her, and her temper, which was none 
 of the sweetest, was more than usually irritable. Alice's dress 
 was taken off, and put aside in a box with several others, and a 
 new one was put on. Alice was pleased at the change, though 
 it made her angry to be pulled about roughly, and told to stand 
 still, just as if she were a child of two years old. ' That is not 
 the place for my frock, Marsham,' she said, pettishly, when the 
 operation of dressing was over. 
 
 ' Never you mind. Miss Alice ; little girls should not ask 
 questions, and give trouble.' 
 
 Alice knew that she had done neither the one nor the other, 
 and she was provoked. ' But, Marsham, it never does go there, 
 it is always kept in my bottom drawer ; and if you don't put it 
 there, I shall not know where to find it.' 
 
 ' And much that will signify ! Don't you trouble your head 
 about it ; I '11 take care fast enough.' Marsham looked mys- 
 terious, and, kneeling on the floor, began industriously filling 
 llie same trunk with more of Alice's things. 
 
 ' But Marsham, indeed — what are you doing ? I don't like 
 my things touched,' exclaimed Alice, indignantly. 
 
 Another mysterious look was the answer : the work rapidly 
 progressed, and in a short time the box was declared to Ijc £.0
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 1 5 3 
 
 full that it would be necessary to call in assistance in order ro 
 iiiake it shut. Alice stood watching what was going on ; one 
 minute asking a question, then venting her anger at receiving 
 no answer ; and gradually working herself up into a state of 
 extreme irritation. Marsham, however, went on unheeding ; 
 the box was dragged into the passage, one of the men-servants 
 was called to close it, the key ■\\^s turned, and Marsham 
 departed. At the same moment the bell rang, and Alice was 
 summoned to tea. For the last two months she had been in 
 the habit of taking it with Lady Catharine, and once she had 
 enjoyed the half-hour and looked forward to it. Now, it was a 
 silent meal ; eating and drinking seemed the one thing to be 
 thought of; and when this was over Alice was ordered to look 
 out her music-books, and to fetch her workbox ; and being 
 supplied with needles, thread, pins, and other requisites for work, 
 she was employed for some time in winding silk and filling a 
 needle-book and pincushion ; and was then ordered to carry 
 her box up-stairs to Marsham. Alice's curiosity was becoming 
 painful ; yet she dared not ask a single question. She lingered 
 to see what would be done with her box, but it was placed on 
 the table and left. Marsham said 'Thank you,' as if she knew 
 quite well why it was brought, and Alice was obliged to go 
 down-stairs again. Afterwards followed the looking out of a 
 few story-books. That was not a difficult task — she had not 
 many, and there was no fear of their being hidden among the 
 lesson-books, for the lesson-shelf was nearly empty. Slates, 
 copy-books, desks, and papers, had disappeared. The school- 
 room looked deserted. Pei-haps Lady Catharine thought so, 
 for she sighed as she gazed around, and her eyes glistened with 
 tears ; Alice's heart might be heavy, but there was one heart 
 yet heavier. All the business was at length finished. It was 
 clear to her now what was about to happen — she was going to 
 school. But where "^ when } would it be the very next day } 
 More than ever she longed to ask. It wanted half an hour to 
 her bed-time, and she drew near the fire, opposite to Lady 
 Catharine, hoping that now, at last, some information would be 
 given her. Lady Catharine took out her watch, and stirring 
 the fire to make a blaze, looked at it and again sighed. ' EiglU 
 o'clock ! you had better go, Alice ; there is a journey in store 
 for you to-morrow, and you must be up early.' Alice rose to 
 obey ; she approached Lady Catharine to wish her good-niglit, 
 expecting the cold, quiet kiss, which lately had been her only
 
 1 54 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 mark of affection. But it was a strange kiss this night — long 
 and fervent, even as the kiss of a mother's fondness ; Lady 
 Catliarine's arm was thrown around her, and her hand was held 
 with a trembling grasp. No word was spoken, but the God, 
 ' who seeth the heart,' heard an earnest entreaty for His blessing 
 upon a weak and sinful child ; and when Alice had left the 
 room, Lady Catharine Hyde buried her face in her hands, and 
 ga\'e vent to a sorrow which no human eye would have been 
 permitted to witness. 
 
 Parting with those we love must of necessity be one of the 
 great trials of human life. So many accidents, so many changes, 
 may happen before we meet again ; and there are very few who 
 have faith enough to feel that there is an All-seeing eye, and an 
 Almighty arm equally at hand to watch over and protect in 
 their absence as in their presence. We fancy — who does not 
 fancy .-" — that our friends are safest when with us. Even Mr 
 Clifford, as he sat with his wife and children by the cheerful 
 fire on the last evening which they were to spend together, 
 experienced something of the same misgiving, though it was 
 checked directly it was discovered. ' To-morrow ! ' said Ruth, 
 and every one repeated to-morrow ; and then there was a pause ; 
 Madeline's thoughts were in a stage-coach, Ruth's in the draw- 
 ing-room of Mrs Carter's house, which she had already begim 
 to picture to herself. Mrs Clifford rose from her seat, and 
 walked rather quickly about the room, taking up boxes and port- 
 folios to see if anything had been left behind. She had done so 
 once or twice before; she had not really any fear; but a sudden 
 restlessness had seized her: she longed for something to do. 
 
 ' Dear mamma,' said Madeline, following her, ' can't I help 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you, my love ; I don't want anything,' and Mrs 
 Clifford sat down again as suddenly as she had moved. Ruth 
 v>'as resting on a low stool, and her head was leaning against 
 her father's knee. He passed his hand over her hair, but he 
 did not speak for some time. At length he observed — 
 
 ' Some one else is to say good-bye to Laneton to-morrow. 
 Can you guess who ? ' 
 
 Madeline looked up hastily : ' Some one else, papa ? a child, 
 do you mean } ' 
 
 ' Yes, a child ; some one you know.' 
 
 Madeline scarcely required to think. 'Alice,' she exclaimetl, 
 whilst her voice was husky, and her cheek became crimson,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 155 
 
 ' She is going to school also,' said Mr Clifford. There was 
 a peculiar tone in his voice, which showed that he had serious 
 thoughts in his mind. 
 
 ' To Mrs Carter's .'' ' asked Ruth, eagerly. 
 
 * Yes, to Mrs Carter's ; you will have the same companion 
 there as here.' 
 
 * Not the same, papa,' said Ruth ; * Madeline will never do so 
 again.' 
 
 ' We must hope not.' Mr Clifford had learned to speak 
 doubtfully upon the probability of any person's goodness, much 
 more upon that of one so unstable as Madeline. 
 
 ' Is Alice to go with us ? ' asked Madeline, in an under- 
 voice. 
 
 ' No, she will travel alone with Lady Catharine. Alice goes 
 to school for punishment.' 
 
 ' I am sure Alice is very sorry for being naughty,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' I trust and think she is. Lady Catharine thinks so, too ; 
 but Alice's faults will require much time to correct, and so will 
 yours. Perhaps when you are together again you may all be 
 led into mischief 
 
 ' You are always afraid for us, papa,' said Ruth, whilst she 
 drew her head up rather proudly. 
 
 ' Fear is safe,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' it teaches us to be on 
 our guard. My great fear for you, Ruth, is, that you do not fear.' 
 
 ' And for me, papa ? ' said Madeline. 
 
 ' No, my love, I think you have learned to fear. Your danger 
 is, that you will not think before you act ; that you listen to 
 every one who talks to you, and jump into a fault before you 
 well know what you are doing. You say yes to everything in an 
 instant.' 
 
 * And what is Alice's ? ' said Ruth. 
 
 * 1 do not know Alice as I do you, my dear child ; perhapr. 
 she is wilful and determined ; but we will not talk about her in 
 that way.' 
 
 ' You won't be afraid for us when we grow up,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, more than I am now, unless you have made good use 
 of your childhood, and have firm, strong characters.' 
 
 ' I daresay we shall have, as we are going to school,' said 
 Ruth ; ' we shall be able to do like others more.' 
 
 ' And what do you think these others will be like ? will they 
 all be good "^ '
 
 156 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Ruth, considering. 
 
 * I am sure they learn a great deal,' observed Madeline ; 
 
 * Fanny Evans goes to school, and she writes French letters, 
 and next year she is going to begin Italian.' 
 
 ' And you can do — what ? ' 
 
 ' Only French exercises — easy ones. I never tried to write 
 a letter.' 
 
 ' And Fanny Evans reads Grecian history, too, papa,' said 
 Ruth ; ' and she can say all the gods and goddesses, and the 
 popes, and the French kings.' 
 
 ' Very wise, indeed,' said Mr Clifford ; ' I don't know what 
 Mrs Carter will say to two such little ignoramuses as you.' 
 
 ' Mamma wrote to Mrs Carter, and told her not to ask us 
 hard questions,' said Madeline. 
 
 * I don't think I should very much mind being asked,' 
 observed Ruth. ' You know Fanny Evans is eleven years old 
 - — eleven and a half now ; and she has been at school three 
 years, and Alice knows hardly anything about history ; she will 
 be much worse off.' 
 
 ' Alice can say her English dates, though,' said Madeline ; 
 ' and I think Lady Catharine has taught her a good deal. But 
 do you know, papa, she used to read " Jack and the Beanstalk " 
 to Benson 1 ' 
 
 The two children grew quite merry at the idea of such a 
 lesson, and Madeline having somewhat recovered the sensation 
 of shame, which had come over her upon the mention of Alice's 
 name, declared she should like her being there of all things. 
 
 ' But it is so odd for her not to set off with us,' said Ruth ; 
 
 * shall we see her as we go along ? ' 
 
 * No, she will travel by a different road in a carriage.' 
 
 ' And won't she sleep in our room, for us to talk to her ? ' 
 said Madeline. 
 
 ' When I went to school,' replied Mrs Clifford, 'no talking in 
 rooms was allowed.' 
 
 ' None, mamma, not a word ? oh, how cruel ! ' 
 
 ' Not at all like home ! ' exclaimed the children ; and in an 
 instant Mrs Carter's house assumed very much the aspect of a 
 prison. 
 
 ' But what shall we do ? we can't undress without talking ; 
 it will be so very dull,' said Madeline. 
 
 * .So very, very dull,' echoed Ruth. The bright smiles which, 
 a few minutes before, had lighted up their faces, vanished; and
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 157 
 
 in their stead tears gathered in their eyes, notwithstanding their 
 endeavours to check them. 
 
 ' I did not think at all it would be so strict,' said Ruth. 
 
 * I thought it was to be just Uke home,' said Mrideline. 
 
 * And that we might run in the garden, and read, and laugh, 
 and do what we liked,' continued Ruth. 
 
 <■ Yes ; all the same as we do now, Ruth, only have some 
 others with us, and Mrs Carter to take care of us.' 
 
 ' Please, papa, may we stay with you ? ' said Ruth, caress- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' Impossible, quite impossible ! ' and Mr Clifford shook his 
 head. Ruth turned sadly away ; after that word, impossible, 
 she had never any hope of gaining her point. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' she once more repeated, but there was more of 
 melancholy in her voice than there had been before. ' Papa, we 
 would be so very good if you would let us stay.' 
 
 ' Ruth, my love, this is but a new fancy. School is not at all 
 worse to-day than it was yesterday.' 
 
 ' If we might only talk when we go to bed,' said Madeline, 
 while the tears flowed down her cheek. Her mamma took her 
 upon her lap, laughing at her being such a great baby. 
 
 ' I never did like it,' said Ruth ; ' I never said that I did. 
 When I was told first, I could not bear it.' 
 
 ' And, mamma, we shall not see you such a long, long time,' 
 half whispered Madeline ; and she turned her head aside whilst 
 she played with her mamma's watch chain, vainly striving to 
 recover her composure. Mrs Clifford felt as sorrowful at the 
 thought as her little girl. ' Part of September, and October, 
 and November, and a bit of December,' she said ; ' not more 
 than three months.' 
 
 It was but poor comfort, and Ruth's sigh was very deep. 
 * Well ! ' said Mr Clifford, ' perhaps after all, it is best not to 
 try to be comforted. Three months must seem a long time, and 
 school is not as pleasant as home, and we would none of us be 
 parted if we could help it.' 
 
 Ruth looked up in his face. ' Do you really think so, papa ?' 
 
 ' Yes, really ; I have not been so uncomfortable for a long 
 time ; I don't know what I might do if I were left to myself : 
 cry too, perhaps, and poor mamma is worse than all, I suspect.' 
 Madeline's lips were pressed to her mamma's cheek. A tear was 
 resting on it, and Mrs Clifford smiled at being found out. 
 
 ' And now that we have all confessed to being unhappy, sup«
 
 158 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 pose we ring for candles, and go to tea,' continued Mr Clifford. 
 Half of Ruth's grief had \-anished when she saw that it was 
 shared by others ; and she busied herself in putting away the 
 books. Madeline ran to fetch the keys ; the fire was stirred ; 
 the candles were placed upon the table ; the urn was brought 
 in ; and in a few minutes they were all seated around it, and 
 school was again the subject of discussion. A merry one, how- 
 ever, for the children tried to forget the expected dulness of bed- 
 time, and their mamma was appealed to with questions about 
 her own school-days — questions which would always have 
 been interesting, but now seemed really of consequence. Bed- 
 time came at last, earlier than usual ; for the same reason which 
 Lady Catharine had given to Alice, there was a long journey in 
 prospect the next day. 
 
 ' They shall read to me to-night, I think,' said Mr Clifford 
 to his wife, as the clock struck eight. ' There is no very great 
 hurry, and it is the last night.' 
 
 Ruth had a most uncomfortable feeling in her throat, and 
 Madeline's tears broke out afresh. ' Did you read at school, 
 mamma ? ' she said in a broken voice. 
 
 ' Yes, but alone in my own room, after we had prayers down- 
 stairs.' 
 
 Ruth brought the book, but it was very difficult to find the 
 place ; something seemed to come across her eyes and blind 
 them. She turned over the pages quickly. 'It is the 119th 
 Psalm to-night, papa,' she said, as her father took the prayer- 
 book from her. 
 
 ' Suppose I were to read for you just this once.' The children 
 drew near, an arm was thrown round each little waist, and their 
 mamma turned aside from the light, and cried quietly. Ruth 
 looked round, wishing her to come to the table, but j\Ir Clifford 
 made a sign that she was not to be disturbed, and immediately 
 began reading. There were but a few verses ; short and very 
 simple : telling of the blessedness of those that are ' undefilcd 
 in their way, and walk in the law of the Lord ; ' those that 
 ' keep His testimonies, and seek Him with their whole heart.' 
 A wish there was also, that God would direct the ways of His 
 ser\'ants, and enable them to keep His statutes ; and the promise 
 of the thankfulness of * an unfeigned heart,' when 'the judgments 
 of His righteousness ' should have been fully learned. Mr Clif- 
 ford read the words slowly, and as he carcc to the end he said, 
 ' The next portion too is beautiful ; we may all learn somethingf
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 159 
 
 from it to-night. It tells us how young men and the aged, how 
 parents and liulc children, may cleanse their ways, and walk 
 according to the law of their God.' Ruth and Madeline listened 
 to their father's voice, and felt that it had seldom before sounded 
 so solemn. '■ " My delight shall be in thy statutes, and I will not 
 forget thy word ; " ' he repeated a second time, when the addi- 
 tional portion of the psalm was ended. ' That was the declara- 
 tion of a wise and good man, and his blessedness also.' 
 
 ' Do statutes mean laws 1 ' asked Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; and it shows how good the person who wrote the 
 psalm must have been, that he could venture to promise to the 
 All-seeing God that he would take a delight in His laws. Gener- 
 ally speaking, persons do not take a delight in God's laws — 
 they find them troublesome.' 
 
 ' Do you take a delight in them, papa .'* ' said Madeline. 
 
 ' I hope I do, in a degree, my love ; though not at all as I 
 ought ; but I should be very miserable without them.' 
 
 ' Do you think we shall, some day ? ' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, indeed, I do : it is my greatest comfort when I think 
 upon what your future life may be.' 
 
 ' But what good will it do you, papa .'' ' said Madeline. 
 
 * It will prove to me that you are in God's favour, the chil- 
 dren of His love, and so I shall not be afraid of anything that 
 may happen to you.' 
 
 Madeline sighed. ' It is very hard to be good, now,' sh'2 
 said. 
 
 ' And not at all pleasant, sometimes,' continued Mr Clifford. 
 * But the doing must come first, and the pleasure will be certain 
 to follow.' 
 
 * Now, whilst we are children,' inciuired Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, if you are really in earnest. Even children can under- 
 stand what a blessing it is to have a being to love them who is 
 so powerful, that He made them as well as all the world ; and 
 to have a friend in God's blessed Son, who, by His death, has 
 redeemed them and all mankind from the punishment of sin, 
 and promised them great happiness in heaven : and even chil- 
 dren, when they wish to be good, can feel what a help it is to 
 know that they have some one always near, God the Holy 
 Ghost, to sanctify or make them holy.' 
 
 * Who sanctifieth me and all the elect people of God,' re- 
 peated INIadeline, for the words seemed to come quite naturally. 
 
 ' Ah ! if you could but remember that, my dear child/ said
 
 i6o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Mrs Cliftbrd, approacliiiit; the table. ' If you could learn to 
 think of it now ! ' 
 
 * You would not mind our going to school, mamma,' whis- 
 pered Ruth. 
 
 ' Mind it — I should, because it would still be parting frcn 
 you ; but it would not be the same sort of minding.' 
 
 ' It must not be so now,' said Mr Clifford ; ' we must none of 
 us doubt, and think that God will forget those whom He has 
 elected or chosen to be His.' 
 
 * Oh ! papa ; how do we know ? ' and Ruth looked up in 
 surprise. 
 
 ' You forget the outward mark, Ruth.' 
 
 * Our baptism,' said Ruth, blushing. 
 
 ' Yes, that is the sign of our being chosen, of our being num- 
 bered amongst God's elect now.' 
 
 ' But hereafter ' — began Mrs Clifford — she could not finish 
 the sentence. Her husband looked at her tenderly. 
 
 ' We will trust for the hereafter,' he said, ' to Him who has so 
 blessed us at the present. He who took our darlings to be His 
 own, when we offered them to Him at their baptism, will surely, 
 if we all pray to Him, sanctify their hearts and guard them from 
 sin, whatever temptations may assail them.' 
 
 ' But if we are chosen, there is no fear,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' The Israelites w-ere chosen,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' they are 
 constantly called God's chosen people ; yet of all those who 
 were taken from bondage in Egypt, and who passed through 
 the Red Sea, which is the type or figure of Christian bap- 
 tism, but only a very few, we know, entered the promised 
 land.' 
 
 ' The others died,' said Ruth, in a serious voice. Though 
 she had read the account so often, it seemed as if she had never 
 thought much of it before. 
 
 ' Yes, in the wilderness,' replied her father, * and their history 
 is written for our example. Yet the fact of having been chosen 
 is a cause for great thankfulness ; it gives us hope, and espe- 
 cially when we have reason to believe that the Holy Spirit is 
 really sanctifying or making us holy, that v/e are obtaining the 
 victory over our sinful tempers.' 
 
 ' If we are not,' began Ruth. 
 
 * If we are not, there is great cause for fear. It is as if the 
 child of a great prince were to despise his blessings, and ne- 
 glect his duties, and, leaving his father's home, were to dwell
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. i6i 
 
 amongst persons who were ignorant and vile, till at length he 
 became like them.' 
 
 ' But we are not princesses/ said Madeline. 
 
 ' Not on earth, not to the eyes of men, but we are something 
 far greater — we have been numbered amongst the elect people 
 of God ; and if we continue steadfast to the end, there is a 
 crown awaiting us in heaven, so bright and so lasting, that the 
 first of earthly monarchs might well give up all for its possession.' 
 
 ' They think you are speaking from fancy,' said Mrs Clifford. 
 
 ' Nay,' replied her husband, and a smile of happiness and 
 hope passed over his features, ' I am speaking really — of that 
 which I believe and know — for it is written in the Word of 
 God. And even now, if their eyes were opened, and they 
 could see all that is really passing around them, they would 
 surely find themselves walking in the midst of angels and in 
 the presence of God, and guarded and loved with a love as 
 much greater than yours and mine as the God of heaven is 
 superior to a sinful human being. They are God's children,' 
 he continued, ' and whilst they remember this they are safe.' 
 
 * Ah ! whilst they remember,' repeated Mrs Clifford, anxiously. 
 
 Her husband smiled cheerfully, una as he kissed his little 
 girls, and pressed them fondly to his heart, he said, ' Yes, to 
 learn to remember is for us all the great business of life.' The 
 children lingered still, but the conversation was ended, and they 
 were obliged to go. ^Vhat had been said, however, was not 
 forgotten, for as they laid their heads upon their pillow, Ruth 
 said to Madeline, ' We will try and remember, Madeline — 
 won't we ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IS there any time in the year more pleasant than a bright 
 morning in early autumn, when the air is soft, yet bracing, 
 and the leaves are only just beginning to change, and white 
 clouds flit rapidly across a blue sky, and as vv'e wake from our 
 comfortable sleep with a feeling of health, and open our window 
 to look out upon the beauty which God has spread out for our 
 enjoyment, our minds, as well as our bodies, seem strengthened, 
 and we are able to look forward without fear to the business <^r 
 the trial of the day ? Madeline and her sister could not have 
 
 I.
 
 •oz 
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 told why it was that lca\inL,r home seemed so much less sad the 
 next morning, but they felt that it was so. They had thoughts 
 of cheerfulness rather than of melancholy, when Martha called 
 them and told them to dress quickly, that they might be in 
 time for the coach ; and the sight of their trunks and baskets, 
 and all the preparations for their journey, was rather a pleasure 
 than not. They dwelt less upon the home they were to leave 
 than u])on the new places they were about to visit. ' I don't 
 care about going in the coach to Cottington,' said Madeline, 
 who, according to her usual custom, stood wasting her time at 
 the window, ' but what I shall like will be the railroad.' 
 
 'And London,' added Ruth, 'beautiful London ; and all the 
 shops. Mamma says we shall be tv/o hours there before we 
 have to go to Mrs Carter's.' 
 
 ' It is so odd about Alice,' said Madeline ; ' I can't think 
 why she doesn't go with us. It seems, someliow, as if she w^as 
 a prisoner, doesn't it t ' 
 
 ' It does not signify what she seems like now,' replied 
 Ruth ; ' we have no time for thinking about her. If you stand 
 dawdling in that way, Madeline, you v.-ill be too late. 
 
 ' Too late ! ' repeated Madeline, slowly. .She stopped to 
 consider for an instant, and then, as if the words had given 
 her a new power of exerting herself, began to dress quickly. 
 
 Mrs Clifford came in to help tliem. Martha corded the 
 boxes, the gardener v.-as called in to carry them down-stairs, 
 and then the two children were told to go to breakfast. It was 
 quite a grand breakfast for them — cold meat, and eggs, and dry 
 toast — and they might eat v>'hat they liked ; but, on this first 
 day of their having such a permission, their appetites were 
 gone ; they wanted nothing. Dressing had made them feel 
 differently. They had a very unpleasant sensation at their 
 hearts, and when Mr Clifford said that he fancied he heard the 
 coach, Ruth felt as if she should be choked. There might have 
 been some cause for this in the alteration in their mamma's 
 countenance, for Mrs Clifford was pale, and there was a dark, 
 heavy shade around her eyes, as if she had not slept well. 
 There was a quivering, too, every now and then, about her 
 lips ; and Avhen she tried to cut some bread and butter, her 
 hand shook. Every one seemed unhappy, except, perhaps, Mr 
 Clifford. He appeared more cheerful than usual ; but, when lie 
 had said something to make the cliikhcn laugh, he would leave 
 off suddenly, and put down his knife and fork, and walk av.'ay
 
 LANETOM PARSONAGE. 163 
 
 (0 the window. That was \'cry unlike liis usual manner, cer- 
 tainly, but Ruth tliought that he might be trying to become 
 grave again. 
 
 * The coach, sir,' said Martha, opening the door, 
 
 Mr Clifford rose immediately : ' Come, my loves, there is no 
 time to lose ; if you want anything more, you must take a 
 biscuit with you.' 
 
 * I have quite finished, papa,' said Madeline, struggling in 
 vain to retain her tears. Ruth pushed her [jlate away, but sat 
 still, gazing fixedly before her. 
 
 ' Ruth — my dear child — pray — indeed, you must be quick,' 
 exclaimed Mrs Clifford. 
 
 At the sound of her mamma's voice Ruth started. * Yes, I 
 
 know — Madeline, shall I bring ' but before the sentence 
 
 was finished, Ruth burst into tears, and throwing her arms 
 round her neck, sobbed aloud. Mrs Chfford felt it was no time 
 for giving way to grief, and gently disengaging herself, she 
 said — 
 
 * This is not like you, my own Ruth ; I thought we were all 
 to try to show self-command ? ' 
 
 Ruth's pride was touched; she made a great effort to subdue 
 her distress, and, without venturing again to speak, ran to 
 fetch her bonnet. Madeline went with her, and the first burst 
 of sorrow was checked by the necessary parting instructions as 
 to the boxes and the frocks, and the parcel to be given to Mrs 
 Carter, and, above all, by the injunctions to write often, and 
 say everything that came into their heads. The coachman 
 was looking impatient, and muttering a prophecy that they 
 should be too late for the train. ' Once more, dear, dear 
 mamma,' said Ruth, and she held up her f^ce for the last kiss. 
 l\Iadeline held her mother's hand so tight that it became almost 
 pain. 
 
 ' We will think of the day after to-morrov/,' said Mr Clifford, 
 as he hurried the children into the coach, and then returned to 
 to take his own farewell. Mrs Clifford did not try to say good- 
 bye ; her eyes were dimmed with tears, but she stood at the 
 door, and gazed at the two little faces which peeped from the 
 window, and, when the corner of the village street was turned, 
 she still strained her sight to catch a glimpse of the heavily- 
 laden coach, as it slowly wound its way up the steep hill of 
 Laneton. At length, however, even that distant view was 
 denied her, and she v.as compelled to return to her ordinary/
 
 1 64 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 duties, with a heavy heart, but with full trust that God had 
 heard her prayers, and would guard her husband and her 
 children from all evil. 
 
 The day closed in drearily, the sky became overcast with 
 clouds, the wind moaned amongst the trees, and from time to 
 time drifted to the ground the few faded leaves which already 
 began to give warning of the coming winter. It was an autumn 
 c\cning ; always rather mournful, but in some places more so 
 than in others. In London and its neighbourhood, many 
 things unite to make it particularly dull to strangers, who have 
 no old friends and cheerful firesides to welcome them. Mrs 
 Carter's school-room might have been thought dull by many. 
 It looked out into a garden, a large one for London, or rather 
 for the environs of London. There was a smooth piece of 
 turf in front of the window, marked by many brown patches 
 amongst a few of green, which had lately sprung up by the 
 help of a refreshing rain. A fine beech-tree grew in the centre, 
 around which was nailed a boarded seat ; and some trim 
 flower-beds, with a tolerably fair show of dahlias and chr)^san- 
 ihemums, bordered the neat gravel walks. It was a very 
 pretty garden for London, and a very pleasant play-ground for 
 Mrs Carter's school ; and the little troop of girls, who were 
 amusing themselves in it for the spare half hour before tea, 
 cared nothing for the cloudy sky, or the moaning wind, and 
 had no thought to give to the brown turf. Their own homes 
 might be prettier, but they were verj' happy v/here they were ; 
 and what with the occupation of learning, and the pleasure of 
 playing, there was but little time left for regrets. School to 
 them was not at all an unhappy place, but a child, situated like 
 Alice Lennox, who looked for the first time upon the high walls, 
 the roofs of the surrounding houses, and the dusky sky with 
 the streaks of orange and red, shining dingily through the 
 smoke of London, would probably ha\e been filled with melan- 
 choly thoughts, and have found little to please in the tree, the 
 walk, or the flower-beds, or even in the voices of laughter which 
 from time to time rang merrily in the air. Alice had passed a 
 day of fatigue and annoyance, travelling the greater part of the 
 time in Lady Catharine's chariot, without speaking or being 
 spoken to ; and (except when the horses were changed^ stop- 
 ping only once, for about a couple of hours, at the house of a 
 lady whom Lady Catharine was desirous of seeing. The early 
 part of the journey was agreeable enough ; for Alice, like
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. i6^ 
 
 Madeline and Ruth, felt the enjoyment of the lovely weather, 
 and found an interest in the country and th.e towns through 
 which she passed, which is denied to a traveller on a railroad ; 
 but she could not forget that she was seated by Lady 
 Catharine's side, and tliat she was going to school because she 
 had not behaved well at home. Where the school was to be, 
 even then Alice did not know. She had asked Marsham, but 
 had obtained no answer ; and though a hope lingered in her 
 mind that it might be Mrs Carter's, and that she might again 
 meet Madeline and Ruth, there was also a fear that it might be 
 in some distant place, far away from all she loved, where she 
 should be kept with strictness, or even severity. This seemed 
 to her the most natural idea, for if she was really going to Mrs 
 Carter's, why was she not told at once .'' Half her fear would 
 be over then, and she did not believe that Lady Catharine 
 wished to torment her. If any comfort were to be had from 
 knowing where her future residence was to be, she thought that 
 she should have been told long before. Alice did not know 
 that this silence was part of Lady Catharine's punishment. 
 It was considered right that her going to school should be 
 made as serious a thing as possible, in order to produce a due 
 eflect on her mind. Lady Catharine judged rightly, that when 
 Alice knew she was to be in Mrs Carter's house, and to have 
 Madeline and Ruth for her companions, the change, instead of 
 being a punishment, would almost appear a pleasure. For this 
 reason it was that the journey was silent and gloomy. Lady 
 Catharine told the names of the towns, and once or twice pointed 
 out some particular places, a gentleman's house, or a spot cele- 
 brated in history, but she said scarcely anything besides ; and 
 Avhen they rested in the middle of the day, Alice spent the two 
 hours by herself, with no employment but that of eating her 
 luncheon, whilst Lady Catharine and her friend were engaged in 
 conversation. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when 
 they again resumed their journey, through rather a pretty 
 country ; and Alice, pleased at having something more to amuse 
 her, felt her spirits rise in consequence. After all, she might be 
 going to Mrs Carter's ; and at the thought her curiosity rose to 
 such a pitch, that she actually turned round to ask the question. 
 But she could not put it into words ; there was that in Lady 
 Catharine's face which repelled her. She was reading also, and 
 it would be against her especial order to interrupt her ; so Alice 
 ODC-r more looked out for the milestones, which were her greatest
 
 1 66 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 comfort, as they told her that she was at least on the road to 
 London, and thus gave her the greatest probability of being 
 finally deposited at the wished-for door. By degrees the beauty 
 of the day passed off, and the loveliness of the country seemed 
 to be passing also. There were more houses — regular rows, 
 with straight bits of garden, consisting of a strip of turf, and a 
 narrow border of flowers, and a line of pavement leading up to 
 each door. Occasionally a large red brick mansion, surrounded 
 by a very high wall, stood back in melancholy grandeur from the 
 road, apparently too proud to associate with its neighbours. Then 
 came an inn, with the sign of the Black Horse, or the Blue Boar, 
 or the Golden Lion, and a long list of all the conveniences which 
 might be obtained by any one who chose to stop there. To this, 
 perhaps, succeeded an open space — a village green, as it had 
 once been called ; the grass worn away by the hundreds of foot- 
 steps which were daily in the habit of crossing it ; and a few 
 posts and railings, showing that there was a desire on the part 
 of the neighbourhood to protect it, if possible, from further in- 
 jury. Now and then, too, it seemed as if they had reached a 
 regular town, for there were paved streets, and good shops, and 
 a certain appearance of bustle ; but after passing two or three 
 of these places, Alice did not again find herself in the country ; 
 rather the rows of houses were more frequent, the gardens 
 smaller, and the village greens more rare ; till at length the 
 open country was quite gone, and dingy dwellings, and dust- 
 covered trees, met her eye the whole length of the road. * It 
 must be London,' thought Alice, but it was not the London she 
 had fancied ; it was not so grand. A few minutes afterwards, a 
 heavy, rumbling sound was heard, louder than the noise of the 
 carriage, louder even than that of the stage-coach, which Alice 
 had daily heard as it passed through the village of Laneton. 
 She put her head as far as she dared out of the window, and 
 saw rapidly approaching, a huge, unwieldy vehicle, neither like 
 a coach, nor a carriage, nor a cart, nor anything that she had 
 ever seen before, except perhaps the Cottington van. It was 
 long and narrow, of a bright yellow colour, with ' Victoria,' 
 painted in large letters upon the outside. There were several 
 narrow windows down the side, and as it drew near Alice per- 
 ceived that it was filled with people. On the outside also there 
 were some passengers, and the driver's narrow seat was half- 
 occupied by a dirty-loolving man, smoking a cigar, v/hilst on the 
 step behind stood another man, holding on by a str;ip, and
 
 LANETGN PARSONAGE. 167 
 
 makivig signs to llie peojilc, and calling out to them as he passed 
 along. Alice felt frightened as it drew near, especially when 
 she saw two others behind, and se\eral smaller carriages, some 
 like gigs with heads to them, and others like little flys and 
 chariots crowding up the road, 
 
 ' That is an omnibus, Alice,' said Lady Catharine as the 
 yellow van rolled by them ; ' and now we are near London.' 
 
 Alice felt her heart throb ^vith pleasure, but she merely said, 
 ' Is it.? ' And then her head was again thrust out of the window, 
 to watch everything that went by. There was much to amuse, 
 for the number of carriages and people increased. Alice felt 
 more than ever an anxiety to know where she was going. If all 
 these things were to be seen from Mrs Carter's house, or from 
 any house, it could not be dull. Lady Catharine's eye was upon 
 her ; she was watching her attentively ; but she did not allow 
 Alice to perceive it ; and the same silence was observed as 
 before. 
 
 ' Are we in London, now ? ' Alice ventured at length to ask. 
 
 ' No, we are not going there.' 
 
 Alice was grievously disappointed, yet a little consideration 
 gave her fresh hope. Mrs Carter's house was not in London. 
 only near it. The carriage advanced, but more slowly. The 
 postilion looked about him, apparently uncertain how to proceed, 
 and twice he turned quite round. Lady Catharine laid her hand 
 upon the check-string ready to give her orders. A house standing 
 back from the road was seen on the left-hand side. It was of red 
 brick, and rather large, with stone facings to the windows, and 
 more ornamented than modern houses. There were some trees 
 at the back and at the sides, and a gravel sweep in front, en- 
 tered by two gates, and altogether it was a very respectable- 
 looking place : rather sombre, but still with a considerable air 
 of comfort about it. At the first gate the check-string was 
 pulled, the carriage stopped, the footman dismounted, and in 
 another instant they drove up to the door of the red house. 
 Alice's colour went and came, and her lieart beat rapidK'. 
 The loud pealing bell and the thundering knock were 
 answered by a staid, neat-looking woman, who, without wait- 
 ing for any inquiries, drew back for Lady Catharine to enter ; 
 she then called to a fellow-servant to assist in unpacking the 
 carriage, and led the way herself up a short flight of steps, and 
 opening a door at the end of a broad passage, which might 
 have been termed a lobby, showed a small study, nicely fur^
 
 1 68 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 nished, and provided with a bright fire and plenty of books, 
 where she bogged that the ladies would rest themselves, whilst 
 she went to inform her mistress of their arrival. Alice seated 
 herself directly, but Lady Catharine, contraiy to her usual mood, 
 was restless, and paced the room with uneven steps. ' Is this 
 i\Irs Carter's.'" was the question which again rose to Alice's 
 lips, but again also it was checked. Her awe of Lady Catha- 
 rine had within the last few liours become almost dread. The 
 books before her might perhaps give her some information, and 
 whilst Lady Catharine stood at the window^ from which fiothing 
 was to be seen but a back court, Ahce ventured to take one in 
 her hand, hoping to see a name in it. She had not opened it 
 when a footstep was heard, and as Alice replaced the loook on 
 the table. Lady Catharine Hyde stepped forward to greet the 
 lady who entered the apartment. She was a tall, elderly per- 
 son, with a countenance which in her youth it was easy to be- 
 lieve might have been decidedly handsome ; for there was still 
 something more than commonly pleasing in her very benevolent 
 mouth, finely formed nose, and bright good-natured eye. Her 
 forehead was high, and across it her hair was simply braided. 
 She wore a dark silk dress, made not unfashionably, yet witli a 
 certain peculiarity from its extreme neatness, which, added to 
 her plain cap, and handsome drab-coloured shawl, made her 
 appear rather unlike other persons. Yet Alice felt directly that 
 she was not as awful as Lady Catharine. A few words of greet- 
 ing were interchanged, and the lady kissed Alice, and called her 
 by her name, as if well acquainted with her. Alice listened 
 eagerly to hear hers in return, but it was not mentioned : the 
 conversation turned upon the w^eather, and the journey ; and, 
 after a short time. Lady Catharine begged that she might have 
 a private conversation. ' Perhaps Alice \s\\\ like to go to 
 her companions,' she added. Alice thought she should like it, 
 and the lady told her to follow her. They passed through a 
 high, dark passage, at the end of which was an ante-room, con- 
 taining some book-cases, and desks, and benches covered with 
 green baize ; and within this was another larger room, furnished 
 much in the same style, and with windows opening upon the 
 garden already described. 
 
 ' This is the school-room, Alice,' said the lady. ' I hope 
 you will soon be cjuite at home here.' Alice was going to reply, 
 when the same servant who had opened the door came into the 
 room, and begged to speak to her mistress. The lady turned
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 169 
 
 to Alice : * Will you wait one moment for mc, my dear ? I shall 
 be with you again immediately, I hope.' 
 
 Alice could not object, and she was left alone. The window 
 at first afforded her sufficient amusement. Twelve girls of dif- 
 ferent ages, varying from ten to fifteen, were grouped in different 
 parts of the garden ; some strolling about arm in arm ; others 
 running along the walk at play ; a few, with spades and rakes, 
 gardening ; and one, with a book in her hand, apparently 
 learning her lesson. They were Alice's future companions, and 
 she gazed upon them with an interest unlike that which she 
 had ever felt for any other girls. But they were strangers, 
 they did not know or care for her, and, perhaps, when they had 
 heard her story, and were told that she was sent to school in 
 disgrace, they might despise her. Alice was angry with them 
 at the very idea, and her interest turned to indignation, and 
 then into sorrow. She was so lonely, so very lonely ; she 
 despaired of seeing Madeline and Ruth ; she was sure the 
 strange lady was not Mrs Carter ; the room was gloomy, the 
 garden without beauty and, if she was never to see anytiiing 
 beyond, she might as well be kept in prison. Her heart be- 
 came very heavy, and her memoiy wandered back to the white 
 house, and the happy hours she had spent there with her dear 
 mamma. If she were living it would have been different ; no 
 one then could have behaved harshly to her, and sent her to 
 school against her will ; and there would have been some one to 
 love her, which she tried to believe Lady Catharine did not. 
 Alice tried to believe it, but she did not do so really. All the 
 kindness — even fondness — -which had been shown her before 
 her disobedience was discovered, proved the contrary. Desolate 
 and unhappy though she was, and angry with every one about 
 her, Alice knew that the cause of all lay in herself; she had not 
 used her advantages properly, and now they were taken froni 
 her ; and who was to blame ? The trial of self-reproach is 
 very hard to bear, and though Alice did not condemn herself 
 as others might have done, she yet had nothing to look back 
 upon with comfort when she remembered the steps by which 
 she had brought herself into her present position. The first 
 little wish, the first yielding to a slight temptation, the con- 
 tinued deceit, and then the falsehood — that was the shame. If 
 Lady Catharine had told, her character was marked. Perhaps 
 the children in the garden knew it ; perhaps they saw her, and 
 did not wish to speak to her. If they did not observe her»
 
 no LANETON PARSONAGE 
 
 Alice iiii;;lit have recollected that there was One wfto did ; and 
 she might have wondered how it was that the idea of the con- 
 tempt of a fellow-creature should be so much more dreadful to 
 bear than the certainty of the wrath of God. Alice did not ciy, 
 she was too proud ; she did not choose that any one should 
 obscn'e how wretched she w^as ; but she pushed her chair back 
 from the window, so that she might not be seen, and, fixing her 
 CN'es upon the opposite wall, which was hung with large maps, 
 awaited the return of the lady whom she rightly supposed was 
 to be her future governess. The waiting was longer than she 
 had expected ; it v/as growing dusk, and she heard the children 
 in the garden declare that they must go in. Alice dreaded 
 their approach ; she could not think what she should say to 
 them. They did not, however, run in suddenly through the 
 window, as she had feared, but, one by one, disappeared 
 through a door, and directly afterwards she heard their cheerful 
 voices as they went up-stairs to take off their bonnets. The 
 time became now very long, for every one appeared to have 
 forgotten her. She had heard a knock and ring at the front 
 door, and there had been a little movement in a distant part of 
 the house. Could Lady Catharine be departing without saying 
 good-bye ? It would be too cruel. Alice even thought she 
 must go and see ; but she did not know her way, and the dark- 
 ness was increasing, and perhaps she should meet some one — a 
 servant or one of the girls. No, it was better to remain patiently 
 where she was, however uncomfortable she might be. There 
 was a sound of laughter outside the room ; they were coming 
 certainly — the strange girls. Alice shrank back into her corner, 
 and, a few moments afterwards, a little troop of them entered. 
 They did not notice her ; and, to her consternation, some of 
 them began talking about her, wondering what she was like, 
 what class she would be put into, and whether she would be as 
 nice a girl as one who was just gone. ' No, no,' was the 
 general exclamation ; ' she can't be that — no one can be like 
 Adelaide.' 
 
 ' I shan't care about her,' said one. 
 
 * I don't think I shall much fancy her,' said another. 
 
 ' 1 don't think Alices are ever good for much,' said a third ; 
 ' there was Alice Horner — what a tease she was ! ' 
 
 Alice Lennox felt ready to sink to the ground as she listened. 
 She did not see that they were speaking without thought, from 
 a mere prejudice ; and her conscience whispered that, if they
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 171 
 
 did not expect to like licr, tliey must have quite sufficient cause. 
 * Dawson, where is Dawson ? why does not she bring candles ?' 
 suggested one more steady than the rest. The mention of 
 candles recalled the wandering attention of all, and immediately 
 there commenced a discussion of the different lessons ; what 
 had been done, and what remained to do, and whether it was 
 worth while to begin anything before tea. Alice thought she 
 heard the name of Mrs Carter ; but the hubbub of voices pre- 
 vented her from clearly distinguishing. ' Come, young ladies, 
 the table must be cleared,' exclaimed a rather authoritative 
 voice ; and the same sombre-looking person, whom Alice had 
 before seen, appeared with a tray, on which were placed four 
 candles. The sudden light discovered the unsuspected inmate 
 of the room ; and, with a look of confusion, all stood motion- 
 less and silent. Alice did not dare advance ; she believed that 
 the girls looked upon her with contempt ; and they, on their 
 l^art, felt shocked at the observations which must have been 
 overheard ; they did not venture to be civil, and the pause 
 which ensued was most awkward ; so awkward that Alice could 
 not bear it, and burst into tears. ' What shall we do ? pra\i 
 speak — say something ; we are veiy sorry,' was whispered 
 around. ' Hush ! hark ! Mrs Carter is coming,' said a lady- 
 like, dark-haired girl, the eldest of the party. They iurned to 
 the door with a feeling of great relief : Mrs Carter was the only 
 person who could help them out of their difficulty. The dark- 
 haired girl advanced to meet her, but drew back ; Mrs Carter 
 entered the room, but not alone. Lady Catharine Hyde pre- 
 ceded her, and behind her came a gentleman and two little girls. 
 Alice sav/ them, and sprang forwards : ' Madeline !' ' Ruth !' 
 ' Alice !' were the mutual exclamations ; and in the delight of 
 the meeting the dread of strangers was unfelt. ' It is Mrs 
 Carter's school, Alice,' said Lady Catharine, in a tone of the 
 deepest tenderness. ' God grant you may be good and happy 
 here ! ' Alice's spirit was subdued ; she was too satisfied at 
 finding her doubts relieved to be proud, and looking up into 
 Lady Catharine's face, whilst she pointed to the girls who were 
 standing round the table, she said, in a low voice, * Don't they 
 all know about it .'" 
 
 ' No one knows, my love,' replied Lady Catharine, drawing 
 her aside, ' except Mrs Carter : you have a new life before you, 
 Alice ; shall it be like the past .-^ ' Alice's voice failed her as 
 she strove to answer : but the heartiness with whicJi she re-
 
 172 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 turned Lady Catharine's kiss showed how sincerely, at that 
 mcment, she desired to amend. 
 
 ' They will be friends soon/ said Mrs Carter, kindly, ob- 
 serving the shy glances which passed on both sides between the 
 new acquaintances. The dark-haired girl once more ventured 
 to approach, and taking Alice's hand, she said — ' It was so 
 foolish just now, we did not know you were there ; I hope you 
 don't think we meant it.' Alice's shyness had vanished in the 
 presence of her former playfellows ; and, though still retaining 
 some doubts, her smile proved that she did not mean to be un- 
 forgiving : she looked round for Ruth and Madeline, feeling 
 that from having arrived first she had a sort of right to intro- 
 duce them. They were standing by their papa, grasping his 
 hands, as if afraid he would escape. ' J\Iy darlings, I must 
 go,' he v.hispered. 
 
 * Not yet, surely, not yet,' said Mrs Carter, overhearing the 
 last words ; ' tea is just ready.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it cannot be ; and Lady Catharine has kindly 
 offered to take me back to town in her carriage.' 
 
 Mrs Carter looked disappointed, and said that she had cal- 
 culated upon their company for the whole evening. Madeline's 
 eyes were raised with an eager petition of entreaty, but Ruth 
 could not look up. The sorrow, which the amusement of 
 the journey had diverted, was gathered together for the parting 
 hour. Mr Clifford stooped to kiss them, and bless them with 
 a fathers blessing. What he said was short and simple, but 
 the thoughts which were in his heart were deep and unutter- 
 able. He was leaving his children weak, sinful, and ignorant ; 
 what had he not to fear ? but he was leaving also ' the mem- 
 bers of Christ, the children of God, the inheritors of the king- 
 dom of heaven ; ' wherefore should he not trust ? 
 
 ' It will be Christmas soon, papa, won't it ? ' said IMadeline. 
 Mr Clifford assured her that the time would pass more rapidly 
 than she could at all imagine. ' And that will be a happy 
 meeting for us all, we hope,' observed Lady Catharine, as she 
 approached with Alice. Mr Clifford held out his hand to Alice, 
 and said a few affectionate words, which satisfied her completely. 
 He had never looked or spoken thus since the day of his unsuc- 
 cessful conversation, and she felt now that he had forgiven her. 
 
 ' To-morrow, even, will be a happier day than this,' said Mis 
 Carter, as she obseiTed the distress which Mr Clifford could not 
 entirely conceal.
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 173 
 
 * Worse for me,' he replied, half laughing : ' but I have no 
 fears for them. And now, good-bye.' He withdrew his hand 
 forcibly from Ruth's, once more pressed his lips to his children's 
 foreheads, and, not daring to ti'ust himself with another look, 
 hastened from the room. 
 
 Lady Catharine saw that the dreaded moment of separation 
 was come. ' My own Alice ! my precious child ! ' she said, ' 1 
 must not stay.' 
 
 It was all but a mother's affection which spoke, and Alice 
 felt how truly Lady Catharine was her friend. There was a 
 bitter pang of self-reproach in her heart, as she whispered, 
 ' Can you forgive it all ? ' 
 
 ' Forgive ! fully, entirely, as if it had never been,' was tl:e 
 reply ; ' only let me hear that you are trying to do right.' 
 Alice threw her arms around Lady Catharine's neck, received 
 one long kiss, and they parted. 
 
 Mrs Carter followed Lady Catharine and Mr Clifford. The 
 door was closed, and three children were left to the society of 
 their new friends, and the commencement of tlieir school hfe. 
 
 PART 11, 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 A SUNDAY in London and at school ! It has not a very cheer- 
 ful sound. Sunday seems a day especially meant for home, 
 and pleasant country walks, and churches v.'here there are as 
 many poor people as rich. We should not like to see the shops 
 open and business going on, but still it is rather dull to look upon 
 closed windows ; and when persons dri\e by in their carriages 
 we are apt to say that they had better gi\e rest to their horses 
 and servants ; and if the streets are silent, we think that it is 
 gloomy and unnatural. So at least it is to persons who have 
 not been much in London. Sunday makes them long for the 
 country more than any other day ; but after a time, if God has 
 so ordered it that we should li\ e there, our feelings become very
 
 174 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 different ; then we see that wherever there are churches and 
 clergymen there also is a home ; and when we kneel down to 
 pray in the crowded congregations, it is as pleasant to think of 
 the hundreds and hundreds who are praying with us, using the 
 very same words in the churches close at hand, as it would be 
 to look through the window of a little countiy church into the 
 deep blue sky and be reminded that the holy angels perhaps 
 are leaving their glorious worlds to join with us, sinners though 
 we are, in worshipping and praising God. A holy and a thank- 
 ful heart can be holy and thankful everywhere. And so in the 
 difference between school and home. Habit, and a good, 
 obedient, cheerful temper, will enable us to find happiness 
 under all circumstances ; and when Ruth Clifford sat down to 
 her desk in the back school-room, one warm sunny afternoon, 
 after the morning service and an early dinner, the recollection 
 of home, instead of making her sad, only gave her a thrill of 
 joy as she thought how delightful it v/ould be, when the holi- 
 days came, to return there. 
 
 Ruth was altered since we last knew her ; she was nearly 
 three years older ; taller, therefore, less like a child in face and 
 figure ; less shy, and more inclined to give her opinion. Her 
 voice was still very quiet and her manner very gentle, but chil- 
 dren of her own age were a little afraid of her — that is, when 
 they had done anything wrong ; and girls older than herself 
 respected her, and allowed her to be with them, and even some- 
 times consulted her. Twins though they were, it was difficult 
 to believe that Ruth and Ivladeline were of the same age, and 
 still more difficult to believe that Alice was the eldest of the 
 three. Ruth sat by herself this afternoon, her head leaning 
 upon her hand, a copy-book before her, and a Rible with refer- 
 ences by her side. It was open at the twentieth chapter of 
 Exodus. She was going to find out all the passages in which 
 anything is said of the giving of the Ten Commandments to 
 tlie Israelites after they were brought out of Egypt, the land of 
 bondage. Ruth was fond of finding out texts, and especially 
 she liked writing them out neatly. Her copy-book was con- 
 sidered the pattern one of the school — no blots, no mistakes, 
 and the handwriting particularly free, and yet easily to be read. 
 Madeline had the same task, and Alice and one or two others 
 about their age. Madeline's desk was the opposite one to 
 Ruth's, but in the same set ; there were four together. The 
 sisters had never been separated since they first came to school,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 175 
 
 Once it was proposed tliat tlicy should be, but Madeline cried 
 and Ruth looked unhappy, and Mrs Carter did not insist upon 
 it. Now that they were thrown more into the world, the pre- 
 cious tie of sisterhood was become dearer to them than ever. 
 Madeline's reverence for Ruth had increased. This was very 
 natural when even the elder girls took notice of her, and thought 
 much of her cleverness and good conduct. Madeline's mind 
 was rather wandering this afternoon. It takes a long time to 
 cure a habit of inattention. She turned round on her stool 
 and put her hand upon the shoulder of Alice, who was seated 
 just behind her, and said — 
 
 ' Alice, do come and help me if you have finished.' 
 
 ' But I have not, I have a good many more to find,' replied 
 Alice, without looking up. 
 
 Madeline went to peep over Alice's shoulder. 
 
 ' Alice, I do think you have a good fit this afternoon.' 
 
 ' That 's more than you have, Maddy,' said a sharp voice. 
 
 Madeline laughed. The speaker was a keen, black-cycd, 
 shrewd girl, apparently older than Madeline, who was one of 
 the four occupants of Alice's set of desks. 
 
 ' What makes you work so hard, Alice.'" continued Madeline; 
 * we are not to show our books till the evening.' Alice still 
 went on. 'Then I must come to you, Clara;' and Madeline 
 went round to the other side. ' I want some one to tell me 
 how many verses we ha\e to write of this chapter.' 
 
 * You may find out that without peeping,' said Clara Man- 
 ners, closing her book. 
 
 Madeline seemed disconcerted. Just then a sigh was heard, 
 and Clara's nearest neighbour, a sickly, flaxen-haired little girl, 
 but with something old and melancholy in her face, said, in a 
 subdued voice, ' I would help you, Madeline, if I could, but I 
 can't do my own.' 
 
 'Can't you?' replied Madeline, good-naturedly. 'What is 
 tlic matter?' 
 
 She sat down on the half of the stool, Janet Harding moving 
 to make room for her. ' I am so slow in writing, Maddy, I 
 shall never have finished.' 
 
 ' Never ! that is a very long day; let me see' — and Madeline 
 took the pen from Janet's hand. 'How you jog !' exclaimed 
 (^lara, impatiently, and Alice raised her eyes as if disturbed ; 
 biit Madeline was too pleased to be helping any one out of a 
 difliculty to attend to tliem. She wrote all that Janet wished,
 
 176 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and assisted in finding out the other references, showing plainly 
 that her own question had been an idle one. 
 
 ' That is very kind/ said Janet, when Madeline laid down the 
 pen — * no one would have helped me except you.' 
 
 ' No one ! O Janet ! you will not say so when you have 
 been here longer.' 
 
 ' But I shall — do you know, Maddy, I think school is just 
 like the house of bondage that Mrs Carter was telHng us about 
 before she sent us in to write our texts.' 
 
 ' I ne\er, in my life, knew any one with such strange notions 
 as Janet Harding,' exclaimed Clara, pushing aside her copy- 
 book, and speaking so loudly as to attract general notice. 
 ' Ruth, what do you think she says ? She declares that school 
 is the house of bondage.' 
 
 ' Like it,' observed Janet, quickly ; ' and it ir; like it, is it not, 
 Ruth ? because we have such hard tasks.' 
 
 Ruth listened with rather an air of satisfaction, perhaps from 
 finding herself appealed to as an authority, and then answered 
 in her soft, sweet voice, that she did not think Mrs Carter in- 
 tended it to be a house of bondage, and that it was quite neces- 
 sary to do tasks, because if they did not, they should all be 
 ignorant when they grew up. 
 
 ' That is all very well for Ruth to say,' continued Janet, re- 
 turning to Madeline as her only hope of support, ' because she 
 is clever ; but, you know, I am not at all clever.' 
 
 ' O Janet ! how foolish ! why you can do just as well as 
 any of us when you tr>' ; you don't write as quickly, that is all.' 
 
 Janet put on a disconsolate air, and answered, ' I should like 
 to knov.' what a house of bondage is, if it is not school. My 
 aunt said, I should hate school, and I do.' 
 
 Just then the door opened, and several girls who had been 
 reading with Mrs Carter came in, and seating themselves at the 
 long table, began to talk over what they had been doing. This 
 interrupted the former conversation, and, for a time, heads were 
 again bent down, and pens busy. Silence at the desks was first 
 broken by Alice, who, pushing back her stool, and shutting her 
 copy-book, exclaimed triumphantly, ' There, I have done now; 
 I don't care what happens to any one.' 
 
 ' Kind — I must say,' observed Clara ; ' and what a pace you 
 must have Avrittcn at, Alice ! Why, you ha\e finished before 
 Ruth.' 
 
 ' Oh ! because Ruth is so slow and neat. I never could take
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 177 
 
 the trouble she does. Who would like a piece of cake r ' And 
 as she spoke, Alice lifted up the lid of her desk, and look out 
 half a plum-cake. A little party gathered round her, and a 
 good deal of laughing and talking went on, which made one or 
 two who were graver or more busy cry ' Hush !' and induced 
 even Ruth to look up from her occupation. 
 
 Madeline was still engaged with Janet Harding, asking her 
 the questions which Mrs Carter was likely to put when the 
 tasks were shown ; but she could not refrain from joining occa- 
 sionally in the merriment, and with the Bible before her, aiul 
 in the act of listening to very serious words, she did not hesi- 
 tate to talk, as she would have done under ordinary circum- 
 .«;tances. The mirth served only to increase Janet's melancholy, 
 and, in a reproachful tone, she said, ' You are all happy but me, 
 Madeline.' 
 
 ' Don't fret, Janet, dear ; you will be happy too, by and b\,' 
 was Madeline's answer, and then she stretched out her hand f(.ir 
 some more cake, and was as much amused as before. Janet 
 sighed, and said no more. 
 
 All this time Ruth had continued writing steadily, scarcely 
 raising her eyes, and only speaking when she was spoken to; 
 but now coming round to Madeline, she said, ' Cannot I help 
 Janet, and you go and finish your own texts, Maddy?' 
 
 Madeline coloured, for there was something of a reproof in 
 Ruth's tone. She left Janet, and sat down again to her own 
 desk. 
 
 ' Now, Janet, what is it .'' where are you 1^ asked Ruth. 
 
 Janet pointed to the place. There was a blot, just where 
 Madeline had left off writing, at which Ruth's neat eye was 
 offended. ' You should learn to write for yourself, Janet,' she 
 said, ' and then you might take care for yourself. How could 
 Madeline be so stupid !' 
 
 Janet was abashed ; her sorrowful eyes grew more sorrowful, 
 and a tear dropped upon the page of her book. 
 
 ' Out ! out ! all directly,' cried a merry young voice ; ' we 
 are to go into the garden for half an hour, and we'll have to 
 show our texts before tea, because Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard 
 don't like having them after evening service.' 
 
 ' Tiresome ! tormenting ! ' exclaimed Clara, Alice, and a few 
 others ; and little Jessie O'Neile was required to repeat the 
 order a second time. 
 
 • What made Mrs Carter say that, Jessie?' asked Clara. 
 
 M
 
 \78 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' 1 don't know ; but Miss Barnard declai-ed there had beca 
 plenty of time for the texts.' 
 
 ' Miss Barnard is — so,' said Clara, crossing her fingers. 
 
 Janet Harding gave a glance of astonishment, and Ruth said, 
 ' For shame !' but others, who were near, laughed. One of the 
 elder girls, however, came up, and, in an authoritative voice, 
 ordered the books to be put away. Madeline was the last to 
 obey. She was scribbling; not writing merely, but scribbling — - 
 as fast as her fingers could move, making great blunders and 
 not a few blots. 
 
 ' Dear Ruth ! ' she said, looking up piteously at her sister as 
 she was leaving the room. Ruth returned directly, but decided 
 that it was impossible to finish them. Mrs Carter would be 
 angry if they did not go out directly. 
 
 * What shall I do .'' Dear me ! there is another blot — do 
 some one give me a bit of blotting paper.' 
 
 Only one inmate of the room remained besides the sisters. 
 This was a very lady-like girl, apparently between fifteen and 
 sixteen years of age. Some may perhaps remember to have 
 heard of her before, when Alice made her first unhappy appear- 
 ance at Mrs Carter's, and one of the little party offered an 
 apology to her for the rest. Then Mary Vernon was the eldest 
 in the room ; now she was the eldest in the school, and the ob- 
 ject of respect, of admiration, and, to some, of envy. She was 
 an only child, the heiress of a large fortune, idolised by her 
 fallier, pelted by the aunt who supplied a inother's place to her, 
 and just about to leave school. Who could be happy if Mary 
 Vernon was not ? Madeline seldom came in Mary's way, and 
 considered her as a grown-up young lady, very far superior to 
 herself, but Ruth had lately become more intimate with her, for, 
 as was before said, Ruth was often admitted now to be with 
 those older than herself ; and frequently on a Saturday after 
 noon, when they sat together at work in diti'erent parties, whilst 
 one read aloud for the amusement of the rest, Ruth would leave 
 her own seat and beg to be allowed to stay with the ' old girls,' 
 as they were generally called, professing to like their grave books 
 mucli better than lighter ones. In many ways Mary had been 
 kind to Ruth — to whom indeed was she not kind ? — and seeing 
 now that both the sisters were uncomfortable, she went up to 
 ask wl'.at was the matter. Madeline pointed to her te.\t-book, 
 bcribbled and dirty, and most unfit for Mrs Carter^s inspection. 
 What was to be done ?
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 175 
 
 * Nothing,' so Mary and Ruth agreed — ' nothing but to go 
 out as quickly as possible, and when the books were shown to 
 own the truth without attempting an excuse.' 
 
 ' I never will help others, I declare,' exclaimed Madeline. 
 ' I always get into disgrace when I do.' 
 
 Something of an arch smile stole over Mary's face, as if she 
 could have given some good advice, but thought it better to 
 defer it. 
 
 ' Dear Maddy,' she said, in a compassionate voice, ' I wish 
 with all my heart I could help you.' 
 
 Madeline thanked her, but was not much comforted, and went 
 to prepare for going out. There was a raised, broad, gravel 
 walk, at the bottom of the garden — a favourite resort of the 
 elder girls. Here they ^valked up and down, especially on a 
 Sunday afternoon in spring or summer, when they went to 
 church in the evening and not in the afternoon ; and withcnit 
 any particular rule, it was generally understood that the younger 
 ones were not to go there unless they were invited. Ruth 
 paused when she reached the spot. She was only just begin- 
 ning to feel that her position in the school was becoming higher 
 — that she was not quite a child. 
 
 'Won't you come?' said Mary, kindly, and Ruth only hesi- 
 tated a moment to be certain that Madeline had a companion ; 
 and when she saw her occupied with Janet Harding, was but 
 too happy to be made one of the senior party. Alice and Clara 
 Manners had collected around them the same noisy set that 
 had been with them in the school-room ; and Madeline and 
 Janet were too much out of spirits to join them. Janet was 
 thinking of her home, which she had left but a few weeks before, 
 for the first time in her life, after having been indulged till her 
 naturally good disposition was much spoiled. Madeline had 
 before her a vision of the blotted text-book, and Mrs Carter's 
 grave look of displeasure, and her sister. Miss Barnard's severe 
 reprimand. 
 
 ' That Clara Manners should be called 111 Manners,' said 
 Janet. * I never saw any one so rude.' 
 
 Madeline agreed that she could not endure her. After two 
 years at school, Madeline was but little guarded in her remarks, 
 and professed her likings and dislikings as vehemently as 
 others. 
 
 ' How sh.e caught me up about the house of bondage ! ' con- 
 inued Janet. •
 
 l8o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * But, Janet,' said Madeline, ' jou do say very odd things 
 sometimes.' 
 
 ' That was not odd, that I can see. Mrs Carter told us 
 bondage meant slavery — being made to do hard things, and not 
 able to get away, and that is just what it is here.' 
 
 This was very true, yet Madeline remembered what her papa 
 had often taught her, that the house of bondage was a type or 
 figure of the evil condition in which all men are born ; when 
 being slaves to sin they have no prospect of ever reaching 
 heaven, the land of promise ; and she knew that for Christians 
 there is now no house of bondage, since they are delivered from 
 that state at their baptism, and for their Saviour's sake have 
 the hope of one day being perfectly happy, unless like the 
 Israelites they forfeit their blessings by wilful sin. Madeline 
 had never thought of school as being like anything she had read 
 of in the Bible, and Janet's remarks confused her. She put her 
 hand up to her forehead, as if by rubbing it her ideas would 
 become clearer. 
 
 ' I don't think it can be such tasks as we have, which Mrs 
 Carter meant,' she continued ; ' because, you know, Janet, that 
 we have help, and the Israelites had not. They must have been 
 much worse off than we are.' 
 
 ' Well I 1 don't know about that,' replied Janet ; ' I know I 
 hate school, and I know it is just like the house of bondage, and 
 I shall always call it so.' This sentence was spoken rather 
 loudly, and Janet did not see that Clara Manners and Alice v.-ere 
 close to her. 
 
 ' At it still ! I declare,' exclaimed Clara, laughing. ' What 1 
 have you not finished that matter yet.''' 
 
 Janet's manner changed in an instant ; she shrank into her- 
 self, looked frightened, and would have moved on, but Clara 
 caught hold of her. ' Now, Janet, you shall stay and talk to 
 us a little.' 
 
 ' No, Clara, she shall not,' said Madeline, firmly, and trying 
 to push Clara's hand away. 
 
 ' Oh ! that is it, is it.'" exclaimed Clara : 'we will soon see 
 which is the strongest.' She grasped poor Janet's thin arm till 
 the colour was in her cheek from pain, and then continued, 
 * Just say that you will answer my question, Janet ; and 1 will 
 let go.' 
 
 ' I won't, if you keep me here all day,' said Janet, though 
 bcr countenance showed how much she was suffering.
 
 LA XI-: TON PARSONAGE. i8i 
 
 * That is right ; for sliame, Clara !' exclaimed both Alice and 
 Madeline, whilst little Jessie O'Neile ran to the elder girls to 
 make the usual complaint, that Clara Manners was teasing 
 Janet Harding. 
 
 Mary Vernon was the person Jessie appealed to, for Mary 
 was the redresser of all grievances, and by general consent had 
 been chosen a sort of judge. Indeed the title was become 
 almost as natural as her own name ; and the office being found 
 \ery useful, it was settled that when Mary left school another 
 judge should be appointed in her place. Mary, however, was 
 slow in giving her opinion ; she liked to hear what was to be 
 said on both sides ; and made a point of never expressing any 
 feeling when a case was first brought to her. However in- 
 dignant she might be, the anger was kept to herself ; but one 
 of her companions, who had no occasion to be particularly 
 cautious, was not only vehement in declaring that Clara Manners 
 was the torment of the school, and that Mrs Carter ought to 
 know it, buL seemed inclined to interpose herself. This was 
 Anna Grant, a girl about a year younger than Mary, and con- 
 siderably shorter and stouter in appearance. Anna had been 
 several years m.h Tvlrs Carter, Mary only three. Anna was 
 remarkabl;,- cle\er, Mavy rnly moderately so. Anna was active 
 in her movements, and always spoke with an air of authority. 
 Mary was slow and quiet, and used her office of judge so gently 
 that it seemed a matter of indifference to her whether she ruled 
 or not. There were different opinions in the school, at one time, 
 as to who would make the best judge, and Anna was nearly 
 certain that when Mary went away at Midsummer, she should 
 be chosen. Of all things Anna liked to rule, and in the 
 prospect of her future dignity she could not resist putting herself 
 forward now and then. ' Let me go,' she said, stepping before 
 i\Iary ; ' I will soon set it all to rights.' ' Nonsense, Anna, how 
 can you interfere with what does not concern you ? Do let Mary 
 manage it her own way.' Anna drew back, more from the con- 
 sciousness of being in the wrong, than from any particular 
 respect to the interrupting party, one of two sisters, Florence 
 and Harriet Trevelyan, who, from being more remarkable for a 
 ver)^ rapid way of speaking, and a fondness for fine names, fine 
 people, and fine dresses, than for anything else, were often 
 turned into ridicule, and sometimes, to their great annoyance, 
 called Hurry and Flurry. Ruth seeing that Madeline was 
 engaged in the quarrel, if such it could be called, followed Mary
 
 162 ZANETON PARSONAGE 
 
 V'eriiOR to the spot where Clara, havuig at length been persuaded 
 to release her hold, stood laughing. ' It is all over now,' said 
 Clara, carelessly, as Mary came up. ' There is no occasion 
 for any one to interfere. It was only a little fun, but Janet is 
 such a poor thing, she is only fit to sit up in a high chair and 
 eat soup.' Madeline was beginning an excuse for Janet, but 
 Mary Vernon recommended silence. Every one knew, she 
 said, that it was of no use to argue with Clara Manners ; but 
 there should be no tyranny in the school as long as she could 
 prevent it, and if Clara would not take warning in time, she 
 \vould most certainly speak to Mrs Carter. Clara knew that 
 this was much more than a threat. What Mary said she 
 would do, she always did ; and though she pretended to be 
 indifferent, she walked away in reality very sulky. 
 
 ' I must say one thing to you,' continued Mary, addressing 
 those who were near ; ' I am sure you induce Clara to 
 be worse by joining with her. Very often she would not 
 be half as provoking as she is, if you did not make a joke 
 of it ; and then when she begins she does not know how to 
 leave off.' 
 
 Alice felt as if the reproof was meant for her. She had been 
 with Clara all the afternoon ; not that she liked her, she was 
 really fonder of Ruth than of any one else in the school, but 
 her spirits canied her away. 
 
 * And I thought, Alice,' said Ruth, turning to her, ' that you 
 meant to tiy veiy hard to-day to be steady.'" 
 
 Alice blushed, and appeared annoyed for the moment ; and 
 Mary saw, what Ruth did not, that Alice did not like her private 
 resolutions, told in confidence, to be mentioned openly. 
 
 * Well,' said Mary, good-naturedly, ' it is all over now. I 
 daresay Clara will leave off being troublesome by and by.' 
 
 ' But it is not all over,' observed Ruth. ' Look, Mary, how 
 Janet Harding is crying still.' 
 
 Alice laughed a little, and said it was quite true that Janet 
 was a great baby in some things, and could not bear a joke, and 
 that was the reason Clara made fun of her. ' And the fuss is all 
 about nothing,' she continued. ' It began, Mary, because Janet 
 said that school was like the house of bondage, and you know 
 one could not help laughing at that.' 
 
 Ruth listened with some interest to hear the answer ; but, 
 instead of answering, Mary went up to the spot where Madeline 
 and Janet were silting together, and spoke very kindly to Janet,
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 183 
 
 begging her not to cry any more, and promising to endeavour to 
 prevent Clara from tormenting her. 
 
 ' It is not that I care for/ exclaimed Janet, and her dull gray 
 eyes grew quite bright with eagerness. ' I don't care for Clara, 
 nor Alice, nor any of them ; they may all laugh at me. if they 
 like, all day long ; but I want to be at home, and to see my 
 own dear mamma. I knew I should be miserable at school.' 
 
 ' Well, Janet, it must be very hard to you to be here,' said 
 Mary, compassionately, ' harder than it would be for a great 
 many ; but I am almost certain you will be happy when you arc 
 used to it ; and, at all events, school will not last for ever.' 
 
 ' That was what I said,' observed Madeline. ' I told Janet 
 that Ruth, and Alice, and I, were very unhappy at first, and 
 thought the ways strange till we got into them ; but I don't mind 
 school at all now.' 
 
 Janet still went on crying with a determination which seemed 
 to refuse all comfort. 
 
 ' And Janet says, too,' pursued Madeline, ' that writing out 
 the texts made her unhappy, because she thinks we are all like 
 the Israelites in Egypt.' 
 
 A smile stole over Mary Vernon's face, but she checked any 
 light thoughts, and replied gravely, ' that she should have said 
 they were much more like the Israelites in the wilderness.' 
 
 ' They were very unhappy,' said Janet, trying to stop her 
 tears. 
 
 ' They were only unhappy when they did wrong, Janet, and 
 broke the laws.' 
 
 ' I don't break Mrs Carter's laws,' said Janet. ' I always try 
 to keep them.' 
 
 * And Mrs Carter is not angry with you,' continued Mary : 
 ' and if you think it hard to be laughed at, only remember the 
 hardships which the Israelites had to bear when they were 
 travelling. But God would have supported and helped them, 
 and brought them safely to the promised land ; so they had no 
 cause to be miserable, except from their own fault, and it is the 
 same with us.' 
 
 Janet seemed more inclined to be comforted than before. As 
 long as she could think there would be an end to her troubles, 
 she could bear them pretty well. Mary's way of talking also 
 suited her. It was the way to which she had been accustomed; 
 for her parents, though they spoiled her by indulgence, were of 
 a ^•cry religious turn of mind, and accustonied to bring examples
 
 1 8 4 LAN ETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 or illustrations for every case from the Bible ; and when Janet 
 had once possessed herself with the idea that school was like 
 the Ej^yptian house of bondage, it did really seem so to her, 
 and she had the same longing desire to be free which a prisoner 
 might have. 
 
 'Then you really think it is like being in the wilderness?' she 
 asked, looking up at Mary, and drying her eyes. 
 
 ' Papa says sometimes to us that it is,' interrupted Made- 
 line ; ' but then he tells us it will be the same for our whole 
 lives.' 
 
 Mary Vernon became very thoughtful as Madeline sj)okc. 
 She was soon going to leave school, and immediately afterwards 
 she was to be confirmed. It seemed as if she were really about 
 to bra\-e the difficulties of the wilderness — at least she had been 
 warned that she was — that her life from henceforth would be 
 more dangerous than it had ever yet been. Sometimes Mary 
 could not belie\e it. Home was so happy, her friends were so 
 kind, her future prospects so bright : but this day Avas Sunday, 
 and she had been reading with Mrs Carter, and talking seriously. 
 It was not to be wondered at that Madeline's remark should 
 make her thoughtful ; she did not, however, speak particularly 
 of herself, and only answered, that she had been told the same ; 
 but that Mrs Carter once advised her not to trouble herself about 
 the future, but to try and do right at present. 
 
 ' And it is easier to keep the rules than the Ten Command- 
 ments, is it not, Mary.?' asked Madeline. 
 
 ' O Maddy ! ' exclaimed Janet, now really laughing ; ' why, 
 the Ten Commandments arc about stealing and murdering.' 
 
 Mary seemed a little puzzled what answer to make, and just 
 then the school bell summoned them to the house, and fixed all 
 Madeline's thoughts upon her blotted text-book. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MRS CARTER'S private room — the study — was the same 
 into which Alice had been shown on the first day of her 
 school life. No one could doubt that it was a comfortable 
 room, nicely fiirnishcd, fitted with books, and always neat, but 
 for some reason or other it v/as seldom entered without dread.
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 185 
 
 Either there was a reproof expected, or an exercise to be shown, 
 or a lesson to be said. Suspense and uncertainty seemed to 
 belong to it naturally, and though Mrs Carter was kind in her 
 manner, ever ready to make allowance, and when she did find 
 fault, doing it in the gentlest way, no one could help feeling this. 
 Ruth whispered, as she stood at the door with her neat text- 
 book, that her hand trembled ; it always did when she went 
 to the study. The whisper was to Madeline, who was too 
 frightened to answer, but Alice spoke for her, declaring that 
 she did not care for anything if Miss Barnard was not there, and 
 Clara had seen her giving out the Sunday books in the outer 
 school-room. ' Come in, my dears,' was heard in an encourag- 
 ing voice. Ruth quite laughed at finding herself unable to open 
 the door, but Clara Manners stretched out her liana boldly, and 
 they entered ; Janet Harding keeping close to Madeline, who, 
 she believed, was going to suffer for good-nature to her. But 
 Sunday was not a day on which Mrs Carter liked to make any 
 one suffer if she could help it. The book received but a mild 
 censure, much more mild than Madeline felt it deserved, and 
 she was just thinking how happily she had escaped, when Mrs 
 Carter's gentle ' Stay, my dear, I wish to speak to you,' brought 
 back all her first alarms. ' And Ruth, too,' continued Mrs 
 Carter : ' sit down, my dears, and the rest may go.' It was 
 Mrs Carter's very quietness which was so alarming ; her slovr 
 way of speaking, and deep, low tone. It was said sometimes, 
 that if she would only be very angry it would not be half as 
 awful. This, however, was the opinion of the more careless 
 portion of the community. Mrs Carter was much beloved by 
 the little children ; Jessie O'Neile and Ellen Hastings were as 
 fond of her as of their own grandmammas ; and Mary Vernon 
 could not bear to be reminded that she must so soon leave her. 
 ' I have been wishing to say a few words to you both,' began Mrs 
 Carter, ' because I think it may be of use ' — then came a pause, 
 and the sisters looked at each other, wondering what was to 
 follow — ' of use to you all — to yourselves and your companions.' 
 Then it was not a reproof for the blotted book — Madeline was 
 much relieved. * You have been with me now nearly throe 
 years, and on the whole, I have had great reason to be 
 satisfied with you — with you, Ruth, particularly.' A second 
 pause : Ruth's head was involuntarily drawn up a little higher, 
 but Madeline was more vexed at the distinction than pleased 
 with the praise. ' Mary Vernon is to leave me very soon.' con-
 
 i86 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 tinucd Mrs Carter, ' and you know what a great loss she will be. 
 She has done more towards keeping order and good conduct 
 in the school than any young person of her age, who has ever 
 been under my care. When she is gone there will be no one 
 to take her place.' A proud tliouglit glanced through Ruth's 
 mind. Could Mrs Carter imagine it possible for her to be like 
 Mary ? But no, Mrj Carter knew Mary too well to expect to 
 find all her steadiness and high principle in one so much younger. 
 She merely wished to suggest that something might be done by 
 every one, especially by those who, like Rutli and Madeline, had 
 received particular advantages ; and Ruth was considerably dis- 
 appointed when this long beginning ended with : ' but I think, 
 my dears, that you may be of use amongst the little ones, if you 
 will give yourselves the trouble ; and really make it a part of 
 your duty to see that they do theirs.' ' Amongst the little ones !' 
 This was not what Ruth desired. She said ' Yes,' in a submis- 
 sive manner, but nothing more. Madeline's feelings were 
 different. For the first time since she came to school, she saw 
 that she was considered capable of being useful, and Mrs 
 Carter's very sweet smile, and the particularly kind way in 
 which she addressed them, aroused her warm affections. To 
 be spoken to in this way though she had been careless ! Even 
 her own mamma could scarcely have done more. ' Now, 
 Madeline,' added Mrs Carter, ' I am most anxious about you. 
 It is example which is the great thing always. If the younger 
 children see you inattentive and thoughtless, bringing me such 
 a book as this, for instance,' — and as Mrs Carter laid her hand 
 upon the unfortunate text-book, Madeline's cheeks became the 
 colour of crimson — ' not all the warning and hints you can give 
 them will be of any avail. They will never think you in earnest; 
 and it is being in earnest which makes persons attend to us, 
 whether we are young or old.' * Indeed, I will try,' exclaimed 
 Madeline, eagerly, and at the moment it seemed to her that 
 she could not help being in earnest for the rest of her life. 
 
 Mrs Carter looked pleased, and said, ' God bless you, my 
 love, and keep you in earnest always. He will keep you if you 
 pray to Him. But, Madeline, can you tell me what it is whicl? 
 makes it so difficult to us to be in earnest .'' ' 
 
 * Because we arc wicked,' replied Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes ; but that is not c^uite an answer to my question. 
 Many persons, who are not what is generally called wicked, 
 who do not commit great crimes, yet cannot be said to l>e in
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 187 
 
 earnest. Ruth, what do \vc mean by being earnest in any- 
 thing wo undertake ? ' 
 
 ' Setting ourselves to do it \vith all our hearts/ replied 
 Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, giving ourselves up to it ; wishing for it constantly ; 
 planning how we shall manage it. And -we find that when per- 
 sons set themsehes in earnest to attain any object — to be rich 
 or learned, for instance, they generally succeed. They have one 
 great pursuit, and they devote themselves to it. But w-e arc nut 
 naturally willing to do this in religion. We wish, perhaps, to 
 scr\c God, but we also wish to follow our own wills. We for- 
 get that we are told to have no other God but the God who 
 made and redeemed us.' 
 
 Ruth ventured to say very timidly, 'She supposed that meant 
 it was wrong to worship idols.' 
 
 * That is one meaning,' replied Mrs Carter ; ' but there is 
 another, of more consequence to us, because we have been so 
 well instructed from childhood that we are in little danger of 
 becoming idolaters outwardly. Our danger is in our own 
 hearts.' 
 
 ' I thought that no English people were idolaters,' said Made- 
 line, speaking more boldly than Ruth. 
 
 ' I wish I could think so, too, Madeline,' replied Mrs Carter ; 
 'but when persons spend all their ]i\-es in striving to be rich — 
 when they are covetous — we know from the Bible that they are 
 idolaters ; because it is said there that " Covetousness is 
 idolatry." And so again, if they care only for eating and drink- 
 ing, the Bible says th-e same thing. Or if they desire to be 
 thought much of for cleverness ; or to have high rank ; or, in 
 fact, whatever they most seek for, that is their idol : they arc as 
 anxious for it, more anxious, rather, than for the favour of God, 
 and this prevents their being in earnest in His service.' 
 
 Mrs Carter paused, and Ruth and Madeline supposed she would 
 tell them they might go ; but after a few moments she added, 
 ' My dear children, I should like you to make some use of what 
 I have said. You know your own feelings better .than I can. 
 Will you think what it is which you most wish for ; and when 
 you say your prayers, ask of God to give you such a right spirit 
 that you may have no other God but Him ; that is, that it may 
 be your chief desire in all things to please Him ; and will you 
 remember that the way in which you can especially please Him 
 now, is by setting a good examjOle .'' I think, without my telling
 
 1 8 8 LANE TON PARSON A GE, 
 
 you, you will be able to find out the different ways in which you 
 may thus make yourselves useful, and show that you are in 
 earnest ; and to-day being Sunday, you will have more time 
 than usual to make right resolutions, and pray to God to assist 
 you in keeping them.' 
 
 To make good resolutions, and pray that God would assist 
 us in keeping them ! This is much more easily said than done 
 at school. 
 
 When Ruth and Madeline went back to their companions, 
 they were assailed by numerous questions : ' Why were they 
 detained 1 ' ' What did Mrs Carter want t ' ' Was she 
 angry ? ' and the questions were so eager, and the din of voices 
 was so confusing, that even a steady brain might have been 
 distracted. The manner of the two sisters was not alike. 
 Ruth said, with an indifterent air, ' that it was all nothing ; 
 Mrs Carter only wished them to try and keep the little children 
 in order when Marj'^ Vernon was gone.' 
 
 Madeline sat down to her desk, and begged them to be quiet, 
 necause she wanted to read. 
 
 ' There is no time for reading,' observed Alice; 'the tea-bell 
 will ring in a minute ; you may just as well talk to us a little.' 
 
 * I had rather not, please, Alice,' replied Madeline, gently. 
 
 Alice looked at her in surprise. 
 
 ' But, Maddy, dear, there must be something the matter. Is 
 it about the text-book? was she angry 'i^ inquired Janet Hard- 
 ing, with some anxiety. 
 
 ' It is nothing ; not about the text-book. Mrs Carter was 
 not at all angiy,' replied Madeline. 
 
 ' But what is it .'' there must be something the matter; do tell 
 us,' continued Alice. 
 
 Poor Madeline closed her book, and rose from her seat. How 
 she longed to be alone ! but for ten minutes — that she might 
 only, as Mrs Carter had said, make good resolutions, and pray to 
 (jod to assist her in keeping them. But there was the strict law 
 forbidding her to go up-stairs, except at particular hours, or by 
 express permission ; and Madeline could not bring herself to 
 ask this permission. She was afraid that Mrs Carter would 
 guess what was passing in her mind, and she was just beginning 
 to be very shy and reserved about her religious feelings. There 
 was a small room, generally known by the name of the dressing- 
 room, on the ground floor, very near the school-room. Here 
 were kept boxes and baskets, garden cloaks, old bonnets, &c.,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 189 
 
 and here she might be alone. She stopped for a few moments, 
 that it might not seem as if she was angry, and then went out 
 of the room. The dressing-room was empty, but she could not 
 close the door or fasten it ; and she did not like to kneel, lest 
 she might be discovered. Madeline did not fear that Cod 
 would not accept her prayers unless she knelt. Her papa, 
 though extremely particular about forms and reverence, hatl 
 always taught her that it is the heart which God looks at ; and 
 that if the forms are not in our power. He will accept the heart 
 alone. She sat down on a trunk, and began to think. \Vhat 
 was it she most wished for 1 She could not at all tell. There 
 were so many things — little pleasures, books, prizes, the holi- 
 days ; and greater ones — to please her papa and mamma, and 
 be loved by her companions. Her head became confused with 
 thinking, but she turned to another subject. How could she be 
 useful by setting a good example } This was much more easily 
 decided ; and Madeline, after considering the wrong things she 
 was in the habit of doing, made good resolutions for the future. 
 These resolutions were not made in a general way, such as ' I 
 will tiy to do better,' but in detail ; first as to herself — rising 
 early, dressing quickly, setting to work directly afterwards, not 
 speaking English in school, not reading story books, or eating 
 apples and cakes by stealth in the lesson hours, and so on 
 through the day ; and afterwards with regard to the particular 
 points on which she knew her companions were neglectful. 
 Madeline wished she could have determined what she most 
 desired ; she was afraid it might be wrong not to do so ; but she 
 need not have been afraid. It is a long time before we can 
 understand what passes in our own hearts ; but when we pray 
 sincerely, and try to conquer our bad dispositions, we have good 
 cause to hope we are not allowing ourselves to have any other 
 God than the true God. And Madeline did pray. She stood 
 and covered her face with her hands, and asked, in few and 
 simple words, that God would forgive her all she had done 
 wrong, and teach her to do better, and help her to be useful, 
 for her Saviour's sake. Conscience whispered she was right ; 
 and amongst the cheerful voices and happy faces which were 
 heard and seen as the party sat round the tea-table, none were 
 happier or more cheerful than Madeline Clifford's. 
 
 Ruth also had received a warning. She had been told to 
 question her own heart ; to inquire what it was she most wished 
 for. She was silent at tea-time, and Mary Vernon imagined
 
 190 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 she inust be thinking of her conversation with Mrs Carter. 
 Rutli was thinking of it. I-efore tea was over, she had decided 
 willi regard to all her companions — wliom they most sought to 
 please — God, their fellow-creatures, or themselves. Only one 
 individual was forgotten — herself 
 
 ' Will you hand me the bread and butter,' said Alice to 
 Florence Trevelyan. 
 
 The plate was put before her, and she drew out a piece of 
 crust which did not fall naturally to her share. Ruth watched 
 her, and felt that self-indulgence was Alice's idol. Alice ate the 
 crust quickly, not wishing it to be noticed that she had helped 
 licrsclf unfairly. In her hurry, some butter fell on Florence 
 Tre\'elyan's pretty silk dress. Florence was extremely dis- 
 concerted, spoke crossly, and made a fuss, till every one was 
 uncomtortable. Dress was Florence's idol. Presently, an 
 accident of the same kind happened to Ruth herself, who 
 was sitting on the other side of Alice. She kept her temper 
 admirably ; rubbed the spot to take out the mark, without 
 drawing attention to herself, and then was rewarded by hearing 
 Alice say — 
 
 * There is no one like Ruth after all ; she is never ill- 
 tempered.' 
 
 Mrs Carter smiled and said, ' It was right to try early to bear 
 annoyances patiently.' 
 
 The glow of pride and self-sufficiency which flushed Ruth's 
 face was taken for shyness at hearing herself praised. Ruth 
 knew herself that she was shy : but why did she treasure up 
 every word of praise to be thought over again and again ? 
 "Why did she not watch h.cr heart as well as her outwai:! 
 actions .'' The respect and admiration of her fellow-creatures 
 was Ruth's idol. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MONDAY was a Frcncli day. There were French lessons 
 said to Miss Barnard before breakfast, and Monsieur 
 Le Vergnier came at nine o'clock, and was occupied with dif- 
 ferent classes till nearly one. Alice never liked a French day 
 — Ruth did. Madeline did not care about it except when she 
 had been idle, and then she was apt to wish, and wish aloud,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. lOl 
 
 that Miss Barnard, Monsieur Le Vcrgnier, and the writers of 
 every grammar and vocabulary that had ever been heard of, 
 were at the bottom of the sea. On this Monday, however, 
 MadcUne had no such wishes. She fek cordial even to Miss 
 Barnard — a quiet, stiff, particular, middle-aged lady, who made 
 a point of enforcing Mrs Carter's rules more strictly than Mrs 
 Carter herself, and appeared to have very little thought for any- 
 thing that was going on beyond the routine of the school, and 
 the careful performance of the monotonous duties which fell to 
 her share in life. Madeline did not like Miss Barnard, and 
 stood considerably in awe of her. It was with no slight plea- 
 sure, therefore, that she saw a smile cross her face as the 
 dialogue book was returned, and heard her say, ' Very Avell, 
 Maileline, you have taken pains.' Ruth often had such speeches 
 made to her, but Madehne scarcely ever. 
 
 'You have your exercise ready for Monsieur, I daresay.^' 
 ■ vhispered Janet Harding, who was standing near, speaking a 
 curious school-girl 'patois,' which few but those accustomed 
 to it could understand. 
 
 ' Not quite ; I did not finish it on Saturday, but I shall make 
 haste ;' and Madeline sat down directly to her work. It had 
 been one of her morning resolutions not to waste a minute's 
 time. Madeline wrote but a few words, when they were called 
 in to prayers and breakfast ; but she was the first to return to 
 business. The rest, in general, idled about under the excuse 
 that it was not worth while to do anything before school actually 
 began. Ruth was an exception. She took possession of the 
 piano to practise. Alice was amongst the idlers ; and with her 
 were Florence Trevelyan, Clara, and Janet Harding. Some- 
 thing was said about Monsieur Le Vcrgnier's accent. Florence 
 declared it was bad ; Alice pronounced it good ; Clara did not 
 think about it, but she took the opportunity of mimicking it ; 
 and Janet Harding said, in her peculiarly melancholy tone, that 
 Monsieur Le Vcrgnier spoke very like an aunt of hers who was 
 brought up in France. There was no great sense or importance 
 in the conversation, but from some cause or other they became 
 rather excited. Florence was angry at being at all contradicted 
 by Janet ; and Alice was pleased to find some one who would 
 agree with her. Florence protested that Alice could know 
 nothing about it, for she was extremely backward in French ; 
 and Alice retaliated by reminding Florence of a speech of Miss 
 Barnard's that very morning j that if Harriet and Florence only
 
 192 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 knew hiilf as much about any one sensible suIjJl-cL as they did 
 about dress, they would be extremely clever girls. The clock 
 struck nine. Miss Barnard would come in in a minute ; and 
 Monsieur Lc Vergnier was always punctual. Still there were 
 no preparations, and the angry tones grew louder. Ruth left 
 off practising, and begged they would prepare their books, 
 Alice was inclined to listen to her — she always was inclined to 
 hearken to Ruth ; but Florence Trevelyan would have a last 
 Avord, and then the case was put before Ruth. ' Did she think 
 Monsieur Le \'ergnier had a good or a bad accent?' Ruth 
 did not pretend to know herself, but she supposed it most prob- 
 able that it was good, because if it were not Mrs Carter would 
 not iiave engaged him. Alice, in the midst of her irritations, 
 could not help laughing. The answer was so like Ruth, simple, 
 and to the point; and she turned to Florence with an air of 
 triumph, exclaiming — • 
 
 ' There, Florence, what can you say to that 1 Ruth is as 
 good as a judge any day.' 
 
 Words ! how little do we know the effect they will have ! 
 Ruth said to herself, ' as good as a judge.' As good as Mary 
 Vernon that meant. And why should she not be 1 There was 
 nothing to prevent her — there is nothing to prevent any of us 
 from being like saints. But Ruth was not thinking of Mary 
 Vernon's heart so much as of her position — the respect in which 
 she was held ; that was what she coveted — to be first. Alice 
 said she was as good as a judge, and Florence Trevelyan 
 agreed : perhaps they would rather have her as a judge than 
 Anna Grant. If she were not so little and so young, she might 
 be chosen. It was the first thought of ambition, and Ruth 
 cherished it. 
 
 Monsieur Le Vergnier came ; the routine of lessons went 
 on. There were the usual number of mistakes and negligences ; 
 the usual marks in the exercise books, in Monsieur Le Verg- 
 nier's cramped French hand, and the reckoning up of the whole 
 at the end against the names of those who were trying for the 
 French prize. One day is so like another at school, and often 
 in common life we scarcely seem to know them apart. Yet 
 there is a difference. To-day is not as yesterday ; we are 
 nearer heaven or farther from it. Which is it ? 
 
 Madeline stayed for a few minutes in the dressing-room 
 alone, when the others left it after preparing for dinner, and 
 thought of what she had been doing. She had made Monsieur
 
 LiNETON PARSOr^ACE, 1 93 
 
 Le Vergnier angry by whispering — that was wroilg ; but she 
 had written her exercise well — that was right. She had felt 
 vexed because Clara Manners was more perfect than herself in 
 the vocabulary ; but she had been trying to help Janet out of 
 a difficulty. The good and evil seemed nearly equal ; yet 
 Madeline again said a short, earnest prayer, and was happy. 
 It is not the belief that wc never do wrong that gives us peace. 
 but the hope that God is looking favourably upon us because 
 we are trying to find out our faults and conquer them. 
 
 Florence Trevelyan and Alice renewed their discussion of 
 Monsieur Le Vergnier's accent after dinner. Florence was 
 often in the habit of continuing a subject till every one grew 
 weary of it. She was not clever, and her judgment was bad, 
 and accordingly, like a great many other persons, she tried to 
 make up for her weakness by obstinacy. There was a little 
 spite also mixed with her feelings about Monsieur Le Vergnier. 
 He had a daughter, a pretty, elegant girl, about the same age 
 as herself, who was sometimes asked to drink tea with them, 
 and was a general favourite. Comparisons were sometimes 
 made between Florence and Justine Le Vergnier, and fre- 
 quently to the disadvantage of Florence. Even the French 
 name was liked better than the English, and Florence, who did 
 not believe that any other young lady in England boasted such 
 a pretty name as Florence Trevelyan, was as much provoked 
 at this as if she had been excelled in any real advantage. The 
 feeling, however, was lessening. Justine was engaging and 
 good-natured, willing to give the patterns of her French 
 dresses, and had once made Florence a present of a smelling- 
 bottle. It was said in the school that by and by Florence and 
 Justine would be great friends ; and it certainly was amusing 
 to watch the influence which Justine was gradually acquiring, 
 although occasionally, as in the present instance, the old feel- 
 ing would break out. 
 
 On one point Florence was always strenuous in asserting her 
 superiority, and that was rank ; and now finding that the ma- 
 jority were against her, she turned to this point of attack, and 
 asserted that it was not likely Monsieur Le Vergnier should 
 speak well, because he was not a gentleman. Mary Vernon, 
 who had taken no part in the discussion, was leaving the room 
 when the observation was made. She stopped immediately, 
 and begged Florence to be careful in what she stated. ' Mon- 
 sieur Le \"ergnicr was, she believed, quite a gentleman by birth., 
 
 N
 
 194 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and it was evident he was so in manner.' Florence was not 
 pleased by this ' put down,' as she called it, and when Mary 
 "was gone she repeated her former remark, adding that her papa 
 and mamma were very particular as to society ; therefore, of 
 course, she must be as well able to decide upon Monsieur Le 
 Vergnier's manner as Mary Vernon. In her excitement, 
 Florence spoke quicker than usual, and Alice, without exactly 
 meaning to be ill-natured, exclaimed — 
 
 ' Well done. Flurry ! — now, Hurry, what have you to say ? 
 you always go together.' 
 
 Florence grew very angry, and drawing herself up, replied, 
 * that it was not any use to talk to such a child as Alice — she 
 could not understand ; and besides, there was not the same 
 reason for her to be particular as there was for them,' 
 
 Alice was perplexed to discover the meaning of this speech. 
 When Florence wished to be dignified, she was often rather 
 misty in her mode of expression. 
 
 ' I do not sec the difference between you and me, Florence,' 
 she observed, more quietly than might have been expected. 
 
 * Don't you .-' ' and Florence walked away with a peculiar 
 smile. 
 
 * The bell ! Hush ! Mrs Carter will be coming,' exclaimed 
 Madeline, who, with Ruth, was preparing her Italian transla- 
 tion, apart from the otliers. 
 
 Alice went up to Ruth. 
 
 ' Ruth, is not Flprence silly and tiresome ? ' 
 
 ' I did not hear what she said,' replied Ruth. * You have 
 done your translation, I believe ; just let me know what this 
 word is.' 
 
 Alice did as she was desired, and went away. She felt that 
 Ruth was chilling. 
 
 ' I will tell you what it all means,' said Clara Manners, when 
 Alice sat down by her, and complained. * Florence thinks her- 
 self a great person because — I don't know why exactly — some 
 nonsense which I never took the trouble to listen to — but she 
 fancies that Lady Catharine Hyde adopted you because your 
 mamma was poor. She very often says so.' 
 
 * Does she ? My mamma poor ! ' exclaimed Alice. * My 
 mamma was Lady Catharine's friend ; she loved her dearly.' 
 
 * But why ? ' asked Clara ; * v.'hat made them such friends } ' 
 ' Why, a great many reasons ; she loved her dearly/ again 
 
 repeated Alice,
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 195 
 
 * Hush ! Alice, hush ! ' said Madeline, leaning back an^ 
 touching Alice's arm. 
 
 Alice, however, was in no humour to take a hint. She werft 
 ©n speaking, not perceiving that Mrs Carter was in the room. 
 
 < Who is talking .? A forfeit, if you please,' said Mrs Carter. 
 
 Alice opened her desk, took out a little bag, drew from it a 
 ticket with her name upon it, and laid it before Mrs Carter. 
 
 ' It's all Flurry's fault,' she contrived to whisper to Clara, and 
 Clara nodded an assent, which gave Alice a friendly feeling 
 towards her. 
 
 The forfeit was no light thing. Only one ticket for good 
 conduct was given during the day, and all who possessed a 
 certain number at the end of the half year received a prize. 
 Alice had never yet succeeded in obtaining this ; but she had 
 lately resolved to try very hard for it. It would be such a 
 pleasure to carry back a good-conduct prize to Lady Catharine. 
 A greater misfortune, however, than the loss of the ticket was the 
 distraction of Alice's mind. She had accustomed herself to 
 believe that because Lady Catharine Hyde had adopted her she 
 must be deemed by every one a person of importance ; and, in 
 general, considerable respect was paid her. Now, she tried to 
 remember what Lady Catharine had ever told her about her 
 mamma ; but as she was called away to a music lesson in the 
 middle of her cogitations, there was not much opportunity for 
 such recollections. Alice did not know how to govern her 
 thoughts or force her attention, and all the afternoon she was in 
 a painful state trying to do one thing and think of another ; and 
 so inattentive that Mrs Carter was seriously displeased, and 
 instead of allowing her to amuse herself after tea, sent her to 
 the outer school-room to sit alone, and prepare her lessons for 
 the next day. 
 
 These were soon finished ; but still Alice remained in solitude 
 and thought. What did she really knovv^ of her mamma 1 It 
 was strange to find how little it was. Lady Catharine seldom 
 mentioned Mrs Lennox. Sometimes, indeed, she would show 
 Alice her picture, and say that her mother was as saint-like in 
 mind as she was lovely in feature ; and occasionally she would 
 relate anecdotes of her patience and goodness, but this was all ; 
 and Alice, thinking that the apparent disinclination to continue 
 the subject must arise from the same cause as Lady Catharine's 
 silence regarding her husband, feared to make her unhappy by 
 asking questions, besides standing in great awe of her. Hovf
 
 196 LAN£T0N PARS ON A C^^. 
 
 Alice hct'Eolf first gained the idea of Lady Catharine's extfeijie 
 affection for her mamma she could not tell. It seemed to have 
 grown up with her, to be as much a matter of course as that 
 she should be fond of Ruth and Madeline ; but this was n<f 
 answer to Clara's question — ' Why it was ? ' Alice never could 
 endure delay or uncertainty. If a doubt entered her mind it 
 must be solved instantly. She was determined to know all that 
 ■was to be told her, and this could only be by writing to Lady 
 Catharine. If it had been necessary to speak she might have 
 been afraid, but a letter was easier. She was quick in writing, 
 and Lady Catharine was always pleased to hear from her, and 
 the result of the solitary evening was a request the next day 
 that she might be allowed to write home. 
 
 Ruth's passing thought, that if she were older and better she 
 might be chosen as judge, returned again. It came in the shape 
 of a castle in the air ; a plan as to what she would do if she 
 were judge ; how she would be particular that the little ones 
 learned their lessons properly, and were ready for church in 
 good time ; and were neatly dressed when visitors came to 
 drink tea ; with other cases of the same kind. She found also 
 a satisfaction in comparing herself with Anna Grant, and in 
 imagining the praises which she herself would most probably 
 receive for her attention. To obtain the good-conduct prize from 
 Mrs Carter, and to be deemed worthy the office of judge by her 
 schoolfellows, were now the objects of Ruth's highest ambition. 
 Madeline alone shared Ruth's confidence, for Madeline was 
 always inclined to sympathise ; and the respect which she 
 entertained for Ruth made her feel that no wish or scheme of 
 hers could be out of place. If Ruth had desired to be a prin- 
 cess, Madeline would have been willing to believe that the idea 
 was not an absurdity. 
 
 ' You must not say anything about it, though, Madeline, 
 dear,' said Ruth, as they remained talking together in the 
 dressing-room, a icw days after the notion first suggested itself 
 to Ruth's mind. ' They would all laugh, now. I am so little. 
 But, I mean by and by, a long time off, I should not wonder ; 
 should you ? ' 
 
 ' After Anna Grant, perhaps,' said Madeline , ' if we stay 
 here till then.' 
 
 * Anna Grant Avill not be here long,' replied Ruth. 'She ifl 
 not so very much younger than Mary.' 
 
 * But she must slay some time, for you to grow taller.'
 
 lANETON PARSONAGE. 197 
 
 ' I have grown a good deal lately,' observed Ruth, stretching 
 her neck 
 
 ' Yes ; but then to be judge you ought to be so very tall.' 
 
 * I don't know/ replied Ruth, with a disappointed air. 'Anna 
 will never be tall, Mrs Carter says.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, Ruth, just think of the difference between you,' 
 exclaimed Madeline. 'Anna looks grown up. But perhaps we 
 shall go home again before she leaves school, and then you will 
 be happy, and will not care about being judge.' 
 
 Without answering, Ruth went away, whilst Madeline sat 
 down on a trunk, and indulged in a pleasant dream of home ; 
 of the quiet, low-roofed Parsonage, the smooth lawn, the old 
 elm -trees, the long green walk, and then, the sweet face cf her 
 mamma, and the warm, fond kiss of her papa. Madeline quite 
 forgot she was at school, and was only brought back to the 
 knowledge of it by a tap on the shoulder from Alice, who asked 
 her what she was doing there all alone. 
 
 ' I was thinking about home, the holidays,' said Madeline : 
 ' don't you often think about them, Alice 't ' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I like school.' 
 
 ' So do I sometimes, I believe I do always when I am not 
 remembering home.' 
 
 ' I wish my home was the Parsonage,' observed Alice. 
 
 Madeline looked at her kindly, and said, ' Alice, dear, when 
 we are grown up, and we all go back to Laneton, it will be 
 nearly like living in the same house ; only then you will be 
 much grander than we are.' 
 
 ' I don't want to be grand, Maddy ; but I should like to have 
 a mamma.' 
 
 ' Papa says Lady'Catharine loves you dearly,' replied Madeline. 
 
 * Does he ? I wonder whether she does.' 
 
 ' O, Alice ! you must be sure of it. How often you have 
 told me that she calls you her child.' 
 
 ' Yes, she calls me so, but she is so strict, and the Manor is 
 dull. I am sure I should be happier if I had a mamma.' 
 
 Madeline found it difficult to say anything comforting upon 
 this subject. She had never forgotten Lady Catharine's sternness 
 upon the occasion of Alice's entering the shut-up rooms, and 
 it had often since astonished her that Alice could be even as 
 unconstrained as she was in Lady Catharine's presence. 
 
 ' Lady Catharine does not talk much about dear mamma,' 
 continv;ed Alice. ' I wrotQ to her last Friday to ask about her.'
 
 198 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'O, Alice! how could you venture?' cxxlaimcd Madeline, 
 her eyes opening wide in surprise. 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Alice. ' Florence Trevelyan asked 
 me questions, and I did not know what to answer, so I thought 
 1 would find out.' 
 
 ' But will Lady Catharine be angry ?' asked Madeline. 
 
 ' I don't know; I never know about her, Madeline, How I 
 wish I had a mamma ! ' 
 
 Alice's eyes were full of tears, and Madeline, though she 
 longed to say something consoling, could not in the least think 
 what it should be. 
 
 'I amsurelshouldbebetter if Ihad a mamma,' continued Alice. 
 
 * Some one to teach you, you mean ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't. Mrs Carter teaches me, and Lady Catharine 
 teaches me ; but I should like to have some one to love me.' 
 
 * Ruth and I love you, Alice, dearly.' 
 
 ' Ruth does not,' replied Alice : * she is much fonder of Mary 
 Vernon and of Jessie O'Neile, than she is of me.' 
 
 ' Eveiy one is fond of Jessie,' replied Madehne ; ' because 
 she talks so oddly.' 
 
 ' It does not signify why it is, Madeline ; but you know very 
 well, that Ruth likes to be put with the old girls ; and I think, 
 one reason why she helps Jessie often is, because it makes her 
 seem old. She would not do her history with me, yesterday ; 
 though it would have saved me a great deal of trouble.' 
 
 ' Mrs Carter thinks that Ruth is as useful as any of the old 
 girls,' observed Madeline ; ' I heard her say so the other day.' 
 
 * Well, you don't understand ; it is no use talking,' answered 
 Alice ; ' you have a mamma, and I have not, and there is the 
 difference.' 
 
 Madeline was puzzled to know what connection there could 
 be between this last observation and the former one, and she 
 was silent. The tea-bell rang. Alice joined her companions, 
 and said little. She was dwelling upon her own solitariness ; 
 unhappy, she scarcely knew why — but in reality longing to be 
 quite certain that she was an object of affection to some one. 
 
 ' The postman ! I saw him,' exclaimed little Jessie, the next 
 day, bursting into the room just as the desks were being opened, 
 and the books brought out in preparation for the morning's 
 work. * Sure, and he '11 be here in a minute.' 
 
 ' You peeped then, Jessie,' said Janet Harding ; 'peeping is 
 wrong.'
 
 LANE TON PARSON A CE. 199 
 
 ' Ah, well ! and if I did, I have not gut a forfeit. Ruth, dccir, 
 I hope you'll have a letter.' 
 
 Ruth shook her head, doubtfully, and beckoning to Jessie, 
 advised her to be steady, and to begin looking over a lesson. 
 
 ' He is a long time coming,' observed Florence. ' Hark ! 
 wasn't that the knock ? ' 
 
 Alice was at her desk, searching in it for a paper she had 
 lost. Her hand was unsteady and she could not well hold the 
 lid open. 
 
 ' Now ! let us wager who will have letters,' cried Clara Man- 
 ners. ' I will bet you a halfpenny, Florence, that you will not.' 
 
 * I don't expect one. Harriet and I heard yesterday.' 
 'Well then, Ruth; — -no, Ruth won't bet ; — Alice, Alice 
 
 Lennox, I will bet you a halfpenny, that there will be no letter 
 for you this morning.' 
 
 Alice shut her desk, and looked up quickly : ' I bet you a 
 halfpenny, there will be.' 
 
 ' No betting,' said Anna Grant, who just then came in and 
 overheard the exchuiiation ; ' or I shall report to Mrs Carter.' 
 
 Alice was provoked at the tone, and Clara Manners replied 
 sharply — 
 
 ' There is no need of telling Mrs Carter. Governess Anna 
 can punish without her.' 
 
 ' I think Alice forgot the rule, Anna,' observed Ruth ; '■ and 
 she was not with us the other day when i\lrs Carter spoke about 
 laying wagers.' 
 
 * Yes, I did forget,' replied Alice, evidently pleased at Ruth's 
 interference. She recovered herself instantly ; and rising, v/ent 
 to look into the passage, in the hope of seeing the postman. 
 
 A servant entered the room. Some of the young ladies were 
 wanted in Mrs Carter's study. Miss Grant, Miss Harding, ar.d 
 Miss Lennox. Anna and Janet were gone in a moment. Alice 
 walked more slowly behind. 
 
 * Here are letters for you, my dears,' said Mrs Carter, in her 
 mild, kind voice ; ' I hope they will bring you good accounts 
 from home.' 
 
 Alice did not break the seal ; she wished to read her letter 
 alone, but tliere was no place, the dressing-room excepted, and 
 there she was open to interruption. She went back to the 
 school-room. Her letter was a packet ; it could not be skimmed 
 over quickly, and Signor Bcrretoni, the Italian master, was ex- 
 pected every minute.
 
 200 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Will you please show your exercise first,' she said, in an 
 under-tone, going up to Ruth, who was still busy with Jessie 
 O'Neile. 
 
 * Me J Wliat for ? It is not my turn.' 
 
 * But I can read my letter if you will.' 
 
 ' Well, I will see ; but no, I cannot j Jessie is not half per- 
 fect ycU* 
 
 Ruth spoke decisively, and Alice sat down disappointed. She 
 would not beg a second time. 
 
 ' I shall have finished my exercise in one minute,' said 
 Madeline, twisting herself round on her stool to speak to Alice. 
 
 * Thank you,' was Alice's short reply ; and Madeline, with- 
 out thinking whether her manner was gracious, wrote on quickly 
 — with a certain conviction in her own mind that she was making 
 blunders, and regretting much that she had wasted her time the 
 day before, and in consequence was as usual behindhand with 
 her lessons. 
 
 ' i\Iy very dear Alice.' What a strange beginning that was 
 for Lady Catharine. Alice could scarcely imagine she read 
 the words rightly. She went on rapidly, for Lady Catharine's 
 handwriting was always legible. ' I can scarcely describe the 
 pleasure your letter gave me. For the last three years, I may 
 with truth say, it has been my great desire that you should 
 \aluc your dearest mother's memory. You were on earth her 
 one great interest and joy, and surely we may believe that if 
 the spirits of the blest are allowed to know that which passes 
 upon earth, she is still watching over you with the tenderest 
 affection. I cannot often talk to you about her, my dear Alice ; 
 I loved her too well for words ; but I can write without diffi- 
 culty ; and I am thankful that you have at last given me the op- 
 portunity. You askrrc to inform you how it was that your dear 
 mother and I first became acquainted. You know that we were 
 at school together ; that was the beginning of our friendship ; 
 we knew nothing of each other till then. I had been at school 
 se\'eral years ; indeed, I was almost the eldest when your 
 mamma came. Slie was of a sickly constitution, even then ; 
 very little of her age, and shy, and backward in some things 
 which, by young girls, arc considered of importance. Fiom 
 these causes we were not much together ; and there were other 
 reasons. I was then of a very haughty disposition — thinking 
 much of my rank, and encouraged in this feeling by my com- 
 panions. I had no rcP<l friend, for I was not inclined to con-?
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE, 20 1 
 
 aider any of my school-fellows my equal. My governess was 
 a good person, but she was not like Mrs Carter ; she did not 
 know all our characters, and she fostered my faults, uncon- 
 sciously, by always putting me first. By this means I ac- 
 quired many bad habits without being corrected ; amongst 
 others, my manner in church wn.5 very irreverent. I was 
 allowed to sit in a back seat with other of the elder girls ; 
 and not considering the awiul Presence in which we were, 
 we allowed ourselves to lounge, and whisper, and even to sit 
 during the prayers. It so happened that in consequence of 
 the illness of one of my companions, there was one day a vacant 
 seat in what was always called my pew. Your dear mamma 
 was chosen to fill it. She sat next to me, and I supposed 
 she would do as I did. In fact, I had such an idea of my own 
 consequence that I imagined it quite right my example should 
 be followed. To my surprise 1 found that, at the risk of mak- 
 ing herself singular, and in consequence disUkcd, your mamma 
 was resolved to kneel during the prayei^s, and kept her eyes 
 steadily fixed upon her book. I was extremely annoyed, and 
 in spite contrived to place myself so that she could not kneel 
 without crowding me. This I thought would be a sufficient 
 check, for I was always treated with much outward politeness. 
 But your mamma, my dear Alice, seemed as bent upon having 
 her way as I was upon having mine. She made a sign to the 
 others to move lower down so as to give me room, which they 
 could easily do, and then she knelt as before. Upon our re- 
 turn home there was a general outcry against her. Almost all 
 declared that the seat being full it was impossible to kneel ; and 
 that no fault had been found with us for not doing so ; and 
 one of the party remarked that common courtesy might have 
 induced your mamma to behave more civilly to her superior in 
 rank. To this she answered quietly, and with some hesitation, 
 that she was willing to show me all proper respect, but that slie 
 had been taught to consider a church as the house of God, 
 and that she was bound to honour Him before me. The ob- 
 ser\ation struck me very much, but it made me angry ; and 
 not knowing what reply to give, I told her that when she grew 
 up she would understand her duty better. One or two of our 
 companions smiled at this speech, which made me still more 
 indignant, for I saw that I had been foolish as well as wrong, 
 and I went away. The next day we were reading in the Bible 
 the account of the golden image which Nebuchadnezzar set up
 
 202 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 in the plain of Dura. We were examined upon it afterwards, 
 and amongst other questions I was asked how Christians could 
 commit the same sort of sin as Nebuchadnezzar. I was not 
 quite prepared with an answer, and tlie question went round 
 till it came to your mamma, who said, " by paying more honour 
 to our fellow-creatures than to God." You may imagine how 
 provoked I was to hear this, knowing what must be in her 
 mind ; but it was worse for me when I was called upon for a 
 still further explanation, for I became confused in consequence. 
 Our governess was shocked at what she imagined my ignor- 
 ance, and from her way of talking I soon perceived that she 
 had some particular reason for bringing the subject forward. 
 She told us that we probably looked upon ourselves as innocent 
 of any sin at all approaching to that of Nebudiadnezzar, be- 
 cause we never worshipped idols, but that God, who knew our 
 hearts and our secret actions, would judge very difterently ; 
 and then she alluded to our irreverent conduct in church, which 
 had been remarked by one of the teachers, and which, she said, 
 was like idolatry — an insult to the majesty of God, and would 
 most surely bring down punishment upon our heads, if per- 
 sisted in. I felt conscience-stricken, and thoroughly ashamed 
 at deserving this reproof myself ; but I expected to hear your 
 dear mamma justify herself, perhaps at my expense. She was, 
 however, naturally timid, besides fearing to do harm to us by 
 excusing herself ; and when the task which was set as a pun- 
 ishment was shown to us, she took her book to learn it with the 
 others. As she was returning to her seat, I heard our gover- 
 ness say, " I expected better things from Alice Mortimer ; she 
 has had such good instruction." Injustice always touched me 
 greatly. This speech was unjust, though not wilfully so ; and 
 I could not bear it. Before all the school I stepped forward 
 and declared her innocence, whilst I acknowledged my own 
 fault in striving to turn her from her duty. 
 
 * From that day, Alice, your dear mamma and I were friends, 
 — friends in the best sense of the word— anxious to assist each 
 other in our duties. She professed herself very grateful to me, 
 and I had great reason to be grateful to her ; for she was the 
 first person who made me see that my rank was a cause, not 
 for pride, but for greater care in all my actions, 
 
 ' We were at school together for a year and a half, and every 
 day made us more and more fond of each other. As the elder, 
 my education was the first finished ; but I was scarcely glad to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 203 
 
 return home, from grief at the thought of Icavuig my cherished 
 companion. Before parting, we made a mutual agreement, 
 that wherever we might bC;, and under \^hatever circumstances, 
 we should never cease, if possible, to write to each other ; and 
 that if trial should befall us, we would instantly apply to each 
 other for comfort and help. Many would think this a rash en- 
 gagement ; perhaps it was so. Yet it has often appeared to 
 me since that the blessing of God was upon it. If He is a 
 jealous God, not permitting honour to be shown to any creature 
 before Him, so is He also a most gracious God, showing mercy 
 unto thousands of them that love Him — showing mercy unto 
 you, my own Alice, for the sake of your most dear mother. 
 
 ' After leaving school, we were separated for several years. 
 Our homes were distant, and circumstances prevented our 
 meeting. I was the first married ; and on that occasion 
 the friend whom I so truly loved was ^vith me. She acted 
 as my bridesmaid. About three years afterwards, she married 
 herself, and went abroad. Your father, my dear Alice, as I 
 have often told you, I never saw ; but I know that he was 
 in every way worthy of the treasure which he possessed 
 in his wife, and during the short period of their married life, 
 rendered her as happy as on earth we are ever permitted 
 long to be. During the time of their residence in Ceylon, your 
 mother and I still kept up a constant con-espondence. No 
 change had any influence over our affection, for it was an affec- 
 tion not of this world. It pleased God to visit us differently, 
 one with joy, the other with sorrow, nearly at the same time. 
 Soon after she had cause to rejoice in your birth, I was tried by 
 the greatest affliction of my life. But in the midst of her own 
 happiness, your dear mamma could sjTnpathise with my grief, 
 and more'than ever I then felt the blessing of her friendship. All 
 that happened afterwards you well know ; you have often heard 
 of your long residence in Ceylon, and you are acquainted with 
 all the particulars of your papa's illness and death. After that 
 sad event, I entreated your dear mamma to settle in Laneton, 
 reminding her of her early promise ; but she could not then 
 comply with my wishes. Her own father and a sister were 
 living, and she felt it her duty to go to them. Their death, 
 however, soon followed, and your mamma fell into ill health. 
 Then I prevailed upon her to come to me ; and then it was 
 that, by daily intercourse, by witnessing continually her meek- 
 ness, patience, and fervent piety, I first knew all her worth.
 
 204 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 God grant that the example may not have been sent me in vain. 
 It was on her death-bed that she commended you to my care, 
 Ahce, my own child ; and I have vowed in the sight of Heaven 
 that, so far as in me lies, that solemn charge shall faithfully be 
 kept. 
 
 ' Now, may God bless you, and keep you, and make you His 
 true servant, faithful unto the end, even like her who has entered 
 into rest. So will you, indeed, be all that my heart can wish. — ■ 
 Your very affectionate and most constant friend, 
 
 * Catharine Hyde.' 
 
 ' Alice,' said Florence Trevelyan, < we have all shown our 
 exercises, except you.' 
 
 Alice looked up, as if waking from a dream. Her eyes were 
 full of tears. Signer Berretoni tapped his finger impatiently on 
 the table. Madeline left her scat, took up Alice's exercise book, 
 and placed it before him. 
 
 'Ask if anything is the matter at the Manor,' said Ruth, 
 whispering to her sister in French across the desk. Alice smiled 
 through her tears as she answered, ' No.' Ruth went on with 
 her occupations contentedly, but Madeline took the opportunity 
 of finding out a difficult passage in her Italian translation, and 
 occupying Signor Berretoni's attention with it until Alice was 
 quite recovered, and able to go to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ALICE LENNOX was what is called a person of impulse. 
 She had quick feelings, veiy earnest wishes, at times 
 great energy ; but she had little firmness of purpose. Alice's 
 resolutions were frequently broken almost as soon as made. 
 But she did not tliink it would be so now. Often as she had 
 been disappointed with herself, she still lived in the hope of 
 being one day really good— really like what she imagined Ruth 
 to be. 
 
 The day on which she received Lady Catharine's letter was 
 a day of good intentions. How indeed could it be other\vise ,'' 
 How could Alice read of her mother's gentle firmness, her sin- 
 cerity, and piety, without a wish to resemble her ? Even in the 
 midst of tlie busy school-room. Alice's thoughts travelled back
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 205 
 
 to by-gone years — the white house and its liltle garden, the 
 neat sitting-room, the bed-room with the curtains partly drawn, 
 and Benson sitting by the bed-side, the table with jelly upon it, 
 and lozenges, and oranges ; and then the fair, wan cheek which 
 rested upon the pillow, the thin hands, the soft, sweet voice, that 
 distant shadowy image which was all she could imagine of her 
 mother, except from a picture at the Manor, in Lady Catharine's 
 boudoir, so full of life and health, that it was almost impossible 
 to imagine it a representation of the same person. Alice thought 
 of her mother as of something angelic. To be like her seemed 
 impossible, but to follow her at a distance, to try to please her 
 as if she was still living, was something more within her reach, 
 and in pleasing her she would give pleasure to Lady Catharine. 
 
 If Alice had hved with those only who were religious, this 
 might have been the turning-point of her life ; the wishes now 
 formed might have been acted upon for a continuance. But 
 such is not the position which God provides for us. He sets 
 before us good and evil, life and death. He makes us His 
 children. He gives us good instructions, and promises to aid 
 us with His Holy Spirit, when we pray to Him, and then He 
 places us, as it were, in a battle with temptations before and 
 behind and around us, and bids us fight and conquer. 
 
 Alice's great temptation lay in her companions ; this she 
 knew, and the first result of Lady Catharine's letter was to in- 
 duce her to resolve firmly against being led away by evil 
 example. If she could not be like Ruth, who was held up as 
 a pattern to the school, still she thought it might be possible to 
 be like Madeline, who kept on her quiet course, striving to 
 improve, endeavouring to overcome her natural faults of care- 
 lessness, procrastination, and rather a hasty temper, and win- 
 ning general esteem and aftection by her straightforward honesty 
 and simple good-nature. 
 
 Alice's resolutions were this time more lasting than usual. 
 She kept a strict watch over herself for some time after re- 
 ceiving Lady Catharine's letter, and in this she was aided by 
 the wish not only of doing rightly but also of gaining a good- 
 conduct prize. Midsummer was approaching, and although 
 she had not yet gained by any means the proper number of 
 tickets, it was still possible to make up for past neglect. Alice 
 began to be very diligent. She was up early in the morning, 
 never allowed herself to play until her lessons were prepared, 
 and gave little heed to Clara's ridicule. To have seen Alice at
 
 2o6 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 that lime one might have imagined that she was become a differ- 
 ent person, steadily good, instead of being so only at intervals. 
 
 One morning, about three weeks after this improvement 
 began, just as the lessons were over, Anna Grant burst into 
 the room in her usual impetuous manner : 'Now, girls! hush !' 
 but the noise continued. Ruth, who was taking advantage of 
 a spare quarter of an hour to practise, left off playing, and said 
 with an arcli, quiet smile — 
 
 ' You might as well talk to a hive of bees disturbed.' 
 
 ' If they are bees, I will be a wasp,' replied Anna, and she 
 spoke again, 'Hush! can't you? — Ivliss Barnard' — the name 
 was a spell, and commanded instant attention. 
 
 ' Miss Barnard sends word that we are to dine at four. 
 Justine is coming.' There was a general exclamation of plea- 
 sure. ' All the lessons are to be over before dinner, and we 
 are to walk afterwards.' 
 
 ' That is what I call fun,' exclaimed Clara Manners ; ' now 
 for luncheon. Clear the long table, will you, Florence .-' it is 
 your v/cek.' 
 
 But Florence moved slowly. ' She did not see the good of 
 Justine's coming so often. Justin was Mrs Carter's friend — not 
 theirs.' 
 
 ' I don't know about the good,' replied Clara : * that is in 
 Ruth's line ; but Justine amuses one by the hour. Besides, I 
 want to see her particularly.' 
 
 * Particularly ! why ? you have nothing to do with her more 
 than any one else.' 
 
 Clara replied by taking up a book. 
 
 'Alice, here are your Italian exercises. Why don't you give 
 her a careless mark. Flurry ? ' 
 
 * My name is not Flurry,' said Florence, in an offended tone. 
 ' Well, Florence ! most serene high-mightiness, Florence ! 
 
 why don't you do your duty better ? And a verb book, too ! 
 Alice, what have you been thinking of?' 
 
 Alice came forward, and took the book. Her manner was so 
 quiet that Clara war-, struck by it. She inquired what was the 
 matter, laughed at her for being mopy, and then went back to 
 provide herself with luncheon ; Dawson having just brought in 
 two large plates full of bread and butter, and bread and cheese, 
 and Jessie O'Neile having a pot of preserves before her, a 
 present from home, which she was upon the point of distribut- 
 ing to any one who asked.
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 207 
 
 * Ma foi ! this jam is very good,' exclaimed Clara, as Jessie 
 supplied her with her share. 
 
 * " Ma foi " is very vulgar,' observed Anna Grant. ' You 
 should not say it, Clara.' 
 
 ' Vulgar ! Justine says it every day.' 
 
 ' I don't know why that is a reason for its not being vulgar,' 
 observed Anna ; ' Justine has many odd ways.' 
 
 ' And she says " O Ciel ! " very often,' remarked Florence 
 Trevelyan ; ' why don't you say that too, Clara .? ' 
 
 ' I would if I remembered it, but " ma foi " comes most 
 naturally.' 
 
 * " Ma foi " is swearing,' said Janet Harding ; ' my mamma 
 never lets me say it, and I can tell a great many texts about 
 it.' 
 
 ' That is good ! ' exclaimed Clara ; * Listen, all of you, listen. 
 Janet Harding knows a great many texts about " ma foi." ' 
 
 Janet reddened and stammered, and declared that Clara was 
 laughing at her. 
 
 * I do not mean to laugh ; I am very grave ; I want to 
 hear the texts,' said Clara. 
 
 Janet began a text against swearing, but she was stopped in 
 the middle by Anna Grant, who stated that she was not in the 
 humour to hear texts, and begged that Janet would leave off. 
 A general laugh followed at Janet's expense ; and the little girl 
 was obliged to return to her desk quite discomfited. Madeline 
 saw her downcast look, and went up to her. 
 
 ' It is no good, Janet,' she said. * You will never make them 
 listen to texts ; and besides, you say such odd things. Justine 
 is a lady, and ladies never swear.' 
 
 ' Yes, they do,' replied Janet, ' and Justine says worse things 
 than " O Ciel !" she says " Mon Dieu !" ' 
 
 * But it is French,' said Madeline. 
 
 * Yes ; ' and Janet thought for an' instant ; * but being French 
 does not make any difference.' 
 
 ' A great many of the others say <'0 Ciel,"' continued Made- 
 line ; ' Ahce does.' 
 
 Alice looked up from the book she was reading. 
 
 ' I never thought there was any harm in saying that in 
 French.' 
 
 ' It is hann, though,' replied Janet, nodding her head 
 •with an air of authority ; ' and if you like, I will tell you ail 
 about it.'
 
 2o8 laneton PAT^SOAUC^. 
 
 ' Thank you, said Alice, coolly ; ' but I don't wish to knOW;' 
 and she again began reading. 
 
 Just then Miss Barnard came into the school lor the afternoon 
 lessons. 
 
 As Madeline moved away, Alice heard Janet whisper that 
 
 * she was sure Lady Catharine could not have been strict with 
 her, because she was not at all particular in her notions.' 
 
 This was an unfortunate speech for Alice to hear. She never 
 liked Janet Harding. Janet's way of interfering, and giving 
 opinions without being asked, was very disagreeable to her ; 
 and the reproof she had now received rankled in her mind. 
 She would not allow that it was wrong to say ' O Ciel !' and as 
 for its being swearing, the very notion of such a thing seemed 
 ridiculous. 
 
 Justine's example, also, went a great way with Alice. Justine 
 was a very pleasing-mannered girl, attracting attention not 
 merely from her French dress and accent, but from her ani- 
 mation and good humour. She was not an old acquaintance. 
 Monsieur Le Vergnier had only lately begun to teach in the 
 school. He was a gentleman by birth, but very poor, and his 
 daitghter was to be educated tor a governess. Both had been 
 warmly recommended to Mrs Carter by persons whose opinion 
 she valued. Justine, it was said, had received a strict, careful 
 education ; and what she now most required was a little ac- 
 quaintance with English habits. English companions of her 
 own age would be likely to give her this, and it would be an 
 advantage to her for her whole life ; and after considerable 
 hesitation, Justine was invited to the house. It was remarked, 
 that on the occasion of her visits, Mrs Carter sat more in the 
 school-room herself, or kept Justine and the elder girls with her 
 in the parlour ; but beyond this no change was noticed, and 
 only a few saw cause to imagine that any particular vatch Avas 
 maintained over the agreeable French stranger. 
 
 Justine came a little before the dinner-time, as usual, very 
 nicely dressed, very lively, and affectionate and engaging in 
 manner. Florence Trevelyan was seen at her side, admiring 
 her collar, and asking for the pattern ; and Alice felt cjuite 
 angry with Janet Harding for having suggested that she had 
 any bad habits. Alice was standing by herself whilst Justine 
 was describing to Florence how the collar should be worked, 
 when Janet came up to her, and said, in a quick under-tone, 
 
 * Now listen, Alice, listen ? she does swear.'
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 209 
 
 A gentle ' Ah, mon Uicu ! ' escaped from Justine at this 
 instant. Alice walked away without answering. She went 
 into the dressing-room to prepare for dinner. Mary Vernon 
 and Ruth were there : they were talking earnestly. Alice's 
 countenance always showed when anything annoyed her, and 
 Ruth, stopping in the middle of a sentence, asked, ' What w as 
 the matter ?' 
 
 ' Nothing,' answered Alice ; ' only Janet makes me angry 'i' 
 
 * What about.'" inquired Ruth. 
 
 * 1 cannot exactly tell ; but it is her way ; she sets herself 
 up so ; and she has no business to speak of Justine as she 
 does. If Janet were to live a thousand j'ears, she would never 
 be half as good and nice as Justine ; now would she .'" 
 
 Ruth hesitated what to reply, and Alice saw her glance at 
 Mary Vernon. 
 
 * You don't mean that you do not like Justine !' continued 
 Alice, in surprise. 
 
 ' No,' replied Mary ; ' like her ! every one must, fo/ being 
 agreeable ; but, Alice, Ruth and I are not quite sure about 
 other things, — more important things. I think she has differ- 
 ent notions from ours.' 
 
 ' Of course she has, because she has been educated in 
 France.' 
 
 ' But Mary spoke to her the other day about saying those 
 solemn words, as she does,' observed Ruth ; ' and she took it 
 so oddly.' 
 
 * I daresay she was angry,' replied Alice ; ' I am sure I 
 should have been.' 
 
 * No, she was not at all angry, but she laughed and made a 
 joke of it,' said Mary; 'and when we touched upon other 
 serious things, going to church and so on, she did not seem 
 to understand or care much about it. You know, Alice, that 
 cannot be right.' 
 
 ' She is French,' said Alice, ' and she speaks French.' 
 
 ' But that does not alter the case. Things are wrong just 
 the same, whether they are French or English.' 
 
 ' I could say what Justine does much more easily in French 
 than in English,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' Yet you would be wrong, Alice, still,' observed Mary, in a 
 gentle tone. 
 
 ' And it is making such a fuss about a trifle,' continued Alice : 
 'after all, what Justine generally sa)s is, " O heaven ! " why is 
 
 O
 
 2 1 o LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 there more harm in that than in " goodness " or '' gracious/ 
 and such words ?' 
 
 • Are you sure that any of those expressions are right ? ' 
 asked Mary. 
 
 ' Oh ! if you are as strict as that, Mary, you should never 
 open your lips : and at any rate, I would rather be a little 
 careless like Justine, than quote texts sharply like Janet 
 Harding.' 
 
 ' Why should you do either, dear Alice ? Why should you 
 not be like Ruth V 
 
 Ruth's face crimsoned. Mary saw it, and said, as she kissed 
 her and smiled, ' I did not mean to make you blush, Ruth.' 
 Ruth blushed still more deeply, and INIary Vernon thought how 
 nice it was to find one so good, so shy, and humble. Alice 
 was never annoyed at being considered inferior to Ruth, and 
 now she candidly allowed that Ruth was far beyond herself. 
 ' In fact,' she said, ' it was impossible to think of being like 
 her ; she wished it very much, she often thought about it, but 
 whenever she tried she went back and became just as bad as 
 before.' 
 
 ' Some things you can imitate easily,' said Mary. ' I do not 
 think either Ruth or Madeline ever use those expressions.' 
 
 ' Mamma always taught us not to do it,' said Ruth. ' She 
 used to tell us that many of them were at first really swearing ; 
 that " goodness " m.eant the goodness of God, and " gracious " 
 the same ; and that it was better not to say anything of the 
 kind.' 
 
 ' We don't mean to swear,' observed Alice. 
 
 ' But is it not safer,' asked Mary, ' to avoid the expressions 
 altogether ? Do you think that if Justine had been carefully 
 taught not to say " O Ciel !'"' she would ever had used the 
 more solemn words, " Mon Dieu !" as irreverently as slie 
 does ?' 
 
 ' Certainly that must be wrong,' said Alice, with an air of 
 thought. ' I do wish Justine would leave it off. 
 
 ' Then you will not be very angry with Janet for blaming her, 
 will you.''' said Mary, playfully. 
 
 ' I am not angry with Janet ; I do not care about her ; but I 
 wish she would not quote texts always.' 
 
 Mary's reply was stopped by the dinner bell. 
 
 That afternoon Justine and Clara set oft' for their walk 
 to2ether. Clara said she had engaged Justine the last tim.e she
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 211 
 
 drank tea with them. Alice watclied Justine to see if she hked 
 the arrangement. It appeared she did, for she smiled sweetly, 
 and was apparently amused at all Clara's odd sayings. But 
 then Justine had the same agreeable manner for ever}^ one. 
 They were just setting oft', when Clara came to Alice and asked 
 if she would join them in the park, when they were allowed to 
 change their companions. Justine wished it particularly. 
 Mary Vernon was close to Alice at the moment, and, interrupt- 
 ing more quickly than was her wont, she said — 
 
 ' O Alice ! I hoped you would have walked -with Ruth and 
 me; we were intending to ask you.' Then, in a still more 
 beseeching tone, added, ' I so wish you would.' 
 
 * But we cannot spare her; we want her very much,' exclaimed 
 Clara. ' Indeed, Alice, we must have you.' 
 
 * Mrs Carter is ready — waiting,' cried Jessie O'Xcile. 
 There was no time to settle about the walking. They 
 
 arranged themselves according to order, and set off. Alice and 
 Janet Harding were forced to be together. Alice had never 
 felt a greater aversion to Janet ; she could not forget the 
 morning's observation. Janet, however, was unconscious of 
 any change, still less that she had given offence ; and, speaking 
 her thoughts aloud, she said, after a long silence — slowly, and 
 as if the obsei-vation was the result of deep thought — 
 
 ' School is not at all like home.' 
 
 'Who ever thought it was ?' exclaimed Alice. 
 
 'No; it is not at all like home,' pursued Janet, in the same 
 dreamy voice. ' I think my mamma would not have sent me 
 to school if she had ever been there herself 
 
 'Your mamma is ill,' observed Alice, shortly; 'that is the 
 reason you are sent to school, is it not.''' 
 
 ' Mamma said I should learn a great deal more at school 
 than at home,' replied Janet ; ' but I don't think I do learn at 
 all more ; and I am sure she would not like all the things we 
 do here, and she would think Justine wicked.' 
 
 * You had better tell Justine so,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' She would not care for what 1 said,' continued Janet : ' but 
 mamma would think a great many of them v, icked. She would 
 like Madeline, because she is kind, and perhaps she would tliink 
 Mary Vernon good, but she would not hke any one else.' 
 
 ' Then it is better for her not to come here,' said Alice. 
 
 ' But they are v/icked, Alice ; because ever)- one is wicked 
 who is not very good.'
 
 311 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'And what do you call yourself, then, Janet ?' said Alice. 
 ' Oh, I am not good yet, but I shall be by and by.' 
 
 * I hope you will,' replied Alice ; and falling back into 
 silence, she continued without speaking till they reached the 
 park. 
 
 Alice's thoughts were not likely to be of much service to her. 
 They were very wandering, but principally she dwelt upon the 
 contrast between Janet's awkwardness and abruptness, and 
 Justine's agreeable, winning manner. Alice was much struck 
 by manner at all times, and, feeling provoked with Janet, she 
 was inclined to believe that she was unjust in her opinion of 
 Justine. She even began to think that Mary Vernon must be 
 either unjust or mistaken. They entered the park, and there 
 was a general change of companions. Alice saw Mary and 
 Ruth together. They appeared lingering for some one ; she 
 thought it must be for her. But Alice was not thoroughly in 
 the humour to walk with them ; she was too cross. Justine 
 and Clara came behind her, and Justine said, in a sweet 
 voice — 
 
 * Now, Alice, will you join us ?' 
 
 * Of course she will. Why do you ask her ?' said Clara. 
 Alice doubted what to answer. It was entirely against her 
 
 resolution to walk with Clara. Justine repeated the request. 
 Alice caught Janet Harding's eye, and knew what her thoughts 
 must be. In a fit of contradiction she turned back, put her 
 arm witliin Justine's, and left Janet to her own opinions. 
 
 Alice had seldom enjoyed a more agreeable walk. Justine 
 was more than commonly amusing, and particularly attentive 
 to Alice, whom she professed to like extremely. Clara was 
 softened by Justine's gentleness, and Alice returned home more 
 than ever inclined to believe Justine perfect. Certainly she 
 did occasionally use startling expressions, but they did not 
 sound as bad in French as in English ; and, besides, Alice 
 was less inclined to criticise them. It is astonishing how soon 
 we become like those we are ^ith. Alice's good principles 
 and resolutions had gone back many degrees when the walk 
 was over. 
 
 With tlie walk lier i)lca';urc for the day ended. She was 
 behindhand with her lessons, and, when tea was over, she was 
 obliged to go into the school-room to finish them. This was 
 very tiresome, and Alice sat brooding over her work, and not 
 putting her whole mind to it, till just as she had finished she
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 213 
 
 heard Monsieur Le Vergnier's knock at the door. Justine 
 would not, she supposed, go immediately ; at any rate, it would 
 be pleasant to be with her, though only for a few minutes ; and 
 gathering up her books, Alice went into the closet to put them 
 away. As she opened the door, some slates and copy-books, 
 which had been carelessly piled up by one of the children, fell 
 down, and in stooping to pick them up, Alice extinguished her 
 candle. She was still tiying to manage in the dark, when 
 Clara and Justine came into the room with a light. They were 
 talking, and did not notice that any one was behind the door. 
 Alice heard Justine say — 
 
 * But why won't you subscribe at once ?' 
 
 * Because we can't be quite sure of her yet,' replied Clara ; 
 * she is so odd ; sometimes she takes it into her head to be as 
 good as Ruth, but she likes you, Justine, I am sure ; and if I 
 tell her the books arc what you read, she will not think there is 
 any harm in reading them also.' 
 
 * And what shall I do about this one which you want to see 
 now ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, bring it, bring it. We will manage it somehow. We 
 can get into the dressing-room sometimes, on Sunday after- 
 noon especially. Hark ! there is Monsieur inquiring for you ; 
 we must be quick.' 
 
 Justine collected the few things which she had left in the 
 school-room and departed. Alice remained behind perplexed 
 and uncomfortable. She did not know what the conversation 
 meant. She had not wished to listen to anything not intended 
 for her ears, but there was an impression left upon her mind 
 that something was to be done secret and wrong. And who 
 could the ' she ' be ? Could it be herself.'' It was very prob- 
 able. But then Justine ne\xr would do anything wrong. Mrs 
 Carter, she believed, had a high opinion of her. Alice went 
 into the dining-room. Clara and Justine were standing at the 
 door. 
 
 ' Where have you been 1 ' asked Justine, in a tone of kind 
 reproach. 
 
 * In the schcol-room,' answered Alice, ' finishing my lessons.' 
 ' In the school-room ! — you were not there just now,' ex- 
 claimed Clara, hastily. 
 
 * Yes I was — behind the door, putting up my books.' 
 
 ' Then you heard — she must have heard,' said Clara, turning 
 to Justine.
 
 2 1 4 LANE TON PARSONA GE. 
 
 ' I heard wliat vou said, but I did not vinderstand it.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, to be sure she did not ; it was all nonsense,' ex- 
 claimed Justine ; ' but I must go, papa will be angr}'.' 
 
 ' Stop one minute, Justine,' said Clara. ' Alice, you will 
 promise Justine not to tell ?' 
 
 ' There is nothing to tell that I know of,' answered Alice. 
 
 'But you won't ask, you won't tease about it?' continued Clara. 
 * Justine, do make her promise, she will do anything for you.' 
 
 Justine heard her father speak impatiently. She began with 
 a very irreverent exclamation. Alice shrank from the words for 
 an instant: they gave her a painful feeling about Justine; but a 
 warm French embrace, and a few words of endearment, won 
 her heart, and she promised not to ask any questions until she 
 was told that she might. 
 
 'You were right about Alice,' said INIary Vemon to Ruth, as 
 they were wishing each other good night. ' 1 did not think she 
 would have cared so much for being with Justine after what we 
 said.' 
 
 ' Alice likes any one who amuses her,' replied Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, I am afraid she does. O Ruth ! if we could only 
 make her like you ! ' 
 
 Ruth went to bed ver>' happy. She thought over the events 
 of the day. She could scarcely fix upon a single point in which 
 she had really been negligent of her duty. And besides she 
 had received high praise from Mary Vernon. Ruth knelt down 
 to her pravers. Her attitude was verv reverent : she seemed 
 quite engrossed by the solemn duty she was performing. She 
 rose and got into bed, without once breaking the rule for 
 silence, which Anna Grant, who slept in her room, had some- 
 times great difficulty in enforcing upon the others. Every one 
 felt respect for Rutli — Ruth respected herself. 
 
 Shall we look deeper into her heart .>* Ruth's thoughts before 
 she went to sleep were those which had occupied her during her 
 prayers. When she said the holy words, ' Our Father which 
 art in Heaven,' she was thinking how glad she was that she 
 was not like Justine ; that she never used careless expressions ; 
 never took the name of God in vain. When she asked God to 
 forgive her her trespasses, she was imagining what her papa 
 and mamma would say when they heard she was held up as an 
 example. ^Vhen she prayed that God's name might be hal- 
 lowed, she was fancyintj herself an object of admiration to the 
 ■whole school.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 215 
 
 Ruth went to bed satisfied. And is it possible then for any 
 person so to fix his mind in prayer as never to allow his 
 thoughts to wander ? Does this habit of repeating holy 
 \vords without attention, really partake of the nature of that sin 
 which, whoever commits it, God has said, ' He will not hold 
 him guiltless.' 
 
 Ruth did not think so, but she was wrong. God's holy name 
 is taken in vain whenever it is mentioned without reverence ; 
 whenever we kneel before Him without a sense of His presence. 
 All — even the best, at times do this ; none are guiltless in the 
 sight of God. But some tiy to fix their attention, some do not. 
 God, * who seeth the heart,' forgives the imperfection of the 
 one, but He will assuredly punish the other. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 WEEKS at school pass very rapidly ; every hour is occu- 
 pied, and even those who are unhappy ha\'e scarcely 
 time allowed them to think of their sorrow. There are 
 sad moments, indeed ; mournful thoughts, perhaps in the tv/i- 
 light, when the lessons are over, and conversation turns upon 
 home and its pleasures ; and tears sometimes shed in darkness 
 when heads are laid upon the pillow waiting for sleep which 
 does not at once come ; but this is not the general state of 
 feeling. Except under peculiar circumstances there is as much 
 happiness to be found in a school as in any of the ordinary 
 situations of life. The Sundays came round so quickly at Mrs 
 Carter's, that the children could scarcely imagine it possible 
 that six days had passed between them. Yet the weeks which 
 elapsed after Madeline's misfortune with her text-book, seemed 
 longer than usual, when she looked back upon them after the 
 expiration of a month. She had thought more, tried more ; 
 she had made an advance in principle ; and such times always 
 make more impression upon us than comm^on ones. The Sun- 
 day afternoons, however, when they arrived, did appear precisely 
 the same. The elder girls went to Mrs Carter, the younger 
 sat down to write their texts, Clara Manners was as thoughtless, 
 Janet Harding as complaining as before. She summoned 
 Madeline to help her, and mourned over school troubles and
 
 2 1 6 LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 difficult tasks, and Madeline sat by her, and pitied, and 
 wrote ; but she had learned something by what had happened. 
 She took care of her own duty first, and Janet was oDligcd to 
 wait till Madeline's texts were all properly finished, before she 
 could obtain any assistance from her. This was a hint, and a 
 very useful one, which JNIadeline had received from Mary Vernon, 
 On the Sunday after Justine's visit, Janet's texts were brought to 
 an end sooner than usual, and then her countenance cleared. 
 She spoke of home, but it reminded her of pleasant things. 
 She had received a basket of apples in the course of the week. 
 It would be very nice to have some — who would like it .-' 
 Every one, of course ; and Janet went to ask permission to 
 fetch them. 
 
 ' Janet will be worth something by and by,' said Clara, ' she 
 is not quite so much of a shrivelled codling as she was. I can't 
 think what her papa and mamma can be like, to have made 
 such a goose of her.' 
 
 * They have taken a great deal of pains with her/ replied 
 Madeline. 
 
 * Then it is a pity they spent their time to so little purpose,' 
 observed Clara. ' I never had a quarter of the trouble taken 
 with me. They let me do just as I like at home.' 
 
 'Just as you like, Clara.?' said Jessie O'Neile, coming up to 
 the desk. ' You don't mean just as you like always.' 
 
 ' Yes, just as I like, always, little Miss Particular. Why do 
 you catch up my words .'" 
 
 ' Because I thought no one ever did just what they like, 
 always. Ruth says so.' 
 
 * Then Ruth knows nothing about it. Now, just listen all of 
 you, and I will tell you how I spend my Sundays at home. 
 First of all, I take half an hour's grace in bed, which is parti- 
 cularly comfortable. Then I go down-stairs, and have buttered 
 toast and coffee for breakfast. We always have toast on .Sun- 
 day mornings. Then of course I have my best frock and bonnet 
 to wear to church ; and when I am ready, I go over to the 
 house opposite, where a great friend of mine lives, Jane Price, 
 and she and I walk off to church together. We go rather early 
 because we can walk slowly and watch the people. Well ! then 
 comes church, much prettier singing than we have here, and a 
 sermon not half as long — and after church I go with Jane to 
 have luncheon, and we have great fun.' 
 
 'But what fun? fun on a Sunday!' asked Jessie.
 
 LANlLTON PARSONAGE. 217 
 
 *Do you play?' inquired Ellen Hastings. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Ghildren ! don't interrupt. You cannot understand. 
 r tell you we have fun.' 
 
 ^ Yes, but is it talking .^' asked Alice. 
 
 ' What should it be but talking.? We are not heathens. Jane 
 tells me all she saw in church, all the odd figures. There is 
 one man sits just opposite her pew — such a fright ! Great red 
 whiskers and a strawberry nose.' 
 
 The re-entrance of Janet interrupted Clara's delnils t the 
 apples were produced and divided, and this for a time caused a 
 change in the conversation, but Clara seemed bent upon return- 
 ing to it. ' Well, after luncheon' — she began. 
 
 ' Madeline,' said Ruth, calling her sister away, ' I -wish you 
 would come here, I want to speak to you.' JNIadeline went. 
 
 ' I cannot bear to hear Clara going on in that wild way,' said 
 Ruth, in an under-tone. 
 
 ' Oh ! why not ? there is no harm, she is only tellir g us what 
 she does on Sunday.' 
 
 ' But there is no good in hearing, and Jessie and Ellen had 
 much better be reading, and it is so silly of Alice to encourage 
 her.' 
 
 ' Speak to her,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' It will be of no use, she will not listen ; but I shall take the 
 little ones away, and I wish you would not go there again.' 
 
 Alice's laugh was heard at this instant. Clara was telling 
 something particularly amusing. 
 
 ' You see how she's enjoying it,' said Ruth — 'she likes Clara's 
 nonsense.' 
 
 Ruth went to the closet, and brought out some books, and 
 placing a stool by the long table, she made Jessie and Ellen sit 
 down by her. 
 
 Madeline stood apart. She was not as sure as Ruth seemed 
 to be, that Alice preferred Clara's conversation to that of any 
 one else. Yet, it was true that Clara was \'ery amusing. As 
 Madeline listened, she heard her describe things at which it was 
 almost impossible to help laughing. Tricks — unkind tricks, 
 played off by herself and her friend Jane Price ; still extremely 
 absurd. Madeline had a strong impulse to hear more, and she 
 drew near again. 
 
 They could not read all the afternoon, and the texts were 
 finished, and she had always been taught that Sunday was a day 
 for enjoyment. A question suggested itself to Madeline's mind.
 
 2 1 8 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 Vrouid her papa quite approve of the conversation? No, she was 
 sure he would not. She would not like him to hear it, though 
 she did not know exactly why. Madeline turned away and 
 began to read. 
 
 ' Why do you read, Maddy?' asked Alice, in a voice which 
 betrayed some uncomfortable feeling. 
 
 ' Because I had rather.' 
 
 * But don't read. Clara is telling such capital stories : come 
 and listen.' 
 
 ' Thank you, no, I had rather not ; and I think Alice, Mrs 
 Carter would like it best.' 
 
 *■ Mrs Carter does not mind our talking when we have written 
 our texts,' said Alice. 
 
 ' No, not some talking, but ' 
 
 * Never mind her ; we do very well without her,' interrupted 
 Clara. ' Let me see, where did I leave off?' 
 
 Alice went up to Madeline. ' What do you mean, Maddy ? 
 What is the harm of our talking ? ' 
 
 * I don't quite know, but it seems wrong, and Ruth does not 
 like it, and I don't think papa and mamma and Lady Catharine 
 would.' 
 
 * Don't you ? but it is only telling true things ; they are not 
 stories.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps it is not v/rong, but I had rather read.' 
 
 Perhaps it was not wrong — that was sufficient for Alice, and 
 she went back again. Even Clara, however, could not be 
 amusing for ever. Alice at last grew tired of her idle words, 
 and could not laugh as heartily as before. She looked at Ruth, 
 and felt irritated. Jessie O'Neile was leaning her head upon 
 Ruth's shoulder listening to what she was saying, and little Ellen 
 was holding her hand. They seemed quiet and good, and Ruth 
 appeared to be taking a great deal of pains with them. Why 
 should Alice have felt irritated ? Alice yawned and thought 
 that Sundays were long, dull days. 
 
 ' That good Ruth ! ' said Clara, following the direction of 
 Alice's glance, ' how she apes Mary Vernon ! ' 
 
 Alice could not bear to hear Clara speak of Ruth, and answered 
 sharply, that ' she could not ape a better person.' ' For my 
 part, I would not ape any one,' said Clara. ' I would rather be 
 myself.' 
 
 * But what do you mean by Ruth's aping Mary Vernon ?* asked 
 Alice.
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 2 1 9 
 
 ' Oh, that she sets up to be a piece of perfection, and won't 
 have any fun, and that is what Mary does. She is as quiet as 
 a church mouse on Sunday afternoons.' 
 
 Janet Harding, who had been sitting for some time silent with- 
 out showing whether she was at all aware of what was going on, 
 now joined in the conversation, and obsea'ed ' that she did not 
 think Maiy Vernon, or any of them, knew hov/ to beha\e on 
 Sund.ays.' 
 
 * Then please set us tlie example,' said Clara ; ' we shall be 
 quite proud to learn. What are we to do ? Are we to say the 
 Bible through from beginning to end ? ' 
 
 ' We could not do that, you know,' replied Janet ; ' there 
 would not be time.' 
 
 * Well then ! only half. Suppose you begin.' 
 
 Janet's face flushed. Don't laugh at her, Clara,' said Alice. 
 ' I think she is better than we are.' 
 
 ' Speak for yourself, Alice, if you please. Come, Janet, let us 
 be edified by an account of your Sundays. I have given you an 
 account of mine.' 
 
 Janet began, not without a tone of self-conceit. Her manner 
 of keeping Sunday was quite the reverse of Clara's. It was ^•ery 
 strict ; with lessons to be learned from the Bible, and examina- 
 tions, and scarcely anything in the shape of relaxation. Alice 
 pitied her as she listened. Her thoughts went back to the 
 Manor. Sunday M'as a day she liked ; Lady Catharine seemed 
 less stern ; she seldom found fault with her, and tried to interest 
 her by relating events v.-hich happened when she Avas a child ; 
 and Alice's time was fully occupied, for she taught a little class 
 in the Sunday-school ; and at home books were provided for 
 her, kept especially for the day. Some were story-books, but 
 of a grave kind, besides which, there was the pleasure of making 
 tea herself, and enjoying the Sunday cake, and sitting up rather 
 later : altogether, Alice had a very agreeable impression of 
 Sunday at tlie Manor. Still she could not help allowing that 
 Janet's notions were much better than Clara's. The misfortune 
 was that Janet spoiled the effect of any right princr[3le by her 
 manner. She had been accustomed to talk religiously before 
 she had learned to act. She was not insincere, but she was incon- 
 sistent; apt to profess herself, and to call upon others to profess 
 likewise, much more than they were able to practise. This Alice 
 saw and disliked. She stopped Janet quickly, as she was proceed- 
 ing to speak, in a lecturing tone, of Clara's conduct, and said — • 
 
 ' Well, Janet, your way of spending Sunday may be very good
 
 220 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 — I daresay it is ; but there is no use in finding fault with every 
 one else ; and I know I should hate it.' 
 
 * That is because you are not good yet,' said Janet. * I don't 
 like it always, but I shall by and by.' 
 
 * Good or not good, it is very stupid work staying here to talk 
 about it,' observed Clara. ' I wonder where Florence is.' 
 
 Florence just then came into the room with her sister. She 
 went up to Clara and whispered to her, and Clara nodded 
 her head, and said — 
 
 ' Very well ; directly ;' and then Harriet and Florence went 
 away again, and Clara almost immediately followed. 
 
 Alice was uncomfortable when Clara was gone. She wanted 
 to be amused. She wished she could be like Ruth and Made- 
 line, who were never dull ; and, for want of something to do, 
 she v.-ent to another desk, and joined in the same sort of conver- 
 sation as before with others of her companions. 
 
 They grew very noisy, and Mary Vernon, who was writing 
 at the table, several times asked them to be quiet. Ruth 
 watched Alice, and thought again that she liked idle con- 
 versation, and that it would be no use to try and draw her into 
 better habits. She seemed bent upon being careless and 
 thoughtless. There was reading going on in the outer school- 
 room. Miss Barnard was there ; the door was closed, but 
 Ruth remarked to Mary Vernon that she v.as sure the laugh- 
 ing would be heard ; and she was right. Miss Barnard sent a 
 message to insist upon perfect quietness. There was a lull in 
 consequence, but loud vvhispcring went on notwithstanding. 
 Madeline still sat apart, reading or trying to read. Once she 
 turned round, and asked Alice whether it was not her turn to 
 go to Miss Barnard next for Scripture reading ; because she 
 had better find out the right chapter, and put a mark in. Alice 
 only laughed, and said she should be quite in time, and Made- 
 line returned to her book. 
 
 ' Miss Barnard is ready for some more,' said Fanny Wilson, 
 a short, buetling, good-natured girl, about thirteen years of age, 
 coming in from the outer school-room. ' Vv hose turn is it ? ' 
 
 Ruth, Madeline, Alice, and Janet Harding, with two others, 
 prepared to go. 
 
 ' My Bible— I had my Bible ! ' exclaimed Alice. ' I wrote 
 my texts from it. Who has taken it } ' 
 
 No one knew : no one could think j and no one took the 
 trouble to search. 
 
 ' I am waiting,' said Miss Barnard., appearing at the door.
 
 LANETON PARSONA CE. 221 
 
 * Let me look over you, Maddy ; it will do just as well/ said 
 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, if you like it ; but Miss Barnard will be sure to ob- 
 serve it. Where can your Bible be .'" 
 
 Madeline tried to find it amongst a heap of books. Ruth 
 grew impatient, and said they could not stay, and Alice was 
 obliged to go without her Bible. The reading did not begin 
 directly. Miss Barnard was called away, and they waited at 
 least ten minutes. Then, to their surprise, instead of Miss 
 Barnard came Mrs Carter. She wished to hear them read, she 
 said, instead of her sister, who was particularly engaged. Ruth's 
 face brightened extremely when she heard this. To read with 
 Mrs Carter was a privilege generally reserved for the elder 
 girls. 
 
 Alice also was pleased. Mrs Carter's eye was not as keen 
 as Miss Barnard's. Probably she would not remark the absence 
 of llie Bible. They were reading in the first Book of Kings. 
 Mi's Carter read the chapter, and afterwards questioned and 
 talked to them about it. Alice felt she was safe from remark 
 during . reading, but when the questions began, and it was 
 necessary to turn to references, she was uneasy. 
 
 * You will each find a text in turn, my dears,' said Mrs 
 Carter. ' Ruth, you begin. But, Alice, you have no Bible.' 
 
 * I could not find it ; I had it just before, but I could not 
 find it,' replied Alice, blushing : ' and Madeline said I might 
 look o\er her.' 
 
 ' But that will not quite do. I wish you all to have Bibles 
 of your own. Go and look again.' 
 
 Miss Barnard would probably have required a forfeit, and 
 Alice thought that she had had a lucky escape. 
 
 ' What was Alice doing that her Bible was not ready ? ' in- 
 quired Mrs Carter. 
 
 ' Talking, ma'am,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' But that is no reason. Whom was she talking with ? ' 
 
 * There were several of us,' said Janet ; * I was talking too.' 
 Mrs Carter was a little grave for a few moments. 
 
 * I thought you all had )our texts to do,' she said. 
 
 * Yes, ma'am, but we had finished — at least, some of us. 
 Alice, I know, had.' 
 
 Alice had left the door between the two rooms ajar, and 
 the whispering voices and laughter were more plainly heard. 
 Jkirs Carter made no further observations then. Alice having
 
 22 2 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 found her Bible, brought it back, read the reference, and 
 answered the questions. The examination upon the last verse 
 in the chapter was made, and Mrs Carter was expected to say, 
 ' Very well, my dears, now you may go ; ' but she did not say it. 
 She fixed her eyes upon the book which lay open before her, 
 and did not speak for some seconds ; and when at length she 
 looked up, her face wore the appearance of anxiety. 
 
 ' I\Iy dears,' she said, ' it would gire me great pleasure to 
 feel that I could trust you always, out of my sight as in it. It 
 would save me much care and trouble. Ruth, I think you are 
 to be depended on.' 
 
 A faint smile of satisfaction stole over Ruth's face. 
 
 ' But, Alice,' continued Airs Carter, ' I am not so sure of you ; 
 and Janet, my dear, you have been strictly brought up. I trust 
 you will not grow less careful here.' 
 
 ' I try to remember the things mamma told m.e, ma'am,' said 
 Janet. 
 
 ' That is right. Always try and remember what your mamma 
 tells you. But there are points on which, probably from not 
 knowing your danger, she may not have warned you. One is 
 about keeping the Sunday.' 
 
 ' The girls do some things mamma would not let me do,* 
 said Janet, very boldly. 
 
 ' It is not so much the particular things which I am anxious 
 about,' replied Mrs Carter, ' as the spirit of the day. It is 
 God's day ; — it is not at all like ordinary days; and this is what 
 I am afraid many of you forget when you are left together. 
 Ruth, find out the fifty-eighth chapter of the prophecy of Isaiah, 
 and read the two last verses.' — ' If thou turn away thy foot from 
 the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call 
 the sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable ; and 
 shalt honour Him, not doing thine own v/ays, nor finding thine 
 ov.-n pleasure, nor speaking thine own words : then shalt thou 
 delight thyself in the Lord ; and I will cause thee to ride upon 
 the high places of th.e earth, and feed thee with the heritage of 
 Jacob thy fixlhcr : for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.' — 
 "When Ruth had finished, Mrs Carter said : — 
 
 * Now these are two very beautiful and striking verses ; even 
 if you do not understand every word you must feel that they 
 are meant to express how the favour of the Almighty was 
 shown to those who kept the Jewish sabbath strictly. But 
 our Sunday is not the Jewish sabbath ; it is the first day of
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 22 J 
 
 the week, not the last, and it is kept in remembrance of- 
 what, Alice?' 
 
 ' Of our Saviour's resurrection ' replied Alice. 
 
 * Yes ; it is a day of rest still, but it is a festival — a day of 
 enjoyment; in commemoration of the most glorious event of out 
 Lord's life ; of that which gives us a sure and certain hope of a 
 joyful resurrection also. If our Saviour had not risen from the 
 dead, neither should we have had any hope of doing so. Biit as 
 the day is especially our Saviour's day, as it is often called "the 
 Lord's day," so must it especially be given to Him. Do you 
 know, Janet, what I mean by giving Sunday to our Saviour ? ' 
 
 Janet hesitated, and then answered, that she supposed it was 
 going to church, and saying prayers, and reading the Bible at 
 home. 
 
 ' It is quite right to do those things,' replied Airs Carter, 
 
 * but they do not entirely make the distinction between Sunday 
 and a common day, because we ought, if possible, to do tl^cm 
 every day. Madeline, you have not spoken at all; perhaps you 
 can explain what I mean a little more clearly.' 
 
 Madeline's colour mounted to her forehead, and it was in a 
 low, doubtful tone that she asked, ' If it was thinking about our 
 Saviour ? ' 
 
 ' Right, partly,' observed Mrs Carter, encouragingly ; ' but 
 that is not all I wished to say. You know what it is to keep a 
 birthday. The person v/hose birthday it is, is the one object — 
 the great person of the day. We are constantly thinking what he 
 will like ; how we can please him : his Avishes are consulted, 
 and if we forget for a little while, we are always meeting with 
 something to remind us of him. Now, our feeling on a Sunday 
 should be of the same kind. Do you think it is .'' ' 
 
 There v.'as silence. 
 
 ' I am afraid, generally speaking, it is not,' continued Mrs 
 Carter ; * especially when we have been to church, and return 
 home, and join in common conversation, I am afraid we all are 
 apt to forget that it is the Lord's day. We make it our own 
 day by talking of business and lessons, and indulging in idle 
 jesting, perhaps about what was seen or done in church.' 
 
 ' i\Iamma never told me I must not talk,' said Janet. 
 
 * Neither do I, my dear child,' replied Mrs Carter, smiling. 
 
 * We cannot be reading and praying all day ; even the very best 
 persons cannot ; and we cannot think for a whole day about re- 
 ligion. There is no harm whatever in quiet, cheerful conA'ersa-
 
 224 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 tion, or in real friends meeting together ; and there is no harni 
 in reading otlicr boolcs besides tlie Bible, as long as they are 
 such as will help to make us more religious ; but there is harm 
 in turning our minds to business or worldly pursuits ; in your 
 troubling yourselves about your week's lessons, for instance ; or 
 in grown-up persons settling accounts, or arranging their 
 affairs ; and there is harm in idle, laughing conversation, which 
 may prevent us from being serious and properly behaved at 
 church. This is the conversation which I am afraid you are 
 apt to indulge in. I do not ask you whether you are ; but I 
 warn you against it as wTong.' 
 
 ' Clara Manners told us how she spent her Sundays,' said 
 Janet, * and I told how I spent mine ; I did not know it was 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' INIy dear Janet,' replied Mrs Carter, 'it is impossible for me 
 or for any person to decide in everj'^ particular case what is wrong 
 or not. I can only give you general advice as to the subjects you 
 should not talk about, and the things which you should not do. 
 But one thing I will say to you all. Sunday is a day for religion. 
 When we are entirely religious in our inmost hearts, we shall 
 thoroughly enjoy it. Until we are so, there are times when it 
 will seem dull to us — when it will be a burden to go to church, 
 and verj' tiresome not to be able to amuse ourselves as we do 
 on other days. This will be our fault. The only way to remedy 
 it, is to try to be more religious, to love and serve God more. 
 And remember, it is much better to be too particular than not 
 particular enough. If, whilst you are at school, you will try to 
 remember the day, by occupying yourselves quietly, rather than 
 talking idly ; reading the books which I choose for you, rather than 
 your own story books; and never indulging in ridicule of serious 
 things, such as the manner in w'hich the service is performed, 
 the sermon, or the clergyman, or anything which may appear 
 strange to you in church, you will certainly become more reli- 
 gious, and the duties which are now a burden will be a pleasure 
 to you. We begin by being strict when we do not like to be 
 so, because it is our duty. We end by discovering that strict- 
 ness has brought us to happiness. My dear children, God 
 grant that you may one day find it so,' 
 
 Mrs Carter rose and closed her book. It was the signal for 
 departure. Madeline, Alice, and Janet went first. Mrs Carter 
 called Ruth back as she was following them, and kissing her, 
 said : ' Ruth, that is one of the points on which you may set a 
 good example, and be of great use to me when Mar)- is gone.*
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 225 
 
 Ruth grew a little nervous and shy, but promised that she would 
 do her best, and then returned to the school-room. 
 
 Alice did not go back to her former companions. Mrs 
 Carter's kind remarks touched her conscience more than any 
 reproofs. She meant to read, but she was interrupted. Ruth 
 repeated what had passed, not in an authoritative tone, as Anna 
 Grant would have done, but quietly and humbly, so as not to 
 give offence. Then she took her former place at the table. If 
 she was self-satisfied, her manner did not betray it. 
 
 ' Well, if we must not talk, I should like to know what we 
 may do,' said Fanny Wilson ; ' I shall go into the garden.' 
 
 * You must ask first, Fanny,' said Janet. 
 
 ' Yes, but I am afraid ; I never ask if I can help it. Alice, 
 you are bold — will you ask .'' ' 
 
 ' I do not wish to go into the garden,' said Alice. 
 
 * Oh ! but just ask ; if 3'^ou don't go yourself, ask for us ; 
 please do. Or, Madeline, perhaps you will.' 
 
 ' Madeline is not here,' said Jessie O'Neile. * She is gone 
 into the dressing-room wth a book.' 
 
 ' Then, Alice, do be good-natured.' 
 
 ' I do not like asking, any more than you do, Fanny,' an- 
 swered Alice : — ' however, I suppose I must,' — and she went. 
 She passed the dressing-room door on her way to the study. 
 Madeline was there, but she was not alone, for several voices 
 met Alice's ear. * Now what is it ? do tell me,' she heard 
 Madeline say, and upon opening the door from curiosity, 
 Madeline turned round, exclaiming : ' Here is Alice, now 
 she will make you tell. Alica, they have a secret ; do help 
 find it out.' 
 
 * Try, try, you are very welcome,' said Clara Manners. 
 
 * I have known they have had a secret some time,' observed 
 Alice ; ' but they would not let me into it.' 
 
 ' And you sleeping in the same room ? ' cried Madeline. 
 ' What a shame ! ' 
 
 ' Now, Maddy, take my advice,' said Clara; ' you are a good, 
 little, simple thing ; don't wish to be any wiser — ^just let me go 
 my way, and you go yours.' 
 
 'Then you mean to tell Alice?' inquired Madeline. 
 
 * Never mind what we mean to do ; only go away, and leave 
 us to ourselves.' 
 
 ' I came here to read,' continued Madeline ; ' because there 
 is always so much talking in the school-room,' 
 
 ?
 
 22 6 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Well, then ! you see that you came to no purpose. We are 
 here before you.' 
 
 ' Some of them are going into the garden,' observed Alice. 
 * I am to ask Mrs Carter if they may; and then the school-room 
 ^vill be quite quiet.' 
 
 ' No, no, Ahce, you stay here,' said Clara; ' and, Maddy, you 
 are always good-natured ; you will go, I am sure.' ' And let 
 Alice hear the secret.^' replied Madeline, feeling a little angry 
 and very curious. Some one opened the door quietly ; it was 
 Ruth, come to look for Madeline. Mary Vernon was reading 
 such an interesting book, she was certain her sister would like 
 to hear it. * And Mary thought you would like it too, Alice,' 
 she added. 
 
 Madeline promised she would come directly; and Ruth closed 
 the door, but in an instant re-opened it. 
 
 * Madeline, Mary said particularly she wished you to come : 
 she wants you very much.' 
 
 * I will come in one minute ; only one minute.' Ruth was 
 gone. Madeline felt that she ought to follow her — but her 
 curiosity was great. Perhaps, if she asked again, Clara would 
 tell her the secret. Madeline stood in a musing attitude, whilst 
 Clara, Florence, and Harriet whispered together ; and Alice 
 waited, under the idea that Madeline was deciding whether she 
 W'ould go to Mrs Carter or not. 
 
 Alice took up a book which was lying on a chair. * Ma- 
 deline,' she said, ' this is your book ; how could it come 
 here .'' ' 
 
 It was Madeline's Bible. She had brought it in by mistake. 
 The circumstance seemed quite accidental — but it recalled a 
 serious thought to Madeline's mind. It niadc her think of her 
 prayers; especially her few short prayers in that room, and her 
 good resolutions, and Mrs Carter's warnings. She turned the 
 handle of the door, and said : ' Alice, I will go to Mrs Cai-ter if 
 you wish it ; but won't you come back to the school-room ? 
 Man,' and Ruth say we had better.' 
 
 ' No, stay, stay,' whispered Clara. 
 
 ' And you shall hear the secret,' said Harriet in the same tone. 
 
 Alice wavered. ' I will come presently, Madeline ; don't 
 wait for me.' 
 
 ' But, Alice ! you would like to be with Ruth and Mary.' 
 
 * Yes, very much ; I will come ! ' Alice had better thoughts 
 also, of the advice she had just received, and of Lady Catharine,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 227 
 
 and her mamma, and her own wishes to be good. ' I will really 
 come, Madeline; but don't wait.' 
 
 It seemed of no consequence whether Alice stayed a minute 
 longer or not. Madeline went to Mrs Carter ; permission was 
 given for those who liked it to go into the garden. Ruth, 
 Madeline, and Mary Vernon spent the next half-hour together. 
 Then all were summoned to tea ; and the last of the party who 
 entered the dining-room, looking hun-ied and uncojiifortable, 
 were Clara, Alice, and Florence and Harriet Trevelyan. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A WARM, bright morning, at the end of P>lay, was alniost 
 as pleasant in the neighbourhood of London as in the 
 country. The leaves upon the large tree in the centre of the 
 garden were about to burst into full beauty ; the turf was as jet 
 quite green ; the gravel walk had been newly trimmed, and there 
 were early flowers in the borders, with colours as brilliant as if 
 they had been born hundreds of miles from the smoke and dust 
 of a crowded city. Ruth stood at the window, and looked up 
 into the soft blue heaven. How calm and pure it was ! how 
 free from change ! It seemed as if the eye could travel on and 
 on, higher and higher, farther and farther into its depth, and 
 never meet with check or obstacle. It was something which 
 had no end. Ruth's heart felt light. The bird which crossed 
 the sky, a speck in the dazzling sunshine, gone almost as soon 
 as seen, was not more free from thoughts of care. Ruth was 
 enjoying the freedom and delight of a school holiday. It was 
 Mrs Carter's birthday. There were no lessons, no masters. 
 She was to do as she pleased all day. Ruth had not quite made 
 up her mind what her pleasure would be ; but she was happy. 
 For a time it was enjoyment enough to sit upon the window-scat 
 in the warmth of the sun, and watch the whirling of the insects 
 in the garden, and mark the different colours of the flowers, and 
 listen first to the clear, thrilling song of a bird amongst the 
 shrubs, and then turn from it to the heavy, rumbling, unceasing 
 sound of the succession of carriages, and omnibuses, and the 
 hundreds of human beings, who were passing to and fro on the 
 great road which led into the very heart of London.
 
 22 8 Z^NETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Mrs Carter came into the room, and Miss Barnard with her, 
 They had both a pccuHar holiday smile, though Mrs Carter's 
 was by far the sweeter of the two. Ruth was never afraid of 
 seeing Mrs Carter, especially on a holiday ; she was not con- 
 scious of having anything to conceal. She sat still in the same 
 position, for she did not imagine that Mrs Carter could have 
 business with her. But she heard her name called. She was 
 wanted, and Alice and Madeline, Mary Vernon, Clara, Janet, 
 Jessie, and one or two others. What could it be for ? Mrs 
 Carter looked as persons often look when they are certain of 
 giving pleasure. 
 
 ' My dears,' she said — and then she glanced around, and 
 smiled still more kindly : but why did she not speak a little 
 quicker ? Ruth longed for the words to come — ' My dears, this 
 is a holiday. I should like to give you some amusement — at 
 least, some of you.' 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am ; ' but they were all too impatient to be 
 very cordial. 
 
 ' I have been thinking of a party to Richmond.' Madeline 
 nearly jumped with delight. * I believe none of you have been 
 there — none of you, I mean, whom I have named. Have any 
 of you ? ' 
 
 No, not one ; they had all been longing to go for a great 
 while, but they had never had the opportunity. 
 
 ' Well, then ! I cannot take all the school — only a few; those 
 who did not go the last time, or who were not here ; and the 
 others must enjoy themselves as well as they can at home.' 
 
 Bright as the sun had appeared to Ruth before, it was tenfold 
 more bright now. The thanks were not very loud and a little 
 constrained. It is more difficult to receive a favour well than 
 to bestow it. But Mrs Carter did not want words. She knew 
 well the pleasure she was giving, and left them, after begging 
 they would prepare immediately ; for they must drive into Lon- 
 don, and go down to Richmond by one of the river steamers. 
 Miss Barnard remained in the school-room for a few minutes, 
 and relaxing from her usual severity, wished to know what she 
 could do for those who were to stay behind ; how she could 
 assist them in amusing themselves. Mrs Carter had no objec- 
 tion to their choosing a book from the study to read aloud, if 
 they liked it ; and if they wished for any working materials — 
 lambs' wool, crochet needles, cardboard, silks — anything in short 
 — Dawson should go out and execute the commission. Also,
 
 LANEtOM PARSOMAG^. 229 
 
 !he agreeable facts were announced, that the cook had made 
 a large cake for the evening, and that the fruit-woman had 
 been ordered to call, in case any of them should like to buy 
 of her. 
 
 ' Ours is the best school in London, I protest it is,' said 
 Fanny Wilson, as she seated herself upon the top of her desk, 
 and looked round with an air of great satisfaction, ' But who 
 is going to Richmond? You, Ruth, and Madeline, and Clara, 
 and who else?' 
 
 'Alice,' added Clara, 'and Jessie, and — but I don't know 
 who ; every one must take care of herself. Now, Alice, you and 
 I will go and dress.' 
 
 'We must all go,' observed Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, of course ; but all is not my concern. Come, Alice.' 
 Alice did not follow. 
 
 ' Maddy, you be my friend for the day,' said Janet Harding. 
 
 ' Well, yes, if I can — certainly I will.' 
 
 ' And, Ruth, shall I walk with you?' inquired Alice. 
 
 * No, no, no, Alice ; I am to have Ruth,' exclaimed Jessie ; 
 and she seized Ruth's hand in both hers. ' My dear, dar- 
 ling Ruth, I am to have her all day, all to myself Alice, indeed 
 you can't.' 
 
 ' I think I must have Jessie,' said Ruth, in a very kind voice. 
 * You know, Alice, she is so little.' 
 
 Jessie clung to her, and said, ' Dear, darling Ruth,' again. 
 
 It was very winning in her, Alice spoke not another word. 
 She put a few stray things into her desk, locked it, and went to 
 dress. 
 
 It is a cheerful, pleasant thing to catch the first glimpse of 
 the river Thames, as it flows through London, crowded with 
 steamers, barges, fishing-boats, and little pleasure skiffs, so 
 narrow and light that they seem scarcely able to bear the weight 
 of a single person ; but it is still more pleasant to escape from 
 the whirl and confusion of shipping and business, the loading 
 and unloading of vessels at the wharves, the calling of porters 
 and passengers, and the ringing of bells, and, after passing under 
 the high, dark arches of the different bridges, to emerge again 
 into the free air ; and by degrees leaving the long lines of ware- 
 houses and narrow streets which border the river, to reach the 
 open country, and see fields and hedgerows shining fresh and 
 green in the morning light, and watch the flickering reflections 
 of dark trees, floating, as it seems, underneath the cool, clear
 
 230 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 water of the river, and blending with the transparent blue of the 
 cloudless sky. 
 
 This was a pleasure such as Ruth had never enjoyed before. 
 Even the open sea at Laneton scarcely seemed as delightful, 
 for the coast was not very safe, and in consequence they scarcely 
 ever went on the water. And at Ruth's age there was a par- 
 ticular chann in the life and cheerfulness of everything about 
 her. The banks of the river were enlivened by villas and gar- 
 dens, and fine trees ornamented the large park like fields. Ruth 
 was not inclined to find fault with the numerous houses, and 
 when they came to large villages, which Mrs Carter said seemed 
 like the suburbs of London, Ruth fancied that she was speak- 
 ing rather in their praise than not. Everything on this day, 
 from the hot steam-packet to the long walk after they landed, 
 was agreeable to her. Only one of the party appeared not 
 thoroughly happy. Alice sat by Clara Manners, but she did not 
 enter into her jokes. She was listless and silent. Mrs Carter 
 remarked it, and inquired if she had a headache. But no, Alice 
 was quite well ; she made no complaints of any kind ; though 
 she looked at Jessie O'Neile with something of an envious eye. 
 Yet when the seat by Ruth was afterwards left vacant, she did 
 net offer to take it. 
 
 ' You will keep in order, my dears, in walking through the 
 town,' said Mrs Carter, when they reached Richmond. ' Now 
 go, one by one ; don't be in a hurry.' 
 
 The landing occupied but a few minutes, and then, whilst 
 Mrs Carter was giving some instructions to a servant, they 
 divided into pairs according to the direction. There was an 
 uneven number, Alice kept back ; she thought it w'ould be 
 pleasant to walk with Mrs Carter, and she intended to ask. 
 
 Clara Manners came up to claim her. 
 
 ' Alice, you know you and I are to be friends to-day.' 
 
 * No, Clara, I never said so. I never promised to walk with 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, you did. I understood so ; and what do you want 
 to do else ?' 
 
 ' I should like to walk with Mrs Carter.' 
 
 * Walk with Mrs Carter ! what a good little child ! Jessie 
 O'Neile likes walking with Mrs Carter; she tells her pretty 
 stories.' 
 
 ' I do not wish to hear stories,' said Alice. 
 
 * Only to learn to be prim. My brother Charles says there
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 231 
 
 is not such aiiother prim old lady in England. lie always calls 
 her the Kensington Primer.' Alice laughed. 
 
 ' Look at her, just look at her now,' said Clara, 'bowing and 
 curtseying to that woman with a purple shawl. I declare they 
 are a capital match. Now again there is the bow. See Alice — 
 this way,' and Clara gave an exaggerated imitation of Mrs 
 Carter's bow. 
 
 ' Hush, Clara, be quiet, do ; people will see you.' 
 
 * I don't care ; why should 1 1 We are told to follow our 
 superiors. Now, my dears, hold up your heads, walk properly, 
 straight on.' 
 
 The manner was so like Mrs Carter's, that all who were near 
 smiled, and the smile encouraged Clara to proceed. 
 
 ' What a time she is coming ! what can they be saying ? 
 Such heaps of good-byes ! and kisses ! I protest she is kissing 
 tiiat baby. That is because some day, she thinks, it will come 
 to school. I know that is the reason.' 
 
 ' Well ! and if it is, where is the harm ? ' said Alice. 
 
 ' No harm; who said there was harm.'' I would kiss babies 
 all day long if I thought I was to get so much money for it.' 
 
 The kiss to the baby was the farewell greeting between Mrs 
 Carter and her friend. 
 
 The lady in the purple shawl pursued her way over Richmond 
 Bridge, and Mrs Carter came back to her young party, telling 
 them that she was really sorry to have delayed them so long, 
 but that she had just met with a friend whom she had not seen 
 before for two years. Now, they were to go through the street, 
 and then turn to the left up the hill. A lady living near, one 
 who had formerly been a pupil of Mrs Carter's, was wishing to 
 see them ; they were to dine at her house. Those who were in 
 advance moved on. Mrs Carter wvis standing alone. Alice 
 tliought of her intended request, but the wish to walk with Mrs 
 Carter was over. Clara took her arm as a n^iattcr of course, 
 and Alice went with her. 
 
 The High Street of Riclunond was not very tempting after 
 Regent Street, but it was a novelty, and that did just as well ; 
 and besides it was not crowded, and therefore more agreeable 
 for walking ; and, as they proceeded, there were views of the 
 river and the opposite banks, very fresh and lovely and unlike 
 London. 
 
 Janet Harding found a little cause for complaint in the idea 
 of going amongst strangers^ but she was reassured by AL^deiine's
 
 232 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 reminding; her that Mrs Vansittart had been at school herself, 
 and therefore must know all about school-girls. Then tlie tone 
 of her voice grew more cheerful, and she acknowledged, as they 
 stood at the gate, nearly at the summit of Richmond Hill, that 
 It did look as if the grounds within the palings must be ex- 
 tremely pretty. 
 
 But there was a disappointment in store for them, at least for 
 Mrs Carter. Mrs Vansittart had been sent for that morning to 
 see an aunt who was ill. No one was at home to receive them ; 
 but a cold dinner was prepared, and a note was left for Mrs 
 Carter, begging her to make use of the house as if it were her 
 own. Janet Harding thought the arrangement a fortunate one, 
 and Mrs Carter alone was really sorry, for Mrs Vansittart had 
 been a favourite pupil. If the annoyance had been on the part 
 of the children, the pleasure of the whole party might have been 
 spoiled ; but Mrs Carter was thoroughly unselfish, and never 
 allowed her own vexation to interfere with the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 The house — a large, square, brick building, with stone facings 
 — was not particularly picturesque ; but it stood in a beautiful 
 garden, from which might be seen the steep fields leading down 
 to the town, and the long reach of the river gliding onwards 
 through the meadows, and losing itself amidst the richness of 
 the distant country, which stretched mile after mile towards 
 the far horizon, becoming softer and more purple in its hues 
 as trees, and houses, and hills blended their outlines and their 
 colouring together, until all were mingled at last in a faint, 
 blue misty shadow, scarcely distinguishable from the vapoury 
 sky. Ruth sat alone for some time on a pleasant seat over- 
 looking the lovely landscape. She was not inclined for play ; 
 she never was when enjoying very beautiful scener)'. The sight 
 of it made her quiet — it might almost have been termed sad ; 
 but the sadness was so pleasant she would not have exchanged 
 it for mirth. 
 
 A gentle footstep was heard, and Madeline, as she sat down 
 beside her sister, said — ■ 
 
 ' Is it prettier than Laneton, Ruth?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I think it must be. How far we can see! 
 Look! quite away. Mrs Carter says that Windsor is out 
 there.' 
 
 ' I like it — I like it very much — very much indeed,' said 
 Madeline ; ' but I don't want it to be prettier than Laneton.'
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 233 
 
 * I would rather live at Lancton,' replied Ruth, ' and so would 
 papa and mamma ; because of all the poor people, and the 
 church, and the sea.' 
 
 'And it is very pretty, is it not,' continued Madeline, ' down 
 on the shore when the tide is coming in, with the rocks and the 
 cliffs ? I wish mamma could see this, and tell us which is the 
 prettiest.' 
 
 * Mamma would be very glad to be here to-day,' said Ruth. 
 ' I should be so glad if she was, and dear papa too.' 
 
 * I always think about home on holidays,' observed Madeline, 
 * more than I do on any other days, because I am not so busy. 
 But do you know, Ruth, I don't think some of the girls care 
 much about their homes. Clara Manners does not.' 
 
 A burst of laughter reached them just at that moment. 
 Clara's voice was heard very distinctly. 
 
 * Now, my dears, proceed slowly. Hold up you head, Alice;' 
 and, with another shout of laughter, a little procession, walking 
 two and two, came up the path which led from the lower part of 
 the garden. Jessie O'Neile headed it. 
 
 ' They are mimicking Mrs Carter — how very wrong ! ' 
 exclaimed Ruth ; ' and she will see them. How can Clara do 
 such things ! ' 
 
 * And Alice is there,' said Madeline. * I wonder she joins.' 
 ' Jessie — Jessie ! ' called out Ruth. 
 
 ' Fair play, Ruth,' exclaimed Clara ; * I won't have my 
 scholars taken from me. Now, my dears, toes turned out, 
 shoulders down.' 
 
 ' Jessie, that is very naughty. Come to me,' said Ruth 
 again. 
 
 The child stopped, and immediately the rest of the party 
 slopped too. 
 
 * Clara, you know you ought not — you know it as well as I 
 do,' said Ruth, going up to her. 
 
 ' Know what .'' That there is any harm in walking round 
 the garden 1 We were told to do it. Don't stop us, if you 
 please. On, my dears, on. We have no time to lose.' 
 
 Clara was an excellent mimic, and Ruth had real difficulty in 
 keeping her countenance. She caught Jessie's frock. 
 
 ' Come to me, Jessie ; don't stay with them. Come to me, I 
 want to talk to you.' Jessie left her companion, and followed 
 Ruth. Alice looked after her, and stepped aside as if she would 
 have turned back also. Kuth took no notice, but Clara ran up
 
 2 34 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 to liei, and said : 'Alice, don't go ; it is only Ruth'ii nonsense. 
 There can't be any harm in having a Httle fun ; ' and Alice 
 moved on. But there were no more shouts of laughter — at 
 least Alice did not join in them ; and after again making the 
 round of the garden, Alice stepped away from the party unper- 
 ceived, and wandered into a walk by herself; a quiet, shady 
 walk, with the shnibs growing high enough to conceal any one 
 who might be there. Why did this pleasant, bright day make 
 Alice sad ? Why was her mirth so little from the heart ? Hov/ 
 was it that those whose society she cared for thought little about 
 her, and those whom she never could respect were always 
 forcing themselves into her company ? yUice deemed herself 
 very unfortunate ; and again she said, as she had so often done 
 before, that it was in vain to try to be good ; in vain to think 
 of pleasing Lady Catharine ; in vain to endeavour to be like her 
 dear mamma : because she was placed by circumstances v>'ith 
 those who were always doing wrong. If Ruth were fond of lier, 
 if Mary Vernon would notice her, if she did not sleep in the 
 same room and sit at the same desk with Clara Manners, she 
 might be better ; but, now, it was impossible. 
 
 Alice walked till she was tired, but she would not go to the 
 bench where Ruth and Madeline were, for she felt ashamed. 
 The trunk of a fallen tree lay stretched across the path, and she 
 sat down on it to rest. Her heart was heavy, for her conscience 
 was uneasy. How long she sat there she did not think. It 
 was quiet and warm, and Alice did not wish to be interrupted. 
 Sad though her thoughts were, she liked better to indulge them 
 than to join in mirth which she did not feel. Alice sometimes 
 pondered very seriously upon what life really was ; how strange 
 it was ; how wonderful that she should be able to li\'e and move, 
 and converse, and think; how wonderful that trees should grow, 
 and flowers blossom, and the sun shine, and the wind blow ; 
 how still more wonderful and awful, that such numbers and 
 numbers of persons should have dwelt upon earth since it ^vas 
 created ; that they should have lived the same sort of life which 
 she was then living, and now that they should all be gone — 
 gone, no one knew where — gone either to happiness or misery. 
 It was very awful ! Alice was not at all happy when the idea 
 came before lier, for her faults came also. 
 
 She was still thinking, when Mary Vernon came into the 
 walk. Mary did not perceive Alice until she was quite close to 
 her, and then she started and said —
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 235 
 
 ' * Alice, you here alone ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' leplied Alice, ' I am tired.' 
 
 ' Are you ? but why did you run about when you knew we 
 were to have a long walk after dinner ? ' 
 
 ' We did not run, we only walked,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' Then you were with Clara,' said Mary, not without some 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' Yes, for a little while. Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 * Because, Alice, I wish you would not do what Clara tells 
 you.' 
 
 ' She asks me, she does not tell me,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Well, asking or telling, it is veiy much the same. You do 
 the things.' 
 
 ' Not all,' replied Alice, ' and often I don't wish to do them ; 
 but I cannot help it.' 
 
 * Are you sure of that, dear Alice ? This morning, for 
 instance.' 
 
 Mary spoke very mildly, but Alice felt angry. 
 
 * This morning was all nonsense, Mary. I daresay Ruth has 
 been talking to you about it ; but really she makes such moun- 
 tains out of molehills, that it is quite absurd.' 
 
 ' Ruth told me, certainly,' replied Mary ; ' but I cannot 
 perceive there was anything absurd in what she said. She 
 mentioned that several of you had been laughing at Mrs Carter.' 
 
 * Not laughing at her, herself; only at her odd ways.' 
 
 * But that must be laughing at herself. Her ways are a part 
 of herself.' 
 
 ' And if they arc absurd they must be laughed at,' persisted 
 Alice.' 
 
 ' Not by you, nor by me, Alice,' replied Maiy, very gravely. 
 
 * We are placed under her : we are in a manner her children.' 
 
 * I don't see that,' said Alice. 
 
 * Who takes care of us here ? Who teaches us ? Whom 
 are we bound to obey t ' inquired Maiy. 
 
 ' Oh ! Mrs Carter, of course ; but, Mary, there must be a 
 great difference. If I had a mamma,' and Alice's voice faltered, 
 
 * I should never laugh at her.' 
 
 ' But you would not obey and honour her, I am afraid,' con- 
 tinued Mary. 
 
 * Not honour her I Oh ! yes, Mary ; you don't know what 
 my mamma was like.' 
 
 ' Ruth says she was vcr)' good indeed,' answered Mary ; * and
 
 2 36 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 I am quite sure, in that case, that she would never becir your 
 being disrespectful.' 
 
 Alice became suddenly thoughtful. 
 
 ' I did not mean to be irreverent,' she said, at length, with 
 greater softness of manner. 
 
 ' But, dear Alice, can you not understand that all persons 
 who are put over us — whether they are parents, or clergymen, 
 or governesses — are put over us by God ; and therefore we are 
 not to ask whether we like them, but we are to obey and show 
 them reverence, because it is His will. And you know, only 
 yesterday, we were told in the sermon at church, that when 
 we are commanded to " honour our father and mother," it 
 means that we are to pay respect to all persons who ha\e 
 authority over us.' 
 
 ' I am always respectful when I speak to Mrs Carter,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' But, Alice, you would not like to be a hypocrite.' 
 
 * A hypocrite ! No, how shocking ! ' 
 
 * Yet if you honour Mrs Carter before her face, and mimic 
 her behind her back, it is something very like hypocrisy.' 
 
 * I should not do it, if Clara did not begin,' said Alice. 
 
 ' And do you always mean to follow what Clara begins,' asked 
 Mary. 
 
 * I do not mean anything,' exclaimed Alice, impatiently. ' I 
 do just what comes in my way ; but if you think it is wrong to 
 mimic Mrs Carter, I will not do it again.' 
 
 Alice rose from her seat, and would have walked away, but 
 Mary detained her. 
 
 * Alice, dear, you are angry with me. I am extremely sorry.' 
 Mary's humble tone struck Alice as a reproach for her 
 
 hastiness. 
 
 ' I am very naughty, Mary,' she said, turning round, whilst 
 tears filled her eyes ; * but I cannot help it. I do really wish 
 to be good, and I won't mimic Mrs Carter any more.' 
 
 * And, Alice, will you try to keep away from Clara Manners?' 
 ' If I can ; I will do anything I can : but no one cares for 
 
 me — no one ever wishes to be with me.' 
 
 * Yes, I wish it ; and Ruth.' 
 
 * No, indeed, Ruth never does ; she would not have me to- 
 day to walk with her. I know why it is ; I am not good enough 
 for her.' 
 
 * And can you ever become better by being with Clara 
 Manners .'' '
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 237 
 
 * No ; but I sleep in the same room, and sit at the same desl^ 
 and so I must be with her.' 
 
 * If is very hard,' said Mary, half speaking to herself. * But, 
 Alice, she added, ' if you were to endeavour not to follow Clara'? 
 ways, if you were to say you did not like them, then Ruth and 
 those who are steady would try to have you with them. But 
 they see you laughing with Clara, and then they think you pre- 
 fer her company. Any one instance in which you would stand 
 aloof from Clara would be a beginning, and make them wish 
 more to be with you. So you see it is in your own power.' 
 
 Alice remained silent. 
 
 ' You will try, won't you, dear Alice ?' continued Mary ; 'and 
 especially about mimicking and ridicuhng. You know how 
 Clara laughs at the clergyman, and it always gives me such 
 pain to hear her ; it is so extremely wrong.' 
 
 ' I do think laughing at clergymen is wrong,' said Alice. 
 
 * Yet you laugh with Clara, and encourage her ; you do not 
 try to stop her.' 
 
 * If I could think about it at the time,' continued Alice; ' but 
 I forget.' 
 
 * It must be of great consequence to be particular,' said 
 Mary ; ' because the commandment about paying honour is the 
 first which has a promise with it.' 
 
 ' That promise was to the Jews,' replied Alice ; ' there is no 
 land for us to live long in,' 
 
 ' Only heaven,' said Mary, quietly, but very solemnly. 
 
 Alice looked at her earnestly. 
 
 ' Mary,' she said, ' I wish I was as sure of going to heaven 
 as you arc.' 
 
 ' O Alice ! ' exclaimed Mary, ' how can I possibly be sure 
 of it ? Persons who are ever so good are not sure ; but I 
 should be glad to feel that I was trying to make myself fit for 
 it ; and I was told once, that a very good way of trying is by 
 being reverent and showing respect, because then we are always- 
 reminded of having some one above us.' 
 
 * I do respect people veiy much,' said Alice. * I respect Mrs 
 Carter, and a great many people ; but I cannot help laughing 
 at them when Clara is so absurd, though I am always sorry 
 afterwards.' 
 
 Mar>' looked vexed and puzzled. She was not accustomed 
 to meet with a character like Alice's — one which could so plainly 
 s^e the right, and yet so constantly follow the wTong. Slie wag 
 not able to pursue the conversation, for they were interrupted
 
 238 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 by Ruth, who had been looking for Mary to go into dinner with 
 her. 
 
 Ruth seemed surprised at finding -Mary and Alice together, 
 but she asked no questions ; and Alice immediately felt herself 
 thrown into the background, when she saw that Ruth took it as 
 a matter of course that Mary would like being with her rather 
 than with any one else. 
 
 * Now, Jessie, will you be my little companion through the 
 park?' said Mrs Carter, when the dinner was over, and the 
 party collected in the hall prepared for their walk. Jessie ran 
 up to Mrs Carter, and took possession of one hand. Alice had 
 an inclination to go to the other side. Mrs Carter noticed the 
 direction of her glance. 
 
 ' AlicCj my dear,' she said, ' you and I have not had a walk 
 together for some time : will you come, if you have not pro- 
 mised any of your companions .'" Alice coloured and looked 
 pleased. 
 
 * You can't, you are engaged,' whispered Clara Manners be- 
 hind her. 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear,' continued Mrs Carter, seeing Alice's 
 hesitation ; ' I merely thought you were not engaged.' 
 
 Alice blushed more deeply. 
 
 ' Turn out your toes, hold up your head, my dear,' mimicked 
 Clara, in a very low whisper. 
 
 The corners of Alice's mouth worked with repressed laughter. 
 
 ' Are you engaged.^' asked Mrs Carter, still more kindly. 
 
 * Kensington Primer,' whispered Clara. 
 Alice at length found a voice to answer — 
 
 'I — I don't know, ma'am ; I thought' — she looked round 
 for Clara, who came forward boldly. 
 
 * Alice is engaged to me, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Oh ! veiy well. Why did you not say so at once, my 
 love ? ' 
 
 * Then may I walk with you, ma'am .^' inquired Ruth, coming 
 forward. Mrs Carter smiled, held out her hand, and gave the 
 order to proceed. 
 
 There are many lovely walks in Richmond Park, along the 
 broad terrace looking over the river, and by the enclosed gar- 
 dens of the few houses which are built in the Park ; and farther 
 away, in the more retired parts, where the grass is unworn save 
 by the tread of the deer scattered about amongst the branching 
 oaks ; and fern, and heath, and wild flowers, cause one quite to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 239 
 
 forget that within but a few miles lies the dense mass of houses, 
 churches, and public buildings, which form the largest city now 
 in the world. 
 
 * It is very pleasant, Alice, is it not ?' said MadeHne, as they 
 waited for a few moments not to lose sight of Mrs Carter, who 
 was walking slowly behind. 
 
 ' Yes, veiy — very pretty indeed. But, Clara ' — and Alice 
 turned away from Madeline as she spoke — ' I don't understand 
 what you are saying.' 
 
 ' Hush 1 can't you.?' exclaimed Clara, drawing her aside. 
 ' Alice, I never will tell you anything, if you are so foolish.' 
 
 * Oh ! Madeline would not know ; she never listens.' 
 
 * But I am sure she would know ; she is as sharp as a 
 needle on some points, and I would not tell her or Ruth for the 
 world.' 
 
 * Then why tell me ? I don't wish to hear.* 
 
 * Nonsense, Alice ; you must hear. You sleep in our room, 
 and you must ; besides, you cannot help yourself. You know 
 that book we were reading the other Sunday in the dressing- 
 room ? ' 
 
 * Yes. Wc finished it, I thought.' 
 
 * So we did ; but we can get some more. Shouldn't you 
 like it ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps — I am not sure. Mrs Carter does not choose us 
 to read books without her seeing them.' 
 
 * Oh, nonsense ! there is no harm in the book. You did not 
 hear any, did you } ' 
 
 ' It was very amusing,' replied Alice, in a doubtful tone, ' but 
 we ought not to ha\e read it on a Sunday.' 
 
 'Well, perhaps we ought not; we need not do it again. — But 
 on other days, Justine can get us as many as we like; only we 
 must keep the matter to ourselves, and read them carefully when 
 we have a few minutes to spare in the day, and a little at night, 
 if we are quick in undressing.' 
 
 ' I don't wish to have anything to do with it,' said Alice. 
 ' I thought the other day it was veiy wrong in us to read story 
 books in the dressing-room on a Sunday.' 
 
 * On a Sunday ! How you will persist in talking about 
 Sunday,' replied Clara. ' We need never do it again on a 
 Sunday.' 
 
 ' But on any day I had rather not.' 
 
 Clara's countenance expressed great surprise.
 
 2 40 LA NE TON PARSON A GE. 
 
 ' ^V^■l\', Alice, what have you been doing ? What has mai!a 
 you so particular all of a sudden ? ' 
 
 'It is not of a sudden,' replied Alice, not choosing to acknow- 
 ledge the influence of Mary Vernon's conversation. ' I have been 
 sorry for what I did on that Sunday ever since ! ' 
 
 * Sunday again ! ' repeated Clara, impatiently. ' You shall 
 engage, if )ou like, never to read them except on common 
 days. Justine will bring them, and we can enjoy them quietly 
 at night when we go to bed.' 
 
 ' If they are Justine's books, they will be French,' said Alice; 
 ' and I cannot read French easily without a dictionary.' 
 
 ' They are not French,' answered Clara ; ' they are English. 
 Justine reads them in French, but she can get translations for 
 us ; only, we must all subscribe,' 
 
 ' Then it is no use to talk to me,' said Alice ; * I cannot 
 afford it.' 
 
 * You can manage somehow. I will lend you the money, 
 and you can pay me next half-year.' 
 
 * No, thank you; I had rather not.' 
 
 * But, Alice, you must ; you sleep in our room, and we are 
 all going to do it — Florence, and Harriet, and I.' 
 
 * I cannot see that sleeping in your room is any reason,' ob- 
 served Alice, angrily, 
 
 * Then you will not hear the books, or look at them .'* ' per- 
 sisted Clara ; ' and Justine says they are extremely pretty — . 
 quite beautiful, indeed.' 
 
 * Mrs Carter would not like it,' said Alice. 
 
 * If you once begin with those fancies, there is an end of it,' 
 exclaimed Clara, impetuously. ' You will be as bad as Ruth, 
 who is always saying that Mrs Carter, or her papa, or mamma, 
 or some tiresome person or another, will not like it.' 
 
 Clara had, unknowingly, defeated her own purpose. She 
 had touched upon a point on which her companion was at that 
 instant particularly susceptible. The spirit of reverence was 
 one of the most hopeful traits in Alice's disposition. Even 
 when induced to join in ridicule, she was never free from self- 
 reproach. Clara's expression, applied to Mr and Mrs Clifford, 
 shocked her. She did not, however, withdraw at once, as 
 Madeline would have done. Alice was always apt to waver, 
 and she did not fully see how wrong the action proposed would 
 be. She said she would think about it ; she would not say 
 yes ; she thought they might do without her ; and Clara, who
 
 LANETON PaRSOXAGE. 241 
 
 w.is soon tired of Alice when she had in any way what was 
 called ' a good \.i ' upon her, presently left her. Then Alice 
 was more happy. She had, in a manner, resisted tempta- 
 tion. Jessie ran away from Mrs Carter to play amongst the 
 trees, and Alice took her place. The walk seemed to grow 
 more pleasant from that moment. Mrs Carter had spent many 
 of her young days at Richmond, and she had amusing stories 
 to tell them of what she had done there. She knew also all 
 the houses, and the names of several of the persons who lived 
 in them, and she could point out the high mound where it 
 is said that Henry the Eighth stood, looking over towards 
 London, and watching till the rocket should be sent up into 
 the air which was to give notice of the execution of Anne 
 Boleyn. Alice began to feel that to be with persons older than 
 herself, who were willing to notice and teach her, and whom 
 she could thoroughly respect, was much better than having an 
 idle conversation with idle companions of her own age. 
 
 The walk through the Park was ended, and there was just a 
 quarter of an hour to spare before their return. Jessie wished 
 to carry home a little remembrance of Richmond, and asked if 
 she might go into a shop to buy something. She had a shil- 
 ling with her, and she should like it very much. The idea once 
 suggested, every one wished to do the same. Mrs Carter gave 
 permission for ' a shilling — only a shilling — to be spent, and 
 spent quickly ; there was no time to lose ;'— and the instant 
 the consent was obtained the shop was entered, and the shop- 
 women were besieged with wants and questions. Madeline and 
 Ruth agreed to put their shillings together, and buy a little silk 
 box for their mamma — a morocco one, with rosewood winders, 
 and the coloured silks all prepared. Asm.aller box, with cedar 
 winders, Alice thought would just please Lady Catharine, and 
 she was more anxious to buy something for her than for any oi 
 her schoolfellows. She put her hand into her pocket, but her 
 purse was not there. She recollected having left it behind 
 her, in her desk. She had taken it in her hand just before 
 they came out, and then replaced it, thinking it would not be 
 wanted. 
 
 ' What shall I do ? who will lend me some money ? Please 
 help me ! ' she exclaimed, in distress. Mrs Carter was not near, 
 and every one else was busied with the purchases. 
 
 Madeline, however, heard, and, coming up to her, said, ' Do 
 you want money, Alice .' I can lend you some.' 
 
 Q
 
 242 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 * Yes, a shilling, if you would ; but they are just going- 
 look.' 
 
 Mrs Carter was hastening the putting up of the several par- 
 cels ; she was afraid of being late for the steamer. 
 
 ' The small silk case, if you please,' said Alice, anxiously, to 
 the shopwoman. * Pray let me have it directly.' 
 
 But, before the string was properly tied, Mrs Carter and the 
 rest of the party had left the shop. Alice put down the money 
 upon the counter, and was just going, when she was called back. 
 ' The change. Miss ; you have forgotten the change,' said the 
 girl.' 
 
 Alice looked surprised. Madeline had given her half-a-crown 
 by mistake. She took up the cighteen-pence, put it loose into 
 the pocket of her dress, and hastened away. She meant to re- 
 turn the money to Madeline immediately, but her thoughts were 
 occupied with the fear of not overtaking Mrs Carter ; and when 
 again seated on the deck of the steamer, Madeline was not near 
 her, so that there was no convenient opportunity. 
 
 Ruth was with Mrs Carter, who appeared to take a particular 
 pleasure in conversing with her. Ruth made herself very use- 
 ful. She saw that every one took her own shawl, and was 
 mindful of Mrs Carter's basket, and took care that Jessie should 
 remain with her and be steady. She had a quiet way of order- 
 ing and arranging, to which all were inclined to give way. 
 Even Clara Manners followed Ruth's suggestion, and then 
 laughed and wondered how she could be foolish enough to at- 
 tend to her. Ruth did not care for the laughter. She felt that 
 her power in the school was increasing. 
 
 Alice watched it all, and wished she was like her. It was 
 the old wish, but it was stronger on this day. Alice had ex- 
 perienced two states of mind, one arising from careless folly, 
 from disrespect to her superiors, and idle companionship ; the 
 other occasioned by the conversation with Mary Vernon, the 
 example of Ruth and Madeline, and the society of Mrs Carter. 
 She had no doubt that to look up and honour is much happier, 
 as well as much better for us all, than to indulge in ridicule.
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ALICE did not think of Madeline's money on the evening 
 af.cr their return from Richmond, and, strange to say, 
 Madchne did not inquire about it. The next day Ahce remem- 
 bered, but at an awkward time, in school, when she was not 
 allowed to talk ; and then she recollected that she had not the 
 same dress on which she had worn the day before, so that there 
 Avould be no use in speaking to Madeline, for she could not give 
 back the money till they went to bed. Alice was a procrasti- 
 nator, and this kind of recollecting and delaying went on for 
 some time. 
 
 Clara again named the books and the subscription, but Alice 
 would give no answer. She hoped the idea would pass away, 
 for she knew that Justine had carried home the volumes which 
 had been read, and she had heard her say to Clara, ' Remem- 
 ber, they won't let you have any more, unless you pay directly.' 
 
 Alice was very fond of reading, and if the books which Jus- 
 tine promised to get were at all like that of which she had heard 
 a part, she was sure they would be delightful, for they were in 
 a style quite new to her, about grown-up persons, and Alice 
 was just beginning to take a greater interest in the history of 
 persons older than herself than in children's story-books. 
 
 But to counteract this temptation, there was the knowledge 
 that Mrs Carter did not like any books to be read which she 
 had not previously seen, and the certainty that the whole plan 
 must be wrong, because Clara would not like it to be men- 
 tioned to Ruth. 
 
 Three days, however, after the Richm.ond party, as Alice 
 was alone in the school-room just after tea, Clara and Florence 
 Trcvelyan looked in, and finding no one there besides Alice, 
 Clara said : ' Alice, we have been wanting to speak to you 
 ai. day.' 
 
 * I have been sitting opposite to you,' replied Alice ; ' you 
 have had plenty of opportunities for speaking.' 
 
 ' Yes, but there are so many to listen,' said Florence ; ' and 
 Clara and I wish to talk to you by yourself. \Ve want you to 
 join us.' 
 
 * Join !' repeated Alice ; ' Oh ! I remember — but I have told 
 you I can't, I have no money.'
 
 244 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Never mind the money,' said Clara ; ' we will manage that. 
 But will you agree?' 
 
 ' No ; Mrs Carter would not like it.' 
 
 Clara shnigged her shoulders impatiently. I knew how it 
 would be at Richmond. Whenever you get with Ruth and 
 Madeline and the good set, Alice, you are not worth a farthing.' 
 
 ' It will be ill-natured not to do it,' said Florence, in a more 
 gentle tone ; * for it will oblige us to pay more than we meant.' 
 
 ' And we cannot trust you,' added Clara ; ' you may tell.' 
 
 Alice made no answer. With regard to trusting, it was very 
 doubtful whether anyone had alright to insist upon her keeping 
 a secret of a wrong kind. * I wish you would not hinder me,' 
 she said. ' I must go and learn my lessons.' 
 
 ' It is all Ruth's doing,' exclaimed Clara. * She is always 
 trying to get you over to her side. I hate people who are so 
 over-good ; and I can tell Miss Ruth, that if she has set her 
 heart upon ever being judge, she had better take care ; she 
 shall never be judge with my consent.' 
 
 ' But at any rate, if you will not join yourself, will you help me ?' 
 asked Florence. ' I want more money for Justine; will you lend 
 it me?' 
 
 Alice hesitated. ' I have very little left,' she answered. 
 
 ' O baby ! baby ! She wants her money for cakes,' said 
 Clara, ironically. 
 
 Alice felt this taunt. Her fondness for sweet things was as 
 strong now as in the days of the lost bonbon. 
 
 * It does not matter what I want it for,' she answered, coolly ; 
 * but I have only half-a-crown left, and a shilling of that I owe 
 Madeline.' 
 
 ' But the eighteenpence, let me have that,' said Florence, 
 Alice held back, and observed that she did not think she had 
 her purse down-stairs, though at the same time she foolishly 
 showed her disposition to yield, by putting her hand into her 
 pocket to feel for it. It was not there — she thought it might 
 be in her desk — yes upon second thoughts, she remembered 
 that it must be, and Alice opened the desk, still declaring that 
 she did not mean to lend the money, because she did not think 
 it right. Clara and Florence looked at each other and smiled. 
 Alice found the purse, and stood with it in her hand, debating 
 what she should do. * I owe ]\Iadeline a shilling,' she said. 
 
 * Well,' replied Florence, ' pay that, and you will have 
 eighteenpence left.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 245 
 
 The word cightcenpencc seemed to strike Alice disagreeably. 
 She cast her eyes upon her dress, then put her hand into her 
 pocket, took it out, put it in again, and at length exclaimed — 
 
 ' This was tlic dress, I am sure.' 
 
 * The dress ? What do you mean ? ' inquired Clara and 
 Florence. 
 
 ' The dress I put the change into — the dress I wore at Rich- 
 mond. What can have become of it .? ' 
 
 ' Of the dress ? ' asked Clara, with a laugh. ' Why, you 
 have it on.' 
 
 ' The money — Madeline's money. She gave me half-a-crown 
 — I had eighteenpence change. Where can it be ? ' 
 
 Alice searched again, and this time, as she drew out her hand, 
 she looked extremely annoyed. There was a hole in her pocket ; 
 the money must have slipped through. Alice's spirit was not, 
 however, easily depressed. When she was sure of the fact of her 
 loss, she turned to Florence, and said — 
 
 * Then, Florence, you see it is impossible. I must give my 
 money to Madeline now, to make up for the eighteenpence I 
 have lost.' 
 
 * How provoking,' said Florence. * Are you quite sure it is 
 not there ? ' 
 
 ' Quite ; I have nothing in my pocket but a pencil and my 
 handkerchief 
 
 Clara was going awa}'. 
 
 ' Stay one minute,' said Florence. ' Alice, just lend me the 
 eighteenpence. I will repay it ; and Madeline won't want 
 it yet.' 
 
 ' But I cannot : it is not mine now. Ask Madeline.' 
 
 ' Ask Madeline ! Impossible ! She would find out some- 
 thing directly.' 
 
 ' And remember, Alice,' said Clara, ' you are bound to help 
 in some way. You have heard part of one of the books ; it will 
 be quite mean if you don't.' 
 
 Alice had a dread of meanness, perhaps from being conscious 
 in her own heart that she was naturally not entirely free from it. 
 
 ' But what shall I do,' she asked, ' if Madeline wants to be 
 repaid ?' 
 
 ' Oh, make an excuse ; pay the shilling, and then beg her to 
 wait for the eighteenpence. There arc a hundred ways of getting 
 out of the difficulty. Borrow of some one else, if you are very 
 much put to it,'
 
 246 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' But don't be frightened,' said Florence, feeling for Alice's 
 evident perplexity. * I shall be sure to have some money frciii 
 home before the holidays.' 
 
 ' Quite sure ?' 
 
 ' Yes, why should you doubt? Please give me the money.' 
 
 * We sliall have some one asking after us if we stay here any 
 longer,' said Clara. ' And, Alice you are bound to help, be- 
 cause you read the book.' 
 
 Poor Alice was in no danger of forgetting that fact. It was a 
 weight upon her conscience already. She gave the money, and 
 Florence and Clara, again reminding her not to mention what 
 she had done, left her. 
 
 The holidays were now drawing near. After jNIrs Carter's 
 birthday, it was understood that all v.'cre to occupy themselves 
 diligently in bringing the work of the half-year to a conclusion. 
 The good conduct marks were reckoned freciuently ; and the 
 elder girls were very industrious in finishing their drawings, and 
 learning difficult pieces of music perfectly. Busy as the school 
 always was, it was a great deal more busy when the holidays 
 approached. This season was Anna Grant's pai'ticular delight. 
 She was continually in a bustle. Nothing escaped her vigilance. 
 She seemed to be everywhere at once, managing her own affairs 
 cleverly, and suggesting what should be done with every other 
 person's. Mary Vernon withdrew more and more from the 
 exercise of her o.^fice of judge. It Vv'as Mrs Carter's idea. She 
 thought that Mary might by this means be enabled to see how 
 affairs were likely to be managed when she was away, and might 
 be able to give Anna some useful hints. Besides, i\Iary was 
 preparing for confirmation and her first Communion, and Mrs 
 Carter did not wish her to be burdened with more business than 
 was absolutely necessary. 
 
 It was curious to v/atch Ruth's manner at this time. She 
 appeared to follow v/herever Anna Grant led, for the purpose 
 of smoothing whatever Anna had niffled. She never put her- 
 self forward. She gave her opinion rather less decidedly than 
 before ; her position was that of a peace-maker, and it was one 
 \vhich gained her many friends. Ruth was not hypocritical in 
 this. She did really like to do kind things, and she disap- 
 l)roved of Anna's domineering manner ; but, besides, she had 
 a view to her own interests — a wish to obtain praise. As to 
 being chosen judge, Ruth was fully aware that such a thing was 
 not likely to be )et. She only looked to it by and by.
 
 LAN ETON I'AA'SUNAGE. 247 
 
 Madeline did not think much about the money she had lent 
 AHce. It was a common thing for money to be borrowed, and 
 every now and then there were grand settlcn.cnt days ; but 
 Madchne was very careless in money matters — carelessness, 
 indeed, was her fault in everything. She had an account book, 
 but it was never regularly kept, and Ruth often scolded her 
 for it. Once or twice she said, ' Alice, you owe me some 
 money,' and Alice Would answer, < Yes;' and there the sub- 
 ject ended, much to the relief of Alice ; for Florence Trevelyan 
 still delayed the repayment of her debt. She was always 
 expecting money from home, but unfortunately the money 
 never came. 
 
 What arrangements had been made with Justine about the 
 books, AHce did not exactly know. Nothing was told her, but 
 she saw whispering and meaning looks pass between Clara and 
 Justine ; and at night there was generally some mysterious 
 volume read silently by one of the party in her bedroom, the 
 title of which she was not allowed to see. She had reason to 
 believe that Justine had paid a subscription to a library, and 
 engaged to bring the books as they were wanted. 
 
 Alice was not at all happy in thinking this — her conscience 
 was often seriously disturbed as to whether she ought not to 
 mention the subject to Mrs Carter ; but she could not endure 
 to repeat tales. She had read part of one book, she had lent 
 money to procure others — it seemed mean to take part in a 
 pleasure, and then to betray her companion. What could she 
 do ? That first fault, the idling away of a half hour on a Sun- 
 day afternoon, reading a wrong book, how much uneasiness it 
 was causing her ! 
 
 ' The letters are very late,' said Harriet Trevelyan, one 
 morning, as they were all preparing their lesson books before 
 school began. * Florence and I want to hear whether we may 
 have our new bonnets.' 
 
 ' And I want to know whether papa will come and fetch me 
 home,' said Janet. 
 
 ' And I want to hear about my little new dog,' cried Jessie 
 O'Neile, determined not to be outdone in wishes. ' And what 
 do you want to hear about, Ruth?' 
 
 ' Oh ! a great many things,' replied Ruth, * more than I can 
 remember just now ; I am too busy.' 
 
 'And you.'' and you?' continued Jessie, and she ran from 
 one to the other, making every one answer son.iething to her
 
 2aS> LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 questions. At last she -went up to Anna Grant. Unlike lier 
 usual custom, Anna was sitting quite silent. ' What do you 
 want, Anna ? ' said Jessie. 
 
 ' Nothing, dear, nothing ; run away, will you.' 
 
 * Oh ! but you must say something.' 
 
 ' No, Jessie ; don't be troublesome.' Anna's voice was not 
 so much hasty as grave. 
 
 Ruth called Jessie away, and asked IMadcline if she knew 
 what was the matter with Anna. 
 
 ' The matter ! No ; is there anything the matter.^' 
 
 Florence Trevelyan was standing near, and hearing the ques- 
 tion, she said, ' I can tell you ; Anna is anxious.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I remember,' said Ruth. ' She heard of her 
 papa being ill yesterday ; but I did not think it was anything 
 serious.' 
 
 ' Mrs Carter was talking to her this morning; I don't know 
 what about,' observed Florence. ' I suppose it was about that, 
 br.t I never asked. How I wish the letters would come! I do 
 long to know whether we may have the bonnets.' 
 
 The postman's knock was heard. Harriet and Florence 
 rushed to the door. Anna rose quickly, and then sat down 
 aj;ain. ' Poor Anna !' said Ruth, compassionately, * I am 
 a:Vaid it must be something of consequence. I suppose if any- 
 thing were to happen to her papa, she would leave school.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Madeline, ' and how sorry she would be ! I 
 mean, besides its being dreadful for her papa to die. 1 wish 
 we could help her.' 
 
 ' We cannot,' answered Ruth. ' Dawson will be here in a 
 moment to tell us whom the letters are for.' 
 
 * I wish I might go and ask for her at once,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' No, no, Maddy ; indeed you must not ; it is against the 
 rules. She will be sure, I should think, to leave school, if any- 
 thing happens to her pipa. I remember some one saying so 
 one day.' 
 
 ' So do I. When she is gone, what a little set we shall be!' 
 
 ' Harriet and Florence arc great ones,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; but they never seem anything; they are so silly. Ruth, 
 you will be quite like the eldest.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' exclaimed Ruth, * there v/ill be — let me see — 
 three at least older than I am.' 
 
 * But they are not so high in the school. Ruth, you would be 
 judge,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 249 
 
 Ruth made no rci)ly. 
 
 ' Is it very unkind to think of such things, I wonder?' said 
 Madeline. ' I am very sorry for Anna.' 
 
 * So am I. I wonder Dawson does not come.' 
 
 Anna's patience was exhausted. She went to the door and 
 stood there ; and when Dawson appeared and gave the names 
 of those who had letters, Anna was the first to go. Madeline 
 still remained by Ruth, thinking and wondering ; but Ruth took 
 httle notice of lier. She bent over her copy-book, and began 
 to write an exercise ; yet every now and then, when the door 
 opened, she raised her eyes and looked round quickly. 
 
 Several who had left the room returned. Anna Grant was 
 not amongst the number. Mrs Carter, it was said, had given 
 her a letter, and sent her to her own chamber to read it. Further 
 inquiries were put a stop to by the commencement of school. 
 Ruth's thoughts on that morning were not betrayed by words ; 
 but they must have been engrossing, for she said her lessons 
 imperfectly, and was twice reproved for not answering when 
 spoken to. Madeline was reproved also; but it was for whisper- 
 ing to her nearest neighbour in the reading class, that she was 
 afraid something very bad must be the matter about Anna, be- 
 cause she had not been in school since the letter cam.e. During 
 the whole of school-time there was a quiet bustle in the house. 
 Mary Vernon came in and out, and searched in Anna's desk, 
 and carried off all that she could find belonging to her ; but no 
 one ventured to ask c[uestions, under the fear of a forfeit. When 
 the lessons were over, all gave way to the expression of their 
 curiosity. Janet had heard a strange gentleman's voice; Fanr,y 
 Wilson fancied that Dawson had been told to order a carriage ; 
 every one had something to say, except Ruth ; she sat silent. 
 Luncheon was brought in ; luncheon, instead of dinner. There 
 was no reason gi\en for the change ; but they were ordered to 
 keep in the school-room, and the pianos were stopped. Pre- 
 sently a further piece of information was obtained from Dawson. 
 A strange gentleman was in the drawing-room, and Miss Grant 
 was packing up her things, and crj'ing very much. 
 
 * Ruth,' said Madeline, when she heard this, ' I am sure it 
 must be true \\hat we thought. Anna's papa must be very ill, 
 and she must be going away.' 
 
 ' Yes, probably.' This was all that Ruth would say, and 
 ^ladeline went to tell her thoughts to others. 
 
 Foi some time all talked of Anna, and really felt for ]icr ;
 
 250 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Alice amongst tfie number. But .'Mice had not a mind entirely 
 free for any otlicr person's anxieties : she was fretted for herself. 
 Florence Trevclyan had, as she expected, received a letter from 
 home, but Alice could not discover what was said in it about 
 money. Slie inquired, and was told that Mrs Trevelyan only 
 wrote an order as to the trimming of the new bonnets. The reply 
 was given hastily, as if the question was one of no consequence 
 whatever ; and P'lorcnce went on talking about Anna, and the 
 probability of her leaving school, without giving one thought 
 to Alice's look of annoyance. 
 
 ' Alice, I want you. Come here, will you,' cried Clara Man- 
 ners, as Alice left the luncheon table, grave and downcast. 
 
 ' Just tell me whether you really asked for the money, 
 Florence '> ' repeated Alice ; but Florence was busying herself 
 with helping bread and butter, and appeared not to have heard 
 the question. 
 
 ' How can you be so silly and unkind, Alice 1 ' said Clara, 
 when Alice went to her. ' You choose such very awkward 
 moments. Florence can't answer you about the money when 
 there are so many near. If you want to knov\', I can tell you. 
 Her mamma will not send her any ; she has been extravagant.' 
 ' But Clara ' — and Alice reddened with anger — 'she must have 
 some money ; she must pay me. I owe it to Madeline.' 
 
 'Well ! v/ell ! don't fuss about it. It will be managed some 
 way. All I beg is, that you will keep quiet.' 
 
 ' But has Florence used my money .-* has she given it to 
 Justine yet ? ' 
 
 'Those who ask, won't hear; and those who don't ask, don't 
 care to know,' replied Clara, ironically. 
 
 ' But indeed it is so unjust, so unfair. I never heard any- 
 thing like it,' remonstrated Alice. <■ I will ask Ruth ; I will 
 
 tell ' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! gently — be quiet ! ' continued Clara, laughing. 
 ' I only meant to tease you. You shall have your money by 
 and by ; but you must be contented to wait. No one means 
 to cheat you of your cighteenpcnce.' 
 
 Cheat ! ' exclaimed Alice, in a loud voice ; ' I should think 
 not.' 
 
 ' No, of course, no one means to cheat you,' continued Clara, 
 in the same indifferent manner. ' You shall have it some day 
 or other.' 
 
 The tone provoked Alice beyond endurance.
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 251 
 
 * I will not wait for some day or oilier. I will have it now,' 
 she said. ' If it is not given me. I will tell Mrs Carter all 
 about it.' 
 
 'And tell Mrs Carter that you read a story-book in the 
 dressing-room on a Sunday afternoon,' replied Clara, still 
 answering with perfect coolness. ' Where will be your chance 
 of the good-conduct prize then, Alice ? You want how many 
 tickets to make up the number 1 ' 
 
 ' Eight,' said Alice. 
 
 ' And you are nearly sure of iherxi now. Tell, and you w ill 
 forfeit four. Good-bye.' 
 
 Clara laughed, left her seat, and went to the other end of tlic 
 room. Alice stood with the luncheon in her hand upon the 
 verge of a burst of passion. All her companions were talking 
 and amusing themsehes, except Ruth. Alice's impulse was to 
 go at once and open her heart to h.cr. She advanced a step 
 and then paused. Ruth was not quite the person to whom she 
 would have chosen to confess a fault. Ruth noticed her ap- 
 proach, and asked if she would fetch some luncheon for her, as 
 she was very busy. j\lice did as she was requested, and putting 
 the plate of bread and butter and the glass of water upon the 
 lop of the desk, ixmained by Ruth quite silent. Clara saw her. 
 Under pretence of wishing for some more luncheon, she came 
 up and took away the plate, and, as she passed Alice, said in 
 a very low tone — 
 
 ' Mind, Alice ! if you tell, you have no chance of the prize.' 
 
 * Thank you ; that is my own concern,' said Alice, haughtily, 
 aloud. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Alice .'' ' asked Ruth, as she looked up 
 with a smile. ' WHiat are you and Clara at war about ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing. We are not at war ; only she iiTitates me so that 
 I can't bear it.' 
 
 ' Does she ? Never mind ; she teases every one.' 
 
 * She does more than tease me,' exclaimed Alice ; ' she makes 
 me so angry I can scarcely bear myself, or her either ; and 
 I won't bear it ; I won't submit any longer. I will tell Mrs 
 Carter, and Miss Barnard, and Lady Catharine ; I will tell 
 every one, that I will.' 
 
 * But what will you tell them ? What has she done ? ' 
 
 The temptation to speak out was strong ; but Alice thought 
 of the good-conduct prize, and was afraid of betraying herself. 
 
 * Oh ! everything ; she is provoking in everything.'
 
 252 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth laid down her pen, and said, while she looked steadily 
 in Alice's face— 
 
 * Alice, if you dislike Clara so much, why are you alwaj-s 
 with her ? ' 
 
 ' ! am not with her ; I try to keep away from her — I liate 
 her.' 
 
 Ruth looked shocked. 
 
 * Yes,' continued Alice, quickly, ' I do hate her ; and I am 
 ri^^ht. She does a great many more wrong things than Mrs 
 Carter or any one guesses ; and I know it will be found out, 
 and we shall all get punished together. 1 would give all the 
 world to be away from her.' 
 
 ' But,' said Ruth, in surprise, ' if there is anything wrong, 
 surely, Alice, you ought to tell Mrs Carter.' 
 
 * No, I ought not ; that is, I can't. Ruth, you must not ask 
 mc about it.' 
 
 ' You had better tell — indeed, you had better, Alice,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' I cannot, at least, not to-day. Don't speak so loudly, 
 Ruth.' 
 
 Ruth seemed perplexed and pained. ' No one can guess 
 what you mean, Alice,' she said ; ' but you will do very wrong 
 if you do not tell. If I were in your place, I should directly.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! Ruth, pray take care. I would not have 
 Clara hear for the world. Some day or other perhaps I may.' 
 
 Alice grew frightened at what she had said, and was wishing 
 if possible to make some excuse and change the conversation, 
 when the current of her ideas was altered by the entrance of 
 Miss Barnard. Her manner was not stiff as usual ; she seemed 
 much distressed and hurried, and it was with some hesitation 
 that, after ordering silence, she informed all who were present 
 that one of their companions had met with a severe affliction. 
 Anna Grant's father was dying. Her brother was come for 
 her, and she was to return home immediately. ' As there is 
 no probability of her return,' continued Miss Barnard, 'she 
 wishes to see you all for the last time. She will be here 
 directly. The carriage is ready to take her away.' 
 
 ' Poor Anna ! how very sorry I am !' exclaimed Madeline. 
 
 Ruth turned pale ; there seemed a struggle in her mind. 
 After a moment's pause, she said, ' Yes, I am very sorry.' 
 
 * So sudden as it is,' continued Madeline, ' it must be very 
 dreadful for her.'
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE, 253 
 
 Instead of conversing, Ruth fixed her eye upon the door. 
 
 ' Hark ! she is coming,' said Madehne. 
 
 Ruth rose, and went forward a few steps. 
 
 An unsteady hand was hiid upon the lock, then the handle 
 was turned firmly, and Anna and Mary Vernon came in to- 
 gether. Anna was trembling violently ; she did not utter a 
 single word. 
 
 Ruth was the first to kiss her, to say ' Good-bye ; ' and only 
 good-bye. Something else seemed upon her lips, but it was 
 not spoken. 
 
 Madeline threw her arms round her neck, and whispered : 
 ' Perhaps he will get well ; you will be sure and come back 
 again.' 
 
 Ruth heard the whisper, and as if her conscience reproached 
 her for an omission, she went back again and added : ' Dear 
 Anna, it may not be as bad as you expect.' Anna's tears only 
 fell the faster for this attempt at comfort, and hurrying over the 
 partings, she broke away from her companions, and hastened to 
 the carriage. 
 
 She was gone. There was the vacant place, the unoccupied 
 desk, the blank of absence. She had been their playfellow, the 
 sharer of their studies, their interests, their hopes and fears. 
 She had been as their sister ; nurtured under one roof, guarded 
 by one eye. She was separated from them, perhaps, on earth 
 for ever. Those who had thought and spoken the most hardly 
 of Anna Grant were kind and pitying now. 
 
 It was towards the evening. The whole party had just re- 
 turned from a walk. Ruth and Madeline were together in the 
 dressing-room. Madeline was speaking of Anna ; her trials, 
 her character, the difference her departure would make in the 
 school ; and Ruth was listening to all her sister said, but mak- 
 ing few obsei^vations of her own. Her quiet abstracted manner 
 was very marked. 
 
 * Ruth,' said Madeline at length, 'do you care to talk to me "i 
 You seem as if you were thinking of something else.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed, Maddy ; how can you fancy I do not ? What 
 was it you heard Clara and Florence say.^" 
 
 ' Nothing more than I told you. They both thought you as 
 clever as Anna, and a great deal more agreeable. And you 
 are so, Ruth ; every one thinks it. How pleased papa and 
 mamma will be when you are judge ! ' 
 
 ' Madeline,' said Ruth, gravely, * you should not reckon upon 
 any such thipg as certain.'
 
 2 5 4 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 * I do not reckon upon it as certain ; I only say what others 
 say.' 
 
 'Well ! it is better not to talk about it,' said Ruth. She sat 
 down upon a trunk, and began to fold up her walking dress. 
 Madeline looked as if she did not quite understand her, and 
 after remaining a i^w moments longer, left her. 
 
 Then Ruth did not talk, but she thought. She indulged a 
 dream of ambition. She made herself the first ; and for the time 
 she was quite happy. The object of her wishes appeared very 
 near. There was no one — she felt there was no one — to com- 
 pete with her. To attain such a position v.hile yet so young 
 made it only the more valuable. And Ruth did not think only 
 of her parent's gratification. She placed herself in imagination 
 before strangers; she heard herself praised as' Mary Vernon 
 was praised ; admired, respected, by Mrs Carter and her friends, 
 as well as by her schoolfellows. Many things which she im- 
 agined were impossible ; some, if they had been stated plainly 
 in Avords, might have appeared ridiculous ; but Ruth was think- 
 ing by herself, and had no one to warn her. Only the eye of 
 God was upon her, and His Word had taught her that it is a 
 dangerous, a sinful state of mind, ' to love the praise of men 
 more than the praise of God.' 
 
 How long Ruth might have rem.ained occupied v.-ith her own 
 thoughts is uncertain. She was disturbed by the sound of an 
 angry voice — ^Jessie O'Neile's ; another was heard at intervals, 
 provokingly cool — it was Clara's. 
 
 ' Now, little one, be quiet ; dry your eyes and be good.' 
 
 Then came a fresh burst of sobbing, and again, but with 
 greater irritation of tone, the half command, hnlf entreaty, ' not 
 to be so naughty.' 
 
 Ruth ran into the school-room to see what was amiss. 
 
 ' Clara won't let me look for what I have lost, she won't let 
 me see ; she has my pencil ; I lent it to her,' exclaimed Jessie, 
 instantly appealing to Ruth as her unfailing champion. 
 
 ' I never allow any one to look in my desk but myself,' said 
 Clara, keeping her hand finnly on the lid. ' Little children ha\e 
 no business to search in desks which don't belong to them.' 
 
 ' But she has my pencil ; it is in there, and I want it ; I will 
 have it,' continued Jessie. 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! Jessie ! ' interposed Ruth ; ' this is very 
 naughty ; let me speak to Clara, and you sit down. If you 
 have the pencil, Clara, do give it up.'
 
 LA ATT TON PARSON A GE. 255 
 
 * But I have not, I don't know anything about it. I don't 
 even know what it is like' 
 
 * But I do,' said Rutli ; ' will you let me look instead ?' 
 
 * No, I thank you ; I will trouble you not to interfere, Ruth ; ' 
 and Clara still kept her hold upon the desk. 
 
 Jessie, who had remained by Ruth, burst forth into another 
 fit of passion which it was in vain to attempt to pacify ; and 
 angry with the little girl's temper, whilst vexed at the provo- 
 cation she had received, Ruth was hesitating how to act, when 
 Mrs Carter came into the room unexpectedly. Ruth was 
 thinking of Jessie, not of Clara. She did not see the change 
 in Clara's manner ; the haste with which she opened her own 
 desk, pulled out a book, and thrust it into Florence Trevelyan's ; 
 she only heard the next moment the permission to come and 
 search, if she liked it ; though it was certain that Jessie's pencil 
 was not there. This was true ; but the information came too 
 late to be any comfort or help to Jessie, who being discovered 
 in a fit of passion, was receiving a very severe reproof in conse- 
 quence. Ruth really felt for the child as she stood trembling 
 by Mrs Carter's side. 
 
 Ruth herself had never since she first came to school received 
 such a reprimand upon any subject. Yet Mrs Carter was very 
 gentle in all she said. She spoke indeed strongly of the sin, the 
 danger of such a temper ; but it was with a quiet earnestness 
 which insensibly stilled the child's excited feelings. Jessie was 
 sent to her room ; and Mrs Carter, calling Ruth aside, inquired 
 into the history of the quarrel. 
 
 ' You are Jessie's true friend, Ruth,' she said, ' and I trust to 
 you more than to anyone to help her in overcoming this terrible 
 temper.' 
 
 Ruth smiled ; and allowed that Jessie vvas sadly passionate. 
 In this instance she did not exactly know what had made her 
 angr}', but she believed it was a trifle. Jessie wished to searcli 
 in Clara's desk, and Clara did not like it. 
 
 ' Then there is no fault, I hope, to be found with Clara,' said 
 Mrs Carter, ' That is a relief to m.y mind. I cannot endure 
 the idea of tyranny.' 
 
 Ruth was not certain that there had not been some tyranny 
 exercised, at least in manner, but she could bring neither charge 
 nor proof. And Mrs Carter went on speaking about Jessie. 
 
 * After having been at school more than a year, there ought/ 
 she said, * to be an improvement.'
 
 256 LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 * Jessie is better at times,' said Ruth, in a timid voice. 
 
 ' Yes, at times ; not as often as I wish, and have expected.' 
 
 * It must be veiy difficult to conquer such a violent temper,' 
 said Ruth ; and then, after a slight hesitation, she added, 
 ' Mamma says she does not know what she should do if Made- 
 line and I had violent tempers.' 
 
 Something in the tone of this speech appeared to strike iVlrs 
 Carter disagreeably. Her eye rested steadily upon Ruth, as 
 she said — 
 
 ' Ruth, my dear, we must remember one thing. We are apt 
 to speak of passion as if it were the only kind of bad temper, 
 except, perhaps, sulkiness ; and we think that some persons 
 have no evil temper. I do not believe this is so.' 
 
 * But passionate persons must be worse than others,' observed 
 Ruth, whilst a slight blush tinged her cheek. 
 
 ' They are worse in the sight of their fellow-creatures,' re- 
 plied Mrs Carter; 'but there may be others quite as bad in the 
 eye of God. The truth is, I believe that all persons have some 
 e\il temper. Very quiet and generally amiable people, as well 
 as others. Perhaps there is some one point on which they will 
 not bear opposition ; or when they are injured, they retain the 
 remembrance a long time ; or they are positive and determined, 
 though in a gentle way. Now, God sees the temptation of each 
 individual ; and the person who indulges that secret sin is as 
 guilty in His sight as one who offends openly. Does this seem 
 hard to you .''' 
 
 iiuth could scarcely bring herself to allow that it did. Slie 
 was afraid of expressing her opinion. 
 
 ' I think the I3ible teaches us something of this liind,' con- 
 tinued Mrs Carter. ' You know \ery \\ell that it warns us 
 against angry words, as being the beginning of the sin of mur- 
 der ; but we are not told that angry words were the cause of 
 the first murder. Rather, we have reason to believe that it was 
 a secret evil temper — envy — because the offering of Abel was 
 accepted before that of Cain. I speak to you in this way, my 
 dear Ruth,' continued Mrs Carter, ' because you are by nature 
 so docile and mild, that such a temper is more likely to be your 
 snare than passion, or fretfulness, or sulkiness. I do not mean 
 to say that I ha\e ever seen any traces of it ; quite the contrary, 
 but it may be in your heart though you do not perceive it.' 
 
 Ruth bent her eyes upon the ground, and looked very un- 
 comfortable.
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 237 
 
 Mrs Carter watched the expression of her face, and presently 
 added — 
 
 ' Passionate persons cannot help knowing their fault ; and 
 though it requires a great struggle, great self-command, to 
 overcome it ; yet if they have high religious principles, tliey are 
 nearly certain of success. Quiet, mild persons may go on for 
 years without knowing their danger till the trial comes, and 
 they fall under it. Self-command is necessary for the one 
 temper ; self-examination for the other.' 
 
 Ruth's countenance was so downcast when Mrs Carter said 
 this, that it was evident she took it as a reproof. 
 
 It seemed wrong that she should be left with this idea, when 
 she had done nothing to merit censure ; and, as Mrs Carter 
 was going away, she said — 
 
 * Remember, Ruth, my dear, I do not in the least mean to 
 imply that the temper 1 have spoken of is yours. I have no 
 reason to distrust you in any way ; and now that poor Anna is 
 gone, you will be more my right hand than ever.' Ruth re- 
 membered the last words ; she forgot the former ones. 
 
 Ruth followed Mrs Carter to the parlour. It was tea-time, 
 and when the tea was over the party dispersed into little groups 
 about the room ; some talking, some trying to work by the 
 fading light ; one or two, who could not make up their minds 
 to bear the loneliness of the school-room in the evening, gather- 
 ing round the window, trying to learn their lessons for the next 
 day ; while Janet Harding practised her last new piece, strum- 
 ming the notes with a heavy hand in bold defiance of time and 
 taste. Ruth sat thinking for some little time by herself She 
 held a book in her hand, but it was merely an excuse for occu- 
 pation. Presently she laid it down, and going up to Alice, who 
 was talking to Harriet Trevelyan, she said — 
 
 ' Alice, I wish very much to speak to you ; can you come to 
 me for a minute?' 
 
 Alice started at being thus suddenly addressed, and appeared 
 unwilling to comply. 
 
 ' She was engaged,' she said ; ' Harriet was amusing her with 
 a droll story ; would not by and by do just as well ? ' 
 
 ' No, not just as well. Really, I wish it, if you can come. 
 Please do, Alice,' added Ruth, in her most persuasive manner. 
 
 Alice begged Harriet to wait till she returned, and went aside 
 
 with Ruth. 
 
 ' It is something particular that I wish to say. Alice,' began 
 
 R
 
 250 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth ; ' \-ery particular, indeed ; about what you mentioned 
 this morning. I have been thinking a great deal of it. If 
 there is anything wrong going on, indeed you ought to stop it ; 
 or if you cannot do that, you should name it.' 
 
 * But Ruth,' said Alice, taken quite by surprise by this unex- 
 pected appeal ; ' you have such a memory. What did I say ? 
 I forget. How came you to think of it again ? ' 
 
 * I could not help thinking of it,' answered Ruth. ' It has 
 been upon my mind all day. It has something to do with 
 Clara, I am nearly sure. O Alice ! if you would only break 
 off from her entirely ! ' 
 
 Alice heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 ' She will bring you into dreadful mischief by and by,' con- 
 tinued Ruth ; ' and she is so very bold and careless ; and Lady 
 Catharine would be so vexed if she were to know it. But I don't 
 think, Alice, you ever think of Lady Catharine ; you do just 
 what Clara tells you.' 
 
 ' Ruth, you do not know,' exclaimed Alice. ' You are quite 
 wrong. I do think of Lady Catharine very much indeed ; and 
 I do not do. what Clara tells me. I have not done so now. I 
 cannot imagine why you should make this sudden fuss. It 
 must be because they all say you are to be judge now that Anna 
 is gone.' 
 
 ' It has nothing to do with being judge,' answered Ruth, with 
 some constraint in her tone; ' but you are acting wrongly, and I 
 know I ought to tell you of it.' 
 
 ' I do not wish to be told, thank you,' replied Alice, proudly. 
 * I can manage my own concerns. Perhaps you will be kind 
 enough to wait till you are judge before you interfere.' 
 
 ' Alice, I have no wish to interfere ; whether I am judge or 
 not ; but one thing is certain, that unless you leave off being 
 with Clara and her set, you will never please Mrs Carter.' 
 
 ' Or you,' added Alice ; ' you had better put yourself in.' 
 
 Ruth would make no answer to this retort ; but again she 
 urged her request, and with such eagerness that she did not 
 perceive the piano had stopped, until she was heard in a loud 
 tone to say — 
 
 ' Alice, you know that to allow wrong things to go on \^ith- 
 out stopping them, is almost as bad as doing them yourself.' 
 
 Before Alice could reply, Clara Manners came up to her. 
 Her manner was evidently forced as she said, whilst trying to 
 laugh —
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 259 
 
 ' What is tliat you are preaching about, Ruth ? You liax'c no 
 {dea of converting AHce, have you ? ' 
 
 * I have an idea of making her do what is right/ rephed 
 Ruth ; < and that she can never do whilst she conceals things. 
 And, Clara, if I thought it would be any use, I would speak to 
 you also.' 
 
 ' Speak, if you please,' answered Clara ; ' I am quite willing 
 to listen.' 
 
 ' You will listen, I daresay,' continued Ruth ; ' but you will 
 turn away and make a joke of it the next minute.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I may,' replied Clara ; ' yet I should be glad to heal 
 what you have to say.' 
 
 The tone in which this was uttered betrayed a little anxiety; 
 and, as Ruth did not immediately answer, Clara again begged 
 that she should be told at once what it was to which Ruth re- 
 ferred when she alluded to concealment. 
 
 ' You must ask Alice,' answered Ruth ; ' she knows. She 
 says " that something wrong is going on." ' 
 
 ' I did not say that, Clara,' interrupted Alice, eagerly. Ruth's 
 eyes sparkled with intelligence ; and laying her hand upon 
 Alice's shoulder, she said — 
 
 ' Then Clara has something to do with it. I was sure it was 
 so. Alice, why will you be led by her ? ' 
 
 ' Because she has too much spirit to be put into leading- 
 strings by you,' exclaimed Clara. ' Alice is not a baby, like 
 Jessie O'Neile ; she will not be ordered and scolded by a child. 
 Alice, come with me, and we will leave Ruth to herself.' She 
 put her arm around Alice to draw her away, but Alice stood 
 still. 
 
 ' Clara,' said Ruth, ' you are tempting Alice to do wrong. 
 Remember, if I suspect that you are carrying on what Mrs 
 Carter disapproves, I must and will discover and mention it. 
 
 ' Hush ! pray be quiet. Miss Barnard is coming,' said Alice. 
 Clara paused as she was moving away. She placed herself 
 opposite to Ruth, Her countenance expressed intense indig- 
 nation, and, in a low whisper, she said — 
 
 ' And you, Ruth, remember, since you choose to interfere with 
 my concerns, I have a full right to interfere with yours. Half 
 the school are my friends, and I will take care you shall never 
 be judge.' 
 
 ' Ring the bell for candles,' cried Miss Barnard, in a cheerful 
 voice. * Girls, get your work. Where is th.e book we are
 
 2 6o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 reading? Hush! such a noise ! Fanny, your voice is loudei 
 than all.' 
 
 It was a cheerful scene that evening in Mrs Carter's parlour ; 
 young, happy, innocent faces were there ; innocent reading ; in- 
 nocent occupations. Alas ! that in this world of sin evil should 
 lurk under the fairest forms. 
 
 Nearly at the head of the table sat Ruth ; she was more silent 
 than the rest — more grave. Now and then a cloud gathered 
 upon her countenance ; her brow was knit with thought. What 
 could be passing in her mind .'' The trial of Ruth's temper was 
 come, but she did not know it. 
 
 When she meditated the best means of discovering Clara's 
 secret, she thought that her wish was to please Mrs Carter. 
 There was a feeling much deeper — I'evenge. Clara had said 
 that Ruth should never be judge — and Ruth from that moment 
 was her enemy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MANY engrossing thoughts occupied Ruth's mind when she 
 laid her head upon her pillow, and in the quietness of 
 night reviewed all that had passed in the day. 
 
 She seemed to have made a sudden start, to have grown 
 older. Anna's departure had made an astonishing difference to 
 her, much greater than she could have foreseen. It had raised 
 her position in the school ; it had placed her almost where she 
 most wished to be. In the opinion of her companions she saw 
 that she was no longer a child. And Anna's departure had 
 made a further difference to Ruth : it had brought out the strong 
 feelings w-hich lurked under her calm manner — the eagerness, 
 determination, pride, which had till now been guessed at only. 
 As Ruth meditated upon Clara's threat, she became veiy angry 
 at the idea of being thwarted in her favourite wish. The threat 
 itself might be an idle one, probably it was : Clara did not stand 
 high enough in the school to have much real influence, however 
 she might boast ; but the threat had been made, and that in 
 Ruth's eyes was sufficient. Something must be thought of at 
 once to expose Clara's conduct, and prevent her from doing 
 mischief. And what should this be ? How would it be best to
 
 I A NE TON PA RSONA GE. i 6 1 
 
 act ? Would it be advisable to go at once to Mrs Carter ? Eut 
 
 she had no actual charge to bring forward, and the system of 
 complaining and suspecting was one which Mrs Carter entirely 
 discouraged. Was it probable that Alice would be induced to 
 confess more ? Alice was fickle as the winds. It entirely de- 
 pended upon her mood the next morning whether she would be 
 Clara's friend or the contrary. Could general inquiries be made? 
 But if Ruth was suspected of interfering and prying into secrets, 
 she was not likely to be chosen judge. The way was not at all 
 clear, and at length Ruth fell into a reverie about Clara and 
 Anna, and her home, and Lady Catharine, and her Italian 
 master, which by degrees became perfect unconsciousness, and 
 she was asleep. 
 
 Our last thoughts at night are not without their consequences. 
 As we lie down, so do we wake up again. When we have closed 
 our eyes after humble, earnest prayer; when the faint recollec- 
 tions and ideas which precede sleep have been blended with 
 feelings of gratitude to our Almighty Father ; when we have 
 commended our spirits to His care, and prayed that if we die 
 before we wake, we may be safe in His keeping ; then as we 
 re-open our eyes to the light of a new morning, so do we re-open 
 them also to the consciousness of the presence, and the protec- 
 tion, and the favour of God. It seems, indeed, as if the last 
 thoughts before sleep were impressed upon us with peculiar 
 power. Perhaps there are few who in childhood have set them- 
 selves diligently to some difficult lesson, who have not accus- 
 tomed themselves to repeat their tasks the very last thing, as it 
 is called. They have been told that it will help them, and it 
 most frequently does. That which was imperfectly remembered 
 at night becomes, we know not how, perfect in the morning. 
 Learning is our duty, and the habits which assist us in this duty 
 are good. But we all, young and old, rich and poor, high born 
 and lowly, have a much harder task, a much more difficult 
 duty. 
 
 God calls upon us to conquer our e\'il tempers ; to learn to 
 love Him ; to prepare ourselves for Eternity. Is it a strange 
 thing to ask, that we should take the same pains to please Him, 
 that we do to please a fellow-creature .'' that we should be as 
 anxious for the glorious crown of heaven, as for the little prize 
 which may be the reward of our endeavours here ? If it is not, 
 let us remember that the thoughts with which we sink to sleep 
 are the thoughts with which we shall probably awake, and let
 
 262 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 them be thoughts of God. The short prayer, the psalm, tlie 
 simple verse of a hymn, which are the last words on our lips, 
 and contain the last idea aIlo-\ved to rest upon our minds, will 
 remain with us fixed, stamped, as it were, upon our memories, 
 to check us in the hour of temptation, and aid us on our path 
 to heaven, 
 
 Madeline Clifford went to sleep, almost whilst repeating the 
 words of the hymn which had been her nightly prayer since the 
 tirst day when she could put together a few connected words. 
 And the hymn had not been a form ; it had been said seriously, 
 witli a feeling of trust, of childlike faith. When the morning 
 bell disturbed her dreams, she rose with a sense of energy and 
 duty to prepare for the business of the day. Ruth rose to pre- 
 pare for business also. She was never late ; this day she was 
 particularly early ; dressed before any one else. This was 
 noticed, but no one knew the reason why it should be so. 
 Ruth's prayers had been hurried over, but that was a secret 
 between herself and the Great God before whom she knelt. 
 
 ' We shall hear from home to-day, I suppose, Ruth,' said 
 Madeline to her sister, as the post time drew near. ' Papa will 
 fix the day for coming for us. Let me see — Thursday week — 
 that will be — how many days .'" 
 
 ' Ten,' replied Ruth, with rather an absent air. 
 
 * Ten ? yes, ten exactly. How I do long for it ! Just fancy, 
 Ruth, the railroad, and the Cottington coach, and dear mamma 
 waiting for us at the bottom of the village. Don't you think 
 she will come to meet us .-" she said she would.' 
 
 * Yes, I daresay,' was Ruth's reply with the same manner, as 
 if she was thinking of something else. Ruth was looking at 
 Clara and Florence Trevelyan. They were standing together 
 talking. Florence held a book in her hand ; a dirty volume 
 with a red mark at the back. Ruth drew nearer, and began to 
 search for a music book on the piano. Clara's back was to- 
 wards her, and she was not seen. She heard Clara say, ' She 
 will be here to-day, or to-morrow, and then she will bring the 
 third volume. If you have not finished this, you must to-night.' 
 
 Florence nodded assent, and, concealing the book under a 
 parcel which she held in her hand, asked if anything was wanted 
 from the bedrooms, as Mrs Carter had given her permission to 
 go up -stairs to put away her work — one or two things were 
 named, and then Florence went away ; and almost immediately 
 afterAvards, the well-known knock announced the arrival of the
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 263 
 
 postman. Perhaps there was scarcely one amongst the many 
 who were assembled that had not some misgiving about Ictlers 
 on that morning ; a httle fear as to the news which might be 
 received. We never understand fully what is meant by the 
 ' change and chances of this mortal life,' until we have either 
 received ourselves, or seen others receive, some unexpected 
 startling intelligence. The first time in our lives that this 
 happens seems to make known to us a new truth, something 
 which we had heard before, without at all comprehending it. 
 Nothing was now said about hopes, and fears, and wishes for 
 letters ; all were silent ; and the few who were summoned to 
 the study, went out and returned again, almost without an 
 observation being made. Ruth was amongst the number. 
 Madeline waited for her impatiently. 
 
 ' A letter from mamma ! how delightful ! Ruth, gi\'e it me, 
 do. Let me look at the direction.' 
 
 ' It is a very long letter,' said Ruth. She did not appear as 
 eager to open her letter as usual, and Madeline caught it from her. 
 
 ' Ruth, dear, you are so slow. Let me see ; perhaps there 
 is something for Alice in it.' 
 
 The letter was addressed to ' Miss Clifford,' only ; and Ruth 
 began to read, Madeline seated on the corner of her chair, 
 peeping over her shoulder, to be quite sure that it was not 
 meant for her. 
 
 ' My very dear children,' were the first words : then the 
 letter was for them both, and Madeline had a full right to go 
 on reading. The first part certainly was written for both. It 
 told them all the Laneton news ; about their grandmamma, 
 the school, and the cottages, old Roger's grand-children, 
 Benson's sister, the new woman at the Manor Lodge — the 
 alteration in the flower beds. Then followed a part which 
 seemed particularly intended for Ruth, as it was in answer to a 
 letter of hers received a few days previously. 
 
 * I am looking fonvard most anxiously to next week, counting 
 the days till I can see my darlings again. I fancy you both 
 standing before mc, grown and improved in appearance, and, I 
 may also hope, in really important points. But, my dearest 
 Kuth, your last note has gi\en me some anxious thoughts ; 
 very far, I am sure, from your wish. You tell me that when 
 Maiy Vernon is gone, there will be an idle set left, and that 
 one or two will be very bad examples to the rest. I am afraid 
 this may be true, not only because you say it, but because I
 
 264 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 know how great a difference tlic absence or presence of one 
 person will make in a school. But, my dear child, I should be 
 glad to know nu^rc particularly what you mean by an idle set. 
 I long to hear more details from yourself. Sometimes I am 
 frightened for you, and think that you and Madeline may be 
 tempted to join it. It would grieve me very much to find you 
 return home altered, grown careless, or to see that you had not 
 simple, delicate, lady-like minds. Idleness and thoughtless- 
 ness in young girls generally lead to idle conversation. I trust 
 you are on your guard. You know how I have warned you be- 
 fore, entreated you to be particular in your conversation. I do 
 not know anything about which I have more fears than this, for 
 it is one of the greatest dangers of your present life. I have 
 full confidence in you that you will be true and sincere in all 
 you say, and tliat you will try to be gentle-tempered and 
 diligent ; and I have a humble trust that, through the mercy 
 of God, you will be led day by day to understand more of your 
 duty to Him ; but I have a fear sometimes that, without mean- 
 ing to do wrong, without being aware at first that you are doing 
 wrong, you may be led into a species of talking, which may be 
 a mischief to you for your whole life. Few persons, whether 
 children or grown-up persons, understand how important words 
 are. If we do not give way to anger, and if we are watchful to 
 speak the truth, and to guard against irreverence, we are apt to 
 imagine that w'e are quite safe. But in the Bible we read also 
 of " foolish talking and jesting," which, it is said, are not " con- 
 venient ;" that is, not suitable and proper. Now it is not easy 
 to explain exactly what is foolish talking ; and I trust and be- 
 lieve that as yet you have heard very little of it, and have nc\er 
 joined in it ; but I v.ill tell \ on how you may know at once if 
 others, or if you \ourselves (for of course what I say is for 
 Madehne also), are giving way to it. 
 
 * Whenever you speak to your companions upon subjects which 
 you would not name to meorto Mrs Carter; when things are said 
 which shock you, such as you never have heard at home ; or if 
 you are tempted to ask questions which you would not like to ask 
 me, or any person older than yourself, then you may be certain 
 that your talking is foolish and wrong ; even more — sinful. As 
 a plain rule, when you doubt whether what you are doing, or 
 saying, is right, stop instantly. It is possible, my dear children, 
 that this rule may prove a difficult one in conversation. Your 
 companions may laugh at you, and almost force you to listen to
 
 LANETON PARSOX.IGE. 265 
 
 ihcm; but if you will only persevere in turning away, and openly 
 declaring that you disapprove of such conversation, and will 
 have nothing to do with it, you may be certain of gaining your 
 point at last. If they speak evil amongst themselves, they will 
 not thrust it upon you, for there is nothing which commands 
 more respect than a pure, simple mind. How great a blessing 
 such a mind is, you can little know ! It is beyond all price. 
 If you once lose it by talking upon wrong subjects to idle com- 
 panions, it will be gone for ever. You may try for your whole 
 lives, earnestly, unceasingly, but you will never regain it fully ; 
 and in after years, when you would give up all your hopes of 
 earthly happiness for a holy, devoted, pure heart, you wall find 
 yourselves distressed and haunted, as it were, by the silly, im- 
 proper words and ideas, which you learned without stopping to 
 consider whether they were right or wrong. 
 
 ' Another subject of the same kind, which I am anxious to 
 mention to you again, though I have often named it before, is 
 your reading. I know that Mrs Carter is extremely particular, 
 quite as much so as I should be ; but she cannot be always 
 with you, and it is possible that books which it is not desirable 
 you should read may fall in your way. There will be less 
 difficulty here in avoiding temptation. You have a plain law 
 given you, and you must keep it. The books which Mrs Carter 
 has not seen you are of course bound not to read. It is with 
 reading as it is with conversation. Once read a Avrong, bad 
 book, and the mischief it will do you can never be repaired. 
 God has given us the choice of learning both good and evil, but 
 He has not given us the choice of forgetting. I am writing you 
 a long letter, my dearest children, but it is upon a subject which 
 interests me extremely ; I did noc mean to give you a dull 
 lecture, but I love you so very, very dearly ; I so long for you 
 to be pure-minded, and simple, and holy, it would grieve me so 
 bitterly to find that you had learned wrong things at school — 
 that is the reason why I am urgent. Evil conversation is the 
 great fault of a school. No one can keep you from it but your- 
 selves. No one, even, can exactly tell you what is evil and 
 what is not. But God has given you a natural instinct which, 
 if you obey, you will be safe. Once more I would say to you, 
 whatever you would be ashamed of talking about to me, or Mrs 
 Carter, or any person older than yourselves, that you may be 
 quite certain is not a fit topic of conversation with your com- 
 panions. Will you remember this ; or rather, pray to God to
 
 266 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 teach you to remember it, and give you strength to act upon it ? 
 I shall write again to fix, if possible, the particulars of your 
 journey, and fix the appointed time, though it is probable that 
 you may be called home before, as your papa is expecting to be 
 summoned to town on business ; and if so he must request Mrs 
 Carter to allow you to return with him. I shall write by this 
 same post to prepare her for seeing him, but it is very uncertain 
 when he may go, therefore I cannot promise you any more ex- 
 act notice. I might have kept all I had to say till we met, but 
 your letter, my dear Ruth, gave me some uneasy thoughts, and 
 I could not help writing about them. Besides, what is written 
 has sometimes a greater effect than what is spoken ; at least, 
 we can keep the former by us, and recall it to our memories 
 from time to time. I wonder whether you will do this with my 
 advice to-day. 
 
 * Now may God bless you both, my children, and guard you 
 not only from evil actions, but from evil words, and, even more, 
 from evil thoughts. It is the daily and nightly — the hourly 
 prayer of Your most affectionate Mother.' 
 
 ' Mamma knows what school is like very well,' said Ruth, 
 when she had finished the letter. ' Clara began talking very 
 wrongly some days ago, only I stopped her ; and since then 
 she always leaves off of herself, if I come near, when she is 
 rattling on in her wild, bad way.' 
 
 ' I don't know quite what you mean by a bad way,' said 
 Madeline, * and I don't think I understand what mamma 
 means. I hope I never say wrong things without knowing it.' 
 
 Ruth laughed. 
 
 ' How can you, Maddy ? Mamma says that we always feel 
 whether things are right or not. You can tell whether you ever 
 say what you would not like Mrs Carter to hear.' 
 
 ' I am not sure. I don't think I do,' said Madeline, 
 musingly, ' but I should like to go home to ask mamma more 
 about it.' 
 
 ' There is noth.ing to ask about, that I can see,' was Ruth's 
 rather hasty reply. 
 
 '■ We are not to say things we are ashamed of, and not to read 
 books we are forbidden. There is nothing very difficult in that. 
 There must be, though,' said Madeline, speaking more to her- 
 self than to her sister ; ' because mamma has written so much 
 about it. It must be very wrong to do so.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 267 
 
 * Yes, of course, it is very wrong ; but we need not do it ; 
 nothing is easier.' 
 
 Kuth put the letter into her desk, and went to the piano to 
 practise. 
 
 Madeline thought for a few seconds; and then, as school had 
 not yet begun, stole quietly to the dressing-room and prayed, 
 standing reverently, with her hand before her eyes, that God 
 would aid her to remember and follow her mamma's advice. 
 
 The day passed over verj' much as other days. True, Anna 
 Grant was gone, her place was vacant : but in the busy world of 
 school-life there was little leisure for regret. Some missed Anna, 
 some thought about her; one or two mentioned her; but all con- 
 trived to manage their own affairs without her. Madeline was 
 one of those who thought. She could not in an instant forget the 
 shock of such a sudden event. She could not help remembering 
 that Anna must be anxious, perhaps very miserable ; but when 
 she made observations upon the subject to her schoolfellows, the 
 greater number turned away as if they took but little interest in 
 it. Their attention was given to themselves — to the daily lessons 
 — the half-yearly exercise — the chance of a prize; and — what 
 was always an excitement for the day — a visit from Justine Le 
 Vergnier. Ruth, Alice, and Mary Vernon were the only parties 
 who expressed little or no pleasure when it was said that Justine 
 was invited. Janet Harding, indeed, as usual, began to criticise 
 what she called her odd French ways ; but she owned that it was 
 very amusing to listen to her ; and she supposed there was some 
 excuse to be made for her, because she had been brought up in 
 another country. Ruth had imbibed Mary Vernon's doubt of 
 Justine; and Alice could not bear to see any one Avho reminded 
 her of the disagreeable fact that she was in a certain degree, and 
 by her own weakness, involved in Clara's bad conduct. But 
 Justine came, and in the general satisfaction which her presence 
 gave, individual feelings were little noticed. Clara was foremost 
 as her friend; but that seemed natural. Clara was foremost in 
 all cases if she could manage it ; and no one, except Florence, 
 Harriet, and Alice, suspected that anything particular was meant 
 by the smiles and looks which passed between them. They 
 walked late, for the weather was very warm, and when they re- 
 turned, Madeline, who had a good deal to do for the next day, 
 said she intended to remain in the school-room till bed-time. One 
 or two others talked of doing the same. Ruth seldom found it 
 necessary to work at extra hours; she was almost always before-
 
 2 68 LAA'ETOA PARSONAGE. 
 
 hand with her studies ; and MadeHne could not refrain from ?, 
 sigh as she saw her sister take a story-book into the parlour, 
 vhilst she was obliged to occupy herself with a dull exercise. It 
 was with rather a wandering attention that she began; she could 
 not find the right place; she had forgotten the dictionary; and, 
 then, to the annoyance of her companions, she began to search 
 for it, upsetting at the same time a pile of books laid upon the 
 desk. 
 
 'What a fidget Madeline is!' exclaimed Fanny Wilson, 
 ' Why don't you sit down quietly, Maddy 1 No one can do a 
 thing whilst you shake so.' 
 
 Madeline tried to be patient, both with herself and others, and 
 took up the fallen volumes carefully, one by one, looking at each 
 as she put them down. There were grammars, histories, geo- 
 graphy books, all but the one she wanted; and there was 
 another — a strange book, not a lesson-book^ — Madeline could 
 not help exclaiming, as she opened it, ' Whose is this.'' Where 
 did it come from ? ' 
 
 Fanny Wilson looked up, and the rest said : ' What is the 
 matter ? ' but no one seemed to care ; they were all too busy. 
 Madeline sought for the name in the title page; but could not 
 find it. She saw it was marked at the back as belonging to a 
 circulating library ; and supposed therefore that it must have 
 been brought there by Mrs Carter or Miss Barnard. 
 
 ' Fanny, you are going into the parlour presently,' she said, 
 ' do take this book in, will you ? ' 
 
 ' All those books are Florence Trevelyan's,' said Fanny. 
 
 ' No, indeed, this one is not ; it cannot be.' 
 
 ' Florence put them all there herself just now,' said Fanny, 
 without raising her eyes ; ' pray, let them stay.' 
 
 ]\Iadeline was still certain that she was right ; and being 
 rather determined to prove that she was so, took up the volume 
 with the intention of delivering it to Mrs Carter. At the 
 parlour-door she was met by Justine and Florence. Their 
 eyes glanced instantly upon the book. 
 
 Justine exclaimed, ' O Ciel I' and Florence put out her hand 
 lo seize it, sa) ing — 
 
 ' This is not yours, Madeline ; where did you find it?' 
 
 Madeline explained. 
 
 * How very stupid of me I' whispered Florence to Justine. 
 ' What shall we do.'' 
 
 ' Don't say it is yours,' replied Justine, in the same voice.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 269 
 
 * I have said it, all but ;' and then speaking aloud to Made- 
 line, Florence added, ' Give me the book, Madeline ; it is my 
 concern, not yours,' 
 
 Madeline looked astonished, and said it could not oelong to 
 Florence ; it was a library book. 
 
 * Just give it me, Maddy ; there 's a good child. I will take 
 care of it.' 
 
 ' Yes, surely ; it belongs to Florence,' remarked Justine, find- 
 ing that it would not serve their purpose to deny the fact. 
 Madeline still hesitated. 
 
 * Circulating library books cannot be yours, Florence.' 
 
 ' Yes, this one is ; do give it me. Why will you be trouble- 
 some ? ' 
 
 Miss Barnard at that instant appeared at the head of the stair- 
 case. 
 
 ' This way ; do not stand talking there,' said Justine, im- 
 patiently, and she led the way to the dressing-room, closed the 
 door, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' O Madeline ! tu es bonne, aimable, permets que je le 
 tienne.* 
 
 Justine took hold of the book so gently, and spoke so softly, 
 that Madeline, little in the habit of opposing any one, especially 
 Justine, did not resist. She gave up the point; and Justine, 
 uttering vehement expressions of gratitude, glanced at Florence 
 with a smile of triumph, and was going away ; but Florence 
 appeared less satisfied, and whispered — 
 
 ' Wait, Justine, wait. Madeline knows now ; do ask her not 
 to tell.' 
 
 * Surely,' replied Justine, as if the request was a matter of 
 course, ' Madeline will not say anything. The book is not 
 hers ; there is no reason she should talk of it.' 
 
 ' If you would only tell me why,' answered Madeline, quite 
 puzzled. 
 
 ' Why ? oh, no reason, nothing particular,' said Florence, 
 unable to find any satisfactory answer ; ' but we wish it. Just 
 say that you will not mention the book, that is all.' 
 
 Madeline thought for an instant, and then replied that she 
 did not like to make promises ; she could not understand what 
 they wanted, and she would rather not. Justine placed herself 
 before the door. 
 
 'Madeline, chere petite!' she began j * dcoutes pour un 
 moment.'
 
 2;o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline paused very willingly. It was really difficult to her 
 to do anything which seemed ill-natured. Justine proceeded 
 rapidly in a mingled jargon of English and French; entreating, 
 urging, protesting, there was no harm, no cause exactly for con- 
 cealment ; only she wished it. She should be wretched if Made- 
 line did not promise : ending with a sentence which had a 
 great effect upon Madeline — ' Ah, que je t'aime, et tu me feras 
 malheureuse !' 
 
 After this, Madeline could scarcely say no. It might be some 
 private affair of Justine's ; something in which, as she said, there 
 was no harm. The hesitation was evident. 
 
 ' She will promise ; she has promised,' exclaimed Justine, 
 turning to Florence ; ' how we shall both love her !' 
 
 Justine threw her arm caressingly round Madeline, but Made- 
 line did not feel exactly inclined to return the embrace. 
 
 * Let her say the word,' said Florence, in rather a sulky 
 tone. 
 
 ' Oh no, we will trust,' replied Justine, with a sweet smile. 
 * She is so gentle, so good ; ' and unfastening a very pretty httle 
 brooch, she placed it in Madeline's hands, adding, as she kissed 
 her, that she must keep it as a ' gage d'amitid.' 
 
 Madeline was so taken by surprise by this action, that she 
 had not presence of mind to determine whether to accept or 
 return the ornament ; and even before she could express her 
 thanks, Justine was gone, and Florence Trevelyan with her. 
 Madeline stood with the brooch in her hand, feeling extremely 
 uncomfortable ; bound by an implied promise, without in the 
 least intending it ; and the promise sealed by a gift. What 
 should she do? Ruth naturally came to her remembrance ; she 
 would ask her advice ; but no, that could not be ; it would be 
 breaking her promise. Yet she had not made a promise, but 
 then Justine trusted her; Justine fully believed she had. Made- 
 line had seldom found it so difficult to decide what was right 
 to be done. It struck her whether it would not be proper to 
 return the brooch. Yet why should she do so ? Justine 
 had not given it her as a bribe ; that would really be shocking. 
 She had spoken of loving her, and of the gift being a mark of 
 affection : there could be no harm in that. Madeline examined 
 the brooch ; it was very elegant ; and she had never pos- 
 sessed a brooch before. It would be useful also; brooches were 
 much more useful than rings. She only wished Ruth could 
 have one like it. These thoughts passed very quickl)- through
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 271 
 
 her mind, and as they passed, they strengthened the wish, 
 which before was but shght, of retaining the brooch. She might 
 show it to Ruth, and say that Justine gave it her, without men- 
 tioning the book. Certainly, Madehne might have done this ; 
 nothing would have been easier ; but she had been brought up 
 in habits of perfect sincerity ; anything approaching to deceit 
 was contrary to this habit : it was unnatural and painful ; and 
 Madeline had scarcely resolved that she would keep the brooch, 
 before she repented the resolution, and began to reconsider it. 
 Fanny Wilson happened to come in while she was yet unde- 
 cided. The brooch was in her hand, and Fanny remarked it ; 
 inquired whose it was, and how she came by it. Madeline had 
 but one answer to give — that it was Justine's present ; and 
 Fanny wondered and admired, and thought how extremely fond 
 Justine must be of Madeline, and then ran away to tell the 
 news to her companions. Madeline's time was just then par- 
 ticularly precious to her : yet she could not make up her mind 
 to go back to her lessons ; she felt so very uncomfortable. If 
 it were not for the brooch, all would be easy ; but as it was, 
 what would it be best to do ? 
 
 The temptations natural to us from the dispositions with 
 v/hich we are born, follow us through our whole lives. Made- 
 line was now in natural taste what she had always been. She 
 had still a liking for ornaments and finery. But she was not, 
 as once, the silly, thoughtless child, giving way quickly, and 
 not having strength to draw back. No one can begin acting 
 upon religious principles very early in life as she had done, 
 without acquiring a firmness of character and clearness of con- 
 science, which others, who leave religion till they are advanced 
 in years, often strive for in vain. God's special blessing attends 
 those who give themselves to His service in childhood. And 
 Madeline, with all her faults, carelessness, love of finer)', hasti- 
 ness of temper, was yet a child of God, not only because she 
 was made His at her baptism, but because it was her earnest 
 endeavour to strive against her faults and to please Him. A 
 quick sense of right and wrong was Madeline's great blessing. 
 It warned her now to stop ; to pray for the help of God ; to 
 ask herself whether, even supposing there was no positive harm 
 in keeping the brooch, it would not be safer to give it back ; 
 whether she would not then be more free to act as she thought 
 right. It was no duty to keep it — it might be a duty to return 
 it. In such cases the safest way is the best way of deciding.
 
 272 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline resolved that she would give back the brooch before 
 Justine went away that evening. 
 
 It was a sacrifice undoubtedly, but she did not hesitate. She 
 unfastened the brooch — without trusting herself to look at it 
 again ; put it up in paper, and was on her way back to the 
 school-room, when in the passage — she encountered her sister. 
 Ruth's face was flushed and eager, and her step quick : she 
 ran up to Madeline, and said : * Justine has given you a brooch, 
 Maddy ; but )ou must return it, you must not keep it for the 
 world.' 
 
 ' I am not going to do it,' replied Madeline, quietly. * But 
 what do you know about it ? Why ought I to return it .^' 
 
 ' Alice says so,' replied Ruth. ' She came to me into the 
 parlour and told me, and said, that you had better not have 
 anything to do with Justine, for that you would get into trouble 
 if you did, and she begged me to come and stop you.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Ruth, dear,' replied Madeline, in the same 
 simple, unconcerned tone. ' I think Alice is right ; I do not 
 mean to keep the brooch ; I am sure it is better not ; but it 
 was very kind in Justine to give it me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so, but I don't like her ; she is up to mischief ; 
 she and Florence, and Harriet, and that dreadful Clara.' 
 
 Madeline showed some surprise at these words. The last 
 expression was very unlike the gentle, mild, forgiving Ruth. 
 
 ' Clara Manners will be the ruin of the school, Maddy,' con- 
 tinued Ruth ; ' but I will find her out. I will know what it is 
 she is at, some way. But, tell me, what made Justine give 
 you the brooch .'" 
 
 ' I cannot tell,' replied Madeline ; ' at least, not till I have 
 spoken to Justine and Florence.' 
 
 ' Not tell me, Maddy ! Why, I am your sister ; you tell me 
 everything.' 
 
 ' Yes, so I do, and I mean you to know, but I must speak 
 to Justine first ; I must give her back the brooch. She would 
 call me mean else.' 
 
 * It must be something very wrong, if you are not to talk 
 about it to me,' said Ruth, with some irritation in her tone. 
 * But you can tell me one thing. Was it about a book ? I 
 cannot help thinking that is the secret, because I am nearly 
 sure I saw Justine draw out a book from under her shawl, and 
 give it to Florence.' 
 
 ' I had rather not speak about it till I have seen Justine,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE, 27.5 
 
 answered Madeline, decidedly. ' When I have, you shall 
 hear all I know ; not that 1 really know anything.' 
 
 ' And then, P'lorence carried another book up-stairs this 
 nvorning,' said Ruth. ' She was very mysterious, ajid so was 
 Clara. The secret must be about a book. Justine is bringing 
 in books secretly. How extremely wrong !' 
 
 Madeline withdrew from her sister, and went on to the school- 
 room, unwilling to betray by her face the belief that Ruth had 
 guessed rightly. 
 
 Ruth stood thinking ; full of excitement, curiosity, and— shall 
 it be said 1 — revenge. She felt that she had guessed rightly. 
 If she had not, Madeline would have said something to prove 
 it. Clara Manners was doing what Mrs Carter most particu- 
 larly disapproved. No rule was more strictly maintained than 
 that which forbade any books, e\"en from the different homes, 
 to be read in the school-room without Mrs Carter's approval. 
 If Clara were known to encourage any such practices, her in- 
 fluence, supposing she had any, would be at an end. Her 
 threats against Ruth would be powerless. Ruth was resolved 
 to discover and to expose Clara's conduct. How, was a mys- 
 tery yet to be solved. 
 
 While she v.-as leaning in a musing attitude against the balus- 
 trade at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Carter came out of the 
 parlour. ' Ruth, my dear,' she said, ' Dawson is gone out ; I 
 wish you would go up-stairs for me, and take up Florence and 
 Harriet's new bonnets ; I am afraid of their being spoiled if they 
 are left below.' Ruth ran quickly up the stairs, with a feeling 
 at her heart which she did not examine, but it was satisfaction; 
 the thought that by some means she might now have an oppor- 
 tunity of examining into the secret. The request seemed quite 
 singular, coming at such a moment. 
 
 She deposited the bonnets carefully in the closet, and then 
 looked round the room. Its appearance was very much as usual 
 - — just the sjuiie books were lying on the drawers, everything was 
 very neat. Ruth took up the books, and moved some boxes, 
 feeling half ashamed of herself as she did so. Conscience 
 whispered that she was seeking to gratify her own evil temper, 
 not to please Mrs Carter. Still there was nothing to be seen, 
 and Ruth was going away, provoked with herself for having 
 spent time to no purpose, whcr. it struck her that she might as 
 well search carefully in the closet, amongst the shawls, and 
 dresses, and liandkerchi-^fs. No place was more likely to be 
 
 S
 
 2 74 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 chosen for a hiding-place ; for Dawson was the only person who 
 ever went there, and there was not much fear of her making a 
 remark about books. Ruth searched with considerable trouble ; 
 carefully replacing the different articles, that it might not be 
 seen they had been touched. That alone was disagreeable to 
 her — to be taking pains not to be found out. Still she went 
 on ; now that she had begun, there seemed the more reason 
 for doing so ; and all the time she said to herself that it was 
 wrong to allow things to be done which Mrs Carter might dis- 
 approve ; it was her duty to find out the truth. But was it 
 Ruth's duty ? Was it her place to be prying and searching 
 amongst things which did not belong to her ? Was it her duty 
 to act in a manner which she was ashamed of.'' Would it not 
 have been the most straightforward course to have gone at 
 once to Mrs Carter, though with the risk of being blamed for 
 suspicion, in case nothing were discovered against Clara .'* 
 Ruth wished to gratify her spite, and yet avoid the possibility 
 of censure. The indulgence of the one great fault of her 
 character had lowered her tone of mind, so that she could not 
 see the path of duty. That is one reason why it is so neces- 
 sary to strive against all our faults ; because if we give way to 
 any one, it will certainly lead us into others. The closet had 
 been examined with much care, and Ruth began to think once 
 more of departing. She was moving a set of shawls in the 
 farthest extremity ; it was not probable that anything should be 
 there ; they were too tidily folded one upon another for a hiding- 
 place ; but Ruth pushed them aside merely to be quite sure, 
 and, as she did so, she felt something hard wrapped in one. 
 Her curiosity and suspicion were awakened in an instant. The 
 shawls were drawn out, unfolded, and in the middle of one was 
 found a book ; the book Ruth was certain it must be ! the book 
 which Justine had brought Clara. Ruth opened it at the title- 
 page. It was called a novel — she scarcely knew what that 
 meant — a translation from the French. She looked at one or 
 two of the pages, merely from curiosity, to see what the story 
 was like. It seemed very interesting, and there was a good 
 deal of conversation in it. Ruth liked conversations particu- 
 larly. She read down a page, fancying that she was only 
 wishing to discover whether there was any harm in the book. 
 The sentence finislicd on the other side, and she turned over 
 the leaf Then it seemed still more mteresting. She must go 
 on a veiy little way ; and the very little way became a longer
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 275 
 
 way ; the longer way became a chapter ; the chapter became 
 two — still Ruth read. And what did she read ? what good 
 principle did she gain ? Ruth felt all the time that she was 
 reading something wrong. She could not have told why ; she 
 could not have explained a great deal that met her eye; but the 
 quick instinct which God had given her by nature, which He gives 
 to us all when we are very young, made her conscious that the 
 book was one of which her mamma would disapprove. Ruth 
 was conscious, but she did not stop to consider her own feelings. 
 There is nothing more enticing than reading. Our eye catches 
 a word a few lines beyond the part we have begun ; almost be- 
 fore we are aware of it, we are there. We say we will leave off, 
 but the same thing happens again, and all the time we are not 
 aware how quickly the minutes are passing ; and our sense of 
 duty is deadened by the interest of the scenes described. Those 
 short minutes may do mischief which the labour of years can- 
 not undo. They may give us a knowledge of evil things which 
 otherwise we might never have known, and the knowledge of 
 evil does in itself border upon sin. When we doubt whether 
 we are right, then is the instant to stop — to close the book — ta 
 turn from the conversation. 
 
 If Ruth's highest principles had then been acted upon, this 
 she would have done instantly ; but she had yielded to one 
 temptation, and she fell under another. When the shadows of 
 evening had deepened ; when it was dark, so that she could 
 scarcely tell the words, Ruth laid down the book, and asked 
 herself what she had done. That clear awakening of the con- 
 science to the knowledge that we have committed some parti- 
 cular offence for the first time, how keen, how overpowering it 
 is ! It pierced Ruth's heart with the sharpness of a dagger. 
 She had sinned. She had done what, till that hour, she had 
 never been tempted to do. She had been warned that very day ; 
 her mother's words were still fresh in her memory ; yet she had 
 offended. The fleeting pleasure was over, the enduring pain 
 remained. Ruth did not cry ; she was too oppressed for tears. 
 She did not think of going to Mrs Carter and owning what she 
 had done. Images of the persons of whom she had been read- 
 ing filled her brain. She seemed to have been admitted into a 
 new world, to which, even in the midst of her shame and con- 
 fusion, she longed to return. Then came the heavy, burden- 
 some sense of guilt ; the fear of being found out ; the humili- 
 ating, degrading recollection, that she who had entered the room
 
 276 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 bcnl upon discovering the foult of another, was now a sharer in 
 the same offence. 
 
 Presently she fancied that some one called her name. She 
 ran into her own room with the book still in her hand, and 
 listened again. .She was not called, but a footstep was hcai'd 
 upon the lobby, and without further consideration, Ruth opened 
 the nearest drawer, one in which Janet Harding's winter dresses 
 were put away, and thrust the volume beneath a cloak. The 
 footstep passed her room, it sounded up the attic stairs. It 
 could only be a sen-ant, but Ruth was so entirely bewildered, 
 nervous, and frightened, that she could not stop to arrange her 
 ideas, and ran down to the parlour in the dread lest the next 
 instant should bring some one to look for and discover her. 
 Candles were just being lighted. No one was thinking of Ruth ; 
 no one was watching her. Only Mary \'ernon asked if she was 
 not well, she was so silent. Ruth had a headache ; — yes, a 
 very bad, throbbing headache. But she had a worse pain than 
 that — the pain of an aching heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE bright sun shone cheerfully into the front bedrooms of 
 Mrs Carter's house the following morning. It was six 
 o'clock ; the bell sounded to v^aken the family. Ruth slowly 
 unclosed her eyes. Her eyelids were pressed down with sleep; 
 her dreams had been disturbed ; a weight lay upon her heart ; 
 she did not rise at once as was ^-"^x custom. A change seemed 
 to have come upon herself and upon everything about her. Af 
 length she summoned resolution to get up. Over the blind of 
 the window the front entrance could be seen, and beyond it 
 the high road, and an ojiposite house and garden. It was pre- 
 cisely what she had beheld the day before ; the sounds were 
 precisely what she had heard ; the rumbling dray-cart, the light 
 rattling cab, the early cries, and the sounds below in the house; 
 the unbarring of doors, unfastening of shutters : all was the 
 same outwardly. But alas ! Ruth's feelings told too truly that 
 it was not the same to her. Life is made up not of events, but 
 of actions, and thoughts, and feelings. Our lives, the life of 
 each individual, is not what has happened to him, but what lie
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 277 
 
 has done and thought. So a man Hvcs as truly in a dungeon 
 as on a throne ; his hfe is to liimself in its eternal consequences 
 equally important. So the Almighty Lord, ' who only knoweth 
 the hearts of the children of men,' looks with the same interest 
 upon the beggar and the prince, for He sees that both are pass- 
 ing through the same conflict, both huriying to the same end- 
 Eternity. 
 
 This new day of Ruth's life was new in a sense which no 
 mere outward change of circumstances could make it. It was 
 a day of new trial. 
 
 Ruth had done wrong ; she had offended against her mother's 
 warnings — against Mrs Carter's rules ; she had sinned in the sight 
 of God. Yet the oflence was not of that grievous nature to 
 render her despairing of her own principles, or doubtful of for- 
 giveness. It was her peculiar character which made it so 
 serious. There was one simple course for Ruth to adopt — the 
 acknowledgment of her fault to Mrs Carter. In one sense it 
 would have been easier now to blame her companions than be- 
 fore : in accusing them she would accuse herself also. But 
 accuse herself !— it was the last idea likely to enter Ruth's 
 mind. She, to whom all looked up, who was admired — 
 praised ! She, who was certain of a prize, certain of being 
 made first in the school ! No ; others vvho had nothing to 
 lose might accuse themselves, but not Ruth. Still something 
 must be done, and soon. When Ruth went down-stairs, she 
 saw Clara and Florence watching her. They were evidently 
 annoyed, and they seemed suspicious. Ruth knew they must 
 have missed the book ; but she was safe from any inquiries as 
 long as she did not betray anything by her countenance. Her 
 spirits became more and more depressed as the business of the 
 day went on. The interest which she usually found in her 
 studies v/as over, for she could give them only a divided atten- 
 tion. Again and again the idea of confessing what she had 
 done presented itself, and it might have been entertained and 
 acted upon but for one circumstance : that morning's post 
 brought the intelligence of the death of Anna Grant's father, 
 and the certain announcement that she would not return to 
 school. After the first expression of sympathy was given, 
 some one named Anna's office — that which she was to have 
 had. It was merely a casual, passing observation, but Ruth 
 heard it though she was sitting at a distance from the speaker ; 
 she heard it, felt it — felt that many eyes were directed to h.er;
 
 278 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 felt that every one was thinking of her. The flush of pride was 
 on her cheek ; one moment's thought, and there came a sud- 
 den, sharp pang at her heart — a deep, deep shame. The flush 
 was gone, and her cheek and hps grew white. It was the sign 
 of an inward struggle, of conscious humiliation and determined 
 pride, and pride was victorious. Ruth thought no more in ear- 
 nest of confession. 
 
 ' What shall I do about the brooch, Ruth } ' said Madeline, 
 when the morning lessons were over. ' I had not an oppor- 
 timity of giving it back to Justine last night, and I don't at all 
 like to keep it.' 
 
 ' The brooch ! ' repeated Ruth, wonderingly ; * oh ; I re- 
 member. Yes, of course, you must give it back. Was that 
 Florence who went out of the room with Clara ? ' 
 
 ' No ; it was Fanny Wilson. Ruth, dear, what is the mat- 
 ter ? You look so pale ? ' 
 
 Ruth answered that her head ached ; it had been aching all day. 
 
 ' Don't worry about that exercise, then,' said Madeline. 
 ' Come and sit upon the window-seat with me, and have a talk 
 till dinner-time.' 
 
 Ruth followed mechanically, but instead of talking she rubbed 
 her finger up and down the pane of glass, hunting the flies from 
 spot to spot ; and fixed her eye upon a particular shrub in the 
 garden, from which she scarcely once removed it. Madeline 
 began the con\'ersation without thinking much of Ruth's silence ; 
 the headache sufficiently accounted for it. It was a great plea- 
 sure to Madeline to be alone with her sister, and tell out all 
 her little grievances, her hopes, and anxieties. Madeline felt 
 as if Ruth must be at least a year older than herself, for she 
 seemed always able to give her ad\ ice, and was often the means 
 of preventing her from committing great mistakes. This time 
 Madeline had one particular care which she was half ashamed 
 to confess, even to Ruth. It was the consequence of the old 
 fault, carelessness. She had kept her accounts less strictly of 
 late, and, before the holidays, Mrs Carter was accustomed to 
 look at the account-books. She was not angry if they were not 
 correct, but she was much pleased if they were, and Madeline 
 had set her heart upon doing well in everything. She had been 
 trying very hard to remember all she had spent, but the money 
 would not come right by eightcenpcnce. Reckoning what she 
 had bought, and what she believed was owed to her, still the 
 eightecnpence remained a mystery.
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 279 
 
 'And it is not like a little sum, Ruth,' she said. ' It is not 
 like a penny, which I could have lost. Eightcenpence is such 
 a great deal ; I cannot think what has become of it.' 
 
 ' But are you sure you have searched for it properly ? ' asked 
 Ruth. ' I mean, are you sure that no one owes it you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, very nearly ; I think I know all. There is Fanny 
 Wilson's sixpence, and Jessie's twopence for the cakes, and a 
 penny which Janet Harding borrowed the last time the fruit 
 woman came, and the shilling I lent Alice at Richmond. I 
 cannot remember anything else.' 
 
 ' Then take my advice, Maddy,' said Ruth. ' Make them 
 all pay you to-day ; then you will have it right as far as you 
 can, and very likely in settling with them you will remember 
 something about the eightecnpence. I often remember when 1 
 begin in that way, though I may have quite forgotten before.' 
 
 Madeline thought the notion a good one, and, jumping down 
 from the window-seat, was upon the point of addressing Janet, 
 when some one said that Justine was in the passage. She had 
 brought a parcel from her father. Madeline's thoughts imme- 
 diately returned to the brooch, for she could not be c|uite happy 
 till it was given back. She left her sentence to Janet half- 
 finished, and ran out of the room. Justine had laid her parcel 
 upon the hall table, and was about to go into the dressing-room. 
 Jessie O'Neilewas with her, and Madeline heard Justine tell her 
 to go very quietly into the school-room, and whisper to Clara 
 that she wanted to speak with her. Jessie ran away, and Justine 
 went into the dressing-room. Madeline did not quite like to 
 follow ; not that she repented her resolution, but it seemed un- 
 gracious. She knew herself how annoyed she should be at 
 having a present returned : but this was the only opportunity 
 she might have for several days ; and summoning all her strength 
 of mind, she boldly pushed open the door. Justine was standing 
 with her back towards her, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' Ah, Claire ! ' 
 
 ' It is not Clara,' said Madeline, blushing and awkwardly 
 holding out the brooch. 
 
 ' Ah ! ch^re petite ! ' and Justine came forward to kiss her. 
 
 Madeline submitted to the kiss, but tried to disengage herself, 
 and, putting the brooch before Justine, she said — 
 
 ' I am very much obliged for this ; I think it beautiful ; but, 
 if you please, I had rather not have it, if you don't mind.' 
 
 Justine's eyes opened wide in astonishment.
 
 2 So LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Tiens ! impossible ! qu'as tu, mignonne ? ' 
 
 * I would rather not, if you please/ said Madeline, whose 
 courage was returning, now that the first step was taken. ' I 
 should be more happy without it ; and, Justine, I did not make 
 the promise, though you said I did.' 
 
 Justine's surprise still continued. She could not understand 
 what Madeline wished or meant to say. 
 
 * Ecoutes ! ' she began. At that instant Clara threw back the 
 door, and rushed eagerly into the room. 
 
 ' It is all over with us, Justine ! '• — -then seeing Madeline she 
 stopped and corrected herself. ' School is just over. So you 
 are come at the e.xact moment. Maddy, I heard Ruth asking 
 for you a minute ago. She wants you, I suspect.' 
 
 Madeline, too glad of an excuse for departing, put the brooch 
 on the table, pushed it towards Justine, and departed without 
 another word. When she was gone, Clara allowed no time for 
 Justine to speak. She was full of her own fears ; the second 
 volume of the novel was gone from the closet— where, she could 
 not imagine. Neither Florence nor Harriet knew anything about 
 it. They could get nothing from Alice. They half suspected 
 Ruth ; yet Ruth could not have told Mrs Carter, because nothing 
 had been said about it, and the book had been missed the 
 jirevious night. 
 
 ' Perhaps it is one of the servants,' continued Clara ; ' but 1 
 cannot guess which. No one but Dawson ever goes there, and 
 I don't think she would have taken it away. We are in a great 
 fuss about it ; my only hope is that Florence has made a 
 mistake ; that she did not carry it up-stairs, though she fancies 
 she did, and that it is mislaid.' 
 
 ' But Madame docs not know,' said Justine, ' so there is no 
 fear yet at any rate.' 
 
 Clara could not see this ; but Justine thrust the subject aside, 
 and brought forward that upon which she was peculiarly in- 
 lercsted herself — the subscriptions. 'She must,' she said, 
 ' have all the money paid at once ; the woman at the shop was 
 urgent.' 
 
 ' I ha\'e paid my share ; all I agreed to pay,' said Clara. ' I 
 am not going to give any more.' 
 
 ' liut you have not all paid,' replied Justine. ' Some one has 
 not.' 
 
 ' It is Alice's stupidity,' said Clara. ' We reckoned upon her, 
 and she would not join us. I don't see what is to be done. I
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 281 
 
 am surd; I will not p.iy any more, and I know that Harriet and 
 Florence have not a farthing.' 
 
 ' Ah ! mais — que fcrons nous ? ' asked Justine in alann. 
 
 ' I don't know ; it is all Alice. We cannot manage without 
 her.' 
 
 * Where is she ? ' inquired Justine. 
 
 ' In the school-room, or somewhere — I don't know where. 
 What was the business between you and Madeline about tiie 
 brooch ? ' 
 
 Justine repeated what had passed, and Clara's brow grew 
 dark with fear and annoyance. 
 
 * That tiresome child ! ' she exclaimed. ' I would rather ha\ e 
 lo manage any one in the school, even Ruth, than her. You caw 
 never make her see things your way. She will do us mischief 
 somehow.' 
 
 ' But the subscriptions,' interposed Justine. ' I am to go home 
 directly, and I must take the money with me.' 
 
 ' The only thing to be done that I can see,' replied Clara, after 
 a moment's thought, is to get hold of Alice and frighten her. 
 Happily there are some visitors just gone into the drawing-room, 
 so we shall not have dinner just this minute.' 
 
 ' Hates-toi, done,' exclaimed Justine, and Clara did hasten. 
 She went instantly to the school-room, and summoning Alice 
 from her employment, informed her, in an under-tone, that Jus- 
 tine wanted to speak with her very particularly. Alice was 
 reckoning up the marks for the good-conduct prize ; only two 
 were deficient. With common care she was sure of it. Her 
 heart bounded with satisfaction as she thought of tliis. Lady 
 Catharine now would really see that she had been trying. 
 Clara's voice disturbed her pleasant thoughts : it was always 
 associated with something disagreeable. She asked what she 
 was Avanted for, pleaded business, and said that she did not 
 wish to go ; but Clara insisted, and Alice, having no real ex- 
 cuse, was compelled to obey. Clara closed the door of the 
 dressing-room, and stood against it, so that no one could enter, 
 and then, breaking suddenly into the middle of Justine's civil 
 speeches, she opened the business. But it could scarcely be 
 called opening. Clara knew Alice sufficiently to be aware of 
 the best mode of dealing with her, and at once, abruptly, as if 
 asking only a matter of right, she denianded her share of the 
 subscription for the library books. Poor Alice stood silent, 
 overcome by the suddenness and boldness of the request.
 
 2 82 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Mais tu es gauche,' interrupted Justine. < Alice, mig- 
 nonne !' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Clara ; ' leave the matter to me. Alice, 
 you know very well that it is owing ; I ha\-e spoken to you 
 about it before.' 
 
 'Before! where?' exclaimed Alice with indignation. 'You 
 never spoke to me ; I always told you I would have nothing to 
 do with it.' 
 
 Clara placed her hand quietly on Alice's shoulder. 
 
 ' You never said that when you read with us on the Sunday 
 afternoon?' 
 
 Alice pushed aside the hand, and answered, with flashing 
 eyes — 
 
 ' Clara, you deceived me. You showed me the book, but 
 you told me nothing about paying.' 
 
 ' I trusted to your honour,' said Clara, in the same quiet 
 manner. 
 
 Alice burst into tears. 
 
 ' I have no money,' she said. ' I owe all to Madeline, if I 
 had it ; but Florence will not pay, so I actually have none.' 
 
 ' I will lend it you,' said Clara. 
 
 Alice partially recovered her self-command, and remained for 
 a few moments thinking. Justine approached her with a fond- 
 ling gesture, but Alice stood quite passive. 
 
 ' Here is Florence Trevelyan,' said Clara, as some one gave 
 tvvo gentle taps at the door ; ' her wits will never help us.' 
 
 Florence came in with a look of idle vacuity and curiosity. 
 She knew something secret was going on, and she was deter- 
 mined to find out what it was. 
 
 ' No secret,' said Clara, contemptuously ; ' but we are all in 
 a mess. Alice refuses to pay.' 
 
 ' No, Clara, no,' exclaimed Alice ; ' I do not refuse to pay, 
 but I say that you have no right to ask me.' 
 
 ' Dcpechez-vous, mes amies,' began Justine, playfully. 
 
 ' I shall go,' said Alice, withdrawing herself from Justine. 
 
 ' Nay, excuse mc,' interposed Clara, standing directly in front 
 of her : ' we cannot let you off quite so easily, Alice. We will 
 soon manage to inform the whole school how they may trust 
 you. To be n)ean ! I would not be mean for the world.' 
 
 ' It is just as mean in Florence not to pay me my eighteen- 
 pcnce,' said Alice. 
 
 Clara caught up the words.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 283 
 
 * Not to repay you your eighteenpence ! Would you give it, 
 then, if you had it?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I would not be mean ; perhaps — I can't 
 teil — I owe it to Madeline.' 
 
 'Nonsense! owe it to Madeline !' exclaimed Clara. 'Why, 
 you can pay her at any time — when you go home — there is not 
 the least hurry. If the money were yours, would you let us have 
 it?' 
 
 ' I cannot say ; it is not mine,' replied Alice, and a look of 
 bewilderment crossed her face. 
 
 ' It would be right to give it, there is no question of that,' 
 said Clara ; ' is there, Justine ? Alice read the book, and now 
 she is bound to pay for the pleasure.' 
 
 Justine entirely agreed. 
 
 ' Y«u would not like Justine to think you mean? ' said Clara 
 
 ' I should not like any one to think me mean,' answered 
 Alice ; ' I could not bear to be thought it ; but I have not a 
 farthing. If you would give me the world I cannot pay. 
 
 ' But Florence owes you eighteenpence. Let her off that, 
 and then it shall go for your share, and she and I will settle the 
 subscription now without you. We have some little money 
 affairs together.' 
 
 ' I cannot think what I shall say to Madeline,' said Alice, 
 who found her resolution beginning to fail. 
 
 ' Say nothing ; leave it to chance, and trust to Madeline's 
 good-nature ; she will never tease yoii about such a trifle.' 
 
 ' And it would be very kind to me,' observed Florence. 
 
 ' How absurd ! Florence,' exclaimed Clara. ' Kind to you ! 
 How can there be any particular kindness in Alice's paying 
 what is due ?' 
 
 Alice looked extremely angry, but Clara gave her no oppor- 
 tunity for expressing what she felt ; and taking the money 
 required from her own purse, she gave it to Justine, saying to 
 Florence as she did so — 
 
 ' Then we are quits, Florence, now. You have paid your 
 share, and so have Harriet and I ; and, besides, you ought to 
 pay for Alice, instead of returning the eighteenpence.' 
 
 ' But I cannot,' interrupted Florence, in a tone of alarm. 
 
 ' Well, don't be frightened. I have settled it, because I owe 
 you for the fruit and cakes you bought for me the other day. 
 Do you understand?' 
 
 It was quite necessary to ,'^s5Ji this question, as Florence was
 
 2 8 J, LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 famed for dulness in all matters of reckoning. She did not 
 now clearly comprehend such a \eiy intricate mode of arrange- 
 ment, and Clara was obliged to explain still further. Even 
 then Florence was puzzled ; the only impression remaining on 
 her mind being that she was free, and that in some way Made- 
 line was implicated. Alice would still have drav/n back, if 
 possible, but Clara silenced her by saying that the case was 
 settled ; and the summons being given for dinner, the party in 
 the dressing-room separated, not, however, before Justine had 
 given Alice ' mille remercimens ' for her good-nature. 
 
 Alice met Madeline, when they Vvfent into the dining-room, 
 with a very painful feeling ; a sense of shame, a consciousness 
 of having been unjust, almost dishonest. She had consented 
 to give up money which did not in fact belong to her, because 
 she could not brave the taunts of Clara Manners, and dreaded 
 to be called mean. Tine, she intended to repay Madeline, but 
 this would not be in her power for some time, and in the 
 meanwhile she must make excuses — false excuses — for she 
 could not own the real truth. Alice was full of these unplea- 
 sant thoughts the whole of dinner-time, trying to determine 
 what she should say to Madeline ; angiy with herself for having 
 so weakly yielded to a claim wliich was not just, and still more 
 angry, even vexed and soiTowful, at the remembrance of the 
 first fault which had brought her into the difficulty. And all 
 Alice's troubles were increased by one great defect in her 
 character ; very common — at first sight, not very important — - 
 but most certain to do infinite harm to all who indulge it. 
 Alice was deficient in moral courage — the courage necessary to 
 be straightforward. It was in this especially that she was 
 inferior to Madeline ; the difference could be seen in their 
 manner. When Madeline had done wrong, she would blush 
 and tremble, but she would look up and speak out without 
 faltering ; and, as she spoke, every one felt that her lightest 
 word was to be depended on. When Alice had done wrong, 
 her eyes were downcast, her voice was hesitating, her sentences 
 were broken. It was only by questions that the truth could be 
 brouglit out, and then Alice often corrected herself, and made 
 mistakes, and at last was obliged to own the whole truth, 
 merely because she had become so confused that it was the 
 only way left her of escape from perplexity. So, in the present 
 instance, the last idea which presented itself to Alice's mind v/as 
 that of simply stating the truth ; and saying to Madeline that
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. cSs 
 
 she had lost the change given her at Richmond, and liad paid 
 away tlie money with which she intended to replace it. Alice 
 fancied that if she did this, some mischief would arise. Made- 
 line would inquire, or suspect ; something would happen, she 
 did not know what. No ; she must excuse herself, delay, 
 borrow from some one else, anything rather than the easiest, 
 best way of arranging the affair. IMadcline touched Alice's arm 
 as they were waiting in the hall, preparing for the afternoon's 
 walk, and said— 
 
 ' Alice, could you attend to me for one moment?* 
 
 Alice found her heart throb, and was ashamed of herself 
 for her cowardice. 
 
 ' There is not time now,' she said, for she was certain that 
 Madeline was going to ask for her money. 
 
 ' Well, then, when we come in, if you can. I want to settle 
 accounts with you. Mrs Carter will look at the books to- 
 inorrow, and mine are not right.' 
 
 ' Very well.' 
 
 Alice felt the delay of an hour and a half to be a reprieve ; 
 but the prospect of the conversation made her very uncomfort- 
 able. Clara came near and whispered — 
 
 'Alice, what are you thinking of.''' There was no answer; 
 Alice moved away and Clara followed. ' I know, Alice ; you 
 need not run away from me.' 
 
 ' Yes, I do need,' replied Alice, bitterly. ' It is you, Clara, 
 who always make me miserable.' 
 
 ' Miserable ! Avhat a word ! What should you be miserable 
 about ? ' 
 
 ' Madeline wants her money,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' How do you know that .'" 
 
 ' Because she told me ; and what can I say to her?' 
 
 * Madeline docs not want her money,' replied Clara. * I 
 know more about it than you do.' 
 
 ' How ? what do }ou mean ?' 
 
 * She wants the shilling, not the half-crown.' 
 
 * But have you spoken to her ? have you told her ?' exclaimed 
 Alice. 
 
 Clara laughed. — ' No ; trust me for being so foolish as that ; 
 but 1 know still ; 1 ha\e heard her talking. She cannot make 
 her accounts come right, and she thinks she has lost the 
 eighteenpcnce. She does not know that she lent it to you. 
 She must have given it to you by mistake.'
 
 286 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' But what difterence can that malce to me ? ' 
 
 ' Simply, that you need not tell. If she is so careless, she 
 deserves to be punished lor it.' 
 
 ' O Clara ! how shocking ! how dreadful V exclaimed Alice. 
 ' It would be as bad as stealine.' 
 
 Alice spoke so loudly that several of her companions heard 
 her. Clara stopped her instantly. 
 
 ' Alice, are you mad.?' she said, and Alice was instantly sub- 
 dued. ' You will ruin us all,' continued Clara, reproachfully ; 
 ' I would give worlds if we had nothing at all to do with you. 
 How can you think I should dream of stealing .? ' 
 
 ' You said as much,' said Alice. 
 
 ' No, I did not. I meant nothing of the kind. All that I 
 said was, that if Madeline was careless she deserved to be 
 punished.' 
 
 ' But you implied that I need not tell her about the eighteen- 
 pence,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, of course I did ; but there is no stealing in that. You 
 may pay her when you get home. You need not keep the 
 money in the end.' 
 
 ' Only not tell her now,' said Alice, thinking. 
 
 ' Yes ; not let her know of the mistake. She won't really 
 care, and Mrs Carter will not think more of it than usual, for 
 Madeline's accounts are never right.' 
 
 ' But it will make Madeline unhappy,' said Alice ; ' she will 
 fret about it.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, she will not ; she thinks it lost; and she will soon 
 be satisfied. It is but a very httle pain for her, and for you it 
 might be the greatest mischief possible. Something would be 
 sure to be found out, if Mrs Carter were to inquire why you did 
 not repay the money.' 
 
 Alice almost wished it might be; this continued concealment, 
 this being placed under Clara's power, subject to her threats and 
 her entreaties, was more painful than any punishment inflicted 
 by Mrs Carter could have been. Still her cowardice stood in 
 the way. It seemed safe to say nothing, and it was not dis- 
 honest. Alice's conscience misgave her. Was that c^uite true.? 
 was it not dishonest .? Though Madeline might not be worse 
 off in the end, would she not be worse off now .? And was it 
 certain that she should be able to pay her when they went 
 home } Lady Catharine was not much in the habit of giving 
 her money, and she could not ask for it. An inquiry would
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 28? 
 
 then be made why it was wanted, and something might be dis- 
 covered of the truth. Of all things Ahce dreaded Lady 
 Catharine's knowing tliat she had done anything wrong in 
 money affairs ; it was a subject about which she was particularly 
 strict. Her own bills were paid monthly ; she was quite an- 
 noyed and uncomfortable if this was not done, and she had 
 often warned Alice against that very common species of dis- 
 honesty in young persons, the running in debt for articles for 
 which they cannot afford the purchase, or which, if they are paid 
 for in the end, must in the meantime cause inconvenience and 
 perhaps loss to another. Alice knew, she was quite certain, 
 that Clara's plan was a wrong one. She said, ' No, it could 
 not be : she would not listen to it.' 
 
 They returned from their walk. Alice took off her dress 
 quickly, and went to the school-room. Madeline hastened after 
 her; her bright, open face clouded by annoyance. She asked 
 Alice for the shilling which she had lent her at Richmond, 
 Alice gave it. Madeline lamented the loss of her eighteenpence. 
 She begged Alice to help her in discovering what had been done 
 with it ; and Alice hid her face under pretence of searching in 
 her desk. Madeline went on lamenting and wondering ; and 
 Alice replied, ' I am very sorry.' Madeline kissed her, and 
 thanked her, and said — ' Alice, you are always sorry for any 
 one in trouble.' 
 
 Then Alice's heart did indeed reproach her ; but courage, 
 moral courage, oh ! how sad it is to be deficient in it ! Alice 
 allowed Madeline to leave her under a false impression, and 
 when she was gone, saw herself in her true light, weak, selfish, 
 and dishonest. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 WHAT were Ruth's feelings during the course of that busy 
 day ? It is a question difficult to answer. Ruth could not 
 have answered it herself. But they know, who, like her, having 
 sunk in their own esteem by the commission of an undetected 
 fault, are too proud to own their offence, but too conscientious 
 to endure still to listen to words of approbation, and who pass 
 through the necessaiy routine of occupation v,fith a heavy heart,
 
 2.S8 LAX ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 a ciuli, abotractcd look, a ^vca!•y spirit of indilTercnce, whilst 
 hiding in their own breasts the bitter sense of shame. 
 
 Kuth was pitied for her headache when it was known that 
 she liad one ; her lessons were excused ; she was allowed to 
 stay by herself in the drawing-room, and read. Delicacies were 
 provided for her ; Mrs Carter came to sit with her, and talk 
 to her ; Miss Barnard took trouble to make her comfortable. 
 Madeline looked really anxious ; and Ruth grew more and 
 more wretched ; her only satisfaction being the miserable one 
 of knowing that INIary \'ernon, who was gone to spend a few 
 days with a friend, was not at hand to remark upon and inquire 
 into her unhappiness. The first idea of discovering Clara's fault, 
 Ruth had entirely given up. She could not do it. Clara must 
 ft)lIow her own plans ; she must corrupt the minds of others ; 
 she must disobey Mrs Carter ; Ruth must know it and be 
 silent — and why ? Because Ruth was too sincere to accuse 
 another of a fault in which she had in a measure participated ; 
 and )'et could not own herself wrong, and risk Mrs Carter's 
 displeasure, and the loss of her position in the school. There 
 was but one thing now to be done : to restore the book to its 
 hiding-place, and say nothing. Ruth heartily wished that she 
 had done so at once. By gi\'ing v.ay to the impulse of fear, 
 she had increased her own perplexities tenfold. Whilst the 
 book remained in Janet Harding's drawer, there was no safety 
 for any one ; yet how to restore it was a great difficulty. She 
 was sure that Clara had missed it ; but a few words overheard 
 in the course of the day made her aware that it was supposed 
 to have been possibly mislaid. She must therefore take ad- 
 \-aniage of the first opportunity to replace it. And there were 
 several opportunities Ruth thought. Several times she tried to 
 find an excuse for going up-stairs to fetch something, but each 
 time Mrs Carter chose to send some one else ; not wishing, as 
 she said, that Ruth should trouble herself when her head was 
 so bad. The day passed over, evening came, Ruth found 
 herself alone in the drawing-room, in the tuilight. She did 
 not like to be alone, especially when it was growing dusk. It 
 made her nervous to watch the gradual fading of the light ; to 
 find the objects about her growing indistinct ; to have less and 
 less to distract her thoughts. That is one blessing of night 
 when we choose to make use of it. It shuts out the objects 
 which disturb us by day. It biings before us the reality of 
 God's presence; the awfuUiess of His purity and holiness. It
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 289 
 
 is as when wc look into tlic purple sky, and sec tlic pale stai-s 
 shining from afar, and the moon traversing the infinity of space. 
 There they were when the sun shone brightly, when the glare 
 of the day wearied us, when wc Avalkcd through crowded 
 streets, and transacted the business of life with our fellow-men. 
 Tlicre they were, pure and unchangeable, passing on their 
 wondrous way, but we saw them not. And there also was fic 
 wlio made them ; present in the cheerful liome, in the noisy 
 town, in the crowded shop. We saw not the calm moon, we 
 did not look for the glittering star, and neither did we think of 
 the God who was watching over us, whose Eye Avas upon our 
 secret thoughts. Now, darkness h;is fallen upon the earth, 
 and heaven is open before us ; and with the sight of heavoi, 
 shall not the remembrance likewise return of Him who is its 
 Maker and its Lord ? 
 
 Ruth trembled in the twilight. But let us not be mistaken ; 
 it is dangerous to think lightly of any fault, but it is also 
 dangerous to magnify what we have done wrong beyond what 
 it really dcsei-ves. Ruth's fault, as has been said before, would 
 ha\'e been of a less serious nature if she had only possessed the 
 courage to confess it. It was her pride which was the great 
 e\'il. When Ruth thought of M'hat she had done with the 
 idea of acknowledging it, her heart for an instant grew light. 
 She knew that Mrs Carter would be vexed, but she knew also 
 that she would forgive. It was only when she dwelt upon the 
 consequences of her confession ; the probability, the almost cer- 
 tainty, that it would cause 'Mrs Carter to doubt her steadiness of 
 principle, and lower her in the opinion of her companions, and 
 interfere with her being chosen judge, that she really became 
 perplexed how to act. Now she sat in the twilight thinlcing ; 
 very unhappy, very unwell ; her head throbbing violently, long- 
 ing for bed-time, yet afraid that if she did go to bed she should 
 not be able to sleep. Below, there were the usual school sounds: 
 laughter, voices, a piano, and a harp. Ruth almost resolved 
 to go down ; anything was better than staying alone. She 
 wondered Madeline did not come to her, she thought it unkind. 
 Presently there was a sudden lull ; the music stopped in the 
 middle of a bar ; there was a rush as if all were collecting- 
 together to hear somethmg; then a single voice spoke, and im- 
 mediately afterwards Madeline ran up the staircase. She burst 
 eagerly into the room, but checked herself, and said, in a gentle 
 tone — 
 
 1
 
 2.^o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Ruth, dear, 1 forgot ; I hope I did not disturb you.* 
 
 'No, not at all, thank you,' replied Ruth, ' I have beun; ex- 
 pecting you some time ; why did you not come before ? ' 
 
 * Because — indeed, I did not forget you, Ruth ; I wanted to 
 come to you very much ; but I fancied it would be better to 
 wait till it was all settled, because you would like to hear.' 
 
 ' Settled ! what ?' inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' Oh ! I must tell you all from the beginning ; but you won't 
 be in a hurry, will you ? We were talking down-stairs about 
 Anna, and Mary, and who should be judge, and a great many 
 of them said you ; only Clara set her face against it.' Ruth 
 grasped the arm of her chair with an energy of feeling which 
 she could not control. 
 
 ' Clara objected,' continued Madeline, ' and so did some of 
 the others ; and Harriet Trevelyan was proposed, and then we 
 all laughed ; and one or two others were mentioned, and some 
 one said it would be pleasant to have a regular choosing day, 
 and a box with votes, and to settle before we went home, be- 
 cause if any new girls came next half-year, they would not 
 enter into it ; and we thought it would be nice to have 
 Mary Vernon here, and, in short, to do it all regularly and pro- 
 perly ; and at last we settled it delightfully, and they sent me 
 to the study to ask Mrs Carter about it ; and she called Miss 
 Barnard, and they talked together, and at last they sent for me 
 again, and told me we might, and I ran into the parlour just to 
 let them know, and then I came up-stairs to you. O Ruth, 
 won't it be charming .'" 
 
 ' Yes, very,' replied Ruth, in a faint voice. 
 
 ' Ah ! you don't care for it to-night ; your poor head is bad ; 
 but you will to-morrow ; and it concerns you more than any 
 one ; of course you will be chosen.' 
 
 * Not of course, if Clara has her way,' said Ruth, in a bitter 
 tone. 
 
 ' Oh ! that is all nonsense,' answered Madeline ; * Clara can 
 do nothing against you ; you are such a favourite. And Mrs 
 Carter thinks you will be judge, I am sure, because she smiled 
 so, and said to Miss Barnard that I seemed particularly inter- 
 ested in the matter.' 
 
 Ruth could not bring herself to answer, but Madeline's head 
 being full of the subject, she was contented to run on by her- 
 self, describing what they meant to do, and how they were to 
 arrange the school-room, and how each one was to write the
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 291 
 
 name of the party she preferred upon a card ; and how when 
 the election was over, they were to enjoy tlicmselves by liaving 
 a hohday, and, if it was fine, a fete in the garden. 
 
 Ruth said ' yes,' and * no,' and ' very pleasant,' at intervals, 
 and with this Madeline was satisfied. 
 
 The subject of the brooch and the secret connected with it 
 was not once alluded to ; Ruth remembered it, but dared not 
 approach a topic which she felt convinced was connected with 
 the hidden book, and Madeline's conscience being clear, she 
 had soon ceased to dwell upon it. 
 
 The sisters remained talking together till it was quite dark, 
 and Ruth expressed a wish to go to bed. Madeline went to 
 ask Mrs Carter's permission, but Mrs Carter was busy, and 
 she was detained some time before she could speak with her ; 
 and just as she had given Ruth's request to Miss Barnard in- 
 stead, the bell rang for prayers, and Miss Barnard settled the 
 question by saying that Ruth had better come down to prayers, 
 and go to bed with the rest. This was but a trifling circum- 
 stance, yet it was very important to Ruth. It prevented her 
 from replacing the book, and caused her an additional anxiety. 
 Mrs Carter kissed her very affectionately when she went to 
 wish her good night ; and said she should come and sec her 
 after she was in bed. She trusted the headache would be better 
 to-morrow, for every one was grieved when Ruth was ill ; she 
 was so kind and useful. 
 
 Ruth longed — yes, she longed intensely, to unburthen her 
 heart ; to rid herself of the oppressive weight of her secret and 
 her fault. But the acknowledgment — that was the stumbling- 
 block, and Ruth went to her room silent, and very sad. 
 
 ' Alice,' said Madeline, the next morning, just before break- 
 fast, ' do you know Mrs Carter means to look at the account- 
 books to-day ?' 
 
 Alice's face grew a little pale. ' Does she ? She will not 
 find mine right ; I never try to keep them so.' 
 
 ' Mine would be right, if it were not for that eighteenpence. 
 I cannot imagine what is become of it. I never knew anything 
 so strange.' 
 
 Alice could not find a word to reply ; she waited an instant, 
 and then inquired how Ruth's head was. She had a vague 
 idea still of talking to Ruth, of acknowledging everything to 
 her. If Ruth had been one degree less perfect in her eyes, she 
 might have done so before, but she feared her look of utter 
 astonishment at such naughtiness.
 
 292 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline replied that Ruth's head was better, but she did 
 not look at all well, and Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard both 
 had remarked it. Madeline hoped that Ruth would be quite 
 well soon. It would destroy all the pleasure of choosing the 
 judge if she were not, and some one had said that most probably 
 the day would be fixed almost directly. Alice expressed neither 
 pleasure, nor hope, nor fear. How cold and dull it makes us 
 to do wrong — to have any evil to conceal ! There were several 
 subjects of interest mentioned at the breakfast table; the choice 
 of a judge, the different prizes, the holidays, the various journeys. 
 Ruth took no part in the conversation ; she was meditating in 
 what way to find an excuse for going again to her room. Clara 
 took no part in it ; she was wondering and fearing what could 
 have been done with the lost volume. Alice took no part in it ; 
 she was humbled and conscience-stricken at the sense of her 
 own meanness. ' There will just be time for me to look at the 
 account-books, before Monsieur Le Vergnier comes,' said Mrs 
 Carter, as she rose from the breakfast table. ' I should wish 
 those who have tried to keep them correctly, to bring them to 
 my study.' This order was of no consequence to many. It 
 was an affair of choice whether accounts should be kept or not. 
 Madeline took her book reluctantly from her desk. It was 
 neatly written, correctly added up. It was the first occasion on 
 which she had, upon the whole, tried to do her best in being 
 vegular and careful : but the unfortunate eighteenpcnce made 
 all wrong. She lamented it again and again ; first to Ruth, 
 \hen to Janet Harding, then again to Alice, and eveiy word was 
 sharp and piercing to Alice's conscience, until the effort at hid- 
 ing her feelings became almost more than she could bear. 
 
 Madeline went to the study, with a face which was a clear 
 sign of her emotion. She knocked, but received no answer — 
 and knocked again. Still there was no reply ; and she waited, 
 leaning against the wall, and not knowing whether it would be 
 right to open the door and go in. There was a ring at the bell, 
 which she knew to be Monsieur Le Vergnicr's, and from the 
 sounds she guessed that some one was with him. Immediately 
 afterwards, Clara Manners ran out from the school-room, and 
 passing the study door, went into the entrance hall. Madeline 
 heard her speak, and knew the voice that answered ; it was 
 Justine's. Monsieur Lc Vergnier went into the school-room. 
 Justine and Clara remained talking together. Madeline thought 
 it would be better to go away, but at that instant, Mrs Carter 
 appc.ircd from another part of the house. She listened, and
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. ?03 
 
 asked who was in llic hall. Madeline told, and Mrs Carter, 
 desiring her to wait in the study, went on. Madeline remained 
 as she was directed, though rather impatient, for she wanted to 
 go back to her lessons. It seemed strange that Mrs Carter 
 should stay so long. The study door was open, and presently, 
 to her surprise, Clai-a came into the passage alone. Her face 
 was clouded with anger and pride. Her eye caught Madeline's, 
 and she said, in an under-tone : ' You have your will now ; it 
 is all over with us.' 
 
 'What ! how, Clara?' exclaimed r\Iadeline. 
 
 Clara caught away the corner of her dress which Madeline 
 held, and, instead of going into the school-room, rushed up the 
 stairs to her room, closing the door with a sharp, echoing 
 sound. 
 
 Madeline was frightened. Clara's words were an enigma; 
 but Clara's face was quite pale. Something v/rong had been 
 discovered ; there was no doubt of that. For some minutes 
 longer Madeline waited in vain ; and then being summoned to 
 Monsieur Le Vergnier, she left her account-book open on the 
 study table and went away. 
 
 Clara Manners was asked for many times as the French 
 lesson began. It was proposed to send for her, but a message 
 from Miss Barnard stopped all cjuestions, though it did not stop 
 curiosity, ' Miss Barnard's compliments to Monsieur Lc Verg- 
 nier, Miss Manners would not be able to take her lesson that 
 morning.' Ruth's cheek became of a bright crimson when she 
 heard this, but the colour was soon gone, and she continued her 
 lessons as before. 
 
 ' Justine ! oil est Justine ? ma fille .'' ' asked Monsieur Le 
 Vergnier, in the course of the lesson. 
 
 The question created some surprise. ' What ! was Justine 
 come?' No one had seen her. ' It was not usual for her to 
 come without being invited in school hours.' 
 
 ' But this morning,' Monsieur Le Vergnier said, ' she told 
 him that she had particular business ; however, it did not 
 signify, she must be gone home; it did not signify;' and he 
 shrugged his shoulders, and went on teaching. 
 
 Madeline was the only one who doubted whether it did not 
 signify. Miss Barnard sat in the school-room keeping strict 
 order and silence, and looked very severe. Monsieur Le 
 Vergnier's politeness was thrown away upon her ; she paid 
 him the necessary civilities, and nothing more, and when lie
 
 294 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 rose to depart, her bow was colder, more unbending than 
 ever, 
 
 * Miss Madeline Clifford is wanted in the study,' said Dawson, 
 coming to the school-room door. 
 
 Madeline rose instantly. Alice whispered, ' What is the 
 matter ? ' but Madeline put her finger to her lips, and hastened 
 to obey. Once more she stood before the study and knocked, 
 and there was a quiet cold answer, ' Come in.' 
 
 Mrs Carter was alone, sitting in her usual position in the arm- 
 chair by the side of the table. Her finger rested upon Madeline's 
 account-book ; another book, shabby and dirty, lay near. On 
 a chair, in one corner, was Justine Le Vergnier's bonnet. 
 
 ' Madeline,' said Mrs Carter, fixing her mild but searching 
 eye upon her, ' this is your book, I believe.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, my account-book. I left it here this morning.' 
 
 ' I have been looking at it ; it is not right.' 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' replied Madeline, boldly. ' It is wrong by 
 eighteenpence. I cannot tell how.' 
 
 ' You cannot tell ? But you must have some idea. You hav' 
 kept all the rest so carefully, you must have some notion what 
 you have done with it.' 
 
 * No ;' Madeline had none whatever ; and, whilst owning this, 
 she blushed deeply. 
 
 Mrs Carter repeated, still looking at her steadily, ' You are 
 quite sure you have not lent it ? quite certain ?' 
 
 Madeline could not be certain. Mrs Carter's manner, with- 
 out her intending it, confused and distressed her. 
 
 Mrs Carter considered a little, and then said more kindly, 
 though still with something of restraint, '■ Very well, my dear ; 
 you may go.' 
 
 Madeline departed, much more uncomfortable than she came. 
 She went back to the school-room ; the usual lessons were going 
 on — reading, geography, practising. Madeline took her share 
 in each, yet still her thoughts wandered. What could that 
 strange, short interview mean .'' Where was Clara .-' Why was 
 Justine's bonnet in the study ? How provoking it was that she 
 could not talk to Rutli ! Madeline looked anxiously at Ruth as 
 she thouglit this. There had been something in her sister's 
 face all the morning which perplexed her. It was a look of 
 suffering ; yet Ruth had said that she was nearly well. One 
 o'clock — lessons were over — silence ceased ; and talking — such 
 talking began. So fast ! so eager ! so confused ! Each one
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 295 
 
 bciit upon speaking for herself. Madeline sat down by Ruth, 
 and passed her hand affectionately over her forehead, and kissed 
 her, and called her her own dear Ruth, and wished she was 
 quite well ; it was wretched to see her so changed. The faint 
 smile which played upon Ruth's features made her real feelings 
 only the more visible. 
 
 'May I talk a liltlc to you, Ruth ?' continued Madeline, ' I 
 want to tell \ou about some things very much.' 
 
 Ruth gave a quiet assent, and resting her forehead upon her 
 hand, listened Avhilst Madeline related what had passed during 
 llie morning. When she came to Clara's words, ' It is all over 
 with us now,' Ruth started, and Madeline stopped, and asked 
 if she was in pain. But Ruth's calm reply was, ' No, thank 
 you ; go on.' And Madeline went on. 
 
 ' Can you guess ? can you think, Ruth, what is the matter ?' 
 she said, as she concluded. 
 
 Ruth shook her head ; she could not utter a falsehood. 
 
 * It was the same book, I am nearly certain,' contihued Made- 
 line, * which I saw upon the study table, that Florence Trevelyan 
 said belonged to her, on that day when Justine gave me the 
 brooch. I meant to have told you all about that, only we have 
 been thinking of other things. By the by, where is Florence ? ' 
 
 Missing ; — Harriet was missing also ; both had been sent for 
 during the morning lessons. Their absence was generally re- 
 marked, every one was whispering and looking, for it was 
 becoming evident that a secret there was somewhere. 
 
 ' Dinner will be ready in a minute,' said Madeline, finding 
 that Ruth was little inclined for conversation. ' Won't you come 
 into the dressing-room, and get ready ? ' 
 
 Ruth had no appetite for dinner : she would much rather have 
 remained where she was ; but she dreaded to attract notice, and 
 went with Madeline, and tried to join in the general observations, 
 and to be as little unlike herself as possible. Still it was re- 
 marked how ill and pale Ruth looked, and some feared that if 
 slie were not better all the pleasure of the election day would be 
 over. Pleasure was spoken of, but there was not much cheer- 
 fulness in the tone of the party, the idea of a secret weighing 
 upon all — upon one especially besides Ruth. Alice knew quite 
 well what was going on. She felt herself less guilty than the 
 others ; she had not given way entirely to temptation ; and she 
 hoped that whatever might be found out she might obtain for- 
 giveness ; but her mean, dishonourable conduct to Madeline
 
 296 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 was not to be forgotten. Once or twice she thought she must 
 tell her, even though it might be the means of bringing herself 
 into disgrace as a partaker in the fault of the others. This was 
 especially the case v.-licn she heard Madeline mention the 
 account-book, and again express her sorrow and surprise at the 
 mistake or loss, about which she said idrs Carter appeared very 
 niv.ch annoyed. Alice felt then, that although she might repay 
 the money, she was still dishonest. 
 
 The dinner passed very silently. Clara, Florence, and Harriet 
 were absent. Only one thing of importance happened. Some one 
 mentioned the next day but one as desirable for the election of 
 tlie judge, because P'anny V.'ilson was going home the day after, 
 and would be vexed to miss it. Mrs Carter became very grave, 
 and did not instantly reply ; but after a pause she said, * They 
 might choose their own day — it might be the one named if 
 they wished it.' But this cold consent was not at all what v.as 
 desired. Generally speaking, Mrs Carter took a great interest 
 in all their pleasures ; now it seemed an effort to her to attend 
 to anything. Grace was said ; the cloth removed ; the ser- 
 Aants had left the room ; and the benches being pushed back, 
 a "-eneral move followed for all to return to the school-room. 
 Mrs Carter spoke. ' Stay, my dears, all of you,' and every 
 voice vi-as hushed, every movement stopped. ' I v/ish to speak 
 to you all ; I have something particular to say.' Mrs Carter's 
 words came one by one, as if dragged from her ; and those 
 who ventured to look in her face, saw that its expression was 
 unusual. A pause, so long as to alarm even the most innocent 
 and indifferent, succeeded. Madeline stood by Ruth, and 
 noticed that she caught the arm of a chair near, and grasped it 
 finnly, whilst Alice twisted a silk chain which hung round her 
 neck, till it was thoroughly entangled. Madeline's own heart 
 beat quickly, but she looked up without shrinking ; for what had 
 she to conceal ? 
 
 Mrs Carter continued : ' Some of you, I hope many, are 
 doubtless quite unprepared for A\hat I am going to say. There 
 are others, I fear, whose consciences will at once accuse them. 
 Before I proceed further, I wish all to understand that to con- 
 fess a fault freely is the surest road to foi-giveness.' 
 
 Stillness ! so that a pin might have been heard to fall ; yet 
 
 in the stillness Madeline heard Ruth's quick, irregular breathing. 
 
 Mrs Carter waited for an answer in vain, and again she 
 
 5pol e rapidly — for her — firmly, almost abioiptly. ' One of my
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 297 
 
 strictest rules — one about which I am most anxious, has been 
 broken. Uooks have been introduced into the house without 
 my knowledge. This one'— and the volunie of the novel 
 which Madeline had seen in the study was laid upon the tablc^ 
 ' this book, which it is a disgrace for any lady to look into, was 
 found this morning iii the hands of Mademoiselle Le Vcrgnior. 
 I say nothing with regard to her conduct ; her foreign educa- 
 tion must be her excuse. Those who have joined with her can 
 plead no such excuse.' Mrs Carter's eye passed slowly from 
 one to the other. It rested anxiously upon Madeline, doubt- 
 fully upon Alice, and to Ruth she said, kindly, ' Sit down, my 
 dear ; you look as if your head ached terribly.' 
 
 ' I might,' continued Mrs Carter, * question you all separately 
 as to your knowledge of this business. I might in that w^ay 
 more certainly discover the truth ; but I would rather be open 
 with you, as I trust you will be with me. I mean to tell you 
 all that I know, and then, I hope I am not mistaken in be- 
 lieving that even those who have done wrong will be too 
 honourable to conceal it. This morning, as I before said, I 
 found this book accidentally — I ought rather to say provi- 
 dentially — in the hands of Mademoiselle Lc Vergnier. It was 
 brought for Clara Manners and Harriet and Florence Trevelyan.' 
 This announcement created no surprise ; but Alice marvelled 
 how her name should have escaped. ' So far,' pursued Mrs 
 Carter, ' there is no doubt ; the parties have themselves con- 
 fessed their fault. How painful it was to me to hear their con- 
 fession, to feel that I could no longer place confidence in them, 
 I will not attempt to describe. At first I believed that the evil 
 ended with them, but I was mistaken ; there are two others, 
 v/ho have been named as having a knowledge, at least, that the 
 practice of reading books by stealth was carried on in the 
 school. Alice, I appeal to you — and Madeline.' Madeline's 
 colour rose in a sudden glow of indignation. In an instant she 
 had stepped forward from the circle, and was standing alone 
 before Mrs Carter. Alice looked around her hurriedly, and her 
 limbs shook, and her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. 
 ' Before I hear what you have to say,' added Mrs Carter, ' I 
 would remind you, and not you only, but all, that in a case like 
 the present, any confession which is not strictly true is an injury 
 to others as well as to yourselves. If you are not thoroughly 
 sincere, it is almost impossible but that some one should be 
 accused unjustly. 1 know you would be shocked at the idea of
 
 298 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 accusing any one falsely by words. I earnestly pray that you 
 may not be induced to do so by silence. Now, Alice, let me 
 hear what you can tell me.' A general hush of expectation 
 followed this command. Every glance was directed to Alice ; 
 even Madeline turned round, forgetful of her own painful posi- 
 tion, in her anxiety to discover how far Alice was involved in 
 Clara's offence. 
 
 And what could Alice say } what did she say ? She began 
 plainly, simply, acknowledging that she had joined with Clara 
 by reading a part of one book, on one occasion, and that on a 
 Sunday afternoon ; but denying any further participation in the 
 fault. ' Clara,' she said, ' had requested her to join, but be- 
 lieving that it was against Mrs Carter's wishes, she had con- 
 stantly declined.' So far all was strictly true, and Mrs Carter's 
 face grew more cheerful, and twice she smiled a smile of ap- 
 probation, as Alice repeated that she knew she had done wrong 
 at first, but she was sorry for it, and had tried very much to 
 avoid following Clara's example. If Alice could have told the 
 same tale of struggle against temptation even to the end, she 
 need have little feared the loss of her prize ; but here she 
 paused. Mrs Carter looked at her, evidently expecting some- 
 thing more. ' Is that the whole ?' she said. Alice would have 
 given all she was worth to know the meaning of the question ; 
 to understand how much Mrs Carter knew. She did not say 
 it was ; but she muttered something unintelligible, which was 
 understood to mean so. 
 
 ' Thank you, Alice, for what you have told me,' continued 
 Mrs Carter. ' As far as it goes it agrees with what I had pre- 
 \ iously learned. Now, Madeline, I trust that you will be equally 
 candid.' 
 
 Madeline's eyes were raised in mingled confusion and 
 astonishment. ' Candid ! what could she be candid about 1 ' 
 She recollected : it must be the promise. Yes, there was nothing 
 else — there could not be. In a very eager tone, without the 
 smallest hesit?ition, she broke at once into the subject. ' She 
 did not know anything about reading wrong books ; she had 
 never heard of any one's doing so ; but one day she found a 
 book like that,' pointing to the novel, ' amongst Florence 
 Trevelyan's, and she thought it was Mrs Carter's ; but Florence 
 and Justine said they knew about it, and begged her not to 
 tell ; and Justine thought she had promised, but she had not ; 
 and she did not think much more about it, for she had nc\er 
 heard anything more after that one occasion.'
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 299 
 
 * And Justine gave you a brooch, Madeline,' said Mrs Carter, 
 sternly ; * It was upon condition that you should not tell — it 
 was a bribe.' 
 
 Madeline's start of disgust spoke more plainly for her sincerity 
 than any words. She turned to her companions, ' Who had 
 accused her .'' Who had spoken so falsely ? ' 
 
 Mrs Carter checked her impetuosity. She said quietly, ' It 
 was Florence Trevelyan who told me you had received it. She 
 mentioned it as a mark of your intimacy with Justine, and a 
 sign that you were a participator in the secret.' 
 
 Madeline gave a quick, bright glance of conscious innocence 
 at Ruth, and with a voice which she vainly tried to keep sub- 
 dued, answered, 'Justine did give me a brooch. I did not 
 know it was a bribe. I thought she was fond of me ; but I 
 could not promise what she wished, and I gave it back. Ruth 
 knows that I did, and Justine has it now ; ' and Madeline 
 looked earnestly at Mrs Carter, watching the effect of her ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Truth, it is said, is all-powerful. There was truth in every 
 tone of Madeline's voice, in every gesture, even in the sparkle 
 of her clear, intelligent eye. Yet Mrs Carter's brow relaxed 
 but little of its severity. She turned again to Alice. ' This 
 sounds well,' she said, ' but there is something beyond ; I have 
 not heard all from both of you. There was a subscription for 
 the books ; Clara, Harriet, and Florence subscribed, and some 
 one else. I have examined . those concerned separately, and 
 have received different accounts. Clara says it was Alice who 
 gave the money. Justine states that she received it, but she 
 did not exactly understand from whom it came. Florence tells 
 me that the money was Madeline's. Madeline, bring me your 
 account-book.' 
 
 Madeline stood as if thunderstruck. 
 
 '■ Bring me your account-book,' repeated I\Irs Carter. 
 
 Madeline, as she moved away, caught Ruth's eye, and read 
 in it that she doubted her. Alas ! for that heart which has 
 learned to suspect evil in another, because it is conscious of it in 
 itself. 
 
 When Madeline returned, her eyes were filled with tears ; 
 she laid the book before Mrs Carter in silence. It was opened 
 at the last page. 
 
 Mrs Carter pointed to the figures, and said, ' Madeline, the 
 account is wrong by eighteenpence ; eighteenpence was the 
 amount, of the subscription to the library.'
 
 300 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline drew lierself up proudly. ' She did not know it ; 
 she had ne\er heard that there was a subscription.' 
 
 ' Eighteenpencc was the share paid either by you or by 
 Alice/ continued Mrs Carter. ' Let me advise you to think 
 once more ; have you no recollection, no idea, v/hat has become 
 of this money ? ' 
 
 ' None whatever.' Madeline's voice grew firmer. 
 
 Ruth leant forward and caught her hand. Her face was 
 deadly pale, and in a faint whisper she said, ' Madeline, dearest, 
 pray tell.' 
 
 Madeline's hand was withdrawn impatiently. ' Ruth, you 
 are wrong,' she exclaimed, ' I have nothing to say. I would 
 own to twenty times the fault if I had done it.' 
 
 Ruth sunk back in her chair, and put her hand to her 
 forehead. 
 
 Mrs Carter placed a smelling-bottle by her side, and said 
 very affectionately, ' My love, you may go if you wish it : this 
 only distresses )-ou ; but we will hope Madeline is right.' 
 
 Ruth did not take advantage of the permission. 
 
 Mrs Carter sat for some instants deep in thought ; whilst a 
 low murmur passed round the circle. Suddenly she rose, and 
 once more addressing them all, said, ' There is in the house 
 another volume of this book ; if any one present has any 
 knowledge where it is to be found, I request, I earnestly request, 
 that I may be told.' 
 
 No answer, only wondering looks of astonishment and ig- 
 norance. 
 
 ' Alice,' said Mrs Carter, ' do you know 1 Madeline, do you.^ 
 Janet ? Fanny .?' Mrs Carter was going round regularly. 
 
 A faint scream from Madeline stopped her, Ruth's head 
 was drooping powerless ; she was fainting. Mrs Carter's 
 natural kindness in an instant returned ; she supported Ruth, 
 and bathed her forehead, and spoke fondly to her, and then, 
 with the assistance of Miss Barnard, carried her up-stairs, and 
 laid her upon the sofa in the drawing-room. Miss Barnard 
 remained to watch her, and Mrs Carter returned to the dining- 
 room. The short absence had been a time for busy conver- 
 sation to all but Madeline and Alice. Madeline's fears for 
 Ruth had absorbed all thoughts of her own situation ; quiet 
 tears stole down her checks, and every trace of excitement or 
 anger had faded from her face. Alice sat like a statue ; the 
 voices around her, the persons, the circumstances in which she
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 301 
 
 \va3 placed, were as nolliin^ to lacr ; her thoughts were busy 
 with memories of the past ; before her mind's eye there floated 
 a fair, gentle, shadowy image ; a face of beauty, purity, holi- 
 ness — the face of her mother. And with her mother there 
 came another remembrance, the thought of one whom she 
 honoured, although she feared her ; whose happiness in life 
 was bound up in her good conduct. When Lady Catharine 
 Hyde first became the friend of Mrs Lennox, it was at school ; 
 the foundation of their affection was laid in the upright honesty 
 of heart which had induced Lady Catharine to acknowledge 
 another's goodness, even though by so doing she condemned 
 herself. Who would love Alice for the same cause .'' 
 
 Mrs Carter returned. The expression of Alice's face was 
 strangely altered ; she pressed her lips together, and a bright 
 pink spot burned upon her cheek. One foot was advanced as 
 if she w'ould have spoken, but Mrs Carter gave no heed to her; 
 her words were addressed to all equally. ' I wish you to go 
 to the school-room, and to remain there. Since this mystery 
 cannot be cleared up in any other w^ay, the house will be 
 searched until the book is found.' 
 
 A blank look of dismay fell upon all. No one there present 
 had cause to fear the search, but all felt bitterly the change in 
 Mrs Carter's manner. They turned away sorrowfully and 
 silently. Mrs Carter laid her hand upon ALidcline's shoulder, 
 and said, ' Wait ; ' but before she could continue, Alice's voice 
 interrupted her. Those w-ho were leaving the room did not 
 hear v.hat was spoken ; even Madeline did not, though she 
 was standing very near ; but Mrs Carter bent her head and 
 said — 
 
 ' Certainly, directly if you will. Madeline, go with the rest. 
 Let no one leave the school-room ; my sister will join you 
 there shortly.' 
 
 Madeline followed her companions, and Alice was left with 
 Mrs Carter. 
 
 For a quarter of an hour IVLadeline sat alone — bowed down 
 with shame and grief for an offence of v.hich she yet knew her- 
 self to be innocent. She was sent for to the dining-room ; 
 another ten minutes passed. Then the door slowly opened, 
 and Madeline and Alice came in together. ALadeline's arm 
 was thrown round Alice, and she whispered to her, ' Let me 
 manage it ; don't vex yourself.' But Alice withdrew herself, 
 and walk! rig into the centre of the room, stood at the top of the
 
 302 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 long table. Madeline sat down to her desk as before. Alice'c 
 chain was twisted and untwisted ; she coughed, looked round 
 lier, took up a book, sat down for a moment, got up again, 
 and at last exclaimed : ' Mrs Carter knows about the subscrip- 
 tion now ; it is all right, and Maddy had nothing to do with 
 it ; and so you need not trouble yourselves, or ask any ques- 
 tions. Maddy was right; that's all;' and then poor Alice, 
 her face of a burning crimson, and her eyes full of tears, rushed 
 out of the room, and waited for several minutes in the passage 
 to endeavour to recover her composure. 
 
 The true meaning of this speech was not to be gained from 
 Madeline. Her companions crowded around her, and ques- 
 tioned her, but Madeline only looked distressed, and said it 
 did not concern any one but herself ; only Alice was very 
 good-natured, and she loved her dearly. She would be very 
 much obliged if they would leave her alone, and not make quite 
 such a noise, because Ruth was lying down in the back draw- 
 ing-room, and it would disturb her. 
 
 But Madeline could keep nothing from Ruth, neither did 
 Alice wish it. Now that the confession had been made to 
 those whom it principally concerned, Alice was too much 
 troubled to desire approbation which she did not deserve — 
 especially Ruth's. She could not, indeed, be at ease, until 
 certain that Ruth was made acquainted with her fault, and she 
 would have been willing that Madeline should speak to her at 
 once ; but no one could venture to go up-stairs, though Made- 
 line longed to know whether Rulli was better. 
 
 ' There will be no walking beyond the garden this evening,' 
 said Miss Barnard, as the clock struck five. * I am going 
 there myself; I shall expect to see you all out in a quarter of 
 an hour. Remember no one goes up-stairs.' 
 
 Madeline ventured to ask if she might sit with Ruth. Miss 
 Barnard was not sure ; she would speak with ^Mrs Carter first. 
 Presently a message was sent by Dawson, saying, that the Miss 
 Cliffords might be together, but no one else was on any account 
 to go even into the dressing-room. Dawson would fetch the 
 bonnets and shawls. 
 
 Alice stopped Madeline as she was hastening out of the room. 
 She tried to speak to her, but the words would not readily 
 come ; there were tears instead. ' You are going to Ruth,' she 
 said, at length. 
 
 * Yes, but Alice, dear, never mind. Ruth will understand, 
 and she will thank you so much for being good-natured.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 303 
 
 Alice shrunk from the thought of gratitude. ' If she does 
 not hate me, that is all I can expect. And she will want to tell 
 Mary Vernon, and then some one else, and they will all know. 
 Madeline, what will they think of me ? I am so miserable, ar.d 
 I can't bear being with them all here ; everything is dull and 
 changed. Shan't you be glad when it is found out who has 
 the book ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think any one has it,' rephed Madeline. < I don't 
 think any one could hide it all this time. I believe it has fallen 
 down somewhere, or is mislaid.' 
 
 ' Yes, perhaps so ; but what will be done about Clara and 
 Justine ? How strange it is without them I ' 
 
 ' You miss Clara more than I do,' said Madeline ; ' I did not 
 like her ever.' 
 
 ' It is not missing e.xactly, but things are dull, and my heart 
 is heavy, just as if a weight was upon it.' 
 
 Madeline was on the point of saying, ' Go, and talk to the 
 others ; ' but that did not seem quite the advice to be given. 
 
 ' They are all settling about the election,' said Alice, looking 
 at a party which had gathered round the window to dress for 
 the garden. ' I cannot imagine how they can think of it now'; 
 and Ruth ill, too. It will be no good to have the election the 
 day after to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You forget about Fanny Wilson's going away,' said Made- 
 line ; ' and perhaps Ruth will be better, and Mrs Carter will 
 have forgiven Clara by that time.' 
 
 ' Forgiven ! no, that is not likely ; I never saw her so much 
 in earnest in being angry with any one. O Maddy, if they 
 would but be quiet ! they make me wretched with the noise.' 
 
 ' Shall I ask them ? ' said ^Madeline. 
 
 * No, no, not for the world ! they would want to know what 
 is the matter. You had better go— never mind me. 
 
 ' But I cannot leave you crying, dear Alice ; shall I come 
 into the garden with you ? ' 
 
 ' No ; go to Ruth ; she ought to have you. I thought I 
 should be happy when I had told ; but I am not.' 
 
 Madeline grew very thoughtful for a few moments; then she 
 said — 
 
 ' You know, Alice, what Mrs Carter talked about ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; the being wicked. I don't forget it ; I know it was 
 very wicked.' 
 
 ' And about saying prayers,' continued Madeline, with great 
 hesitation.
 
 304 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Yes ; bul I cannot do that tiil bed-time ; I wish I could.' 
 
 * We can say httle prayers at any time/ said Madeline, and 
 her colour heightened, 
 
 ' No, not now, when they are all about.' 
 
 ' Yes ; just to ourselves ; a few words we can,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I cannot ; they will come and interrupt.' 
 
 ' But if you take a book in your hand, and walk alone, they 
 will not so much. You would like to be alone, Alice ? ' 
 
 ' Alone, or with you. I should like to be with you best.' 
 
 ' But, perhaps, it would be better if you could be quite alone,' 
 persisted Madeline. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! that would not help me. I cannot say prayers 
 out of my own head in that odd sort ot way ; I should think it 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' Papa told me one day,' replied Madeline, ' that when I 
 wanted to find out short prayers, I should look for them in the 
 Psalms. If you were to take your Prayer Book out, they would 
 not say anything to you, because they would fancy you were 
 trying to get your Psalm perfect for Sunday. 
 
 ' But I don't know where to look for the verses,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Don't you .-* there are a great many all through the Psalms ; 
 and there are some especially which Mrs Carter was talking to 
 us about the other day ; what she called the penitential Psalms. 
 Don't you recollect ? Little Ellen could not pronounce the 
 word rightly.' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember,' answered Alice : ' but I could not say 
 such words as those, you know, Maddy, because they would not 
 be true for me. I am very sorry — very sorry indeed ; but I 
 don't think I am as sorry as those Psalms.' 
 
 ' The day papa talked to Ruth and me about the Psalms,' 
 continued Madeline, ' he said that they were meant to show 
 people what they ought to feel.' 
 
 ' But I don't feel,' interrupted AHce. 
 
 ' Papa said we could not use them all, only parts,' continued 
 Madeline ; ' but he thought when we had done anything very 
 wrong, if we were to read some of them over — not all the peni- 
 tential Psalms, but others too — they would make us think more 
 how dreadful it was to do wrong ; and then we might choose 
 out the verses we could say, and make little prayers of them. 
 He mentioned three jjarticularly. Don't you think, Alice, if 
 you were to tell them all that you want to read, and were lo go 
 away by yourself, )'ou could just try } '
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 305 
 
 * I don't know ; they would con\e and ask me what I was 
 doing,' repHcd Ahce. 
 
 ' But I should say, I wished to be quiet and read.' 
 
 * Then they will come and peep, and call out loud that it is a 
 Prayer Book.' 
 
 ' Perhaps they will ; I should not like that myself ; but, 
 Ahce, it won't hurt you if they do ; and I daresay they will let 
 you alone if you really ask them. I think I should begin.' 
 
 ' Begin what ?' asked Alice. 
 
 'Those three papa named. I will give you the list — the 
 25th, and the 130th, and the 143d.' 
 
 'And read them through .?' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, all through ; and afterwards pick out the verses, and 
 just say them over again like prayers. Perhaps, Alice, you 
 would not have such a heavy heart then.' 
 
 Alice gave a deep sigh. 
 
 ' I think I should like it,' she said. ' I should like to do 
 something grave ; I cannot laugh now. But how shall I man- 
 age if they make fun of me .'' ' 
 
 ' Tell them you are reading because you like it, and walk up 
 and down, and don't talk to them, and then, perhaps, they will 
 leave off. But, Alice, you need not be so much afraid now, 
 because Clara is not here, and ]\liss Barnard will be in the 
 garden.' 
 
 'Miss Barnard! I forgot I' exclaimed Alice. 'She will 
 scold if we are not out. ]\Iaddy, give me your Prayer Book and 
 the list.' 
 
 ' It is written on the first leaf,' replied Madeline. ' I marked 
 the Psalms down in pencil the very day papa talked about them.' 
 
 Alice seized the Prayer Book, hid it under a lesson book, and 
 carried both with her into the garden ; and before Madeline 
 went up-stairs to her sister, she watched her from the window 
 pacing the sidewalk alone. Madeline called to Janet Harding, 
 who was passing at the moment, and said — 
 
 ' I have a favour to ask of you, Janet. Will you try and not 
 let Alice be teased t She says she wants to read by herself, 
 and she is afraid you will all interrupt her ; but you will keep 
 the rest away if you can, w'on't you ? ' 
 
 Janet promised willingly ; she was always ready to please 
 Madeline. 
 
 ' But you w^on't say anything about it, or tell them that 1 have 
 Bpokcn to you,' continued Madeline. 
 
 U
 
 3o6 LANETON PARSONAGE.. 
 
 Janet again promised, though she looked at AUce with some 
 surprise and curiosity. Madehne nodded to AHce as she caught 
 her eye when she came along the walk, and then, secure in 
 having provided one champion at least for Alice in case of 
 annoyance, ran up-stairs to Ruth. 
 
 For a whole hour Madeline and Ruth were together in the 
 drawing-room, Ruth lying on the sofa, Madeline sitting on a 
 little stool by her side. Ruth said she was not better, and she 
 did not look better. Her complexion was still pale, though her 
 cheek was flushed, and there were dark shadows under the eyes. 
 Madeline thought her ill ; but there was something strange in 
 the illness ; something which had altered Ruth very much. 
 Ruth was rather subject to headache, especially when she was 
 anxious or excited. This seemed like a common headache ; at 
 least, Ruth did not complain more than usual. Still she was 
 different ; or was it that everything was different ? that the 
 mystery in the house made even Ruth mysterious .'' It might be 
 so ; but from whatever cause, I\Iadeline felt a restraint with her 
 sister during that hour's conversation, which was new and 
 painful to her. 
 
 They talked almost entirely upon one subject — that is, Made- 
 line talked ; Ruth only said, ' Yes,' and ' No,' and sometimes 
 turned away with a look of weariness. Madeline was full of 
 the events of the morning, and the conduct of Alice. ' I love 
 Alice now,' she said, 'more, a great deal more than ever. I dare- 
 say she did not mean any harm about the money ; she would 
 have repaid it in the holidays.' 
 
 * Yes, perhaps so ;' and Ruth said no more. 
 
 ' Dear Ruth ! I am tiring you ; but I want so much to know 
 what you think about it ; whether you don't call Alice very good- 
 natured for not letting me be blamed ; and whether you are not 
 sure that Lady Catharine would be very pleased if she knew it.' 
 
 ' I don't know, perhaps so, she might.' 
 
 * Might, Ruth ! but I am certain of it. You know if she had 
 not spoken, I should have been in a dreadful scrape. Mrs Carter 
 said she was afraid for me ; and she was so kind to Alice after- 
 wards, and forgave her quite, and told her what to do to take 
 care another time, only she said one dreadful thing ; that letting 
 another person be accused unjustly and being silent, was really 
 bearing false v/itness against our neighbour ; and she said that 
 was what Alice had done, and then she spoke so very seriously. 
 But I cannot understand that Alice really was as bad as that :
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 307 
 
 being silent does not seem lil<e speaking ; only Mrs Carter 
 declares it is. What do you think ?' No answer. ' And, Ruth,' 
 added Madeline, 'what will Mary Vernon say when she comes 
 back?' 
 
 Yes, what would Mary Vernon say ? Ruth had many times 
 in the day thought of that ; Mary Vernon was to return late 
 that evening. How much she would have to hear ! 
 
 ' Have they searched all the house V Ruth managed to say 
 in one of Madeline's pauses, speaking in a faint voice. 
 
 < I don't know, but I think Dawson was going into the school- 
 room. I am sure the book must have slipped down. No one 
 would let such a fuss be made who knew where it was.' Ruth 
 lay motionless — even her breathing seemed for the instant 
 stopped ; she turned her head from side to side as if in great 
 pain. 
 
 ' Janet Harding thinks that Clara will be sent away,' con- 
 tinued Madeline. ' She says that a sister of hers — one of Janet's 
 sisters, I mean — was at a school where something of the kind 
 happened, and one of the girls was sent away directly. Clara is 
 alone in Mrs Carter's dressing-room, and Harriet and Florence 
 are in her bedroom; and I don't know where Justine is. Jessie 
 thinks that Dawson was told to carry up some dinner to her, 
 but I think she must be gone home. Oh, dear ! how I wish the 
 book was found.' 
 
 ' Madehne,' said Ruth, ' some one is calling you.' 
 
 Madeline listened, ' I cannot hear any one ; but there is 
 talking; — hark ! yes, Mrs Carter is asking for me ;' and Made- 
 line instantly ran down-stairs. 
 
 Ruth trembled like an aspen leaf. That summons might 
 denote a discovery. Then there was no further prospect of de- 
 lay. Confession or sin lay before her. But had she not sinned 
 already? was it nothing to have disregarded her mother's wishes; 
 to have concealed her fault ; to ha\-e determined upon allowing 
 others to go on in an evil course unchecked ; to have caused 
 pain and suspicion to Mrs Carter, and annoyance, to speak in 
 the lightest terms, to a whole household ? Was it nothing to 
 have acted a lie ; to have pretended ignorance by silence, though 
 she would not have dared to say it in words ? All these things 
 had Ruth done ; to this extent had she sinned, and because of 
 these sins, because she could not humble herself to own them, 
 she now stood upon the brink of one sin more. 
 
 Madeline spoke to IMrs Carter, and went into the school-room.
 
 3o8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth heard nothing more for several minutes. A door opened, 
 she caught a sound of sobs ! It closed again. Ruth rose and 
 walked to the head of the stairs. The voices she heard were 
 in Airs Carter's study. In the school-room there seemed a 
 general lull. Presently Dawson came up the stairs — she passed 
 quickly, so that there was no time to ask what was going on, 
 even if Ruth had found courage to do so. It seemed better tc 
 go back to the drawing-room, yet Ruth still stood near the door, 
 which was ajar. Footsteps came slowly down the staircase. 
 Harriet Trevelyan was first, then Florence, Clara, and Justine 
 Le Vergnier. Ruth had one glimpse of their features as they 
 went by, and could see the change in all. Even Clara Manners 
 for once seemed subdued. ' Dawson,' said Ruth, catching hold 
 of the servant's dress as she approached her, ' wait one minute, 
 I want to know. Have they — have they found the book.^' 
 
 ' Why ! Miss ClitTord, how you frightened me ! I did not 
 know any one was there. Yes, it is found.' 
 
 'Where?' was upon Ruth's lips, but she could not bring 
 herself to put the question. 
 
 Dawson looked at her with compassion. ' Your head nnist 
 be very bad. Miss Clifford ; you look so deadly pale : can't I 
 fetch you something.'" 
 
 ' No, thank you, Dawson ; I am better. What does Mrs 
 Carter want with them all }' 
 
 ' Indeed, Miss Clifford, I can't tell much about it. The book 
 was found in Miss Harding's bottom drawer, where she keeps 
 her cloaks. We missed it once, and my mistress made us go 
 through the drawers again. But I must not stop ; are you sure 
 I can't get anything for you ?' 
 
 One thing there was which Ruth wanted ; — one thing — but 
 no earthly power could give it her. It was a humble spirit. 
 She turned away from Dawson, and went back to the sofa to 
 cry bitterly and think. 
 
 This was Ruth's last moment for repentance and action. Siie 
 felt that it was so, and her heart was softened. A sudden im- 
 pulse of wretchedness induced her once more to go to the head 
 of the stairs ; but the action was not the result of firm resolu- 
 tion ; it was an effort made without prayer, trusting in her own 
 strength, and it failed. The parlour door opened for an instant, 
 and Ruth, in an agony of causeless alarm, rushed back to her 
 former position, to await whatever might occur. 
 
 The weariness, the bitterness, the sad sinking of the heart,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 309 
 
 the shame of that next hour may not well be dcsciibcd. There 
 are those who have felt it, who have sunk under a similar 
 temptation, and suffered a like trial. For them there needs no 
 description. There are others who as yet are ignorant of it. 
 May God grant them such a portion of Mis grace, such an 
 assistance from the Spirit of Truth and Holiness, that they may 
 never learn its misery by experience ! 
 
 When an h.our had gone by, Madeline re-appeared, and with 
 ner came Mrs Carter. The brightness of the afternoon had 
 passed away ; a shadow seemed stealing over all things ; tlie 
 room looked cheerless ; the sounds of bustle and amusement 
 which usually filled the house had ceased. Mrs Carter's steady 
 tread, her anxious, restrained expression of countenance, Made- 
 line's first eager glance, and immediately afterwards her down- 
 cast look, and the tears which stood in her eyes, frightened 
 Ruth. Mrs Carter walked up to the sofa, and sat down by 
 Ruth, without speaking. Madeline stood. 
 
 ' Sit down, my dear,' said Mrs Carter, in a tone which few 
 would have discovered to be full of agitation. She took Ruth's 
 cold hand, and felt her pulse; it was rapid and weak, and Mrs 
 Carter stooped to kiss her forehead, and pity her. Then she 
 said : ' Ruth, we are in sad perplexity ; have you heard .-" 
 
 ' No one has been here since Madeline went away,' replied 
 Ruth, evading the answer. 
 
 ' We ha\e found the missing book,' continued Mrs Carter. 
 * Where, )ou will scarcely imagine : in Janet's drawer.' 
 
 Ruth's heart throbbed till she was faint, yet she summoned 
 strength to ask : 'Who found it.'" 
 
 ' Dawson found it,' replied Mrs Carter. ' She had searched 
 the drawer before, but overlooked it.' 
 
 Mrs Carter paused, and Ruth's eyes closed for an instant, for 
 she dared not look upon the fricn.d she was deceiving. 
 
 'Still, 1 am not satisfied,' continued Mrs Carter; 'Janet 
 denies all knowledge of the book ; she could not tell even its 
 title ; her look and manner were those of perfect innocence ; I 
 can scarcely distrust her. Yet wlio else could have put it 
 there t ' 
 
 ' Dawson says it might have come there by accident,' Made- 
 line ventured to observe ; ' she docs not think Janet would tell 
 a story.' 
 
 'Neither do I, Madeline,' replied Mrs Carter; 'at least, I am 
 very unwilling to believe it. Janet has many faults, but I do not
 
 3io LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 think she is insnicere. It is possible that the book may have 
 been placed there accidentally with the cloak. I need not ask, 
 Ruth, if you can help me to find out the truth. I am certain 
 you would if you could.' 
 
 Ruth's answer was scarcely heard. 
 
 Mrs Carter looked veiy anxious, but there was no suspicion in 
 her face; she bent fondly ovei Ruth, smoothing her forehead, 
 and remarking to Madeline, ' that it would not do to tease her 
 with questions till she was better.' 
 
 Ruth could not smile, she could not even feel grateful, 
 but she roused herself and said, ' She was sure that Janet 
 must be innocent.' A long sigh followed, and Ruth turned 
 away her face that the shame of her heart might not be read 
 in it. 
 
 Mrs Carter sat for some minutes in thought. Presently, she 
 turned to Ruth and again felt her pulse. The cold hand was now 
 burning. ' We must have advice for you to-morrow, my child, if 
 you are not better.' 
 
 Ruth endeavoured to force a smile. She said that she hoped 
 to be quite well to-morroAv. 
 
 ' It is the excitement,' continued Mrs Carter; 'every one has 
 been excited to-day. Poor Janet ! I never should have suspected 
 her.' 
 
 ' Janet always spoke truth to us,' said Madeline. ' Did she 
 not, Ruth.?' 
 
 Ruth bent her head instead of replying. 
 
 ' We shall see,' replied Mrs Carter. ' I am not decided 
 that she is guilty. I cannot feel to her as I do to the others 
 concerned in this sad business. My dear children, I am only 
 thankful the disappointment has not been in you.' Mrs Carter 
 once more kissed them both, and left them together, 
 
 Ruth watched till the door closed behind Mrs Carter, and then 
 she seized Madeline's hand, and exclaimed : ' Janet will not be 
 punished.' 
 
 Madeline looked at her in astonishment. ' She will not be 
 punished unless something more is proved. No one thinks she 
 has anything to do with it.' 
 
 ' What can they think, then .'' ' asked Ruth, whilst her voice 
 grew husky. 
 
 ' They think it was an accident ; some of the drawers vrere 
 cleared out the other day, and the cloaks carried into the closet 
 in the back room, where Clara says she always kept the books;
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 311 
 
 and Mrs Carter supposes it may have been taken up by accident 
 when they were replaced. Dawson says so too.' 
 
 'And what makes them so sure about Janet?' 
 
 ' Her manner, a great deal. She did not blush, nor cry, but 
 she looked so very surprised ; and Clara and they all protested 
 they had never mentioned the matter to her ; and no one had 
 ever seen her look at any strange books down-stairs ; she was 
 always sitting in the school-room at her desk ; and at night we 
 must have known it, because we were in the same room. I am 
 sure she had nothing to do with it.' 
 
 Kuth heaved a sigh of relief, yet a sharp pang of conscience 
 accompanied it. 
 
 ' One reason why I am sure of Janet,' continued Madeline, 
 ' is, that she is so strict about religion and those things. Clara 
 used to say she was a hypocrite, but I never thought her so ; 
 and Alice thinks she is in earnest, though it makes her angry to 
 hear her quote texts.' 
 
 ' Her papa and mamma seem very particular,' said Ruth, 
 forcing herself to make some remark. 
 
 * Yes, and very odd ; and I should not like them much,' con- 
 tinued Madeline, ' but still they are good, and Janet is more 
 careful about her prayers and the Bible than almost any one ; 
 that is why I never laugh at her. You don't think she took the 
 book, do you, Ruth.?' 
 
 Ruth started up without answering. 
 
 * Where are you going ? What is the matter ?' asked Made- 
 line, tialf alarmed. 
 
 Ruth stopped, and returned to the sofa. ' My head aches 
 very much,' she said. 
 
 * And you want to go to bed .'' I will ask if you may.' 
 
 ' Stay one instant,' said Ruth; 'where are Clara and Justine?' 
 
 'Justine is gone. Mrs Carter sent her with Dawson, and 
 wrote a note to Monsieur Le Vergnier. She is never to be here 
 again ; never, Mrs Carter said twice.' 
 
 ' And Clara?' asked Ruth. 
 
 ' She is to sleep alone in Mary Vernon's room to-night. Mrs 
 Carter said something worse of her than of any one. I think 
 she means that her papa shall be sent for, to take her away in 
 disgrace, but I did not quite understand. Mrs Carter was quite 
 kind in comparison to Florence and Harriet ; that is, she was 
 very grave and vexed ; but she did not say she should punish 
 them much, and they do seem veiy sorry. I don't think they 
 will ever go on so badly again.'
 
 3 ! 2 LA Nil TOM PARSON A GE. 
 
 ' Mrs Carter is vciy kind,' said Ruth, in a low, musing tone. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! so exceedingly kind, so wishing that it should all 
 be happy and right again. If it were only quite settled about 
 Janet, 1 think it would be.' 
 
 'Janet !' repeated Ruth, as if speaking to herself. 
 
 ' Should you like to see her ? ' asked Madeline. 
 
 Ruth shrank as if a serpent had stung her. 
 
 * No, no ; I can't — I don't wish it. Madeline, pray don't ;' 
 and more cahnly Ruth added, ' Mrs Carter is busy now.' 
 
 * Rather ; but I will ask about your going to bed, and perhaps 
 she will come and wish you good night.' 
 
 ' I don't want it — my head — if I can only go to bed,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' Well, you shall, dear. Mrs Carter will be sure to say yes.' 
 
 Madeline's light, little step scarcely sounded as she ran down- 
 stairs. Ruth heard her cheerful voice when siic spoke to some 
 one whom she met at the bottom. She heard her say — 
 
 ' Janet, dear, don't fret. Mrs Carter tries to believe you, and 
 I do cjuite. We shall find out by and by.' 
 
 Janet's melancholy tone was all that caught Ruth's ear, until 
 a few sentences more had passed between them, but Janet's last 
 words were — 
 
 ' Give my love to Ruth, and tell her I am very sorry her head 
 is so bad.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVin. 
 
 rllE greater number of persons, whether old or young, think 
 but little of their own faults or of the faults of others. They 
 do not see the ends to which their actions are tending ; they 
 imagine it certain that all must be right at last, and so they hear 
 of evil and speak of it, perhaps sigh over it, or condemn it, and 
 then go av/ay to their occupations and their pleasures, and for- 
 get it. But there are some events which must make an impres- 
 sion upon the minds even of the youngest and most thoughtless. 
 The departure of Clara Manners was of this description ; it was 
 full of mystery. No one of Mrs Carter's pupils saw her after 
 she was sent back to her room, when the book was discovered 
 in Janet Harding's drawer. No one knew exactly what was to 
 become of her. .Some thought t!i;it slic was to be sent home
 
 LAN ETON PARS ON A GE. 3 1 3 
 
 directly ; others that she was to wait till they all went. Madeline 
 stated her belief that it was Airs Carter's intention to have her 
 first taken to the house of her aunt, a lady who lived very near 
 London. 'Ihe conjectures were made early the following morn- 
 ing ; they were set at rest before the close of the day. 
 
 Mrs Carter was absent from the school-room during the early 
 lessons, and hurried away from the dinner-table, as a carriage 
 drove into the sweep, even before a visitor was announced. 
 Miss Barnard's orders were very strict that no one was to leave 
 the room. And they sat there silent and listening. Conversa- 
 tion went on in the drawing-room abo\e them for some little 
 time ; there was an opening and shutting of doors, and a heavy 
 tread on the stairs, as if two persons were carrying down a 
 trunk. At last the drawing-room door was heard to open, and 
 the voices became more distinct. Mrs Carter spoke, and a 
 stranger answered. It was impossible to hear what was said 
 then, but Mrs Carter's words were clearer as they approached 
 the drawing-room door. She addressed Clara by name, and 
 bade her good-bye ; but the tone — how different it was from 
 the expression of fond maternal kindness which usually called 
 them all 'dear children!' Whether Clara's proud feelings 
 were touched none could tell ; but she must have hurried in 
 shame to the carriage, for it seemed but an instant before its 
 wheels rolled over the sweep, and, like a prisoner carried away 
 to punishment, she was taken from them never to return. Mrs 
 Carter came back to the parlour with a very grave countenance. 
 It was with real diftlculty that she said to them, 'Clara Manners 
 is gone. Her aunt has taken charge of her for the present. 
 She sent a message of remembrance to you all.' Mrs Carter 
 paused as if desirous to discover the effect of her intelligence. 
 No one ventured to reply or thank her. Ruth, who at other 
 times was the first to speak, dropped her handkerchief on the 
 floor and stooped for it. Her face was not clearly seen until 
 Mrs Carter said — 
 
 ' You may go to the school-room ; all, except Harriet, Flor- 
 ence, and Janet.' 
 
 Ruth went with her companions to the school-room, and 
 busied herself with her books. The struggle that was passing 
 in her mind was terrible. It was more than she could bear, 
 and her resolution was taken. Should Janet be punished she 
 would instantly confess. Alas ! even then Ruth's decision was 
 not that of true repentance ; it was not the result of sclf-e.x-
 
 314 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 amination and humility ; it was but the sudden impulse of a 
 goading conscience, and when Mrs Carter came back, and 
 announced to the whole school that Harriet and Florence were 
 forgiven, and that Janet's assertion was accepted, from the 
 doubt whether the book had not been mislaid by accident, and 
 in the absence of more positive proof against her, Ruth sank 
 back to her former state of mind, and said to herself that con- 
 fession was uncalled for ; the fault that she had committed was 
 trifling — it would never be repeated ; Janet was not now injured 
 by her silence ; and confession would only lower her influence 
 in the school, vex Mrs Carter, and distress her parents. Her 
 future conduct should entirely make amends for any error of 
 which she had been guilty. 
 
 Poor Ruth ! she was storing up bitter hours for herself. She 
 did not remember what she had so often been taught, that no 
 goodness of her own, even could the remainder of her life be 
 perfect, could atone for the smallest sin in the sight of God. 
 Forgiven indeed all may be, even the worst of sinners, for the 
 sake of the Saviour, who bore the punishment of all sin ; but 
 before we can obtain this forgiveness there must be the humble 
 acknowledgment of guilt, both to God and our fellow-men, if 
 our offence has been against both ; that acknowledgment from 
 which Ruth in the pride of her heart still strove to escape. 
 
 And this was the state of affairs on the morning of the 15 th 
 of June ; the holiday, the election day — the day which Ruth had 
 once thought of as far off, yet earnestly to be desired ; the day 
 which now she dreaded, so as she had never dreaded any other 
 day of her life. It was strange to see how soon all things had 
 in a great measure returned to their former state. Clara's name 
 was not mentioned, even Justine le Vergnier was not openly 
 regretted. It seemed as if disagreeable recollections were by 
 common consent to be banished, and if any secretly sighed for 
 Clara's high spirits or Justine's amusing anecdotes, they did not 
 choose to do more than express a passing regret. The adorning 
 of the room and the preparations for the day's ceremony had 
 taken the place of every other idea. 
 
 ' Mary Vernon ! Where is Mary ? we must have her,' was 
 the general cry in the school-room after breakfast. Mary had 
 returned late on the previous evening ; even Ruth had not sceR 
 her then. 
 
 * Mary is hearing the history from Mrs Carter,' said Fanny 
 Wilson. ' I know Mrs Carter sent for her to the study.'
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 315 
 
 An uncomfortable pause followed. Florence and Harriet 
 began talking about some coloured paper flowers with which 
 the chair of the judge was to be decorated ; and Alice whispered 
 to Madeline, that Mary would not speak to her now, she was sure. 
 
 'O Alice! how can you think so?' exclaimed Madeline. 
 * Mary never was hard to any one in all her life ; and, besides, 
 Mrs Carter is not going to mention anything about you. She 
 said she would not.' 
 
 ' I wish I could be sure,' said Alice. 
 
 * I am quite, and I will ask Ruth.' 
 
 Ruth was sitting in a comfortable chair by the window : it 
 was open ; the fresh air blew pleasantly upon her face, the birds 
 sang sweetly in her ear, her pale face had a tinge of colour 
 upon it; she smiled when'her sister came near, and Madeline 
 thought that she was happy. Alice stood at a little distance 
 and watched her. Before Madeline had finished what she had 
 to say, Jessie O'Neile ran up and interrupted her. A friend of 
 her mamma's, who lived near, had just sent her some early 
 strawberries ; Jessie did not care about herself, she only thought 
 of her dear Ruth, and now she pressed her to eat them all, for 
 she had brought them on purpose. Ruth accepted the present 
 gratefully, and Jessie stood by delighted for a short time, and 
 presently went away to fetch a footstool. Two more of the 
 party came back with Jessie. They had been preparing ever- 
 greens and flowers, and had made up a pretty little nosegay, 
 which they thought Ruth would like ; and they wished to con- 
 sult her about a crown which thev had an idea of making for 
 the judge. These drew others to the same spot, and, one by 
 one, nearly all collected round Ruth at the open window, in- 
 terested about her, consulting her, making her the first person. 
 Still Alice stood alone, and looked on. * Delightful ! here is 
 Mary Vernon,' she heard Madeline exclaim; and as Mary came 
 in, a way was opened for her, and a seat provided for her by 
 Ruth's side ; and Alice thought that the kiss and inquiry which 
 followed would never have been bestowed upon her. Mary 
 had scarcely had time to speak to Ruth before ; but since 
 breakfast she had received an account of all that had transpired 
 from Mrs Carter, and with it of Ruth's indisposition ; and 
 both Mrs Carter and Mary imagined it possible that the head- 
 ache of which Ruth still complained might be increased, if not 
 caused by the. painful excitement into which the school had 
 been thrown.
 
 3i6 LAX ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Should you like to be Ruth, Alice ?* said a quiet, melancholy 
 voice, close at Alice's side. 
 
 ' Janet ! you quite startled nie ; I thought you were in the next 
 room.' 
 
 ' Why don't you help, Alice ?' continued Janet. 
 
 * Tliey can do without me,' replied y\lice, ' now Mary is 
 come.' 
 
 ' But I thought you cared so much, and ^v•cre taking such 
 pains. What makes you give it up ?' 
 ' Because I am not wanted ; that is all.' 
 ' They don't seem to think of any one but Ruth,' said Janet. 
 
 * No, but Ruth deserves it.' 
 
 There was a heavy, weary sigh from Janet. ' Mamma did not 
 know what school was when she sent me here,' she said ; ' it 
 makes me a great deal worse than I was before.' 
 
 ' Worse,' repeated Alice ; ' what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' I hale it all,' replied Janet ; ' so would you if you were like 
 mc.' 
 
 ' I cannot imdcrstand, Janet, you arc so very odd ; what is 
 the matter .'" 
 
 ' Ruth is very happy,' continued Janet ; ' every one loves her 
 and praises her.' 
 
 * They praise her because she is good,' replied Alice ; ' I 
 should like to be good too.' 
 
 ' i]ut I am not sure maumia would think Ruth good,' pursued 
 Janet ; ' yet they all put her up, and put me down.' 
 
 ' O Janet ! how silly ; no one thinks of putting you down.' 
 
 ' Mrs Carter does,' said Janet : ' she never suspected Ruth, 
 and she did mc.' 
 
 ' The drawer was yours, that was the reason ; Mrs Carter 
 has quite forgotten it all.' 
 
 ' Has she.'' No, Alice, she docs not forget; none of them 
 do. They will never make me judge, if 1 live here for ever.' 
 
 ' Then you are envious ! ' exclaimed Alice ; • and of Ruth !' 
 
 ' I do not think I am envious ; but 1 would rather be Ruth 
 than any person in all the world.' 
 
 ' Rather than Mary Vernon.''' 
 
 * Yes, because slic has no mother, and no sister, and Ruth has 
 everything. Look at them all now, and the fruit, and the llowcrs. 
 And this afternoon slie will be judge, and first of all.' 
 
 ' I do not care about those things,' said Alice; ' I would rather 
 Ruth should have them.'
 
 LANKTON PARSONAGE. 317 
 
 ' I never knew I cared till I came to school/ said Janet; ' but 
 school makes mc ^vickGd. And j'ou are like the rest, Alice; you 
 all look down upon me.' 
 
 ' If you mean about the book, Janet/ exclaimed Alice, with 
 some degree of impatience, ' you are quite mistaken. I do not 
 believe you had anything to do with it.' 
 
 * Really ! upon your honour 1 ' asked Janet. 
 
 ' Yes, really, upon my honour ; what makes you doubt ?' 
 
 * I cannot help doubting,' answered Janet, ' I am so unhappy; 
 and now they are all cheerful again, it is worse. If I could only 
 be Ruth ; she has everything.' 
 
 Alice was sorry for Janet, but there was something in her tone 
 and manner which irritated her ; a whining fretfulness, with 
 which it was difficult to sympathise. Her old dislike revived 
 strongly, and she went away hastily, leaving Janet more con- 
 vinced by her manner that she was still suspected, than she was 
 satisfied by her words. Mary Vernon having finished what she 
 had to say to Ruth, was looking round for some one else. Her 
 eye caught Janet's, and she smiled, but Janet did not smile in 
 return. Mary looked at Ruth, as if asking for an explanation; 
 and, breaking away from those who were pressing round seek- 
 ing her advice and assistance, she went to speak to Janet. 
 Alice was in her way as she passed, and there was a cordial 
 shake of the hand, which, with a few kind words, made Alice 
 return to her companions happier. If Mary knew how wrong 
 she had been, it was evident that she did not despise her. 
 
 ' Ruth, dear, do help us about this ^vreath,' said Fanny 
 Wilson ; ' it is to go round the mirror at the bottom of the 
 room.' Ruth took no notice, and Madeline touched her to 
 make her attend. Ruth started and shuddered ; but she re- 
 covered herself, and gave her opinion. Then again her eye 
 rested upon Mary and Janet, as if drawn by some power vvhich 
 could not be resisted. 
 
 ' Janet thinks she is suspected, still,' said Alice, watching 
 Ruth's glance ; ' I hope Mary will put the idea out of her head. 
 It makes her more tiresome than e\er.' 
 
 ' You should not call her tiresome,' said Madeline; 'should 
 she, Ruth ? We shijuld be just the same if we had been sus- 
 pected, I daresay ; at least, I should.' 
 
 A conversation followed about suspicion — the painfulness of 
 unjust suspicion — being the cause of it ; during which Ruth 
 pulled to pieces the evergreens which lay iicar her. and once or
 
 3 1 8 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 twice made some indifferent remark, and at length confessed to 
 Madeline that her head was beginning to ache more, and she 
 should like to go into the garden. 
 
 Mary Vernon's conversation with Janet was a long one, and 
 as it went on, Ruth walked up and down the terrace with 
 Madeline, in a state of great nervous anxiety. But though 
 Mary and Janet spoke much of Ruth, it was not with any allu- 
 sion to the lost book. Janet was soon satisfied, as satisfied as 
 with her peevish disposition she ever could be, that Mary 
 Vernon was quite willing to believe her word. She owned that 
 she was pleased ; contented, she said, with Mary's confidence; 
 but the sad, low, drawling tone was not very like contentment; 
 and when Mary proposed to her to go to the others and assist 
 in ornamenting the room, Janet declined. 
 
 ' Why.?' inquired Mary, ' If you are sure they are as fond 
 of you as before, why should you keep aloof?' 
 
 ' They are not fond of me,' replied Janet ; ' they care only 
 for Ruth ; she is first with every one.' 
 
 ' But, Janet, dear, you must not be so envious.' 
 
 ' I do not want to do any harm to Ruth,' said Janet ; ' I only 
 wish I could be in her place.' 
 
 ' You don't care for the fruit and the flowers, I am sure,' 
 said Mary, laughing. 
 
 ' No, not for anything in particular ; but all — she is so much 
 better off than I am, and I don't see why she should be.' 
 
 Mary looked pained, and after a little delay, said gently, 
 ' Indeed, Janet, that feeling is wrong, I think your mamma 
 must have taught you that it is ; for you say she was always 
 talking to you about the Bible, and your duty.' 
 
 Janet regarded Mary as she said this with more interest, and 
 a sense of sympathy. ' I wonder whether you think about the 
 Bible as much as mamma does,' she said. ' I fancied just now 
 that tliere was no one here who th-jught about it, they all 
 seemed so wicked ; and whenever I say anything out of the 
 Bible, they laugh or turn away, even Madeline does ; that 
 shows they dislike it.' 
 
 ' Not quite,' replied Mary, with a smile ; ' only they do not 
 like your repeating it.' 
 
 ' It is just the same ; it is because they are not good.' 
 
 * Perhaps even if we were good, we should not always like it,' 
 answered Mary ; ' because it does not always suit what we are 
 doing. The Bible words are sacred, and when we mix them up
 
 ' LANETON PARSONAGE. 319 
 
 \yitli common words, even if there is no harm in the common 
 words, they do not seem fitting. I know many good people 
 who can scarcely bring themselves to name the Name of God, 
 01 our Blessed Saviour in general conversation, because they 
 feel so much reverence.' 
 
 ' That is not at all what I have been accustomed to,' replied 
 Janet ; ' and a great many laugh.' 
 
 * Not those who are serious-minded. The careless ones 
 laugh, as they would at everything connected with religion; the 
 others are silent, I know, I have watched them often. But, 
 Janet, will you let me say one thing to you. Don't you think 
 it is better whilst we are young, and when we have no right to 
 put ourselves forward, to think more about doing right, setting 
 a good example, tlian talking, even if we are quite in earnest ? 
 It seems to me that it is safer.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean by safer,' said Janet. 
 
 ' Less likely to make us conceited and criticising ; because 
 when our whole hearts are set upon doing our duty, we see so much 
 evil in ourselves, that we learn to judge charitably of others.' 
 
 ' I am much more wicked since I came to school,' observed 
 Janet, in a musing tone. 
 
 ' And what has made you so ? ' asked Mary. 
 
 Janet's reply was quick and earnest. 
 
 ' The things I see make me so. They none of them care for 
 all that I have cared for, and they dislike me and ridicule me, 
 and they think only of Ruth ; she has everything she wishes. 
 I would exchange with her this instant.' 
 
 * Hush ! Janet ; pray take care. Such a thought cannot be 
 right. We are told not to desire anything which is our neigh- 
 bour's.' 
 
 ' Not houses, and sheep, and cows, and those things,' replied 
 Janet. 
 
 ' Anything,' again repeated Mary ; ' we are not to desire 
 anything, not any change at all, except that of becoming better, 
 And, Janet, sometimes we know that persons' ignorant wishes 
 have been heard, and they have been miserable.' 
 
 ' I should not be miserable if I were Ruth,' replied Janet. 
 
 * Indeed — indeed, you do not know what you are saying, 
 Janet. You cannot tell what you are wishing.' 
 
 Ruth came in from the garden at this instant ; she looke(? 
 tired, and Mary's glance was an anxious one. 
 
 ' Ruth is not well,' she remarked, turning again to Janet
 
 320 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 ' She will be better soon ; I should not care for that,' replied 
 Janet. 
 
 ' And she looks grave — sad, quite/ continued Mary. 
 
 ' She has no cause for it,' said Janet. 
 
 '■ She may have things to make her unhappy which we do not 
 know of,' added Mary. 
 
 ' She cannot have as much as I have. Still I would be her.' 
 
 Mary said no more. She was called away abruptly, and the 
 conversation ended ; but before the close of that day Janet had 
 received a lasting warning against the folly of her blind and dis- 
 contented wishes. 
 
 As the morning hour wore on, the two rooms gradually as- 
 sumed a different aspect. The doors between them were kept 
 open ; the desks and tables were placed against the wall, so as 
 to be entirely out of the way ; all the stray books were put into 
 the closet, and the benches, chairs, and stools were ranged in 
 rows at the bottom of the outer room. Near the centre door- 
 way was a round table, ornamented with two jars of flowers, 
 and holding in the middle a china vase, into which the papers 
 containing the votes were to be dropped. Two arm-chairs 
 were provided for Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard on each side 
 of the table, and at the top of the inner room was a high seat, 
 or, as it was called, a throne, decked with evergreens and 
 flowers, and placed under a canopy prettily contrived by the 
 aid of some bright-coloured shawls and bouquets of flowers. 
 There were evergreens also about the room, flowers on the 
 mantelpiece, a wreath made especially for Mrs Carter's picture, 
 which hung over it ; and, before the preparations were quite 
 ended, room was found on one of the side-tables for some wine, 
 and cake, and fruit, sent by Mrs Carter's desire, that they might 
 in due form wish health and prosperity to the new judge. 
 
 ' Ruth, we must just ornament the fruit and cake dishes, and 
 then we shall be quite ready. Does it not look nice ? ' said 
 Alice, coming up to her. 
 
 Ruth smiled a faint, sickly smile. 
 
 ' And all for you,' continued Alice, not noticing her manner; 
 ' it is quite certain. You must be well and enjoy it. How is 
 your head now ? ' 
 
 ' Better,' Ruth said, shortly ; but the answer was not honest. 
 
 < Hark ! there is tlie dinner bell .'' Is everything ready ? 
 exclaimed Madeline. 
 
 * Everything except the flowers round the dishes.'
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 321 
 
 Alice, Madeline, and Fanny Wilson promised to come in 
 directly dinner was over, and arrange them. 
 
 ' I don't want any dinner,' said Ruth, in an under-tonc, to 
 her sister. * I would much rather stay here.' 
 
 * O Ruth ! are you so very unwell ? Perhaps we had better 
 not have all the fuss. What shall we do 1 ' Madeline turned 
 to Mary Vernon before Ruth could interpose to prevent her, 
 • Ruth is ill, Mary, she cannot go in to dinner.' 
 
 Mary appeared vexed and uneasy. 
 
 ' Dear Ruth, why did you not say so before ? The noise has 
 been too much for you.' 
 
 ' No, not ill — not ill at all,' answered Ruth, and she stood 
 up and walked into the dining-room. 
 
 Mary did not offer to go with her. Some painful idea seemed 
 to have struck her, and she lingered till the last. Her place 
 was filled up ; the absence of a few days had made it seem 
 natural to be without her, and when some one oftered to move, 
 Mary declined, and took her seat at the corner end of the table 
 on the opposite side to Ruth. 
 
 ' My dear Mary, you have as bad an appetite as Ruth,' said 
 Mrs Carter. ' I must have a physician for you both.' 
 
 Mary smiled, and began to eat, but from time to time her eyes 
 were raised stealthily to Ruth, as if she would not be seen watch- 
 ing, and yet desired to know all that Ruth was doing. It was a 
 short dinner, and when the cloth was removed, Alice, Fanny, and 
 Madeline returned to the school-room; the others were to remain 
 where they were until summoned to the election of the judge. 
 Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard went away also. Janet Harding 
 looked wistfully after Alice, who was the last to leave the parlour. 
 
 ' Would you like to go to the school-room, Janet ? ' said Mary, 
 who was standing by Ruth's chair. 
 
 ' I should like it, if they would have me,' answered Janet. 
 
 * They would like it, would they not, Ruth ? You can answer 
 for Madeline.' 
 
 Ruth assented, but so feebly, that Janet was annoyed. 
 
 * I did not mean to interfere,' she said. ' I know quite well 
 that Ruth is first, and is to have all things her own wav.' 
 
 Ruth turned uneasily in her chair. 
 
 ' Say something that may soothe her, if }-ou can,' whispered 
 Mary. 
 
 Ruth's lips moved, but that was all. 
 
 * You would be glad for her to help, if it would please her?' 
 pursued Mary. X
 
 322 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * No, Mary,' interrupted Janet, proudly ; ' Ruth does not want 
 me to do anything for her ; she has a spite against me, hke the 
 others.' 
 
 ' Oh ! nonsense, Janet. Do tell her, Ruth, how foolish it is 
 to have such fancies.' 
 
 * Very foolish,' repeated Ruth, mechanically. 
 
 ' But it is no nonsense,' replied Janet. * Ruth never troubles 
 herself about me ; and she did not say a single word yesterday, 
 and she has not to-day, about the book.' 
 
 ' That must have been because she was not well, and did 
 not think it necessary,' said JMary. ' When you declared you 
 knew nothing of it, she believed you at once. Was not that it, 
 Ruth ? ' 
 
 Ruth's hand trembled violently, as it rested on the arm of a 
 sofa near. She drew the other over her face, but it did not serve 
 her purpose of concealment. Mary saw that she was very much 
 agitated. 
 
 ' What can be the matter ? Speak to me, Ruth ; just tell 
 me,' she said. 
 
 Janet drew nearer, half in curiosity, half in alarm. 
 
 Ruth motioned her back, and, in a broken voice, whispered 
 — ' Mary, in pity keep her away ; I cannot bear it.' 
 
 * She is not well, Janet ; she will be better presently ; just 
 ask Miss Barnard for her salts.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I am well — quite well. Pray don't go.' 
 Ruth looked up, her face pale as ashes, her lips quivering. 
 Mary took her hand. 
 
 * Ruth, you frighten me,' she said. 
 Ruth's eyes v.-ere still fixed upon Janet. 
 
 ' If she would go away — if she would not stare at me ! Do 
 make her go.' 
 
 Mary quietly begged that Janet would leave them to them- 
 selves ; the fewer that were about Ruth the better, and Janet 
 moved slowly away. 
 
 ' Is she gone ? ' said Ruth, raising her head. 
 
 * Yes, gone to the others. Are you better now ? What 
 makes you feel so ill ? ' 
 
 ' 111 ! — no, I don't feel ill — not exactly — I can't tell — Mary, 
 what shall I do.-" and Ruth leaned her head upon Mary's shoulder 
 and gasped for breath. 
 
 ' You must let me speak to Mrs Carter ; I must stop the 
 noise and bustle, dearest Ruth,' said Mary, much frightened ; 
 ' you arc not equal to it.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 323 
 
 Ruth caught her hand, and held it very tight. * Mary, you 
 will not — I could not bear it. It must all be, now,' she added, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 ' What must be, Ruth ? Are you really ill } ' Mary's voice 
 was earnest, full of deep anxiety. She looked steadfastly at 
 Ruth, and their eyes met ; and then Ruth took away her hand, 
 exclaiming, ' I am quite well, indeed, Mary. I can bear it all. 
 They are ready, see.' 
 
 * Prepared ! all prepared ! ' exclaimed Fanny Wilson, rushing 
 into the room. Madeline came up to Ruth. ' We have such a 
 comfortable seat for you, the old seat by the window, and we 
 have put a cushion and a footstool. Dear Ruth, is your pooi 
 head better 1 ' 
 
 ' Leave her with me one minute, Madeline,' said Mary Vernon, 
 gravely. * Ruth,' she continued, as Madeline went aside, ' I do 
 not think I am right in letting you go through all this excitement, 
 and I cannot understand you. Is there anything you are keeping 
 from me ? ' 
 
 Ruth shook like an aspen leaf, but made no reply. 
 
 ' Ccir.c ! you must come ! Mrs Carter is there, it is all ready,' 
 cried Fanny. ' Mary and Ruth, what are you doing ? ' 
 
 The room was nearly empty, for the greater number hurried 
 away at the first summons. Madeline had been sent for by 
 Alice. Janet Harding remained. Ruth's eye rested upon her 
 with an expression of intense pain. 
 
 * Mrs Carter is quite ready,' again called out some one, 
 coming to the door. 
 
 * Ruth, have you a secret .'' are you ill ? Why will you make 
 me so unhappy ? ' said Mary. 
 
 Ruth was standing up ; she sat down again, and buried her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 ' Is Mary Vernon hei^e ?' inquired Miss Barnard, entering 
 the room. 
 
 Maiy glanced at Ruth imploringly, but her manner was in an 
 instant changed ; all her self-command seem restored, and 
 rising once more, she led the way into the school-room. The 
 sight which presented itself was unusually gay and pretty. The 
 benches were filled; and Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard were 
 seated by the round table, the brilliant colours of the canopy 
 were arranged with great taste, and amongst the dark ever- 
 greens shone many of the earliest and most delicate summer 
 flowers, now touched by the glancing, flickering rays of the
 
 324 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 afternoon sun. All seemed glad, pure, and bright. Ruth's 
 head was erect, her step was firm, as she entered the room. If 
 there was an uneasiness in the glance of her eyes, and some- 
 thing forced in her manner, the signs were too trifling to be 
 generally remarked. But Mary's face caught the attention of 
 several. A whisper went round, it met Ruth's ear. It was 
 said that Mary was sad, that she was thinking of Clara and 
 Justine. Madeline remarked to Ruth, that it appeared wrong 
 entirely to forget them, and Ruth pretended not to hear, and 
 remained silent. 
 
 Mrs Carter looked round to see if all were assembled. Then 
 she stood up and spoke to them, kindly and earnestly. She 
 said that it might seem at first sight a mere matter of amuse- 
 ment for which they were collected together ; and that she 
 would have left them entirely to themselves, if it had not been 
 their own wish that she should be present ; but it was a great 
 satisfaction to her — they could little tell how great — to join 
 with them, to be one with them in their interests and pleasures. 
 And in this instance, she could not help feeling that the object 
 for which they had met was beyond amusement. To her, it 
 was one of great importance ; perhaps, some of them would 
 agree with her, all probably would who could trace the improve- 
 ment which had taken place in the school during the last two 
 years. "When Mary Vernon was first appointed judge, there 
 was prevalent amongst them, besides a frequent neglect of 
 orders, a tone of carelessness about serious things, and some- 
 times even of irreverence. It was often the cause of great 
 regret and anxiety both to her sister and herself. However 
 they might strive to enforce right principles whilst with their 
 pupils, there were times when necessarily they were left alone, 
 and at those times great mischief was done. ' Such mischief,' 
 continued Mrs Carter, * still no doubt exists ; painful experience 
 has shown us all that it does so ; but how much it has been 
 lessened by Mary's constant watchfulness, I could not have 
 imagined if my own observations had not given me proof. 
 Even the late distressing circumstances have, I believe, chiefly 
 arisen because she was obliged to be more absent from the 
 school-room than before. Mary knows that she possesses my 
 gratitude, and love, and esteem,' added Mrs Carter ; ' she will 
 not require any assurances of them now ; I would rather speak, 
 my children, to any among you who may be expecting to suc- 
 ceed her. Her influence may be yours, if only you will seek it
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 325 
 
 in the same way. I think you must all know what that way 
 is — you must ail feel that it is good example. But, perhaps, 
 some of you will not be inclined to think with me, that it is a 
 very serious matter, whether this example is or is not set. Yet 
 I am sure, that if Mary were asked how it was that she was 
 able to keep such a watch over herself, she would say that it 
 was because watchfulness was made the subject of her daily 
 prayers, because she knew that her position in the school was a 
 trust given her, not by me, nor by you, but by God ; and that 
 she must one day answer to Him for the manner in which she 
 had exercised it. This was her view of the office she under- 
 took. It is my earnest hope, that such may be the view of 
 whoever may succeed her.' Mrs Carter paused ; involuntarily 
 her eye rested upon Ruth. It was a glance of calm satisfaction 
 and approval. 
 
 Ruth was leaning her head against the wall ; her fingers 
 played nervously with a bouquet of flowers which had been 
 placed near her ; her face was bent down, and Mary was turn- 
 ing towards her, half unmindful of the public praise which she 
 was receiving in her desire to read the secrets of Ruth's heart. 
 
 * I would not mar the cheerfulness of your spirits, my chil- 
 dren,' once more continued Mrs Carter, ' by the anxious 
 thoughts which are crowding upon mine, and I can scarcely 
 expect that any, even the most serious minded, should think of 
 the choice now to be made as I think of it ; but, upon whom- 
 soever that choice may now fall, she may be certain that both 
 my sister and myself shall look with gratitude and affection upon 
 every endeavour after right conduct; that we shall aid her to 
 the very utmost of our power, and pray for her with a sincerity 
 of affection and interest which even the love of a parent can 
 scarcely surpass. Now may the blessing of God be with you, 
 my children, especially, most especially upon her whom you are 
 about to elect to be your example and guide.' 
 
 There was a deep stillness when the last words were spoken, 
 and Mrs Carter resumed her seat. Mary Vernon touched 
 Ruth's hand ; it was of an icy coldness, and she did not move. 
 
 ' Jessie,' said Mrs Carter, in a lighter tone than before, ' I 
 hear you are to be the first to give your vote.' 
 
 Jessie sprang forward, exclaiming, ' I vote for Ruth ; ' but 
 she was stopped. 
 
 • Hush ! hush ! no one must tell,' exclaimed Fanny Wilson. 
 * Where is j'our paper ? Is the name written ? '
 
 326 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Jessie produced her paper, and walking up to tlie table, laid it 
 in the vase, turning round as she did so to nod and smile mean- 
 ingly at Ruth ; and then, according to Fanny Wilson's direction, 
 proceeding into the inner room, and taking her seat by the side 
 of the judge's chair. Ellen Hastings followed, then another, and 
 another, slowly, regularly, and silently. 
 
 Though the election was almost certainly determined before- 
 hand, a sudden awe and suspense had stolen over them. 
 
 ' It is Ruth's turn ; Ruth must vote herself,' exclaimed Alice, 
 as Madeline moved into the inner room. 
 
 ]\Irs Carter turned to her sister with a smile. ' Ruth will be 
 in a difficulty,' she said ; ' her vote will be the exception.' 
 
 'Ruth ! why does she not.come.'^' inquired one or two im- 
 patiently from the inner room. 
 
 ' They are waiting, dear Ruth ; look up,' whispered Mary 
 Vernon. ' Ruth, dear, do speak,' she continued. 
 
 Ruth raised her head hurriedl)\ ' My turn ! did they say it 
 was my turn ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yours; but the others shall go before you. Harriet and 
 Florence, it is for you to vote next;' and Harriet and Florence 
 passed on in order. 
 
 ' My turn now,' said Mary, smiling. She placed her paper 
 with the others, and then returned to Ruth. 
 
 ' I must go ; I shall vote for Fanny,' said Ruth. She tried 
 to rise, but her limbs shook, and she caught the back of the 
 chair. 
 
 ' It is too much excitement, we must not let it go on,' said 
 Mrs Carter, speaking across the table to her sister. ' Ruth, my 
 love, stay where you are ; Mary, you bring her vote.' 
 
 Ruth's paper was placed with the rest. 
 
 * Now,' said Mrs Carter, as she stood up again, 'we will read 
 the names and count.' 
 
 The party in the inner room crowded near. 
 
 Mrs Carter drew the vase towards her, and began to open the 
 papers. 'Ruth! it is only Ruth; scarcely more than one 
 name. But for form's sake we must count.' 
 
 Mrs Carter repeated the names in an audible voice. 
 
 Madeline could contain her delight no longer, and rushing 
 forward, she threw herself upon Ruth's neck. ' O Ruth ! the 
 pleasure — if papa and mamma were but here ! ' 
 
 Ruth smiled ; it was a ghastly smile. 
 
 Hark ! what sounds were those ? The noise of carriage-
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 327 
 
 wheels, the opening of a gate, the quick trampling of horses' 
 feet, the thundering knock and pealing bell. 
 
 A hush of expectation ! Ruth sank back in her chair, resting 
 as a prisoner reprieved. 
 
 Dawson entered, and said something in a low tone to Mrs 
 Carter. 
 
 * It will soon be over ; can you keep up ? ' whispered Mary 
 Vernon to Ruth. 
 
 Ruth nodded assent. 
 
 ' Who can it be? A visitor ? How provoking !' were the 
 murmurs which went round. 
 
 ' Silence ! Mrs Carter is returning ; it is her step.' But it 
 was not her step, 
 
 'Dear Ruth, shall I ask for you to go away.?' inquired 
 Madeline. 
 
 The answer was a faint, sharp cry, and Ruth started from her 
 seat. 
 
 Madeline's glance followed hers. ' Papa 1 our own papa ! ' 
 she rushed forward. 
 
 Mr Clifford was at the door. 
 
 'Papa come! my dear papa!' Madeline threw herself into 
 his arms. 
 
 He held her, kissed her tenderly, again and again ; but his 
 eye wandered. ' Ruth, my darling Ruth! my treasure!' 
 
 Cold, upright, still, Ruth stood — but for one instant only ; 
 the next, and she was kneeling at Mrs Carter's feet in penitence 
 and shame. ' I hid the book ; forgive me ; speak for me ; 
 ask him to forgive me. It was not Janet ; I did it. Oh ! 
 speak to him. He will not kiss me ; speak for me, forgive 
 me.' Ruth hid her face, and burst into an agony of tears. 
 
 ' Ruth ! my child !' Mr Clifford drew near, and would have 
 raised her, but she turned her head away from him. 
 
 ' He must not love me. I have deceived ; I have done so 
 wrongly. O Madeline ! stay with me, do not all leave me.' 
 Ruth's voice failed her. 
 
 Mr Cliftbrd lifted her up, and placed her in a chair, and then, 
 with a look of intense anxiety, appealed to Mrs Carter for an 
 explanation, 
 
 Mary Vernon came near and supported Ruth's head upon 
 her shoulder, and whispered : ' Ruth, dearest, for your papa's 
 sake, be calm ; tell him if you can. No one but yourself knows 
 what this means.' She stooped and kissed Ruth's forehead,
 
 328 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and Ruth, soothed by the expression of sympathy at such a 
 moment, made an elVort at self-command. 
 
 ' Shall we be together alone, my child ? ' said Mr Qifford in 
 a tone the very quietness of which proved the agitation of his 
 mind ; but Ruth shook her head. Her lips quivered, and 
 again her tears fell fast ; but now they were quiet tears, bitter 
 but salutary, the relief of an overburdened mind. ' I will tell 
 here, papa,' she said, as she held her father's hand and spoke 
 in a broken voice ; and then leaving her seat, she stood, still 
 clasping her father's hand, and stealthily raising her eye to his 
 in doubt and fear. 
 
 ' You are right, Ruth,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' right to confess 
 before all, if in the knov/ledge of all you have offended.' 
 
 ' But it may be too much for her,' interposed Mrs Carter. 
 
 ' She will bear it,' said Mr Clifford. ' She will be happier 
 afterwards. Ruth, can you tell us now?' And Ruth waited 
 but for an instant, and then in a rapid yet firm voice, she owned 
 her fault and its consequences. She told of her search after 
 the missing volume ; the temptation to which she yielded in 
 reading it ; the shame which seized her ; and the impulse of 
 fear which induced her to hide the book ; the impossibility 
 afterwards of restoring it to its former place ; and the weakness 
 of principle, and pride of heart, which had induced her to keep 
 the secret of her conduct concealed ; and to allow another to be 
 blamed unjustly for her offence. The confession was without 
 evasion or excuse ; it was listened to in breathless silence. 
 Madeline's eyes were riveted on her sister's pale face, and 
 Alice's chain was twisted with nervous eagerness. Ruth 
 stopped, and Madeline sprang forward and exclaimed, ' She is 
 best still ; no one would have told as she has done.' 
 
 Mr Clifford held up his finger to check her. ' Stay, Made- 
 line ; Ruth has grievously sinned. We will hope and pray that 
 she maybe forgiven ;' and as he said this he turned towards 
 Mrs Carter. Whilst Ruth was recounting the history of her 
 fault, Mrs Carter's manner had been that of quiet, fixed atten- 
 tion. Her head was bent forward to catch each word as it fell, 
 .and not a muscle of her face moved. 
 
 'Can Mrs Carter forgive.'" said Mr Clifford, and he drew 
 Ruth forward. Mrs Carter looked up ; tears were dimming her 
 eyes — tears for Ruth's sin. 
 
 ' God forgive you, even as I ao, my own Ruth,' she said, 
 Mr Clifford's hand rested upon his child's head, in the attitude
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 329 
 
 of blessing. His lips moved in prayer. Ruth's glance was 
 raised for an instant. Slie would have stepped forward, she 
 would have taken the hand which Mrs Carter extended towards 
 her, but her head grew confused and her eyelids fell, and she 
 caught her father's arm, and, almost unconscious from excite- 
 ment and misery of feeling, was carried from the room. 
 
 It was towards evening before Mr Clifford thought it desir- 
 able to see Ruth again. She was then lying on the sofa in 
 Mrs Carter's study, where she had been taken to be free from 
 the possibility of interruption or excitement. There could be 
 no doubt that she was penitent ; that she was conscious of the 
 offence of which she had been guilty, in the sight of God as 
 well as before man. Ruth's heart once softened, all her holier 
 feelings returned. The veil had fallen from her eyes, and she 
 saw herself in her true light. There were many reasons, how- 
 ever, to be afraid for the future. Ruth's fault was a very subtle 
 one. It would recur continually in different shapes ; it might 
 sometimes assume the appearance of a virtue. Nothing but 
 watchfulness, sincere and unremitting, would enable her to 
 guard against it. And Ruth could scarcely be expected to 
 practise such watchfulness. She had as yet given but slight 
 proofs of ever having attempted it ; and at school, the tempta- 
 tions to forgetfulness were very great. Mr Clifford had left 
 home almost with a determination that this should be the last 
 half-year which his children should spend at school. An occa- 
 sion had offered itself for resuming his former plans. Mrs 
 Clifford's sister was about to return to England, in consequence 
 of her husband's ill health. It was Mrs Bcresford's wish to 
 spend the year which they were to pass in England with them. 
 This would give Mrs Clifford the opportunity of again de- 
 voting herself to her two little girls, and by the time Cap- 
 tain and Mrs Mordaunt went back to India, and Mrs 
 Beresford again became an inmate of Laneton, Ruth and Made- 
 line would have reached an age when they would not so much 
 require the constant care of a governess, and might without 
 difficulty pursue their studies at home, under their mother's in- 
 spection. Mr Clifford's only doubt as to this arrangement had 
 arisen from the progress which his children appeared to have 
 made at school. They were improving rapidly in general ac- 
 quirements, and he had not as yet discovered that their minds 
 had received any injury. He could not help trusting that Mrs 
 Carter's high principles and warm interest in her pupils had
 
 330 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 succeeded in so raising the tone of the school, that his children 
 might still be safe there. But this day's experience had unde- 
 ceived him. Whatever a school-life might be for others, even 
 for Madeline, it was evidently undesirable for Ruth. The pride 
 of her character required a constant guard, such a guard as 
 Mrs Carter, with all her endeavours, would scarcely be able to 
 keep. Where there were so many to superintend, it was not 
 possible that unremitting attention should be bestowed upon 
 any one ; and, after a long consultation with Mrs Carter herself, 
 it was decided by both that the departure of Ruth and Made- 
 line should be final. 
 
 * They must return with me to-morrow,' said Mr Clifford, as 
 he left Mrs Carter to seek Ruth in the study, ' The business 
 which called me to town, and made me break in upon you so 
 unexpectedly, will also oblige me not to delay longer than I can 
 help. I can scarcely v/ish to do so ; my poor child's position 
 will be so painful.' 
 
 Mrs Carter could not but agree, though the idea of parting 
 with the children weighed heavily upon her mind. Perhaps 
 never, till the moment of Ruth's confession, had she known how 
 entirely she trusted and loved her. ' And poor Alice,' she said, 
 
 * without her young companions, what will she do ?' 
 
 ' I had a conversation with Lady Catharine Hyde, before I 
 left home,' replied Mr Clifford. ' It seemed right to inform her 
 of my possible determination ; but it will make no difference to 
 her. She is too fixed in her plan. Alice is to be educated at 
 school till she has passed her fifteenth birthday.' 
 
 * It may be best,' said Mrs Carter, after a short consideration. 
 < There is much that is good in Alice ; she has begun to resist 
 temptation, to act upon principle. Lady Catharine may be 
 assured that no care of mine shall be wanting.' 
 
 ' And she will receive from you that which she much needs,' 
 replied Mr Clifford ; * I mean affection. It is love by which 
 Alice must be governed. It would be an inexpressible satis- 
 faction to me to feel that she would receive it at the Manor.' 
 
 Mrs Carter faintly smiled. * We must hope,' she answered, 
 
 * that as Alice grows older, she may be able to understand the 
 warmth that lies hidden by a cold manner. I think she does 
 in a manner now.' 
 
 'Poor child!' said Mr Clifford, sighing. < It would grieve 
 me to thinl: of her loneliness, but that one learns to trust alJ 
 these things to a Higher Power.'
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 3 ^ i 
 
 * I have great hopes of her, unstable though her character is,* 
 continued Mrs Carter. ' The time may be long, and the effort 
 required may be great, but I do believe, that hereafter she will 
 be all that she could wish, like ' Mrs Carter stopped sud- 
 denly, and Mr Clifford, as he opened the door, said, ' Children 
 little imagine the pain their faults cause. Ruth may be vciy 
 unhappy, but she would scarcely exchange feelings with nie.' 
 Mr Clifford went to Ruth. She was lying still and exhausted. 
 She could not bear to look at her papa ; she trembled when he 
 spoke to her ; her eyelids were swollen with crying. Mr Clif- 
 ford's manner was, at first, grave, and it might even have been 
 thought stern. He had no wish to make Ruth a heroine. He 
 did not feel, and he did not desire her to feel, that a late re- 
 pentance and confession were virtues. Forgive he could, fully 
 and freely, but he did not conceal that he was deeply pained 
 and disappointed. Ruth felt more alive to the true state of her 
 own heart, when her father talked over her fault quietly, and 
 examined into it, and discussed it, than she had done under 
 the great excitement of the morning. Feeling then had carried 
 her through all ; she could have confessed worse faults ; she 
 could have humbled herself infinitely more ; she could have 
 endured any punishment : but the probability v.-ould have been, 
 that, when the passionate burst of distress was over, the original 
 fault would have resumed its power. All great exhibitions of 
 feeling are to be dreaded. There may be a theatrical show of 
 repentance as well as of zeal or affection. Ruth's tears now 
 were very quiet and very real. A short time convinced Mr 
 Clifford of this, and then he turned to the point to which he 
 especially desired to direct her mind. ' There is no occasion 
 for me, my dear Ruth,' he said, ' to tell you against Whom you 
 have sinned ; that you know as fully as I do. But, when you 
 said your prayers, did the thought never enter your mind, that 
 they were a mockery.'" Ruth seemed shocked at the expression. 
 
 * Yes, indeed they were a mockery,' continued Mr Clifford. 
 
 * They were the prayers of a double mind ; of a heart conscious 
 of sin, yet unwilling to forsake it. Ruth, my child, it would 
 have made me very miserable if I had known this.' 
 
 * Papa, I did try to attend sometimes,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Attend to the meaning of the words, perhaps ; but the feel- 
 ing, the sincerity, the hearty wish, they must have been absent. 
 God will never accept our prayers without them ; and if we do 
 not pray, we cannot be safe under His protection ; and then,
 
 332 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth, it might have been the will of God that during those sad 
 days you should die.' 
 
 Ruth shuddered, and, looking up in her father's face, said — 
 
 ' Papa, I have prayed now.' 
 
 ' And I have prayed too, Ruth,' replied Mr Clifford, as he 
 stooped to kiss her. ' I am sure we must both be happier.' 
 
 A faint gleam of pleasure passed over Ruth's pale face. She 
 placed her hand within her father's, and he held it fondly. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, venturing to raise her eyes to his, ' perhaps 
 God will forgive me for your prayers.' 
 
 * For the prayers of One who loves you infinitely better than 
 I or any other human being can ever do, my darling child,' 
 replied Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' For our Saviour's sake,' murmured Ruth. 
 For an instant I\Ir Clifford paused. The expression of his. 
 face was that of intense thought — more than thought, devotion. 
 
 * Ruth,' he said at length, ' you cannot tell, you can scarcely 
 think, the gratitude which that love demands. To be forgiven ! 
 to have oflended deeply, as we all offend, and to sin, not once 
 or twice, but every hour ! to act against warnings and instruc- 
 tions wilfully, and still to have hope ! to know, from the very 
 words of our blessed Lord, that, " even unto seventy times 
 seven," there is pardon, if only we repent, and trust, and pray. 
 My own dear child, shall we not both try to show our love 
 also ? ' 
 
 Ruth could not find a voice to answer. 
 
 ' For you there is one way above all others,' continued Mr 
 Clifford. 'Will you watch yourself, Ruth? watch your thoughts.-* 
 — there lies the origin of your sin — very, very deep — in your 
 wishes ; coveting admiration and human applause ; thinking 
 upon it ; allowing yourself to put it before you as a point to be 
 obtained. You wished for power and influence, such as Mary 
 \'crnon's ; that you have acknowledged. God had placed you 
 in an inferior position, and you desired a higher one. You 
 would not have taken any wrong means to obtain it, but you 
 suffered your thoughts to dwell upon it. The sins of our 
 wishes are more ensnaring than any others. Covetousness, 
 •which is ranked with stealing and murder, is but the sin of 
 a wish. Will you, niy child, tell me that you will watch 
 yourself?' 
 
 Ruth's ' yes ' was not very intelligible ; but her father read 
 her tlioughts in her countenance, and was satisfied-
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 333 
 
 ' For the future,' he said, ' you must make strict rules ; one 
 In particular, against day-dreams. We wish : then we indulge 
 ourselves in fancying how it would be if we were to obtain our 
 wishes ; then the wish becomes stronger, and grows into a real 
 longing desire ; and at last we act. Check your day-dreams. 
 Check every thought of what people may say or think of you. 
 Never repeat praise to yourself; when you hear it, try to 
 remember how different you are in the sight of God, how 
 unworthy even when you do your best. If you can do this, 
 even in a slight degree, you will ha\e taken a great step 
 towards overcoming the defects of your natural character. If 
 you do not, you may humble yourself to the dust before your 
 fellow-creatures, but you will not be humble in the eye of God.' 
 
 ' Papa, I will try,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' And pray,' continued Mr Clifford ; ' and then,' he added, 
 reverently, ' we will both pray ; now, shall we not, Ruth } ' 
 
 Ruth clasped her hands together, and knelt by the side of 
 her father, whilst in the language of the Church, fervently, 
 though in a low and fakering voice, Mr Clifford acknowledged 
 for his child that she had ' erred and strayed from God's ways 
 like a lost sheep ; that she had left undone those things which 
 she ought to have done, and had done those things which she 
 ought not to have done ; ' and entreated that the ' God who is 
 always more ready to hear than we to pray, would pour down 
 upon her the abundance of His mercy ; forgiving her those 
 things whereof her conscience was afraid, and giving her those 
 good things which she was not worthy to ask, but through the 
 merits and mediation of Jesus Christ.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE wakening of the next morning was a wakening to pa'n 
 and regret with many besides Ruth. To be disappointed 
 in those we have respected, is a grief early experienced and 
 long remembered. Ruth's fault was little spoken of, for it was 
 felt too deeply. Those who might have been inclined to criti- 
 cise and discuss it were checked, if by no other consideration^ 
 by the presence of Madeline. 
 
 Poor Madeline ! It was sad indeed to see her, so downcast,
 
 334 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 so shy ; shrinking from observation, and clinging only to Alice, 
 as if she herself had been guilty. Alice's sympathy fully went 
 with Madeline. Ruth's confession was startling to her ; it 
 seemed a dream. She looked around, and thought for the 
 moment that honesty and truth were nowhere to be found. 
 When Ruth had failed, upon whom could dependence be 
 placed ? To see Janet Harding distressed and irritated her. 
 She knew that the feeling was unfair, but there was a general 
 reaction now in favour of Janet, who had never yet been a 
 favourite. A sense of justice made all willing to atone for any 
 past unkindness, by showing that they were sorry for the false 
 accusation. And it was difficult for Janet to take this notice 
 quietly. She was a little inclined to play the heroine ; to talk 
 of all she had gone through ; to repeat again and again how 
 surprised she had felt when the book was discovered in her 
 drawer ; until at length Alice could bear it no longer, and im- 
 patiently begged her to remember that, after all, no~Dne had 
 thought much about her, and Mrs Carter had scarcely taken the 
 trouble to scold her. If she had been punished, it was certain 
 that Ruth would have spoken long before. Janet was silenced 
 for the time, and when she recommenced, Alice took refuge 
 with Madeline and Mary Vernon. 
 
 But neither the trials of Madeline nor Alice, as regarded their 
 companions, were to be of long continuance. By twelve o'clock 
 everything was to be ready for departure. Alice was to go at 
 the same time. She and Mary alone knew that Ruth and 
 Madeline were not to return. The others looked upon the 
 parting merely as the ordinary separation for the holidays. 
 Alice's heart was already so heavy that this additional weight 
 was less felt than it would otherwise have been. She did not 
 then realise what school would be without her favourite com- 
 panions ; she was conscious that something was added to the 
 sliadow which already seemed cast over everything ; but the 
 holidays were come, and her return appeared far off, and she 
 would not dwell upon it. Madeline had room in her heart but 
 for one thought ; Ruth would leave school in disgrace, and her 
 mamma must know it. The delights of home were all marred 
 by the idea, which, however, Madeline kept to herself, whilst 
 brooding upon it and grieving over it, lest by speaking of it she 
 should add to her sister's sorrow. 
 
 The good-conduct prizes were to be given the next day ; but 
 Alice had no regret for being absent, the prizes were nothing to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 335 
 
 her now ; and Madeline forgot that she was certain of one ; 
 and when Mrs Carter placed a book in her hand, and kissed 
 her, and thanked her for the good example she had set, she laid 
 it silently on the table, and cried. 
 
 * Is Miss Chfford nearly ready ? ' inquired Dawson, coming 
 to the door of the bedroom as the clock in the hall struck half- 
 past eleven. 
 
 Ruth was assisting Mary Vernon in packing her carpet-bag 
 — that is, she appeared to assist, in reality she did nothing. 
 She did not know what to take up, what to fetch ; she brought 
 the wrong things and carried them back, and then sat down to 
 rest, looking round the room in despair of ever being ready ; 
 and at last fairly giving up, she threw her arms around Mary, 
 and exclaimed, bitterly — - 
 
 * O Mary ! if it were not the last time ! if I could come 
 back ! if Mrs Carter could see that I was sorry ! Will papa 
 consent 1 do you think he will .'' ' 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 * It would not be good for you, dearest Ruth. He said so 
 lajit night.' 
 
 ' Disgrace ! ' murmured Ruth ; ' and they will talk of me 
 and tell about it. Mary, are you sure you love me ? Don't 
 you despise me like the rest 1 ' 
 
 * Despise you, Ruth ! No ; how could I ? No one despises 
 you.' 
 
 ' But they look at me,' continued Ruth ; 'and Madeline speaks 
 differently even, and Alice ; and what will mamma say } ' 
 
 ' Dearest Ruth, can you not think of these things differently 
 — patiently, I mean ; like a punishment ? You know we are 
 bound to bear punishment well. It would please your papa if 
 }ou could ; and, more than that, it would please God.' 
 
 Ruth's face assumed a calmer expression. 
 
 ' Shame is my punishment,' she said, in a humble tone. 
 
 * And, it may be said, a blessing,' added Mary. ' Ruth, you 
 may have had a warning now for your whole life.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' repeated Ruth, in a tone of deep anguish. 
 
 Mary looked at her with compassion. 
 
 ' I shall hear from you,' said Ruth, making an effort to 
 change the current of her thoughts ; ' and perhaps you v/ill 
 come and stay with us. Papa said he would ask you.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, I will come if I may, and we will write con- 
 stantly, and Alice will return to tell what is fjoingon here ; and
 
 J 36 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 I am to have a letter from Mrs Carter when she has time. 
 Dear Ruth, we must be friends all our lives.' 
 
 ' Friends, if I deserve it,' said Ruth, in an under-voice, and 
 she turned away, unable to utter another word. 
 
 ' Five packages, three boxes, and two bags ; is that all ? ' in- 
 quired Mr Cliftbrd. 
 
 He stood in the hall, striving to appear unconcerned. Mrs 
 Carter was with him at the dining-room door. Ruth came 
 slowly down the stairs, followed by Madeline and Mary, 
 
 ' Alice ! where is Alice 1 ' inquired Mr Clifford. 
 
 'In the school-room, waiting, I believe,' said Mrs Carter. 
 ' My children, you have no time to spare.' 
 
 Ruth remained in the hall hesitating. Madeline looked round 
 for her. 
 
 ' Dear Ruth, you must come,' she whispered. 
 
 Man,^ put one hand affectionately on Ruth's shoulder, and 
 with the other opened the school-room door. Ruth stepped 
 before her sister. There was a noise in the school-room ; busi. 
 ness going on, and parting words with Alice. Ruth cast around 
 her a nervous, agitated glance. The memories of the eventful 
 
 years of her school-life seemed crowded into that one moment; - 
 
 the memories and the feelings they called forth — shame, regret, 
 disappointed hopes, neglected opportunities — they were all there. 
 Madeline went up to Alice and spoke. Jessie O'Neile heard 
 her, and exclaimed — 
 
 * It is Ruth ! they are going ! ' 
 
 A general rush followed to say good-bye to Ruth. Good-bye ! 
 a cordial, kind good-bye ; one in which no bitterness nor re- 
 proach, no thoughts of pride nor of self-exaltation, were mingled. 
 Janet Harding kept Ruth's hand fast in hers. She was afraid 
 to express more than common feeling. 
 
 ' In six weeks you will be here again, Ruth,' said little 
 Jessie. 
 
 Alice forgot the injunction of secrecy. Her own heart grew 
 heavy, and she exclaimed — 
 
 ' No, Jessie, never ! they are going for good.' 
 
 'Not to come back ! Ruth, my own dear Ruth ! Fanny, 
 Janet, Florence, do you hear ? ' and Jessie caught Ruth's dress, 
 and looked up in her fice with an expression of wondering 
 grief 
 
 Ruth's lip quivered. She felt that in another moment her 
 self-command would be gone.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 337 
 
 ' Kiss me, Janet/ said Madeline, who made no effort to 
 rcfitrain her sorrow. ' You will all write to us, and we shall so 
 want to know. Florence, perhaps you will hear about poor 
 Clara, as you live near ; and will you tell us if you ever meet 
 Justine ; and about the prizes, and the new girls next half-year? 
 But Alice will be able to tell that.' 
 
 Alice was sadly lonely at the thought. 
 
 ' RIaddy, I cannot bear you to go,' exclaimed Janet. ' Every 
 one is going that I cared for.' 
 
 * But, Alice, you will be here after the holidays .'' ' said 
 Florence. 
 
 Alice could scarcely bear to answer yes. Yet there was one 
 comfort ; the hope that the next half-year might be happier and 
 better than the last. The future ! — Alice lived in the future. 
 She was ever intending, and ever resolving. Her intentions 
 satisfied her now ; their fulfilment it remained for time to show. 
 
 MadeHne drew Alice away ; then paused at the door to take 
 one more look. Ruth slowly followed, Jessie still clinging to 
 her side. Janet Harding was standing between the two school- 
 rooms, looking after them. Ruth heard her father's voice ; but 
 her heart was full with one sad, bitter thought. She withdrew 
 herself suddenly from little Jessie, and turned to speak the last 
 words to Janet. 
 
 * Janet, have you forgiven ? are you quite sure ? It was 
 dreadfully wrong, and I am so very, very sorry.' 
 
 Janet gave the kiss of hearty forgiveness fondly, almost with 
 a feeling that pardon was uncalled for. Ruth struggled vainly 
 with her tears. 
 
 ' Now Jessie, darling, good-bye ! Write to me, won't you .'" 
 
 Madeline and Alice returned to hasten her. 
 
 * Good-bye, once more, all of you,' 
 
 A last look ! a last smile ! and the door of the school-room 
 closed after them, and they stood in the hall, but one more 
 parting before them ; it was the hardest of all ; from Mrs Carter, 
 her sister, and Mary. Ruth was thankful that it was short ; 
 thankful that she was spared a longer trial of the self-reproach 
 which the blessing of the true, kind friend whom she had grieved, 
 could not but cause her. And Madeline was thankful also ; foi 
 Ruth, for her father, and, even more than all, for Mrs Carter ; 
 for the prayer that God would guard them through their future 
 life was broken and inaudible. The last gaze at the old familiar 
 walls was denied to Ruth. Her head was bowed down with 
 
 Y
 
 33§ LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 sliame ; her eyes were dimmed and scorched with tears. But 
 Madeline looked with Alice from the window of the carriage, 
 to watch Mary Vernon standing upon the steps, Mrs Carter 
 and Miss Barnard behind her, and Dawson looking over the 
 blinds ; and when the carriage passed the gate, she still dwelt 
 upon the outline of the home she had left, its projections, 
 windows, chimneys, until at length — it was the final recollec- 
 tion which Madeline retained of Mrs Carter's house — her eye 
 rested upon the half-opened window of the little dressing-room. 
 Might it not have whispered to her in the peace of her own 
 conscience, that prayer — humble, simple, earnest prayer — was 
 to be the safeguard of her future life, even as it had been her 
 protection amidst the temptations of a school ? 
 
 PART III. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THERE was a small but cheerful room on the south side of 
 the old Manor House of Haseley. It looked out upon the 
 quaint garden — the raised terrace with the summer-house at its 
 extremity, the trim gravel walks bordered by flower-beds, and 
 the circle of turf in the centre, in which all the different paths 
 were made to terminate. Alice Lennox w^as seated at the open 
 window of this room ; but she saw with indifference the beauty 
 of tlie bright summer morning. Though the flowers were bril- 
 liant and the trees full of foliage, and though the sky was deeply 
 blue, softened by a few thin feathery clouds, and the fresh dew 
 glittered in the sunshine which flickered upon the grass — all 
 was as nothing to her. She did not seem to hear the songs of 
 the birds, or notice the glancing of the butterflies ; and the 
 gardener, who was trimming the turf near the house, worked 
 unweariedly with his smooth, sharp-cutting scythe, without once 
 attracting her attention. She was not thinking of these things 
 or caring for them ; and soon she turned away to survey the 
 comforts of her own apartment. 
 
 Lady Catharine Hyde had selected it especially for her, and 
 fitted it up with all which she deemed most likely to promote 
 her goodness and her happiness. Alice could not be insensible 
 to the thought thus bestowed upon her. Books were there, her 
 favourites — such as she would herself have chosen — and others 
 of history, travels, English and foreign classics, with which it
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 339 
 
 was desirable she should be acquainted. A work-table, a 
 flower-stand, a piano, a writing-case, a draiwing-box also — it 
 seemed that there was nothing further needed — nothing for 
 occupation and interest, little even for affection, for, gazing 
 upon Alice, as she suffered her glance to wander round the 
 room, was the sweet, gentle, holy face of the mother whom she 
 had so early lost, so long regretted. Alice's attention was fixed, 
 as for an instant she dwelt upon it, and rising, she left her 
 station by the window, and stood before it. 
 
 Her mother's picture ! blessed and hallowed were its asso- 
 ciations — beautiful and pure as a dream of heaven ! Alice's 
 eyes were dimmed by tears, and with a sudden impulse of right 
 feeling and energy, she roused herself from the listlessness 
 which was creeping over her, and with the exclamation, * Yes, 
 I must really try,' began to busy herself in arranging the furni- 
 ture so as best to suit her convenience. 
 
 It was Alice's first day at home ; but the Manor scarcely 
 seemed to her like home. Her heart was at school, with her 
 companions, her pursuits, the interests which for more than five 
 years had been engrossing to her. Now she was to begin a 
 new life ; and what was it to be ? Many times in the course 
 of that morning did Alice leave her employment to ponder upon 
 this question. At her age there are few who would not have 
 done the same ; for there are few upon whom care has so early 
 pressed that they cannot recall a time when the world seemed a 
 fairy land, life but one uninterrupted summer, when imagination 
 provided for them wealth, and honour, and deep unchanging 
 affection, and they found but one drawback to their vision of 
 happiness — that it was not present, but to come ; that the hour 
 before them was dull and tame, and the future, which they might 
 never reach, bright as a scene of enchantment. So it was then 
 with Alice Lennox. 
 
 The book-shelves were soon put into disorder. Alice thought 
 that she could arrange the volumes better, and they were taken 
 down and laid upon the floor. The work-table occupied the 
 position best fitted for the flower-stand ; both were moved into 
 the centre of the room. There were particular boxes, bags, 
 small ornaments which she had collected at school ; these were 
 brought from her bedroom and distributed amongst the chairs. 
 The chairs themselves were not placed as well as they might be, 
 oi- as she fancied they might be, and they were twisted and 
 turned, and ^t last left in confusion till the remainder of the
 
 340 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 furniture should be settled. When all this was done, Alice 
 grew weary and rather cross, and sat down to rest. Solitude 
 was dull, and she thought of Ruth and Madeline Clifford. Lady- 
 Catharine had assured her they would be with her in the course 
 of the day. But the morning was a busy time with them ; 
 probably they would not be able to come till the afternoon, and 
 then, perhaps, not to stay. This was not like the constant com- 
 panionship of school, and Alice sighed as her thoughts reverted 
 to the scenes she had left, and again she drew her chair to the 
 window, and sat down to indulge in a reverie and a day-dream. 
 
 We will give but one passing illustration of the nature of 
 Alice's thoughts. The ' castles in the air' of a girl of sixteen, 
 just set free from school, are not likely to be profitable to the 
 world in general any more than to herself. Alice had not 
 passed untainted through the ordeal of a school life. She had 
 in her mind the usual romance of gaiety and admiration, of 
 wealth and luxury. Her 'castle in the air' was, in other 
 words, only the indulgence of her vanity ; but she had not yet 
 learned to examine her thoughts, and purify and subdue them ; 
 they were pleasant thoughts, and she was satisfied. 
 
 She imagined herself in a ball-room — large, brilliantly lighted, 
 decked with evergreens and flowers ; crowds of elegantly-dressed 
 persons walking up and down, or seated upon benches watching 
 the different parties who were about to begin dancing. Music 
 was heard, but not loud enough to drown conversation. Alice 
 could catch even the faintest whispers of her own fancy. She 
 herself was in imagination one of the dancers, and amongst the 
 most likely of all to attract notice. Elegant, graceful, clever, 
 interesting — these were common words when applied to herself ; 
 and then ensued supposed conversations with her partners ; a 
 compliment, and an answer, and another compliment ; light 
 words, and sharp observations upon others ; and soon, the dis- 
 persion of the company — the return home — the events of the 
 next day — a party of pleasure, with the same persons anxious to 
 be with her — the same consciousness of being admired. We 
 will not follow her further. 
 
 * Alice,' said the grave authoritative voice of Lady Catharine 
 Hyde, ' this is not the way to get on in the world ; it is nearly 
 one o'clock.' 
 
 Alice started, blushed, and began an excuse. 
 
 * Your room must not be left in this state, my dear. 1 shall 
 expect to see it look very different before luncheon.'
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 341 
 
 The door dosed with rather a hasty sound. Alice checked 
 ihe exclamation which rose to her hps, and recommenced her 
 work with a different spirit ; not dreamy, but fretted into energy. 
 The present was before her now, recalled, as if by a spell, by 
 Lady Catharine's words. The gong sounded precisely as the 
 church clock struck one. Alice placed the last set of books 
 neatly on the shelf, and ran down-stairs. Lady Catharine was 
 waiting for her in the dark, oak-panelled dining-room, standing 
 at a round table at the upper end, upon which the luncheon was 
 prepared. 
 
 ' I shall hope to see you more orderly, by and by, my dear,' 
 she said, as Alice took her seat. ' We are to lead a regular life 
 now — not as it used to be when you were running wild in the 
 holidays. I like you to be in the drawing-room five minutes 
 before luncheon, and then we can come in together. What will 
 you have ? Some cold meat ? ' 
 
 ' Only some bread and butter, thank you,' replied Alice ; and 
 she began to eat in silence. 
 
 ' You are tired, my dear,' said Lady Catharine ' Marsham 
 would have helped you, if you had asked her.* 
 
 ' No, not tired at all, thank you,' answered Alice ; and 
 silence followed again. 
 
 ' I shall like to talk to you about your studies to-morrow,' 
 observed Lady Catharine, after a long pause. ' I shall wish to 
 fix hours for your different pursuits. It will not do to give up 
 the discipline of school all at once ; and your friends, Ruth and 
 Madeline, are very industrious.' 
 
 ' They are not as old as I am,' remarked Alice. 
 
 ' Not quite ; but I think they are more forward. It struck me, 
 from some observations I made in the summer, that Ruth was 
 much better informed in English history than you are.' 
 
 * We read history every day with Mrs Carter,' replied Alice. 
 
 * Very probably ; but I am afraid you were careless. I shall 
 beg Mr Clifford to mark out a course of reading for you, such as 
 he would give to his own children.' 
 
 Ahce made no reply, but helped herself to some more bread ; 
 refusing, with a certain tone of pettishness, the cake which Lady 
 Catharine offered — indeed pressed her to take. 
 
 ' I am sure you must have fagged yourself,' began Lady 
 Catharine again ; * your appetite is not half as good as it was 
 yesterday : or have you a headache ? You must tell me, my dear, 
 directly you feel at all ill.' 
 
 Alice declared herself free from indisposition of every kind,
 
 342 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and, wishing to divert notice from herself, remarked that she 
 was glad that it was settled for Mr Clifford's sister, Mrs Mor- 
 daunt, not to go back to India ; and she supposed that her 
 mother would live with her still. 
 
 Lady Catharine said that she believed that was the arrange- 
 ment ; and it certainly seemed the best. The Parsonage was 
 too small to accommodate her comfortably. 
 
 'And Madeline and Ruth will keep their school-room,' 
 observed Alice. * They were to have given it up if Mrs Beres- 
 ford had come back.' 
 
 Lady Catharine said pointedly, that a school-room was a very 
 great comfort to them ; they made so much use of it. 
 
 Alice foresaw a little good advice ; and, to avoid it, wondered 
 why neither Ruth nor Madeline had been to see her. 
 
 * They seldom pay visits in the morning, my dear, you know; 
 so there is no occasion to wonder about it. They will be here 
 presently, I have no doubt. We will wait for them till three, 
 and if they do not come by that time, we must go out. And, 
 remember, three will be our usual walking hour, till the weather 
 becomes too warm. Finish your luncheon quickly, and then 
 go and complete your work. I should like eveiything to be in 
 order before your friends come.' 
 
 Alice began to eat more diligently than before, not raising 
 her eyes from her plate. Lady Catharine showed no further 
 desire for conversation ; the luncheon concluded as it had be- 
 gun, almost in silence, and then Alice once more retired to her 
 own room. 
 
 Little remained to be done in arranging it ; but Alice was 
 not inclined to be industrious. After the lapse of about twenty 
 minutes, Lady Catharine appeared again in the doorway. 
 
 ' Alice, my dear, have you nearly finished 1 I see the Miss 
 Cliffords coming down the avenue.' 
 
 Alice threw down a book which she had been — not reading, 
 but idly looking through, and walked about the room, doing 
 nothing in reality, though apparently very busy. Lady Catha- 
 rine watched her for some seconds, and presently took from her 
 hands a workbox, which had been moved three different times 
 in the course of a few minutes, and putting it decidedly in the 
 centre of the table, said, ' There, my dear, that will do ; now 
 go to something else.' A ring at the hall bell was just then 
 heard. Lady Catharine looked annoyed. ' I am vexed your 
 young friends should find you in such disorder ; you are a sad 
 dawdle, Alice. I wonder Mrs Carter was not more particular
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 343 
 
 with you ; however' ■ the end of the sentence war; left in 
 
 doubt ; but Lady Catharine gave AHce a kiss and went away. 
 
 Alice did really exert herself then. She did not wish, any 
 more than Lady Catharine, that the first impression of her room 
 should be unfavourable. She contrived to hide the principal 
 deficiencies whilst the servant was answering the door, and then 
 she sat down in an easy attitude, as if it was quite natural to 
 be there, and waited with some degree of impatience for the 
 entrance of her friends. 
 
 Ruth and IVIadeline Clifford, now more than fifteen years of 
 age, were but little altered in feature and general appearance 
 from what they were at twelve. Ruth's thoughtful blue eye still 
 told of a mind which naturally looked beyond the outer surface 
 of all which she saw and heard; her mouth still spoke of energy 
 and resolution ; the turn of her head was not entirely free from 
 hauteur. She had grown tall and slight ; her manners were 
 peculiarly quiet, and marked by a natural grace and refinement 
 which no education could have given. And Madeline was still 
 the bright-eyed, simple, true-hearted child ; whose words were 
 eager, and her laugh full of glee ; whose colour came and M^ent 
 with eveiy variation of her quick feelings ; and who seemed to 
 ha\'e no care, except that those she loved should be happy ; and 
 to be about to pass over the troubled sea of life with a light, 
 buoyant, hopeful spirit, which trials could not ovenvhelm. 
 
 Madeline stepped before Ruth as they entered the morning- 
 room. She threw her arms round Alice's neck, kissed her 
 heartily, and smiled with unfeigned delight as she looked at the 
 wonderful change which the apartment had undergone since she 
 was last in it. Ruth's was a calmer greeting, though not less 
 affectionate, and the first observation she made afterwards was 
 one scarcely addressed to Alice. It was spoken as her eye 
 caught the picture of Mrs Lennox. 
 
 * Yes, Alice, you can never think now that Lady Catharine 
 does not love you.' 
 
 Alice withdrew her h.and, which she had laid upon Ruth's 
 shoulder, and with a gesture of impatience pushed aside the box 
 in the centre of the table. 
 
 * Love me ! oh, yes ! every one says so ; she loves me, of 
 course ; and it is very nice. I don't think any of the girls at 
 Mrs Carter's would have a prettier room than this; do you think 
 they would ?' 
 
 ' No, not any one, I am sure/ exclaimed Madeline : * and as
 
 344 LA NE TON PARSONA GE. 
 
 for our school-room at the Parsonage, it is not in the least to 
 be compared to it. But, Alice, you must come there and like 
 it, notwithstanding; it will be charming to read and be together 
 always.' 
 
 ' Yes, if I am allowed,' replied Alice. 
 
 * But you will be. Lady Catharine told papa that she wished 
 us to be the greatest friends in the world.' 
 
 Alice expected Ruth to second Madeline's words, but Ruth's 
 manner was not quite satisfactory. She was examining a book 
 on the table, and appeared not to have heard what passed; but 
 Alice could not help thinking that she must have done so. 
 
 ' And now, Alice, tell us something about school,' said Ruth, 
 putting down the volume. ' Who will be going back next half- 
 year ? ' 
 
 Alice enumerated the names. Many were those of personal 
 strangers ; but from time to time Alice had brought back de- 
 scriptions which seemed to make them familiar acquaintances. 
 
 ' Janet Harding stays another year,' she said ; * her mamma 
 thinks her so wonderfully improved ; and so she is in some 
 things. She never quotes texts now, but she is awfully strict. 
 Jessie O'Neile, you know, is gone home for good, because her 
 papa is to live in Ireland ; and Ellen Hastings is to be sent to 
 another school because her papa is grown poor, and cannot 
 afford to keep her at Mrs Carter's ; and — let me see — Fanny — 
 oh ! she is to come back for another half-year to be finished ; 
 but she never will be finished, she is just as odd and blunt as 
 ever.' 
 
 ' And Harriet and Florence,' said Madeline ; ' they are so 
 old to be at school still !' 
 
 ' They have left now,' answered Alice. ' Florence and I are 
 great allies ; she has much more in her than we used to give 
 her credit for ; and she is so good-natured.' 
 
 ' Good-natured !' repeated Ruth ; ' I can fancy that : but as 
 for having anything in her besides the Parisian fashions, I don't 
 believe it is possible.' 
 
 ' She is to come here to stay, perhaps — at least I am to get 
 her here if I can,' continued Alice ; ' Harriet I don't care much 
 for, she is dull undoubtedly ; but Florence is up to anything.' 
 
 Ruth smiled, and said — 
 
 ' That is not any great charm, Alice ; she may be up to mis- 
 chief.' Alice made no answer. 
 
 * I wish you did not like her,' said Madeline.
 
 LA NE TON PARSOXA GE. 345 
 
 * VVhy?' and Alice turned round rather sharply. 
 
 * Because I don't, that is all ; and I should like us to like the 
 same person.' 
 
 Again Alice glanced at Ruth, as if expecting to receive a 
 similar expression of interest from her ; and again Ruth took 
 no notice, and Alice sighed. 
 
 * And you are to be very regular, and study a great deal, 
 I suppose, Alice ? ' inquired Ruth ; * you have books enough. 
 I see you have the same edition of Racine that papa 
 has given us ; shall you read by yourself, or with Lady 
 Catharine ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know : I cannot tell anything yet,' replied Alice. 
 * I have done nothing to-day but put my room in order.' 
 
 < Papa means to talk to Lady Catharine about your taking a 
 day at the school,' said ^Ladeline ; * shall you like it .^' 
 
 ' Do you take one?' asked Alice, evading the question. 
 
 * Yes, for the litde classes ; and on Sundays, you know, we 
 always go. Papa is a great deal at the school now, and has 
 the elder girls at home, because of the confirmation.' 
 
 ' We are to be confirmed,' said Ruth, gravely. 
 
 < And you will be, too, Alice,' observed Madeline. 
 Alice's cheek flushed with a sudden excitement. 
 
 ' And I shall be, too ! Who says so ? ' 
 
 * Lady Catharine ; she and papa were talking about it last 
 Sunday.' 
 
 Alice sat down quickly, and began to move the different 
 articles on the table with an air of mingled nervousness and 
 absence of mind. Madeline w^atched her attentively for a few 
 seconds, and then going up to her, said, kindly, * Alice, dear, 
 something is the matter.' 
 
 ' No, nothing ; ' but Alice went on as before, and still in 
 silence. 
 
 Madeline looked at Ruth for an explanation. 
 
 ' Have we vexed you V said Ruth, affectionately. ' We wish 
 you would tell us.' 
 
 Alice looked up sadly. ' You have not vexed me, Ruth ; 
 that is, it is not your doing ; but I was thinking of things, I 
 don't know what precisely — a great many things. She is so 
 particular — she interferes.' 
 
 < She ! Lady Catharine?' asked Madeline. 
 
 'Yes. It is very wrong to complain, I know ; don't say that 
 I talked about it ; and she is very kind — she had this room
 
 346 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 quite ready for me when I came home last night. I thought I 
 was going to be happy then.' 
 
 'And are you not happy ?' inquired Ruth, with evident sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 ' She interferes/ repeated Alice. ' You two cannot under- 
 stand what I mean. Your papa and mamma are not after you 
 always.' 
 
 'Was Lady Catharine with you all this morning?' inquired 
 ]\Iadeline. 
 
 * Not Avith me, but looking after me. She knew just what I 
 was about : and she said something because I was not in the 
 drawing-room five minutes before luncheon ; and directly after- 
 wards she sent me up-stairs, and told me exactly what I was to 
 do. It is the same sort of thing which us-cd to go on in the 
 holidays, only it seems worse now I am come home for good.' 
 
 ' Perhaps Lady Catharine is particular now, to put you in the 
 right way,' suggested Madeline. 
 
 ' It is not the being particular ; Mrs Carter was particular — 
 it is the manner. But then it is wrong in me to care. I wish 
 I did not feel it ; I wish I was some one else ; I wish ' 
 
 Alice's glance was involuntarily directed to her mother's 
 picture ; and she stopped, struggling to keep back her tears. 
 
 ' Mamma will be like your own mamma, Alice, dear,' began 
 Madeline ; but Ruth interrupted her. 
 
 ' No, Madeline ; we must not say that ; \ve must not put 
 any one before Lady Catharine. And papa always declares 
 that she does really love Alice dearly.' 
 
 ' Well, then, Alice, by and by you will be accustomed to it, 
 and then you will not mind,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, but I shall ; I cannot help it : and I am growing too 
 old to be watched in that way ; no one else is. Florence 
 Trevelyan does just what she likes at home.' 
 
 Ruth's look of compassion changed, at this speech, into one 
 of surprise. 
 
 ' But surely, Alice, Florence Trevelyan is no specimen of the 
 good of doing as one likes.' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' replied Alice, speaking more cheerfully, 
 but not without irritation ; ' Florence Trevelyan has a great deal 
 more sense, and principle too, than you give her credit for, Mrs 
 Carter says she is very much improved.' 
 
 ' Really ! ' exclaimed Ruth ; ' I suppose by that she must be 
 altered.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 347 
 
 ' So you would not believe me/ observed Alice, with an air 
 of pique. 
 
 ' I would believe you in some things, a great many indeed ; 
 but about Florence — I think you are fond of her.' 
 
 * Perhaps I am ; she is very fond of me,' replied Alice. 
 
 * And when persons are very fond of you, Alice, you always 
 fancy them perfection.' 
 
 ' Couleur de rose, as Justine le Vergnier used to say,' re- 
 marked Madeline. 
 
 A faint tinge of red flushed Ruth's cheek at this name, and 
 she inquired hastily, ' Shall you walk this afternoon, Alice.'" 
 
 ' By and by, I believe. Do you know that Justine is gone out 
 as a governess .'' I heard it just before I came away, from 
 Signor Berretoni. We have never learned anything else scarcely 
 about her since Monsieur left off teaching at Mrs Carter's. Mrs 
 Carter has been extremely strict about her. One of the girls 
 told me that Monsieur would have given anything to have had 
 her amongst us again.' 
 
 Ruth became quite silent after this speech, and Madeline 
 seemed conscious that the subject was a disagreeable one. 
 After a little time, however, Ruth said, rather abruptly to Alice, 
 ' Then Lady Catharine has not mentioned the confirmation to 
 you, Alice.' 
 
 ' No, how should she ? there has been no time.' 
 
 * But she will, certainly,' continued Madeline ; ' and it will 
 be fixed for you to come to papa to be examined with us. You 
 will not mind that, shall you r 
 
 A slight restraint was visible in Alice's manner as she replied, 
 * Not the examination ; I can answer questions ; but there are 
 some things — Ruth, are you going to be veiy good after you are 
 confirmed ?' 
 
 Ruth coloured crimson, and Madeline answered for her. 
 
 ' Ruth is veiy good now ; a great deal better than you cau 
 guess, Alice.' 
 
 Just then Marsham knocked at t-he door. She came up with 
 a message. 
 
 ' Lady Catharine <vas gone to prepare for her walk ; she 
 wished Miss Lennox to accompany her, and the Miss Cliffords 
 could go with them to the Parsonage.' 
 
 ' Only to the Parsdnage !' repeated Alice. 'I thought we 
 should ha^•e gone all together somewhere. And it is so hot for 
 walking I'
 
 348 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 She threw open the window wider, and declared there was not 
 a breath of air, although at the same moment a soft breeze was 
 fanning her cheek. Then she put a finishing stroke to the 
 arrangement of the furniture, altered the order of the books, and 
 again came back to the window. 
 
 ' You will not dislike going out when you are dressed,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 Alice would not take the hint. Madeline offered to fetch her 
 bonnet and scarf, but was told that no one except Marsham 
 knew where to find them ; and Alice still delayed, leaning her 
 head out of the window, and sighing at the heat. 
 
 Marsham came again, with the information that Lady Catha- 
 rine was waiting. 
 
 Alice's exclamation of impatience was accompanied by a 
 complaint, that she was always worried and not allowed a 
 moment's freedom ; but this time neither Madeline nor Ruth 
 sympathised with her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 RUTH, are you very much interested in your book ?' said 
 Mr Clifford, as he came into the drawing-room at the 
 Parsonage, that evening. 
 
 Ruth was alone. She laid down the volume, and answered, 
 with a smile, ' Papa, that means I am to talk.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps it does. Why did you leave all the con- 
 versation to Madeline just now, when she was telling us of 
 your visit to the Manor ? ' 
 
 ' Madeline always knows what to say,' replied Ruth ; ' and I 
 do not.' 
 
 ' But in this case there could have been no difficulty ; it was 
 merely a straightforward history of fact.' 
 
 Ruth paused, as if she did not quite agree. ' I don't think 
 it is quite straightforward, papa ; at least, the facts puzzle me : 
 that is why I do not talk."' 
 
 ' Because you do not understand your own feelings about 
 Alice ?' asked Mr Clifford, in a tone of doubtful inquiry. 
 
 Ruth laughed. ' Papa, you guess now just in the wonderful 
 way you did when I was a little cliild. Do you think AUcc is 
 my friend ? '
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE, 349 
 
 < All, Ruth ! that is the secret ; I was sure of it. You have 
 been examining your feelings, and fretting yourself about them 
 ever since your return.' 
 
 ' I ought to be certain,' said Ruth. * I have known Alice all 
 my life nearly.' 
 
 ' Known her in a degree — outwardly.' 
 
 * But we were at school together, papa ; and girls at school 
 know each other intimately.' 
 
 ' That was some time ago, my dear Ruth ; and a little time, 
 at your age, will work great changes. Possibly, you may have 
 been advancing in one direction, Alice in another. No wonder, 
 then, that when you meet you do not thoroughly comprehend 
 each other.' 
 
 ' We have met during the holidays,' persisted Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, but at such seasons Alice did not, as it were, come in 
 contact with you. She was more a visitor than a home com- 
 panion ; the trial of your friendship will be now.' 
 
 Ruth repeated the word ' friendship ' in an under-tone ; and, 
 after a few moments' thought, said, ' Papa, I do not think I 
 shall ever form a friendship for Alice j — not what I call friend- 
 ship.' 
 
 Mr Clififord smiled. ' And your notion of friendship, Ruth, 
 is — what ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, papa ! I know you will laugh. Old people — no, not 
 old people, but grown-up people, always do, when girls talk of 
 friendship.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, my dear child,' and Mr Clifford became grave 
 in an instant, ' I am the last person to laugh at anything in- 
 volving such serious consequences. I merely smiled at the 
 recollection of some romantic absurdities I have heard upon 
 the subject ; but they are not likely to be yours, Ruth ; so tell 
 me, what is your idea of friendship ? ' 
 
 * I don't think I can explain ; I don't think I quite know 
 myself — that is, I can feel it, but I cannot put it into words. 
 Mamma would be like a friend, only she is so much older, and 
 so much better, and she is " mamma." ' 
 
 * And Miss Vernon, what of her 1 ' 
 
 * Mary Vernon ; yes, she would be a real friend ; but she is 
 so far away, and she is going to be married ; I never have 
 anything to do with her except by letters ; and that is not 
 satisfactory, though I like having her letters excessively.' 
 
 ' And Madeline ? '
 
 3SO LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' O papa ! Madeline is myself ; there is no one in all the 
 world like IMadeline — no one could be. She is not my friend 
 at all.' 
 
 ' Only your sister,' said Mr Clifford, with a half smile, which 
 changed into an expression of fond interest, as Madeline, fol- 
 lowing her mother into the room, and drawing a footstool to 
 the side of Ruth's chair, leaned her head upon her lap, and 
 whispered — 
 
 'Now, go on talking ; I always like to hear you and papa talk.' 
 
 Ruth smoothed the fair hair which clustered round her 
 sister's face, and imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and then 
 turning to her mother, said, ' Mamma, it is you who must ex- 
 plain ; you always understand. What dt) I mean by a friend.'* 
 
 ' And why cannot Alice Lennox be Ruth's friend ? ' continued 
 Mr CHfford. 
 
 ' We should have reached that point, only we were obliged 
 to define friendship first of all.' 
 
 * Ruth's notion of friendship is of a .high, pure feeling,' re- 
 plied Mrs Clifford ; ' respect as well as love.' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma, yes, exactly ; that is just it : and I don't 
 think I can respect Alice. She is very good-natured, I would 
 not be unkind, I do like her very much, but sometimes — 
 Maddy, you know ' 
 
 ' Alice wishes to do right,' said Madeline, sitting upright, 
 and speaking energetically. 
 
 ' Wishes ! but she does not do it ; she never did, that I 
 can remember. It was the same at school ; she was always 
 wishing.' 
 
 ' Which is at least one point in her favour,' said Mrs Chfford, 
 gently. 
 
 ' Yes ; but dear mamma, it is so tiresome to be with persons 
 who do nothing but wish. It used to provoke me at school to 
 hear Alice complaining of herself, and then to see her idle away 
 her time just as much as ever.' 
 
 * Patience ! Ruth,' said Mr Clifford ; ' we need it ourselves.' 
 
 * Yes, papa, of course ; but for a friend, patience does not 
 seem the right thing. One would like some one to make one 
 better.' 
 
 Mrs Clifford turned to Madeline. ' What do you say, Made- 
 line, my love ; is not Alice your friend eitlier?' 
 
 ' I don't know, mamma ; I never think whether she is or not. 
 She is different from other people, more like a relation.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 351 
 
 ' But it is not a matter of course to like one's relations,' ob- 
 served Ruth, quickly. 
 
 And Alice is cast off, then,' said Mr Clifford. There 
 was melancholy in the tone of his voice, which Ruth per- 
 ceived.. 
 
 * Papa, do you think I am wrong?' she asked. 
 
 * It would be hard to say that, my dear. I should be very 
 sorry for you to have low ideas of friendship ; yet I feel for 
 Alice, she is so lonely.' 
 
 ' But, papa, surely you would not wish me to care for any 
 one who has not right principles .'' ' 
 
 ' There are different degrees in what you term caring, my 
 dear Ruth. For your own sake I may be quite contented that 
 you feel as you do.' 
 
 * But Ruth would make her good,' exclaimed Madeline; 'be- 
 cause she makes every one good.' 
 
 Ruth's eyes sparlded brightly for an instant. 
 
 Mr Clifford watched her attentively. * It is as well, perhaps, 
 that things should be as they are,' he said, after a short silence. 
 * It is a great trial for us all to be constantly and affectionately 
 associated with those we cannot thoroughly respect. Ten years 
 hence, Ruth, we may hope that you will be able to take an in- 
 terest in such persons, witliout injury to yourself.' 
 
 ' Alice will be different after she is confirmed,' observed 
 Madeline. 
 
 ' No, my dear Madeline,' said Mr Clifford ; ' Alice will 
 not be different after her confirmation, unless she is different 
 before it. Confirmation is what the word implies, a fixing or 
 strengthening ; but there must be a principle first of all to be 
 fixed.' 
 
 * Alice had a right principle given her once,' said IVIa- 
 deline. 
 
 ' Undoubtedly; but it may have been weakened, or, to speak 
 more truly, the Holy Spirit may have been resisted.' 
 ' That has been the case with us all,' said Madeline. 
 
 * In a measure, my love, at times ; but there is a vast differ- 
 ence between persons who seem to live very much the same 
 kind of lives. It is a difference in the will — not the wish 
 merely, but the will ; and it is the latter which is strengthened 
 at confirmation. Almost all the young people who intend to 
 come before the bishop, iv/s/i by and by to be good ; but I 
 am afraid there are comparatively very few who really w?7/ it,'
 
 3p LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline turned to her mamma, who was standing by her, 
 listening to the conversation, and, in an under-voicc, said, 
 ' Mamma, do you think I have the will?' 
 
 Mrs Cliftbrd's quiet answer, ' I trust so, my child,' might 
 have appeared cold to some ; but it was the smile, the look of 
 contentment and hope which Madeline required, and which 
 satisfied her. 
 
 Ruth was leaning back in her chair whilst this conversation 
 was passing, seemingly engrossed in her own thoughts. Mr 
 Clifford sat down by her, and took up a book. Mrs Clifford 
 prepared the tea, and Madeline went to fetch her work for the 
 evening. Still Ruth was silent ; and when at length she was 
 awakened from her fit of abstraction by Madeline's offering her 
 some bread and butter, she did not tell what she had been 
 thinking about. After the tea-things were removed, Mr Clifford 
 went to his study, and Ruth prepared as usual to read aloud.. 
 Perhaps she was sleepy — perhaps the book was not interesting. 
 Certainly she did not seem to take much interest in it, and 
 made many mistakes. Mrs Clifford proposed music towards 
 the close of the evening, and Ruth was sent to the study to 
 know if her papa could come in. 
 
 ' Not to-night, my dear,' replied Mr Clifford, as she delivered 
 her message. 
 
 He did not raise his eyes from his writing. Ruth lingered 
 in the doorway. 
 
 ' Presently, papa — please do. It is much more pleasant to 
 play when you are there. 
 
 ' O Ruth ! is it you?' and Mr Clifford looked up. ' I fan- 
 cied it was Madeline. No, I am afraid I cannot possibly come 
 to-night ; I have not half finished my sermon.' 
 
 ' But there will be time to-morrow, dear papa. I wish you 
 would.' 
 
 Ruth advanced to enforce her petition by a kiss, 
 
 'It is a confirmation sermon, Ruth ; I must not write it in a 
 hurry.* 
 
 ' It is always the confirmation now,' began Ruth ; but she 
 stopped and coloured. 
 
 * Would you have it anything else, my dear child ?' 
 
 * No, papa, of course not. I know it must be ; but when it 
 is over I think I shall be glad.' 
 
 ' And we may hope you will have reason to be so,' answered 
 Mr Clifford, very gravely.
 
 LANETON parsonage. 353 
 
 l^uth's reply was in an altered tone. ' Papa, I wish I never 
 thought of serious things lightly.' 
 
 ' Never speak of them lightly, my dear, that is the first step ; 
 and confirmation is of such great importance — a moment's 
 thought upon the subject would always check you.' Mr Clifford 
 took up his pen ; but still Ruth did not offer to go. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, after some hesitation, ' do you really think 
 I could be of any use to Alice .-" 
 
 Mr Cliftord smiled, but it was not quite a smile of satisfac- 
 tion. ' I do not know, my dear. I would rather you should 
 not think about it.' 
 
 * I should like to do her good,' continued Ruth ; ' Madeline 
 believes I could.' 
 
 Mr Clifford pushed aside his writing as he rei^lied, ' My 
 dear Ruth, we do good to others by doing good to ourselves. 
 You, of all people, must remember this.' 
 
 ' Because I am proud,' said Ruth ; and the colour deepened 
 on her cheek. 
 
 * Yes ; because you are naturally proud, and have a great 
 desire of influence and power. If this temptation is ever to be 
 subdued, the struggle must begin at once.' 
 
 'And I must not think about Alice, then .?' said Ruth. 
 
 * Think about her in setting a good example, trying to make 
 her happy, and giving her an interest in your pursuits ; but 
 leave the result. Alice is in far wiser hands than either yours 
 or mine. 
 
 * I do not think I quite understand,' said Ruth. 
 
 * It is the difference,' replied Mr Chfford, ' between making 
 it your chief business to induce her to do her duty, or to induce 
 yourself to do your own There are persons who are called 
 upon to lead others — clergymen, parents, masters and mistresses 
 of families, and teachers. You are not placed in any such 
 responsible situation. At your age there is but one thing to 
 be attended to — your own heart.' 
 
 Ruth stood in silent thought for a few moments. At length 
 she said, ' It is so hard to know about one's own heart. I do 
 a great many bad things ; but I cannot always feel sorry. 
 Madeline is always sorry.' 
 
 * Madeline is blest with a tender conscience,' rephed Mr 
 Clifford ; * but she has her difficulties as well as you, my dear 
 Ruth. Still it is, I own, very sad to know that we ought to 
 feel our sins, and yet not to do so,' 
 
 Z
 
 354 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' I cannot make myself feel,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' But you can pray, my dear child. Do you remember the 
 collect for Ash-Wednesday? It is particularly applicable to 
 persons who desire to be penitent, and yet are conscious that 
 they are not so ; and, besides, you can practise yourself 
 in self-examination — that is, not merely looking into your 
 own heart, but into the law of God. The first step in the 
 knowledge of what we are, is the sense of what we ought to 
 be.' 
 
 * Perfect ! ' said Ruth, in a tone of much seriousness. 
 
 ' Yes ; perfect, even as our Father which is in heaven is 
 perfect.' 
 
 * But it is impossible to be so now,' said Ruth. 
 
 * Impossible in actual practice ; but not impossible in the 
 will and endeavour.' 
 
 ' Only, if we can never succeed,' continued Ruth, with some 
 hesitation, ' why should we attempt it ?' 
 
 ' I will answer your question by what is called analogy,' re- 
 plied ]\lr Cliftbrd. ' When a great artist sits down to draw, 
 what is his object .'" 
 
 * To do the best,' replied Ruth. 
 
 * Yes, the best possible, without imperfection ; and yet he is 
 straining after that which he can never reach. So when a man 
 devotes himself to science, his wish is to know all things con- 
 nected with it. But the works of God are infinite : it is not in 
 his nature to understand them ; yet who blames him for trying 
 to do so? It is only in religion, Ruth, that we are contented 
 with anything short of perfection.' 
 
 Ruth replied that she did not think she was contented. 
 
 ' I suspect you are more so than you imagine,' observed her 
 father : ' and, my love, since we are talking upon the subject, I 
 would ask you, whenever you are inclined to dwell upon the 
 hope of doing good to others, to end by thinking how perfect 
 you ought to be yourself.' 
 
 * I do think about it very often,* replied Ruth. 
 
 ' Yet think about it still more; carry out the idea into details. 
 Try, for instance, to understand in little minute particulars, what 
 is involved in the two great duties of love to God and love of 
 your neighbour ; all which tends to keep up a high standard of 
 goodness is especially necessary for you, more peculiarly now, 
 as a preparation for confirmation, when you are about to renew 
 a sacred promise.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 355 
 
 ' I can never quite understand why it is right to promise so 
 nuch,' said Ruth, * since no one can perform it.' 
 
 ' When you are older, my love, and have thought more 
 deeply, you will comprehend better that it would be inconsist- 
 ent with the perfection of God to allow any promise to be made 
 to Him that is not complete. But I think, even now, you will 
 see that we act in the same way ourselves. A wife vows per- 
 fect obedience to her husband ; a subject swears to be entirely 
 loyal to his sovereign. No one says in these instances, " I am 
 not perfect, and I will only engage to keep a part of the vow ; " 
 but all right-minded persons promise — that is, they own to 
 having the will, and that will is accepted. If this is the case 
 with our fellow-creatures, much more may we hope it will be 
 with our merciful God.' 
 
 ' I think I have the will,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' I trust you have, my dear ; yet I should be glad to know 
 you had thought a good deal about it. We can only know 
 ourselves by self-examination ; comparing our conduct with 
 the requirements of God. When we see our duties, we see our 
 faults. I wish you would spend some little time, as I said, in 
 imagining what your every-day conduct would be — how it would 
 differ from what it is at present — if you were fully to perform 
 those two duties, love to God and to your neighbour. I think 
 it would be of use to you — of more use' — and Mr Clifford 
 smiled gravely — ' than trying to do good to Alice.' 
 
 Ruth's face was, for an instant, clouded. ' I should like to 
 do good to myself and Alice too,' she said. 
 
 ' But, my love, trust me, till you have fulfilled the first task 
 thoroughly, you will never be fit for the second.' 
 
 The truth of this assertion Ruth would not dispute, and she 
 left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 SOME days afterwards Lady Catharine and Alice were 
 breakfasting together at the Manor at eight o'clock. The 
 room they occupied was that in which Alice, in by-gone days, 
 used to spend her pleasant Sundays. It was a south room, 
 immediately under Alice's own apartment, and it had been re- 
 touched — it could scarcely be called re-furnished — within the
 
 356 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 last few months. Some old-fashioned chairs had been re- 
 moved, and a cumbrous cabinet ; and there was a new book- 
 case occupying the lower end. Similar changes had taken 
 place in many parts of the home — only in one respect 
 there was no alteration. The closed rooms were still closed, 
 and more carefully than before ; they were never now unlocked 
 except at stated periods. Alice saw, but she could not appre- 
 ciate the changes made. There are some minds which in- 
 stinctively cling to early attachments and acquired habits, with 
 a tenacity which makes it a positive pain to break from them 
 even in trifles. Such was Lady Catharine Hyde's. The sight 
 of every object in its accustomed place, the punctual recuiTcnce 
 of the same duties at the same hours, were necessary to her. 
 It might not have been desirable that such things should be of 
 importance ; but the error, if it can be called such, had been 
 increased, if not actually occasioned, by the circumstances in 
 which she had been placed. Left in loneliness and great 
 sorrow at an early period of life. Lady Catharine had been 
 thrown back upon herself, her own resources, her own wishes. 
 Excessive precision and punctuality became a business to her. 
 They gave her something to think of and to do ; they were 
 motives for exertion ; and in themselves, when not carried to 
 excess (and there was no excess when she first began rigor- 
 ously to practise them), they were undoubtedly useful. It was 
 natural that one who moved so little in society, should learn to 
 expect her will in such cases to be a law. Lady Catharine 
 Hyde hardly knew what it was to be disobeyed, and she was 
 never led to imagine, by anything she saw or heard, that her 
 peculiar habits and fancies could be burdensome to other per- 
 sons. She believed that her mode of life was calculated, by 
 its quietness and order, to render Alice good and happy ; and, 
 feeling herself surrounded by all that was needful for her own 
 comfort, it was not easy to imagine what more a young girl 
 could require. And yet Lady Catharine did think much, 
 whether by any alteration she could give Alice pleasure. Al- 
 though it did not suit her to ask the opinion of any other 
 person upon the subject, she did the very best, according to 
 her own judgment. The arrangement of Alice's room cost her 
 much thought, and this was, in a measure, valued ; but the 
 changes in oiher parts of the house, which to Lady Catharine 
 were of much consequence, were almost unheeded by Alice. 
 So it was in many ways : that which to Lady Cathaiine was a
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 357 
 
 considerable effort, even an annoyance, was taken as a matter 
 of course by Alice. Lady Catharine was peculiarly unselfish. 
 Alice was bent upon her own gratification ; and yet, when 
 Alice made her complaint to Madeline and Ruth, a stranger 
 might have supposed that she was suffering under constant 
 domestic tyranny, and this without any actual exaggeration of 
 the facts. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Lady Catharine, on this morning, as Alice 
 sat down to the breakfast table, and began to pour some hot 
 milk into the small, deep cups of oriental china, which Lady 
 Catharine had never been prevailed upon to exchange for 
 modern breakfast cups : ' you were rather after your time this 
 morning; did Marsham call you properly?' 
 
 * The prayer bell had only just rung when I came down,' 
 replied Alice. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, my dear ; I waited at least seven 
 minutes ; I reckoned by my watch. Don't let it happen 
 again.' 
 
 ' No, ma'am.' 
 
 ' And, Alice, one thing I wanted to say to you particularly ; 
 you manage to keep Barnes late with the letters — I saw him 
 actually running to the post-office yesterday.' 
 
 Alice could not refrain from a smile as she thought of any 
 one belonging to Lady Catharine's household committing the 
 grave offence of running in the village. 
 
 ' The post goes out earlier than it did,' she replied. 
 
 * Yes ; but that ought to make no difference to you ; you 
 ought to be ready in time, for you have the whole morning to 
 yourself.' 
 
 * I had several letters to write yesterday,' continued Alice. 
 Lady Catharine looked annoyed. 
 
 * My dear, I wish you could learn to take reproof better ; it 
 really seems as if you could never be in the wrong.' 
 
 Alice was silent. Lady Catharine was beginning to notice 
 her silence. She pondered upon it in her own mind, wondering 
 what the cause could be, and then went on — 
 
 * What makes you write so many letters, my dear.?' 
 
 ' They are to my schoolfellows,' replied Alice. * I promised 
 I would write.' 
 
 ' To some, certainly you may.'' 
 
 Alice raised her head for an instant in surprise ; then began 
 sipping her coffee quickly.
 
 358 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 She had ncvci' realised the notion of Lady Catharine's inter- 
 ftring with her correspondence. 
 
 * We shall see, my dear,' continued Lady Catharine in a 
 voice which she meant to be peculiarly encouraging ; ' perhaps 
 I may not object ; you shall show me some of their answers.' 
 
 Alice grew rather uncomfortable. She had a most unpleasant 
 recollection of a habit of Florence Trevelyan's of calling Lady 
 Catharine ' Juno.' 
 
 ' Is Miss Vernon one of your correspondents ?' inquired Lady 
 Catharine. ' I should have no objection to her.' 
 
 ' She is Rulh's friend,' answered Alice ; ' she has left school 
 a long time.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; I remember now. But tell me, my dear — I really 
 want to know — what are the names of your friends ?' 
 
 ' I write to Jessie O'Neile sometimes,' answered Alice, de- 
 sirous to put forward the acquaintance which was the least likely 
 to be found fault with. 
 
 ' JNIiss O'Neile : that is one. And whom besides ?' 
 
 ' Last holidays I wrote to Fanny Wilson,' continued Alice. 
 
 ' Miss O'Neile and Miss Wilson. I have heard them 
 mentioned. I can inquire about them through INIrs Carter. 
 Well?' 
 
 ' And sometimes — I have not written often ' 
 
 Lady Catharine's eye was fixed upon Alice, and the name was 
 uttered hurriedly. 
 
 * Sometimes I v.rite to Florence Trevelyan.' 
 'Oh ! Trevelyan!' 
 
 To Alice's surprise Lady Catharine's face quite brightened at 
 the name. 
 
 ' I know something of them — the Trevelyans of Cromer Court. 
 Mrs Carter told me that two of the daughters were with her. An 
 aunt of theirs, ]\Irs De Lacy, has lately come into this neighbour- 
 hood. I am sorry you are not more intimate.' 
 
 Ahce was upon the point of saying that she was very intimate, 
 but she could not openly and at once contradict herself. 
 
 ' I will inquire about the others you named,' pursued Lady 
 Catharine, with unusual animation. ' I shall like you to have 
 friends of your own age ; and if these young ladies are desirable 
 companions, you can ask them to come and stay with you by 
 and by.' 
 
 'Thank you, ma'am,' replied Alice, coldly. She did not 
 feel ungrateful, but she was provoked with herself. If she had
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 359 
 
 only spoken out boldly, Florence Trevelyan might have been 
 invited almost immediately. 
 
 Lady Catharine had made what for her was a great advance 
 towards sympathy, and was vexed at Alice's apparent shyness. 
 Still she made another attempt to overcome it. 
 
 ' You can tell me, I daresay, my dear, what Miss O'Neile and 
 Miss Wilson are like. What age are the/ ?' 
 
 Alice told, and made a few general observations on their 
 appearance and dispositions. 
 
 ' Miss Trevelyan must be older, I imagine, from v.'hat Mrs 
 Carter said,' observed Lady Catharine. 
 
 Alice answered that Florence was nearly seventeen. 
 
 ' And she has a sister .'' ' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, one.' 
 
 The answer was short, for Alice particularly disliked talking 
 about Florence Trevelyan just then. 
 
 ' Ah ! then, I suppose that is the reason you did not get on 
 with her as well as with the others ; she must have been too 
 old.' 
 
 Alice was becoming vexed at what she felt to be her own 
 disagreeable manner. It was unusual for Lady Catharine to 
 ask so many questions, and under other circumstances AHce 
 would have been softened by the interest shown into being 
 communicative. Now she could only think how stupid she 
 had been herself in not saying that Florence Trevelyan was her 
 friend ; and how provoking it was in Lady Catharine so to in- 
 terpret her few words as to decide that they were not of an age 
 to suit each other. 
 
 < Well ! if Miss Trevelyan should come into the neighbour- 
 hood to visit her aunt, I shall hope to become acquainted with 
 her,' continued Lady Catharine. 
 
 Alice said, with an air of indifference, she hoped that Flor- 
 ence would come ; and then the conversation was stopped, for 
 the butler came in with the letters. Three were laid before 
 Lady Catharine, one before Alice ; Lady Catharine was imme- 
 diately engrossed in her correspondence, and Alice opened a 
 letter from Florence Trevelyan with some degree of trepidation 
 as to the style of its contents. 
 
 But there v/as not any great reason to be uncomfortable. 
 Florence Trevelyan had not remained so long under Mrs 
 Carter's care \vithout deriving benefit. 
 
 She was, as Alice had said, improved ; her very moderate
 
 3bo LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 abilities had been made the most of; and her manners and 
 habits refined. When with sensible judicious companions, she 
 could be apparently sensible and judicious too ; or at least 
 not remarkably the re\-erse. She was what is called very 
 passable in society ; lady-like and tolerably accomplished ; 
 with sufficient information to enable her to enter upon 
 the ordiiViVfy topics of the day ^\■ithout committing any great 
 blunders. 
 
 On more important points she was altered much in the same 
 degree. Increasing age had given her increasing steadiness ; 
 her position in the school, which naturally Avas raised as time 
 passed on, made her more watchful over others, and more 
 guarded in her own conduct. Though she often talked fool- 
 ishly and loved dress, and gave way to vanity, it was in a quiet 
 way which people in general were not likely to remark ; and 
 which even Mrs Carter sometimes failed to discover, Florence 
 Trevelyan, when she left school, was like hundreds of her age 
 and sex who have received the ordinary advantages of educa- 
 tion. The usual remark made upon her was, that she was a 
 nice, lady-like girl, and more agreeable than Harriet, whose 
 temper was not so good, and whose manners were not so lively. 
 Her letter was a transcript of her mind ; smooth and well- 
 sounding, with nothing in it ; the handwriting pointed and 
 delicate enough to pass current as a lady's, but not giving any 
 indication of character. 
 
 The first part of the letter was written from her home. It 
 mentioned the weather and the state of the roads, her mamma's 
 health, and the arrival of her brothers from school. Also the 
 fact that she had received a present from an uncle, and had 
 been invited to a young party. The postscript, -svritten on a 
 loose half- sheet, was, however, dated differently. It was from 
 Sheldon, a village about three miles from Laneton, Florence 
 was staying there with her aunt. She wrote in great delight, 
 and with most warm expressions. The near vicinity to Lane- 
 ton had brought out all her real or supposed affection for Alice. 
 It was now, ' My dearest Alice ; ' nothing could be more charm- 
 ing than the prospect of their meeting ; Mrs De Lacy was en- 
 chanted also. They would be together constantly. In fact, 
 the chief object of Florence's visit to the neighbourhood was, 
 she saifl, the prospect of seeing her ' darling Alice.' At the 
 conclusion, Alice was reminded that she had not kept to her 
 promise of writing every week > and it w?is hinted, in terms of
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 36 1 
 
 gentle reproach, that she seemed likely to be the first to break 
 the vow they had made of lasting friendship. 
 
 The letter was a very fair letter ; there was really nothing 
 objectionable in it : no mention of 'Juno :' but it perplexed 
 Alice extremely. The idea of lasting friendship and corres- 
 pondence every week was not at all compatible with her profes- 
 sion of writing but seldom, andher air of indifference ; and they 
 were just the points which Lady Catharine was likely to notice. 
 
 ' Well ! my dear ! ' said Lady Catharine, laying down her 
 letter, and looking at Alice as if expecting to receive something. 
 Alice held Florence's letter under the table. ' You have heard 
 from some one, surely, my dear .'' ' 
 
 * Yes, ma'am.' Alice hesitated ; then, what she considered a 
 bright thought — alas ! should we not rather call all thoughts 
 but those of simple truth most dark and evil ones — struck her. 
 She placed the letter before Lady Catharine, and crushing the 
 postscript together, managed to put it into her pocket. 
 
 * A very tolerable letter this,' said Lady Catharine, as she 
 finished reading it. ' Very fairly expressed ; neatly written ; 
 not much in it, certainly ; but still, as you are only commonly 
 intimate, I suppose there is not much to be said. I daresay 
 you will be in no great hurry to answer it. Young ladies seldom 
 care to give up much of their time except to their particular 
 friends. Which do you like best, Alice — Miss Wilson or Miss 
 O'Neile 1 ' 
 
 Alice did not know ; she was equally indifferent to both. 
 
 * Put the letter by carefully,' continued Lady Catharine. 'You 
 should have a place in your desk for answered letters and un- 
 answered letters. Or, stay, I will give you a little case for them, 
 marked. You will like that, my dear ? ' 
 
 There was sometimes a tone in Lady Catharine's ' my dear,' 
 which touched Alice deeply. It spoke of such real kindness, 
 such hearty interest ; — it was one of the few signs of her deep 
 affection which almost unknowingly escaped her. Now it 
 sounded in Alice's ear as a reproach for a slight deception, the 
 result of a want of moral courage ; for words true in the 
 letter, but not in the spirit. Alice had not written often to 
 Florence ; but she had promised that she would do so. She 
 said, ' Thank you,' for Lady Catharine's offer of a case for her 
 letters, but it was not hearty gratitude, and Lady Catharine was 
 once more chilled. A last attempt was made for conversation 
 tady Catharine mentioned the confirmation. She spoke of it very
 
 362 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 seriously, and with considerable tenderness towards Alice. She 
 did not indeed inquire vvhether Alice was desirous of being con- 
 firmed ; that was taken as a matter of course ; but she ex- 
 pressed most warm interest in her welfare, and begged that if 
 difficulties should arise in her mind, they might be brought before 
 her without reserve. Then she said, ' You are very silent, my 
 love ; have you any objection to being confirmed ? ' 
 
 Poor Alice ! she would have suffered severe bodily pain to 
 avoid answering that question ; for how much was involved in it ! 
 
 Confirmation was a very important rite. Lady Catharine had 
 said. Yes ; Alice knew well that. She knew the deep meaning 
 of her baptismal vows ; she knew the trial implied in the solemn 
 engagements to renounce the works of the devil and the vanities 
 of the world ; to believe the articles of the Christian faith, and to 
 keep the commandments of God through the course, of — it might 
 be — a long life. Alice was not ignorant of her responsibilities. 
 She understood them too well for her own peace of mind ; for 
 conscience whispered, in answer to Lady Catharine's question, 
 that she was not willing to undertake them ; that she would fain 
 live a little longer to the world and to herself; that she would 
 indulge her vanity, and follow the bent of her own self-will for a 
 little while, and then — but Alice did not think deliberately of the 
 future. She took it for granted that she should be good some 
 day or other, in some way or other. She supposed that religion 
 would come to her by and by, as a matter of course. Lady 
 Catharine was religious, so was Mrs Carter, so were Mr and 
 Mrs Cliftbrd. Their right principles seemed to be always at 
 hand, and Alice could not see why at last it should not be the 
 same with her. To be religious without effort was her desire. 
 Confirmation implied an effort — a resolution. Alice was no 
 hypocrite. She did not desire to make the effort, therefore she 
 did not desire to be confirmed. Yet, in answer to Lady 
 Catharine's inquiry, she said that she had no objection. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 ' "^ T'OU must wish mamma many happy returns of the day, 
 JL Alice : it is her birthday.' 
 This was Madeline's first speech to Alice on the thirtieth of
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 363 
 
 June. They were to spend the day together at the Parsonage. 
 Alice's countenance was a great contrast to Madeline's on this 
 morning. Madeline was the picture of light-heartcdness; Alice 
 was evidently discomposed. She returned Madeline's greeting, 
 and inquired for Ruth. 
 
 ' Oh, Ruth is with papa at the school, arranging the books. 
 It is a holiday, and so they are very busy putting everything in 
 order.' 
 
 < I should have thought Ruth would have had a holiday too, 
 on her mamma's birthday,' remarked Alice. 
 
 ' It is a holiday, in fact, for her ; she likes being at the school 
 very much, for she is always glad to help papa ; and I have been 
 with mamma in the store-room. Ruth thought she should be 
 back by the time you came.' 
 
 ' I imagined I should have found her here,' said Alice, in a 
 tone of vexation. 
 
 Madeline could not help perceiving Alice's manner, and began 
 to think it would have been better for her to have remained at 
 the Manor, if she was not inclined to be pleased. She proposed 
 that AMce should go up-stairs to take off her bonnet, and Alice 
 agreed, though still in the same moody way. Madeline went to 
 speak to her mamma, and during her absence Alice occupied 
 herself in looking at the books that were on the table. They 
 w^re a Bible and Prayer Book ; one or two upon confirmation 
 and the Holy Communion, and others of a serious kind. A 
 school register also was there, and with it were some little books 
 for school rewards. Alice took them up and put them down 
 with an air of disgust. Then she sighed, and returned to them 
 again. They excited apparently disagreeable thoughts, yet still 
 they engaged her attention. 
 
 It was some little time before Madeline came back, and when 
 she did, it was only to make an apology, and beg Alice to go 
 down-stairs into the school-room alone for a few minutes. She 
 would be with her as soon as possible, but she wished to do 
 something for her mamma first. 
 
 Alice did not attend to Madeline's request ; and as soon as 
 the door closed, she sat down and recommenced her examination 
 of the book. One was a volume of sacred poetry ; the names 
 of both Ruth and T^Iadeline were written in it, and it was full 
 of pencil marks. Alice saw that it was much read, and there- 
 fore she supposed much liked ; but why it should be was a 
 mystery to her. It was not what she called pretty poetry; the
 
 364 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 lines did not all flow easily, they did not catch the ear at the 
 first sound ; and there was some difficulty in reaching the 
 meaning. Alice read over some verses several times before 
 she could entirely understand them. Still, the book interested 
 her. She liked to guess why the marked passages were pre- 
 ferred ; to try and find out which were Ruth's favourites and 
 which Madeline's. Insensibly she began to apply some to her- 
 self, if not as the expression of hei own feelings, at least as 
 saying what she would wish to feel ; and whilst she did 
 this, she forgot her own cares, her self-will, and vanity, and 
 discontent, and dwelt, as it were, in another and a better 
 world. 
 
 And Alice knew that better world to be also the true world. 
 When she read of heaven and eternity, angels and saints, and 
 of Him, the Lord of all, who had redeemed her, she knew that 
 she was reading of realities which must endure for ever. A 
 quieter, more solemn feeling stole over her ; bitterness was 
 mixed with it, but she did not strive, as before, to escape from 
 it. Minutes went by quickly, and at length Alice was roused 
 from her occupation by the voice of Ruth, who said, as she 
 peeped over her shoulder — 
 
 ' I am glad you are looking at that — don't you like it exces- 
 sively .'' ' 
 
 Alice closed the volume instantly. ' How long you have been, 
 Ruth ! I have been waiting here such a time ! ' 
 
 ' It was rather naughty of me,' said Ruth, playfully ; 'but I 
 could not help it ; papa and I were so busy. And, you know, I 
 could not make a stranger of you. But where is Madeline ? ' 
 
 ' She went away to your mamma.' 
 
 ' And left you here alone ? Really, she ought not to have 
 done that ; I quite depended on her taking care of you.' 
 
 ' Madeline did what she could,' replied Alice, ' and she 
 begged me to go down-stairs ; only I preferred staying here.' 
 
 ' There is not much to amuse you here,' said Ruth, looking 
 round the room. ' You are not very fond of grave books, 
 Alice ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I am, sometimes — some books — I like this one,' she 
 added, with a slight hesitation, pointing to the small volume 
 which she had been reading. 
 
 Ruth took up the book, and turned over the pages, *Yes, 
 she said, thoughtfully, ' if one were only as good as thig woulj 
 inake one ! I wish '
 
 Lane ton pars on a ge. 365 
 
 fiut Alice interrupted her with a question : ' What arc we 
 going to do to-day, Ruth ? ' 
 
 Ruth looked a httle startled at her abruptness, but mentioned 
 several plans ; amongst them a walk to a neighbouring viUage, 
 to see a new church which was building there ; or, if they 
 chose, to call on a friend who lived at a distance beyond; and 
 to take the pony with them, and ride in turn. Alice did not seem 
 to take a particular interest in any suggestion, but Ruth -.vent 
 on planning most good-naturedly. Presently, Alice said — 
 
 * That church at Redford is not far from Mrs De Lacy's, is 
 it?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Ruth ; * but what makes you ask ? ' 
 
 * Mrs De Lacy is Florence Trevelyan's aunt,' said Alice. 
 
 * Is she indeed ? I never heard so before.' 
 
 * She is her aunt,' repeated Alice ; ' and,' she added, after an 
 instant's pause, ' Florence is coming ; she is come — perhaps 
 she may be there.' 
 
 ' I should rather like to see her again,' observed Ruth, care- 
 lessly. ' Did you say she was come, or coming ? ' 
 
 * Coming — come, I think ; — yes, I believe she is there,' re- 
 plied Alice. 
 
 ' And I suppose you will ask Lady Catharine to take you over 
 to see her,' said Ruth, * since you are such great allies.' 
 
 ' O Ruth ! ' Alice stopped and coloured. 
 
 ' O Ruth ! what .? ' repeated Ruth, laughing ; then, seeing 
 that Alice appeared really uncomfortable, she added, * is there 
 any harm in saying you are great allies .'' ' 
 
 ' I would rather you should not say so before Lady Catha- 
 rine,' answered Alice, more boldly. 
 
 ' What .'' she will think " allies " not quite a young lady's 
 word.' 
 
 ' No ; nonsense, she is not so particular as that ; but, Ruth, 
 I am afraid to say things to you, I am afraid you will not 
 understand them.' 
 
 Ruth drew up her head. ' Certainly, if you think that, Alice, 
 you had better keep your secrets to yourself.' She turned aside 
 and said no more. 
 
 Alice regarded her attentively without appearing irritated. 
 On the contrary, there was an expression of interest and respect 
 in her face. Ruth went to the dressing-table, and taking off her 
 bonnet, began to arrange her hair. Madeline at this moment 
 came in to fetch a little parcel of work for a poor woman, and
 
 566 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 going up to Ruth, put her arm affectionately round her, and said : 
 * Are you tired, dear? can I help you?' It was a very natural, 
 simiole question, but it was put so tenderly and unselfishly, that 
 it struck Alice peculiarly. And Ruth's manner in return — the 
 confidence, the sense of hearty sympathy, made her feel, as she 
 often did now, envious. She sighed when Madeline left the 
 room, and said : ' I wish I had a sister.' 
 
 ' Every one may well wish that who has not one,' answered 
 Ruth ; but the words were regretted as soon as they were 
 uttered, for Alice's face grew sad, ' I mean a sister is a great 
 blessing,' continued Ruth ; * but other people have friends, and 
 that does for them, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Some persons have friends,' observed Alice ; * not all.' 
 ' You have a friend,' continued Ruth — ' Florence Trevelyan.' 
 ' No, indeed ; a friend ! — she is not a friend — she is not 
 what I mean. I like her, but she is not my friend.' 
 
 * I thought you were great allies,' answered Ruth, witli a 
 slight accent of contempt, which did not reach Alice's ears. 
 
 * Allies are not friends,' answered Alice. 
 
 Ruth turned round quickly, and her face showed both 
 pleasure and astonishment. 
 
 ' Then you have notions of something good in a friend, 
 Alice,' she said. 
 
 ' Good ? yes, very good indeed ! a great, great deal better 
 than myself ; but no one who is good will ever be my friend.' 
 
 Alice's manner when she said this excited Ruth's compassion, 
 and overcame her prudence. 
 
 ' I wish you had a friend at the Manor,' she replied, ' in Lady 
 Catharine.' 
 
 Alice twisted her chain according to her old school trick, and 
 did not instantly answer. Presently she broke forth with : ' It 
 is enough to make any one angry, to be treated so — just like a 
 child ! — ordered about — lectured from morning till night.' 
 
 Ruth could scarcely refrain from a smile at this incoherent 
 indignation. 
 
 ' But what is the matter ? — what is it all ? ' she inquired. 
 
 ' The old story ; but I can't bear it — I won't — she does not 
 care for me in the least.' 
 
 'Alice, you are wrong there,' replied Ruth, gravely; 'though 
 you are vexed, you ought not to be unjust.' 
 
 ' I have been lectured this morning like a baby,' continued 
 Alice. ' She says that I waste my lime, and that I r ist,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 367 
 
 ivlieLher I like it or not, go to the school ; and I am to take a 
 list of my books, and an inventory of all my things, and I don't 
 know what. It is ten times worse than school; there one 
 expected it, but this is home.' 
 
 * But, Alice,' said Ruth, persuasively, ' just think for one 
 minute, there is nothing very dreadful in having to go to the 
 school, or to take a list of books. Papa and mamma make us 
 do so.' 
 
 'Do they?' answered Alice, more calmly; 'but you are 
 different from me — you don't dislike it.' 
 
 ' Madeline does,' said Ruth : ' she hears a little class every 
 Thursday morning, who can only just tell their letters; but she 
 never complains, though she dislikes it extremely.' 
 
 ' Madeline is good,' said Alice ; ' I never shall be.' 
 
 A sigh followed this speech. Ruth was interested by it. 
 Alice's state of mind appeared strange to her. 
 
 ' Madeline ns good,' she rephed ; ' but I don't see why you 
 are not to be equally so.' 
 
 ' Because it is not in my nature — that is all.' 
 
 ' It is not in Madeline's nature to do disagreeable things,' 
 said Ruth, 
 
 ' But then she has you with her,' pursued Alice. ' I could be 
 good too, if I had you.' 
 
 A tear stood in her eye as she spoke. Ruth's heart Avas 
 softened, and she gave Alice a kiss. The pent-up spirit which 
 had before only partially shown itself, broke forth instantly. 
 Alice burst into a renewed declaration of disappointment and 
 discontent at her home ; longings to be like Madeline and 
 Ruth ; regrets, fervent and sincere, for her own faults ; and, at 
 length, a half-expressed, yet earnest assurance, that if she had 
 but a friend like Ruth, all would be well. She required, she 
 was aware, some one to guide and interest her. 
 
 Ruth listened sympathisingly ; and — shall it be owned ? — with 
 satisfaction. ' All would be well if Alice had a friend like her/ 
 Ruth had no fear then of being insincere, of not respecting 
 Alice. Another idea presented itself — influence. Her manner 
 altered, and became more gentle and free. She spoke soothingly, 
 yet firmly ; she reminded Alice of her duties. It was pleasant 
 to watch the gradual change v/hich her words produced. Alice 
 grew less vehement, more humble and affectionate. Ruth felt 
 her own power, and her heart swelled within her. She spoke 
 yet more strongly of submission and lowliness ; she even ven-
 
 ^6i LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 tured at last to remind Alice of her approaching confirmation 
 and the responsibihty she must take upon herself. She said that 
 it was necessary to make good resolutions, and recommended 
 one even at that moment. It was, that Alice should try to please 
 Lady Catharine by agreeing to attend the school ; and when 
 Alice consented after some hesitation, Ruth was quite satisfied 
 with her morning's work. 
 
 ' Mamma advises us to go out immediately,' said AladeHne, 
 
 interrupting the conversation a second time,'and she says ' 
 
 Alice's tearful eyes, and Ruth's heightened colour made her 
 pause for an instant ; but the tact of a simple, unselfish mind 
 suggested to her that it might be better not to ask questions, 
 and she went on : ' Mamma says that we can take some biscuits 
 with us, or we can have a sandwich before we set off; but we 
 had better not wait for regular luncheon, for fear of not being 
 back in time for dinner.' 
 
 ' And where are we to go V asked Ruth. 
 
 * Oh ! any way we choose, and we may have the pony if we 
 like it.' 
 
 ' I should like Redford,' said Alice, in rather a low voice to 
 Ruth. Ruth appeared not to hear. ' Can't wego.^ ' continued 
 Alice. 
 
 * Go ! Avhere ? — to Redford ? Yes, I suppose we can if we 
 choose it.' 
 
 ' You were wishing to go there, Ruth, only yesterday,' said 
 Madeline. 
 
 Ruth still did not give a hearty assent ; and as Madeline went 
 to the farther end of the room, she said to Alice, with a slight 
 air of annoyance — 
 
 ' You wish to go to Redford, because you think you may n ;et 
 Florence Trevelyan.' 
 
 ' I don't know that I shall meet her,' answered Alice. 
 
 ' But you think it probable ; and she will not be of any use 
 to you, Alice, if you want good friends.' 
 
 ' There is no harm in wishing to see her,' observed Alice ; 
 * and I can't say I think it kind in you to stand in the way. But, 
 in fact, I am not at all certain of meeting her. I scarcely think it 
 probable that I shall ; but I shoald like to go to Redford, be- 
 cause every one talks about the church, and Lady Catharine 
 will be glad for me to go.' 
 
 Ruth felt that she had tried to exert her newly-acquired in- 
 fluence over Alice rather too strongly. She said no more, but
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 369 
 
 entered into the plan cheerfully ; pleasing herself with the hope 
 of having made another little step towards gaining Alice's con- 
 fidence and regard. 
 
 The restoration of Redford Church was a common subject 
 of conversation in the neighbourhood. Ruth and Madeline had 
 seen the plans, and heard them explained, and learned some of 
 the principal terms of architecture connected with them ; but 
 Mr Clifford, in talking upon the subject, had impressed them 
 with a much greater idea of the importance of the spirit with 
 which such works should be undertaken, than of the value of a 
 knowledge of the details. 
 
 Madeline's thoughts, as she approached Redford Church, 
 were less of painted windows and oak carvings than of the 
 sacredness of a place which was to be set apart for the worship 
 of God, and which, it was therefore right, should be made as 
 beautiful as possible. 
 
 Ruth's were a little different. She remembered it was a 
 church Avhich they were to see ; and that her papa had told 
 her he would rather she should not talk about it lightly to 
 every one ; but she was pleased to think that Alice was 
 ignorant of the terms applied to the different parts, and felt a 
 glow of satisfaction as she pointed out the tracery of the 
 east window, and observed that it was taken from some old 
 cathedral. 
 
 To Alice, Redford Church was like any other sight ; very 
 pretty, tolerably interesting, a good object for a long walk, and 
 something to converse upon afterwards. The question that 
 principally occupied her mind as they drew near to it was 
 whether or not they should meet Florence Trevelyan. 
 
 Ruth understood what was passing in Alice's mind by the 
 quick way in which she turned to look at any one who went 
 by, and her careful notice of all the houses on the road. The 
 idea that Alice was thinking of Florence, gave her a feeling of 
 rivalship, and she exerted herself more to be agreeable ; and at 
 last succeeded in winning Alice's attention completely by rather 
 an amusing account of a picnic party which had taken place a 
 short time previously, and which she had heard described by a 
 morning visitor. Ruth was not quite clear that the story was a 
 desirable one to repeat, she had heard her mamma say it was 
 rather ill-natured ; but it was to entertain Alice, and prevent 
 her from caring for Florence Trevelyan, and make her fond of 
 being with them ; and, without conceit, it was quite clear to 
 
 2 A
 
 370 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth's mind that Ahce was more likely to learn good from 
 them than from Florence. 
 
 Ruth purposely, though insensibly to Alice, gave the conver- 
 sation a graver turn as they drew near the church ; and when 
 they entered it, her manner became very serious. It was not 
 natural, indeed, for one in whom the spirit of reverence had 
 been so carefully cultivated, to feel anything but quiet awe in a 
 building soon to be consecrated to God. Ruth looked at the 
 font, which had been recently placed at the western entrance of 
 the church, and it brought to her remembrance her baptismal 
 vows, and the engagement which she must before long renew 
 in the face of the assembled congregation. Her eye passed 
 along the open seats, and it required but little imagination to 
 picture them filled with rich and poor, met together for one com- 
 mon purpose, acknowledging the sins of the same sinful nature, 
 nnd asking the pardon of the same God, through the Saviour 
 who had died alike for all. Whilst holier, more solemn still — 
 beyond, in the depth of the chancel, stood the altar, reminding 
 her that, if her life were spared, she might, before many months 
 were over, be permitted to kneel and receive the completion of 
 her Christian privileges, the foretaste of the communion of 
 heaven. 
 
 No ! a church, even when unconsecrated, is not a place for 
 a careless discussion of the beauties of architecture, and the 
 display of our knowledge of corbels, and finials, and carvings, 
 and the difference between modern and ancient glass. Unless 
 we speak of these things with a full remembrance that they 
 are connected with a sacred building, we had much better be 
 silent. 
 
 Alice was easily influenced by example. She soon caught the 
 tone of her companion's observations, and walked up the aisles 
 quietly, making her remarks without any appearance of levity. 
 Ruth noticed this, and flattered herself that it was partly the 
 result of being with her, Alice was not naturally so subdued 
 and reverent. 
 
 They were standing before the altar, and Ruth was remark- 
 ing some peculiarities in the ornaments about it, when another 
 party entered the church. Ruth v.as too much occupied with 
 ^vllat she was saying to observe them, and both Alice and 
 I\Iadeline were listening to her attentively. The strangers were 
 an elderly lady, a little girl of about eleven, and a young lady, 
 rather pretty, very well dressed and slightly self-conscious in
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 37 1 
 
 manner. They advanced into the chancel. Ruth, not aware 
 of their presence, continued her observations in a tone loud 
 enough to be audible. 
 
 The young lady watched them for a few instants, then smiled 
 and whispered something to her friend, and, stepping forward, 
 gently touched Alice's shoulder. 
 
 ' Florence ! ' exclaimed Alice, recovering from her first feel- 
 ing of frightened displeasure. 
 
 Florence laughed heartily, and held out her hand to Ruth 
 and Madeline. 
 
 She was in ecstasies at the meeting ; it was delightful, 
 charming ; nothing in the world could be more fortunate ; and 
 her aunt would be so rejoiced to see them ; where had they 
 come from .'' how long had they been there ? when were they 
 obliged to go back ? 
 
 Madeline stood in silent wonder ; abashed at the height and 
 fashionable appearance of her former schoolfellow. 
 
 Ruth was quite self-possessed. 
 
 *A charming church this is !' began Florence, putting up her 
 eye-glass. 
 
 Ruth assented shortly. 
 
 ' My aunt has been promising to bring me here ever since I 
 arrived,' continued Florence ; ' you must be introduced to my 
 aunt — my aunt Harriet — Harriet, my sister, was named after her.' 
 
 Mrs De Lacy drew near, and Alice and her companions were 
 introduced. She was a middle-aged, indolent-mannered, soft- 
 voiced person, with a slight lisp. Ruth was not at all struck 
 by her. Rather an awkward pause followed the introduction, 
 and Mrs De Lacy, for want of something to say, observed that 
 Ruth must have a considerable knowledge of architecture from 
 the remarks she had been making. 
 
 *0h, Ruth knows everything,' exclaimed Florence; 'she always 
 did at school.' 
 
 ' Not quite everything, Florence,' replied Ruth. ' Papa has 
 taught me the terms of architecture ; that is all I know.' 
 
 ' And a great deal more than I do, or my aunt either,' ex- 
 claimed Florence. ' Aunt Hamet, we must make Ruth go 
 round the church with us, and do the honours.' 
 
 Ruth declined the proposal, again insisting upon her own 
 ignorance. 
 
 ' Well, then, Madeline, you had always a little wisdom in 
 your head, tell us all about the church.'
 
 372 LAXETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Madeline seemed quite amused at the idea of possessing any 
 wisdom ; but without hesitation told what she knew of the style, 
 and the points which were particularly to be admired. Florence 
 listened carelessly, and presently, putting her arm within that 
 of Alice, drew her to the lower end of the church. Mrs De 
 Lacy remained talking to Ruth and Madeline, and invited them 
 both to return with her to her house, which was about half a 
 mile distant. Ruth hesitated, and Mrs De Lacy pressed her 
 with some earnestness. She was very glad, she said, to make 
 their acquaintance. She had often heard her niece speak of 
 them, and it would be a great advantage to Florence to have 
 such agreeable, sensible companions whilst she was in the 
 neighbourhood. Ruth's thanks were quietly given, but her 
 hesitation was evidently less. 
 
 ' Had we not better go home, Ruth?' said Madeline. 'We 
 shall be late for dinner.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but surely just for this once. Your mamma is not 
 /ery exacting, I am sure,' continued Mrs De Lacy. 
 
 Madeline blushed deeply, and, approaching her sister more 
 nearly, whispered hurriedly, ' Mamma does not know Mrs De 
 Lacy.' 
 
 ' Come, I see you are inclined to yield,' persisted Mrs De 
 Lacy. ' I shall hope to make your mamma's personal acquaint- 
 ance before long, and then I shall be able to explain the case 
 to her. Really, I cannot resist the opportunity of cultivating 
 such a very desirable acquaintance.' 
 
 ' We might walk part of the way together,' said Ruth. 
 
 * Yes ; we might,' observed Madeline, great doubt being ex- 
 pressed in the word ' might.' 
 
 ' Well, come part of the way, and I shall see whether I can- 
 not persuade you to extend your walk the whole way,' said Mrs 
 De Lacy, and she went forward to tell Florence that she had 
 gained her point. 
 
 Alice was giving her whole attention to something which 
 Florence was telling her, and she was very glad not to be im- 
 mcdiately' interrupted. She thanked Ruth cordially for con- 
 senting, and said it was very kind in her, and then she and 
 Florence left the church together. They soon, however, re- 
 joined Ruth ; and Florence began thanking her again for going 
 with them, declaring that it would have been a great disappoint- 
 ment if she had not done so ; for they might not have another 
 opportunity of seeing each other for some time.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 373 
 
 * I wish, extremely, to hear all about the Parsonage,' she 
 continued, ' what you do — how you spend your time. 1 heard 
 such an account of you from a lady who dined at my aunt's the 
 day before yesterday ; and you know, Ruth, you were always a 
 pattern to every one.' 
 
 Ruth's colour changed quickly, and she was silent. Florence 
 went on talking to Alice. Mrs De Lacy, Madeline, and the 
 two children were behind. What passed between Florence and 
 Alice for the next few minutes Ruth did not very well know. 
 That short allusion to bygone days had carried her mind back 
 to school ; its great temptations and her own weakness. Was 
 she altered? Had the lapse of time, with the blessing of good 
 advice and good example, strengthened her moral principles.? 
 Having reached an age when she could no longer be deemed a 
 child, and about to be admitted to confirmation and the vast 
 privilege succeeding it, was she really bent upon giving up all 
 which might withdraw her heart from God.'' These are ques- 
 tions which we may ask at length ; by Ruth they were only 
 felt as a misgiving, a pang of conscience, a doubt whether the 
 Ruth Clifford of the quiet country parsonage was not in too 
 many respects the same Ruth Clifford of Mrs Carter's school, who 
 had so sadly wandered from the straightforward path of duty. 
 
 ' Now, Ruth, we must turn this way,' said Madeline, trying 
 to gain her sister's attention, as they came to a place where 
 four lanes met. * It will lead us across the common into the 
 Laneton road.' 
 
 Ruth was a short distance before, now again conversing upon 
 a subject which apparently interested all parties — the home life 
 at the Parsonage. She did not hear her sister, and went on. 
 
 ' Must they not lead happy lives.?' said Alice ; as Ruth paused 
 in her description. ' Much happier than mine.' 
 
 'Or mine!' remarked Florence, sighing. *I only wish I 
 could do just the same.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, Florence ; you like gaieties, and going out to din- 
 ner-parties and balls,' said Ruth. ' Alice has told me you are 
 to begin soon ; you would not bear our sober ways.' 
 
 * Florence would, though,' said Alice. 
 
 < Certainly I should. It was only the other day we settled 
 how we should like to live together in a village ; did we not, 
 Alice ? We would have a few friends to see us, now and then, 
 a];d go out for a walk when we chose, and have a nice little 
 pony-chaise.'
 
 574 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'And go to the schools, and see the poor people,' added 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, of course, do everything of that kind ; live a com- 
 plete country life, in short.' 
 
 Just then Madeline gained Ruth's attention by saying rather 
 more loudly, 'Ruth, we have passed the turning; I don't think 
 we must go any farther.' 
 
 * And there is Sheldon Lodge,' said Mrs De Lacy, pointing to 
 a white house just seen amongst the trees. 
 
 * It will not make five minutes' difference to go on,' observed 
 Alice. 
 
 * And I do so want to talk a little more,' said Florence. 
 
 Ruth answered that she was afraid they must wait for an- 
 other opportunity ; but she did not wish any one ' Good-bye.' 
 She stood looking at the Lodge. 
 
 * Mamma would rather not, I am sure,' said Madeline, going 
 up to her. 
 
 Mrs De Lacy did not hear what she said, but laughingly ex- 
 claimed, * I suspsct you are a little enemy. Suppose we make 
 a compromise ; you shall walk with us to the gate.' 
 
 ' There can be no harm in that, Madeline,' said Ruth ; and 
 Madeline could not exactly say there was, only in her heart 
 she wished it had been settled otherwise. 
 
 The gate was soon reached ; there they were really to sepa- 
 rate ; but by this time a new cause had arisen for delay. Alice 
 ■\t-anted Ruth to see a prize v/hich Florence had gained the last 
 half-year she was at school ; actually a good-conduct prize. It 
 v/as a very handsome book, ' One of the handsomest,' she said, 
 ' which had ever been given by Mrs Carter ; ' and when Alice 
 made this remark, she watched Ruth, as she had done once or 
 twice before, to see the eftect of her words. Ruth's manner to 
 Florence had been gradually changing during the whole of this 
 interview. At first she was rather cold ; then cheerful, but in- 
 different ; then interested ; and now, there was clearly a certain 
 mixture of respect. She did not like to give Florence any 
 trouble, she said, and as they were in a hurry, perhaps it would 
 be better to wait till another day. Florence would not be con- 
 tented with this proposal. She wished to have Ruth's opinion 
 about the book at once, because she was such a good judge. 
 
 * We might just go in for one minute,' said Alice. 
 
 Ruth really could sec no objection, as they had come so far ; 
 and referring to Madeline, asked her whether she would not
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 375 
 
 come also. Madeline looked a little surprised and annoyed, 
 and reminded her that it was getting late. 
 
 * We shall not be one minute — not half a minute,' exclaimed 
 Florence, hastening towards the house, and Ruth and Alice 
 followed her. 
 
 Madeline remained behind, making a laughing excuse to 
 Mrs De Lacy that she wished to be a check upon the others : 
 they would be ashamed to keep her waiting, and if they all 
 went together, they might be tempted to stay for another hour. 
 
 Ruth was fully resolved only to be absent the ' one minute.' 
 She walked very fast, saying several times that they had not an 
 instant to spare ; and declining Mrs De Lacy's invitation to go 
 into the drawing-room, went up-stairs directly to Florence's 
 apartment. Alice began to remark upon its prettiness, the 
 pattern of the chintz furniture, the luxury of having a sofa, the 
 convenience of the large wardrobe, and other such advantages ; 
 but Ruth was not to be diverted from her one object. She 
 made Florence bring her the book immediately. It was Bishop 
 Taylor's ' Holy Living and Dying.' Florence said she had 
 read some of it, and liked it. Ruth knew it well, but she would 
 not talk about it then ; and, after admiring it extremely, she 
 said they must manage to meet again soon ; and, summoning 
 Alice, led the way down-stairs. Alice lingered a little behind, 
 and Ruth and Florence stood at the head of the stairs waiting 
 for her. The staircase was a winding one, and from it they 
 could look down into a stone hall, from which the doors of the 
 different rooms opened. They heard Mrs De Lacy speaking 
 to some one below. Florence listened, and drew back in- 
 stantly. 
 
 'How provoking!' she exclaimed. 'Wait one minute; 
 don't go down just now.' Ruth's foot was on the first stair. 
 
 ' Indeed we must go. No one will take any notice of us,' 
 she replied, impatiently. 
 
 Florence forcibly detained her, and when Alice joined them, 
 she put up her finger to enforce silence. 
 
 ' We did not expect you till this evening,' they heard Mrs 
 De Lacy say. 
 
 Florence loosened her hold of Ruth. 
 
 ' Now, we are safe. I hate encountering visitors.' 
 
 Ruth ran down the stairs. The drawing-room door was left 
 open. They could see Mrs De Lacy placing a chair for a young 
 lady. Ruth did not remark her particularly. Florence, as her
 
 376 LAhETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 back was towards them, stepped before her, and took the handle 
 of the door to shut it ; but before she had succeeded, Ruth 
 caught the voice and foreign accent of the stranger. She could 
 not mistake it, though so long a time had elapsed since she had 
 heard it. 
 
 ' Justine le Vergnier ! ' she exclaimed. 
 
 Florence coloured crimson. She motioned to Ruth and Alice 
 to enter a small study next the drawing-room, and, closing the 
 door, said — 
 
 ' I did not wish you to know — at least, not you, Ruth. I 
 told Alice she was expected. But you must please promise me 
 not to say you have seen her, even to Madeline ; and if you 
 hear anything about her, not to make any allusion to old times, 
 Mrs Carter, and all that nonsense. It would be immensely 
 unkind, and do great mischief.' 
 
 ' I never feel myself bound to keep secrets unless I know a 
 reason for it,' said Ruth, with some pride of manner. * Why is 
 Justine here .'' ' .;' 
 
 ' It is a long story ; there is not time to tell it now,' said 
 Florence. 
 
 'But I do not like to have secrets from mamma,' observed 
 Ruth ; ' and Alice ought not to have any from Lady Ca- 
 tharine.' 
 
 ' Trust Alice for that,' said Florence, laughing. ' Juno is not 
 like Mrs Clifford. But, my dear Ruth, I thought I could trust 
 you entirely ; and I may want to consult you. You may really 
 be of use to me, if you will only be wise just now ; but I 
 assure you, you do not know the mischief you may do if you 
 are not.' 
 
 Florence was not clever ; it was a sort of instinct which made 
 her seize on Ruth's weak point. To be of use, to give advice, 
 to have influence in fact, was a tempting bait to a person of 
 Ruth's character. 
 
 ' All I wish,' continued Florence, ' is, as I said before, that 
 you should not mention having seen Justine here ; and, if any- 
 thing is said about her, that you should not refer in any way to 
 the old story against her.' 
 
 Ruth could see no exact harm in the promise, yet she did not 
 like promises. Alice declared her full belief that they were 
 bound in honour not to say one word more than Florence de- 
 sired. It would be cruel to rake up old offences. Ruth felt 
 that good-nature was expected of her, whether true or false was
 
 LAMETOM PAkSONAG£. 37 r 
 
 hot the question. She hesitated. Florence again professed an 
 intention of some day asking her opinion ; and Alice said she 
 was certain that Ruth would judge properly. It did seem un- 
 kind of Ruth to refuse, when she could not tell the reasons which 
 might induce Florence to make the request ; and if they were 
 to differ now, it might produce a coldness which might never be 
 overcome. This would be a pity, as Florence appeared im- 
 proved and open to good impressions. So after some little 
 consideration, Ruth agreed to say nothing for the present — 
 ' only for the present, however,' she repeated, as they left the 
 house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 «"\1 THERE are you going, my dear Alice?' said Lady 
 VV Catharine, a few mornings after the visit to Redford 
 Church, as she met Alice dressed for walking, soon after break- 
 fast. 
 
 ' To the school, ma'am ; it is my day.' 
 
 ' To the school, my dear, alone ? Why did you not tell 
 
 me 
 
 ?' 
 
 ' I thought you wished me to go, ma'am,' answered Alice. 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear, I wished it. But this — really — I don't 
 understand — you take me quite by surprise. Who told you to 
 go this morning .'" 
 
 ' Mr Clifford told me this would be the best day, when I 
 went to the Parsonage yesterday,' answered Alice. 
 
 * But to go without my knowledge ! Very extraordinary ! 
 Come back, my dear, into the breakfast-room. Let me hear 
 more about it — very e.xtraordinary, indeed !' 
 
 Lady Catharine entered the breakfast-room with a stately 
 step, and seated herself in a high-backed chair, against which, 
 however, she would on no account have leaned. 
 
 * Now, my dear, let me hear something more ; who do you 
 say told you to go to the school .'" 
 
 ' You did, ma'am, and Mr Clifford.' 
 
 ' We talked to you about it ; but you were not inclined to 
 undertake the duty, for a duty it clearly is. I should be glad, 
 my dear, for the future, to understand you better.'
 
 378 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' I thought you would be pleased when I came back,' said 
 Alice, with more humility than she had hitherto shown. 
 
 * Perhaps I might have been. I will not say that I should 
 not ; but I ouglit to have been told before. I like to be pre- 
 pared. I cannot understand what your arrangements for the 
 day are to be.' 
 
 Alice had made no arrangements. Ruth had been talking 
 to her again about the school. Mr Clifford had named the day 
 and the hour when it would be best for her to attend. She 
 had half made up her mind the night before that she would go, 
 and determined upon it decidedly that morning, as much 
 because she was not in a humour for her ordinary occupations 
 as from a principle of duty. 
 
 ' Well ! ' continued Lady Catharine, recovering her usual 
 dignity, and pitying Alice's discomposure — -' I daresay you did 
 not intend any harm, my dear ; but you must remember I do 
 not like surprises. If I had been prepared for this step, I 
 should have formed different plans myself 
 
 ' The step ' seemed to Alice a very simple one, and instead 
 of making apologies or excuses she asked if there was any 
 reason now why she should not go. 
 
 ' None at all, my dear— none that I know of ; it is quite 
 right, your duty, to attend at th.e school. I hope you will pay 
 particular attention to ]\Ir Clifford's instructions as to what 
 you are to do. Still I could have desired — however, it cannot 
 be helped, it is out of the question you should be with me, when 
 you have arranged to take a morning at the school.' 
 
 'Are you going out, ma'am.?' asked Alice, rather astonished. 
 
 ' Only for some visits, my dear, at a distance ; and I shall 
 take Mrs De Lacy of Sheldon on my way back. I thought, as 
 you informed me the other day that you had met your school- 
 fellow. Miss Trevelyan, at Redford, you might have liked to 
 accompany me; but it does not signify; and as Miss Trevelyan 
 is not a particular friend of yours, you will not so much care.* 
 Alice was silent from vexation. ' I will not keep you, my dear,' 
 continued Lady Catharine ; ' no doubt, as Mr Clifford named 
 the hour, he will be punctual and ready to tell you what you 
 have to do. I shall be glad to hear when I return. You have 
 no message, I conclude, for Miss Trevelyan ? ' 
 
 Alice had a message, which she wished very much to send. 
 It was to repeat to Florence a caution she had Iiastily given 
 her at their first meeting — not to say much about their being
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 379 
 
 intimate ; but as this could not be sent through Lady Catharine, 
 she could only reply in the negative, and Lady Catharine, beg- 
 ging her to make a proper apology to Mr Clifford if she should 
 be late at the school, dismissed her. 
 
 Left to herself. Lady Catharine's manner changed. The 
 severe features relaxed ; the coldness of the gray eye was 
 softened into melancholy, and the stern lips expressed tender- 
 ness and anxiety. 
 
 When would Alice cease to be reserved with her best friend.-' 
 When would she vmderstand her affection ? When would she 
 give any opening for sympathy ? These were the questions 
 which Lady Catharine asked herself. The reply came in a 
 chill sense of disappointment. And Alice, notwithstanding her 
 instability of character, would have bitterly reproached herself 
 if she had known the pain which her inattention to Lady 
 Catharine's habits, and her wilful impatience of anything ap- 
 proaching to reproof, so frequently caused. 
 
 Mr Clifford and Ruth were at the school together ; and Mr 
 Clifford, thinking that Alice would be less afraid with Ruth 
 than with him, left them with a class whilst he went to examine 
 the boys. 
 
 Teaching, unless we have a natural taste for it, is a veiy 
 wearisome undertaking. Alice soon thought it so ; and long- 
 ing to have the lessons finished, spoke impatiently and rather 
 unjustly to a child who was not perfect in her lessons. In- 
 justice produced irritation of temper ; irritation became want of 
 respect ; want of respect made Alice very angry. If Ruth had 
 not been present she would have thrown down the book and 
 left the class to itself. As it was, she cast an imploring glance 
 at Ruth, entreating her to interpose. Ruth said but little, and 
 in a much quieter tone than Alice, but she enforced instant 
 attention ; and Alice listened with surprise to the steady, 
 orderly course of instruction which followed. Ruth seemed as 
 much at home in her duties as if she had been accustomed to 
 them from infancy. When the lessons were ended, Ruth did 
 not make any observation upon Alice's failure ; but proposed 
 that they should inquire whether her father was ready to go. 
 Alice gave a silent, moody assent. 
 
 ' Well, Alice,' said Mr Clifford, as they took the road to the 
 Parsonage, where Alice was to have her luncheon ; * how did 
 you manage .'' Were the children perfect 1 * 
 
 * Not quite, papa,' interposed Ruth ; ' Jane Stevens was 
 naughty, and Kate Morrison was very idle.'
 
 38o LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * They were all naughty, I thhik,' said Alice, 
 
 ' All ! rathei" a sweeping condemnation,' said Mr Clifford 
 
 * But was it a great trouble to you, Alice ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' was upon Alice's lips, but she was afraid to speak it. 
 
 ' You will grow more accustomed to it by and by,' observed 
 Ruth. ' You will know how to manage better.' 
 
 ' No, never ; you are mistaken there, Ruth. I shall never 
 manage, I shall never do anything. 
 
 * And why not, my dear,' said Mr Clifford ; ' why are you to 
 be so much more stupid than the rest of the world .'" 
 
 ' Because — I don't know — because — I shall be ; because I 
 am in everything — I always was. No one is ever pleased with 
 me,' she added, in an under-voice. 
 
 Mr Clifford drew Alice's arm within his, and, pointing to a 
 woman who was crossing the road lower down, he said, ' Ruth, 
 just go forward and tell Mrs Barnes to call at the Parsonage 
 this evening ; I want to see her.' 
 
 Ruth ran on, and Mr Clifford, slackening his pace, said, 
 
 * Alice, my love, I am one of your oldest friends, and old friends 
 are privileged. Will you let me ask you a question.?' 
 
 Alice's hand trembled a little, but she did not speak. 
 
 ' You are not happy, my dear,' continued Mr Clifford ; 'Ruth 
 tells me that she thinks you are not, and I can see it myself. 
 Can I help you ?' 
 
 * No, indeed. I am not unhappy ; Ruth does not know 
 about me,' answered Alice ; * I am vexed at not doing better at 
 the school, but I cannot help it.' 
 
 ' I am afraid that is not cpite sincere,' rejoined Mr Clifford; 
 ' however, as you had rather not talk to me, you shall not ; only 
 remember, that w^hcn I can ever be of use to you, I shall be 
 quite ready to be so ; for your own sake, and' — Mr Clifford 
 spoke with some hesitation — * for your mother's sake.' 
 
 ' My mother !' repeated Alice, * every one loved her.' 
 
 ' And every one will love her child, Alice, if only she will 
 follow in the same footsteps.' 
 
 ' Lady Catharine once told me I should never be like her,' said 
 Alice, with some bitterness. 
 
 ' Lady Catharine was speaking of your natural disposition,' re- 
 plied Mr Clifford ; * you arc hasty, eager, and easily led ; your 
 mother was gentle and firm. By nature you certainly are not 
 like her ; but it does not follow that you may not become so.' 
 
 ' But no persons are exactly alike,' said Alice, rather per- 
 versely.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. l%\ 
 
 Mr Clifford did not seem to notice her manner, he only an- 
 swered rather more gravely than before. 
 
 ' The same Pattern is given to us all, Alice — a perfect one. 
 The better we are, the more nearly we shall approach to it.' 
 
 * Mamma had always some one to love her,' continued Alice. 
 ' Perhaps, my dear child, you do not understand the love 
 
 which is given you,' answered Mr Clifford. ' Because it is 
 hidden by a certain stiffness, and sometimes coldness of manner, 
 you may think that it does not exist.' 
 
 ' It is difficult to be always believing one is loved,' said Alice. 
 * One longs to see it and know it.' 
 
 ' Yes, I own that,' replied Mr Clifford. ' It is a great trial 
 of what may be called human faith. Still, actions are the best 
 proofs of love.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know, I really do know it,' exclaimed Alice, softened 
 by finding that her troubles were acknowledged to be real. 
 ' Very often I say to myself that I am ungrateful ; still, things 
 go on just the same.' 
 
 * But, Alice — you must not think that I am wishing to find 
 fault with you because I ask the question — have you ever 
 seriously set yourself to alter the state of things 1 You call 
 Lady Catharine cold ; have you ever yourself given her occasion 
 to be otherwise ? ' 
 
 * I don't know ; I have tried to love her,' said Alice. 
 
 ' But trying to love is useless. We must act if we wish to 
 feel. Lady Catharine has devoted herself in action to yoii, 
 that you acknowledge ; perhaps you have not done the same 
 for her.' 
 
 Alice could not find what to answer. 
 
 * It is a very important question for you, my dear,' continued 
 Mr Cliftbrd, more authoritatively ; ' a great deal of your happi- 
 ness must depend upon the answer you can give to it. Will 
 you think of it .'' ' 
 
 They had reached the Parsonage gate as Mr Clifford said 
 this. Ruth was waiting for them there. Alice withdrew her- 
 self from him, and walked into the house alone. 
 
 Ruth looked at her father for an explanation. He appeared 
 vexed ; and she did not like to ask him the cause. 
 
 He referred to it, however, by saying, ' Alice is very re- 
 Served.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Ruth ; ' that is, papa, she is reserved some- 
 times ; but she is very odd. I think what she wants is some
 
 382 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 one to love her. Nothing, it seems, will make her happy except 
 that.' 
 
 ' Nothing will make any of us happy but that,' replied Mr 
 Clifford, with a peculiar, grave smile on his lips, which Ruth 
 did not thoroughly understand, 
 
 Mr Clifford turned into a path leading to a distant part of 
 the garden, and Ruth followed him. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, presently, ' if you have not influence over 
 Alice, who can have .'' ' 
 
 ' It is not influence which we must trust to, Ruth,' replied 
 Mr Clifford ; ' we must have the mainspring in ourselves if we 
 mean to be worth anything. It is religion which Alice wants.' 
 
 ' And affection, too, papa,' said Ruth. 
 
 Mr Clifford walked on in silence. 
 
 Ruth did not feel that she might venture to interrupt him : 
 he seemed thinking deeply. 
 
 At last he said, ' We must not separate religion and affec- 
 tion, my dearest child.' 
 
 ' It does not seem that they have much to do with each 
 other,' observed Ruth, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 ' But,' replied Mr Clifford, ' we are told in the Bible that 
 religion is to make us happy, and we feel in ourselves that it is 
 happiness to love and be loved in return ; there must, there- 
 fore, be love in religion : otherwise it could not satisfy us.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Ruth, doubtfully. 
 
 ' Perhaps I am not speaking clearly,' continued Mr Chfford; 
 * I will refer to Alice. The craving of her mind is for affec- 
 tion, at least, so she thinks ; but if to-morrow she were to 
 receive the most perfect human affection we cail imagine, and 
 to gi\e her own to the same extent, she could not be happy for 
 a continuance ; because it is religion alone which can render 
 her so.' 
 
 ' But, surely, papa,' exclaimed Ruth, * she might still be 
 religious .-' We may love people without doing wrong.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by being religious, Ruth .f" 
 
 * Keeping God's commandments ; trying to please Him ; 
 having faith in Him ; ' answered Ruth. 
 
 ' That is what you mean. Now, what does the Bible mean.'" 
 
 * I don't know ; I can't understand ; ' answered Ruth, Avith 
 an air of great astonishment. * It says the same, I believe.' 
 
 ' Do you remember,' inquired Mr Clifford, ' our Saviour's 
 answer to the question of the lawyer : " Which is the great
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 383 
 
 commandment in the lav/?" " Thou shalt love the Lord thy 
 God with all thy heart, and vi'ith all thy soul, and with all thy 
 mind." ' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Ruth, thoughtfully, ' I know that religion is 
 the love of God, but I did not think of saying it.' 
 
 * Love,' repeated Mr Clifford: 'not obedience merely ; still 
 less fear ; but love. A real, warm, devoted, intense feeling of 
 the heart. Love to our blessed Lord as to a human friend ; 
 only with the fullest, most unwavering confidence in His aftcc- 
 tion. Such a feeling as will make us turn to Him in all our 
 troubles, as sure of His sympathy ; which will make us delight 
 in the smallest occasions of showing our affection ; which will 
 make us find real happiness in prayer, and reading the Bible, 
 and receiving the Holy Communion. This is religion, Ruth ; 
 the religion which is to make us blest in life, and full of peace 
 in death.' 
 
 ' Papa,' said Ruth, in a tone of deep seriousness, ' I am 
 afraid I shall never feel this ; but I hoped I was tr)'ing to be 
 religious.' 
 
 ' I have been speaking of the end of religion, my dearest 
 Ruth, not the beginning. The effort at obedience must come 
 first ; the joy of love will be our reward afterwards. When it 
 is ours, we shall have attained the object of our lives ; we shall 
 be happy.' 
 
 ' But,' said Ruth, ' we were intended to love our fellow- 
 creatures also ; it comes to us quite naturally.' 
 
 ' Yes, to love them deeply and devotedly, but not to rest our 
 highest affection upon them ; not to feel that without them life 
 would have neither interest nor hope.' 
 
 ' I should be very miserable without you and mamma,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 * Yet the time will come when we must part, my dear child. 
 If you give us your whole heart, you are resting your happiness 
 on a broken reed.' 
 
 ' But it seems so difticult, so impossible, not to love one's 
 friends,' exclaimed Ruth. ' I always feel with Alice when she 
 talks to me about it.' 
 
 ' I do not for an instant wish you not to love them most 
 dearly,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' only, not to put them first. I 
 will tell you a mistake which many persons — young persons 
 especially, are apt to make. It is the secret of a vast portion 
 of their unhappiness and disappointm.ent. They say they wish
 
 384 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 to be religious, and they set about performing their duties 
 strictly ; they pray regularly, and go to church, and read the 
 Bible, and try to correct their evil tempers — and, in a measure, 
 they succeed and improve ; but still religion does not make 
 them happy.' 
 
 Mr Cliftbrd paused, and Ruth thought, though she did not 
 express it, that this was her own case. 
 
 * Such persons,' continued Mr Clifford, ' are servants, very 
 good servants ; but they are not children ; I mean, of course, 
 in feeling. Now why do you think this is .'" 
 
 * Because they are not so good as they ought to be, I sup- 
 pose,' answered Ruth. 
 
 ' But they are in earnest, trying ver}^ much : the secret is, 
 that they are giving their obedience to God, but their hearts to 
 their fellow-creatures. They do not think of God as their 
 Friend. I use the word in its plain, literal sense. They do 
 not feel that He loves them. They pray for great things, but 
 they do not mention before Him the little circumstances which 
 interest them, or make them anxious. They own that their 
 Redeemer has saved them from punishment, but they do not 
 see that He saves them from daily annoyance. They take 
 their trifling comforts and pleasures as matters of course ; 
 whereas, if they thought rightly, every petty gratification would 
 be a source of delight, as the mark of an especial love.' 
 
 ' But it seems almost irreverent to think of religion in such 
 little instances,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' How do you feel towards me, Ruth, when you thank me for 
 a trifling kindness ?' 
 
 ' That is so different,' answered Ruth. 
 
 ' Ah ! my love, there is the mistake. We think that the 
 love of God is something totally unlike the love of our fellow- 
 creatures, when, in fact, it is the very same feeling, only purified 
 and exalted. As I said before, it is not obedience, or fear, or 
 even reverence ; though, of course, all these must exist with it. 
 It is actually love. As we could love a human being, and give 
 up our hearts to him in the confidence of meeting a full return, 
 so we may and must love God, if we ever intend that religion 
 should be our happiness.' 
 
 * God is so far above us,' said Ruth, in a low voice. 
 
 ' And, therefore, Ruth, once He became man that we migh^ 
 learn to love Him.' 
 
 Ruth sighed despondingly.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 385 
 
 ' I would not for the world discourage you, my dearest child,' 
 continued Mr Clifford. ' Obedience, and reverence, and fear — 
 which I can quite understand are all you yet associate with reli- 
 gion — are most excellent in themselves ; quite necessary as a 
 beginning. But what I wish you, and Madeline, and Alice to 
 feel, is that there is something far beyond — something, which if 
 you really strive after, you must one day attain. When you 
 renew your vows at your confirmation, I would wish you to do 
 it in the spirit of children.' 
 
 * If we were good we might do so,' answered Ruth. 
 
 * You are fast emerging from childhood, Ruth,' continued Mr 
 Clifford. ' You can look back upon your early life, and judge of 
 and learn from it. When you were a little child, did your mother 
 and I love you because you were good ?' 
 
 Ruth was about to answer * Yes ; ' but she stopped herself. 
 * You loved me when I was good,' she replied ; ' you often tola 
 me so.' 
 
 ' Certainly I did : but often you were naughty. Did we cease 
 to love you then ? ' 
 
 ' You were displeased with me,' replied Ruth. 
 
 * But did we cast you otf .-^ Was not ours a patient, enduring 
 love, which bore with your faults, and watched with delight the 
 slightest improvement .'" 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Ruth, heartily, ' I should never have improved 
 at all but for that.' 
 
 * And now,' continued Mr Clifford, ' you are reaching an age 
 when all that you have felt and acted upon towards your earthly 
 parents is to be felt and acted upon towards God. God has 
 been pleased so to order our earthly existence that all things 
 belonging to it should be the types of our spiritual existence. 
 As we read of death and the resurrection, in the course of the 
 sun, in the seed sown in the ground, in the transformation of 
 insects ; so we may read the course of our mortal life in the 
 history of our early years. The love which you have felt for 
 me is the love which one day, if you ever wish for happiness, 
 you must feel towards God.' 
 
 * I cannot fancy it the same,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' In one respect it will not be the same,' replied her father. 
 ' As it is to be directed to an infinitely Higlier Object, so it 
 must be, in its perfection, infinitely more satisfying.' 
 
 ' Yes, in its perfection,' said Ruth, doubtfully. 
 
 'And even in its imperfection — in its germ — it must bring 
 
 2 B
 
 386 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 more real happiness than any inferior affection There can be 
 no distrust in it. It must unite all that is deepest and purest 
 of the most engrossing earthly love ; the fond reverence of a 
 child for a parent — the entire confidence of brother with brother 
 — -the fulness of sympathy of the nearer ties which we form for 
 ourselves — all hallowed, strengthened, ennobled by the sense 
 that the Being to whom we have devoted ourselves is Almighty 
 and Unchangeable.' 
 
 ' I should like to think that I could ever feel it,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Wish for it — and, if you cannot do that, pray that you may 
 be taught to wish for it — my dear child, and you will have taken 
 a first step towards realising it. Too many persons never wish 
 for it ; they do not know — they scarcely ever think what the 
 love of God means. They have a low notion of religion ; they 
 suppose it is only intended to make them what they call good — 
 moral, well-conducted.' 
 
 ' But it must do so,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, it must, or it has no reality ; but it is also in- 
 tended to do much more- — to make us happy. Even in the 
 common view of religion, however, there is a mistake. We 
 can never serve God rightly in our daily duties unless we wor- 
 ship Him, and are grateful to Him, and trust, and pray to, and 
 honour Him — in one word, give Him our hearts and love Him. 
 We see every day the difference between the service of love and 
 that of fear or necessity. One is happiness, the other wearying 
 labour.' 
 
 Ruth repeated the word 'happiness' to herself, as if unable 
 to realise what her father said. 
 
 ' This is not a truth to be understood by reasoning,' continued 
 Mr Clifford; ' yet it is a certain fact that no one ever loved God, 
 and was disappointed. Ask any person — however poor, or 
 suffering, or lonely — whether he would exchange the feeling for 
 any other, however pure and strong, and he will say " No." 
 And as you go forward in life and find yourself more exposed 
 to its trials, Ruth, you will understand what I mean when I say 
 that it gives us rest. You are young now; rest scarcely seems 
 a blessing ; by and by it will be your one great longing, and 
 nothing but the intense devotion of the affections to God will 
 give it.' 
 
 ' It seems to me as if I could be satisfied if any one like 
 rnyself loved me better than anything else in the world,' said 
 Ruth.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 3S7 
 
 Mr Clifford smiled sadly. ' Ah, Ruth ! so you may be satis- 
 fied for a time — many have been — but the satisfaction cannot 
 continue. If there is nothing higher — no one Perfect and Im- 
 mortal Being who has the first place — there must be disappoint- 
 ment in the end.' 
 
 Ruth looked incredulous. 
 
 ' I cannot expect you to believe all this at once,' said Mr 
 Clifford. ' I would not have said it if I had not felt that you 
 ;rcre approaching an age when you might need it. Only I will 
 Isk you to think of this — even in human affection the knowledge 
 that we are beloved tends to increase, and very often to excite 
 our feelings in return. There are facts in the Bible which place 
 the love of God to us beyond the possibility of doubt; and there 
 are words in the Bible so full of gentle, tender, wonderful affec- 
 tion, that the most anxious heart could require no more. They 
 arc to be found in the prayer of our blessed Lord for His dis- 
 ciples and for those who afterwards should believe in Him. 
 There seems an especial care that no doubt should exist upon 
 this point. The petition is, that "all may be one" — one with 
 God, loved with that same unutterable love which was the per- 
 fection of our Lord's blessedness in heaven. Ruth, my child, 
 will you read those words thoughtfully, with reverence, kneel- 
 ing before God, and praying Him to teach you to understand 
 them ?' 
 
 What Ruth might answer Mr Clifford did not wait to hear. 
 He imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and left her alone to 
 think. 
 
 And was Ruth in a state of mind to think ? Could she com- 
 prehend her father's words ? Comprehend them she did as far 
 as that implies understanding their literal meaning ; and even 
 in a higher sense she could in a measure enter into them ; for 
 Ruth, like many of her age whom God has gifted with warm 
 affections and thoughtful minds, had often felt the longing for 
 some devoted affection to satisfy her dream of happiness. Made- 
 line could live from day to day without thinking of the future — 
 contented in the peaceful enjoyments of her home, the fondness 
 of her parents, the sympathy of her sister, the pleasant, unre- 
 strained companionship of Alice ; but Ruth's mind was con- 
 tinually wandering forth to the unkno\vn years which lay before 
 her, seeking to know what she should do, how she should feci, 
 where her lot would be cast. And in those wanderings, those 
 visions of a life yet more blest, more exciting and engrossing 
 than was yet granted her, the one great ingredient of happiness
 
 388 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 was always a perfect affection. Mr Clifford had now told her 
 of means by which this vision of happiness might be realised ; 
 and Ruth's trust in her father's truth made her listen to him 
 V. ith a degree of confidence which she might not otherwise ha\e 
 felt. She saw that he was speaking from his own personal 
 experience, and she could, in a certain way, suppose it possible 
 one day to do the same. But as yet the deep realities of reli- 
 gion, its power of occupying the mind and satisfying the heart, 
 were to Ruth like the description of a foreign country to a per- 
 son who has never beheld it. Its existence is fully believed, 
 but it presents to the imagination only an unsubstantial picture. 
 Perhaps it was not possible that, at such an early age, Ruth 
 should enter fully into the conversation which had just passed : 
 and before the peace which Mr Clifford had described could, 
 even in the future, be hers, there was much, very much to be 
 done. Ruth's conscience told her this whilst her father was 
 talking with her ; and when he had left her, the conviction re- 
 turned more strongly. 
 
 Since the visit to Redford Church, Ruth's mind had never 
 been entirely at rest. She had mentioned to her mother the 
 interview with Mrs De Lacy and Florence, and the fact of 
 having spent a few minutes at Sheldon Lodge. The acknow- 
 ledgment did not require much moral courage, for Mrs Clifford 
 was too considerate to find fault whei'e apparently no harm was 
 intended. Mrs De Lacy was a person whom every one visited, 
 and Mrs Clifford herself called upon her almost immediately 
 afterwards, and although it happened they did not meet, yet the 
 acquaintance was put upon a regular footing. 
 
 But Ruth was not the happier because her mamma was kind : 
 it was more than she knew herself to deserve. It was not that 
 she could accuse herself of having done anything seriously 
 wrong ; but she had consulted her own will all that afternoon 
 at Redford. She had overlooked the question of what might 
 please her mother most, and had followed her own inclination ; 
 and, as a punishment it seemed, she had been led into a secret — 
 a trifling one apparently, but still a secret. Ruth had that 
 fretting sense of uneasiness continually about her, which is the 
 natural consequence of a heart not right with God. She tried 
 to put aside the idea of having been in any way to blame, or 
 having brought a secret upon herself. Slie could not make up 
 lier mind to practise any close self-examination ; and, forget- 
 ting her own needs, she thought only of Alice. 
 
 When she begged Alice to attend to her duty at the school.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 389 
 
 and when, by eagerness and perseverance, she gained her point, 
 there was something pleasant to dwell upon. She could look 
 back to her outward acts, and be satisfied. 
 
 And this was the way in which Ruth found rest for her con- 
 science now, when it suggested that something was not quite 
 right within ; and that this ' something' must be rooted out 
 before it would be in the least possible to attain, even in the 
 faintest degree, the happiness in religion which her father had 
 described. 
 
 She said to herself that she would be more energetic than 
 ever in doing all that was to be done at home, and would strive 
 to keep Alice up to her resolutions ; and she thought of one or 
 two ways in which she might be more useful in the school ; 
 and then the feeling of self-contentment glided unobserved into 
 her breast, and she was at peace. 
 
 There are two kinds of peace — true and false. 
 
 ' Ruth, you will walk back with me to the Manor,' said Alice, 
 when luncheon was over. ' Lady Catharine will be home soon, 
 so I must not stay here,' 
 
 There was an accent of bitterness in this remark which did 
 not escape Mr Clifford's ear. He stopped as he was leaving 
 the room, and said, ' Lady Catharine Hkes to be welcomed, I 
 suppose. Every one does. Half the pleasure of going out is 
 the satisfaction of having some one to hear all you have done 
 when you return.' 
 
 Alice blushed a little, but repeated her request to Ruth, say- 
 ing it would be dull to wait by herself. 
 
 Ruth had in her mind the recollection of a previous engage- 
 ment, and Madeline reminded her of it. They were to take a 
 small parcel of clothes to a woman at the other end of the 
 parish. 
 
 ' It is a dreadfully disagreeable day,' said Ruth, who hap- 
 pened to have on a neat new morning dress ; ' would it do to 
 wait till to-morrow .? ' 
 
 ' We promised,' replied Madeline ; ' that is, if we could 
 manage it.' 
 
 ' But you cannot, because of its being so dirty,' interposed 
 Alice ; ' that settles the matter.' 
 
 * No, indeed, Alice,' exclaimed Ruth, laughing ; * one cannot 
 manage things quite so easily as that. If we have promised, 
 we must go, though it is dirty.' 
 
 ' Then you will not consider me,' said Alice, with an air of
 
 390 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 disappointment \ '■ and I have not said a word to you about the 
 school ; and I thought we should have had time for a nice talk 
 before Lady Catharine came in,' 
 
 ' Wliat do you say, Maddy ? ' asked Ruth ; * do you think 
 we can put it off ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Madeline, without hesitation ; ' Alice will have 
 a good many opportunities of talking about the school before 
 it is her turn to go again ; but Mrs Corbin wants the clothes 
 veiy much.' 
 
 ' Only you iieed not both go, I suppose,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Mamma does not like our walking so far alone,' answered 
 Madeline. 
 
 * I declare you are quite provoking to-day, Madeline,' said 
 Alice. ' You put obstacles in the way of everything I propose.' 
 
 Madeline's cheek crimsoned with anger, and a half-uttered 
 word escaped her lips. She walked to the window, and stood 
 looking out of it for a few moments. 
 
 ' You should not be unkind to Madeline,' observed Ruth, in 
 a low tone to Alice. 
 
 Alice began to excuse herself 
 
 Presently MadeUne came back to them, and said, ' I have 
 thought what we can do. Martha, our housemaid, was to go 
 this afternoon to see her mother, who lives very near Mrs 
 Corbin. I will take her with me.' 
 
 ' That will not be quite as pleasant as if I were with you/ 
 said Ruth. 
 
 * No ! ' and Madeline smiled sweetly. ' There are not many 
 things as pleasant as to have you with me, but I should like you 
 to go with Alice.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Maddy, very much indeed,' said Alice, coming 
 foinvard and giving her a kiss. * I shall enjoy my half-hour's 
 talk with Ruth immensely.' 
 
 Madeline hoped she would, and left the room. Ruth fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 ' Maddy, it seems unkind to let you go alone; but the fact 
 is, I do want to talk to Alice. I have a great deal to say to her 
 about the school ; and I really think she is beginning to listen 
 to me. It would be an immense pity to miss doing her good if 
 one has the opportunity.' 
 
 * Yes, indeed, it would. I am so delighted that she will 
 let you talk to her. Nobody else will be of as much use to 
 her,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 391 
 
 And you don't very much mind ? ' inquii-ed Ruth, affection- 
 ately. 
 
 ' Mind ! oh, no ! not in the least ; and I shall have all Mrs 
 Corbin's gratitude to myself to console me.' 
 
 Madeline ran merrily up the stairs. Rulh stood below, 
 slightly uncomfortable. 
 
 Just then Mr Clifford came out of his room. 
 
 ' In a brown study, Ruth? what is the matter? What are 
 you going to do with yourself this afternoon ? ' 
 
 * I am going back to the Manor with Alice,' answered Ruth. 
 
 ' To the Manor, are you ? but that is not a very long walk 
 for a summer's afternoon. I thought you and Madeline were 
 to have taken Mrs Corbin's parcel to her ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, so we intended, papa ; but Alice wished me to be with 
 her, and tlien Madeline said she would walk alone ; that is, not 
 alone exactly, but with Martha. Martha is going to see her 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' was all Mr Clifford's reply, as he leaned against the 
 balustrade, thinking. 
 
 Ruth was not entirely pleased with the ' Oh !' it seemed like 
 dissatisfaction. She was going away, but her father called her 
 back. 
 
 ' Ruth, my child, do you remember the conversation we had 
 the other night about Alice ?' 
 
 ' Yes, papa,' said Ruth, blushing. 
 
 ' I only wished to remind you of it. Don't set your heart 
 upon converting and influencing Alice ; you will go wrong if 
 you do.' 
 
 ' But, dear papa, may I not make her do right if I can ?' 
 
 * By all means, to the very utmost ; but take care that you do 
 not go the wrong way to work. Remember, we must think of 
 our own duties first.' 
 
 ' Yes, papa, of course.' 
 
 After those words, ' of course,' there was nothing more to be 
 said. Besides, Mr Clifford was just then particularly engaged. 
 
 Ruth returned to the drawing-room, and found her mamma 
 there, ready \vith the parcel for Mrs Corbin. Mrs Clifford 
 looked a litde disappointed when Ruth mentioned her inten- 
 tion of going to the Manor. 
 
 * It would be a dull, disagreeable walk for Madeline,' she said ; 
 * and Alice would not have long to remain alone ; and Mrs 
 Corbin had wished particularly to see Ruth. If you remember,
 
 392 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 my clear,' she continued, * it was your own proposal to go to her, 
 when your papa told you she was one of the persons you might 
 read to occasionally.' 
 
 'Yes,' answered Ruth, hesitatingly; 'but I thought' 
 
 She stopped. ' No, I did not think about it ; but Madeline 
 could read instead of me.' 
 
 ' I will not interfere with you, my love ; do as you feel it best. 
 You know I am always glad for you to be any pleasure or com- 
 fort to Alice.' 
 
 Nothing more was said. Ruth could scarcely tell why she 
 felt as if she was doing wrong. She spent several moments in 
 thinking, and at last decided that it was a mere waste of time to 
 worry herself with over-scrupulousness. She could see no harm ; 
 and neither her papa nor her mamma had found actual fault with 
 her, so that there could be no precise reason for not keeping her 
 engagement with Alice, in the hope possibly of being of service 
 to her. 
 
 And Ruth was not absolutely faulty in her decision. It was 
 not the question whether or not she should go to the Manor 
 which caused her disquietude. It was the consciousness that 
 she had been consulting her own wishes ; looking first to in- 
 clination, and then to duty, and so allowing her judgment to be 
 biassed. 
 
 Still she went ; it would have been unkind, she thought, to 
 Alice not to do so. And still she hoped that by going she might 
 be of use in strengthening Alice in the path of duty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 1^ UTH and Alice pursued their walk to the Manor in silence. 
 V Ruth's zeal for Alice's improvement had received a check, 
 and Alice was apparently occupied with a subject of sufticient 
 interest to stop the usual flow of her conversation. They had 
 entered the park before cither of them spoke, and then it was 
 Alice, who said — - 
 
 ' Maddy is excessively good ; but she is not a bit like you, 
 Ruth.' 
 
 ' \o,' replied Ruth, laughing. ' Mamma often says we have 
 the most twin-like faces, and the most untwin-like minds, of
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 393 
 
 any persons she ever knew. The wonder is we get along so 
 well together.' 
 
 * I don't know what it is about her,' pursued Alice ; ' but 
 sometimes I think I am afraid of her : and yet it is very strange, 
 1 am not afraid either — it would be absurd : she is so much 
 younger, and 1 can say all sorts of nonsense to her, much more 
 than I can to you.' 
 
 ' I am gra\er than she is, naturally,' replied Ruth. 
 ' Yes, so you are : yet Madeline is not like the girls at school, 
 though I am sure we used to talk nonsense enough.' 
 
 * There can be no doubt of that,' observed Ruth. 
 
 ' Ah ! but not in your days ; we were pieces of perfection 
 then. After you went was the time. There was no one to 
 keep order. Florence and I used to say it was very wrong, 
 but you know we had no power to stop anything.' 
 
 ' I should not have thought Florence cared about it,' said 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' I daresay you would not : you have a prejudice against 
 her.' 
 
 ' No, Alice, not a prejudice ; that means a feeling without a 
 reason. Now I have quite a sufficient reason for distrusting 
 Florence ;' and, as she said this, Ruth's voice was a little 
 hurried. ' But really and truly I have no prejudice against her. 
 I liked her a great deal better the other clay ; and I should 
 have liked her a great deal more if it had not been for that 
 stupid nonsense about Justine.' 
 
 ' Florence is not so wrong there,' said Alice, mysteriously. 
 
 * So you have told me two or three times when we have talked 
 about it. But what am I to think "i How can it be necessary 
 to exact a promise .'' I am not going to spread a bad report of 
 Justine everywhere ; it would be uncharitable. At the same 
 time, there can be no harm in saying that we knew her at Mrs 
 Carter's.' 
 
 'That would bring on other questions, and would be dangerous. 
 I cannot explain exactly why, but it would be ; and at all events, 
 now your promise is given.' 
 
 This was a very pro\'oking fact to be reminded of. It made 
 Ruth hasten on a little before Alice, and relapse into silence. 
 
 ' One thing, Ruth, I must tell you,' said Alice, renewing tlie 
 conversation, as they entered her own sitting-room, just at the 
 point at which it had been broken off ; ' that you don't know 
 »-Ue good you may do by having made such a promise. Florence
 
 394 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 will be obliged to you always, and so will Justine ; and if you 
 take care, you may guide them to anything you like.' 
 
 ' Guide Justine ! ' exclaimed Ruth, surprised ; ' but she is not 
 going to stay in this neighbourhood ?' 
 
 * Possibly ; you must not ask questions — perhaps she may 
 some time or other ; and if she does, you may do a great deal 
 for her. And as for Florence herself, she says that she can 
 never imagine you as young as you are ; and that when she 
 met you the other day, she felt at once that you were just 
 as superior as you used to be.' 
 
 Alice spoke without any intention of flattery. Flattery be- 
 tween girls, who had known each other intimately from child- 
 hood, was out of the question. Perhaps it was the knowledge 
 of this which made Ruth listen with patience to such undisguised 
 praise. She made but a slight effort to turn the conversation 
 by saying — 
 
 ' And when did you and Florence find time for this long 
 discourse about me ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! when we were together at the lower end of the church ; 
 Florence began the subject directly. She was anxious to know 
 whether I thought you would agree to keep Justine's secret.' 
 
 ' And what did you say ? ' 
 
 ' I could not tell ; I was afraid not. I thought you disliked 
 secrets ; and I was to have asked you about it : but seeing 
 Justine took us by surprise. Florence did not expect her till an 
 hour later.' 
 
 Here Alice went away to take off her walking dress, and left 
 Ruth standing moodily by the fire-place, thinking how silly she 
 had been in giving a promise which after all it seemed Florence 
 scarcely expected to receive. However, as the common and 
 most delusive saying is, ' the thing was done and could not be 
 helped, and she must make the best of it ; ' which just then 
 meant to forget it. 
 
 With a view to forgetfulness, Ruth began another subject 
 when Alice came back. 
 
 ' We will talk a little now about your troubles and the school, 
 Alice ; shall we ?' 
 
 Alice's troubles, however, dated further back than the school. 
 
 They originated in what she called Lady Catharine's ' tire- 
 someness.' The school was a secondary consideration ; 
 perhaps in time she might learn to manage and teach, 
 but the home worries were unendurable ; and she began a
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 395 
 
 narration similar to that to whicli Ruth had many times 
 listened before. 
 
 Ruth, however, dexterously di\erled the current of her ideas. 
 She had already given all the advice that was to be given, as 
 to patience, humiUty, gratitude, reverence ; and she had quick- 
 ness enough to perceive that one thing which Alice required 
 was to be furnished with interesting occupation, to prevent her 
 from dwelling peevishly upon trifles. She referred again, there- 
 fore, to the school, and her own difficulties when first she com- 
 menced teaching", and the mode in which she had overcome 
 them by taking her father's advice. From the school, she pro- 
 ceeded to speak of the poor people, and to ask whether Alice 
 would be inclined to join with Madeline and herself in saving 
 up money to buy clothes, and make them; aiid whether she 
 could assist them by keeping the accounts of the shoe club: all 
 which pleased Alice, and made her feel hereelf a person of some 
 use in the world. 
 
 * You are very, very kind, dear Ruth,' she said, when Ruth 
 had made these propositions. * You are never worried or out of 
 temper, and you are always ready to help me. I think I may 
 be good for something after all — don't you — if I take to the 
 schools and the poor people.?' 
 
 * Who ever doubted it 1 ' said Ruth, amused at the simplicity 
 of the question. 
 
 ' I doubt it very often,' replied Alice, with a sudden change 
 of manner. * You don't know me, Ruth ; you, who are so good, 
 and have always been good— you don't know what thoughts 
 are in my mind sometimes ; they would frighten you, they are 
 so wild and strange — as if it was impossible, as if it was not 
 meant I should be good. But people can be good if they like, 
 can't they ? ' 
 
 * Alice,' said Ruth, earnestly j ' I wish you would talk to 
 papa.' 
 
 ' I cannot, he frightens me : and he would not understand. 
 To-day, when he spoke to me, I could not have answered him, 
 as he wished to be answered, for all the world. There is no 
 one but you, Ruth ; no one ! When we were at school, I could 
 have said more to you than to any person ; only you were never 
 inclined to listen.' 
 
 Ruth turned to her with an expression of real interest which 
 could not be mistaken. 
 
 ' 1 am willing to listen to you at all times, upon every subject,
 
 396 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 dear Alice,' she said ; ' but you sometimes own that you are 
 changeable. When you change, it can be no wonder that I 
 should change likewise. And though you say I would not listen 
 to you at school, you must remember that whilst you professed 
 to be fond of me, )ou were always going with others ; and espe- 
 cially with some whom I particularly disliked: and now you 
 have Florence Trevelyan.' 
 
 ' Florence ! that is absurd ! How could Florence ever be your 
 rival ? ' 
 
 ' Because you would make her so. You do not know your 
 own mind. If Florence is to be witli you much, she will guide 
 you entirely.' 
 
 ' Never. I have no respect for her judgment, though I like 
 her. But you might guide her.' 
 
 ' I ! ' exclaimed Ruth. ' I ! who am so much younger ! ' 
 
 * Yes ; because she respects you.' 
 
 ' If Florence thinks about respecting people,' said Ruth, ' she 
 had better not have secrets with Justine le Vergnier.' 
 
 ' It is only one secret. The fact is, that poor Justine has had 
 a good deal of trouble, and Florence knows it ; and now it 
 would be unkind to cast her off, and do her harm.' 
 
 * All a mystery,' said Ruth, shaking her head. 
 
 ' But you cannot blame her for being kind, at any rate,' 
 continued Alice; ' and you cannot blame me for calling her im- 
 proved — years ago she would have thought only of herself.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is true,' answered Ruth. 
 
 ' And now she is in the neighbourhood, and you may do her 
 good,' pursued Alice ; ' only you must not be jealous.' 
 
 Ruth smiled at the word 'jealous.' It was much too strong 
 for any feeling which she entertained either towards Alice or 
 Florence. 
 
 ' I am not in the least jealous,' she replied ; * but, as I said 
 before, I should like you to know your own mind.' 
 
 ' Hark ! was not that the hall bell .?' exclaimed Alice. ' Did 
 you hear a carriage? How extremely unfortunate ! ' She ran 
 to the door and listened. ' Yes ; she is come home. How tire- 
 some ! Ruth, dear, just let me give you one caution. If Lady 
 Catharine talks about Florence, don't speak as if I was anything 
 of a friend of hers ; I mean anything particular. Take care 
 what you say, that is all.' 
 
 ' Alice ! Alice !' exclaimed Ruth, with a look of great annoy- 
 ance : ' how can you bear to have mysteries about everything ? 
 
 I
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 397 
 
 So foolish it is; so extremely silly — and wroni,^ too! Why must 
 not Lady Catharine know all that you say or do ?' 
 
 * It is a mere trifle, no harm,' answered Alice. ' Only there 
 was a foolish mistake of mine the other morning, I can't explain 
 now ; but there is really no harm. Won't you believe me ?' 
 
 Ruth turned silently away. 
 
 * Good-bye to confidence, then,' exclaimed Alice. ' How 
 could I have been so absurd as to think you cared for me ! ' 
 
 ' You don't give me your confidence,' said Ruth, quietly. 
 * You do things first, and ask me to conceal them afterwards.' 
 
 ' Do things first ! Really, Ruth, you are too silly. One 
 would think I had committed murder, and wanted you to hide 
 it. But we won't talk about it.' 
 
 Alice was going away to meet Lady Catharine. Ruth pre- 
 vented her. 
 
 ' I have no wish to be in any way unkind to you, Alice ; 
 but, if you will take my advice, you will give up mysteries.' 
 
 * I always meant to take your advice for the future ; but this 
 is a case past.' 
 
 Ruth saw that Alice was growing proud and angr>'. .She 
 thought of the suggestions she had just given regarding the 
 school and the poor people. Alice seemed upon the point of 
 attending to them, and they would materially aid in forming 
 her character. If she were checked in her good inclinations 
 they might not return, and what she required was more silence 
 than anything else. It would be easy on another occasion to 
 show her that she was wrong. These ideas passed rapidly 
 through Ruth's mind. 
 
 * Well ! let it be for this once,' she said, hastily ; ' but we 
 must talk more upon the subject by and by.' 
 
 ' Thank you a thousand times. And you will love me still 'i ' 
 said Alice, giving her a hearty kiss. ' I love you dearly.' 
 
 The kiss was returned, but Ruth was not certain of the desired 
 love, and evaded an answer. 
 
 ' Is Miss Lennox within ? ' was Lady Catharine's first inquiry 
 after giving some particular directions respecting the purchases 
 made at Cottington, and sending a message to the groom to 
 look carefully after the two fat carriage horses, as they had had 
 a hard day's work. 
 
 ' Miss Lennox and Miss Clifford had been in the house more 
 than an hour,' was the reply received ; and if Alice had seen 
 the gleam of pleasure which lighted up Lady Catharine's face at
 
 398 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 the mere mention of her name, she might have been satisfied 
 that her absence or presence were no matters of indifference. 
 Lady Catharine really walked quickly up the stairs. 
 
 ' Well, my love ! ' she exclaimed, as she entered the apart- 
 ment ; ' I thought I should surprise you. I have returned 
 sooner than I expected.' 
 
 ' We heard the carriage, ma'am,' answered Alice. 
 
 This chilling answer was quite sufficient for Lady Catharine. 
 She turned to Ruth. * And how long have you been here, my 
 dear ? I did not know Alice would have a companion whilst 
 I was away.' 
 
 Ruth answered the question ; and Lady Catharine put several 
 others formally, and with that air of indifference which betrays 
 thoughts wandering to other subjects. 
 
 Alice offered to take her bonnet and shawl away. 
 
 Lady Catharine thanked her, but declined rather coldly ; and 
 taking a note from her reticule, gave it to her, saying, ' Miss 
 Trevelyan sent you this, Alice ; it is an invitation, I believe, to 
 a picnic. Mrs De Lacy mentioned the subject to me, but I 
 have not decided upon accepting it. And here is an invitation 
 for your mamma, also, Ruth ; which I offered to bring.' 
 
 Alice kept her note unopened till Lady Catharine was gone. 
 It was a long one, and two or three times whilst Alice was 
 perusing it she looked anxiously towards the door, and listened. 
 When she had finished, she replaced it in the envelope in 
 evident perplexity. 
 
 ' Shall you wish to goP' inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; I think J should like it ; but' — here Alice paused, and 
 her colour changed as the sound of a closing door at the end of 
 the passage warned them that Lady Catharine might be about 
 to return. ' Ruth,' she continued, speaking in a hurried tone, 
 ' I should be so much obliged if you could do me a favour.' 
 
 ' Well ! what ? ' 
 
 ' This note — if you would take it, Florence writes so fool- 
 ishly, I can't show it to Lady Catharine. I told her to be care- 
 ful, but she is not. If you would take it and go.' 
 
 ' I ! ' repeated Ruth ; ' it is not mine.' 
 
 ' But don't you understand ? If you have it ; if you take it 
 home, you can burn it, or keep it ; in short, I can say that you 
 have it , and if Lady Catharine asks to see it, there will be an 
 answer ready. It is only just for once ; indeed, it shall not 
 happen again.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 399 
 
 ' This system of yours is entirely wrong, Alice,' replied Rutii ; 
 ♦ and, if you persist in it, you will repent it. You never can con- 
 tinue to keep your confidence from Lady Catharine without 
 getting into difficulties.' 
 
 ' I know it quite well,' answered Alice ; ' but this is a pecu- 
 liar case. As I told you, there was a stupid mistake the other 
 morning, and this note will only puzzle Lady Catharine. I will 
 take care that Florence shall not write in the same way again. 
 To prove to you that there is no hann in the note, I do not in 
 the least mind your seeing it.' As she said this, Ahce put the 
 paper into Ruth's hand. 'Do go, please go,' she continued ; 
 ' it shall all be explained another day.' 
 
 ' I had rather not,' replied Ruth, laying the note on the 
 table. 
 
 ' O Ruth ! how unkind ! And I thought you loved me ! ' 
 
 ' But, Alice, I cannot see that it is right.' 
 
 Alice's answer was in a tone of nervous anxiety. ' Ruth, if 
 you would only believe me — only trust me — I wish to be 
 guided by you in everything.' 
 
 ' And if I say that Lady Catharine ought to see it, will you 
 show it to-morrow ? ' inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; to-morrow, or some day ; anything you please. 
 Dear Ruth ! I depend upon you more than upon any one.' 
 
 Lady Catharine's voice was heard. Alice opened the door. 
 ' Pray, pray go ; good-bye.' 
 
 * But it will be strange for me to be gone in such a moment,' 
 said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, no ; she understands that you have heaps of engage- 
 ments.' 
 
 * And you will do what I tell you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, you shall advise me entirely.' 
 
 Ruth, still \vith a hesitating step, drew near the door ; then, 
 as Lady Catharine was really heard approaching, she gave Alice 
 a hasty shake of the hand, and ran down-stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 RUTH'S first impulse, when she found herself walking quietly 
 through the park, out of reach of Lady Catharine's quick 
 eye, was to open Florence Trevelyan's note. Yet, as she did
 
 400 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 so, the feeling which prompted her to look round and see if any 
 person was near, was unusual and disagreeable. It was the 
 sense of being a party to deception, of all things most galling to 
 the conscience of one like Ruth, sincere both by nature and 
 education. And when the note was first read, it seemed as if 
 there could have been no cause for Alice's uneasiness. Florence 
 wrote warmly, entreating Alice to persuade Lady Catharine to 
 allow her to join in a picnic party, which was to take place 
 soon, though the exact day was not fixed. Ruth could not 
 comprehend why Alice should have objected to Lady Catha- 
 rine's seeing this ; but after a second perusal, she turned to the 
 other side of the paper, and perceived an additional sentence : 
 ' I am not the only person wishing to see you ; things are go- 
 ing just as we wished ; they are all but settled.' 
 
 Ruth uttered an exclamation of disgust. These perpetual 
 mysteries were becoming intolerable. The person referred to 
 must be Justine ; but what was meant by all things being 
 settled, was beyond Ruth's comprehension. She pondered much 
 upon the subject as she sauntered leisurely home, purposely pro- 
 longing her walk that she might have leisure for thought. 
 
 The conclusion at which she arrived was no explanation of 
 the note ; but simply a determination to use her utmost efforts 
 to persuade Alice to be open in all cases ; and, as a commence- 
 ment, to have no more communications with Florence Trevelyan 
 which could not be made known to Lady Catharine. 
 
 Ruth's engagements for the next day were fixed. Her morn- 
 ing studies had been marked out for her by her mother, and her 
 afternoon employment had been settled by her father. She had 
 no spare moments; yet when Mrs Clifford expressed a wish to 
 have a book taken to the Manor, Ruth threw aside her history, 
 and proposed to be the bearer of it. Madeline, however, inter- 
 posed, saying that she was obliged to go into the village on some 
 business of Mrs Corbin's ; and, as she should pass the Manor 
 kKk^e, the book mifrht be left there. Ruth looked somewhat 
 annoyed, and was vexed, she said, to lose the walk as it was so 
 fine — a declaration which surprised Madeline not a little; 
 Ruth's usual theory being, that to go out early after breakfast 
 was to destroy the comfort of the day. No one, however, 
 could do Mrs Corbin's business as well as Madeline, and the 
 affair was quickly settled, Ruth sitting down again to her his- 
 tory ; then beginning a note to Alice, which was presently torn 
 ♦.o atoms, and recurring once more to lier book, witli the
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 401 
 
 unpleasant consciousness tluU her words had ndt been 41 ite 
 sincere. 
 
 Madeline set out on her walk willi a light heart, which was 
 H'.t the less light that something of the merry thoughtlessness of 
 childhood had left her for ever. It was not mere external attrac- 
 tion which could now give her pleasure. The loveliness of the 
 scenery aiound Laneton, with the cottages peeping from amongst 
 masses of trees; the sunshine glancing over the meadows; the 
 blue mists upon the distant hills ; the white, curling foam of 
 the waves rolling in upon the shore; and the vast, illimitable sky 
 seeming to embrace all earthly beauty in an atmosphere of purity, 
 had now a deeper and a truer meaning than in former years she 
 could see or understand ; for these things were not mcrel\' 
 ])leasant to the eye — they were the signs of the love of Cod. 
 Madeline's mind was just opening to the perception that reli- 
 gion adds tenfold to the enjoyment of life as it takes tenfold 
 from its bitterness ; the efforts so early made were bringing their 
 reward ; and even her duties, as they became habitual, began 
 to be agreeable. 
 
 And the ways of religion are indeed ways of pleasantness : 
 the yoke of Christ is indeed an easy yoke. No Avords were 
 ever more true ; but the ' ways ' must be entered upon betimes 
 — the 'yoke' must be submitted to in youth. It seems that one 
 could pray for an angel's eloquence to persuade those v.ho are 
 just beginning life that it is so. 
 
 Once let them yield themselves to be the children of Cod in 
 heart as well as by their baptismal privileges, and there is a 
 clear, straight, sunshiny, though not cloudless path, marked out 
 for them through the toils and dangers of the wilderness of life, 
 tn the rest of tlic blessed in Paradise. If any doubt, let them 
 ask those who lia\e gone before. 
 
 Who e\'er gave himself to God in the spring-time of life, and 
 repented in the dreary winter of old age ? Who ever looked 
 back upon the years gone by, and griev cd that they had been 
 devoted to his Sa\iour 1 V/ho ever lay upon his death-bed, 
 eternity opening before him, and the sentence of judgment 
 awaiting him, and did not turn with thankfulness and love un- 
 utterable to the remembrance that, amidst all his manifold 
 imperfections, he had been enabled, whilst his heart was yet 
 untainted by grievous sin, to ofler himself, his soul and body, to 
 be ' a reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice ' to tl^c Almighty 
 Lord, by whose death he was redeemed .^ 
 
 2 C
 
 4o2 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Rladeline Clifford was very happy. She knew that in on« 
 sense she could not remain so ; since trouble must sooner or 
 later come to her, as it comes to all. Still she was very happy ; 
 for if ever she thought of the future, she thought also of One 
 who would never forsake her ; and what trial could overwhelm 
 her when He was with her ? 
 
 That morning's walk was a thorough enjoyment to her ; lier 
 business was soon settled, and a short distance farther brought 
 her to the Manor lodge. No one was within except a little 
 child, and Madeline, afraid of entnjsting the book to her, con- 
 sidered it would be better, even at the risk of being late in 
 returning, to carry it herself to the house. As she drew near, 
 she caught sight of Alice, through the iron railing which separ- 
 ated the garden from the park, sauntering slov.ly up and down 
 the terrace. Madeline called to her, and Alice's face brightened 
 instantly, and hastening to the gate, she threw it open, and 
 begged Madeline to join her. 
 
 ' I have a book for Lady Catharine,' said Madeline : ' will you 
 take it for her 1 I have no time to wait, for I have done scarcely 
 anything this morning at home, and mamma will be vexed if I 
 am not back soon.' 
 
 Alice laughed. 
 
 * Why, Madeline, one would think you were a baby in the 
 school-room still. I thought you were out of all that parti- 
 cularity.' 
 
 ' So I am,' answered Madeline, ' partly ; but one wishes to 
 please mamma just the same.' 
 
 ' Such trifles cannot signify,' said Alice. ' You make yourself 
 as badly off as I am. What do you think now of Lady Catha- 
 rine's insisting upon my walking up and down here for an hour 
 every morning .'' ' 
 
 ' That I v.'ish you may ne\er have anything more disagreeable 
 to do,' replied Madeline, with a smile, as she gave the book to 
 Alice, and wished her good-bye. 
 
 * Well ! but tell me,' said AHcc, detaining her ; ' does your 
 mamma treat you in the same way "i ' 
 
 ' She wishes us to walk eveiy morning, as you know,' replied 
 Madsline ; ' and we generally do before breakfast.' 
 
 ' That is what Lady Catharine Avants me to do,' said Alice ; 
 * but it does not suit me ; and then she worries so.' 
 
 Madeline had a strong inclination to stop and give Alice some 
 good advice ; but the church clock struck eleven.
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 403 
 
 * I must go/ she exclaimed. ' Alice, dear, will you let me say 
 one thing ? If you would just make up your mind to please Lady 
 Catharine in these trifles, I think you would be happier. Good-bye 
 — give me a kiss ; I daresay w'e shall meet again by and by.' 
 
 Alice said ' Good-bye ' in a tone of some annoyance, and 
 could not forbear adding, ' You are so dreadfully particular and 
 punctual, Madeline. When do you mean to get out of leading 
 strings .'' ' 
 
 ' Never,' said Madeline, playfully, as she closed the garden 
 gate, and once more nodding to Alice, set off on her walk home. 
 
 Alice looked wistfully after her ; perplexing thoughts seemed 
 working in her mind. She drew a note from her pocket, and 
 stood gazing upon the direction with an air of irresolution. 
 Presently, as if suddenly determined, she threw open the iron 
 gate and ran after Madeline, who v/as proceeding leisurely 
 through the parlc. 
 
 Madeline heard her footsteps without knowing who was behind 
 her. She looked round a little startled. 
 
 ' You walk so fast,' began Alice, nearly breathless with the 
 haste she had made. ' I thought I never should reach you.' 
 
 ' How tiresome of me !' exclaimed Madeline. ' Dear Alice, 
 you are quite out of breath. What is it you want ?' 
 
 ' Nothing particular ; only a trifle,' replied Alice, embarrass- 
 ment succeeding to her former eagerness and irritation. ' Only 
 just — will you take this letter to the post for me as you go by.' 
 
 ' Yes, at least — to the post, did you say — it is not near post 
 time.' 
 
 * I am quite aware of that ; but will you take it ? I want it 
 to go. What are you afraid of .^' 
 
 ' Nothing,- exclaimed Madeline, a little impatiently. ' I am 
 not afraid of anything.' Then, in a more subdued voice, she 
 added, ' I do not mind taking this letter, or any letter, Alice ; 
 but I cannot think why you asl: it.' 
 
 ' I have a veiy good reason,' said Alice. ' There can be no 
 harm in the letter : you see it is only to Florence Trevelyan.' 
 As she said this, Alice held the direction for Madeline to see. 
 
 * Florence Trevelyan ! there can be no harm, certainly ; but, 
 Alice, if you would not think me curious, I wish you could give 
 me a reason for not sending the letter with the others.' 
 
 ' Oh, I have a very simple reason, if that is what you want,' 
 replied Alice, assuming an air of indifference. ' I cannot have 
 Lady Catharine prying into my correspondence.'
 
 404 LAXETON PARSOyAGE. 
 
 * She sees your letters, then?' 
 
 'Yes, generally. There is no rule about it ; but she remarks 
 whom I write to, and rather complains if I send too many to the 
 same person ; and, in fact, I must be independent. So will you 
 please just take my letter and put it into the post as you go by ."*' 
 
 Madeline made no answer. Alice held out the letter, but she 
 did not take it. 
 
 * I though.t you were immensely good-natured as well as 
 strict,' said Alice. 
 
 ' 1 should like to be good-natured — I wish to be,' answered 
 Madeline, and the manner in which she spoke was so child- 
 like and artless, that Alice could scarcely forbear smiling, 
 
 * Well, then, take my letter, like a darling.' 
 
 ' But I would rather do right than be good-natured,' con- 
 tinued Madeline, with tire same simplicity, and seeming to speak 
 her thoughts aloud without reference to Alice's presence. 
 
 Alice looked back to the garden to be certain that she was 
 not observed. ' Come, say yes or no ; be quick, Maddy.' 
 
 ' What I think, Alice,' answered Madeline, ' is that one ought 
 not to set one's self up ; 1 mean, one ought not to go against the 
 persons one is with — do you see.'" 
 
 ' No ; I see nothing, except that you are amazingly absurd 
 and provoking,' exclaimed Alice. 
 
 ' I would not be if I could help it, Alice ; but somehow, 
 I should not like to do anything Lady Catharine might not 
 approve.' 
 
 ' Really, Madeline, you are a complete l^aby. Do you think 
 that at sixteen I am going to worry myself about every trlfl-j, 
 by considering whether Lady Catharine would approve .'' At 
 that rate I might be tormenting myself all day long. She 
 never approves of anything. She is as particular as— as ' — 
 Alice could find no satisfactory simile, and satisfied herself by 
 adding, ' Juno I — it is a capital name for her. She is a com- 
 plete Juno.' 
 
 ' It is the particularity 1 am tliinking of,' replied Madeline, 
 taking no notice of the latter ixut of Alice's speech. ' If she iy 
 so particular '- 
 
 ' What then ? if she is so particular ' 
 
 ' Why — you must not be angry, Alice — I don't think you can 
 quite know better than Lady Catharine ; and if she is like your 
 mamma, it seems as if you ouglit to obey her. Please don't 
 vex about the letter ; I would do anything for you I could,
 
 L.hXF.'rO.Y PARSOX.IGE. 403 
 
 indeed 1 would ; but I doivt tliink this would be ciuiie right.' 
 Madeline once more said ' Good-bye/ and was walking home- 
 wards before Alice could tell what reply to make, or what 
 argument or reproach to use. 
 
 Alice stood gazing after her, as with a light, elastic step, she 
 went on, neither pausing nor looking behind her, neither turning 
 to the right hand nor to the left ; bent only on one purpose — 
 reachintr home in good time. JMadeline's movements were 
 entirely the index of her mind — free and firm, and yet child- 
 like. They were quite different from Ruth's calmer, steadier, 
 more thoughtful air, Alice, vexed though she was, could not 
 help watching her with interest, in which was mingled a feeling 
 of respect, as she threaded her way by short by-paths, amidst 
 the intricacies of the trees, sometimes hidden, sometimes re- 
 appearing, and at last becoming little more than a dark spot in 
 the distance. Alice lost sight of her at last, and then she 
 turned herself and went back to the house. 
 
 Lady Catharine met her at the iron gate. ' My dear, 1 
 thought my wish was that you should not go beyond the 
 garden.' 
 
 ' Madehne Clifford has just been here,' replied Alice, evading 
 an excuse. ' She brought a book from the Parsonage.' 
 
 ' Give it me, my love, at once ; it may be of consequence.' 
 
 Alice's latent ill-temper was roused by Lady Catharine's tone 
 of command and the half-implied reproach. She answered 
 coldly that Madeline had not been gone many minutes, and 
 giving the book to Lady Catharine, went to her room. Again 
 the disappointed look might have been seen on Lady Catharine's 
 face. She walked up and down the terrace buried in self-examina- 
 tion. What was her error in Alice's education ? What 
 mistake was she committing which could thus estrange her 
 affection ? or was Alice really cold and selfish ? Was it possible 
 that the child of the gentle, affectionate Mrs Lennox, could be 
 insensible to all the love which was bestowed upon her 1 Perhaps 
 she was too exacting, too particular ; but this was only a passing 
 fear. Lady Catharine had given up so many of her long-estab- 
 lished habits, and had overcome so much of her natural precision 
 in order not to be a restraint upon Alice, that it was difficult for 
 her to imagine that anything of the kind which remained could 
 really be galling. A different answer to the ciuestion suggested 
 itself. Alice must need change and companionship of her own 
 age. Ruth and ?\Iadeline could not be with her always, and
 
 4o6 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth was too grave, and Madeline too child-like, perhaps, tc 
 suit her. 
 
 Lady Catharine disliked few things more than the idea of 
 having the regularity of her household disturbed by an additional 
 inmate, young and gay, and requiring amusement ; yet, whilst 
 Alice sat brooding over her fancied miseries, and tormenting 
 herself with schemes for sending a private note to Florence 
 Trevelyan, Lady Catharine was planning how she could arrange 
 to receive and entertain a visitor — one of Alice's school friends, 
 any one whom sh.e might prefer, and whom Mrs Carter could 
 recommend. She resolved to write to Mrs Carter by that day's 
 post, and ask her opinion as to which of Alice's former com- 
 panions it would be preferable to have. Florence Trevelyan 
 might liave been asked at once, but Alice appeared to ha.ve 
 taken so little interest in her, that it seemed scarcely probable 
 she would like it, and Lady Catharine put her aside as not to 
 be thought of 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYH. 
 
 RUTH was disappointed in her hope of seeing Alice for two 
 days. She had therefore full leisure to think over her last 
 conversation and all that had passed between them. That Ruth 
 had influence was clear ; and she had also a sincere desire to 
 exercise this influence rightly. Alice's increased interest in the 
 school and the poor people were hopeful symptoms ; but no ex- 
 ternal improvement could really avail for her happiness as long 
 as her position with regard to Lady Catharine remained as it 
 then was. Here lay the great difficulty both for Alice's conduct 
 and Ruth's advice. Mrs Clifford would have been the fit person 
 to apply to when Ruth wished to know how to deal with Alice; 
 but Ruth was involved in a harassing maze of petty perplexities. 
 She could not pretend to talk openly to her mother about Alice, 
 and yet be a party to deceptions. But neither could- she own 
 her share in them, because this would involve a mention of 
 Florence and Justine ; and perhaps, as Alice had said, do harm. 
 Ruth had a strong mind, which could cope with serious evils ; 
 she had moral courage sufficient to have enabled her to make 
 really great efforts, and she had a clear judgment in general ; 
 but the present seemed a case distinct from all others. There
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 407 
 
 was a consciousness of being wrong, without any exact percep- 
 tion of where the wrong lay ; a wish to free herself from Alice, 
 yet a strong desire to lead her right ; a dislike to being mixed 
 up in any affair with Florence and Justine, yet a dread that if 
 Alice were to continue the acquaintance whilst she withdrew 
 from it, the result might do great mischief Above all, a hatred 
 of deception and concealment, yet the tic of a hasty promise, 
 given, she scarcely knew why or for what. It was the most 
 worrying, provoking medley of small difficulties which Rutli had 
 ever met with. 
 
 Still, if she really could guide Alice at all, it should be, she de- 
 termined, in the path of sincerity: the mystery about Justine must 
 either be cleared up, or they must be released from their promise. 
 This step was undoubtedly one of the first to be taken, and 
 Ruth became quite anxious either to meet Florence, or to make 
 Alice agree to write to her ; or, in short, do something to put 
 an end to the necessity for concealment. 
 
 Alice's disposition was changeable as the winds. Before Lady 
 Catharine received Mrs Carter's answer to her letter, she had 
 taken, what is called, a good turn — at least, in some respects. 
 The poor people's clothes and some books of accounts were 
 sent from the Parsonage, and she busied herself one whole 
 morning in arranging what was to be done with them ; and 
 even consulted Lady Catharine as to how she should manage to 
 receive the pence for the shoe club, and what day and hour it 
 would be well to fix for it. Lady Catharine was thankful for 
 the improvement, but it was only external. As regarded her- 
 self — her own thoughts, or wishes, or feelings — Alice was as 
 little inclined to be communicative as ever. 
 
 Mrs Carter's letter, therefore, was very w-elcome when it 
 arrived at the usual time, the breakfast hour ; for Lady Catha- 
 rine flattered herself, that she was now to find an easy way out 
 of her difficulties. But, like many other ' short cuts ' in life, 
 the plan of providing Alice with a friend only led further away 
 from the main, object. Mrs Carter professed herself much per- 
 plexed what answer to give to Lady Catharine's request. In 
 the multiplicity of her engagements, she could not always bear 
 in mind the friendships which her young people formed with 
 each other. She was not at all aware that either Fanny \Vilscn 
 or Tessie O'Neile were particularly intimate with Alice. In- 
 deed, to the best of her recollection, the only person whom 
 ^Jice had lately expressed much regard for, w'as Florence Tre-
 
 ioS LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 velyan ; but of this she could not be certain. She would i;ot, 
 however, neglect the opportunity of giving Lady Catharine a 
 warning upon the subject, which she was sure would not be 
 taken amiss. And this warning made Lady Catharine knit 
 her brows and look doubly stern, as slie pushed aside her 
 plate, and removed her coffee cup, and seemed determined to 
 give it her fidl attention ; whilst Alice sat opposite, wondering 
 what Mrs Carter, whose handwriting she recognised, could pos- 
 sibly have to write about. 
 
 The passage which so engrossed Lady Catharine was the 
 following : ' I cannot help fearing lest, by any means, Alice's 
 intimacy with Florence should lead to the renewal of an ac- 
 quaintance with another young person, whose name you may 
 perhaps recollect, Mademoiselle Le Vergnier, She was at one 
 lime admitted frequently as a guest at my house. I then saw 
 reason to distrust her principles, and for the sake of my pupils 
 I was compelled to forbid her ever associating with them again. 
 Still I had an interest in her ; she was very young, and her 
 education had been much neglected. All her prospects de- 
 pended upon being able to support herself as a governess ; and 
 as she had been specially recommended to my care, I could 
 not at once, for what might be considered a trifling offence, 
 give her up. I Avill not trouble you with mentioning the means 
 I took to watch over and help her ; it will be sufticent to say 
 that I never lost sight of her, and from time to time gave her 
 advice as to her conduct, besides other assistance. I had 
 reason to hope that my eftbrts would not be thrown away, and 
 I looked forward to procuring some situation for her where she 
 might be independent and respected. But some circumstances 
 which have lately come to my knowledge have given me a very 
 unfavourable impression regarding her. I fear the careless 
 education which she received as a child is working its iatal 
 consequences, now that she is a woman. I could not possibly 
 recommend her as a governess, and it would grieve me sincerely 
 to know that any of my pupils were intimate with her. 
 
 ' Vou will not, I hope, consider me prejudiced or unjust 
 because I do not enter into particulars. I do not feel myself 
 at liljerty to give more than a general warning ; but when I 
 beard that Florence Trevelyan had been allowed to renew the 
 acquaintance, notwitlistanding a caution, similar to this, sent 
 both to licr mother and herself, I could not help feeling anxious 
 respecting Alice. Mademoiselle Le Vergnier has lately been resi-
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 409 
 
 dent in the neighbourhood of Ciomcr Court. I am not sure 
 where she now is. With regard to Horcncc, I have not a bad 
 opinion of her. I even consider that, under good influence, she 
 might do well ; but she is extremely weak and very vain, and 
 one cannot tell what the effect of Justine's acquaintance may 
 be. It is a real grief to me that her parents have allowed an 
 intimacy to grow up again.' 
 
 A hasty person would at once have addressed Alice upon 
 the subject of this letter, but Lady Catharine was seldom or 
 never hasty. She finished breakfast with great deliberation, 
 gave her orders for the day, and then went into the garden — • 
 her usual place for meditation. Alice hoped that nothing was 
 wrong, and settled herself to her occupations in the morning- 
 room. There was nothing very wrong yet, at least in the way 
 of suspicion. Lady Catharine's disposition was guileless ; she 
 did not imagine that Alice would deceive her, and therefore 
 took it for granted that Mrs Carter was mistaken when she 
 supposed that Florence and Alice were friends. All that \'excd 
 her was to be obliged in any way to check the acquaintance 
 with Florence, who, as the daughter of persons once well known 
 to her, had, she conceived, a claim upon her for kindness. 
 The question which she could not at once decide was, whether 
 she should mention to Alice what Mrs Carter had said. 
 
 The natural thing to be done in a case of difficulty is to ask 
 another's opinion ; but this was exactly what Lady Catharine 
 never would do. She was the lady paramount in her own house- 
 hold and upon her own large estate ; and though humble in her 
 opinion of herself, as all true Christians must be, she nevertheless 
 had an unobtrusive but firm reliance upon her own judgment, 
 which made it seem unnecessary to ask advice. Besides, Mrs 
 Clifford was the only person whom she could well consult, and 
 Mrs Clifford, with all her excellences— -and Lady Catharine 
 thought herself fully alive to them — did not hold that position 
 in her estimation which would fit her to be her counsellor. 
 She was too gentle — too quiet ; her management was not 
 systematic ; or, at any rate, it did not appear to be so. Lady 
 Catharine, in her secret heart, believed that it was by a sort of 
 happy accident — if such a term may be allowed — that Ruth 
 and Madeline had grown up to be superior to other girls of 
 their age. It was the unseen influence of religious principle, 
 she supposed, acting by itself upon dispositions naturally good, 
 and kept aloof fiom temptation. She could not understand a
 
 4IO LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 family in which the authority of tlie mother and the mistress 
 was not prominently put forward. Mrs Clifford, on her side, 
 respected Lady Catharine extremely, but she was rather afraid 
 of her. Lady Catharine's strong will went straight forward, like 
 the course of a railroad, cutting down hills of difficulty, and 
 filling up valleys of perplexity, and gaining its end surely and 
 rapidly ; but never perceiving that it was all the time intruding 
 upon private feeling, or invading some quiet little nook of home 
 aftections. I\Irs Clifford felt this constantly, and she would 
 have been just as unwilhng to give advice to Lady Catharine 
 as Lady Catharine would be to ask it. Lady Catharine came 
 to hei own decision at length ; she would be silent for the pre- 
 sent. Mrs Carter was evidently mistaken in thinking that 
 Alice cared for Florence, and it might be more charitable to 
 Justine not to say anything about her until there was a neces- 
 sity. In the meantime she could be on the watch herself, and 
 check any great friendship if it appeared likely to spring up. 
 For the sake of her old friends, it would not do to discourage 
 the acquaintance entirely ; and, indeed, Mrs Carter's observa- 
 tions did not seem to render it necessary. 
 
 When Lady Catharine went to Alice's room, she referred 
 again to her school friends, and proposed, if she liked it, to in- 
 vite either Fanny Wilson or Jessie O'Neile to the Manor. 
 Alice's answer was discouraging. She was very much obliged ; 
 but she did not care. If Lady Catharine liked. 
 
 ' If I like, my dear ; that is not at all the point : it is what 
 you like.' 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am ; ' but Alice would not appear glad. 
 
 A slight misgiving crossed Lady Catharine's mind. ' You 
 are very strange, my dear,' she said. ' You don't seem half as 
 much pleased as you were the other day, when you told me )ou 
 had met Miss Trevelyan at Redford.' 
 
 'Don't I, ma'am .-" said Alice, blushing, but going on with 
 her occupation. 
 
 ' No, my dear, you don't. Do you really not care to have 
 your friends to see you ? ' 
 
 ' I shall like it by and by,' said Alice, not knowing how to 
 avoid a direct answer. 
 
 * Well ! by and by ; perhaps you are right ; you are 
 scarcely settled in your ways of going on yet. I am glad you 
 are diligent at that woil: ; you will have finished the seams to- 
 day.'
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 411 
 
 * Yes, I hope so,' said Alice, rejoiced to Iiave escaped the 
 dangerous topic. 
 
 ' Neatly done, too,' said Lady Catharine, examining it. ' 1 
 must go now ; I have letters to write. Good-bye, my love, till 
 luncheon-time ; ' and Lady Catharine went away, pleased at 
 being freed for a time, without any sacrifice of duty, from the 
 necessity of entertaining a strange young lady. She came 
 back, however ; the misgiving in her mind was not entirely 
 gone. ' You have seen but little of Miss Trevelyan, my dear 
 Alice. I suppose she has never mentioned to you anything 
 about a friend of hers, a JMademoiselle Le Vergnier.'" 
 
 ' I know Justine myself,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I am aware of that ; but I thought Miss Trevelyan 
 knev/ her too.' 
 
 ' When we were at Mrs Carter's, a long time ago,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Oh !' Lady Catharine was quite satisfied, and fancied she 
 had managed cleverly to discover that Alice knew nothing of 
 Florence or Justine, or anything concerning them. 
 
 Alice was quite dissatisfied. Those few observations had 
 opened to her, in a great measure, the purport of Mrs Carter's 
 letter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 RUTH vvcnt 10 the Manor that afternoon. She found Lady 
 Catharine in Alice's apartment, helping her to arrange 
 some books which had just come from London. Alice was in 
 good humour, and Lady Catharine pleased with her pleasure. 
 This was so much in Ruth's favour, for Alice was more likely 
 to take a right view of things when she was contented than 
 v.'hen she was perverse. 
 
 ' Now, Ruth,' said Lady Catharine, in her kindest voice, 'we 
 must have your assistance. Here are some histories ; they had 
 better go before the Waverley Novels.' 
 
 < The Waverley Novels ! ' and Ruth laid her hand upon 
 them eagerly. ' O Alice ! how delightful ! are they all your 
 own ?' 
 
 < All her own,' replied Lady Catharine, smiling at Ruth's for- 
 ^ctfulncss of the observation she had addressed to her. < But/
 
 412 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 she added, ' Alice assures me they shall not be her only read- 
 ing. The histories are to be studied carefully ; and the Waverley 
 Xo\-els are to be the recreation. For myself, I never read 
 novels at all,' continued Lady Catharine, in a lower tone. ' I 
 don't see the interest in them : however, with young people, I 
 suppose it is different. There were not man\" good novels when 
 I was young.' 
 
 Ruth and Alice were now looking over the books together ; 
 pointing out to each other which they had read, and recalling 
 the particular passages and characters they liked. 
 
 When, however, Lady Catharine left them, which she did 
 veiy soon, Ruth threw aside her volume, and exclaimed — 
 
 ' How I have wished to see you, Alice, the last three days.' 
 
 ' And so have I been wishing to see you,' replied Alice. ' I 
 should have managed it the day before yesterday, only it rained ; 
 and yesterday Lady Catharine took me out in her carriage.' 
 
 ' I have been very uncomfortable since I saw you last,' con- 
 tinued Ruth. 
 
 ' About that stupid note ? It is stupid, is it not .'' Florence 
 really must not write in such a very affectionate way — and hint- 
 ing about Justine too ! — so extremely imprudent ! ' 
 
 ' And what is more,' continued Ruth, * Florence must not 
 have anything to do with Justine ; or, if she has, she must not 
 mix you up with it.' 
 
 ' As to that,' replied Alice, ' I know no harm of Justine ; 
 Florence tells me she is very well disposed.' 
 
 ' And, besides, from what you have said,' observed Ruth, ' I 
 am sure your acquaintance with Florence is kept up in some 
 way without Lady Catharine's knowledge.' 
 
 ' Is Lady Catharine always to interfere with me ?' inquired 
 Alice, proudly. ' Am I never to ha\e a friend of my own 
 choosing 1 ' 
 
 ' Whilst you are li\ing with Lady Catharine, you are bound 
 to follow her wishes,' said Ruth ; ' and to be open with her.' 
 
 ' So I would be ; but I am afraid of her.' 
 
 'That may be a difliculty,' replied Ruth; 'but it does not 
 alter the duty.' 
 
 ' And what would you have me to do, then ? ' inquired Alice, 
 struck with Ruth's determined tone. 
 
 * Write to Florence, and say that you must tell Lady Catha- 
 rine how intimate you arc.' 
 
 * Oh ■ but vou mistake cntirelv : it is mv own fault Lady
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 413 
 
 Catharine's not understanding that she is my friend. Florence 
 has nothing to do with it ; and really the afVair is scarcely worlli 
 speaking of, only it perplexes one just now. I hope you wiil 
 try and understand, Ruth,' continued Alice, after a moment's 
 pause. ' You will not think I mean to be insincere ; but the 
 fact is. Lady Catharine worries me immensely, and I knew she 
 would not like Florence — at least, I thought she would not ; 
 and when she asked who were my friends at school, I did not 
 mention her particularly ; and so Lady Catharine has taken up 
 a fancy that I do not care about her — that Fanny Wilson ar.d 
 Jessie O'Neile were my favourites ; and, moreover — I don't much 
 like telling you, because you take matters so seriously, but I 
 suppose I had better — one day there came a letter from Plor- 
 cnce — a formal one, just such as she writes when she is stupid 
 — and I did not mind showing that ; but there was a postscript, 
 much warmer, calling me " darling," and all that sort of thing, 
 and thij I was afraid to show ; so I gave Lady Catharine the 
 letter, and kept the postscript, and ever since she has taken it 
 into her head, I am sure, that Florence always writes to mc in 
 that dull vs'ay, and she would not at all comprehend the style of 
 these last notes.' 
 
 Ruth was silent when Alice had finished this confession, which 
 was made in a hurried voice, and with downcast eyes. Alice 
 waited patiently for an answer. When it came, it was very 
 short, and not at all consolatory. 
 
 ' Alice, Jvlrs Carter always said your great fault was d<,r!- 
 ciency in moral courage.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it — I know it perfectly,' answered Alice ; ' but 
 that will not help nic now.'. 
 
 ' It ought to help you,' said Ruth, ' because you ought to 
 strive against it.' 
 
 ' And I mean to do so ; I trust and think ihat I shall. Only 
 let mc get rid of this one difficulty.' 
 
 * You create the difficulties for yourself, Alice,' answered 
 Ruth ; * and unless you have moral courage now, neither I nor 
 any one else can be of use to you. '^ou must tell Lady Catha- 
 rine what you have done.' 
 
 * I tell her ! ' and Alice almost screamed with horror. 
 ' Yes, it is the only way,' said Ruth, unrelentingly. 
 
 Alice turned very pale ; then, after a moment's thought, she 
 said — 
 
 ' Xo, Ruth, ii is not the only way ;- in fact, I cannot do it ;
 
 4 1 4 LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 — for, of course, if I tell one thing, I must tell all. It would 
 be merely pretence to keep back anything ; and what is to be 
 done then about Justine ? — we have both promised to be secret 
 there.' 
 
 Ruth was silent, for she was perplexed. 
 
 ' Then write to Florence,' she said, after a little thought ; 
 * tell her that you would rather not keep up a correspondence 
 with her, as there are subjects which cannot be mentioned to 
 Lady Catharine, and so break off the acquaintance — for the 
 present, at least ; and you may beg her to release us from our 
 promise at the same time. In fact, as far as I am concerned, 
 I am scarcely bound by it — for I only made it for a time.' 
 
 * And how is this precious letter to be sent when it is written?' 
 ' As all other letters are, I suppose,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' And if Lady Catharine asks to see it V 
 Ruth was again obliged to consider. 
 
 * You must tell the truth,' she replied : ' say that you have 
 written something private to Florence. Lady Catharine is much 
 too honourable to insist upon seeing it, however annoyed she 
 may be; and depend upon it, Alice,' continued Ruth, earnestly, 
 ' if you will do this, you will go further in gaining Lady Catha- 
 rine's esteem, and making your life happy, than you can possibly 
 imagine.' 
 
 Alice leaned her head upon her hand, and thought ; and 
 Ruth busied herself with the books, that no fault might be laid 
 upon them when Lady Catharine returned. Alice looked up at 
 last. 
 
 ' Ruth,' she said, ' if Lady Catharine were any one else, I 
 could do it ; but you don't know her. I can't tell you what it 
 is like when she is offended. She never scolds, but it is some- 
 thing awful — a thunder-cloud is nothing to it ; — so black and 
 quiet, only you are sure there must be a burst before long. Ana 
 then her voice goes deep do^v■n with a rumble, and she has a 
 fashion of smoothing her mittens; when she begins that, I know 
 it is all over with me.' 
 
 Alice paused ; the small amount of courage which she pos- 
 sessed before she commenced her description had now com- 
 pletely melted away. 
 
 * You must think of another plan,' she continued ; ' I can't 
 stand thundering looks.' 
 
 ' Or seeing Lady Catharine smooth her mittens,' said Ruth, 
 ironirally. ' O Alice !'
 
 LAN ETON PARSON A GE. 415 
 
 * It is very well for you to say " O Alice !" but you will not 
 be put in the way of it.' 
 
 ' What I say is right, nevertheless/ persisted Rutli. 
 
 * Well ! yes, perhaps it is.' 
 
 * Then it must be done.' 
 Ahce was silent. 
 
 ' Think, Alice,' continued Ruth ; * now you are to be con- 
 firmed, you ought to be so very particular.' 
 
 ' Confirmed !' exclaimed Alice. ' I wish' she stopped. 
 
 'You wish what.'" asked Ruth. 
 
 ' I had better keep my wishes to myself,' replied Alice ; ' I 
 shall only frighten you. By the by, Ruth, are we to have 
 regular examination days now.? Your papa said something 
 about it.' 
 
 ' Yes : I thought you understood it ; t\\ ice a week, to begin 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Alice looked anything but pleased, and Ruth resolutely re- 
 turned to the former subject. 
 
 * You see, Alice,' she said, ' this is a time of all others when 
 you should be careful. You would not bear to promise to be 
 good, and all the time to be deceiving Lady Catharine. I do 
 hope you will take my advice.' 
 
 ' I mean to do so always, after this time,' said Alice. 
 
 < But that will not do ; now is the time ; really it is right.' 
 
 Alice put on a mysterious expression of face, and saia" she 
 could not be sure of that. 
 
 ' But I am, quite,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes ; but you don't know. Suppose, by telling Lady Catha- 
 rine, or by making her suspicious — which she would be horribly 
 • — if she knew I wrote private things to Florence — great mis- 
 chief was to follow for another person.' 
 
 ' I don't understand — I can't tell what you are talking about,' 
 replied Ruth. ' I only see the straightibrward right of the 
 case.' 
 
 * Ah ! yes ; but if I were to explain — there are some things, 
 Ruth, which you are not up to.' 
 
 ' A great many, I hope,' said Ruth, proudly, ' if you are talk- 
 ing of Florence and Justine.' 
 
 ' That is so like you, Ruth ; setting them both down as very 
 bad now, because they were silly years ago. But there is 
 nothing silly in this business : it is very important, especially 
 to Justine. T wish I could tell you. However, vou -^iU knovj
 
 4 i 6 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 soon euoui^h if things turn cut as wc wish. Florence really is 
 amaicingly good-natured to take such an interest in Justine.' 
 
 Ruth could not help being curious. Her mind wandered 
 away from the real subject under discussion, whilst trying to 
 give a form to the conjectures which crossed her mind. 
 
 ' 1 know — I have guessed,' she presently exclaimed. ' jVIamma 
 heard the other day that Mrs De Lacy was looking out for a 
 governess for little Agnes. Florence wishes Justine to have 
 the situation ; that is it. I don't ask you to tell, but I am 
 sure it is. I suppose she would not like the old stories to be 
 brought up against her. But it seems to me absurd to make a 
 mystery of things so long past, and Mrs De Lacy must find out 
 somehow that Mrs Carter knows Justine.' 
 
 ' Mrs De Lacy is going abroad almost immediately,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 Ruth smiled at this indirect confirmation of her suspicion. 
 
 ' And Justine is to go with her } ' she said. 
 
 ' And perhaps Florence,' added Alice; then recollecting her- 
 self, she exclaimed : ' How stupid in me ! I did not mean in 
 the least to tell.' 
 
 ' Only you have done so. You never could keep a secret.' 
 
 Alice appeared disconcerted for tlie instant, but there was 
 relief in the thought that Ruth now knew something of the true 
 state of the case. 
 
 ' Still, I cannot comprehend it,' continued Ruth. ' Mrs Carter 
 is a very kind, charitable person. She would not say anything 
 against Justine if she culd help it.' 
 
 ' Mrs Carter is prejudiced,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' But how prejudiced ? Plas she made up her mind that 
 because Justine was not perfectly good years ago, therefore she 
 is to be wicked all the days of her life ? ' 
 
 * Mrs Carter says unjust things about her, and believes a 
 great many false stories,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' and Ruth's face brightened with intelligence, ' I com- 
 prehend belter now ; they are new stories, which Florence is 
 afraid of.' 
 
 ' New, but not true,' said Alice. ' Florence told me all about 
 it. Justine's last situation was a very strict one, and she was 
 never allowed to go out or sec her friends ; and Mrs Carter, and 
 persons who don't like her, declare that she used to do so by 
 stealth, but it was not at all tlic case. Justine explained it to 
 Florence very satisfactorily, and since then I-^lorcnce has taken
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 4 i 7 
 
 her part. As for Mrs Carler, slie is quite Justine's enemy, and 
 I suspect she has even written something about her to Lr-dy 
 Catharine.' Alice then related what had passed in the mornin!^r_ 
 ' Florence told me that even Mary Vernon has interfered about 
 l-.cr,' she added, ' saying ill-natured things.' 
 
 * Mrs Carter and Mary Vernon ! ' exclaimed Ruth ; ' I 
 would believe what they said against all the Florence Trexcl- 
 yans in the world. I shall write to Mary and ask licr what the 
 truth is.' 
 
 ' No, no; indeed, Ruth, you must not. Remember, we have 
 promised to be quiet ; and, in fact, I ought not to have told 
 you this, only you guessed. In fairness to me you must not 
 make a fuss.' 
 
 * But it is so wrong in Florence,' said Ruth, ' setting up her 
 judgment ! And if Justine is really not a good person, it will 
 be very sad for her to be governess to that child. I wonder 
 why you don't see that.' 
 
 ' Plorcnce declares she is good,' persisted Alice. 
 
 ' Ikit how can Florence know better than such persons as 
 Mrs Carter and Mary Vernon .'' Indeed, she is quite wrong.' 
 
 ' Then write and tell her so,' said Alice, eagerly. 
 
 'I ! — I write.?' 
 
 ' Yes, you have influence ; she respects you immensely. Tcil 
 her how you came to know about the atTair, and advise her to 
 have nothing to do with it. She will listen to you.' 
 
 ' No,' exclaimed Ruth, ' Florence will not do that ; she will 
 listen to nothing but her own wishes.' 
 
 ' Ru'.h,' said Alice, ' I knov/ Florence much better than you 
 do ; she will listen to you.' 
 
 Ruth became very thoughtful. 
 
 ' I cannot mix myself up with the aftair,' she said. 
 
 * Ikit you are mixed up with it ; remember your promibC.' 
 'It was given only for a short time; I shall let Florence 
 
 know the next time wc meet that I consider myself released 
 from it ; and then the matter must take its own course. If I 
 am asked anything about Justine, I shall tell what I know.' 
 
 Alice grew uneasy, and said it was a -very perplexing 
 business. 
 
 ' I do not see that,' replied Ruth ; * we have but one thing to 
 do — to get out of it.' 
 
 ' Much easier said than done — at least for me,' observed 
 Alice ; ' and, moreover, I cannot see that it is best. 
 
 2 D
 
 4 1 S LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 * It is the simplest, most straightforward course,' repUcd 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' Well, it may be,' answered Alice, doubtfully. ' You are 
 much better and wiser than I am, Ruth ; but really, in this 
 case, I do think you are mistaken. Just consider ; if it is so 
 very bad for Justine to be governess to Agnes when she is not 
 tit for the situation, surely it would be proper to warn Florence 
 against encouraging her. You may do immense good if you 
 will only write, and you may tell Florence not to send me any 
 more affectionate letters, which I cannot show to Lady Catha- 
 rine, and so prevent me from getting into disgrace.' 
 
 Alice had, by this time, completely deceived herself She 
 really did think that she was giving a disinterested opinion 
 when she was urging Ruth to do that which would best suit 
 her own convenience. Ruth again brought forward, though 
 rather feebly, her opinion of the uselessness of interference, and 
 Alice strongly combated it, and reiterated again and again her 
 conviction that the profound respect which Florence entertained 
 for Ruth would lead her to be entirely guided by her. 
 
 ' If I could think so,' said Ruth, hesitating. 
 
 ' But you may be quite sure of it ; you may be of use to 
 Florence, and possibly to Justine too. Both of them look up to 
 you.' 
 
 Ruth smiled at the notion of a person like Justine looking up 
 to her ; but the idea had its effect. 
 
 ' And,' continued Alice, ' your writing v.ill stop Florence 
 from sending those foolish affectionate notes just as much as 
 mine ; but nothing which I could say would prevent her from 
 encouraging Justine, don't you see ? ' 
 
 Alice had mixed up the two questions adroitly, though with- 
 out any deliberate intention, and Ruth's usually clear judgment 
 was at fault. She lost sight of her first wish of inducing Alice 
 to be open with Lady Catharine, and began to iniagine that 
 the important point was to persuade Florence that she was 
 doing wrong in taking Justine's part. 
 
 ' I will think about it,' she said in reply to Alice's plead- 
 ing. 
 
 * If you think, you will do it,' was the answer : one which 
 made Ruth shrink with a sudden misgiving, as to whether she 
 was deciding aright. Alice used the expression without any 
 double meaning ; it was merely her way of saying that she was 
 certain Ruth would a^ree.
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 419 
 
 ' I know you will, because it is best, and kindest/ she added. 
 * You are more reasonable than Madeline.' 
 ' Madeline knows nothing I ' exclaimed Ruth. 
 
 * No ; only I meant to have told you — the other day — I had 
 written a note to Florence — much such a one as you will send 
 in one respect, begging her not to call me " darling, and 
 dearest ; " and I asked Madeline to put it in the post for me 
 and she refused.' 
 
 ' You never told me that before,' said Ruth, reproachfully. 
 
 * Because I did not think of it. I was angry with Madeline 
 at the time, but I forgot it afterwards.' 
 
 * And Madeline refused .'' ' repeated Ruth, in a tone of un- 
 easiness. 
 
 Alice answered with some surprise : — 
 
 ' Yes, she refused : but why should you be so grave about 
 it?' 
 
 ' Madeline thought it wrong, I suppose,' continued Ruth. 
 
 * I don't know about wrong exactly ; that is such a hard 
 word, but not quite right. " She had rather not," she said ; 
 and when Madeline talks about rather not, I can never ask her 
 a second time.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Alice,' said Ruth, abruptly ; and fastening the 
 strings of her bonnet in haste. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Ruth, dear ; remember, I depend upon you, and 
 you must write soon, or it will be no good.' 
 
 Ruth's letter to Florence 7uas written that same afternoon. 
 Any one in the least acquainted with human nature, especially 
 with a character like Ruth's, might have prophesied that it 
 would be. 
 
 Ruth piqued herself upon her good judgment ; but a good 
 judgment, in questions of right and wrong, is not that which 
 can calculate consequences cleverly, but that which perceives 
 the duty of the case and determines at once to perform it. Its 
 main ingredient is more than a wish not to do wrong ; it is an 
 earnest desire to do right. Ruth had two duties incumbent 
 upon her ; one to her mother not to engage in a correspond- 
 ence which she might disapprove ; the other to Alice, not in 
 any way to encourage her in deceiving Lady Catharine. These 
 two duties Ruth set aside, and took up a third ; the endeavour 
 to make Florence Trevelyan give up Justine, 
 
 Alice's allusion to Madeline was the only thing which caused 
 her to question the propriety of what she was doing. Ruth was
 
 420 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 nearly certain, tiiough slie would scarcely allow it to herself, that 
 Madeline \\ould not take the same view of the case that she did. 
 But Madeline was young, even for her age; and singularly quick 
 too in settling all doubtful questions. Ruth was accustomed 
 to consider her sister's opinions as inferior to her own when they 
 dilTered in argument. She herself was very clever ; her per- 
 ception was keen, and she seemed able to see both sides of the 
 question at once. Whichever view she took, appeared, for the 
 time, the right one ; yet, afccr long reasoning, Aladeline would 
 often surprise her by ending with — ' It seems right, Ruth, 
 because you say it ; but, somehow, I cannot feel that it is so ; ' 
 and then she would return to the very point from which they 
 had started, and propound some simple question of dufiy, 
 whioh put all Ruth's cleverness to flight. Experience, in these 
 cases, often showed Ruth that Madeline was right, but she 
 attributed the fact to accident. 
 
 The doubt, in the present instance, as to what Madeline 
 would do in a similar case, made Ruth uncomfortable, but it 
 did not alter her decision. As Alice had prophesied, she 
 thought ; and then slie resolved to act. 
 
 The letter, when written, was read o\'er with considerable 
 satisfaction, for it was well expressed, simple, and forcible. 
 Ruth made many apologies for intruding her opinion, and 
 trusted that Horence would not be vexed at her having dis- 
 covered the purport of Justine's visit ; and then she gave the 
 reasons which made her lliink that it would not be right to 
 conceal Justine's acquaintance with Mrs Carter, speaking 
 strongly of the mischief which might ensue if Justine were not 
 a proper person to take charge of Agnes. As regarded herself, 
 slic stated that she could not consider her promise as any 
 longer binding, for it was made before she knew llie facts of 
 the case ; and when it was given slic had said it could only 
 be for a time. In conclusion, she mentioned that Alice did 
 not like to receive notes which could not be shown to Lady 
 Catharine, and therefore begged Florence not to write to her 
 about Justine, and to use less affectionate expressions. 
 
 This last sentence did not imply all that Ruth intended when 
 she talked to Alice. It left the door open for the intimacy 
 with Florence still to continue in a covert way, but she did not 
 exactly know what else to say without giving offence, and thought 
 that it would do for the present. Florence was not going to live 
 in the neighbourhood, so perhaps there was no great mischief
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 421 
 
 in letting things take llicir cluincc for a few weeks. In fact, she 
 and Alice were in a manner one in this business, and if they 
 were cut off from Florence entirely, it would of course be im- 
 possible to be of any use to her. So the letter was sent, and 
 Ruth looked forward with much interest to ih.c answer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ALICE was more competent to perform her duties at the 
 school after receiving Ruth's advice and hints. She 
 was also happier after having acknowledged her deception, and 
 determined to have no more letters which she was afraid to 
 show. She began to fancy that she really was, as the expres- 
 sion is, turning over a new leaf. But Alice was mistaken. We 
 cannot slur over a duty, and go on well without performing it. 
 If there is any act which we ought to do and which we will not 
 do, it is in vain to flatter ourselves that we are sincere in our 
 amendment. 
 
 Alice's concealment from Lady Catharine of her friendship 
 with Florence Trevelyan was like an unpaid debt. Her accounts 
 might be settled regularly for the future, but until the old claim 
 was discharged, she could not be free and honourable. Thcie 
 were times when Alice felt this — when a pang shot through her 
 heart — a pang which all must sometimes feel who endeavour to 
 blind themselves by an outward change of conduct without 
 seeking the conversion of the heart. 'I'liese times were when- 
 ever any allusion was made to the confirmation. 
 
 Alice could not bring herself to bear the prospect of it. As 
 it approached nearer, il became more serious — it may, indeed, 
 be said, more awful ; for upon confirmation must innnediatciy 
 follow that holiest of Christian privileges, which the most indif- 
 ferent shrink from approaching unprepared. 
 
 This was a subject rarely alluded to by Lady Catharine, who 
 considered that if Alice was fit for confirmation, she must be fit 
 to be admitted to the Holy Communion, and trusted much to 
 her late improvement ; not doubting, also, that Alice's serious 
 impressions would be deepened by Mr Clifford's instruction and 
 advice. 
 
 Perhaps, had Lady Catharine remarked the manner in which
 
 4.2 2 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Mrs Clifford would occasionally allude, in conversation with 
 her children, to the solemn time that was approaching, she 
 might have received a useful hint as to her treatment of Alice. 
 Lady Catharine had a great dislike to enthusiastic expressions, 
 and found it difficult to say what she felt upon religious sub- 
 jects ; she therefore took refuge in silence. Mrs Clifford's taste 
 was very like Lady Catharine's ; but when, in answer to Made- 
 line's simple observation, ' Mamma, I shall not feel a child any 
 longer when I am confirmed,' her mother answered in a man- 
 ner so serious that it could not be misunderstood, ' And you 
 v.ill not be a child, my love,' both Madeline and Ruth knev/ at 
 once what it was to which reference was made. Volumes of 
 instruction would not have made more impression upon them 
 than the belief which their mother indirectly but constantly 
 showed, that they were approaching a period when a blessing, 
 which human language cannot describe, was to be conferred 
 upon them. 
 
 Long before, indeed, they could have told in words the nature 
 of the Holy Sacrament to which they were to be admitted ; but 
 words too often are a hindrance rather than an assistance to our 
 feelings, and preparation for a first Communion is something 
 widely different from the weekly repetition of the explanation of 
 the subject given in the Church Catechism. 
 
 So Madeline felt as she was spending some time alone, a few 
 days after Ruth had sent her letter to Florence. She was 
 trying to examine her own heart ; trying to discover her faults ; 
 trying to realise her true condition upon earth, and the state of 
 her preparation for heaven. A little book upon self-examina- 
 tion lay open before her. It contained but few questions; and 
 those, it would have seemed, soon answered. But each ques- 
 tion suggested to Madeline's true and most conscientious mind 
 subject for reflection and deep regret. The life which to others 
 appeared unspotted, was, when viewed in the presence of God, 
 stained with innumerable sins. 
 
 But Madeline would not shrink from the sight. One by 
 one, the faults of wliich she was conscious from former self- 
 examination were enumerated and confessed, with a fervent 
 prayer for forgiveness and lielp; and then, the particular point 
 upon which she had fixed for that day's inquiry was dwelt upon 
 more minutely. It v/as vanity — a fault which Madeline saw 
 in herself, although those wlio knew her best would have hesi- 
 tated to acknowledge that she had it. Slic was vain of her
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 433 
 
 personal appearance, and she began her self-imposed task by 
 examining in what details this defect showed itself. Too much 
 time, she knew, was spent in dressing: that was one sign; she 
 was too particular in choosing her dresses; too anxious to hear 
 remarks made upon herself and Ruth, which indirectly paid 
 them compliments ; she always observed carefully what other 
 persons wore, and how it was put on; she was not pleased 
 when others were called pretty : that approached to envy ; but 
 the groundwork was vanity. These things were indeed in 
 themselves slight; but they were indications of a temper of 
 mind to be guarded against, and Madeline had learned to lock, 
 not at her outward conduct only, but at her heart. When the 
 offence was thus tlioroughly perceived and acknowledged, the 
 next step of importance was to see it in its true light — in its 
 real deformity; to view it as it must be viewed by God. Made- 
 line was vain of her appearance and fond of admiration in 
 general; yet, in a few years (so she had been taught always to 
 carry on her thoughts to the end of life) her body must be laid 
 in the grave, an object of dread to those who most loved her, 
 with the worm spread under her, and the worm covering her. 
 \Vhcre would then be room for vanity 1 
 
 She thought once more : — there was a world, sinless and 
 glorious, where saints cast their crowns of glory at the foot of 
 the throne of God, and angels cover their faces with their wings 
 in awful adoration of his majesty. Madeline tried but for a 
 few moments to imagine what that world must be. She read 
 of it in the Bible, and strove to bring before the eye of her 
 mind some faint perception of its awfulness. She imagined 
 herself standing amongst the hosts of heaven ; she, the igno- 
 rant, and weak, and vain — how would they feel towards her ? 
 how would they bear her presence .'' More than all, how would 
 her merciful Saviour regard her ? The holy and undefiled, how 
 could He look upon the guilty ? Vanity in heaven ! Even to 
 connect the ideas seemed a profanation. No, it must be striven 
 against — crushed, uprooted. Were it to cost the labour of a life, 
 and the watchfulness of every hour, still it must be conquered. 
 Amongst the many sacrifices of pleasant sir.s to be made at the 
 altar of her Saviour, vanity must unhesitatingly be numbered. 
 
 The consciousness of perfect sincerity, blended with the depth 
 of Madeline's repentance and humility and with the confidence 
 of a child asking help from a father, and the simple, reverent 
 love of a sister trusting to an elder brother, she knelt once more
 
 424 LANETOA^ PARSONAGE. 
 
 in prayer, and felt that prayer was happiness. Then, as she 
 rose to return to her usual employments, she dwelt for a few 
 moments longer upon the probable temptations which would be 
 awaiting her, especially with regard to this one fault. It wai 
 not often that she left her room without casting one look in her 
 glass, as much from habit, perhaps, as from vanity. Now she 
 turned away, not because it would be wrong to look, but because 
 it was the first little opportunity which presented itself of proving 
 her own sincerity; and the trifling act, scarcely to be termed 
 self-denial, was the seal of her resolution, and the earnest of 
 future victories. 
 
 Ruth spent some time, also, that day, in self-examination; 
 but she could not fix her mind like Madeline. The expectation 
 of the answer Irom Horence Trevelj'an was constantly recur- 
 ring to her; and she found herself repeating the very words in 
 which she supposed Florence would express a willingness to be 
 entirely guided by her. It was rather surprising that she had 
 not heard before; ar.d an uncomfortable feeling arose at the 
 thought that, for the first time, she should receive a letter which 
 she must ask her mother not to read. Still Ruth began the 
 task which she had imposed upon herself without being exactly 
 conscious of what is called unreality; or, in other words, with- 
 out seeing that she was keeping back from any known duty. 
 
 Ruth's mode of self-examination differed from Madeline's. It 
 had respect for the future more than the past. When persons 
 have long accustomed themselves to strictness of life, this may be 
 a desirable mode of striving to improve. It is not well to think 
 too much about our own minds, or even about our motives. It is 
 better to dwell upon our .Saviour's infinite love, and our own 
 privileges as members of His Church ; and then to try and show 
 our gratitude by thinking of all we can do to please Him. But, 
 at certain times, especially whilst we are as yet unacquainted 
 with our own dispositions, and nuist endeavour to become 
 thoroughly humbled as a preparation for the Holy Communion, 
 it is absolutely necessary to examine our consciences very 
 closely ; to look back upon the past, that we may learn to 
 guard against the future. Ruth thought she had done this, 
 because on a former occasion she had read through and 
 answered a certain set of questions, and now, like Madeline, 
 she chose, as her papa had recommended, one particular fault to 
 guard against. Madeline, as we have seen, began by a careful 
 inquiry as to the little ways in which her defects showed them-
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 425 
 
 selves. Ruth, oil the contrary, was satisfied with knowing-, 
 partly from having been told, and partly from her own conscience, 
 th?.t she had certain faults, and there the inquiry rested. Her 
 self-examination was vague : what was gone by was in a manner 
 forgotten ; and her character was, in consequence, never truly 
 viewed. So, in the present instance, self-conceit in general 
 was, she well knew, what she had to struggle against ; and she 
 resolved not to speak of herself, not to put forward her opinion 
 more than could be helped; to remember generally that self-con- 
 ceit was wrong : and they were very good resolutions ; but if we 
 do not know the instances in which we have before failed we 
 cannot tell what we are bound to guard against. Neither were 
 they resolutions founded upon Christian humility — a heathen 
 might have made them. There was no remembrance of the 
 lowliness of the Saviour of the world, no consideration of His 
 perfect purity, no real desire to be humble, because so she might 
 be like Him. Ruth strove against her faults more because they 
 lowered her in the eyes of her fellow-creatures, than because 
 they were hateful in the eye of God ; and when we look at our 
 sins only in this way we never have a true view of them. No- 
 thing will give us a real feeling of unworthiness, but the 
 consideration of our Saviour's perfection and yet of His 
 unspeakable love ; and nothing will really enable us thoroughly 
 to root out sin except the wish to please Him, as we would wish 
 to please our parents, and the certainty that He will accept the 
 very least endeavour, and forgive our fallings away, even until 
 seventy times seven. 
 
 Madeline's efforts were a pleasure, Ruth's were a burden ; yet 
 Madeline had a much greater sense of her own helplessness 
 and guilt than her sister. The one thought of her Saviour, the 
 other of herself. 
 
 Madeline returned to the duties of her daily life with the 
 feeling of love urging her to watchfulness and energy. Ruth 
 returned to hers with the thought that she had done what was 
 right, and was, therefore, better prepared for confirmation antj 
 the Holy Communion.
 
 426 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 MRS CLIFFORD was sitting in the school-room the next 
 morning, whilst Ruth and Madeline were pursuing their 
 usual studies. Ruth was painfully conscious of her mother's 
 presence, and this feeling was quite new to her. For the last 
 year, or even more, any sense of restraint with her mamma had 
 been wearing off. Mrs Clifford, notwithstanding her extreme 
 gentleness of temper, exercised a full authority over her children 
 when they were little. Even a look of disobedience was noticed, 
 if not punished. Ruth and Madeline would no more have ven- 
 tured to disobey their mother than their father. They could 
 not recollect the time when they had been permitted to follow 
 their own will, and obedience, in consequence, had become as 
 much a habit as the common course of their daily life. 
 
 When this principle was once firmly fixed, half the difficulty 
 of education was over. Mrs Clifford could afford to be indulgent, 
 because she had no fear of rebellion. She could overlook many 
 little faults which it might have fretted her children's temper to 
 remark, — faults shown in play hours — when they were off their 
 guard, — when they were evidently not aware that she was near, 
 because she knew that the great principle of duty was thoroughly 
 rooted ; and that, by degrees, if only she could have patience, 
 it would work out its good effects in every little detail. 
 
 Ruth and Madeline scarcely knew how much they were under 
 control, even when they were children ; they were like well- 
 trained horses, taught to attend so immediately to the slightest 
 check, that the curb was unnecessary ; and now that they were 
 approaching an age when they might be expected to have judg- 
 ment and wills of their own, even the restraints of childhood were 
 gradually loosened. 
 
 Madeline was once asked, what her mamma did with them 
 now they were growing u^. The reply was I'ather abrupt, but 
 perfectly true : ' She lets us alone.' In this ' letting alone' lay 
 the great secret of Mrs Clifford's influence. The watchfulness 
 exercised was never seen ; she guarded them, indeed, from evil 
 books, evil companions, evil sights and associations ; but it was 
 not by prohibition, but by an unnoticed care, which kept such 
 things out of their way. Within certain limits Madeline and 
 Ruth were perfectly free. They might walk where they liked, 
 and Avhen they liked ; tliey might choose their own reading ;
 
 LANETON PARSON AG 
 
 write to their own friends ; have secrets between themselves, if 
 they desired it ; spend their allowance according lo their own 
 Avill ; and, when surprise was sometimes expressed that Mrs 
 Cliflbrd could trust them with so much liberty, she replied, 
 * They were kept very strictly when they were quite children ; 
 they were never allowed then to disobey, and now they have 
 lost the inclination.' And it was true ; they had lost the in- 
 clination, for their mother's tastes and wishes were their own. 
 What inducement, for instance, could there be to peruse books 
 privately, when their chief delight was to go to their mother 
 with their favourite passages, and find in her interest an increase 
 of their own enjoyment. Ruth sometimes came into the room 
 absorbed in some poem or tale, and anxious that Madeline 
 should read it also ; but, if Mrs Clifford was present, and 
 Madeline away, her natural exclamation was, ' Oh ! there is 
 mamma, that will do just as well ; ' and Mrs Clifford would 
 stop and listen, and make her remarks, as if she could entirely 
 enter into her child's enthusiasm ; and if the thought crossed 
 her mind, that Ruth might be better employed in some othe*- 
 way, the advice was stopped for that moment. Confidence ano 
 affection would do more, she knew, in forming a character to 
 good than reading history ; and in the course of a few days 
 she would perhaps talk to Ruth upon some more serious sub- 
 ject, which she was studying herself, and so to lead her to begin 
 it ; in order, as Ruth expressed it, to be ' reading the same book 
 as mamma.' 
 
 A similar principle was carried out in other ways. Mrs 
 Clifford was anxious to be the friend of her children. As a 
 first step towards attaining this object, she allowed them to be 
 friends to each other. With a difference of age, there must of 
 necessity be a certain difference of feeling. Many little things 
 they might be able to say between themselves, which they would 
 consider almost too trifling for her. This feeUng would lessen 
 as they grew older, but at present it was unavoidable, and Mrs 
 Clifford gave it full scope. Madeline often said without hesi- 
 tation : * Mamma, Ruth and I have a little secret together ; ' 
 and the remark was to Mrs Clifford a greater assurance of un- 
 reserve and simplicity of mind than any confidence given directly 
 to herself. The age which Ruth and Madeline had attained 
 was just that when restraint was most likely to spring up be- 
 tween themselves and those Avho had authority over them. 
 Their judgments and general character were not sufficiently
 
 42 8 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 fixed to enable them to be their mother's companion in her daily 
 anxieties ; \vhilst the spirit of independence was naturally gain- 
 ing strength, and their opinions upon all subjects were rapidly 
 forming. 
 
 ]\Irs Clifford was, however, prepared for this stage in her 
 children's life. She was thoroughly endued with the charity 
 which ' bcareth and cndureth all things,' and the faith which 
 can trust the best and most clieiished wishes of our hearts in 
 the hands of God. The difference between Ruth and Madeline 
 was as clear to her as to her husband, perhaps even more so ; 
 for it was shown in the little instances which came more imme- 
 diately under her notice ; and now it was no secret to her that 
 something was wrong in Ruth's mind, yet she waited patiently 
 till the time when Ruth's confidence should be willingly given ; 
 and the only change in her manner was an increased tender- 
 ness — a winning consideration and care, which Ruth felt, though 
 she could not account for it. She began to long for the answer 
 from Florence more and more, that she might consider herself 
 released from her promise, and speak to hei- mamma without 
 reserve. 
 
 This wish was strongly on her mind when, on the morning 
 before mentioned, a servant on horseback rode up to the Par- 
 sonage gate. 
 
 ' From Sheldon, I am sure,' exclaimed Madeline, going to 
 the window. ' I know that bright scarlet livery so well. Don't 
 you remember, mamma, we used to wonder whose it could be 
 before we knew Mrs De Lacy?' 
 
 ' I suppose the picnic is to be fixed,' said Ruth. ' The 
 weather is just settled enough, if it will only continue.' 
 
 Madeline became suddenly grave. ' I don't think I want it 
 to be fixed,' she said. 
 
 Ruth's head was bent over her Avriting desk, but she looked 
 up at this speech. ' Maddy, what do you mean ? — why not.'' ' 
 
 ' I don't know— that is, I can't say ; but I do not want it.' 
 
 Ruth went on writing, but her pen moved unsteadily. The 
 door opened, and a note was brought in. Ruth did not raise 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' It is from Mrs Dc Lacy,' said Mrs Clifford, 'and about the 
 picnic. It is fixed for Tuesday week ; and, my dear Ruth, here 
 are a few lines at the end for you from Miss Trevelyan.' 
 
 Ruth put out her hand eagerly ; but she liad no fear that 
 her mamma had read what Florence might have written.
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 429 
 
 'May I sec?' said Madeline, coming to look over her. 
 
 Ruth drew back pettishly. ' Let me read it myself, Maddy.' 
 She glanced her eye in an instant over tlie few lines, written on 
 coloured paper, prettily embossed, ' There is nothing in it,' 
 she exclaimed, tossing the note across the table to her sister. 
 
 Madeline read it more attentively. 'It is a very pressing 
 invitation,' she replied, when she had finished. 
 
 ' Y^-s, very.' Ruth said no more, and a few minutes after 
 left her writing and went to walk in the garden by lierself. 
 
 And this was all the answer to her letter ! An invitation which 
 placed her in a greater difficulty than ever. ' You iiiust coinc^ 
 Florence wrote, with two or three dashes. Very meaning dashes 
 they were to Ruth's eye, implying much more than a mere wish 
 to see her. Ruth was extremely annoyed ; it was such a tantal- 
 ising, irritating mode of proceeding. And there would scarcely 
 be any use in writing again. Florence was always inclined to 
 be obstinate, and if she had determined upon not giving an 
 answer till they met, no entreaties v\-ould be of any avail. In 
 this dilemma Ruth thought of speaking to her mamma. She 
 certainly considered herself in a measure freed from the promise 
 of secrecy. It had been given but for a short time, and she 
 had warned Florence that it must now be at an end. Her 
 mamma's advice \\-ould, she knew, be most valuable. Mrs 
 Clifford would see at once whether it could be riglit any longer 
 to keep Justine's secret — and if she could in honour go to her 
 for help; it certainly appeared the right course. Lr.t Ruth 
 began to reason — perhaps it would make Florence angry if she 
 were to do so ; perhaps it would break off their acquaintance ; 
 perhaps she should have no opportunity of talking seriously to 
 her, and Florence might still go on encouraging Justine — lliat 
 wouid be very bad for her — or she might still contrive in some 
 way that Mrs De Lacy should engage Justine as a governess 
 for Agnes — that would be very kid for Agnes. There were a 
 great many dangerous possibilities — all to be avoided, if Ruth 
 could only see Florence and convince her that she was wrong. 
 At last Ruth magnanimously made up her mind to act the 
 martyr, and say nothing to her mamma — to sacrifice herself, in 
 fict, for her friend, and swerve a little from her own duty in tlie 
 hope of bringing Florence to a sense of hers. 
 
 When Ruth went back to the school-room she found iMadeline 
 looking very ihoughlful, with a book before her, but evidently 
 not reading. Once or twice she seemed inclined to speak, Ixit
 
 430 lAneton parsonage. 
 
 to be afraid. After a time, however, she said, with an effort, 
 ' Ruth, about the picnic — do you mean — that is, do you think 
 it would signify if I were not to go?' 
 
 ' Signify, Maddy ! What are you talking of?' 
 
 'Wovild there be any harm?' continued Madeline. 
 
 ' My dear Maddy, you must be dreaming. No, of course, there 
 would not be any harm; but why possibly should you not go?' 
 
 ' I think I would rather not,' replied Madeline, whilst the 
 colour mounted to her cheeks ; ' because it might be harm to me. 
 You know, Ruth, I am not good, and I think about things so. 
 When I am going anywhere it is always in my mind; and just 
 now I would rather not.' 
 
 Ruth understood in an instant that Madeline alluded to tlic 
 confirmation. < You had better talk to mamma,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, if I can ; I shall by and by.' 
 
 ' It will be very awkward,' was Ruth's next observation, to 
 which Madeline said nothing, and both were silent. 
 
 Ruth was almost angry with Madeline for this reserve, though 
 she did not at all desire to talk herself upon the subject which 
 she knew was occupying her sister's thoughts. Several times 
 lately when the picnic had been referred to, Madeline had hinted 
 a disinclination to go : but Ruth fancied it was only because she 
 did not like the prospect of encountering a large party. Now 
 she saw that it was a much deeper feeling. Ruth did not 
 sympathise with her sister. Since the picnic had been first 
 proposed her mind had been so occupied that she had scarcely 
 remembered it was to take place; and now there seemed a neces- 
 sity for going. If she did not, there might be no opportunity of 
 seeing Florence Trevelyan. And then Ruth thought to herself, 
 ' Mamma and papa do not object, and why should I?' When 
 Ruth wished to decide for herself upon any occasion, she was in 
 the habit of saying, that now she was growing up it must be 
 better to exercise a little judgment of her own. In this instance 
 the case happened to be reversed, and it suited her to give up 
 her own judgment. But Ruth did not know that her papa and 
 mamma saw no objection. In fact, she had reason to imagine 
 they might do so; for once or twice lately Mrs Chfford had 
 regretted that if the picnic were delayed, it would bring it 
 near the time of the confirmation ; and this morning she had not 
 shown any pleasure in the thought of their amusement, and in- 
 deed had not made anyremark about it. These might have Ijccn 
 susjjicious circumstances, if Ruth had fairly considered them.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 431 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 '"["^HE evening caiiie ; Ruth grew more vexed and unhappy 
 J- about everything. Madeline's reserve — the stupidity of 
 Florence — the picnic, which she did not care for, and yet to 
 which she must go. Ruth was not generally cross ; but this 
 evening nothing pleased her. It began to rain, and instead of 
 t.-'.king a walk, as they often did at that time when the day had 
 been very warm, she was obliged to find employment within 
 doors. Madeline read, and Ruth knew by the binding that tiie 
 book was a volume of sermons. This made her more cross. 
 Madeline might just as well, she thought, read sermons in her 
 own room ; but the next minute Madeline called to her to point 
 out something which she particularly liked, and her sunny 
 smile and simple, cheerful voice, soothed Ruth's ruffled temper. 
 Sh* felt that Maddy might do anything she liked — read, or 
 talk, or be silent — it did not signify. No one could be annoyed 
 with her. Madeline did not read her sermon with a fixed 
 attention. She looked often out of the window, as if watching 
 for some one. Presently the little green gate opening from the 
 garden into the lane was swung to, and ]\Ir Clifford came up 
 the gravel walk to the house. Madeline turned again to her 
 book ; but when her papa came in she closed it, and began 
 talking upon indifferent subjects. Ruth was silent, which was 
 rather unusual for her when parish matters were discussed, as 
 she generally took a most active part in them. Madeline's 
 nervous manner Avas apparent to her ; it showed that her heart 
 was not interested in what was said, and v/hen, as Mr Clift'ord 
 was going out of the room, Madeline asked whether she might 
 say a few words to him alone, Ruth knew well what the subject 
 of the conversation would be. A seed of uneasiness was im- 
 planted in Ruth's breast. She said to herself that Madeline 
 was over-scrupulous, but in her heart she felt that she might 
 be right. 
 
 The study door closed, and Mr Clifford inquired what Made- 
 line had to say. Almost every one's heart beats quicker at 
 such a question. Madeline's beat very fast; but nothing was 
 to be gained by delay, so she began at once — ' Papa, I wanted 
 to speak to you — about — I don't know whether it is right ; but, 
 if you please, could you tell me about Mrs De Lacy's in- 
 vitation ?'
 
 432 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Mr ClilTord looked half surprised, half amused. He had not 
 even heard of it that day. 
 
 ' The picnic, papa,' continued Madeline. 
 
 ' Well, my love, the picnic — what is your dit^culty ? Does 
 your mamma wish you not to go to it .^' 
 
 ' I don't know ; she has not said so. But, papa, would it 
 be wrong to stay away .?' 
 
 * Certainly not, if you wish to do so — at least I should im- 
 agine not. But why should you .'" Mr Clifford looked at 
 Madeline, and by the expression of her face guessed what she 
 would answer. ' Would you really raihor not go ?' he continued. 
 
 ' I think it would be better — safer foi me,' and Madeline's 
 face brightened at the hope of being understood. ' You iuiow, 
 papa, I think of things so — they run in my head ; and I should 
 enjoy this so much — that is, if we go to St Cuthbert's Castle, 
 and Ruth says that was the place mentioned.' 
 
 Mr Clifford considered before he replied; then he said, 'Was 
 this your own idea, my love ?' 
 
 ' Yes, quite my own.' 
 
 ' And has it only entered your head to-day.' 
 
 ' I have thought about it a little before, but not so much, 
 because it did not seem as if the time ever would be fixed.' 
 
 ' And what does Ruth think.?' inquired Mr Cliflbrd. 
 
 ' That is one thing which worries me,' exclaimed Madeline. 
 
 ' 1 am afraid Ruth will not go without me, and I could not 
 bear her to be disappointed. What shall I do? — what can I 
 do to be right .-" she added, in a \ cry anxious tone. 
 
 * We v.'ill think, my dear cliild,' answered her father, and as 
 he said this he kissed her with a tenderness of manner which 
 fully repaid Madeline for the eftbrt she had made in speaking 
 to him. ' First of all, we must remember that we may make 
 mistakes in uki Iters of conscience by being too scrupulous ; by 
 looking upon God, I mean, as a hard taskmaster. I do not 
 say that you do so now — indeed, it is most likely I shall 
 quite enter into your notions — but religion is meant to hallow 
 our innocent amusements, not to shut us out from them ; there- 
 fore, it is not because you cx]:)ect a good deal of pleasure from 
 going to St Cuthbert's that you should be alarmed, and imagine 
 it may do you liarm.' 
 
 * I should like it very much, indeed,' said Madeline, laying a 
 stress upon the last word. 
 
 ' Yes, and you were intended to like it \ery much indeed.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 433 
 
 Going with pleasant companions to a place you have heard a 
 gotyd deal about must be very agreeable. But God will not be 
 angry with you for finding it so.' 
 
 ' Not if I think about it very much ?' said JNIadeline. 
 
 ' No, not in general. It is right, we know, to govern our 
 thoughts, and not to let them dwell upon any subject at wrong 
 times, or so as to make us forget our duties ; but this is a very 
 hard lesson — perhaps it may take us many years to learn it — • 
 and we may be sure that God will be mercifully patient with us 
 whilst we are learning it — supposing, I mean, that we are try- 
 ing to do so. He will not expect us to be perfect at once.' 
 
 ' But just now ? ' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is the question,' answered Mr Clifford. ' Things 
 which are most innocent in themselves may be wrong because 
 of peculiar circumstances.' 
 
 * And this would be wrong in me, then } ' incjuired Madelip.e. 
 ' It will be wrong if it is likely to engross too much of your 
 
 thoughts.' 
 
 * But what is too much "i ' asked Madeline, eagerly. 
 
 * What are your special duties at this season ? ' answered her 
 father. ' All which interferes with them will be too much.' 
 
 ' I ought to spend sometime every day in reading and think- 
 ing about being confirmed, I know,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' But going to the picnic will not interfere with that, except 
 upon the one day ; and even then you might give up some time 
 earlier in the morning.' 
 
 Madeline looked at him with an expression of sadness. ' Ah ! 
 papa,' she said, ' you think I am as good as Ruth. But if I do 
 give up the time, I shall never fix my thoughts.' 
 
 Mr Cliflbrd smiled. ' We have reached the right point, my 
 dear Madeline. I can quite understand your feelings. Most 
 likely the picnic would occupy a good deal of your thoughts ; 
 and, just now, when it is so very essential that you should be 
 serious and collected, such a temptation may well be avoided ; 
 at another time it might be better to battle with it. Only, I 
 would ask you one question. What is it that makes the pic- 
 nic too interesting — more interesting than religion ? ' 
 
 Madeline's eyes filled with tears as she replied, ' Because I 
 am so bad.' 
 
 Mr Clifford took her hand in his ; 'I did not mean to dis- 
 tress you, my dear child. I was sure you felt this ; but will 
 
 2 E
 
 434 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 you try not to forget it ? I mean, to remember it always on 
 similar occasions.' 
 
 ' I don't think it will be easy to forget it/ said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, it will be a great deal easier than you imagine. 
 Many right-minded people are extremely apt to do so.' 
 
 ' To forget that they do wrong things .-' ' said Madeline, with 
 some surprise. 
 
 * To forget that it is not because they are good, but because 
 they are wicked, that innocent amusements do them harm,' re- 
 plied Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' Yet they are right in not joining in them,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Quite right ; but quite wrong if they condemn others. If 
 you were very good, you might go to the picnic and not be at 
 all disturbed by it. Others of your own age may go who will 
 be preparing for confirmation like you. Their minds may be 
 much steadier than yours. I wonder what you will think about 
 them ? ' 
 
 Madeline did not know what to answer. 
 
 * Will you, my love,' continued Mr Clifford, ' make it an 
 especial subject of prayer that you may be able to remember 
 why you do not go ? And when the day comes, will you spend 
 your time for meditation in thinking particularly 'about your 
 faults ; seeing how great they are, and how many things are 
 dangerous to you because of them .? Such thoughts are our 
 only safeguard when we refuse to join in the amusements of 
 our friends. They are the only thoughts which can keep us 
 from being proud and uncharitable.' 
 
 ' I hope I should not think others wrong in going,' said 
 Madeline ; * because Ruth will go, most probably, and she is 
 so very good.' 
 
 * Docs Ruth wish to go ? ' asked Mr Clifford, quickly. 
 
 * I think she does ; but she does not talk about it.' Mr 
 Clifford looked graver than before. 'It is a most important 
 time for you both,' he said. ' I should be glad to feel that you 
 were giving up as much thought to it as possible.' 
 
 * I try every day,' said Madeline ; ' but, papa, my thoughts 
 go all away, and then I am very unhappy ;' and here her voice 
 changed, as she added, * it is very wicked, I know, but I long 
 sometimes to wait another year.' 
 
 ' Another year would not help you, my child. You would 
 come with the same request at the end of it.' 
 
 < And should I never be more fit ?' said Madeline.
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 435 
 
 ' Why seek for what God does not require ? ' said Mr Clif- 
 ford. * When our Saviour restored the lame and the blind, did 
 He wish them to walk and see a little before He made them 
 quite whole ? ' 
 
 * He told them they must have faith,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' Yes ; that is, He required a trust in His power, and a will- 
 ingness to be cured. This is all He asks now of you.' 
 
 * I should like to be good more than anything,' observed 
 Madeline. 
 
 ' And not only that, but I think you are willing to do all that 
 may be necessary, whether agreeable or not, in order to become 
 good,' continued her father. ' We must not separate these two 
 things. A person suffering from some bodily disease, for in- 
 stance, will say he would like to be cured ; but he may not like 
 to try the remedy. He may be suffering from the toothache, 
 and yet not agree to have the tooth extracted.' 
 
 ' That is what I mean,' said Madeline, quickly. ' I should 
 like to feel that I had got rid of some of the bad things, and 
 then I should be more sure that I was willing — that I was fit 
 for the blessings. Because you know, papa,' she added, in a 
 faltering voice, ' I am not at all fit for the Holy Communion, 
 and I must go to it if I am confirmed.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Madeline,' said Mr Clifford, * the getting rid 
 of these " bad things," as you term it, is to be the business of 
 your life. Confirmation and the Holy Communion are to be 
 your gi-eat assistants in this business. If you throw away the 
 help, what are you to do ?' 
 
 * I might pray and read the Bible,' said Madeline. 
 
 ' God tells you to do something more,' replied Mr Clifford. 
 ' He will not accept us if we perform only half our duties.' 
 
 ' And I must go,' said Madeline, whilst the tears which had 
 for some time been gathering flowed slowly down her cheeks. 
 
 Mr Clifford suffered her to cry silently for some moments ; at 
 length he said, ' You are frightened, dearest.' 
 
 * Yes, so very frightened sometimes,' said Madeline, in a 
 broken voice ; ' and, papa, I think I should be glad not to go ; 
 that shows how bad I am.' 
 
 * Then if I were to tell you that you should never go,' said 
 Mr Chfford, 'you would be contented.?' 
 
 Madeline started. ' O papa ! no. I could not bear it.' 
 
 * And God does not wish you to bear it,' replied her father. 
 ' He is willing — more willing than you can imagine — to receive
 
 436 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 you ; to love you and bless you, and make you happy. He 
 asks for no fitness except that wliich you have yourself just this 
 momenJ acknowledged, ^'ou may go to your confirmation, 
 you may even kneel to receive the Holy Communion, conscious 
 of all your faults, all your fmpcrfections, yet with the same con- 
 fidence in His love as you feel now in mine. And, Madeline, 
 my child, by and by, years hence — if it should please God to 
 spare your life — you will see all this fully, you will be thankful 
 and happy then, that you were not suffered to give way to doubts 
 and scruples now. Religion will be all in all to you,' 
 
 ' As it is to you,' said Madeline. 
 
 A momentary shade passed over Mr Clifford's countenance ; 
 yet it was but momentary : a quiet, bright smile followed it, 
 and he looked in his child's face and said, ' Yes, Madeline, as 
 it is, I trust now, all in all — the one great joy — the one un- 
 unchanging reality.' 
 
 Madeline was silent. The feelings gathering in her breast 
 could find no words for utterance. She only said as she left 
 the room, ' Then, papa, you will settle for me that I am not to 
 go to the picnic' 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 WE will take a glance at Mrs De Lacy's drawing-room on 
 the afternoon of the following day. It was a long, 
 rather narrow room, terminating in a bow, with French windows 
 opening upon a lawn. The furniture was too showy to be 
 elegant. The paper attracted attention from its bright pink 
 pattern and gilding ; the eye was disturbed and confused by 
 the number of odd-shaped chairs, sofas, inlaid tables, and light 
 ornaments, which crowded a comparatively small space ; evei"y 
 book seemed to have dressed itself in its gayest binding ; and 
 every article approaching to the useful was carefully disguised, 
 by being turned into some shape totally unlike itself. 
 
 By the round table, drawn into the recess of the bow, Jus- 
 tine le Vergnier reclined, in a low easy chair, whilst Florence 
 stood by her, picking to pieces a leaf of verbena. Justine wore 
 a walking-dress, but her very small transparent bonnet was un- 
 tied, and thrown back off her head ; and cither this circum-
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 437 
 
 stance, or it might have been really «.n alteration in the expres- 
 sion of her face, gave her a less gentle, ([iiiet look than formerly. 
 Her eyes moved more quickly, though they were always remarked 
 as never being still ; her lips curled satirically ; her attitude 
 was more studied and less graceful. She had an air of self- 
 possession and determination, not pleasing in so young a per- 
 son ; altogether there was the indescribable change, not to be 
 seen in any one particular, but to be felt perpetually, which indi- 
 cates a character that is lowering, not rising, in tone. Florence, 
 in the presence of Justine, appeared a simple, retiring girl. 
 
 ' And my aunt has really brought matters to an end, then,' 
 said the former, throwing away the last atom of the faded leaf, 
 and turning to Justine with a doubtful smile. 
 
 ' Ah, Gui — that is, it must be an end soon. Madame is 
 most entirely obliging, delighted : we shall be the best friends.' 
 
 * It would be all very well if it were not for that letter of 
 Ruth's,' said Florence. ' If she has a conscience crotchet, she 
 may do us harm at any moment.' 
 
 ' Mais, tu es triste, mon amie,' said Justine, laughing. ' I 
 care nothing for Ruth ; and you have written.' 
 
 ' Yes, but perhaps she may not come to the picnic ; or, she 
 may choose to go and talk about you beforehand ; she threatens 
 to do so. I wonder, Justine, you can take it all so quietly.' 
 
 * Now, listen,' said Justine, holding up her finger, and looking 
 archly at Florence ; ' you know we are famous — we French, I 
 mean — for sunshine — " gaietc de cceur." I am French; I have 
 had heaps of troubles before — I shall have heaps again. But 
 why vex me .'' If I don't stay here I shall go somewhere else 
 — I shall do something.' 
 
 Florence looked at her with a mixture of wonder and irrita- 
 tion. 
 
 ' What am I to do ? ' she exclaimed. ' My aunt will say I 
 have deceived her.' 
 
 Justine shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 * Bien ! and if you ha\e, it was for a friend. But where was 
 the deceit ? Madame asked what I was like — you told her ; 
 you gave my account. Who knows me as well as 1 know my- 
 self? What for should she ask questions of that woman — that 
 Mrs Carter ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs Carter is certainly extremely prejudiced,' said 
 Florence. 
 
 'That is little! — c'est affreux — she tells. I would not say
 
 43^ LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 what she tells, and all because she would get another into my 
 place.' 
 
 * And yet you can be indifferent whether Ruth talks about you 
 or not?' said Florence. 
 
 ' Point du tout ! — not at all indifferent ; but you see there are 
 always ways. We will come over Ruth.' 
 
 ' Not so easily as you may think,' replied Florence. 
 
 * Pardon ! I knew Ruth when you did.' 
 
 ' At school ; but you saw little enough of her.' 
 
 ' Enough for what I wish. Ruth loves dearly to rule ; she 
 loves to put that little finger of hers into other person's con- 
 cerns ; she shall put it into mine.' 
 
 ' Yours ! ' exclaimed Florence, in a tone of alarm. 
 
 Justine laughed heartily. 
 
 ' Ah ! to be sure : you take fright ; but trust me. See what 
 a pretty note I have written ; ' and she drew a folded paper 
 from her reticule, and gave it to Florence. ' You see, my 
 happiness rests on her coming to the picnic,' said Justine, still 
 laughing, as she quoted her own words ; * I have so much 
 confidence to give her ; I want her advice. She can't help her- 
 self now — she must come.' 
 
 ' And she must keep quiet till she has seen you,' said 
 Florence. 
 
 ' Of course ; Ruth is most proper — she is full of honour ; she 
 will never speak till we have met.' 
 
 ' And if you do meet, what then ? ' inquired Florence. 
 
 ' We will see — -we will think,' said Justine, lightly tapping her 
 forehead. ' I never was in a trouble yet, but I found my way 
 out of it ! and we will go, mignonne, you and I ; we will have 
 our treat ; we will be at Paris together.* 
 
 ' And you will show me all the best shops, and iell my aunt 
 about everything that is fit to be seen, and do just whatever I 
 like,' said Florence. 
 
 ' Oui, assuremcnt ! let me only be there. Once in Paris — in 
 my country — la belle France, we will have our pleasure then ; 
 and it is so bright, so gay. Ah, Florence ! you don't live in 
 England j it is all, as you said one day — eat, drink, sleep, and 
 begin again.' 
 
 ' The difficulty is to manage it,' said Florence, musingly. 
 ' You will really take a great deal of care of Agnes, won't you^ 
 Justine ? ' she added. 
 
 ' Surely ; the greatest of all. Did 1 not take care of the little
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 439 
 
 Darnleys ? That very evening when I went out to sec my 
 friends — the evening I was so caught ; I had put them all 
 quietly to bed : they were asleep — very comfortable — no harm 
 could happen to them.' 
 
 ' You have a charming accent,' said Florence ; ' that is one 
 great advantage. My aunt heard it remarked the other day, 
 and she admires your voice extremely. If you only make 
 Agnes sing as well, she will be quite satisfied.' 
 
 ' Ah ! we will do everything — everything k merveille ! ' 
 answered Justine, laughing ; ' only just at the present moment 
 we must think about this little affair. You are writing to 
 Alice ; put my note in the envelope, and Alice will give it.' 
 
 * A good notion,' observed Florence ; 'we shall save a day by 
 it ; for my aunt is going to drive over to the Manor this after- 
 noon, and she can take it.' 
 
 * I wish I could be quite sure that there is no fear of Lady 
 Catharine,' said Justine, less lightly than was usual. 
 
 * Oh ! you need not be under any alarm about her,' replied 
 Florence ; ' it was one of my first inquiries of Alice. I should 
 never have proposed your staying here so long, if I had not 
 been quite sure upon that point. Lady Catharine scarcely re- 
 members your name, Alice says. You know Mrs Carter never 
 tells more than she can help of her school matters ; and if she 
 did, my aunt always calls you Veray, happily. I was never so 
 grateful before for her habit of misnaming French people.' 
 
 'Then you don't wish to go with your aunt to-day?'inquired 
 Justine. 
 
 * Oh, no ; it was half proposed that I should, but I have no 
 fancy for encountering Juno, even for the sake of Alice. The 
 very sight of the Manor gives me a fit of low spirits ; and how 
 Alice can exist there I can't imagine. I should make up 
 romances, and fill it with ghosts for my own amusement.' 
 
 * Ghosts !' repeated Justine, and a strange look of thought 
 crossed her face. ' Les revenans ! I don't like them.' 
 
 Florence began to laugh, but Justine was grave. 
 
 * I could not live in a place where there were any,' she said ; 
 and then she added quickly, ' What shall we do this after- 
 noon ?' 
 
 * Now, really, Justine, you are silly,' persisted Florence. 
 * Ghosts arc nothings.' 
 
 ' I am not so certain ; I don't fancy them,' again obsenxd 
 [ustine.
 
 440 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' And you look quite in earnest,' said Florence, lixing her 
 eyes upon her. 
 
 ' Ah, oui, in earnest ; one must be in earnest sometimes.' 
 
 Justine sighed ; and Florence said, in a tone of vexation — 
 
 ' Why, Justine, you are dull ; what has come over you all of 
 a sudden ?' 
 
 ' Ce n'est rien, c'est une folic ; what shall we do this after- 
 noon ?' 
 
 ' Drive in the pony-chaise ; but, Justine, I should like to 
 know,' said Florence, according to her old custom, still keeping 
 up a disagreeable subject, ' I should be glad if you would tell 
 me what made you grow so dull in a minute t' 
 
 ' We are all dull at times,' replied Justine ; ' that is, in Eng- 
 land. No one is dull in France.' 
 
 ' You must not be dull with my aunt,' observed Florence ; 
 ' she cannot endure dulness. It must be nothing but talking 
 and laughing for ever to suit her ; that is what she likes in 
 you.' 
 
 * Well ! she may depend ; I will do my best,' replied Justine. 
 ' But you see, Florence, chere amie, one sits alone now and 
 then, and then the thoughts come. It was all Mrs Carter ; 
 she put them into my head first.' 
 
 ' But what thoughts.'" inquired Florence, in a curious tone. 
 ' All sorts ; very dull ones. It was such a dull house ; it 
 gives me " les vapeurs " to think of it.' 
 'What do you mean ?' asked Florence. 
 
 * Why, you ought to know,' replied Justine, impatiently; 'you 
 ha\'e said the same yourself.' 
 
 'I don't remember; I can't understand,' continued Florence, 
 ' I wish you would be plain.' 
 
 Justine shrugged her shoulders, and exclaimed against the 
 stupidity of Florence, and then added — 
 
 'It was not always so; when I was in London first, I was 
 very bright — always laughing ; the world seemed quite merry ; 
 and when I went amongst you all, that was bright too. I 
 liked it ; I liked Mrs Carter ; she was very kind, and I could 
 bear the sermons, though she gave me a good many. Now 
 and then I listened to them and tried to please her. It was 
 just a fit, but it went off. Clara Manners laughed at her, and 
 I laughed. One can't think gravely about things that people 
 say when one laughs at them ; and so, by and by, 1 came to care 
 less for her long speeches ; and then they were tiresome to me,
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 441 
 
 and then I could not bear thcni, and I took to reading tliobC 
 books just to foiget them.' 
 
 'And the fuss that was made !' said Florence, lifting up her 
 hands. 
 
 ' Yes, the luss ! shall you ever forget it .'' But I was better 
 off than you ; I could get away and read just as many as I 
 chose ; and they were charming ; they put all the long sermons 
 out of my head. She used to call sometimes and go over all 
 the old grievances, and I behaved very well ; I listened like a 
 lamb ; but I never cared for anything, because I could forget.' 
 
 ' There will be one comfort here,' said Florence ; 'my aunt 
 will never preach dull sermons to you.' 
 
 'But it is the forget which is the trouble,' said Justine ; 'all 
 that talking and preaching, and telling one to say prayers, and 
 think that some day or other I am to grow old and die, comes 
 back ; it makes me ill. When you said about the ghosts, it 
 came ; it is quite sudden ; it docs not stay, but it is horrible ; it 
 makes me feel — ah !' and Justine drew a long breath. 
 
 Florence looked rather blank at this announcement. 
 
 *You don't mean to have these fits often, do you .'" she said. 
 
 ' Mean ! but who would have them that could help ? No, I 
 dance, sing, play, anything but think.' 
 
 ' And you may read too,' observed Florence. ' My aunt likes 
 novels, and she will lend you as many as you wish.' 
 
 ' But it is not the same as it was ; I read, but I am tired. I 
 don't care for the books now,' said Justine, yawning ; ' they are 
 all alike. Ah ! Florence, to be rich ! that is the thing.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is the thing,' said Florence ; ' one could have so 
 many pleasures if one were only rich.' 
 
 ' But you are rich ; you can go where you like ; think of me, 
 without a penny in the world, if I don't work, work, and talk, 
 and teach ; and forced besides to go here, and stay there, and 
 never have a will of my own. Oh ! it is sad — this life.' 
 
 ' Pauvre petite ! I am very sorry for you,' said Florence, 
 kindly ; ' but if we can have our way about Paris, it will all be 
 well ; and we will forget the ghosts and the sermons.' 
 
 Justine rose suddenly from her seat, and opening the piano, 
 began to sing a lively French air. Florence lingered near her, 
 praising and caressing her. Justine's f^ice resumed its usual 
 expression, and before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, hei 
 manner was as light and her voice as gay as if she had nevei 
 been troubled by a serious thought.
 
 442 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 THAT same day at the Manor was spent by Alice unlike 
 that of Florence, but it was not without importance to 
 her. It did not, indeed, differ materially from many others which 
 she had lately passed, but there is no such thing as standing 
 still in life. As we move onwards in time, so we also moA'e 
 onwards in the formation of our characters. The direction 
 which Alice was taking was unfortunately a wrong one, though 
 it might not have seemed so at the first glance. Alice was 
 passing a busy morning ; her table was spread with scraps of 
 paper, account-books, lists of names, and calculations ; upon 
 her desk a large ruled book lay open, filled with strokes and 
 dots, and various unintelligible marks ; and some untidy black 
 pens, torn sheets of blotting paper, and a ragged pen-wiper, 
 were near it. Alice had a pencil and a ruler in her hand, and 
 was just proceeding to work, to make up some of the club 
 accounts, when Lady Catharine looked into the room. 
 
 ' What are you doing, my dear ? ' she said ; ' I thought this 
 was your reading morning.' 
 
 * I am going to finish the accounts,' was Alice's reply. 
 
 ' The accounts 1 I understood they were to have been done 
 yesterday.' 
 
 ' I had not time,' replied Alice, beginning to rule diligently. 
 
 Lady Catharine advanced into the room. ' My dear, I don't 
 Uke that excuse. I hear it a great deal too often. If you 
 managed your time properly there would be no occasion for it.' 
 
 * I was out yesterday afternoon,' said Alice. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, my dear, you were not out very long. 
 You had sufficient leisure when you returned : what did you do 
 with yourself .'' ' 
 
 ' I read historj',' said Alice, rather sulkily. 
 
 ' But I wish you to read in the morning. Had you no time 
 then either ? ' 
 
 ' Not enough,' said Alice. 
 
 Lady Catharine bit her lip. ' It is so strange, my dear, that 
 when I have marked out your day, given you precise hours for 
 ever)'thing, when you really have nothing whatever to interfere 
 with you, that you should still be so exceedingly irregular. 
 WHiat was the reason that you did not read in the morning ?' 
 
 Alice blushed, and said she had taken up the ' Bride of
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 443 
 
 Lammermoor,' and had become so interested in it that she did 
 not know how the time went by, till it was nearly the luncheon 
 hour. 
 
 Lady Catharine was too much annoyed to be softened by 
 Alice's sincerity. She walked up to the book-case, and stood 
 before it thinking. ' I had hoped these books would have had 
 a different effect,' she said. ' They were meant for proper 
 recreation at proper hours.' 
 
 Alice went on with her occupation, but the very manner in 
 which she handled her pencil showed that a storm was brewing. 
 
 * If you were a baby, Alice,' continued Lady Catharine, ' I 
 should be inclined to take these books to my own room, and only 
 lend them to you at particular times. They are a sad tempta- 
 tion where there is no strength of mind to resist.' 
 
 Alice looked up, and said with an indifferent air, ' Certainly 
 it might be better if they were not here.' 
 
 Lady Catharine made no reply. She came near to Alice, and 
 saw what she was doing, and then she said coldly, ' Your 
 method is a bad one ; you will never be correct if you do 
 not arrange the names alphabetically.' 
 
 Alice continued ruling. 
 
 * You can never refer easily, if you do not,' continued Lady 
 Catharine. ' Has Mr Clifford seen the book .?' 
 
 Alice replied that she had shown it to him once, but he had 
 not found fault with it. 
 
 ' That was because he was too good-natured,' said Lady 
 Catharine ; ' and in fact, gentlemen do not understand these 
 things well. It would be quite worth your while to begin it 
 again.' 
 
 Alice's pencil dropped from her fingers, and she laid her hands 
 on her lap. 
 
 * Of course, my dear, you think me very particular,' said Lady 
 Catharine, trj'ing to assume a gentler voice : * but when you are 
 arrived at my age, you will see that these little things constitute 
 the real comfort and well-being of our lives. Without order, 
 neatness, and regularity, the highest virtues may become com- 
 paratively useless.' 
 
 Alice turned to a blank page, and rising, offered Lady Catha- 
 rine her seat ; and asked if she would have the kindness to show 
 her in what way she thought the accounts might be better kept. 
 
 Lady Catharine -hesitated, then she sat down, and began to 
 examine the book. She read over some of the names, and com-
 
 444 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 mcnted upon tlicm. '"Gibbs;" they pay constantly, I see. 
 " Moore ; '' I wonder they have kept on so lon^, with the husband 
 so ill. " Barker ; " they were always irregular, when I had the 
 management ; but they must be inquired after. " Goring ; " I 
 see they only paid tlic lirst three weeks. Take the names down 
 on paper, Alice, and we will go and inquire about them this 
 afternoon.' 
 
 Alice said that Mr Clifford had spoken to her upon the sub- 
 ject, and she had intended to go herself and tell the people they 
 must be regular. 
 
 ' Hem ! I don't know. Did Mr Clifford beg you to go?' 
 
 ' Ruth and Madeline used to do it, and I thought I might,' 
 said Alice. 
 
 ' We can go together,' said Lady Catharine. ' I shall like to 
 have the opportunity of talking to the people myself; and I am 
 not fond of your visiting the cottages alone.' 
 
 Lady Catharine did not see the expression of Alice's face, 
 or she would probably have continued her task of arranging 
 the accounts with less satisfaction. She went on in happy 
 ignorance, really doing Alice very material service, and, by her 
 neatness and precision, clearing all difficulties ; and Alice stood 
 by with folded hands, silent and abstracted. When Lady 
 Catharine had finished half a page, she said cheerfully, as she 
 held the pencil over her shoulder to Alice, ' There, my dear, I 
 think I have done some good ; now you will go on easily.' 
 
 An icicle could not have been more chilling than Alice's 
 'Thank you.' 
 
 Lady Catharine turned round suddenly, looked her full in the 
 face, and laying her hand upon her, said, very gravely, ' Alice, 
 are we always to live together in this way.-^' 
 
 Alice withdrew her hand, but did not speak. 
 
 * Have you nothing to say .-" continued Lady Catharine. 
 
 ' I am sorry to have vexed you,' replied Alice. 
 
 Lady Catharine rose up in her most stately manner. ' Alice,' 
 she said, ' you know that is not what 1 rec|uire. I do not wish 
 you to say you arc sorry, when you do not feel it.' 
 
 ' I am sorry 1 did not finish tiie accounts yesterday,' said 
 Alice ; and there was evidently truth in the acknowledgment. 
 
 ' It is not one case wliicli is of consequence,' observed Lady 
 Catharine ; ' it is the perpetual repetition, the constant neglect 
 of small duties, which I complain of You are always late ; 
 always behindhand ; always untidy; always forgetting.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 445 
 
 Alice's features grew more rigid as Lady Catharine became 
 more excited. 
 
 * When 1 was your age,' continued Lady Catharine, ' I was 
 always dressed by seven ; I read the Psahns and Lessons, and 
 some devotional book for half an hour ; then I entered upon the 
 business of the day. My life was ordered with the most perfect 
 legularity. I never undertook a task till I had appointed the 
 hour at which it was to be performed. I had the care of my own 
 wardrobe ; there was never a button or a hook missing. I read 
 history every day, and I now have books and books which I filled 
 with notes. \\'hcn I was taken into society I always arranged 
 my time so that my pursuits should not be materially interfered 
 with. I am not telling you these things, Alice, with any notion 
 of having been better than other people, but merely to show you 
 what I did myself; and, therefore, what I have a fair right to 
 expect from you.' 
 
 Alice stood like a statue. 
 
 ' These are no light matters,' continued Lady Catharine ; 
 ' they tell upon your inward habit of mind. If you cannot make 
 an exertion in small things, you cannot make it in great ; and 
 how then will you be fitted for confirmatioir .'' It is a very 
 serious question indeed.' 
 
 Alice changed colour ; it seemed as if she were about to 
 take some desperate resolution ; but the conversation was 
 interrupted. 
 
 A servant announced that Mrs De Lacy was in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 ' I will come,' said Lady Catharine ; and, when the door 
 closed, she repeated again, 'it is a very serious question, Alice ; 
 - — I leave you to think of it.' 
 
 Lady Catharine walked slowly out of the room, and then 
 Alice sat down, and resting her head upon the table, ciied 
 bitterly. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 JUNO herself could not have received a visitor to Olympus 
 with a more majestic air than that with which Lady Catha- 
 rine Hyde greeted Mrs De Lacy. She was in no humour to be 
 agreeable, and unfortunately Mrs De Lacy was not a person to
 
 446 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 produce a fa^'ourable impression ; for she was deficient in ability 
 and tact, and Lady Catharine grew more ceremonious as she found 
 it difficult to think of anything to say. Mrs De Lacy asked for 
 Alice, but Lady Catharine would not propose to send for her ; 
 and, after having endured her penance as long as civility re- 
 quired, IMrs De Lacy rose to take leave, laying on the table at 
 the same time a note for Alice, and expressing a formal hope 
 that nothing would prevent their meeting next week at St Cuth- 
 bert's. The arrangements for the picnic were not quite made ; 
 when they were she would do herself the honour of communi- 
 cating with Lady Catharine respecting them. Lady Catharine 
 bowed. She would willingly have declared that she would have 
 nothing to do with the picnic, and that Alice would be much 
 better at home ; but the habit of self-command was more power- 
 ful than the feeling of annoyance, and Mrs De Lacy departed, 
 congratulating herself that the visit was over, and designating 
 Lady Catharine as the most tiresome, stiff, haughty piece of 
 propriety she had ever encountered. 
 
 Lady Catharine sat in silent meditation when her visitor was 
 gone. But it was neither Mrs De Lacy's wearisome insipidity, 
 nor Alice's conduct which occupied her thoughts. She reflected 
 upon her own cold manner — her spirit of impatience at imper- 
 fection — the want of sympathy she was conscious of having 
 shown ; and, having blamed herself in one instance, she began 
 to consider how far she had been right in others. Her treat- 
 ment of Alice was always a fertile topic of inquiry, and she was 
 still considering it, when another visitor was announced — rather 
 an unusual one at that time of the day — Mr Clifford. Lady 
 Catharine's natural distance of manner was never entirely over- 
 come even by her thorough respect for Mr Clifford's character, 
 and reverence for his office. But Mr Clifford was one of the 
 few persons to whom it was a matter of indifference. His 
 greeting was as hearty as if he had been sure of having it fully 
 returned, instead of receiving a passive touch from a stiff hand, 
 which seemed moved by wires, and fell helplessly as soon as the 
 first impetus had ceased. His tone also was generally cheerful 
 and free, and Lady Catharine, like many other cold-mannered 
 persons, peculiarly enjoyed the society of those who would draw 
 her out of herself. This day, however, Mr Clifford appeared 
 under restraint, and talked about the weather and the crops, 
 subjects which are always suspicious between persons who ought 
 to be at home with each other. Presently he inquired how
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 447 
 
 Alice was. Lady Catharine smoothed her mittens and knitted 
 her brow, and said she was quite well. This was sufficient to 
 show Mr Clifford that ' well ' did not mean well in mind, 
 V.'ithout attempting to introduce by degrees the subject upon 
 which he wished to speak, he said — 
 
 * I have been desirous, for some days, Lady Catharine, to 
 talk to you about Alice.' 
 
 Lady Catharine's face changed instantly. The cloud of 
 reserve passed away, and she gave Mr Clifford her hand again, 
 and said, ' Thank you : Alice is always in my thoughts.' 
 
 * You are anxious about her, I am afraid,' said Mr Clifford ; 
 ' so am I : but I should be glad to learn from you that there is 
 no cause for it.' 
 
 Lady Catharine sighed, and the deep, sorrowful lines in her 
 forehead seemed to contract and grow more marked. 
 
 ' I am afraid there is cause,' continued Mr Clifford. ' I am 
 afraid Alice is not yet what we both desire to see her.' He 
 paused for a moment, and added, ' I have a doubt whether, in 
 her present state, she is fitted for confirmation.' 
 
 Lady Catharine gave a slight start ; then, as if ashamed of 
 such an expression of quick feeling, stretched her neck and 
 threw back her head, and again began to smooth and settle the 
 black mittens, which already fitted her hands like wax. A look 
 of proud displeasure rested upon her countenance ; but it did 
 not remain there. There was a struggle of some moments 
 between natural haughtiness and Christian lowliness, whilst she 
 leaned her elbow upon an arm of the chair, trying to cover her 
 face with her hand, and hide the large tears which rolled slowly 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 Mr Clifibrd was pained to see her ; but he was compelled 
 to pursue the subject. ' You are disappointed, my dear Lady 
 Catharine,' he said ; ' and not you alone — all who love you, 
 and know how your heart rests upon Alice, are feeling with 
 you.' 
 
 * No,' exclaimed Lady Catharine, lookmg up ; 'to feel with 
 me is impossible.' 
 
 She was silent again, and Mr Clifford doubted how far he 
 might venture to say more. But Lady Catharine presently 
 continued, in a gentler but very hurried tone. 
 
 * Mr Clifford, you have known the history of my past hfe — 
 my early happiness — my great trial ; and you have seen its 
 effect. I long lived to myself, solitary in feeling, devoted as I
 
 44? LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 hoped to the service of God. Earth had no charm for me; it 
 ^vas but a dreary passage to a happier world. Cut God gave 
 me an interest for this present world ; Alice was left to me, 
 and I was not only contented, but thankful to live. I thought 
 that I was once more to know happiness. Only in a few short 
 months the happiness was gone. I saw that Alice must not be 
 educated by me, and I sent her from me. I bore that separa- 
 tion ; for it seemed only for a time, and I believed that when 
 she returned we should only be the more happy together from 
 having been for a while parted. When the time came for her 
 to leave school, I looked forward with delight to having her as 
 a companion. I gave up thought, and comfort, and leisure, to 
 make arrangements for her. I would have done a thousand 
 times more and considered it no hardship, and what is my 
 return } ' Lady Catharine's voice grew husky, and she paused. 
 
 ' Rather what will be the return by and by ? ' said Mr 
 Cliftbrd, mildly. ' At Alice's age ' 
 
 Lady Catharine interrupted. ' Alice is older than your own 
 children. What would be your feelings if you were told they 
 were not fitted for confirmation .'' ' 
 
 ' Most painful, doubtless,' he replied, ' But indeed. Lady 
 Catharine, you have mistaken me if you thought I meant to 
 decide the question. I have called this morning only to ask 
 your opinion upon it.' 
 
 ' I can give none,' replied Lady Catharine. ' Alice is en- 
 tirely reserved with me. I believe she reads the books which 
 you recommend, and she acquiesces in any observation I may 
 make ; but that is all,' 
 
 * And her daily conduct '■ — began Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' Her daily conduct is a mystery. I have no idea what 
 principles govern her. Sometimes she seems bent upon attend- 
 ing to her duties, and occasionally, though very rarely, the 
 motive seems to be that of pleasing me. Then again she is 
 careless, self-willed and moody, and shows a coldness of feeling 
 which is utterly repelling.' 
 
 ' I can scarcely imagine Alice to be really cold,' observed 
 Mr Clifford. ' I have always imagined that she possessed 
 strong feelings, if they could be brought out. Do you not 
 think that it sometimes answers to take feeling and principle for 
 granted .'' ' 
 
 * I do not quite understand you,' was Lady Catharine's stiff 
 reply, as she had recourse to her knitting.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 449 
 
 * I mean,' replied Mr Clifford, * that some young persons — 
 Alice may be amongst the number — are more worked upon by 
 knowing that it is believed they have good feelings and inten- 
 tions than by being suspected of having bad ones, or at least 
 none at all.* 
 
 ' I cannot believe in what I do not think exists,' said Lady 
 Catharine. 
 
 ' But,' continued Mr Clifford, — ' you must forgive me if I am 
 speaking ignorantly, — Alice does occasionally appear to have 
 right principles.' 
 
 * Very seldom.' 
 
 * Still it is sometimes. Do you not find' her then alive to 
 encouragement .'' ' 
 
 Lady Catharine was silent. Encouragement she was con- 
 scious was not very often given. Presently she threw aside her 
 knitting, and looking steadily at Mr Chfford, said, ' You think 
 I have pursued a wrong system with Alice .'' ' 
 
 It was an observation difficult to answer. After a momentary 
 hesitation, Mr Clifford said, ' I have no right to judge; I know 
 so little of Alice's daily life.' 
 
 * Truth is better than civility,' observed Lady Catharine, \cry 
 coldly ; and she returned again to her work. 
 
 Mr Clifford did not allow even a shade of annoyance to be 
 visible on his face, and answered, with perfect gentleness, ' I 
 desire always to be true. I cannot really judge correctly about 
 Alice ; but I should imagine our views with regard to her 
 might differ.' 
 
 * Very possibly,' replied Lady Catharine, shortly. 
 
 * Alice is no longer a child,' continued Mr Clifford. 
 
 * Not in age, but in character she is.' 
 
 ' Still, do you not think it may be safer to treat her accord- 
 ing to her age ? We are sure of that, we are not sure of her 
 disposition.' 
 
 ' I don't know, these modern notions are beyond me. I was 
 brought up to be perfectly obedient ; I wish Alice to be the 
 same.' 
 
 ' Again I must refer to her age,' said Mr Clifford. 
 
 ' As a sanction for disobedience 1' exclaimed Lady Catharine, 
 
 * That is the last thing I should have expected from you.' 
 
 ' No ; not for the world to sanction disobedience,' he replied : 
 
 * but if there are few rules, there is less opening for disobe- 
 dience.' 
 
 2 F
 
 4 so LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Lady Catharine knitted extremely fast, and tiegan to coant 
 her stitches dihgently. 
 
 ' Of course,' pursued Mr Gifford, ' if Alice had not been 
 brought up in habits of obedience, I should be alarmed at the 
 idea of giving her freedom now. I really cannot say too 
 strongly how entirely I uphold strict discipline for very young 
 children. Obedience in them is no obedience at all to my 
 mind, unless it is instantaneous. What persons generally call 
 obedience, strikes me as mere rebellion, I would make a baby 
 in arms obedient. But when this is done, I think we need not 
 be afraid of liberty at such an age as Alice has reached.' 
 
 * This may be all very well for Ruth and Madeline,' said 
 Lady Catharine ; ' but Alice is different. You do not know 
 her, Mr CHfford.' 
 
 ' No indeed, I do not,' he answered ; ' that is my great 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' She is uncertain, wilful, hasty, vain, careless — she is really 
 very provoking,' said Lady Catharine. 
 
 ' Yes, I can fcilly believe it ; but she has, I suppose, qualities 
 on the other side ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; a great many. She is reverent-minded ; and I 
 don't think she is conceited ; and she feels, I believe, quickly 
 and warmly, though she does not show it much to me. Then, 
 although she is not naturally sincere, I sometimes find her very 
 candid ; and she has a good deal of energy, though no per- 
 severance.' 
 
 ' They arc good materials to work upon,' observed Mr Clif- 
 ford. 
 
 ' Yes J but what is to be done if they are counterbalanced 
 by the bad 'i ' 
 
 * There are two methods to l^e tried,' was the reply; * neither 
 of them indeed separately ; but, as a principle, one will always 
 predominate — either constantly to check the evil, or to make a 
 point of encouraging the good.' 
 
 Lady Catharine answered rather abruptly, ' To consider these 
 properly would lead us into a discussion upon the very first 
 principles of education.' 
 
 ' Yes ; and I would not intrude upon your time ; and I 
 really have not enough of my own to spare. I merely threw 
 out the remark as a suggestion.' 
 
 * You uphold encouraging the good ? ' said Lady Catharine. 
 
 * Yes ; and I think I have good authority. But I must not
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 451 
 
 enter further into the subject now. I thhik, however, you 
 would find that when the good points of a character are en- 
 couraged, the bad ones will often die away.' 
 
 Lady Catharine only replied, ' It may be so ;' and then, re- 
 turning to the former topic, inquired what were Mr Clifford's 
 intentions as to the confirmation. 
 
 * I came,' he said, ' hoping to receive some information here ; 
 but as that cannot be, I think it will be advisable to make an 
 effort myself to reach the state of Alice's mind. I must cer- 
 tainly be more satisfied about her before I pronounce her fit 
 for confirmation.' 
 
 He spoke decidedly, and Lady Catharine again looked ex- 
 tremely distressed. She did not, however, endeavour to alter 
 his impression, but wished him good morning at first as stiffly 
 as usual. Mr Clifford's manner, however, softened her, and 
 tears stood in her eyes as she shook his hand with heartiness, 
 and said, ' If I have made a mistake I am already punished for 
 it.' 
 
 When Mr Clifford was gone, Lady Catharine went to her 
 room, and sent a message to Alice, that she might, if she liked 
 it, spend the afternoon at the Parsonage. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ALICE had seldom been more sensible of the comfort of 
 having friends near her than when she sat down to 
 dinner at the Parsonage ; for the time being, free and uncon- 
 strained. Ruth, indeed, was not in one of her gayest moods, 
 but this suited the melancholy temper of mind in which Alice 
 left the Manor ; and her spirits were more soothed by the 
 quiet, sensible conversation which passed than they could have 
 been by mirth, in which she would not have been inclined 
 to join. They went to the shore in the evening ; Ruth 
 and Alice walked together. The tide was going out, 
 and all was very still, though the waves splashed gently aj 
 they rolled over the hard ribbed sand which stretched away to 
 a great distance, covered in parts by shallow pools, that 
 sparkled like burnished gold in the light of the sinking summer 
 sun. Alice had a natural taste for beauty in nature ; she
 
 4 5 i LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 could catch the different effects of light and shade vvith some- 
 thing of an artist's eye ; and now she pointed out to Ruth the 
 high jutting rocks, black with the accumulation of sea-weed, 
 which, with the dark outline of the red cliffs, formed a mass of 
 shadow boldly contrasting with the brilliant colouring of the 
 aky. Ruth's eye followed the same direction, but it did not 
 rest there ; it travelled higher, where purple clouds, tipped with 
 gold, were piled one upon another, in forms of mountains, and 
 castles, and cliffs, melting, as they approached nearer to the 
 sun, into shapes of dazzling brilliancy, or spreading themselves 
 out in long clear lines, till the whole breadth of the horizon was a 
 slieet of vivid colour. 
 
 Time had been when Ruth would have gazed upon that 
 radiant spectacle, that type of the glory which shall be here- 
 after, and thought only of purity, and hope, and the loveliness 
 of an untainted world. Then, in childhood, her heart would 
 have bounded within her, for the hues of the evening sky would 
 have seemed the actual reality of heaven. Now she was 
 changed ! Childhood had passed, and with it its radiant de- 
 ceptions. Ruth thought that she saw more clearly ; she had 
 learned to account for what she looked upon ; to know why the 
 clouds took their colouring from the sun ; to be aware thai 
 forms which appeared so majestic were masses of vapour. She 
 no longer fancied it possible to wander amongst the golden 
 rocks, or sail upon the smooth sheet of water which appeared 
 floating around their base ; and at this calm and most beautiful 
 hour her thoughts were only of earth. 
 
 Poor Ruth ! it was a sad exchange that she was making ; it 
 is a sad exchange which we all make when we begin to take so 
 great an interest in this world as to cease to be reminded of 
 another. Even Alice was more open to enjoyment from the 
 scene than she was ; for Alice was sorrowful, and a heavy heart 
 makes us look with interest upon the boundless, glorious sky, 
 because it seems that, if we once could reach it, we should have 
 passed beyond the power of mortal care. 
 
 Alice waited with patience whilst Ruth wished to rest. After 
 a long silence, Ruth spoke — 
 
 ' I wonder whether this weather will continue next week— it 
 will be beautiful for the picnic' 
 
 ' I had forgotten the picnic,' said Alice, heaving a deep 
 sigh : ' shall you enjoy it .'' ' 
 
 ' Madeline is not L'^oing,' was Ruth's evasive observation ;
 
 LANETOM PARSONAGE. 453 
 
 nnd before Alice could interrupt her by expressing surprise, she 
 added, ' You will go, of course.' 
 
 Alice said she did not know ; and began searching for some- 
 thing in the pocket of her dress. * Where can it be 1 ' she said. 
 *I remember now; Mars'ham gave it me just as I was coming 
 away : it was a note from Florence. Mrs De Lacy brought it. 
 Do you know, I was in such a hurry, so worried, I forgot to 
 look at it.' She produced the envelope, and broke the seal. 
 Justine's note fell to the ground, Ruth saw that it was for 
 her, and guessed from whom it came by the cramped liand- 
 '.vriting. She did not choose to read it then, and Alice did not 
 notice that she had it. ' Florence is careful now,' said Alice, 
 after she had skimmed her own note. ' I must thank you, 
 Ruth, for that ; but I think I troubled myself without cause. 
 Things cannot be worse than they are ; Lady Catharine is de- 
 termined never to be pleased with me ; so whether she scolds 
 me for one thing more or less does not much signify.' 
 
 Ruth's attention was attracted by Alice's desponding tone, 
 and she exclaimed, ' Dear Alice, there must be something going 
 on worse than usual.' 
 
 * I don't know that it is worse,' replied Alice, ' only perhaps 
 I feel it more to-day, and there seems no end to it. And it 
 was not so much my fault. I was doing what I was obliged to 
 do : setthng the accounts. Why should she fret me to-day for 
 what was wrong yesterday .'' ' 
 
 Ruth drew figures on the sand by way of occupation, for she 
 really did not know what answer to make to this often-repeated 
 style of complaint, and she did not quite understand how the 
 constant repetition of any particular annoyance tends to in- 
 crease iL 
 
 Alice perceived Ruth's want of sympathy ; and, leaving her, 
 walked away by herself, till a projecting rock hid her from sight 
 Then she sat down upon the sand, resting against the rock, and, 
 closing her eyes, listened to the low rushing of the waves, 
 whilst suffering thoughts and fancies to pass through her mind 
 rapidly, and without connection, as in a dream. They were all 
 sorrowful, all tending to increase the conviction that her lot in 
 life was a sorrowful one, and destined to become still more so. 
 Alice sat long in this mood ; at last she heard her name repeated, 
 and looking up, saw Mr Clifford making his way to her over 
 the rocks. As he came near, he began to rally her upon her 
 sudden passion for solitude. Alice had no heart to answer in
 
 454 LANETON PARSON/tGE. 
 
 the same strain, and merely said, that she liked quietness 
 
 sometimes. 
 
 'And this is a pleasant seat,' said Mr Clifford, throwing him- 
 self upon the sand by her side ; ' I am glad you like quietness, 
 Alice. As a boy,' he continued, * I have spent many hours on 
 such evenings as this, watching the sun sinking, and fancying 
 myself travelling with it to other lands. Now one has little 
 leisure for such dreaniings.' 
 
 ' I don't like sunset,' observed Alice ; * it is always melan- 
 choly.' 
 
 ' But a little melancholy is not disagreeable,' said Mr Clifford : 
 ' a very little — such as one feels when relaxing after a hard 
 day's work.' 
 
 Alice showed no willingness to enter into the conversation. 
 She stood up and remarked, that as the tide was coming in, 
 they had better go back. 
 
 ' Wait a few minutes,' said Mr Clifford ; ' there is no hurry ; 
 and Ruth is gone to meet her mamma and Madeline.' 
 
 Alice felt herself caught in a snare ; for she was certain that 
 something serious was coming. 
 
 ' Here is a comfortable seat for you,' said Mr Clifford, point- 
 ing to a large stone ; and Alice, unable to find an excuse for 
 escape, reseated herself. ' I am glad to have this opportunity 
 of saying a few words to you, Alice,' he added ; ' we are not 
 often alone together.' 
 
 Alice said ' No ;' she could think of nothing else. 
 
 ' And we have a good deal to talk about, have we not V 
 
 Alice said she did not know. 
 
 * Time runs on quickly. The confirmation day will be here 
 soon — in a month.' 
 
 ' Yes ; about a month.' 
 
 Alice's tone and manner were certainly most discouraging. 
 
 ' You are like my child now, Alice,' continued Mr Clifford ; 
 * you know I must be answerable for what you are going to do. 
 If you were to be confirmed without being properly prepared, it 
 would be my fault.' 
 
 Alice did not understand, and answered that she supposed 
 she should be prepared after she had attended all the examina- 
 tions. 
 
 ' It is not the preparation of the intellect which I am speaking 
 of,' replied Mr Clifford, * but the preparation of the heart.' 
 
 A sudden light dawned upon Alice's mind, and made her very
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 455 
 
 uncomfortable. Could Mr Clifford possibly mean that she was 
 not fit to be confirmed. She played with the pebbles on the 
 shore, and made no answer. 
 
 ' You must let n:e be plain with you, my dear Alice,' was Mr 
 Clifford's next observation ; ' as your clergynian should be, I 
 am anxious about you.' 
 
 Alice murmured that he was veiy kind. 
 
 ' I am afraid you will not think it kind when you comprehend 
 me,' he replied, 
 
 Alice started, but recovered herself instantly, and said 
 haughtily, that she supposed Lady Catharine had been finding 
 fault with her. 
 
 ' No, indeed, Alice, you are mistaken. Lady Catharine says 
 nothing but what I can myself see. You are arrived at the 
 proper age for confirmation ; but it is quite possible that you 
 may not be in the proper state of mind.' 
 
 Alice answered that she should be glad to know what th.e 
 particular things were which Lady Catharine complained of. 
 
 ' I have told you before,' replied I\Ir Clifford, in a severe tone, 
 ' that Lady Catharine docs not make particular complaints. 
 What we both fear is, that you have not sufficiently realised the 
 greatness of the work before you, and therefore have not sum- 
 moned sufficient strength of will to perform it. Will you tell 
 me one thing.? I have given you, at different times, directions as 
 to your private preparation for confirmation — have you attended 
 to them 1' 
 
 ' I began,' said Alice, finding herself obliged to speak. 
 
 ' You began, but you did not go on ; that may possibly do for 
 your amusements, but it will not do for your religion. The very 
 essence of religion is, that it should be unchanging — the fixed 
 devotion of the heart for life.' 
 
 Alice made no answer. 
 
 ' We will think a little more upon this subject,' continued 
 Mr Clifford. ' Persons who do great works make themselves 
 thoroughly acquainted with their object. I think if you were to 
 understand better what is required of you as a Christian, you 
 might be persuaded that it will not be sufficient to begin, but 
 that you must have resolution to go on and labour.' 
 
 Alice answered that she thought she knew what a Christian 
 ought to be. 
 
 ' I doubt it,' he replied ; ' but you shall tell me what your 
 ideas are.'
 
 456 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * I think people ought to be very good,' said Alice. 
 ' But that is so vague ; I should like to hear more in detail.* 
 He waited for the next observation, but Alice only looked 
 confused, and began twisting and playing with a bunch of sea- 
 weed upon the rock near her. 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Mr Chfford, after a silence of some moments, 
 ' since you cannot explain your notions of your duties, will you 
 let me explain mine? I will begin with the easiest — those 
 which you and I, and we all, owe to ourselves and our fellow- 
 creatures. Suppose we take them in the order in which the 
 Church puts them. A person then desirous of doing his duty 
 to his neighbour, would be required first of all to love him as 
 himself; now that means, what V Alice was still silent. 'Shall 
 I say what it would mean for you ?' continued Mr Clift'ord. 'It 
 is better, perhaps, to confine our attention to ourselves in these 
 matters. If you, then, were to make up your mind really and 
 heartily to fulfil your duty to your neighbour, you would be 
 obliged to consult the wishes of all about you ; to give up your 
 own fancies and pleasures, and think of suiting theirs ; and 
 this, not only with regard to persons set over you, but all per- 
 sons ; your friends and companions — your servants even, so far 
 as never to give them unnecessary trouble, never to disturb their 
 comforts, and to try and sympathise in their sorrows and their 
 joys. In all cases, where there was any doubt as to what you 
 should do, you would be obliged to put yourself in the place of 
 others, and judge honestly as to what they might reasonably 
 demand of you ; any bias in your own favour would be a fault. 
 Your duty would also be to look upon the iriend whom God 
 has given you in the place of your parents with the greatest 
 reverence ; to love her, to obey her — implicitly, constantly, 
 without murmuring, in the smallest particular as well as the 
 most important. You would be greatly to blame if she were 
 in any way to be made unhappy or uncomfortable by your 
 neglect.' 
 
 Alice almost groaned, so heavy was her sigh ; but Mr Clifford 
 took no notice. 
 
 ' Besides domestic duties,' he continued, ' you would be re- 
 quired to pay respect to all persons in authority. You ought 
 never to speak lightly even of those who seem quite removed 
 from you. It may seem unnecessary to tell you to honour the 
 Queen, yet I am afraid you would think it no harm to repeat 
 idle, disrespectful stones about her, if they happened to be
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 457 
 
 anmsing, all.hough this would certainly be a fault ; and the 
 same may be said, even more strongly, with regard to those 
 who have spiritual power — bishops, clergymen in general. It 
 is a very serious evil when persons indulge in irreverence of the 
 kind. They will not take advice from those whom they have 
 been accustomed to ridicule ; and as your words should be 
 reverent, so should your manner bq also,' added Mr Clifford, 
 laying a particular stress upon the sentence, a stress which 
 Alice could not but interpret, from the consciousness of her 
 own sulkiness at that very time. * Even so far you would re- 
 quire very constant watchfulness to keep you right, I suspect,' 
 he continued. 
 
 Alice assented, though she could not bring herself to make a 
 remark of her own. 
 
 ' There are other duties, seemingly easier ones,' pursued Mr 
 Clifford, ' which the love of our neighbour requires ; but even 
 these are not so easy as we are apt to imagine. We may be 
 kind-hearted and amiable ; but it will be difficult never, under 
 any provocation, to hurt any one, by a cross look or a cross 
 word ; and we may have no temptation to be dishonest, but it 
 will require care never to take an unfair advantage of other 
 persons' ignorance ; never to profit at their expense ; always to 
 pay strictly what is due from us, whether it is asked for or not. 
 Temptations of this kind come upon us when we are not pre- 
 pared, and in a great many shapes. So, again, with regard to 
 malice and hatred : they are such harsh terms, that at first 
 sight we are apt to think they cannot possibly apply to us ; but 
 a really earnest Christian knows that even a wish for revenge is 
 forbidden by them.' 
 
 Mr Clifford paused, and Alice said — 
 
 ' No one is so very good ; no one can be.' 
 
 * Yet even now our Christian duties are not at an end,' con- 
 tinued Mr Clifford. ' There must be no attempt, in any way, 
 to appropriate to ourselves what is not justly our due ; no care- 
 less speaking ; no unkind amusing stories repeated ; no censure 
 upon others pronounced when not called for ; no giving person;; 
 credit for low motives ; no pleasure in hearing e\il reports ; 
 and no encouragement given to those who are clever in turning 
 others into ridicule. So also there must be exact truth in all 
 our conversation ; no exaggeration ; no pretence of knowing 
 what we are ignorant of. There must be strict watchfulness 
 and self-denial in such common things as eating'- and drinking,
 
 458 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 especially at the appointed times. We must always consider 
 the pleasure and the needs of others before our own ; and 
 never indulge in wishes for luxuries. Then again, with regard to 
 purity and simplicity of heart ; if you once determine to dedi- 
 cate yourself to God's service you must not allow an imagination 
 of evil to rest in your mind for a single instant. You must 
 never be curious to hear or read tales of scandal ; if they are 
 told you, you must turn from them, though you may be never 
 so deeply interested in them ; and when such things are brought 
 before you in books, you must never let your thoughts dwell 
 upon them ; you must never, indeed, read books that you know 
 have such tendencies.' 
 
 Alice remembered a certain practice which she had lately 
 allowed herself, of studying the newspaper when Lady Catha- 
 rine was not in the room, without any regard to the subjects 
 mentioned in it. She had done so from mere idle curiosity ; 
 Ijut ,Mr Clifford's warning was not heard without a pang of 
 self-reproach, 
 
 ' And beyond all, Alice,' he continued, * you must keep a 
 guard over yom* heart, lest it should lead you to desire riches, 
 or rank, or advantages which God has not given you. You 
 must work diligently, if not to gain your own daily bread — 
 which has been mercifully provided for you — at least to assist 
 others in gaining theirs, by teaching the ignorant and helping 
 those who are in need ; and you must submit your will so en- 
 tirely to the will of God, that whatever may be your condition 
 in life, whatever your trials, you may never feel a momentary 
 discontent, nor utter a word of repining. Now,' he added, 
 ' we have gone through one half of a Christian's duties, and that 
 half the least difficult.' 
 
 ' Then I am sure I had better not be confirmed,' exclaimed 
 Alice ; ' for I shall never perform a quarter of them,' 
 
 ' Seriously — you think so 1 ' inquired Mr Clifford, 
 
 ' Yes, I had better not, I should only make a false pro^ 
 niise.' 
 
 * Well, then, we will consider that your mind is made up upon 
 the subject ; in what condition will you be then ? ' 
 
 * Not worse than I was before,' said Alice, in a tone of per- 
 verseness, 
 
 ' Nay, that can hardly be. To refuse to be confirmed is to 
 refuse the vow of allegiance to God. It is saying that, although 
 you were made his child at baptism, you do not wish to remain
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 459 
 
 so now that you are grown up. Alice, if you are not a child of 
 God, whose child are you ? ' Mr Clifford's voice was so solemn 
 that AUce trembled. ' Indeed, indeed, Alice,' he continued, ' it 
 is a fearful mistake we make when we imagine that we can' in 
 such a case be as we were before. There is no neutral ground 
 upon which we may stand. There is no middle state offered 
 us ! the children of God are the heirs of heaven, and the 
 children of God only.' 
 
 Alice burst into tears. 
 
 ' I would speak to you in gentler terms if I dared, my dear 
 Alice,' continued Mr Clifford, taking her hand kindly : ' but I 
 am a minister of God ; your soul has been entrusted to my 
 charge ; the wavering state of your mind is one full of danger, 
 and I must warn you.' 
 
 ' But it is impossible. I can never do what is required,' 
 exclaimed Alice, and she rested her forehead upon her hand 
 and sobbed. 
 
 * Alice,' said Mr Clifford, ' I have placed the strictness of 
 religion before you, because I believed you had never properly 
 considered it. Once resolve to strive after it ; once let me see 
 that you have a hearty will, and I should speak very differently.' 
 
 * To will what I can never do,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Imagine yourself in a different position,' replied Mr Clifford. 
 ' Fancy yourself giving directions to a child. When you formed 
 your rules, you would know they could not perfectly be kept ; 
 yet that would not prevent you from making them. You would 
 not, for instance, say to a child, " I will allow you to be a little 
 passionate ; to be deceitful perhaps twice in the day. You shall 
 only be required to be obedient at certain hours." ' 
 
 Alice smiled a little. 
 
 ' You would require it to be good,' said Mr Clifford ; ' good- 
 ness meaning not the never doing wrong, but the steadfast 
 determination to try always to do right. God is our Father, 
 Alice ; we are his children. He gives us a perfect law. He 
 asks of us what we would ask of a child — when our promise is 
 made and kept. He accepts us and rewards us ; if we break it 
 and repent. He pardons us ; when we strive ever so feebly. He 
 blesses us, and helps us to strive more ; and because it is 
 absolutely impossible that by any obedience of our own we could 
 ever deserve heaven, He assures us that if we will only trust and 
 love Him, He will one day bring us there for the sake of Him 
 who has borne the punishment which was our due. Alice, can 
 you still refuse to own yourself God's child t '
 
 46o LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' I wish — I wish,' began AUce. 
 
 ' Then, my dear Ahce, turn your wish into a prayer.' 
 
 ' I ahvays do pray,' said AHce, in a tone of self-defence. 
 
 ' That is, you ahvays say your prayers morning and evening. 
 What I mean is something far beyond — prayer constantly from 
 the heart.' 
 
 ' I never know how,' said Alice, * and I should go on just the 
 same. I never could keep on being good.' 
 
 * AHce, in pity to yourself, do not say that ; it is a miserable 
 persuasion to begin life with.' 
 
 * It is true — it is quite true,' exclaimed Alice, passionately. 
 * I thought I might be better when I was confirmed, and now 
 you will not let me be.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mr Clifford ; ' I have never said you should njt 
 be confirmed. I have merely doubted whether you were fit for it 
 in your present state of mind. Once let me see that you are in 
 earnest, and it would not give me more pleasure to hear my own 
 children renew the promises of their baptism, than it would to 
 hear you. You little know how deeply I am interested for you.' 
 
 Alice folded her hands, and a look of settled despondency 
 rested on her features. 
 
 ' Prayer,' said Mr Clifford — ' that is your great hope — prayer 
 constantly.' 
 
 And again Alice said, ' I have prayed.' 
 
 * And you despair ? ' said Mr Clifford. 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then listen to me once more. There are solemn duties 
 before you ; you think them beyond you — have you never per- 
 formed them at all .'' ' 
 
 ' Never,' said Alice. ' I was never good.' 
 
 ' Think,' he continued. ' You own that you have duties ; if 
 you were thoroughly wicked you would not see them. More 
 than that, you have a wish to do right ; the wish is a special 
 gift of God. You say your prayers — let them be never so cold 
 and formal, still the habit is a good one ; it shows that you do 
 not desire to throw off religion. You admire those who are good ; 
 persons forwhom there is no hope, scoff at goodness. You are will- 
 ing to be confirmed, because you are told to be so ; that at least is 
 an obedient spirit. We will sum up these points. God, then, has 
 given you a wish to serve Him — a habit of outward religion — ii 
 heart to admire goodness — a spirit of obedience to a certain 
 extent. These arc the germs of the holiness of a saint ; they 
 want but one thine more, and thev mav lead to it.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 461 
 
 Mr Clil^brd paused, and Alice slowly raised her eyes to his, 
 and listened with breathless attention. 
 
 * They want the will to make them so,' he added. ' All that 
 we ask in prayer, believing, we shall have. Ask for the will 
 and it will be granted you. Ask it especially now, at this 
 season ; it may be the turning-point of your life. Once gone, 
 it may never return. There are two roads before you : one is 
 the broad road that Icadeth to destruction, the other is the 
 narrow way that leadeth unto life. Alice, it was the narrow 
 way which your mother chose ; she travelled it in weariness 
 and pain ; she is resting now in the home of peace in which it 
 ends.' 
 
 Alice averted her face. She would fain have continued to 
 appear indifferent, but it was impossible. 
 
 * You can follow,' continued Mr Clifford. 
 Alice shook her head. 
 
 ' You can follow,' he repeated. ' You have trusted to your- 
 self and you have failed. Trust to your Saviour, and you must 
 succeed.' 
 
 ' Never ; it is so hard,' persisted Alice ; but her tone was 
 more yielding. 
 
 ' Hard and impossible by nature ; yet our Lord says that 
 His yoke is easy and His burden light. His words must be 
 true.' 
 
 * Yes, for others.' 
 
 ' For you and every one. Pray for the will to sen'e Him 
 and He will give it you ; and with the will He will also grant 
 the power. He will grant it especially at your confirmation ; 
 only be in earnest, and it is impossible that you should be 
 disappointed.' 
 
 Alice looked up in doubt. ' But I must wait for confirma- 
 tion.'' ' she said. 
 
 ' You shall think upon the subject by yourself, and tell me 
 your own wishes another day,' replied Mr Clifford. ' I would 
 rather give no decision at present.' 
 
 He rose to return home. Alice put her arm within his, and, 
 as if by mutual consent, they walked on in silence.
 
 462 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 JUSTINE LE VERGNIER'S character, since the time of 
 her dismissal from the society of Mrs Carter's school, had 
 been rapidly forming, and at the age of seventeen she possessed 
 the decision and determination of many a woman of five-and- 
 twenty. She had been thrown upon her own resources, and forced 
 in many instances to act independently ; and, however indif- 
 ferent she might profess herself to be, as to the turn which 
 events might take, she had in fact fully made up her mind with 
 regard to her own course, and was determined to pursue it at 
 all hazards. 
 
 Justine had no intention of remaining a governess all her life. 
 She had formed schemes for a much more brilliant, and, as it 
 appeared to her, a happier lot. Justine had friends, or, more pro- 
 perly speaking, intimate acquaintances, thoughtless and unprin- 
 cipled, whose society she had encouraged against the advice of 
 her father and Mrs Carter. They had led her into dissimulation, 
 and great neglect of duty whilst she was in her former situation, 
 and this being discovered, caused her dismissal. Still Justine 
 would not give them up. She believed that her intercourse with 
 them would at last end in her being married and settled inde- 
 pendently ; and notwithstanding the grave warnings of Mrs 
 Carter, and the urgent entreaties of her father, she still con- 
 tinued a correspondence, and took every opportunity of seeing 
 them. These friends were now in France ; they would pro- 
 bably remain there a long time. It was possible even that they 
 might not return. When Justine learned this, her resolution to 
 follow them was at once taken. This was the cli'e to all she 
 was now doing — her reason for thrusting herself upon the notice 
 of Florence Trevelyan, insinuating herself into her friendship, 
 and making such efforts to obtain the situation of governess in 
 Mrs De Lacy's family. It was for her own convenience. Mrs 
 De Lacy was a weak-minded, good-natured person. Florence 
 was very like her. They were going to France, and the oppor- 
 tunity of accompanying them was advantageous to Justine's plans. 
 Her expenses would be paid, she would have but little to do, 
 and by exercising the influence over Florence which she already 
 possessed, she might, it seemed, without difficulty, engage her 
 in assisting her further views. All this was scheming, low- 
 minded, and utterly without a thought of duty. Justine was
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE, 463 
 
 young to have been led so far astray ; but the progress of evil 
 is fearfully swift when it is begun early ; and Justine had pur- 
 sued a course of self-education, which is sure to be destructive 
 of all right moral principle. She had read, heard, and thought 
 of evil, till she had almost ceased to know that it was evil. 
 The day-dreams in which Alice was once described as in- 
 dulging were the constant occupation of Justine's thoughts. 
 She lived in a gay but sinful world of her own creating. In 
 the midst of apparent occupation, she was still busy with her 
 own fancies ; and in hours of leisure she fed her imagination 
 with books of the most pernicious kind. Justine's reading was 
 indiscriminate. It mattered not what was the nature of the 
 novels — however offensive to right feeling and good taste might 
 be the scenes described — if they were only exciting, told in 
 powerful language, and rousing deep interest, Justine was satis- 
 fied. She read them eagerly, thought of them, dreamt of them, 
 and often supposed herself acting a principal part in the wicked- 
 ness (for it was wickedness, however it might be disguised) 
 v/hich had been delineated in the characters of others. Is 
 Justine's case singular ? 
 
 It was fortunate for Florence Trevclyan that these schemes 
 were too important to be entrusted to her. Justine, indeed, 
 made use of her, but she took care not to let her see that she 
 did so. Such companionship, however, did Florence a great 
 deal of harm. It taught her to speak lightly of things which 
 M'ere in themselves most sinful. It accustomed her to look 
 upon evil as a matter of course ; to suppose that all persons 
 were alike, though some might appear better than othets. 
 Florence was not insensible to the influence of good, but Jus- 
 tine was teaching her to distrust its existence. She was so 
 clever in detecting faults, and had such an amusing way of 
 turning virtues into ridicule, that Florence could not but listen 
 to and believe her. 
 
 * So you have had no answer from Mrs Clifford,' said Justine, 
 as she and Florence walked up and down the veranda together, 
 a few days after the invitation to the picnic had been sent. 
 
 ' There was no occasion for one,' replied Florence ; ' the en- 
 gagement was made before, and my aunt merely wrote to fix 
 the day. It is to be her party, in fact, though it is called a 
 picnic' 
 
 * And there will be — how many .? ' asked Justine, 
 Florence ran over a long list of names, ending with, ' It will
 
 464 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 
 
 be charming if we have only fine weather, and if Ruth will not 
 be crotchety.' 
 
 ' What is that you call it ?' said Justine ; ' it is a good word, 
 just the word for Ruth, Crotchet — crooked that means, doesn't 
 it ; troublesome ? that is exactly like her. But I am not much 
 afraid of her.' 
 
 ' I never can understand you when you are speaking of 
 Ruth,' said Florence. ' You used to say how good she was.' 
 
 ' Good ! oh yes ! every one is good.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Justine, you don't mean that.' 
 ' Yes, every one is good when it suits.' 
 Florence looked shocked. 
 
 * Now, not such a face as that, mignonne,' said Justine, play- 
 fully. ' You know I don't mean to talk scandal. Ruth is a 
 paragon, but it is not for nothing ; do you see ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't see at all,' said Florence shortly. * I always 
 admired Ruth.' 
 
 ' Ah ! to be sure. Admire her if you will ; dress her up, call 
 her a queen, put on her a crown ; but then, mark me ' — Justine 
 held up her finger with an arch smile — ' Ruth likes the crown.' 
 
 * Well ! so we all should,' observed Florence. 
 
 * Of course, so we all should ; I said it. You and I talk, 
 sing, and play to Mrs De Lacy ; we" are patterns ; very sweet, 
 very good-natured — she calls us angels. Then she takes us to 
 France : we are content. Ruth says prayers, and reads ser- 
 mons ; she teaches dirty children, and cuts out baby frocks, 
 and all the time she looks so ' — and Justine folded her hands, 
 and put on an absurd, demure face, at which Florence burst 
 into a fit of laughter ; ' then people say. Ah ! she is a saint ! 
 Miss Ruth, she is so good. Ruth knows she is praised ; that 
 is for her like going to France ; she is content.' Florence still 
 laughed. 
 
 ' It is true ; now say so,' continued Justine. 
 
 * True ! yes, perhaps. I wish you would not look so absurd,* 
 exclaimed Florence. ' But we have forgotten one thing all this 
 time; if you are to go to the picnic with us we shall meet Mrs 
 Clifford and Madeline as well as Ruth, and then what is to 
 become of us ?' 
 
 ' Nay, we are safe from Mrs Clifford and Lady Catharine too, 
 Mrs Carter was kind enough in one way ; she never told more 
 tales than she could help; so they will not think about me il 
 Ruth is silent.'
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 465 
 
 * But if \vc were sure of that,' said Florence, — ' there is 
 Madeline.' 
 
 *Ah! but I always took it for granted tliat "la petite" had 
 ro will of her own. If we gained Ruth I thought there was no 
 danger.' 
 
 * That was if Ruth was quite firm in our cause ; but she is 
 not. She says in her letter that she docs not mean to keep her 
 promise, and that I had much better break off all acquaintance 
 with you; — as if I should do such a thing!' 
 
 'As if you would do such a thing indeed !' repeated Justine, 
 caressingly. 
 
 ' But,' continued Florence, 'we must think about this. I don't 
 feel at all sure that you will not be obliged to stay at home. I 
 should not have cared about Lady Catharine and Mrs Cliflbrd 
 any more than you, if Ruth and Madeline had been friends 
 with us; but I doubt very much now whether it will do to run 
 the risk.' 
 
 ' Mais pourquoi.-" inquired Justine. ' If we come over Ruth 
 that will be all. Madeline is a nobody.' 
 
 ' Hem ! ' said Florence. ' Madeline has queer ways of her 
 own.' 
 
 * But she is so simple, so good-natured.' 
 
 Florence still looked doubtful. ' Just remember one thing, 
 Justine,' she said ; ' at school do you recollect that little 
 business about the brooch.'" 
 
 'Ah, oui, assurement ; but what then? She was a baby; 
 she did not know any better.' 
 
 ' I would not answer for her,' said Florence. ' Madeline 
 won't be come over.' 
 
 ' Trust me,' said Justine, ' I would turn her. You laugh ; 
 but I would — I would turn her round my little finger.' 
 
 * How.f" inquired Florence. 
 
 * I would talk of good-nature; of being kind. I would beg 
 her, as she loved me, not to mention Mrs Carter. There are a 
 hundred ways.' 
 
 ' You may try; but I doubt.' 
 
 ' Then you think her better than Ruth?' said Justine. 
 
 * No, I don't; at least I never think about her. I only know 
 what Alice said.' 
 
 ' Alice ! what was that? 
 
 ' When I first mentioned you to Alice, I asked her whether 
 she thought Ruth and Madeline would keep the secret.' 
 
 2 G
 
 466 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'Well?' exclaimed Justine, impatiently. 
 
 ' Alice thought Ruth would,' continued Florence. 'She said 
 that Ruth always listened to reason ; but she had a doubt about 
 Madeline, because Madeline never cared for reason.' 
 
 'Ah! quelle folic!' exclaimed Justine. 'I hoped she had 
 been wiser.' 
 
 ' No, she is not. Alice says she is even worse than Vi'hcn 
 she left school. If you remember, she had a way then of 
 turning away when one talked to her. I don't know what it is in 
 her, but she never seems to care for what other people care for.' 
 
 ' Not for being a queen, like that sober Ruth?' said Justine, 
 laughing. 
 
 * No, one never could make her care; it was all the same 
 who went before her. If Ruth and she were put down in the 
 classes, Ruth used to stalk down to the bottom with such an 
 air ! I have often laughed to see her; but Madeline took it all 
 quite quietly.' 
 
 ' That has nothing to do with the picnic,' observed Justine. 
 
 ' Yes, it has, somehow — I forget what I meant exactly — but 
 it had something to do with it. Oh ! I remember. Don't you 
 see that there is no coming over Madeline, because she is so 
 stupid?' 
 
 * Then she will do as Ruth tells her ; she will not think 
 for herself.' 
 
 ' I doubt ; Maddy is obstinate. The day we first met her at 
 the church, she would insist upon having her own way about 
 not coming here — and she had it too. She did not come into 
 the house.' 
 
 ' Happily for me,' said Justine. 
 
 ' Yes, happily for you ; but if she sees you now at the picnic, 
 it will not be happily for you or for me cither.' 
 
 Justine shrugged her shoulders. ' Bien ! we will hope — I 
 don't fear.' 
 
 ' But if you were to stay away,' suggested Florence, timidly. 
 ' After the picnic there will be no danger. My aunt said 
 yesterday, she meant to set off in a very few days.' 
 
 Justine's lively face assumed rather a melancholy expression 
 at the proposal. Whether she would have agreed to it or not 
 is uncertain ; for just then the question was set at rest by the 
 appearance of Mrs Dc Lacy, with the intelligence that Mrs 
 Clifford and Ruth intended to join the party to St Cuthbert's ; 
 bu( that, for some unexplained reason, Madeline would remaio
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 467 
 
 at home. Justine chipped her hands in glee when she and 
 Florence were again left together, and began dancing round the 
 room, singing a French song, and stopping at intervals to de- 
 clare that she was born under a fortunate star — she was always 
 sure of getting out of difficulties — she was certain all would go 
 just as they wished. Care ! there was no such thing as care. 
 Florence had seldom seen her in such high spirits. The mirth 
 was infectious ; it caught Mrs De Lacy's ears, and she returned 
 to the drawing-room. Justine exerted herself more and more 
 to be agreeable, and Mrs De Lacy, fascinated by her agreeable 
 manners and quick talent, came to the conclusion, before the 
 day was over, that she would no longer hesitate to engage Jus- 
 tine le Vergnier, to be a companion for herself and a governess 
 for her child. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 ALICE returned to the Manor, after her evening walk with 
 Mr Clifford, in a different frame of mind from that in 
 which she had left it. She was subdued, saddened ; pride and 
 lesentment were no longer striving in the same degree for the 
 mastery over her better feelings. Alice was, as Mr Clifford had 
 described her when speaking to Lady Catharine, candid ; and 
 this candour was the groundwork of much good. Whilst Mr 
 Clifford was talking, she was indeed cold, and now and then 
 even repulsive in her manner ; but his words sank into her 
 heart, and she owned their truth. Still Alice did not condemn 
 herself without casting some reproach upon otliers. She thought 
 of her school-days, and remembr'ed her evil companions — her 
 errors might in some degree be ate;. iiuted to them ; and now — 
 Alice was fully occupied in dwelling upon this ' now,' as she 
 walked home from the Parsonage, followed by the butler, who 
 had been sent to take care of her. Now, there were many 
 things to try her ; many circumstances to render her duties 
 disagreeable and discouraging. The duties in themselves 
 might be easy to others, but they could never, she imagined, be 
 so to her. 
 
 These thoughts were crowding upon her mind as she passed 
 the lodge gale, and entered the avenue. The house, at its ex- 
 tremity, looked cheerless in the bright moonlight, for the win-
 
 463 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 dows appeared like so many closed eyes, and there were nO 
 lights to be seen, except from a small pantry window, crossed 
 with iron bars. Alices heart sank as she drew near. The 
 Parsonage, notwithstanding its low rooms and worn furniture, 
 possessed infinitely greater charms in her eyes than the hand- 
 some Manor House, whilst the pride she had once felt in her posi- 
 tion, as Lady Catharine's adopted child, and the expectation of 
 an ample, if not a large fortune, was fast melting away under the 
 influence of daily vexations. Alice was not altogether to blame 
 in these feelings. God does not see fit to give us all the same 
 blessings in our youth. Many He places in homes where they 
 find little sympathy and great trials. It is not true that child- 
 hood and youth are always the happiest seasons of life. Alice 
 Lennox had much to bear. Her warm affections were frequently 
 chilled ; her freedom was checked ; the natural impulses of her 
 age and disposition A\ere thwarted. She was like a bird con- 
 fined in a cage, and fluttering vainly against the wires, in the 
 longing desire to escape. 
 
 The desire was not in itself wrong ; and this was Alice's 
 temptation and her difficulty. She walked on slowly, unwilling 
 to reach the grave old Manor House, associated as it was with 
 ideas of constraint, ccldness, and formality, and feeling herself 
 depressed even to tears. Now and then she stopped to watch 
 the effects of the pale, gleaming light upon the trunks, and 
 beneath the branches of the beech-trees in the avenue ; or bent 
 down to look at a glow-worm shining from amongst the moss 
 and turf. She was free then — free till she had passed the 
 heavy barred door, which at that moment seemed the entrance 
 to a prison. Why — the thought crossed her mind with a sharp 
 pang — why could she not remain so t The answer, or at least 
 the thought which could have satisfied her, might have been 
 suggested at that moment, if Alice had had the heart and the 
 understanding to discover it. As she pursued her way, the 
 moon passed from behind a cloud, and shed a flood of light 
 upon her path. Alice's eye was attracted by it, she looked up 
 to the sky, studded with myriads of stars ; a few dark shadows 
 were passing across it, edged with silver by the moonbeams, 
 but they were no barrier. She could pass beyond them, 
 and rest her glance upon worlds more distant than imagina- 
 tion could realise. Infinity was above her, boundless space 
 around her; but she was not free to travel through it. She was 
 placed upon a speck in the universe, born into one small world.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 469 
 
 kept a prisoner in a corner of tliat world ; she was constantly 
 reminded that it was not in her power to do all she wished, by 
 the feeling of fatigue, by weather, by events over which she had 
 no control, by the very formation of her body; yet it had never 
 entered Alice's mind to murmur because she was a human 
 being. As she was formed, so she was contented to remain. 
 God's will was her will in these things — at least she had never 
 thought of rebelling against it. She never strove to be free ; to 
 fly through the air, or walk upon the water; and therefore she 
 was not fretted by the impossibility. When we have learned 
 this same lesson in our several positions in life ; when God's 
 will has become our will, so that we have no wish beyond our 
 station; no desire to escape from the trials He sends; no 
 longings but for the daily bread and the daily comforts which 
 He in His wisdom apportions us; then we are free. 
 
 Alice had a hard lesson to learn, but it is well to ' bear the 
 yoke in our j'outh ;' for so we are prepared for the restraints to 
 which (if we hope for happiness) we must be accustomed in 
 age. 
 
 But the door was reached. Alice stood upon the steps, and 
 cast one lingering melancholy glance upon the beauty of the 
 moonlight evening before she entered the hall, which was 
 gloomy from its size, and the dark colour of the wainscot, not- 
 withstanding the light from the large glass lamp that hung 
 suspended from the ceiling. Lady Catharine, she was told, 
 was in the breakfast-room ; her usual sitting-room when alone. 
 A disagreeable recollection of the manner in which they last 
 parted, came upon Alice rather suddenly. She had been dream- 
 ing for the last quarter of an hour; now she was to prepare 
 herself for reality. Lady Catharine was sitting with her back 
 to the door reading, when Alice came in. She thought it was 
 only the servant bringing an answer to some message, and she 
 did not look up. Alice advanced to the table, took off her 
 gloves, and untied her bonnet, before Lady Catharine raised 
 her eyes. 
 
 Then she said, ' Oh ! my dear, are \ou returned.'' is it a fine 
 evening } ' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, vcr)'.' 
 
 ' You must have had a pleasant walk.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, very.' 
 
 ' Did Mr Clifford come with you ? ' 
 
 ' Noj ma'arn,'
 
 470 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 A pause. Alice unpinned her shawl. 
 
 ' Shall I take my things off before prayers ? ' she asked. 
 
 * Yes, you had better.' 
 
 Alice lighted a candle and departed. When she came down 
 the bell was rung; tlie scr\'ants assembled in the ante-room to 
 the drawing-room, Lady Catharine sat down to a small tab'c, 
 and read a chapter from a large family Bible. Alice sat by 
 her, with her eyes bent upon her own Bible, and her thoughts 
 wandering in innumerable directions. Then followed prayers, 
 then a kiss, and then separation for the night. 
 
 Alice was very unhappy when she went to bed, from several 
 causes ; Mr Clifford's conversation, Lady Catharine's coldness, 
 and a misgiving that her troubles were not entirely independent 
 of herself. But Lady Catharine was equally so ; she had ex- 
 pected some advance from Alice, some allusion to the morning 
 vexations, which should give an opening to the words, ' I 
 forgive ; ' but Alice appeared insensible and forgetful. Lady 
 Catharine owned the truth of a great deal which Mr Clifford 
 had suggested, but it could never, she thought, be desirable to 
 show cordiality unless there were some symptoms of repentance. 
 She could not resolve upon what line of conduct to adopt. Mr 
 Clifford's ideas were contrary to all her early prejudices, and 
 though she bore with the mention of them, as she knew they 
 appeared to him to be right, she could not in a moment throw 
 off her own plans and pursue his. And with Lady Catharine, 
 as with Alice, there was a difficulty in the way of perceiving 
 her errors, from the fact that Alice was really in fault — that 
 she really was negligent and self-willed. But neither was 
 Lady Catharine aware of the effect of her own manner. She 
 did not mean to be chilling or formal ; but the manner had 
 been allowed to grow up in youth unchecked, and now it was 
 a part of her very nature. As a girl, she had been accustomed 
 to say, ' I know I am proud ; I cannot help being reserved ; I 
 daresay people think me very cold ; ' all the time with a certain 
 satisfaction in being proud, and cold, and reserved, from an 
 idea that she was therefore unlike ordinary persons. No one 
 had said to her that proud, cold manners were greatly to be 
 lamented and struggled against ; that they were great defects, 
 and symptoms of an evil nature : no one had warned her that re- 
 serve, when indulged, is apt to degenerate into want of considera- 
 tion for the feelings of our friends ; and that, when we shut our- 
 %(A.ves up, and fancy that others cannot understand us, we too
 
 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 471 
 
 often do not take the trouble to understand them. Coldness and 
 reserve are not the characteristics of a Christian. Without ic- 
 fercnce to the One Perfect Example of infinite charity, we can 
 scarcely imagine St Paul repelling, when the disciples threw 
 themselves upon his neck and wept, ' sorrowing most of all that 
 they should see his face no more.' And when St John gave 
 his last touching exhortation, ' Little children, love one another,' 
 surely the tone and manner must have been winning even as tic 
 words, for they were the tone and manner of him ' whom Jesus 
 loved.' 
 
 But Lady Catharine's austerity was now almost beyond cor- 
 rection. It might be softened, but there was little hope of its 
 ever being eradicated. The best that could be expected was, 
 that her excellent qualities, her sincerity, earnestness, and genuine 
 benevolence, might exercise so great an influence as to induce 
 those with whom she associated to overlook the occasional harsh- 
 ness of her manner. Alice was too young, too selfish, too im- 
 patient, to do this ; and, above all, she was not yet sufficiently 
 humble. 
 
 No, Alice was not really humble, even on that evening when 
 she had been listening to Mr Clifford's advice, and had been 
 warned that she was not fit for confirmation. A repining spirit 
 cannot be a humble one. When we have learned to know our- 
 selves, we shall never murmur. Sinners by nature — helpless, 
 hopeless ; offending daily and hourly, after grace given for the 
 present, and boundless happiness offered for the future, what 
 claim have we to any blessings ? If Alice's lot in life had been 
 ten times more trying, she would still have had cause for the 
 gratitude of every moment of her existence. But she could not 
 see this. She fancied her conduct excused by circumstances, 
 and when she reflected on all which Mr Chfford had said, her 
 meditations took the form of an examination of Lady Catharine's 
 conduct, and her resolution was to be better if Lady Catharine 
 would be kinder. God does not accept such resolutions. We 
 must be good under any circumstai-.ces — tempted or not tempted, 
 happy or not happy. 
 
 They met at breakfast the next morning, still with constraint 
 on both sides. Alice fearing and wondering whether Mr 
 Clifford had positively proposed to Lady Catharine to delay her 
 confirmation. Lady Catharine pondering how to break through 
 the ice of Alice's reserve. Lady Catharine began a conversation 
 several times, and extracted in reply that Alice had spent a
 
 472 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 quiet day at the Parsonage, seen no one, and only walked on 
 the shore. No parish news ; no remarks about the school ; no 
 mention of any chance visitor. Alice was as short and correct 
 in her answers as if she had been placed in a witness box. 
 Lady Catharine tried another subject — Mrs De Lacy's visit. 
 Alice showed little interest in it, except by once asking for 
 Florence. Lady Catharine believed she was quite well. A 
 young lady was staying with her ; that was the reason she 
 had not accompanied her aunt. Then Alice's eyes brightened, 
 as if the subject was not quite indifferent to her ; but Lady 
 Catharine was not quick in remarking slight variations of 
 countenance. 
 
 * I think Mrs De Lacy said she was French,' continued Lady 
 Catharine. ' I am not fond myself of intimacies with foreigners. 
 They arc all alike, educated frivolously.' 
 
 Alice could not bear this sweeping censure, and observed that 
 she supposed some might be better. 
 
 * That is because you don't know them, my dear. I should 
 be sorry for you to be thrown in the way of them.' 
 
 Alice did not venture to allude to Justine le Vergnier. 
 
 ' By the by,' added Lady Catharine, ' it is rather strange — • 
 
 I wonder ' She finished her sentence in her own mind, 
 
 and immediately began to finish her breakfast also ; deliberately 
 — she was never hurried out of her sense of propriety in all 
 ihings — yet with that air of determination which shows that 
 persons are not intending to spend more time upon what they 
 arc doing than can be avoided. On rising from the table, 
 Alice was told to ring the bell, that the breakfast things might 
 be removed ; to send word to the gardener that Lady Catharine 
 desired to speak with him in a quarter of an hour precisely ; to 
 go herself and arrange some fresh flowers in the drawing-room 
 vases — a duty which Alice always performed directly after 
 breakfast — then to walk on the terrace for three quarters of an 
 hour, and on her re-entrance to read history for an hour, and 
 write any letters which might be necessary. Also to beg Mar- 
 sham to give her some articles of dress which were not in good 
 repair, and which she had better mend before she finished her 
 crochet bag ; also — but Lady Catharine could not remember 
 any more ' alsos,' though she stood thinking for several seconds. 
 Alice did not stand at all. Tlic moment Lady Catharine was 
 gone she rushed away — ran up the stairs, two steps at a time 
 — hurried along the gallery, an4 having reached h?r own room,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 473 
 
 slammed the door, bolted it, and walked up and down in a 
 state of fretful irritation. It was unfortunate that Alice had no 
 one to remind her — that she had not the sense to remind her- 
 self — of the fact that the duties imposed upon her were \cry 
 simple and easily performed ; that if she had been left to her- 
 self, she could scarcely have portioned out her morning better, 
 the sole fault to be found with the arrangement being that it 
 had been made for her instead of by her. Alice had only to 
 subdue her own will, and all discomfort would have been at an 
 end. The duties, however, must, she knew, be performed ; and 
 CO they were. A short time afterwards, as she returned to her 
 room laden with flowers for the drawing-room vases, she found 
 Lady Catharine there. Alice's mind was still in a storm. 
 Lady Catharine was only quietly grave ; as least such was her 
 tone of voice when she said — 
 
 ' Were you aware, Alice, that Miss Trevelyan had a friend 
 staying with her?' 
 
 Alice replied that she had heard so. 
 
 * You cannot have seen her,' said Lady Catharine; 'but have 
 you any idea where she comes from ?' 
 
 ' I am not sure where she lives,' said Alice, whilst, sorely 
 against her wishes, the colour rose in her cheeks. 
 
 ' Mrs De Lacy did not give her name,' said Lady Catharine, 
 ' and you say you have not heard it .'" 
 
 A sudden jerk of Alice's elbow threw down the jug of water 
 which stood upon the table, and in the confusion which this 
 occasioned she escaped answering the question. 
 
 * I daresay you will wonder why I ask,' continued Lady 
 Catharine, with something more of ease; ' but I have received 
 a particular caution from Mrs Carter against your renewing an 
 acquaintance with that Mademoiselle Le Vergnier, whom you 
 knew at school. She has a very bad opinion of her. It was 
 not worth while to mention this before; but hearing of Miss 
 Trevelyan's friend made me think it possible that she might be 
 the same person. Miss Trevelyan would of course have told 
 you if she had been ?' 
 
 Alice was silent ; but the pang of conscience v.hich she en- 
 dured was almost intolerable. 
 
 ' I wonder I did not think of asking Mrs De Lacy more about 
 her,' said Lady Catharine, speaking to herself; 'but' (and she 
 sighed) ' I was occupied with other things. Well, my dear, there 
 is no occasion to keep you any longer doing nothing"'. — for Alice
 
 ♦74 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 had not yet begun to dress the flowers — ' I merely wished to say 
 to you that if JNIiss Trevelyan should ever oflcr to introduce you 
 again to that Mademoiselle Le Vergnier, you must remember 
 that !x)th Mrs Carter and I entirely disapprove of the acquaint- 
 ance. You would, however, of course, tell me directly. And, 
 Alice, I am not particularly desirous of your becoming a great 
 friend of Miss Trevelyan's. IMrs Carter's account does not en- 
 tirely please me. By and by we will have some of your real 
 friends here.' After the confirmation — Lady Catharine was 
 going to add, but she was checked by a painful remembrance, 
 and turning from the subject abruptly, she said, ' You walked 
 on the shore last night, my dear ; was Mr CliiTord with you r' 
 
 * Yes, ma'am, part of the time.' 
 
 * Did he appear in good spirits ?' 
 
 Alice looked surprised, and answered, ' Yes, ma'am, much 
 the same as usual.' 
 
 Lady Catharine seemed inclined to do what for her was very 
 unnatural — to linger in the room without any apparent motive. 
 Alice began arranging the flowers. 
 
 ' Did Mr Clifford walk v.'ith you .^' said Lady Catharine, in 
 the same sudden manner, and forgetting that she had put a 
 similar question only a few moments before. 
 
 * Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 ' But with you — with you alone.'" 
 
 «We sat some time on the shore together,* said Alice, colouring. 
 
 ' That was what I meant. Had he any opportunity of speak- 
 ing to you by yourself.'" 
 
 ' We talked,' replied Alice, the slight tinge which had flushed 
 her face becoming a deep crimson. 
 
 ' I see,' continued Lady Catharine, looking steadily at her, 
 ' Mr Clifford has said to you what he said to me. Alice, can 
 you imagine how grieved I am "t ' 
 
 Alice's heart swelled for an instant with pride, but the tone 
 and the word ' grieved/ softened her. 
 
 ' Mr Clifford did not tell me exactly — he did not say I must 
 not go,' she replied, speaking in a low voice, and in her ner- 
 vousness undoing all her work, and scattering the flowers upon 
 the table. 
 
 For once Lady Catharine omitted to notice her awkwardness. 
 ' But he must have told you,' she said, ' that he had doubts 
 upon the subject ; and in such cases a doubt is almost equal to 
 a certainty.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 475 
 
 Alice did not sec this. She replied coldly, that if Lady 
 Catharine and Mr Clifford both thought it better not, she sup- 
 posed it would be so. 
 
 This answer apparently perplexed Lady Catliarine. 
 
 'And is your confirmation tiicn a matter of indifference to 
 you, Alice?' she asked. 
 
 ' I wish to go,' replied Alice, speaking in the same manner. 
 
 Lady Catharine seized upon the word ' wish,' and said 
 eagerly, ' If you wished, all would be right. Did you tell IMr 
 CHffordthis?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 Silence followed. Lady Catharine stood before the picture 
 of Mrs Lennox, and as slie looked upon it, tears gathered in 
 her cold, gray eyes, but they went no further. Before Alice, in 
 her present mood, she would have felt it humiliation to betray 
 any weakness. Alice glanced at her from time to time. The 
 work in whidi she was engaged made no progress ; the flowers 
 were altered again and again, and the stems cut and re-cut, 
 whilst her thoughts were wandering to her mother and Lady 
 Catharine's affection for her, and conscience was bitterly up- 
 braiding her for her deception about Justine. One word of 
 gentleness, and the barrier of her pride might have been broken 
 down ; but it did not come. They had met coldly — they 
 parted coldly. Lady Catharine went to her room without utter- 
 ing another word, and Alice set about her morning's work, 
 with no interest in it beyond that of merely passing away a few 
 heavy hours, and preventing herself from thinking that she had 
 practically told an untruth. Time did pass away, and Alice, 
 if she had thought at all, might have been grateful to Lady 
 Catharine for giving her so much to do. The luncheon bell 
 rang, and she was surprised that the morning had gone so 
 quickly. It would have been more agreeable to her to escape 
 luncheon altogether ; but this was not practicable, and it 
 proved less unpleasant than she had anticipated. Lady Catha- 
 rine also had been occupied, and in her occupation found less 
 leisure to think about Alice. She brought forward a topic for 
 conversation which was tolerably free from unpleasant associa- 
 tions ; but Alice could not be cheerful. She could overlook 
 her ordinary faults ; but the miserable deception of which she 
 had been guilty was a weight not to be shaken off She was 
 thoroughly ashamed of it — more ashamed perhaps th.an peni- 
 tent, and could only relieve her mind by thinkii-g that she
 
 476 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 should, in the course of the afternoon, have an opportunity of 
 telling Ruth, as there was a quarterly examination at the school, 
 to which she was going with Lady Catharine, and where Ruth 
 would certainly be present. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIIL 
 
 MUCH to the disappointment of Alice, Madeline was at 
 the school instead of her sister A headache kept 
 Ruth at home, and Madeline was obliged to take her place. 
 The afternoon was very warm, and the heat soon became op- 
 pressive. After a short time Lady Catharine declared herself 
 unable to bear it any longer ; and, leaving Alice with Mr Clif- 
 ford, she went home. The departure was satisfactory to Alice, 
 who took a part in the examination of one of the classes, and 
 received Mr Clifford's thanks and approval. At any other time 
 this circumstance would have raised her spirits ; for such 
 praises w'ere rarely given ; but, when they were, they were 
 given heartily. Praise and sympathy went together, and the 
 latter made the former ten times more valuable. Mr Clifford's 
 manner of thanking Ahce had also a peculiar meaning in it. Alice 
 understood that he was thinking of what had passed between 
 them the day before, and was pleased to find that in one duty, 
 and that an important one, she had not been remiss. 
 
 When the school was dismissed, Madeline congratulated 
 Alice, and begged her, if possible, to come back with her to 
 the Parsonage. Ruth would be delighted, she said, to know 
 that she had been praised by her papa — he was so very par- 
 ticular ; and her mamma also would be very glad ; it was only 
 a few days before that she had been saying how regular Alice 
 was in going to the school, and that she was a good example 
 to them. 
 
 Alice scarcely smiled, though she agreed to return to the 
 Parsonage, hoping that she might be able to have a lutle con- 
 versation with Ruth before the dinner hour at the Manor. 
 
 The distance from the school to the Parsonage was but short; 
 but it was lengthened now by Madeline's proposing that they 
 should cross some fields to take a message to a cottager for 
 her papa.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 477 
 
 Alice made no objection, though she was looking forward to 
 seeing Ruth, as the only hope of relieving her burdened mind. 
 Madeline was by this time pretty well accustomed to 
 Ahce's temper, but her silence on the present occasion certainly 
 puzzled her. Slie who valued her papa's praises so much, 
 imagined of course that Alice must be happy when she had 
 received them. Madeline had felt rather lonely the last few 
 days ; Ruth was grown strangely reserved ; her papa had been 
 more thoughtful than usual, and now Alice was what she called in 
 a * mood.' There was one person, however, wliom nothing 
 seemed to alter ; and when Madeline caught sight of her 
 mamma standing at the cottage door as they came up, she ran 
 up to her with delight. 
 
 Madeline went into the cottage, and Mrs Clifford and Alice 
 remained together. The coldest person must have been struck 
 by Mrs Clifford's manner; so affectionate and sympathising, and 
 full of consideration. Even when she merely asked whether Alice 
 was going to the Parsonage, she contrived to give an interest to 
 her words. The simple question was not put as a matter of 
 course, it evidently implied that she wished her to go. The 
 charm of Mrs Clifford's character consisted not only in the 
 absence of all selfishness, but in the power of throwing herself, 
 as it were, into the minds of those with whom she held inter- 
 course ; seeing with their eyes, hearing with their ears, and, in 
 consequence, giving real sympathy in cases where it would seem 
 she could not naturally be at all concerned. 
 
 Mrs Clifford had taught herself tliis habit of mind. She was 
 indeed born with an affectionate, gentle temper, but she had 
 improved it by watchfulness. One command given in the Bible 
 made a great impression upon her when she was quite young. 
 It was St Paul's exhortation to the Romans to 'rejoice with 
 them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.' She 
 heard sympathy generally spoken of as a gift, or disposition of 
 the heart, like warmth of feeling ; but she perceived that this 
 w^as not St Paul's view of it. If it could not be attained by 
 practice, it would not be commanded. Mrs Clifford did prac- 
 tise. She began at once, in the minute affairs of every day ; 
 whether it were choosing a dress, or reading a book, or laying 
 out a flower-bed ; whatever came before her, as occupying the 
 attention of those she lived with, was (though not without an 
 effort at first) forced to engage her attention also. Now, this 
 disposition of mind was brought to bear upon really important
 
 478 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 subjects, and perhaps not even Mr Clil'lbrd, with his zeal, firm- 
 ness, and power of mind, possessed as much influence over his 
 parishioners as did his gentle wife, when she sat by their lowly 
 firesides, listening to their tales of suffering, leading them to tell 
 their secret trials, and at last leaving them with perhaps a very 
 few words of advice, and scarcely any of reproof, but with the 
 assurance so touching to us all : ' Yes, I can quite understand; 
 it must be very sad — very hard to bear ; we will think about it, 
 and see if something cannot be done/ 
 
 Mrs Clifford could and would have been a constant support 
 to Alice in her home trials : but under Alice's peculiar circum- 
 stances there was a great difficulty. If Alice Avas to be happy, 
 Lady Catharine must be her chief object of respect and affec- 
 tion. Mrs Clifford might win her affections, but this would 
 only make her uncomfortable by withdrawing her interest from 
 the person in whom it ought to be centred. 
 
 It was probable, also, that Lady Catharine might be of a 
 jealous disposition, especially where she had so few to love; and 
 if this feeling were once roused, Alice would inevitably be 
 wretched. All these considerations made Mrs Clifford very 
 guarded in their intercourse; and yet it was impossible to 
 watch Alice, and know her faults and her trials, without great pity, 
 and an earnest desire to be of service to her. Many of Ruth's 
 suggestions were the result of previous conversation with her 
 mamma; and often, when Mrs Clifford was busy or wearied, she 
 would exert herself to talk to her own children about Alice, 
 hoping through them to do good, without awakening any irrit- 
 able feeling on the part of Lady Catharine. 
 
 Just now Mrs Clifford was peculiarly compassionate towards 
 Alice. She knew what had been said regarding her confirma- 
 tion, and she understood better than her husband all that Alice 
 would have to bear, both from her own regret and Lady Catha- 
 rine's displeasure, if the delay was to be insisted on. It struck 
 her imm.ediately that Alice looked pale, and she inquired as ten- 
 derly as if speaking to one of her own children, whether she was 
 tired; adding, 'I am afraid Mr Clifford has kept you too long 
 at the school, my dear; and Madeline was foolish in bringing 
 you so far round.' 
 
 Poor Alice's heavy heart received an additional weiglit from 
 these few kind words. She would not own that she was tired, 
 but said she should like to go to the Parsonage and talk a little 
 to Ruth.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 479 
 
 * Do, my dear; Ruth will be cldiiihted. You -will find her in 
 my dressing-room, lying on the sofa ; her head is better now.' 
 
 Alice looked with souie impatience at the cottage-door, 
 wondering that Madeline did not come out. 
 
 * You are in a hurry, are you not, my love ? You want to see 
 Ruth, and go back to the Manor in time to dress for dinner. I 
 will hurry Madeline ; ' and Mrs Clifford entered the cottage. 
 
 Alice remained at the door, not exactly listening to what was 
 said, but gathering a vague impression of some more kind words 
 ■ — some further thought for the comfort of others. Mrs Clifford 
 appeared more lovable than ever, and Alice longed — how 
 earnestly ! how sadly ! that such a mother had been granted to 
 herself Madeline came out full of excitement at the wonderful 
 recovery of a sick child, a particular favourite of hers; and Mrs 
 Clifford would not check her at first, but when her energy had 
 a little subsided, she said — 
 
 * Madeline, dear, you have brought Alice too far ; she is 
 tired ; take her home the short way, and then leave her \\\x\\ 
 Ruth for a little while to rest. And, Alice,' she added, ' do 
 you think that Lady Catharine would spare you to us again the 
 day after to-morrow .'* We have not seen you as often lately as 
 I like.' 
 
 Alice was only too glad of the invitation, though a Httle afraid 
 of another tete-a-tete with Mr Clifford. They were to separate 
 now, as Mrs Clifford had business in a contrary direction. 
 Madeline was told to order some broth for the child wlicn she 
 reached home — an order which pleased her in itself, and re- 
 minded her that her mamma cared for those whom she cai-ed 
 for ; and Alice was kissed, and begged to bring a bright colour 
 in her cheek the day after to-morrow, or they should have to 
 presci-ibe for her also. 
 
 ' Let Ruth and Alice be quiet together, my dear Madeline,' 
 was Mrs Clifford's last injunction ; ' and keep watch for Alice, 
 that she may not be late in going back.' 
 
 * Are you not well, Alice ? ' said Madeline, when her mamma 
 had left them. 
 
 * Yes, tolerably ; my head is aching a little, but that is all ; 
 it was the heat of the school, I think. My headaches are not 
 like Ruth's.' 
 
 ' Ruth is quite out of spirits,' observed Madeline : ' in that 
 way she is like you. I cannot think where the spirits of both 
 of you are gone.'
 
 480 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' There is nothing to give one spirits that I can see,' replied 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Ruth is grave about the confirmation sometimes,' said 
 Madchne ; ' but that would not make her unhappy, and really 
 now and then she looks as if she could cry,' 
 
 ' I am not going to the confirmation, Madeline,' said Alice. 
 This was spoken quietly, but Alice's step was hurried. Madeline 
 stopped, and looked at her in perfect incredulity. 
 
 ' I a;a not going to the confirmation,' repeated Alice, still 
 hurrying on. 
 
 ' Not going here, do you mean ? — at this place ? — Laneton ? 
 Shall you be confirmed anywhere else ? ' 
 
 ' I shall not be confirmed at all,' continued Alice. * Your 
 papa says so,' she added, with some bitterness of tone. 
 
 ' O Alice, how dreadful ! ' 
 
 Madeline did not know how to finish the sentence. 
 
 * I cannot help it,' said Alice. 
 
 ' But don't you care ? I cannot understand you ; you seem 
 cjuite changed.' 
 
 ' I am changed,' exclaimed Alice, passionately. * I am so 
 miserable ; I shall never be happy.' 
 
 ' Alice, dear ! how can you talk so } Please don't hurry on. 
 I would give anything to make you better — happier, I mean. 
 Please, Alice, wait one minute for me.' 
 
 They had reached a stile, which divided the field from the 
 premises of the Parsonage. Alice crossed it, but instead of 
 going into the house, she turned into a path which led into the 
 garden. Madeline followed her. They sat down together on 
 a bench in the arbour, at the end of the path, and Madeline 
 saw that Alice was crying bitterly. For a little time Madeline 
 showed her sympathy only by manner ; but, at last, she said — 
 
 ' If we were to go into the house to Ruth, perhaps you would 
 be able to talk to her.' 
 
 ' 1 came on purpose,' said Alice. ' I did not mean to say 
 anything to you, Madeline ; I cannot think how it came out. I 
 knew you would be shocked.' 
 
 * But,' said Madeline, not liking to confess really how much 
 shocked she felt, * if you would explain yourself more, I should 
 be very glad. I never heard anything about it before. Does 
 papa really mean it?' 
 
 ' He says it,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' And does Lady Catharine consent ? *
 
 Lane ton pArsoNA gk. 481 
 
 'Yes, I believe she does. Madeline' — and Alice's voice 
 became lower, — 'what will you think of me, when you are 
 confirmed and I am not ? ' 
 
 * I shall love you always, dearly,' said Madeline, eagerly, 
 
 * But you would despise me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, Alice, I should be very sorry ; but I am not at all 
 good myself.' 
 
 * Yes, you are good,' said Alice, decidedly. 
 
 ' No, indeed, indeed ; Alice, you mistake. It seems, some- 
 times, as if I could never do anything I ought.' 
 
 ' Sometimes !' repeated Alice. ' It seems so always with me, 
 and I am wretched.' 
 
 ' But,' continued Madeline, * you need not be.' 
 
 * Yes, if I never grow better, I must be.' 
 
 * But persons always grow better when they say their prayers 
 properly,' said Madeline. 
 
 * I always do say my prayers,' replied Alice. 
 
 This acknowledgment had the effect of silencing Madeline for 
 a short space ; but, after a little consideration, she said — 
 
 ' Papa tells me I must be patient with myself.' 
 
 ' He does not tell me so,' said Alice. * He declares I have 
 no resolution.' 
 
 ' But I don't think papa knows,' began Madeline — stopping, 
 however, before the sentence was ended, from the fear lest it 
 should be wrong to suppose her papa did not know everything; 
 — ' that is, I am sure, Alice, you can do more things than you 
 imagine. You say you cannot draw, or play, or do a great 
 many things which Ruth and 1 see you can do ; and so it may 
 be Viith being good.' 
 
 ' That does not help me,' said Alice. 
 
 Madeline saw that she was not giving any real comfort, and 
 wished that Alice would offer to go in-doors to Ruth. 
 
 * What makes you good, Madeline?' said Alice, abruptly. 
 
 * I am not good.' 
 
 ' Yes, you arc ; don't say you are not. You are good ; what 
 n'-.akcs you so ?' 
 
 * I don't know ; God makes all people good.' 
 
 * Except wicked people like me; so that is no answer. What 
 makes you good ?' 
 
 'But it is the Holy Spirit,' said Madeline, reverently, 'who 
 gives us good thoughts ; and you know, Alice, we are both alike. 
 We have both been baptized.' 
 
 2 H
 
 483 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'Yes;' and Alice began to think; 'and heaps of people have 
 been baptized too. Why are they not all good ?' 
 
 ' No one can tell/ replied Madeline ; * they ought to be.' 
 
 ' But they are not — why are they not ? ' 
 
 Madeline could find no answer. 
 
 ' Then some baptized people are good, and some are wicked,' 
 said Alice. ' I am one of the wicked ones ; that is why I am 
 not to be confirmed.' 
 
 ' You must have some very wrong notions,' continued Made- 
 line, her earnestness overcoming the timidity of her character. 
 * We are both alike. Baptism made us alike.' 
 
 * It did not make me good,' said Alice. 
 Madeline's face suddenly brightened. 
 
 ' It did not make me good,' she replied ; 'but it was the be- 
 ginning of giving me a power to be so ; though, Alice, you 
 know I did not make the use of it I might. We were naughty 
 together as children.' 
 
 'Yet the difference now; how did it come.'" exclaimed 
 Alice, impatiently, though Avith an air of thought ; for Made- 
 line's reference to the faults of her childhood had given her a 
 feeling of hope for herself. Madeline did not like to answer ; 
 she could not allow the difference upon which Alice so strongly 
 insisted. 
 
 ' Tell me, Maddy — please tell me,' said Alice. * Oh ! I 
 would give all the world to be good.' 
 
 Madeline threw her arms round her. 
 
 ' That must be good, Alice ; you know wishes are given us.' 
 
 * But I don't care for wishes. What did you do 1 How did 
 you begin ?' 
 
 ' I used to pray,' said Madeline, ' but the words were uttered 
 with difficulty.' 
 
 Alice's face again became overcast. 
 
 ' Perhaps, though, you mean what little things did I do ?' 
 continued Madeline. 
 
 'Yes; that is, I don't know exactly what I mean; but some- 
 thing more than saying prayers generally. One knows that to 
 be right.' 
 
 ' I cannot quite think what I did, when I began,' said Made- 
 line. ' It was a long time back, and I am always doing wrong 
 now. I know I used to say prayers at school in the dressing- 
 room ; that, I think, did megood — short prayers, at odd times, and 
 standing up, because you know I should have been interrupted.*
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 483 
 
 * Did you indeed say prayers then?' inquired Alice, with a 
 look of astonishment. 
 
 * Yes ; I don't remember what it was that put it into my head 
 — I think it was something Mrs Carter said one day, about 
 making good resokitions. At first I went just when I thouglit 
 about it, and not quite every day; but, by and by, it seemed to 
 be natural to go, just as it is to say one's prayers at night ; and 
 I fixed an hour — five o'clock it was, when school was over, and 
 I never missed it, if I could possibly help it.' 
 
 'But what did you say.'" inquired Alice. 'Were you never 
 interrupted? and could you think?' 
 
 * I was frightened very often,' replied Madeline ; ' and now 
 and then persons came in and sent my thoughts all away ; but 
 I hoped I should be forgiven if I tried. They were prayers out 
 of my own head which I began with, only a few words ; but I 
 met with one or two short ones in a book, which I liked, and 
 then I used to say them ; only I altered them if I liked it — if I 
 had anything particular to say.' 
 
 'Well !' said Alice, 'go on.' 
 
 ' That was the beginning,' continued Madeline, ' and it made 
 me happier ; but I had so many faults, such a great, great 
 many ; I used to try and recollect them at night, but I had not 
 time ; the candles were taken away so soon.' 
 
 ' And I remember,' said Alice, ' you were always scolded for 
 being in bed late.' 
 
 ' Yes ; it used to worry me a great deal. I could not quite 
 tell what it was right to do ; at last I managed differently.' 
 
 'Differently ! how?' said Alice. 
 
 ' I used to divide the day,' replied Madeline. ' When I went 
 to the dressing-room at five o'clock, I thought about what I 
 had been doing till then, and said I was sorry, in my prayers ; 
 and afterwards, at bed-time, I had not so much to think about.' 
 
 ' That was not dividing the day well,' observed Alice ; ' it 
 was too long till five o'clock.' 
 
 ' No, but I could not help myself; I could not find time be- 
 fore, and I was obliged to make things suit as well as I could. 
 You know I could not leave my lessons.' 
 
 * And when you had found out your faults, what did you da 
 next?' inquired Alice. 
 
 ' I knew I must try to do what was right, besides trjing to 
 get rid of the faults,' replied Madeline; 'so I made up my mind 
 to begin pleasing Mrs Carter, if I could, all day long.'
 
 484 lANETON PARSOMAGR. 
 
 * All the day ! ' repeated Alice, with a sigh of weariness 4t the 
 very thought of such constant exertion. 
 
 * Yes ; but it was very hard. Once I remember having such 
 a dreadful feeling just for a moment.' 
 
 Alice fixed her eyes upon her with increasing interest, 
 ' It was in our bedroom, I shall never forget it,' said Made- 
 line. * I was left the last, and I wanted to go down-stairs to 
 practise, but the room was untidy, and I knew I ought to stay ; 
 and I began putting it in order, and just as I thought I had 
 finished, I saw that the books on the drawers were not straight. 
 It was a very little thing, but I went back to put them right, 
 because Mrs Carter always liked to see them neat ; then it came 
 over me, a sort of weight, the thought that I must go on all my 
 life, never having any rest or peace, that there would be always 
 something to be done.' 
 
 * Yes, always something,' escaped from Alice, involuntarily. 
 
 ' But Alice, I don't mean that the feeling lasted,' exclaimed 
 Madeline ; * and I will tell you presently how I became a great 
 deal happier.' 
 
 ' But about that always trying,' said Alice ; * it must be such 
 terrible hard work.' 
 
 ' So it was at the beginning,' replied Madeline ; * but I found 
 it would not do to leave off; I was wretched when I did, and 
 after a very little time it became natural to be careful.' 
 
 ' I don't see how that could be,' observed Alice. 
 
 * It was a habit,' said Madciine. ' At first I was obliged to 
 think, and force myself to recollect thai things were wrong ; 
 such things as dawdling, and talking idly, and speaking hastily ; 
 but when I had stopped myself tolerably often, I found that I 
 used to check myself almost without thinking ; the notion of 
 its being wrong came in an instant, without my exactly endea- 
 vouring to make it come.' 
 
 ' That is hard to understand,' said Alice. 
 
 ' If you would begin you would know what I mean. Don't 
 you know, when we were little children, and learned to use a 
 knife and fork, how careful we were obliged to be lest we should 
 cut our fingers .'' Well, now we never think about it ; and so it 
 seems, in a way, with doing right. If one begins in being par- 
 ticular in everything it becomes a habit.' 
 
 * And now about your being happier,' said Alice. 
 
 *Ah ! that was when I returned home. Papa made me hap- 
 pier. Pie gave me notions. I think, Alice, if you could have 
 lliem, you would never say it was hard to be good,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 485 
 
 < 'Wi^, but tell me ; make haste, what were they ? ' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' It was only one notion, really, but it did for everything,* 
 replied Madeline. 'I was one day talking to papa; we weie 
 speaking about being good, and I told him how hard I found it, 
 and that sometimes I was quite tired of trying ; and he said, 
 that if I would only believe that our Saviour was our Friend, 
 and loved us when we tried, it would all be easy. Something 
 came over me then — a curious feeling, but it made me very 
 happy — as if I was not to work hard at being good like a lesson, 
 but to please some one I loved ; and it was so pleasant, it made 
 all the world bright — I can quite remember how light-hearted 
 I felt. The minute afterwards I was obliged to leave papa, 
 and go in-doors, though I wished to stay very much, but I went 
 directly without waiting an instant, and it was no hardship, 
 because I thought that I was doing it to please a Friend, and 
 that if I could see Him perhaps He would be smiling upon me 
 as papa does when we have done anything he likes. Don't 
 you see, Alice, how nice it is to think one has to please a 
 Friend ?' 
 
 'Yes, yes, indeed, if one could!' exclaimed Alice. 'Still 
 you know, Madeline, there is the old story, one never is good — • 
 that is, I am not ; and then it is no use to think in that way.' 
 
 ' But a Friend,' said Madeline — and as she spoke an expres- 
 sion of gladness and hope lighted up her young face — ' a Friend 
 loves one always. When I have done wrong I am wretched 
 till I think of that, and then it all comes right ; and when I say 
 I am sorry, I am really very sorry, and I wish with all my heart 
 to do better.' 
 
 ' But suppose you go wrong again in the same way ? ' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Still it is a Friend that one has to go to,' replied Madeline. 
 ' Nothing ever seems to do away with that. It is as if one had 
 a claim ; I don't mean that exactly,' she added, slightly blush- 
 ing ; ' but don't you know one has a sort of claim upon one's 
 relations ? one is sure they will be more kind than other people ; 
 and we were all made, in a way, our Saviour's relations when 
 we were baptized.' 
 
 ' Yes, I never thought about that before,' said Alice ; ' not in 
 the same words. Yet I don't think I could ever get it into 
 my head properly that our Saviour was our Friend.' 
 
 * Alice ! not when you read the gospels ? ' 
 
 Alice only sighed. Shf: I'cad the gospels as a history with
 
 486 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 great reverence, but the personal application to herself had 
 scarcely ever been made. Madeline had thrown a new light 
 upon them, though quite unconsciously, for all that she said 
 \vas natural to her, and a part of her every-day thoughts. 
 
 Madeline observed Alice's silence, and, fancying that she had 
 ■wearied her, proposed that she should go and see about Ruth 
 and her headache, adding that it was selfish to have kept Alice 
 from her so long. 
 
 Alice assented ; not that she v/as tired of the conversation, 
 for it had given a new and happier turn to her thoughts ; but 
 there were som.e subjects upon which Ruth only could give her 
 advice. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 RUTH was not looking well, yet she did not appear to 
 require sympathy. She was excited at seeing Alice, and 
 in a great hurry that Madeline should leave them together. 
 Alice thought this might be from pleasure in seeing her ; but 
 Ruth's first question when they were alone disappointed her. 
 It was whether she was going to the picnic. Alice replied, ' Yes, 
 she believed so,' and would have gone on to speak of Florence 
 and Justine ; but Ruth prevented her by saying — 
 
 ' Of course, Madeline has told you about herself.'* ' 
 
 ' Told me ! no — what .'' ' 
 
 ' That she is not going,' replied Ruth, and before Alice could 
 make a remark, she added, hurriedly, ' She thinks it better not, 
 and you know she is very good.' 
 
 ' But a picnic ! ' exclaimed Alice. * What possible harm can 
 there be in a picnic? People object to balls and theatres, I 
 know ; but what can any one find fault with in a picnic ? ' 
 
 * Madeline only cares just now,' said Ruth ; her tone of forced 
 indifference showing that she did not intend to enter into a 
 further explanation if it could be avoided. 
 
 'Just now — ^just now ! ' said Alice, with a perplexed air. 
 
 *,Yes ; cannot you understand .'' How dull you must be! ' 
 
 ' Just now ! ' again repeated Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, just now, because of the confirmation.' 
 
 Alice became very grave, and made no remark in reply.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 487 
 
 ' What have you been doing at the school this afternoon ? ' 
 Inquired Ruth. 
 
 ' So MadcHne will not go because of the confirmation,' ob- 
 served Ahce, after a pause, and unheeding the question. * That 
 is your papa's wish, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No. Madeline's alone.' 
 
 ' Madeline is very much in earnest,' remarked Alice. * One 
 cannot help respecting her.' 
 
 ' Yes, she is a great darling. She sets a very good example,' 
 said Ruth, 
 
 ' It is not merely that ; other people set good examples. But 
 I will tell you what I always feci about Madeline — that she 
 only wishes for one thing. Other persons like their own ways 
 — I like mine very much ; — but Madeline has only one way ; 
 she only wants to do right.' 
 
 * I think that is true,' said Ruth. 
 
 * She has been telling me about herself,' continued Alice ; 
 * how she first began to be good. It seemed all very simple 
 and easy. When she was talking, I thought I might be good 
 myself some day.' 
 
 * You are in such a hurry,' said Ruth.. ' You despair in a 
 moment.' 
 
 ' Then I am only like your papa and Lady Catharine,' ex- 
 claimed Alice, speaking quickly, and casting her eyes upon 
 the ground. * They declare I am not fit to be confirmed.' 
 
 ' O Alice ! ' Ruth could say no more ; she raised herself 
 from her reclining posture, and regarded Alice in much astonish- 
 ment, not unmixed with horror. 
 
 ' You may well say, " O Alice ! " I knew you would be 
 shocked. I made up my mind so before I came ; but it is 
 true. Your papa says so, and Lady Catharine ; and they think 
 that I shall never come to any good.' 
 
 Ruth could hardly keep from a smile ; for she kner/ Vfiis 
 must be an exaggeration. * Now, Alice dear,' she said, in a 
 soothing tone, ' don't fret yourself into such a fuss all in a 
 moment ; just tell me quietly what you mean. Papa does not 
 say that you are not to be confirmed^ does he .'" 
 
 ' All but,' replied Alice ; and then, becoming calmer, she 
 tried to collect her thoughts, and told Ruth, as well as she 
 could remember, the substance of what had passed upon the 
 subject both with IMr Clifford and Lady Catharine. 
 
 Ruth's judgment not being warped by personal feelings, she
 
 488 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 saw at once that her papa did not intend to debar Alice from 
 coniirmation, if only her mind could be brought into a right 
 state of preparation, and when Alice had finished speaking she 
 placed her own view of the case before her. Alice was not 
 free from perverseness. She found rather a satisfaction in 
 believing that she had been judged hardly, and it was some 
 time before she could be at all induced to acknowledge that 
 Mr Clifford had not actually passed the sentence of exclusion. 
 This fact was, however, at last admitted ; and Ruth, having 
 succeeded so far, began to urge her seriously to make up her 
 mind to do all that was required, in order that the only real 
 obstacle in her way might be removed. Alice did not know 
 how or why it was ; Ruth was very earnest, apparently, and 
 spoke much more fluently than Madeline, and, moreover, she 
 gave her direct advice, which Madeline never ventured upon to 
 any one ; but still what she said did not this morning make the 
 same impression. She felt all the time as if Ruth was making 
 an effort. A little weariness stole over her, and she yawned 
 once or twice, which caused Ruth to sigh and look vexed, 
 Alice begged her pardon, and said she really meant to attend 
 to her notions, she knew they were extremely good ; but 
 she was tired ; it had been very hot at the school, it was 
 no wonder that Lady Catharine was forced to go home. 
 Madeline passed the window just then, and nodded and smiled 
 at Alice, and begged her to wait five minutes — as there was 
 plenty of time — and then she would come and wish her good- 
 bye. So Alice sat down, and nothing was said either by her 
 or Ruth for some minutes. Alice broke the silence by 
 saying — 
 
 ' I suppose, Ruth, I had better tell you what I came here for. 
 It cannot make much difference in your opinion of me.' 
 
 Ruth was somewhat startled by this preamble. 
 
 ' 1 don't know how it is,' continued Alice ; ' I think I get 
 into a deeper mess everyday. I wish Justine le Vergnier had 
 been at Nova Scotia before she thought of coming here.' 
 
 * But what is the matter now ?' asked Ruth. 
 
 'Only stupidity ; I never meant to do any harm, But Mrs 
 De Lacy called yesterday, as you know, and she mentioned to 
 Lady Catharine that Florence had a French friend with her. 
 This morning Lady Catharine asked me if it could be Justine ; 
 and then I found out that Mrs Carter had written about her, 
 and said something against Florence tQO,'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 489 
 
 * But what answer did you make to the question?' inquired 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' I was silent, and she took it for granted that it was not the 
 same person.' 
 
 Ruth looked pained and thoughtful. 
 
 ' It was deceiving, I know,' said Alice ; ' but what could I 
 do ? However, I have been miserable enough since in all 
 conscience, and I could not be happy without confessing to you.' 
 
 Ruth did not make any comment immediately, but began to 
 wind a skein of silk which she had taken from her work-box. 
 
 ' It is a most provoking business,' observed Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, a sad one,' was Ruth's grave reply. 
 
 * You think I have done wrong,' said Alice ; ' and so I have, 
 I know ; but I really am as vexed about it as you can be. 
 There is one comfort, however : we need not have anything 
 more to do with Florence and her plans. This notion of 
 Madeline's will help us out of our difficulty ; for we may all stay 
 away from the picnic together.' 
 
 Just then Ruth's silk became so entangled that she seemed 
 unable to give her attention to what Alice was saying. 
 
 * I am sure I don't want to go to the picnic,' continued 
 Alice ; * and, besides, it may be better not. It would certainly 
 turn my head, if it would Madeline's ; and if I am to try to be 
 good, as you say, I had better keep out of temptation ; and that 
 will be a good excuse for us all.' 
 
 Ruth laid down her silk-winder, and going to her desk took 
 from it Justine's note, which she put into Alice's hand. Alice 
 read it carefully, and when she had finished, remarked — 
 
 ' That makes some difference. Justine evidently wishes to 
 see you.' 
 
 ' Yes, to tell me her history and ask my advice.' 
 
 * Then let me stay at home, and you go,' said Alice. 
 
 * No, no — impossible. What would papa and mamma think 
 of me .'' The only excuse for my doing differently from 
 Madeline is because of you.' 
 
 * I don't know that Justine is worth taking so much trouble 
 about,' said Alice. 
 
 ' But it is not Justine only, there is Florence to be thought of. 
 We really must try and persuade her to be open with her aunt. 
 It will never do to let her go on as she is doing now ; and it 
 would be dreadful for Justine to be governess to Agnes if she 
 is not a fit person. You see, if Florence will not listen tg 
 letters, we must man^^.s-e to see her.'"
 
 490 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' I wish Madeline did not think it right to remain at home/ 
 observed Ahce. 
 
 ' But you must remember that she knows nothing of our 
 reasons. Her example cannot be binding upon us. I am glad 
 she stays away. We must have let her into the secret if she had 
 gone, and though I know she would have attended to my wishes 
 and been silent, it is just as well that she should be kept out of 
 the affair.' 
 
 Alice as^ain said she wished thev could let the matter rest ; 
 she had had cjuite enough of it, and the further they went on 
 the more difficult it seemed to be to know what to do. To all 
 which Ruth assented in words, whilst still persisting in taking 
 her ou-n view of duty. Not that it was easy to settle what was 
 to be done ; Lady Catharine's suspicions made it certainly 
 dangerous for Justine to meet her. Alice said that Lady Catha- 
 rine had such a sharp eye, she would be sure to notice every- 
 thing that went on, and if they were the least oft' their guard 
 they might do mischief ; and first one plan was proposed and 
 then another ; Ruth seeing all the difficulties, and again and 
 again repeating that it was very annoying, and quite a weight 
 upon her mind to be obliged to manage such a business, and 
 Alice still sighing over her past deception and wishing to be 
 free, yet yielding to Ruth's arguments because she was unable 
 to combat them, and always believed that what Ruth said was 
 right — must be so. 
 
 They parted at last dissatisfied and unsettled. Ruth was to 
 think and decide, and let Alice know her determination the next 
 day. True to her principles of doing good, Ruth's farewell to 
 Alice was accompanied by an entreaty that she would think of 
 what had been said about the confirmation. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 RUTH'S influence was in general all-powerful with Alice : 
 Madeline was scarcely thought of. Now the two sisters 
 differed, and, strange though it may appear, Madeline's opinion 
 had the greatest weight. There is a power in simple devoted - 
 ness to the service of God which always makes itself felt. It 
 outbalances all reasoning — all which is termed philosophy. A 
 few words from, a thoroughly sincere, religious person will have
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 491 
 
 iroie effect in the end than torrents of eloquence from one who is, 
 even in a shght degree, double-minded. ' If thine eye be single, 
 thy whole body shall be full of light.' Who does not appre- 
 ciate the charm of a single-minded character ? Madeline 
 Clifford was inferior to her sister in many ways. She was not 
 so clever ; she had not the same powers of conversation ; she 
 was not so soft and engaging in manner. Ordinary acquaint- 
 ances called her less interesting ; but the feeling which she 
 inspired was that of confidence and rest. She had no sellish 
 niotives : even if she decided a case according to what would 
 appear her own advantage, no one could distrust her. It was 
 impossible not to see that she had but one aim — the right. To 
 Alice such a character was in a degree incomprehensible, and 
 hitherto she had looked upon it as simply childlike ; but the 
 last conversation had altered her views. One who could steadily 
 begin a course of religion, and carry it on amidst the tempta- 
 tions and difficulties of a school-life, and still continue it, month 
 after month and year after year, could be no child ; at least in 
 the sense in which Alice used the word. There was a sense 
 indeed in wliich Madeline was a child ; in which it was prob- 
 able, and much to be hoped, that she would continue a child 
 even to her old age ; for hers was the disposition of heart to 
 which we may believe our Lord alluded when He said, ' Except 
 ye be converted and become as little children, ye cannot enter 
 into the kingdom cf heaven.' 
 
 Alice went back to dine at the Manor with a more hearty re- 
 solution to do her duty than she had entertained for many days. 
 She even began to consider in detail what Madeline had said, and 
 think whether it mighV not be possible to adopt her plan of setting 
 aside some time in the middle of the day for pri\ate prayer. 
 That seemed a practical duty, which she could begin at once. 
 Perhaps, if she could, it might help her forwards ; at any rate it 
 was a beginning, and perhaps also — and Alice's heart bounded 
 with a sudden and unusual feeling of happiness when the thought 
 crossed her — perhaps, as Madeline had said, God would be 
 pleased with her if she were to do so. Pleased with her ! Poor 
 Alice could scarcely realise the idea of a fellow-creature being 
 pleased with her, much less the Almighty and All Holy One. 
 Yet the feeling came, though but for a moment. It passed across 
 the wearying prospect of her daily duties as the sunlight flashes 
 upon a gloomy landscape, and, when it was gone, the remem- 
 brance of the brightness which it had caused still lingered in
 
 492 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 her mind. It was the first faint glimpse of that unearthly, un- 
 wearied spirit of love, which converts the heaviest load of duty 
 into a burden scarcely to be felt, and the saddest trials of this 
 mortal pilgrimage into the ' light affliction that cndureth but for 
 a moment.' If left to herself, Alice would undoubtedly have 
 followed Madeline's example. The hope which Ruth held out 
 of Mr Clifford's consenting to her confirmation, was a great 
 stimulus to exertion ; but if she had this in view, she could not 
 shut her eyes to the fact that Madeline's decision regarding 
 the picnic would be the safe one for herself. It did not require 
 much self-denial to acknowledge and act upon this conclusion. 
 Alice was out of spirits, and tired of having mysteries with 
 Florence and Justine, and while Madeline's conversation was 
 fresh in her mind, she cared little for their society. But the 
 next day brought a different determination ; for the next day 
 brought Ruth to the Manor, more bent than ever upon going, 
 more plausible in her reasons for believing it her own duty, and 
 more eager to convince Alice that it would be impossible for 
 her to go alone, because it would look so strange. 
 
 All difficulties as to Lady Catharine were to be obviated by 
 giving Florence and Justine warning beforehand ; Justine would 
 then stay away from the picnic, and they might hear her his- 
 tory from Florence, and use their utmost efforts to put things 
 straight. Alice's volatile temper was at length worked upon to 
 believe this to be, as Ruth said, acting for the best ; doing what 
 would be kind to Justine and useful to Florence. But Ruth 
 was rather startled at perceiving how Alice's whole train of 
 thought altered when the decision was finally made. Having 
 the picnic in her mind, she soon threw aside the confirmation. 
 Ruth mentioned it, and renewed her advice, and especially 
 warned her about being respectful and attentive to Lady Catha- 
 rine ; that was a point, she said, upon which her papa would 
 certainly be particular. 
 
 liut Alice's gay * Oh, yes ; trust me ; I mean to be a piece 
 of perfection,' was very different from her thoughtfulness the 
 day before. 
 
 ' What a pity it is Alice is so changeable!' was Ruth's reflec- 
 tion as she left the Manor. 
 
 That of Alice, as she went down-stairs to luncheon, was, 
 * Well, I think I am glad after all that we arc going , 1 dare- 
 say we shall enjoy ourselves, but it will not be worth while to 
 trouble myself with new plans till afterwards,'
 
 LANETOM PARSONAGE. 493 
 
 In one respect peculiarly Lady Catharine and Alice were 
 entirely unlike. Lady Catharine was never changeable. What 
 she was one day that she was on the next, unless outward cir- 
 cumstances had occurred to cause a reasonable alteration. She 
 had been grave and unhappy about Alice on the previous day ; 
 she was so still. And when Lady Catharine was unhappy she 
 was generally stern. 
 
 This is not an uncommon case, and it is one which requires 
 a good deal of consideration in persons who are living together. 
 It is the same when people are ill ; some are melancholy, some 
 are cross, some are quiet and moody ; and it is very difficult 
 to make allowance for them, as we should wish to have allow- 
 ance made for ourselves. As for Lady Catharine, Alice thought 
 but little about her ; though she looked really very unwell. 
 Her close widow's cap always gave a certain air of suffering to 
 her countenance, but now she had lost her colour and scarcely 
 ate anything. It did just cross Alice's mind that perhaps Lady 
 Catharine was anxious about her, but the supposition seemed 
 rather absurd. Alice was not then anxious about herself, and 
 why should Lady Catharine be.' 
 
 Lady Catharine finished her scanty meal, and waited patiently 
 whilst Alice regaled herself with whatever she fancied. Alice 
 was apparently hungry, or at any rate she Avas not inclined to 
 be self-denying, and some little time passed in silence, during 
 which Lady Catharine sat with her hands folded, seemingly too 
 much occupied with her own thoughts to be willing to interrupt 
 her companion. Yet her eyes were raised from time to time, 
 and once they met Alice's, and then the expression was so earnest 
 and inquiring, that Alice felt uncomfortable, and finished her 
 piece of cake as quickly as she could, in the hope of escaping 
 from the scrutinising gaze, which she felt even when she did not 
 see it. But it was in vain to hope to escape from Lady Catha- 
 rine whenever anything was to be said ; and when Alice poured 
 out the concluding glass of water, and then looked up with the 
 unspoken request in her eye, 'May I go.'*' Lady Catharine an- 
 swered it by saying, * Alice, I should like to have a few minutes' 
 conversation with you.' 
 
 Alice's heart sank ; she made no answer, but leaned back in 
 her chair and twisted her chain, 
 
 'After what passed yesterday,' continued Lady Catharine, 
 ' it will not surprise you to be told that the subject upon which 
 I wibh to speak is your confirmation.'
 
 494 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Alice only bent her eyes more steadfastly upon the floor. 
 
 * You may give up the idea at once/ pursued Lady Catharine; 
 ' but I cannot. It is a veiy anxious time for me, Alice, and a 
 most important one for you. No one can tell the consequences 
 of delay. Another year, and you may not be living ; I may 
 not be living. I have spoken again to Mr Clifford. He feels 
 with me. He is most unwilling to interpose any obstacle. He 
 would rejoice to know that you were prepared. Mrs Clifford 
 also is interested about you ; I have seen them both this morn- 
 ing. All your friends care for you, Alice, but you will not care 
 for yourself.' 
 
 The day before, Alice might have been touched by this appeal ; 
 now she wished herself out of the room. 
 
 ' It is strange,' continued Lady Catharine, her tone growing 
 more severe as she proceeded, ' that the example of others 
 should have so little influence with you. Mrs Clifford alluded 
 to-day to her own children. Ruth, we know, is a very charming 
 girl; steady, high principled, with sense and resolution far 
 beyond her years ; but even Madeline, whom we always con- 
 sidered childish and thoughtless, has in the present instance 
 given signs of deep seriousness. Mrs Clifford tells me that it 
 is her wish to refrain from joining the picnic to St Cuthbert's 
 next week, because she fears it may disturb and occupy her 
 mind more than is desirable at such a time. Alice \ what 
 pleasure it would have given me to know that you had any such 
 care for' your best interests.' 
 
 An excuse rose to Alice's lips. She knew that even that 
 very morning her wish had been to follow Madeline's example. 
 
 * The world, I see,' continued Lady Catharine, regarding her 
 attentively, ' has too much power over you, to enable you to 
 consent to any such sacrifice. You will, perhaps, say that 
 Ruth does not see the necessity of it, and therefore why should 
 you ? But Ruth and yourself cannot be put upon a par. No 
 doubt there are very good reasons for her accepting the invi- 
 tation ; in fact, it may not be proper that all the party should 
 refuse. I am not saying that I consider it necessary for any 
 of you to do so ; I only mention the case as an instance of 
 Madeline's earnestness. If you were in earnest, Alice, there would 
 be many ways of showing it even if you did go with Ruth.' 
 
 ' I do not care about the picnic,' said Alice, in a proud tone. 
 ' Ruth knows that I do not. I am perfectly willing to stay at 
 home.*
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 4Q5 
 
 * Alice,' replied Lady Catharine, ' you are taking up this 
 matter perversely. Going to the picnic, or not going, will not 
 render you fit or unfit for confirmation. It is the principle upon 
 which you act that is really of importance. You may, like 
 Ruth, choose from good and right motives to go ; or you may, 
 like Madeline, choose from good and right motives to stay at 
 home ; in either case I should be satisfied. In your present 
 mood, on the contrary, I must be dissatisfied. If you were to 
 shut yourself up in your room for the next week, it would not 
 make a difference ; it is the heart, Alice, which is at fault.' 
 Alice was still piqued by a sense of injustice at Lady Catharine's 
 words ; she forgot that Lady Catharine could not know what 
 had passed in her thoughts. 
 
 'When the idea of delaying your confirmation was first pro- 
 posed,' continued Lady Catharine, * I hoped that the very idea 
 would so have distressed you as to arouse a spirit of energy. 
 Lut I am disappointed, grievously disappointed ; you appear 
 utterly indiflerent. God grant you may not really be so.' 
 
 A tear glistened in Alice's eye, but she strove to appear indif- 
 ferent. Lady Catharine gazed upon her sadly, and a sigh rose 
 from the very depths of her heart. ' Alice,' she said, more 
 solemnly, ' indecision cannot continue. If your conduct does 
 not determine the question one way it will the other ; and 
 remember, that in these smaller trials of life, we are rehearsing 
 the great trials of our whole existence on earth. Every time 
 that we are called upon to make choice between good and evil, 
 we are throwing a weight into the balance which shall decide 
 our happiness for eternity.' 
 
 Then the tear which had gathered in Alice's eye rolled slowly 
 down her cheek ; but she turned away and Lady Catharine 
 did not perceive it. 
 
 When Alice, after this conversation, went to her room, a note 
 from Ruth was lying on her table. It was to this effect, that 
 she had found on her return home that Mrs De Lacy had 
 ^¥Titten to Mrs Clifford, saying that the arrangements for the 
 picnic were quite completed, and she hoped nothing would 
 happen to interfere with the pleasure of the party. They were 
 to meet at Sheldon, and from thence proceed to St Cuthbert's — • 
 a very large party, much larger than was at first proposed. 
 Lady Catharine was to bring the Lancton party to Sheldon, 
 and afterwards they might settle as to the yoiing people going 
 together, which would of course be more agreeable to them.
 
 496 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 They were to dine under the trees in one of the courtyards of 
 the castle, if the weather should be fine ; but as there was an 
 empty room at the porter's lodge, it would not much interfere 
 with their comfort even if there should be a shower of rain. 
 Mrs De Lacy hinted the possibility of returning to Sheldon, and 
 finishing the evening there ; upon which Ruth's observation was, 
 * I think this may suit us. In a line to me, Florence says she 
 has settled to go alone; why, I do not know.' Alice read the 
 note twice, with much interest. It was still open before her 
 when she sat down, trying to recall the feelings which Lady 
 Catharine's words had awakened. The choice between good 
 and evil at that moment lay before her. The party of pleasure 
 was not the unimportant matter which Lady Catharine imagined. 
 Alice knew — she did not even attempt to shut her eyes to the 
 knowledge — that it would be a temptation, and that if she could 
 avoid it, a victory over herself would be obtained, and the first 
 step on the right road taken. 
 
 When Alice entered her own chamber, the resolution was all 
 but made. She read Ruth's note and wavered ? Indecision ! 
 still indecision ! Alice was miserable again. But Ruth was 
 going herself — Ruth wished her to go — Ruth was so good she 
 could not lead any one wrong. 
 
 And was Ruth, then, become Alice's tempter ? She whose 
 one sole object was to do good. Was it possible ? 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 IT was a glorious day for the picnic at St Cuthbert's, bright, 
 and almost cloudless, with a soft, cooling breeze, and no 
 prospect of a change of weather. Madeline rose early, and a 
 feeling of regret stole over her as she threw open the lattice and 
 fastened it back. The fresh air blew deliciously into the room, 
 bearing the scent of the roses, and jasmine, and clematis, which 
 covered the walls of the house. She sat down by the open 
 window, to gather a rosebud which was just lifting itself to a 
 level with her hand, and remained thinking for many minutes 
 Ruth came to her, and kneeling down by her side, said — 
 
 ' Maddy, I wish you were going.' 
 
 Madeline was startled by the expression of her own wishes j
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 497 
 
 It recalled her to herself. * No,' she said ; ' don't wish it. I 
 am much better away.' 
 
 * But it would add very much to my pleasure if you were 
 going,' observed Ruth. * I never like things when you are 
 away, there seems no one to enjoy them with me. Sisters are 
 different from everything else.' 
 
 * Yes, sisters are different,' said Madeline, gently putting back 
 Ruth's hair, and gazing upon her with a look of affection that 
 could not be spoken. ' A sister is one's self; something so pre- 
 cious ; it is a weight upon my mind very often that I cannot say 
 it out more. Ruth ! I do love you so very dearly.' Madeline's 
 lips quivered, and when Ruth kissed her, she smiled and said, 
 ' she felt so silly, almost as if she could cry.' 
 
 * About the picnic, or because you are fond of me } ' inquired 
 Ruth, in a tone which, whatever the words might have appeared, 
 showed no lightness of feeling. 
 
 ' Because I am fond of you, I think. I don't know why it is, 
 but beautiful days always make me think more of you, Ruth, 
 We have spent a great many together, veiy happy ones.' 
 
 * And it seems hard that we cannot spend this one,' observed 
 Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, it did seem hard just for a moment ; but the worst is 
 gone now. One reason why I am sorry is because we have never 
 had any pleasure apart before.' 
 
 ' No, never since we were children,' replied Ruth. 
 
 'And it would not have signified in the same way then,' con- 
 tinued Madeline. ' We did not know then why we cared for 
 each other ; but it grows upon one now,- — the love, the certainty 
 that we are all in all to each other, and nothing can come be- 
 tween us. Sometimes in the bright summer days, when you 
 are with me, it comes over me like a new feeling.' 
 
 Ruth was resting her head upon Madeline's shoulder, and 
 her arm was clasped around her waist. The strong resemblance 
 of childhood was still remarkable between them. Their fair 
 hair mingled in curls w^hich could not be distinguished in colour, 
 and the eyes of each bore the same bright hue. Madeline's 
 smile was subdued now, and the e.xpression of her mouth might 
 have been taken for that of Ruth ; and as Ruth raised her eyes 
 to her sister, half in thankfulness ibr her love, and half in eager- 
 ness to show how fully it was returned, the warmth and sim- 
 plicity of her expression might have been I^.Iadeline's in her 
 happiest mood. We are all strangely formed in one mould, yet 
 
 2 I
 
 498 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 the infinite dilYerence thai lies beneath the outward resemblance ? 
 God only can understand it ! 
 
 ' Yes, you will love me always,' was Ruth's reply, spoken in a 
 low earnest voice ; * but Madeline,' she added, ' I wish we could 
 always think alike.' 
 
 * I do not see where we differ to-day,' replied Madeline. * I 
 should do like you if I were strong-minded.' 
 
 ' Strong-minded,' repeated Ruth, musingly. 
 
 ' Yes, that is the one thing especially in which I feel you are 
 my superior.' 
 
 Ruth said hurriedly, ' Madeline, I am not your superior.' 
 
 Madeline only smiled, and answered, ' That it was not the 
 time to argue the question. Dress first, Ruth, dear,' she said, 
 playfully, ' and we will talk about it afterwards.' 
 
 Yet Ruth still lingered at the window, looking intently upon 
 the view of the gardens and the village, and the distant sea. 
 ' Madeline, I am not your superior,' she said again, after a few 
 seconds, * and it is not because I am good that I am going to 
 the picnic' 
 
 Madeline went up to her, and kissing her, answered, * You 
 shall be as wicked as you like if you will only dress. We are 
 both dreadfully late.' 
 
 ' But,' said Ruth, taking no notice of the warning, ' I wish 
 you would understand me ; and I wish I could understand you 
 exactly ; what the real reason is, I mean, for your not going.' 
 
 Madeline laughed. ' Why, Ruth,' she said, ' you do not 
 suspect me of two reasons, do you ? ' 
 
 * No, not two ; but I do not think you have one clear one.' 
 
 ' I will tell you what my reason is,' said Madeline. ' Do you 
 remember last year when we were staying with grandmamma 
 and aunt Mordaunt, our drinking tea at old Mr Falconer's, and 
 some of the people playing whist 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly.' 
 
 ' Then you must remember too that lady who would be par- 
 ticular about following rules, and kept on saying, " When in 
 doubt win the trick." I asked papa afterwards what it meant, 
 and he said it was a lesson for life as well as for cards ; that 
 when we were in doubt as to v/hat was right, it was better to 
 decide upon that which would be safer at the present moment. 
 So you see that is what I am doing. It might do me harm to 
 go to the picnic ; therefore, as there is a doubt, it seems better 
 to stay at home and win the trick.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 499 
 
 Ruth was ready with an objection that this would not hold 
 good, because there must be a doubt about all society, whether 
 it was desirable. 
 
 But Madeline's quick reply was drawn from a remark of her 
 papa's, * that of course, as a general rule, people were not 
 made to live like hermits, and therefore they must meet in 
 society, and it would be wrong to stay away. But each one 
 must decide for himself according to his own conscience, as to 
 wliat society, and how much was good. The picnic, she 
 thought, would not be good for her at that particular time, which 
 was the reason she refrained from it. 
 
 Lady Catharine's carriage turned into the Parsonage lane 
 punctually as the clock struck nine. Madeline was the first to 
 hear the rumble of the wheels, and to hasten Ruth, that Lady 
 Catharine might not be kept an instant waiting. ' Here are 
 your gloves and your parasol, Ruth ; and don't forget your 
 shawl. It will be cold, perhaps, coming home ; and your cloak, 
 too, I think you had better have. Stay, the string is off, just 
 take mine instead. How glad I am it is a nice day ! ' There 
 was no sadness in Madeline's face then ; her step was as light 
 and free, and her voice as cheerful, as if she had been antici- 
 pating the greatest amusement, instead of a long and almost 
 solitary day. 
 
 The head of the barouche was drawn over, though it was a 
 very warm morning, and no one saw at first that the carriage 
 only contained one person. 
 
 ' Two, there must be, certainly,' said Madeline, in precisely 
 that tone which expresses decided doubt. ' Ruth, just come 
 here.' Ruth went to her. 
 
 ' No, Madeline ; there is only one. Alice it is. Lady Catha- 
 rine is not there. How veiy strange !' 
 
 ' She must be ready,' said Madeline, laughing. ' I will ven- 
 ture to say that Lady Catharine was never known to be late 
 from the time she could walk to the present hour,' 
 
 ' The house must be burned down, or that staid Marsham 
 must be ill,' continued Ruth, ' or Lady Catharine must ha\e 
 slept ten minutes beyond her time ; no common cause cou'd 
 induce her to break an engagement.' 
 
 Both ran to the door to receive Alice, and inquire what was 
 the matter. 
 
 Alice looked pleased rather than not, as she said that it was 
 nothing very particular, only one of the housemaids had been
 
 500 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 taken ill, and Lady Catharine did not like to leave home, so she 
 had sent her alone and begged that Mrs Clifford would take 
 charge of her. ' She was very good-natured about it, I must 
 say,' continued Alice, ' I never saw her so fussed before ; first 
 thinking of one thing, then another. Once she said we should 
 go and return quite early ; but I think I must have looked dis- 
 appointed', for she changed her mind directly, and said, " No, 
 that would not do ;" and then she thought that perhaps Maria 
 would be better before we set off ; but at last she settled that I 
 should go without her, though I am sure she did not half fancy it.' 
 
 ' And did you not offer to stay at home ?' inquired Madehne, 
 in a tone of some surprise. 
 
 ' No, it never entered my head. Would it have been right, 
 do you think ?' 
 
 * It would have helped Lady Catharine out of a difficulty,' 
 replied Madeline. 
 
 * Well, perhaps it might, but I never once thought of it ; and 
 besides, it would not have done, would it, Ruth?' she added, 
 with a meaning glance, which made Ruth turn away in dis- 
 pleasure. * I must say one thing to you,' continued Alice, 
 drawing Ruth aside, ' I had a long sermon about young ladies' 
 friendships, and specially about Florence Trevelyan. I really 
 believe that if she thought I cared an iota for Florence, beyond 
 liking to see her because we were at school together, she would 
 have kept me from the picnic. She seems to have some 
 especial prejudice against her, and says she cannot help being 
 glad that the whole party are going to France. We are safe, 
 however, in one way ; she has not a notion that Justine is really 
 Justine, for she said again that of course I should have known 
 if she had been my old acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I wonder after all this that you were allowed to come with 
 us,' said Ruth, whose countenance had become more and more 
 overcast as Alice went on. 
 
 ' The long engagement, and your mamma's going with us 
 were the great things in my favour,' replied Alice. ' Lady 
 Catharine has such trust in your mamma.' 
 
 ' I begin to be half sorry Ave liave troubled ourselves at all 
 about Justine or Florence cither,' said Ruth. ' It might have 
 been better to let them take their own way.' 
 
 Alice only laughed, and declared, ' She did not care for any- 
 thing now. She intended to enjoy herself thoroughly, and put 
 care aside.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 501 
 
 * Care and the confirmation,' tliought Ruth ; for the quiet 
 way in which Alice repeated what Lady Catharine liad said, 
 and the indifference with which she spoke of her own particular 
 deception, were convincinj^ proofs that her mind was not in a 
 fit state for a religious ordinance. 
 
 Madeline gazed after the carriage as it drove away with a 
 passing wish to be in it ; but it was so soon checked that when 
 her father stopped her as she was going up-stairs, and asked if 
 she repented her choice, she was able to answer, heartily and 
 sincerely, ' No, indeed ; but I hope they will have a happy day.' 
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 T7LORENCE TREVELYAN met Ruth with the informa- 
 J- tion — accompanied by a smile which she could not 
 altogether restrain — that Justine had a bad headache and was 
 to keep her room for the day. When she found, however, that 
 Lady Catharine was remaining at the Manor, her tone of 
 amusement changed into that of annoyance. 
 
 ' How extremely provoking!' she exclaimed, 'to have given 
 up our pleasure for nothing; and besides, I rather looked for- 
 ward to seeing Juno scrambling over the broken walls.' 
 
 A look of great disgust crossed Ruth's face. 
 
 ' It is safer in one way, though,' said Alice, who had joined 
 them, and who perceived that Ruth was not inclined to reply. 
 ' Mrs Clifford might have made remarks as well as Lady 
 Catharine.' 
 
 ' We were not much afraid of that as long as she has no 
 suspicions,' replied Florence ; ' for Mrs Clifford never saw 
 Justine, and my aunt, who has a knack of miscalling foreign 
 names, always addresses her as Mademoiselle Veray, and one 
 name being as good as another, we have never taken the 
 tiouble to enlighten her.' 
 
 ' Florence, Florence 1 ' exclaimed Ruth, ' this will never do. 
 You really grow worse and worse.' 
 
 ' Ah, well ! we will have a little talk together by and by. 
 Don't trouble yourself, Ruth ; you will be quite satisfied ; ' and 
 Florence moved away to speak to some other friends. 
 
 Ruth watched her as she went from one to the other, smiling
 
 502 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and talking, and bending gracefully, and with perfect self- 
 possession, whilst her aunt introduced her to several persons 
 whom she had not known before ; and could scarcely believe 
 it possible that this was the same dull, silly girl to whom 
 she had felt herself so superior at school, and who even now 
 seemed to look to her for advice. Nothing is so flattering 
 to our self-conceit as deference shown by those who either 
 in rank, age, or position are naturally above us ; and Ruth 
 felt raised in her own opinion when she saw that she was 
 respected by one who apparently knew so much more of 
 the world than she did. Florence herself appeared in a new 
 light ; and the ease of manner which she showed struck Ruth 
 as something wonderful and enviable. The party was now com- 
 plete, and Airs De Lacy eager to set off. Mrs CHfford, Ruth, 
 and Alice were called away to settle in what carriage and with 
 what friends they would best like to proceed to St Cuthbert's. 
 Florence tried very hard to manage for Ruth and Alice to go 
 alone with her in a little pony-chaise of Mrs De Lacy's ; but 
 Mrs Clifford was anxious about Alice, as Lady Catharine was 
 not there to give her consent, and very unwillingly was obliged 
 to insist upon her remaining with her. Alice was extremely 
 disappointed ; but consoled herself by the thought that it would 
 be almost as pleasant to have Ruth and Mrs Clifford to herself 
 as to be with Florence. Here, again, however, she found an 
 obstacle to her washes. Mrs Clifford did not object to Ruth's 
 going with Florence, provided there was a servant behind; and 
 when the choice was given to Ruth between the barouche and 
 the pony-chaise, true to her principle of doing good, she de- 
 cided that it would be better to remain with Florence, and have 
 an opportunity of conversing with her, than to shut herself up 
 with Alice, whom she might see every day. When the whole 
 party at length drove off, poor Alice was almost the only person 
 dissatisfied with the arrangement made for her. 
 
 St Cuthbert's Castle stood near the sea shore, upon a flat 
 space of raised ground, the sides of which were covered with 
 trees and underwood ; the ruins spread over a considerable ex- 
 tent, and the outer walls could be traced without difficulty; but 
 the former habitable part of the building was now converted 
 into a homely dwelling, inhabited by the family of a poor 
 man, to whose charge the castle was committed, and only 
 one room remained, with its low rafters, and deep windows 
 encircled by i\7', and half hidden by shrubs and elder bushes,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 503 
 
 ♦o show the style of the apartments in which our ancestors 
 once lived. 
 
 A deep ravine lay between the castle and the opposite hill, 
 on the summit of which was placed a watch-tower, command- 
 ing an extensive view over the sea, and reaching to a faint line 
 of the coast many miles distant. It was more as a picturesque 
 ruin, and beautiful in its situation, that St Cuthbert's was cele- 
 brated than from possessing any remarkable historical associa- 
 tions. The original building, like that of many other castles 
 of the kind, was of Saxon date ; but tradition stated that the 
 Britons had fortified the same spot even before them. 
 
 A picnic, however, does not afford the very best opportunity 
 for carrying on study of any kind. Mrs De Lacy's party in 
 general cared little for Britons or Saxons. The greater part 
 sought for amusement in clambering over dangerous places ; a 
 few had set tlieir hearts upon obtaining a good position for a 
 sketch ; and of the remainder some wandered about in alarm, 
 watching the young people, who seemed upon the point of 
 breaking their necks as they scrambled over the walls, and somic 
 sat down upon the grass and talked over old times with friends 
 whom they had not lately met, whilst one or two, amongst whom 
 Mrs De Lacy was conspicuous, hurried from spot to spot, to 
 seek the best situation for preparing the dinner, a main object of 
 all English meetings, whether of business or of pleasure. 
 
 Mrs Clifford was unwilling to be any restraint upon Alice, 
 and as soon as they arrived at the castle proposed that she 
 should wait for Ruth and Florence, who were some little way 
 behind them, and then join them and go over the ruins to- 
 gether. Alice assented, though without appearing particularly 
 to care what she did. She was, in fact, annoyed at having 
 been left by Ruth ; and not all Mi-s Clifford's endeavours to 
 amuse her on the road had sufficed to restore her to good 
 humour. Ruth and Florence drove up in high spirits, all 
 serious conversation having been diverted by the necessity of 
 attending to a frisky pony. Ruth had made her first essay in 
 driving, and was very desirous of exhibiting her skill as they 
 entered the courtyard. She called to Alice to observe how 
 veil she could manage, but Alice only looked up and said — 
 
 * Yes,' and made no further remark. 
 
 * Are you ready, my dear,' said Mrs Clifford, as Alice lin- 
 gered, examining the gateway, before entering the castle. ' We 
 are the last of all.'
 
 504 LANETQN PARSONAGE, 
 
 Alice hurried on, and Mrs Clifford, reading what was passing 
 in her mind, followed, willing, if possible, to put her in good 
 spirits again, 
 
 ' We must not keep quite to ourselves,' she said, ' or we shall 
 miss hearing all there is to be told. The old guide will never 
 forgive us if we make him repeat his story twice.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, mamma,' exclaimed Ruth, ' let us get rid of the 
 old guide. I have brought the book that papa gave me the 
 other day, telling all about the castle. It will be much better 
 to go over it by ourselves, and find out all the parts. Come, 
 Florence.' 
 
 Agnes De Lacy at that moment ran up to them. She had 
 been sent by her mamma to look for them. Mrs De Lacy 
 wanted Florence to give her opinion about the proper place for 
 the dinner. Florence hurried away, but returned almost imm.e- 
 diately, begging Ruth to accompany her. This marked prefer- 
 ence irritated Alice still more ; it seemed as if Ruth had quite 
 taken her place ; but Mrs Clifford objected to Ruth's going 
 alone, and they went on together ; Florence and Ruth still 
 in front. Mrs De Lacy had fixed upon a shady spot under 
 some trees, which grew in what had once been the tilt-yard of 
 the castle. It was a large free space, sheltered and private, 
 and here the servants were busy placing as many tables and 
 chairs as could be provided from the porter's lodge, whilst 
 hampers and baskets, veal pics and hams, tarts and sand- 
 wiches, cakes, biscuits, soda water and champagne bottles, 
 reposed side by side upon the grass. Mrs De Lacy was one 
 of those persons who, when roused from indolence, can only be 
 happy in extreme activity. She detained Florence a long time 
 consulting her upon points which would have been much better 
 settled by the servants ; and Florence, not liking to be alone 
 in her annoyance, kept Ruth by her side, whilst Mrs Clifford 
 and Alice sat down upon a bench, expecting every minute to 
 be at liberty. Several parties strayed into the tilt-yard ; but 
 finding how it was to be occupied, went away, and as their 
 voices were heard in merriment, sometimes quite near and 
 sometimes in the distance, whilst they explored the castle, 
 Alice grew more and more provoked at being obliged to waste 
 so much time. Mrs Clifford was just thinking of calling Rutb 
 and going over the ruins with them alone, when a gentleman 
 and two ladies appeared in the court, and instead of retiring, 
 made their way to Mrs De Lacy. The gentleman apologised for
 
 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 505 
 
 intruding, but bejjgcd to Icav^e his niece under her care, whilst 
 he went with his daughter to see the castle. The young lady 
 was then taken to a seat near that occupied by Mrs Clifford 
 and Alice, and her uncle and cousin went away. .She was a 
 pleasing-looking girl, apparently much out of health. Alice 
 was struck by her features ; they recalled a face she had seen 
 before, and she tried to remember whose it was. She went 
 up to Ruth, who had wandered away with Florence to a little 
 distance. 
 
 ' Do look, Ruth,' she said, ' who can that be t Just watch 
 her ; she is so precisely like some one I know.' 
 
 Ruth had not noticed her particularly, but now she drew 
 nearer. 
 
 * Mary Vernon ! ' she said ; ' how very odd ! — exactly lier 
 face it is ; only the hair is lighter. Who is she, Florence 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Florence, quickly ; ' my aunt has asked 
 a great many whom I have never seen, I hope she has 
 nothing to do with IMary Vernon.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Florence,' exclaimed Ruth, eagerly. 'Mary 
 Vernon is delightful ; but you never would acknowledge it.' 
 
 ' I don't care for her,' said Florence, * one way or the other ; 
 but I am glad she is in Ireland, and I do not wish her or any 
 of her friends to trouble themselves with our concerns just 
 now.' 
 
 'Why ? what ? how could they trouble themselves ?' inquired 
 Ruth, 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know. I think they are interfering people,' 
 replied Florence, with an air of indifference ; but she imme- 
 diately turned the conversation. . 
 
 Ruth regarded the young lady more attentively, and again 
 declared the likeness to Mary Vernon so striking, that she 
 could not rest without knowing who she was. Florence, how- 
 ever, called her attention to another subject immediately, and 
 although Ruth made several attempts to go, she was detained 
 for some little time, Mrs De Lacy, in the meantime, had 
 introduced the stranger to Mrs Clifford as a Miss Merton, a 
 niece of Colonel Merton, the gentleman who had just left them, 
 and who had a house in the neighbourhood of Sheldon. After 
 this introduction, conversation went on easily; and when Alice, 
 having finished her lew words with Ruth, went back to the 
 bench, she found j\Irs Clifford and their new acquaintance en 
 very agreeable terms. Alice listened to what was said with
 
 5o6 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 much interest, endeavouring to find a clue to the striking like- 
 ness ; and one subject leading to another, it was not long 
 before the desired point was reached. London was spoken 
 of ; London air : residences in London ; schools amongst 
 them ; then ]\Irs Carter's name was mentioned, and the 
 mystery was immediately solved, by Miss Merton's exclama- 
 tion : ' Oh ! were you at Mrs Carter's ? I had a first cousin 
 there two or three years ago. Mary Vernon- — did you know 
 her ? ' Alice laughed at this easy explanation of the circum- 
 stance which had perplexed her, and giving but a hasty answer 
 to the question, hastened away to tell Ruth of the discovery. 
 Florence was just then proposing to Ruth that they should 
 carry off Alice on a scrambling expedition to the top of the 
 gateway, and leave Mrs De Lacy and Mrs Clifford to take care 
 of the stranger, who seemed, she said, to have neither strength 
 nor spirits for such an undertaking. 
 
 * Never mind Mary Vernon and Miss Merton, Alice,' she 
 exclaimed, her countenance showing anything but satisfaction 
 at the information which Alice gave with so much pleasure. 
 ' They are very good people, I daresay ; but I\Iary Vernon is 
 in Ireland, and Miss Merton is fixed to that bench for the rest 
 of the day. They are neither of them any good on a picnic 
 party. I can't see indeed why invalids should come to such 
 things.' 
 
 ' Come, Ruth, you must be introduced to her,' said Alice in 
 her turn, unheeding Florence's obsei-vation. 
 
 ' Yes, of course, I will come directly. I think I should like 
 to stay and talk to her. Can't we wait, Florence, till after 
 dinner, for the gateway?' 
 
 ' No, no, indeed, we must not ; we shall have the watch-tower 
 for after dinner; and your sketch, Ruth, which you told me you 
 had set your heart upon.' 
 
 ' Yes, I forgot, I was to take it for Madehnc; but still I must 
 just ask about Mary. Do wait for me — only five minutes.' 
 
 * No, really, Ruth, we must not wait; if we want to see the 
 gateway, we must go at once. I daresay Miss Merton is quite 
 happy without knowing you.' 
 
 * No, I assure you she is not,' observed Alice ; ' I heard her 
 mention Ruth's name just as I came aAvay. Of course, Mary 
 Vernon has talked to her about Ruth.' 
 
 Florence looked more discomposed than Alice had often 
 before seen her : but finding that Ruth was bent upon the
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 507 
 
 introduction, she followed close behind, begging her not to 
 delay. Ruth had many questions to ask and much to hear, 
 being delighted to meet with some one who had lately seen 
 Mary Vernon, and could tell every particular about her ; but 
 Florence seemed detei'mined to give her no rest. Miss Merton 
 happening to mention that she hoped to remain in the neigh- 
 bourhood some time, Florence instantly made this a pretext for 
 hurrying Ruth away, observing that, ' as there would be many 
 future opportunities, no doubt, for conversation, but none, 
 probably, for seeing St Cuthbert's, it would be better to defer 
 what was to be said for the present.' 
 
 Alice had by this time partially recovered her good humour ; 
 not, however, from any effort of principle, but merely because her 
 attention was drawn off from herself. When Florence begged 
 her to accompany them, she made no objection, though a little 
 before she had formed the perverse resolution of leaving Ruth 
 and Florence to themselves for the rest of the day. Mrs Clifford 
 could not allow Miss Merton to remain alone, as Mrs De Lacy 
 was gone from the tilt-yard ; and after promising to return in 
 time for dinner, and to keep to the regular steps which led to the 
 top of the gateway, Florence, Ruth, and Alice went away to- 
 gether, evidently much to the satisfaction of the former. Alice 
 could not help saying to Ruth as they lingered in a narrow path 
 a little behind Florence — • 
 
 ' I thought, Ruth, you had given me up, and taken to a new 
 friend.' 
 
 Ruth quite laughed at the idea. 
 
 ' How foolish, Alice !' she replied ; 'you forget the reason of 
 my coming here.' 
 
 * To see Florence, and talk to her gravely. But have you 
 done it?' 
 
 ' Not yet ; there has not been time enough.' 
 
 ' When you were driving together there was, surely; and just 
 now, when you were walking up and down the court, you were 
 talking very fast.' 
 
 ' There are proper seasons,' replied Ruth ; ' one cannot intro- 
 duce subjects abruptly ; but I mean to say something by and by. 
 All this is leading to it; we are becoming better acquainted, and 
 Florence Avill be more inclined to listen to me when she under- 
 stands me thoroughly. I assure you it is not time thrown away 
 if one has any hope of influencing her rightly. 
 
 * Well, you know best,' was Alice's reply ; ' but I am glad to
 
 So8 LANE TON PARSON A GE. 
 
 have a reason for things. And you really do not like Florence 
 better than me ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ! impossible ! ' exclaimed Ruth, in a tone so loud 
 that it made Florence turn round and inquire what was im- 
 possible ? But Ruth evaded the answer, and changed the 
 conversation, and it was apparently forgotten, though Alice 
 became more cheerful after it. 
 
 CHAPTER LIIL 
 
 A GREAT bell rang — the bell at the gateway : it was the 
 signal for dinner. Parties came pouring into the tilt- 
 yard from every quarter. Florence, Ruth, and Alice made 
 their appearance when the tables were half filled. Mrs Clifford 
 went to meet them. 
 
 * You are late, my dears, but I have kept places for you. 
 Colonel Merton was kind enough to give an order to his 
 servant.' 
 
 Florence slightly coloured, and pointing to an empty place 
 at her aunt's table, said they could go there. 
 
 ' Thank you ; but we need not crowd Mrs De Lacy. Come, 
 Alice, my love,' and Mrs Clifford, feeling herself especially bound 
 to take charge of Alice, walked forward with her. 
 
 The countenance of Florence betrayed extreme annoyance; 
 but her face was averted from Ruth, and they both hurried on. 
 
 ' Now, then,' said Colonel Merton, as they came up, ' there 
 are two seats on each side reserved especially.' 
 
 Florence still went on, at the risk of crowding Mrs Clifford. 
 
 ' Mrs Clifford, this place is for you,' said Colonel Merton. 
 He pointed to the seat next to himself 
 
 Miss Merton took her position next to Alice, by her side. 
 Florence could not prevent it ; she went round to a chair oppo- 
 site, and sank into it with a face gloomy as a thunder-cloud. 
 
 ' And that young lady is the daughter of Mr Trevelyan, of 
 Cromer Court, is she .^ ' inquired Miss Merton of Alice, as rhe 
 looked at Florence after a silence of some length. 
 
 * Yes ; there are two sisters and several brothers. You must 
 have heard Maiy Vernon speak of her.' 
 
 ' Was she at Mrs Carter's ? I forgot Mary's mentioning
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 509 
 
 Uiat. Wliat I have known about her has been since they were 
 at school/ 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' repeated AUce. ' I fancied you were strangers.* 
 
 * So we are personally ; but there was an unhappy aflair 
 about a French governess in whicli she was mixed up, and then 
 I used to hear her name frequently. IMary and she did not 
 take the same view of the case. It was a sad business 
 altogether.' 
 
 Alice's curiosity was in a moment completely aroused. Just 
 then Mrs Clifford spoke to Alice upon some indifferent subject ; 
 yet Alice was struck by her tone of voice, for it was unusually 
 grave. Alice gave the answer ; but Mrs Clifford did not seem 
 to regard it. She was watching Florence and Ruth. 
 
 ' I have told Mrs Clifford the history,' continued Miss Merton, 
 ' without mentioning Mademoiselle Le Vergnier's name, and 
 she quite agrees with me in thinking Miss Trevelyan decidedly 
 mistaken, to say the least.' 
 
 * Is it a long history.'" inquired Alice, not liking openly to 
 say how much she wished to hear it. 
 
 ' Rather, if I were to tell you all,' replied Miss Merton ; ' but 
 did Miss Trevelyan never mention the subject to you?' 
 
 ' I have heard something about a governess/ said Alice, feel- 
 ing ashamed of the equivocation, and yet not thinking herself 
 at liberty to speak more plainly. 
 
 * I should have supposed you would have known the whole 
 affair,' continued Miss Merton ; 'for this French governess had 
 something to do with Mrs Carter. She was not exactly a pupil ; 
 but Mrs Carter, I know, was very much interested about her, 
 and indeed kept friends with her much longer than any one else 
 would have done.' 
 
 ' But what was the story ? ' asked Alice. 
 
 ' I can scarcely tell you in detail — dinner would be ended 
 before I had half finished, if I were to try — but I can give it 
 you shortly. Though I should not wish INIiss Trevelyan to 
 know we were talking about it,' she added, observing that the 
 eyes of Florence were fixed upon them. 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind,' replied Alice, eager above all things to 
 hear the truth of Justine's history. ' No one can hear across 
 the table, there is such a noise.' 
 
 , * My authority is very good,' observed Miss Merton ; * for 
 this French girl. Mademoiselle Le Vergnier — you must recollect 
 her now, surely .'' '
 
 5IO LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Yes —the name — I knew her a little,' replied Alice, hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 * Mademoiselle Le Vergnier was governess to some cousins of 
 Mary Vernon's, the Darnlcys. They lived not very far from us 
 when we were in Shropshire, and they were very good people — 
 rather strict, but still extremely respected — and I am sure they 
 would not for the world have told a falsehood. They took this 
 Justine le Vergnier, upon a recommendation of some old friends, 
 to be a governess. Mary Vernon heard of it, and not having 
 a good opinion of her, was rather worried at the notion. She 
 wrote, I know, to Mrs Carter about it, and !Mrs Carter gave 
 Mrs Darnley a hint to be watchful as to books, and conver- 
 sation, and that sort of thing ; but the children were very young, 
 and Mrs Carter said that it would be a perfect charity if Justine 
 could be for some time in a steady family ; and she really hoped 
 that she was much improved and likely to do well. So she 
 went there, and at first it was all very smooth, and Mrs Darnley 
 liked her extremely. At the end of six months Mr and Mr? 
 Darnley were called away from home upon some very special 
 business, and they thought as they had a good nurse, they mighJ 
 leave Justine with the children for about a week. She made 
 all sorts of promises, and they went away perfectly satisfied. 
 They came back rather suddenly, late at night. Of course 
 Justine was to have been there to meet them ; but she was not ; 
 no one knew anything about her ; the children were in bed, and 
 the servants in the kitchen ; but there was no IMademoiselle Le 
 Vergnier. About half-past eleven she came in, very much dis- 
 tressed and surprised of course, but she had an admirable 
 excuse ready. A young friend, lately come to the neighbour- 
 hood, had, she said, been taken very ill, and had sent to beg 
 her to go to her ; and as there was no one in the house whose 
 permission she could ask, she had gone, after seeing that the 
 children were safe in bed. It seemed strange that she should 
 have told nothing to the servants ; but she gave some plausible 
 reason — I forget what — and Mrs Darnley began to think it was 
 all right.' 
 
 'And was it really so ?' inquired Alice. 
 
 * No, indeed. I cannot tell you how the truth came out ; it 
 was only by degrees. She kept up the deception wonderfully 
 even about the sick friend ; but at last it was discovered that 
 this going out was a constant practice, and that she was in 
 the habit of visiting not only the sick friend, but all her family,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 5 1 1 
 
 without Mrs Darnley's knowledge. And wliat made it in- 
 finitely worse, these people were persons whom her father par- 
 ticularly objected to her knowing, or having anything to do 
 with. You may suppose there was an end to her situation at 
 Mrs Darnley's, and she was sent home as fast as possible.' 
 
 * It was wrong — extremely wrong,' said Alice, looking very 
 thoughtful. 'Are you quite sure it is true ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; how could I be mistaken } The Darnleys are Mary 
 Vernon's cousins ; the moment all this was known they wrote 
 to her to tell her of it. Mary had some correspondence with 
 Justine herself.' 
 
 * But Mai7 never said anything to Ruth in any of her letters,' 
 observed Alice. 
 
 ' No, because Mary is careful and charitable, and will never 
 say a word against any person if she can possibly help it ; and 
 such a story as this must be the ruin of Justine with every one. 
 I should never have heard it, but that a friend of mine had 
 some thoughts of engaging her : then Mary told me the whole 
 history, a great deal more than I have told you.' 
 
 * And did Mary think that nothing could ever be done for 
 Justine ? ' inquired Alice. 
 
 ' She was extremely unhappy about her, especially after she 
 had prevented my friend from engaging her. It seemed, she 
 said, as if she had done Justine an injury; and I knov/ that she 
 gave her money through Mrs Carter, and managed at one time 
 to procure her some pupils for drawing and French lessons 
 merely, where she could do no harm. But it was impossible 
 for her to keep up the acquaintance, because she herself is 
 quite young, and her father and aunt would highly have disap- 
 proved of it.' 
 
 ' But you have not said anything about Florence yet,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' Miss Trevelyan — oh, I forgot. But do you know,' — and 
 ^liss Merton blushed — ' I am not at all sure I have been doine 
 right in talking to you in this way. I don't think JMary Vernon 
 would have done it. I began from fancying that as you appeared 
 such a great friend of Miss Trevelyan's, you might have heard 
 all the affair before, and then I was led on I don't know how. 
 Really, I believe it was very wrong.' 
 
 ' But you must finish now,' said Alice, with a little brusque- 
 ness of manner, and not at all sympathising with her companion's 
 self-reproach. ' I think you arc bound to tell me what you 
 have to say against Florence.'
 
 5 1 2 LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 ' Not against her, that is such a hard expression,' said Miss 
 Merton, lonkin^e; very uncomfortable. 
 
 ' But I should like to know what it is you have to say,' per- 
 sisted Alice, who perceived that the party was on the point of 
 breaking up, and was anxious to learn all that could be told 
 before she was separated from her new acquaintance. 
 
 ' After all, you may think it more a difference of opinion than 
 any real harm,' replied Miss Merton. ' I believe Miss Trevelyan 
 had been in the habit of corresponding with Mademoiselle Le 
 A'ergnier, and when this unfortunate business was discovered, 
 Justine wrote to give her version of it ; and, although Miss 
 Trevelyan was told the whole history, even to the most minute 
 details, she took Justine's part, and actually persuaded her 
 father and mother to invite her to Cromer Court.' 
 
 ' But if she believed Justine innocent,' said Alice, ' how could 
 it be wrong ? ' 
 
 ' How was she to be the judge 1' said Miss Merton. ' How 
 could she know more of Justine's character than the Darnleys 
 and Mrs Carter.? Mrs Carter tried to stop the acquaintance, 
 but Miss Trevelyan is such a lavourite at home, that she was 
 allowed to do just what she liked. The friendship went on, 
 and goes on still, I believe, though I have not heard of it lately ; 
 and 1 don't know what has become of Mademoiselle Le Verg- 
 nier. I rather think she went back to her father after staying 
 at Cromer Court.' 
 
 ' Alice, my dear,' said Mrs Clifford, ' where are your 
 thoughts ? ' 
 
 Alice started. 
 
 * We are left nearly the last, you see,' said Mrs Clifford, 
 smiling. 
 
 Alice rose mechanically, and stood looking about, as if not 
 knowing what to do. Whilst listening to Miss Merton, her 
 imagination had strayed far away from the picnic. 
 
 ' I am afraid you will think me very unkind,' whispered Miss 
 Merton. 
 
 ' Oh, no, not at all ; I am glad to have heard.' Alice did 
 not think of saying anything more; she was not used to society, 
 and allowed herself to be absorbed and rendered absent by any 
 subject whicli might be uppermost at the moment. Whether 
 Miss Merlon was annoyed or not was just then a question of no 
 consequence, her whole mind bcin<^ sot upon telling Ruth whfj.t 
 she had learned.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 513 
 
 Florence Trevelyan joined her almost immediately on their 
 leaving the tilt-yard. Miss Merton went to her uncle, and Mrs 
 Clifford begged Ruth to remain with her. 
 
 The first observation which Florence made showed what was 
 in her thoughts. ' Well, Alice, how have you been getting on .-* 
 You and Miss Merton seemed to be makirg immense friends.' 
 
 Alice made a short reply, and continued her own train of 
 thought, which related chiefly to the conduct of Florence. Alice 
 could not doubt that Florence was sincere in her belief of Jus- 
 tine's innocence, but she still could not reconcile it to herself 
 that Florence should credit Justine's own version of her story, 
 against such glaring facts as had now been related. Neither 
 had Florence been open in all she had said to Alice, when 
 first speaking of Justine ; she had mentioned Mrs Carter, in a 
 general way, as prejudiced ; as believing idle stories from hear- 
 say; whereas, from Miss Merton's account, Mrs Carter was fully 
 aware of every circumstance. Florence had not said anything 
 positively untrue, but she had contrived to mystify the whole 
 affair. Alice felt that she could not trust her as she had done 
 before, and she longed to ask a fuller explanation, but in honour 
 to Miss Merton she could not repeat what had been said. All 
 these thoughts rendered her silent, and she continually looked 
 round for Ruth, wishing that she would come, till Florence was 
 provoked, and declared she would join a party which was before 
 them, and go to the watch-tower with them, for Alice was really 
 too stupid to be a companion on a picnic. This remark had no 
 effect in bringing out Alice's private thoughts, which were what 
 Florence really desired to know. She only repeated her desire 
 to see Ruth, and at length insisted upon sitting down to wait 
 for her. 
 
 Florence would not leave her, notwithstanding her threat ; 
 she seemed to have an instinctive knowledge that all would go 
 wrong with her schemes if she went away. ' Here they are,' 
 she exclaimed, after they had waited nearly ten minutes, ' Ruth, 
 and Mrs Clifford, and my aunt. How long you have kept us !' 
 pursued Florence, addressing Ruth, as the party came up. 
 
 ' Ruth,' obsen'ed Alice, * you look pale ; are you ill ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you.' 
 
 If Ruth was not ill she was very nervous and hurried. Alice 
 asked her again if anything was the matter. 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing ! ' She put her arm within that of Florence, 
 and walked on very fast. 
 
 2 K
 
 5 1 4 LAN ETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 Alice was more hurt than angry. This second appearance of 
 neglect was more than she could well bear. 
 
 They now began to descend a winding path, through the low 
 shrubs and copscwood which covered the ravine between the 
 castle and the watch-tower hill. The way was rough, and only 
 one person could go abreast. Their progress was not very 
 speedy, and Florence and Ruth were soon cut of sight. 
 
 ' Ruth has forgotten her sketching-book,' said Mrs Clifford ; 
 ' do, Alice, run after her, and beg them not to go so fast, we 
 shall never be able to keep up with them.' 
 
 And Alice hastened on, thinking that she should overtake 
 Ruth almost immediately ; this, however, was not so easily 
 done. Ruth and Florence walked quickly, and when Alice 
 reached a spot where two ways met, she found nothing to show 
 her in which direction to proceed. She took the one which 
 appeared the least overgrown, and proceeded for some little 
 distance, though without seeing any sign of her companions. 
 Then she thought it would be better to go back ; but by this time 
 Mrs Clifford and the rest of the party had passed the turning, and 
 taken the contrary path, so that Alice was left behind by all. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 IN the meantime Ruth had hurried Florence, forward with the 
 intention of outstripping the rest of the party, and when 
 they reached a sufficient distance she stopped for a moment, 
 and exclaimed, * O Florence ! this unhappy business with 
 Justine, it has made me miserable. I have done so wi-ong !' 
 
 ' How ? wliat can have happened 1 ' asked Florence, turning 
 pale. 
 
 * 1 have deceived,' exclaimed Ruth, in a tone of bitter self- 
 reproach ; ' I have deceived mamma, wilfully. I have all but 
 told a story. What will she think of me ? ' 
 
 * Ruth, what do you mean ? what can Mrs Clifford know ? ' 
 
 * I cannot tell v/iiat she has heard,' replied Ruth, ' but she 
 must have some susi)icions ; not about me though ; she would 
 never suspect me, and that makes it much worse ; and I never 
 meant to deceive her ; I would not do it for all the world. 
 Florence, I am so very unhappy ! '
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 515 
 
 'Pray be quick/ exclaimed Florence, hastening on; 'we 
 shall be overtaken in a minute, and I must understand what 
 you are talking of.' 
 
 ' Mamma stopped me as we left the dinner-table,' said Ruth. 
 ' She looked very anxious and worried, and asked me if you 
 had not a friend staying with you. I said, " Yes." Then she 
 asked me if she was not a French girl, who was going to be 
 governess to Agnes, and I said " Yes " too. Then she wanted 
 to know if I had ever seen her, and I was puzzled what to say, 
 wliea Mrs De Lacy came up to us ; she had heard just the last 
 words, and said, " Oh ! it is Mademoiselle Veray you are 
 talking of .-^ " Mamma turned to me and said — " That was not 
 the name of the young lady whom you knew at Mrs Carter's, 
 was it, Ruth 1 " ' 
 
 ' Of course you said No,' interrupted Florence. 
 
 * Yes, I did not know what else to say, but I was wretched 
 directly I had done it ; and mamma smiled, and said she was 
 glad to hear that it was not the same person ; and then Mrs 
 De Lacy went on talking about Justine, and remarked what a 
 pleasing girl she was, and asked if I did not think so. She 
 said that you had recommended her, and that you had a good 
 many French acquaintances ; and she seemed to think that 
 Justine had never been in any situation as governess before ; 
 and all the time I was obliged to let everything go on as if I 
 did not know a word about it. Florence, I cannot bear to 
 deceive mamma, and I must tell her.' 
 
 ' If you do,' said Florence, quickly, ' you will break your 
 word, and destroy Justine's prospects for life.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry for Justine,' said Ruth ; ' I would help her 
 if I possibly could, but there is nothing else to be done ; and 
 for my promise, you know that it was made only for a time. I 
 had no idea of always keeping a secret from my mother.' 
 
 ' Then you should not have given your word,' persisted Ilor- 
 ence. ' Justine and I have depended upon you, and have 
 made all our arrangements under the belief that you v;ould not 
 break it. If you betray us, Justine will be injured for life.' 
 
 ' You have ne\cr told me yet how that could be, said Ruth ; 
 'all I have heaid has been from Alice.' 
 
 ' I shall wait for Justine to tell you,' replied Florence. ' Her 
 own account will convince you of the truth, far better th.an 
 anything I can say.' 
 
 ' I cannot hear her account/ said Ruth.
 
 5i6 ■ LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Go back with us this evening, and you shall ; I will 
 manage it. At any rate, do not be unjust and condemn her 
 unheard.' 
 
 * If I had not deceived mamma !' said Ruth, speaking to 
 herself. 
 
 * It was not intentional deceit,' replied Florence; 'butwhether 
 it was so or not, this is a case of justice. Justine wrote to you 
 herself, I know, begging you to give her some advice. If you 
 betray her beforehand, I must say it will be, according to my 
 notions, very dishonourable.' 
 
 ' She might trust mamma as well as me, if it were right to 
 keep her secret,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' That is not the question. Justine knows nothing of your 
 mamma, and she does know a great deal of you. She has the 
 greatest respect for you, and I know would take any hints from 
 )ou ; even as to her management of Agnes.' 
 
 * I cannot believe that,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' I do not ask you to believe it on my word. I only ask you 
 to wait till you have seen Justine yourself. You have no idea 
 what she thinks of you. Ruth, you cannot be so unkind as to 
 persist.' 
 
 Ruth looked unhappy, and sat down to rest under the shade 
 of a tree, but would say nothing. Florence repeated her 
 arguments, and became more and more earnest. 
 
 * Your mamma and my aunt are coming,' she said, on hearing 
 voices ; 'have you no pity, Ruth.'" 
 
 But she could not extract another promise. Mrs De Lacy 
 and Mrs Clifford came up to them ; the former quickened 
 her pace on seeing them, and hastily addressing Florence, 
 said — 
 
 ' I have been hearing a strange story from Mrs Clifford, my 
 dear Florence, about a young French governess; Mrs Clifford 
 heard it from Miss Merton ; it made me extremely uncomfort- 
 able for the moment. I began to think' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I know that story,' interrupted Florence. ' You 
 remember, Ruth — the French girl who was at Mrs Carter's.' 
 
 Ruth rose up suddenly in great agitation. Mrs Clifford 
 thought she understood the cause, and hastening to change a 
 conversation which might bring painful recollections to Ruth's 
 mind, said — 
 
 * I have been satisfying Mrs De Lacy's mind ; I told her that 
 Ruth had seen this young lady whom she has engaged as a
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 517 
 
 governess, and knew that she was not the same who vi^^itcd at 
 Mrs Carter's.' 
 
 ' Yes, that day we first met at Redford ; Ruth saw her for 
 an instant,' said Florence to her aunt ; ' but indeed, Aunt De 
 Lacy, I cannot think why Miss Merton should repeat things 
 against persons who cannot defend themselves.' 
 
 ' I daresay she meant no harm,' replied Mrs De Lacy, good- 
 naturedly ; ' but you can imagine I was a little startled for the 
 moment. However, Mrs Clifford's assurance quite satisfied me. 
 ' But how does it happen,' she added, looking round, ' that 
 Miss Lennox is not with you?' 
 
 ' We sent her after you, Ruth, with a sketch-book,' said Mrs 
 Clifford ; ' you must have seen her, surely.' 
 
 ' We walked fast,' observed Florence, delighted at the pros- 
 pect of introducing another subject ; ' had we not better turn 
 back and look for her .'" 
 
 Mrs Clifford objected to this, saying that Ruth appeared 
 already so tired, she thought it would not do for her to go any 
 farther. Colonel Merton just then came up alone. The ladies 
 of his party, he said, were afraid of mounting the hill. He had 
 seen nothing of Alice, but seemed to think it very likely she had 
 mistaken her way. 
 
 ' Yes, just at that turning,' exclaimed Florence, ' where two 
 paths meet. I remember thinking at the time it was very pos- 
 sible.' 
 
 Colonel Merton proposed to return, but Mrs Clifford ap- 
 peared uneasy, and said that she would rather go herself, as 
 Alice was under her charge, * Ruth, my love,' she added, ' you 
 had better not attempt reaching the top of the hill. Wait here 
 till we all come back.' Ruth assented, and Florence insisted 
 on remaining with her. 
 
 Once more Florence and Ruth were alone. Ruth leaned her 
 head upon her hand, gazing vacantly on the scene beneath 
 them. The smooth grass of the watch-tower hill sloped to the 
 edge of the ravine they had just crossed, on the other side of 
 which the gray castle walls were discovered at intervals, amidst 
 the mass of underwood that clothed the descent. Two ruined 
 towers, and the top of the battlemented gateway, were seen to 
 the left, and to the right rose the large trees shadowing the tilt- 
 yard. Between the castle and the sea, where the sides of the 
 ravine were less steep, the land projected in a sliarp point, 
 forming the extremity of a small bay. Several fishins boats
 
 5 1 8 LANETON PARSON A GE. 
 
 lay stranded upon the beach, and two or three skiffs were pa;;s- 
 jng near the shore ; and in the far distance, where the bhie Hne 
 of the sea blended with the warm, misty tints of the horizon, 
 two ships of Avar, crowded with sails, were slowly traversing the 
 wide ocean. It was a very lovely view, and Florence remarked 
 upon it, but Ruth's only reply was a sigh that proceeded from 
 the depths of her heart. Florence asked what was the matter, 
 and Ruth's distress broke forth in a torrent of words — ' Flor- 
 ence was deceitful, misjudging ; she had entered upon a wrong 
 course ; she ought certainly to give up Justine ; it was really 
 wicked to mislead her aunt, besides being foolish. The truth 
 might be discovered at any moment. If Miss Mcrton were to 
 see Justine, it must be known. For herself she was wretched, 
 and resolved no longer to bear the concealment.' To all which, 
 Florence replied much in the same strain as before, urging that 
 Ruth could be no judge of what was right until she had spoken 
 to Justine herself; promising that if there was no opportunity 
 of a conversation, Justine should write full details of every cir- 
 cumstance, and ending with stating that she had no wish to 
 deceive her aunt for a continuance ; she only wished her not to 
 look at Justine with prejudiced eyes. When they should be in 
 France, and Justine should have gained herself a place in Mrs 
 De Lacy's estimation, as she assuredly would do if Ruth would 
 only give her a few notions as to the management of Agnes, the 
 truth was to be told ; it was simply the dread of Mrs Carter's 
 prejudices which induced them both for the present to desire 
 secrecy. This sounded very plausible. Ruth piqued herself 
 upon being reasonable ; she was inclined to come round again ; 
 but then the deceit. Florence perceived that she had gained a 
 step, and turned to another point, one Vv'hich she really felt her- 
 self, and which therefore she spoke of with seriousness. It v.-as 
 the importance to Justine of obtaining a situation ; the distress 
 to which she might be reduced if she could not do so. 
 
 'Justine will go back to her miserable home, Ruth, and be 
 v/retchcd,' she said. ' No one wih help her, and she will be so 
 poor that she will hardly have bread to eat. She told me one 
 day that there have been times when she has had nothing to do, 
 that she and her father have really not known how to get a 
 dinner.' 
 
 Ruth's eyes filled with tears. ' I would give her all my 
 money,' she said, ' if I could ; but I have promised it in the 
 village.'
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 519 
 
 Florence smiled with an air of contempt, and asked if she 
 thoviglit a few sliiilings would keep Justine for life. 
 
 * I was only wishing,' replied Ruth. ' I would do anything 
 to help her except deceive mamma.' 
 
 ' Then be satisfied,' exclaimed Florence. * To-night you 
 shall hear all from Justine herself, and she shall write a letter 
 which you maybe able to show your mamma, explaining ever>'- 
 thing ; and when v.'e are in France, and I tell my aunt, you 
 shall tell Mrs Clifford ; only be kind now.' 
 
 Ruth wavered ; she asked when she should have this written 
 explanation. 
 
 ' Immediately — to-morrow, if possible. Indeed, you shall 
 have it.' 
 
 At that instant a distinct shrill cry broke upon the car. Ruth 
 started up. 
 
 ' Florence, what was that?' Shp seized the arm of Florence 
 and trembled extremely. 
 
 ' I don't know; it is an accident. Something has happened 
 —hark !' 
 
 The cry sounded again more faintly. Colonel Merton ran 
 down the hill. 'Did you hear it?' he said, as he passed. 
 
 'Yes. Vvhatisit? — where? Aunt De Lacy, what is it ?' 
 
 Colonel Ivlerton had rushed on. Mrs De Lacy was beckoning 
 them to follow her by a shorter and steeper path than that by 
 which they had ascended. Florence dragged Ruth after her. 
 Breathless and giddy, they reached the foot of the ravine. 
 
 ' Go, Florence ! For pity's sake, find out what has happened,' 
 exclaimed Mrs De Lacy. ' Take the path to the left ; follow 
 Colonel Merton.' 
 
 Ruth's strength was nearly exhausted ; but she gave no heed 
 to Mrs De Lacy's entreaties that she would remain behind ; 
 and still holding the hand of Florence, they pursued their way 
 amidst the tangled briers along the narrow pathway worn along 
 the top of the ravine. A large oak-tree stood on the bank, it: 
 gnarled trunk and knotted branches spreading themselves out 
 so as completely to obstruct both the pathway and the view, 
 riorence held by the trunk, and with difficulty scrambled over 
 the brambles which grew upon tlie steep edge of the descent. 
 A'oiccs were heard very near below them. 
 
 ' Be quick, Ruth, pray !' she exclaimed. 
 
 Ruth's dress was caught in the briers; it was rent completely 
 across, and they hurried forward.
 
 520 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 'Stop, Ruth— hark !' and Florence stepped forward upon a 
 bank which commanded the whole length of the ravine. A 
 faint scream made Ruth spring to her side, without the power 
 of asking the cause. 
 
 Below, upon a smooth space of grass, Alice lay, pale as 
 death, her head resting upon Mrs Clifford's lap ; her eyes nearly 
 closed, and the marks of severe bruises upon her face. Colonel 
 l^Ierton and several gentlemen were near^ and on the summit of 
 the castle wall above there stood a party anxiously looking on, 
 and entreating to be told how they might render assistance. 
 Ruth's first impulse was to slide down the bank and reach her 
 mamma ; but the descent was not practicable, and when she 
 spoke no one answered or noticed her. Alice was not senseless, 
 for she gave signs of suffering extreme pain. The sound of her 
 voice, though it was heard only in a groan, relieved Ruth's ex- 
 treme anxiety ; whatever had happened, Alice was not dead. 
 Mrs Clifford retained her usual calm self-possession, and de- 
 cided at once what it would be best to do. A pathway was 
 hastily cleared by some of the gentlemen, and Colonel Merton 
 then lifted Alice gently in his arms and carried her, though 
 slowly and with difficulty, up the steep bank. 
 
 Florence and Ruth could see no more. When the last of the 
 party had disappeared, Ruth sat down on the grass and burst 
 into tears. Florence looked about to discover how the accident 
 had happened. 
 
 ' She must have been clambering over the wall and have 
 fallen,' she said. ' Yes, there are the marks all the way from 
 the top. See, Ruth, above.' 
 
 Ruth turned, and saw at once what had occurred. Alice, 
 finding herself alone, had amused herself by exploring the ruins, 
 and having no one to guide her, had ventured upon a danger- 
 ous part ; the loose stones had given way, and she had been 
 precipitated over the walls half v/ay down the bank. The 
 height of the walls at that particular spot was not very great, 
 and her descent had been broken by the undenvood ; but a 
 large stone lay close by llie spot on which she had been ex- 
 tended, showing the fearful peril from which, by a merciful 
 Providence, she had been in a great measure saved. 
 
 Ruth passed her hand for an instant before her eyes ; partly 
 to shut out from view the horrible probability which imagina- 
 tion presented, partly from the deep feeling of awe, which made 
 her utter a silent thanksgiving for Alice's preser\-ation. Then.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 521 
 
 without speaking another word, she turned slowly away and 
 retraced her steps to the spot where Mrs De Lacy was waiting 
 for them. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 '"PHERE were lights shining through the windows of the 
 -L Manor the whole of that night ; moving, flickering, now 
 clear, now dim, at intervals entirely disappearing ; but there 
 was one which never changed ; it burned with a dull flame, 
 immovable as the dark, silent figure which sat by the table on 
 which it was placed, neither reading, nor speaking, nor praying, 
 save in the secrecy of the sorrowful heart, open only to the Eye 
 of God. Lady Catharine watched by Alice's bedside, though 
 she was told that watching was unnecessary. Alice had 
 received a severe injur)', but she was young and of a vigorous 
 constitution, and many who had suffered more severely had 
 speedily recovered— a night's rest might do wonders. This was 
 the opinion of Lady Catharine's medical attendant, and there 
 was nothing in it to excite alarm ; yet Lady Catharine resisted 
 all Marsham's persuasions to leave the task of nursing to her, 
 and not consenting even to rest on the sofa so as to be within 
 call, which was all that was really required, devoted the weary 
 hours of the night to meditation and prayer. There was much 
 to engage her mind. We say that death is near us at every 
 moment ; but perhaps we seldom actually realise the truth, 
 until we have been unexpectedly brouglit in contact with it. 
 Alice had escaped an imminent peril ; but the escape brought 
 many most painful thoughts to Lady Catharine's remembrance. 
 It almost forced her to recall the distressing doubts which had 
 harassed her since her conversation with I\Ir Clifford. One of 
 the common arguments which she herself had often used, and 
 had heard others use, to bring young persons to a sense of their 
 religious obligations, was ' If you are not fit for confirmation 
 and the Holy Communion, you are not fit to die.' Alice had been 
 all but pronounced unfit for confirmation ; and God had been 
 pleased to bring her awfully near to death. However insen- 
 sible she might be to the risk she had run, and the Providence 
 which had preserved her. Lady Catharine saw it full well. With 
 that one most terrible doubt as to the state of Alice's heart.
 
 522 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 came the others which, from Lady Catharine's sincerity of pur- 
 pose, necessarily accompanied them ; and the most rigid earthly 
 scrutiniser of human motives must have been satisfied by her 
 survey of her own conduct with regard to Alice. On no occa- 
 sion had it been made more carefully or more truly ; for Mr 
 Clifford's suggestions had taken root in a mind which, how- 
 ever naturally prejudiced, was never wilfully shut against truth." 
 
 They were sad thoughts for the still, silent night, and when 
 morning dawned, Lady Catharine's face told the mental as well 
 as physical fatigue which she had been enduring. But her 
 spirit was still unfailing ; she gave all the necessary orders for 
 the day ; took her brealcfast as usual, and not till eleven o'clock, 
 when the medical man had again seen Alice, and pronounced 
 that she was going on well, allowed herself to have two or three 
 hours' rest. And during all that time no one would have 
 imagined that Lady Catharine had any thoughts or any fears 
 beyond those which the state of circumstances might naturally 
 occasion. When she went to Alice and asked whether she 
 would like to have prayers read for her, or would prefer repeat- 
 ing them for herself, no one would have supposed that the answer 
 was listened for with the most intense anxiety, as an indication 
 of the tone of Alice's mind. And when Alice asked for a book, 
 and Lady Catharine remarked that she had not herself read the 
 Psalms and Lessons for the day, no one would have discovered 
 any change of countenance to show the sinking of heart with 
 w^hich the reply was received — ' I don't think I can attend to 
 those things now. I should like something amusing.' 
 
 Alice was suffering much pain at the time : possibly she 
 might not have been able to fix her thoughts seriously; but 
 Lady Catharine read in the v/ords that the will was wanting, 
 and she turned away because Alice should not see her tears. 
 
 'Has anyone been here from the Parsonage, Marsham?' 
 said Alice, groaning with pain, as she tried to move. 
 
 * A message to know how you were, miss ; nothing else.' 
 
 ' Some one will come, I hope,' said Alice. ' I wish Ruth 
 v.'ould. Give me a book, please, Marsham.' 
 
 The book was given, and tlie pages were turned over ; but 
 Alice's head was not in any state for reading. It was swollen 
 from a severe bruise, and ached and throbbed till she could not 
 bear it ; and again she inquired for Ruth. 
 
 ' Lady Catliarine wanted to kno^v if you would like to be 
 read to just now. Miss Lennox,' said Marsham. ' Please to
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 523 
 
 keep your hand down, and be still ; the doctor says you must 
 be quiet.' 
 
 ' I can't, Marsham, my head is so \'cry bad. Lady Catha- 
 rine wanted to read the Psalms and Lessons ; but I can't 
 attend.' 
 
 ' Her ladyship would have rend anything you hked,' ob- 
 served Marsham. * She was all in a fidget to do something for 
 you.' 
 
 ' .jlie is not here, is sh.e .'" said Alice, in a whisper, and trying 
 to look round. 
 
 ' Oh. no, miss; she has gone to lie down ; you know she sat 
 up with you all night.' 
 
 Alice looked surprised. ' Did she t I was so stupid, so dizzy, 
 I did not know who was here exactly. Is she very tired.-" 
 
 ' More so a great deal than she will say, I suspect,' said 
 Marsham. ' Her ladyship is not a person to make complaints, 
 you know. Miss Lennox.' 
 
 ' It was very kind of her. Oh, my head ! Marsham, do 
 make the bandage loose.' 
 
 ' My lady would not let anybody do anything fjr you but 
 herself, if she could help it,' said Marsham, in a tone of some 
 irritation. ' There is nobody like her for a nurse wlicn any- 
 thing is the matter.' 
 
 'Yes, I daresay. IVIarsham, how you hurt me !' 
 
 Marsham loosened the bandage, but not the inore gently for 
 Alice's exclamation. ' My lady was always famed for a kind 
 heart,' continued Marsham. ' I have lived with her now fifteen 
 years, and I never knew her once hear of any one being ill 
 without helping to the very utmost.' 
 
 '' That is why she wants to nurse me then,' said Alice, shortly, 
 but less pettishly. 
 
 ' O Miss Lennox ; you don't think that ? ' 
 
 'No ! why not?' asked Alice. 
 
 * Because you knov/ you are different from anybody elsev.-ith my 
 lady. We all say, very often, that it is quite wonderful how fond 
 she is of you ; but then she was so fond of your poor mamma.' 
 
 * Fond of me !' repeated Alice to herself; and then she 
 added aloud, ' IMarsham, do you remember my maiiima v»ell.'' 
 
 ' Remember her. Miss Lennox ! yes, indeed. It would be 
 strange indeed if I could forget her. Such a sweet face she 
 had, and her ways so gentle !' 
 
 This was said v.-ith rather a severe glance at .\lice, which,
 
 524 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 however, was not noticed. — ' I used to take her fruit from my 
 lady nearly every day,' continued Marsham. ' It was my lady's 
 own wish that I should go, because she said I could tell better 
 than any one else what Avas wanted. There she used to be 
 sitting up by the window, with the little round table, that my 
 lady gave her on her birthday, always by her side, and her 
 books upon it, and the greenhouse flowers put in so beautifully. 
 ■Sly lady dressed the flowers for her everj' day when she went 
 to see her. Your poor mamma had a great fancy for flowers ; 
 and when she took to her bed she used to have them always 
 lying by her. And then my lady would sit by and look at her; 
 and sometimes I used to catch a few words when I came in, 
 and it was almost always about you, Miss Lennox.' 
 
 Alice again put her hand to her head to alter the bandage : 
 but this time she did not complain. 
 
 ' One day, I remember especially,' continued Marsham, 'your 
 poor mamma had been very ill — so faint they could hardly keep 
 her alive ; but she was a little better, and my lady was putting 
 eau de Cologne and water to her forehead. Your mamma 
 looked up and smiled, and said something about " always 
 kind," and just then you peeped in at the door, and my lady 
 made a sign to you to go away, and when you were gone I 
 heard her say, " You will not mind my sending Alice away, it 
 is only for your sake." Your mamma's answer was spoken out 
 so strong. Miss Lennox. " She is your child," she said ; and 
 my lady stooped down, and whispered something very low, 
 which I could not hear ; but your mamma answered, " God 
 bless you and reward you," and then you were called in and my 
 lady kissed you.' 
 
 ' I think I remember the kiss,' said Alice, thoughtfully. 
 
 * My lady's manner changed to you from that day, Miss 
 Alice,' continued Marsham. ' It seemed to me as if she began 
 to give you the love which was your poor mamma's. I don't 
 mean that she did not go on loving her ; but it was in a dif- 
 ferent way. Your mamma was so ill, there seemed to be no 
 reason to care about any common things for her ; only just to 
 make her as comfortable as could be for the time. There were 
 no troubles about money and dress, and such things for her ; 
 she was gone beyond them. She looked like an angel ; and 
 my lady used sometimes to say to me that she could hardly 
 fancy it right to talk about common things before her ; and so 
 all her anxiety, in a way, went to you, Miss Alice'
 
 LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 523 
 
 Alice shut her eyes ; it might have been eitlicr from pain of 
 body or of mind. 
 
 'Shall you be going to sleep now, do you think ?' inquired 
 Jilarsham. 
 
 ' I don't know — I am not sleepy. When will Lady Catharine 
 come back .'' ' 
 
 ' Not for a long time, I hope,' answered Marsham. * She will 
 wear herself out if she goes on as she has begun.' 
 
 * Then, Marsham, you may give me the Prayer Book, and I 
 will try to read the Psalms.' 
 
 Marsham gave it, with an injunction that she was to leave off 
 directly she found the reading tire her head ; and Alice soon 
 laid the book down, and fell into a disturbed sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 b 
 
 LADY CATHARINE was sitting in Alice's morning room; 
 it was the first day that Alice had been allowed to leave 
 her bed. It gave her much pain still to be dressed, and she 
 was weakened by all she had suffered. A short illness will 
 sometimes make a great change in a young person, and Alice 
 was looking very unwell. She lay upon the sofa at work, and 
 seemed to be thinking more than usual. Lady Catharine re- 
 garded her silently and anxiously. Now and then Alice asked 
 a fe-,v questions, rather, it seemed, because she thought she 
 ou;.;);i to talk, than from any wish for conversation, and fre- 
 quently had recourse to a book. When Lady Catharine was 
 califed out of the room, Alice drew a paper from her work- 
 basket, and read it with much attention. It was in Madeline's 
 handwriting. Lady Catharine's re-entrance made her fold it 
 up, and put it again in its hiding-place. In her haste she 
 threw down the basket, and scattered the contents upon the 
 floor. She was not able to pick them up herself, but Lady 
 Catharine did, and as she took up the papers, she said — 
 
 ' Is this from Madeline .'" 
 
 * Yes ;' and Alice coloured. * It was something she sent mc 
 yesterday ; will you give it to me ? ' she held out her hand, 
 which trembled a little.
 
 52 6 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Lady Catharine took hold of it affectionately, and said, 
 ' Poor child ! ' and kissed her. 
 
 Alice held the paper as if fearing either that it should be 
 taken from her, or that some inquiry might be made about it. 
 
 Lady Catharine smoothed her pillow, and proposed that she 
 should have some grapes, which had just been brought in from 
 the hot-house. 
 
 Alice said ' Yes ; ' and thanked her, and looked as if she 
 would have said more, but was afraid. 
 
 Lady Catharine was not quick at interpreting looks. She 
 heard only Alice's ' Thank you ; ' and it was cold to her warm 
 feelings. She sighed, and sat down ; and after a little while 
 left the room again. She had not been long absent, before a 
 lighter and freer step vv'as heard in the gallery ; a gentle knock 
 was given at the door of Alice's room, and, scarcely waiting for 
 the permission to be given, Madeline opened it. The change 
 in Alice's manner was instantaneous. Madeline was told how 
 Alice had slept, how she was then feeling, whether she had 
 enjoyed her dinner ; and being satisfied upon these points, she 
 produced some particularly choice flowers, gathered from her 
 own garden. Lady Catharine would have had real cause to 
 sigh if she had witnessed the hearty gratitude with which this 
 trifling present was received ; yet it might have proved to her, 
 that, whatever might be Alice's defect of manner to herself, 
 there v/as no real coldness of heart. 
 
 'And you have been reading the extracts.'" said IMadeline, 
 observing the corner of the paper half-hidden in the work- 
 basket. ' I was glad papa let me copy them for you. Are 
 they not very nice ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I think so ; I have not read much of them. Lady 
 Catharine said your papa preached a beautiful sermon on Sun- 
 day.' 
 
 ' I longed for you to hear it,' continued Madeline. 
 
 ' Did you .-" and Alice faintly smiled ; ' it would have been 
 no good.' 
 
 * Oh ! but, Alice, pray don't talk so. I thought all that 
 papa says would have brought you round.' 
 
 ' It is very kind in you, Maddy,' replied Alice ; ' I really am 
 very much obliged to you for taking so much trouble, writ- 
 ing all this out for me ; but as things are fixed they must 
 remain.' 
 
 < And Ruth is so strange too,' observed Madeline. ' I hoped
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 527 
 
 she would have talked to you, but I can scarcely make her 
 attend to me. She sits thinking all day nearly.' 
 
 ' Rutli knows it is best to let things remain as they are,' re- 
 peated Alice. 
 
 ' Have you asked her?' inquired Madeline. 
 
 ' No, I have only seen her for a few minutes, twice. We 
 did talk about the confirmation then. Mad you any letters to- 
 day.?' 
 
 This last question was put very abruptly ; and Madeline 
 hastily answered in the negative, and then observed, ' I think 
 Ruth would agree with me, and papa too.' 
 
 * It can make no difference,' replied Alice ; ' I may be very 
 wicked, but I am not a hypocrite.' 
 
 ' If you wish to be confnmcd, there is no hypocrisy in saying 
 so,' observed Madeline. 
 
 Alice shook her head, and answered, that if she ever in- 
 tended to be good, she would be good thoroughly. Lady 
 Catharine had been so kind lately, that she could not pretend 
 anything with her ; besides, she was ill ; she should not be 
 well enough for the confirmation. 
 
 Madeline sat for some minutes with an air of great disap- 
 pointment ; then, leaving her seat, she stood beside Alice, and 
 looking at her earnestly and sorrowfully, said, ' If you were ill, 
 Alice, very ill indeed, you would be extremely sorry not to have 
 been confirmed.' 
 
 ' I do not sec why I should be much more soriy about it 
 then than now,' answered Alice. 
 
 ' Don't you ? It seems to me as if you must be. If you 
 were confirmed you might receive the Holy Communion.' 
 
 Alice raised herself on the sofa, and said eagerly, ' Maddy, 
 do not talk of that.' 
 
 ' But I must, Alice ; you must let me indeed,' continued 
 Madeline. ' I would try not to vex you, but it will be such a 
 weight on my mind if you do not let me tell you ; ' and, finding 
 Alice did not again interrupt her, she went on : ' the evening 
 you were brought home I seemed to think only about your pain ; 
 I did not imagine there could be any danger ; but the next day 
 Marsham told mamma she thought you were more hurt than 
 people fancied, and she was afraid of fever. Mamma said this 
 to papa before me ; I don't think she cjuite meant me to hear, 
 but I happened to be coming into the room. I was dreadfully 
 frightened, and I began talking to papa all about you, and
 
 52 8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 about — you must not mind, Alice ; you know it was only our 
 fear — about — that perhaps you might not get well. He seemed 
 very unhappy indeed. I had never seen him in such a way 
 before, and at last something was mentioned about the con- 
 firmation ; and then, Alice, do you know, I saw the tears in 
 his eyes — real tears ; I had never seen any man cry before, and 
 I scarcely believed till then that men could cry ; but papa was 
 just like one of us then, and he said it was such a grief to him 
 to think that you had not appeared to care about your con- 
 firmation, because it showed that your mind was not in a right 
 state ; and he went on to say that it would have been a great 
 blessing if you had been confirmed, or if you were really fit for 
 it and anxious about it ; because then, if you were to be worse, 
 he might give you the Holy Communion.' 
 
 * If I was not confirmed?' inquired Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, because it does not say in the Prayer Book, that per- 
 sons must be confirmed first ; only that they must be, if they 
 can.' 
 
 Alice appeared to be struck by a new and veiy serious idea, 
 but one which perplexed her. * I should not be sure of going 
 to Heaven,' she replied, ' even if I were to receive the Com- 
 munion.' 
 
 * That was what I said,' exclaimed Madeline. ' I could not 
 understand papa at first. I could not think how it could be of 
 such great consequence ; but papa grew so very, very earnest. 
 He said that, of course, receiving the Holy Communion would 
 not save us ; and if we received it unprepared it would be harm 
 to us instead of good : but that none of us knew the great 
 blessing we missed by neglecting it. And then he read to me 
 parts of the sixth chapter of St John, ^vhich is all about it ; and 
 certainly the words seemed much more solemn than they had 
 ever done before. They made me feel as if I could not bear to 
 die before I had received it, and as if I could not bear that you, 
 or any one I loved, should do so either.' 
 
 'And did you come to talk about this to-day.'" inquired 
 Alice. 
 
 * Partly. I was afraid ; but still it was in my mind so much, 
 I thouglit I must say it. O Alice, dear Alice ! if you would 
 only think of these things !' 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the return of Lady 
 Catharine. Madeline rose hurriedly and wished Alice good- 
 bye ; then, recollecting herself, inquired if she could take back
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 529 
 
 any message or parcel to the Parsonage ; and hearing tliat thore 
 was nothing to be said, only the report that Alice was much th^ 
 same, she departed. 
 
 Alice closed her eyes but not to sleep ; rather to repeat, and 
 think upon, and vainly try to forget the eager winning words, 
 * O Alice ! dear Alice ! if you would only think of these 
 things !' 
 
 CHAPTER LVir. 
 
 \ LICE'S first visitor from the Parsonage the following day 
 •^^ was Ruth. They met in Alice's bedroom, for she was 
 not able to leave it till late in the morning. Ruth came in very 
 differently from Madeline — slowly, and with a very grave pre- 
 occupied air. She asked the ordinary questions as to how 
 Alice had slept, and whether she was in much pain ; and then 
 she put a shabby-looking paper into Alice's hand, saying : 'Read 
 that, and tell me what you think of it. It came from Mrs De 
 Lacy's housekeeper, and contained an apology for returning a 
 parcel which Mrs Clifford had forwarded to Sheldon, as Mrs 
 De Lacy and her family were gone.' The note dropped from 
 Alice's hand. 
 
 'Gone!' she exclaimed, 'gone! where to.'' — what does it 
 mean? — without your hearing from Justine.'" 
 
 * Yes, without a word. I told you Florence prom.ised she 
 should write ; but I have not had a line or a message.' 
 
 Alice's face expressed a strange mixture of feeling ; satisfac- 
 tion for a moment, then regret. 
 
 'And what do you mean to do ?' she inquired. 
 
 ' I don't know ; I cannot think.' 
 
 'Justine must be gone with them,' said Alice. 
 
 ' I suppose so ; but one cannot say.' 
 
 ' Gone as Agnes De Lacy's governess,' said Alice, her coun- 
 tenance becoming even more grave than Ruth's. 
 
 ' Yes, I hope it is all right ; one could not have prevented it ; 
 and, of course, they will write;' but Ruth did not say this as 
 if her conscience was clear, and she repeated a second time, ' I 
 hope it is all right.' 
 
 ' It cannot be,' sa'd Alice ; ' I must try and tell you now, 
 
 2 L
 
 530 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Ruth, what I could not yesterday ; what I heard from Miss 
 Merton.' 
 
 Ruth brought a chair to the bed-side, and Hstened attentively, 
 yet with the air of one who has no wish to be convinced. Alice 
 was ahvays suffering most in the morning, and her head ached 
 and Avas veiy confused. She told her story with difficulty, and 
 without being clear in the several details. Ruth cross- 
 questioned her rather captiously, and not without commenting 
 severely upon ]\Iiss Merton's imprudence and want of charity 
 in saying so much to a perfect stranger. ' She could not 
 thorouglily believe second-hand stories,' she said ; ' Alice had 
 heard from Miss Merton what Miss Merton had heard from 
 some one else, and what some one else had heard perhaps from 
 another party. It would be a great satisfaction to have 
 Justine's own version to put against all these accusations.' 
 
 * And you expect it .'" inquired Alice. 
 
 * Yes, certainly ; I can account for not hearing. They set 
 off suddenly, and had not time to write.' 
 
 ' Tlien you will say nothing till you do hear?' continued 
 Alice. 
 
 The question made Ruth shrink. She began to reason, as 
 she always did when unpleasant tilings were brought before 
 her. She said why it would be right to tell her mamma at 
 once, and why it would not be right ; but the one right was put 
 in few words, tlie other in many ; and the many gained the 
 victoiy, Ruth believing still that she had stated the case fairly. 
 * Florence,' she said, ' had certainly appeared candid and well- 
 intentioned, in all that had passed when they met at St Cu'.h- 
 bert's, and Justine might be open to good influence, even at a 
 distance. It would be a pity to ilirow them off, unless it was 
 absolutely necessary. When all the statements on both sides 
 could be placed before Mrs Clifford and Lady Catharine, th.en 
 would be the time to acknowledge what they had done : till 
 then it would not be fair. It would be best therefore to wait.' 
 
 This was the determination with which they parted, Ruth to 
 return to the Parsonage, Alice to be assisted by Marsham in 
 dressing for her early dinner. 
 
 Ruth seemed strangely forgetful, strangely unmindful of the 
 tacit falsehood which had pressed so heavily on her conscience 
 on the day of tlie picnic at St Cuthbert's. But she was not 
 really so. She was often very unhappy ; the more so, because, 
 e\cn according to her own false views of duty, ho*- motives were
 
 LANETON PARS ON A GE. 531 
 
 not as pure as they had been. Ruth was becoming afraid of 
 looking at her own conduct; afraid of acknowledging what she 
 had been a party to. Every fresh step whicli Florence took, 
 lind every new light which was thrown upon Justine's character, 
 told against them. Ruth said to Alice that it was only possible 
 Justine might be gone with Mrs De Lacy, but she had no 
 doubt of the fact herself. She implied also that Miss Merton's 
 testimony was not fully to be credited, but she knew that it was 
 supported by Mrs Carter, and probably by Mary Vernon. 
 Still Ruth's cleverness came to her aid ; and crushing the pang 
 which accompanied the recollection of her deceit to her mother, 
 by persuading herself that all would be well when she was able 
 to acknowledge it, she carried on her plausible arguments till 
 she really fancied herself convinced that, to use her old 
 fa\-ourite phrase, she was acting for the best. Ruth's self- 
 deception was great, and her mode of self-examination did not 
 enable her to discover what she was really doing. The past 
 was really past to her. Because it was beyond recall, she was 
 apt to forget that it was not therefore beyond repentance. We 
 travel away from our actions, and because we do not still see 
 them, think that they have ceased to be. Alas ! for us, if we do 
 not awaken to a sense of the truth, until we arc brought face to 
 face again with our own lives before the judgment-seat of God. 
 
 All this time Ruth was exercising an influence which she 
 little suspected. 
 
 Madeline's earnestness was not entirely thrown away upon 
 Alice. She had to bear hours of pain, and watchfulness, 
 and solitude ; and in those hours she had leisure for thought. 
 She knew that she had been saved from a great peril, and she 
 was not unthankful for the mercy ; and at times she began to 
 jionder very seriously upon tire uncertainty of life, the danger 
 of procrastination, and the peace, and hope, and comfort 
 which Madeline seemed to find in religion. 'Almost sh( 
 was persuaded to be a Christian ; ' a Christian, that is, in the 
 inv.-ard devotion of the heart, as well as in that real and solemn 
 sense in which all are Christians who have been admitted into 
 covenant with God by baptism. But tliore was a stumbling- 
 block in her way. Alice gave a true character of herself 
 when she said that she was no hypocrite. She might be 
 indifferent, and take the ordinances of religion as things of course, 
 biit she could not bring herself, after what had passed, to make 
 any peculiar profession of sincerity, unless she intended to act
 
 532 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 up to it. She had deceived Lady Catharine with regard to her 
 acquaintance with Florence. She could not go to be confirmed 
 with a clear conscience, unless this fault was acknowledged. 
 Ijut the acknowledgment would bring to light all which Ruth 
 still thought fit to keep secret, and therefore it could not be 
 made. Alice was in a measure relieved when she came to this 
 decision. It set the question of her confirmation nearly at rest. 
 June was passing on rapidly ; day after day went by, and 
 nothing was heard either of Florence or Justine. Alice said to 
 Madeline that there were reasons why she could not be con- 
 firmed ; that she had made up her mind not to be ; to Ruth 
 she said nothing, because the subject was disagreeable to both ; 
 to Mr Clifford she was even more reserved than before ; to 
 Lady Catharine she was coldly acquiescent ; and in her own 
 heart she was wretched. 
 
 This state of things lasted for nearly a fortnight. During 
 that time Alice made considerable progress towards recovery, 
 and was allowed to go out of doors. She moved with difficulty, 
 and was soon tired, but the change was pleasant to her ; and 
 if she had been happy- in her mind, she might have begun to 
 look upon her position in life with greater satisfaction. Lady 
 Catharine's attention was unceasing ; she was at Alice's call at 
 any hour, and on any occasion. Nothing appeared a trouble ; 
 no request was considered inconvenient. Illness destroyed the 
 formality of a strict household ; and as Alice could not 
 offend against laws which she was not now required to keep, 
 Lady Catharine's genuine kindness of heart had its full 
 scope. 
 
 Alice was touched by this unselfish affection. It would pro- 
 bably have gone far in breaking down the barriers of reserve 
 between herself and Lady Catharine, if there had been no cir- 
 cumstances to throw a restraint over all which she herself did 
 and said. The thoughts which were working in her breast, the 
 longings for a stricter, holier life, the repentance for past negli- 
 gences, would have been welcomed as the sunshine of life, but 
 they were never known. And Lady Catharine pursued her daily 
 course of unremitting, affectionate watchfulness, burdened with 
 the secret dread that all the mercy which had been shown to 
 Alice was unacknowledged — that her heart was insensible to reli- 
 gion, and that if death were then to meet her, it would find her 
 unprepared, unrepentant, without faith in her Saviour, without 
 a wish or thought for confirmation, without any desire for that
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 533 
 
 chief support of a Christian in life or death — the inestimable 
 gift of God in the Holy Communion, 
 
 Persons who saw her said that Lady Catharine looked 
 harassed, and was grown more melancholy than ever. No 
 wonder. Anxiety for Alice was corroding all the enjoyment of 
 her life. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 'TT is growing late, Alice, my dear,' said Lady Catharine, as 
 •A- Ruth and Madeline were preparing to draw Alice again 
 in her chair, round the garden, one foggy afternoon. ' Are you 
 not tired.'' You have been out a long time.' 
 
 * A little while longer, if you please,' said Alice, entrcatingly. 
 * I don't feel very tired, and it is extremely pleasant.' 
 
 ' You ought not to be at all tired, my love ; you have not had 
 much to make you so. Mr Nichols says you ought to improve 
 faster.' 
 
 * I am a great deal better. I shall be able to walk alone 
 before very long,' replied Alice. 
 
 * I hope before the confirmation,' Madeline was going to say ; 
 but she checked, herself. 
 
 Lady Catharine looked unhappy, and walked aside a few 
 paces ; then returning, she told Alice that she was going into 
 the village for a little while, and that when she came back it 
 would be quite time for her to go in. 
 
 The conversation did not proceed very freely even when Lady 
 Catharine was gone ; for the confirmation was now a forbidden 
 subject, and the allusion to it was painful to them all. At 
 another time it would have afforded a fertile subject for discus- 
 sion. Alice was interested in many of the village girls who 
 were going to be confirmed ; but she did not choose to make 
 inquiries about them. The restraint Avas destroying the 
 l^leasure of their being together, and when Alice said she would 
 go in, no one objected. Marsham, Alice's constant attendant, 
 was not in the house, and whilst waiting for her to assist in 
 helping Alice up-stairs, and taking off her walking-dress, they 
 all sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Alice did not 
 consider whether it was prudent or not, and Ruth and Madeline 
 had nev^r yet learnpd th§ lessons of caution which Sfid Gxperi*
 
 53-; LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ence of illness alone can give. The cold air blew pleasantly 
 upon them, and when Ruth said that they were silling in a 
 draught, Alice declared it was very agreeable. Lady Catharine 
 returned, went into the garden, and heard that Miss Lennox 
 was gone in. This sounded very prudent, and Lady Catharine 
 was satisfied, and went away again to attend to some other 
 duties. Marsham also came home, and supposing that AHce 
 was safely in her room, as she was not in the garden, sat down 
 to tea, and did not think of going to her till the bell rang. 
 
 By the time the striking of the clock reminded Ruth that 
 they must go back to the Parsonage Alice was chilly and 
 uncomfortable, and more inclined to wish for a fire than to 
 delight in a cool breeze. 
 
 When Alice went to bed her limbs were aching ; she had a 
 violent pain in her chest, and considerable fever. Lady Catha- 
 rine was uneasy, and Marsham angry. Alice was generally 
 considered strong ; but no constitution, as Marsham emphatic- 
 ally declared, can stand sitting in a draught. She was not 
 at all better the next morning. Orders were given that she 
 should be kept in bed, and she had no wish to rebel ; only she 
 wished for society, and asked many times for Madeline and 
 Ruth. They were later in their visit this day than usual. 
 Lady Catharine told Alice that Mr Clifford was gone to see his 
 sister-in-law. Mrs Cliflbrd was not very well, and Ruth and 
 Madeline did not like to leave her. The information was very 
 disappointing to Alice; and if she had ever doubted the truth 
 of anything spoken at the Parsonage, she could have doubted 
 this. Mrs Clifford could not want them both ; so unselfish as 
 she was, surely she could spare one of them for an hour ! 
 Alice asked again and again whether anything or any person 
 had come from the Parsonage, and fretted hereself into an in- 
 creased fever at the continual answer in the negative. At 
 length she did learn something ; one of the housemaids, when 
 jMarsham was absent, told her that Mr Clifford had called that 
 morning very early, immediately after breakfast. She heard 
 him say that he was sorry he was obliged to go to Mrs Mor- 
 daunt's. He had a long talk with Lady Catharine for nearly 
 an hour — and some one from tlie Parsonage had brought word 
 in the course of the day that Mrs Clifford and the young ladies 
 had seemed very much worried after the letters came in. The 
 curiosity of Alice — a curiosity not unmingled with fear — was ex- 
 cited to the highest pitch by this informatioT>, It was told her
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 535 
 
 shortly, and when the sen^ant was gone she had no one of whom 
 slie could venture to ask questions. Marsham was more strict 
 and particular than even Lady Catharine herself; and to all 
 Alice's inciuirics as to news from tlic Parsonage, replied she 
 must keep herself quiet, or she would be dreadfully ill. Lady 
 Catharine came in and out of the room very frequently ; but 
 her face was not to be read, though her manner was altered; 
 and sometimes she stood and looked fixedly at Alice for a few 
 moments, and in her deep, sorrowful voice, asked how she was ; 
 but she did not offer to read to her, and she did not sit by the 
 bed working. The spirit of restlessness and disquietude seemed 
 to possess her. Alice bore with this uncertainty the greater 
 part of the day ; but every hour increased her uneasiness. 
 Letters, she thought, could only mean letters from France, prob- 
 ably containing some unpleasant news from Florence. Lady 
 Catharine's strange silence, slie was sure, was caused by some- 
 thing on her mind, and it must be something about her. Mr 
 Clifford must have heard from Ruth how they had been acting ; 
 he must have called in the morning to speak to Lady Catharine 
 about it. Alice had nothing to distract her mind from these 
 conjectures, except the pain in her head and the oppression on 
 her chest, which began rapidly to increase. The measures 
 which were taken to relieve this were a little occupation to her ; 
 but she could not sleep, and her inquiries for Ruth became more 
 and more urgent. She was always impatient, and illness only 
 increased the feeling ; and at length she summoned courage to 
 ask Lady Catharine if anything was the matter. Lady Catha- 
 rine's cold answer was, ' Nothing that I can talk to you about 
 now, my dear,' and Alice's suspicions became a certainty. She 
 mentioned Ruth's name, and Lady Catharine's face was ominous 
 of evil. Ruth might possibly come in the evening, she said ; 
 but Alice must rest contented without her. Alice could bear it 
 no longer, and in her agitation she forgot all prudence, and en- 
 treated that Ruth might come to her, if it were only for half an 
 hour. She could not be happy ; she could not possibly sleep 
 till she had seen her. Lady Catharine gave no promise ; but 
 at length went away, leaving Alice with a hope that she was 
 about to send a message to bring Ruth to the Manor. 
 
 Alice became quieter then ; she was really ill, and unequal 
 to much thought ; and in the expectation of Ruth's arrival, her 
 mind sank into that passive state which helplessness and weak- 
 ness will sometimes bring.
 
 536 LANE TON PARSONAGE, 
 
 As the time drew near when Ruth might come, her excite- 
 ment revived again. She hstened to every sound, fancying that 
 she heard footsteps and voices when there were none ; and 
 made Marsham prop up her pillows and help her to sit uprighL 
 She was so eager, and her cheek was so flushed, that Mar- 
 sham's injunctions to keep quiet were repeated oftener than 
 ever. All Alice would say was, ' I am quiet ; I only want to 
 see Ruth. Is not that her step in the passage ? Pray, Mar- 
 sham, look.' Marsham soon gave up looking ; for Ruth did 
 not come, though a much longer time elapsed than would have 
 brought her from the Parsonage. When Alice heard at last 
 that Miss Clifford was in the house, but that Lady Catharine 
 was talking to her in the breakfast-room, she burst into tears, 
 declaring that they were all cruel — Ruth worse than any ; and 
 Marsham went away, thinking that Lady Catharine's authority 
 was necessary. Alice's uncertainty lasted for about ten minutes 
 longer ; at the expiration of that time Ruth tapped gently at 
 the door. She came into ^the room with her bonnet on and 
 her veil down, and Alice could not clearly see her face. She 
 went up to the bed. Alice flung her arm round her and ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 * Thank you ; now it will all be well. Tell me the whole, 
 Ruth, at once.' 
 
 Ruth sat down without uttering a word. 
 
 ' Take off your bonnet — I can't see you — the room is dark — ■ 
 I want to look at you,' said Alice. 
 
 Ruth untied the strings of her bonnet. 
 
 * Cut the veil — I can't see you now ; please take it all off. 
 Ruth, dear, how strange you are ! ' 
 
 Ruth put up her hand, but it shook violently. 
 
 Alice touched her. * Ruth, pray speak — what is it ? ' 
 
 Ruth slowly took off her bonnet, turning aside her head as 
 
 she did so, and said, in a constrained voice, ' Alice, are you 
 
 better ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; but Ruth, don't speak so ; you frighten me. Why 
 won't you look at me ? ' 
 
 Ruth looked, and tried to force a smile. Ilcr cheek was 
 quite colourless, except where there was a red dark line under 
 the eye, which, with the swollen eyelids, marked that she had 
 been crying. 
 
 Alice became calmer in manner as she was more frightenecl. 
 ' Ruth,' she said, ' you have had bad jicws ? '
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE, 537 
 
 *Wc are all well at the Parsonage,' was Ruth's answer. 
 ' We think about you very much.' 
 
 ' But you are altered ; I can't understand you. You have 
 had news, I am sure you have, from Florence or Justine.' 
 
 Alice was looking steadily at Ruth as she spoke ; she saw 
 her countenance change. ' It is about them ; there is some- 
 thing. O Ruth ! tell me.' 
 
 'Alice, you must be quiet; Lady Catharine will never forgive 
 
 ' But I must know ; ' and Alice's eyes flashed, and she 
 grasped Ruth's hand witli an unnatural strength. 'Ruth, if 
 )ou do not tell me I shall go wild. What have you heard ? 
 Where is Justine .'' ' 
 
 Ruth shuddered. She bent her head upon the pillow, and 
 said, 'Justine is dead !' 
 
 The next instant the bell in Alice's room rang violently ; she 
 had fainted. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 WHEN Ruth was recalled to Alice's chamber, she met 
 Lady Catharine at the door. Her manner was gravely 
 upbraiding. ' I trusted you, Ruth,' she said, 'because I thought 
 you had common sense and self-command ; but you have been 
 most imprudent. Alice, however, will not be satisfied without 
 seeing you again, and you must go to her. Remember her life 
 even may depend upon your caution.' She moved aside, and 
 Ruth passed her in silence. 
 
 Alice now lay quite still, and spoke feebly ; but there was a 
 spot of crimson on her cheek, and her eyes were dull and 
 glassy. ' Tell me about it,' she said, as Ruth sat down by her 
 side ; * it is true, Lady Catharine says so : I thought it was a 
 dream. Was it sudden .'' tell me at once — cjuickly.' 
 
 ' Stop, pray be patient, dear Alice ; they will think it is my 
 fault again if you are worse.' 
 
 ' But was it illness ? — only tell me.' 
 
 ' No, not illness ; pray don't look so eager,' said Ruth, in a 
 broken voice, whilst her breath came and went rapidly. ' She 
 was not ill : — they were in Paris ; — it was an accident.' She
 
 5 38 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 paused for a moment, and then added, ' She was thrown out of 
 a carriage and ' 
 
 * Hurt, was she ? Did she hvc long ? How terrible ! ' and 
 Alice put her hands before her eyes. 
 
 ' No, no ; she did not live. Alice, it is so veiy dreadful ; 
 she was killed, killed on the spot.' 
 
 Ruth sank back in her chair, and tears came to her relief. 
 Alice lay without speech or movement, except that her hands fell 
 powerless by her side. Scarcely a fortnight before, and she too 
 had stood upon the brink of a sudden destruction. Justine had 
 been taken, she had been left. The case might have been re- 
 versed, and then — AUce could not face the thought which 
 presented itself. She turned to Ruth, and said, hastily, ' I 
 should be glad to hear more. Is there more to know?' 
 
 * Yes, much ; a great deal ; the worst of all,' exclaimed 
 Ruth, bitterly. ' O Alice ! we have done very wrong ; I have 
 at least ; and yet I thought I was to make you good, to lead 
 you all right.' 
 
 * But about ' Alice hesitated to pronounce Justine's 
 
 name, 
 
 ' Yes, about her; I know you n^iust want to hear. I was going 
 to bring the letter, but they said I had better not. It was not 
 meant for you to know, if they could have kept it from you. 
 Florence writes very miserably. Justine, she says, was very 
 trying on the journey, full of her own fancies, and they were 
 quite dependent on her, because of her knowledge of the lan- 
 guage and the country. Mrs De Lacy did not mind at first, 
 but after they had been in Paris a few days, there came a letter 
 from tliat Miss Merton we met at St Cuthbert's. She had seen 
 Justine Avith them in London before they set off, and recognised 
 her. She thought Mrs De Lacy must have been deceived by 
 her, and wrote to tell her about it. Mrs De Lacy was extremely 
 angry, and inquired what Florence knew of the matter ; and 
 from what Florence says, she must have made some excuse 
 which satisfied her aunt for the time, and at last she consented 
 to let Justine remain longer.' Here Ruth again paused, as if 
 to recover strength for the continuation of her story. 
 
 Alice whispered, ' (}o on. Florence is beyond my compre- 
 hension.' 
 
 * And so she is beyond mine,' exclaimed Ruth ; * for — Alice, 
 this is to me the very worst part of all — Miss Merton's story is 
 quite true. I have heard this morning from Mary Vernon,
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 539 
 
 Idling me the whole, and more even than you heard. Mary 
 says she writes to me because she is afraid when Florence is at 
 Sheldon I may be drawn in to have something to do with her 
 concerns. It was not merely at Mrs Darnley's that Justine 
 behaved ill; but ever since we left Mrs Carter's, and I am afraid 
 Florence encouraged her at last, because she owns herself to 
 me that slie was forced to assist her in seeing those friends in 
 Paris whom Miss Mcrton spoke of; those, I mean, who were 
 the cause of her leaving the Damleys. Florence says she knows 
 it was not right, but Justine was so very wilful, nothing could 
 stop her when she had set her mind upon anything ; and, if 
 Florence refused, she would be moody, and not speak for hours; 
 and then Mrs De Lacy was cross, and everything went amiss ; 
 so Florence was obliged to humour her.' Ruth hurried the last 
 words, and broke off with the exclamation — ' Alice ! if it had 
 not been for me she might never have gone; yet I did not mean 
 any harm.' 
 
 ' You were not like me,' said Alice ; * you did not deceive 
 because you were afraid.' 
 
 Ruth shrank from the implied superiority, and answered 
 quickly, * Don't compare, Alice ; I cannot bear it ; there is 
 more to be told, but you seem so tired you had better not hear 
 any more.' 
 
 ' Go on, don't wait ; let me hear all before any one comes,' 
 replied Alice, though she looked already exhausted with the 
 fatigue and excitement of listening. 
 
 ' They told me you were extremely ill,' said Ruth, her thoughts 
 now for tlie first time fully directed to Alice's state. 
 
 ' Yes, very ill. Go on,' whispered Alice. 
 
 Ruth regarded her in fear. ' You are very ill,' she said, a 
 dawning of the truth stealing upon her mind. 
 
 ' Go on ; give me a little water ; I shall not be able to hear 
 much, but go on.' 
 
 Ruth gave her the water with a trembling hand. It required 
 some moments to collect again her scattered thoughts, and her 
 voice was nearly choked as she said, ' I told you about Mrs Dc 
 Lacy, that she agreed to allow Justine to stay, partly, I am 
 afraid, because Florence assured her that I knew her and had 
 a good opinion of her, and had thought it best to keep her 
 secret. Florence was going then to let me know all about it ; 
 at least so she says; but I can't quite tell what she would have 
 done : she is \q.x\ strange. But I think she sees she v/as wiong
 
 540 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 now ; Justine's last act' Ruth could hardly finish the sen- 
 tence ; it was indeed awful to think of the tremendous change 
 which had overtaken the unhappy girl, in the very midst of her 
 course of deception and wilfulness. ' She went on, as I told 
 you, in the same way in Paris as she did in England,' continued 
 Ruth, recovering herself. * The same friends were there whom 
 she visited when she was at the Darnleys'. That was the one 
 great reason for her wishing to be abroad, it seems. Mrs De 
 Lacy and Florence were going to Versailles one day ; she was 
 left with Agnes, and she promised not to go out anywhere; she 
 told Florence that she would not; but she did go just the same, 
 and met some of these people, and they persuaded her to take 
 a drive with them, and it was then the accident happened ; the 
 horses ran away, and the carriage was upset. The friends who 
 were with her were saved, only very much bruised.' Ruth burst 
 into tears again. 
 
 ' Miss Clifford,' said Marsham, coming into the room. * My 
 lady has been scolding me for letting you stay ; she thought you 
 had done mischief enough before for one day.' 
 
 Alice did indeed appear much worse, but she made Ruth 
 stoop down to listen, and said, in a low voice, * Ruth, I shall 
 tell all to Lady Catharine if I can ; then I shall be happy.' 
 
 * Happy ! Ah ! Alice, that can never be for me.' 
 
 * Yes, Ruth, dear, you will be when you have told ; and I 
 shall say my prayers better. There was always something in 
 my way till now. Tell Madeline, if I can't ; — she wanted me 
 to think about being confirmed, I could not whilst there was a 
 secret ; — that was the reason, please tell her.' 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 I 
 
 T was drawing towards the close of the evening ; the linger- 
 ing hues of sunset were fast fading away, and twilight was 
 throwing its cheerless gloom over the dreariness of a sick 
 chamber. The curtains of the window were undrawn, and a 
 cold light fell upon the bed on which Alice lay; her lips parched, 
 her complexion thick, sallow, and colourless ; her eyes shut, and 
 her breathing at times faint, irregular, and scarcely to be hcar4, 
 s^nd again struggling as with cpnyulsive efforts,
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 54t 
 
 The Manor was always silent, even amidst the occupation and 
 interest of the summer noonday ; now, every sound had ceased. 
 Neither the distant rumbling of a cart moving slowly through 
 the village, nor the working of the blacksmith's forge, nor the 
 shouts of the children on the green, broke the perfect stillness 
 which reigned around. As the deepening shadows stole over 
 the face of nature, the shadow of a coming grief stole over the 
 weary heart of Lady Catharine Hyde. She was watching by 
 the bed ; Marsham stood near, occasionally laying her hand 
 gently upon Alice's pulse. Lady Catharine asked no questions ; 
 she sat without leaning back in her chair, gazing steadily, and 
 apparently unmoved, upon Alice's changed features. Presently 
 she said, * Marsham, it is possible Mr Clifford may be at home 
 to-night — I should wish to know.' 
 
 Marsham was going to leave the room, but returning, inquired 
 whether Lady Catharine would write, or whether she would 
 prefer sending a message. 
 
 * I will write ; bring me my desk,' and Lady Catharine wrote 
 a few words without trembling or agitation. 
 
 The note was sealed and directed ; again Marsham was 
 going, but she had read her mistress's countenance well. 
 She stopped and said, * Would your ladyship lie down a little 
 before Mr Cliftbrd comes ? ' 
 
 Lady Catharine shook her head. 
 
 * If I might order you something, my lady,' continued Mar- 
 sham, ' you have had nothing all day.' 
 
 * No, no ; let me only see Mr Clifford, if possible.' 
 Marsham looked at Alice once more. * Miss Lennox is 
 
 sleeping, my lady,' she observed, in a low tone. ' Mr Nichols 
 said sleep would do her more good than anything.' 
 
 Lady Catharine smiled so sadly that Marsham's respect could 
 no longer be a restraint upon her sympathy. ' O my lady ! ' 
 she exclaimed, ' if you would only take a little rest ! It must 
 be bad for you any way ; and if Miss Alice should be 
 
 ' She will be worse, Marsham.' 
 
 • Not for certain,' said Marsham, firmly. 
 
 * I have no hope — she will die,' escaped from Lady Catha- 
 rine, in a faint whisper of misery. 
 
 Marsham suffered the words to pass without contradiction. 
 Lady Catharine waited for an instant, and then she added, 
 * Let my note be sent directly ; you need not return yourself;
 
 542 LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 and remember, I wish to have nothing said that may give 
 alarm.' 
 
 Marsham departed, and Lady Catharine moved to tl^ other 
 end of the room to fetch a book. When she came back, AHce's 
 position was altered ; her head was bmied in her pillow so as 
 completely to hide her face, and the position of her hands was 
 different, yet still she seemed to sleep. Lady Catharine noticed 
 the change, but satisfied herself that she was not really dis- 
 turbed, and sat down again by the bedside. The long minutes 
 passed on, and Lady Catharine read, or tried to read, and at 
 length hearing Marsham's tread in the passage, she looked once 
 more at Alice, and, going to the door, opened it very softly, 
 and, closing it as noiselessly, went out. 
 
 As the almost inaudible sound told that the room was empty, 
 a gTcan of anguish burst from Alice. She threw back the cover- 
 lid, and clasped her hands, as if in deep suffering, and raising 
 her head with difficulty, gazed for a moment round the room, 
 and then, gasping for breath, sank back upon her pillow with 
 an expression of utter hopelessness. When Lady Catharine 
 returned her face was again hidden. 
 
 Nearly a quarter of an hour afterwards Marsham brought an 
 answer from the Parsonage. It had been delayed, as Mrs 
 Clifford was not in the house when Lady Catharine's note 
 arrived. Mr Clifford was certainly not expected for two or 
 three days. Lady Catharine threw herself back in her chair, 
 the image of utter despondency, but, recovering herself instantly, 
 said, ' Marsham, you were right ; I must try to rest.' She bent 
 over Alice and kissed her, and without another observation, 
 walked slowly out of the room. 
 
 Silence once more settled upon the household, a silence which 
 reigned for several hours. Alice was apparently in a state of 
 torpor ; it was not sleep, for her eyes opened from time to time, 
 and she asked occasionally for water, but she did not reply to 
 any questions, and Marsham could not determine how much or 
 how little consciousness she retained. 
 
 And was Alice unconscious.'' Is the prisoner unconscious 
 who ponders the sentence of his execution .'' or the traveller who 
 finds himself suddenly upon the brink of a precipice from which 
 there is no escape .'' 
 
 Die ! Young, careless, unstable ; her imagination filled with 
 visions for the future of a long life ; her heart just opening to 
 the claims of human affection ; the past rcmcr.iL-crcd but ai a
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 543 
 
 confused dream, of \vhich no account could be given. Die ! 
 Could that faint, dread whisper be true ? 
 
 What passed in these dreary hours of darkness — the conflict 
 between self-upbraiding thoughts and fruitless wishes — it were 
 hard indeed to tell. It was a fearful night for Alice ; a night 
 never to be forgotten. She who had so long doubted and 
 wavered, who had gone one step in the right way, and then 
 tinned back to take many in the wrong, was now at length sud- 
 denly brought to a decision, happy only in that the decision 
 was not entirely the result of fear ; that it had in a measure 
 been resolved upon before the thought of death made her 
 tremble at the prospect of judgment. 
 
 Morning dawned, sufficiently to cast a pale light over the 
 chamber, and destroy the little remaining brilliancy of the ex- 
 piring lamp. Worn with fever of body and anguish of mind, 
 Alice at last fell into an uneasy slumber. She woke again rest- 
 less and unrefreshed. Marsham's chair was empty, the curtains 
 were drawn at the side of the bed and across the window, and 
 the room was still gloomy in the twilight. A stifled sob fell 
 upon her ear — the moan of a bitter grief, and then the words of 
 a broken, fervent, almost a despairing prayer — a prayer for her. 
 It asked — there was agony in the tone, and the intensity of a 
 mother's love in the expression — for mercy upon one weak and 
 erring, yet precious beyond the utterance of words. It asked 
 for repentance — for time that might be dedicated to self- 
 examination and abasement ; for faith in a Saviour's atone- 
 ment ; for the spirit which should devote to His service the few 
 lingering hours of a short life. And it betrayed feelings which 
 would never have been spoken to a human ear. In the presence 
 of Him who alone knew the secrets of her lonely life. Lady 
 Catharine could tell, with the simple confidence of a child, of 
 the love which had sprung up in her early days, and was 
 strengthened in her advancing youth, and cherished and nur- 
 tured amidst the chilling temptations of the world, and at length 
 appeared to sleep in a parent's grave, only to be re-awakened 
 with a more anxious interest in the life of her child. 
 
 A mother's prayer might have been different — it could not 
 have been more earnest. It was ended, but Lady Catharine still 
 knelt. There was but one position now for her — one attitude 
 to speak when words had failed — one posture to give a silent 
 voice to the all-absorbing thought — that of Alice's safety, not 
 in life, but in death. She stood at length once more bending
 
 544 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 over Alice ; and Alice raised her eyes blinded with tears. Lady 
 Catharine spoke to her tenderly. Alice held her hand and 
 tried to answer ; it was but a whisper. Lady Catharine 
 stooped to listen, and then came a burst of agonised feeling, 
 and the awful question — 
 
 'Must I die.?' 
 
 Lady Catharine started with horror at the echo of her own 
 thoughts. ' Die ! Alice, my child, my treasure ! who says it?' 
 
 * You think I must ; you love me, and you cannot deceive 
 me.' 
 
 Lady Catharine answered quietly, ' Life and death are in the 
 hands of God.' 
 
 ' But will He take me 1 — is it certain ? — do you know it must 
 be.'" repeated Alice ; and still she held Lady Catharine's hand, 
 and fixed her large, eager eyes upon her face, seeking to read 
 her sentence there. 
 
 Lady Catharine sat down by the bed-side, for her limbs 
 trembled ; but still she spoke soothingly. * Alice, my love, you 
 are very ill. We cannot tell what it may please God to ordain ; 
 we can but resign ourselves to His will.' 
 
 Alice turned away her head ; she was answered. 
 
 ' Shall I pray for you, Alice .'" asked Lady Catharine. 
 
 Alice looked at her once more with a quieter, more settled 
 expression. * Kiss me,' she said, ' kiss me — again, again — . 
 forgive me — pray Him to forgive me. I have done such bad 
 things ; I would do better, if I might live — I would try. Don't 
 go,' she added, as Lady Catharine gently withdrew her hand to 
 wipe away her tears ; ' I would please you and love you ; I 
 would be like dear mamma, if I might only live.' 
 
 ' My own Alice, there is but one way of pleasing me now — 
 trusting all to God.' 
 
 ' But I have done very wrong,' said Alice, her voice growing 
 eager, and her eyes flashing with excitement, as a crowd of con- 
 fused recollections presented themselves to her mind. * There 
 is so much to tell, I can't remember it. If Ruth were here, she 
 would help. Send for Ruth — please send for her.' 
 
 ■ Ruth has told me some things, my love ; she is gone home.' 
 
 ' But about Florence — that was it — Florence and Justine. 
 Justine is dead, they said — is she dead .? My head aches lio 
 very much.?' Alice sank half-exhausted upon her pillow. 
 
 ' You must sleep again, my love,' began Lady Catharine, but 
 Alice roused heiself instantly.
 
 LANETON parsonage. 545 
 
 ' Sleep ! — never. I must tell.' 
 
 * No, indeed, my child, you must not tell. Whatever the 
 wrong may be, it is forgiven.' 
 
 * Forgiven ! before you have heard ? * 
 
 'All — everything. But I have heard much already. O 
 Alice ! my precious child ! may you but find the same forgive- 
 ness with God ;' and Lady Catharine sank upon her knees in an 
 agony of grief. 
 
 ' I should like you to pray for me,' whispered Alice. 
 
 Lady Catharine recovered her self-command almost instan- 
 taneously. Her voice never faltered as she read the prayer for 
 pardon in the Visitation of the Sick, and when she rose up the 
 expression of her face was not only peaceful but thankful. Alice, 
 too, seemed comforted. She pointed to a chair for Lady Catha- 
 rine to sit down, and said — 
 
 * You are cjuite sure that you forgive.'" 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, my love. Do not think of me ; think only of 
 yourself.' 
 
 * But I have been wrong/ continued Alice, ' such a long time 
 — always.' 
 
 * And I have loved you so long,' said Lady Catharine. 
 
 * Yes, because of dear mamma, not for myself; but I would 
 do everything, and I would love you dearly ;' and she tried to 
 raise herself in her bed and throw her arms round Lady Catha- 
 rine's neck. 
 
 ' For your mother's sake I loved you first, my own Alice,' 
 said Lady Catharine ; ' but since for yourself.' 
 
 ' No, not for me, not for me,' pursued Alice ; ' but I would 
 do better. Would it be wrong to pray ? ' she added, in an 
 eager, tremulous voice. 
 
 ' Pray for what ? ' 
 
 ' That I might get well only for one week — that I might do 
 every little tiny thing to please you ; and then I would come back 
 and die.' 
 
 Lady Catharine could not answer. 
 
 * I must die, I know,' continued Alice. ' If I were forgiven, 
 I should like it — not to do wrong any more.' 
 
 ' My love, we must not doubt of forgiveness when we are 
 really sorr>'.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ; but I have been so often sorry, and I have 
 gone wrong again. Yet now 1 think I am in earnest ; I think 
 He knows it.' 
 
 2 M
 
 S46 LANETOM PARSONAGE, 
 
 * Doubtless God knows it and accepts it,' said Lady Catharine. 
 'Alice, we shall yet part in peace.' 
 
 ' When I die,' said Alice; and she slightly shuddered. * Will 
 it be very soon ?' she added, in a tone of deep awe. 
 
 * Very soon, it may be ; and we must think it cannot be too 
 soon if it is God's will.' 
 
 * And if I am forgiven,' said Alice ; ' if I am quite sure of 
 that ; would Mr Clifford say he was sure ?' 
 
 ' We must trust to the word of God, my love. " If we con- 
 fess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins." 
 That is what St John says ; and again, St Paul tells us that 
 " This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that 
 Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners." ' 
 
 * I wish Mr Clifford was here ; I wish he could say it to me,' 
 continued Alice. ' He thought me so wicked; would he believe 
 now that I am sorry ? ' 
 
 * Yes, indeed ; how could he doubt it .'" 
 
 * But will you tell him ? Perhaps I shall be ' she 
 
 stopped ; ' if it is very soon, you know he might not be here ; 
 but I should like him to be told. I loved him very much when 
 he talked that night. And Mrs Clifford, and Madeline, and 
 Ruth, will they come and see me ? I should like to say good- 
 bye, if I must — are you sure i* — must I really die?' 
 
 Alice's terror seemed returning, and Lady Catharine, control- 
 ling her own anguish, kissed her again and again, and, raising 
 her gently, gave her water to moisten her parched lips. Dis- 
 tressing memories seemed crowding upon Alice's mind. 
 
 * There is so much,' she murmured, ' it comes altogether ; so 
 long ago it happened. At the White House I deceived mamma; 
 one day I told a story ; Benson let me do wrong things ; I can't 
 recollect — won't you help me ? ' and her glassy eyes were raised 
 entreatingly and helplessly to Lady Catharine. 
 
 * You are too weak to remember all, my dear child ; but your 
 Saviour is most merciful ; He will never turn away. He loves 
 you very dearly.' 
 
 ' I have been wicked — worse than any one,' said Alice. 
 
 * Yet all the time think how He loved you. When you were 
 left an orphan, how He took care of you ; and how He has 
 blessed you ever since, though you were wilful and careless ; 
 and now, O Alice ! there is no blessing like repentance, for it 
 will bring you to rest in Paradise.' 
 
 * Rest,' repeated Alice, very faintly. Lady Catharine, as she 
 bent down, caught the words, * Mv ti-^-other.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 547 
 
 * Yes, Alice, my precious child, rest with her; with the spirits 
 of the pure like her ; rest in the company of angels ; rest, above 
 all, with God.' 
 
 And as the last words were uttered, Alice's head sank upon 
 the pillow and her eyes closed ; whether in sleep or the torpor 
 of approaching death, Lady Catharine could not tell. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 WHEN Ruth left Alice, she went back to the Parsonage, 
 to shut herself up in her own room. Alice's parting 
 words were the one overflowing drop in her cup of bitterness : 
 — * She wanted me to think about being confirmed, and I could 
 not — that was the reason.' 
 
 And this was the end of all her efforts to obtain influence ! 
 Florence encouraged in a course of deception ; Agnes De Lacy 
 confided to the teaching of one who could only lead her astray ; 
 Justine's evil schemes furthered till they were terminated 
 suddenly and awfully ; and Alice, her companion, her friend, 
 who from childhood had looked up to her and loved her, kept 
 back from the solemn ordinances of the Church, and about, it 
 might be, to enter upon the last struggle of life and death 
 with a burdened conscience, and unsupported by the chief 
 blessing which God has provided for His people. Ruth might 
 well tremble when she thought of these things. Her own share 
 in them was indeed exaggerated considerably by the agitation 
 of the moment. Florence would have been frivolous and 
 obstinate, Justine deceitful, and Alice unstable, whether Ruth 
 had concerned herself with them or not ; but the part which 
 she had taken, though unconsciously, in fostering the original 
 evil in their characters, could not be hidden. 
 
 Ruth was not wilfully insincere. One wrong principle had 
 blinded her ; but she was still bent upon serving God truly. 
 The startling consequences of her errors forced her to a closer 
 self-examination, and something of the truth began to dawn 
 upon her. The deceit practised towards her mother had 
 frightened her at first ; but she had stifled self-reproach, and 
 passed it over, if not forgotten it. Now it C2.me again. Ono 
 glaring offence will often, as if by a special permission of Pro-
 
 548 LAS' ETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 vidence, open our eyes to many secret ones. Ruth now re* 
 viewed her conduct step by step. At one moment she was 
 incUned to excuse herself, and especially to compare herself 
 with Madeline, and ask whether her sister, under similar temp- 
 tations, would not have acted in the same way. But a sincere 
 purpose must, by God's blessing, enlighten by degrees both the 
 conscience and the judgment ; and Ruth soon acknowledged 
 that Madeline had in fact been placed under precisely the same 
 circumstances as herself at the beginning, but that an act of 
 strict adherence to duty- — an act w-hich many might have termed 
 scrupulousness — had kept her from every succeeding difficulty. 
 If Madeline had entered Mrs De Lacy's house instead of care- 
 fully consulting what she believed to be her mother's wishes, 
 she might have been involved in the same snare as Ruth. We 
 excuse our faults because of the strength of our temptation, and 
 forget that we have brought the temptation upon ourselves. The 
 Bible tells us that God never tempts us above that we are able 
 to bear. 
 
 All this and much more Ruth saw, and bitter indeed was her 
 sorrow. Conversation with her mother was her only comfort. 
 Mrs Clifford did not so much try to subdue her anguish by 
 reasoning, as to soften it by sympathy. She encouraged her 
 to repeat again all the minute events of the last few weeks, not 
 by way of confession but relief. She could understand, she 
 said, how easily Ruth might have been led on, without any de- 
 liberate intention of doing wrong — acting upon expediency 
 instead of principle ; for it was the frequent mistake of many 
 older and wiser persons ; and as Ruth listened to her mother, 
 and her heavy heart grew lighter, she was not less penitent for 
 her faults, or less sorrowful about Alice, but she was freed from 
 the lonely feeling w^hich oppresses us when first we are conscious 
 of having fallen into serious errors ; and her perception of 
 right and wrong became clearer and deeper. When ■wc 
 exaggerate our faults we are not always tnily humble. At the 
 root of the most intense outward expression of sorrow there is 
 often a belief that we are not quite as bad as we say, and an 
 idea, unacknowledged, that our grief is in some measure an expia- 
 tion for our offence. Truth is as valuable in repentance as in all 
 other cases : for, though our feelings may be less keen, they will 
 certainly be more lasting when they are just as well as sincere. 
 
 Mr Clifford returned home the day but one after Alice 
 became so much worse. The accounts from the Manor were
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 549 
 
 then rather more favourable. Tlic dangerous symptoms liad 
 not increa-sed, much to the surprise of Alice's medical attendant; 
 though as yet little real hope could be given. Alice required 
 sleep, but it ^vas bestowed only at short intervals, and quietness 
 being deemed indispensable, no one ivas allowed to see her 
 except Lady Catharine. 
 
 ' Ruth became extremely anxious, almost more so now that 
 there was hope, than when there had appeared to be none. She 
 would willingly have been backwards and forwards between the 
 Parsonage and the Manor all day, and Mr Clifford found it 
 scarcely possible to calm her uneasiness. Her exaggerated 
 views of her own conduct revived, and because Alice had met 
 with an accident at the picnic, to which she had persuaded 
 her to go, she almost began to fancy that she was the cause of 
 her present illness. 
 
 Mr Clifford tried to engage her attention by talking with her 
 upon all that had occurred. Ruth could speak and think of 
 nothing else. Sometimes it seemed quite plain to her when 
 and how she had failed in her duty ; at other times she was 
 confirmed in the belief that slie had never intended to do wrong, 
 and, on the contraiy, had generally set herself to do good. 
 How could evil consequences follow upon good intentions t 
 
 Ruth's ideas were made clearer upon this point when she sat 
 with her father and mother the same evening in the arbour, at 
 the extremity of the green walk, where in long past years — the 
 years of her happy innocent childhood, she had gained some of 
 her first notions of religious truth. She had by that time told 
 all ; and not only all that she had done, but all that she had 
 wished to do ; all her motives and feelings, so far as she could 
 discover them. ' I cannot find out,' she said, ' how I managed 
 to be so mistaken. I can see that I was, but I fancied myself 
 right at the time. I hope I did not do it all wilfully.' 
 
 ' We are apt to deceive ourselves a little upon such subjects, 
 my dear Ruth,' replied Mr Clifford. ' Wilful sins are not 
 merely those which we deliberately plan, but they are also 
 those which we encourage day by day in the temper of our 
 minds. A man is secretly ambitious ; to gratify his ambition 
 he commits an injustice, without perceiving that it is an injus- 
 tice. Then he opens his eyes and says, " I am not guilty, be- 
 cause I did not mean to be unjust." Granted ; he is not guilty 
 of wilful injustice, but he is guilty of wilful ambition. It is the 
 same with selfishness, Vfinity— all sins, in fact. Any one false
 
 5 so LANETON PARS ON A GE. 
 
 principle allowed to take root, and then acted upon, is a wilful 
 ofTcnce.' 
 
 The tears rose to Ruth's eyes. 
 
 ' Poor child!' said Mrs Qifford, ' she is very unhappy; we 
 must not be hard upon her.' 
 
 ' Ruth knows I would not for the world be hard upon her, or 
 upon any one,' replied Mr Clifford. * It is because there is too 
 much in one's own heart of the same self-deception that one is 
 apt to speak strongly against it. I have seen it fatally marring 
 Avhat might otherwise have been most superior characters ; a 
 secret, gentle selfishness, or vanity, or love of self-indulgence ; 
 or, as it is in Ruth's case — Ruth, my child, you will not be 
 vexed with your father and mother for reminding you of a dis- 
 position which they saw before you really began to discriminate 
 right from wrong — a desire to be first, to rule and govern other 
 minds ; I have seen these little faults — or, as they are often 
 called, foibles, eating away the seeds of even exalted virtues, and 
 involving others in suffering for years, and yet the individuals 
 themselves, firm in good intentions, and professing to act from 
 high, even religious motives.' 
 
 'O papa!' exclaimed Ruth, and she looked at him with 
 surprise amounting to alarm. 
 
 ' It is a very stern doctrine,' said Mr Clifford, * but I am 
 afraid it may be a true one ; and if we consider a little more 
 closely, we shall see that the principle is fully carried out in the 
 Bible. Saul was secretly irreverent and wilful. He was told 
 utterly to destroy Amalek ; the people took of the spoils, the 
 sheep and oxen, not for their own pleasure, but for the sen'ice 
 of God. Saul permitted it ; he did not see that the act was 
 disobedience. The answer of Samuel to his excuse is a warn- 
 ing to us all, when we are inclined to deviate from the strict 
 line of right with what seems to ourselves a good intention : 
 " Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than 
 the fat of rams." ' 
 
 * But, papa,' said Ruth, * if we do not see that we are wrong, 
 how can we be responsible ? ' 
 
 ' Because, my dear child, we ought to see it. We have a per- 
 fect example and a perfect law given us in the Bible, and wc 
 may follow it if we will. It is no excuse for a drunkard, who 
 never reads his Bible, to say that he does not know that drunk- 
 enness is a sin, 
 
 * But such a sin as that is what every one perceives to be 
 wicked at once,' observed Ruth.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 551 
 
 * True ; and it requires careful sclf-c«camination to detect sins 
 of the heart — pride, vanity, scUlshness, self-indulyence. Still, 
 where is our excuse? Are we not told to examine ourselves ? — • 
 to watch and pray lest we enter into temptation ?' 
 
 ' But — I do not mean to be perverse ; mamma, you know 
 that I do not,' began Ruth, turning to her mother, 
 
 * Your papa will not think so, dear child ; only let us know 
 what your difficulty is.' 
 
 ' 1 have been wrong,' continued Ruth, colouring deeply ; ' I 
 have deceived — almost I have said what was not true. Papa,. 
 I would own it again and again ; but it was not vanity which 
 made me do it, nor selfishness ; and I do not think exactly 
 that it was pride. I used to examine myself; I really tried to 
 prepare for confirmation ; I should have been miserable to 
 have neglected my prayers ; or not to have read the Bible, and 
 I was always wishing to get out of my perplexities if I could 
 have seen the right way.' 
 
 * That is, if you could have made up your mind to give up 
 your desire of influence,' said Mr Clifford. 
 
 * Yes, it might be ; perhaps it was so,' said Ruth, consider- 
 ing ; ' but it was influence for good which I wished for.' 
 
 ' But influence is not in itself a legitimate object of desire, 
 Ruth ; there lies the error. Many weeks ago I warned you 
 that it was not.' 
 
 Ruth looked as if she could not agree, but did not like to 
 differ. 
 
 * The love of influence is ambition,' continued Mr Clifford ; 
 * it is the love of power, and power we are expressly told " be- 
 longeth unto God." ' 
 
 ' But to do good, to make others good,' said Ruth ; ' surely 
 we are bound to attempt it.' 
 
 * To do right, certainly; to make others good, certainly not; 
 and for one very evident reason — that it is a task entirely be- 
 yond us.' 
 
 Ruth repeated to herself, * Not to make others good,' whilst 
 pondering what the words could possibly mean. 
 
 ' To try to act ourselves upon the minds of our fellow- 
 creatures,' continued Mr Clifford, ' instead of simply doing 
 what we are told, and trusting the effect to God, is as if Moses, 
 when commanded to strike the rock in the desert, had begun to 
 dig wells, and cut channels, hoping to bring water for the people 
 by human skill. It is undertaking to do ourselves what God alone 
 can do. The power to change the licart is His and His onh-.'
 
 553 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Ruth, ' of course; but God does give us power 
 over each other.' 
 
 * Undoubtedly ; that is, He vouchsafes to make use of us as 
 instruments. But let us turn again to the Bible. Do you 
 remember what the apostle says 1 "God hath chosen the foolish 
 things of the world to confound the wise ; and God hath 
 chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things 
 which are mighty; that no flesh should glory in His presence." 
 The mighty things of the world arc talents, eloquence, a 
 determined will, powers of persuasion, rank, riches, beauty, 
 grace of manner ; and the weak things of the world are meek- 
 ness, charity, patience, long-suffering, self-denial. These we 
 may desire as we will ; we cannot strive for them too energeti- 
 cally ; the others are glittering temptations, and in themselves 
 powerless for good.' 
 
 ' Ruth cannot quite go with you,' said Mrs Clifford ; * she 
 does not see why the two are not compatible ; why, for instance, 
 a person may not be very clever, or very rich, and at the same 
 time extremely good, and therefore blest with more extended 
 means of influence ; and why, therefore, it is not allowable to 
 wish for talents or riches.' 
 
 ' Because talents and riches are great snares,' replied Mr 
 Clifford ; ' and the very fact of desiring them shows that there 
 is danger in our having them. Do you not see that if wc 
 could believe, what is really the case, that all power and all 
 influence belong to God ; and if we really desired the good of 
 our fellow-creatures, and not the gratification of our own pride, 
 we should be quite contented whether we had influence appar- 
 ently (for all persons may have it really) or not.'' It is God who 
 is working, not we. If He does not choose us as His instru- 
 ments, it will make no difference ; the good will be effected by 
 some one, and as long as it is effected we must be satisfied.' 
 
 ' Still,' said Ruth, ' it would be delightful to feel that one had 
 been the means of doing great good. It has been one of my 
 dreams from a child.' 
 
 * Then, my dearest Ruth, you may be assured that it is your 
 peculiar temptation.' 
 
 ' But no great deeds would be effected if people had not such 
 dreams and longings,' replied Ruth. 
 
 ' I grant it perfectly, and I do not say that they may not be 
 turned to very great advantage ; they may rouse energy and 
 encourage perseverance ; but I do say, and I would repeat it
 
 LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 553 
 
 most strongly, that they must ahvays be a serious temptation. 
 Por remember, every good principle, carried to excess, be- 
 comes evil, and the higlier the principle the more fatal when 
 perverted.' 
 
 'But would such dreams be more dangerous than others?' 
 £^kcd Ruth. 
 
 ' Yes, because the evil is infinitely more subtle. Remember, 
 Ruth, we have seen that power, — all power, — most especially 
 influence over the mind, is the work of the Spirit of God. A 
 clever man talks, or writes, or preaches, and persons come to 
 him, and say, How happy you must be ! What infinite good 
 you arc effecting ! No one thinks it right to remind him that 
 the good is not his own. By degrees he begins to believe what 
 he is so constantly told — he Avorks even more diligently, but, 
 unconsciously to himself, from a different motive. Still the 
 same words are sounded in his ears. At length he dies ; people 
 lament him, and recount all the good he has done ; he has left 
 a name for posterity to honour. But he is dead ; " after death 
 comes the judgment." When that man is called to give an 
 account of himself before God, do you think he will be accepted 
 because he was eloquent, energetic, liberal in giving money and 
 apt to advise, or even the instrument of turning many from sin 
 to holiness ?' 
 
 'One would almost imagine so,' said Ruth; 'that is, one 
 cannot help fancying that such things must make a difference.' 
 
 ' Think of St Paul,' said Mr Clifford, ' where he says, " Lest 
 having preached to others, I myself should be a cast-away." It 
 must be a fearful thing for such a man as I have been describ- 
 ing, for any person, indeed, who has trusted to the good which 
 he appears to have effected, to discover, when repentance can 
 be of no avail, that he has been all the time acting the part of 
 Herod, who listened to the voice of the people proclaiming him 
 a god, and perished miserably, because he gave not the True 
 God the glory.* 
 
 ' But the danger is not certain,' said Ruth. 
 
 ' No, there is one hope of escape, and but one. When the 
 traveller in the desert knows that the scorching Simoom is ap- 
 proaching, he throws himself upon the ground, and buries his 
 face in the dust, and it passes, and leaves him uninjured ; and 
 when the scorching Simoom of human admiration is about to 
 assail us, our safety must be the same — to lie prostrate bcfoie 
 Go4 closing our eyes, and stopping our ears, and uttering a
 
 554 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 confession of un worthiness to Him, for every word of praise 
 from man. Is this the temper of mind which suits with the 
 desire of influence?' 
 
 Finding that Ruth was silent, Mr Clifford continued — 
 ' I will tell you, my dear Ruth,' he said, ' what our actual 
 position when we appear to be doing good is like. Last year 
 we saw the enormous steam printing-press, by which Bibles can 
 be printed at the rate of one in a minute. Do you remember 
 noticing the boy who placed the blank sheet of paper in readi- 
 ness for the engine to work upon.'" 
 ' Yes,' replied Ruth, ' perfectly.' 
 
 * Now if that boy had failed in his business, the work would 
 have been stopped. But was it he who printed the Bible.'" 
 
 Ruth smiled. 
 
 * The mighty power, if one may use a simile upon such a 
 subject without irreverence,' continued Mr Clififord, * was totally 
 independent of him. The sheet of paper went in blank ; it 
 came out a message of mercy to millions. Suppose that, instead 
 of simply attending to his duty, the boy had endeavoured him- 
 self to print the page?' 
 
 ' He would have been crushed,' replied Ruth. 
 
 * And so shall we be crushed, my dear Ruth — crushed in our 
 happiness upon earth, and crushed in our hopes of heaven, if 
 wc turn aside from the only true means of influence, fervent in- 
 tercession, and a strict obedience to humble daily duties, and 
 seek to make others good, instead of carefully striving to be 
 good ourselves.' 
 
 Ruth put her hand within her father's, and said, whilst her 
 lip quivered, and her eyes glistened — 
 
 ' Papa, I think you are right ; if I had thought so before, 
 Alice' She stopped. 
 
 ' My love, you will remember one way of doing good — the 
 chief way, if we would but believe it, is open to us always. 
 Alice is in the hands of a most merciful God; we may pray 
 for her.' 
 
 Madeline seems to have been long forgotten. There are 
 many like her in this world — passing unnoticed by man, yet 
 very precious in the sight of God. 
 
 At the end of the little passage into which the few bed-cham- 
 bers of the Parsonage opened, there was a very small room — 
 dark, without a fire-place, and long used as a lumber closet. 
 It had no attraction of any kind. The lattice-vnndow faced a
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 555 
 
 wall, and only when looking in one direction, could a distant 
 peep of the hills be discovered, which closed round the village 
 of Laneton. Madeline had chosen this closet for her own ; it 
 had a charm for her. Perhaps it was the charm of indepen- 
 dence and solitude ; perhaps there was something in by-gone 
 associations — the remembrance of that first prayer, the germ of 
 unfading happiness, which had been offered in the midst of the 
 turmoil and distraction of school, in the little dressing-room at 
 Mrs Carter's house. The closet was known by the name of 
 Madeline's hiding-place ; and many were the laughs raised at 
 her expense, for the ingenuity with which she had managed to 
 pile up boxes, and chests, and stow away all the useless trea- 
 sures of many years, and still leave room for a habitation, or, 
 as Ruth called it, a settlement for herself. A little round table, 
 and an old chair ; a shelf to hold about half-a-dozen books ; 
 and the ledge of the window for any et ceteras, — these were all 
 Madeline's accommodations for comfort. And they were all 
 she needed. The half-hours spent in her hiding-place were 
 seasons when earthly luxuries were forgotten — they were half- 
 houi's of that peace which the world can neither give nor take 
 awa3^ 
 
 Madeline was in her doset now ; the lattlcc-Avindow was 
 open, and she was seated by it. Her face bore the traces of 
 tears, for she was looking upon the sky and thinking of Alice. 
 Before many days — possibly before many hours had gone by, 
 the secrets of that invisible world, upon the outskirts of which 
 she was gazing, might be revealed to her. What were those 
 secrets .'' What would that state be upon which the friend with 
 whom she had lived, played, talked, eaten and drank, and 
 shared both sorrow and joy, would then enter 1 Where lay 
 the home of the departed ? What were their hopes and fears ? 
 What formed their happiness or their misery ? And how could 
 Alice bear the change ? To go alone ! unaided by human 
 love ; to begin a new existence, and that existence fixed — most 
 blessed or most wretched for ever. Madeline trembled and 
 grew pale. Another thought, a more terrible one, followed — a 
 remembrance of Justine. Madeline's last recollection of her 
 was the sound of her voice in the hall of Mrs Carter's house on 
 the morning of the discovery of her fault. It was the last that 
 she had seen or heard of her. How little she imagined then 
 that it would be the last ! How little she realised the possi- 
 bihty that they might never meet again until the fate of each
 
 556 LAXETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 should be decided for eternity! It seemed as if she her- 
 self had been brought nearer to death — nearer to judgment. 
 The vast sky grew awful in its immensity ; the radiance of the 
 declining sun, sinking slowly behind the hill, became over- 
 powering as the symbol of that eternal light, from which no 
 secrets of the heart can be hid. Justine ! where was she ? 
 Madeline could bear the thought no longer, and she sank upon 
 her knees in prayer. 
 
 There is peace to be found in repentance after grievous sin ; 
 in the turning of the heart to God amidst the harassing cares 
 of middle life ; in the self-dedication of the eleventh hour ; but 
 there is no peace promised, and none bestowed, so perfect, so 
 holy, so deep and unspeakable, as the peace vouchsafed to such 
 as ' remember their Creator in the days of their youth.' It 
 was the blessing now granted to Madeline in her hour of dark- 
 ness and trial. 
 
 Justine was gone beyond the reach of example, or warning, 
 or prayer. That was a thought without comfort, save in the 
 sympathy of Him who wept o\'cr Jerusalem, because it knew 
 not the ' time of its visitation.' Alice was in danger, but 
 ^ladeline could give vent to her anxious affection in earnest 
 supplication ; and trust that if the petition for life should not 
 be granted, it would be denied only to be bestowed more fully 
 in heaven. 
 
 Ruth had erred and Madeline was disappointed ; but the 
 Love which was the real source of every joy, and the perfection 
 which satisfied all her wishes, could never fail — could never 
 change ; the very thought of it was rest. 
 
 The prospect of death might indeed be awful, and the idea 
 of venturing on an unknown existence appalling. But more 
 than fifteen years before, there had entered upon this lower 
 world a little infant — feeble, helpless, the inheritor of a sin- 
 ful nature, and — if for that reason alone — having but little 
 prospect of happiness ; it was born in the midst of suffering, 
 exposed to ten thousand accidents of the body, liable to ten 
 thousand evils of the soul ; misery might have seemed its 
 l/irthright. Yet the baby was welcomed as a precious gift 
 from heaven ; friends were waiting for it, angels were watch- 
 ing over it. It was tended with an unceasing love, guarded 
 in its little cradle night and day, every want supplied, every 
 pain soothed, every privation for its sake borne cheerfully and 
 thankfully. 
 
 Since that hoqr a mighty change liad passed over th^ chiW 5
 
 LANBTON PARSONAGE. S57 
 
 though an inheritor of sin, she had been made the child of 
 God ; the heir of shame had become the heir of heaven. And 
 from the time of that change she had grown in grace as she 
 grew in years. She had become more gentle, more humble, more 
 trusting, loving, and earnest ; weak, indeed, still,— bearing the 
 taint of her first nature — but conscious even to herself of desires 
 which could never by nature be her own, and a love which 
 could find a resting-place only in the bosom of her Saviour. 
 
 When the immortal spirit of that child of God, freed from 
 the body of sin, should enter upon the shadowy world lying 
 between earth and heaven, could it have cause to fear ? Would 
 the love which had been so provident for its support when it 
 was surrounded by evil, be less careful for its happiness when 
 its home was with the saints at rest ? 
 
 i\Iadeline could no longer doubt. While she thought of the 
 mercy which had already been vouchsafed to her, and told her 
 fears and griefs in the ear of Him who loved her so truly, the 
 heaviness of her heart changed into calm rest, and her fore- 
 bodings for the future into cheerful hope. 
 
 ' Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed 
 on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.' 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 IT is at times appointed in the Providence of God that we 
 should be brought face to face with some severe trial, forced 
 to contemplate its every feature, taught to bend ourselves in 
 submission to endure it ; and at length when, after a long 
 struggle, we are enabled to pray from our hearts that ' God's 
 will may be done,' suddenly and unexpectedly comes relief. 
 
 Perhaps among the many seasons of refreshment granted us 
 in the course of our earthly pilgrimage, there are none more 
 perfect in enjoyment than these ; foretastes, as they assuredly 
 are, of the unspeakable rest which awaits us when ' our warfare 
 shall be accomplished, and our iniquity pardoned,' and in the 
 Paradise of the blest we shall be preparing to receive at the 
 Lord's hand ' double for all our sins.' 
 
 Peace of conscience is then added to the escape from suffer- 
 ing ; and such was the happiness enjoyed by Lady Catharine
 
 5 5 B LANE TON PARSON A GE. 
 
 Hyde, when, after two more days of alternate hope and fear, 
 AHce was pronounced to be out of danger. The rehef which 
 she felt showed her for the first time all she had endured whilst 
 believing herself not only resigned, but unutterably thankful for 
 the softened tone of Alice's mind. 
 
 Alice was nursed now with even more devoted tenderness 
 than before, and a tenderness which brought a full reward both 
 to herself and Lady Catharine. The sense of having her love 
 appreciated was all that Lady Catharine required, to bring out 
 the feelings which sorrow and natural reserve had long chilled. 
 And Alice began to understand what had before often perplexed 
 her — her mother's extreme affection for Lady Catharine. The 
 difference between the kindness shown her after her accident, 
 and that which she experienced now, was most striking. Before, 
 everything had been provided for her with a restrained, melan- 
 choly care, with what appeared to be the sadness of ' thoughts 
 which do often lie too deep for tears.' It was an unapproach- 
 able ;9.ftection ; so sensitive that it shrank from the least touch, 
 and was disturbed by every passing shadow. Whether Alice 
 smiled or sighed, whether she read or worked, whether she spoke 
 abruptly or leisurely, were differences then always marked, and 
 veiy frequently commented upon ; and when commented upon, 
 of course, increasing restraint, and so augmenting the evil. The 
 love that seeks and is doubtful of return, is a jealous, anxious, 
 wearying spirit, preying upon itself. The love that knows itself 
 beloved, is open, cheerful, and confiding, and hardy enough to 
 bend to the storms and rebuffs of daily life, and spring up in 
 vigour when they have passed. Alice was not sufficiently 
 accustomed to examine the workings of her mind, to compre- 
 hend from whence the change arose, though she felt it hourly. 
 
 Yet the belief in mutual affection would not alone have sufficed 
 to work the change for her happiness. It is very good for us 
 all occasionally to have our habits broken in upon, and to be 
 obliged to look upon life under a new aspect. It prevents our 
 ideas from corroding, we become more alive to the feelings of 
 others, and see ourselves and them in a more true light. Sudden 
 events are much more useful in effecting this change than any 
 reasoning. 
 
 The illness, which had completely interrupted Lady Catha- 
 rine's ordinary train of thought, proved more efficacious than 
 even Mr Clifford's words, in teaching her how Alice was 
 to be treated. When she could no longer direct her every
 
 LAMETON PARSON A GE. 559 
 
 action, and find fauk with her for brenlcing rules, she lost in a 
 degree the desire of doing so. AHce was often left to herself, 
 in order to be quiet ; then she began to find her own ways of 
 amusement, and Lady Catharine was too glad to see her con- 
 tented, to inquire particularly what she had been doing. Alice 
 liked the feeling of independence more a great deal than she 
 cared for the practice ; and when she discovered that she might 
 choose her own work, and read or write as it suited her, and 
 employ her day very much as she fancied, she was pleased 
 rather than not to exercise a little self-discipline, by conform- 
 ing to what she knew was Lady Catharine's wish. It is not 
 agreeable, whatever we may sometimes think, to be able to do 
 always exactly as we like ; and when persons are set free from 
 restraint, they either form a new rule for themselves, or become 
 restless and unhappy. True liberty is to be found in the 
 spirit which wills what it must and ought to do ; even as the 
 most complete happiness is that service of God which is ' perfect 
 freedom.' 
 
 But above and beyond all, the change which was now begin- 
 ning to brighten Alice's life was to be found in her own heart. 
 Tliis was the real good, the blessing which would have supported 
 her, even if outward circumstances had continued as untoward 
 as before. Not that her natural disposition was altered, and 
 that she had suddenly overcome the desire to follow her own way ; 
 or that she was not often impatient and fretful ; still oftener 
 weary when reading the Bible, and distracted when praying. 
 Alice was Alice still. But the struggle was begun ; it was no 
 longer the inconstant effort of a heart clinging to this world, 
 whilst feebly desiring heaven, but the steady determination that, 
 cost what it might — be the labour of conquering her natural 
 faults ever so arduous — she would devote herself to it in faith, 
 and be, through Cod's assistance, His child, in devoted 
 obedience, as she was by the privileges of her baptism. Alice 
 had gazed upon death, and she could not forget it. She had 
 looked into Eternity, believing herself about to enter it, and she 
 knew that the same Eternity still lay before her. She was 
 blessed in her resolutions, and yet, more blessed are they who 
 require no such shock to startle them into consistency. 
 
 The steady, simple piety of Madeline Clifford was surely more 
 valuable in the sight even of men, than the sincere, but 
 irregular, unequal efforts of Alice. Alice herself felt Madeline's 
 superiority ; and Ruth now acknowledged it also — few could
 
 56d LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 have guessed how heartily. Ruth was a person to give but feW 
 external signs of feeling ; or, at least, of those feelings Avhich 
 are peculiarly our own, those which lie open but to the eye of 
 God, All with her now was quiet, orderly, and silent : there 
 perhaps lay the great alteration. Ruth said much less than she 
 had been wont to do ; she was not, as before, the first to offer 
 an opinion, or to suggest plans. What was proposed she fol- 
 lowed out diligently, whether it was a walk, or an extra attend- 
 ance at the school, or any little scheme for the day ; but she 
 had no schemes of her own. Madeline often found her partly 
 dressed and reading, when she awoke early in the morning ; 
 and instead of working in the garden in the evening, Ruth was 
 generally known to be sitting by herself, through the moonlight, 
 and even in darkness, till summoned to tea. When Alice and 
 Ruth were together there was not much conversation between 
 them. Ruth generally preferred reading aloud. It was from 
 Madeline that Alice learned the news which interested her, for it 
 was from her that she heard of Mrs De Lacy, and Florence, 
 and Agnes ; that Florence had returned home according to a 
 wish of her own, finding no pleasure in travelling after the 
 shock she had received ; and that Mrs De Lacy had given up 
 all idea of engaging a foreign governess, and had joined some 
 friends who were going to Switzerland for a short time. These 
 subjects were extremely painful to Ruth, most especially, as be- 
 sides reminding her of her own faults, they had brought pain and 
 annoyance to her mother. Letters had passed between Mrs 
 Clifford and Mrs De Lacy, explanatory of Ruth's share in the 
 deception practised ; and Ruth had read these letters, and 
 watched the expression of her mother's face when she had to 
 answer them, and she knew that it was shame for her which 
 made her mamma so uneasy at the sight of the foreign post- 
 mark and paper. All this was very humbling ; and in those 
 hours of solitude Ruth thought deeply upon the conduct which 
 had caused it ; her mistakes of principle, her false judgment, 
 her hidden pride. Solemn duties lay before her ; solemn vows 
 were to be renewed ; a most holy privilege was soon to be 
 vouchsafed to her. And now, at last, the veil was drawn aside, 
 and she saw herself in her true light ; unequal to the duties, not 
 fully realising the vows, and unworthy — oh ! how miserably 
 unworthy — of the privilege. It was not strange that Ruth 
 should be silent, and move with a quieter step, and sit engrossed 
 in her own thoughts. Stillness and sclf-recollcction were but
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 561 
 
 the necessary accompaniments of that strict preparation which 
 was required of one who had deceived herself and deceived 
 others. 
 
 And stiUness and self-recollection arc essential for us all, but 
 in different degrees. Madeline's laugh was heard at the 
 Parsonage, thrilling as merrily as ever on the ear ; Madeline's 
 blue eyes glanced as brightly as before ; her step was still 
 bounding and free with health and happiness, and her sweet 
 voice sounded as the clear whisper of a ministering spirit to the 
 weary heart of Alice, when, sometimes dispirited at a failure in 
 a fresh endeavour to be good, or worn with the weakness of 
 sickness, she lay exhausted on the sofa, too tired for reading 
 and but little disposed for conversation. It was the voice of 
 one who spoke of religion from the knowledge of its blessed- 
 ness, and not the consciousness of its terrors. 
 
 ' It will be so very, very nice, Alice, dear, by and by,' she 
 said one day, as she was sitting by the side of Alice's sofa, 
 
 * when we can all go to church together again. There always 
 seems a want now you are away, as if we were not a whole 
 family.' 
 
 * You ought not to feel it,' said Alice, ' because you must have 
 been accustomed to it by this time. I have not been to church 
 for a great many Sundays.' 
 
 * But we are not accustomed to it,' replied Madeline ; ' and 
 we always think of you. Ruth and I made an agreement that 
 we would remember you in the prayer for sick persons, till you 
 could come to church j-ourself.' 
 
 * One family,' said Alice, in a musing tone. ' No, Maddy, 
 we shall not be that for a long time to come.' 
 
 * Why not .? What' — a sudden thought struck Madeline, and 
 she paused. 
 
 ' Next Wednesday is the confimiation,' said Alice, ' and the 
 Sunday after ' 
 
 Madeline's eyes were dimmed in an instant. ' O Alice I ' 
 she exclaimed, ' I would give anything — yes, anything in the 
 world, to have you with us there.' 
 
 ' So would I,' said Alice, in a very low voice ; adding directly, 
 
 * so would I — at least, if I were fit.' 
 
 ' You might be wrapped up very carefully and taken in the 
 carriage,' said Madeline. 
 
 * I do not think Lady Catharine would consent,' replied 
 Alice. * And there is your papa, too ; he has not said anything 
 
 2N
 
 562 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 about it, and he cannot have a better opinion of me now than 
 he had.' 
 
 ' But I will ask him,' exclaimed Madeline, eagerly ; * I will 
 go to him directly. 
 
 ' No, Madeline ; no, indeed ; I will not have a word said. 
 I could not bear him to refuse, and he cannot see any reason 
 for it now more than there was before ; and there is so little 
 time left. No; I will wait.' 
 
 ' Wait !' said Madeline ; ' and perhaps be ill again,' 
 
 ' Yes, perhaps,' answered Alice, despondingly ; ' but it cannot 
 be helped ; it has been all my own fault,' 
 
 ' But here is Ruth,' said Madeline, as her sister appeared at 
 the door ; ' just talk to her ; ask her whether she does not 
 think it possible,' 
 
 ' She cannot tell,' replied Alice, ' and she knows more about 
 me than other people do ; she knows I am not fit.' 
 
 As Ruth drew near, her quick perception caught the meaning 
 of the conversation in an instant. ' Alice may not be well 
 enough to go to the confirmation,' she said. 
 
 There was something of coldness in her manner, and Alice 
 looked hurt, and observed, ' I hoped, Ruth, you would have 
 cared about it.' 
 
 Ruth made no reply. She stooped to fasten the sandal of her 
 shoe, and Madeline saw that she could not manage it well. She 
 offered to do it for her ; but Ruth would not be helped. She 
 kept her head bent down, and when she raised it again, began 
 to unfasten her bonnet strings in the same nervous manner. 
 Alice lay back on the sofa, seemingly very tired. She was play- 
 ing with a rose ; but her eyes were fixed upon her hands, which 
 bore the stamp of illness almost as much as her face. 
 
 ' They will not grow strong, like mine, by next Wednesday, I 
 am afraid,' said Madeline, guessing what she was thinking. 
 
 * And it would be no good if they could,' said Alice. ' I had 
 better not think about it,' 
 
 Madeline was going to appeal to Ruth again for her opinion ; 
 but a glance showed her that she had better not take any 
 notice of her. ' I shall go into the garden,' she said, ' and 
 gather some more flowers for your stand ; these are quite 
 shabby.' 
 
 Alice begged her to wait ; but Madeline looked again at Ruth, 
 and repeated her intention. 
 
 ' There is a beautiful moss-rose in the middle walk,' remarked
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 563 
 
 Ruth, quietly, and Madeline took the hint and was gone 
 directly. Then Ruth rose, and kneeling by Alice, said, in a 
 husky voice, * Alice, I cannot be confirmed if you are not.' 
 
 * Ruth, you ! — not confirmed !' exclaimed Alice. 
 
 * No, Ahce, I cannot ; I must wait.' 
 
 * But I thought you did not care. I am not well enough — ■ 
 they will not let me be,' said Alice. 
 
 ' They will let you. If they do not, I cannot go,' said Ruth. 
 * I could not bear it without you. Alice, I have been more 
 wrong ; I am much worse than you are ; it was I who made 
 you do things — I who encouraged it all. I could not go, and 
 for you to be shut out ! Even if I were confirmed, I could not go 
 to the service afterwards on Sunday. I have said so to papa.' 
 
 * Have you ?' exclaimed Alice, in surprise. 
 
 * Yes, and he understood. I spoke to him last night. I 
 have thought and thought, until I could not bear thinking ; and 
 at last I went to him. He seemed to know what I felt ; but 
 he was not sure about you. He said the time was very short, 
 and that you had not expressed any wish. He could not 
 quite make out what you felt about it ; and then he spoke of 
 your not being well enough.' 
 
 ' Yes, there is the difficulty,' said Alice. 
 
 ' But it is not the real difficulty. I went to mamma this 
 morning and asked her, and she does not think there would be 
 much risk. She is nearly sure that Lady Catharine would be 
 persuaded. O Alice ! if I might only tell papa that you 
 wish it !' 
 
 ' To be confirmed .'' Yes — indeed, I wish it ; but I don't 
 know afterwards — I have not thought about it all as I ought ; 
 it frightens me.' 
 
 * But, Alice, I am frightened, and I have more cause to be 
 than you have. It seems now as if I should never know again 
 when I was doing right. Yet papa will let me go. Say yes, 
 for my sake.' 
 
 ' No, not for your sake,' said Alice, quickly. < That must 
 not be the reason.' 
 
 ' Then for your own sake ; because it is right.' 
 ' Is it right?' asked Alice. 
 
 * Yes, I suppose it is — it must be. Alice, indeed, indeed I 
 could not bear it if you were not there.' 
 
 * One must be very good aftei-wards/ said Alice. 
 Ruth was silent.
 
 564 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Very much in earnest,' continued Alice. 
 
 Still Ruth kept her hands clasped together, and remained 
 without speaking till Madeline came back with the flowers. 
 Ruth looked round and beckoped to her. * Tell her she must 
 be confirmed,' she said, laying her hand upon Ahce's, and look- 
 ing entreatingly at Madeline. 
 
 * Not confirmed only,' said Alice. * I could bear that ; but 
 afterwards.' 
 
 Madeline kissed her, and whispered ' It is only like going to 
 a Father and a Brother ; one ought not to be so very much 
 afraid.' 
 
 * You did not think so once,' said Alice; ' you were frightened 
 as I am.' 
 
 ' I am frightened now,' replied Madeline ; ' that is — no, not 
 frightened, it is not the word — I was frightened at first, when I 
 talked to papa ; now it is different. It makes my heart beat ; 
 but I think of being loved, and then I am happy.' 
 
 * Hark ! that is papa's voice, I am sure,' exclaimed Ruth, 
 rising. 
 
 Mr Clifford was inquiring of Marsham if he might see Alice. 
 
 * He is come to talk to me,' exclaimed Alice, becoming much 
 agitated. 
 
 ' He said he would,' replied Ruth. ' Alice, pray listen to him.' 
 ' But if I am not well enough — if I cannot go ?' 
 
 * Papa came to the Manor with me,' said Ruth ; ' but I was 
 not to tell you. He came with mamma, too, to talk to Lady 
 Catharine. If she said the confirmation was impossible, they 
 were to have gone home without seeing you again ; so it must 
 be settled that you may go if you will.' 
 
 Ruth took up her bonnet and went to the door. 
 
 Madeline remained behind. ' You do wish it.'" she said. 
 
 Alice did not say ' Yes ; ' but she kept Madeline's hand fast 
 in hers. ' IMaddy, dear, I think sometimes that if you were to 
 say some prayers for me, I should be better. Do you think you 
 could?' 
 
 ' I do very often,' said Madeline, eagerly. 
 
 ' But now, particularly, would you ask that I might have the 
 same things you want yourself ? — that I might be fit .-' I should 
 like some one else to ask besides myself. You won't forget ?' 
 
 Madeline's promise was understood by manner rather than 
 by words. She made Alice drink some water, smoothed her 
 pillows, and went out of the room, just as Mr Clifford entered it.
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. ^^^ 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 MR CLIFFORD had held several conversations with Alice 
 since she left her sick chamber ; but they had been 
 geiTcral. Alice was not cold, but she was still reserved ; she 
 could listen, but she could not talk. She listened now. The 
 first beginnings of a conversation upon any particular subject are 
 almost always awkward. Mr Clifford said he had been tallcing 
 to Lady Catharine ; but no notice was taken of the observa- 
 tion. He remarked that Alice was looking better, and she said 
 that she felt better. Then he inquired if she had been out, and 
 was informed that she was to go into the garden that afternoon ; 
 and whilst this was said, Alice diligently destroyed the last 
 remnant of the rose which she had before been pulling to 
 pieces. Mr Cliflbrd made one or two more attempts to draw 
 her out, and finding them unsuccessful, said at length — • 
 
 ' One would imagine, Alice, that you and I were strangers, 
 instead of old friends. I wonder what we are both thinking 
 of.' 
 
 Alice only blushed. 
 
 * I will not try to guess your thoughts,' he continued ; * though 
 I .should like you to guess mine.' 
 
 Alice looked up rather archly ; but in an instant she became 
 quite grave, and said she believed she knew them. 
 
 ' Ruth has been with you,' observed Air Clifford ; ' perhaps 
 she has given you some idea ? ' 
 
 * She spoke of the confirmation,' said Alice, shortly. 
 
 ' I imagined she had done so. She is veiy anxious about it; 
 so am I ; so is Lady Catharine.' 
 
 ' Lady Catharine !' repeated Alice, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 ' Yes, she is anxious in two ways : both that you should go 
 and that you should not.' 
 
 ' I thought she was afraid,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, so she is, in a degree ; but 1 think we could overcome 
 her fear if He paused. 
 
 Alice also was silent. 
 
 ' A good deal has passed since you and I had a conversation 
 upon the subject on the shore,' pursued Mr Clifford. ' Do you 
 lemember it well r ' 
 
 ' Yes, perfectly,' replied Alice ; but she would add nothing 
 besides.
 
 566 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 Mr Clifford looked vexed. * I had hoped your wishes were 
 altered,' he continued ; ' if they are not, there is very little to 
 be said at present ; but you must promise me, my dear child, 
 to let me talk to you more fully before long. I think you will 
 see the duty and necessity of taking advantage of the next early 
 opportunity, if not of this one.' He rose, as if to go. 
 
 Alice stopped him. * Please, don't,' she said, whilst hot 
 voice faltered. ' I think — I wish — I would much rather you 
 should not go.' 
 
 Mr Clifford sat down again instantly. 
 
 ' I could be confirmed,' exclaimed Alice, hurriedly ; * I 
 should like it ; but I could not — I am not good enough for the 
 Holy Communion ; and therefore I would rather wait entirely. 
 I hope you tinderstand, and will not be angry,' she added, 
 beseechingly. 
 
 Mr Clifford answered in a tone of great kindness. ' Thank 
 you, my love : I like to hear your difficulties. No one could 
 be angry with you ; and you know you are one of my own 
 children. I can quite understand ' 
 
 ' And agree .'* ' exclaimed Alice. 
 
 ' Not entirely that ; but I think we shall agree after we have 
 talked together a little. I am sure, Alice, now you are in earnest.* 
 
 * I hope so,' said Alice, humbly. 
 
 * I am sure you are,' repeated Mr Clifford. ' I am certain 
 that you would like to please God.' 
 
 ' Yes, very much,' replied Alice. 
 
 ' Well, then, dear child, why should you wish not to do the 
 one thing which He has especially commanded }' 
 ' Because it is so serious — so awful,' answered Alice. 
 
 * Doubtless ; no one can really tell how much so ; but it is 
 just as serious and awful for me as for you.' 
 
 ' Only you are so much better,' said Alice. 
 
 ' That is not the question. The blessing in itself is infinite, 
 and the duty most solemn ; but it is commanded ; this is all 
 we have to think of.' 
 
 * We must be fit,' said Alice. 
 ' How fit — in what degree ? ' 
 Alice did not know what to reply. 
 
 ' Not perfect,' said ?>Ir Clifford ; ' because in that case no 
 human being would ever be fit. Then how good must we be } 
 how many virtues must we possess, before we are permitted to 
 receive the Holy Communion ? '
 
 LAN£. TON PARSONA GE. 567 
 
 * We must wish to have tliem all,' replied Alice. 
 
 * And do you not wish it ? Is there any one wrong practice 
 which you arc determined to encourage ? ' 
 
 ' No, I hope not — I will try not,' said Alice. 
 
 * Yet j'ou are still afraid .'' ' 
 
 ' Because I am not sure of being good afterwards,' replied 
 Alice. ' I cannot trust myself.' 
 
 ' Neither can I, my love ; nor can Lady Catharine ; nor 
 Madeline, nor any person that ever lived. But the Bible tells 
 us, that however weak v/e may be in ourselves, yet in our 
 Saviour we are strong. Only, Alice, our trust must be shov>'n 
 by actions. It can be of no use to go to a physician and say, 
 we will do what he bids us in every case except the one which 
 he assures ns is of the greatest importance.' 
 
 ' But wicked people are kept from the Holy Communion,' said 
 Alice ; ' and every one says it is veiy dangerous to go, if v,e 
 are wicked.' 
 
 ' Uncjuestionably. But, Alice, you are not afraid to be con- 
 firmed ; you do not refuse to go before God, and promise to 
 keep the vows of your baptism .'' ' 
 
 ' Because I mean to try and do it,' said Alice. 
 
 * Then you are not wicked ; that is, not wilfully determined 
 to do wrong. There is therefore no obstacle of that kind.' 
 
 * I only wish to be sure that I shall not go back again,' said 
 Alice. ' But all my life I have begun things and never finished 
 them.' 
 
 ' The certainty is in your own power much more than you 
 think,' answered Mr Clifford. ' If you remember, when we 
 talked together upon the shore, I spoke to you a great deal 
 about your duties ; but I did not tell you how you could per- 
 form them. My wish was, I own, rather to alarm you, by 
 showing you how many and difficult they were. I hoped by 
 that means to rouse your fears and your energies. Now that 
 you really feel how impossible it is to fulfil them of yourself, I 
 should like to consider what is to be done in such a case.' 
 
 ' We must pray, I know,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, pray diligently — ^just mark the word — it is a very 
 peculiar one to use on such a subject ; we should rather have 
 said, I think, earnestly or fervently. The church says diligently 
 — so also our blessed Lord declares, " That men ought always 
 to pray and not to faint." ' 
 
 * Tliat never struck me before,' said Alice.
 
 568 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' Very likely not. We are often entluisiastic and excited when 
 ue give directions to others. Our Lord on the contrary is simple, 
 clear, and, if one may be allowed to use the word without irre- 
 verence, practical. His own prayer — what can be more quiet 
 and )et more solemn than it is ? ' 
 
 ' It is very beautiful,' said Alice ; ' but I very often think 
 that I do not understand it.' 
 
 ' \\'e must be perfect to do that, because it is a perfect prayer. 
 If \vc never were to use any other, we could still put a meaning 
 into those words to express all our wants.' 
 
 * But we must use others,' said Alice. 
 
 * Yes ; from the infirmity of our nature we require change to 
 keep up our wandering attention. Still the Lord's Prayer is our 
 model ; and one great peculiarity which must strike us when we 
 think about it, is its being so short and so calm.' 
 
 ' I thought people were better the longer they prayed,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 ' To like our prayers, and to find a great deal to pray for, is 
 a sign of our advancement in goodness, no doubt,' replied Mr 
 Clifford; 'but if we are beginners in religion, we must take the 
 instruction of beginners. Our Lord gave His disciples a prayer 
 in few words. He himself continued all night in prayer to 
 God.' 
 
 ' Then you would not have me use long prayers,' said Alice. 
 
 * Short prayers, but frequent, my love, would be my recom- 
 mendation. And this was what I wished particularly to speak 
 to you about when you told me just now that you could not 
 trust yourself, and that you could not be sure of going on rightly. 
 You are, I allow, naturally very changeable ; your moods vary 
 almost every hour in the day. Now if you can bring yourself 
 to obey a fixed rule, quite independent of your other moods — a 
 rule for your prayers — I think it will go far towards giving you 
 stability of character.' 
 
 ' I know I must pray every morning and evening,' said Alice, 
 
 * Yes, but that is not enough. Stated prayers in the day, at 
 stated hours, arc essential for a person of your character.' 
 
 ' But I am often engaged,' said Alice, ' and I can never 
 answer for interruptions.' 
 
 ' I am aware of that ; but I am sure also that nothing is ever 
 accomplished either in religion or in common business, unless 
 we put before ourselves some paramount object to which every- 
 thing else is to yield. If keeping to your fixed times of prayer
 
 Laneton parsonage. 569 
 
 is your object, you will attain it even if you arc called upon to 
 live amidst the bustle of a London life, instead of in a retired 
 country place.' 
 
 ' But what hours ? how can I manage ? I shall never know 
 how to begin,' said Alice. 
 
 * There is a rule which has been practised at different times in 
 the Christian Church as to hours of prayer,' replied Mr Clifford ; 
 * and it is better to keep to example than to form plans of our 
 own. I will give you a little book of Bishop Cosins', framed for 
 the Protestant ladies who were in exile at the court of Charles 
 the Second, when he was in France. It has, amongst many 
 others, prayers for the morning, evening, and for the third, sixth, 
 and ninth hours, which are memorable as connected with our 
 Lord's sufferings.' 
 
 ' But I could not use them all,' said Alice. 
 
 * No, and I would not advise you to attempt it ; at least at 
 first. Perhaps you might find time twice in the day ; we will 
 say at the sixth hour, which is twelve o'clock, and in the even- 
 ing, which would be about six. The short services would not 
 occupy you much more than ten minutes each. When you have 
 attended the church ser\ices in the week, you might alter them 
 as you see fit, not to overburden yourself.' 
 
 ' And if any interruptions come .'' ' 
 
 ' Still endeavour to keep as near to the time fixed as you can. 
 It is order and habit which your mind wants, Alice; something 
 to strengthen it.' 
 
 ' But,' said Alice, ' my thouglits will never be fixed at such 
 strange times. I shall be thinking of my worl:, or reading, or 
 what I have just left off doing.' 
 
 ' A Christian,' replied Mr Clifford, ' is bound to think upon 
 God always : anything, therefore, which breaks in upon our 
 worldly thoughts, and forces us to remember Him, must be most 
 valuable.' 
 
 ' I shall not keep the rule,' said Alice ; * I never did yet in my 
 life keep any rule for more than a few days together.' 
 
 ' Well ! suppose it should be so ; suppose you are tempted to 
 break it, you can begin again. If you break it twenty times 
 you can recommence it as often. It is not so much an effort 
 of mind, dependent upon health and spirits, which is required at 
 the first moment ; it is an effort of the body ; to rise from your 
 seat, and leave your employment and go to your own room.' 
 
 ' But,' exclaimed Alice, ' merely to do that will not be prayer.'
 
 570 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 ' No, but it will be the first step towards it ; it will be 
 obedience, and by degrees the habit will recur as an instinct ; 
 whatever [you may be doing, even when travelling or in com- 
 pany. The very striking of the clock will be a voice summon- 
 ing you to God, and you will learn to mark it by short prayers 
 when you cannot do more.' 
 
 ' I will try to do as you say,' replied Alice. 
 
 * Then, my love, I cannot have the slightest doubt of your 
 success, and by and by your prayers will become a pleasure to 
 you.' 
 
 Alice looked up with a smile, but said that she was afraid 
 that would never be the case, for she always felt dissatisfied 
 with her prayers, as if she had not prayed for the people and 
 things she ought, even when she tried to do so. 
 
 ' Perhaps the examination of the Lord's Prayer will be a help 
 to you,' replied Mr Clifford. ' One thing it teaches us very 
 clearly, that we are to think more of God than of ourselves. 
 We shall see this if we study it v/ell. We begin by calling Him 
 "Our Father J " and as children are always interested in a 
 Father's honour, we pray next for His glory, that " His name 
 may be hallowed," and " His kingdom come." Aftenvards 
 there follow short petitions for ourselves : our bodily wants, 
 the forgiveness of our sins, freedom from temptation and the 
 snares of the evil one ; and then again we recur to the thought 
 of God's iMajesty. This is not like our usual notion of what 
 prayer should be, is it, Alice .'" 
 
 * No,' answered Alice, * and it seems impossible not to think 
 of ourselves first.' 
 
 ' The perfection of religion is love,' replied Mr Clifford ; 'and 
 a very perfect Christian loving His Saviour intensely would 
 long that His name might be hallowed, and His kingdom come, 
 more than for any earthly blessing. But I am not going to 
 speak to you particularly about this now, because I think you 
 are not likely to enter into it ; and of course much of our time 
 must be spent in confession, and asking for help. I mentioned 
 it chiefly to suggest what we are apt to forget, that intercession 
 should form a chief part of our prayers, because by it we pro- 
 mole the glory of God.' 
 
 ' There arc such a number of persons to pray for,' said Alice, 
 * I cannot remember them all, and then I grow tired and think 
 it very troublesome.' 
 
 ' Did you ever see Bishop Andrev/s' form of intercession .■■
 
 LANETON PARSON A GE. 571 
 
 There is one for the Wednesday which might be used in two 
 parts at the two short services I mentioned for twelve and six 
 o'clock. In the morning and evening you might content your- 
 self with mentioning your particular relations and friends, and 
 using the Lord's Prayer for all Christians. Only I would beg 
 you to try and bring vividly before your mind the persons you 
 are praying for ; imagine them, as it were, standing by you to 
 be interceded for. Short and numerous intercessions are apt 
 to become a form if we do not watch ourselves. When they 
 are real, they help us extremely in becoming charitable, and 
 interested in persons about us.' 
 
 * But there are other things besides intercession which are 
 difficult,' said Alice ; 'remembering all our faults is one,' 
 
 ' Yes, there again you require division. You have a general 
 idea of your chief faults ; perhaps it may be an assistance to 
 you to take one of the most prominent, and make it an especial 
 point of duty to guard against it.' 
 
 ' That will be having my own way,' said Alice. 
 
 * Yes, a dislike to interference and government ; this is 
 particularly dangerous for you, my love, because it is the root of 
 all your unhappiness with Lady Catharine. If you can once 
 bring yourself to bend your will to hers, instead of wishing that 
 she should bend hers to yours, your life will be very different 
 from what it has been.' 
 
 ' It will be extremely difficult, I am afraid,' said Alice. 
 
 * No doubt it will ; and more so by and by than at present. 
 Whilst you are an invalid, the object of eveiy one is to pet 
 you ; but if it please God that you should grow strong 
 again, you must prepare to bear the roughnesses of life.' 
 
 * Yes, I know,' said Alice, sighing. 
 
 * Then look at the case bravely, my dear child. Submission 
 is your duty ; thorough submission in all things, small as 
 well as great, and to wishes as well as commands. Lady 
 Catharine stands in the place of a parent. There is no duty 
 more imperatively commanded than that of unresisting obedience 
 to our parents.' 
 
 ' I will try/ said Alice, but the tone, though sincere, was 
 doubtful. 
 
 * Try ; and yet make up your mind not to be disheartened by 
 failures. Only keep a constant watch. When you go to your 
 noonday prayers, for instance, look back upon what has passed 
 since breakfast time, and see how often you have been wilful ;
 
 5^i LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 the i-ecollection of one fault will bring back others ; and you 
 may inquire also whether you have been vain, idle, selfish, 
 hasty, and so on. It will take less time than you think, and a 
 short general confession and petition for help, perhaps only the 
 verse of a Psalm, will, you may be sure, be accepted if sincere. 
 So again at six o'clock, the same plan may be adopted. In 
 that case your self-examination at night wiU be much easier, 
 and you will not be induced to give it up, or huny over it, by 
 sleep or fatigue. You had better not give yourself more duty 
 of the kind than you can help at night ; rest, especially at your 
 age, is very essential, and sitdng up late prevents early rising, 
 and makes the whole day go wrong.' 
 
 * Still, I shall only have a confused notion, I am afraid,' said 
 Alice. 
 
 'Then perl-.aps to help you, it may not be amiss to make a 
 memorandum of the principal faults you have noticed in your- 
 self at these times of self-examination ; only let them be made 
 simply and shortly, without any expressions of feeling that may 
 tend to vanity and self-consciousness, and from time to time 
 destroyed. Perhaps it would be well to keep them for a week, 
 and look them over every Friday, which is the day especially 
 appointed for confession and humiliation. And, my love,' con^ 
 tinned Mr Clifford, ' I think you will find these outward rules of 
 use ; but I hope I need not urge upon you, that if you were to 
 begin them now, and continue them unbroken till the day of 
 your death, they must be worse than useless without the aid 
 of the Spirit of God and the devotion of your secret heart.' 
 
 ' You have not told me about thanksgiving,' said Alice ; 
 * but I should like to be helped in that too.' 
 
 ' I have said little about it,' replied Mr Clifford, 'because it 
 is the first part of our prayers likely to become a pleasure to us ; 
 you Avill soon find it make you happy to remember, besides the 
 infinite blessings which are common to us all, the little pleasures 
 and peculiar mercies you have enjoyed yourself in the day, and 
 to say that you are grateful for them. It will make you realise, 
 perhaps more than anything, that God is your Friend.' 
 
 Alice sighed deeply. 
 
 ' You sigh, my dear child ; you distrust yourself, why should 
 you .' or rather why should you not trust to God ?' 
 
 ' Because I have tried and always gone back,' said Alice. 
 
 * Then try again ; pray again ; above all, Alice, make up 
 your mind to receive the Holy Communion the very first oppor-
 
 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 573 
 
 Umity which is offered you ; and never, except from absolute 
 necessity, omit it. How greatly it will be the means of 
 strengthening you, it will be impossible for you to imagine.' 
 
 ' The sei'vice is so solemn,' said Alice. ' When I have prac- 
 tised the rules some time, perhaps, I shall be more fit. I am 
 sure now I shall never feel as I ought.' 
 
 * You make the common mistake, my love, and a very great 
 one it is. You measure fitness by feeling, and the benefits of 
 the Holy Communion by the amount of your own goodness. 
 God, on the contrary, sees us all unfit, all sinful. Still He says, 
 " Come." Sorrow for the past, sincerity of purpose for the 
 future, and an honest, childlike faith, are the wedding-garments 
 required. If I did not think you possessed these, Alice, I should 
 say as I did before, wait ; but wait not only for the Holy Com- 
 munion but for your confirmation. Do not go before God with 
 a double mind. Do not dare to make Him a promise which 
 in your heart you do not intend to perform.' 
 
 Alice answered humbly, ' I think I intend to perform it.' 
 ' Then, dear child, trust that intention to God. He will keep 
 what you commit to Him ; and whenever you are inclined to 
 be disheartened, go to Him, and commit it to Him again. I 
 mean this literally. I could tell you, Alice, of instances in 
 which persons with most serious natural fixults — faults, perhaps, 
 of all others, the most difficult to cure, have been placed in 
 circumstances likely to foster them to tiie utmost — so much so, 
 that any one looking at the case would say that they could not 
 escape ; and I have known the persons themselves to be actually 
 frightened at their position, from a sense of their own powerless- 
 ness ; and yet, after committing themselves entirely to God, and 
 asking Him to save them, finding themselves saved, they 
 knew not how ; not merely enabled to battle with temptation, 
 but in a measure unconscious of its power.' 
 
 * I know faults can be conquered,' said Alice. 
 
 ' Yes, but these faults were not conquered ; they remained 
 still in the disposition, and showed themselves on other occa- 
 sions, though, of course, they were carefully guarded against ; 
 but the strange thing is, that in the peculiar case in which tlie 
 danger seemed so imminent, they were comparatively unfclt. 
 These instances are as plain answers to prayer, as clear inter- 
 positions of God in our behalf, as the curing of a physical 
 disease would be. I mention them just to show what help you 
 have at hand at all moments. The very instability of your
 
 574 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 disposition may be converted into a blessing, if it should teach 
 you to throw yourself more fully upon God.' 
 
 Alice looked happier and more hopeful ; yet she could not 
 bring herself to say what Mr Clifford wished. He asked her 
 again whether she could now agi-ee to his proposal. She would 
 rhink, she said ; she would let him know. 
 
 ' But, my love, are there any more reasons ? Is there any- 
 thing you have not told me ? ' 
 
 ' No, nothing, except' 
 
 ' Except what ? ' 
 
 ' Except that I am afraid, and that I shall not keep my 
 thoughts properly fixed, and that my feelings are always so cold 
 in church ; everything distracts me.' 
 
 ' Very likely ; some persons do find it more difficult to keep 
 up their attention properly in church than in private ; these are 
 individual peculiarities ; they do not affect the great question of 
 our sincerity.' 
 
 * But it will be very wicked not to attend then ?' said Alice. 
 
 ' Not to try to attend, and not to care about it would be very 
 wicked,' replied Mr Clifford ; * but you must be prepared to 
 find your thoughts wander ; it may be even more than usual 
 when you are to engage for the first time in such a very solemn 
 sen'ice. The sense of novelty — the uncertainty as to what you 
 are exactly to do — physical nervousness — all these things will 
 tend to disturb you — perhaps to make you quite cold ; but these 
 are not true tests of our condition or our acceptance. And 
 when you are conscious of them, do not try to work yourself up 
 to a state of excitement ; pray that you may be assisted ; and 
 instead of thinking of yourself, think of your Saviour ; think of 
 those parts of the Gospel which speak of His sufferings, and 
 endeavour, if you can, to realise them, or read some of the 
 prophetical Psalms ; go out of yourself as much as you can, try 
 to forget whether you are feeling much or little ; and remember 
 (he question for self-examination will be, how you endeavour to 
 prepare for your infinite privilege; to keep up the remembrance 
 of it, and to struggle against your faults afterwards. The first 
 little act of self-denial when you return home, done with a special 
 remembrance that you have been a partaker of the Holy Com- 
 munion, will, as it were, stamp the act upon your heart. 
 
 ' And when I have to go again, I shall never think I have 
 prepared myself properly,' said Alice. 
 
 ' You will find the preparation comparatively easy ; if you
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 575 
 
 can keep steadily to the rules I mentioned just now,' said Mr 
 Clifford. * Self-examination will be a light task when it is so 
 constantly performed ; though it will be right, at such seasons, 
 to take a larger view of your conduct, and see if you can dis- 
 cover any marked progress from one month to another. You 
 may also read with attention particular parts of the Bible, such 
 as our Saviour's sermon on the mount, St Paul's exhortations 
 to the Romans, in the 12th chapter of his epistle; or to the 
 Ephesians, in the 4th, 5th, and 6th chapters ; or again, the 
 description of charity in the 13th chapter of the ist Epistle to 
 the Corinthians, and compare your conduct with the laws laid 
 down in them. But I do not advise you to add very much to 
 your usual reading and prayers at these times. I think you 
 would find it better rather to make alterations in those to which 
 you are accustomed. Instead, for instance, of using the short 
 services exactly as they are put down in Bishop Cosins' Devo- 
 tions, to choose other psalms, or to fix upon other prayers 
 more peculiarly suitable ; remembering that although it is most 
 needful to recollect our own offences, it is quite as much, if not 
 more so, to dwell upon the mercy purchased for us by our 
 Saviour's sufferings. The more we can think of Him, the safer 
 and happier we shall be. I do not mean to imply from what 
 I have said, that special, lengthened preparation is not good. 
 When persons have but little leisure for devotion generally, it is 
 most necessary ; but I would rather spread your preparation 
 over a longer space of time ; — in fact, teach you to feel that you 
 were always prepared.' 
 
 ' Or never prepared,' said Alice, with a faint smile. 
 
 * Never prepared,' repeated Mr Clifford, em} hatically. 'You 
 are right, Alice; it is "never prepared;" tlat we must feel 
 more and more. But, my love, we stand upon the same ground 
 there. Have you anything else to say ?' 
 
 * Nothing ; not that I can remember, only ' 
 
 * Only you will consent, my own dear child ; you will not 
 dra'.v back again ? ' Alice held out her hand in token of assent. 
 He took it in one of his, and laying the other upon her head, 
 said : ' May God bless you and keep you, my child ; and give 
 you peace both now and evermore.'
 
 576 LANETON PARSONAGE, 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 THE deep-toned bells of Laneton Church pealed joyfully on 
 the morning of the confirmation. Early, quite early, 
 when the sun had but lately risen upon the earth, they poured 
 forth their hallowed greeting, summoning many a young heart 
 to Avake from the dreams of earth, and prepare for the warfare 
 of eternity. 
 
 Ruth was among the first to rise — to remember that a solemn 
 day at length was come, and to make an effort for its proper 
 celebration. And Madeline had no wish to linger in indolence. 
 The watchword for that day, and for the whole future of their 
 lives, was to be — energy. ' Whatsoever thy heart findeth to 
 do, do it with thy might ; for there is no work, nor device, nor 
 knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave whither thou goest.' It 
 was a quiet, silent energy which was required now ; to keep in 
 mind the remembrance of the vows they were about to renew ; 
 and to pi'event their thoughts from being distracted by the un- 
 usual excitement in the village, by the arrival of the bishop, and 
 all the attendant interest of a ceremony comparatively rare. 
 These are the real trials of all such occasions, and Ruth was 
 pained to find how much they disturbed her. But all was for- 
 gotten, when at length she found herself with Madeline in the 
 church, and no longer called upon to give heed to anything save 
 the duty before her. One thought alone drew her attention 
 occasionally aside, when her eye wandered to a distant spot, 
 where Alice sat apart, leaning against a cushion, and supported 
 by Lady Catharine. 
 
 Poor Alice ! she looked very ill on that morning, but she did 
 not cry ; and she sat perfectly still, without once looking up. 
 She seemed scarcely to have the power to seek for herself a 
 blessing ; only she Avas humble, and penitent, and willing to 
 receive it. The sight of her caused Ruth a sharp pang. All 
 her mistakes and errors rose up before her with renewed self- 
 reproach ; and when she thought of the promise to be made, 
 her heart misgave her with the doubt whether it could ever be 
 performed. But it was too late then to draw back, and Ruth 
 did not really wish it. She was learning to trust herself to a 
 I^gher Pov.er; to trust as simply as Madeline, whose face bore 
 the grave but exquisitely sweet expression of one about to be 
 placed in a position of new and untried responsibility, and full
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 577 
 
 of resolution and hope, because loving too much to fear that she 
 •should ever be forsaken. 
 
 Yes ; it is pleasant, it is a real happiness, to bow ourselves 
 to the service of One to whom our hearts are given. If there 
 is delight in the devotion of a wife to her husband ; if there 
 is a proud satisfaction in loyalty, or a pure enthusiasm in 
 patriotism; surely also, there is a higher, a more ennobling hap- 
 piness in offering ourselves to our Saviour, in pledging ourselves 
 to be the faithful soldiers and servants of Christ, even to our 
 life's end. 
 
 The service proceeded, differing but little from the usual form. 
 A short question was asked, a still shorter answer given — and 
 the act was over. 
 
 So it is often in this world ; we speak for a moment — we 
 promise for eternity. Then Ruth, and IMadeline, and Alice, 
 knelt together to be blessed ! And what a blessing it was which 
 they received ! Strengthening and inspiriting ; full of hope for 
 a daily increase of happiness upon earth — of rest in the eternal 
 kingdom of glory. Ruth's tears fell fast but peacefully. The 
 prospect of hca\ enly aid was the only trust of a contrite spirit. 
 And Alice's hands shook as she held by the altar rail, trying to 
 understand where she was, and what she was doing ; and whilst 
 distressed at her bewildered feelings, still satisfied with the sense 
 of performing a duty ; and Madeline, self-possessed in manner 
 and tranquilly happy, forgot her own powerlessness as the eager- 
 ness of fervent resolution melted into the quiet rest of undoubting 
 faith. 
 
 \\'hen the service was ended, Alice was carried back to the 
 Manor, watched with inexpressible tenderness by Lady Catha- 
 rine ; and Ruth and Madeline returned to the Parsonage, to 
 receive that warm, fond kiss of a parent's love, the remembrance 
 of which, when the reality is beyond our reach, we n:iust bear 
 with an aching longing to our grave. 
 
 They spent the evening together at the Manor. Ruth and 
 Madeline were alone with Alice when the clock st.-uck nine. 
 They had fallen into a conversation which interested them — a 
 recollection of school days. Ruth noticed the hour, and Made- 
 line said she could not have imagined it half as late. Alice rose 
 instantly. 
 
 ' Good night, dears,' she said. ' I must go. It is my bed , 
 time now, till I get well.' 
 
 * ^lust you, indeed .'" 
 
 2 o
 
 573 LANETON PARSONAGE. 
 
 * Yes ; Lady Catharine wishes it.' 
 
 No one said a word more. Alice put on her shawl, and went 
 to find Lady Catharine. She met her en the stairs. 
 
 ' I was coming to look for you, my love. I did not like to 
 disturb you ; but it is best to be particular.' 
 
 ' I heard the clock strike,' said Alice, ' and I knew it \vould. 
 be best to go. I came to v/ish you good night.' 
 
 ' Dear child I it seems very hard you should be interrupted ;• 
 but you must grow strong again.' 
 
 * It is not so very hard,' said Alice; 'and I like to please you,' 
 she added, as she held up her face to be kissed. 
 
 ' A~,d what did Ruth and Madeline say? ' asked Lady Catha- 
 rine, whilst she wrapped Alice's shawl more closely round her 
 throat, to keep her from the draught on the stairs. 
 
 ' Nothing, when they knew it was right.' 
 
 Lady Catharine smiled and answered, ' God bless you, my 
 child, and th.em too !' and Alice went away. 
 
 Sunday came — bright as the day of confirmation ; but quiet^ 
 like other Sundays. Some days and some feelings are not ta 
 be described. Words are human and imperfect ; feelings, the 
 purest and the best are the gift of the Spirit of God. 
 
 If sincerity and humbleness of heart are acceptable in the 
 sight of heaven, then were Alice, and Ruth, and Madeline 
 accepted when they knelt to receive their first communion. It 
 was a moment full of deep awe- — of a sense of incomprehensible . 
 mercy — of hopes scarcely understood — of privileges too great 
 to be realised ; a season, the blessedness of which was perceived 
 in remembrance, rather than in its reality. 
 
 Others, more advanced in their Christian course, could better 
 comprehend it — at least, could be more grateful for it — most 
 especially the parents, who then saw themselves bound to their 
 precious children by the most hallowed of all ties ; and she, the 
 widow, once desolate, who read in that solemn act the pledge 
 that the one treasure of her life should be hers for ever ia 
 heaven. 
 
 ' Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His 
 blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth My flesh, and 
 drinkctli My blood, hath eternal life, and I will raise him up at 
 the last day.'
 
 LANETON PARSONAGE. 579. 
 
 Rutli, and Madeline, and Alice, were now fully Christians,- 
 They were to begin life for themselves. 
 
 We may think that it would be well to follow them farther; 
 we may desire to knov/ how it fared with them in that long and, 
 dangerous journey; we may feel some wish tu know the period 
 of their probation upon earth ; and where, after the toil and 
 the conflict were ended, they were laid to rest in their last calm 
 sleep. 
 
 But the future is sometimes to be read by the past, not 
 indeed perfectly, yet sufficiently. They who give themselves to- 
 God in their youth will be protected by Him to their old age. 
 We may picture Alice to ourselves as still struggling against 
 the inherent faults of her character ; sometimes fretted by 
 interruption, sometimes inclined to rebel against authority; but 
 we may be certain that the principle within must rise superior 
 to all such evil; and v/e may imagine the Manor to be still 
 occasionally dull, and Lady Catharine inclined to be strict, but 
 love and obedience will, by degrees, melt even the most firmly 
 fixed habits, and Lady Catharine Hyde's deep affection, and 
 consciousness of her ov/n imperfection, might well be trusted to 
 ensure Alice's happiness. 
 
 And at the Parsonage, — with Mr and Mrs Cliftbrd, and 
 Madeline, and Ruth, — it can scarcely be difficult to prophesy 
 something of the course of after years. We may surely foresee 
 the unwearying energy with which Ruth would labour to correct 
 her hidden faults ; how she would pray, and strive, and watch ; 
 and when overtaken by sin, repent and strive again ; and 
 pursue the straightforward path, under the remembrance of the 
 time when, in bygone years, she had v/andered from it into 
 error ; and how the clear stream of Madeline's Christian life 
 would flow onwards to the end, even as it had so early begun, 
 disturbed, it might be, for one moment, by the pollutions of 
 earth, but the next reflecting untroubled the hues of heaven. 
 
 Such as they were in life, such would they be in death. May 
 God in His mercy grant that the history of their early years 
 shall not have been written in vain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 English Worthies. Edited by Andrew Lang. Crown 8vo. 2*-. Gd. each. 
 
 Charles Darwin, by Grant AJleu. | Marlborough, by George Saintsbury. 
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 Hamilton's (Sir W. R.) Life, by Graves. Vols. 1 and 2, 8vo. 15*. each. 
 Bavelock's Life, by Marshman. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d. 
 Htdlah's (John) Life. By his Wife. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Macaulay's (I/5rd) Life and Letters. By bis Nephew, G. Otto Trevelyan, M.P. 
 
 Popular Edition, 1 vol. crown 8vo. 6*. Cabinet Edition, 2 vols, post 8vo. 
 
 12*. Libraiy Edition, 2 vols. 8vo. 36*. 
 Mendelssohn's Letters. Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. cr. 8vo. 5*. each. 
 Mill (James) Biography of, by Prof. Bain. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 — (John Stuart) Recollections of, by Prof. Bain. Crown 8vo. 2*. 6d. 
 
 — — Autobiography. 8vo. 7s. Sd. 
 
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 MiUler's (Max) Biographical Essays. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Newman's Apologia pro Vita Su4. Crown 870. 6*. 
 
 PasoUni's (Count) Memoir, by his Son. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 Pasteur (Louis) His Life and Labours. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Shakespeare's Life (Outlines of), by Halliwell-Phillipps. Royal 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 Southey's Correspondence with Caroline Bowles. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 Stephen's Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Taylor's (Sir Henry) Autobiography. 2 vols. 8vo. 32*. 
 
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 Trevelyan's Eu-ly History of Charles James Fox, Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Wellington's Life, by Gleig. C!rown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 MENTAL AND POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY, FINANCE, &c. 
 
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 — Primer of the English Constitution. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Bacon's Essays, with Annotations by Whately. 8vo. 10*. 6d, 
 
 — Works, edited by Spedding. 7 vols. 8vo. 73*. 6d. 
 Bagehot's Economic Studies, edited by Hutton. 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 
 — The Postulates of English Political Economy. Crown 8vo. 2*. 6d. 
 Bain's Logic, Deductive and Inductive. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Part I. Deduction, 4*. | Part II. Induction, 6*. 6d. 
 
 — Mental and Moral Science. Crown 8vo. 10*. Sd. 
 
 — The Senses and tlie Intellect. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 — The Emotions and the Will. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 — Practical Essays. Crown 8vo. is. Sd. 
 
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 Crozier's Civilization and Progress. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 Crump's A Short Enquiry into the Formation of English Political Opinion. 
 8vo. 7*. 6(i. 
 
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 Hume's Essays, edited by Grreeu & Grose. 2 vols. 8vo. 28«. 
 
 — Treatise of Human Nature, editod by Green & Grose. 2 vols. 8vo. 28*. 
 Lftng'a Custom and Myth : Studies of Early Usage and Belief. Crown 8vo. 7^. 6d. 
 Leslie's Essays in Political and Moral Philosophy. 8vo. lOs. 6d. 
 
 Lewes's History of Philosophy. 2 vols. 8vo. 32s, 
 
 List's Natural System of Political Economy, translated by S. Lloyd, M.P. 
 
 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 Lubbock's Origin of Civilisation. 8vo. 18*. 
 
 Macleod's Principles of Economical Philosophy. In 2 vols. Vol. 1, 8vo. 15s, 
 Vol. 2, Part I. 12*. 
 
 — The Elements of Economics. (2 vols.) Vol. 1, cr. 8vo. 7*. 6d. Vol. 2, 
 
 Part I. cr. 8vo. 7.?. 6d. 
 
 — The Elements of Banking. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 — The Theory and Practice of Banking. Vol. 1, 8vo. 12*. 
 
 — Elements of Political Economy. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 — Economics for Beginners. 8vo. 2*. 6rf. 
 
 — Lectures on Credit and Banking. 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Mill's (James) Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind. 2 vols. 8vo, 28*. 
 Mill (John Stuart) on Representative Government. Crown 8vo. 2*. 
 
 — — on Liberty. Crown Svo. 1*. id, 
 
 — — Essays on Unsettled Questions of Political Economy. Svo. 
 
 6*. 6d, 
 
 — — Examination of Hamilton's Philosophy. Svo. 16*. 
 
 — — Logic. 2 vols. Svo. 2.5*. People's Edition, 1 vol. cr. Svo. 5*. 
 
 — — Principles of Political Economy. 2 vols. Svo. 30*. People's 
 
 Edition, 1 vol. crown Svo. 5*. 
 
 — — Subjection of Women. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 — — Utilitarianism. Svo. 5*. 
 
 — — Three Essays on Religion, &o. Svo. S*. 
 Miller's (Mrs. Fenwick) Readings in Social Economy. Crown Svo. 2*. 
 Mulhall's History of Prices since 1850. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 Sandars's Institutes of Justinian, with English Notes. Svo. 18*. 
 
 Seebohm's English Village Community. Svo. 16*. 
 
 SuUy's Outlines of Psychology. Svo. 12*. 6d. 
 
 Swinburne's Picture Logic. Post Svo. 5*. 
 
 Thompson's A System of Psychology. 2 vols. Svo. 36*. 
 
 Thomson's Outline of Necessary Laws of Thought. Ci'own Svo. 6*. 
 
 Twiss's Law of Nations in Time of War. Svo. 21*. 
 
 — — in Time of Peace. Svo. 15*. 
 Webb's The Veil of Isis. Svo. 10?. ed. 
 Whately's Elements of Logic. Crown Svo. 4s. Gd. 
 
 — — Rhetoric. Crown Svo, 4*. Gd, 
 
 Wy lie's Labour, Leisure, and Luxury. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 Zeller's Histoi-j' of Eclecticism in Greek Philosophy. Crown Svo. 10*. 6d, 
 
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 Pre-Socratic Schools. 2 vols, crown Svo. 30*. 
 
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 Ai-nold's (Dr. Thomas) Miscellaneous Works. 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 Bagehot's Literary Studies, edited by Hutton. 2 vols. 8vo. 28*. 
 Beaconsfield (Lord), The Wit and Wisdom of. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 
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 Evans's Bronze Implements of Great Britain. 8vo. 25s. 
 
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 How to Play Whist. Cro^vn Svo. 5s. Star Primer. Crown 4to. 2*. 6<^f. 
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 CLASSICAL LANGUAGES AND LITERATURE. 
 
 ^schylus, The Eiomenides of. '1 cxt, with Metrical English Translation, by 
 
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 Aristophanes' The Acharnians, translated by E. Y. TyireU. Crown 8vo. 2^. 6rf. 
 Aristotle's The Ethics, Text and Notes, by Sir Alex. Grant, Bart. 2 vols. 8vo. 32*. 
 
 — The Nicomacliean Ethics, translated by Williams, crown 8vo. Is. Sd. 
 
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 Bolland and Lang. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Becker's Charicles and Galliis, by Metcalfe. Post Svo. 7*. 6d. each. 
 Cicero's Correspondence, Text and Notes, by R. Y. Tyrrell. Vol. 1, Svo. 12*. 
 Homer's Iliad, Homometrically translated by Cayley. Svo. 12s. Sd. 
 
 — — Greek Text, with Verse Translation, by W. C. Green. Vol. 1, 
 Books I.-XII. Crown Svo. Gs. 
 
 Mahaffy's Classical Greek Literature. Crown Svo. Vol. 1, The Poets, Ts. Gd. 
 
 Vol. 2, The Prose Writers, Is. 6d. 
 Plato's Parmenides, with Notes, &c. by J. Magnire. Svo. 7*. Gd. 
 Sophocles' Tragcedite Superstites, by Linwood. Svo. IGs. 
 Virgil's Works, Latin Text, with Commentary, by Kennedy. Crown Svo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — Mneid, translated into EngU?h Verse, by Conington. Crown Svo. 9s. 
 
 — Poems, — — — Prose, — — Crown Svo. 9*. 
 Witt's Myths of Hellas, translated by F. M. Younghusband. Crown Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — The Trojan War, — — Fcp. Svo. 2*. 
 
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 Allen's Flowers and tlieir Pedigrees. Crown Svo. Woodcuts, 5s. 
 Decaisne and Le Maout's General System of Botany. Imperial Svo. 31s. Gd. 
 Dixon's Rural Bird Life. Crown Svo. Illustrations, 5*. 
 Hartwig's Aerial World, Svo. 10s. Gd, 
 
 — Polar World, Svo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — Sea and its Living Wonders. Svo. 10,?. 6ci. 
 
 — Subterranean World, Svo. lO.s. Gd. 
 
 — Tropical World, Svo. 10s. Gd. 
 Lindley's Treasury of Botany. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 Loudon's Encyclopaedia of Gardening. Svo. 21s. 
 
 — — Plants. Svo. 42s. 
 Rivers's Orchard House. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 
 — Rose Amateur's Guide. Fcp. Svo. 4s. Gd. 
 
 — Miniature Fruit Garden. Fcp. Svo. 4s. 
 Stanley's Familiar History of British Birds. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 Wood's Bible Animals. With 112 Vignettes. Svo. 10s. 6i. 
 
 — Common British Insects. Crown Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — Homes Without Hands, Svo. 10s. 6d. 
 
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 Dresser's Arts and Art Manufactures of Japan. Square crown 8vo. 31*. 6d, 
 Eastlake's Household Taste in Fumitui'e, &c. Square crown 8vo. 14*. 
 Jameson's Sacred and Legendary Art. 6 vols, square 8vo. 
 Legends of the Madonna. 1 vol. 21s. 
 
 — — — Monastic Orders 1 vol. 21«. 
 
 — — — Saints and JIartyrs. 2 vols. 31*. Gd. 
 
 — — — Saviour. Completed by Lady Easilake. 2 vols. 42s. 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, illustrated by Scharf. Fcp. 4to. 10*. 6rf. 
 The same, with Ivry and the Armada, illustrated Ijy Weguelin. Crown 8vo. 3*. Sd. 
 Moore's LaUa Rookh, illustrated by Tenniel. Square cro\vn 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 
 New Testament (The) illustrated with Woodcuts after Paintings by the Early 
 
 Masters. 4to. 21*. cloth, or 42*. morocco. 
 Perry on Greek and Roman Sculpture. With 280 Illustrations engraved on 
 
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 CHEMISTRY, ENGINEERING, & GENERAL SCIENCE. 
 
 Ajmott's Elements of Physics or Natiu"al Pliilosophy. Crown 8vo. 12*. 6d. 
 Bourne's Catechism of the Steam Engine. Crown 8vo. 7*. &d. 
 
 — Examples of Steam, Air, and Gas Engines. 4to. 70*. 
 
 — Handbook of the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 9*. 
 
 — Recent Improvements in the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treatise on the Steam Engine. 4to. 42*. 
 
 Buckton's Our Dwellings, Healthy and Unhealthy. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 Crookes's Select Methods in Chemical Analysis. 8vo. 24*. 
 
 Culley's Handbook of Practical Telegraphy. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 Fairbaim's Useful Information for Engineers. 3 vols, crown 8vo. 31*. 6<f. 
 
 — Mills and Millwork. 1 vol. 8vo. 25*. 
 Ganot's Elementary Treatise on Phvsics, by Atkinson. Large crown 8vo. 15*. 
 
 — Natural Philosophy, by Atkinson. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 Grove's Correlation of Physical Forces. 8vo. 15*. 
 Haughton's Six Lectures on Physical Geography. 8vo. 15*. 
 Beer's Primseval World of Switzerland. 2 vols. 8vo. 12*. 
 Helmholtz on the Sensiitions of Tone. Royal 8vo. 28*. 
 
 Helmholtz's Lectures on Scientific Subjects. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. each. 
 Hudson and Gosse's The Rotifera or ' Wheel Animalcules.' With 30 Coloured 
 
 Plates. 6 parts. 4to. K*. 6rf. each. 
 HuUah's Lectures on the History of Modern Music. 8vo. 8*. 6d. 
 
 — Transition Period of Musical History. 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 Jackson's Aid to Engineering Solution. Royal 8vo. 21*. 
 
 Jago's Inorganic Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 
 Kerl's Metallurgy, adapted by Crookes and Rohrig. 3 vols. 8vo. £4. 19*. 
 Kolbe's Short Text-Book of Inorganic Chemistry. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 Lloyd's Treatise on Magnetism. 8vo. 10*. 6rf. 
 
 Macalister's Zoology and Morphology of Vertebrate Animals. 8vo, 10*. 6d. 
 Macfarren's Lectures on Harmony. 8vo. 12*. 
 
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 8 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Miller's Elements of Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. 3 vols. 8vo. Part I. 
 
 Chemical Physics, 16^. Part II. Inorganic Chemistry, 2is, Part III. Organic 
 
 Chemistry, price 31*. 6rf. 
 Mitchell's Manual of Practical Assaj-ing. 8vo. 31i. 6i. 
 Northcott's Lathes and Turning. 8vo. IS*. 
 Owen's Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Vertebrate Animals. 
 
 3 Tols. 8vo. 73i. ed. 
 Payen's Industrial Chenustry. Edited by B. H. Paul, Ph.D. Svo. 42s. 
 Piesse's Art of Perfumery. Square crowTi Svo. 21s. 
 Eeynolds's Experimental Chemistry. Fcp. Svo. Part I. is. 6d. Part II. 2*. Sd. 
 
 Part III. 3s. 6d. 
 ScheUen's Spectrum Analysis. Svo. 31i. 6d. 
 Bennett's Treatise on the Marine Steam Engine. Svo. 2U. 
 Smith's Air and Rain. Svo. 24s. 
 
 Stoney's The Theory of the Stresses on Girders, &c. Eoyal Svo. 36s. 
 Swinton's Electric Lighting : Its Principles and Practice. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 Tilden's Practical Chemistry. Fcp. Svo. Is. 6rf. 
 Tyndall's Paraday as a Discoverer. Crown Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — Floating Matter of the Aii-. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — Fragments of Science. 2 vols, post Svo. 16s. 
 
 — Heat a Mode of Motion. Crown Svo. 12s. 
 
 Lectures on Light delivered in America. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 
 — Lessons on Electricity. Crown Svo. 2s. M. 
 
 — Notes on Electrical Phenomena. Crown Svo. Is. sewed, Is. M. cloth. 
 
 — Notes of Lectures on Light. Crown Svo. Is. sewed, Is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 — Sound, with Frontispiece and 203 Woodcuts. Crown Svo. 10s. 6d. 
 Watts's Dictionary of Chemistry. 9 vols, medium Svo. £15. 2s. 6<i. 
 Wilson's Manual of Health-Science. Crown Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 THEOLOGICAL AND RELIGIOUS WORKS. 
 
 Arnold's (Rev. Dr. Thomas) Sermons. 6 vols, crown Svo. 6s. each. 
 Boultbee's Commentary on the 39 Articles. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 Browne's (Bishop) Exposition of the 39 Articles. Svo. 16s. 
 Colenso on the Pentateuch and Book of Joshua. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 Gender's Handbook of the Bible. Post Svo. 7s. 6(i. 
 Conybeare & Howson's Life and Letters of St. Paul :— 
 
 Library Edition, with Maps, Plates, and Woodcuts. 2 vols, square crown 
 
 Svo. 21s. 
 Student's Edition, revised and condensed, with 46 Illustrations and Maps. 
 1 vol. crown Svo. 7s. &d. 
 Cox's (Homersham) The First Century of Christianity. Svo. 12s. 
 Davidson's Introduction to the Study of the New Testament. 2 vols. Svo. 30s. 
 Edersheim's Life and Times of Jesus the Messiah. 2 vols. Svo. 42s. 
 
 — Prophecy and History in relation to the Messiah. Svo. 12s. 
 Ellicott's (Bishop) Commentary on St. Paul's Epistles. Svo. Galatians, 8s. Qd, 
 Ephesians, 8s. 6d. Pastoral Epistles, lOs. 6d. Philippians, Colossians and 
 Philemon, 10s. 6rf. Thessaloniaus, 7s. 6rf. 
 
 Lectures on the Life of our Lord. Svo. 12s. 
 
 Ewald's Antiquities of Israel, translated by SoUy. Svo. 12s. &d. 
 
 — History of Israel, translated by Carpenter & Smith. Vols. 1-7, Svo. £5. 
 
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 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Hobart's Medical Language of St. Luke. 8vo. 16*. 
 Hopkins's Christ tlie Consoler. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. Sd. 
 Jukes's New Man and tlie Eternal Life. Crown 8vo. Gs. 
 
 — Second Death and the Restitution of all Things. Crown Svo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 — Types of Genesis. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — The Mystery of the Kingdom. Crown Svo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 Lenormant's New Translation of the Book of Genesis, Translated into English. 
 
 8to. lOs. (id. 
 Lyra Germanica : Hymns translated by Miss Winkworth, Fcp. Sto. 5*. 
 Macdonald's (G.) Unspoken Sermons. Second Series. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost. Crown Svo. 8*. M. 
 Martineau's Endeavours after the Christian Life. Crown Svo. 7^. 6d. 
 
 — Hymns of Praise and Prayer. Crown Svo. 4*. 6d. 32mo. 1*. Sd. 
 
 — Sermons, Hours of Thought on Sacred Things. 2 vols. 7s. 6d. each. 
 Monsell's Spiritual Songs for Sundays and Holidays. Fcp. Svo. 5*. ISmo. 2i. 
 Miiller's (Max) Origin and Growth of Religion. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — — Science of Religion. Crown Svo. 7s. Sd. 
 Newman's Apologia pro Vita SuS,. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 — The Idea of a University Defined and Illustrated. Crown Svo. 7s, 
 
 — Historical Sketches. 3 vols, crown Svo. 6s. each. 
 
 — Discussions and Arguments on Various Subjects. Crown Svo. Gs. 
 
 — An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine. Crown Svo. 6s, 
 
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 sidered. Vol. 1, crown Svo. 7*. Gd. Vol. 2, crown Svo. 5s. 6d. 
 
 — The Via Media of the Anglican Church, Illustrated in Lectures, &c. 
 
 2 vols, crown Svo. 6s. each 
 
 — Essays, Critical and Historical. 2 vols, crown Svo. 12*. 
 
 — Essays on Biblical and on Ecclesiastical Miracles. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 — An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent. 7*. Gd. 
 Overton's Life in the English Church (1660-1714). Svo. 14*. 
 Eogers's Eclipse of Faith. Fcp. Svo. 5*. 
 
 — Defence of the Eclipse of Faith. Fcp. Svo. 3*. 6d. 
 Sewell's (Mifls) Night Lessons from Scripture. 32mo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 — — Passing Thoughts on Religion. Fcp. Svo. 3?. Gd. 
 
 — — Preparation for the Holy Communion. 32mo. 3*. 
 Smith's Voyage and Shipviteck of St. Paul. Crown Svo. 7*. 6d. 
 Supernatural Religion. Complete Edition. 3 vols. Svo. 30*. 
 
 Taylor's (Jeremy) Entire Works. With Life by Bishop Heber. Edited by the 
 
 Rev. C. P. Eden. 10 vols. Svo. £5. 5*. 
 TuUoch's Movements of Religious Thought in Britain during the Nineteenth 
 
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 TRAVELS, ADVENTURES, &,c. 
 Aldridge's Ranch Notes in Kansas. Colorada, &c. Crown Svo. 5*. 
 Alpine Club (The) Map of Switzerland. In Four Sheets. 42*. 
 Baker's Eight Tears in Ceylon. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. Crown Svo. 5*. 
 Ball's Alpine Guide. 3 vols, post Svo. with Maps and Illustrations : — I. Western 
 
 Alps, 6*. Gd. II. Central Alps, 7*. Gd. III. Eastern Alps, 10*. 6d. 
 Ball on Alpine Travelling, and on the Geology of the Alps, 1*. 
 
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 10 
 
 General Lists of "Works. 
 
 . 6d. 
 
 Bent's The Cyclades, or Life among the Insular Grreeks. Crown 8vo. 12s. 
 Biassey's Sunshine and Storm in the East. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — Voyage in the Yacht ' Sunbeam.' Crown 8vo. 7*. Sd. School Edition, 
 
 top. 8vo. 2s. Popular Edition, 4to. 6d. 
 
 — In the Trades, the Tropics, aud the ' Roaring Forties.' Edition de 
 
 Luxe, 8vo. £3. 13s. 6d. Library Edition, 8vo. 21s. 
 Crawford's Across the Pampas and the Andes. Crown 8vo. Ts. 6d. 
 Dent's Above the Snow Line. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd, 
 Fronde's Oceana ; or, England and her Colonies. 8vo. 18s. 
 Hassall's San Remo Climatically considered. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Hewitt's Visits to Remarkable Places. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 Maritime Alps (The) and their Seaboard. By the Author of ' Vfera.' 8vo. 21s. 
 Three in Norway. By Two of Them. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 6s. 
 
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 Beaconsfield's (The Earl of) Novels and Tales. Hughenden Edition, with 2 
 Portraits on Steel and 11 Vignettes on "Wood. 11 vols, crown 8vo. £2. 2s. 
 Cheap Edition, 1 1 vols. fcp. 8vo. Is each, sewed ; Is. Gd. each, cloth. 
 Black Poodle ( The) and other Tales. By the Author of ' Vice Versa.' Cr. 8vo. 6s. 
 BraVioume's (Lord) FriendR and Foes from Fairyland. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Harte (Bret) On the Frontier. Three Stories. 16mo. Is. 
 
 _ By Shore and Sedge. Three Stories. IGmo. is. 
 
 In the Olden Time. By the Author of ' Mademoiselle Mori.' Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Melville's (Whyte) Novels. Cheap Edition. 8 vols. fcp. 8vo. Is. each, sewed ; 
 
 Is. 6d. each, cloth. 
 The Modem Novelist's Library. Crown 8vo. price 2s. each, boards, or 2s. 6d. 
 each, cloth : — 
 
 By the Rarl of Beaconsfield, K.G. 
 Lothair. 
 S.vbil. 
 Coningsby. 
 Tanored. 
 Veuftia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
 Contaruii Fleming. 
 Alroy, Ixion, &c. 
 The Young Dnke, &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 Endymion. 
 
 By Bret Harte. 
 
 In the Carquinez Woods. 
 
 By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 In Trust, the Story of a Lady 
 and her Lover. 
 
 By Anthony TroUope. 
 
 Barchester Towers. 
 
 The Warden. 
 By Major Whyte Melville. 
 
 Digby Grand. 
 
 General Bounce. 
 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 The Gladiatoi-s. 
 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 Holmby House. 
 
 The Interpreter. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. 
 By Various Writers. 
 
 The Atelier du Lys. 
 
 Atherstone Priory. 
 
 The Burgomaster's Family. 
 
 Elsa and her Vulture. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 
 
 The Six Sisters of the Valleys. 
 
 Unawares. 
 
 By James Payn. 
 
 Thicker than Water. 
 Oliphant's (Mrs.) Madam. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6(7. 
 Payn's (.lames) The Lnck of theDarrclls. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Reafler's Fairy Prince Follow-my-Lead. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Sewells (Mips) Stories and Tales. Cabinet Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 
 gilt edges, price 3s. Gd. each : — 
 
 Am \ Herbert. Cleve Hall. 
 Ihe Earl's Daughter. 
 Experience of Life. 
 Gertrude. Ivors. 
 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 Katharine Ashton. 
 Laneton Parsonage. 
 Margaret Percival. Ursula. 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 11 
 
 Stevenson's (R. L.) The Dynamiter. Fop. 8vo. Is. sewed ; Is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 — — Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Pop. 8vo. Is. 
 
 sewed ; 1*. GrI. clotn. 
 Sturgis' My Friend and I. Crown 8vo. .5^. 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA, 
 
 Bailey's Festus, a Poem. Crown 8vo. 12.«. 6d. 
 
 Bowdler's Family Shakespeare. Medium 8vo. 14.s. 6 vols, fcp, 8vo. 21s, 
 Dante's Divine Comedy, translates by Ja es Innes Mincbin. Crown 8vo. 154, 
 Goethe's Faust, translated by Birds. Large crown 8vo. 12.j. Sd, 
 
 — — translated by Webb. 8vo. 12.?. 6d. 
 
 — — edited by Selss. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Ingelow's Poems. Vols. 1 and 2, fcp. Svo. 12.?. Vol. 3 fcp. 8vo. 5^. 
 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, with Ivry and the Anuada. Dlnstrated by 
 
 WegueUn. Crown Svo. 3s. 6<7. gilt edges. 
 The same. Annotated Edition, fcp. 8vo. Is. sewed, Is.Sd. cloth, 2i. 6rf, cloth extra. 
 The same, Popular Edition. Illustrated by Scharf. Fcp. 4to. Gd. swd.. Is. cloth. 
 Macdonald's (&.) A Book of Strife : in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul : 
 
 Poems. 12mo. 6s. 
 Pennell's (Cholmondeley) 'From Grave to Gay.' A Volume of Selections. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 
 Reader's Voices from Flowerland, a Birthday Book, 2s. 6d. cloth, 3s. 6d. roan. 
 Robinson's The New Arcadia, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Shakespeare's Hamlet, annotated by George Maodonald, LL.D. 8vo. 12s, 
 Southey's Poetical Works. Medium 8vo. 14s. 
 Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. Fcp. Svo. 5s. 
 VirgO's ^neid, translated by Conington. Crown Svo. 9.!. 
 
 — Poems, translated into English Prose. Crown Svo. Ss. 
 
 AGRICULTURE, HORSES, DOGS, AND CATTLE. 
 
 Dunster's How to Make the Land Pay. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Fitzwygrams Horses and Stables. 8vo. 10s. 6a'. 
 
 Horses and Roads. By Free-Lance. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Lloyd, The Science of Agriculture. Svo. 12s. 
 
 Loudon's Encyclopeedia of Agriculture. 21s, 
 
 Miles's Horse's Foot, and How to Keep it Sound. Imperial Svo. 12s. 6d. 
 
 — Plain Treatise on Horse-Shoeing. Post Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 — Remarks on Horses' Teeth. Post Svo. Is. 6c?. 
 
 — Stables and Stable-Fittings. Imperial Svo. 15s. 
 Nevile's Farms and Farming. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 — Horses and Riding. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Steel's Diseases of the Ox, a Manual of Bovine Pathology. Svo. 15s. 
 Stonehenge's Dog in Health and Disease. Square crown Svo. 7s. 6(i, 
 
 — Greyhound. Square crown Svo. 15s. 
 Taylor's Agricultural Note Book. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 Ville on Artificial Manures, by Crookes. Svo. 21s. 
 Youatt's Work on the Dog. Svo. 6s. 
 
 — — — — Horse. Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 12 General Lists of Works. 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES. 
 
 The Badminton Library of Sports and Pastimes. Edited by the Duke of Beaufort 
 and A. B. T. Watson. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. lOi. 6d. 
 each. 
 
 Hunting, by the Duke of Beaufort, &c. 
 
 Fishing, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, &c. 2 vols. 
 
 Racing, by the Earl of Suffolk, &c. 
 Campbell-Walker's Correct Card, or How to Play at Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 2«. 6d. 
 Dead Shot (The) by Marksman. Crown 8vo. lOs. 6d. 
 Francis's Treatise on Fishing in all its Branches. Post 8vo. los. 
 JefEeries' The Red Deer. Crown 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Longman's Chess Openings. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 Peel's A Highland Gathering. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 10^. ed. 
 Pole's Theory of the Modern Scientific Game of Whist. Fcp. Svo. 2,?. 6d. 
 Proctor's How to Play Whist. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 Ronalds's Fly-Fisher's Entomology. Svo. lis. 
 Vemey's Chess Eccentricities. Crown Svo. 10^. Gd. 
 Wilcocks's Sea-Fisherman. Post Svo. Gs. 
 Year's Sport (The) for 1885. Svo. 21*. 
 
 ENCYCLOP/EDIAS, DICTIONARIES, AND BOOKS OF 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 
 Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families. Fcp. Svo. is. 6d. 
 
 Ayre's Treasury of Bible Knowledge. Fcp. Svo. 6s. 
 
 Brande's Dictionary of Science, Literature, and Art. 3 vols, medimn Svo. 63*. 
 
 Cabinet Lawyer (The), a Popular Digest of the Laws of England. Fcp. Svo. 9s. 
 
 Gates's Dictionary of General Biography. Medium Svo. 28*. 
 
 Doyle's The Official Baronage of England. Vols. I.-III. 3 vols. 4to. £5. 5s. ; 
 
 Large Paper Edition, £15. I5s. 
 Gwilfs Encyclopsedla of Architecture. Svo. 52.s, Gd. 
 
 Keith Johnston's Dictionary of Geography, or General Gazetteer. Svo. i2s, 
 Latham's (Dr.) Edition of Johnson's Dictionary. 4 vols. 4to. £7. 
 
 — — — — — — Abridged. Royal Svo. 14*. 
 M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation. Svo. 63*. 
 Maunder's Biographical Treasury. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Historical Treasury. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Scientific and Literary Treasury. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Bible Knowledge, edited by Ayrc. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Botany, edited by Lindley & Moore. Two Parts, 12*. 
 
 — Treasury of Geograpby. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Knowledge and Library of Reference. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Natural History. Fcp Svo. 6*. 
 
 Quain's Dictionarj* of Medicine. Medium 8vo. 31*. Gd., or in 2 vols. 34*. 
 
 Reeve's Cookery and Housekeeping. Crown Svo. 7*. 6^. 
 
 Rich's Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities. Crown Svo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. Crown Svo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Ure's Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines. 4 vols, medium Svo. £7. 7*. 
 
 Willich's Popular Tables, by Marriott. Crown Svo. 10*. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 A SELECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WOEKS, 
 
 TEXT-BOOKS OF SCIENCE, MECHANICAL AND 
 PHYSICAL. 
 
 Abney's Treatise on Photography. Fcp. Svo. 3s. Sil, 
 Anderson's Strength of Materials. 3s. dd. 
 Armstrong's Organic Chemistry. 3s. Gd. 
 Ball's Elements of Astronomy. 6.<:. 
 Barry's Eailway Appliances. Sn. Sd. 
 Bauerman's Systematic Mineralogy. Gs, 
 — Descriptive Mineralogy. 6s. 
 
 Bloxam and Huntington's Metals. 5*. 
 Glazebrook's Physical Optics. 6.5. 
 Glazebrook and Shaw's Practical Physics. 6s. 
 Gore's Art of Electro-Metallurgy. Gs. 
 
 Griffin's Algebra and Trigonometry. Zs. Gd. Notes and Solutions, 2s, Gd. 
 Jenkin's Electricity and Magnetism. 3s. Gd. 
 Maxwell's Theory of Heat. 36". 6.7. 
 
 Merrifield's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration. Zs. Gd. Key, 3^. Gd. 
 Miller's Inorganic Chemistry. Ss. Gd. 
 Preece and Sivewright's Telegraphy. 5s. 
 Eutley's Study of Eocks, a Text-Book of Petrology. 4,?. Gd. 
 Shelley's 'Workshop Appliances. 4a'. Gd. 
 Thome's Structural and Physiological Botany. 6.?. 
 Thorpe's Q-iantitative Chemical Analysis. 4.5. 6^7. 
 Thorpe and Muir's Qualitative Analysis. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Tilden's Chemical Philosophy. 3*. Gd. "With Answers to Problems, is. Gd. 
 Unwin's Elements of Machine Design. 6,?. 
 Watson's Plane and Solid Geometry. Zs. Gd. 
 
 THE GREEK LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bloomfield's College and School Greek Testament. Fcp. Svo. 5s. 
 Bolland & Lang's Politics of Aristotle. Post Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 CoUis'a Chief Tenses of the Greek In-egular Verbs. Svo. 1^. 
 
 — Pontes Groeci, Stepping-Stone to Greek Grammar. 12mo. os. Gd. 
 
 — Praxis Grsca, Etymology. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Verse-Book, Praxis lambica. 12mo. 4,5. Gd. 
 Farrar's Brief Greek Syntax and Accidence. 12mo. is. Gd, 
 
 Greek Grammar Eules for Harrow School. 12mo. 1*. 6rf. 
 
 Hewitt's Greek Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Isbister's Xenophon's Anabasis, Books I. to III. with Notes. 12mo. Ss. Gd. 
 
 Jerram's Graced Eeddenda. Crown Svo. Is. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 14 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 Kouncdy's Greek Grammar. 12mo. is. Gd. 
 
 Liildell & Scott's English-Greek Lexicon. 4to. 36«. ; Square 12mo. Is. 6d. 
 Linwood's Sophocles, Greek Text, Latin Notes. 4tli Edition. 8vo. 16*. 
 MahafEv's Classical Greek Literature. Crown 8vo. Poets, 7«.6rf. Prose Writers, 
 
 Is.'Gd. 
 Morris's Greek Lessons. Square 18mo. Part I. 2.?. Gd. ; Part II. Is. 
 Parry's Elementary Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Plato's Republic, Book I. Greek Text, English Notes by Hardy. Crown 8vo. 3s. 
 Sheppard and Evans's Notes on Thucydides. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Thucydides, Book IV. with Notes by Barton and Chavasse. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Valpy's Greek Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2*. 6(7. Key, 2.?. Gd, 
 White's Xenophon's Expedition of Cyrus, with English Notes. 12mo. 7*. Gd. 
 Wilkins's Manual of Greek Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 5s. Key, 5s. 
 
 — Exercises in Greek Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 4s. Gd. Key, 2<. Gd. 
 
 — New Greek Delectus. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. Key, 2a'. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Delectus. 12mo. is. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Anthology. 12mo. 5s. 
 
 — Scriptores Attici, Excerpts with English Notes. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Speeches from Thucydides translated. Post 8vo. 6s. 
 Yonge's English-Greek Lexicon, 4to. 21s. ; Square 12mo. 8.?. Gd. 
 
 THE LATIN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bradley's Latin Prose Exercises. 12 mo. 3s. Gd. Key, 5s. 
 
 Continuous Lessons in Latin Prose. 12mo. 5s. Key, 5s. Gd. 
 
 — Cornelius Nepos, improved by White. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Eutropius, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Ovid's Metamorphoses, improved by White. 12mo. is. Gd. 
 
 — Select Fables of Phsdrus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 Collis's Chief Tenses of Latin Irregular Verbs. 8vo. Is. 
 
 — Pontes Latini, Stepping-Stone to Latin Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 Hewitt's Latin Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 Isbister's Cicsar, Books I.-VII. 12mo. 4s. ; or with Heading Lessons, 4s. Gd. 
 
 — Caesar's Commentaries, Books I.-V. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — First Book of Caesar's Gallic War. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 Jeffcott & Tossell's Helps for Latin Students. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 
 Jerram's Latin6 Reddenda. Crown 8vo. Is. 6d. 
 
 Kennedy's Child's Latin Primer, or First Latin Lessons. 12mo. 'is. 
 
 — Child's Latin Accidence. 12mo. Is. 
 
 Elementary Latin Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Elementary Latin Reading Book, or Tirocinium Latinum. 12mo. 2.S. 
 
 — Latin Prose, Palaestra Stili Latini. l'2mo. 6s. 
 
 — SubsidiaPrimaria, Exercise Books to the Public School Latin Primer. 
 
 I. Accidence and Simple Construction, 2s. Gd. II. Syntax, 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Key to the Exercises in Subsidia Primaria, Parts I. and II. price 5s. 
 
 — Subsidia Primaria, HI. the Latin Compound Sentence. 12mo. Is. 
 
 — Cnrriculum Stili Latini. 12mo. 4s. 6(/. Key, 7.«. GtZ. 
 
 — Palaestra Latina, or Second Latin ReadiuL' Book. 12mo. 5s. 
 
 London: LONGMiNS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 16 
 
 Milliugton's Latin Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 3s. tid. 
 
 — Selections from Latin Prose. Crown 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Moody's Eton Latin Grammnr. 12mo. 24-. 6d. The Accidence separately, Is, 
 Morris's Elementa Latina. Fop. 8vo. Is. 6d. Key, 2s. 6d. 
 Parry's Origines Romange, from Livy, with English Notes. Crown 8vo. is. 
 The Public School Latin Primer. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — . — Grrammar, by Eev. Dr. Kennedy. Post 8vo. 7s. 6<i. 
 
 Prendergasf s Mastery Series, Manual of Latin. 12mo. 2s. Sd. 
 
 Rapier's Introduction to Composition of Latin Verse. 12mo. 3.s. 6d. Key, 2s. 6rf. 
 
 Sheppard and Turner's Aids to Classical Study. 12mo. 5s. Key, G.s. 
 
 Valpy's Latin Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. erf. Key, :U. Gd. 
 
 Virgil's ^^neid, translated into English Verse by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 
 — Works, edited by Kennedy. Crown 8vo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 — translated into English Prose by Conington. Crown 8to. 9s. 
 
 Walford's Progressive Exercises in Latin Elegiac Verse. 12mo. 2s. Gd. Key, 5*. 
 
 White and Riddle's Large Latin-English Dictionary. 1 vol. 4to. 21.s. 
 
 White's Concise Latin-Eng. Dictionary for University Students. Royal 8vo. 124% 
 
 — Junior Students' Eng.-Lat. & Lat.-Eng. Dictionary. Square 12mo. 5s. 
 
 . , f The Latin-English Diciionary, price 3»- 
 
 Yonge's Latin Gradus. 
 
 The English-Latin Dictionary, price Zs. 
 Post 8vo. 94-. ; or witli Appendix, 12s. 
 
 WHITE'S GRAMMAR SCHOOL GREEK TEXTS. 
 
 .Ssop (Fables) & Palsephatus (Myths). 
 
 32mo. Is. 
 Homer, Ihad, Book I. Is. 
 
 — Oilyssey, Book I. Is. 
 Lucian, Select Dialogues. Is. 
 Xenophon, Anabasis, Books I. III. IV. 
 
 V. & VI. Is. Gd. each ; Book II. Is. ; 
 
 Book VII. 2s. 
 
 Xenophon, Book I. without Vocabu- 
 lary. Zd. 
 
 St. Matthew's and St. Luke's Gospels. 
 2s. Gd. each. 
 
 St. Mark's and St. John's Gospels. 
 Is. Gd. each. 
 
 The Acts of the Apostles. 2s. Gd. 
 
 St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. Is. Gd. 
 
 The Four Gospels in Greek, -svith Greek- English Lexicon. Edited by John T. 
 White, D.D. Oxon. Square 32mo. price 5s, 
 
 WHITES GRAMMAR SCHOOL LATIN TEXTS. 
 
 Cresar. Gallic War, Books I. & U. V. 
 
 & VI. Is. each. Book I. without 
 
 Vocabulai-y, 3d. 
 Csesar, Gallic War, Books III. & IV. 
 
 9d. each. 
 Caesar, Gallic War, Book VII. Is. Gd. 
 Cicero, Cato Major (OW Age). Is. Gd. 
 Cicero, Lielius (Friendship). Is. Gd. 
 Eutropius, Roman History, Books I. 
 
 & n. Is. Books III. & IV. Is. 
 Horace.Odes, Books I. II. & IV. U. each. 
 Horace, Odes, Book III. Is. Gd. 
 Horace, Epodes and Carmen Seculare. 
 
 Is. 
 
 Nepos, Miltiades, Simon, Pausanias, 
 Aristides. 9d. 
 
 Ovid. Selections from Epistles and 
 Fasti. Is. 
 
 Ovid, Select Myths from Metamor- 
 phoses. 9d. 
 
 Phsedrus, Select Easy Fables, 9d. 
 
 Pbfedms, Fables, Books I. & II. Is. 
 
 Sallust, Bellum Catihnarium. Is. Gd. 
 
 Virgil, Geor^ics, Book IV. Is. 
 
 Virgil, .aineid, Books I. to VI. Is. each. 
 Book I. without Vocabulary, Zd. 
 
 Virgil, Jf.neid. Books VII. VIII. X. 
 XL XII. Is. Gd. each. 
 
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 16 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 
 
 Albit6s'9 How to Speak French. Pop. 8vo. 5.s. Gd. 
 
 — Instantaneous French Exercises. Fop. 2s. Key, 2.5. 
 Cassal's French Genders. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Cassal & Karcher's Graduateri French Translation Book. Part I. 3s. 6d, 
 
 Part II. 5*. Key to Part I. by Professor Cassal, price 5,?. 
 Contanseau's Practical French and English Dictionary. Post 8vo. Zs. Gd. 
 
 — Pocket French and English Dictionary. Square 18mo. Is Gd. 
 
 — Premieres Lectures. 12mo. 2^. 6d. 
 
 — Fu-st Step in French. 12mo. 2^-. 6<?. Key, 3.?. 
 
 — French Accidence. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — ■ — Grammar. 12mo. is. Key, Ss. 
 
 Contanseau's Middle-Class French Course. Fcp. 8vo. : — 
 
 French Translation-Bool-, 8d. 
 Easy French Delectus. 8ii. 
 First French Reader, Sd. 
 Second French Reader 8d. 
 French and English Dialogues, 8d, 
 
 Accidence, 8d. 
 Syntax, 8d. 
 
 French Conversation-Book, Sd. 
 First French Exercise-Book, 8d. 
 Second French Exercise-Book, 8d. 
 Contanseau's Guide to French Translation. 12mo. Zs. Gd. Key, Zs. Gd. 
 
 — Prosateurs et Pofetes Franijais. 12mo. 5.;. 
 
 — Precis de la Litterature Francjaise. 12mo. Zs. Gd, 
 
 — Abr6g6 de I'Histoire de France. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 rival's Chouans et Bleus, with Notes by C. Sankey, M.A. Pep. 8vo. 2.?. Gd. 
 
 Jerram's Sentences for Translation into French. Cr. 8vo. l.s. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 Prendergasfs Mastery Series, French. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Souvestre's Pliilosophe sous les Toits, by Stifivenard. Square 18mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Stepping-Stone to French Pronunciation. ISmo. 1.?. 
 
 Stifevenard's Lectures Prancjaises from Modern Authors. 12mo. 4.?. Gd . 
 
 — Rules and Exercises on the French Language. 12mo. 3.s. Sd. 
 
 Tarver's Eton French Grammar. 12mo. 6.s. Gd. 
 
 THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Blackley's Practical German and Englisli Dictionary. Post 8vo. Ss. Gd. 
 Bncliheim"s German Poetry, for Repetition. 18mo. Is. Gd. 
 Collis's Card of German Irregular Verbs. 8vo. 2s, 
 Fischer-Fischart's Elementary German Grammar. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 Just's German Grammar. 12mo. 1.?. Gd. 
 
 — German Reading Book. 12mo. 3s, Gd, 
 Longman's Pocket German and English Dictionary. Square 18mo. 2s. 6d. 
 Nafters Elementarj- German Course for Public Schools. Fcp. 8vo. 
 
 German Accidence. 9d. 
 
 German Syntax. M. 
 
 First German Exercise-Book. Sd. 
 
 Second German Esercisc-Book. Srf. 
 Prendergasfs Jlastery Series, German. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 Quick's Essentials of German. Crown 8vo. 3.s. 6(7. 
 Selss's School Edition of Goethe's Faust. Crown 8vo. 5.s. 
 — Outline of German Literature. Crown 8vo. 4s, Gd. 
 Wirth's German Chit-Chat. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 German Prose Composition Book. 9A 
 First German Reader. Sd. 
 Second German Reader. 9d, 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 
 
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