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 WON BY WAITING. 
 . ° 
 CHAPTER L 
 One adequate support 
 
 ¥or the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists, one only !—an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, howe’er 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and powo:, 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 ? The Excursion. 
 
 _ fur Chateau de Mabillon stood on the summit of a low 
  \Y\ut abrupt hill, overlooking one of the most beautiful 
 alleys of France. In appearance it was scarcely habitable, 
 for it had suffered greatly in the Revolution; and though 
 - time had veiled the rough work of the incendiaries with 
 - loxuriant ivy and creepers, the chateau was but a ruiii, 
 5 ith the exception of a few rooms which had escaped the 
 ©" y#eneral devastation, and were still occupied by the De 
 e@'  |\fabillon family. : 
 &: Very small had that family become of late years, dwind- 
 MM fing as rapidly almost astheir fortune had diminished. 
 _ Alphonse de Mabillon, at the age of five-and-forty, found 
 | himself the sole survivor of his generation—brothers and 
 4 sisters were all dead, more distant relatives had emigrated, 
 aad were thus lost to him, his little English wife had 
 1  drooped and died loag ago, and he was now left alone, save 
 - for his two children. 
 =a The villagers and the curé wondered at monsieur’s grave, 
 , Gnd face, but they all loved him, for he was the very imper- 
 >  jonation of gentleness and kindness, and gave more in alme 
 ° ‘han many a far richer man. 
 
 
 
 
 
ca ERS Ss ey A A RONEN i Se SD aoe a, te Ol ae SL es oe oii aie |. aes 
 SES Ma oy ay aaa Sa see Re Yok See ety 
 - cveK omy cite f. ir 
 
 : ie ieh. was 
 ; dotde meer 
 OMe aah gs aah e 
 b , 
 
 On the brow of the hill, surrounding the enatefu on all 
 - sides, was a broad terrace, upon which M. de Mabillon 
 might have been seen one atitumn afternoon, pacing up 
 
 and down. His face was more than ordinarily grave, hig 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 head bent.as if in anxious thought; so engrossed was he, 
 that he did not even notice the ringing of the vesper bell, 
 ‘in the convent below the hill, although this was the wonted. 
 sign for the appearance of his little daughter. 
 - Esperance was full of wonder as, accompanied by old 
 vavette, the servant, she climbed the steep ascent to the 
 chateau. Her studies at the convent were over for the day, 
 and she was making all speed to join her father. Why was 
 he not watching for her as usual? What made him look 
 so grave and anxious? She reached the terrace out of 
 breath, and sprung to her father’s side with a merry Jaugh. 
 _- Why, papa! you have forgotten me, and I have given 
 you a surprise.” . 
 “For once,” replied her father, smiling and stooping to 
 kiss the little, flexible mouth which was pretending to 
 
 3 pout ; “I have much to think of just now, my child.” _ 
 
 
 
 __. Esperance looked puzzled. 
 
 “ What can there be to think of, now that the harvest is 
 over, and the vintage, too, and Gaspard, our good Gas- 
 ‘pard, has passed his examination ?—tell me what makes 
 you grave, papa.” | eae 
 
 M. de Mabillon paused for a minute, then, instead of 
 - answering the question, said, “ Gaspard will live at Paris 
 now, you know ; how would you like to live there, too?” 
 © At Paris!” exclaimed Esperance, wonderingly, “ and 
 leave the chateau? Oh! no, papa, we could not live in a 
 great fown, away from ail the woods and the flowers. 
 Besides, I love the sisters—except, indeed, Soeur Therese, 
 who is cross always—I could not bear to leave them.” 
 ~  ©You will try to bear it for my sake, will you not?” 
 
 asked her father. - : 
 _ Esperance turned pale. 
 
 “Do you mean, papa, that we must really go quite away 
 
 from home, and leave everything ?” 
 
 
 
 “Dear child, it is indeed thus; I have kept it from you 
 as long as possible, but I have had losses of late, the vint- 
 age was, as you know, very bad, and Gaspard’s education 
 has been a great expense; we can not afford to live here 
 
 any longer, so the chateau and land are to be sold, and we 
 -_._ - wpust try te live cheaply with your brother at Paris.” 
 
 
 
 Esperance did not attempt to hide her tears, but ale | 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 7 ed to check them for her father’s sake. The under= 
 anding between father and daughter was perfect, and Hs- 
 erance, though only fourteen, was a real companion to M. © 
 
 ‘Mabillon; he knew her innermost heart. oh 
 They talked. long together over their future plans, and 
 Esperance was comforted by the trust and confidence which 
 he placed in her, and yet more by the perception of his 
 calm, unshaken faith in the great Right which governed 
 HW changes. | rig — : 
 _ Long years after his words rested in her memory ; surely 
 _ _ there are in many hearts words and scenes so deeply im- 
 ywressed that nothing can efface them, truly God-given 
 -memories—possessions for life. Esperance could always | 
 recall the close of that autumn day—the sun setting behind © 
 
 he Auvergne mountains—the shadows gathering in the 
 yeautiful valley below—the river hurrying on its way, 
 earing on its bosom the reflection of a cloud crimson 
 _ with sunset glory, the beautiful old chateau, with its ivy- 
 covered walls—above all, her father’s face, grave no longer, 
 but full of the most serene trust, his eyes looking straight 
 
 into hers lovingly and confidently. 
 : “Pana!” she cried, impetuously, “I love you so dearly 
 hat I shall be happy always where you are; I shall not 
 nind leaving the chateau.” 
 
 “That will do for the present, but you will grow to some- 
 _ thing higher by and by,” was M. de Mabillon’s quiet an- 
 - swer; a riddle, indeed, to Esperance, but one which needed 
 solving sooner than either father or daughter expected. 
 
 _ Hitherto Esperance’s life had been singularly uneventful. 
 The neighborhood was small and quiet, and M, de Mabil- 
 jon, as a member of the Eglise Reformée, was cut off from 
 what little society was to be had. Ever since Esperance 
 could remember, she had read every day with her father, 
 played in the old, neglected garden, talked to imaginary 
 asters, and helped old Javotte. the maid-servant, in her 
 domestic duties ; while each afternoon there was the visit 
 o the convent, a music lesson from Scur Angelique, who 
 as young and pretty, and along lesson in needle work 
 om Sceur Therese, who has been already stigmatized as 
 eross.” Now and then M. de Mabillon would take her 
 othe nearest town to visit one of his few friends, but 
 ch treats were rare, and the unclouded happiness of 
 sperance’s childhood arose entirely from the love and 
 sympathy between her and her father, apart from all other 
 Pf 2aBULeS. 
 
 
 
ar 
 
 6 | WON SY WAITING. 
 
 She was cheerful and buoyant by nature, and the news' 
 of the afternoon did not weigh upon her, though to a cer- 
 fain extent she felt it. Having left her father in the gar- 
 
 _ den, she ran into the chateau to find Javotte, actually 
 
 singing as she went. 
 
 Javotte, a middle-aged woman, with little, black eyes, 
 and a complexion brown and wrinkled with care and ex- 
 posure, looked up as Esperance entered the kitchen, and 
 said, in a grating but not really disagreeable voice, “ Ah, 
 well, ma’mselle! there are people who can always sing : 
 when you are as old asl am—” . ys 
 
 “T shall sing just as much,” interrupted Esperance, 
 laughing. ‘But after all, Javotte, I do not feel quite like 
 singing to-night, only you see it is no good to sit down and 
 cry ; dear old Javotte, you will come with us, will you not? 
 Now say ‘ yes,’ directly—do not clear your throat!” 
 
 Javotte, however, was in no condition for speaking. She 
 finished making an omelet before venturing to begin, and 
 _ then with many gesticulations opened her heart to Esper- 
 
 ance. 
 
 “It is this way, my child—monsieur tells me of the 
 ¢thange which comes, and at onceI say to myself, ‘I love 
 ma 'mselle and monsieur, and M. Gaspard, they go—then I 
 must go also; and again I say to myself, L love my son 
 Pierre, he stays here, then I muststay.’ voitla/ Ma’m- 
 selle, how can I choose, then, between these two?” 
 
 “ Pierre could come too,” said Esperance, quickly. ‘In- 
 deed, Javotte, [can not live without you; have you noti 
 often said how my mother asked you to love me and care: 
 for me before she died, and will you leave me now to go 
 away alone ?” 
 
 -Javotte could not resist such an appeal; after all, she . 
 thought, Pierre would no doubt marry, and then she would 
 ~ not be wanted—yes, she would accompany ma’mselle till 
 _ death. 
 
 Esperance, disregarding the foreboding tone of the last 
 word, promised to dance at Pierre’s wedding, and ran away 
 %o impart the good news to her father. | 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. Sy 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 No shade has come between 
 Thee and the sun; 
 
 Like some long childish dream, 
 Thy life has run. 
 
 But now the stream has reached 
 A dark, deep sea, 
 
 And sorrow, dim and crowned, 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 A, A, Procror. 
 
 Javorre felt the change more than any one else. Per- 
 haps the actual parting from the chateau was not so pain- 
 ful to her as to its owners, but the life at Paris was far 
 less congenial. She was too rustic ever to feel at home in 
 acity; the stairs tried her temper, the noise tried her 
 head, and altogether she was for a time most unhappy. 
 Esperance only discovered a small part of her miseries, for . 
 the good old servant was far too unselfish to complain, and 
 devoted herself more than’ ever to the service of the De 
 Mabillons, | 
 
 ~The winter was over, and the bright spring weather was 
 _ pleasant enough in Paris, even to those accustomed to a 
 - country life. Esperance, as she sat with her needle-work 
 by the open window, could think of her old home almost 
 without a sigh, so sweet and clear did the air feel, and so 
 bright and cheerful was the sunshine. The room in which 
 she was seated was bare of all luxuries ; a polished floor, a 
 _ stove, and the necessary chairs and tables sound cold 
 enough in ‘description, nevertheless, there was an air of 
 freshness and grace in the arrangement of the whole 
 
 _ which is often wanting in better furnished rooms. 
 Esperance was thoroughly French, and had all a 
 French woman’s delicate tact and taste. Her mother had 
 been of English birth, but had apparently bequeathed 
 little of her nationality to her child—perhaps, rather 
 to M. de Mabillon’s disappointment ; he would have 
 ox been pleased to have some likeness to his fair little 
 San English wife, but both Esperance and Gaspard were un- 
 | mistakably De Mabillons. Esperance was not, strictly speaks 
 ing, pretty, but there was a freshness and glow about her 
 complexion which made up for any want of actual beauty. 
 Her low, smooth brow and recular features were notin the 
 least striking, but the power of the face lay in her eyes, 
 ‘which, though not large, were wonderfully bright and of 
 

 
 
 
 g : WON BY WAITING. 
 
 th. richest brown color, soft and velvety in the shade, and 
 -¢lewr as amber in the light. Her dark hair fell like a cloud 
 round her pretty, sloping shoulders, and her slight Sgure 
 and little round waist might have been the envy oi many 
 2 belle. 
 The afternoon was somewhat advanced, and Esperance, 
 neglecting her work, stationed herself at the window to 
 watch for her, brother’s return. Gaspard was now study- 
 ing for the bar, notwithstanding that his father’s fallen 
 fortunes would have made some less uphill profession far 
 more advisable. | 
 ~ To be an advoeate, however, had long been his wish, and 
 M. de Mabillon, despite his poverty, would not _gainsay 
 him, and even went so far as to seek work himself in order 
 - to meet their expenses. 
 
 This, however, was not to be had ; he was too completely 
 the country gentleman, and too ignorant in business mat- 
 _ ters to meet with any suitable employment. 
 
 _ From her window au quatriéme, Esperance soon descried 
 _ her brother in the distance, accompanied, much to her 
 surprise, by a stranger, long-legeed and stalwart, and, on 
 - nearer view, decidedly English. Visitors were so rare in 
 the little salon that Esperance was in a flutter of excite- 
 ment at the very idea ; she listened eagerly for footsteps— 
 yes, there were assuredly two people mounting the flight 
 of stairs. 
 The door was opened by Gaspard. ye 
 “TI have brought you a visitor, chérie. Is my father not — 
 athome?’ . . 
 
 Then as Esperance bowed to the stranger, 
 
 “No, no, this is our cousin, Mr. George Palgrave; you 
 must give him an English hand-shake. We met each, 
 other most unexpectedly at Galignani’s, each recognizing 
 the other’s name.” | 
 
 Esperance looked up full of curiosity, for the English 
 relations had always been enveloped in a cloud of mys- 
 tery. She was not particularly struck with the specimen 
 before her. George Palgrave, might, perhaps, have been 
 five-and-twenty ; he was tall, large-made, fair-complex- 
 ioned, and, in Esperance’s eyes, awkward-looking, as com- 
 _ plete a contrast to the slight, dark-eyed Gaspard as could 
 have been found. 
 
 _She shook hands with him as directed, and noticiag 
 that his French was decidedly embarrassing to him, began 
 to display her small stock of English with some pride. 
 
 
 

 
 i ee Se? oe ee RT Ses eee at eS ee x 5 - 
 ee aS oe Fae Ae ee s . aa 
 7 Ba > z > Tash ae 
 
 «You have made a good voyage, I hope, my cousin ?” 
 “A fairly good crossing, thank you ; there was an ugly 
 sou’-wester when we started, but it soon went down.” 
 
 Hsperance had not the faintest idea of the meaning of 
 “an ugly sou’-wester,” but she went on bravely. | 
 
 “ And you are arrived at Paris to-day? I hope you will 
 pass some time here !” a 
 
 “T wish I could, but unfortunately I must leave this 
 evening, I am merely passing through, on my way to Switz 
 erland. It was most fortunate that I chanced to meet your 
 brother; I had no idea you were living at Paris.” 
 
 “Since the last four months. Do you know, monsieur, 
 
 _ you are the first of our English relations that I have seen ¥ 
 Yell us of our cousins; we do not even know their rames;, 
 is it not so, Gaspard ?” 
 Mr. Palerave looked amused. 
 « And I have not yet had the honor of hearing yours.” 
 “Tor me, 1 am Esperance; now, please, our Puiglish 
 cousins.” | 
 “Tam the only one of the Palgrave family; then tera 
 are the three Miss Collinsons, or rather two, for the eldest 
 is married—Mrs. Mortlake. The others are called Curnelia 
 and Bertha.” 
 “Cornelia! ah! that is not pretty. Bertha, I hike; tell 
 me about her.” 
 Mr. Palgrave seemed embarrassed, and war glad to 
 = spared a description, by the entrance of M. de Mabil- 
 on. 
 Esperance hurried forward to meet her father. 
 “Papa, this is our English cousin, Mr. Palgreve; he is 
 _ telling me all about our relations.” 
 - M. de Mabillon’s ereeting was gravely polite, but scarcely 
 eordial; the conversation became at once more formal and 
 stiff, and Mr. Palgrave’s complexion grew so fiery that 
 Esperance felt her own cheeks tingle out of sympathy. 
 
 Her father was evidently well acquainted with’all the mys-- 
 
 terious relations; she heard him inquire after Dean Collin- 
 son and his daughters, after Mr. and Mrs. Palerave, and 
 other unknown names, but there was a curious constraint 
 
 in his manner which Esperance could not account for. 
 
 She grew a little weary and oppressed, and was not sorry 
 when her cousin rose to go, having refused an invitation 
 to dinner. 
 
 Gaspard, also a little surprised at his father’s coldness, 
 proposed to act as guide to his cousin, and the two took 
 
 < WON BY WAITING. ge 
 
 
 
10 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 their departure, leaving M. de Mabillon and Esperance 
 alone. 
 
 M. de Mabillon sighed heavily as the door closed upon 
 them. | 
 
 “So that is George Palgrave; poor fellow, I was but half 
 civil to him—you must not follow my bad example, dear 
 child.” 
 
 “Papa! I do not understand. Why do you not like our 
 cousin; and why have you never told me about our English 
 relations before ?” 
 
 “For many reasons,” said M. de Mabillon. “Weare cut 
 off from them, both by distance and by inclination. There 
 has never been any intercourse between us since your 
 mother’s death; [Tam too much disliked by them.” 
 
 “You disliked, papa! It is impossible!” 
 
 M. de Mabillon smiled. 
 
 “You had better hear the whole story, and then you will 
 understand. When I was a young man I was traveling in 
 Lxgland, and while spending some weeks in London, was 
 introduced to your mother, then a Miss Collinson, sister of 
 tbe dean whom I mentioned just now. He was then in pos- 
 session of some London living, and Amy, your mother, lived — 
 with him. Shey were the eldest and youngest of a large 
 family, most of whom had died, and one or two of whom were 
 married. Amy was very beautiful, and from the first I 
 loved ber. She had other admirers, however, and among 
 them a certain Sir Henry Worthington, a very rich and 
 influential man. Mr. Collinson thought the connection 
 would be a useful one, and urged your mother to consent. 
 At the same time I made my proposal to him for his sis- 
 ter’s hand, greatly to his annoyance. So anxious was he 
 for the other connection that he absolutely refused at first 
 to mention my name to her. His behavior at the time is 
 too bad to be recalled; however, at length he was obliged 
 to yield, in so far that I was allowed to speak to your 
 mother myself. To Mr. Collinson’s indignation, she 
 accepted me, and as she was of age he had no power to 
 prevent the engagement.” 
 
 But, papa, why did Mr. Collinson dislike yeu?’ asked 
 Esperance, greatly puzzled. 
 
 _ “Partly because I was not Engiish; partly on account 
 of my poverty; and, I fancy, in a great measure, because I 
 was the obstacle which had hindered the connection with 
 Sir Henry Worthington.” 
 “ And what happened ?” asked Esperance, eagerly. _ 
 
WON BY WAITING. 417 
 
 “Mr. Collinson refused to let the marriage take place 
 from his house, which greatly distressed -your mother. 
 His wife, however, was more kind-hearted, and it was 
 arranged that she should be married from the house of her 
 mother, a Mrs. Passmore. Mr. Collinson would not be 
 present ai our marriage, and never saw your mother after- 
 word. We returned to France immediately, and there has’ 
 been scarcely any communication between the two families 
 since. George Palgrave is the first to have visited us, his 
 mother was your mother’s eldest sister.” 
 
 ©“ Aod I have always wished to see them all!” exclaimed 
 FEisperance ; “ but now I know I should dishke them, since 
 they treated you so badly, papa.” 
 
 “No, no, dear, try for my sake not to continue the family 
 feud ; such quarrels should, if possible, be forgotten ; and 
 though I own that in my case the forgiveness has not been 
 hearty, yet there is no reason for the next generation to 
 - feel so strongly.” 
 
 “But they, that is to say, Mr. Collinson, insulted you, 
 apa.” 
 
 “Yes, that is true; I forgave that at once, but I never 
 _ ean forget his conduct to your mother, Esperance, it broke 
 her heart—I know it—though she tried hard to hide it 
 from me. But this is only grieving you, my child; and, 
 besides, you must not think too harshly of your uncle—he 
 is, I believe, a good man, only he was once cruelly mis- 
 . taken. We will say no more about those times;.come ani 
 walk with me a little; you lose your color shut up so much 
 in this room.” 
 
 Esperance went to put on her walking things, full of 
 wonder at the strange revelation which had just been made. 
 And yet it had been her greatest wish to visit Eneland, 
 and see these unknown relations; nay, even now she felt a 
 strange curiosity with regard to the second generation, 
 though the very name of her uncle, Dean Collinson roused 
 ber indignation, 
 
19 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ‘CHAPTER IIL. 
 
 € He wills to give you battle, power for power, 
 So please you on the morrow.” 
 “On the morrow | 
 We will join the battle, then,” repiied Dunois, 
 ** And God befriend the right.” 
 SovutHEy’s Joan of Are. 
 
 Groren Parerave’s visit was now a thing of the past. 
 - Occasionally Esperance would recall the conversation she 
 had had with her father, and spend a few minutes in pic- 
 turing to herself her distant relations; but the sad story 
 had ceased to trouble her—she lived almost entirely in the 
 present. | 
 
 Already the clear horizon of her childhood was broken; 
 _ a little cloud had arisen, and, as time passed, it grew blacker 
 and more threatening, for week by week M. de Mabillon’s 
 money matters grew more and more involved, and Esperance 
 could not but share in his anxiety. Gaspard, too, was de- 
 pressed and unhappy, conscious that he was an additional 
 expense to his father, and yet unwilling to give up his profes- 
 sion. Esperance, his usual confidante, was not quite sosym- 
 pathizing as he could have wished; it was impossible she 
 could appreciate the sacrifice. “How could you really 
 care more for stupid, dull, law books than for helping 
 papa,” she argued day after day. . 
 
 “You do not understand, chérie, that it would be for 
 one’s whole life,” said Gaspard, anxious that his difficulties 
 should be fairly understood. | : 
 
 “ Bien! what more could one wish than to help one’s 
 father; besides, you would like your work in time.” 
 
 * What! the drudgery of a desk—a paltry clerkship—it_ 
 is impossible !: however, as you say, I suppose it is one’s 
 duty.” | 2 
 
 «And you will do it; I know you will, by your face,” 
 exclaimed Esperance. ‘ Dear Gaspard! I love you more 
 than ever; and how glad papa will be! You willbe really 
 earning money, as well as spending it; and then in time, 
 who knows, perhaps we shall get the chateau back again, 
 all through you.” 
 
 “A Chateau en Espagne, indeed!” said Gaspard, laneh- 
 ing, as he twisted Esperance’s clossy hair between his fin- 
 gers. “You women have such notions about money 
 maiters; and yet you are fui; »: advice as to work,” — 
 
 ~~ 
 

 
 
 pr ae ; ay SF eS WON By WAITING, : 13 
 
 Then, as she ieeked a little indignant, “No, no, you 
 need not be offended, for after all have I not taken your — 
 advice, and consented to that abominable clerkship : Re 
 
 - “Tt is true ; and you are a real hero, mon ami,’ replied _ 
 
 Esperance, with a fervent embrace. ‘“ How I wish papa 
 
 _ would come home, to hear the good news; let us wateh 
 
 for him,” and opening the jalousies, she looked eagerly 
 _ down the Sunny street. 
 
 Presently M. de Mabillon came into sight, walking ver, 
 quickly, in spite of the heat of the July day. 
 
 “Papa inust be bringing us some news!” exclaimed Fux- 
 perance ; “he walks like the wind. Look, Gaspard.” 
 
 — “Ahtno doubt there is something fr esh about this 
 
 Prussian business,” said Gaspard, coming forward uivkly; 
 
 “T thought everything was quieted down agai though | 
 apa did say there was thunder in the air.’ 
 
 “What about Prussia?’ asked Esperas.cez, knowing 
 nothing of politics. 
 
 Some fuss about. Prince Leopold trying to get the 
 
 Spanish throne; but they said a day or two ago he had 
 resigned. Of course France would never hiave allowed it.” 
 
 Here the door was opened by M. de Mabillon, and there 
 ‘was an eager inquiry from both occupaurcs of the room: 
 
 “© What news, papa?’ - 
 
 “There is tremendous excitement,” replied M. de 
 Mabillon, with more vehemence than Esperance lad ever 
 seen in him before. “The whole city is in a tumult; they 
 say that Mensieur Benedetti has been insulted by the 
 . King of Prussia, and war has been declared.” 
 
 “War! with Prussia!” exclaimed G: aspard, in delighted 
 
 excitement; while Esperance, startled and bewildered, 
 
 echoed the words in a very different tone. 
 She listened to the eager taik between her father and 
 brother, still suey taking in this strangely sudden 
 intelligence. 
 ee Papa, do tell me about it. Who is Monsieur Ben- 
 _ edetti, and why are we going to war. I don’t understand.” 
 __ “Monsieur Benedetti is cur.embassador at Berlin,” said 
 _ WM. de Mabillon; “and as to the reason of the war, I have 
 told you the pretext given; but privately I think that both 
 mations were anxious to provoke a quarrel, and fight it 
 out.” 
 “How can Baoule ever wish for war!” sighed Esperance, 
 
 4 _in such a sad tone that her father drew her toward him 
 
 a 
 
 caressing her in the way she liked best. 
 
4 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “T hope this war, at least, will not harm you, my child’ 
 As to the innate love of war, it is such a mixture of patriot- 
 ism, policy, and personal vanity, that neither you nor I will 
 trouble about it.” 
 
 ‘Women never can understand,” said Gaspard, a little 
 scornfully. ‘‘ Esperance does not seem to care for the honor 
 of the country. Father, you will let me enlist as a volun- 
 teer, will you not?” , 
 
 Esperance turned pale, and clung more closely to her 
 father, waiting in anxiety for his answer. This seemed to 
 bring the war much nearer home. 
 
 M. de Mabillon had been fully expecting such a propo- 
 gal, yet he hesitated for a moment before replying. 
 
 “Of course, you naturally wish to go, Gaspard,” he said, 
 st length; “but there are many reasons against it, 
 pur present circumstances for instance, and many other 
 tunings, besides, if the war be of long duration, there will 
 be all the more need for volunteers to come forward later 
 on.” 
 
 This was evidently a grievous disappointment; and 
 Esperance, in her relief, was sympathetic. 
 
 “Poor Gaspard? He has given uptwo professions in 
 one day. Never mind; perhaps after all you will be 
 wanted later on. Dame/ how curious it would be te see 
 you in uniform !” 
 
 “Not much chance, I fear, of that,” said Gaspard, a lit- 
 tle sullenly. ‘‘ We shall be sure-to beat the Germans in. 
 in no time ; perhaps in a month we shall have taken Ber- 
 lin ; who knows?” 
 
 He spoke with such confidence that Esperance looked 
 up in surprise. _ 
 
 “Ig it so, indeed, papa ?” 
 
 “My dear little girl, 1 don’t think itis possible to tell yet. 
 wivery one seems very confident of success; but it is per- 
 fectly well known that the German army is very well or- 
 panized.” 
 
 ‘“‘But we have the soldiers of Jena?” said Gaspard, tri- 
 umphantly. “I shall go and see what is being done.” 
 
 He went out, promising to bring back the latest tidings; 
 but. M. de Mabillon did not put much faith in this, think- 
 - ing it far more probable that he would only join the crowd 
 on the boulevards to shout “ Vive la guerre!” and give vent, 
 to his enthusiasm, 
 
 Hisperance, still auch excited, hovered about unable te 
 settle to anything, antu, seeing that her father was ene 
 
ery be el see Ss ria S = 
 j a eee eR : Se eae ee 
 
 WON BY WAITING. me 16 
 
 grossed in his newspaper, she ran down-stairs to discnss 
 the great topic with Mme. Lemercier. i 
 
 The Lemerciers were the occupants of the froisiéme étage, 
 and had already proved themselves pleasant neighbors to 
 the De Mabillons. Monsieur was connected with the press, 
 and was seldom at home; but madame,,who suffered from 
 ennui in his absence, was delighted to have visitors at any 
 hour of the day, and always made Esperance specially wel- 
 - come. ae 
 This evening madame seemed even more brisk and 
 cheery than usual. Esperance found her reading one of 
 her husband’s articles in a Republican paper, and brim< 
 
 ming over with excitement. 
 © Ah, mon enfant,” she exclaimed, with eagerness, ‘ what 
 news we have! You have heard ?” 
 
 . “Ves, a minute ago, papa came in to tell us, and Gas- 
 _ pard is almost frantic with delight.” 
 
 “Monsieur himself came in with the news,” said madame. 
 “He was panting, he was breathless, he had hurried from 
 a distance, for a moment I was afraid he was ill; ¢ Victor !’ 
 I exclaimed, but he interrupted me, and told me with tri- 
 umph that war was declared. Then, before I had breath 
 - to speak or exclaim, ne was telling me the causes, the in- 
 sults, a thousand things which I could not understand, and 
 in a minute he was away again, leaving me bewildered—as- 
 tonished—excited.” 
 _ “And yet, madame, it is very terrible,” said Esperance, 
 with a shudder. ; | 
 - Tt is true, my child; you think of the suffering, the 
 - death, the destruction. Ah, yes, that indeed is terrible,” 
 
 Through the open window there floated the sound of a 
 
 broken chorus—“Mourir pour la Patrie.” 
 Esperance was silent till-it died away in the distance; 
 hoarse and unmusical as were the voices, there was never- 
 theless a strange pathos in the song, and there were tears 
 in her eyes as she said, “ Our men are brave, they do not 
 think of themselves ; but, dear madame, I can not love ‘la 
 patrie’ so well as papa or Gaspard.” 3 
 
 “ Do not cry, my child! of course you can not—they de> 
 
 not intend to volunteer, I trust?” ; 
 - *No3 Gaspard wished to do so, but papa will not le 
 him at present; by and by, perhaps, he may be more 
 wanted; but oh! I do hope not. Monsieur Lemercier — 
 does not go?” 3 
 
 “No, no; he will serve his country by contributing 
 
es Nr hk, eS er er ee Ce ee gee Se en 
 abe cee ee 7 * 
 
 Pe te es 
 
 16 | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 accounts of its success to tho journals, Monsicur is a true — 
 
 patriot, he would gladiy handle the sword, but without 4 
 
 - doubt the pen is his best weapon.” 
 
 Esperance had heard her father speak of M. Lemercier 
 
 as hot-headed enthusiast, full of Republican ideas, and 
 rather questioned his “true patriotism.” She kept her 
 
 thoughts to herself, however, and asked if monsieur was ag 
 confident of success as Gaspard was. 
 
 " He says there is not the smallest doubt of our Suc. 
 cess,” said Mme. Lemercier with emphasis. “ Figure te 
 yourself our brave soldiers encountering the sausage-cat= 
 ing Germans. Ah! the victory will be ours.” 
 
 “Papa says the Ger mans are very brave, and that. their 
 
 army is well organized,” said Esperance, doubtfully. <<. = 
 
 “ Ma chére,” said Mme. Lemercier, excitedly, “ Monsieur 
 de Mabillon is wise without doubt, he is braye,° hei isa man 
 of honor, but he-is not sanguine. Witness ‘your very name 
 —feeling that he lacked the virtue he nape you ‘ Egpe- 
 rance.’” 
 
 “Ah! poor papa,” said Esperance, die Se cand me 
 when he was full of trouble. For this. once, then, I hope 
 he may be wrong 3 it would be terrible, indeed, if we did 
 not conquer.’ 
 
 “Do not mention it, my child—excepf, aed: upon your - 
 
 knees; the very idea makes me tremble. But it is i | 
 
 sible—quite impossible |” 
 
 Mme. Lemercier was expressing a confidence which was” 
 
 very generally felt. M.de Mabillon was among the very 
 few who thought failure a possibility ; and even he was a 
 little surprised when the news of the first defeat reached — 
 Paris. Gaspard made as much of the victory at Saarbruc} — 
 as was possible, and believed that the subsequent defeats ~ 
 were exaggerated ; but as time went on it became uselesa — 
 
 to disguise the truth, that the Germans were slowly but 
 
 surely advancing. 
 
 
 

 
 aE 
 
 ~ 
 
 ones "WON BY WAITING 17 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Her eyes shine tearful as they glance : 
 6 Who shall give back my slaughtered Sons ?” 
 s¢‘ Bind up,” she saith, ‘‘ my wounded ones.” 
 . “ ‘¢ Alas, France {” 
 
 A time there is for change and chance, 
 A time for drinking of the cup. 
 And One abides can yet bind up 
 Broken France, 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 
 
 ‘fo Esperance each day’s events seemed to make it more 
 and 1aore probable that Gaspard would be obliged to enlist. 
 ‘The evil seemed to be creeping almost imperceptibly nearer. 
 - and nearer home ; yet when in August preparations were 
 _made in Paris for an expected siege, she was beyond meas- 
 ure shocked and surprised. 
 M. de Mabillon was sorely perplexed, unable to make up 
 his mind to leave Paris himself, and yet anxious that 
 _ Esperance should be in safety. Esperance was not long in 
 discovering the cause of his anxiety, it was impossible for 
 her father to hide anything from her ; but she was indig- 
 ~ nant at the very idea of being sent away. é 
  “Tfitis your duty to stay, papa, it must be mine, too; 
 and indeed! indeed! I could not live without you. Tobe 
 _ far away from you withouteven the chance of letters! No, 
 no, it is impossible !” 
 
 “But I am afraid even if you stay here, weshall sce little 
 of each other,” said M. de Mabillon, “for I must join the © 
 National Guard, now that there is really.a call for service.” 
 
 _ And Gaspard also?” faltered Esperance. Oh, papa!” 
 Her tears fell fast; and M. de Mabillon, caressing her, 
 again urged her going away. 
 You and Javotte could return to Mabillon; I am sure 
 the curé, would take care of you, and you would like to see 
 
 _ the old place again. Isit not so, dear!” 
 
 _ “Papa, indeed I cannot go. Let me stay, and I will not 
 be any trouble ; Javotte and I can make charpie, and tear 
 bandages all day long, and that will be serving the country. 
 
 Promise me, dear papa, that I shall be with you.” : 
 She asked so beseechinely that M. de Mabillon could not 
 find it in his heart to refuse. 
 «Very well, my child,” he anawored, “it shall be as you 
 
To a bee ia i pee ae) Beare NS, Lovten Tie ae Fd ae ge el aN I 
 
 18 "WON BY WAITING. 
 
 wish; you shall stay here and show. your patdobian) after 
 all, it may be best to keep together, and for aught we 
 know, Mabillon may not be safer from the enemy than 
 Paris,” 
 
 In spite of all the troubles which she knew must be in 
 store, Esperance felt as happy and light-hearted after this 
 promise had been given as in her most cloudless country 
 days. Moreover, there was a certain excitement in the at- 
 mosphere which could not fail to please the little Frenci: 
 girl. 
 
 From the windows might be seen much that was novel 
 and amusing. Gay uniforms—awkward-looking volun- 
 teers—and, above all, a perpetual stream of peasantry 
 flocking into Paris for protection, all their worldly goods 
 piled. up on carts in wild array; beds, clocks, useless old 
 armoires, sacks of potatoes, strings of onions, and not un- 
 
 cae frequently aced parents or tired children were all mingled 
 pr omiscuously. Esperance chose to see thelaughableside ~ 
 
 of the picture; her father, with more insight, saw the ruin 
 of which this motley procession was the witness; while 
 _ Gaspard, with the selfishness of a citizen, inveighed against 
 the extra “mouths.” : 
 
 By degrees, however, such little excitements ceased to 
 please Esperance. She spent the long monotonous days 
 chiefly jin working with Mme. Lemercier, for the sick and 
 wounded; Javotte had already begun to find her marketing 
 
 a lengthy process, and was out almost all day; while M. de 
 Mabillon and Gaspard were constantly at drill. 
 
 And so the time wore slowly on; and although there was 
 atill the eager inquiry for news each day, almost every one 
 was learning that the official notices could not be trusted, 
 and that all disastrous tidings were kept back as long as 
 possible. Gaspard, who was always hopeful, maintained 
 that the dearth of all important news was a good sign ; 
 but M. de Mabillon was of very different opinion, and when 
 September began, felt more certain than ever that the lull 
 betokened aecrisis.  « 
 
 And at length it came. Late on the evening of the 3d of 
 September, the terrible news of the defeat at Sedan became 
 generally known. The surrender of MacMahon’s army and 
 of the emperor raised a storm of indionation at Paris; and 
 tne Republican spirit, latent for so long, seemed to burst 
 forth hke wild-fire. 
 
 The De Mabillons were Tina but although, of 
 
 course, they took no active part in the next day’s proceed- 
 
 P 
 

 
 1, fe ae ee age is =) sae Foe 
 DHS Se Sat? inate pt Pgh hes 
 
 ae WON BY WAITING 19 
 
 - Ings, they were absent all day, and Esperance ind Mme. 
 J,emercier were obliged to console each other as best they 
 qould, both being very eager to know what was going 
 on. 
 
 ~ Jtwas a long, weary Sunday ; Esperance wonld have - 
 ‘liked to go out, but madame was afraid of the crowd, and — 
 had a wholesome terror of “les rouges,” although ‘they 
 __ were her husband’s party. Not till night did they hear all 
 that had happened on that memorable day. 
 
 Esperance was already in bed when she heard her father 
 come back. Her eager call brought him at once to her 
 side, and she asked what had kept him so long. 
 
 “T should have returned before had I not known that 
 Madame Lemercier would be with you, dear child. ‘What 
 has been done?’ youask. There has been another Rev: 
 _ olution, though, thank God, abloodlessone; the empress 
 -has fled, and “the republic is already proclaimed. x 
 
 “The republic! ! Ah! how delighted Monsieur Lemercier 
 will be. But, papa, did you expect this ?” 
 
 e Anythin g@ may be expected after such news as that of 
 _ yesterday,” said M. de Mabillon, sadly. “The capitulation 
 
 - of eighty thousand men is an unheard-of thing ; the Paris- 
 -jans would not have borne it so quietly had there not been 
 
 : - the excitement of setting up this Republic to content them. 
 _ But there, my little patriot, I must not keep you awake any 
 
 . longer—sleep, and forget these national disasters.” 
 
 But the national disasters began to thicken so soon that ; 
 
 Esperance had not much chafce of forgetting them. | 
 In less than a fortnight two of the German armies had 
 
 taken up their position begore Paris, and the actual siege — 
 
 had begun. 
 
 "Now was the time when courage was really needed, and 
 _ Esperance found herself sorely taxed at each parting with 
 
 her two National Guards. Yet, after a few wecks had gone 
 ~ by, she grew almost accustomed. to it, and did her part 
 
 well, by her brave and unfailing cheerfulness really — 
 
 B refreshing the tired men. 
 Once only did she break down. It was early in Octo- 
 
 _ ber; a sudden change of weather was aflecting every one, 
 
 and the bitter cold seemed almost unbearable, particularly 
 as fuel was becoming very scarce. The privation and 
 suffering were beginning to tell on Esperance; and 
 when one day M. de Mabillon told her of an unexpected 
  gortie, in which his battalion would probably take part, 
 her courage gave way, and in spite of Gaspard’s rg 
 
20 WON BY WAITING Fs 
 
 tion, she expressed the most ardent desire for a eapitular 
 tion. ? 
 
 Ilowever, when both her father and brother returned in 
 safety, begrimed with smcke and dust, and telling triumph- 
 antly of the hundred and fifty Prussians taken prisoners, 
 her patriotism revived again, and her courage too. The 
 Revolution of the 31st of October, consequent on the fall 
 of Metz, was an almost pleasurable excitement, since she 
 knew her father and brother to be in safety, and not even 
 ile sounding of the ‘“ genérale” in the dead of the night 
 tad power to alarm her.. : 
 
 The weeks passed by slowly, each one bringing fresh 
 privations—even horse-flesh was now a dearly purchased 
 luxury, and the price of bread rose daily. very one was 
 beginning to feel that some fresh effort must be made, 
 and Esperance was scarcely surprised, when, on the even- 
 ing of the 28th of November, M. de Mabillon told her 
 that a great sortie was to be attempted on the following 
 day. 
 
 “T tell you of it, chérie, because I know you would be 
 vexed if I did not,” he said, “and because you have shown 
 us that you can bear suspense well and bravely.” 
 
 Her troubles had certainly taught her to be more self- 
 controlled, for she only turned a shade paler as she asked, 
 falteringly, “Do you march to-night, dear papa ?” 
 
 “Yes, in an hour’s time, my darling; but let us have a 
 few words now, while we are alone. I have been talking 
 to Monsieur Lemercier, and he has promised me that if 
 anything should happen to us to-morrow he will take care 
 of you, and when the siege is over take you and Javotte 
 to England.” =H | 
 
 “To England, papa! but why ?” - 
 
 “Because, dear, I feel sure that in whatever way this war- 
 ends, some time must. pass before the country is settled. 
 You know the present state of the Government—the scénes 
 of the 31st of October will be sure to repeat themselves, 
 and will, 1 fear, lead to something worse; so, my child, if I 
 am no longer here to take care of you, the sooner you are 
 safely in England the better.” 
 
 Esperance shuddered. — 
 
 “We need not plan, papa. I will do just as Monsieur 
 Lemercier tells me; only do not talk as if—as if—” 
 
 She hid her face on his shoulder, and did not try to finish 
 the sentence. . 
 
 M. de Mabillon held her closely, now and then whispering 
 

 
 - WON BY WAITING. 21 
 
 = words of comfort and trust, but more generally keeping 
 
 unbroken silence; until in spite of the coming struggle 
 Esperance was soothed and strengthened to endure. 
 
 At length Gaspard came in, flushed and eager, but re« 
 membering Esperance, he stifled his enthusiasm. The 
 - room was almost dark, save for a faint gleam from the 
 stove, by this he could see her little white face raised. 
 
 “Gaspard,” she said, “is it you? Is it nearly time ?” 
 
 * Yes, chérie,” he answered, bending down to kiss her; 
 *T want you to be our prave little vivandiére, and find us 
 
 something before we start.” 
 
 Hsperance hastened to prepare some coffee, and in afew 
 minutes the three sat down to their scanty meal, none of 
 _ them sorry that the light was dim. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck. M. de Mabillon said it was time 
 to go, and Gaspard, ever on the alert, was ready at 
 once. ‘“ Courage, chérie!” he whispered, giving his sister 
 
 a farewell kiss;  Lemercier will let you know how we get 
 - on to-morrow.” 
 
 She let him go passively, and with trembling fingers 
 tried to tie her father’s scarf. 
 
 “ My brave little girl!” he murmured; then, as the word 
 
 of praise proved too much for her, and her tears could no 
 
 _ longer be controlled, he took her in his arms. 
 
 ec My precious little Esperance, God bless you! 
 
 She clung to him in a last, long embrace, then watched 
 him go down the stairs in silence. The door closed upon 
 them, and she turned to sob out her grief in the arms of 
 the faithful old Javotte. 
 
 All the night a continuous stream of National Guards 
 marched past. Esperance took a strange pleasure in 
 watching them, and in trying to recognize her father’s bat- 
 talion. In the cold, gray dawn she slept, and Javotte put 
 
 1?? 
 
 her to bed, hoping that she would sleep late the next morn- 
 _ ing, so that the suspense might not seem so long. 
 
 She woke unrefreshed and weary, her heart aching as 
 she heard the continual firing. Mme. Lemercier, knowing 
 that this would be a trying day for her, sent up an invita- 
 tion to déjeuner, and Esperance, who was a believer in “ dis 
 traction,” was very glad to accept it. 
 
 It isa strange meal, consisting of bad bread, cheese, aad 
 eoffee without milk, but so scarce had provisions become, 
 that Esperance thought it quite luxurious. M. Lemercier, 
 alittle, dried-up man with a fierce, black mustache, made 
 tac her laugh with his peste of the teas or of the 
 
EOE | " OS PN ee ae OG Sig ae ee ion 2a tee mes. otal | 
 
 22 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 cheese, and madame was so kind and cheerful, that she 
 began to be comforted, and to look on the bright side of 
 things, even when later they heard that serious fighting 
 was going on, and that the ambulance was filling fast. 
 Esperance had spent the whole day with Mme. Lemer- 
 cier; it was now dusk, and she had just returned to her 
 own room, when her quick ear detected the sound of foot- 
 steps; it might be M. Lemercier, with fresh news. She 
 darted to the head of the stairs. Slowly the steps drew 
 
 nearer, and, straining her eyes into the darkness, she gave 
 
 a little cry of joy. 
 
 “Gaspard! Gaspard! is it really you?” 
 
 “ Myself, and no other, chérie,” replied the well-known 
 voice ; then, as she would have embraced him—“Tak« 
 care, this right arm of mine is damaged.” 
 
 “You are wounded !” cried Esperance, greatly shocked. 
 
 « A mere trifle, only a flesh wound ; I have just had tho 
 
 ‘bullet extracted.” 
 
 “ Don’t speak of if ; it makes me shudder,” said Esper’ 
 ance, lighting one of the few remaining candles, that shi 
 - might feast her eyes with the sight of her wounded hero. 
 He looked pale and exhausted, but seemed to enjoy talkin;; 
 about the day’s events. . 
 
 it seemed that nothing had been gained ; the losses ha} 
 been about equal on both sides, and the battle had sti} 
 been raging when he left the field. 
 
 «And papa ?” asked Esperance. 
 
 _ “Quite well when I left, and very glad that I could take 
 back the news to you.” 
 
 Then there is no chance of his coming home to: 
 night ?” 
 
 “Not the slightest, unless he follows my example. To- 
 morrow we will go up to the fortifications and see how 
 affairs are prospering.” 
 
 _ This. was an exciting prospect, and Esperance had a great 
 longing to be near her father; she thoughtin her ignorance, 
 that it would be easier to bear the suspense if she were 
 within sight of the battle. Gaspard was much refreshed 
 by a night’s rest, and the brother and sister set out on their 
 expedition eagerly and hopefully. The day was warm and 
 - bright, there was a holiday feeling in the air, which proved 
 irresistible to many. Esperance was startled on reaching 
 the ramparts to find the spectators laughing, chatting, 
 smoking, utterly regardless of the great tragedy that was 
 
 geing on. 3 
 

 
 \ c ¥ } i , = 
 
 “WON BY WAITING. — Caer 
 
 It was the first time she had seen any fighting, and ever 
 from a distance the scene was sufficiently terrible to be fore 
 ever imprinted on her memory.. Gaspard explained to her 
 the positions of the different divisions, and she tried to un- 
 durstand the plan of the attack, but her attention was soon 
 
 drawn away to the long file of ambulances which was con- 
 Stwntly passing into the city by one of the gates close by. » 
 
 Terrible havoc was being made among the French— 
 around the gate was a crowd of anxious relatives, watching ~ 
 the ambulances eagerly as they passed; now and then there 
 wus a recognition, which made Esperance shiver. 
 
 “Let us come and watch too,” she said, at length; and 
 Gaspard consenting, they took up their position among the 
 
 - anxious little group. 3 
 ‘They had waited long, and Esperance had begun to feel 
 faint with fatigue, and from the long train of terrible sights 
 passing before her. She closed her eyes for a minute, 
 when a half-smothered ejaculation from Gaspard roused 
 her—looking up she saw a litter being borne past, on it a 
 - National. Guard, his uniform covered with blood. Her 
 heart throbbed wildly, her head swam, but with a kind of 
 desperation she forced herself to look at the face—it was 
 indeed that of her father. 
 
 A great mist came before her eyes, she felt Gaspard pué 
 _ his left arm round her, and was conscious of relief. He 
 spoke to her. She caught the words “Ambulance Ameri- 
 -eaine,’ understood what they were to follow, and moved 
 mechanically through the crowd. 
 
 At length they reached the Avenue de IlTmperatrice, and 
 applied for admittance at the ambulance; they had to wait 
 long, however, and Esperance’s tears were by this time 
 flowing fast. ~A young American lady, touched by the 
 sight, tried to comfort her. 
 
 “ You are waiting for news of a friend ?” 
 
 “ Of my father,” sobbed she ; “oh! when will they tell. 
 as 2”? 
 
 -© As soon as is possible, everthing is done so quickly 
 now. See, here comes a messenger.” 
 _ She went forward and received the whispered message, 
 _ then turned to Gaspard. 
 “You must go in at once tosee your father ; be pre 
 
 33 - pared for the worst.” 
 
 “He is mortally wounded, then?” asked Gaspard, turner 
 ing pale. : : | 
 “1 fear so,’ replied the lady. 
 
74 : WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Without a word, Gaspard took his sister by the hand, 
 and followed the messenger into a cool, airy tent, where, 
 notwithstanding the fresh cases which were constantly 
 pouring in, all was orderiy and well managed. They were 
 conducted past rows of pallid suiferers, to the bed where 
 M. de Mabillon lay. Gaspard saw at once that the end was 
 very near, and was more overcome than Esperance. Now 
 that the worst had come, she was tearless, her grief for the 
 time being overpowered by the joy of seeing herfather. The 
 nurse made room for her, and she knelt by the bedside, 
 smoothed his hair caressingly, and whispered his name. 
 He opened his eyes, smiling faintly. 
 
 “We have come to see you, dear papa, Gaspard and I.” 
 
 “ Gaspard’s wound ?” asked M. de Mabillon with diffi- 
 culty. | , 
 
 “ Going on nicely, papa.” 
 
 He seemed relieved, then looking again to Gaspard, 
 spoke once more with great effort. 
 
 “Take care of Esperance, and promise me, Gaspard, to 
 leave Paris—when you can—take her to England. 
 Troubles will thicken here—” 
 
 He broke off suddenly—his features convulsed with pain, 
 his groans irrepressible. The nurse tried to persuade 
 _ Esperance to go, anxious to spare her the sight of her 
 
 father’s terrible suffering, but nothing could induce her te 
 leave him. 
 
 In the next lull he spoke to her.. 
 
 ‘We must not doubt, or question, little Esperance— 
 remember, ‘ Nous savons que toutes choses concourent ensemble 
 au bien.’” Then, as the agony grew more intense—*“ Speak 
 
 to me, Esperance—let me hear your voice.” 
 J] will sav your favorite lines, dear papa,” she faltered, 
 and in low, trembling tones, she repeated Victor Hugo's 
 beautiful verse : : 
 
 Vous qui pleurez, venez 4 ce Dieu, car i! pleure; 
 Vous qui souffrez, venez & lui, caril guérit, 
 Vous qui tremblez, venez 4 lui, car il sourit; 
 Vous qui passez, venez & Ini, car il demeure.” 
 
 The pain gradually died out of his face, and as Gaspard 
 and Hsperance bent down to kiss him, he even smiled. 
 Aiter that he noticed nothing, but lay with closed eyes, 
 sometimes murmuring the lines Esperance had repeated. 
 “ Venez ace Dieu,” aud the last time adding, faintly, «d 
 

 
 
 quérit.” 6 A faut minutes of unconsciousness elapsed, then 2 
 the last faint breath was drawn, and Benes de Mabillon’s 
 troubled life was over. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tout ce qui m’entourait me racontait ma perte: 
 Quand la nuit dans les airs jeta son crépe noir. 
 Mon pére & ses cdtés ne me fit plus asseoir, 
 - Et Jattendi en vain 4 sa place déserte 
 Une tendre: caresse, et le baiser du soir. 
 MULEVOYE. 
 
 Tur American lady, who had acted as nurse to M. de 
 Mabillon, did the kindest and most sensible thing she 
 could have done—took Esperance in her arms, and let her 
 cry quietly. Gaspard, meanwhile, was speaking to an at- 
 tendant about the funeral which was to take place early the 
 next morning. He soon returned to her side, speaking 
 very gently. 
 
 os Dear Espe1ance, we must come; we hinder mad- 
 ame.” | 
 With astrong effort, Esperance controlled herself suf- 
 ficiently to murmur thanks and farew ells, and allowed Gas- 
 pard to lead her away. 
 
 At the entrance they paused for a moment. It was 
 hard, very hard, to return tothe world. The sun shone 
 brightly, the street tratiic went on busily, all seemed 
 eruelly the same, while their lives had suddenly been 
 robbed of happiness. 
 
 Gaspard was, perhaps, the most to be pitied, for with 
 him _ rested, all the responsibility; already he felt the 
 charge of his little sister was no sinecure—already the 
 harassing thought of their poverty began to press upon 
 him. With this i in his mind, his first question was & prac- 
 tical one. : 
 
 “Can you walk, chérie? I think we ought hardly i 
 afford a fiacre.” 
 
 Perhaps she thought him a little heartless ; she just 
 inclined her head, and they walked home in perfect 
 
  gilence. 
 
 Meanwhile, Gaspard, tired out with the events of the 
 last two days, and weak from huuger and loss of blood, 
 began to grow faint. Once he stumbled and almost fell, 
 but Esperance was too much absorbed in her grief t& 
 
 Ko WON BY WAITING. ae 
 
SUR TD i ate we tee 
 a a 5) oa oe >: Agee $ 
 é 
 
 96  PAVON-BE OWATTING. ©. 
 
 _ notice, and from very necessity he forced himself to keep 
 
 up. | 3 | 
 - At length they reached home, and climbed the long 
 
 flight of stairs. Javotte, hearing their approach, came to 
 meet them, but Esperance cut short her inquiries and 
 clung to her sobbing. As for Gaspard, he passed on 
 quietly into the salon and groped his way to the sofa, just 
 conscious of relief in the feeling that he need no longer 
 
 make an effort to see through the gathering darkness—no 
 
 longer struggle to keep his sengas. 
 
 Javotte coming presently into the room gave a little 
 scream. “Mon Dieu! but it is impossible that we lose 
 Monsieur Gaspard, also!” 
 
 Esperance turned round in horror ; the white, uncon- 
 ‘scious face did indeed look death-like. 
 
 She bent over him in an agony of grief. - 
 
 “ Ah, Javotte, I have been so selfish, I quite forgot how 
 tired he must be, and he said not a word.” 
 
 Wait then, child, he has only fainted; I will fetch some 
 wine—there! see, he revives. Ah! he grows like his 
 ‘blessed father, who never complained.” . + 
 
 Esperance watched in anxious silence as by slow degrees 
 Gaspard struggled back to life. | 
 
 He would fain have resisted the returning consciousness, 
 - aware that there was a great weight upon his mind, and 
 - lenging to escape it. When, at last, he was recovered, and 
 
 -- openine his eyes saw Esperance’s tear-stained face, he ree 
 P 8 J 
 
 -» membered everything; and for the first time broke down 
 - eompletely. 
 
 - Esperance was thankful for those tears ; woman-like, she 
 loved Gaspard far more now that he gave way to his emo: 
 tion, than she had, when for her sake, he had borne up 
 -throuch the long walk. She crept nearer to him, and was 
 
 glad tofee] his arm round her, and his cold trembling 
 
 hand pressing hers. Nothing issuch a close umiter asa 
 - eommon grief; Gaspard and Esperance had never before 
 been so much to each other ! . Le2 
 Truth to. tell, Gaspard had hitherto been very much 
 _ gelf-engrossed. The early loss of his mother, and his sol- 
 itary education, had strengthened the natural tendency; 
 but privation, grief, and heavy responsibility, were doing 
 —* 
 
 Ve _ their best to rouse him. 
 
 Fsperance’s new love was a further help; she had always 
 _ been too much wrapped up in her father to spare many 
 thoughts for Gaspard, but now that he no longer needed 
 

 
 iat et Acts eer Mey Fr eh gna eles a gs JOU pe ON Te 0 eed | Po TE tn 4 A Pgh ert Se ca Pins ‘i 
 ashy ue NTN aes ee SS Sale OD ah yy « Apne ? a ‘ m=! y 
 ‘ <- vir 4 Ne aK a } ‘| Pe Dee ae 
 
 ‘WON BY WAITING. aw oe 
 
 her loving care, she was able to transfer all her solicitude - 
 to her brother. All this of course did not take place at _ 
 once, but it had its date from that terrible evening when 
 
 in the cold, dark, lonely salon they first realized their a 
 
 orphanhood. 
 
 Who has HOE felt the utter misery of waking in the 
 morning after any great change, the sense of oppression, 
 ‘the dawning consciousness, the awful realization? We 
 learn from the ver y keenness of the pain to value the for- 
 getfulness of sleep. 
 
 _ . Hsperance had passed through it all, when she awoke on — 
 that dreary ist of December. Everything reminded her 
 of her grief; the perpetual firing was still going on, but 
 one National Guard would never again serve his country; 
 there was the tramp of a battalion marching down the 
 _ street, but never more could she look from the window to 
 wave a farewell to her father ; within the house she could 
 hear Javotte preparing the coffee—only two cups would 
 _ be needed that morning. And then with a rush of tears, 
 Esperance for the first time asked the question which we 
 too often allow to imbitter our grief—“< Why?” 
 
 Why had this sorrow come to them? Why had her fa- 
 ther fallen, when hundreds of others had escaped? Why 
 
 _ did God allow war at all? If she could only see how good 
 —was to come out of evil! 
 
 Inthe midst of her questionings Javotte entered, a world 
 _ of love and tenderness in her wrinkled old face. Esperance, 
 for the first time, fully realized how great a comfort the 
 
 ~_ faithful old servant was. _ 
 “And my child has slept?’ she inquired, anxiously, her 
 
 harsh voice unusually softened. 
 
 “Yes,” sighed Hsperance, wearily. ‘Kiss me, please, 
 
 Javotte, I am ver y desolate.” 
 
 The old servant obeyed, murmuring soft terms of endear- - 
 ment over her, but Ksperance suddenly started back. 
 “Javotte, how terribly thin youhave grown! your bones 
 feel quite sharp.” 
 Javotte shruged her shoulders contentedly. 
 
 “That may be, child, but then one does not expect to — | 
 
 grow fat in a siege.” 
 But you are thinner than any one I have yet seen, much 
 more even than Madame Lemercier.’”’ 
 __“Chut ! Why, child, I am an old woman,” replied 
 -- gavotte; shaking her head reprovingly ; one can not be 
 ie Ses young and unwrinkled But come ! take your - 
 

 
 38 + ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 ooffee, chérie, we lose our time, and I must go quickly te 
 the market or we shall grow thin too soon.’ 
 
 paper ance was satistied for the time, and Javotte left the 
 room, glad to end the discussion, and murmuring under 
 her breath, “ My little blessed one! dost think I would net 
 rather starve than see thee suffer ?”. 
 
 sperance had just finished her toilet when she heare 
 Gaspard’s step on the staircase. She hastened to meet 
 ~ him, surprised that he should have been out so early. 
 
 “Have you been to have yovr wound dressed?” she 
 asked. He did not answer for a minute, and then Esper- 
 ance understood that he had been to their father’s inter- 
 ment. | 
 “You should have taken m4, too,” she said, her eyes 
 
 2 filling. “Why did you go all alone?” 
 
 “1 did think of you, but you were sleeping, and I could 
 not bear to wake you ; bess/4es, it was a long walk to the 
 - cemetery ; you shall go t»: morrow, and take some immor- 
 
 telles.” 
 
 - She turned away and began to heat Gaspard’s coffee over 
 -a spirit-lamp. 
 
 * Did you see the Asmerican lady,” she asked, presently ; 
 “the one who was *0 kind ?” 
 Yes, I saw her for a moment, and she sent you this.” 
 
 He drew out a tittle packet, which Esperance opened 
 
 eagerly. Tt contained a lock of her father’s hair, and her 
 mother’s wedding-ring, which he had always worn. 
 
 “How geod, how kind of her to send them!” she ex- 
 claimed, tears running down her cheeks; “I shall always 
 
 love the Americans, Gaspard. a 
 
 -  $he put on the slender ring reverently. It comforted 
 her a little on that dark day, and chee eh the a: ae 
 that *allowed. 
 
 CHAPTER VU 
 
 “Oh, blest are\they who live and die like thee ; 
 
 ~ Loved with eh love, and with such sorrow mourned. 
 i The Excursion. 
 
 - Tas De Mabillons fet with a: creat aca. of sympathy, 
 
 notwithstanding that such losses-as theirs were now 
 
 every-day events. ‘ihe Lemerciers were kindness itself; 
 
 indeed, had it not been for madame’s solicitude, Esper: 
 

 
 
 
 oe 
 
 Shite % 
 
 
 
 
 
 ~ ance wouid have fared badly. Gaspard’s wound healed all 
 too quickly, and by the middle of December he had re- 
 joined his battalion, leaving Esperance to her woman’s 
 
 WON BY WAITING 67 09 
 
 lot of anxious waiting. This, added to her grief and lone« - 
 liness, would soon have proved too much for her, had not _ 
 
 Mme. Lemercier, on the very first day of Gaspard’s ab- 
 sence, paid a visit to the quairiéme étage, her kind little 
 
 eyes sparkling with satisfaction as she felt the briliancy 
 
 oi her new idea. 
 
 Esperance was sitting in a disconsolate attitude, wrapped | 
 
 in a shawl, and knitting as fast as her benumbed fingers 
 
 would allow. Madame’s bright eyes grew dim for @ 
 
 moment; there was something inexpressibly sad in the 
 look of silent suffering, on such a young face. She made 
 haste to unfold her plan. = 
 
 “You feel very cold here,” she began, with a little. . 
 
 shiver put in for effect, as in reality she was burning with 
 excitement. ‘ Without doubt, the higher in the house, the 
 colder the rooms. Let me feel your hands, child. Dame! 
 but you will die of cold if you remain here much longer.” 
 
 “This is the worst day we have had,” said Zsperance, 
 “and Javotte says there is no possibility of getting coal, 
 or even coke; she has gone out now to try to obiain wood, 
 but they say it is very dear.” 
 : “Yes, and what is worse than that, it is scarce,” said 
 - madame, lowering her voice impressively; “1f you get it 
 to-day, you may not be able to-do so to-morrow.”: 
 Mme. Lemercier was usually so very sanguine that 
 Esperance was quite surprised to hear such gloomy fore- 
 bodings. Ske soon saw through the little device, how- 
 ever. Madame, thinking she had beaten about the bush 
 long enough, cleared her throat, smoothed her lace mit- 
 
 ? 
 
 \ 
 
 tens, and began. “My dear Esperance, I came to make a — 
 
 proposal to you. Yes, lay aside your knitting, for it is a 
 thing of importance—of importance, I repeat, for life is 
 - important even in a sieve.” : 
 - — Esperance thought of Gaspard, and said, “ Yes, madame.” 
 “It isa change of life, then, that I come to contemplate,” 
 continued madame. “Below, in our little salon, there 
 burns a fire of wood, a small fire. This morning, monsieur 
 said to me, ‘ Antoinette, which do you prefer, a fire or a 
 domestic? Wecan not keep both.’ After a little consid- 
 eration, I replied, ‘I prefer to have warmth.’ Thus you 
 see dear, I am without a servant. What takes place then? 
 
 - Tcome to pay a visit to recount my troubles. What do I 
 
_” the 2st. 
 
 
 
 ee i , Be —- - — et i a hard ak ak 
 ed : Ps. yee. ~ ee s fd Se 
 7 ae, ¥ > " eye oR 
 
 30 WON BY WAITING. , 
 find? That you have aservant, but no fire; while I have 
 a ure, but no servant.” | 
 | Madame paused, out of breath... Esperance clapped hex 
 - hands gayly. | 
 « And you think we might unite our forces? Ah! but it 
 is a good idea!” ) 
 
 “Really? You finditso? And your brother, will he — 
 
 “g@pprove?” 
 
 e ‘““Oh, yes, doubtless. He and Monsieur Lemercier can 
 talk politics all the evening. Picture to yourself how they 
 will argue!” i 
 
 After a consultation with Javotte, the arrancement was 
 finally settled, and Esperance was so happily excited by 
 the aates of quarters that. the day passed by almost 
 quickly. 
 
 _ Gaspard returning in the evening, was thankful enough 
 tofind a fire awaiting him, and though the conversation 
 turned entirely on the proposed sortie, Esperance could not 
 find it in her heart to be wholly unhappy,’ buttresolved to 
 3 enjoy the present while it was hers, and for the future to 
 hope. : 
 he next few days were particularly trying; the sortie 
 _ ‘was several times arranged, and then put off ina way that 
 taxed every one’s patience sorely. 
 
 On the night of the 20th, however, Gaspard really was 
 obliged to march, and Esperance was painfully reminded 
 of the terrible parting before the last sortie. The recol- 
 lection, however, was not without its comfort, for was not 
 her father beyond the reach of all pain; and weariness, and. 
 
 - hardship? She could not help being really thankful now, 
 even though the desolation and loneliness were so hard to 
 
 _ bear, 
 - Mme. Lemercier devised all manner of distractions for 
 her, a visit to the Ladies’ Society for Working for the Sick 
 
 and Wounded, a walk with monsieur, and 1rew books ra 
 
 read, The news was not very cheering-—severe 4 vhting for 
 eight hours, and little, if anything, gained. this was ou 
 - _.,.On the evening of the next day every one felt dull and. 
 depressed; madame, her chair drawn close to the little fire, 
 
 - could not suppress a heavy sigh every now and then, 
 
 though each time it escaped her she would give a little 
 ~ couch, hoping to deceive Esperance. Javotte—who, of 
 course, had a share in the one fire—sat, rosary in hand, 
 murmuring “Aves” for M. Gaspard. Esperance, looking 
 
 
 
 SEP Ary Saker roi | eek Nae E 
 Eee Sst Oe ON > . 
 
 i 
 
 <2 em 
 EE 
 
WON BY WAITING. | 
 
 very pale and anxious, was eading Dumas’ ‘Tulipe 
 Noire” aloud, trying hard to seem interested im the ad- 
 ventures of Cornelius and Rosa, while she strained her 
 ears to catch the faintest sound from below. 
 
 Gryphus was in the very act of discovering “la tulipe,” 
 Cornelius in an agony of grief, when Esperance suddenly 
 stopped, and’ sprung to tke door. Steps were slowly 
 ascending the stairs, M. Lemercier’s voice was heard mak- 
 ing some uncomplimentary remark about Trochu—a hoarse 
 voice assenting, A minute more, and Gaspard dragged 
 himself into the dimly lighted room, almost falling into the 
 nearest chair, while M. Lemercier hastened to reassure 
 Esperance. . 
 
 “No, no, he is not wounded, my dear mademoiselle, only 
 ~ worn out with the fatigue and the cold. Some hot brandy 
 and water, Antoinette ; we shall soon revive him, do not 
 fear.” 
 
 Esperance took the musket from the stiff, benumbed 
 hands, and bent down to kiss her brother, starting back in 
 ‘ horror to find his mustache quite frozen. He was just 
 enough alive to be amused at her terror, and to whisper, 
 _ hoarsely, that it would thaw very soon. 
 
 _ Mme. Lemercier and Javotte began to tend him with 
 great delight; it was their first attempt at nursing, and 
 between their care, the warmth, and the restoratives, 
 Gaspard was soon relieved, and able to give some account 
 of the sortie, which had been unsuccessful. 
 
 This intense cold was of long duration. It told fearfully 
 upon the National Guard, so much so, indeed, that asmany 
 as could possibly be spared, were sent back to Paris. Gas- 
 pard had taken a violent chill and was ill in bed, and Espe- 
 rance, while thankful to have him safe at home, was ter- 
 ribly distressed at the short rations of unappetizing horse- 
 flesh, which, in his weak state, he found almost uneatable. 
 She, for the first time, fully realized all the discomforts ot 
 the siege, and longed impatiently for an end to their priva- 
 tion and misery. : 
 
 Christmas was not quite so sad as she had anticipated. 
 To begin with, Gaspard was much better, and able to come 
 
 down to the Lemerciers’ salon, and madame was so bricht 
 
 and cheerful that it was impossible not to cacch something 
 of her humor. ; 
 
 Then, too, there was a great surprise. Javotte returned 
 from her marketing with a beaming face; she had been 
 standing en queue for houre. but whatjoy} she had brought 
 
ce OIE Era atl et REP ate See NEY toa, oe ee ede be her ns cartel Mapas 
 ea ae eee er een ahi lite ince XS ten BN Null? > het ara 
 AD eee ease = Hue samacauhiny py Sage kN an Tae hates eae mi 
 ss pea igi Ps. Rerakigt en ats Yat Ta te _] 2 
 
 ~ 
 
 32 WON BY WAITING 
 
 home rations of beef, and a little butter, luxuries long ua- 
 heard of. | 
 
 Such good fortune did not come again, however. Food 
 became more and more scarce, the thermometer still re- 
 mained twelve degrees below zero, and there was no pros- 
 pect of relief. : 
 
 The Jour de lan dawned gloomily, even Mme. Lemercier 
 felt a little depressed, everything was so triste; no presents, _ 
 no amusements, no gayeties of any description, but a gray 
 sky, a mourning people, and distant firing. j 
 
 M. Lemercier went to a political lecture at-the republi- 
 
 cap club to which he belonged, Gaspard insisted on join- 
 ing his battalion, Javotte went out to the market, and Es- 
 perance and madame were left to their own devices. 
 _ Hsperance began to make a wreath of immortelles for 
 her father’s grave. Madame sat knitting for some time ; 
 at last she spoke—but hurriedly—and as if she disliked 
 her subject. 
 
 “Hsperance, mon amie, do you not think that our poor 
 Javotte grows very thin ?” 
 
 Esperance started. ee 
 
 “I told her so only the other day but she merely 
 laughed, and said one did not expect to grow fat in a siege. 
 Do you think she is ill, dear madame ?” 
 
 “ T have thought so for long, my poor child ; but do not 
 _ grieve, I may be mistaken. What makes me anxious is 
 this: for the last two days I have kept watch with great 
 care to see what she eats, and as far-as I can tell only two 
 amall pieces of bread has she taken.” | 
 
 Esperance’s eyes filled with tears. 
 
 _ “Jt must have been in order that Gaspard and = should 
 have enough! My poor Javotte! how selfish 1 have been! 
 but even then it seemed so little.” KE) : 
 
 While they were still talking of her, Javotte entered 
 with her small market-basket, which, though light enough, 
 seemed to hang heavily on her arm. She was an ugly 
 old woman, with a very yellow, wrinkled face, made still 
 more conspicuous by her pure white cap and scarlet neck- 
 erchief ; but there was something pathetic in her little 
 black eyes, and in her odd, harsh voice as she said, ‘‘' The 
 rations are but small to-day, chérie, but they say that at 
 -the Marché St. Germain there are some pretty little dogs 
 
 and cats for sale.” > 5 
 Esperance could not help laughing. 
 * Yes, yes, L told you so, madame—‘ Boucherie canine eo 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. a 88 
 
 fhtine? T have seen it with my own eyes. - Doubtless that 
 
 is where my poor Minette went the other day, when we — 
 
 missed her! But, Javotte! Javotte! what is it?” for 
 davotte had suddenly turned pale and would have ieee 
 _ had madame not guided her to a chair. 
 
 ‘© Dear child, do not fear,” faltered the old servant; “itis 
 only the cold—I shall be warm soon.’ 
 
 Mme. Lemercier made her swallow some brandy, which 
 revived her for a few minutes, but she soon sank agaia 
 into a semi-conscious state, and though Esperance chafed 
 the-wrinkled old hands, she could get no warmth into them. | 
 
 Madame began to be alarmed, and M. Lemercier coming. 
 on at that minute, was sent to fetch the doctor. They made 
 a temporary bed close to the fire, and between them carried 
 her to it, shocked to find what a light weight she was. 
 
 - Then madame prepared some hot gruel, while Fisperance 
 
 sat sorrowfully watching the inanimate form, full of sad 
 
 - forebodings. 
 
 . At length the pale lips moved, and Esperanee bent down 
 “h to catch the faint words. : 
 
 “ Mon enfant bien-aimé, who will goto the market for 
 you when lam dead? You must not go out unprotected.” 
 ~ ©Qh! my poor Javotte, do not Ree so. You must not 
 ~ die, indeed you must not.” 
 
 _ Well, my pretty, I should like to live, I have eek 
 
 that I may live to the end of the siege, that I might take 
 
 care of you; but I think it will not be, for I feel mysel 
 ~ very tired.” 
 “Dear, dear Javotte! you have done so much for us, 
 
 See, madame brings you some gruel, I will feed you.” 
 
 Javotte seemed thoroughly roused; her black eyes turned 
 anxiously in the direction of the eruel. 
 « Madame has not used the good oatmeal for me? Ah, 
 what a pity! it should have been for Monsieur Gaspard to- 
 nicht; and suchalarge cup. No,no, I cannot drink it.” 
 Even Mme. Lemercier could not restrain her teara 
 - Hsperance, with a bitter cry, threw herself down by the 
 - bedside. 
 “Oh! Javotte, Javotte! you have been starving your-~ 
 self for our sake, and now it is too late!” 
 Before she had recovered herself, M. Lemercier re- 
 turned with the doctor. But alas, there was nothing to be 
 done, the poor old woman was evidently dying—cold, 
 hunger, and her own self-denial had nowy but surely 
 
 done their Work, 
 

 
 34 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Esperance waited for the end in heart-broken silence. 
 At Javotte’s request she brought the carved, black rosary, 
 and placed it in the withered, nerveless fingers, while, with 
 failing breath, the old woman murmured a prayer; then, 
 
 with trembling fingers, she placed the beads round Esper- 
 ance’s neck. | ; 
 
 “ Pour souvenir of your poor Javotte,” she whispered. 
 
 Madame asked if she would not see a priest, and she ase ” 
 sented faintly, but before he arrived the soul of the faiti- 
 ful old servant had passed away. Her last look had been 
 for Esperance. The poor child, full of grief and self-re- 
 proach, had bent down to kiss the cold brow, and had 
 whispered, “ Dear Javotte, you have given your life for us!’ 
 And Javotte had looked up with a beautiful smile, and 
 said, “ Mon enfant bien-aimé, what would you then? I love 
 you.” 
 
 Then the smile had died away, and she had fallen asleep 
 like a little child. 
 
 Javotte had seemed only an ignorant old peasant woman; 
 all- felt now that she was indéed a saint. 
 
 While they were still standing round the bed, the priest 
 entered with his salutation of peace. Madame hastened 
 to tell him that it was all over, and related poor Javotte’s 
 story; and Esperance felt a strange thrill at her heart as _ 
 she heard him reply. 
 
 “¢And the king shall answer and say unto them, ‘ Verily 
 T say unto you, inasmuch as you have done it unto one of 
 the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto me,’” — 
 
 CHAPTER ‘VIL 
 
 To fear is harder than to weep— 
 To watch, than to endure. 
 The hardest of all griefs to bear 
 Is a grief that is not sure, 
 FABER. 
 
 Tae horrors of the bombardment of the city were now 
 added to all the previous misery. Small-pox and famine 
 had been carrying off hundreds and hundreds of the inhab- _ 
 itants; now a fresh agent of death made its appearance. 
 
 The first few days were full of terror to Mme. Lemer- 
 cier and to HMsperanee. Numbers of shells had fallen in 
 their immediate neighborhood, and they dreaded leaving — 
 the house. But this alarm wore off with the novelty, and ~ 
 
Ca yor. pe. eet a i. we a ¥ = >> = % 
 Glee ag! 6 “a Ok iat rs ‘ r ~ 
 
 Sra WON BY WAITING. | Sea Sse 
 very soon they went about as unconcernedly as if no dan- 
 ger existed. : ~ 
 
 Poor Esperance felt Javotte’s death deeply. Almost 
 unconsciously she had leaned upon the good old servant, 
 and now that her father was dead, and Gaspard scarcely 
 ever at home, she felt very lonely, and often in need of 
 adviee and help, which no one could give. Mme. Lemer- 
 cier, good and kind as she was, could not fill the vacant 
 place; hers was a good-natured, but weak character, 
 wholly unfit for any sort of guidance, and Esperance 
 needed a much stronger support. 
 
 _ The days passed by slowly and painfully. Once only, 
 
 a ray of comfort came, and for atime the sinking spirits 
 of the Parisians were raised. News was brought from the 
 provinces by a carrier-pigeon, that Faidherbe had driven 
 back the enemy in the Pas-de-Calais; that an unknown 
 general at Nuits, with 10,000 men, had beaten the Prus- 
 sians with 25.000; and that Garibaldi was at Dijon gather- 
 ine recruits. 
 
 _M. Lemercier was much elated at such an unexpected 
 turn of fortune ; and even Gaspard, who of late had been 
 despondent, grew more cheerful, and his spirits were a 
 better guage than M. Lemercier’s, for he was exposed to 
 far more danger and hardship. 
 
 Three months of real experience as a National Guard of 
 the marching battalions, had taught Gaspard more about 
 life than his whole previous education. The discipline 
 had been severe, the hardship great, the failure and disap- 
 - pointment very trying, but they had all done their work, 
 and under weir influence Gaspard was greatly changed. 
 
 Esperance soon iound this out, even in the short visits 
 he paid her, end ie! that he was growing far more like 
 their father than she had ever ventured to hope. This 
 knowledge, however, sweet as it was, served to make their 
 partings far more painful, and she looked forward with 
 dread to the next sortie, which all knew must soon be 
 attempted. 
 
 One last effort was to be made; if that failed there 
 would be no hope left for Paris. Even Esperance, in her 
 grief, was roused to a mo~e patriotic feeling than she had 
 hitherto shown, and this helped to make the parting, on 
 the night of the 18th of January, rather more bearable 
 for was not this the “sortie du desespoir?” There was 
 something grand, inspiring, in the very name. 
 
 The time passed by wearily to the anxious Parisians. 
 
86 | WON BY WAITING, 
 
 isperance thought no day in the whole siege had been 
 quite so long and oppressive. M. Lemercier, coming in 
 about noon, reported that the movements of the troops had 
 been much hindered by a fog, but that the battle was now 
 at its height, the attempt being to force the Prussian lines 
 between Montretout and La Marche. _. 
 
 With this news they were obliged to content themselves 
 for some time. It was not till dark that M. Lemercier re- : 
 turned; and then to Eisperance’s joy, he was not alone. In - 
 the dim light she could just discern the uniform of a 
 National Guard, and with an eager exclamation she hur- 
 ried forward, but suddenly checked herself, unable to con- 
 ceal her disappointment, for it was not Gaspard. 
 
 M. Zemercier hastened to introduce the stranger, and 
 Esperance, with truly French politeness, recovered herself 
 at once. : 
 
 “Pardon, monsieur, I was expecting my brother. Do 
 you bring us news?” turning to M. Lemercier. 
 
 Yes, mon amie, news of Gaspard, but I trust not alto- 
 gether bad- news. Courage! Do not tremble so. Mon- 
 
 -sieur Ambrosin, who is a comrade of your brother, tells us 
 that he is wounded, but I hope not seriously.” — 
 
 “ Mon Dieu! when did he fall. Where did you leave 
 him, monsieur? Surely, surely he is not still on the field?” 
 She looked at M. Ambrosin, her eyes full of agonized 
 entreaty. 3 . 
 
 “T hope not; but mademoiselle will understand that, 
 in the midst of fighting, I can really hardly tell what hap- 
 pened. We had taken Montretout, for some time.our 
 men held it gallantly, but later in the day we were forced 
 to evacuate it. In the retreat 1 was beside monsieur, your 
 brother, when a ball struek him, and he fell. I think he 
 was only stunned, but mademoiselle knows that there is 
 no pause in a retreat. ‘There were ambulances near. . It is 
 
 very possible that he is at this moment in this city, being 
 carefully attended to.” — | 
 
 _ Hsperance shuddered. That ‘‘bien possible” was positive 
 
 torture to her. Wasit not also very possible that he was 
 
 still on the battle-field, lying out there in the cold, among 
 the dead and the dying, perhaps dying himself—and alone! 
 
 Her tears fell fast, as in imagination she pictured all this 
 
 to herself. A movement from M. Lemercier aroused her. 
 
 She found M. Ambrosin taking leave, and. in spite of her 
 swimming eyes, called up a sweet little farewell smile, and 
 a few broken words of gratitude for his xindness., 
 
 oa: 
 
 
 
 

 
 _ He left the room, and madame, with loving words and 
 éaresses strove to comfort Esperance. 
 
 “ Poor little one,” she said, tenderly; “all the troubles of 
 life come to you. But do not cry, dear child; no doubt 
 Gaspard is but slightly wounded. Has he not passed 
 
 tirough the rest of the siege without hurt—save, indeed, 
 
 - tact arm wound, which was but a trifle?” 
 
 * Dat the uncertainty,” sobbed poor Esperance; “I could © 
 bear it, if I only knew all, even if he were'dead.” Then as 
 _ madame could find no reply, she started up with despairing 
 - energy, “ Madame, I must know where heis! I must find 
 lim! Iwill go to the ambulances.” 
 
 _. She hurried: away to her own room, snatched up her ~ 
 
 cloak and hat, and in half a minute was again in the salon, 
 where M. and Mme. Lemercier were discussing the possi- 
 
 / bility of her enterprise. 
 
 _ Monsieur, who was oc kind-hearted little man, came to 
 mect her with a mixture of affected gallantry aud true 
 sympathy, which would have amused her at any other — 
 time. : | | 
 
 - Dear mademoiselle,” he began, “do you rightly under- 
 stand the difficulty of your task? ‘The ambulances are 
 scattered about the city in every direction; the night is 
 
 ~ eold, it will be too much for you. Iwill make every pos- — 
 
 ‘sible inquiry if you will permit—” 
 Aisperance interrupted him. y 
 “ Monsieur is too good ; if you will indeed go with me, 
 
 ~ T ghall have no difficulty, it will be far easier for me to 
 
 bear than waiting here. Let us come at once if you cana 
 
 --_ really spare the time. Adieu, dear madame ; give us your 
 
 good wishes.” : 
 The night air felt cold and chill as Esperance and her 
 companion walked down thestreet; the lamps had long 
 aso ceased to be lighted, and their progress would have _ 
 been slow had’ not M. Lemercier known every inch of the — 
 sround. <A few minutes’ walking brought-them to the 
 - Odeon Theater, which had been converted into an’ am- 
 bulance. Esperance’s heart beat high with hope as she 
 waited in the vestibule while M. Lemercier went in to 
 make inquiries, but after what seemed to her a long 
 absence, he returned with “failure” written on his face. © 
 He is not there, dear mademoiselle. But courage! we 
 willfind him yet. Tetusgo tothe American ambulance.” 
 
 -_-Bsgperance loved the American hospital in spite of -<ts 
 
 es _ painful associations ; she had often visited it since he 
 
 WON BY WArTING. — oe ae 
 
SS ee aE eS ee ae er and Se eS ae ee es 
 : Pe / iM x i eé % CSIs 
 
 38 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 father’s death, taking her small contributions of charpie or 
 garments for the sick, so she was pleased at the thoug"t of 
 going there, and of seeing again the kind American ladies, 
 and somehow she felt confident that Gaspard must be there 
 if anywhere. 
 
 She walked on bravely in this hope. But alas, she was 
 goon undeceived. The cool, airy tents were there, the . 
 prettily dressed American ladies were just as she had 
 pictured them, but among the rows of wounded soldiers 
 Gaspard was not to be found. | 
 
 The names of several other ambulances were sug- — 
 gested to them, and they went out on their search once 
 more, but Hsperance,now that her hope had been dis- 
 appointed, found it hard work to keepup. Bodily fatigue 
 and mental suffering were beginning to tell upon her, and 
 after three or four more failures, M. Lemercier, looking at 
 her white face grew alarmed. ~ 
 
 “ Mademoiselle is ill. Let me call a fiacre, if I can pro- 
 cure one, indeed which is doubtful after all the horse-flesk 
 we have eaten. Let us return, and wait for daylight to 
 resume our search.” 
 
 But tired as she was, Esperance would not hear of this. 
 “No, no, indeed I am not ill, monsieur,” she replied, 
 quickly ; “let us do all we can. Which will be the next 
 ambulance ?” | 
 
 “The Grand Hotel—and here we are; now let me rer- 
 suade you to wait in the entrance while I go to inquize.” 
 
 Esperance was, by this time, so faint that she was 
 obliged to consent, and, sinking down on a bench, she > 
 waited, though with scarcely any hope of success. It seemed 
 hours before her companion returned, and then, once more, ~ 
 game the weary answer: “1t is no use—he is not there.” 
 
 M. Lemercier was now more than ever bent upon going 
 home, and she had scarcely strength to resist his urging. 
 Ié was not till he was on the very point of calling a jiacre 
 that she was fully roused. The very realization of wnat the 
 relief would be, reminded her also of her object, quicken- 
 ine all her powers, and renewing her grief, which for the 
 time had been half numbed. ~ : 
 
 “ Tndeed, monsieur, I would rather walk,” she exclaimed, 
 with sufficient energy to surprise M. Lemercier, “and we 
 have yet to inquire af. the Théatre Francais.” 
 
 “Ah, it is true,” said monsieur, reflectively. ‘You are | 
 a veritable heroine, mademoiselle; and if you are really — 
 wble to do so we will proceed. No, citoyen,’ to the driver | 
 
WON BY WAITING. 39 
 of the fiacre, “ one must walk on foot during a siege. Take 
 my advice, and eat your horse while he is yours.’ 
 
 The driver growled out something about “a fare,” and 
 “ adding to the rations;” but they were soon out of hearing 
 of his grumbling. Esperance had been a litile surprised 
 
 at the friendly “citoyen” bestowed by M. Lemercier on the 
 driver. She was still unaccustomed to Republican man- 
 ners, and this little incident, trifling as it was, filled hez 
 thoughts during the walk. 
 
 She was quite exhausted when they reached the Théatre 
 - Frangais, and waited wearily in the vestibule, unheedful of 
 the comers or goers—half stupefied by grief, cold, and fa- 
 tigue, while in her brain was a wild confusion of battle- 
 - fields, ambulances, and citoyen drivers. Before M. Lemer- 
 
 -eier returned she had quite lost consciousness, and in her 
 dark corner remained unnoticed for some time. 
 
 She returned to life a little later to find M. Lemercier 
 bending over her, a mixture of anxiety and half-suppressed 
 excitement in his face. He gave an exclamation of relief 
 as she opened her eyes. 3 
 
 *“ Ah, she recovers! Dear mademoiselle, be comforted; I 
 have good news for you. See, then, who is here!” 
 
 _ Hsperance, thus appealed to, opened her heavy eyelids 
 again, but only saw the statue of Voltaire. This roused 
 her. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and before she had 
 
 _ time to look again, found Gaspard’s arms round her, his 
 well-known voice once more in her ears. 
 
 _ Poor tired little one! And so you have been wander- 
 
 - ing all over Paris to tind me!” 
 
 She could not look or speak then, but just put her head 
 down on his shoulder and sobbed for joy, while her whole 
 being waa raised in a wordless thanksgiving. 
 
 M. Lemercier, who luckily was too true a Frenchman to 
 _ dislike a “scene,” waited patiently till she recovered her- 
 
 self before he proposed that they should return. 
 
 Then, for the firct time, looking up, Esperance saw that 
 Gaspard’s head was bandaged, and, forgetting her own 
 fatigue, began to make eager inquiries. 
 
 The wound was happily but a slight one, and Gaspard 
 would have been sent home sooner, but when brought in 
 from the field he had been, like many others, overcome by 
 sleep, and so had been delayed. When ali had been thus. 
 satisfactorily explained, M. Lemercier went to find a car- 
 
 riage, this time in good earnest. He, however, declined to — 
 take a seat in it himself, and sent a message by Esperance 
 

 
 . oo PE UIRE ae Sean So Ac r= es ae 
 “ A t r, * V . 2 7 
 40 ; WON BY WAITING. 
 
 to his wife to the effect that she need not expect him to ms 
 
 return before morning. 
 
 During the long walk he had been making all manner of © 
 
 observations; discontented words from passers-by had 
 caught his ear, disjointed sentences of murmuring against 
 Trochu, and vacue hopesof establishing Flourens. Fullof 
 hope for his ideal Commune, hoe walked off excitedly in the 
 
 direction of Belleville, thankful that good fortune had 
 . favored his search for Gaspard de Mabillon, and rejoicing - 
 
 that he was now free to serve ‘‘ da patrie.” 
 
 Esperance and Gaspard, mean while, had renchad home 
 safely, and were so much engrossed in each other that they 
 scarcely heeded the genérale, which, at eleven o'clock, re- 
 sounded through the city to summon the National Guard to 
 
 attack the Hotel de Ville. The insurrection, however, was - 
 but trifling ; and, although fora few days M. Lemercier 
 
 wag Very sanguine, he was soon obliged to confess that it 
 had been unsuccessful, and that for the present the Com- 
 munists must bide their time. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Kingdoms that long have stood, 
 And slow to strength and power attain’d at last. 
 Thus from the summit of high fortune’s flood 
 Ebb to their ruin fast, 
 SourHey. 
 
 “Tr is shameful! abominable! unbearable! We could. 
 
 have held for another month, at least! We will resist ; we 
 will not allow it, such atrocious conditions—such conces- 
 sions to those beggarly Prussians!” 
 
 Gaspard was panting with rage and vexation, M. Le- 
 
 mercier having just brought in the news that the armis- -_ 
 
 tice was signed. 
 
 Madame could not help giving a sigh of relief, and Espe- 
 rance might have followed her example had she not re- 
 ligiously ‘tried to sympathize with Gaspard’s views. She 
 asked @ safe question. 
 
 “Ts it all over then ?” 
 
 * Practically,” replied M. Lemercier, “unless, indeed, 
 we Communists can egg on the populace, which, as the 
 Flourens insurrection failed, is more than doubtful.” 
 
 “Think hcw tbey will exult over us, the monsters! Tt 
 
 is surely impossible that France can submit to such terms 
 
 ay 
 
 SS SSR. tao eee, | AAR Pat eee or ae 
 

 
 
 
 ‘qhile her sons sill live! We will compel Vinoy to lead 
 us forward once more! We will show Trochu that his 
 signature is of no avail if the chiluren of France do not | 
 @pprove |” 
 
 = WON BY ‘ware a 
 
 Gaspard paused, out of breath and exhausted by his 
 
 excitement; for, despite his lofty projec’ of future resist- 
 ance and another sortie, his wound was by no means ree 
 - govered. 
 
 M. Lemercier seized the opportunity for lamenting his 
 pet grievance. 
 
 * And you have imprisoned the only man who has any 
 spirit—any public feeling! If Fleurens were—Bien / what 
 would you, Antoinette ? = 
 
 “Do you not see how you are exciting our convalesvent ? 
 Go, then, and find us some fresh news, and wait another 
 week before you try to make Monsieur Gaspard a Commu- 
 nist. Now tranquilize yonrself, mousieur, or your face will 
 be permanently disfigured.” 
 
 M. Lemercier obediently left the room, and Gaspard fol- 
 - lowed his nurse’s directions, though, perhaps, not for the 
 all-sufficient reason she had given. Hsperance wondered 
 why he looked so utterly miserable; she said nothing, how- 
 ever, until a trifling incident solved the mystery. Some one 
 passed the window singing the “ Marseillaise;’ the com- ~ 
 plete mockery of the words could not but strike her, and, 
 looking up as the thoughtless passenger sung— 
 
 *¢Le jour de gloire est arrivé,” 
 
 she saw that tears of grief and humiliation had escaped 
 Gaspard. He hid his face with a bitter groan, and Esper- 
 ance realized for the first time how great was his love for 
 
 _ France. 
 The siege was virtually at an end, but it was not till 
 
 ane nearly the middle of February that food. became cheaper, 
 
 ‘and still the Prussians were encamped round Paris, their 
 presence galling the humiliated people. 
 Every onc felt that the troubles of France were by no 
 means at an end, and M. Lemercier grew daily more hope- 
 ful for his Commune. Esperance was sorely disappointed; 
 
 ~  ghe had ‘hoped for a speedy deliverance from all privation 
 
 and distress ; but, instead of this, the aspect of affairs grew 
 blacker each dav, and Gaspard. who, even in the worst ‘days 
 
 - of the siege, had been bright and hopeful, was now 
 given up either to indignant puleteiae or to settled — 
 p eeeacholy: | 
 
/ 
 
 * AD WON BY WAITIN | 
 
 Esperance trie? obediently to grow azsriotic, and suee 
 ceeded in hating he Prussians very cordially, taking great 
 pleasure in hang..:¢ a black fiack from the window to greet 
 them, when, on the Ist of March they entered to take pos- 
 session of Paris. Still she could not but look forward to 
 the time when they could leave France and find a safe, 
 quiet refuge in England. As the weary days passed cn, 
 and M. Lemercier talked of the Commune, she longed for 
 it more and more, and made up her mind to ask Gaspard 
 about it the very next opportunity. 
 
 Now that his wound was healed she saw very little of 
 him; he was out all day, and often far into the night, and 
 for the last few days Esperance had fancied him changed — 
 grown more hopeful, yet at the same time restless and ex 
 cited. 
 
 It was now the 17th of March, seven weeks from the 
 actual capitulation. ‘There was no longer any difficulty in 
 leaving the city, and as Esperance sat in the lonely salon 
 waiting for Gaspard’s return, she could not help thinking 
 of her father’s last charge, that they should leave Paris as 
 soon as possible. Had Gaspard forgotten, she wondered. 
 At any rate she would remind him of it, and that very 
 evening, too. 
 
 As if to favor her design he came in alone, and appar- 
 ently in good spirits. 
 
 “So you are alone, chérie; itis well T returned. Where 
 is madame ?” 
 
 “Gone to visit a friend. I am so glad you ure come 
 back, for I wanted to speak to you, Gaspard. I never seem 
 to see you now.” 
 
 “Tis true, dear; but what can you expect in such days 
 as these? The whole city is in agitation, the mob is 
 growing furious ; we may expect a second Revolution any 
 day, and this time I think we Communists shall succeed. 
 The country must stand first, you know ; itis not that I 
 love you less.” 
 
 Ksperance’s heart sunk. So this was Gaspard’s view of 
 the subject. Was it possible that he had really become 
 a Communist ? that his patriotism had degenerated to 
 
 this ? 
 
 For the first time she felt that it was impossible to agree 
 wita him, and there was a keenly pained tone in her voice 
 as she asked : 
 
 “Then you have adopted Monsieur Lemercier’s views ? 
 What would my father have thought of such a change ?” 
 
WON BY WAITING. 43 
 
 Gaspard looked a little surprised, then doubtful, and 
 finally angry. : 
 
 “ Do not atten pt to talk politics, please, Esperance : I 
 trust no sister of mine will ever set up for a ‘/emme 
 savante.’ ” 
 
 Her lips grew white with pain, not so much from the 
 actual unkindness as from grief at the change which must 
 have passed over Gaspard ; never in her whole life had 
 he spoken to her so bitterly. 
 
 She replied, not angrily, but unadvisedly . 
 
 * As you would ; but have you forgotten your promise to 
 our father ?” : 
 
 “ What promise ?” 
 
 “'To leave France as soon as possible, and settle in Eng- 
 land.” : 
 
 “England?” Gaspards’s countenance fell; he had in- 
 deed forgotten. 
 
 He was so completely taken aback, the idea was evi- 
 dently so distasteful to him, that Esperance forgot their 
 quarrel in trying to comfoit Lim. But, alas! all she could 
 say only made matters still worse. Gaspard received her 
 caresses in gloomy silence, and finally rose, with an im}]a- 
 tient exclamation ceized his hat and strode out of the rocm 
 without a word of farewell or explanation. 
 
 It would be hard to say which was the more miserable 
 of the two; perhaps Esperance had less cause for self-re- 
 proach, but certainly her reflections were sad enough, as 
 hour by hour she sat watching and hoping for Gaspard’s 
 return. 
 
 She listened and waited in vain, however, for he did not 
 come home atall that night. Esperance’s words were ring- 
 ing in his ears, tormenting lim, hauting him, do what he 
 would. Must he indeed leave France just at this mest 
 exciting moment? Would his father have exacted such a 
 promise if he had foreseen all that would happen? M. 
 Lemercier had indoctrinated him, to some extent, in his 
 cominunistic principles, and he could not-fail to wish to be 
 present during the coming struggle. 
 
 And then to add to his difficulties, poverty began to 
 stare him in the face. He had been too much occupied of 
 _ late tospare many thoughts for money matters, but he was 
 
 aware that their income was oj the smallest. How could 
 
 they manage the removal into another country? How could 
 
 he support himself wben cnce they were there? Was not 
  Engiand already swarming with exiled Frenchmen ? 
 
«44 2 WON BY WAITING, 
 
 In the midst of his reverie he was accosted by M. Lemefe 
 cier, who was walking excitedly in an opposite direction. 
 
 * De Mabillon! the : very man I wanted. Our little affair 
 is progressing most favorably; to-morrow we may expecta 
 fracas that will make all FKurope ring. Come, then, with 
 me, you shall be initiated.” And linking his arm in Gas- 
 pard’s he walked off in the direction of the Faubourg St. | 
 
 ; jAntoine. 
 
 Bat in spite of the all-exciting plots and wild schemes 
 which were that night revealed ‘to him, Gaspard was per- - 
 sistently haunted by Esperance’s pale, reproachful. face; 
 and, though he listened with excited pleasure to M. Lemet- 
 cier’s proposals, he felt an uncomfortable. twinge when he 
 remembered how he had pained his sister. 
 
 Esperance slept little that night; she was sore at heart, 
 and full of anxiety for Gaspard. °Neither he nor M. - Lemer- 
 
 _ eier had returned nextimorning, andthe day wore onslowly 
 and gloomily. Madame, by way of “distraction,” took Hs- 
 
 perance to the cemetery; but the visit to her father’s grave 
 only renewed her grief, and made her lone more than ever 
 for his help and advice. She wept so passionately that 
 Mme. Lemercier wasiquite distressed, and began to apolo- 
 gize profusely for her foolish idea, her ill-conceived plan. 
 On the way home they heard confused reports of a Com- 
 munist insurrection, but nothing definite. Madame was, of 
 course, much interested, knowing that her husband would 
 probably take a prominent part in any rising, and Esp erance 
 
 shivered as she remembered that very possibly Gaspard 
 
 might be involved in it, too. 
 
 They walked home almost in silence. Madame was eager 
 for news, however, and stayed below talking to the porter, 
 while Esperance, taking her key, went up alone to their own 
 rooms. 
 
 She had not waited long before footsteps were heard 
 without. The door opened quickly and Gaspard entered, 
 looking very pale and exhausted. 
 
 Esperance gave an astonished exclamation at his appear- 
 ance, and her heart beat quickly as she wondered if he had 
 indeed been assisting in the insurrection. But her doubts 
 were soon dispelled ; in another moment she was in his 
 arms, while he poured out incoherent regrets and expla- 
 nations of his last night’s behavior. 
 
 She was wonder fully relieved, It was not for some min- 
 
 _ utes that she returned to the subject that had all day 
 ‘ filled her thoughts, and asked what had been happening. 
 

 
 
 
 
 ee 
 
 WON BE TONG, = 
 
 Gaspard turned away with a groan. | 
 
 bE Do not ask for details, it is too horrible. Lemercier 
 told me yesterday that there would probably be a grand | 
 fracas. Hehad talked me into half believing in his ideal 
 BS Jommune—it sounds well enough in theory, and somehow 
  46nightit was exciting, and I, like a fool, really believed 
 ‘it was for the best. But when it was broad daylight, and 
 - gone could see the mob looking more like demons than men, 
 -- thenI began to doubt. God be thanked, I had no hand 
 in it, for it was a butchery, Esperance, nothing less— 
 - General Lecomte and Clement Thomas both murdered ! 
 Figure to yourself an old man, single-handed, against q 
 - multitude— dragged down—slaughtered! Ah! it waa’ 
 
  frightful— frightful !” sae 23" 
 
 - Hepaused, shuddering with horror, as he saw once more, _ 
 in imagination, the terrible scene. It was not that he had 
 for the first time gazed upon a horrible spectacle. For 
 - months he had been exposed to all the terrors of the siege, 
 ‘war and bloodshed were perfectly {.miliar to him, but this 
 day every noble feeling within him had been outraged. 
 His whole soul revolted from the barbarity of the assault, 
 and the thought that only a few hours before he had well- 
 - _nigh sided with the murderers, added to his horror. 
 Esperance did not allow him to think over it all much 
 ~- Jonger. She knelt down beside Lim, and strove, by every ° 
 possible endearment to divert bis mind. He looked up, 
 . trying to smile, but something in her face upset him com- 
 _ pletely. He turned away with a quick sob. 
 
 _ Faithless wretch that I have been! forgetting my 
 _ promise, forgetting you, thinking only of that abominable 
 — ©Oommune. Esperance, we will leave Paris now ; I will not 
 let you stay here a single day longer. You areiil, I know, 
 _ though you have said nothing, and my hateful neglect has 
 been making you suffer. Ask Madame Lemercier to help 
 you in your preparations, and I will go out now, at once, 
 = see what can be arranged. It shall be to-morrow, at 
 latest.” 
 -___ _ He hurried away, leaving Esperance ina flutter of ex- 
 __ eitement, thankful indeed at the prospect of leaving Paris, 
 and yet with a little mixture of regret, and a vague, un- 
 __ defined fear, that, after all, England might not prove all 
 -  ghe expected. : 
 _  ifme. Lemercier was much distressed at Gaspard’s sud- 
 _ den plan; she had grown very fond of Heperance, and to 
 se her now, at a time when she was like{ 3 to see scarcely 
 
 Monraten 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 es 
 - 
 cS 
 J * 7. 
 
 
 
 
 ri gill SaaS a alae 
 
 yep tae as Pua oe Sep ess hee es oh BD nce eae Reset 4 Ed ae RE SES ap ae oe 
 whet tage aia Ties | - ee ee o al SEER ain) See a . 
 
x) WON BY WAITING. > 
 
 anything of her husband, was doubly trying. -She proved 
 her love, however, by the greatest kindness, and spent half 
 the nigitin helping Esperance to pack their wordlv goods. 
 
 They were tu start early the next morning. Gaspard 
 had obtained passports, and had done the best he could to 
 settle his various accounts, but everything was in such 
 confusion, owing to the war and the siege, that his ar- 
 rangements were anything but satisfactory, and he was. 
 obliged to leave much to M. Lemercier’s care. He went 
 home with the unpleasant conviction that everything was 
 in a very bad way, and that the war had put the finishing 
 touch to the fallen fortunes of the De Mabillons. | 
 
 They were just about to start the next morning, when 
 M. Lomercier returned, wearied with his labors, but full 
 of triumph; he was astonished to find a fiacre standing at 
 the door, and trunks being carried down-stairs, but still 
 more so, when, on reaching the salon, he saw that Esper- 
 ance and Gaspard were in traveling attire. 
 
 “ De Mabillon! I have been wondering where on earth 
 _you could be! What means this? You are not going 
 away on this most propitious of days?” 
 
 Gaspard answered gravely: 
 
 “T can not agree with you in thinking it propitious; 
 our country has disgraced herself by that foul murder 
 yesterday. Never, never, will your Commune prosper, 
 which began with such meanness, such barbarity !” 
 
 M. Lemercier looked pained and- surprised, but not 
 ashamed. 
 
 “ Monami! I grant that we had a painful scene yester- 
 day-——but it was necessary—I am convinced it was neces- 
 sary. Struggle and bloodshed there must be, but at last 
 we shall establish true liberty—true equality—-and Paris 
 will be free.” 
 
 Esperance was astonished to see how thoroughly in 
 earnest was the speaker.- His face lighted up with an 
 expectant hope, there was something noble in his aspect 
 —and yet surely he was greatly mistaken. She won- 
 dered whether Gaspard’s resolution would be shaken, and 
 _ looked up anxiously, but there was no sign of change in 
 his grave, determined face. 
 
 He dropped the subject of the Commune without fur- 
 ther remark, and began to thank the Lemerciers for all 
 their kindness; and then, amid tears, embraces, good 
 wishes, and regrets, the brother and sister took leave of 
 their home. 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. 49 - 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Si le malheur te suit dans ta carriére 
 - Arme ton cour d’une noble fierté ; 
 On est timide alors qu’on désespére. 
 Un front serein brave l’adversité. 
 Mme. PERRIER. 
 
 Tar journey was a sad one. Now that the parting had 
 really come, Esperance longed to stay, and Gaspard, 
 though his resolve was quite immovable, felt as if he were 
 leaving his heart in Paris. Then,too, all their fellow-pas- - 
 sengers were sad and desponding, and the murder of Cle- 
 ment Thomas formed the staple of conversation, which did 
 not tend to raise Gaspard’s spirits. 
 
 Every one seemed relieved when they arrived at Calais; 
 the bustle at the station, the hurried search for luggage, 
 and going on board the steamer, all served to divert their 
 thoughts. It was not till they had fairly started, that Hs- 
 perance realized that they had actually left France, and 
 then a strange, dreary feeling of homelessness crept over 
 her, and she gazed at the receding shore through a mist 
 of tears. But in a minute or two Gaspard, elancing down, 
 saw her trouble, put his arm round her protectingly, and. 
 whispered, “ Courage, dear! we are doing what our father 
 wished. I do not doubt for 2 moment that it is best. You 
 
 will try to bear it?” 
 And Esperance, looking up with eves full of love and 
 trust, said, “I will bear anything—everything, with you” 
 —unconsciously repeating the words with which she had 
 answered her father when they were leaving the chateau. 
 
 The landing at Dover was inexpressibly dreary. It was 
 ‘dark, and cold, and windy. All the French passengers were 
 in a fever of eood- tempered anxiety about their luggage, 
 and the few English passengers made matters worse by 
 their cool collectedness, and seemed persistently to stand 
 in every one’s way. 
 
 Esperanse was hurried along, she knew not whither 
 nor cared, so long as she had held of Gaspard’ s arm—and 
 eventually found herself safely in a railway carriage, being 
 scanned from head to foot by sundry pairs of En clish 
 eyes. She, herself, took a rapid survey of her fellow- 
 travelers, wondered why they were so quiet; hoped that 
 in the course of their staring they would notice Gaspard’s 
 honorable scar, and, aiter an animated discussion with her — 
 

 
 48 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 brother, as to the comparative merits of French and Eng- 
 lish railway accommodation, settled herself comfortably 
 and went to sleep, her head resting on Gaspard’s shoulder. 
 
 She woke just before they reached Victoria Station, 
 feeling dreadfully tired and hungry. The English travel- 
 érs had by this time thawed a little, and two or three of 
 
 the gentlemen were talking together. Esperance decided © 7 
 
 that English was certainly the harshest and most weari- 
 some of languages. ie 
 
 Then came the arrival at the station, the crowded plat- — 
 form, the pushing and struggling toward the luggage — 
 van, finally a civil porter, a springless cab, a drive to the 
 cheapest hotel in the neighborhood, despairing attempts 
 at Enelish speaking, and a nicht’s rest. Ser 
 
 Esperance woke the next morning much refreshed, and - 
 ready to enjoy the sense of ncvelty and adventure. Fortu- 
 nately, the day was fine, and their first impressions of Lon- 
 don were favorable. The morning was. an enjoyable one. 
 
 - They wandered about in Hyde Park, walked along the 
 Thames Embankment, and visited Vestminster Abbey. It 
 
 was not till the afternoon that Gaspard turned his thoughts 
 
 to the necessary search for cheap lodgings, and began to 
 
 make inquiries as to the most inexpensive quarter of Lon- 
 
 don. | . | 
 He was recommended to try Pentonville or Islington ; 
 
 - and, leaving Esperance to rest at the hotel, he went out to 
 try his fortune. It was certainly lodging-huntinge under 
 difficulties, for his English was sadly deficient, and though 
 between each failure he studied a book of dialogues in 
 which one page was devoted to “the hire of apartments,” 
 he was sure to be utterly puzzled by some ill-pronounced 
 word or unknown idiom. “Sixpence hextra for kitchen- 
 fire,” rapidly spoken, was quite unintelligible to him, and 
 even the different coinage was bewildering. 
 
 _. The afternoon was closing in, and still he had met with 
 no suitable rooms ; he began to think that Esperance 
 would be alarmed at his long absence, and was just about 
 to give up the search, when his eye caught an advertise- 
 ment of “Furnished Apartments” in the window of a 
 
 _baker’s shop. He entered without much hope of success. The . 
 
 sshop was small but clean. A stout, good-tempered woman | 
 
 stood behind the counter, and perched in front of her, be- 
 tween the fresh loaves of bread and the scales, was a 
 large, sleek, tabby cat, which stared at Gaspard in a patroe 
 
 _ mizing way with its great green eyes. 
 

 
 ‘WON BY WAITING. eS Ag 
 
 - He made his “ dialogue book” inquiry, and was relieved 
 to find that the woman spoke distinctly. 3 
  Sitting-room and two bedrooms, sir? Yes; 1 think 
 we could suit you; step this way and see them, if you 
 please. Come, Bismarck !” 
 
 Gaspard started; then asa spring from the counter and a 
 
 loud purr followed, he laughed, and asked “That is your 
 vat ?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, tis a queer name, to be sure, but my husband 
 is a rare politician, he is, and-so he went for to call the cat 
 Bismarck, after one of them Germans.” 
 
 “It is well-named. I observe already a likeness,” said 
 Gaspard, smiling. 3 
 
 By this time they had reached the second floor, and the 
 landlady, lighting the gas, began to do the honors of her 
 apartment, while Bismarck stalked about in a dignified 
 way, purring and rubbing himself against Gaspard’s legs. 
 The terms were moderate, the landlady looked honest and 
 kind, Esperance would be delighted with the eat, and 
 though the rooms were small and ill-furnished, they seemed 
 to be clean ; on the whole, Gaspard was pleased, and after 
 due consideration, he decided to take them. 
 
 Esperance was delighted to hear of his success, and 
 eager to settle in at once. The landlady had promised to 
 have everything in readiness for them that evening, so 
 after dinner they drove from the hotel to their new home, 
 Esperance in high spirits, Gaspard a little depressed. In- 
 voluntarily his thoughts had turned to the old chateau at 
 Mabillon, and, perhaps, he might be forgiven for feeling a 
 slisht pang, as he watched Esperance passing in between. 
 the bread baskets, the counter, and the loaves. 
 
 She, herself, was quite unconcerned—such things did 
 
 -not hurt her pride; the rooms were quiet and comfort- 
 able—for the rest she did not care. She did not attempt 
 to unpack that evening, but devoted all her energies to 
 cheering Gaspard, until gradually his brow cleared, and 
 
 -under the combined influence of a fire, some well-made 
 _ eoffee, and Esperance’s merry chatter, he began to think 
 that, after all, lifein Pentonville might be very pleasant. 
 
 ‘The next day he lost no time in searching for work. He 
 was not very hopeful, 3t is true, but he had made up his 
 mind to do all in his power, and to leave no stone un- 
 _furned. - But day after day he returned disappointed and 
 weary, unable to meet with any employment. 
 
 His scanty knowledge of English was a great hindors 
 
wy 
 
 50 "WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ance, and finding this out, he set to work really to study 
 the language. Esperance, too, spent some of her long 
 nours in the same way, and by the end of April was 
 abie, with the help of the dictionary, to read most 
 of the English books with which the landlady could 
 supply her. These were not of the most interesting 
 kind, “Fox’s Book of Martyrs,’ ‘The Pilgrim’s Prog- 
 ress,” “The Fairchild Family,” and a few dilapidated 
 numbers of the “ Youths’ Magazine,” being among the 
 most lively. Still they kept her employed, and the very 
 quaintness of the old-fashioned sayings and doings was 
 amusing. 
 
 Bat a sad time was coming, for as the weeks passed by, 
 and still Gaspard could find no work, their small store of 
 money was gradually melting away. Gaspard grew se- 
 riously uneasy at the prolonged silence of the Lemerciers ; 
 he was expecting a dividend to be forwarded to him, but 
 although he had written to ask the reason of the delay, no 
 answer had come. | 
 
 At length, one morning early in May, a letter arrived in 
 M. Lemercier’s well-known flourishy handwriting. It ran 
 as follows : 
 
 “My Dear De Manrtron,— I regret exceedingly that you 
 should have been inconvenienced by my tardiness in 
 writing, but I have been so much occupied in seeking the 
 welfare of our country, and in lending my feeble assist- 
 ance to the establishment of the Commune, that I - 
 am sure vou will pardon me. Regarding the divi- 
 dend which vou should have received ere now, it gives 
 me much pain to tell you that the Company has 
 ‘entirely failed. Of course in this time of general avita- 
 tion, it is what we must expect. I fear this will prove a 
 serious and deplorable lossto you atthe present; but I 
 trust 1 am wrong in fearing that the chief part of our 
 capital was invested in it. Relieve me on that point as 
 soon as possible, and think well whether it would not be 
 best to return to France, where there is every prospect of a 
 speedy establishment of true liberty, equality and fraternity. 
 Make my friendly ereetings to your sister, and believe me, 
 
 3 * Yours, ete., Lrmencter.” 
 ‘Gaspard turned pale as he read, and Esperance, cecing 
 that something was wrong. asked anxiously :. 
 
 “is Monsieur Lemercier in trouble? What has happened? 
 aotell me.” 
 
 
 
“WON BY WAITING. pee. 
 
 Gaspard put his arm round her protectingly as he re- 
 lied: “ Monsieur Lemercier is well himself, chérie, but he 
 as written to tell me some bad news. We have lost some — 
 
 money, and it will leave us very poor—terribly poor.” 
 
 The troubles seemed to be never ending. Esperance did. 
 not speak, but a weary, care-worn look came over her face, 
 
 _-and Gaspard could hear a little quivering, half-stifled sigh. 
 Somehow that silent endurance cut him to the heart. He 
 turned away abruptly, and leaned with his elbows on the 
 mantel-piece, fighting hard with his emotion. 
 
 Esperance reproached herself with selfishness then, and 
 began to take her usual role of comforter. 
 
 * Darling, do not be so miserable,” she said, stroking 
 back the overhanging hair from his forehead. “It will 
 not be so bad as we think, perhaps; you will hear of some 
 work, or something will happen before long. After all we 
 still have each other, and besides that, we have not lost 
 everything.” 
 
 “ But it is impossible—utterly impossible—-that we can 
 live on what is left,” said Gaspard. “If we lived on bread 
 and water it would not last us both for a year—and what 
 is to come then ?” : 
 
 Esperance asked how much they really had left, and he 
 named astartlingly small sam—so small that, with all her 
 courage and hopefuiness, she was for a moment half para- 
 lyzed by the terrible realization. A heavy sigh from Gas- 
 pard roused her. 
 
 “Tt is very bad, chérie/” she said, in as bright a voice as 
 she could command ; “ but we will be very economical, we 
 will eat oatmeal, and I shall see to the bouilli myself, and I 
 dare say the landlady will let us have the very old bread 
 at a reduction. We shall fancy ourselves back in the 
 siege!” . | 
 
 Gaspard smiled, and for her sake tried to speak more 
 cheerfully ; but he knew too well that not even the moat. 
 rigid economy could keep them from want. 
 
 WU. OF ILL. LIB, : 
 
VPLS, arte ee ES ES eee Pop ry aa arto ed 3 4 \ i ee 
 i 7 ; eit me ae wx STL Oe tag ag Oat ere ee aes, To Ee oe ee rs 
 
 
 
 goa | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 My poverty, but not my will, consents, 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 s THe long days dragged wearily on, while gradually 
 _ Esperance faded and drooped, till she was the mere shadow 
 3 of her former self. She was not strong enough now to 
 
 share in Gaspard’s long wanderings, and while he was out, 
 
 trying in vain to find employment of any kind, she was 
 af left alone in the dreary lodgings, to bear, as patiently as 
 s she could, the weary, aching fatigue of weakness, and the 
 a hunger which was now such a painful reality. It was 
 hard, too, to bein the midst of plenty, and yet to want. 
 Sometimes, when the fragrant steam rose from the bake- 
 house below, the craving for food grew almost unbearable. 
 af Nor could she control herself much in her weakness, her 
 long crying fits became more and more frequent; only, 
 when Gaspard came in, disappointed and exhausted after 
 his long, fruitless expedition, she always managed to be 
 bright and cheerful. 
 
 He was grateful for her love and patience, but he could 
 not be deceived. The long privations of the siege had 
 ‘ried her severely, and he felt sure that she could not bear 
 these added hardships for any length of time. And yet 
 when, one evening on his return, he found the room 
 strangely quiet, and was met with no cheerful greeting, 
 he was terribly startled. Esperance was stretched on the 
 hard, horse-hair sofa, cold and motionless, while Bismarck, 
 with little troubled “mews,” crept about uneasily, and 
 tried to attract her notise. 
 
 For one awful minute Gaspard thought she was really 
 dead. With a great cry of despair he bent over her, 
 touched her icy lips, and her still nerveless hands, and lis- 
 tened in agony for the faintest sign of breathing. 
 
 At last he was reassured: she began to show indications 
 of returning consciousness, and in a few minutes was able 
 3 G0 look up with a little smile. He would not let her talk till 
 Be. he had made her some coffee, and, revived by this, she 
 AS volunteered her own explanation. 
 
 ‘I was tired, and lay down a little, and it got very dark, 
 and cold waves ¢ame over me.” 
 
 Gaspard did not answer for a few minutes, he sat watching 
 Ser sadly, while Bismarck nestled up to her, purring cons 
 

 
 
 WON BY WAITING. | 68 
 
 tentedly, and rubbing his soft head up and dewn under her 
 
 ee -aimost shadowy hand. It. was the contrast between the 
 
 sleek, well-fed cat, and her worn-out, fragile form which 
 struck him so painfully. © 
 
 He began to pass up and down the room, thinking 
 deeply, and evidently schooling himself to undertake some- 
 
 thing very distasteful. Esperance watched him with as 
 - much anxiety as she had strength to feel just then; his face 
 was dark with conflicting emotions. She spoke at last. 
 
 © You are not worrying about me Gaspard? Do not - 
 walk up and down like that, all alone; I want you to tell 
 me what is troubling you—what you are thinking about.” 
 
 He crossed the room then, and bent down to kiss her, 
 his resolution made. | 
 
 “Tam thinking, chérie,” he said, gravely, “that this 
 state of things can not goonany longer, or you will be ill.” 
 Esperance could not deny it, and Gaspard continued: 
 
 _ “Tonly see one thing to be done, and thatis about the 
 last thing in the world I should wish to do.” 
 
 «You do not mean to go back to Paris?” asked Espe- 
 rance, anxiously. 
 
 “No, indeed! that would be useless,and besides, our 
 father did not wish us to be there. No, Esperance, I was 
 - thinking of something far harder—we must ask our uncle, 
 
 Dean Collinson, to help us. 
 
 He paused. Esperance started up with sudden energy, 
 her pale cheek flushing crimson. 
 
 “ Ask for help—that is to say, monev? A De Mabillon 
 turn into a beggar! It is impossible you mean it, 
 Gaspard !” | 
 
 «<A woek or two ago, chérie, I should have scoffed at the 
 very idea, as you do now; but when I see you gradually 
 growing thinner and weaker, as you know well you have 
 done lately—then, darling, love conquers even pride.” 
 
 Esperance was touched, but not convinced. 
 
 «To ask help of the very man who insulted her father ! 
 It is too hard! ‘ Gaspard, I would rather starve than take, - 
 his money.” 
 
 “But cannot let you starve, dear,” replied Gaspard, 
 quietly ; “we must hope the dean will have the delicacy 
 not to relieve us by actual money. Perhaps he may be 
 ‘able to find me some employment, or he might offer te 
 send you to school. At any rate I shall write to him.” 
 
 Esperance saw that he was quite determined, and at 
 tempted no more arciments. 
 
& ee ; ! DD ED sna i 
 ; 
 
 64 | ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 She went early to bed, and then Gaspard took paper and 
 pen, and sat down to his hard task. It was long before he 
 was sufficiently calm to write; his whole being recoiled 
 from such a painful humiliation. He shrunk from the © 
 idea of being under an obligation to such a complete 
 stranger. More than once he was on the point of giving 
 it up altogether, but each time the thought of Esperance, 
 checked him—for her sake he must do it. | 
 
 He found himself so much fettered by his scanty knowl- - 
 edge of English, that after due consideration he began an- 
 other letter in his own tongue; this was much more suc- 
 cessful, and though every stroke of the pen was a sore 
 effort to him, he was not altogether dissatisfied with it on 
 reading it over. Esperance should read it the next morn- 
 ing before he took it to the post, and if she approved it 
 should go. 
 
 What kind of a reception awaited it, he wondered. 
 
 2 * * 2 ** 2k 
 
 The warm summer sunshine was flooding a somewhat 
 sombre room in the Rilchester Deanery, one morning to- 
 ward the end of May. Inspiteof the heavily mullioned 
 
 windows and the uncompromising crimson rep curtains, | 
 
 which did their best to obstruct the light, the sunbeams 
 forced an entrance, and played exultingly round the book- 
 lined walls, and about the silvery bead of an old gentle- 
 man who was poring over an astronomical chart outspread 
 on the table. 
 
 He was a fine-looking old man, tall and well-made, and 
 though his forehead was wrinkled with age and much 
 study, there was a keenness in his deep-set. gray eyes 
 which would seem to have belonged to a much younger 
 man. He was evidently quite engrossed with his chart, 
 for some one without knocked repeatedly at his door be- 
 fore he answered. ¢ oe 
 _ The abstracted “Come in,” had scarcely been uttered, 
 when the door opened with some impatience, and 9 #all, 
 commanding-looking lady entered, with a packet of ietsers 
 in her hand. - ve 
 
 “‘Good-morning, father. Ihave brought you your iet- 
 ters ; there are not many, you will get through them be- 
 
 fore breakfast.” 
 The dean looked up with a sigh. 
 “That terrible institution, the post! it has become @ 
 curse instead of a blessing. Rowland Hill little thought 
 vhat he was about when he introduced the penny postage. 
 

 
 ie ce 5 
 
 tes 5 
 ieee 4 
 
 The former Deans of Pilenester were spared all these tire- 
 - some applications and begging letters, and without any 
 increase of stipend I am annoyed three times.a day. It is a 
 great trial, Cornelia!’ 
 
 Cornelia smiled sarcastically. 
 
 “Great, indeed, my dear father; but to-day’s burden is 
 
 light—see!” and she adroitly spread the letters over the 
 chart, while the dean sighed once more. 
 “Here is one from Canon Barnwell, and one fon Sir 
 
 Henry Worthington, and the report of that orphanage 
 
 _ you were inquiring about, and one in a foreign-looking 
 hand, which might, I think, be from the French astron- 
 omer you correspond with.” 
 
 Astronomy was Dean Collinson’s great hobby; his eyes 
 kindled as he took the envelope from his daughter and 
 opened it eagerly. 
 
 “Can it be from Monsieur Grignon? No, butit is in 
 French—what is the signature? Grignon never makes 
 those flourishes; read me the name, Cort nelia.” 
 
 “Gaspard de Mabillon,” read Cornelia, with a slight 
 elevation of her eyebrows, but no comment. 
 
 “De Mabillon,” exclaimed the dean, frowning. “ Amy’s 
 husband, I suppose. What on earth does he write about ? 
 - Read me the letter, my dear; I never could endure a 
 Frenchman’s handwriting.” 
 
 “This must be from Monsieur de Mabillon’s son,” said 
 Cornelia, glancing down the sheet. “Well, you shall 
 hear it,’ and with sufficient fluency, but bad pronuncia- 
 tion, she read Gaspard’s letter. , 
 
 . The dean seemed to be struggling with conflicting 
 “emotions ; he did not speak when his daughter ceased 
 reading. 
 
 “‘ Well, father ?” she asked, inquiringly. 
 
 ff They are Amy’s children,” he said, as if areuing with 
 
 himself, “but then they are De Mabillons, This fellow 
 
 who writes is a thorough De Mabillon;I could have told 
 
 —itin a moment.” 
 
 “But it is a noble letter, you must allow, fey: ; SO 
 proud and yet so courteous, the favor spoken of so nicely, 
 though one can see it was an efrort, and then that allusion 
 to his mother in such perfect taste!” 
 
 The dean was decidedly influenced by his daughier’s 
 words ; his brow relaxed a little as he asked, ‘Then how 
 am I to help them ?” | 
 
 - Cornelia thought for a minuta 
 
 WON BY ‘WAITING. | 55 
 
 a 
 
“ar - Fie er i a Er OP dt ee Se, ee ee 
 Sie SE PEST te tent ee ee a oe ae 
 « SO 
 
 56 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 * Could you get the boy some situation? That is eve 
 dently what he hopes “for.” 
 
 “ Difficult, very ; particularly at this time,” sighed the 
 dean. “ Possibly Sir Henry might help him to something, 
 but f could not think of troubling him now, during the 
 session ; besides, I hate asking favors.” 
 
 “So does this poor cousin of ours, apparently,” said 
 
 Cornelia, glancing again through Gaspard’s letter, her 
 rather severe face softened by pity. 
 
 “I would rather help the little girl insome way,” said 
 the dean ; “she will be more like her mother; this fellow, 
 
 who writes, is so terribly French. Yes, decidedly, the little 
 girl mast be relieved ; he speaks of her as suftering still 
 from the effects of the siege.” 
 
 _ As the dean warmed with his subject, Cornelia’s interest 
 visibly declined. 
 
 - “ You would not send her to school, surely ?” she asked, 
 a little impatiently. _ 
 
 “No, not to a school; Ido not approve of a school for 
 girls. No, we will offer her a home here. She is my own 
 sister’s child, and she shall be welcome, though, remember, 
 Cornelia, I most strongly disapproved of your aunt Amy’s 
 “marriage, most strongly.” : 
 
 “And you were quite right, as events have proved,” re- 
 plied Cornelia, composedly. “Her children are bearing 
 the penalty of her wilfulness. Shall you write to-day ?” 
 
 “Yes, I suppose it must be to-day,” sighed the dean. 
 “These letters cost mea great deal of trouble, and waste 
 my time sadly; but I suppose it had better be written to- 
 day. You will tell Christabel and Bertha, but save me any 
 
 -. farther discussion upon the subject.” 
 
 Cornelia promised that his wishes should be attended to, 
 and left the room; whereupon the dean hastily readjusted 
 his spectacles, tossed aside the unwelcome letters, and was 
 soon deeply engrossed in his astronomical labors. — 
 
 Cornelius did not judge it prudent to tell her sisters of 
 the proposed changed in their family till the letter was 
 written and posted. She was not quite sure how they 
 would take their father’s most unpremeditated plan. She 
 herself was not wholly pleased with it, but she would have 
 scorned any attempt to turn him from his purpose, and, 
 with her usual stern sense of duty, resolved to make the 
 best of it to Christabel and Bertha. } 
 
 Christabel Mortlake. the dean’s second daughter, had ré« 
 turned to her fo+h~’s house as @ widow some years befor 
 
 ey AL ee 
 iy rs, a 
 - . ote 
 "4 Z 
 
 f 
 
 , : } ; Ay 
 a*4 aS! fe ll a .! a 
 OE Ne TO are aes, Oe ae ent gee re 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ges 57 
 
 _ She was, in some senses, the head of the house, and all the © 
 actual housekeeping fell to her share; but Cornelia, who 
 was both elever and strong-minded, was the real ruler, 
 and was fully conscious of her power. Bertha wasmany | 
 
 years younger—a silent, apathetic girl, differing in every © 
 way from her elder sisters. : 
 
 As Cornelia had expected, her surprising announce- 
 
 ment was not very well received. 
 
 Bertha, indeed, made little comment on it, simply look- 
 ing “bored,” but Mrs. Mortlake was not so easily satisfied. 
 A child to live in the house, a French girl, too! What 
 can my father be thinking of? It will be insufferable. 
 She will teach my poor little Bella to tell lies; you know ~ 
 how untruthful French people are!” 
 “I think Bella has learned that accomplishment alr eady,” 
 said Cornelia, who was by no means blind to-her niece’s 
 failings. ‘Besides, as to that, our cousin is no mere child, 
 and will not be much thrown with Bella. She issixteen, I 
 “believe.” 
 
 “What is her name?” asked Bertha, without looking up 
 from her book. ; 
 
 “Her brother speaks of her as ‘Esperance,’ ” said Cor- 
 nelia; “but I should think very probably, she may have 
 - gome second name—Amy, very likely, after her mother— 
 _ and then we can call her by that.” 
 
 “And, pray, what room is she to have ? You know we 
 can not do without any of the guest chambers.” 
 
 Cornelia was posed by this practical difficulty; she stood 
 for a moment in thought. 
 | “We must fit up the large attic over the nursery ; there 
 ts no other room available, I see, unless we could spare 
 the bachelor’s room ?” 
 
 . ““ No, indeed,” said Mrs. Mortlake, decidedly ; “it is con- 
 _ stantly needed. The house is sure to be full in the autamn, 
 and I mean to ask young Magnay, the artist, to spend a 
 week here ; I must have Bella's portrait done before she 
 ~ Joses her first teeth.” 
 Cornelia smiled sarcastically. 
 _ “Very well; then we must see about the attic. I think 
 __ that is more in your line than in mine; perhaps you 
 would give the necessary directions.” And, taking up a 
 Hebrew Bible, 2 manuscript book, and a reed, Cornelia 
 left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake began to braid s tea-cozy for a bazaar 
 
 abe called it “ charity work’ yy while inwardly she was 
 
 
 
68 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 thinking very uncharitably of the De Mabillons, and murs 3 
 
 IRULIN ‘that it really was very unfair that an eld man like 
 her father should take such a strange whim into his head, 
 and injure the prospects of his erandchild by unnecessary 
 kindness to unknown relations. , 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Je ne vous aime pas Hylas, 
 Je n’ensaurais dire la cause, 
 Je sais seulement une chose, 
 C’est que je ne nous aime pas. 
 ‘Bussy, Comte de Rekutin: 
 
 Esperance and Gaspard waited hopefully for the dean’s 
 reply, trying to persuade themselves that, now. the favor 
 had been asked, the worst was over, and that their pride 
 would be spared further pain. 
 
 They were cruelly disappointed in bras hopes. 
 
 The letter bearing the Rilchester ‘postmark came early 
 the next morning. Gaspard tore open the envelope eagerly; 
 Esperance bent over his shoulder, exclaiming at the crab- 
 bed, illegible handwriting. They deciphered it slowly and 
 with difficulty. 
 
 The opening sentiments were not unkind, the first page 
 
 being almost entirely occupied with references to tha 
 siege of Paris and comments on the present state of France; 
 but then, unluckily, came a sentence which made the olive 
 cheeks of the two ‘vefugees flush crimson. 
 
 ‘It is not for me to judge how far your present poverty arises 
 
 from the disturbed state of your country, or from negligence on 
 
 the part of Monsieur de Mabillon—from whichever cause it arises, 
 I feel bound, as your mother’s brother, to give you assistance—” 
 
 “Gaspard, stop! do not read any more; it is too cruel | 
 How dare he speak so of papa?” 
 
 Gaspard drew a deep breath, but refused to put down. 
 
 the letter. 
 
 “No, chérie, we will go to the end; for your sake I must 
 have help. at whatever cost.” 
 
 They reaa ox , 
 
 ‘‘ With regard to employment for yourse!f I am afraid I can 
 not be of service to you, my influence, apart iretwe the clerical] 
 wor.d, being but small. As you putit very rightly in your lek 
 
 
 
 
 
hin gah, abt! BS 
 
 WON BY WAITING. : 59 
 
 - ter, your sister is, doubtless, the first consideration. T regret to 
 
 hear that her health has suffered from the privations of the siege, 
 and trusi that the plan I am about:to offer for yourapproval will . 
 soon be the means of restoring her. I shall have much pleasure 
 in receiving your sister as an inmate of our home. She will there 
 have all the advantages of the companionship of her cousins, and 
 of the best society of Rilchester and the neighborhood, and will, 
 I hope, find the change both beneficial and congenial. Being 
 thus relieved from what must, I feel convinced, be a heavy re- 
 
 sponsibility to you, you will be better able to support yourself, 
 
 and more free to undertake whatever suitable employment you 
 may meet with. . 
 ‘Awaiting your reply, I beg to remain 
 . -. Yours farthfully, E. J. Conzison.” 
 ‘* The Deanery, Rilchester, 29th May, 1871.” 
 
 Esperance’s brain grew dizzy as she read. She could 
 not cry—she could not exclaim vehemently. Only one low 
 
 - ejaculation of utter despair escaped her: “It is impossible! 
 
 Impossible !” 
 Gaspard did not attempt to sveak, but he drew her 
 closer to him. 
 A hundred thoughts were flashing through her mind: 
 This home at Rilchester—could she accept it? Would it 
 really be such a relief to Gaspard? Could she possibly 
 
 bear such « dreadful humiliation? She had almost made 
 
 up her mind to it when, with a sudden revulsion, came the 
 remembrance of the dean’s slighting mention of her father. 
 Then wounded love and pride could no longer keep 
 
 ~ gilence. 
 
 “Gaspard, darling, I can not bear it! To go to his 
 
 house, to live with him, when he has insulted papa, and 
 
 still insults his memory! No, no! it is quite impossible— 
 quite !” : 
 
 She was sobbing now—writhing in that intense, mental 
 pain of which only the most sensitively organized minds 
 are capable. It was well she could not see Gaspard’s face 
 
 the struggle between pride and selfish love, against 
 
 humility and true love, was fearfully apparent. He 
 knew that Esperance trusted implicitly in him, that 
 whatever decision he made she would bow to it; and 
 yet the very consciousness of this power was a check. 
 
 _ His heart cried ont passionately to keep her near him 
 
 —-to lose all, to suffer all rather than be separated. His 
 pride urged him to refuse the proffered help, to struggle 
 on alone. But against these voices there arose another. 
 Gaspard, in his misery, had prayed for guidance, ar tut 
 
60 
 
 guidance was given. His eye fell on the carved woodex 
 eross hanging from Esperance’s neck—poor Javotte’s 
 
 WON BY WAITING 
 
 souvenir. His face changed. When at length he spoke’ 
 
 his voice was firm and gentle. aeh 
 © Chérie, I feel sure it is right for you to go~-that even 
 
 the separation will be for our good in some way we can 
 not yet see. Think of what our father said just before he 
 died.” saps 2 a 
 
 «<« All things work together for good,’” repeated Espe- 
 rance, between her sobs. “I will try to believe it, Gas- 
 pard, indeed! But if onlyit were nearly over, if even this 
 were the last! Iam so tired of pain, and more seems al- 
 ways coming.” | 
 
 “Poor little one!” said Gaspard, caressingly, hardly , 
 knowing how to answer her. “Perhaps things will grow — 
 
 brighter after this. We must hope still, for indeed we 
 
 ean echo Lamartine’s sentiments, ‘line nous reste que 
 
 9 93 
 
 | T/ Esperance et L’ Amitié, 
 
 They were interrupted by Bismarck, who apparently felt 
 
 himself neglected, and sprung on to Esperance’s shoulder 
 with a remonstrating “mew.” She could not help smiling 
 
 through her tears, and thus the discussion of the dean’s 
 
 letter ended. 
 Later in the day Gaspard wrote to accept the offer of a 
 
 home for Esperance, and to ask the dean to fix the time of — 
 
 her coming. 
 
 In reply to this Esperance received a letter from Cor-— 
 nelia, naming a day in the following week for her arrival.. 
 
 
 
 tres 
 
 i 
 
 des hea: eV Eee, 
 3 Ne ne Vina Re | uae if) - % 
 
 The letter in itself was certainly not unkind, and yet 
 
 Esperance was thoroughly chilled by it. She showed it to 4 
 
 Gaspard. 
 
 «I did think they would haved asked youtotakeme 
 
 there; but there is not a single word about you.” % 
 
 Gaspard read on in silence, trying to see the good pointe © - 
 
 of the letter, but evidently much puzzled. 
 
 “Tt is certainly a little'cold,” he owned, returning it to — 2 
 
 Esperance ; “but still she has evidently thought of you, 
 and made arrangements. She speaks of meeting you, too, 
 at the station, which is kind.” Se 
 
 «‘T shall not like her,” said Esperance, decidedly. “She 
 must be as cold as ice, and as hard as a stone. You try te 
 make the best of it, mon ami; but confess now, that you 
 agree with me.” 
 
 “ Of course I should have been much happierif they had — 
 asked me to take you to Rilchester, and if there had been 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 ee 
 
 WON BY WAITING, 
 
 
 
 ae little more warmth in the letter; but I tux you are 
 - wrong to judge so much from this. The English are na- 
 tially more cautious and reserved than we are. Perhaps 
 
 __ She waits to love you till she knows you.” 
 
 ~~ Tnen she wili never love me, and I shall never love 
 her,” said Hsperance, passionately. “To be watched and 
 gerutinized, and to have one’s merits and failings weighed— 
 how unbearable it will be!” : 
 : “ Nonsense, chérie; they will love you—they cannot help 
 
 - 1t; only it is but fair that you should go prepared to love 
 them.” . 
 
 _ Esperance agreed to this in theory. She was not quite 
 sure how it would be in practice. 
 
 The week passed very quickly, and all too soon the 
 
 dreaded day arrived. To the very last Esperance hoped — 
 
 that something would occur to prevent it. Gaspard would 
 
 hear of some work, M. Lemercizr would forward an unex- 
 ‘pected dividend, or something would happen at Rilchester 
 —the dean might be ill, cr the house burned down! 
 
 But nothing did happen. In afew hours she was walk- 
 - ing with Gaspard to the station, feeling like one in a horri- 
 
 ble dream, while, in advance, the baker’s boy was wheeling 
 
 her boxes on a truck. Perhaps he would turn them over, 
 and so miss the train and delay her departure. But no! 
 - nothing would go out of its course. They arrived in good 
 time, the ticket was taken, the luggage labeled. Gaspard 
 chose a carriage for her, and put her in charge of a middie- 
 
 aged lady; and then came the- parting. 
 
 The English lady was quite startied by such demonstra- 
 tion in a public place; but Esperance did not heed her. 
 dust as the train was going off Gaspard found voice to say: 
 “Courage, chérie! it will not be forever. Promise me te 
 
 hope always, however dark thines look.” | | 
 And. Esperance promised, trying bravely to check her 
 
 - fast-falling tears. 
 The whistle shrieked, the train moved slowly off. A fal- 
 tering “Au revoir” passed between brother and sister, and 
 Bsperauce was borne swiftly away to the North. 
 

 
 G27 Ee Oe ee By WATLING. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 He fixed thee mid this-dance 
 Of plastic circumstance. 
 This present, thou forsooth wouldst fain arrest ¢ 
 
 Machinery just meant 
 
 To give thy soul its bent, . 
 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed 1! - 
 ki. BROWNING, 
 
 Tere can be few people who have not atseme time in 
 
 their life felt the utter misery of loneliness. That day — 
 Hisperance experienced it in ail its fullness for the firs§ _ 
 
 time. True, she had often been lonely and unhappy dur. 
 ing the siege, but that had been but a passing trouble, 
 relieved by Gaspard’s return in a few hours ; this, in its 
 uncertainty, seemed never-ending. Then, too, she was sé 
 
 accustomed to be petted and cared for, that the very feel 
 
 ing of self-dependence which would have pleased some 
 natures was misery to her; she was like an ivy plant torn 
 - down from its strong support, and left trailing on the cold 
 earth, . 
 
 It was long before she could rouse herself from her 
 grief ; a dim sense of the duty of self-management helped 
 
 her, however, after a time, and she sat up wiih an effcré ~ . 
 
 and looked out of the window. ‘The landscape was flat and 
 
 not very attractive ; a suceession of dull-lookine fields, all’ 
 
 wonderfully alike, bounded the line, while tle hedze-rows, 
 relieved here and there by-a solitary tree, looked forma] 
 
 and uninteresting. Instinctively she raised her eyes— 
 fleecy white clouds were floating in a sky of the deepess . - 
 blue, and as she gazed up into the bright depths comfort 
 
 came to her heavy heart. She remembered that the same 
 a was above both London and Rilchester, and felt lesa 
 onely. 
 One great trouble was spared Esperance—she was nos 
 in the least shy ; the mauvaise honte, which would have tor- 
 mented an English girl in her position, never occurred tu 
 her, and if her heart beat rather quicker than usual when 
 the train arrived at Rilchester, and she looked toa see if her 
 
 cousin were on the platform, it was simply from excitement 
 A tall and rather ungainly lady, with classical featureg 
 
 and small, short-sighted Inoking eyes, was scanning the 
 windcws of the carriages ; Esperance felt instinctively thag 
 
 Di aie a Amr rat cans oR i akc a at Fang Oy URE Sed bees Soh he oa 
 Saeco aa ee GIN tee na i ke Ti Re No Ua 
 
 
 
pe bet: Pasian poy re as +) ts Ca 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 “WON By WAITING. 663 
 
 this must be Cornelia, and with a French girl’s ready ob= . 
 - servation took in every detail of her person and attire ata 
 glance: dress, alpaca, and very much creased ; jJavxet, 
 meant to be fitting, but too loose in the back, and badly 
 eut-about the neck ; hat, very unbecoming ; face, clever- 
 looking, though sarcastic. 
 
 By this time the train had stopped, and Esperance, who 
 had been carried some way past the tall lady, sprung from 
 the carriage, and pushing her way back through the crowd, 
 revolving in her mind the most polite greeting which her 
 English would allow. ; 
 
 “My cousin? I believe I am not mistaken—” she be- 
 
 an. 3 
 Cornelia turned instantly. Nes 
 
 “Oh, here you are, I was afraid you had nos come! I 
 hope you have had a pleasant journey ?” 
 
 Esperance took the proffered hand, and responded to 
 the formal “ How do you do?” contrasting them with the 
 warmth of the most ordinary meeting in France. . 
 
 Cornelia was evidently determined to lose no time; she 
 made prompt inquiries after the luggage, made Esperance 
 identify it, and then led the way to the carriage. They 
 drove off in silence, Esperance waiting for her cousin to 
 begin the conversation, Cornelia contemplating the little 
 French girl, and wondering what her father would say to 
 her very foreign appearance. 
 _ An eager exclamation from Esperance broke the ice. 
 
 “The cathedral! ah, but it is beautiful! it is magnifi- 
 eent! What height—what massiveness! I never jreamed 
 that it was so exquisite |” 
 
 She had unconsciously relapsed into French. — Cornelia 
 - “was surprised and amused at the sudden rhapsody. 
 
 - itis very beautiful, is it not?” she replied, with much ~ 
 more warmth in her tone. “Iam glad you appreciate such 
 thines, for Rilchester is full of architectural beauties.” 
 
 *¢ And is my uncle’s house near to the cathedral ?” 
 
 “Not so near as many other houses. The close is 
 occupied chiefly by the_canons. See, we are entering it 
 now; beyond this is the Vicar’s Court, and we pass through 
 that to the deanery.” . 
 
 - Esperance glanced curiously at the gray old houses, but 
 deciding that they were triste, sue turned again to the ca- 
 thedral. feasting her eyes on iis beauty. ‘The gray walls 
 of the Vicar’s Court soon iid it, however, and Esperance, 
 as they drew near their Cestination, began to picture in 
 
 o 
 

 
 
 a TR Rey ke ae as ee a eal OV, Pie tees) * een a a after =} we a eas” ed 2S eo 
 pie hite ow MOM dy Ser beau Rea aS ae iO SoS ah Sie re Sr LB SiN i 
 
 lgas tome eo beet ot ee Se eee ee btips ees : rt Ree aly eee Rees Coens 
 
 ret ; os 2 a fie ir ct Se Bore Weed (aA ys ES vie . ot ee 
 
 ; z are “3 ar’ oes - hie a chy ee Ras eet ns Ss . 
 
 = Pe HES See wt 
 
 -64 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 her mind the kind of nreleneae waned awaited her. Her 3 
 
 cousins would probably be all waiting in the hall, they 
 would hasten forward to embrace her, the dean would bid 
 her welcome, and compliment her on her good looks. This 
 had always been her experience when her father took her 
 to visit the families of his friends in Auvergne. 
 
 Her heart beat high with expectant hope when the car- 
 riage stopped, her preconceived dislike to the dean only 
 adding a zest to her excitement. The footman rang the 
 hell, two solemn strokes of the clapper resulting, which 
 echoed long in the quiet court. Esperance gave a slight 
 shiver, it sounded so like a death-knell. oe ; 
 
 The door was opened, and Cornelia led the way up the 
 steps and into a large, square hall, dimly lighted from 
 above. Esperance looked in vain for the dean, and for her 
 cousins—they were nowhere to be seen. 
 
 “Where is Bertha ?’ she asked of her conductor; “Iam 
 longing to see her.” | | 
 
 “ Bertha!’ said Cornelia, a little surprised at Esperance’s 
 question; “I don’t know I am sure; perhaps we shall find 
 her in the drawing. room. You will have some tea, will 
 you not, before you take off your things?” 
 
 Tea at such an hour seemed strange enough to Espe-« 
 rance; however, she assented, and was taken to a large, 
 well-proportioned room, which might have been very hand- 
 _ some had it not been overcrowded with solid furniture. 
 
 ‘She threaded her way between the tables, and chairs, and 
 ottomans, feeling quite ~oppressed by the all-prevailing 
 purp'e—carpet, curtains, furniture, even the wall-paper, 
 were allin a shade of the same color. In the deep window- 
 seat, at the further end of the room, sat Mrs. Mortlake and 
 
 Bertha. They both rose as Cornelia and Esperance ap- — 
 
 proached. 
 “So the traveler has arrived,” said Christabel, coming 
 
 forward and kissing Esperance on one cheek; “I hope you © 
 
 ? 
 
 _ have had a pleasant journey, dear ? 
 
 Esperance’s heart was warmed by the term of endear- © 
 
 ment; she answered the question in the affirmative, uncon- 
 _seiously telling a story; then she turned eagerly to 
 Bertha, the cousin from whom.she hoped great things. 
 She was much disappointed, though the cold unmeaning 
 kiss prepared her in some degree. She looked up anx- 
 
 
 
 f 
 
 Late he vin pie by ie i 18 Pal A ash al i aS Neo } Oca ed ‘ 
 SP Ne. earns oo. Nee. ROUND testi NEA yet RRA (22 CR ee Re EY mE 
 
 jously—Bertha was pretty. fair-complexioned, and blue- — 
 eyed, but her whole aspect was listless and uninterested. 
 
 The glances of the two cousins met for an instant. Bertha’s — 4 
 
 
 

 
 WON TRY WAITING. 68 
 
 ‘ndiferent, dreamy, blue eyes, and Hsperance’s eager, 
 flashing, brown ones, looked full at each other; then, as if 
 vy mutual consent, they both turned away without further 
 remark, - 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake made Esperance sit down, and poured her 
 out a cupof dreadfully strong tea, which reminded her 
 forcibly oi some of Javotte’s tisanes, and while she was still 
 trying to drink it without betraying her disgust, the door 
 opened and the dreaded dean entered. He was realiy a — 
 beautiful old man, and Esperance could not find itin her 
 heart to dislike him; at the same time she was, for once a 
 little embarrassed—it seemed so strange to meet him thus, 
 to have entered his house, as it were, by stealth, to be ace 
 - tually drinking his most objectionable tea before he had 
 bade her welcome. She went to meet him half timidly. 
 Cornelia, noticing this, rose too. 
 
 “ Father, our cousin has arrived ;” then aside to Esper- 
 ance, “speak loud, he is a little deaf.” 
 
 “Welcome, my dear,” said the dean, kissing her on her 
 forehead. *‘ You have had an agreeable journey, I hope ?” 
 
 “Yos, thank you, uncle,” said poor Esperance, fibbing for 
 the third time ; would these dreadful people never ask her 
 anything else, she wondered. 
 
 “You are welcome, my dear,” repeated the dean, still 
 holding her hand in his, and shaking it gently, “ welcome 
 for your mother’s sake. I loved your mother dearly, 
 though she acted against my wishes once, but I loved her 
 - in spite of that.” 
 
 «T should hope so,” thought Esperance, coloring, and 
 trying to disengage her hand ; but her uncle still held it. 
 
 “Tet me look at yeu, my dear,” said he, drawing her to 
 the window and scanning her features, while Esperance 
 took the opportunity to study his face. 
 
 “Ah!I had hoped you would be like poor Amy, but 
 there is no resemblance—too foreign, too foreign!’ And 
 the dean sighed deeply. “The image of her father—a 
 regular. De Mabillon—so terribly French !” 
 - Poor Esperance flushed angrily; this last sentence was 
 doubtless intended as a@ soliloquy, but it could not fail to 
 hurt her. She had not recovered herself when the dean, 
 _ yelapsing into his ordinary tone, said, “And so your father 
 was killed in the siece of Paris?” 
 
 He did not mean it unkindly, but he was a self-engrossed 
 man, and often quite unintentionally inflicted pain on others; 
 the remark was too sudden 224 unexpected, however. Lge 
 
ee MAP a ee oo OE i ac = A * Ss os 7. ee ee Ey kT ae ale ees ge ~~ Sra we ae bP a ee oo 
 
 66 WON DY WAITING. 
 
 perance could not bear to speak of her father after that 
 unlucky sentenee, “terribly French.” ‘The reference to his 
 death had brought back all her sad reco}lections of the 30th 
 of November, and such yearning for his presence that, do 
 whatshe would, she could not restrain her tears. She fal- 
 tered out something inarticulate, and then turned appeal- 
 ingly to Cornelia. 
 
 “You would like to come to your room, would you not? 
 I will show you the way.” | 
 
 Esperance gladly followed, making no secret of her tears 
 as her cousin led her through the hall once more, and up a 
 dark oak staircase. : 
 
 All the sympathy which Cornelia showed was in the 
 remark, “Do not mind. I don’t suppose my father noticed 
 you were crying,” which, however much it might have com- 
 _forted an English girl, was not the slightest consolation to 
 Esperance. 
 
 She took her to her room, and left her with injunctions 
 to be ready for dinner in an hour ; and Esperance threw 
 herself upon the bed, calling despairingly to her father, 
 and crying till she could cry no longer. 
 
 When she was thoroughly exhausted, she dried her eyes, 
 and though by no means comforted, put her grief aside, 
 and began to survey her newroom. It was large and bare, 
 with curious old beams supporting the ceiling, which was 
 so low that she felt quite oppressed by its nearness ; an 
 ugly Kidderminster carpet also offended her eyes, and she 
 - would greatly have preferred the uneven, red-brick floor 
 of her room at Mabillon to the hideous combination of red, © 
 white, and yellow which Mrs. Mortlake had selected. 
 
 Wearied with her shorl view of her commonplace sur- 
 roundings, she rose and went to the window, hungering for 
 something fresh or beautitul. Once more an eager excla- 
 mation escaped her as she gazed again on the grand cathe- 
 dral; each buttress and canopied niche, each beautifully 
 proportioned window was & new delight, while greater dis- 
 tance only lent fresh beauty to the glorious tower. — 
 
 The chiming of the clock recalled her to her present 
 misery. It was certainly time to dress for dinner. She 
 hated the thought of encountering again her most disap- 
 - pointing relations, and now that the first excitement of her 
 arrival was over, began to fe¢| very tired and il, quite un- 
 equal to the effortof English speaking. 
 
 Hor the dinner she was unprepared, and therefore 
 dreaded nothing; but her heart sunk when, the gong 
 
STP hea rae Am Rape ds ears sin cit Me raed AS eas yi ae Peper Susie et iy ae 
 WON BY WAITING. ST EAS 
 
 having sounded, and the solemn procession from drawing- 
 room to dining-room taken place, she found herself in a 
 hot, gaslit room, with all the windows curtained, and the 
 beautiful sunset light shut out. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake explained that her father disliked dining 
 by daylight ; and Esperance, though she could scarcely 
 
 breathe, tried to endure it. 
 
 She was so unaccustomed to formal meals, and had for 
 the last yoar lived in such extreme frugality, that the long, 
 substantial dinner was areal penance to her. Conver- 
 sation did not flow, and had it not been for the slight 
 amusement which she managed to derivefrom the awk- 
 
 ~ ward waiting of the footman, and from the many peculiar- 
 ilies of her cousins, she would have been both dull and 
 unhappy. _ As it was, she managed to strangle her yawns 
 till at last the ordeal was over, and the ladies returned to 
 the purer atmosphere of the drawing-room. 
 
 Bertha at once took up a book, and retired behind it 
 for the evening. Mrs. Mortlake and Cornelia devoted 
 themselves to a complete examination of Esperance. Their 
 questions were not a little embarrassing, and Mrs. Mort- 
 lake’s in particular were framed in such an uncomfortable 
 way, that in spite of Esperance’s readiness to talk, she 
 found it almost impossible to edge in a word. | 
 - For at least half an hour such a catechism as the follow- 
 ing was carried on: 
 
 « And your brother’s name is—?” 
 
 “He is called Gaspard, my—” 
 
 “ How old isifhe ?” 
 
 “He is just twenty,two.” 
 
 «“ And you are—?” 
 
 “T am sixteen, this—” 
 
 “Then you came to London in—” 
 
 “In March.” 
 
 « And the siege of Paris was over on—?™ 
 
 “On the 29th of January, my cousin.” 
 
 By the time Mrs. Mortlake had exhausted her material 
 tor questions, Esperance was thoroughly exasperated, and 
 her preference for Christabel was quickly put to flight. 
 Phe turned with a feeling of relief to Cornelia, but her 
 first question, though leaving ample scope for a prclonged 
 
 ‘answer, was quite as embarrassing in its way. 
 
 “ How has your education been carried on?” 
 
 Esperance was puzzled, indeed, to answer this. 
 
 * Since the war I have dene scarcely anything,” she faln 
 
Cal Pine 3 oh Ms a YO iA ao — ecinee, SS. < een ake T= ) ad 
 
 ie oT 
 
 
 
 fy are 
 
 68 
 
 tered, by no means reassured by Cornelia’s evident sur 
 prise. “It was impossible, indeed, to study at such a 
 time.” 
 
 *¢¢ Where there’s a will there’s a way,’” said Cornelia, 
 dryly. “It was a most fatal mistake to allow you to be idle 
 at that age; no amount of after work can compensate for 
 that lost year. Who was your teacher?” — : 
 
 ‘“‘ My father taught me everything,” replied Esperance, 
 casting down her eyes to hide the starting tears, “except 
 
 that when we were at Mabillon I went to the convent every 
 
 afternoon for lessons in music and needle-work.” 
 «And you have really done nothing since the war ?” 
 
 asked Cornelia, in such a horrified tone that Esperance — 
 could not help smiling to herself, though at the same time 
 
 she racked her brains for an answer. 
 
 “Gaspard and I used to study when we came to London,” 
 she said, at last. “I read several English beoks.” 
 
 “That was very wise; I am glad to hear that. What 
 class of books ?” 
 
 “I began with ‘F'ox’s Book of Martyrs,’ ” said Esperance, 
 innocently; “it was very good, but a little triste, and then 
 Tread ‘The Fairchild Family, which I found very amus- 
 
 ing. 99 . : 
 “You could hardly have selected two more useless books. 
 Could you not see at the time how narrow and antiquated 
 they were ?” said Cornelia, with contempt. 
 
 Poor Esperance was sadly disconcerted. She had 
 counted a good deal on this English reading, and it was 
 
 hard to have waded through two long volumes, and then — 
 to find that she had only wasted her time. Moreover to — 
 add to her discomfort, she had not the least idea what the- 
 
 words “narrow” and “antiquated” meant. She framed 
 a reply, however, dexterously. 
 
 “They were the only books I could obtain, and Iam — a 
 
 afraid I was too ignorant to see their—faults. Thope you 
 will be so kind as to advise me now, and then I shall make 
 no more mistakes.” 
 
 Cornelia promised her assistance in everything connect- 
 ed with literature, but there was no graciousness in her 
 
 manner, and Esperance’s warm thanks seemed almost to — 4 
 
 annoy her. 
 
 It was arelief when the dean returned, for it put a stop * 
 to the long string of questions, and though his advent wag 
 
 quickly followed by a second edition of strong tea, Rspe 
 
 
 
 — 
 © 
 
 rance endured it with equanimity, so thankful was she foy __ 
 
 ; ye , es 
 Ge ena ei J or i hae ye SEY ; : 
 pT eee ee a ie. Pee ee Oe ee eae 
 
 
 
 Oe 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. 69 
 
 any interruption. An evening of desultory conversation 
 
 followed, and at ten the household assembled for family 
 
 prayers, and then dispersed for the night. 
 
 Esperance was not sorry to find herself in her own 
 room, though its loneliness was more than ever noticeable 
 and its vastness decidedly unpleasant. She walked round 
 it with some misgivings, making her candle shine into all 
 dark corners. No ghosts were found, but as she set 
 down the candle on the central table, her eye caught 
 the shadow, apparently, of a large head on the op- 
 posite wall. She was startled, but the next minute 
 discovered that it was only caused by a large glass 
 of wall-flowers, which some one had placed on her table 
 since dinner. This was a piece of real kindness—the first 
 gleam of comfort she had since her arrival. True, her 
 adoption in itself was a kindness, but the coldness of her 
 cousins in a great measure spoiled it, and though she was, 
 to a certain extent, grateful for her maintenance, it was 
 with a gratitude altogether different to that which she fest — 
 for the unexpected gift of flowers. 
 
 She was just about to put out her light, when there came 
 _ @knock at her door, and a middle-aged servant entered to 
 ask if she could be of any use. 
 
 ‘Esperance rightly conjectured that this must be the nurse, 
 and fancying some likeness to poor Javottein her manner 
 - felt greatly drawn to her. 
 
 _ “TJ have finished unpacking my box, thank you,” she re- 
 plied. “Can you tell me who brought me these beautiful 
 giroflées jaunes ?” : 
 
 “ The wall-flowers, miss?” Iam glad you like them. I 
 though they would be kind of company for you.” 
 
 “How good of you to bring them! yes, indeed, I like 
 them so much, they remind me of our old garden in 
 France, they grew se beautifully on the ruins.” 
 
 “Indeed, miss, [ didn’t know such things grew in foreign 
 parts. However, I hope that will make you feel more at 
 home like. Shall I take your candle, miss ?” 
 
 “Yes, please,” said Esperance, laying down her head on 
 the pillow—then, as a sudden rush of homesickness seized 
 her, “and please kiss me, nurse, for I am so lonely, and 
 you remind me of our dear old Javotte.” 
 
 + The nurse kissed her respectfully, arranged the bed- 
 
 clothes with a gentle hand, and left the room; and Esper- 
 
 ance, though she cried herself to sleep, was comforted 
 to know that she had at least one friend in the deanery. 
 
 a 
 
AER PS Pe anes ae ca Cee ON gee Pia AR a YY Seer ee ory oe Ar Ra- eee 4 
 . —- ‘ Fe 4 ee . +. Le SP RCA he 
 : — - a ae ae yeh “aan ie 
 . at A &, f ~~ 
 
 30 | WON BY WAITING. Me ee 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 From each carved nock and fretted bend 
 Cornice and gallery seem to send 
 Tones that with seraph hymns might blend. 
 
 Within these walls each fluttering guest 
 Is gently lur’d to one safe nest— 
 Without, ’tis moaning and unrest. i 
 KEBLE. 
 Mrs. Morriare lingered for some time in her sister’s 
 room, discussing the events of the day, and arranging for 
 ‘the morrow. | 
 * And what do you think of Esperance ?” she asked, at 
 length, more to continue the conversation than because she 
 eared to know Cornelia’s opinion. 
 “Tt is too soon for me to say yet,” replied Cornelia, 
 gravely. 3 | 
 “Ah! you are always so cautious!” said Mrs. Mortlake, 
 
 laughingly. “Now, though I do not pretend to have half 
 
 your penetration, and have not a single theory to go by, 
 yet I flatter myself I can read that character already.” 
 
 ‘ Well?” asked Cornelia, a little scornfully. 
 
 “To begin with, then, she is as proud as Lucifer, and 
 has evidently been made a great deal of; who ever saw an 
 English girl of sixteen so easy and self-possessed; why, she 
 might have been twenty!” 
 
 * And that is all you have discovered about her? Well 
 
 I certainly have not done much more myself, excepting 
 that I noticed her hands were psychical, which is a sign of 
 an imaginative mind. Fortunately, our father seems pleased 
 with her.” 
 
 “You think so?” said Mrs. Mortlake, doubtingly. “1- 
 
 can not say I agree with you, he was so evidentiy disap- 
 pointed with her appearance when he first saw her.” 
 
 “Hirst impressions go for very little,” said Cornelia; ‘‘it 
 _ will be serious, indeed, if my father does not take to her, 
 since we have her now ‘for better, for worse.” — 
 
 “She is French to a degree,” said Mrs. Mortlake, “and 
 _ not even pretty; did you think so?” 2 
 “Really, Iam the last person to give an opinion on such 
 
 points, Christabel. As far as I saw, I should say that Es- 
 
 perance’s features were good, but that at present she is 
 much too thin and ill to be pretty. But do let us dismiss 
 the subject—good-night.” 3 
 

 
 "WON BY WAITING. OY 
 
 “ Good-night,” replied Mrs. Mortlake, taking up her 
 candle to go; “ but most assuredly she is not pretty.” 
 
 Cornelia’s grave lips relaxed into a smile, as the door | 
 ¢losed upon her sister. 
 
 “So that is it! jealousy for poor little Bella is already 
 
 beginning! Oh, Christabel, how little changed you are 
 from the days when a ball was no pleasure if you were not 
 the belle of the night—when you preferred being queen of 
 the dullest party at Rilchester, to being second elsewhere. 
 Luckily, however, there are so many years between Hs- _ 
 perance and Bella, that their interests are not likely to 
 clash, but I foresee that Christabel will make that child’s 
 life a burden to her. What an account she gave of her 
 education! it is absolutely dreadful! JI must really de< 
 vote some of my time to her, though I can ill afford it.” 
 _ And with a sense of fresh work to be fitted into the day, 
 Cornelia roused herself from her reverie, lighted her read- 
 ing-lamp, and opening a ponderous volume was soon lost to 
 the world around her. 
 
 Esperance came down-stairs the next morning in good 
 spirits, and ready to look at everything in the best light. 
 Before leaving her room she had fastened one of the wall- 
 flowers in her dress, and had caught herself singing the re- — 
 frain of a game which she used to play with the convent 
 pupils. | 
 ‘Que tu as de belles filles 
 
 : Girofiée girofia !” 
 
 Her sprightliness, however, soon vanished, for in the hot, 
 oppressive dining-room she found to her dismay that a _ 
 substantial meal awaited her. To sit down at eight o’clock 
 to a regular déjetiner 4 la fourchette, was an almost unbear- 
 able infliction to her; she resolved to take only her accus- 
 tomed cup of coffee and roll, but found the coffee so execra- 
 ble that it was an impossibility: moreover, Mrs. Mortlake 
 was so evidently offended at her numerous refusals, that 
 she foreed herself to take what she would much rather have 
 ~ been without. 
 
 The garden looked temptingly cool and shady, and after 
 breakfast was over Esperance asked leave to go out. 
 Cornelia received her proposal with some surprise. an 
 “Oh, certainly, if you wish to dogo, but there fs nothing 
 worth seeing in our garden, and besides itis almost time 
 for service.” 
 
 “Service at the cathedral? Jam so longing to see the 
 interior.” ) 
 
Serger Ea Ne ret NEI E G3 rte oe fe Lo 5 ME oe oc iRiiie a. 
 en . x 4 ! i Py : 
 72 | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “You will have plenty of opportunities, then, for we 
 always attend both morning and evening service; be care 
 
 ful to be ready five minutes before the hour, as my father 
 
 is very particular as to punctuality.” 
 
 And Cornelia moved away, leaving Esperance oe and 
 repulsed, though she could not have explained why. 
 
 She was still looking out of the window, rather sadly, 
 when Mrs. Mortlake returned, leading by the hand a fair- 
 haired little girl of about six years of age, who would have 
 been exceedingly pretty, had not her mouth been spoiled 
 by constant pouting. 
 
 “Run and kiss your new cousin, Bella,” said Mrs. Mort- 
 lake. ‘Go at once, there is a good child.” 
 
 But Bella drew back with an obstinate “ Sha’n’t.” 
 
 Esperance, who was verv fond of children, began to coax 
 her, and would soon have won her over, but Mrs. Morilak» 
 interfered in an agerieved tone. 
 
 “ Hxcuse me, Esperance, but I must really have the man» 
 agement of my own child. Leave her to me.” 
 
 Then as Esperance moved to the other side of the room, 
 with heightened color, she turned again to the child, 
 ** Now, Bella, do as mamma tells you, and you shall have— 
 @ piece of sugar.” 
 
 Esperance would much rather have been without tha 
 
 bribed kiss, but after Mrs. Mortlake’s very pointed remarlt 
 she could not venture to say so; Bella hesitated for a min+ 
 ute, advanced a step or two, then turned once more. 
 
 “ A large piece, mamma ?” 
 
 «Yes, my darling, a large piece.” 
 
 Bella hesitated no longer, and Esperance, much amused, | 
 
 mot ner half-way and kissed her—unluckily on both cheeks, 
 
 Bella ran back to her mother triumphantly. 
 
 “Two lumps of sugar, mamma, two big lumps, she 
 kissed me twice!” 
 
 Esperance laughed merrily, but Mrs. Mortlake, vexed at 
 the foolishness of her own bribe, looked annoyed. 
 
 “ Nonsense, child, I said one piece.” Then, as Bella 
 began to cry loudly, ‘ ‘Ah, I knew that would come of it; 
 it just shows you, Esperance, how careful you ought to be 
 with children, and Bella is so very sensitive. Besides, how 
 could you expect her to understand your French ways 
 I'll not have them introduced here, so please remember.” 
 
 Esperance was too surprised and indignant ‘to attempt 
 
 any vindication. 
 * A thousand—” she would have said “ Pardons,” but tha 
 
 
 
 USA) ersinnes 
 
 
 
 Sih ly rh ag, yee 
 
 ay ce OTe 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 eas da | 
 
 oN py WANG, «= (tT 
 
 _ words stuck in her throat; she hastily substituted “a 
 
 __ thousand regrets,” and left the room, while Mrs. Mortlake — 
 began to bargain with her child as to the amount of sugar. 
 she should have, if she would only stop crying. 
 - Though Esperance would only laugh in after days at the 
 recollection of her absurd introduction to Bella, at the time 
 
 - she was considerably ruffled by it ; it was the first time in 
 her life that she had suffered from injustice—it was hard 
 to be falsely blamed, and Mrs. Mortlake’s slighting men- 
 tion of her “ French ways” had wounded her deeply. 
 
 It was with avery heavy heart that at the app riuted 
 time she joined Cornelia and Bertha, and walked with 
 them to the cathedral. But comfort came to her as she 
 entered and gazed around with wonder and awe. Whether 
 from the beauty of the sight, or from the vastness and 
 strength of all about her, or from a certain resemblance to 
 
 ~ Notre Dame de Paris, she did not know, but somehow she 
 was stilled, her heart no longer throbbed indignantly, and 
 for the first time she felt at home at Rilchester. 
 
 They walked much faster than she would have liked 
 down the choir aisle, and she had only time for a brief 
 glance 2t the nave, with its glorious vista of arch and pillar, 
 before they passed through the sereen gate, and were 
 ushered by a prim-looking verger into the deanery pew. 
 The service seemed to her dull and dreary in the extreme, 
 and though the choir was fairly good, she soon wearied of 
 the complicated Anglican chants and lengthy canticles, 
 in which no one attempted to join. There was something — 
 depressing, too, in the smallness of the congregation, 
 which certainly could not have numbered more than a 
 ' dozen, and in the half-incomprehensible foreign prayers. 
 
 Esperance was sadly troubled with wandering thoughts, 
 so that she was relieved when the hour was ended and she 
 was iree once more to devote all her eyes to the beauty 
 around. . 
 
 Cornelia, however, allowed no lingering, and they had 
 
 - gearcely left the cathedral before she began in her clear, 
 authoritative way, “As soon as we are at home will you 
 come to me in my room, and I will see what studies you 
 had better take up? We must lose no more time.” 
 
 Esperance knew she ought to have been much more 
 grateful, but there was something in Cornelia’s cold kind- 
 ness which grated on her, and undoubtedly there was ix 
 her tone an implied reference to the time which had al« 
 
 ready been so foolishly wasted. 
 
 
 
 os ker <4 Bete, 
 6 tT BO ea 
 Leack : 
 
 a 
 
 
 

 
 r4 . ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that she said, “Indeed, you 
 are very good to think of helping me, my cousin ; I know 
 Tam very ignorant.” 
 
 “Tf you will take pains, it will be a pleasure to me to 
 
 Hee hel® you,” replied Cornelia, with much more warmth. 
 
 “And Iam going to give you one correction already. Do 
 not always address me as ‘my cousin,’ it is quite unnec- 
 essary in English.” eae 
 
 “Indeed! I had no idea of that; in France it would 
 be thought rude almost not to do it. But a thousand 
 thanks for telling me.” 
 
 Lhe hour spent in Cornelia’s room was not altogether a 
 
 pleasant one. A brief examination brought to light what 
 seemed to Cornelia almost unparalleled ignorance, and she 
 was really in despair over such an unpromising pupil. 
 Esperance, unaccustomed to examination of any kind, and 
 understanding English very imperfectly, was, of course, at 
 a great disadvantage, and though now and then she would 
 give a. quick, intelligent answer, she was generally either 
 puzzled completely, or frightened by her cousin’s per- 
 emptory manner into absurd mistakes. 
 
 Cornelia, seeing that this was mere waste of time, began 
 a lesson on physical geography, but this was not much 
 more successful. Though exceedingly clever, she was not 
 a, good teacher ; she could neither understand nor sympa- 
 thize with the difficulties of a less tatented mind, and even 
 painstaking slowness made her impatient and sarcastic. 
 
 Esperance was really unhappy—aware that she had 
 
 answered badly, and vexed that she had not done more | 
 
 justice to her father’s teaching. She was certain, too, that 
 had the circumstances been different she could have done 
 much better, and a consciousness that Cornelia did not ux- 
 derstand her added to her wretchedness. 
 
 But this last thought reminded her of one of Gaspard’s 
 pieces of advice—“ Whatever happens, don’t let yourself 
 become a ‘femme incomprise,” and, taking courage, she be- 
 gan, “You will think me shockingly ignorant, Cornelia; 
 but really, it is partly my ignorance of English that makes 
 me so stupid; you must not think I have never been taught 
 these things.” ; 
 
 ‘‘The fruits of good teaching are seen in the impression 
 left on the memory,” said Cornelia, calmly. 
 
 Esperance flushed angrily. 
 
 _ €No, no, that can not be, I am sure it can not; if the 
 
 memory is bad, the best teaching mav be thrown away toit.” 
 
WON BY WAITING. ~*~ 716 
 
 * On it,” corrected Cornelia, in the same impassive tone; 
 “but do not excite yourself so much; I surely may hold 
 different views without rousing all this indignation.” .. 
 
 “It is not your views—I do not care for your views,” re- 
 plied Esperance, her voice rising; “it is your—your slights 
 to my father, to the education he has given me, that make 
 me angry. You do not know, you can never know, how 
 good, how wise, how noble he was.” | 
 
 “Perhaps not,” replied Cornelia. ‘But if I were to 
 judge of him by what his daughter is at present, what 
 should [—’ | 
 
 Esperance burst into tears. 
 
 “You are cruel—cruel! to speak so of him—now that— 
 oh, papa! papa! why did I not die too ?—shells falling all 
 day long—and not one would come where it would have 
 been welcomed!” 
 
 She was leaning down on the table, her face hidden. 
 Would Cornelia never speak, she wondered—would no 
 word of sympathy pass those grave lips? 
 
 But still the silence was only broken by her own sobs; 
 and looking up at last, she found herself alone. 
 
 She was so dismayed, so astonished, that she could not 
 cry, even though such a desertion seemed to her most 
 cruel; she sat looking at Cornelia’s vacant chair, and at 
 the map of mountains and rivers on the table, soaked 
 through and through with her own tears. 
 
 When Cornelia returned she was quite calm, however; 
 her tears were spent, and, to her cousin’s scorn and sur- 
 prise, she was busily engaged in tracing the wet tear- 
 marks on the map to the same length as the various 
 rivers. 
 
 “TI think you do not require the quiet of my study for 
 such an intellectual employment,” said Cornelia, “‘and as 
 our lesson is over you may go.” | 
 
 Esperance could not help smiling at Cornelia’s sarcasm. 
 
 ‘It was very foolish, was it not? J hope it bas not hurt 
 the map,” she said, with a little laugh ; “adeu, then, and 
 many thanks for your lesson.” | 
 
 Cornelia was mute with astonishment. She had left the 
 
 room, quite out of patience with Esperance’s tears, and re- 
 solved to read her a lecture on her demonstrativeness when — 
 she returned—but her plans had been frustrated, the good- 
 humored reply to her stinging speech, and the little ring- 
 ing laugh, were even more aggravating than the sudden 
 burst of passion, and for once in her life she felt thoroughe 
 
6 : WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ly nonplussed This little French girl was, indeed, a puzzle 
 to her ; but on the whole she was uot altogether displeased 
 with her for being out of the common, and as a new study 
 of character she interested her. 
 
 Esperance, meanwhile, went down-stairs, amused and a 
 little triumphant at Cornelia’s evident surprise ; the con- 
 sciousness of having averted a “scene” or a lecture was 
 exhilarating, and she was quite convinced from Cornelia’s 
 manner that something of the kind had been intended. 
 
 But her joy was short lived, for in the dining-room she © 
 
 found Mrs. Mortlake and Bella eagerly looking at the last 
 “ Tilustrated London News,” which was full of the horrors 
 of the Commune. 
 
 “Oh, mamma, what are they doing to that woman?” - 
 
 asked Bella. 
 
 “Shooting her, darling; she has been spreading petro- 
 ~ leum, wicked ereature. And there, you see, are some 
 houses, all falling down, in the Rue de Rivoli; the silly 
 people are destroying their own city. Andlook! there 
 they are shooting the insurgents in the Luxembourg Gar- 
 dens.” 
 
 The familiar names, and the cruel want of consideration 
 in speaking thus before her were too much for Lisperance’s 
 powers of endurance ; again her tears broke forth, and not 
 attempting a second argument, . she hurriedly left the 
 room. 
 
 But where could she go? To return to Cornelia would 
 
 be to receive a double scolding, and she longed too much — 
 for sympathy to care to seek her own room—she would, at 
 
 any rate try to find Bertha before she resorted to it. 
 Bertha was sitting in the great drawing-room writing 
 letters ; she looked very unapproachable, but Hsperance 
 - was too miserable to hesitate. 
 _ “Qh, Bertha!” she exclaimed, “I am so unhappy, do 
 have pity on me. Cornelia will not have me in her study, 
 and Christabel will talk about the Commune, and I can't 
 bear it, indeed I can’t.” 
 “But what can I do for you?” said Bertha, gravely, but 
 
 not unkindly. “Of course you may sit here, if that is what 
 you want.” f 
 “Yes, I want that too, but Bertha, if you could only love 
 
 me a little—I can’t live without love.” 
 “T thought so once,” replied Bertha, with a half smile; 
 “but I find [canmanage withont it now.” Then, as Hspe- 
 
 _fance looked astonished, “I sz: <peaking, of course,ofone@ 
 
 sat hte POR Lee” Dae ee 
 
 
 
 
 
 8 ee ag ee 
 

 
 
 
 
 ae Wow BY WAITING, uu Vee 
 
 : fdeal of i leve, not of the ordinary sort of Oterric: that 
 relationship brings.” 
 
 “TI don’t know what you mean,” said Esperance half 
 frightened. “With us, relationship brought all that was 
 true and strong, and beautiful in love. ‘Does it not to every 
 one? do you really love your sisters ?” 
 
 “Tf we were not sisters we should probably hate each 
 other,” replied Bertha ; “never were there three less con- 
 genial people, I should say ; but being: related, of course, 
 we have to tolerate, or if you like ‘love’ each other. Now 
 you understand what I mean about existing without love.” 
 
 co ame looked aghast. 
 
 _ “Tt must be very dreadful,” she said, with a shiver. 
 
 “One grows accustomed to it in time,” replied Bertha. 
 “It will soon cease to trouble you.” 
 
 * No, that I can never believe! and until I have come to 
 that state, you will love mea little, will yon not?” and 
 _ Esperance looked up so coaxingly that Bertha was fairly 
 conquered. 
 
 “JT will try,” she said with more energy than usual. 
 * Only I am so unpracticed that you must not expect much 
 from me—I can’t be demonstrative.” 
 
 “Never mind, I will do all the demonstration,” said 
 _ Esperance, laughing, and giving Bertha what seemed to 
 ber an overwhelming embrace. “There! now lam happy. 
 And you will really do a little more than oe me ?” 
 
 “You are the strangest child I ever saw,” said Bertha, 
 but as if she did not mind the eS aay “Yes, I will 
 a but you have come to a most unlikely quarter for 
 ove. 
 
 Esperance was, however, quite satisfied, and moreover, 
 she had solved the mystery of Bertha’s nonchalant man- 
 ner and dreamy indifference. If she neither loved nor was 
 _ loved, what else could be expected? Here was an interest 
 already at the deanery; she would make it her special ob- 
 ject to give Bertha pleasure. 
 
 Her letter to Gaspard that day was almost cheerful, and 
 though she could not avoid telling him what she thought 
 of Mrs. Mortlake and Cornelia, she dwelt so much on Ber- 
 tha’s kindness, and the beauty of the cathedral, and gave 
 such amusing descriptions of the English manners and eus- 
 toms that Gaspard was relieved from his anxiety about hex 
 and much cheered i in his loneliness. 
 
nig) ete: ee apres Ne ph he Nae be 
 
 18 : WON BY WAITING, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Earth is sick 
 
 And Heaven is weary of the hollow words 
 
 Which states and kingdoms utter when they talk 
 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 -And social neighborhood : look we to ourselves. 
 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 
 - For “all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 
 The Eaucursion. 
 
 Rane was a picturesque old town, with narrow, 
 irregular streets, gabled houses, curious old courts, und 
 ancient gateways. A peaceful—not to say sleepy—air 
 pervaded the whole place; even in the principal street 
 there was little traffic, and the few pedestrians walked 
 quietly and leisurely along, as if hurry and bustle were a 
 a thing unknown to them. 
 
 The population was not very great, and had of late years 
 decreased, so that although there was little actual poverty 
 in the place, certain parts of the town had a most depress- 
 ing aspect, the old houses having fallen out of repair, and 
 the owners not caring to lay out money on them. 
 
 These deserted quarters, however, were some way from 
 the cathedral, and rarely, if ever, obtruded themselves upon 
 the notice of the more wealthy citizens. 
 
 Proximity to the cathedral being a mark of cpraan: houses 
 in the close were eagerly sought after, and though they 
 were mostly very old, draughty, and ill- built, some people 
 had been known to leave much more comfortable dwellings 
 for their sake. There were certainly, however, the advan- 
 tages of a fine view of the cathedral, and an open, healthy 
 situation, not to mention one of the great attractions to the 
 inhabitants of Rilchester—a first-rate view of your neigh- 
 ae houses, and the best possible chance of knowing all 
 they did. 
 
 Por, like all small towns, Rilchester derived its pleasure, | 
 
 its store of anecdotes, its daily conversation, from gossip; 
 and as there was but little amusement of a higher kind in 
 the place, and a dearth of work, or, more truly, a sleepiness 
 in the atmosphere, which tended to destroy the faculty for 
 work, there was some excuse for this. 
 
 The arrival of a visitor at the deanery was sufiicient to 
 
 get all the tongues in the place going, and when it grad: 
 ually became known that the dean had adopted his niece, 
 
 
 
 
 
Saveaneisusw es ee 
 ui rg 
 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. | 19 
 
 end that she would thenceforth live at Rilchester, Espe- 
 rance became quite a “ nine-days’ wonder.” 
 
 Had she only come to the place earlier in the year, when 
 every one was full of compassion for the whole French 
 nation, she would have met with a much warmer welcome; 
 but the horrors of the ‘Commune had quite altered this 
 feeling, and to be of French birth was the reverse of a re- 
 commendation. 
 
 Her appearance was criticised severely, and strange 
 stories were set afloat as to her history; one old lady—well- 
 -known as the greatest gossip in the close—had told her 
 
 friend that the dean had been seen to flush quite angrily 
 when some one had made inquiries after M. de Mabilion— 
 she feared he had been a most notorious character—the 
 dean had felt his sister's marriage most acutely, she knew 
 this as a fact. | , 
 
 From this beginning arose a wild story exaggerated still — 
 more at each repetition, in which it was stated that Esper- 
 ance’s father had ended a most iniquitous life by attempt- 
 ing to betray his country to the Prussians, and had in 
 - consequence been shot, while her brother had assisted in 
 the murder of Clement Thomas, and had subsequently 
 been killed as a communistic insurgent. When it tran- 
 
 _ spired that he was alive and well in London, a marvelous 
 escape was first supposed, and afterward added to the 
 story as a fact. 
 
 Of course the subject was avoided both with the Collin- 
 sons and with Esperance herself, so that it was long before 
 
 the truth was really known. Esperance, in consequence, 
 thought the Rilchester people hard- hearted and unsympa- 
 thizing. It would have been a relief to her to talk some- 
 times of her father, and of their troubles in the siege, but 
 -no one opened the subject, and if she ever alluded to it, 
 they changed the conversation at once, in reality from 
 kind-heartedness and a wish to spare her, but with what 
 seemed of course, to her, an utter want of interest. 
 
 Those first few months tried her severely. She was very 
 lonely, anxious about Gaspard, and out of harmony with 
 her surroundings. Cornelia was cold and sarcastic,and her 
 time for study was a real trial. Mrs. Mortlake was unjust 
 and irritating ; Bella, cross and spoiled ; Bertha, disap- 
 pointing and reserved. This, at least, was Esperance’sa 
 view of the family. She had yet to learn that— 
 
 cae “‘ Tis we, not they, who are in fault, 
 
 When others seem so wrong.” 
 
 
 

 
 —~ put on their clothes, but they always look as if they had been 
 
 
 
 80 s : : WON BY, WAITING. : Pie ae 
 
 Of course her grievances were not wholly imaginary, but 
 she magnified them greatly, and would not see the good 
 points which counterbalanced the failings. 
 
 Her letters to Gaspard, which had at first been brave 
 and cheerful, were now either in a strain of forced merri- 
 ment, or with an undertone of bitterness which was very 
 foreign to her nature. She never complained, it is true, 
 but she indulged herself more and more in little sarcasms 
 at the expense of her cousins or their friends, and Gaspard 
 grew seriously uneasy about her. | 
 
 He wrote to her at last with a very gentle remonstrance, — 
 and entreating her to tell him if she were really unhappy; — 
 but the reply was far from satisfactory, and only made him 
 still more anxious. It ran as follows: = 
 
 “The Deanery, Rilchester, 12th September, 1871. 
 
 ‘My Dear Gasparp,—A thousand thanks for your welcome 
 letter, and for the scolding you gave me, only I can hardly call 
 it by such a name, since J am accustomed here to a much more 
 severe fault-finding. So you really think lam growing sarcastic ! 
 Well, Iam hardly surprised, for I am a great deal with Cornelia, 
 and she is just one great piece of sarcasm—I suppose it is in- 
 - fectious. Nothing in particular has happened since I wrote. 
 Bertha is still away and the house is very dull, the most en- 
 livening thing being’one of Bella’s screaming fits, which are like 
 a kind of intermittent fever, and come everv other day. In be- — 
 tween sheis what Christabel calls ‘good,’ really petted and — 
 spoiled! She is indeed an enfant terrible. I forgot to 
 say that I have had-my first experience of an MHnglish — 
 dinner-party. I wish you could have seen it, it was most 
 amusing; that is to say, the. evening was, for I did not 
 dine, thus escaping an infliction of two hours. The — 
 ladies come to the drawing-room about nine, or perhaps later, 
 looking very sleepy and bored, and then they sit trying to talk 
 for about half an hour, a footman bringing in first coffee, and 
 ’ then tea to prevent them from quite going tosleep! Imust — 
 tell you that they are all dressed to match, the married ladies 
 chiefly in grays, mauves, and violets, and the young ladies in — 
 limp white muslin. I suppose it is the way English people 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 out in one of their fogs. Later in the evening the gentlemen 
 atraggle into the room, as if they didn’t much want to come; 
 they all look very black and sombre, the old gentlemen wear- 
 ing great white ties and the younger ones stiff-looking collars, 
 and no dress clothes at all, for they are all clergymen, there 
 seems scarcely a layman in the place. They stand all togéther 
 in @ group, like so many rooks, though itis not thought im= ~~ 
 pope in England for them to speak to the ladies, and per | 
 
 aps two or three do venture’ into the circle by and by. I 
 noticed the other night that there was quite a little maneuver 
 
Eee ae area enn oe We Sprain} My ar? 4 PR OES een to? 
 RP EA Te resis ey RR TA cL Der hae Bats 
 a See + rie fs 
 
 rE ae 
 
 es Ae at, Pa : ae ie 
 
 ‘WON BY WAITING. ="8)- 
 
 fio secure a vacant chair. Enolishmen seemed so much happier 
 
 when they are sitting down, they never seem to know what to 
 dco with their hands and feet, ctherwise. Altogether, it was 
 very dull and stiff, but perhaps I have seen a bad specimen ; 
 people never could endure many such parties, surely, they 
 would die of ennui. Why do you ask point-blank if I am 
 happy ? It was inconsiderate of you. Of course I am not, and 
 can not be, away from you. As to the cathedral, it is marvel- 
 ously beautiful. but the long daily services do not agree with me; 
 perhaps it is being quite unaccustomed to such things, or perhaps 
 the foreign prayers, or it may be what Mrs. Mortlake would call 
 my ‘frivolous French mind,’ but certainly they are at present 
 &@ penance. 
 
 “* No one here hasa good word to say for a Frenchman—they 
 geem to think we are all Communists, and forget that the mar- 
 tyrs, Monseigneur Darboy, the Abbé Deguerry, Pére du Coud- 
 
 - ray, and many others, were also French. It is very hard to 
 
 bear. I suppose, however, the troubles are nearly over now ? 
 
 Have you heard lately from Monsieur Lemercier? I hope he 
 has not been arrested, poor man. How wonderfully in earnest 
 he was that morning we left Paris. . 
 ‘‘With my compliments to Bismarck. 
 “* Je ? embrasse de tout ceur, 
 ‘‘ ESPERANCE Bren-Aiméz DE Manion.” 
 
 In reply to this letter Gaspard sent a little French edi- 
 tion of the English Church Services, and she was so much 
 touched by his anxiety for her, and so really anxious to do 
 right, that she tried very hard to attend better. 
 
 One bright sunny morning, about the end of Septem- 
 ber, Esperance, after a greater effort than usual to listen 
 to the Psalms, had taken her place in the uncomfortable 
 gaken stall, which was her usual seat, and had opened 
 her French Bible, in order to follow the reading of the 
 first lesson, when a sound of voices in the choir aisle 
 roused her curiosity. The speakers were evidently close 
 behind her, for she could distinctly hear even the low- 
 toned conversation. 
 
 “No painting allowed in service time, sir.” 
 
 « What, not out here? How can I possibly disturb the 
 services ?” replied the second voice. 3 
 
 “Can’t tell, sir,” answered the first; “ but ’tis against 
 ruies ; you must move at once.” : 
 
 “‘ But I tell you, my good fellow, this is my service, just 
 a5 much as it’s yours to wear a black gown and carry that 
 poker; besides, the light is perfect now.” 
 
 The reply was inaudible, but was followed by a crash, ag 
 @f something falling heavily on the stone floor. 
 
&2 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 An unguarded exclamation of wrath made itself heard 
 so distinctly in the choir, that the reading of the lesson 
 was for a moment suspended, and the two vergers, seizing 
 their silver-headed staves, hastened to quiet the disturb- 
 ance. 
 
 Esperance listened with hushed breath, really quite 
 trembling for the victim. She heard a great many repeti- 
 tions of “ hush,” then the eager voice rising again, “1 was 
 doing no harm here.” | 
 
 Another admonitory “ hush” followed by a whispered. 
 altercation, then that voice once more. _ 
 
 “ Well, since I mayn’t paint, I will come in.” 
 
 The footsteps drew nearer ; Esperance, and indeed every- 
 body looked curiously toward the door—with a stately, 
 measured step, the two vergers returned, their staves tri- 
 umphantly raised in air, and behind them walked the cul- 
 prit, a young man of two or three-and-twenty, tall and 
 handsome, his fair complexion a little flashed by the dis- 
 pute, his lips gravely compressed, but an irrepressible 
 sparkle of amusement in his keen blue eyes. 
 
 He was solemnly conducted to a seat, and after one rapid 
 glance around, Esperance was relieved to see that he 
 behaved with perfect reverence, joining in the Te Deum in 
 a way which set an example to the silent congregation, and 
 during the reading of the second lesson, scarcely stirring, 
 but gazing at the reredos 1nd the grand east window, 
 through which the sunshine was streaming, shedding an 
 exquisite radiance on all around. 
 
 At the close of the service, Mrs. Mortlake made all speed 
 to go out, but not before the stranger had already left the 
 ehoir. Whispering an explanation to Cornelia, she fol-— 
 lowed in the direction of the north choir aisle, closely at- 
 tended by Esperance, who was full of curiosity, and in 
 great terror lest Cornelia should call her back. 
 
 In the aisle they discovered the cause of the downfall 
 and the angry exclamation—a prostrate easel and canvas; — 
 the young artist had just raised the latter, and was looking” 
 at it critically, when Mrs. Mortlake approached. ‘ 
 
 “Mr. Magnay! how are you? You have indeed taken 
 us by surprise.” ; 
 
 “JT camé late last night,” replied the artist, glancing 
 from Mrs. Mortlake to Esperance, as he shook hands. “I 
 was hoping to call on you later in the day, not thinking 
 that the cathedral might be our meeting-place. The dean 
 4s well, I hope ?” 
 

 
 Very well, thank you, he will be glad to see you, I am 
 gure,” replied Mrs. Mortlake, moving toward the door. 
 
 Claude Magnay hastened to move the easel, which lay in 
 Hsperance’s way, und walked down the aisle with them, 
 holding open the heavy outer door while Mrs. Mortlake 
 uttered many last words. 
 
 “ You are here for some time, then ?” she asked. 
 Tecan not tell how long,” he replied. “I have a coms 
 
 mission for a view of thisinterior. One could not have a 
 yore delightful subject, certainly. How glorious it is in 
 this light!” | 
 
 Esperance thought the grand old door-way, with its 
 sombre moldings, the eager, half-wistful face of Claude 
 Magnay, and the background dim with brightness would 
 have made a wonderful picture ;. but detecting a slight 
 shade of impatience, and a restless movement of the hand 
 _ which held the canvas, she was not sorry when Mrs. Mort- 
 lake closed the conversation with a pressing invitation to 
 dinner that evening and really turned homeward. 
 
 “What a thorough artist he is, to be sure!” she ex- 
 claimed, half musingly. “So engrossed with bis work, and 
 with the beauty of the cathedral, that he forgot even to 
 speak of the disturbance he made during the service!’ 
 
 _ “Tg he English?’ inquired Esperance, secretly wonder- 
 
 ing whether any one so polite could be, her dislike to the 
 Itilchester people having prejudiced her against the whole 
 nation. 
 
 ‘Yes, oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Mortlake. “Iam not sure 
 - that the name is not of Scotch origin, but the family has 
 been in England for years. This young man’s father was 
 an architect—a very clever man—and a friend of my 
 father’s. He had great money losses before his death, and 
 had it not been for Claude’s talent, I don’t know how they 
 would have managed. However, all is comfortably settled 
 now; one sister is married, and has taken the youngest 
 child to live with her; the mother died not long ago, and | 
 so Claude has only himself to support.” ee 
 
 Esperance thought this a very heartless speech; but the 
 mention of the losses, the bereavements, and the loneli-° 
 ness, touched a chord in her own life, and for the first 
 time since her arrival she felt thoroughly interested and 
 attracted. , 
 
 The day passed rather more happily than usual, and 
 Esperance was quite in spirits when she went to dress for 
 dinner; she could not nelp looking forward eagerly to the 
 
 WON BY WAITING. — 83 
 
ae ; ie See, 
 
 84 WON BY WAITING. — 
 
 diversion of seeing some one really new and not an inhab- 
 itant of Rilchester. 
 
 Claude had already arrived when she came down, and 
 was standing talking to the dean, having quite lost the 
 somewhat preoccupied expression he had worn in the 
 cathedral. 
 
 The dean gravely introduced “ My niece, Mademoiselle 
 de Mabillon”—he always uttered the name with an effort 
 
 —and Claude’s easy but courteous manners seemed all the 
 
 more pleasant when contrasted with her uncle’s pompous 
 solemnity. 
 
 “JT am afraid you were one of those whom I disturbed 
 this morning in the cathedral,” he said. “I hope you will 
 forgive me for the confusion I made, was it very distract» 
 ing ?” 
 
 Ksperance’s first impulse was to utter the false “Oh! 
 not at all,” a form of polite lying proverbially habitual to 
 French women, and not unfrequently indulged in by their 
 English sisters. She had, however, been brought up very 
 carefully in this respect by her father, her standard of 
 truth was high, and with ready tact she said instead, “I 
 do not think it disturbed the congregation generally, for 
 
 myself, I can not say much, it takes such a small thing to 
 
 draw off my attention.” 
 
 “ T had no idea there was any rule as to not painting 
 _ during service time, so I hope my ignorance may be my 
 excuse,” said Claude, turning to the dean. 
 
 “ Oh, don’t mention it, pray; it is of no consequence. 
 ‘We find we must have arule of the kind, but of cours4 
 you could not be expected to know. You find your sub- 
 ~ ject interesting ?” 
 
 “Indeed I do,” replied Claude, earnestly. “It’s only 
 fault is, that every part of itis so marvelous, one hardly 
 dares to attempt it. I wentinat half past six this morn- 
 ing, but it was some time before I could settle to work, 
 everything was looking so exquisite.” 
 
 «We never saw your picture this morning,” said Espe- 
 -yrance. “ Was it hurt in that downfall?” 
 
 “No; luckily it was not much damaged, it was the easel 
 which made all the noise.” 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake and Cornelia entered while he was speak- 
 ing, the former with many apologies for her lateness, and 
 immediately after dinner was announced. 
 
 The conversation was much more lively than usual, and 
 
 Esperance was able to enter into it thoroughly; her English 
 
 Pa OREN DD ae Oey SS ee IS ge Lt OE See een PSE AT BY 
 SNE mn Tat Shel tal nd els RE Beal OE SAG ee 
 = a eat Wee = c a's 
 
 2 eS . yp aes a 
 PRU SRL ange ge Ete A ak aie hued ; 
 Te AS SNS SC RAEN oer tie 9 Ys oe | Dee Reis Wee aoe bn) oe | Len RO AVS te, 3 
 
 Ate sia eae sockets 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. Oe 
 
 ‘was much improved by the three months she had spent at 
 
 ~ MRilehester, and her sight French accent was rather pretty 
 
 than otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake, however, did not altogether approve of 
 this advance in knowledge, for although she could not ac- 
 cuse Esperance of forwardness, yet there was certainly 
 something in her lively chatter which was aapt to swamp 
 other conversation. The dean would often stop to listen 
 to her—the voice reminded him of his sister’s, and he liked 
 fo hear it—Cornelia was always on the watch for gram- 
 matical mistakes in her pupil, and Bertha, who disliked the 
 exertion of talking, thought herself exempted from it if 
 any one else sustained the conversation. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake herself was a good, solid talker, and she 
 ' fiked to have an open field for her operations, so Esper- 
 ance’s little flighty remarks, and ner clear, ringing laugh 
 annoyed her; and when she found Claude Magnay much 
 more inclined to talk to the bright little French girl than 
 to enter into the conversation which she had carefully pre- 
 pired beforehand on the Renaissance, she resolved to put 
 a stop to it at once. 
 
 Claude had just said that he had studied chiefly at Paris, 
 ind Esperance, with a look of delight, was pouring out a 
 stream of eager questions. Whereabouts had he lived? 
 Did he not like Paris? Was it not the most beautiful city 
 of Europe? When was he last there? He had not been 
 in France during the war, then? 
 
 As if to provoke Mrs. Mortlake still further, Claude 
 
 seemed to catch something of Esperance’s enthusiasm, for 
 his replies were as animated as her questions, and it was 
 evident that if they were not interrupted the Renaissance 
 would be quite neglected. 
 
 You were at Paris all through the siege, did you say?” 
 Claude was asking. 
 
 And Esperance had just begun her answer when Mrs. 
 Mortlake broke in. 7 
 
 “Oh, really, Esperance, you must not take Mr. Magnay 
 all through that dreadful siege; we have heard quite enough 
 of it, and the dinner-table is not the place for horrors.” 
 
 Claude Magnay was surprised, and glanced at Esperance 
 —asif for an explanation. She had flushed all over, and her 
 lips were quivering; he was sorry for her, and would have 
 tried tc turn Mrs. Mortlake’s uncomfortable speech to some 
 different meaning, but she was too quick for him, and the 
 uwext moment the conversation was entirely in her hands. 
 
86 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “T was wanting so much to ask you, if you had seen that 
 magnificent altar-piece of Perugino’s in the Church of St. 
 Peter, Perugia. You were in Italy last winter, were you 
 not ?” | 
 
 Whereupon ensued a long account of Mr. Magnay’s 
 Italian tour, stimulated by Mrs. Mortlake’s peculiar form 
 of questioning. 
 
 \ Esperance meanwhile had recovered herself and sat 
 proudly erect; without betraying any desire to join in the 
 conversation. Shewas wounded by her cousin’s most un- 
 fair speech, for it had assumed that she was in the habit of 
 talking about her sufferings in the siege, whereas the sub- 
 ject had scarcely been mentioned since her arrival, and 
 she had, moreover, made an unjust insinuation as to her 
 good taste. 
 
 “Horrors at the dinner-table!” the very idea of being 
 suspected of mentioning anything of the sort made her 
 blush anew. | 
 
 Her indignation gradually died away, however; the 
 mention of Paris, and other familiar names, had recalled 
 all her sad memories, and it was as much from this sad- 
 ness, as from the effects of Mrs. Mortlake’s snub, that she 
 answered all Claude’s further attempts at vonversation in 
 monosyllables. 
 
 Only once was she at all roused. It was at dessert; tha 
 dean was advising Claude Magnay to explore some of the 
 old parts of Rilchester, thinking that the half-ruinous and 
 very ancient buildings could not fail to please an artist 
 
 _ This led to a comparison of cathedral cities with ordinary 
 
 towns, wherein Claude expressed his opinions so very can: 
 didly that Esperance quite trembled for him. To her dis: 
 may she found herself implicated in the conversation. 
 Claude and Mrs. Mortlake carried on quite a little argw 
 ment, as to the dangers of narrowness in a limited eom- 
 ‘munity, Mrs. Mortlake upholding her beloved cathedra} 
 town in everything. Of course, the discussion was per- 
 fectly -good-humored, but unluckily, Claude, glancing 
 round the table with his quick artist eye to gather the ex- 
 pressions of the different people, was attracted by Esper- 
 ance’s sad, wistful face, and without thinking asked, 
 “And whatis your opinion? you are a comparative strang- 
 er, and must be unbiased. Do you think cathedral towns — 
 superior ?” 
 Esperance was in great difficulties ; she would not will- 
 ingly have offended her relations, but truth was truth, and. 
 

 
 me 
 
 ‘WON BY WAITING. Sy 
 
 she was too tired and sad-hearted to be ready with any 
 skillful counter-question or laughing allusion with which 
 to change the subject. 
 
 With an appealing, ‘“‘ How can you ask me >” in her eyes, 
 she replied, quietly, “I love tle cathedral as Huh as I 
 dislike the town.” 
 
 Cornelia looked up quickly. . 
 
 “Your reasons ?” ) 
 
 Esperance, looking much distressed, tried to confine her 
 remarks to the material town, though ‘the SARS conver= 
 sation had related to the society. 
 
 “The streets are so narrow and dirty, and there are so 
 very few people—” she paused and for once was greatly 
 relieved by one of Mrs. Mortlake’s cuttiug little speeches. 
 
 «Oh, yes, we know yourideas of the beautiful are differ: _ 
 ent ; you care for nothing but boulevards.” 
 
 Again Esperance flushed crimson, again Claude felt sorry 
 for her, and this time he was vexed that she should suffer 
 from his rashness ; however, he had no opportunity for 
 making amends, for the ladies left the table almost directly, 
 and in the evening the dean carried him off to his observar 
 tory, and kept-him so thoroughly interested with his teles- 
 cope that all else was forgotten. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 She said, ‘‘I am aweary, aweary 5 
 I would that I were dead !”’ 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 CraupE Maanay was young and energetic, by no means 
 one of those lazy prodigies whose very genius seems to 
 dull their other powers. Since he could not work in the 
 cathedral from nine to ten, he resolved to take the first 
 hours of the day, and often by five o’clock he wouldbe at 
 his post, or wandering about in the gray morning light 
 enjoying the dim grandeur of the place, and with the key 
 which the dean himself had placed at his disposal, unlock- 
 ing the inner doors and exploring at his pleasure until the 
 light was favorable for his picture. 
 
 During service time he returned to his hotel for break- 
 fast, and afterward worked at his open-air paintings— 
 some curious parts of old Rilchester, and an exterior of 
 _ the cathedral. His days were so well filled that he was 
 not very much pleased when one evening a note arrived, 
 
ON TPR ne eye rey | aad eg nnn) TTS ns ee et eS a ee ie eee ei, en Pr ae ee 
 - Nel ais Se ae pe er EER ee ate hy Lae Fars eres io Ce en ec Dee te eee ee 
 * ~ : = SPL ey ke ake. ae Ay LS = 
 
 Fal 
 
 ~ 
 
 
 
 “88° WON BE CWATTING.- 
 
 with a proposal which must either usurp some of his prec 
 ious time or occasion alonger stay at Rilchester. It ran 
 as follows : 
 
 ‘Dear Mr. Macnay,—I am so very anxious to have a portrait 
 of my little girl. Do you think you could spare time to paint 
 her? ‘There is no one whom I should like better to doit. Your 
 picture of Lady Worthington’s little boy, which I saw this year 
 at the Academy, was perfect. ‘ 
 ‘« Bella could give you a sitting at any hour ; the morning is, J 
 think, her best time, but please suit your own convenience. Be- 
 lieve me, yours, very sincerely. 
 ‘‘ CHRISTABEL MortuaKe.” 
 
 “That little fair-haired girl, who looks so _ cross,” 
 soliloquized Claude; “she will be a difficult subject, 
 in more ways than one, if I am not mistaken. Shall 
 I attempt her, or shall I find it necessary to return 
 to town, and work up my Scotch pictures? Rather 
 shirking, peyhaps, still I hate painting spoiled children, 
 and that Mrs. Mortlake will be the death of me. How 
 that poor little Mademoiselle de—something—endures it, 
 I can't imagine; snubs at every turn from one sister, 
 and sarcasms from the other. I got her intoa scrape 
 myself the other evening, and never helped her out, whicl 
 was ashame. Yes, { will undertake little Miss Mortlake’s 
 portrait for that reason—the little demoiselle looks as if she 
 needed a Don Quixote. And now I think of it, what an | 
 interesting study her face would be. ‘Those lustrous eyes 
 —such a color, too, and so wonderfully pathetic, and her 
 quaint little mouth, which looks somehow asif the sadness — 
 were all a mistake. The forehead? yes, it is low, and the 
 hair dark and silky, with a wave in it. Sheis the very a 
 impersonation of what I always longed to try—‘Mariana ~~ 
 in the Moated Grange,’” and he repeated the lines : 2 
 
 B oftss it 
 gree Sessa ie toy 
 Date a ed See 
 
 ‘* After the flitting of the bats, Se 
 When thickest dark did trance the sky, . 
 She drew her casement curtain by, 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats, 
 She only said, ‘The night is dreary, 
 He cometh not, ’ she said, 
 She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead.’ ” 
 
 “Yes; she is exactly what I have dreamed of. I must st : 
 | least get asketch of her face, though I suppose it would at 
 -  bardly do to ask her to sit to me.” 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 Peay tinieeke ss phd Poy Sea ae ia) tle 
 
 _ He drew pencil and paper toward him, and sketched Is- 
 perance’s face from memory, but not altogether success- 
 fully. Dissatisfied with the attempt, he tore it in pieces, 
 and lighting his cigar, gave himself up to a deep medita- 
 tion in which the further imagination of “ Mariana” borea 
 prominent part. 
 
 After morning service the next day Claude went to the 
 deanery, there to. undertake the not very congenial task of 
 painting Bella Mortlake’s portrait. ae 
 
 ‘Mrs. Mortlake was delighted to have obtained her wish. 
 
 “The dear child is quite at her best. I was so very anx- 
 
 ious that she should be painted now—I am so glad you 
 can spare the time. Esperance, run and fetch Bella.” 
 -- Claude arranged his easel, discussed size and position 
 with Mrs. Mortlake, set his palette, waited and fidgeted, 
 but still no Bella appeared. At length a distant screaming 
 was heard, drawing gradually nearer. Mrs. Mortlake has 
 tened to the door and listened. Hsperance’s voice was 
 heard remoastrating. 
 
 “ Bella dear, you must come down; Mr. Magnay is wait- 
 ing for you. See, then, I must leave you and call nurse.” 
 No answer but screams. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake hurried to the scene of action, and Bella 
 was borne into the dining-room, kicking with all her 
 might. 
 
 Claude shrugged his shoulders, and glanced at his 
 “Mariana.” She was paler and sadder-looking than ever, 
 and as she stood waiting for Bella’s sobs to cease, there 
 was a drooping hopelessness about her very attitude which 
 Claude longed to catch. He hastily sketched an outline, 
 and watched her varying expression almost breathlessly. 
 
 Bella was sobbing out something about “ Esperance,” 
 and Mrs. Mortlake, without waiting to find what the real 
 grievance was, turned round with a severity of tone and 
 look quite out of proportion even to the imagined offense. 
 
 “ Hisperance, how often must I tell you not to interfere 
 with my management of Bella ? these crying fits are far 
 more frequent since you came. Why do you aggravate 
 the poor child >” | 
 
 ** Indeed, Christabel, Bella was crying because she did 
 not want to leave the nursery. I only—’ 
 
 «Ah! that is always the way—excuses always ready! No, 
 do not attempt to evade the truth. You know quite well 
 the child is good with every ‘one else. It really is most 
 _ provoking! Here is al!) Mr. Magnay’s time wasted, and 
 
 WON BY WAITING. = 89 
 
90 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Bella's face so swollen with crying that she can not pos 
 sibly have her picture taken.” 
 
 Esperance did notreply. A look of sudden pain passed 
 over her features, her eyes grew more desparingly miser- 
 able—her whole face was expressive of the sense of. isola- 
 tion and injustice. 
 
 Claude drank in her whole aspect and bearing almost 
 greedily, thrilling through and through with the delight 
 of thus grasping “his subject. It was not till a mist of tears 
 dimmed those bright eyes that his human nature began to 
 be touched by the sight of suffering, and half ashamed of 
 his artistic rapture, he turned eagerly to Mrs. Mortlake. 
 
 “Pray don’t think you are wasting my time; and ag 
 to Miss Bella’s face, I expect it will soon be sunny again. 
 Ah! I thought so,” as Bella, who was the most arrant little — 
 flirt, looked up smilingly, and inclined to be propitiated by 
 his attention. 
 
 There was some little difficulty about the placing. One 
 phair was too high, and another too low, and it ended in 
 Mrs. Mortlake’s sending Esperance to the library to fetch 
 one of the large books for Bella to sit on. 
 
 Claude, who, after his momentary forgetfulness, had 
 suddenly become very human and very polite, hurried 
 after her to carry the bulky volume. She was standing by 
 the book-shelves when he entered, pulling not very ener- 
 getically at “ Webster's Dictionary.” 
 
 “Tet me help you,’ ke exclaimed; “thisis a famous 
 
 book indeed, but too heavy for you.” 
 
 She thanked him, and would- have turned away, but he 
 detained her. 
 
 “T wanted to tell you how sorry Tam to have been 
 partly the cause of all this—to do;” he would have said 
 “this scolding,” but prudently refrained. 
 
 “You are very good, but indeed I do not see that you 
 caused it. It is always the same,’ ’ said Esperance, wearily, 
 with the hopeless “ Mariana ” look again. | 
 
 Claude was full of sympathy, but only ventured to say, 
 ‘“‘Miss Bella is somewhat trying, I should fancy. I hope 
 you will give me your help during the sittings, for she will 
 soon look upon me as her arch- tormentor.” 
 
 This was all that passed between them the first day, but 
 it was the foundation of a strong mutual liking. Claude 
 of course admired the subject of his future picture, and 
 felt sorry for one who was doomed to live with Mrs. Mort- 
 lake, while Esperance naturally clung to any one whe 
 
tare Oe, Sain * ae “we 8! eee 2 ON eens ee ees Ae hs 1 tm he SOS AIG aes ne 1) fede oe ele SSD * Ve ok 5+ 
 >. ee se: - A aie oe ae Teo = BIS A roel b <3 Mn cee , 
 . Disa “ . te \s ee oat < 
 
 Paget eh ; _ WON BY WAITING. . 91 
 
 ehowed her the least sympathy or kindness, and looked upon 
 Claude Magnay as one of her greatest friends. 
 
 Had she been a little older, or had her home-training 
 been less simple, she might have been in danger of falling 
 ts as it was, however, the thought never entered her 
 
 ea 7 
 
 Claude’s kindness and his little attentions were too 
 pitying to be at all lover-like, and Esperance, accustomed 
 to live entirely with men, was far more at home with him 
 than with her cousins, and regarded him as a sort of Eng- 
 lish substitute for Gaspard. 
 
 They had several opportunities of meeting, for Claude 
 was often asked to lunch or to dinner, and Bella was so. 
 refractory that her portrait required several sittings. Mrs. 
 Mortlake soon wearied of attending to these, and the duty 
 of keeping the child quiet devolved upon Esperance ; and 
 though at first her confidences were checked by a pretty 
 demureness, she soon found that a sympathetic listener was 
 _ too delightful to be resisted. 
 
 Gradually Claude learned her whole history. She dwelt 
 long on the happy years at the chateau, describing her 
 ‘favorite haunts among the ruins, telling him of the prim 
 old garden with its terraces, its clipped yews, its mazes and 
 grassy paths, and painting the surrounding country in 
 such glowing terms that Claude promised her at some 
 future day to visit it himself, and bring her back a picture 
 of her Lsloved mountains of ‘Auvergne. 
 
 A few questions elicited the whole story of the siege, and 
 the relief of speaking again of her father and of Gaspard, 
 after the long enforced silence, was so great that this alone 
 would havo made her fond of Claude. 
 
 He was really interested and touched by her sad history, 
 and let her see it. 
 
 ‘Your brother is in London still, then?” he inquired, 
 when she had finished the story by telling of her arrival at 
 Rilchester. 
 
 “Ves, he is still at Pentonville, but he has not heard of — 
 
 any work yet.. There seem so many French exiles in Lon- 
 don, and that, of course, makes it more difficult for him.” 
 
 “T am afraid I can not be of much use in helping him, 
 but still I will bear itin mind. You must give me an in- 
 troduction to him, and then I shall be able to give him an 
 account of you and your Rilchester home.” 
 
 “Oh, thank you, you are so good,” said Esperance, grate- 
 fully; then, with a sudden look of fear, “but you must not 
 

 
 92 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 let him think T am unhappy. You will not tell him any- 
 thine that could trouble him ?” 
 
 Claude pr Sgined to be most careful, and delicately turned - 
 
 She conversation, though he was not a little curious to know 
 if the “Moated Grange” were a real necessity for “Mariana.” 
 
 One afternoon, early in October, Esperance, as a most 
 unusual favor, was invited to take a walk with her uncle. 
 He was in the habit of taking a “constitutional” every 
 day, accompanied by Cornelia, “his favorite daughter; but 
 on this particular afternoon Cornelia was unable to go, and 
 the dean had himself asked Esperance to take her place. 
 Half pleased, half frightened, she set out, suiting her pace 
 to her uncie’s slow and rather infirm steps, and now and 
 then venturing little remarks, which, however, failed to at- 
 tract the dean's notice. It was not till they had walked for 
 at least half a mile that he even heard her voice, but then 
 he roused himself from his brown study and looked down 
 at her kindly. 
 
 “JT am used to such a silent companion, my dear, that I 
 
 am out of the nabit of talking. But go on, for [ like the 
 sound of your voice, ib is like poor Amy’s.’ 
 
 “Ts it?” said Esperance, much pleased. “I should like to 
 be like my mother. Am I in other things?” 
 But the topic was not a good one for ‘conversation. Tue 
 
 dean shook his head and sighed deeply, then again re- — 
 
 lapsed into profound meditation. 
 Hsperance was disappointed. She had hoped to hear 
 something of her mother; but though she talked obedient- 
 
 ly, half to herself, half to her uncle, she could not obtain | 
 
 any answer. 
 
 it was certainly a little dull, and it was scarcely surpris- 
 ine that her heart gave a great bound of delight, when in 
 oe the distance she perceived Claude Magnay and one of the 
 minor canons coming toward them. Some one who could 
 talk would be such an inestimable blessing! and her pleas- 
 ure was complete, when on their approach, the dean, 
 suddenly starting from his reverie, shook hands cordially 
 with the two young men, said it was time he should be 
 turning home, and entering into conversation with Mr. 
 White, the minor eanon, left Esperance to follow with 
 Clande. 
 
 “Thave been enjoying. your flat landscape,” began 
 
 lanvie. ‘Mr. White has taken me a glorious walk.” 
 
 Ho looked so fresh and cheerful that Hsperance quite 
 
 envied him. 
 
 
 
 ee al Ce 
 
FEN ss SaaS ia 
 
 
 
 Re ee ok or A tin choe ema Me esrgs et rea Sik Ae sige De ty LSet eS ge 
 ‘f WR Boge i ae ‘ 
 
 WON BY WAITING 95. 
 
 
 
 “Do you really like the country about here ?” she asked, 
 wonderingly. “I think itis the ugliest I ever saw; so 
 bare, and flat, and wide, it quite tires one’s eyes.” 
 
 “T think it has a beauty of its own,” said Claude, “though, 
 
 Pi perhaps, you have to look carefully to see it. Of course I 
 
 don’tmean to say I prefer it to a mountainous country, but 
 
 I think it is unjustly abused. Whatever people say, I 
 
 shall always maitain that there is beauty in— 
 ‘* ¢ The level waste, the rounding gray.’” 
 “Ah! that just expresses it,” said Esperance. “It is all 
 
 go gray, and somber, and dreary.” 
 
 “ Not all,” said Claude, pausing beside a field gate which 
 commanded an extensive view. “Now, look at this; here 
 is the greenest of grass in the foreground—cows grazing — 
 as much color as you could wish in that tiled cottage, and 
 
 _ the faint blue smoke rising into that perfect sky; then out 
 
 beyond you have a boundless expanse. See—this side is 
 
 flooded with light, while over there you have the dark 
 
 shadow of that cloud; then quite in the distance it does 
 all fade into ‘ the rounding gray,’ but you must own now 
 that it is beautiful,” 
 
 Esperance drew a long breath. 
 
 “Yes, it is, indeed ; but I should never have seen all 
 that by myself. Iam glad you showed me.” 
 
 “Tam proud to have introduced you to your own coun- 
 
 try,” said Claude, smiling. 
 
 “Not my own!” she exclaimed, indignantly. 
 
 * Ah! of course not; I forgot,” said Claude, amused by 
 her earnestness. ‘Your Auvergne scenery is, doubtless, 
 much more beautiful, but you will not call this ugly any 
 more ?” ex 
 
 “No, indeed, I will not; and you will tell Gaspard 
 when you see him that you have quite converted me, for I 
 have sent him most unfavorable accounts of the country.” 
 
 «TJ will certainly tell him,” said Claude. “I shall try to 
 see him next week.” . 
 
 “ Do you leave Rilchester so soon >” 
 
 “ Yes, I'll leave to-morrow,” replied Claude. ‘ My com- 
 
 mission is finished, and it is time I was at home again.” 
 
 “T am so sorry,” said Esperance, simply. “ But it is de- 
 lightful to think of your seeing Gaspard so soon, though 
 it makes me a little envious.” 
 
 «You will be coming up to town soon, perhaps,” sug- 
 gested Claude. : 3 
 
94 7 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Esperance shook her head. 
 
 “TI don’t see how that can be, but of course I hope, or 
 else I could not get on at all; my motto in life must be-~ 
 
 - Esperez toujours.’ ” 
 
 Tt is certainly a good one,” replied Claude, musingly, 
 but in his artist-soul longing to catch once more the hope- 
 less look which he wished to represent in his picture. 
 
 It did not return that afternoon, but the next day, when 
 he paid his farewell call to the’ deanery, all the expression 
 of dejection, misery, and hopelessness was there in full 
 force. Esperance was evidently in disgrace, while Mrs. 
 Mortlake and Cornelia were in that disturbed, ruffled state 
 which betokens a family disagreement; and although Mrs. 
 Mortlake was particularly cordial, Claude detected sub- 
 dued irritation in the forced tone of her voice. 
 
 Esperance scarcely spoke, but sat looking half abstract- 
 edly out of the window, her knitting lying untouched on 
 her knee, her hands tightly clasped. 
 
 Claude could not have wished for a better opportunity, 
 but now that his desire was granted he began to feel such 
 pity for Esperance that he would far rather have missed 
 seeing her. 
 
 He tried to draw her into the conversation, ae without 
 success ; she answered with constraint, and only looked 
 more miserable. 
 
 At last he rose to go, took leave of Mrs. Mortlake and 
 Cornelia, and then turned to Esperance, determined that 
 she should at least speak to him. 
 
 ~ “You will not forget our walk yesterday, and the beau- 
 ' ties of level country?” he said, smiling. 
 
 She colored painfully, and her hand trembled as Claude: 
 
 took it in his. 
 
 “ What message may I take for you to your brother >” he 
 asked. 
 
 Her color deepened, the tears rose to her eyes, and her 
 voice was low and tremulous as she answered : 
 
 “ Tell him, please, that Iam very well, that—that I will 
 write soon—’ 
 
 She broke off abruptly, not daring to trust her voice any 
 longer, and Claude, seeing that it was sheer cruelty to 
 keep her, said good-bye, tried to put Mrs. Mortlake in a 
 good humor by leaving a playful message for Bella, and 
 
 alluding to her prettiness, then left the house, dissatisfied 
 
 and perplexed. 
 
 Esperance was really almost desperate. Claude could — 
 
 a! ghee 
 

 
 Cs WON BY WAITING. es 96 
 
 hardly have chosen a more unfavorable time for his visit, 
 for as he had rightly judged he had come in during a dis- 
 pute, if indeed that could be called disputing in which two 
 leagued against one refused to listen to reason or justice. 
 _ Fall arose from a simple remark made by Esperance. 
 _ She casually mentioned Claude’s intended departure, and 
 this led to an account of their walk on the preceding day. 
 _ Mrs. Mortlake, ever ready to find fault, deciared that she 
 behaved with far too much freedom, that she ought to have 
 kept beside the dean, and not allowed herself a téle-d-téle 
 with Claude Magnay. 
 
 Esperance explained that this had not been possible, and 
 owned that it had never occurred to her that any one could 
 
 think so simple an act improper. 
 
 _ Whereat Mrs. Mortlake accused her of speaking dis- 
 respectfully, denounced her “ French” manners, and losing 
 all prudence and justice in her anger, said that all along 
 she had been flirting with Claude. 
 
 Esperance was so entirely innocent in this respect that 
 for a moment she was too much surprised and shocked to 
 refute the charge. She was unaccustomed to society, and 
 knew little either of French or English etiquette, and her 
 father had been well content to leave her without any arti- 
 ficial rules beyond those of natural good-breeding. While | 
 she paused Cornelia uttered one of her cold sarcasms. 
 
 “ Never mind, Christabel, you know the proverb, ‘ French 
 women know how to make nets, but not cages.’ ” 
 
 Then Esperance had lost all self-control, and with flash- 
 ing eyes had turned upon her cousins, 
 _ ©You may talk abeut French women as you like, but I 
 will let you know that such a speech as that would never . 
 have passed the lips of those whom you despise—tuey at 
 least do not speak rudely. And what you say is false—un- 
 . true—unjust. Such an idea would never have entered my 
 
 head if you had not suggested it—no, never !” 
 
 Cornelia, a little vexed at her own most unwarrantable 
 apeech, tried to calm her down, and entered into a long 
 - disquisition on the folly of losing temper in an argument; 
 but Esperance scarcely heard, her anger had died away, 
 
 and she could only dwell in grief and dismay on the accus 
 sation broug!it avainst her. 
 
 While Cornelia was still speaking, Claude had been an- 
 nouced, and it may well be imagined that Hsperance was 
 embarrassed and self-conscious—for the first time in her 
 life, however. Shame, annoyance, and unutterable longing 
 
+ SS ee Pe acer eae in, a . a Te el A ay \ 
 AY Ree PERS eC EE th oe RED CRE Ry Re ERO FPO ieee amet oxy Ahly ave eo 
 a dy 2 at a au koh SEL As Oy OL dll Bed . oe bares Seat ie ht, a ew sect am yee f 
 Le hee ae = = ap? S- eh a 
 
 
 
 96 WON BY WAITING. ‘ 
 
 for Gaspard were filling her heart, and Claude’s kindness 
 and the thought of his proposed visit to her brother proved 
 too much for her very imperfect self-control. 
 
 By the time he was fairly out of the room she was crying 
 unrestrainedly, and was far too miserable to heed Corne- 
 lia’s long harangue on the duty of self-mastery. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake might well feel dismayed at the tempest 
 she had raised, but she wastoo much blinded by conceit 
 to see the full extent of the harm she had done. Shemade 
 some pretentions to virtue, and was consequently vexed 
 that an exaggerated, if not wholly untrue, accusation had 
 
 escaped her, but rather than own herself in the wrong she _ 
 still stood by it, and though conscience pricked her into 
 
 making some useless attempts to pacify Esperance, she 
 would not retract what she had said. 
 
 The breach between the cousins was in consequence ~— 
 
 greatly widened, and the effect on Esperance was most 
 disastrous. She grew more and more ready to see faults 
 
 in all around her, her face rarely lost its expression of _ 
 hopeless suffering, her manners lost much of their grace 
 
 and ease, and, worst of all, Mrs. Mortlake’s perpetual fault- 
 
 finding began to make her self-conscious and introspect- 
 
 ive. She gave up even attempting to love her cousing, — 
 and, consequently, was at once open to all those faults — 
 
 from which she had hitherto been free. When love— 
 
 which had been her guard and strength all her life—was — 
 
 allowed to die, selfishness at once stepped in, bringing in 
 
 its train false pride, discontent, suspicion, and a morbid — 
 
 sensitiveness ; while what had formerly been courageous 
 patience was turned into a falsely assumed callousness and 
 indifference. 
 
 The only things which kept her from utter ruin were © 
 
 Gaspard’s letters, full of the old love and confidence—al- 
 though her answers were most disappointing—and the re- 
 membrance of her father. Even these did not hinder her 
 from sinking very low, but they kept one soft spot in hes 
 heart which could never alter, - 
 
 st 
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 x 
 5. 
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 @ON BY WAITING. ; 97 
 
 ‘CHAPTER XVL 
 
 Find out men’s wants and will, 
 And meet them there. All worldly joys go less 
 To the one joy of doing kindnesses. 
 : G. HERBERT, 
 
 Wrz Msperance was passing through hard experiences 
 tty Rilchester, Gaspard was being tried, though ina dif-_ 
 ferent way, in London. They were each strangely altered, 
 but while, with Esperance, trouble seemed working so 
 much harm, with Gaspard it was very different. He had 
 been toc thoroughly roused by the events of the past year 
 ever to fall back again to the selfishness which had been 
 his chief fault, and for which his present enforced lone- ’ 
 liness seemed to him but a just retribution. His patience 
 was being sorely tried by the long and apparently fruitless 
 waiting time ; but as, week by week, his longing for work 
 and action increased, and his poverty grew more and more 
 irksome, an inner strength and power of endurance grew 
 too, and his restlessness and self-seeking were gradually 
 — gubdued. 
 
 He had, however, suffered greatly, and in outward ap- 
 pearance was as much changed as Esperance, for his pov- 
 erty was not comparative, but actual hunger and want. 
 Tnen, too, the state of France, and the fearful accounts of 
 _ the Commune and its suppression made him miserable 
 
 - enough; while his anxiety for Esperance, and the pain of 
 knowing that she was unhappy and changed, without the 
 possibility of helping her, was perhaps the worst trouble 
 of all. 
 
 Although work was nof to be had, he would not give up 
 all hope of obtaining it in time, and employed himself iz 
 thoroughly mastering the English language, knowing thit 
 it woul.l be of great use to him. 
 
 One afternoon late in October he was hard at work a‘; a 
 difficult piece of translation, when the landlady, with quite 
 a beaming face, announced a visitor. Gaspard glanced at 
 _ the ecard, which was, as he had expected, that of Mr. Mag- 
 
 nay, for Esperance had mentioned his intended visit i her 
 last letter. } 
 
 Hs hastened to greet him, with the heartiness of real 
 pleasure, for, like poor Esperance, he was greatly in need 
 of some one to talk to, and though the landlady was both 
 
y WON BY WAITING. | 
 
 kind-hearted and conversational, he was beginning to wearg 
 of her stock of prosy anecdotes, and of trying to commu- 
 nicate his thoughts to the sleek, purring Bismarck. 
 
 Even if Claude had been the most uninteresting of mor- 
 tals he would have been welcomed ; and when Gaspard 
 found that he was a thorough gentleman, a good taiker, 
 and, unlike the proverbial Englishman, neither proud, 
 Suspicious, nor reserved, he threw all possible warmth and 
 friendliness into his manner, and before long the two were 
 talking as intimately as if they had known each other 
 for years. 
 
 They were a strange contrast. Claude, fair-haired andf 
 fresh complexioned, the picture of health, with bright, 
 genial manners and almost superfluous energy. Gaspard, 
 pallid and emaciated, his cleariy-cut features bespeaking 
 
 Oe te ee 
 
 delicacy of constitution, and his animated conversation and © 
 
 ready smile rather belied by the suffering look which his 
 face wore when in repose. : 
 
 They had talked long about the Franco-Prussian war, and 
 Gaspard had related his experience asa National « uard: 
 before Claude delivered Esperance’s message, and then 
 naturally the conversation turned upon Rilchester. 
 
 “Tt must be very dull indeed, according to my sister’s 
 
 account,” said Gaspard. “I hear that cathedral towns | < 
 
 have rather that reputation in England.” 
 
 “Tt is a small, decayed town, certainly,” replied Claude; 
 “but though perhaps it is narrower, I doubt if it is more 
 
 dull than most provincial places. This is not the first time 
 
 I have stayed there, and I assure you there is really very~ 
 
 good society there, if you can pick and choose., There are 
 cliques, of course, but one can keep out of them, or perhaps 
 get into them all.” 
 
 «You can, of course,” said Gaspard, smiling, “but that 
 is only because you are a privileged being—a celebrity. 
 I imagine that the deanery would not care to follow your 
 example.” 
 
 “To tell you the truth, the deanery heads the narrowest 
 clique of all,” replied Claude, “and I fancy that is why 
 your sister is & little unjust to the whole of Rilchester; she 
 only secs the most ponderous and duil part of the place. 
 I have heard Mrs. Mortlake boast that they are only inti- 
 mate with the families of the bishop and the archdeas 
 con.” 
 
 Gaspard could not help smiling. 
 
 “ Tisperance has sent me laughable accounts of the stiff 
 
ee eer 
 
 Pe eo ON HY WATTING: , 99° 
 
 -dinner-partics, and this explains it all; they must indeod 
 be narrow-minded.” 
 
 “You do not know Dean Collinson personally ?” asked 
 Claude, half doubtfully. ' 
 
 Gaspard flushed a little. 
 
 “No, hitherto he has been no friend to our family, but 
 he has been very good in helping us now—that is to say, 
 he has provided for Esperance. You can understand, how- 
 ever, that dependence is not altogether pleasing under the 
 circumstances.” Iam afraid it is doing Esperance no good. 
 Did you think her looking happy ?” 
 
 lt was an awkward question. Claude paused for a mo- 
 ment, tuen said, “ Hardly happy, I think; but I am sure 
 she is inclined to make the the best of things ; she told me 
 that her motto in life was ‘ Espérez toujours.’ ” 
 
 “Poor child!” said Gaspard, with a sigh. 
 
 There was a moment’s silence, during which Claude — 
 watched his companion’s troubled face with a great deal of 
 interest. 
 
 His next question, however, was almost as hard to 
 answer. 
 
 “And our relatives, are they kind-hearted? Do not 
 shrink from telling me your real opinion, for I want really 
 to know.” 
 
 «The dean is thoroughly good and kind,” said Claude, 
 reflectively, “absent and indifferent in many things, and 
 engrossed a good deal by his favorite hobby, astronomy ; 
 but I have never seen him otherwise than kind and cour- 
 teous.” 
 
 “And is he fond of Esperance ?” — 
 
 *T can net tell, but I think he must be. I remember, 
 too, I met them out walking together one day.” 
 
 Gaspard was pleased and relieved, and inquired after the 
 other members of the family. 
 
 “T really can not tell what they are like,” said Claude, 
 hesitatingly. ‘Mrs. Mortlake varies a greatdeal. Usually 
 she is one of those would-be gracious ladies, whom one 
 rather distrusts; she is quite devoted to her little girl, 
 though. I know little of the other daughters; the elder 
 is very learned and the chief confidante of her father, the 
 _ younger very silent and indifferent.” | 
 
 Gaspard sat musing over this account of the family at the 
 deanery, and Claude, fearing that a further catechism might 
 - elicit more than Esperance wished her brother to know. rose 
 
 to take leave, not however oeiore he had given Gaspard his 
 
Sa, sigs, wlio Sa a ore SRN? tor a ta hm Bis ter er Para bs 
 re cet ts al Du Eee Be Ate 
 ae 
 2 f x 
 
 100 won BY WAITING. 
 
 address at St. John’s Wood, and made him promise to visit 
 him very soon. 
 
 Lhe next week brought a letter from Esperance, but it 
 was no comfort to Gaspard, for though, still, she would not 
 give words to her complaint, the tone of the letter was 
 bitter and discontented. Only one sentence was there in 
 the whole sheet to which Gaspard eared to revert; ib was 
 the following : 
 
 “1 think of you so often in your loneliness, mon ami, and 
 am very glad Mr. Magnay has made you a visit. He was 
 very kind to me here, or really I think I should have 
 ceased to believe in any kind of goodness. Kilchester 1s 
 like the stagnant water in the ruined fountain at Mabillon, 
 when it got half frozen over in the winter, and the people 
 are like the unhappy, stiff-looking water-lilies.” 
 
 Gaspard folded the letter sadly enough, then, anxious to 
 escape from his own thoughts, and parily reminded by 
 Hsperance’s references, he set out to pay his promised ee) 
 ow Claude Magnay. 
 
 Having found his houso—a large and rather eloomy one, 
 with a northern aspect—Gaspard was ushered upstairs by 
 
 a mischievous-looking little page to the studio, where he 
 
 found Claude haré at work finishing one of his Scotch 
 pictures. 
 
 “Tam afraid I haxe come at a busy time,” said Gaspard. 
 cH You must forgive an idle man for his want of considera- 
 tion.” 
 
 Claude had seemed scarcely to notice his entrance—it 
 
 was but for a moment, however. Gaspard had not finished 
 his sentence before he had thrown down his brushes and 
 mahlstick, and hastened forward. 
 - Tam so glad you have come! No, indeed, Iam not 
 busy, only Idid »et hear you announved, Hither that 
 young monkey of « wage was afraid of your foreign name 
 or else I was dreap#ng over that Scotch water-fall.” 
 
 “That was it, evidently,” replied Gaspard,. smiling. 
 
 “For you would b«ve been amused to hear your boy’s vere . 
 
 gion of my name—’ Dull Muddle on.’ 
 
 Claude laughed heartily. 
 
 “That boy ree‘ly surpasses! If you knew the pranks 
 he is up to! I @aly keep him because of his face—substi- 
 tute wings for battons, and you have the most angelic crea- 
 ture. See!” and he pointed to a canvas on one of his 
 easols. “I haze him in progress now, wings and all, with 
 
 a background of elouds. It would be delightful - to lave 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 ‘i. 
 
 eae 
 
 oe rt eet tea ty eatin ee ea iat ann : Se gpterr 
 Fe ae tee ed en See neh gee eae UTR 
 
 He a 
 a A 
 
 ee 
 er 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. | 102 
 
 him in next year’s Academy—No. 131, ‘ Master John Jones!’ 
 I declare I will do it.” : : 
 
 Gaspard laughed. There was something so novel to him 
 
 in the whole proceeding that he quite forgot his troubles, 
 and sat listening amusedly to Claude, who was in high 
 spirits after a long day’s work, and kept up a continuous 
 flow of taik. There was a certain charm, too, ,about 
 the curious room, which was half studio, half sitting- 
 room, and very untidy and bachelor-like. The fur- 
 niture was irregular in the extreme; high-backed chairs, 
 an antique mirror, and a carved oak table, were strangely 
 mingled with modern appliances, wiile colors of 
 every description were to be found in an unwarrantable 
 number of curtains and rugs, the latter relieving the stained 
 ait polished floor. Claude, in his loose working jacket 
 and red smoking-cap, furnished another incongruous ele- 
 ment, and Gaspard could scarcely believe that this light- 
 hearted fellow could be the presiding genius of the place, 
 and the ereator, as it were, of the wealth of pictures scat- 
 _tared all over the room. 
 - He asked leave to look at some of them, and Claude’s 
 wistiul gravity at once returned, while, with no pretense 
 of mock humility, but rather with the fondness of a parent, 
 he exhibited his works. — 
 
 Lwo or three of his Rilchester pictures, not yet framed, — 
 were standing on the top of a low book-case, and Gaspard 
 was of course, much interested in them. One was of 
 the exterior of the cathedral, and Claude took it in 
 his hand to place in ina better light, while he tried to 
 describe the position of the deanery. But Gaspard did 
 not heed him—his eyes were fixed on the picture which 
 had stood behind, and which was now fully revealed. 
 It was unfinished, but not so as to take away from 
 the effect. A dusky foreground, just showing a tattered 
 curtain and moidering wall, a casement window, through 
 which the moonlight was streaming, and a glimpse of a 
 wide plain, glimmering here and there with the faint bright- 
 ness of light reflected in a watery marsh. Standing by the 
 window, her hand on the fastening, as if in the act of closing 
 if, stood Hsperance, her face plainly revealed by the cold 
 light of the moon, and full of hopeless misery, while dis- 
 appointment and weariness were expressed in her listless, 
 arvoping upure, 
 
 Gaspard gazed on as if he could never take his eyes from 
 hor face, and Claude, who had not intended him to see i¢ 
 
 - 
 
102 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 atall, was both vexed and puzzled. That he had recognized 
 his sister was undoubted ; he could hardly fail, then, to 
 know the full extent of her unhappiness. It was certain- 
 ly a most unlucky accident. 
 
 Tt was a relief when at length Gaspard spoke, though his 
 repressed voice was not reassuring. 
 
 “You painted it at Rilchester, then ?” 
 
 “No; oh, no. I merely got an idea from your sister’s 
 face, made a sketch of it, and am now working it up-as 
 ‘Mariana in the Moated Grange.’ I hope you will not 
 think I took a great liberty. You must allow for the license 
 of an artist.” - 
 
 “Do you think I mind that for an instant,” said Gas- 
 pard. ‘But that hopeless wretchedness and dejection! 
 Has she really come to that? I knew she must be changed, 
 _ but that is surely exaggerated.” 
 
 Claude would have given a great deal to have been able 
 to answer in the affirmative, but if was impossible; nor 
 would he equivocate. After a moment's thought, he 
 answered, “1 saw that expression on her face, but of 
 ‘ourse it was not always.there; at times she was quite bright 
 ind merry.” 
 
 “She used to be the merriest child in all france,” sighed 
 Gaspard. 
 
 He was still looking sadly at the picture, when the door 
 
 was opened by Claude’s “Child Angel,” who announced, 
 with truly cockney pronunciation—* Lady Worthington.” 
 
 Claude hastened forward to receive his visitor, aud Gas- 
 pard, recognizing the name, and looking up rather curious- 
 ly, saw a tall and peculiarly graceful woinan, middle-aged, 
 yet still young-looking, her fine, classical features, bright, 
 humorous eyes, and ready smile full of attraction, while 
 her co:aplexion, though a little worn, retained much of its 
 bloor. 
 
 There was something very fascinating about her man- 
 
 ner, 12¢ Gaspard’s opinion of English women was raised;s, 
 
 he only stayed for a moment, however, not sorry for the 
 opportunity of escaping, to indulge in his sad reflections 
 about Esperance, and to revolve impossible schemes for 
 releasing her, 
 
 «T feel as if I ought to know that young Frenchman,” 
 said Lady Worthington, when Gaspard had left the room ; 
 “vet [ can’t remember where I have secn him before. ~ 
 
 “ His name is Gaspard de Mabillon, and he is a nephew 
 of the Dean of Rilchester,” said Claude. 
 
 7 
 
 a 
 or Cet Cees ‘ 
 he ae aA ae . 
 6, ao oP ee 
 
WON BY WAITING. os 103 
 
 “Of Dean Collinson? De Mabillon? Oh! nowIremem- 
 ber it all; his father married poor Amy Collinson. How 
 terribly one forgets names; I must have seen this young 
 m:n years and years ago, when he was a child, but ot 
 course it is the likeness to his father that I must have rec- 
 ognized. Is he in London, too?” 
 
 “No, he is dead—killed in the siege of Paris,” replied 
 Clauds. “Little Mademoiselle de Mabillon is living at the 
 deanery, and she told me all about it.” | 
 _. “How shocking! I had no idea of that!” exclaimed 
 
 Lady Worthington. ‘We had so completely lost sight of 
 them. He was a noble-minded man, and was most unjustly 
 treated by Dean Collinson.” 
 
 “ You knew him, then, personally ?” asked Claude. 
 
 “ Yes—slightly, that is. My mother was very fond of 
 Amy Collinson, and about two years after her marriage we 
 were traveling in France and spent a night with them, in 
 their curious old ruined castle. I was quite a girl then, 
 _ and really had forgotten the name of the family. Poor 
 things, it was a sad story altogether. What induced them 
 to come to England >” 
 
 “T hardly know; but they seem to be very poor. I 
 ~ believe the dean has adopted the little girl.” 
 
 “Indeed! I must go and see her when we go back to 
 Worthington ; the exodus is already beginning ; the first 
 installment of nurses and children went off this morning, 
 and I only meant now just to come in and wish you 
 good-bye, but as usual I have been betrayed into gossip- 
 ing?” 
 
 Lady Worthington was quite an old family friend of the 
 Magnays, and since they had been left orphans, she had 
 taken them specially under her protection. Claude owed 
 a creat deal to her; she was undoubtedly very fond of 
 him, and after his sisters had gone to India, and he had 
 been left to himself, she had spared no pains in helping 
 him, constantly inviting him to her house, and what was 
 better, really winning his confidence, and giving him 
 - almost a son’s place in her affections. 
 
 Claude was by no means her only protegé; she was 
 genuinely warm-hearted, and really wore herself out for 
 other people when she liked them. She had, however, 
 strong dislikes as well, and when any one was not in her 
 rood books, she allowed it to appear in her manner quite 
 as much as good-breeding would permit. This, added to 
 her earelessness of appearances, was no doubt the reason 
 
lg ae ne as Be 5 +3 r * OD waka 3M, ST nee ae Gu, in cas eM eg gE Be a Se tS i ar 4 itpaha moe 
 : : <a syanbewg Sosy he Ree tale Cees PERC ge ps 
 ; a 7 
 
 Pde WON BY WAITING. 
 
 why she was often not so much appreciated as she ought 
 to have been. 
 
 Claude knew that the Collinsons were not particular 
 
 favorites of hers. Worthington Hall, Sir Henry’s country 
 house, was only two miles from Rilchester, and the fami- 
 lies were of course acquainted ; he was, however, not sure 
 how far Lady Worthington cared for the intercourse, and 
 began rather hesitatingly to ask what had long been in his 
 mind. ; 
 
 “Have you time and inclination to add one other to 
 - your long list of protégés? Because, if so, little Made- 
 moiselle de Mabillon is the person of all others who is in 
 need. Sheseems quite miserable at the deanery.” 
 
 “ Poor child!” said Lady Worthington, compassionately. 
 «Tt must indeed be a dreary house ; tell me about her.” 
 
 ‘Perhaps this will tell you better than words,” said 
 Claude, bringing forward his picture. “Accidentally her 
 brother caught sight of that when he was hero, and I wish 
 you could have seen his face of grief and dismay! He 
 says she used to be the brightest child imaginable.” 
 
 “And that is really her likeness? such a young face, 
 and so utterly miserable! You have been cxaggerating, 
 Claude.” - 
 
 “T am afraid not,” said Claude, smiling. “ But that you 
 will see when you are at Rilchester. You do not think it 
 a-bad return for your kindness to me, that I bring you 
 fresh ‘cases.’” : 
 
 Lady Worthington laughed. 
 
 “ It is like the story of the man who cured a lame dog, — 
 
 which, as soon as it was well, ran away and brought its 
 lame friend. I shall be only too glad, though, to help this 
 little girl if I can; but the deanery is a terribly unap- 
 proachable house. I wish Thad known that young Mon- 
 sieur de Mabillon ; he must have thought me inconsider- 
 ate not to recall his father’s name. Where does he live?” 
 
 ‘In some wretched rooms at Pentonville,’ answered 
 Claude, wondering if Gaspard, also, were to be adopted. 
 
 “T think I will drive round that way and just see him , 
 he may have something to send to -his sister; and I feel 
 sure Sir Henry would wish it. Yes, I will certainly do so; 
 he must be home by this time. Then good-bye for the pres- 
 ent, Claude; you will let us hear from you, will you not? 
 And remember that you must spend Christmas with us at 
 Worthington, if you can, but don’t refuse a better invita 
 tion.” 
 
 RM fal Shee a fat at 
 Set hee GS pir re Mae Me nes Sa 
 ah a ~-)) i vi 
 
 
 

 
 aS BR ee Se Engr Wada ALK Ten) PL Se eT 
 
 Poe WON GY WattNG, 0B 
 
 _ “Thank you, a thousand times,” replied Claude, grate- 
 fully. ‘For me there could be no better.” 
 
 _ Lady Worthington looked anxiously at her watch as she 
 drove away from St. John’s Wood. It was very much out 
 of her way to visit Gaspard de Mabillon, and her last day 
 in town was, necessarily, a busy one, but now that the idea 
 had once entered her head she would not give it up. Her 
 coachman, therefore, received orders to drive fast to the 
 address which Claude had given, and being accustomed to 
 
 her ladyship’s freaks did not even grumble, thougha bad 
 
 fog ae coming on, and the horses. were already far from 
 
 - fresh. 
 
 Arrived at the baker’s shop, and having ascertained that 
 M. de Mabillon was at home, Lady Worthington hastened 
 in, and was shown upstairs by the astonished landlady, 
 who was fairly dazzled by such an unexpected advent as a 
 - Carriage and pair, and a lady in seal-skin and sables. She 
 opened the sitting-room door, and announced the visitor 
 with delighted pomposity. Lady Worthington had just 
 time to see Gaspard standing by the mantle-piece, his face 
 buried in his hands, before he hurriedly raised his head 
 and came forward, doing the honors of his shabby little 
 room with a grave courtesy which pleased his guest. 
 
 She began to explain her reasons for coming. 3 
 “JT was so afraid you would think me rude. I did not 
 
 recall your name justnow in Mr. Magnay’s studio ; neither 
 my husband nor I had the least idea you were in Lon- 
 don.” 
 
 “We came over in March, madame,” said Gaspard. 
 
 “Ah! so long ago as that? I wish I had known before. 
 
 Both Sir Henry and I knew your mother, as, perhaps, you -* 
 
 have heard. I hope you had other friends in town, though, — 
 or you must have had a cold welcome to England.” — 
 - We knew no one at first, madame ; but my sister went 
 to Rilchester in the summer to live with Dean Collinson, 
 our uncle,” replied Gaspard. 
 
 “So Mr. Magnay was telling me; and I thought perhaps | 
 I might come to see you, so that I might take the last 
 accounts of you to your sister. We live only two miles 
 from Rilchester, and I must certainly go to see her.” 
 
 “A thousand thanks, madame, you are very good; and 
 Esperance will be very much pleased, I am sure.” 
 
 Lady Worthington was in too great a hurry to waste 
 words, she went straight to her point. 
 
 « Now will you tell me candidly in what way you think I 
 
106 WON BY WAITING. . 
 can be of any use to your sister? One mighé call for years 
 at the deanery, and never really learn to know a person.” 
 
 “ Madame is very good. I think all that Esperance wants 
 is to be loved. She misses the home petting which she 
 has always been used to.” 
 
 “Poor child! And that motherless household is the very 
 worst she could have gone to. I will try to get at her, 
 indeed. You must want her here sadly,’ and Lady 
 Worthington glanced round the bare, comfortless room, 
 with its fireless grate, flaring gas-burner, and uncurtained 
 window. . 
 
 A shade crossed Gaspard’s face, and he paused a minute 
 before answering. 
 
 “Tam glad she should be living in a comfortable house, 
 at least. The separation is of course hard to bear, but I 
 shall feel happier about her now that I know she will have 
 your kindness, madame.” 
 
 Lady Worthington was touched by his simple, unaffected 
 way of speaking. She would gladly have seen more of him, 
 but ib was already so late that this was impossible. She 
 rose reluctantly. : 
 
 “This is a very short and unceremonious visit,” she said, 
 holding out her hand to Gaspard, “ but I hope when we are 
 in town again, in the spring, we shall learn to know you 
 well ; and, meantime, I can at least tell your sister I have 
 seen you.” . 3 
 ~ Gaspard could only reiterate his thanks; and Lady 
 
 Worthington, getting into her carriage, drove quickly 
 home, trying to think of any means by which she might 
 help the poor, proud, and apparently half-starved French- 
 man. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; 
 I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; 
 Woe’s me for mine own heart that dwells alone, 
 My heart that breaketh for a little love. 
 | CHRISTINA RossErtt, 
 
 Ir was quite six o’clock before her ladyship’s tired horses 
 veached Kensington. She herself was cold and weary, but — 
 in spite of it there was an alertness in her step as she as- 
 cended the broad staircase which bespoke her indomitable 
 energy. She opened the drawing-room door, and gave a 
 relieved exclamation to find within only her younger sis- 
 ter, Frances Neville. | 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. ‘S107 
 
 “fam home again, at last. Iwas so afraid you would 
 have a whole roomful of visitors,” she exclaimed, drawing 
 off her gloves and warmins her hands by the fire. 
 
 “You have just escape’ them,” said Frances, smiling. 
 **T have had six editions, 2nd Colonel and Mrs. Vigar have 
 woly been gone a few minutes.” 
 
 “ The unconscionable peopie to stay so late! Tiring you 
 out, too, poor child. You look as white as a sheet. Is 
 Henry in ?” : 
 
 “I fancy I heard his step outside ; but I am not certain. 
 Tell me where you have been, Katharine. You have hada 
 long afternoon.” | 
 
 Yes, very. I will tell you all when I come down, but I 
 inust first speak to Henry if he is at home.” And- Lady 
 Worthington hastened away. 
 
 The two sisters were a strange contrast. Frances was 
 
 many years the younger; she was now about eight-and- 
 
 twenty, though her complexion of almost infantine fairness, 
 
 and her abundance of pale golden hair made her appear 
 much less. She was evidently very delicate, her features 
 were sharpened as if by constant suffering, and the mouth, 
 though sweet, was still more expressive of firm endurance. 
 Her eyes were like Lady Worthington’s, clear gray—but 
 ‘while with the elder sister they were full of humorous 
 
 brightness and good nature, with Frances they expressed 
 
 patient happiness and a rarely disturbed serenity. 
 
 Yet her life had been by no means an easy one. A tiny, 
 sickly baby, she had lived and grown almost miraculously, 
 struggling through illness after illness, and at length gain- 
 jag some degree of health, though strength could never be 
 hers. What was denied to her body, however, seemed to 
 be added to her mind. Almost every one who knew her 
 leaned unconsciously upon her, for there was in her that 
 steadfast love of truth, and that earnest following after 
 good, which only can engender real trust. This, added to_ 
 a clear perception and ready sympathy, made her almost 
 universally loved, and gave her greater influence than 
 Lady ‘Worthington, with all her kind deeds, could ever 
 obtain. The two sisters, however, worked very well 
 togeiner, each recognizing her own peculiar calling; Lady 
 Worthington describing Frances Neville’sas the “ ghostly” 
 mission. and her own as the ‘‘ bodily.” 
 
 Ali this had not ot course been attained without many 
 strugeles, nor was Frances ever entirely free from the dif- 
 
 - ficulties and perplexed questionings which will always 
 

 
 i08 WON BY WACTING. 
 
 atiack an active mind, particularly when bodily activity is 
 at all restrained; but she had long ago learned the secret 
 
 of a happy life, and though her scrupulous exactness would ~ 
 
 not allow her to think even the most trifling thing im- 
 
 material, and laid down for her the most carefully drawn 
 
 dist. iction between right and wrong, she was kept from 
 narrowness—or rather necessarily widened by her high, 
 indwelling motive. | 
 
 Since her mother’s death, which was several years before, 
 Frances had lived with her sister—an arrangement which 
 seemed to suit all parties. Lady Worthington liked having 
 some one to nurse and tend, and Frances, though not anu 
 actual invalid, always needed great care. Her infiuence, 
 too, in the house was exactly what was required. Her two 
 romping nephews, Harry ard Fred, and little “tomboyish, ” 
 noisy Kathie, were quiet and gentle when “Aunt Fanny” 
 was in the room, and she seemed to have the power of 
 drawing out all the good in them—the chivalrous love 
 of the boys and the womanly tenderness in her littl 
 niece. 
 
 When Lady Worthington leftthe room, something of tha 
 
 brightness faded, however, from Frances’s face. She wat 
 very tired, and as she lay on the sofa with throbbing head 
 and wearied limbs, the oft-recurring question, which must 
 have suggested itself to so many, began to trouble her. 
 What good came of those calls which she had received 
 that day? Had not her afternoon been wasted? She had 
 intended to do so much—to finish some of her work for the 
 poor, to learn an accompaniment for Sir Henrv, to go to 
 
 afternoon church, and all had been frustrated by a weary 
 
 succession of callers. What good had they done her? 
 what good could she have done them? she asked herself, 
 Had not every one of her visitors probably regarded 
 
 the call as a tiresome duty, and been only too thankful 
 
 when their “ten minutes” or “ quarter of an hour” was 
 over, and they were free te go? And what had they talk- 
 ed of ? The weather, the returns to town, the “ Tich- 
 
 borne” case, the latest marriages in high life, the music 
 at some of the West End churches, and the recent publi-. 
 
 cations. Was this worth all that it had cost her? 
 
 She had only arrived at the conclusion that morning 
 calls were necessary andright hnt withovt baving dis- 
 covered any wav fow mpivving them, wnen ner sister re- 
 
 turned, followed by Sir Henry—a tall, handsome man, 
 “ith iron-gray hair,a very powerful face, and the bearingof 
 
Ro MO eT ohh " a 
 ~ 
 
 eo WON Ey WArNG. = 109 
 
 
 
 one accustomed to command, tempered by the most pere 
 _ fect courtesy. | : | 
 
 Lady Worthington, distressed by her sister’s pale, suf- 
 fering face, hastened to arrange her cushions, tending 
 her with an assiduity which might have been tiresome had 
 it not been done with such grace and with such loving 
 anxiety. | 
 
 “Tf L had only thought about it and come home sooner 
 ‘you would have been spared ali this,” she said, with com- 
 punction. “People seem to come back to town so much 
 sarlier than they used to do—I can’t imagine why.” 
 
 “There has been less traveling this year,” said Sir 
 lienry ; “ that may, perhaps, account for it. The state of 
 irance has frightened people.” 
 
 “Ah! your speaking of France reminds me—whom do 
 
 - you think I met this afternoon ?—a son of that Monsieur 
 ~ de Mabillon, who married Amy Collinson.” 
 
 ** Monsieur de Mabillon !” exclaimed Sir Henry, smiling; 
 “my some time rival, whom I have been blessing ever 
 since I—” : 
 
 “ Now, Henry !” interrupted Lady Worthington, coloring 
 and smiling. : 
 
 He answered by stooping to kiss her on the forehead, 
 
 and there was a moment's silence, while Frances, under- 
 
 standing it all, could not resist watching her sister’s beau- 
 tiful and still wonderfully youthful face, softened as it was 
 ‘by love and happiness. 
 “You met Monsieur de Mabillon, did you say?” asked 
 Sir Henry, half abstractedly. 
 ¢ No, his son,” answered Lady Worthington. ‘He, poor 
 - tnan, was killed during the siege of Paris. Curiously 
 enough, when I went to say good-bye to Claude Magnay 
 this afternoon, I found young Gaspard de Mabillon at his 
 studio, and half recognized him. Afterward Claude told 
 me who he was, and I went to see him myself at his rooms. 
 
 It seems that he and his sister left France in the spring ; 
 
 she is now with the Collinsons, at Rilchester, and he trying 
 for work here, but quite unsuccessfully.” 
 « And you, of course, adopted him at once, and said that 
 
 3 ‘I would find him employment,” said Sir Henry, smiling. 
 
 ~ © No, not quite ; Ireally was very prudent ; my precipi- 
 
 3 tation in the case of that young architect. the other day, 
 
 has taught me wisdom. I made no ras& promises; but 
 seriously, Henry, I do wish you could helg the poor fellow 
 
 “4 a8 
 
 
 
TR Sa ne eee aCe Se Se 
 
 i110 : | WON BY WAITING, 
 
 “T will boar him in mind then, but you remember that : 
 
 I have had two of your proteges commended to my special 
 attention ever since June.’ 
 
 “Julius Wright, you mean, and that young Mr. Frank- — 
 
 land, I wish we could get them disposed of. Certainly all 
 
 the professions are very much overstocked.” 
 
 ae Why does not Dean Collinson help him ?”’ asked Sir 
 enry. 
 
 “He has done so in a manner by taking the little girl to 
 live with him, butI fancy from what tlie poor boy said 
 - this afternoon, that it went sorely against the grain to 
 take help from that quarter. And that reminds me, 
 Frances, we must really take the deanery by storm as soon 
 as we go home, and rescue little Mademoiselle de Mabil- 
 lon, who, from Claude's account, is very unhappy there.” 
 
 * A rescue during a morning call!” said Frances, laugh- 
 ing. “2 will go witi you, if it is only for the pleasure of 
 seeing your tactics, though I am afraid you will never 
 baffle Mrs Mortlake.” 
 
 “ We shall see,” said Lady Worthington, with a smile of 
 anticipated success. 
 
 The “season,” so to speak, of Rilchester, began when 
 the Worthingtons returned. Every one recognized Lady 
 Worthington : as the leader of the neighborhood, and, toa 
 certain extent, even the inhabitants of the deanery bowed 
 to her opinion. 
 
 EKsperance had heard references fe them all through the 
 autumn: “ When the Worthingtons come back we must 
 begin a series of dinners,” or, “When Lady Worthington 
 is here all the ladies’ committees will come to life again; 
 or most frequently of all in justifying any questicaed act, 
 “fam sure Lady Worthington does it.” 
 
 From such remarks as these, Esperance formed her own 
 ideas, and being predisposed to think that nothing good 
 could come out of Rilchester, she pictured Lady Worth- 
 ington to herself as a tall, managing, masculine English 
 woman, and the more she heard her quoted the more she 
 felt inclined to dislike her. The only thing which made 
 _ her waver now and then was the recollection of Claude 
 Magnay’s great regard for the whole family, but even this 
 had little weight with her, so contradictory and cynical 
 was she growing. 
 
 But while she was daily becoming more hopelessly mis- 
 erable, relief was on its way to her, “for Lady Worthington 
 was nob a person to Iuse time, and when once a project 
 
 i ee oe xe raat oe pk = a Dg 
 oh te Bde ty i" eT Oo 
 
’ WON BY WAITING. ll 
 suggested itself to her she bent all her energies to its ace 
 complishment. 
 
 dt was “All Souls’ Day,” or as Esperance had always 
 been accustomed to call it, the “Jour des Moris,” and 
 between her sad memories and her uncongenial surround- 
 ings she was in a pitiable state. 
 
 A letter from Gaspard, full of tenderness, only proved a 
 source of tears, and Mrs. Mortlake’s unsympathetic cur- 
 josity and Cornelia’s undisguised scorn were almost un- 
 bearable. Never had the purple drawing-room felt so 
 oppressive, never had the day seemed so interminable! 
 Something, however, of her old courage kept her from 
 quite. giving way; she sat reading aloud to her cousins, 
 mechanically, indeed, but still with a firmness of purpose 
 which deserved praise, considering her very slight powers 
 of self-control. 
 
 Her thoughts were far away—now in the crowded Paris 
 ian cemetery, now in the hospital ward beside her father’s: 
 death-bed, or further still in the little grave-yard at 
 Mabillon, where year by year she had taken on this day 
 all the flowers which the wild, old garden would produce. 
 Did the peasants tend it now, she wondered. 
 
 ss Really, Esperance, your pronunciation is getting worse 
 
 and worse,” said Cornelia, reprovingly. 
 Whereupon Esperance was startled back to the present, 
 
 and toiled along wearily with her reading, her eyes dim 
 
 with tears. 
 
 At last the sound of the door-bell made itself heard. 
 Any interruption would be welcome, and she listened 
 eagerly for approaching footsteps. To her great relief the 
 door was opened, and Lady Worthington and Miss Neville 
 
 ‘were announced. 
 
 Whether it was on account of this most opportune 
 arrival, or whether Lady Worthington’s appearance fascin- 
 ated her, it is impossible to say, but her prejudices were 
 forgotten, and for a minute or two she was as happy and 
 animated as in formertimes. Lady Worthington was, at 
 first, mis'ed by the smile of pleasure with which she 
 received her erecting. She followed out her preconceived 
 plan, however, and exerted herself to the utmost to keep 
 both Mrs. Mortlake and Cornelia “at bay,” while Frances 
 made the most of her opportunity with Esperance. 
 
 At first she was talkative enough—seemed delighted to 
 speak of Gaspard and Claude Maenay, and fairly puzzled 
 I’rances by her apparent happiness, In a few minutes al} 
 
 we 
 

 
 112 ‘WON BY WAITING. © 
 
 was changed, however ; a brass band, which had for some 
 minutes been causing the gray walls of the Vicar’s Court 
 - end the deanery to echo to operatic airs, now gave forth 
 With much martial ardor the all-inspiring “ Marseiilaise.” 
 
 ~The color died out of Esperances face. She paused in 
 the middle of what she was saying, and Frances, full of 
 
 
 
 pity for her, tried to invent some excuse for moving out 
 
 of the sight of the rest of the party. © 
 
 “What beautiful chrysanthemums you have in your 
 
 window. May I look at them ?” 
 Esperance gladly assented, and the two moved to the 
 opposite end, of the room, where in the bread window-seat 
 
 a few flowers were standing, now arranged by the perverse 
 
 housemaid in stiff rows, though Esperance preservingly 
 tried to group them after her fancy. 
 
 The brass band was now still more audible, and Frances 
 was more grieved than surpised to see that the little French 
 gitl’s eyes were brimming over with tears. 
 
 “It must be hard to hear one’s national song in a strange 
 
 land,” she said, gently. ) 
 Esperance started, her cheeks glowed, and she even 
 
 smiled through her tears, for Frances had spoken in her — 
 
 own lancuace. 
 
 “You speak French like a native !” she exclaimed, rapt- 
 _urously. “Mademoiselle is too good—it makes the land — 
 no more strange. And yet,’ she added, with a slight 
 
 shiver, as “Partant pour la Syrie ” sueceeded the “ Marseil- 
 laise,” “I think it only makes me long the more. “Made- 
 
 moiselle will pardon me—but to-day—le Jour des Morts,T 
 can not help being sad, and no one here will understand, __ 
 
 and—and ”—with a rush of tears—‘“‘Je suis descleée.” 
 
 Frances was for a moment greatly perplexed. To attempt) 
 
 ‘any comfort under the circumstances was almost impossi~ 
 
 ble, yet to go toa still more retired place would probably — 
 
 attract. Mrs. Mortlake or Cornelia. She resolved to risk it, 
 
 however, and turned once more to Esperance, who was still _ 
 
 standing disconsolately by the window, the great tears roll- 
 ing down her cheeks and dropping heavily on the chrysan- 
 themum leaves. 
 
 _ “Do you think, dear, we might look at the conservatory? ‘ 
 
 it would be quiet in there.” 
 
 EHsperance caught at the idea, and led the way to a little _ 
 ‘inclosed veranda which opened out of the drawing-room, 
 ‘Unfortunately, Cornelia happened to look up atthe mo 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 113 
 ment, and fearing that she had been neglecting Miss 
 Neville, hastened forward. 
 
 ‘Will you not come nearer the fire? Esperance has not 
 been taking care of you, I am afraid.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, indeed,” replied Frances, smiling. ‘I have 
 been admiring your chrysanthemums, and your cousin was 
 
 going to show me the conservatory.” 
 “Tt am afraid it is scarcely worth seeing; our gardener 
 
 has not managed well this autumn.” 
 
 Frances was afraid there would be no getting rid of Miss 
 
 Collinson after this, but happily Lady Worthington man- 
 
 aged a skillful appeal to her judgment in the question. 
 which she and Mrs. Mortlake were discussing, and Cornelia,. ~ 
 
 nothing loath, left Frances and Esperance to admire the. 
 
 flowers alone. 
 Frances, hardly bestowing a glance on the shabby array 
 of plants, took Esperance’s hand in hers, and still speaking 
 
 _ in French, said, “ Will you not tell me about your troubles? — 
 _ then, perhaps, I could understand a little. Claude Magnay 
 
 ~ told my sister that you were living here, and she came on 
 
 _ purpose to see you; she knew your father and mother, as 
 
 perhaps you have heard.” | 
 “No, I think not,” replied Esperance, ‘ but I have heard 
 
 papa speak of Sir Henry Worthington. He—he spoke of 
 
 - him once, I remember, before all the trouble began—so 
 
 _ long ago it seems now.” 
 
 « Was that before you left the chateau?” asked Frances, 
 
 convinced that talking was a relief. 
 
 “No, wo were at Paris, papa and Gaspard, and Javotte 
 
 and I; we were so happy, mademoiseile, so very happy. 
 
 - But then came the war and then the dreadful siege, 
 and from then till now things have grown worse and. 
 
 - worse.” 
 
 “Poor child!” said Frances, gently. Her words caused. 
 
 another rush of. tears, however, for what memories did 
 
 ee 
 
 they not recall to Esperance! and how long it was since 
 
 _ she had heard such a term of endearment! Frances could. 
 _ only hold her close, and Esperance, as she grew a little 
 
 more calm, looked up gratefully, for nothing could have 
 
 - soothed her so well as the gentle, caressing sympathy which 
 _ Frances knew so well how to bestow. 
 
 (te 
 
 Conscious that the time left them was short, neither ate 
 
 tempted to enter any more into detail, but Frances, anxe 
 
 ‘ ious to show that this was to be the beginning of a closer | 
 _ intimacy, began to speak of the future, i 
 
 
 
Non Sa WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ““You will come and see me at home, will you not? sax 
 we will talk French all the time.” 
 
 “Vou are so kind, dear mademoiselle,” said Esperance, 
 “now I shall have ‘something to look forward to, und the 
 time will pass more quickly.” 
 
 Her face lighted up for a moment, but there was a 
 certain sadness in her words which did not escape Frances; 
 it seemed to her unnatural for such a mere child to speak 
 thus of whiling away the time. Yet, as they entered the 
 oppressive drawing-room once more, she owned that it was 
 not surprising; an air of stiff, sleepy propriety pervaded 
 the room, the large clock on the mantle-piece seemed to 
 tick slower than other clocks,the sunlight struggled almost 
 reluctantly through the narrow windows, the fire smoldered 
 lazily in the grate, a fat pug-dog yawned continually on 
 the hearth-rug; she could quite understand that all this 
 would depress a French nature. 
 
 And Esperance certainly was out of place amid these 
 surroundings. She hastened to move one of the ponder- 
 ous arm-chairs for Frances—it is to be feared that she took 
 a wicked delight in changing their positions—and then, as 
 Cornelia turned to the younger visitor, she bent down to 
 the dog, closed his mouth in the middle of a yawn, and 
 tried to rouse him a little. 
 
 Something in her unstudied attitude annoyed Cornelia; 
 
 she wished she would sit down and be like an English 
 girl. 
 
 “Do leave the dog alone,” she said at last, with some 
 sharpness in her tone. 
 
 Esperance looked round, surprised, but still smiling. 
 
 “Tt is hisexercise. Ciel! he sleeps again when my back 
 isturned. Pug, you are the most lazy of dogs!” 
 
 The provoking ease of manner, the unfortunate “ Ciel,” 
 equivalent to swearing at the deanery, and yet more, the 
 grammatical mistake, angerea Cornelia beyond all patience, 
 and, in an unmistakably displeased voice, she said, 
 “There are plenty of chairs, Esperance ; why do you not 
 sit down ?” 
 
 That “English ” idea of the necessity of sitting down! 
 how it wnnoyed Esperance! With a little expressive 
 movement of her hands she subsided, however, into the 
 
 nearest vacant chair, and sat fur a few minutes like patience - 
 on a monument, but when the epee eae were being said | 
 
 Frances noticed that her eyes were full of tears, which she 
 
 was sure wouldnot have been the case had Pug’s divert- — 
 
 ) 9 ear 
 
“WON BY WaltiIna.  - 5 
 
 ing exercise been continued. The departure of the guests 
 made an opportunity of escape, of which Esperance was noy 
 slow to avail herself, particularly as she felt that a scolding: 
 was in store ; but in all her hurry she found time to stop 
 at the landing window till Miss Neville’s violet bonnet was 
 hidden by the archway of the Vicar’s Court. Thestratagem 
 had certainly been successful. 
 
 Lady. Worthington gave a sigh of relief as the carriagy 
 drove away from the deanery. 
 
 “There! I call that ‘Something attempted, something 
 done!’ and if you don’t tell me of a grand result, Frances, 
 with Claude’s ‘ Mariana,’ I shall feel ill used!” 
 
 “ Your maneuvering was beautiful to see,” said Franevs, 
 laughing. “ How you managed to keep both Mrs. Mortixske 
 and Miss Collinson occupied I can’timagine.” 
 
 “Merely by chatter. General talk when possible—gossip, 
 if Mrs. Mortlake seemed to be slipping away—the arts and 
 sciences to detain Cornelia—what a medley it must have 
 been, to be sure! But tell me about my protégé. Poor 
 little maid! I was longing to talk to her.” 
 
 “T wish you could have done so, her naiveté would 
 have delighted you. Poor little thing! halfa dozen words 
 of French won her completely. She was crying, clinging, 
 pouring out her troubles, all in five minutes, as if we had 
 ‘known each other for years.” 
 
 “ Or as if she had not had a confidante for months,” said 
 Lady Worthington. ‘No wonder she is unhappy in that 
 gloomy place, and with those terribly stiff people.” | 
 
 *¢ And-yet I fancy there is so much real good in Miss 
 Collinson,” said Frances, musingly. 
 
 «My dear Frances, you would see goodness in every 
 living soul, I do believe. However, you are doubtless 
 right, only you really must let me try and rescue that little 
 French girl, who I feel convinced is as blind as I am to 
 her cousin’s virtues.” 
 
 «No rescue her, or to make her see?” said Frances, half 
 fo herself. ‘I wonder which is the right way.” 
 
 « As usual in our case, my dear, a little of both, I sup- 
 pose,” said Lady Worthington ; after which the conversa 
 tion turned upon other things, 
 
SD en Pee a ae pt ripe er Pre Cea a ee 
 
 z 
 a 
 
 216 " “WON BY WalTING. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 * © dreary life,’ we ery, ‘*O dreary life 
 And still the geucrativas of the bircs 
 Sing through our sighing, and the fiocks and herds 
 Serenely live, while we are keeping strife 
 With Heaven’s true purpose on us, as a knife 
 Against which we may struggle, 
 O Thou God of old! 
 Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these, 
 But so much patience as a blade of grass 
 Grows by, contented through heat and cold. 
 i. B. Brownine. 
 
 4GRaNNIE is coming back to Rilchester,” observed Cor- 
 nelia Collinson, looking up from a letter she was reading 
 at breakfast the following morning. 
 
 “Coming back!” exclaimed Bertha, in her annoyed 
 voice. “I. thought she was to spend the winter at St. 
 Leonards. I am sure she said J in the summer that she had — 
 taken the house for a year.” 
 
 “She seems to wish to be at home again, and as to the 
 house, there was little difficulty in disposing of that. She 
 will return early next week.” 
 
 “And now there will be those wearisome pilgrimages . 
 down to the priory,” groaned Mrs. Mortlake. ‘“ How tire- 
 
 some of her to change her mind!” 
 
 ‘Where is the Priory >?” asked Esperance, not a little ex- ae 
 
 cited at the prospect of a new arrival, and rightly conjec- 
 turing that “Grannie” was Mrs. Passmore. 
 “The Priory—my grandmother’s “house—is about two 
 
 miles out of the town, on the London road,” explained 
 
 Cornelia, after a moment’s pause. 
 
 Esperance was sorry that it lay in an opposite direction 
 to Worthington Hall. She did not make any more inquiries, 
 however, as her cousins were evidently put out, but her cu 
 riosity grew all the greater, and she looked forward much 
 to the first of the “pilgrimages” which Mrs. Mortlake had 
 
 ~~ mentioned. 
 
 Mrs. Passmore arrived at Rilchester on Tuesday, and on 
 the Wednesday Mrs. Mortlake insisted that some one must 
 go to see her. This led to a disagreeable discussion be- 
 tween the sisters as to who should perform the tiresome 
 duty, to which Esperance listened with some scorn and @ 
 
 good deal of amusement, congratulating herself that for 
 
 once she was out of it 
 
 oi Me tite NW tego el ee ae, 
 
 ys 
 
 ao oe 
 
 
 
 
 
 Dy 
 - 
 

 
 j a ir Boh Nat. repens Wy wae Shee Dene hea cy AP» = alt ae la 
 Dee e e rce eee ra er ya Te ae i 
 Meee et Se Se Cae? Letiterte cmyanau ere, Ri 
 
 » tad Wats 
 
 WON BY WAITING. oe ATS 
 
 After much areuing, Cornelia yielded, not very gra- 
 eiously, and consented to go to the Priory, provided she 
 could have the carriage. 
 
 « And you may as well come with me,” she added, turn: 
 ing to Esperance; “it will be useful for you to know the 
 way to the Priory.” ; 
 
 Esperance prudently refrained from expressing too much 
 satisfaction, aware that any “ foolishness” on her part 
 would put a stop to the whole thing; but inwardly she was 
 
 much excited. To meet Mrs. Passmore, her mother’s _ 
 
 friend and helper, was indeed an unlooked-for pleasure, 
 and Cornelia would certainly have been scornfully sur- 
 iets had she known that Esperance spent a good half 
 
 our in curling her feather, preparing her dainty little 
 neck-tie, and mending her old but faultlessly neat gloves, 
 in view of the afternoon’s expedition. 
 
 By three o’clock the cousins were driving through the » 
 sleepy streets of Rilchester, Cornelia feeling virtuous 
 thouch inclined to be cross, and Esperance almost gay, in 
 Bpite of a thick November fog, which usually depressed her 
 more than anything. Almost for the first time she saw the 
 really poor quarter of the city, the deserted, tumble-down 
 houses, and the squalid, dirty little children. 
 
 “This is different from the rest of Rilchester,” she ex- 
 claimed. “Is this where Cousin Christabel goes to see her 
 poor people ?” 
 
 - “Qh, no, she merely visits a few of the respectable 
 houses near us,” replied Cornelia, shortly. 
 
 “But who takes care of all this poor part >” 
 
 “1m sure £ don’t know, it is not in our parish.” 
 
 The parish belonging to the cathedral merely included 
 the houses in the close, anda very small sprinkling of 
 
 - "respectable poor,” an arrangement singularly unfortunate 
 vince it gave all the rich people the same excuse for ignor- 
 ance and idleness which Cornelia had just made: “It is not 
 in our parish,’—while the clergy of the poorer districts 
 were sadly hampered by the dearth of church-workers. 
 
 Esperance asked no more questions, and in a few min- 
 utes the houses were left behind, and the bare, bleak coun- 
 4ry lay before them. Halfa mile beyond the town stood 
 the Priory, a gloomy, brown building, not really old, but 
 built in the antique style; Esperance’s heart beat quickly, 
 when, in one of the lancet-headed windows, she caught 
 sight of the snowy hair and widow’s cap which could be: 
 tong to no one but Mrs. Pecsmore. 
 
118 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 The cap, however, speedily disappeared, and by the 
 time the carriage had driven up the gravel sweep, the oid 
 
 lady was standing by the open door, with what Esperance 
 
 considered quite the right kind of welcome. 
 
 «How good of you to come the very first day, my dear 
 children—in all this fog, too.” 
 
 “My dear grannie, do go in; how unwise to come out 
 to the door,” said Cornelia. 
 
 Whereupon the old lady, but half understanding, held 
 out her hand to Esperance, till Cornelia herself led the 
 way to the prim little drawing room, and taking up Mrs. 
 Passmore’s speaking-trumpet, made the deaf old lady un- 
 derstand who her companion was. 
 
 « Amy’s little girl come from France! dear me, dear me! 
 Come and kiss me, my dear.” 
 
 Esperance obeyed willingly enough, but when Cornelia 
 put the other end of the speaking-trumpet into her hand 
 
 with an injunction to “say something,” every word of. 
 
 Hnelish suddenly escaped her memory, and after a dread- 
 ful pause she could only say in French, “fam so pleased 
 to see the friend of my mother.” . 
 
 Whereupon Cornelia frowned angrily, and the old lady 
 herself put down the trumpet with a little laugh. 
 
 “Ah! you speak in French, and Iam not ‘such a good 
 scholar in that respect as I used to be. Never mind, never 
 mind, we shall understand each other soon.” 
 
 Esperance blushed crimson, vexed at her failure, and 
 some minutes passed before she had collected her theughts 
 enough to listen to the conversation. 
 
 “Yes, I crew tired of St. Leonards,” Mrs. Passmore was 
 saying. “The house was draughty, too,and I began to 
 
 long for my old haunts; after all, my dear, there is no place ~ 
 
 like home.” 
 
 « And are you comfortably settled in >” asked Cornelia. 
 
 “ Well, pretty well; there isa great deal to see to, and 
 the days are short; my rheumatism has been troublesome 
 to-day, and that is a hinderance. _Could you spend a few 
 days with me, my dear, you or Bertha? Ishould be so glad 
 to have you.” 
 
 Cornelia did not at all wish to stay, and began to huni 
 for excuses. 
 
 “T am so busy just now, grannie, or I certainly would 
 come, and Bertha has—a cold, or she might have helped 
 
 ou.’ 
 : Mrs. Passmore looked disappointed. 
 
 
 
WON BY WAITING = ati itststi‘iéidzd 
 
 ®7¥ am sorry for that, it would have been such a pleasure 
 to have you.” Then with a smile again, “Could Amy’s 
 little girl stay ?” 
 
 “Oh, certainly,” said Cornelia, without referring to Hs- 
 nerance. ‘She shall stay with you now, just as long as 
 you like.” 
 
 And so the matter was settled, and Cornelia soon took 
 jeave, turning just at the last to Esperance with tle words, 
 “T will send: down your things, and the books you wilk 
 want, and you must walkin on Friday morning for your 
 lessons; I will be ready for you at eleven.” 
 
 Then the carriage drove off, and Esperance was left be- 
 hind with mingled feelings of relief at being away from the 
 deanery, anger at béing so summarily disposed of, and awe 
 of Mrs. Passmore and the trumpet. 
 
 She was soon happy enough, however, for Mrs Passmore _ 
 was delighted to have a companion, and spared no pains to 
 make her comfortable and at home. She was charmed 
 ’ with her eurious old-fashioned bedroom, and with the ex- 
 quisite neatness of the whole house; there was a feeling 
 of calmness and repose, too, which, with all its dullness, 
 the deanery never could attain, and most of all, the sense 
 of being really wanted restored Esperance to much of her 
 old cheerful brightness. 
 
 The only drawback to her complete happiness was Mrs. 
 Passmore’s deafness ; this had now been of such long 
 duration that the old lady had fallen into silent habits, 
 ~ and only twice in the long winter evenings did she take 
 up her trumpet. But though silence or dullness of any 
 
 description were usually very uncongenial to Esperance, 
 she was now too much out of health, and too weary of the 
 incessant “nagging” of her cousins not to be thankful for 
 the respite. 
 
 The busy idleness of the next morning, too, suited her 
 admirably. She enjoyed helping old Mrs. Passmore in her 
 manifold tidyings and arrangings ; and as the old lady 
 could not feel comfortable till every drawer and cupboard 
 in the house had been systematically searched and sorted, 
 she ,.was kept fully occupied. Her dainty little fingers 
 seemed to have a natural aptitude for such work, and noth- 
 ine came amiss to them, whether they dealt with stores of 
 old lace, artificial flowers, venerable silk dresses, or chaotic 
 odds and ends. 
 
 At last, while setting to rights the contents of an old 
 secretary, she came acress a drawer full of lettors, and, 
 
Aes ; ; igs us <2 ote ; ie}. i = ra - Sd ae {iM Beets f 
 120 o WON BY WAITING. i 
 
 not liking to break in upon their wild confusion, drew Mrs 
 Passmore’s attention to them. 3 , 
 
 “ Letters? dear me!” exclaimed the old lady; “I 
 thought I had sorted them all last year. This will be an 
 afternoon’s work for us, Esperance.” 
 
 Accordingly, after the two o’clock dinner was over, and 
 Mrs. Passmore had taken ‘her usual siesta, the two set to 
 work, destroying a few of the less precious documents, and 
 arranging the others carefully according to'their dates. 
 
 Esperance had just tied up and labeled a packet of 1847 
 letters when Mrs. Passmore gave an exclamation of sur- 
 
 rise. 
 
 “How strange to be sure! and that I should have come 
 across them to-day! “Iwo of poor Amy’s letters—your 
 mother, my dear.” And she handed them to Esperance. 
 
 They were folded together, though one was written on — 
 thin blue paper, the other on a little note-sized sheet, yel- 
 low with age. Esperance opened the latter and read 
 eagerly : 
 
 ‘¢ Russell Square, 16th May, 1828. 
 
 ‘My paar Mrs. Passmorz,—I can not thank you enough for 
 ‘your great kindness in asking me to stay with you during next 
 ‘month. Thank you, too, for your consideration in saying that, 
 if my brother changes his mind, I may still be free to stay in 
 London; but.of this I now feel sure there is no hope, for, be- 
 sides his former objection to our marriage, he has now, I fear, a 
 personal dislike to Monsieur de Mabillon. Ican not tell you how 
 terribly all this has grieved me. Had it not been for dear Christ- 
 abel’s kindness, I don’t think I could have borne it, She has, 
 indeed, been a good sister to me. 
 _ “Under the circumstances, both Alphonse and I think it will 
 be best that our wedding should be perfectly quiet ; so, withmany _ 
 thanks, I will decline your kind offer of accommodation for any 
 
 guests. If it will be quite convenient to you, and to the clergyman - 
 
 of the parish, we should prefer some day in the first week of 
 June, and should like it to be early in the morning. 
 “‘ Again thanking you for your great kindness, 
 ** Believe me, your affectionate 
 ‘“* Amy ConLINson.” : * 
 
 “Christabel, then, was the name of my aunt?” asked 
 Esperance, looking up with swimming eyes. 
 
 Seeing how great an interest her companion took inthe 
 
 matter, Mrs. Passmore became at once both sympathetic 
 and communicative. 
 
 “Poor child! Yes, indeed, it was a sad story from first 
 to last, My daughtcr Christabel was devoted to your 
 

 
 
 
 “WON BY WAITING, © = =. ss «1 
 
 mother; and though, of course, she could not do much 
 to promote the marriage in direct opposition to your — 
 
 
 
 uncle, yet she always gave Amy her sympathy, and her- a 
 self begged me to help her. Poor young thing, she was. _ 
 
 sad enough all the time she stayed with me. On the 
 very morning of the wedding 1 remember she received 
 a final letter of remonstrance from Dean Collinson, and ~ 
 was terribly upset by it. And then came the service in 
 church, which seemed to give her new strength, for her 
 face which had been so troubled, grew quiet and serene; and 
 I remember thinking what a handsome couple they were, 
 and wishing that the dean could have been there to hear 
 - your father’s earnest, heartfelt vows, though perhaps his 
 foreign English might only have annoyed him. Lheard from 
 her two or three times after that, and then your father 
 _ wrote to tell me of her death when you were born; but 
 we shall not find that letter, for I believe it was sent on to 
 the dean.” - : 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the servant bring- 
 ing in the tea things, and Esperance, having asked leave 
 to keep the two letters, put them away for a private read- 
 ing. In the evening, when Mrs. Passmore had. fallen 
 asleep in her arm-chair, she took them out again, and 
 eagerly though reverently opened the foreign one. It was — 
 written from the chateau, and dated in June, 1854. Much -~ 
 of it was incomprehensible to Esperance, being in answer 
 to a letter of Mrs. Passmore’s, and full of references to 
 English matters, but on the third page she caught sight 
 of familiar names, which made her heart beat quickly. 
 She read on still more eagerly : 
 
 « And now I must tell you about my dear little boy, Gas- 
 ~pard. HowIwishI could showhim to you. He is five 
 years old, the very image of his father, and so tall and 
 strong for hisage. Heisalways with me, for our good 
 bonne Javotte, though she is quite devoted to him, has plenty 
 _ to do, and I would not have him away from me for the world. 
 My husband tells me, too, that our nursery does not | 
 exist in France, the children are always with their mothers. 
 The only thing I have to wish for now is a little daughter; 
 it would be so good for Gaspard, and he is so loving that I 
 am sure he would make a good little protector! You ask if 
 Tam any strongér than I was last year, and I hardly know 
 what tosay. In some ways I think not, but I think I have 
 ~ learned at last to be less fretful and impatient with regard 
 
422 WON BY WAITING 
 
 to James’s continued displeasure. Still I can not help Jonge 
 ing to hear from him. If he could only know what Al-« 
 phonse really is! But you must not think that I am gviev- 
 ing unduly over this. I feel how wrong it was to do so the 
 first two or three years, and now I can not help hoping that 
 in some way all will come right at last—if not in our time, 
 at least to our child.” 
 ; 
 
 Esperance read the last sentence over many times. Was 
 her mother’s hope coming true? Was all that now seemed 
 so hard to bear really helping its fulfillment? CertainJy it 
 was true that Dean Collinson had taken her into his own 
 house, that he had treated her kindly, that she showed al- 
 most everything to him; but then, had not Gaspard 
 humiliated himself to actual begging for assistance first, 
 and did not her uncle still detest the very name of De 
 Mabillon? No; there was still much to be done before all 
 - could be “right at last.” But from that evening Esperance 
 began to think seriously of the duty of reconciliation, 
 which certainly in some degree, rested with her, How, in 
 her peculiar position, she could effect any good she did not 
 at present see; but she was hopeful, and her mother’s wish 
 was a strong incentive. 
 
 Meanwhile, at the deanery, matters were not going very 
 smothly. Cornelia’s quiet disposal of Esperance at the 
 Priory had pleased no one; the dean even had for once ob- 
 jected to his favorite daughter’s proceedings. 
 
 “Out of respect to your grandmother, my dear, either 
 yor: or Bertha should have remained; to leave your cousin, 
 
 a mere child, and a perfect stranger, was really a mise - 
 
 take.” 
 
 “Grannie will never understand Esperance, with that 
 ridiculous accent, which Iam sure is all affectation,” ob- 
 served Mrs. Mortlake. ‘ Besides, itis awkward to be with- 
 out her here, there is no one to see to Bella when she ig 
 down stairs.” 3 
 
 “Christabel wants to turn me into the nursery-maid, 
 said Bertha, laughing; “ but neither Bella nor I approve.” 
 
 “IT don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Mortlake, with 
 an offended air. ‘“ Esperance has no idea of managing the 
 child ; she merely does what I tell her.” 
 
 “That is to say, she is your ‘ white slave; of course you 
 miss her.” 
 
 “Oh, if you use slang expressions we will drop the 
 argument at once, please,” said Mrs. Mortlake, feeling that 
 
 vou 
 
 tn Ln 
 
WON BY WAITING. 123 
 
 she was being worsted, and leaving the .,., after one 
 final thrust— Your old fault of lazin) ¢, 1s eoming out 
 more strongly than ever ; you can neith »r do things your- 
 self, nor see others do them.” 
 
 Whereupon the door was closed sha ‘ply, while the dean 
 looked surprised, Cornelia annoyed, aid Bertha sublimely 
 
 indifferent. 
 
 “JT do not understand it,” said the dean, half nervously. 
 “Tt seems to me a great pity that B rtha does not go more 
 to the Priory. However, you must setile it among your- 
 selves, my dears, only pray have no more disputings.” 
 And then, having delivered his coiscience to hig family, 
 the dean left matters terrestrial to their own course, and 
 became engrossed with a disquisijion on the “Moons of 
 Jupiter.” | 
 
 At eleven o’clock on Friday, Esperance walked in from 
 the Priory carrying her Latin y¢imer, Wittich’s German 
 Tales, and a book on physical geography. To tell the 
 truth, she had scarcely opened t/1em for the last two days, 
 and, though anxious to make uj» for lost time, she walked 
 into Rilchester to the tune of ‘‘di-es, di-es, di-em,” etc., her 
 thoughts were generally so far away that the fifth declen- 
 sion did not make much impression on her memory. 
 
 The walk took rather longev than she had anticipated, 
 and, conscious of unpunctuality, she “tolled” the front-door 
 bell with some apprehension. The door was opened more 
 quickly than usual; but Esperance’s quick eye detected 
 the surly, ill-used expression on the face of the footman, 
 and was certain that Mrs. Mortlake was in one of her fault- 
 finding humors; these invariably affected the temper of the 
 _ whole household, and more especially of the servants. 
 
 She opened the dining-room door with still greater 
 anxiety, and found Mrs. Mortlake and Bertha hard at work 
 writing essays for the “True Blue Society,” a particular 
 hobby of Mrs. Mortlake’s. Her essay was generally put off, 
 till the lastest possible day, and then became a household 
 nuisance, so that Esperance had learned to dread the 
 sicht of blue foolscap, and to connect it with incessant 
 scoldings and general misery. Bertha had unwillingly 
 been induced to join the society, and she, too, was writing 
 for dear life, with a pucker in her forehead and a bored 
 expression. 
 
 _ “Don’t speak; we are so busy,” said Mrs. Mortlake, barely 
 
 looking up; ‘and what you’ve done with the quill pens I 
 can't imagine; Cornelia declares you had them last.” 
 
124 - | WON BY WAITING. ‘eee 
 
 *T don’t remember having them,” said Esperancé, 
 thinking of various scoldings for writing with a pin-like 
 
 en. 
 ~ Of course not; you never do remember anything that 
 is not convenient for you,” said Mrs. Mortlake, sharply. 
 
 Esperance began to open the drawers of a cabinet rather 
 hopeiessly, and, after a few minutes’ search, found the miss- 
 ing pens among Bella’s toys. She put them down beside 
 her cousin without speaking, and was moving away, when 
 Mrs. Mortlake pushed them from her again, saying, in her 
 quietly disagreeable voice: “ Oh, it’s no use now ; how 
 ~é@an I change my pen in the middle of this? Couldn’t 
 your common sense tell you that ?” 
 
 Esperance shrugged her shoulders, and took back the 
 
 pen-box ; but her common sense did tell her it would be 
 best to leave the room quickly, and, without another word, 
 she ran away. ee 
 
 Jt was certainly a cheerless welcome for her, poor chila. 
 
 Already the quiet serenity which she had gained at the 
 
 Priory had changed to the “Mariana” expression, and it 
 was with a heavy heart that she entered Cornelia’s sanc- 
 tum with her burden of untouched lesson-beooks. 
 
 * Good-morning, Esperance. Why are you so late ?” 
 
 *T am very sorry, but I scarcely allowed the time neces- 
 
 sary for so long a walk,” said Esperance, who invariably — 
 
 _ spoke bad English when dispirited. | 
 
 “Don’t let it happen again, then, and let us lose no — 
 
 time now—your Latin first.” 
 - With one last despairing glance Esperance dashed off 
 
 _ with her fifth declension, stumbling terribly. Cornelia put 
 
 down the book gravely. 
 “Tt is no use doing things by halves; you had better 
 
 _gtay here and learn it, though I should have thought at 
 
 your age supervision was unnecessary.” 
 “Your age” was always being cast in Esperance’s teeth, 
 
 but it was as convenience suited—either “a mere child of 
 
 your age,” or “a great girl of your age,” as in the present 
 i ae She began to wish to be either one thing or the 
 other. 
 
 The “ physica] geography” was rather more successful; 
 but, alas! the German translation came utterly to grief. 
 The very sound of the language was distasteful to Esper- 
 
 ance, and, under the cireumstances, Cornelia would have 
 
 been much wiser not to have attempted it; but to her mind 
 - noone was properly educated who could not read and 
 
 eer aegis 
 
 MG Syed hes SAC, ee 
 
 
 
 Pri Le ee EL gee 
 Gosh heed ities. et oral Ll soa 
 
 ee 
 
 io Ag hk She hancs an Mi fe 
 
  Setheg Vf pee Ag 
 
 is i ee : 
 nasi +h ae pe: sees , tah 
 AP gh aN Ge Rly aS ote 
 
 
 

 
 
 es att ks 
 
 
 
 Lefora 
  dosilecaiet Fave: F 
 
 ate eae woe SLY 
 oe t 
 
 - speak German, and she persevered in spite of Esperance’s 
 wishes to the contrary. It really was a hardship to be set 
 _ to learn “ Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland >” and, after 
 Jaboriously translating it first into French in her brain, and 
 then into English with her tongue, Esperance could not 
 _ resist saying, “ Well, I think the Germans are the most 
 conceited people I ever heard of, boasting about all the 
 divisions of their country, so as to fill two pages!” 
 _ “Tt has been pretty clearly shown lately that the Ger 
 mans are not vain boasters,” said Cornelia, severely. 
 “Moreover, ‘people who live in glass houses shouldn’t 
 throw stones.’ Conceit is the proverbial character of a 
 certain other European nation.” | 
 -  ©You may as well say it quite!” said Esperance, with 
 - flashing eyes. “I know what you mean—now that France 
 is fallen you will all trample on her! and that is what you 
 call English generosity! Ciet! if you speak of proverbial — 
 
 characters, it is fair that I may quote the English one— 
 
 - finsular pride and ill-manners,’ and it is true—true!” 
 
 Cornelia was secretly rather amused at the storm of 
 patriotism which she had evoked, but she answered grave- 
 ly, end in her repressive voice, “When you have quite 
 - done we will go on, please. Conjugate the verb ‘ Haven,’ 
 te have.” . 3 / 
 
 The words seemed almost like an insult. This cold dig- 
 _nity.of Cornelia’s exasperated Esperance more than any- 
 thing ; moreover, to have her patriotism utterly ignored 
 was more unbearable than the severest scolding, and in 
 the worst possible humor she repeated the verb, taking no 
 pains to pronounce the lis. : 
 
 She left Cornelia’s room -much more unhappy than be- 
 fore, and conscious that her outbreak had been both 
 childish and useless. .Out of heart with herself and with 
 all around her, yet unable to. find the remedy, she grew 
 more and more miserable, and longed, with a sick longing, 
 for relief in any form—a Jetter from Gaspard, a sight of — 
 
 ane ae 
 
 Frances Neville, or even a ray of sunshine. But nothing 
 
 came ; the postman brought no letter, Franees did not 
 come into Rilchester—even the sun did not once-pierce 
 the gloom of that murky November day. 
 
 Mrs. Mortiake never spoke except to complain, Bertha 
 after her unusual effort was more taciturn than ever, Cor- 
 nelia was stiff and displeased, and Esperance was cross. 
 - Not that she would have allowed this to herself, even ; she 
 
 felt, and in some degree was, ill-used, but in fact the long 
 
 e 
 
126 WON BY WAITING © 
 strain of the past year had so completely worn hers & 
 that mind and body alike were unequal to the least har 68, 
 
 and trifling annoyances, which in good health she wcald 
 
 have laughed at, now seemed the deepest grievar 2es. 
 
 And go she sat wearily through the afternoon with her 
 book before her, wishing herself and “The Ge man 
 Fatherland ” at the bottom of the /sea, while no one t/ould 
 take the trouble to put her. into the right way, or‘ say 
 the few words of love and sympathy which she so sorely 
 needed. 
 
 “You had better get ready to go back,” said Cor celia, as 
 the clock struck half past four. “It is getting qd wk, and 
 you will be alone.” 
 
 Alone! It was a shock indeed to Esperance’s ideas of 
 propriety. To have. walked in broad daylight was per- 
 haps permissible in England, though she would. ever have 
 been allowed to do such a thing in France, eves at Mabil- 
 lon—but to walk through the town, and along a deserted 
 country road, with the darkness fast coming wn, was too 
 much—she felt sure that even in England this wuld not 
 be comme il faut. : 3 
 
 No escort was offered, however, so she saw no help for 
 it, and unwillingly—for once- -closed the doar of the dean- 
 ery behind her, and went out into the autunn twilight. At 
 first the novelty rather pleased her, but when she had. 
 passed the Vicar’s Court, and the close, a strange, eerie, 
 unprotected feeling mastered her, and she shivered at the 
 thought of the long way to come. The bright lights in 
 the windows looked tempting and home-like, she fancied 
 she could have been happy in every one of the Louses she 
 _ passed, forgetful that red curtains, warm fire light, and 
 bright picture frames existed also at the deanery. And 
 then she thought of the hero of “ Eixcelsior,” when 
 
 *‘TIn happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright,” 
 
 and wondered if he felt as lonely and desolate as she did ; 
 but then he was bound on a great enterprise, and she had 
 only to live on quietly in an uncongenial home, unless, 
 indeed, her enterprise were to be the fulfillment of her 
 mother’s wish. If so, how sadly forgetful of it she had 
 been that day! What harm had she done to her cause! 
 
 Great tears welled up into her eyes as. she thought of 
 
 * this ; perhaps she was partly blinded by them, or perhaps — 
 
 her little black figure was not very noticeable in the gathe 
 
 ¥ 
 
 ae 
 
 pt Ps 
 
 me 
 
WON BY WAITING. 127 
 
 ing darkness, for she came violently into collision with a 
 gang of laborers returning from their day’s work, and ali 
 her books were strewn on the pavement. For a moment 
 she was horribly frightened, for they were rough-looking 
 men, and their voices and unintelligible dialect sounded 
 alarming to her unaccustomed ears. ; 
 
 “ Now then, Bill, you pick up them there books—knockin’ 
 up agin young leddies in that way!” this in very uncouth 
 English. | 
 
 The rest of the men moved on, while Bill, thus addressed, 
 stooped to pick up the books. _ : 
 
 “1’m sure I ask pardon, miss,’ he began, rubbing each 
 book on his grimy jacket by way of taking off the mud. 
 
 “Thank you, it does not matter,” began Esperance in 
 French, then correcting herself, “there is no harm done, 
 thank you.” 
 
 “ Be you from France, miss >” asked the man. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Esperance, with a momentary terror that 
 some impertinence was intended, “yes, I am French.” 
 
 “Only asked, miss, because as how my missus is from. 
 them parts, and talks like what youdid. Good-evening | 
 to you, miss, and I ask your pardon.” | 
 
 He passed on, and Esperance went on her way, amused 
 by the incident, which, trifling though it was, served to 
 turn away her thoughts from her grievances. Certainly 
 ‘her first encounter with a British laborer had been a happy 
 one; it all were so polite she need not fear to walk about 
 alone, but then this particular one had been blessed with 
 a Hrench wife, which no doubt accounted for his good 
 manners. Before long she ceased to dread the lonely 
 walks to the Priory, and to look forward to the gang of 
 laborers, and especially to “ Bill’s” invariable salute, as a 
 
 _kind of protection. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 There lies no desert in the land of life, 
 For e’en that tract that barrenest doth seem, 
 Labored of thee in faith and hope, shall teem 
 With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings rife. 
 : I’. A. KemBre. 
 Dinver-Partizs at the deanery were usually very dreary 
 affairs. Dean Collinson was not at all a sociable man, and 
 grudged an evening spent away from his beloved observa- 
 tory. Cornelia and Bertha lad an equal distaste to 
 iciety, and had it not been for, J[rs. Mortlake. and the 
 
Es 
 
 be 
 
 “WON BY “WAITING. | 
 
 -ubsclute necessity of showing some hos apitality to thelr 
 
 neighbors, the diuner-parties would have been willingiy - 
 
 - dispensed with. And. not only were the hosts. thus 
 minded, but every one who had been a guest on previous 
 occasions groaned on receiving ja fresh invitation. 
 Certainly the deanery was the least popular house in 
 Rilchester, and it was thus that Esperance obtained hex 
 very unfavorable i impressions of English society. 
 
 After spending a fortnight at the Priory, she had re- 
 turned sorrowfully enough to her uncle’s house, nor were 
 
 her spirits raised when she heard that in the evening . | 
 
 that dreary English institution, a large dinner party, 
 “was to take place. In the afternoon, however, Bertha 
 happened to mention that Sir Henry and Lady Worthing- 
 
 ton were coming, whereupon Esperance became greatly 
 
 -_ excited. 
 
 “Coming this evening? Oh!Iam soglad. And does 
 
 - Miss Neville come, too?” 
 
 “No, she is not well enough. Ibelieve she was asked. 
 “But what makes you rave so about the Worthingtons ?” 
 
 * Lady Worthington was 80 kind to me, and I admire her 
 more than I can tell you.” 
 
 ye You had better be careful, or Christabel will call you 
 p toady. 
 
 “How?” asked Esperance, wonderingly. 
 
 “Oh, really, I can't teach you English—Cornelia wii? 
 
 explain it to you.” 
 
 Esperance was not very fond of Cornelia’s explanations, 
 so she resorted to dictionaries, where “Toad—crapaud ;“ 
 
 _ *toad-eater—adulaleur-trice, parasite,” gave her some idea 
 
 of Bertha’s meaning. 
 
 She sighed over the difficulty of the terrible English 
 - Janguage, but found some comfort in a bulky Webster, in 
 which “toady” was stigmatized as ‘colloquial and vulgar.” 
 
 Lady Worthington came rather less reluctantly than usual 
 to the deanery, for she had special designs on Esperance, 
 and her successful maneuvering on the former occasion had 
 given her confidence. When the ladies returned to the 
 drawing-room after dinner, she lost no time in seeking her 
 Saprotéato, whom she found trying hard to make conversa- 
 tion between two young ladies “who were very stiff and 
 
 ~ monosyllabic. 
 
 Esperance, delighted at any interruption, recoea Lady 
  Worthington’s cordial sreeting with a radiant face, and ine 
 uired after I’'rances Neville, her quaint, demure manner & 
 
 little belied by the eagerness of her expression. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 oe ie OY Veh Wee en rs se 3 og yy) : 2 
 
 a ae 
 
 7a SS WON BY WAITING, He gee 
 
 “She has been poorly all this week,” said Lady Worth- 
 ington. “But she is much better to-day; she asked me to 
 tell you that she has been looking up her French, and is 
 very eager to have a good talk with you. Will you come 
 and see her some day?” 
 
 * Thank you a thousand times; it would be such a pleas- 
 ure,” said Esperance, delightedly. 
 
 ‘Just then Mrs. Mortlake came to take possession of the 
 ehair next to Lady Worthington, and Esperance would 
 have moved away, but Lady Worthington, taking hoid of 
 her hand, detained her. 
 
 “Twas just telling Esperance how much Frances wants 
 to see her; it is the delight of her life to have some one to 
 talk French to.” 
 
 “Yes, [knew Miss Neville’s sympathies were all with 
 the French; I remember what arguments we used to have 
 during the Franco-Prussian war,” said Mrs. Mortlake. 
 
 Lady Worthington felt a quick movement in the hand 
 she was holding, and hastily turned from the subject. 
 
 “Now, when Frances gave me her message, a scheme 
 came into my head by which I shall come in for a share of 
 the enjoyment; will you not come over some day next 
 week, Mrs. Mortlake, bringing Esperance with you, then 
 
 whe and Frances can have their talk together, and you and 
 
 Ji shall be secure of a téte-d-téte.” 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake was flattered, and gave a ready consent. 
 An afternoon was fixed, and Esperance, as she went away 
 to do her duty toward the two young ladies, felt that any 
 amount of dullness could be endured with such a pleasure 
 in prospect. . aid 
 
 Lady Worthington, too, was satisfied with her success, 
 and late as it was on her return could not resist going to 
 
 _ her sister’s room to tell her of it. 
 
 She found her already in bed, and with some compune- 
 tion for disturbing her, would have gone away again. 
 
 “ Don't go,” said Frances, appealingly. “Tm not the least. 
 sleepy—my neuralgia is raging. Tell me about your party.” 
 
 * Oh, a very dull affair indeed—a regular dean and 
 chapter dinner, with a great array of canons and canon- 
 esses. Henry looked quite worldly in his dress clothes 
 among the somber clerics.” 
 
 “ How was Esperance ?” 
 
 “She looked much better. Certainly that French ani- 
 mation is very charming—Henry was immensely taken 
 with her, and insists that she was better dressed than any 
 one in the room, and thpneh,.there was nothing more ~ 
 
130 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 white muslin, and a dainty arrangement of ivy sprays, f 
 really think that he is right.” | 
 
 “The art of dressing is born in French women, cer~ 
 tainly. But when is she coming here ?” | 
 
 “Next Tuesday afternoon, and Mrs. Mortlake, too ; and 
 Henry talks of getting up fire-works for the children that 
 night, so that we may persuade her tostay. Our triumph 
 will be complete.” 
 
 “Of course, now that you have taken an M. P. into your 
 eounsels,” said Frances, laughing. 
 
 Tuesday afternoon was as fine as could be wished ; the 
 sun, which for some days had scarcely penetrated the fog, 
 shone brightly, and the air was deliciously clear and frosty. 
 Esperance could not conceal her happiness, and indulged 
 in a rhapsody which did not fail to attract Mrs. Mortlake’s 
 disapproval. | 
 
 “What a perfect day, Christabel! we could not have hail. 
 a better, could we? Just look atthe sky: I do believn 
 we have had the last of those dreadful fogs. How good if 
 was of Lady Worthington to invite us! Is she not the 
 most kind-hearted of people ?” 
 
 “ Yes, certainly, Lady Worthington is good-natured ; but, 
 my dear Esperance, please do not take to running after 
 people with handles to their names—nothing is so vulgar.” 
 
 “TI do not understand you,” said Esperance, puzzled by 
 - the idiom, but coloring crimson at the last word. 
 
 “T mean that nothing shows such bad taste as any 
 eagerness to become familiar with those in a higher station — 
 than yourself ; nothing is so contemptible as a hankering 
 after nobility.” 
 
 Esperance blushed still more deeply, but there was « 
 dangerous light in her eyes as she answered, “Thank you 
 for warning me, Christabel, but in the present instance ~ 
 it was unnecessary ; we, too, are of the noblesse.” 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake looked blankly astonished for a moment; 
 then, seeing that she had been worsted, took refuge in 
 silence. 
 
 Esperance, feeling triumphant and naughty, looked at 
 
 
 
 _ the flat landscape from the carriage window, and pretended | : ie 
 _ to be enjoying herself very much, though in reality she 
 
 was not quite happy, conscious that her retort had not 
 been in good taste, and sure that her father wouid have 
 disapproved of the little piece of ostentation. 
 
 It was a relief when they reached Worthington, passed 
 the green gates and unpretentious lodge, and drove through 
 the pleasant. well-timhers4 
 
 
 
ve a ¥ a Lt Dele Oe | eh ten MS ag Oe ey ee a 
 & hes 7 ok on oa ba wt , 9 Oat qo re Yo 
 
 “WON BY WANING. =«s—i(ai‘(‘i‘i‘é«wdr‘SZ*«Y 
 
 “How beautiful it is!” said Esperance, breaking the 
 silence rather rashly, as she glanced at the sunny slopes. 
 ' “A very poor approach,” said Mrs. Mortlake, ‘they | 
 
 might have made it at least halfa mile longer by a little 
 
 arrangement.” 
 
 After this nothing more was said and Esperance gave a 
 sigh of relief when the carriage drew up before the large, 
 plain, substantial house, more comfortable within than 
 artistic without. 
 
 In the drawing-room they found Lady Worthington and 
 her little girl. Esperance looked eagerly for Frances 
 Neville, but she was not there. 
 
 “Frances has such bad neuralgia to-day,” explained 
 Lady Worthington, as soon as the greetings were over. ‘“] 
 wonder whether you would mind going up to her little 
 sitting-room, Esperance ; it isthe only warm room in the 
 house, and she is rather afraid to leave it.” : 
 
 This was a delightful arrangement,and Esperance gave 
 glad consent, while little Kathie, ata word from her mother, 
 ran on before her to show the way. 
 
 Frances’s sitting-room was the most cozy of retreats; 
 the bay-window facing south was filled with ferns and 
 broad-leaved plants, the fire seemed to throw out more ~ 
 heat than ordinary fires, miniature easy-chairs stood exact- 
 ly where they were wanted, and books and pictures filled 
 every available space on the walls. Frances herself was. 
 
 - Jying on a couch drawn close to the fire; looking very white 
 
 and exhaus@pd. She did not getup when Esperance came in, 
 
 “T shall not treat you as a visitor,” she said in French, 
 looking up with her peculiarly winning smile. “This iq 
 quite an unceremonious visit, I consider. Kathie dear, 
 bring Esperance the little Spanish chair, will you?” 
 
 Then after the double kiss—a little consideration of hex 
 nationality which was greatly appreciated—LEsperance 
 found herself comfortably installed beside Frances. 
 
 “Ts your head no better?” she asked, half timidly, for 
 Yrances really looked very ill. 
 
 “Well, it is bad just now, but you will talk and make me 
 forget 1t.” 
 
 The womanly instinct was strong in Esperance, and in 4 
 second her dainty little gloves were off, and she was stroke 
 ing Frances’s burning forehead with that soothing, half- 
 
 
 
 -mesmeric touch in her cool finger-tips which seems the 
 
 only remedy for neuralgia, , 
 “Where did you learn this delicious spell?” asked 
 BPrances “it makes the nain almos’ ~ ~~ ~ © 
 
132 ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Esperance laughed a little. 
 
 «TI don’t think there is anything to learn. I did it once 
 or twice to Scour Angelique when she was ill, and she used 
 to like it.” | 
 
 “Who is Scour Angelique ?” | 
 
 “One of the sisters in the convent at home; she used 
 ta teach me, and I loved her dearly. I think you must be 
 a little like her, for I always think of her when I see you.” 
 
 “Tell me about her—wkat was she like ?” 
 
 ‘She was dark and pale, and her eyes were brown and 
 always shining. No, she can not really have been like you, ~ 
 but she had a look on her face as if she were always think- 
 ing of holy things. It must be in that you remind me of 
 her.” 
 
 Frances colored a little. 
 
 “And were the other sisters like her?” 
 
 * No, Scour Therese was very cross, at least I thought so 
 then. She always talked of discipline—discipline, while 
 Sceur Angelique never talked at all like that, but only 
 loved. It seems so long since I had those afternoons at 
 the convent schocl. Sometimes I feel as if it had been an- 
 other Esperance of whom I had read—not myself at all.” 
 
 “You have had such changes.” 
 
 “Ah, yes, and things that used to seem troubles in the : 
 old times look so little now. I would bear them so well if 
 - only they would come again instead of—” 
 
 “Instead of present troubles ?” asked Frances, gently. 
 
 Bui Esperance’s hand ceased to caress her forehead, and 
 she was not-surprised at « sudden half-passionate outburst. 
 
 “TI do so haie England! If onty—if only I were at home — 
 again |” 
 
 “Poor little one,” said Frances, drawing her nearer, “ it 
 must be very lonely and sad for you, but you know it must 
 be best, or you would not be here.” _~ 
 
 “J don’t believe it—I can’t,” sobbed Esperance; “if you 
 knew how naughty I am growing you would not say so. — 
 Tam miserable; and it makes me more wicked every day 
 —and—no one cares.” 
 
 Frances’s heart sunk. It was hard to contradict even 
 the last statement, knowing what she did of Mrs. Mort- 
 ae and the Collinsons. Happily she remembered Gas- 
 
 _ pard. ; 
 
 “Yonr brother cares,” she said. 
 
 “Gaspard!” with a fresh rush of tears; “yes, he does,  — 
 but he is away, I may not see him avain for years. Ah, it = 
 ia cruel! heartless! Whv need ther *-~- conarated ust 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. [3199 
 
 _ How can I be grateful!” and she sopbed over this griev- 
 ence more than over her home yearnings. 
 
 Then as Frances’s words recurred to her, she returned 
 to her tone of expostulation. 
 
 _ “ How can it be al! for the best? It is what all the ser- 
 mons say, and the hymns—it is what papa himself told 
 me, but I can not, can not believe it. When one sees and 
 feels that things are doing one harm, how is one to believe 
 that they ‘ work together for good ?’” 
 
 “But, dear Esperance, I don’t want to remind you of 
 Scour Therese ; but surely troubles are sent as discipline! | 
 My aches and pains, for instance, to teach me patience, 
 and your loneliness to teach you, perhaps, to love.” 
 
 “To love! no, it is knocking all the love out of me; I 
 _ loved before when I was happy, but this is making me 
 cold, hard, icy, just as they are.” 
 
 Frances. had wished to steer clear of the deanery, and 
 was not pleased at the allusion, nor in truth was Esper- 
 ance herself, for she was too well-bred not to feel that 
 mention of her cousins’ failings ought to be strictly 
 guarded against. 
 
 She gave a little, impatient sigh. 
 
 “T am getting rude and altogether bad, and as Cornelia 
 
 - is always saying, I have no self-control. Oh, dear! if one 
 
 could only understand things, and learn the lessons they 
 teach quickly, and see the reasons, and be happy !” 
 
 «You make me think of one of Keble’s hymns; if you 
 will put up with the English I will say you the lines.” 
 And clearly and softly, so that even that much-abused lan- 
 guage sounded sweetly in Hsperance’s ears, Frances 
 repeated : 
 
 *¢¢Till Death the weary spirit free, 
 Thy God hath said, ‘Tis good for thee 
 To walk by faith and not by sight ;” 
 Take it on trust a little while ; 
 Soon shalt thou read the mystery right 
 In the full sunshine of His smile.’” 
 
 - Esperance mused in silence for a few minutes, then gaiq! 
 - Ves, that is very beautiful, and itis just what I wanted: 
 Tt seems almost like talking with papa. I remember he 
 used to sav, if we could believe that it would make all life 
 happy, and I will indeed try. And yet I have tried, and 
 always failed. It is easy to think so now whenI am happy, 
 
 but by and by—” — 
 
Ca alt ihe call Ws NG RPA sce UR (Tele a rn ORS em at 4 RN tal nc tia ee Scie ROMY AIA CA 7 I dink ee i = i eee 
 altar Rtas Pape Nae OP TOU AY, « Worse eee ete fay ahaa hes ae here ait Per Oe Te Pee 
 
 134 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 « By and by,” repeated Frances, “ you will learn to ‘ take 
 it on trust, and though the troubles will be troubles still, 
 you will try to learn the lessons they are meant to teach. 
 
 It all sounds trite and easy enough, I know, but, of course, 
 all discipline is grievous, and you must not expect to be 
 quite free from failures.” : 
 
 “But why did you say that I must learn to love ?” 
 asked Esperance, with a little reluctance. 
 
 «Why, is not that the beginning of everything? Your 
 father must have thought of the love as well as of the 
 faith when he spoke of all life being happy.” 
 
 “A ceux qui aiment Dieu,” repeated Esperance, under 
 her breath ; and therewith came before her that vividly 
 remembered scene, when, walking together on the moss- 
 grown terrace of the chateau, her father had prepared her ~ 
 for coming troubles. And now all his pain was over, and 
 he had “read the mystery right.” She dwelt fora minute 
 or two on the happiness of the last thought before turn- 
 ing to her own difficulties. She was to learn to love, 
 Frances had said. Did she really love her unele, or Cor: 
 -nelia, or Christabel, or Bella? and was not her love fo1' 
 
 Bertha still very feeble? The questions were more easily! 
 than satisfactorily answered, and with a great sigh shi) 
 hurried back to make the most of the present. 
 
 “Thad forgotten your head ; let me stroke it again.” 
 
 Frances, fully understanding, allowed her to do so for 
 
 a few minutes, then drew her down to be fondled in her 
 turn, saying, half playfully, at the same time, “And never 
 say again to me that ‘no one cares,’ or I shall take it as a 
 personal insult.” : 
 
 — What a luxury that little bit of demonstration was! 
 After all, Esperance had a good deal of what Cornelia 
 called the “spoiled baby ” in her, and it was the hunger 
 for the tender caressing love she had been used to, which ~— 
 had been gnawing at her heart for the last six months. 
 
 After a time, eager footsteps were heard outside, and 
 
 with a hurried knock little Kathie burst into the room. 
 
 “Oh, Aunt Fanny! mamma sent me to ask if Esperance 
 will not stay with us to see the fire-works ; papa says we 
 shall have them to-night because it is so clear. And you 
 will stay, won’t you?” turning eagerly to Fsnerance. “It 
 will be such fun, and we may help to let them off, and yeu 
 can, too, you know.” 
 
 Esperance looked bewildered, till Frances explained. 
 
 Pe ET has been a lon g-talked-of treat for the children, and 
 
 my brother-in-law las indimsigkgapt Sre-works. Yor : 
 

 
 WON: BY WAITING. 135 | 
 
 will stay, will you not? It will be delightful to keep you 
 for the night.” 
 
 “To stay here for the ni ight I’ * and Esperance started to 
 her feet in such an ecstasy that Frances hardly knew 
 whether she felt inclined to laugh or ery at the sight. 
 
 “Then you will stay?” questioned Kathie, eagerly. 
 
 “Yes, indeed—that is, if there is really nothing to 
 hinder it,” said Esperance. ‘“ My cousin—" 
 
 « Suppose you go down-stairs aud settle it,” said Frances. 
 “ Kathie, take Ksperance to the drawing-room, and mind 
 you don’t let her run away.” 
 
 The two hastened away, hand in hand, while Frances 
 was left to muse over the conversation, marveling at Esper- 
 ance’s utter want of reserve, and wondering if she had 
 given good counsel. 
 
 In a few minutes she heard the deanery carriage drive 
 off; then after a pause, in which she grew a little impatient, 
 steps were heard approaching, and Lady Worthington 
 _ opened the door. Her face was a mixture of triumph and 
 
 amusement. - 
 
 “She stays?” asked Frances. 
 
 “Yes, she stays,” replied her sister, laughing. “ But if 
 only you had been down-stairs to have seen it all! Mrs. 
 Mortlake was all anxicty to put a stop to it, but was quite 
 non-plused; I only hope she is not offended with us.” 
 
 “ But why did she object ?” 
 
 “Qh, she invented all sorts of excuses, from the cathedral 
 service upward, and really, when it came to the dean not 
 liking her to be absent I was afraid we should have to give 
 it up, though a more lame excuse I can’timagine. Asif he 
 ever attended to such subiunary matters! However, then 
 Henry came in and took just the right line, laughed at me 
 for not even knowing whether Esperance would like to stay, 
 and sent Kathie up here with a message.” 
 Ra Poor Esperance, I pity her coming down to such a con- 
 clave.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, she was quite self-possessed, and, I fancy, very mueh 
 enjoyed being quit of Mrs. Mortlake. It was great fun to | 
 see them together, though Iam afraid they might have been 
 more plein- ‘spoken if they had been alone. As it was, Es- 
 perance deferred to her cousin just enough, but made it 
 very evident that she would like to stay, putting in half a 
 dozen pretty little speeches about giving trouble and want 
 of preparation, while Mrs. Mortlake was stumbling over 
 ene. Henry was enchanted with her, and I have left him 
 
Soe ve. et ee ale 2 ie ey) SP ae eee ee OLE ET rr 
 pie paket gga RS NE Set |, ene eee ee, bao ey 
 
 een 
 
 136 _ ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 doing pater familias, with Esperance in one hand, Kathie in 
 the other, and boys every where, going to see the exhibition 
 of rabbits.” 
 
 “Poor child, she will enjoy it. Oh, Katharine, she does 
 want spoiling a little. She must have a dreadful time of it 
 at the deanery.” | 
 
 “Tam glad you have come to my way of thinking,” said | 
 Lady Worthington, with a smile. 
 
 “No, not altogether. I have tried my line, but it brought to 
 light so much unhappiness, that 1am sure we must vive her 
 all the love we can, to counteract the deanery infiuence.” 
 
 “T quite agree with you. Well, 1 must not waste any 
 more time in gossiping ; there will be just time to go down 
 to the village and ask the school children to-come up this 
 evening to see the show.” , 
 
 “Tam glad they are coming ; but what will Miles say to 
 his beloved lawn being trampled on ?” 
 
 “My dear, what is the use of having a garden if you 
 can’t do what you like with it? I have conquered my 
 coachman, and I don’t mean to be a slave to my gardener. 
 I shall give a general invitation to the whole village.” . 
 
 It seemed that the whole village accepted the invitation, 
 for by seven o’clock the lawn was crowded with expectant 
 watchers, Mr. Miles himself being one of the number, 
 good-naturedly willing to make the best of this invasion 
 of his territory, and secretly enjoying the little excitement — 
 as much asanybody. On the terrace Sir Henry had ar- 
 ranged his apparatus, about which Harry and Fred hov. 
 ered importantly, while Kathie, half afraid of such un. 
 known things, kept fast hold of Esperance’s hand, and 
 when the first rocket was let off with a mysterious whiz 
 snd upward rush, fairly dragged her away. 
 
 There was something weird and wonderful about the 
 whole scene, and the awe-struck silence, or murmurs of 
 admiration of the rustic spectators, were equally impres- 
 tive. Esperance, though she had seen far grander displays 
 at Paris, had never enjoyed any so much, and she was as 
 eager as the boys were totry her hand at letting off squibs 
 or crackers, while Kathie soon lost her fear and pleaded 
 for a “Catherine wheel,” “to do all herself.” Then after 
 a shower of brilliant, many-colored snakes, and an elator- 
 ate device, the assembly broke up, the villagers oing home 
 with lusty cheers, in which Harry and Fred could not resist: 
 joining, in spite of their mother’s laughiag remonstrance. 
 
 . Afterward, there was arush to “Aunt Fanpy’s” room, 
 
 
 

 
 "WON BY WAITING. 137 
 
 and a rapturous account of all that had been done, Frances 
 listening with the greatest interest, and quite entering into 
 it all, though Esperance was sure—by the sharp contrac- 
 tion of her forehead every now and then—that she was in 
 great pain. : 
 
 ~- Inafew minutes, however, Lady Worthington came in 
 and put an end to the chatter with—“ Now, children, go to 
 bed; I am sure you are all tired.” 
 
 “Not a bit, mamma,” said the boys. But they were 
 obedient enough, in spite cf their uproarious wildness, and 
 weut off at once. | 3 
 
 After they were gone, Lady Worthington, Frances, and 
 Esperance sat over the fire, talking, till Frances, thinking’ 
 that three was no company, wished them good-night, and 
 left her sister to win Eisperance’s love in a ¢éle-d-téte. 
 
 And very well she succeeded. Any experience of real 
 motherly tenderness was entirely new to the poor child, - 
 and she was soon clinging to Lady Worthington with all 
 the ardor of newly awakened love, and talking almost more 
 freely than she had done with Frances. They did not 
 touch on Esperance’s present life at all, but Lady Worth- 
 ington, with the greatest tact, spoke of her mother, recall- 
 ing two or three incidents in her life, which her little 
 daughter listened to eagerly, and then going on to tell of 
 her brief visit to the Chateau de Mabillon, when Gaspard 
 was a baby, making Esperance smile by her descriptions, 
 though it is true the tears were not far off, and came down 
 in showers when the conversation turned to the troubles in 
 the siege. Yet it was a comfort to her to talk, particularly 
 to one who had known her father in however slight a de- 
 gree; and when Lady Worthington learned that she had 
 never spoken to her cousins, or to any one except Claude 
 Maenay, on the subject, she knew that it would be a real 
 kindness not to shux the topic, feeling sure that it must be 
 bad for one so unreserved by nature, to be shut into her- 
 self by the mistaken kindness of others. 
 
 So Esperance disburdened her heart, and was warmed 
 
 and cheered, and finally tucked up in bed by the motherly 
 Lady Worthington, who had found a protégée quite after 
 _ her own heart. . 
 
 When she went down to her husband in the drawing- 
 room, she could not resist giving vent to her feelings about 
 the Collinsons, and Rilchester people in general, who, by 
 their senseless want of tact and sympathy, had given the 
 
 vor child such a bad idea of English people. ‘ 
 
 
 
1d Re WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “Your patriotic soul is grieved, eh, Kate?” said Sir 
 Henry, smiling. : 
 
 “Well, I really don’t think it is fair. The dean isa 
 kind-hearted man—-at least you are always saying so, but 
 why does he not see to this child? They will ruin her 
 goon, if he does not descend from his celestial heights.” 
 
 “ Don’t speak evil of dignitaries, my dear.” 
 
 “TI can’t help it, I never did like Dean Collinson, and I 
 never shall. In this, as in everything else, he seems to me 
 blindly selfish. I can’t see why any man, however clever 
 he may be, should receive an enormous salary for dong 
 nothing in the world except looking through his own 
 telescope.” 
 
 “ Shocking ! shocking!” said Sir Henry, but he laughed, 
 nevertheless. “ Well, Kate, you are a wonderful woman, 
 and in time I dare say you will reform Rilchester, but I very 
 much doubt if you will sever the dean and his hobby, or 
 rouse him to a sense of his duties.” 
 
 And even hopeful and enterprising Lady Worthington 
 fully acquiesced. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Oh! ye, who sunk in beds of down, 
 
 Feel not a want, bnt what yourselves create, 
 
 Think for a moment on his wretched fate 
 
 Whom friends and fortune quite disown. 
 F BuRNS, 
 
 Esprranos went back to Rilchester reallv the better for 
 her visit to the Worthingtons, and with a desire to make 
 the best of everything at the deanery. She was far brighter 
 than she had been before, and made honest efforts to love 
 her cousins, and though she was daily in despair over her 
 failures the endeavor was doing her great good. Nor was 
 she by any means destitute of pleasures. Frances Neville 
 lent her books, took her for drives in her little pony-car- 
 riage, and talked in French as much as she pleased. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake, it is true, was fond of making unpleasant 
 allusions to Esperance’s “new friend,” and Cornelia in- 
 dulged in a few sarcasms at her expense, but Esperance 
 could endure this as long as she was allowed still to see 
 Frances. ae 
 
 Soon after Christmas, Bella had a sharp attack of bron- 
 chitis, and wasso much pulled dewn by it that as soon as 
 the mild February days began it was decided that she 
 
WON BY WAITING 139 
 
 should be taken to the south. Accordingly Mrs. Mortlake, 
 with Esperance as &@ companion and help, went down to 
 Bournemouth witu the iractious :ittle invalid. It was not 
 a lively prospect certainly, aud Esperance regretted leav- 
 ing Rilchester while the Worthingtons were still at home, 
 knowing that by the time they returned in the spring, the 
 Halli would be empty and deserted. Had it not been for 
 the delicious sea air, and the change of scene, she could 
 hardly have borne the ceaseless fret of her life. Bclla was 
 both cross and troublesome, and Mrs. Mortlake being 
 
 ‘anxious and harassed, and at times rather dull, was more — 
 
 fault-finding and wearisome than usual. 
 
 Erances Neville’s good counsels, and still more her ex- 
 ample, were however fresh in Esperance’s mind, and she 
 struggled hard against the despondency and fretfulness 
 
 _ which were now her chief temptations, and at last her re- 
 
 ward came. ‘Toward the end of their stay at Bournemouth, 
 one rainy, dismal afternoon, when Bella had been more 
 provoking than ever, a letter arrived from Dean Collinson 
 to Mrs. Mortlake, with news which made Esperance almost 
 
 - frantic with delight. 
 
 “My father proposes meeting us in London,” said Mrs. 
 Mortlake, calmly. “He says: 
 
 * «Cornelia and I intend to come up to town next Tues- 
 day, the day you fixed for yourreturn, and if you will leave 
 Bournemouth by an early train, I will see you across Lon- 
 don ; in the afternoon we have an engagement. Cornelia 
 suggests that your cousin might like to see her brother on 
 the way through, in which case she can return with us by 
 a later train.’ ” 
 
 - Hsperance uttered half a dozen exclamations in French 
 
 —then, recovering her senses, went on more quietly in 
 Enelish. 
 
 « How very good of them to think of it. To see Gas- 
 pard once more! and so soon, too, scarcely a week; it seems 
 too good to be true!” | 
 
 “It will be very tiresome for me to have to take Beila 
 home all alone,” said Mrs. Mortlake, “you have no con- 
 sideration.” 
 
 Luckily, Esperance’s delight was too deep to be much 
 affected by this wet blanket, nor did she suffer from any 
 panes of conscience at her desertion of Bella—Gaspard 
 must stand first ; and she was in such spirits, that she even 
 turned Mrs. Mortlake’s complaint into a sort of compli+ 
 ment, and made herself half believe that she liked it. | | 
 
140 | WON BY WAITING, 
 
 How long that week seemed! Yet the anticipation was 
 so delightful that she could afford to wait patiently, and 
 she went about the house with such a radiant face, that 
 Mrs. Mortlake, in spite of herself, was touched. 
 
 At length the great day came. Early i in the morning the 
 first start was made, and without a shadow of regret—her 
 heart was too full of joy for that—Hsperance bade fare- 
 well to Bournemouth, to the sea, to the pine woods, to the 
 sands, and, in an ecstasy of happiness, counted the min- 
 utes till their arrival. 
 
 It was curious to be met by such quict, uninterested peo- 
 ple as the dean and Cornelia, and a little hard to be quite 
 attentive enough to cloaks and umbrellas. But at length 
 all was happily over, the drive across London accomplished, 
 and Mrs. Mortlake left with Cornelia at the station to 
 await her train, while the dean himself escorted Hisperance 
 to Gaspard’s rooms. 
 
 Perhaps had she not been so happy, she would have 
 eared more about the baker’s shop, and the shabby long- 
 ines which would probably shock her uncle; but she had 
 not a thought to spare for any one but Gaspard, and sprung 
 
 from the cab without the least diffidence, running into the ~ 
 
 shop with all speed to shake hands with the landlady, and 
 leading the astonished and dismayed dean up the dark, 
 
 narrow staircase. In another momenta door on the first 
 landing was quickly opened, and Esperance, with a cry of 
 joy, flew into Gaspard’s arms, while the dean, shading his 
 eyes with his hand, looked on bewildered, but half touched. 
 
 Esperance soon remembered her uncle, ‘and disengaging 
 herself from Gaspard’s embrace, turned to him with an 
 apologetic, wistful glance. 
 
 “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, uncle; I ought to 
 introduce Gaspard to you.’ 
 
 The dean held out his hand, muttered something polite, 
 and was taken into the dingy little room, which Esperance 
 remembered so weil, but looked far more shabby and com- 
 fortless than in her time. 
 
 No sooner had she turned to feast her eyes with the 
 sight of Gaspard, however, than her happiness was sud- 
 denly chilled, for he was looking very ill, pale, and worn, 
 and frightfully thin, while the scar on his cheek added to 
 the ghastliness of the whole face. She could not help con- 
 trasting him with the sleek, comfortable, well-to-do dean 
 who took everything so easily, and found life so pleasant, 
 Spparently, however, he w-. ut quite at his case pn. > 
 
 enone iit din, ES 
 

 
 ay hatha He * ‘gare. ae 
 
 WON BY WAITING 141 
 
 - for he moved his hat nervously between his hands, and 
 seemed to find conversation a difficulty, so Esperance 
 thought at least, for Gaspard, in very fairly good English, 
 did almost all the talking, while she counted from the 
 dean six consecutive remarks of “‘Oh, indeed.” He rose 
 to go very soon, to her relief, Gaspard promising to bring 
 her to the station in time for the 5:45 express, and escort- 
 ing his guest to the door, with a grave dignity, which re- 
 minded Esperance of her father. 
 
 She grudged the interruption, and waited impatiently 
 till he returned. | 
 
 “Ten minutes out of our precious time,” she said, half 
 petulantly, as after a few parting words with the dean, 
 Gaspard hurried upstairs. “What were you saying to 
 him?” | 
 
 “ Only a little gratitude, which I couldn’t bring myself 
 to with you near, my precious bien-aimée. What a delight 
 itis to have you! let me have a good look at you!” 
 
 Each surveyed the other in silence. Gaspard was 
 apparently well satisfied, for the “ Mariana” look which he 
 had feared, was not there; but Esperance, after a moment, 
 hid her face on his shoulder and burst into tears. 
 
 “ Ohérie, what is it?” he asked, full of concern. “Are 
 
 you unhappy at Rilchester ? is anything wrong ?” 
 “Tis not that,” she sobbed. “ But, oh, Gaspard, you 
 can’t think how ill you look!” SS 
 
 “Ts that all?” he said, laughing. ‘Don't break your 
 heart over such trifles—do let us eujoy ourselves in the 
 few hours we have together.” 
 
 ‘She made an unsuccessful effort to cheek her sobs, and 
 he, fearing that his attempt to turn away from the subject 
 had wounded her, returned to it. 
 
 * Mon amie, it is very pleasant to be thought for, and 
 spoiled once more, but you must not really think I am ill. 
 ~Itis not half so trying as life during the siege, and the 
 _ quality of the food is much better—thinness is natural to 
 the family.” , 
 
 «“ But tell me, Gaspard, are you really living still with- 
 out meat?” asked Esperance, with an earnestness which 
 made him laugh. i : 
 
 “Yes Tam turned vegetarian, teetotale>, and all sorts of 
 virtuous things.” 
 
 «And at the deanery,” exclaimed Erperance, passion- 
 ately, “even Bella’s wretched Little cat has meat every: 
 
 Eo Oay, =. 
 
142 WON BY WATTING. 
 
 Gaspard laughed uncontrollably, and Esperance, seeing 
 the ludicrous side of her remark, at length joined Lim. 
 
 * Poor Bismarck! don’t you think you could take him 
 back with you to that happy place; he is not half so well 
 used.” 
 
 “Tf only you were there.” 
 
 “What! to eat those terrible breakfasts at edeht o'clock, 
 and those joints of meat, which you described to me with 
 such horror? Have you forgotten what happened when 
 
 «¢ Autrefois le rat de ville 
 Ivita len rat des champs ?” 
 
 You would find me sighing for Bismarck and my eau sucré 
 by the end of the first day.” 
 
 Esperance was soon talked back to cheerfulness, and re- 
 lieved Gaspard greatly by the account she gave of herself, 
 and of the kindness Lady Worthington and Miss Neville 
 had shown her. She wisely refrained from showing the 
 darker side of her life at the deanery, aNx10Us, as far ag 
 possible, to make him easy about her. 
 
 “Your funds must want replenishing,’ ’ said Gaspard, 
 when he had heard all she had to tell of her present life. 
 “‘ How have you managed to get on? : 
 
 “Oh, ET have done very well,’ said Esperance, “and I 
 don’t want anything yet. I have been making up some of 
 my old colored dresses this spring.” | 
 
 “ But, chérie, you can’t have existed for ten months on 
 that sovereign L gave you last June and yet have suck a 
 nice turn-out.” 
 
 “You men know nothing whatever about such things,” 
 said Esperance, laughing gayly. “That sovereign lasted 
 me till Christmas, and then, luckily, uncle gave me another 
 as a Christmas present, and that is to last another six 
 months. Then besides, some one sent me three pairs of 
 gloves as a valentine, so now you know all my resources. 
 The idea of my having anything from you! What do you 
 take me for, Gaspard ?” 
 
 “For a very wonderful littleaanager,” said Gaspard, 
 smiling, ‘But, seriously, it will be the greatest help to 
 me, for, as you know, money is not too abundant, nor 
 likely to be.” 
 
 op used to hope that poor Monsieur Lemercier would 
 somehow come miraculously to the rescue, and “nd that 
 our losses had not, after all, heen so great. Have you 
 heard from him lately, Gaspard ie 
 
oes PE ee Bee RE Say OW GT Sasi in ea ae a 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 143 
 
 iy “No, not from him, but from madame,” replied Gaspard, 
 
 gadly. Then, as Esperance looked up iuquiringly, “I 
 wanted you not to hear of it, chérie, but since you have 
 asked that can not be. Poor Monsieur Lemercier was 
 arrested as a Communist.” 3 
 
 “He was notshot!” exclaimed Esperance, horror-struck. 
 
 “No, no; that he did escape, though poor madame was 
 kept in suspense for some time. He is transpcrted for 
 life.” 
 
 “Poor monsieur! Oh, I am so evieved for him! Do you 
 not remember, Gaspard, how earnest—almost noble—he 
 looked when he wished us good-bye ?—how hopeful he 
 was about the Commune |” 
 
 Gaspard gave a heavy sigh. | 
 
 ~©Poor Lemercier! if ever a man meant well, he did. 
 Well, chérie, if it had not been for you, I might perhaps 
 have been with him, and the disgrace of that would be 
 worse than starving here.” 
 
 ‘The words slipped from him inadvertently. Esperance 
 shuddered, but took no notice of them, fearing to vex 
 him. 
 
 « And poor madame ?” she asked, after a brief silence. 
 
 “Ttis some months since I had her letter; she was in 
 France then, but bent on working her way out tohim. Of 
 course they are ruined, for Monsieur Lemercier never had - 
 a notion of Saving, so she was looking out for a situation as 
 governess.” 
 
 “Poor madame! how sad for her! But she is brave 
 and g@od-hearted; she will join monsieur before long, 
 without doubt. Oh, Gaspard, how I wish I were old 
 enough to go out as a governess, then I could help you, 
 perhaps.” 
 
 “You do that already by your economy; besides, I am 
 not in despair yet. I have heard it said, that if work is 
 
 | honestly wished for, and really sought, it comes sooner or 
 
 later.” 
 — “But in the meantime?” said Esperance, with a quiver in 
 her voice. 
 
 “We must endure, chérie, tary trust in God.” 
 
 His tones were grave and low, and Esperance, in spite of 
 a thrill of happiness, was awed by them. She was more 
 and more reminded of her father, and though her heart 
 ached when she thought of Gaspard’ S sufferings, there was 
 comfort in seeing how cood was being brought out of evil. 
 A year ago he had been miserable and depressod out of 
 

 
 —— — ae Se ey Wie SA oe AS 2 
 = a 3 = _ y aS 
 ae — A A i 
 
 144 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 heart with himself, and in every way unsettled ; now, note — 
 withstanding his troubles, he was more hopeful, and more 
 bravely patient, while Eisperance was conscious of a certain 
 growth and expansion of .his whole character, which, 
 though she could not in the least fathom it, enabled herto 
 lean where she had before upheld, and to reverence where 
 she had simply loved. | 
 The clock struck five all too soon ; and when Gaspard 
 spoke of preparing for the start, aterrible yearning to stay 
 with him almost overmastered her. To go back to the 
 weary, struggling, scolding life at Rilchester, after the © 
 short respite, seemed almost unbearable,and had it not 
 been for her anxiety to leave Gaspard well satisfied with 
 her comfort and happiness, she must have given way. But 
 the loving little deception helped her, and she kept up 
 bravely. Just at the last the landlady, who had been very 
 fond of her, brought up some coffee, which she begged 
 ma'mnselle to accept ; and Esperance, who had tasted noth- 
 ing since the morning, made an effort to be grateful, drove 
 back her tears, and managed to swallow some of it, and to © 
 éalk to the -good-natured woman. * ee 
 In spite of her dread of leaving Gaspard, she almost — 
 Jooked forward to the time when she might allow herself — 
 to break down, the torture of tiis prolonged parting was °' 
 worse than anything, and it was really a kind of relief — 
 when they set out for the station. They found Cornelia 
 and the dean walking up and down the platform, and Esper- 
 ance rather enjoyed introducing Gaspard to her cousin, 
 Oornelia, who had from the first been much more desir- _ 
 ous to help Gaspard than to adopt his sister, was evidently Ee 
 struck with him, talked with him, at Srst patronizingly, — 
 but soon with real cordiality, and showed her best side, 
 while Esperance was unselfish enough to be thankful that — 
 her little plot was thus aided. Gaspard’s last words, spoken _ 
 rapidly in French, proved how successful she had been. ——— 
 “Good-bye, mon ceur, if you knew the unntterable coms 
 fort it is to see you thus well taken care of!” ec 
 He was satisfied; a care was taken off his mind: it was _ 
 well! but as the train moved slowly off, and the necessity 
 for restrain was no longer felt, an agony of loneliness over=- _ 
 whelmed the poor child. Would it have been better, she 
 wondered, if she ‘ad told all her troubles to Gaspard and 
 gained that symp thy for which she was craving? Was she _ 
 right to let him think that she was happy and contented, 
 when in truth she was miserable And yet those thankfuj 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WATTING. °__ 148 
 
 words at parling were worth suffering for; if she had 
 denied herself the relief of a complete outpouring of her 
 heart, it had at least gained peace of mind for him, had 
 taken something from his many troubles. But there her 
 self-control gave way, and the long pent-up tears burst 
 forth as she thought of the many privations he had tried 
 unsuccessfully to hide from her. 
 
 The dean was engrossed in his newspaper at the further 
 end of the carriace; moreover, he was a little deaf; but 
 from the all-observing Cornelia nothing could be con- 
 cealed. She had been prepared for a few natural tears, but 
 when the long-drawn, quivering sobs continued,- and 
 even grew more violent, she thought it time to interfere, 
 and began a low-toned but decided remonstrance. 
 
 **My dear Esperance do control yourself; itis so childish 
 to go on this way; you weaken your whole character by 
 is: 
 
 It was very true,no doubt, but she was past being reasoned 
 - with— what did her character signify when Gaspard was 
 starving ? So she sobbed on, while Cornelia scolded without 
 - any effect, until at last, alarmed at the increasing paleness 
 of Esperance’s face, she asked suddenly the startled matters 
 of-fact question, “ Have you had any dinner ?” 
 A half-impatient “No” os the answer. 
 “What! nothing at all since the morning?” 
 “Some coffee,” sobbed Esperance, still impatiently. 
 “You foolish child, then of course you are faint with 
 hunger. Why can’t you take proper care of yourself?” 
 “Do you think I would not rather bear that than take 
 anything from Gaspard ?” said Esperance, indignation fora 
 - moment checking her tears. ‘You rich people haveno 
 
 _ conception what real poverty means! would you have me 
 take eare of myself, when he has been starving for months 
 on bread and eau sucré?” 
 
 - * Tg that really a fact?” asked Cornelia, greatly shocked, 
 while the dean, hearing an unusual noise, looked up from 
 his paper, and bent forward to listen. Esperance was just 
 sufficiently alive to feel that a crisis had come; with an 
 effort she raised herself, grasped the arm of the seat, and 
 choking back her tears, said, “I have done wrong, Cor- 
 nelia; he would not wish any one to know of his priva- 
 tions; pray forget what I said.” 
 
 * «Jean make no such promise,” said Cornelia, eoldly; 
 * besides, if, as I infer, this is really true, it is not a thir; 
 io be forgotten.” 
 
146 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Tisperance had fallen back to her former position, but 
 throuch her tears Cornelia caught the words, “ He would 
 not like—more obligations.” —— z 
 
 Perhaps her vexation at this accounted for the very se- 
 vere way in which she administered wine from a flask to 
 Esperance. c 
 
 “Now pray drink this and stop crying at once; if you 
 had a tithe ot your brother’s powers of endurance, this 
 would not hive happened.” 
 
 It was certainly neither complimentary ror consoling, 
 but Esperance’s loving nature was more pleased by the 
 reference to Gaspard’s virtues, than stung by the reproach 
 to herself. She swallowed the wine, revived a little, dried 
 her eyes, and cowered down into her corner, where she 
 soon fell asleep. 
 
 Cornelia sat watching her gravely ; stern and unsympe 
 thetic as she had seemed, her heart was really touchew 
 and Esperance’s outburst, with its pride and pathos, ha. 
 awakened her compassion. She was genuinely sorry fous 
 the poor child, but to let this appear in word or deeu 
 seemed to her impossible, and after the salutary scoldin,: 
 she had administered, she would have deemed it mevas 
 weakness to change her tactics; so that it was not un«il 
 Esperance was fast asleep, that she undid her cloak strays,. 
 and spread a warm shawl over her. 
 
 Then she moved to the seat beside the dean, and began 
 in her business-like way, “Tather, I wish you would help: 
 that poor boy to some work, he looks so ill. Do you not 
 know of something he could do in Rilchester ? Did I not. 
 hear that the librarian wanted some copying done ?” 
 
 ‘We do not want him at Rilchester,” said the dean, a 
 
 little sharply. ‘‘I have had foreigners to my house once. 
 
 too often; we don’t want your poor aunt Amy’s story acted 
 over again.” 
 
 “ Bertha!’ exclaimed Cornelia, “oh! that could never’ 
 
 be; he isa mere boy, too.” , 
 
 “A thorough De Mabillon,” said the dean. “The very: 
 image of his father, manners and all; a substratum of 
 pride, then a coating of dignity, and over all that, destest-- 
 able French polish. Pshaw! why can’t a man be plain: 
 spoken! I hate palaver.” 
 
 Cornelia smiled at her father’s unwonted energy. 
 
 “ But you would scarcely wish to leave even a Frenchman: 
 to starve, and I am afraid it has nearly come to that with: 
 Gaspard de Mabillon.” 
 
 aS 
 
WON BY WAITING. 149 
 
 «My dear Cornelia, you are quite mistaken if you think 
 Yam going to adopt both Monsieur de Mabillon’s children. 
 I have taken in the little girl for your poor aunt’s sake, but 
 further than that I will not go.” 
 
 “So her first-born must starve, because of that limit you 
 jput upon your good-will,” said Cornelia, with more sarcasm 
 than respect. 7 
 
 The dean shifted about uneasily, looking thoroughly 
 miserable. To be forced to talk of anything but the 
 heavenly bodies, was a pain and grief to him at any time, 
 but when the earthly bodies under dispute happened to be 
 De Mabillons, his wretchedness was complete, for he had 
 never forgiven M. de Mabillon, and yet was ashamed to 
 remember that he had not done so. 
 
 “ What can I do for him?” he asked at lengtk, galled by 
 the consciousness of this unrepented, yet would-be for- 
 gotten sin. 
 
 Cornelia had been thinking deeply for somne minutes, 
 and her answer was ready sooner than the dean cared for. 
 
 * [ have been thinking, father, could you not write to 
 ‘Mir. Seymour ?” 
 
 * How do you know that the voune man has any liking 
 Yor coffee planting 2?” questioned the dean, glad of an ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 *T fancy he has a likine for anything that will give bim 
 bread, poor fellow. Mr. Seymour's furlough will be over 
 soon, LT should think, and if he knows of any opening for 
 him in Ceylon, they might go out together.” 
 
 “And pray who is to bear the cost of the premium?” 
 
 “Let us wait till we know there is a premium to pay,” 
 said Cornelia, eomposedly, and there she allowed the con- 
 versation to rest, satisfied that she had gained her point. 
 
 The dean soon forgot his vexation in sleep, and Cornelia 
 sat musing, while the silence was only broken by a little 
 half sob from Esperance every now and then. Cornelia 
 watched her apprehensively, hoping that she had heard 
 nothing of vhat had passed, and wondering how the new 
 idea would please her. On the whole, in spite of her ap- 
 parent contempt, she was nearer liking her than she had 
 ever been before, and even betrayed no irritation when, 
 on arriving at Rilchester, Esperance awoke confused and 
 weary, and persisted in speaking French. 
 
Aa Nae Sei Dy EG got VM Whale Mi a Ea ce A) a Dna et eh bar gs TR re ie) 
 : eas Hoa = aes oe ae Ls 
 
 148 | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Jf loving hearts were never lonely, 
 If all they wished might always be, 
 Accepting what they look for only, 
 They might be glad—but not in Thee, 
 
 ‘We need as much the cross we bear 
 As air we breathe, as light we see} 
 — Jt draws us to Thy side in prayer, 
 It binds us to our strength in Thee. 
 
 A. L. WaRtna. 
 
 RiLcHESTER again with its quiet, undisturbed streets and 
 its busy tongues; the cathedral with its daily services and, 
 its thin congregations; the deanery, with all its luxurious 
 discomfort, and the weary, distasteful life once more. 
 Strive as Esperance would to be thankful and contented, it 
 was of no use—each day seemed more burdensome, each 
 petty trial more unbearable. It was an intolerable effort 
 to be even ordinarily polite to every one, and when Bella 
 was provoking she was sorely tempted to box her ears. 
 
 Cornelia told her openly that-her visit to Gaspard had 
 upset her, that she was ungrateful for the kindness shown 
 her, and that she ought to be ashamed of herself. Mrs. 
 Mortlake put everything down to the long holiday at 
 Bournemouth, and was always on the lookout for fresh 
 employment for her. Bella’s nurse, a kind-hearted, sensible 
 person, suggested that mademoiselle felt the spring 
 weather, and shouid take a tonic. 
 
 April passed into May, and the alternations of cold east 
 wind and hot sunshine did not improve matters. Esper- 
 ance grew more and more languid and depressed ; she 
 could not sleep, she could not eat, she vould not even 
 think clearly. The one idea impressed on her mind was 
 that Gaspard was alone and starving, and this thought 
 never left her; by day, she dwelt on it with bitter tears— 
 in her brief intervals of restless sleep it haunted her 
 ~ dreams. ; | 
 
 Things went on in this way for about a month. Cornelia 
 
 was beginning to feel alarmed, and to watch her with re 
 though carefully diseuised anxiety. 
 
 One day when the lessons had gone worse than usual, 
 
 and Esperance felt that she really deserved a scolding, she 
 was surprised by the sudden quest.on, “You do not feeb 
 
 
 
 “ar bt bie 
 
 ct 
 

 
 
 
 See WON BY WAITING. 149 
 
 _ well, Esperance, I am sure. What is the matter with 
 you ?” 
 
 “1 do not know,” she answered, languidly. 
 
 « But you must know what you feel like; come, tell me 
 at once.” 
 
 “T don’t feel anything particular.” 
 
 “Would you like to see a doctor?” 
 
 “Oh, no, thank you; I have nothing to say.” 
 
 Cornelia was not at all satisfied with the epiritless tone 
 of her answers. She had lost all her brightness and energy, © 
 and whereas she had before been eager and responsive, 
 she was now silent and apathetic. 
 
 “You need not prepare your lessons for to-morrow; we 
 will read together instead,” said Cornelia, after a minute's 
 thought, watching to see what effect this would have. 
 There was some slight shade of relief in Esperance’s 
 “ Thank you,” but it seemed as if nothing could make very 
 much difference to her now. 
 
 Just then the gong sounded for luncheon, and the two 
 went down-stairs together, Cornelia feeling uneasy and 
 puzzled. In the dining-room they found the dean and 
 their cousin, George Palgrave, who had just arrived on a 
 visif. Esperance looked at hinrrather curiously remem- 
 bering with a pang the scene of their last meeting. He 
 was not the least changed in appearance, but he seemed 
 less awkward, a fact which she naughtily explained as owing 
 to her increased acquaintance with Enelishmen. He won 
 
 her heart, however, by inquiring after Gaspard, for 
 though the question was hard to answer, and brought the 
 ready tears to her eyes, it showed that he was not for- 
 votten. 
 
 ” Cornelia watched Esperance carefully, noticed her reply 
 to George Palgrave’s question, the sudden blush which 
 rose to her cheek quickly succeeded by deadly paleness, 
 the almcst impatient gesture with which she rejected the 
 dishes handed to her, and her languid attempts to eat a few 
 mouthfuls of what was beforeher. All brought to her 
 mind that sharp, despairing sentence, which had so 
 startled her, “Should I take care of myself, when he is 
 starving ?” It must then be this trouble which was weigh- 
 ing down Esperance ; she should know as soon as possible 
 that help was at hand. 
 
 Several letters had passed between Mr. Seymour and the 
 dean, and Cornelia knew that Mr. Seymour intended to 
 have a personal interview with Gaspard, and that if pleased 
 
/ 
 150 WON BY WAITING, 
 
 with him, it was highly probable that he would give him 
 
 employment. Matters were arranged even more quickly 
 
 than she had expeeted ; that very afternoon the dean re- 
 
 ceived letters both from. the coffée- -planter and from Gas- 
 ard. 
 
 Y “Mr. Seymour really takes him?” asked Cornelia, anx- 
 
 iously. 
 
 “Yes; he seems much pleased with him; you can read 
 his letter, and the young man himself writes very properly. 
 Tam glad something 1 is setiled; it has been a most trouble- 
 gome correspondence.” 
 
 «You will tell Esperance, will you not, father?” 
 
 - “Oh, well, yes, if you think best; but send her here 
 quickly, for Iam very busy, and have been sadly hindered 
 this morning by George.” 
 
 “‘She shall come at once. You remember, father, she has 
 no idea of this; it will be a great surprise to her.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, I understand, my dear; only let us waste no 
 more time.” 
 
 Cornelia hastened away in search of Esperar ance, not feel- — 
 
 ing quite satisfied. After all, would tlis help which she 
 had taken so much pains to secure be very acceptable to 
 her little cousin ? She wished Ceylon were not so far off, 
 or that she had persuaded her father to try for some Eng~ 
 lish appointment for Gaspard ; and then wished heartily 
 that she had more tact and sympathy, or could fancy in the 
 least what her feelings would be on hearing that her im- 
 aginary brother was to be shipped off to the other side of 
 the world. 
 
 Poor Carnal in spite of all her wishes, her voice was 
 as cold and peremptory as ever when at last she found 
 Esperance. 
 
 “My father wants to speak to you in the library; no, 
 pray don’t fidget about your hair, it is quite tidy, and he 
 is in a hurry.” 
 
 Esperance went without a word. <A few months ago she 
 would have been excited by such an unusual request, now 
 she only raised her eyebrows slightly. Cornelia would al- 
 most have been thankful for one of those objectionable — 
 French expletives, this silence seemed so unnatural, and 
 with many misgivings, she watched her as she went slowly 
 down the dark “staircase, her han‘l passing languidly over 
 the balustrade rail. 
 
 The dean was pacing up ane dewn the library when Ee 
 perance entered. . 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 151 
 
 * Cornelia said you wished to sneak to me, uncle,” she 
 “aid. upproaching lim. 
 
 “Yes, my dear, just for a few minutes upon a little mats 
 ter vi business; take thischair. Cornelia told me that your 
 brother conk! meet with no employment, and that he was 
 in fact in very poor circumstances, and 1 have been trying 
 for some wecks to find some suitable situation for him.” 
 
 “Dear uncle, how very good you are,” cried Lisperance, 
 springing up with all her old energy, “and you have really 
 found something for him.” 
 
 “Yes; Mr. Seymour, a friend of mine, has Biered him a 
 situation on his estate in Ceylon, and your brother seems 
 very much pleased with it.” 
 
 Iisperance tried to believe that ve did not hear rightly; 
 it had never entered her head to think of work for Gaspard 
 out of England; she turned giddy at the thought, and sink- 
 “ine back into the chair from which she had started in such 
 an ecstasy of hope, asked faintly, ‘Ceylon, did you say, 
 uncle ?” 
 
 “Yes, Ceylon, my dear, on a coffee plantation; very in- 
 teresting work, no doubt, and a most fortunate opening for 
 vour brother, I am very happy to have been the means of 
 introducing him to Mr. Seymour, I am sure.” 
 
 “You are very kind,” said poor Esperance, feeling rather 
 as if she were thanking her executioner, and trying hard to 
 grasp this new idca, though well aware that the realization 
 would bring pain. 
 
 “Don’t mention it, my dear,” said the dean, absently. 
 “Three o'clock, is it? Dear me, there was something at 
 three, surely? At! that tiresome missionary mecting! I 
 must go at once. The archdeacon might have taken the 
 chair instead, I am sure—what’s in a name?” Then half 
 rousing himself, “ Here are tle letters; you may read them, 
 Esperance; by the bye there was one inclosed to you from 
 your brother, ” and the dean hastily delivered the whole 
 packet of letters to his niece and hurried off with mut- 
 tere| grumblings about a “dull deputation,” and “ mis- 
 sionary twaddle.” 
 
 Hsperance took the letters eagerly and began to read 
 Mr. Seymour’s, marveling at her own composure. He spuke 
 very kindly of Gaspard, and agreed to take him to Ceylon 
 with him, offering hima salarv of £100 a year to begin 
 with, and a prospect of spec dy advancement. Then came 
 Gaspard’s letter of thanks to the dean, written in English, 
 and this failed to awaken Esperance’s feelings, for she 
 
_ full of anxiety to know how Esperance liked the new idea. — 
 She made a gesture of annoyance when she saw her lean- 
 
 2a WON BY WAITING. 
 could not realize that it was his writing at all. Lastly, 
 there was the little inclosed envelope diregied to herself, 
 
 which she opened eagerly, and read through fast-falling 
 
 tears. 
 
 ‘‘ My VERY DEAR ONE,—I have been offered & very good post on 
 
 a coffee plantation in Ceylon, by a friend of Dean Collinson. I ~ 
 
 thought long before accepting it, for I can not endure the 
 thought of leaving you alone. in England; but at last I have 
 made up my mind to doit. It seems wrong to refuse such an 
 
 offer, and you see, monceeur, the sooner I begin to earn some- 
 
 thing, the sooner your exile willend. Perhaps in three or four 
 years you will be able to join me in Ceylon, and we shall be in- 
 dependent once more. ‘This is worth all sacrifice and all present 
 pain tomy mind. Am I wrong in thinking that you will agree 
 with me? HowlTI wish we could have talked it over together ! 
 These letters are terribly unsatisfactory things. The whole 
 affair is such a mixture of pain and relief that I hardly know 
 how to support it. I shall, indeed, only be too thankful to be at 
 
 . work again, but the separation from you, cherie, will be well-nigh 
 
 unbearable—” 
 
 Unbearable! Yes, indeed! Esperance could read no | 
 
 further, and throwing aside the letter, she buried her face 
 in her hands, sobbing unrestrainedly. To be away from 
 Gaspard—thousands of miles away—with a vague hope 
 
 held out to her of seeing him again in three or four years! | 
 How was it to be endured? Was life worth having when 
 
 it was so full of pain? 
 In the midst of this outbreak, Cornelia opened the door, 
 
 ing on the dean’s writing-table, her face hidden, and the 
 
 _ open letter pushed aside. Why must French people always 
 
 : 
 
 be having “scenes?” Tears were so contemptible and — 
 
 weak in Cornelia’s opinion, she could not sympathize with 
 sorrow that found such an outlet. 
 
 “Why are you erying in this way?” she asked, coldly 
 “Come, pray control yourself; you are getting quite hys- 
 terical.” 3 ; 
 
 Esperance raised her head, and made an effort to check 
 her sobs. If Cornelia would only have taken her in her 
 arms, would have given her but one caress, or said one 
 kind word, the relief would have been unspeakable; as it 
 was, her coldness cnly added to pain already almost intolk 
 erable. | | 
 
 &t had the effect she desired, however, of forcing Hsper« — 
 
 
 

 
 “WON BY WAITING. : 153 
 
 ance to sentra herself, thou oh, whether the: apnitaral calm: 
 ness to which she schooled herself was really good for her, 
 is doubtful. 
 
 “ How is it that you are so inconsistent?” asked Corne. 
 lia. “A month ago you were crying because your brother 
 - had no work, and now that he has met with a good appoint- 
 ment you are crying again.” 
 
 “The separation!” said poor Esperance, afraid of break- 
 ing down again if she said too much. 
 
 “Nonsense! why you are separated now practically; it 
 isonly a question of thousands of miles instead of hun- 
 dreds. Besides, how selfish to think of that, when it is for 
 his good.” 
 
 It was very true, 1 no donbt, but Esperance was too sore- 
 hearted to find much comfort in this; moreover, all 
 Cornelia said, though intended to be salutary, made the 
 wound deeper, and the idea of being left behind in Eng- 
 land more terrible. To be left alone !—alone !—so utterly 
 alone! She could not even cry now; her tears seemed to 
 be scorched up, her eyes felt hot and dry, and even Cornelia 
 z0uid not have desired anything more controlled than the 
 voice which asked, in an odd, unnatural tone—‘‘ When does 
 Mr. Seymour go?” 
 
 « At the end of June, I believe; that will be just a month 
 
 from now. Your brother had better see about his outfit at 
 once. ” 
 
 “What kind of outfit do they require >” asked Esperance, 
 wondering how it was to be obtained, and turning almost 
 willingly to this practical difficulty, in the hope of stifling 
 the pain. _ 
 
 “Thave not the least idea, but probably Mr. Seymour 
 will have told him all about that; does he not tell you in 
 his letter?” and Cornelia glanced at the closely written 
 sheet which lay before her. 
 
 _ Hsperance took it up and read to the end, and there, sure 
 snough, was the formidable list of necessaries suggested 
 by the coffee-planter, but which Gaspard looked upon as 
 30 impossible to obtain that he mentioned them half laugh- 
 ingly. She was greatly perplexed. 
 
 * Well 2?” asked Cornelia. 
 
 “ Yes, he speaks of it,” she replied, slowly. “But I do 
 not much understand such pines: Lam still only very 
 young.” 
 
 The combination of adverbs offended Cornelia ear but 
 she was touched by the pathos of the confession. 4.¢:9 
 
NS My nt eke ee ke 8 Tis lee ae ee es Pe =* Soe CRP e melas se 
 CO METEEES BES DES NORTON Gate Toy ae SE eR ee ae a 
 " ; ° x 5a es J % 
 ey . ‘ : 
 
 154 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 was something weary in the tone, as if it were sad still to 
 have so much of life to look forward to, and it struck 
 
 that there was something strange and wrong in such a res 
 mark being made by a girl of scarcely seventeen, who 
 should have been rejoicing in the hope of coming life, and 
 proud of her age. ; 
 
 “T would not worry over the outfit if I were you,” she 
 said, more kindly. ‘No doubt your brother will ‘manage 
 it himself. You have a headache, I am sure, after all that 
 crying ; suppose you go out for a walk—you will have 
 time before afternoon service.” 
 
 Esperance was grateful for the kindness of this speech, 
 and wearily assenting, folded Gaspard’s letter and carried 
 it up to her room, her mind still full of the difficulties of 
 procuring his outfit. Whether it was from the relief of 
 thinking of anything except her grief, or from the anxiety 
 to being something for Gaspard while it was stil! possible, 
 this idea quite absorbed her. The nineteen shillings in 
 her purse were not consolatory—how little they would. 
 procure for him! She racked her brains for some means * 
 -of making money, but for some time it was quite in vain. 
 At length an idea struck her—her face lighted up with 
 eager hope, and hastily putting on her walking things, she 
 followed Cornelia’s advice and went out-of-doors. ne 
 
 No country walk was to be hers, however. She bent i 
 her steps toward the town, and walking hurriedly through ~ 
 the more frequented parts, reached a quiet side street, and 
 entered a hair-dresser’s shop. Her heart was beating 
 quickly, and her voice was a little tremulous as she made 
 known her wishes to the master of the shop, a round- 
 faced, gray-headed, cheery old man, who would not have_ 
 betrayed his profession but for the extreme accuracy of 
 his parting, and the elegant curve of the hair plastered ‘ 
 down on his temples. 
 
 “For cutting only, miss? will you please to walk up- 
 stairs ?” . | 
 
 Esperance obeyed, following her conductor to the shabby 
 little room above, ostentatiously advertised as a “ Hair 
 Cutting and Shampooing Saloon.” There she took off her 
 hat, loosened her hair, and with heightened color drew it 
 out to its full length, and glanced at her reflection in the 
 gilt-framed mirror. 
 
 “Just tipped, I suppose, miss?” said the hair-dresser, 
 arranging lis implements and surveying Esperance’s beaue 
 éful hair with professional admiration, ; 
 
@ON BY WAITING, 7 155 
 
 ® No, f want it cut off,” she said, half caressssiy taking 
 the chair he had placed for her, and tossing her hair over 
 its back. 
 
 “ Cut off, miss!” exclaimed the astonished hair-dresser. 
 
 “Yes, please,” said Esperance, quietly. 
 
 « But, miss, you will excuse me, but it is such a pity. I 
 have not seen such hair for many a day—so long, so thick, 
 in such capital condition! Many ladies, miss, would give 
 any money to have such a head of hair; they would indeed, 
 miss. 
 
 * Would they ?” asked Esperanice, smiling. ‘Then that 
 is just what I want. In fact, Mr. Jenkinson, I may as well 
 tell you that I want to sell my. hair. How much would 
 you give me for it?” 
 
 “ Indeed, miss, I hardly know what I ought to say ; but 
 it seems a thuusand pities to cut off such beautiful hair as 
 that.” 
 
 “Never mind,” said Esperance, flushing crimson, “I 
 
 want monc7 ; what will you let me have for it?” 
 
 The man examined it more critically, felt its weight, and 
 again admired it. It was, indeed, very beautiful—long and 
 thick, yet at the same time both fine and glossy, the color of 
 the darkest shade of brown, while a soft waviness, ending 
 in tendril-like ringlets, added not a little to its value. He 
 thought for some minutes, then said, “I would give five 
 guineas for it, miss. If it were light-colored it would be 
 worth twice ‘that, light hair being fashionable. If you 
 care to part with it for five guineas, though, I will take it.” 
 
 Esperance did not hesitate a moment. 
 
 “Thank you,” she said, eagerly, “we will settle it 
 then.” And without a shadow of regret she submitted to 
 _the hair-dresser’s scissors, and thought of all that the five 
 guineas would buy. 
 
 In ten minutes all was done, and Esperance, feeling 
 rather cold and shorn, was walking back to the cathedral, 
 contemplating the little pile of coins in her hand with 
 great satisfaction. The service over, she returned to the 
 deanery, and found afternoon tea going on in the drawing- 
 room. Mrs. Mortlake had just returned from the mission-. 
 
 ary meeting; George Palgrave and Bertha were talking 
 
 together by the window, Cornelia was pouring out tea—an 
 unusual thing—holding the tea-pot ungracefully high, se 
 that the tea frothed into the cups. 
 
 «A very dull affair, indeed,” Mrs. Mortlake was saying. 
 «My father actually went to sleep in his chair, while » 
 
156 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 young converted Kaffer was speaking through an inter 
 preter—such a creature—you should have seen— Whay, 
 Esperance!” breaking off suddenly, “whatin the world 
 have you done to yourself? Are you trying to imitate our 
 Kaffer friend ?” 
 
 Esperance laughed and colored, and there was a general 
 exclamation. 
 
 “JT have had my hair cut, that is all,” she said, quietly. 
 
 “Cut! Why, itis cropped all round your head! What is 
 the meaning of this extraordinary freak?” 
 
 “T thought I coula do very well without my hair, and I 
 wanted it for something else.” 
 © Absurd! What have you done with it?” 
 
 “‘T have sold it,” said Esperance, blushing, and wishing 5 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake would not be so inquisitive. 
 
 “Sold it!” Even Bertha joined in the exclamation. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake, however, was more than surprised; an 
 anery flush rose to her cheek as she continued. 
 
 “You sold it in Rilchester? How could you think of 
 doing such an imprudent thing. It will be all over the place 
 ' now, and every one will be gossiping about you.” 
 
 **T do not mind that,” said Esperance. 
 
 “‘Of course not,” said Cornelia, coming to the rescue. 
 «That is the the most sensible thing that has been said 
 
 yet. TmsureI don’t know why you make such a fuss, — 
 
 Christabel.” } 
 “Tt’s a disgrace to the house!” said Mrs Mortlake an- 
 
 grily. ‘A most unlady-like thing! and in a small place 
 
 like this, where every one must know! Why, all Rilchester 
 will talk!” 
 
 “Well, Esperance, the family seem to disagres about the 
 matter,” said Cornelia, calmly. ‘For my part i have never 
 respected you so much before.” 
 
 Esperance looked up gratefully. The unexpected kind- 
 ness was welcome enough, and she was still more thankful 
 when Cornelia quietly turned the conversation away from 
 the subject altogether, and succeeded in engrossing Mrs. 
 Mortlake’s attention. 
 
 As soon as possible she slipped out of the room, and went 
 to the nursery to discuss ways and means with Bella’s 
 nurse, and was soon so deeply engaged in the necessary 
 calculations for a set of shirts that she forgot the grievance 
 of the lost hair. . 
 
 “A spirited little creature,” said George Palgrave te 
 Bertha; “tat what induced her to do such a thing?” 
 
 
 

 
 PA ANS ON eslenny ae este WC ae TONG Mer phe a wi NPR ong ore 
 
 ‘WON BY WAITING. | 157 
 
 «Probably to help her brother; he is going out to Cey- 
 lon, you know.” : é 
 
 “Will no one else help her? It really is a hard case; I 
 shall report it to grannie.” 
 
 “Well, that is not a bad idea, for she is a favorite with 
 grannie; but I doubt if she will thank you for begging for — 
 her—-she is very proud.” 
 
 “She must not know of our intervention,” said George. 
 «What do you say to a walk to the Priory this evening >?” 
 
 “Tt would be too late after dinner; besides, we should 
 
 -have to take Esperance as third party; you forget propriety 
 
 and gossip.” 
 
 “Hang propriety! you and I ought to be exempted from 
 such a tiresome thing; to-morrow morning, then, by broad 
 daylight,” and he looked up, persuasively. | 
 
 Bertha colored. 
 
 “Very well, on condition that you do the begging,” she 
 said. George willingly agreed, and the result was so suc- 
 cessful that Esperance found a five-pound note added to 
 
 her earnings, and given in such a kind and delicate way 
 
 that even her sensitive nature could not shrink from the 
 help. Ras 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress, 
 A brother to relieve how exquisite the bliss. 
 BuRNS, 
 
 “Poor Esperance! So your protégée is disposed of, 
 Katharine,” said Frances Neville, handing an open letter to 
 her sister. | 
 
 Lady Worthington read it in much surprise. 
 
 “Who would have thought of Dean Collinson coming to 
 the rescue! My opinion of him israised. But they might 
 have managed te keep him in England. This poor child! 
 what a heart-broken letter it is.” 
 
 “I suppose it is really a good thing,” said Frances, sigh- 
 ing. “ But it does seem hard to send him to the ends of 
 the earth like that.” 3 
 
 “Tf Henry could only have found something for him ; 
 but he is so very just, he would not hear of giving Gaspard 
 de Mabillon the chance of a situation till Julius Wright 
 was settled. ‘There was that capital secretaryship the 
 other day, but he got that fer Mr. Frankland, you knew." 
 
158 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “They have been waiting a long time,” said Frances, 
 “I suppose it is all right.” 
 
 “Of course: but still—” and Lady Worthington sighed 
 impatiently. She would have liked to help all the -world, 
 in her own way. 
 
 Just then Sir Henry came in, not too busy to listen to 
 his wife’s story. 
 
 “‘T am sorry we are forestalled,” he said, kindly. “But 
 it is a capital appointment for him, and Mr. Seymour is a 
 very pleasant sort of man ; I met him at the deanery once, 
 not so very long ago.’ 
 
 « Ah, yes,” said Lady. Worthington. “I remember now, 
 it was at that dull dinner which they gave for some col- 
 lonian bishop, while Mrs. Mortlake was at Bournemouth. 
 Mr. Seymour was the little, dark, talkative man who ‘tried 
 so hard to put a little life into us all.” 
 
 Sir Henry smiled at this description. 
 
 * He is a kind-hearted man, I should think, and will be 
 a good friend to young De Mabillon.” 
 
 “But I do wish we could have helped him, Henry ; we 
 have done searcely anything, and now that: he is going out 
 of England there will not be a chance.” 
 
 «T will call on Mr. Seymour, and see if we can not be of 
 some use,” said Sir Henry. “Perhaps I might take his 
 
 | ee for him, it will be a heavier expense than he can ? 
 
 ar, [ should think.” 
 
 « Oh, that would be delightful,” cried Lady Worthington. 
 «I dare say the dean has not thought of it It would 
 please Esperance, too. . Poor child, Claude’s picture will 
 not be exaggerated now ; I could fancy her with just such 
 a look on her face. I assure you, Henry,I fairly cried over 
 that picture, when I saw it the other day in the Academy.” 
 
 “T hope you won't find it depressing in the house,” said 
 Sir Henry, laughing, “for I bought it yesterday.” 
 
 “Really! oh, Tam so glad. Claude will be pleased that . 
 
 we should have it; he was always very tender over his 
 ‘ Mariana.’ ” 
 “Tt is one of his finest pictures, in my opinion,” said Sir 
 
 Henry, “and it has raised him immensely in the public 
 
 estimation, according to all accounts.” 
 
 “Yes, every one is talking of it. Ifind it hard work 
 sometimes not to tell the true story of the real ‘ Mariana.’ 
 Well, [am very glad we shall have it. Claude must dine 
 with us soon, and we wiil consult him ss to the hanging; 
 i suppose he will wish it to be in tne riallat Worthington.? 
 
 eae i. a | % ae M Ae . hey 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. 159 
 
 _ And thereupon Lady Worthington became engrossed in 
 another subject, and did not revert again to the De Mabil- 
 lons. They were not forgotten, however ; the next morn- 
 ing Zisperance received one of Frances Neville’s most com- 
 forting letters, and Sir Henry, in spite of a busy day, found 
 time to call on Mr. Seymour. 
 
 Meanwhile Gaspard, in his dreary lodging at Penton- 
 ville, was looking forward almost with impatience to the 
 time when he should leave England. To be ireed from the 
 vife of almost unbearable privation which he had been liv- 
 ing so long, to be working for Esperance, seemed to him 
 all that heart could wish ; and though he did shrink from 
 leaving her alone in a strange country, this could not mar 
 his happiness, for he was full of plans for the future, in 
 which he was to make a home for her in Ceylon, and end 
 ker exile at the deanery—an exile, the bitterness of which, 
 
 after all, he little understood. | 
 The practical difficulties of the present were first sug-_ 
 gested to him by Esperance’s reply to his letter, in which 
 ehe scouted his notion of getting on with no outfit, and 
 told him of her preparations. ‘Then, when brought face to 
 face with money matiers, he began to think of his passage, - 
 and resorting to an old Bradshaw was dismayed to find 
 that at the lowest computation it would cost him forty 
 pounds. Such a sum was, of course, utterly beyond his 
 means, and for one miserable day he gave himself up to 
 despair. To lose such a situation seemed imporsible— 
 intolerable. Yet what could he do? Toask help of any 
 one was out of the question. He had, indeed, been 
 reduced to, actual begging once, but that had been for 
 Esperance, and under the conviction that she would die - 
 if he did not force himself to do it; in this case she was 
 not.so greatly affected, and for himself he could not beg. 
 What he had done fora year he could go on with, he argued 
 with himself. The semi-starvation had not killed him yet, 
 he would struggle on, and wait in the hope that some 
 other work might be found which would not require such 
 _ an outlay. Poor Gaspard! how many times that day he 
 arrived at the same conclusion, and how he fought against 
 it! | 
 _ ‘The privations which he was bearing so patiently seemed _ 
 unpearapie Ior tne ruture, now that he had had a hope of 
 release. He faced all the trials his poverty had brought 
 him, a8 he naa never allowed himseli to do before. and 
 @aw all too plainly how much his bodily strength was be- 
 
160 WON BY WAITING. | Seat 
 
 ginning to fail ; he remembered the days of ceaseless toil he 
 
 had borne during the siege, and thought kow a walk of two 
 or three miles would exhaust him now, and loathed the 
 thought. Then he grew angry with himself for not having 
 remembered the expenses of the voyage during his inter- 
 view with Mr. Seymour, and wondered with a vague misery 
 if his senses were deserting him, as well as his strength, 
 turning sick at the thought of this failing of his powers. 
 What would the end be if he waited much longer? There 
 could be only one answer to that question, and Gas- 
 pard could not repress a shudder. He was so young, and 
 clung to life with such ardor! moreover, he was so accus- 
 tomed to think of death as swift and sudden, and sweeten- 
 ed by patriotism like that of his father, that the idea of 
 this slow, dreary starvation seemed all the more terrible. 
 
 He was in the very depths of misery, when his solitude 
 was suddenly invaded. There was a brisk knock at his 
 door, and before his dejected response could have been 
 heard, Claude Magnay entered. 
 
 “ May I come in?” he asked. “Your landlady told me 
 
 you were at home, but there were so many customers be- 
 
 low that she allowed Bismarck to show me up.” 
 
 Gaspard brightened a little at the sight of his visitor, 
 
 for he had a oreat liking for Claude, and during the winter 
 
 had seen a good deal of lim, the only check to their inter- 
 
 course being that Claude was a little too pressing in his 
 hospitalities, and Gaspard too anxious to elude civilities 
 
 which he could not return. They were quite intimate 
 enough to discuss Gaspard’s present difficulties, and, in-- 
 
 deed, Claude’s very first remark led to the topic. 
 
 “So I hear you are going out to Ceylon next month !” 
 
 * Yes—no—at least I was going, but I believe I me 
 ehanged my mind.” 
 
 “Indeed! oh, Iam sorry for that. I thought everythin e 
 was settled ; Sir Henry Worthington certainly led me to 
 think go.’ 
 
 “Sir Henry Worthington! he has had nothing to de 
 
 with it. It was through Dean Collinson I got the situa- 
 
 tion.” 
 
 “Tho Worthingtons might have heard of it through 
 
 your sister, perhaps; certainly Sir Henry mentioned it te 
 me this very day. But you have changed your mind, you 
 say ?” 
 
 “Yos; I must wait till something turns up in England,” 
 replied Gaspard, trying to stifle a sigh of despair. 
 
 
 
 ¢ 
 ie 
 
 Pa ei 0 oe es 
 
 . 
 
 eo 
 fet A Radin «or 
 
 at, 
 
 5 : P i 
 
 aie sha yer af fae ; 
 
 
 

 
 ones “WON BY WAITING. Ber eOde 
 
 “But, my dear fellow, if I may say s0, surely if is made 
 ~ ness to give up such .a chance as this. Coffee-planting is 
 the best thing going now; you will not hear of such an 
 
 opening every day. Besides, have you not spent this 
 whole year in “Mr. Micawber’s fashion—waiting for some- 
 thing to turn up ?” 
 
 Gaspard smiled a little. 
 
 “Yes, itis true. But there must be work, you know; I 
 never will believe that I shall not find it in time, If the 
 worst came to the worst, I would swallow my pride and 
 turn into a French waiter!” 
 
 “Ah, yes: Ican picture you at Gatti’s, for instance, with 
 a napkin tucked under your arw, scolding the cook down 
 the lift!” and Claude laughed heartily. Then, suddenly 
 growing grave, “But, seriously, De Mabillon, this is all 
 very absurd ; you must not give up Ceylon.” 
 
 “ Of course IT should not, if it could be helped, but it can 
 not be,” said Gaspard, decisively ; ‘so help me by consider- 
 ing my other capabilities.” 
 
 “ -Well, first, 1 hope and think you are capable of con- 
 fiding to me the reason of this sudden change,” said 
 Claude, quietly. 
 
 Gaspard, a little surprised, hesitated a moment, then an- 
 
 ~ gwered, “ Well, as you can probably guess, the expenses 
 
 are too ereat, ‘and I, like a fool, did not think of that at 
 first.” 
 
 Claude, who had suspected this, gave an exclamation of 
 relief. 
 
 «There! now we have come to the bottom of the matter. 
 Why on earth did you not tell meat once? It shall be ar- 
 ranged as easily as possible. By good luck, too, I have it 
 with me—it will be quite a coup de thédtre;” and taking a 
 blue envelope from his pocket he handed it to Gaspard. 
 “There, De Mabillon, you will do me a great favor by tak- 
 ing that. No—don’t open itnow. I want to talk to you.” 
 
 “ This is impossible !” exclaimed Gaspard, disregarding 
 his last words. ‘It is very good of you to think of it, but 
 I could not dream of accepting such a sum. Thank you 
 a thousand times for the thought, however.” 
 
 “You insist on turning into a waiter!” asked Claude, 
 laughingly. “Then I shall make a point of dining every 
 - day at your Eeese Uren; and tipping you with threepenny 
 bits.” 
 
 te Gaspard laughed, but resolutely pushed back the ene 
 velope. Claude then began more seriously. 
 
162 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “But, De Mabillon, why will you not accept this? 
 Surely we are sutticiently intimate to be of some use to 
 each other. Why not let me have this pleasure ?” 
 
 “You are very good, butI can not accept it. What claim 
 have I on you ?” 
 
 “Claim? stuff and nonsense; every one ought to have a 
 a claim on every one, only the world is so eaten up with 
 selfishness and pride that it won't see it.” 
 
 “Tt may be pride in a measure,” said. Gaspard, “ but I 
 can not think it is right to sacrifice one’s independence, 
 therefore I must decline your kindness.” 
 
 “You aristocrats are terrible people to deal with. Are 
 we not fellow-men? Why should you be hard up for fifty 
 pounds, and yet refuse to relieve me of it when I have no 
 
 se for it? The early Christians got on very well that way, 
 why not you and 1?” 
 
 “ You believe in sucialism, and I do not; I heard too 
 much of it from Lemercier at Paris.” 
 
 “TI don't understand anything abont that nonsense,” 
 said Claude, half impatiently. ‘“ All I know is that things 
 must be very wrong indeed if one friend cant help an- 
 other. What’s the use of a friend if, directly trouble 
 comes, one must draw back into one’s shell of pride, and 
 refuse to take the hand that’s offered ?” 
 
 _ Gaspard paced up and down the room thinking. Claude’s 
 
 arguments did not at all coincide with the dictates of his — 
 
 pride of independence. 
 “You see,” he began, after a pause, “it is not as if this 
 
 were a matter of necessity. If I werc ill or helpless it 
 
 might be right to accept it ; but I can live asI have lived; 
 there is no immediate—” 
 
 “Eixcuse me,” said Claude, breaking in; “if I may 
 speak very plainly with you, I think you will own that this 
 
 mode of living is really killing you by inches. Nowl — 
 
 maintain that a man has no more right to do that than to 
 commit suicide outright—when he has the chance of 
 avoiding it, that is. Besides, you are not independent, 
 you have your sister to thinkof. For her sake, at least, if 
 not for your own, you will take this help now, will you 
 not? What right have you to sadden her life by wilfully 
 starving yourself and throwing away this first-rate oppor- 
 tunity in Ceylon >” 
 
 Gaspard took four or five turns up and down the 
 ont then stopped abruptly before Claude, his decision 
 made. 
 
9 I ee ee a — “J iy eos ae eS ae 
 4 hin Gen ’ ore = fie oh Ficnicok 5 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 3 163 
 
 « You are right, Magnay ; I must think of her. How to 
 thank you for your generosity I do not know. You will 
 not think me ungrateful becausa I have withstood it so 
 long? You understand, I am sure, how it was, and I do 
 not now yield as to the duty of independence, only, as you 
 say, I believe Tam beginning to fail, and I must live to 
 free Esperance. Of course I take this fifty pounds asa 
 loan.” 
 
 “No, no,” interposed Claude. “Tl have no hand in 
 lending and borrowing ; a loan is a bad thing to begin life 
 with ; but if you like, we will make it a bargain, that when 
 you are a thriving coffee-pianter and I a spendthrift artist 
 with popularity on the wane, I may throw myself on your 
 mercy, and you will not turn your back onme. ‘Trust me 
 to ask you for afavor when I wantit. In the meantime I 
 shall study socialism ; I think it would agree with me.” 
 
 Gaspard laughed. “I wish you could feel the weight 
 you have taken off my shoulders.” 
 
 “ Charitable wish, certainly,” said Claude. 
 
 “ Well, the lightness of my heart, then,” said Gaspard. 
 “‘T must see Mr. Seymour this very day, and find out about 
 the passage, or I shall not feel that this is really true.” 
 
 “ Let me know when you sail, and come when you can 
 to my rooms,” said Claude, rising to go, and hurrying him- 
 self rather more than usual as Gaspard began to reiterate 
 his thanks. 
 
 The two parted at the door, Gaspard making all speed to 
 Mr. Seymour's rooms in Portland Place, Claude returning 
 to his studio, musing on the specimen of independent 
 pride he had met with, and congratulating himself on his 
 conquest. 
 
 He was not yet quit of the subject, however, for he had 
 scarcely been home an hour when there was a _ hasty ring 
 at his door, and Gaspard, flushed and breathless, was shown 
 up to his room. 
 
 “De Mabillon! why this hot pursuit?’ asked Claude, 
 with a gesture of feigned despair as he caught sight of his 
 blue envelope. “if you change your mind again about 
 that ridiculous thing, you are only fit for Colney Hatch!” 
 
 “No, not about Ceylon,” panted Gaspard. “ But the most 
 extraordinary thing has happened. IwenttoMr.Seymour ~ 
 to make arrangements, and, to my astonishment, he hastold 
 me that my passage is taken—taken for me, you under- 
 stand—paid for. Of course I made inquiries, and after 
 gome hesitation, he tells me that it was Sir Henry Worth» 
 
6-164 Se ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ington who took it; that he wished me not to know—such 
 consideration! Of course I immediately hurried back to 
 you to return the money you lent me with such kindness— 
 you will—” 
 Claude leaned back in his fear and laughed heartily. 
 “Was ever anything so neatly manag ed! Three cheers 
 for Sir Henry Worthington! If he had breathed a word of 
 
 — it to me this morning I should not have caught you so 
 
 nicely! Was ever the pride of independence so sold! 
 
 Take it back? No, indeed; I don’t unmake bargains so 
 uickly.” 
 
 . “But, indeed, Magnay, I can not take it now; there is no 
 
 need; T have no right to it.” 
 
 “Don’t talk of busmess in my studio,” said Claude, pre- 
 tending to take up his palette and brushes. “It defiles 
 the air, and jesting apart, De Mabillon, I can not take this 
 back again. Give me the pleasure of making it really 
 useful to yourself; there must be hundreds of things you 
 want for Ceylon, and when you are there you won't live 
 upon air for the first six months. Besides, you will be 
 wanting to go up to Rilchester before you sail—why not 
 take a week there at the Spread Eagie? Confess now, 
 that you are longing to do so.” 
 
 “'T'o see Esperance ? Yes, indeed! you should not put 
 such temptations before me.’ 
 
 “No temptation, but a duty,” said Claude, who saw this | 
 was the only way to win his point. “I should think you 
 
 culpably neglectful if you did not see your sister first— 
 why, you are her guardian, are you not?” 
 
 «“ Yes, with poor Lemercier. Perhaps I ought to see her, 
 as you say ; and it would be hard work to go without. 
 will then accept your generosity, on the understand- 
 ing—” - ; 
 
 “That I ask a favor at the next opportunity,” interrupted 
 Claude; “to which I pledge ycu my word of honor. 
 There! a truce to business. I am going to hear “Don 
 Giovanni’ to-night ; come with me ?” 
 
 This, however, Gaspard declined without Heaiatain nor 
 would he even accept a proffered cigar; to be under an 
 obligation was to him only bearable when Esperance was 
 in some way concerned. The two parted with the greatest 
 cordiality, Gaspard more light-hearted than he had been 
 for months, and feeling that the sense of obligation was 
 
 not too crushing with so frank and genial a helper; Clauda 
 
 more than ever convinced that life was, and ought to be, 
 
 
 
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 WON BY WAITING. “Atk. 
 
 thoroughly enjoyable, and heartily glad that he had over- 
 come Gaspard’s scruples. 
 
 All this time, at the deanery, Esperance was toiling on, 
 
 with a fixed resolve not to break down till everything was 
 made ready for Gaspard. Her powers of physical endur- 
 ance had been well trained in the siege, and she bore pain © 
 and fatigue bravely and patiently, only the dull gnawing 
 pain at her heart overmastered her sometimes. This very 
 _evening, which had been so momentous to Gaspard, found 
 her more exhausted than usual. There had been a dinner- 
 party, and it was almost twelve o’clock before she wearily 
 mounted the stairs to her attic room, her fiushed cheeks 
 and weary, yet too brilliant eyes, betraying her fatigue. 
 _ The rooms had been very hot and crowded, and the 
 constant standing had left her tired out. Wearily she sex 
 down her candle, and throwing open the window, leaned 
 out into the cool night air, resting her aching head against 
 the open lattice, and looking very much like Claude’s “ Mari- 
 ana.” She began to count the days; it was the 30th 
 of May, and Gaspard’s ship was to sail the second week in 
 June ; there was but litile time, and her head felt so heavy 
 that she knew she could get on but slowly with the last 
 of the shirts which she had resolved to finish that night. 
 With a long-drawn sigh she closed the window, and, tak- 
 ing her work, sat down to the table, stitching away at her 
 wristband at first very quickly, but gradually with more 
 and more difficulty. The clock struck one, but she toiled 
 on ; then two, but she was only beginning her first but- 
 ton-hole, so that faint glimmerings of dawn were begin- 
 ning to show themselves before the shirt was really finish- _ 
 ed ; two candles were burned down to their sockets, and | 
 the poor little worker was almost too tired to cross the 
 room to her bed. 
 
 But with rest came no relief to her ; indeed, she looked 
 upou this time as the very worst of all, when, her work 
 being done, she had nothing to divert her mind from the 
 coming trouble. She threw herself on her bed, moaning 
 ~ for Gaspard, now that there was no fear of being over- 
 heard, and longing—with an almost intolerable longing— 
 for the relief of tears. But Cornelia’s stern exhortation 
 seemed to have set up a barrier against these, and nothing 
 would come but long tearless sobs, which hurt instead of 
 relieving her. 
 
 So the night wore away, and, after wearily tossing to and 
 fro, she fell into a restless sleep just as the sun rose. The 
 
166 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 morning call roused her before she seemed to have had 
 any rest at all, and, stiff and unrefreshed, she came down 
 to the breakfast-table, to the paraphernalia of silver dishes 
 and smoking viands, which was her daily bugbear. 
 
 No one but Cornelia noticed how very pale and ill she 
 looked, and Mrs. Mortlake made plans for a morning shop- 
 ping expedition, in which Esperance was to be her com- 
 panion. Cornelia tried to interfere. 
 
 “No, no, Christabel; I know what your shopping morn- 
 ings are. Hsperance does not look fit for it to- -day—why 
 not take Bella 2” 
 
 “ Really, Cornelia, when you leave your vantage-ground 
 of book-learning, I never met any one so wanting in com: 
 mon sense. Take poor little delicate Bella for a tiring 
 expedition, when she is only just recovering from that ill- 
 ness! I can’t think what would become of a child if you 
 had the management of it. It really is a providence that 
 you are not married.” 
 
 “Thank you, I agree with your last remark,” said Cor- 
 nelia, dryly. «If Bella is not fit, I should advise you to go 
 alone, then.” 
 
 “T shall do no such thing. You make the most absurd 
 fuss about Esperance. She is quite well, and only mopes 
 when there is no one to talk to. Don’t tell me that any 
 one can chatter away at a party one evening, and set up 
 for an invalid the next day.” 
 
 Poor Esperance! The “chattering” had been such 
 hard work. She gave a little sigh as she heard it brought 
 up against her, but anxious to put an end to the argument, 
 she said in as bright a voice as she could command, “TI 
 think I can go, thank you, Cornelia; don’t trouble about 
 it.” 
 
 “Qh, well, if you like to be so foolish, you can,” said 
 Cornelia, vexed that Mrs. Mortlake should conquer. “ You 
 
 know quite well that you would be better at home. Howe ~ 
 
 ever, if you ike to spend your morning over dresses and 
 bonnets, ’m sure I don’t wish to hinder you.” And she 
 swept out of the room, leaving Esperance to reflect sorrow- 
 
 _ fully that she had offended the person who had wished to: 
 
 befriend her, and earned the credit of being desirous of 
 that which in reality she most disliked. 
 
 But the day was not all to be dark. The last Seat 
 brought a letter from Gaspard, containing his good news 
 of yesterday, and proposing to come to ‘Rilchester in a 
 week’s time, and this was such joy to Esperance that for q 
 
 ee ge ee ae ee 
 B lee 7 
 
iS A Saas F PRS Se Se mE oracle 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ae 167 
 
 little while she forgot her troubles, and grew so lively and 
 cheerful that Cornelia was half inclined to retract ber opin-_ 
 ion, and agree with Mrs. Mortlake that, after all, Espe- 
 rance’s ill health was only a fancy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 ‘‘Les fleures des champs ne changent pas de place pour 
 rechercher les rayons du soleil. Dieu prend soin de les féconder 
 da ot elles sont. elles ne se jalousent pas. . . ... Restezot 
 Diev “ous a mis, et portez les fruits qu’il vous demande.” 
 
 Ture dean was not pleased when he heard that Gaspard 
 was coming to Rilchester. He had grown accustomed to 
 Esperance’s face, and was even in his way rather fond of 
 her, but Gaspard had reminded him painfully of M. de 
 Mabillon and he shrunk from seeing him. Cornelia’s pro. 
 posal of asking him to stay at the deanery, instead of the 
 hotel, met with approval from no one. The dean im- 
 mediately thought of other visitors whom he wished to ask. 
 Mrs. Mortlake talked of house-cleaning, and finally George 
 Palgrave was pressed to prolong his visit, while the other 
 guest-rooms were destined for the wife and daughters of 
 the bishop of a neighboring diocese, who were coming to 
 
 - Rilchester for a ball in the following week. There was no 
 
 particular reason why they should be asked to the deanery, 
 but Mrs. Mortlake remembered them in a lucky moment, 
 and felt that it would be a more dignified excuse than 
 house-cleaning. — 
 
 Cornelia hated this meanness with her whole soul, and 
 almost shrunk from meeting Gaspard after it. This made 
 her seem more stiff and cold than ever, and Esperance, 
 who had relied a good deal upon her cordial behavior to 
 Gaspard, when she had met him before in London, was dis- 
 inayed to find her manner so altered. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake, on the contrary, did her very best to be 
 polite when his name was mentioned in Esperance’s pres- 
 ence, and even spoke of driving him back from the station 
 on the day when he was expected ; and though the car- 
 riage did not appear, still there was courtesy in the sug- 
 gestion, and, as Mrs. Mortlake remarked afterward to Cor- 
 nelia, “ Politeness is worth so much, and costs so little.” 
 
 “T don’t see any politeness if you don’t mean to carry 
 
 ont the suggestion,” said Cornelia, bluntly. 
 
CY ee ce ee een eee ny ee, Gal PLES dale sl Pe Ee etces s gee ee gey Ee all 0 OT oh eh 
 Sage ff = Sgr heal aia aa ee Fee : : 
 
 168 - WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “My dear, youare so literal! Of course I can’t really | 
 
 spare the carriage then, the Lowdells must have a drive 
 this afternoon. But it pleased Esperance, and she can 
 quite well imagine that I forgot it.” 
 
 “A fine tissue of lies! That child is a great deal too 
 
 sharp not to find you out. Besides, why can’t you be honest?” 
 
 “ Really, Cornelia, if you employ such offensive words I - 
 
 will not argue with you! ‘Lies,’ and ‘honesty,’ indeed! 
 I don’t know what you mean.” 
 
 “TY like to call a spade a spade,” said Cornelia, sliortly, 
 “But if you prefer it, what is your object in this politic 
 politeness ?” 
 
 “Did you not see that Mrs. Lowdell was in the room ?” 
 said Mrs. Mortlake. “You know how observant she is, and 
 Doctor Lowdell is such a particular man, I would not for 
 the world have them guess that we are not perfectly 
 
 friendly with the De Mabillons. One must be careful, you 
 
 know, and father is so unguarded.” 
 “My father is no hypocrite, at least,” said Cornelia, 
 
 angrily. ‘Why did you ask the Lowdells here if you are - 
 
 so afraid they may guess ?—why not have asked Gaspard 
 de Mabillon ?” . 
 
 “The very last thing I wish. Of course we shall show 
 him some slight attention, just to avoid remark; he must 
 dine here to-morrow, but beyond that, I do not at all wish 
 to go.” 
 
 Cocnelia left the room, out of patience with ber sister's 
 contemptible arguments. Passing up the stairs, she 
 found Esperance in the deep window-seat on the landing, 
 busily engaged with paper and pencil. She looked up 
 brightly. | 
 “Only two hundred and ninety-two minutes, and Gas- 
 pard will be here, Cornelia, just think !” 
 
 “ How absurdly childish you are,” said Cornelia, vexed 
 anew. “If you want to improve your arithmetic, why not 
 master the rule of compound proportion which you were 
 go dull over yesterday ?” 
 
 Esperance shrugged her shoulders, glanced at the clock 
 to see that now it was only two hundred and ninety min- 
 utes, then followed her cousin to her study, and pored for 
 some time over a slate and book, in the vain endeavor ta 
 find an answer to the question: “If £240 be paid for 
 bread for 49 persons for 20 mo., when wheat is 48s. a Gra 
 
 how long will £234 find bread for 91 persons, when wheat 
 
 is at £2 16s. a qr. ?” . 
 
 
 
 fy ~ - 
 
* 
 
 
 
 == WON BY WAITING, 169 
 
 - But her nead was far too painful just then for the solv- 
 ing of such a problem, and she multiplied and divided with 
 & vagueness attended by unhappy results, in which the 
 ninety-one persons existed for forty months instead of two, 
 and when Cornelia, in despair, showed her the absurdity 
 of this answer, she would only reply that perhaps it was in 
 time of siege. The idea of such a frivolous suggestion se 
 angered Cornelia that she summarily dismissed her un- 
 promising pupil, feeling that all the world was going con 
 trary to her that morning. 
 
 Esperance, in spite of her aching head, burried off ta 
 _ the station in the very hottest part of the afternoon, hex 
 
 - heart bounding at the thought of seeing Gaspard once 
 
 more, and far too happy to think of being ‘vexed with Mrs, 
 Mortlake for having “forgotten” the carriage. | 
 That was a rapturous meeting ! ! Happier tnan the last, 
 in many ways, for Esperance ‘received no great shock as 
 she had then done from Gaspard’s appearance, being 
 
 fully prepared for it. Nor was he at all aware how very 
 
 far from well she was, for her excitement and happiness 
 had brought color to her cheeks, and given her temporary 
 Be go that the only change he noticed was in her 
 air 
 “ Your mane is gone, then?” he asked, regretfully. 
 Esperance laughed. 
 “ Yes, quite gone ; if you very much wish, though, you 
 
 might perhaps see it once more ; I believe itis hanging up 
 in the window.” 
 
 “You have cut it off!” exclaimed Gaspard, dismayed. 
 
 “You masculine mind! yes, indeed, how else did you 
 think I had disposed of it? it brought me five guineas.” 
 
 “And you sold it for that wretched outfit of mine! 
 Chérie, [don’t know how to forgive you. I wondered where 
 you could have found the money for those garments you 
 spoke of. You are like the girl in the fairy tale, who wove 
 shirts of her own hair for her eleven brothers.” 
 
 “No, she wove stinging nettles,” said Esperance, “which 
 T would not promise to do even for you. Now do not 
 begin to scold again about my cropped hair. I only told 
 you because I was afraid you would talk of it at the 
 deanery.” 
 
 “Very well, it shall be as you wish, you are a wonderta 
 little sister. ButI wish we had known before of all the 
 belp that would come ; Iam afraid you have been tiring 
 Che hians with these prepar ations.” 
 
170 - WON BY WAITING. 
 
 * Do you think I would have let others do everything 
 for you, and sit contentedly doing nothing ! ! But how 
 good it was of Claude Magnay to help you. 
 
 “Yes, he was most kind, most generous ; I could not 
 have borne it from every one: but his manner of doing it 
 was perfect. It will make a wonderful difference to us, 
 and I shall be able to leave you something in hand when I 
 go, besides being able to get on comfortably in my first Six 
 months in Cey lon.” 
 
 “Yes, I could not have borne to think of your starving 
 yourself over there, when you would have hard work, too. 
 And Iam so glad Sir Henry Worthington was 80 ‘kind. 
 When did you see him ?” 
 
 “Last week, the day I wrote to you. He was more kind 
 and considerate than I can tell vou, and Lady Worthing- 
 ton, too; Iam glad you know and like them, I shall feel 
 happier about you.” 
 
 Esperance turned a little pale at the reference to their 
 parting, and made haste to change the conversation. 
 
 See, that is the Spread Hagle on the left-hand side of the 
 
 street, though why, among all the hotels, you should have ~ 
 
 chosen the one bearing the Prussian emblem, I can’t think.” 
 
 Gaspard laughed. “'Tis the only decent one, according 
 to Claude Magnay. Are those bells ringing for service?” 
 
 “Yes, will you come? I want you to see every one. You 
 can speak to them afterward.” 
 
 Gaspard consented, and Esperance led the way to the 
 cathedral, but she was disappointed to find Cornelia the 
 only occupant of the deanery pew. George Palgrave and 
 Bertha had walked over to the Priory, and Mrs. Mortlake 
 had chosen to prolong her drive that afternoon. 
 
 The service over, Cornelia, in spite of her shrinking from 
 the meeting, hastened after her two cousins, overtaking 
 them just as they reached the door, and greeting Gaspard 
 as warmly as she could, though as she was almost ashamed 
 to look at him, he could not think her anything but cold 
 and forbidding. 
 
 “You will bring your brother home, will you not?” she 
 
 said, turning to Esperance. 
 
 There was no great profession of eagerness to see him, 
 
 and she could not bring herself to express any regrets that 
 
 the deanery was too full for them totake himin. For a min- 
 ate Gaspard was almost inclined to give an excuse; this 
 cold hospitality seemed to him worse than nothing. How- 
 ever, Esperance seemed greatly pleased, and understood 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. : 171 
 
 better‘what it meant from Cornelia, so the three walked back 
 together, and by degrees Cornelia thawed, forgot her shame 
 and the awkardness of her position, and began to feel and 
 
 to show more interest in Gaspard. 
 
 Esperance was delighted to see her being thus won over. 
 
 They sat inthe purple drawing-room, and she watched 
 
 Gaspard, who looked delightfully incongruous in one of 
 the ponderous arm-chairs, and listened contentedly to the 
 conversation going on, perfectly happy as long as she was 
 close by him. 
 
 Then some of the Miss Lowdells came in, and tea was 
 brought up, while Cornelia became more and more en- 
 grossed with Gaspard, and Esperance was called upon 
 
 . fo give Miss Grace Lowdell a full account. of the battle 
 
 in which he had earned his scar. This was delightful—she 
 had scarcely hoped to make others appreciate her 
 hero. 
 
 At last Mrs. Mortlake returned, and entering the room. 
 wholly unprepared, could not help starting with surprise 
 and vexation when she caught sight of the thin, olive-com- 
 plexioned, mustached stranger, who seemed quite estab- 
 lished in the house, and was hat\ding about-cups of tea 
 with a sort of careless ease which annoyed her. 
 
 Hsperance saw the start of dismay and could not help 
 
 being amused by it, particularly when it was quickly fol- 
 
 lowed by a prompt show of politeness, and a “ charming ” 
 smile. 
 “Monsieur de Mabillon! I am delighted to see you! 
 
 Iwas’beginning to think there was a fate against our 
 
 meeting. I was so sorry to miss you last.manth in Lon- 
 don, but my little girl was claiming all my attention just 
 then. You are well, I hope?” 
 
 In spite of the silky voice, and the well-regulated smiles, 
 Gaspard was by no means deceived; he remembered 
 Claude’s guarded description of the “ would-be charming 
 Jady, whom it was hard to trust,” and instinctively felt a 
 shrinking from her kindness. His antipathy was con- 
 firmed when, in a pause in his conversation with Cornelia, 
 he overheard a low-toned remark from Mrs. Mortlake to 
 his sister, not intended, of course, for other ears. 
 
 * Your usual want of thought! You might have seen we 
 should want another cup. Just ring at once.” 
 
 It was one of the difficulties of Esperance’s situation 
 that her duties were so undefined she could never find out 
 what was or what was not expected of her, and wag con- 
 

 
 172 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 stantly being brought to task, either for neglect or for for« 
 wardness and meddling. 
 
 To hear her scolded was so new, however, to Gaspard, 
 that he even magnified Mrs. Mortlake’s offeuse. Her words 
 were not so very severe after all, but her look and tone 
 angered him, and hastily crossing the room, he intercepted 
 Esperance on her way to the bell. 
 
 “Do not treuble, chérie, sit down. Allow me, Mrs. Mort- 
 lake ”’—thereby revealing that he had heard everything. | 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake was vexed. She had wished to keep up 
 appearances ; she was anxious that Gaspard should think 
 well of her, and now he had overheard her speaking cross- 
 ly and had humiliated her before Esperance. She hated 
 him, but strove to recover her place in his estimation. 
 
 “You gentlemen spoil us nowadays,” she said, smiling 
 graciously. «This is such a household of women, though, 
 that we are used to waiting on ourselves.” 
 
 * Oh, indeed !” said Gaspard, gravely. | 
 
 She dcleotea a& sarcasm in his voice, and winced ; then 
 
 thinking that a little flattery might be of use, she con- | 
 
 tinued more hopefully. “And Esperance is such a help to 
 us—such a very great help—we should miss her so much. 
 I can not tell you how I, in particular, should miss 
 her.” 
 
 “It is very good of you, I am sure,” said Gaspard, in 
 
 that grave manner which made Mrs. Mortlake so uncom- ~ 
 
 fortable. Of all things she detested irony the most, and 
 there was, besides, an angry light in the clear brown eyes 
 confronting her, which bafiled ‘ther even more. She would 
 
 not give up, however, without one more Biss to win his ~ 
 
 good opinion. 
 “Tam so vexed that we can not give you a room here, it 
 seems so very uncousinly, but I am sure you will under- 
 
 stand how it is. It just happens to be one of our full — 
 times, otherwise we should have been most happy to have 
 
 had you with us.’ 
 
 There was something so very snake-like in her manner, 
 that Gaspard could not believe a word of this; he turned 
 with relief to Cornelia’s straightforward coldness. | 
 
 “Tam very sorry, too,” she said, gravely; “but I hope 
 
 it will not prevent your seeing as much of Hsperance. You | 
 
 must come in here whenever you like; my study shall be 
 quite at your disposal.” - 
 
 Gaspard thanked her warmly, and rose to go. Mrs. Mort 
 fake, in despair, sent off her last arrow. 
 
 ‘Yes, pray come in as often as vou like, and you will, 1 
 
 Mn 
 ~ 
 
 ie 
 ave ‘ 
 
ie ee oo Se en Pe AR ee es eS eee a a te ee SP At". tt 2 em Lae Oe a ee, CS ee ES ee ery TEE ne Te 
 ee eh ht ye SA Fe ee Ba Nye Sa EE ee ey ples ee 
 ce a aes ; Sayan Sy Net eet g 
 
 WON BY WAITING. Se 478 
 
 hope, dine with us to-morrow; we shall be delighted to see 
 
 rou.” . 
 
 a Thank you. ~ I shall be very happy to come,” and Mrs 
 
 Mortlake tried not to look up, but felt once more the 
 
 searching look from those keen eyes. Esperance watched 
 
 with amusement, while Gaspard shook hands quite a 
 
 “Anglaisé, and followed him into the hall for a few last words: 
 . To her surprise, the door was scarcely shut before he 
 
 - eaught her in his arms, kissing her again and again. 
 
 “ Chérie, you should have told me before! Does that 
 woman always treat you so?” 
 
 “How?” asked Esperance, surprised. ‘ Mrs. Mortlake, 
 do you mean? She was only a little cross. What doI 
 care, now that I have you ?” 
 
 « And you never told me what you had to put up with !” 
 said Gaspard, reproachfully. “Itis a hard world, Esper- 
 ance, very hard!” ; 
 
 ‘But happy for this one week,” she said, smiling. “ This 
 must be our carnival. HowTI do bless Mr. Magnay for 
 sending you here! There is plenty of happiness in the~ 
 
 - world, after all, and kindness also. Cornelia was nice, too, 
 - this afternoon.” : 
 
 «Yes, we will take advantage of her study, I think. I 
 
 shall come to-morrow morning.” 
 To-morrow, yes ; how we shalltalk! and, Gaspard, do 
  notforget to send round all your socks ; I must have a ~ 
  -grand darning.” 
 © You forget my new outfit.” 
 -- ‘No, but for the voyage, you extravagant bey; now 
 don’t forget, as early as you can this evening. There! I 
 - must go; some one is calling.” 
 : “ Bother them!” said Gaspard, impatiently. “I won’t 
 _ have you run off your legs ; you are as tired as you can 
 be.” 
 She let her head rest on his shoulder just fora minute, 
 then, as the call came again more impatiently, she started — 
 up. : | 
 
 “T must go. Enough treats for one day! Good-bye, 
 mon ami, and promise me to have a good dinner at the 
 
 Spread Eagle.” ane 
 She hurried away, and was greeted by expostulations on 
 her slowness, in a voice which Gaspard did not recognize, 
 put which he fancied must belong to Mrs. Mortlake. <As 
 the speaker passed along the gallery, he could not avoid 
 hearing the words, ‘If you don't know how to behave in 
 _ #tre~ yeople’s houses, you must be taught. Nr: dan’e 
 
ey AS ee ae i 0 Re ae eee we Bh “he to = Sim Pee * eee = vf aes). ae 
 ae 2) Vee ach it Mer a (eA BOS Py Nes 3 
 
 174 . WON BY WAITING, 
 
 quote Cornelia to me. While the house is full of visitors—” 
 He did not stay for more, but snatched up his hat and 
 strode out of the house, slamming the door after him. To 
 hear Esperance—his Hsperance—spoken to in that way! 
 It was maddening—intolerable! This terrible, oppressive 
 dependence—what was it not costing her! How could he 
 bear to leave her in such a place, to he coldly treated, 
 snubbed, scolued! ‘This week of his so-called “ carnival i 
 was too full of revelations to him to be a happy one. 
 
 He walked back to his hotel in fierce anger, vowing im- 
 pes vengeance upon Mrs. Mortlake; but by degrees 
 
 e grew more rational, and consoled himself by thinking 
 of the time when he should be able to release Esperance 
 and bring her to a new home in Ceylon. 
 
 Later in the evening his mind was set at rcst by one 
 more sight of her; according to his promise, he carried to 
 the deanery the work that was to keep her hands full dure 
 ing the coming week, and she, being on the watch for him, 
 rau to the door to take it herself. She was looking so 
 quiet and serene that he could not allude to what was in 
 nis mind, and though she would only let him stay for half 
 a minute, even that brief sight was enough to check his 
 angry thoughts, and made him: feel ashamed of his impa- 
 
 tience. She was bearing all in her right way, of that he ' 
 
 felt sure; she was patient for herself—and he would strive to 
 be patient for her. 
 
 So he walked on, through the old gateways, and past 
 the gray-gabled houses, listening to the switts and jack- 
 
 daws as they flew noisily about their homes in the cathe- ~ 
 
 dral towers, and gradually peace came to him while some- 
 thing brought back to his memory the lines of an old 
 
 French hymn, the words of which seemed to fit themselves. 
 
 to the bird’s song : 
 
 “‘Comment apprendre 
 A bien entendre 
 Ce qu’aujourd’hui nous ignorons ? 
 Dans ta maison, nous saurons tout comprendre: 
 Toi qui nous vois, nous te verrons !” 
 
 “Nous saurons tout comprendre!” There was comfort in 
 that. He thought of his mother’s sorrows, of his father’s 
 troubled life and death agony, of his own home in the hands 
 
 of strangers, and of this humbling dependence on others in 
 n foreign country, mysteries hard to bear and impossible’ _ 
 to understand, but to be understood then. and each andall 
 
 ordered with a special end. 
 
si sata Tae Oe ee ea : 
 WON BY WAITING. _ 175 
 
 And Esperance, too, as she sat that night in her room, | 
 ever her weary task, was strengthened by that very same 
 thought which Frances Neville had first given to her months 
 ago. "Was not this present pain, and weariness, and separa- 
 tion, the fulfilling of that Will which is always best—to be 
 taken on trust till the time came for “reading the mystery 
 right?” 
 
 “Those night-vigils, though they taxed her strength to the 
 utmost, were by no means comfortless, and this particular 
 evening she was full of the happiness of Gaspard’s visit, 
 and the prospect of the week to be spent with him. 
 
 Of darning and piecing there was indeed enough. The 
 parcel of clothes proved to be in a sorry condition, and 
 Esperance, having spread them over her table fill the room 
 looked like “ rag fair,” proceeded to divide them into three 
 classes, ‘‘ hopeless,” ‘possible,’ and “ good.” Among the 
 “good” she placed the less ragged garments, and the 
 socks in which the holes were not more than an inch or so 
 in diameter, and then set bravely to work, nor stopped once 
 in spite of her growing weariness till much of the tattered 
 raiment was made wearable again, and the crowing of the 
 cocks, and the red glow of sunrise, told her that she must 
 make haste to bed if she were to have any sleep at all. 
 
 But this was to be the last of her nights of work, for the 
 next morning Mrs Mortlake called her aside, and in the 
 voice of cold displeasure, which she disliked more than 
 anything, asked, “ Pray, what were you doing last night?” 
 
 “Nothing, Christabel,’ she answer ed, innocently. 
 “ Nothing particular, that i is; part of the time I played 
 bézique with Geor ge:” 
 
 “Don't evade my question in that way. I said last 
 night; you know quite well what I mean.” Iisperance 
 started, and looked a little vexed. Ah! now you are fairly 
 caught. I shall hear at once, please, what is the meaning 
 of this? Do you think I shall allow candles to bs: wasted 
 in this way? I hear that you burn one every night down 
 to the very socket. I will have no more novel rending at 
 nicht, so you had better understand at once. “ What were 
 you doing ?” 
 
 “J had some needle work to finish, and sat up with it. I 
 am sorry about the candles, Christabel.” 
 
 “Sorry, indeed! I dare say ; and what was the all im- 
 portant work, pray? One of your dainty little vanities, I 
 suppose ?” 
 
 meeerence drew herself up. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Ga wee 
 
 176 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 T don’t see that it is any concern of yours. It was work 
 which had to be done.” 
 
 “No doubt,in your opinion, but {[ should like to hear 
 what it was, please, we have had enough shufiling.” 
 
 «There has been no shuffling at all,” broke in Esperance, 
 passionately, “and I don’t see that you have any right to 
 
 question me like this. I won’t allow that you have, but . 
 
 because I choose, I will tell you that the work was for 
 Gaspard.” 
 
 “ Indeed! it was very amiable of you to work for him at 
 the expense of others.” 
 
 “TJ don’t believe for a moment that uncle would grudge — 
 me a few candles,” said Esperance, half scornfully. “But — 
 
 as you seem 9 think he would, of course I will not sit up 
 again.” : 7 
 
 “Spare yourself needless protestations,” said Mrs. Mort- 
 
 lake. “ You will not have another opportunity.” 
 
 Just then one of the Miss Lowdells came in, and Mrs. — 
 
 Mortlake was immediately all smiles and graciousness, 
 while Esperance hurried out of the room, wondering what 
 her cousin meant by this last speech, and full of indigna- 
 tion at her meanness and injustice. 
 
 The cathedral service quieted her, however, and she re- 
 solved that Gaspard should hear nothing of it. She knew 
 quite well that many of the disagreeables of her life could __ 
 
 not be concealed from him, but whenever it was possible to 
 throw a veil over her petty sufferings, she would do 
 
 so. The day, in consequence, passed happily and 
 satisfactorily, and in spite of Mrs. Mortlake’s  in- — 
 
 terruptions Esperance saw a great deal of Gaspard, 
 thanks to the privacy of Cornelia’s study. The even- 
 ing, too, went well, and though the dean evidently dis- 
 liked Gaspard, yet he was quite civil, and George Palgrave 
 
 good-naturedly threw himself into the breach and man- — 
 
 aged to keep his uncle in a good-humor when the ladies 
 had left the dinner-table. Later on, in the drawing-room, 
 Cornelia tried to make up for the family coldness by draw- 
 ing Gaspard out as to his prospectsin Ceylon, and making 
 many really kind-hearted inquiries about his previous life, 
 
 and so far succeeded that he learned really to like her,and 
 
 felt iess unhappy in leaving Esperance at the deanery. 
 
 Cornelia’s heart had been touched. Ever since the day~ 
 when traveling back from London she had witnessed — 
 Esperance’s passion of love and sorrow, she had been softe 
 ened, had loved her little cousin, and taken a real interest. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Moe ire Sata Lk 
 
 muted at 
 ta ae wba BY 
 Ms tae Me 
 
 hay 
 
 Hijet 
 TE ie ‘~ a 
 
 bi} 
 ey nf ap 
 Shad oa oh iy unr, 
 SON ratte Doe ee 
 
 y 
 — ee ae 
 
 ‘ 
 
 
 
 

 
 . ON BY WAITING. . 177 
 
 in something: outside the walls of her study. Harsh and 
 sarcastic as she still often seemed, she was really anxious 
 to do what was kind and right; from the first her dislike 
 of Esperance had never descended to meanness like Mrs. 
 Mortlake’s, and now her good-will was real and. hearty, 
 though her natural reserve gave her, when she least wished 
 it, an appearance of coldness. 
 Mrs. Mortlake, as she came to bid her sister good-night, 
 unwarily alluded to the incident of the candles, where- 
 upon Cornelia was at once up in arms. 
 “You mean to say you had the stinginess to grudge 
 them to her?” 
 _. - “My dear, it 1s not so much the expense I mind, but 
 _ think what a bad habit for a girl of seventeen to sit up 
 night after night. No doubt she often dropped asleep 
 over her work ; it is a wonder we have not had the house 
 burned down, I’m sure.” 
 
 “You are very prudent, certainly,” said Cornelia, with a 
 sarcastic smile ; “and how does she mean to finish Gas- 
 pard’s outfit ?” 
 
 “How should I know,” replied Mrs. Mortlake, with 
 affected carelessness ; “ she will not finish it by candle- 
 
 light, that is all I care about.” 
 
 So it seems. Well, she shall at least have the oppor- 
 tunity of finishing it by lamp-light,” said Cornelia, majes- 
 ticall 
 
 Me Mortlake gave an inarticulate sound of annoyance; 
 _ but Cornelia, with acold good night, took her little reading- 
 lamp in her hand, and mounted the stairs to the attic with- 
 out another word of explanation. 
 
 To her surprise she found Esperance already in 1 bed. 
 
 “Oh, I am just too late,” she said, regretfully. “I 
 thought, perhaps, you would like my lamp to work by. 
 Christabel has just been telling me about this absurd fuss.” 
 
 Esperance looked up with gratitude in her tired eyes. 
 
 ‘‘How kindly of you to think of it; Iwas wondering how 
 I could get Gaspard’s things done -in time; I meant to get 
 up early.” 
 
 “That would be better for you than sitting up,” said Cor- 
 nelia; “indeed yon do not laok fit for anything to-night.” 
 And she looked with some anxiety at Esperance’s flushed 
 
 cheeks, and the purple rings round her eyes. ‘‘ How much 
 more have you to do?” 
 
 Esperance pointed to a formidable pile of work on her 
 
 table, and Cormelia scrutinized the unsightly holes with an 
 
 “a 
 
178 -- WON BY WAITING. Ng riage on 
 
 unpractised eye, and wondered if any skill could really 
 mend them. 
 
 “Talmost wish I knew how to darn,” she said, thought- 
 fully. “There must be more here than you will get 
 through.” 
 
 “No, not if [ wakein time,” said Esperance, confidently. 
 
 “T will fetch you my alarm,” said Cornelia, and she hur- 
 ried away, returning in a few minutes with a little French 
 alarm clock. ‘ What time shall I set it for ?” 
 
 “Four o'clock, please ; the sun will have risen by then,” 
 said Esperance, watching her cousin’s movements with 
 languid interest. 
 
 “ What! four hours’ work before breakfast! must you 
 really have so long?’ exclaimed Cornelia. 
 
 ‘Tt is what I have always taken,” said Esperance. “ The 
 time goes so quickly when one works, you know.” 
 
 Cornelia did not know, for she rarely touched a needle, 
 but she was a good deal shocked when she heard of the 
 length of those nightly vigils, and touched by the thought 
 of the love which had prompted them. 
 
 « My dear,” she said, gently, ‘‘ you will promise me not 
 to sit up again; get up to-morrow morning if you like, and 
 I will try to prevent your being interrupted in the day ; 
 you can work in my study, you know.” 
 
 There was something almost laughable in the thought of | 
 
 Cornelia’s sanctum being turned into a work-room,; but Es- 
 perance’s gratitude knew no bounds. She was so much 
 pleased and surprised that her English deserted her, and 
 throwing her arms round Cornelia’s neck she exclaimed— 
 “ Ma nen chére! but you are good, but you are thought- 
 ful; how ean I thank you enough! How happy you have 
 made me!” 
 
 It was a rhapsody, no doubt, but in spite of its French- 
 ness it went straight to Cornelia’s heart, As she left the 
 room her father’s voice was heard calling her from the obe 
 servatory, the door which stood opposite to Esperance’s. 
 
 “My dear, just read this footnote to me, will you; the 
 print is too small for me.” 
 
 She took the book, but was obliged to brush her hand 
 hastily across her eyes before beginning to read—for 
 incredible though it seemed to her thev were dim with 
 tears. 
 
 = 7 ee 
 SS ee ede 
 
WON BY WAITING. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of love, 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
 In strife and tribulation, and ordained, 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy. 
 | WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Tue days passed by with terrible swiftness, and when the 
 Sunday was over, Esperance found it hard to make the 
 most of her present happiness—her thoughts would turn 
 to that parting which was in store for her on the Wednes- 
 day. Gaspard had arranged to meet Mr. Seymour in town 
 on Wednesday evening, and they were to travel down to ~ 
 Southampton together, their ship sailing the next day. 
 
 Unfortunately, Tuesday was the evening of the militia 
 ball,and Esperance foresaw a time of hurry and bustle, when 
 she would most have wished for quiet. Sorrow was mak- 
 ing her very patient, however, and though she. was bent 
 upon finishing Gaspard’s mending in time to pack for him 
 that afternoon, she bore her ceaseless interruptions 
 quietly. 
 
 Never had Cornelia’s room been invaded so ruthlessly. 
 First, Bertha appeared, with cheeks flushed rosy red, and 
 a happy light in her usually languid eyes. 
 
 « Hisperance, you must help me just fora moment. See! 
 George has given me these beautiful pink azaleas for to- 
 night, so I must wear my white net instead of the blue, 
 and here is the kilting all in ribbons.” 
 
 Esperance looked in dismay at the torn skirt, which had 
 been very roughly treated at some dance. 
 
 “No one will mend it so beautifully as you,” said Bertha, 
 persuasively, “and, indeed, all the servants are so busy 
 this morning; can you spare just half an hour for it ?” 
 
 Kisperance could not refuse; she put down Gaspard’s 
 sock with a stifled sigh, and submitted to being half 
 smothered by the folds of white net. Her dainty little 
 fingers soon set matters right, and as she worked she 
 could not help wondering when the very obvious attach- 
 ment between George Palgrave and Bertha would be 
 declared. Perhaps it might be that very night ; Bertha 
 would look very beautiful in the white dress and the aza-+ 
 leas, and there would be music, “and bright lights, 
 and excitement. Ah, well! it was a good thing 
 
180 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 people could enjoy such things, and the little French girl 
 knew well enough that they were enjoyable, but she was 
 too ill and sorrowful even to wish for “ distraction ” just 
 now. 
 
 She had just finished Bertha’s dress when Nira, Mortlake. 
 
 came in. 
 
 “ You are always out of the way when you are wanted,” 
 she said, crossly. ‘The idea of shutting yourself up here 
 when every one is so busy! I want you to come and see 
 to Bella.” 
 
 Eisperance folded up her work with a heavy heart, and 
 hastened away to the drawing-room, where she found Bella 
 making herself a general nuisance. 
 
 “There, just hear her reading, will you,’ Bota. Mrs. 
 Mortlake, handing over her troublesome charge willingly 
 enough. ‘“ She must be here because the other rooms are 
 engaged—keep her quiet.” 
 
 This was more easily said than done, as Bella was in 
 high spirits, and much more inclined to terment good- 
 natured Mrs. Lowdell, with rough, teasing play, than to 
 attend to her lessons. For at least half an hour such a 
 battle as the following went on : 
 
 “Now, Bella, c—a—t; you know quite well what it 
 spells 1” | 
 
 “C—a—t, . , droned Bella, stupidly. “The light is in my 
 eyes, cousin.’ 
 
 “Then move ; now then!” 
 
 <Q_a— what is Miss Lowdell singing for >?” 
 “Don’t talk ; go on!” 
 “«O—a—t— Oh! there’s a wasp on the window.” 
 -“ Bella, go on!” 
 
 «Will you give me a chocolate if I say it right § rele 
 
 “No, certainly not ; now, quickly !” 
 
 “Mamma always does,” said Bella, with an ominous 
 - drooping at the corners of her mouth. 
 
 “Are you going to read this word or not?” 
 
 “No; youre only French, and you don’t know a bit 
 
 how to teach me,” whined Bella. 
 Whereupon Esperance shut the book and carried hey 
 
 provoking little pupil to the corner, where she roared with 
 
 all her might. 
 
 “A very difficult child to manage, I should think,” said 
 Mrs. Lowdell, with a commiserating glance, as she hastily 
 left the room to be out of the sound of Bella's screams. _ 
 
 Esperance, heartily ashamed that her pupil should be 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. : 18h 
 
 driving people away by her naughtiness, longed to take 
 her up to the nursery ; but this was against Mrs. Mort- 
 lake’s rules, and Miss Bel la’s two hours” down-stairs were 
 apt to- make visitors beat a hasty retreat to their bedrooms. 
 
 She screamed on without the smallest diminuendo for — 
 -aome minutes, and Esperance sat down despairingly with — 
 her hands clasped over her forehead, half distracted by the 
 double noise of crying and singing. 
 
 On and on it went like some frightful nightmare. 
 
 *“* But men must work and women must weep’ ”—from 
 Miss Lowdell. 
 
 Roar, roar—from Bella. 
 
 ae Though storms be sudden and waters deep.’ ” 
 
 — “Qoh, hoo! ooh, hoo! I hate you!” from the corner. 
 
 _ Why must people sing those frightful sea-songs—on this 
 diy, ofall others? And, oh! why would Bella scream so 
 unmercifully ?. The physical and mental pain together 
 were almost maddening. 
 
 Justas Miss Lowdell left the drawing-room, Mrs. Mort- 
 lake came back, vexed at hearing Bella’s screams. 
 
 - “What is the matter? Things always go wrong if I. 
 leave the room for a minute. Come to me, my precious ; 
 what is it then?” | 
 
 Bella could not speak for sobbing, but by degrees Mrs. 
 
 Mortlake caught the words, “I hate her,” and “ chocolate,” 
 intermixed with the howling. 
 _ “You always do manage to irritate the poor child, Esper- 
 ance; of course she may have some chocolate if she likes. 
 _ You really are most provoking ; she has been as good as 
 possible with me, and now you have upset her. Why was 
 she in the corner ?” 
 
 “She was very inattentive and rude,” said poor Esper- 
 ance, looking down. 
 
 “ Rude, indeed ! it is your ridiculous pride which is so 
 ready to take offense ; she is never rude to any one else, 
 ~ and I’m not going to have your French system of punish- 
 ments brought in; so please remember, no one punishes 
 Bella but myself. Nothing tends more to make a child 
 deceitful than constant punishment; your national character- 
 istic is quite accounted for.” 
 
 Then, as Esperance would have begun an indignant re- 
 monstrance: 
 
 “No, no, I will not have arguing before Bella; you have 
 _ wasted quite enough of my time already; the best thing vou 
 ean do now is to leave the room, for the child can’t bear 
 
182 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 the sight of you. I wish, instead of sitting up at night 
 burning other people’s candles, you would learn to make 
 yourself useful by day. You think so much of French man- 
 ners; but for my part—” 
 Mrs. Mortlake broke off in dismay, for looking round she 
 saw Gaspard standing in the doorway, and from the ex- 
 pression of his face, she knew he must have heard most of 
 her angry speech. 
 Esperance turned, too, and with a cry of relief ran to 
 
 ~ him. 
 
 “Gaspard! Gaspard!” and she clung to him as if for 
 protection. 
 
 He put his arm around her holding her closely, deaf to 
 all Mrs. Mortlake’s greetings, and only growing more and 
 more angry as he felt how Esperance was trembling. As 
 soon as he could trust himself to speak he turned upon 
 Mrs. Mortlake, but Christabe], with an instinctive dread of 
 what was coming, tried to intercept his speech. 
 
 “ Good-morning; you are later than usual to-day; have 
 you come to take Esperance for a walk ?” 
 
 Her cool, clear voice so angered him that he dared not 
 speak to her. He just bowed an assent. 
 
 'Christabel fairly trembled before that calm, dignified 
 anger, and she never forgot Gaspard’s look—the clear, un- 
 tlinching eyes, the proud, sensitive mouth, and the whole 
 face rigid with repressed indignation. She gave a sigh of 
 relief when he turned away, and led Esperance from the 
 room. 
 
 When they had reached Cornelia’s study, nowever, Esper- 
 ance had recovered herself ; and, indeed, though unable to 
 help a feeling of relief in having Gaspard for a protector, 
 she was very sorry that he had heard one of Mrs. Mortlake’s 
 scoldingy, and tired out as she was she roused herself, try- 
 ing to talk lightly of the morning’s occurrences, and to 
 laugh him out of his anger. 
 
 “You see, mon ami, -it is a busy day; people can’t help 
 being a little cross; there is to be a ball to-night, you 
 know.” 
 
 “Tt was not crossness, it was downright insolence,” said 
 Gaspard, angrily. ‘You may be patient for yourself, mon 
 ceur, but I can’t be patient for you. It is unbearable to 
 think of leaving you with such people.” 
 
 She stooped down and kissed his forehead. x 
 
 “ [ think it can be borne, when we believe that in three 
 er four years it may perhaps be all over.” 
 
“WON BY WAITING. 183 
 
 “Three or four years! yes. But till then ?” 
 
 Esperance could not answer ; she turned away to hide 
 her quivering lips, till Gaspard, ‘ashamed of his despond- 
 ency, hurriedly rose and drew her toward him once more. 
 
 “ Chérie, I have been a wretch! you who have the heavier 
 burden to bear are preaching courage to me. We must, we 
 will endure, darling, and the waiting may not be so hard 
 as we think.” | 
 
 Esperance was soon at work again, in spite of Gaspard’s 
 entreaties that she would spare herself. 
 
 “ And by the bye,” he said, suddenly, “what did Mrs. 
 Mortlake mean by that reference to the burning of can- 
 dles ?” 
 
 “Tam sorry you heard that,” said Esperance, coloring. 
 “Tt was only that I used to sit up sometimes at night, and 
 she thought it extravagant, and was vexed.” 
 
 «You sat up over my outfit? You naughty child ; that 
 accounts for your white cheeks, and you mean that that 
 woman grudged you the candles 2” 
 
 “Yes; she puts little half-hour candies in my room 
 now,” said Esperance, Jaughing at Gaspard’s indignant 
 scorn. 
 
 “T only wish she were a man, and that I could have it 
 out with her,” he said, between his teeth. ‘ But there, we 
 will not waste any more of our time over such a disagree- 
 able subject.” 
 
 By the afternoon most of Gaspard’s things were ready, 
 and Esperance was much relieved at receiving from Cor- 
 nelia a dispensation from the cathedral service, so that she 
 had time to pack for him. This seemed to make her real- 
 ize things much more fully, and she began to feel that she 
 could not keep up much longer. 
 
 Very sorrowfully she walked back through the close and 
 the Vicar’s Court, glad enough to have Gaspard’s arm. He 
 
 was to dine at the deanery that evening, Cornelia having 
 
 taken pains to persuade her father to give the invitation ; 
 but to tell the truth though Esperance was glad he had 
 been invited, she could not enjoy his presence very much. 
 for she was on thorns the whole time lest he should speak 
 his mind to Mrs. Mortlake, or offend the dean still further 
 by rashly venturing on hazardous subjects. 
 
 She trembled, indeed, when at dinner le alluded to the 
 Tichborne case, for it was 2 very sore point, and the cause 
 of frequent and angry arguments between the dean and 
 George Palgrave, George believing firmly in the claimant. 
 
 ~ 
 
ee Aaa re hina ete Sat te bee SES aS alee UNG a ee So a te tl 
 4 tee Sak - yr, boRo Yn ste Sas Dye el MU get af Bs TO ae ae eb a 3 Pos 
 
 + = ‘t Sitbe es ae ris aes a>, Ee 2 . a ae Pe fs ~# 
 
 X : = ey ~ Ve ae eae ths 
 
 184 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 while the dean was furious if any cne doubted that he was 
 Arthur Orton. However, luckily, Gaspard could for once 
 agree with the dean, and George was much too good-tem- 
 pered that day to mind being “argued down, so that the 
 peace was kept. 
 
 The evening was uncomfortable and disturbed; first 
 there was some music, and Esperance was wanted to play 
 accompaniments, and then just as she hoped for a little 
 time with Gaspard, Grace Lowdell came up with a beseech- 
 ing face—the maid was helping her mother to dress for the 
 ball; would Espérance spare her just a few minutes? her 
 French fingers would be so invaluable, and there was no 
 getting: on “alone. 
 
 Of course she was obliged to go; and after Grace Low- 
 dell came her elder sister, and her younger sister, and 
 Bertha with her pink azaleas, far too happy and excited to 
 remember that they were taking up the very last evening 
 of Gaspard’s visit. 
 
 Esperance would almost have foresworn her nationality, 
 -go dearly did she pay that night for it. Just before ten 
 
 o’clock she went to Gornelia's room to offer her help, but ~ 
 
 she found her cousin already dressed, looking for once 
 really handsome, in black velvet and some very fine old lace. 
 She was standing by a reading-desk, poring over a yellows 
 
 leaved volume, her white gloves suffering considerably from — 
 
 the dust accumulated on its cover. 
 
 “Is there anything I can do to help you, Cornelia?” 
 asked Esperance in her tired voice. 
 
 “No, Lam ready, thank you. I hoped you were with your 
 brother; Christabel has not been hindering you, has she?” 
 
 “There were several things to do; but we shall have a 
 little time after you are gone,” said Esperance. 
 
 “Very well, go to my study then, and you will not be in- 
 terrupted. Ah! I hear the carriage,” and Cornelia reluct- 
 antly closed her book, and took off her spectacles. 
 
 Esperance followed her down-stairs to the hall, where she 
 found Gaspard, with frigid politeness, helping Mrs. Mort- 
 lake with her cloak. Cornelia counted heads in a business- 
 like way, and marshaled her guests into the carriages, walke 
 
 ing about majestically with her velvet dress tucked up, _ 
 and bestowing scornful pity on the younger ladics with 
 
 their trains of tarlatanand net. After some trouble, Esper- 
 ance gathered up the last of the dresses, and the party set 
 off, Bertha turning back once more to wish her cousins 
 good-night. 
 

 
 gong: 
 
 Ck EP a i Reese he a ad ae 
 x ers ee hee ante sey so aad 
 KAAS 
 
 ie eae = 3 a Sia 
 
 
 
 ‘L wish you were coming, too,” she said, unable to under- 
 stand that Hsperance would far rather be at home with 
 Gaspard. 
 
 George Palgrave came up, however, before there was 
 time for more, ‘and she took his arm and hurried down the 
 
 - steps looking radiantly happy. 
 
 The footman closed the front door, and then turned to 
 
 - Esperance. 
 
 “ If you please, miss, the dean wished me to tell you that 
 he is engaged in watching an eclipse of the moon, and 
 there will be no family prayers to-night.” 
 
 Gaspard stroked his mustache to hide a smile, 
 
 «Well, chérie, where shall we go? I must have a few 
 
 minutes with you.” 
 
 Esperance led the way to Cornelia’s study, but when 
 the door was shut, her strength all at once deserted her ; 
 she turned suddenly faint and giddy, and clung sobbing to 
 Gaspard. 
 
 « Bien-aimée! what is it? You are ill, mon cour.” 
 
 “J—I don’t know,” she sobbed. “JT wish it would all 
 stop, I am so tired !” 
 
 Her ears were ringing with the words of Miss Lowdell’s 
 
 “For men must work, and women must weep, 
 And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep.” 
 
 Gaspard did not quite understand her, but he saw that 
 she was quite worn out. 
 “ You are tired, darling, and overdone,” he said, gently. 
 **' There, come to your old place, and be a baby once more. 
 He took her on his knee, and made her rest her head on 
 his shoulder; but the quivering, tearless sobs alarmed him. 
 “Where are your tears gone to, chérie—you used to have 
 
 no lack ?” 
 
 She tried to smile, and remembering that he knew noth- 
 ing of Cornelia’s former sternness made an effort to check | 
 her sobs. He had found out too many of her troubles al- 
 ready, and she was determined that he should go away 
 well satisfied with Cornelia. 
 
 “1am better,’ she faltered, still strugeling bravely to — 
 conquer herself; and Gaspard, relieved, did not questioy 
 her further, but began to talk of other things, 
 
 There were still - many matters to be discussed, and Gy 
 this last evening they both instinctively dwelt on old times, 
 
 “WON BY WAITING. = 165 ee 
 
186 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 and talked over their recollections of home. The hour@ 
 passed by unheeded, and Gaspard was first roused to look 
 _at the clock by finding that, in a brief silence, Esperance 
 had fallen asleep. It was long past twelve, but he could 
 not bear to disturb her, and sat on, not at all sorry for an 
 excuse for not leaving her. He was very uneasy now about 
 going away. Esperance seemed to him thoroughly out of 
 health, and wnfit to be left in this forlorn, motherless house- 
 hold. He felt a little bitter as he remembered that these 
 most unfeminine cousins were her only relations, and as he ~ 
 watched her flushed cheeks, and quick, uneasy breathing, 
 longed more than he had ever longed before for his mother. 
 
 As he recalled the dim vision of tender gentleness and 
 love, treasured up among his childish memories, he might 
 perhaps be forgiven for uttering one passionate invective 
 against the dean, and the unrelenting hardness which had 
 so preyed upon his mother’s life. | 
 
 The clock had just struck one when he was startled by ap- 
 proaching footsteps, and the door was opened by Cornelia, 
 She was of course surprised to find her cousin still up. 
 Gaspard made a low-toned explanation, and Cornelia, 
 
 touched by the very unwonted sight before her, was unusu. ~ y 
 
 ally gracious. : 
 “One of the Miss Lowdells turned faint, and I came 
 
 home early with her. Iam sorry you and Esperance had 
 
 an interrupted evening.” 
 
 ‘“‘T am afraid she is overtired, she has been slaving over 
 my outfit,” said Gaspard, anxiously. “I wish I could have 
 left her better. You will know, Miss Collinson, surely she 
 
 is very hot and feverish? Iwish I knew what was wreng ~ | 2 
 
 with her.” 
 
 Cornelia felt her hand in a hesitating way, painfully con- 
 scious of her own ignorance. 
 
 “T know nothing about illness,” she said, “ but certainly 
 
 she is very hot. I think, as you say, she has overtired her- - 
 
 self.” fie: 
 
 Gaspard’s face only grew more troubled, and Cornelia 
 would have given worlds for that womanly skill and wis- 
 dom which she feit the need of so much. ‘Their voices 
 - were making Esperance restless, she moved her arms un- 
 easily, and talked in her sleep, at first unintelligibly, but 
 afterward with terrible distinctness, though always in 
 French. Cornelia and Gaspard each received some wounds 
 from the unconscious tongue. - Now it was in relation to 
 Gaspard’s journey. 
 
WON BY WAITING. 187 
 
 “'T'o-morrow, to-morrow! How shallI bearit? And 
 get it will be good for you, Gaspard.” 
 
 Then again, with little convulsive sobs between the 
 words, “It is so far away, so very far, and I am so lonely. 
 If only they would love me a little!” 
 
 By degrees she grew alittle more quiet,and Gaspard 
 looked up at Cornelia, great tears in his eyes. 
 
 __ © Miss Collinson,” he said, earnestly, “she is all I have 
 left ; you will take care of her.” 
 
 “Indeed I will,” said Cornelia, with real sympathy, and 
 Gaspard trusted those three words more than he would 
 have done countless protestations from Mrs. Mortlake. He 
 _ turned once more to his sister, while Cornelia watched 
 them sadly, yet with a sort of envy. 
 
 At last Esperance woke, wearied and confused, and Gas- 
 pard proposed that she should go up to her room. 
 
 “Yes, come,” urged Cornelia, ‘‘ you will never rest down 
 here ; I will help you.” : 
 
 She lighted a candle, and would have offered to help her 
 up the stairs, but Gaspard was before her. 
 
 “ Now, chérie, hold tight round my neck, and you shall 
 feel as if you were going up the old pigeonnier at home.” 
 
 Esperance obeyed, and was carried up stairs in his arms, 
 Cornelia staying to see her safely into bed. 
 
 The next morning dawned brightly, too brightly for 
 poor Esperance. It reminded her of that fatal 30th of 
 November, when the sun had shone down s0 cruelly upon 
 their desolation. She was too much worn out now to 
 feel more than a dull, aching pain at her heart, as she re- 
 membered what day it was ; she dressed wearily and went 
 down to the breakfast-room, with only one idea strongly 
 impressed on her mind—that for Gaspard’s sake she must 
 keep up. 
 
 As if in a dream, she went through the usual routine, 
 walked to the cathedral, meeting Gaspard at the door, 
 stood, sat, and knelt mechanically through the service, 
 went back to the deanery, and talked with Gaspard still 
 dreamily, in Cornelia’s room. At lunch she was pale and 
 quiet; only when in the afternoon the time for Gaspard’s 
 departure really came, and the omnibus drove up with his 
 luggage, a glow of intense color rose to her cheeks, and 
 the composure which all the morning had been her aid 
 forsook her. She could hardly see or stand, but true to her 
 resolution she struggled on, talking still, though she could 
 

 
 Vig Bn foun eg ee a Ree EN Deka Es Pr aah ane ee nee eT ay Rae ce ao teen ws Sob es 
 z BE aS Age pei Meee es Paap Sign eRe ee Ey eae ies 
 
 188 } WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Ry ae Area 
 
 scarcely hear her voice because of a strange ringing in her 
 ears. 
 
 Gaspard was much more visibly agitated. He hurried 
 through his good-byes in the drawing-room, and came out 
 into the hall where Esperance and Cornelia were waiting, 
 looking so haggard and miserable that Cornelia’s heart 
 ached for bim. ; 
 
 The sight seemed to give new courage to Esperance, 3 
 she clung to him with whispered words of hope and com- 
 fort, and soft caresses. He turned for one moment to : 
 Cornelia. Se 
 
 “Your promise—you will remember?” | 
 
 “Yes, always,” replied Cornelia, earnestly, pressing his 
 hand. 
 
 Then, with one long embrace, the brother and sister 
 parted, and Gaspard with bowed head passed down the 
 steps, and gave directions to the driver in French. a 
 
 Esperance with a great effort still stood at the door ; 
 the floor seemed rocking beneath her, a black mist was 
 gathering before her eyes, but she smiled and waved her 
 hand bravely. Gaspard looked back relieved, and when 
 the omnibus turned the corner of the Vicar’s Court, he. 
 saw her standing on the steps still watching him, — 
 while Cornelia had come forward, too, and was holding her | 
 hand. ae 
 
 The sound of the wheels died awayin the quiet tourt, 
 and Cornelia turned to Esperance, speaking gently. 
 
 “My dear, you will come upstairs and rest.” 
 
 But rest had already come to Esperance, and she sunk 
 back senseless in Cornelia’s arms. 
 
 Every one came flocking out of the drawing-room at 
 Cornelia’s call, and gathered round the white, still figure, 
 with exclamations of pity. The dean was greatly distress- 
 ed, and bent over her with more anxiety and earnestness 
 than he had ever shown before toa body that was not 
 “ heavenly.” se 
 
 “Some one should go for a doctor, surely, my dears, 
 she is very cold, poor child, poor ehild! I’m afraid this =a 
 has been a grief to her.” ee 
 
 “ My dear father,” said Mrs. Mortlake, impatiently, “shit 
 
 a 
 . 
 
 ae. melt gay fee ak i ate 
 Pa PW hy eyo, Se Rae) NRT MRT) <a ets KL Wee oy 
 
 has only fainted. French penple always do faint whei 
 
 they think it becoming, they like to make a scene.” 
 The Miss Lowdells looked on wonderinely, Bertha made 
 
 pitying remarks in an undertone to George Palgrave, 
 ornelia knelt on = ground supporting Esperance’ 
 
 ae 
 
 a 
 

 
 
 = 
 
 WON BY WAITING. _ = 189 
 
 
 
 head, and looking at the faces around her with angry im- 
 patience. 
 
 _ “Will no one do any thing? Why do you all stand 
 staring like this ; can’t you fetch some water ?” 
 
 Just then Mrs. Lowdell came down-stairs. 
 
 «Some one fainting? Dear me? poor child!’ and she 
 began to chafe Hisperance’s hands in a capable sort of way, 
 which relieved Cornelia. 
 ~ “What ought we to do with her?” she asked, turning 
 with confidence to the motherly old lady. 
 
 “YT should carry her up to bed,” said Mrs. Lowdell, “she 
 can’t breathe with every one standing round her here.” 
 Cornelia did not hesitate for a moment, but to the sure 
 
 prise of all, suddenly rose, took Esperance’s inanimate 
 
 form in her strong arms, and quietly walked upstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Lowdell followed, bringing various restoratives, and 
 
 _ together they did all in their power for the poor child; but 
 
 it seemed as if nothing would bring her to life again, and 
 
 Cornelia growing frightened, was just proposing to send 
 
 for a doctor, when faint signs of returning consciousness 
 
 began to show themselves. 
 
 The eyelids quivered at last and slowly opened, Esper- 
 ance looked up half hopefully, then remembering all with 
 a swift pang turned her face away and relapsed into semi- 
 consciousness. But Mrs. Lowdell insisted on her taking 
 some sal volatile, and then a terrible idea crossed her mind 
 and roused her fully. 
 - “Cornelia,” she said, in a weak yet eager voice, “ Gas- 
 pard did not see me faint, did he?” _ 
 “No; he was quite out of sight,” said Cornelia, reassur- 
 ingly. tre | 
 «You are quite certain ?” 
 * Perfectly.” 
 And with that Esperance was satisfied ; she had kept 
 up to the last; for a moment she was quite soothed by 
 the relief of knowing it, then the reaction set in, her deso- 
 lation broke upon her, and she burst into a passionate fit 
 of sobbing. 
 ~The tearless sobs which had so alarmed Gaspard on the 
 
 _ previous evening were even more alarming to Cornelia. 
 
 ~Was it possible that her stern words had really checked 
 - Hsperance’s tears? Good Mrs. Lowdell’s exhortations 
 made her feel the more miserable. ‘Cry, my dear, have 
 
 a good cry, and you will be better.” But still there were 
 
190 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 only those heart-rending sobs, and a easping, quivering 
 agony, terrible to witness. 
 
 Mrs. Lowdell proposed that she shoald have a cup of 
 tea, and Cornelia, thankful for something to do, hastened 
 away to order it, then returning, began to clear the table 
 
 of a disorderly heap of clothing. Esperance, looking up, © 
 
 caught sight of Gaspard’s National Guard uniform among 
 the useless or worn-out things he had left behind—the 
 sight recalled a long train of memories, and with a low 
 moan of, “Papa! Gaspard! !’ she buried her face in the 
 pillow, and burst into tears. 
 
 Both the watchers were thankful, indeed, for they had 
 become seriously uneasy ; they did not attempt to check 
 her, but let the long pent-up tears have their course, and 
 after a time she grew quiet once more, and feil into a 
 troubled sleep. But Cornelia’s anxieties were not over. 
 In the middle of dinner she was summoned away by Bella’s 
 nurse, who had been left with Esperance. Mademoiselle 
 
 had woke up in a high fever, and would not talk a word of — 
 
 English. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 When some beloved voice that was to you 
 Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, © 
 And silence against which you dare not ery, 
 Aches round you like a strong disease and new— 
 What hope? Whathelp ? What music will undo 
 That silence to your sense ? 
 E. B. Brownie. 
 
 Tur deanery was all in commotion the next day, for 
 
 before long it was known that Esperance was ill ‘with 
 typhoid fever. Mrs. Mortlake was, as usual, sure that she ~ 
 
 could have helped it. 
 
 “T do think it is very inconsiderate of people to be ill 
 in other people’s houses,” she grumbled ; “just think of 
 the expense it will be, and there’s my father being per- 
 
 suaded by Mrs. Lowdell to have a trained nurse, who will — 
 eat dreadfully, those nurses are vars regular cormor- 
 
 ants.” 
 
 “My dear Christabel, the money does not come out of 55 
 
 your pocket,” said Cornelia, impatiently. 
 
 “Tt’'s all very well to say so, * replied Mrs. Mortlake. 
 “ But you know it comes to the same thing, it will be ours 
 
 Bk ete 
 poe a 
 
geome. day, and why shouid my poor little Bella be 
 
 defrauded of her own rights? And _ besides, it’s very 
 
 awkward to have illness in the house, and there’s no know- 
 ing that it isn’t iniectious; perhaps the water is poisoned 
 or something wrong with the drainage.” 
 
 “ Probably,” said Cornelia, with much coolness. ‘“ We 
 shall have everything looked to, and in any case you and 
 Bella had better go away, for that child is unbearably 
 noisy.” 
 
 -. This was more true than polite, and Mrs. Mortlake 
 colored angrily. 
 
 “It is all very well for you to talk, but I do feel being 
 turned out of my own father’s house. by a foreigner. If 
 you had been left a widow with one little child, I think you 
 would have been rather more considerate, Cornelia.” 
 
 “Should I?’ said Cornelia, with sarcasm, ‘well, all I 
 ‘ask is that you will consider somebody but yourself, 
 Christabel ; perhaps you would have the gvodness to 
 order the carriage in time for the 8:35; the Lowdells are 
 going this evening.” 
 
 With this, Cornelia swept out of the room, to be waylaid 
 on the stairs by George with a telegram form in his hand 
 
 ‘Tam just going to the office with this,”-he said, show: 
 ing it to her; “my mother will be delighted to have 
 Bertha, I am sure, and she ought not to stay here, ought 
 she ?” 
 
 “ No, no; the sooner the house is empty the better,” said 
 Cornelia, thinking only of Esperance’s quiet, and George 
 hurried away, inwardly blessing his little Fxench cousin for 
 lier opportune illness. 
 
 The Lowdells, too, were packing with all possible speed, 
 for their mother had considerately proposed to go that 
 evening. ‘Not the least because I am nervous about the 
 girls, you know, but we shall only be in the way,” she ex- 
 claimed to Cornelia, proving her kindness still further by 
 staying in Esperance’s room till the nurse arrived. 
 
 So the deanery was speedily emptied, and the next day 
 found only the dean and Cornelia left behind, to hear with 
 dismay that they had all been drinking water from a 
 poisoned well, and that Esperance’s illness was fully ac- 
 counted for. She had for long been very much out of 
 heaith, owing to the privations and shock of the siege, and 
 had naturally been the first victim. 
 
 Cornelia had never dreamed of acting as a sick-nurse 
 before, and felt hopelessly at a loss when the trained nurse 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 5 191 
 
 - 
 
Rar. AER Lath Saree EN ees 
 
 192 ti WON BY ‘WAITING. 
 
 went to take her rest, and she was called to take her turm 
 with the patient. Luckily, at first, Esperance was fairly 
 quiet, but later on Cornelia was frightened out of her wits 
 by her wild ravings, and the strange language seemed to 
 make it all the more terrible. Those hours revealed to her 
 more of Esperance’s tife and character than she had ever 
 known before, and her father’s name was so continually on 
 her lips, that Cornelia was more and more rebuked for 
 having ever ventured to call French love shallow and 
 fleeting. 
 
 She seemed to be living through the siege once more 
 with all its horrors, and her delirious ravings were almost: 
 always of sorties, battle-fields, and partings, while day 
 after day she would rehearse in anguish the scene at het! 
 father’s death-bed. Then would come cries for Gas: 
 pard, almost as piteous, or lamentations over his pov- 
 erty and sufferings, with references to the luxurious 
 living at the deanery, which made Cornelia shudder, 
 in their vivid contrast. “Occasionally, but much 
 less often, her own private troubles would be her sub- 
 ject—Mrs. Mortlake’s injustice, or Cornelia’s coldness, 
 and the hundred little misunderstandings which made life 
 at Rilchester so wearing, while the mal du pays, which had 
 
 beset her so strongly when she first came to the Ontong 
 
 was fully revealed to her cousin. 
 After the first day, Cornelia’s study: was deserted ; when- 
 
 ever her father did not need her she was with Esperance, aS 
 waiting on her with more skill than might have been ex- 
 
 pected, and proving a great help to the nurse by interpret- 
 ing the feverish, impatient wishes, always expressed in 
 French. The days and weeks passed by slowly, and her 
 anxiety deepened, for there was no lessening in the fever, 
 
 and the doctors held out very little hope, more especially 
 when they heard of the previous :rivations and overwork, * 
 
 She could never have believed that in such a short time — | 
 
 she could have grown so fond of her little cousin, and her 
 daily watching was becoming very painful, though she 
 
 
 
 would not have given it up ‘for the world, The all-im- =e 
 portant twenty-first day way one of disappointment and — 
 
 double anxiety, for there was no shade of improvement, 
 and the fever ran frightfully high. The doctor took Cor- 
 nelia aside after his second visit. 
 
 “Tf Mademoiselle de Mabillon has any near relations — 
 
 they should come at once,” he said, gravely. 
 
 ‘© She has none in England,” said Cornelia, thinking with — 
 

 
 > elves eer Lh ee 2 RAR oP ee ee ee, ets nope at py NA eo See ee ee oe ls Me We geen tie Bil, ate ae 
 3 SE Cee a Fo AL ANE Soe roa et cE a eno 
 j ya tae Ff ‘ Meee: a is ’ 2 zhi : oid 
 E Aa ’ 4 
 
 Piet fil in 
 ARIAS 
 Lecis 
 
 
 
 
 
 a eS ae Fo a ee i a ae ea) ee at Yet ae 
 
 “WON BY WAITING. ~ 193. 
 
 er 
 
 _ eshudder what poor Gaspard would say when he heard. 
 _ “She is really in such danger, then ?” 
 
 “The most imminent danger,” replied the doctor, aceus- 
 tomed to regard Cornelia as a hard, matter-of-fact lady, 
 able to stana anything, ‘In fact, Miss Collinson, I fear it~ 
 is my duty to tell you that I think it a great question if 
 
 ~ she pulls through the next twenty-four hours.” 
 
 Cornelia turned ashy pale, and the doctor a little sur- 
 ‘prised, hastened to add, “Unless we find there is more 
 
 _ fever to-night, it is just possible then that she may get 
 through.” 
 
 Cornelia could not speak. With a heavy sigh she turned 
 
 _ weain to the sick-room, where each moan of pain, each 
 
 delirious exclamation, seemed to pierce her heart. A 
 sense of responsibility, too, overpowered her ; there was 
 something dreadful in the thought that this child was left 
 alone save for her ; she wished she had loved her more, or 
 
 ‘could make her understand even now that she loved her, 
 but it was too late, and the consciousness of her loneliness 
 
 evidently haunted Esperance, for to-day, mixed with her 
 entreaties to her father and Gaspard to come to her, were 
 
 _ piteous description of forlorn helplessness. 
 
 The time was so very critical that the doctor remained 
 for some hours, the nurse and Cornelia stood by the bed, 
 
 too, though there was little to do but to watch that terri- 
 
 ble struggle between life and death. 
 
 In the evening, the dean came to the door, as usual, to 
 make inquiries, and the doctor brought him into the room, 
 having prepared him for the worst. He was quite over- 
 come, and the mere sight of Esperance was a shock to him, 
 as she lay pillowed high, her forehead bandaged, her brown 
 
 eyes wild and glittering, her face drawn with pain, and 
 ‘and crimson with the flush of fever. 
 
 She was moaning Gaspard’s name piteously enough, and 
 the dean felt a keen pang of remorse as he remembered how 
 gladly he had seen the last of his nephew afew weeks ago; 
 ho almost wished him back again now. Scarcely know- 
 
 - ing what he did, he bent down, and took Esperance’s thin, 
 
 burning hands in his. She had not noticed his entrance, 
 but this made her look up suddenly; a glad smile passed 
 over her troubled face, and half raising herself with the 
 
 _ strength of delirium, she cried, “Papa! papa! have you 
 
 be ome ?” then, falling back again, said, much more quietly, 
 
 
 
 “J am so tired! Won’t you carry me ?” 
 She closed her eyes, and they all watched in breathless 
 
regia at eleanor Gee ein Ue Beg San AD et eg ha AS) phe Ne I SG a te 
 -4 ‘ : X . % 7 I wis : et A a aes ee ea ~~ Ay “e.4 
 
 ~ 
 
 py ater see dea WON BY WAITING, 
 
 oe Oo 
 
 suspense, till at length a look of entire peace stole ovew 
 her features, and her quiet, regular breathing showed that, 
 she had fallen into a natural sleep. 
 
 Hor two hours the dean stood in this novel position, per- 
 sonating M. de Mabillon, and patiently holding the hands 
 of his old enemys child. He was growing undoubtedly 
 fond of Esperance and, moreover, he felt something of the 
 sense of responsibility which had been oppressing Corne- 
 lia, and had a great terror of her death, feeling sure that 
 it would burden him with that sense of guiltiness which 
 had haunted him when his sister died. He wished he had 
 not overheard that cry for Gaspard, it rangin his ears 
 tormentingly. and though he reminded himself that the - 
 Ceylon appointment was a very good one, he could not 
 but remember that if he had chosen he might easily have 
 found a situation for Gaspard in England. 
 
 On the whole, the dean’s reflections were not very com- 
 fortable as he watched his sister’s child; and he was re- 
 lieved when, after a long sleep, she woke up much more | 
 free from fever than they had ventured to hope. His hands 
 being released, he stole away to the observatory and tried 
 to forget his annoyances ; but in spite of the attractions 
 of his beloved telescope, he was haunted all the night by 
 Gaspard’s name. 
 
 -In the sick-room matters ead on very hopefully. Hs- 
 perance took some nourishment, and then fell again into 
 a long, dreamless sleep, and in the morning the doctor was 
 so well satisfied with her improvement, that Cornelia began 
 to take heart again. She slept at intervals through the 
 day, and did not take much notice, but on the following 
 day she was much more herself. In the afternoon, when 
 the nurse was lying down, Cornelia was startled by a sud- 
 den question in Esperance’ S weak voice, the inglish words 
 .eoming with a sort of hesitation: 
 
 ts Gaspard does not know that I am ill, does he # 
 
 Cornelia crossed the room to the bedside. 
 
 “No, dear; but now you are better I will write.” 
 
 e Perhaps T shall be well enoug soon to putina letter, 
 What day is it?” : 
 “Tt is Saturday, the 13thof July. We will write by the 
 next mail, on Friday.” acy. : 
 Esperance was too weak to talk any more. She lay 
 musing over Cornelia’s words, greatly surprised to find 
 how long she had been ill. But she had still many days of 
 pain and weakness to look forward to, for although she 
 
RPM a tt nisin "surah ey ae ea anche ene rh hy Lat 
 a iy ae =p Pia Cet eae al He AVR 
 - t | 
 
 WON BY WAITING. gee ys 
 
 was out of danger her recovery was very slow and weari- 
 
 “ome. Sie was as helpless as a baby, and though good 
 ~ wnd patient, she could not withstand the sense of aching 
 
 loneliness that weighed upon her spirits. Every one was- 
 kind to her, but she longed unspeakably for Gaspard, and 
 day after day she lay crying quietly, wiping away her 
 tears and trying to smile when any one spoke to her, but 
 far too weak to be able to control herself. : 
 She saw a good deal of Cornelia, for the nurse al- 
 ways went to lie down in the afternoon after her night's 
 watching, but unluckily she was ratherin awe of her, 
 and Cornelia herself, though extremely anxious to be, 
 kind, had not the quick observation and ready tact 
 which are needed in sick nursing. She would sit 
 hour by hour reading quietly, taking the greatest pains 
 to make no noise, when perhaps Esperance was very low- 
 gpirited, and wanted a little cheerful talk, or at another — 
 time she would carry on long whispered conversations 
 with some unseen servant at the door, thereby disturbing 
 and exciting the invalid far more than if she had spoken 
 aloud. Her diffidénce, too, was a great hinderance, for 
 
 _ she never ventured to do anything for Esperance without 
 “an anxious questioning. 
 
 «Would you fancy this?” or, “ Shall I give you that?” 
 till the poor child was so worried that she would negative 
 everything rather than be troubled with the decision. 
 
 Her native politeness, however, stood her in good stead, 
 und Cornelia never found this out, but was only touched 
 by her gratitude, and as the weeks passed by she grew 
 yaore and more fond of her. : : 
 
 One afternoon early in August, Esperance was sitting 
 “lone in her bedroom, Cornelia being at the cathedral, and 
 the nurse having her tea; she was now so much better that 
 there was no reason she should not ‘be left sometime. 
 This was always the most miserable time of her 
 day, and this afternoon she was more forlorn than 
 ever, though she could not have told the reason. 
 Jiverything jarred on her nerves, the cathedral bells 
 seemed distractingly loud, the clock ticked unequally and 
 fidgeted her, and a provoking blue-bottle fly buzzed about 
 the windoy. She was too weak to. cross the room and try 
 to catch it, soshe lay back in her arm-chair_ wearily, watch- 
 ing the tops of the trees as they waved gently m the sums 
 mcr wind, and wondering where Gaspard was, and what 
 he was doing, while the tears coursed silently down 
 
 H 
 

 
 et: ahs ee at ea FIRS C= Win he ha ies oi oe ae Foti Aen ee Se. 5 2 
 ij 3 : x r: : a - ia ae cd < ane ie, 2 : ye aN 
 
 196 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 cheeks. Jiwtasg she was feeling a momentary relief at the 
 last stroke of the bells, a knock came at her door, and to hex 
 great surprise the servant announced ‘ Lady Worthing: 
 ton.” Esperance felt a thrill of joy as she looked up, and 
 saw Lady Worthington’s sympathetic, unchanged face, and 
 heard again her low, comforting voice. 
 
 ¢ My } poor child! why, how pale and thin you are! but 
 they tell me you are better.” 
 
 “Yes, [ feel better, thank you,” said Esperance, wearily. 
 
 ‘But convalescence is always dull work,” said Lady | 
 
 Worthisgton. “I met Cornelia just now, and she gave me 
 leave to come and see you; she tellsme you have hada 
 long illness.” 
 
 “Yes, it has seemed long,” sighed Esperance. “ You see, 
 can’t do anything even now, and it is hard to sit and 
 think allday, and then—I do so want Gaspard.” 
 
 Her tears fell anew, and Lady Worthington, seeing thah — 
 they arore quite as much from physical weakness and de- 
 
 pression as from grief, hardly knew what to do for her. 
 She glanced round the great, comfortless room, and could 
 not wonsler that the poor child felt forlorn. Fvery neces- 
 eary wag there, certainly; but there was an air of discomfort 
 and ,barrenness about everything. A little shaky table, 
 
 which night have been pretty enough with flowers, was 
 staggering under the weight of some of Cornelias bulky a 
 volumes ; a number of medicine-bottles were crowded an <2 
 to the window-sill, and Esperance herself had been left in 
 
 a slippery, American-cloth chair, called by oe “ easy,’ 
 but in reality most uncomfortable. 
 
 Lady Worthington was perplexed. She could not make, 
 
 or even suggest, improvements in the dean’s house, and 
 yet this want of the little feminine comforts and adorn- 
 ments.vexed her, and she felt sure that it must be trying 
 to Esperance. With a sense of relief she perceived some 
 
 common property in the shape of the blue-bottle fly on 
 
 the window-pane. 
 
 “This great fly i ig worry ing you, my dear, I shall put an 
 end to his noise,” and kind-hearted Lady Worthington 
 rose with alacr ity to flick the poor insect mercilessly with 
 her handkerchief, till it fell out of the window stunned. 
 After that she felt a little better, and came again to Esper: 
 ance’s side, determined to make the most of her present 
 opportunity. A bright idea had struck her—the deanery 
 was forlorn and uncomfortable, but what if she could get 
 Esperance away from the ames She revolved variouf 
 

 
 2 > > a - Kia seen es 7 We il Liha Pe 
 
 WON BY WAITING 197 
 
 - plans in her mind, while fondling the little invalid in 
 
 & 
 
 silence. At last she made up her mind, and began by a 
 
 judicious course of questioning. | 7 
 “ Qught you not to have a change of air, dear? Has Cor 
 
 ~ nelia said anything to you about going away ?” 
 
 “No; and I hope we shall not go,” said Esperance. “ We 
 
  ghould only go to Scarborough, where Mrs. Mortlake and 
 _ Bella are staying, and I would much rather be alone with 
 
 Cornelia.” 
 
 “But I think you should have a change, you want a 
 great deal of setting up yet. I wonder whether you would 
 like to come and pay a visit to Frances, she is down in — 
 Wales with the children. Sir Henry and I only left them 
 on Saturday, and they are to stay on for anotl.er month.” 
 
 Esperance started forward, a glow of color rising in her 
 pale cheeks, “ Oh, Lady Worthington, do you really mean 
 it? How good—how kind you are!” 
 
 “You would like it then >” 
 
 “More than anything in the world! It seems too good, 
 too wonderful! only I have been so cross and fretful, tkat 
 I really don’t deserve it.” 
 
 “Poor child, that is not your fault I am sure, you will 
 
 . soon get better when you are away, there is nothing like 
 
 Welsh air to my mind, and Llanfairfechan, the little village 
 where Sir Henry has taken a house, is a charming place, 
 with sea and mountains too. Frances will be so delighted 
 to have you.” 
 They were still talking over this plan, when Cornelia 
 came back from the service. 
 “T wonder whether you will spare us your invalid for a 
 
 little while,” said Lady Worthington, when she had joined 
 
 them. “I have been asking Esperance whether she will 
 stay with us in Wales for a month.” 
 
 Cornelia felt a sudden pang. Was she to lose this child 
 whom she had watched over so anxiously? she felt as if 
 
 - ghe were being robbed ; then looking up she saw the glow 
 
 
 
 of animation on Esperance’s face, and felt sadly that the 
 Worthingtons had been kind to her in the days of her own 
 coldness, and that naturally they were more loved. With 
 
 --an effort she spoke cheerfully. 
 
 “T think it would be very good for her indeed, if you 
 are sure it is quite convenient to you, Lady Worthington.” 
 “ Perfectly, there is a room doing nothing, and Frances 
 
 -_-wnil be so glad of a companion. Sir Henry andI are go- 
 - ing to Switzerland, but she is not strong enough really to _ 
 
 = 
 
 ae 
 
198 : WON BY WAITING. 
 
 eujoy traveling, and prefers stayiny in Wales. I wonder 
 whether Esperance would be well enough to travel down 
 on the 8th ; [ could take her myself then.” 
 
 Esperance declared she was well enough to go that very 
 minute, though an hour before she had not felt equal to 
 walking across the room; but the prospect of change 
 seemed to put new life into her, and Cornelia was so 
 pleased to see her better, that she was glad the invitation 
 had been given, and promised to talk matters over with 
 the doctor the next day, and to let Lady Worthington 
 know. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 “There is a temptation, and a very common one—to withdraw 
 from those who are nncongenial. We so crave for sympathy, 
 that life seems scarcely endurable withoutit. But we may be 
 assured that when it is the trial putuponusbyGod . . . We 
 shall, as a rule, be far safer in accepting it than in trying te 
 escupe from it. . . . loneliness, isolation, misconception, 
 absence of sympathy, if accepted cheerfully, are doing a work 
 ae aero’ than can be achieved by any efforts of our own indi- 
 vidual.” 
 
 Miss SeweEtu’s, Thoughis on the Age. 
 
 Tre doctor highly approved of the proposed change, and — 
 
 as there were only afew days for preparation, Cornelia’s 
 hands were full. She found herself engrossed in all sorts 
 of feminine trivialties, in a most surprising and unnatural 
 way. There was a shady hat to be chosen for Esperance, 
 clothes to be overlooked and packed, and even a little 
 needle-work to be done. With this latter she was sadly 
 
 at a loss, but with a determination not to give it to the — 
 servants, she shut herself up in her study, and puzzled it 
 
 out for herself, by the help of mathematics and common 
 sense, and Esperance had certainly never worn anything 
 so scientifically made before. 
 
 The 8th of August was as fine as could be wished, and 
 
 toward the middle of the day Lady Worthington and 
 
 Esperance started on their journey. Poor Cornelia felt 
 very sad when the actual parting came, though Esperances 
 good-bye was as warm and affectionate as possible. She 
 threw her arms round her cousin’s neck, “ Dear Cornelia, 
 you have been so kind to me, and I have been such # 
 
 trouble, perhaps when I come back you will let me waik 
 
 upon you.” 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. % 199 
 
 “You must get quite strong again, dear,” said Cornelia, 
 quietly returning her embrace. ‘And be sure to let me 
 know how you are after the journey.” | 
 
 The train moved slowly off, and Cornelia turned home 
 with a sigh, to find her study almost oppressively dulland 
 ~ quiet, while Esperance lay back among her cushions, feast- 
 ing her eyes with the fresh green of the fields and trees, 
 and finding beauty even in the flat environs of Rilchester, 
 after her long imprisonment. 
 
 Lady Worthington was a perfect traveling companion ; 
 she did not tease her to take a rest just at first, but let her 
 enjoy the change and novelty. thoroughly ; produced a 
 tempting little luncheon just at the right time, and finally 
 made her so comfortable that it was impossible not 
 to go to sleep. She did not wake till they reached 
 Chester, and then, much refreshed by half an hour’s 
 rest and some coffee, was quite ready to go on again. 
 Tire first breath of sea air as they passed by Holy- 
 well and the broad estuary of the Dee seemed to revive 
 her, and when they reached the coast her Celight was 
 quite charming to watch, and her joyous exclamations 
 pleased and amused Lady Worthington. 
 
 The country was looking beautiful in the sunset light, 
 and fisperance was so enraptured with it all, that she even 
 compared it to her own well-beloved scenery; the moun- 
 tains reminded her. of the mountains of Auvergne, and 
 even in Conway Castle she traced some likeness to the 
 chateau, though a Welshman traveling in the same car- 
 riage evidently regarded this latter comparison as the re- 
 veyse of flattering. 
 
 Just ag the sun went down into the sea, looking like a 
 great ball of fire, they reached their journey’s end, and 
 Esperance with dazzled eyes was glad enough to sink back 
 again among her cushions and wait for orders. Harry and 
 Fred were waiting on the platform, looking cool and coun- 
 trified in their brown holland suits. 
 
 «“ Aunt Fanny is waiting in the pony-carriage, mamma,” 
 they both cried in a breath. “We will bring all your 
 things from here.” 
 
 “Very well,” said Lady Worthington, who was fond of 
 making even ten-year old boys usefnl. ‘Harry, you bring 
 these cushions and bags, and Fred, see that a black trunk 
 and my small box are sent round at once in the cart—now, 
 Esperance, we will come,” and putting a supporting arm 
 xound her little charge, she led her through the station te 
 
 ~~ 
 
soe Aes 
 
 BSE EE ie LL Ne Re 2 SES Re Kea pare ee eC A ant tea el nS ae ee 
 . 5 r thie at hy A * ie ey eae ae ae ba 3 tel hf Seo 
 
 S ~ ea y. > te fae x SCE eS te a Te eee 
 
 ws is 5 By a te fs —* . 
 
 200 WON BY WAITING 
 
 ths pony-carriage, where Frances was waiting, looking 
 fairer and prettier than ever, in her ight summer dress. — 
 
 Esperance received a homelike greeting in French, ana 
 was made comfortable in the carriage, while Lady Worth- 
 ington talked to Frances. . 
 
 “She is tired of course with the journey ; you must not. 
 judge of her looks to-night. Ithink you had better drive 
 home at once, and let her have some supper and go to 
 bed. I shall stay and walk back with the boys.” 
 
 “Very well, we will start then,” and Frances gathered 
 up the reins, and the little bay ponies carried them swiftly 
 away. 
 
 Esperance looked round her with languid pleasure ag 
 they crossed a bridge over the little river, now scantily 
 covering its stony bed, ascended the hill, and then branch- 
 ing to the left, drove along the road in the direction o7 
 Penmaenmawr, till, nestling just at the foot of the moun- 
 tain, among a plantation of fir-trees, they came to the house 
 which Sir Henry had taken for the summer. 
 
 Frances took her upstairs at once, and indeed HEsper- 
 ~ ance was quite tired out and thenkful to go to bed, but 
 with all her weariness was a restful consciousness that she 
 had come to the right place, and to-night for the first time 
 since her illness she did not cry herself to sleep. | 
 
 Lady Worthington was obliged to go the next day, for 
 she was to meet her husbaud in London and start at once 
 for the Continent. In fect her expedition to Rilchester 
 had been solely on Esperance’s account. She hed first 
 heard of her illness from the wife of the archdeacon, whom 
 she had met at Llandudno, and her motherly soul had 
 been so grieved at the thought of any one be‘ng nursed 
 by Cornelia, that she had at once found an °xcuse for a 
 short visit to Worthington Hall, and with much delicht 
 had been able to carry off her protégée for change of air.” 
 
 _ “It is, indeed, my dear, aclear proving of our two voca- 
 tions,” she said laughinoly to her sister. “I have brought 
 Esperance down here with all possible eare, and have left 
 the strictest orders for her diet, her sea-bathing, her after- | 
 noon siesta, and her quinine and steel ; to you I leave vour — 
 special function—the ‘ ghostly’ mission - only stipulating 
 that you will consider her body in the matter of church 
 services.” . . . 
 _ Lrances promised, langhing heartily, and Lady Worth- 
 ington started on her travels, after having seen the invalid 
 vomfortably established in a shady corner of the garden, 
 
 I. “Hs 
 . pO pct} 
 a we age) 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 - WON BY WAITING. OO = 
 
 Be ge none the worse for the fatigues of the previous 
 ay. : , 
 ler the first day or two this was about all that Espe- 
 rance cared to do ; she lay contentedly under the fir-trees, 
 eatching glinpses of the sea, or looking up the grassy 
 slope to the more rugged side of Penmacnmawr, wonder- 
 ing how Kathie and the boys could ever have climbed to 
 the top, while the only sounds that broke the entire still- 
 ness were faint echoes from the neighboring quarry, and 
 the low plash of the waves on the beach. The railway 
 which ran not far from the house was no disturbance to 
 her—she rather liked it, and would watch the trains pass- 
 ing to and fro with an odd sort of affection, because they 
 were a connecting link with Gaspard. The distance be- 
 tween them, though so great, was quite bridged over by 
 railways and steamboats, and every train seemed to her in 
 consequence a kind of messenger of comfort. : 
 
 Frances was a most charniing nurse ; she had been ill so 
 much herself that she understood and sympathized per- 
 fectly, and Esperance could not help feeling what a con- 
 trast it was to Cornelia’s well-meant but wearisome attend- 
 ance. Itwasa pleasure to look at Frances as she moved 
 quietly about, or to watch her white hands as she sat 
 working, still more to listen to her delightful voice as she 
 read aloud. She had chosen “Fleurange” as the book 
 most likely to suit her visitor, and Esperance was so 
 delighted with it that she was never tired of being read to. 
 
 It was not until Sunday evening that she had much talk 
 with Frances. She had been a good deal alone during the 
 day, and Frances was afraid she had found the time long, 
 _ for her face had a little of the burdened expression which 
 it so often bore at Rilchester. 
 
 “We must have some reading, chérie,” she said, when 
 the children had started for the evening service. “I am 
 afraid you have been lonely.” | 
 
 “No, indeed,” said Esperance, looking up more brightly, . 
 _“T have only been thinking. This morning when you were ~ 
 all at church, and I sat out here on the lawn, it reminded 
 -meso much of the Sundays at the chateau; you know in 
 the summer when there was no pasteur who could come to 
 us, papa used always to hold a service, and we used to sit 
 on the terrace under the great cedar. It was so beautiful 
 —better than a cathedral I think—and when one got tired, 
 one could look up through the branches to the blue sky, 
 or down the hill to the village, where all the chimneye 
 
i a eet ¥ S ote sae =~ oe a aa een a : = it . sabe te _ Ma ar 2 “ Sole y al ar, ee es 3a 
 
 202 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 were sending up blue smoke because of the Sunday-dine 
 ners that were cooking, or right across the valley to the 
 mountains. Some one, one of the pasteurs I thiuk, told me 
 it was not right to look about in service time, so after that 
 I tried not to look at the village, but I thought it could 
 not be wrong to look at the mountains, because you know 
 in the Bible it says, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
 hills.’ ” 
 
 Frances could not help smiling. 
 
 « And did you have many people at your services ?” 
 
 * No, not many; just ourselves and about four or five 
 families from cottages nearus, and old Jacques Bonnier 
 and his wife, and Marie his daughter—they lad been ser- 
 vants of papa’s once, or of his father's, I think. Well, one 
 Sunday, I remember quite well, we were all under the 
 cedar, and it was very hot; papa was reading a sermon by 
 Monsieur Adolphe Monod, and somehow it seemed very 
 triste. It was about one of the very sad Psalms—tle 
 eighty-eighth, I think ; it spoke of living witlout any ray 
 of comfort in the midst of troubles, and, as I had no 
 troubles at all then, I thought it would not matterif I did > 
 not listen, so I just looked away a little. Butjust then | | 
 heard one sentence which somehow stayed in my head 
 just because it puzzled me so. It was something like this: 
 
 _ However we may be surrounded by the gifts of God, aid 
 however we may be blessed in body or soul, something is 
 wanting to enable God’s love to find its way to our hearis, 
 and that is—suffering.’” I could not understand this at all, 
 and talked to papa about it afterward, but he said le 
 thought it was quite true, and that I should, too, when I 
 was older. Well, I remembered this when you were ail 
 out this morning, and Frances, I am really afraid that my 
 life has been all wrong, for I have been trying how much 
 happiness I could possibly get, and feeling so miserable 
 when fresh troubles came.” 7 
 
 “Tt can not be wrong to wish for happiness, and one | 
 must naturally shrink from troubles,” said Frances ; “but 
 Ifancy, ma mie, like most of us, you are rather apt to 
 think that happiness is the great object. of life.” 
 
 Esperance mused in silence, then said, “ Yes, just now I 
 am sure my object in life is to be careful and saving, so 
 that Gaspard and I may live together again—to be happy, | 
 that is, in the future.” - 
 
 “And that is quite a right object, but I know you will 
 net live through thesu three years without any other 
 
Wig Mah ries bee Nesta rs hay Orta yy oot Ae 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ee O0e 
 
 motive. You see we were not put into the world simply to 
 be happy, but to do something. You will say thatis a 
 truism ; but it is one we often lose sight of.” - 
 
 “T feel as if everything had ended now Gaspard has 
 gone ; there isnothing but just to live on at the deanery.” 
 
 “ But ‘just living on’ is rather a serious business,” said 
 Frances, quietly. ‘“Itis not easy to throw ourselves into 
 the lives of others, to help them and sympathize with 
 them, and love them. I think there is a good deal for you 
 to do.” ) | 
 
 *T should like it to be nice doing,” said Esperance, “and 
 that is so hard—if one could only choose one’s work.” 
 
 “Tt would ba much more risky, and we should lose 
 the discipline. Ah! I see the corners of your mouth 
 turn down at that quotation from your Scur Therese, 
 but we should be poor creatures if we were always al- 
 lowed our own way.” 
 
 “ But still, Ido not quite see that suffering does so very 
 much for one,” said Esperance, a little impatiently, ‘and 
 surely it doesn’t please God ?” 
 
 “TI think patient endurance does,” said Frances ; ‘and 
 He knows what suffering is best for us. You may talk 
 against it, ma mie, but I think if you remember last 
 autumn and what you said of it then, you will see that 
 suffsring has done something for you. I don’t think itis 
 good to dwell too much on such personal experiences, 
 but I cannot help remembering some rather bitter 
 words that I heard that day about the impossibility of 
 loving anybody. I think the love is growing.” 
 
 “You were very good to bear with me; I was dread- 
 ful that day, and so miserable. Yes, I think you and 
 papa and Monsieur Monod are right—life is very different 
 now to what it was last year, and if is not lack of pain 
 that has made me happier.” : 
 
 Frances looked down at the pale, shadowy face, and felt 
 that indeed it was not, but there was something in the ex- 
 pression of the gravely sweet mouth, which would not 
 allow her to grieve over Esperance’s early troubles. The 
 passing of a train changed the current of their thoughts. 
 
 “To-morrow perhaps I shall have a letter from Gaspard,” 
 said Esperance, with a glad light in her eyes. ‘ I have 
 been counting the days, and if the mail is early, a letter 
 would vet to Rilchester on Sunday, and I should have it 
 forwarded by to-morrow.” 
 
 And with that they began to talk over Gaspard’s pros 
 
204 3 WON BY WAITING. 
 pects in Ceylon, and Frances heard, for the first time, all 
 the details of his visit to Rilchester. 
 
 On the Monday afternoon Esperance was quite well 
 enough to enjoy adrive, and Frances took her in the pony- 
 carriage along the shore; she was enchanted with the sea, 
 and was very desirous to go on it at once. 
 
 “Tam not sure what your doctor would say to that,” 
 suid Frances. “ But in a week or two you will be stronger, 
 and then we might try.” 
 
 “ And we will row to that little island, of which I can 
 not say the name,” said Esperance, eagerly, “ZT like it so 
 much, it looks so lonely, just broken off, as it were, from 
 Anglesea. Jt will be delightful to be really on the sea. I 
 shall know what the voyage to Ceylon will feel like—it 
 will be good practice.” 
 
 Frances smiled. “I was thinking about your letter— ~ 
 
 shall we call at the post-office and see if it has come ?” 
 “Oh! af we might!” and Esperance breathed more 
 quickly as Frances turned the ponies’ heads, and drove up 
 
 the village street. She tried hard to believe: that she did _ 
 not expect anything, and waited, trembling with excite- — 
 
 ment, till Frances appeared at the door of the post-office 
 with a reassuring face, and-—yes, it really was—a letter in 
 her hand. 
 
 “Tt has the Rilchestér post-mark,” she said, and Esper-— 
 
 ance let fall the reins, snatched at it, and almost tore the 
 envelope to pieces in her hurry toopen it. Within there 
 
 was indeed the precious inclosure, a thin, blue envelope, — 
 
 directed in Gaspard’s flourishy, copper -plate writing. She 
 _ did not hurry any more—now that she was secure of the 
 letter there was no need, and in truth her eyes were blinded 
 with tears; it was pleasure enough to hold it fast, and to 
 reflect that one of these messages would come to her now 
 each week. 
 
 Frances drove home quickly, and then in the quiet of 
 her own room Esperance opened her letter. 
 
 It was delightfully long and closely written each day so 
 fully described that she seemed to be living through 
 everything with him, and her happiness was all the greater 
 because she had not expected such details, for Gaspard’s 
 letters from London had been n ecessarily poor in this 
 respect, and had generally been written in a strain of 
 forced merriment in order to veil from her his sufferings. 
 But this was a really journal-like ceseriplion, written with 
 delightful ease, while little e-!!~quial expressions here and 
 
 eS Meee. 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 ote "WON BY WAITING. _ — 206 
 
 there brought the tears to Esperance’s eyes. “ Ah, mon 
 ceurif you could have seen this,” or “when you come, 
 chéme, you will enjoy that.” 
 
 ‘She lived with him throughout the voyage, learned to 
 know the laconic captain, and the graphically described 
 passengers, entered into the landing at Colombo with its 
 bustle and confusion and heat, laughed over Mr. Sey- 
 monr’s jokes, and the accounts of the shopping and bar- 
 gaining in the town, then traveled with him to Dickoya, 
 and saw his future home in Mr. Seymour’s bungalow, tried 
 to understand the size of the estate given to her in an al- 
 most fabulous number of square kilometres, and sympathized 
 with Gaspard’s difficulty in learning Tamil. And if. when 
 at last it was ended, she came back to the present with 
 something of a shock, and was obliged to have a good ery, 
 yet Frances understood all perfectly, and instead of adopt- 
 ing Cornelia’s plan of pointing out the extreme ingratitude 
 and foolishness of such behavior, petted and caressed her 
 till her smiles returned, and she was eager to read some | 
 extracts from the letter to any one who could appreciate 
 its delights. 
 
 - Whether the pleasure of receiving her first letter from 
 Ceylon had anything to do with her recovery, it would be 
 hard to say; but certainly from that day Esperance took a 
 fresh start, not only in bodily strength, but in spirits. 
 Frances was delighted to hear her laughing and talking 
 with Kathie and the boys, and entering with a charming 
 enthusiasm into any game which was not too tiring for her. 
 
 “It seems rather shocking that I should enjoy this at 
 seventeen,” she said one day, looking up froma game of 
 ball, which she was teaching the children to play French 
 fashion. ‘Ihave not played a single game since » left the 
 convent. You can’t think what fun we had there! and such 
 skipping !—ah, if I only had a rope!” 
 
 A rope! a rope!” shouted Fred, running toward the 
 house; he had constituted himself Esperance’s cavalier, and 
 always ran on errands for her. 
 
 In a few minutes he came back with an unpromising- 
 looking piece of box-cord, and Esperance, with a delighted 
 exclamation, took it in her deft little hands, knotted some 
 handles, and began to skip with a grace and agility which 
 fairly astonished them all. 
 
 Two minutes was enough for her, liowever. 
 
 “T am growing old,” she said laughingly, to Frances, 
 
 snd willingly gave up the rope to Kathie, who tried a 
 
206 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 feeole English imitation, good-naturedly putting wp with 
 the uncomplimentary comparisons of the boys. 
 
 After that skipping became the fashion, and Esperance, 
 _ in spite of her confession that she was growing old, was 
 evidently glad of an excuse to take the rope, though she 
 always said she was giving a lesson to Kathie. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ‘‘ Avoir beaucoup souffert, c’est comme ceux qui savent beau- 
 coup de langues, avoir appris 4 tout comprendre, et a se faire 
 comprendre de tous.” 
 
 Aunt Fanny, we really must take you to Aber,” said 
 Harry, very beseechingly, one morning toward the end of 
 August. . 
 
 “Yes, auntie, we were there yesterday after the rain, and 
 
 the waterfall is just splendid. Can't we go to-day alto- 
 gether ?” 
 Frances looked across the table at the invalid, and being 
 reassured by her looks, thought that it might, perhaps, 
 be managed. The expedition had long been deferred, 
 for it was impossible to drive along the last mile of the 
 glen, and Esperance had not of course been able to walk 
 so far. She was so much better now, however, that the 
 scheme began to seem more feasible, and this day she was 
 so eager to go that Frances, after some consideration, gave 
 consent. 
 
 They started early in the afternoon, a very merry party, 
 Frances driving, Esperance and Kathie squeezed in beside 
 her, and the boys in the back seat. Tue day was most 
 glorious, and the richly wooded glen looked so beautiful 
 that Frances was obliged to drive slowly in order to give 
 her full sympathy to the eager entreaties to look at some 
 especially lovely view, either of the sea or the river, or 
 the mountains. Leaving the carriage at the rest-house, 
 they walked slowly on toward the falls, and whether 
 it was due to the beauty and novelty of the way, or to 
 the fresh mountain air, Esperance was not at all over- 
 tired, when at length they reached the end of the glen, 
 and sat down on the great, gray bowlders at the foot of the 
 waterfall. 
 
 She gazed in wonder at the down-rushing torrent, as it 
 ‘came foaming over the brown rocks, here, white as snow, 
 

 
 AE, Bie goo 
 Dae 5 
 
 WON BY WAITING. _ 907 
 
 there, separating itself into little silvery streamlets, but all 
 mingling in the pool below, and hurrying away down the 
 rocky bed of the river. Frances was amused and charmed 
 by her naive expressions of rapture and amazement, and 
 watched with pleasure the healthful glow of color in her 
 cheeks, and the happy brightness of hereyes. She looked 
 delightfully at her ease, leaning back among the rocks, in 
 her shady straw hat and blue cambric polonaise, and 
 Frances was just wondering what constituted that happy 
 French faculty of perfect enjoyment, and contrasting it 
 with the heavy, bored looks of a party of tourists who were 
 finding fault with everything, when a sudden ery and 
 splash made her look round in terrer to see if the chil- 
 dren were all safe. To her relief they were all three in 
 sight, scrambling about the rocks on the other side of 
 the river, but Esperance had quitted her easy posture, 
 and was bending over the bowlders down to the water, 
 and just as Frances hurried to the spot, she had helped 
 to drag up a terrified little girl of above seven years 
 old, who had slipped into the river. 
 
 “There, do not cry, you are quite safe,” said Esperance, 
 panting a little with her exertions. 
 - But before Frances could speak, a little, dark, middle- 
 ; aged lady, bustled up, her round, brown eyes all anxiety. 
 “Mareuerite, ma chére! what is it then? Ciel! you 
 have really been in the water! ah! what pity, with your 
 new boots, too. And this lady has kindly helped you? I 
 hope Marguerite has thanked you, mademoiselle ?” 
 
 Hsperance was on her feet now; her color came and 
 went, and she waited impatiently till the little lady had 
 finished speaking, then bending forward she said ina half- 
 choked voice, ‘Madame! Madame Lemercier! do you not 
 
 know me ?” 
 
 Mme. Lemercier looked, threw up her little hands, and 
 then with many exclamations, embraced Esperance with 
 fervor, quite regardless of the tourist eyes around. 
 
 «Mon enfant /—Ksperance!—ah! but this is a happiness. 
 We meet in a strange land, my child! ah! who would have 
 thought it?” 
 
 “Dear Madame! how long it seems since we parted! 
 how much has happened!” Then turning to Frances, “I 
 must introduce you to Madame Lemercier, a very deat 
 fricnd of ours, who took care of mein the siege. Miss 
 Neville knows you well by name, madame, I have told her 
 _ how good you were to me then.” _ 
 
Bk sR ORCUS i at aia ite ES) Jad pede ; 7 Sg ean Fake aa A 
 
 EM ee ee: a ar 
 
 208- WON BY WAITING. 
 
 * Ah! mon enfant, we each consoled the other. But let 
 us sit down and talk. I forgot you, though, ma pawure 
 Marguerite, pardon me; you are very wet, my child.” 
 
 “Not very,” said the little girl, blushing; “my stockings 
 wil dry inthe sun. See, here comes papa.” 
 
 A pleasant-looking man, of three-and-thirty, came stri- 
 ding over the rocks toward them as she spoke. 
 
 “Ho! Miss Maggie, so you have been in the river, I 
 hear, frightening the fishes, eh? What do yousay madame? 
 should she not get her things dried >?” 
 
 “J fear she will en-cold herself,’ said madame, anxiously. 
 ‘ Perhaps, monsieur, we had better return at once. 
 
 Maggie interrupted, however.. 
 
 “But, papa, madame has met a friend. The young lady 
 who helped me out of the water knew madame, at Paris.” 
 
 «* Ah, indeed!” and the gentleman took off his hat to 
 Esperance, while madame gravely introduced ‘“ Monsicur 
 - Henderson and Mademoiselle de Mabillon.” 
 
 “T hardly know how to thank you enough for kelping 
 my little girl,” he said, pleasantly. “I hope madame will 
 instillinto Maggie some of the ready adroitness of your 
 nation. But as to these wet clothes,” he continued, turn- 
 
 ing to Mme. Lemercier. “Suppose I take Maggie back 
 
 to the inn, madame, and let her dry them by the fire; we 
 shall be back in an hour, and you will like to have some 
 talk with Mademoiselle de Mabillon.” 
 
 “Monsieur is too good, but it will prevent you from — 
 
 searching for the ferns. Let me take Marguerite back.” 
 “No, no; I will find ferns on the way,”. said Mr. Hen- 
 derson, good-naturedly. “We will be back in an hour. 
 Come, Maggie.” 
 “A good gentleman, a kind gentleman,” said Mme. 
 
 Lemercier, relapsing into French, as she waved her last — 
 
 farewell to Maggie and her father. “She is my little 
 pupil, Marguerite, you know, and a very amiable little 
 
 girl. But ma chére, come, tell me all that has happened to you _ Ee 
 —you are thin, my poor child, thinner than in the siege; 
 
 that is very wrong; and you are altered, ah! very much 
 
 altered ; there is more of the angel in your face; it is 
 
 no more a naughty little piece of humanity ; you must 
 have suffered, my poor little one. ButI fear you grow too 
 good, and then you will die; keep a little naughtiness 
 ~ ma chére, do net become too much like a saint.” 
 
 Esperance laughed merrily. 
 
 * Do not fear that, madame; I assure you there is too © - 
 
 
 
 
 ar cat ete ee ey y 4 nw * 
 eent oa ety mY rs mo eee tee Te aes oe 
 ead peyeres Sat 5 Nes Pe ee eae © 
 se Waeeecro EG Seager See 
 dnt ‘ ee + SS ee Sr oe 
 . 4 : ’ see he OT yt eae > 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. ~ = 209 
 
 little danger. I have had an illness; that is why I am 
 thin.” a 
 
 ‘‘An illness? Ah! I was sure you would suffer from 
 the effects of that siege, it was too rigorous, too trying for 
 oneso young. I myself have never felt so well since that 
 time of starvation. But tell me of Gaspard, mon enfant.” 
 
 _ “He is in Ceylon, on a coffee plantation,” said Esper- 
 ance, and she told Mme. Lemercier all the details of Gas- 
 pard’s letter. Madame ncticed that there were tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Me Ah! ma chére, we women have our part in the hardness 
 _ of life; it is not easy to be left behind,” she said, gently 
 laying her hand on Esperance’s. ‘‘ But we must lave cour- 
 age, my child, and it is easier for us, for we know they are 
 strong, whereas they know that we are weak and unpro- 
 tected. You heard of course of monsieur’s arrest ?” 
 “Yes, dear madame; Gaspard told me. But do let me 
 hear what happened to you after we left.” | 
 “Ah, chérie! what a history it is! a thousand times didI 
 thank Heaveu that you were spared the horrors of that.sec- 
 ond siege. I knew not what to think; I scarcely saw Victor-- 
 he was always engrossed either with his writing or—or with 
 more direct means in the furtherance of his cause. At first he 
 was certain of success, and I could bear the tumults and the 
 horrors better, because I hoped thatin the end his party 
 would be victorious, and that we should have peace and a 
 better constitution. What can a woman know of the rights 
 and wrongs of such questions? I trusted my husband. But 
 then came the furious repulse. Victor was in despair ; he 
 knew that all wasover. I entreated him to fly, to hide 
 himself ; but no, he was always brave ; he refused to do 
 so ; he said to me, ‘ Antoinette, the people I have incited 
 and led on can not fly; I must stay with them.’ So he 
 stayed, my brave husband, he stayed, and was arrested.” 
 Here madame was obliged to wipe away her tears, and 
 her voice was broken with sobs as she continued. “He 
 and many others that had been with him were ar- 
 rested, thrown into prison, then marched out of Paris, 
 away, I knew not whither; Ionly knew that it was 
 a burning summer day—that his sufferings would be ~ 
 terrible. I found him again after a time; he was — 
 kmprisoned at Z He was still alive. J went there, 
 mon enfant, and with many of his colleagues he was 
 _ tried. Some were condemned to death, others to trans 
 portation; figure to yourself, Esperance, what my feelings 
 
 
 
 
 
pe Pe Th gg RNY aan ee eae a a ay ue PSA ee 
 
 B10 WON BY WATTING. 
 
 were, as I waited to hear that awful sentence. But God 
 heard my prayers. Victor was not shot; he was trans- 
 ee for life. I saw him again before his ship sailed, 
 and then, though I was so thankful for his life, yet, mon 
 enfant, it was very hard, very bitter. He supported me, 
 however; he told me that this transportation was no real — 
 diserace, that he had merely done what he considered his 
 duty. But he could not hide his anguish at leaving France. 
 
 I think that but for me he would rather have died, and one 
 of the last things he said to me was, ‘Antoinette, I am 
 thankful that the young De Mabillon is saved from this; I 
 might have dragged him with me to his ruin, had he not ~ 
 been so shocked by the death of Clement Thomas.’” 
 
 “Poor monsieur, he was always so brave and good,” 
 said Esperanee, crying from sympathy. “And you, dear 
 madame, what happened to you then ?” 
 
 “For days, mon enfant, I was like one stupefied; I could 
 only look at the sea, and walk up and down the pier from 
 which Ih d seen his ship sail. At last an Knelish lady, wha 
 guessed, I suppose, that I was a relative of one of the emi- 
 grants, introduced herself to me as I was walking backward _ 
 and forward distractedly one day. She found ont my trouble, 
 inquired what I meant, to do, and showed me all possible 
 “kindness. I told her that I had scarcely any money, that I 
 meant to get a situation as a governessif I could meet with 
 one, and that in time I hoped to save enough money to join — 
 my husband ‘in his exile; not that. I was. very hopeful that 
 day, for the hardships and sorrows had made me ill, and I 
 half hoped I might die. But the lady, Mrs. Henderson, 
 said that she knew of a situation in England which she 
 thought would suit me; she herself was a widow, and had 
 been - helping in one of the ambulances during the war ; she 
 was now returning to England, and she kindly took me with 
 her. The situation was with her brother-in-law, whom you 
 have just now seen, to teach his little motherless girl Mar- 
 guerite. There! mon enfant, I have told you all now.” | 
 
 “Thank you, dear madame. You have had terrible suf- 
 fering indeed. You have not told me, though, where Mr. 
 Henderson lives.” | 
 
 “In Devonshire ma chére —a very pretty estate of which 
 Marguerite will be the heiress. We make now a tour in : 
 Wales, and arestaying for afew days at Bangor.” oe" 
 
 Frances, who had wandered away with the children, 
 came back in time to hear this. and began to persuade 
 Mme. Lemercier to spend a day with: them at Llanfairfechan, 
 

 
 Ras dO ce CR bas ead 
 elas aac Ng Sareea ts 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 211 
 
 * You are very good ; it would make me such pleasure,” 
 paid madame ; “but I think all the days are arranged ; we 
 go to-morrow ‘to the Ogwen, and shall leave Bangor in two 
 or three days.” 
 
 Franves was sorry, as she was sure Esperance would 
 like to see more of Mme. Lemercier; however, they 
 had another long ¢éte-a-iée when Mr. Henderson and 
 
 his little girl returned, for Kathie was eager to have 
 Maggie for a play-fellow, and, with the boys for pro- 
 tectors, they were allowed to follow their own devices ; 
 while Mr. Henderson was delighted to find a kindred 
 spiritin Frances, and talked for at least balf an hour over 
 his favorite hobby of ferns. It was not very often that 
 he found a lady who could so well enter into his talk on 
 such matters, but Frances really knew a good deal on the 
 subject, and kad, moreover, a fernery of her own at Worth- 
 ington ; so she was interested in the discussion. 
 
 “I have been disappointed in not finding more of the 
 parsley fern,” Mr. Henderson was saying. «Thad always 
 
 heard of it as being so abundant in W ales.” 
 
 “My brother -in-law found any quantity growing in 
 Snowdon,” said Frances. “Have you been there yet?” 
 
 “No, but Thad some thoughts of striking in land again in 
 a day or two. Ihave promised to take my little girl to 
 Llanberis. We might perhaps combine—. Well, Maggie, 
 ‘what is it?” as the child ran up to him breathlessly. 
 
 “Oh, papa! we are so happy, and, do you know, Kathie 
 Worthington i is just my age—is it not funny?—and we 
 mean always to be friends. And, papa, she has never 
 been to Llanberis. Don’t you think it would be very nice 
 ‘if we could go together ?” 
 
 Mr. Henderson laughed. 
 
 “Children’s thoughts run apace,” he said, glancing at 
 Frances. | 
 
 “Well, Maggie dear, we must see what Miss Neville 
 
 says to this idea of yours. Run off now, and enjoy your 
 play.” ; 
 
 The little girl ran away obediently, well content to leave 
 
 _ things in her father’s hands, and Mr. Henderson turned to 
 - Frances with a smile. 
 
 “'They have already sworn an eternal friendship. Poor 
 Mageie so seldom sees any one of her own age, that the 
 enjoyment is all the greater. It is very hard to fiud 
 amusements for an only child; but since Madame Le- 
 
 _mercier has been with us,I think she has been much 
 
212 "WON BY WAITING. 
 
 happier. A most invaluable lady she is, and very cheerful 
 in site of all her troubles.” 
 
 “'I'here is a wonderful elasticity about the French,” said 
 Frances, “however much they are crushed down by trouble, 
 they always seem to rise above it in time. I have noticed 
 it very much in my little friend Esperance de Mabillon If 
 am so glad she chanced to meet Madame Lemercier to-day; 
 it has been a great pleasure to her, I know.” 
 
 “ Perhaps, after all, Magvie’s wish would give pleasure 
 tosome one beside herself,” said Mr. Henderson, halt 
 hesitatingly. ‘ Would it be possible for us to join forces 
 Miss Neville, and make the excursion to Llanberis to- 
 gether ?” 
 
 “Tt is very good of you to thinks of it,” said Frances: 
 ‘‘but we are such a large purty we should only hamper 
 you, and, indeed, I am half afraid it would be too tiring 
 for our invalid.” 
 
 “There would be no walking,” explained Mr. Hender- 
 son, “and Madame Lemercier would so much eujoy Layv- 
 ing her.” 
 
 “We will talk it over with her,” suggested Frances. “ It 
 would be very delightful, and I know the boys. are crazy to 
 see Snowdon.” 
 
 “Ah! and we might look for the parsley fern,” said Mr. 
 Henderson, returning to his pet subject. © On the Capel 
 Curig side [ think you said it was to be found,’ 
 
 Both Mme. Lemercier and Esperance were 80 delighted | 
 with the idea of the Llanberis expedition, that Frances 
 could hesitate no longer, and indeed, Esperance was look- 
 yng so much better, and appeared so little tired with her 
 walk up the glen that there seemed noreason against trying 
 the longer day. The whole party joined in a very merry 
 tea drinking on the banks of the river, and in the cool of 
 the evening walked down the glen, parting at the rest- 
 house, after having arranged to meet on the following 
 Monday at the Bangor station. 
 
 Esperance went “about now with a radiant expression; 
 the sight of Mme. Lemercier’s home-like face had made 
 her feel much less forlor n, and she had greatly enjoyed 
 their long talk together. Frances wrote glowing accounts 
 to her sister of the very satisfactory recovery of their in- — 
 valid, and Lady Worthineton’s proplccy seemed to be 
 coming true, that if once they could get Esperance a thors — 
 ough rest and change, she would ~ p-obably be- 
 stronger after this illness than she had been for 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 PS a 
 
 it Shed 
 Wo 
 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 913 
 
 years. Now, for the first time since they had left Mabillon, 
 
 er mind was really free from any pressing care; troubles, 
 of course, she had and must have, but Gaspard's privations 
 were at an end, and she was away from the frets and annoy- 
 ances of the deanery, among people who could love her and 
 sympathize with her. Her strength returned rapidly, her 
 spirits rose, and all the old cheerful courage, which had 
 for a time seemed well-nigh crushed out of her, came back 
 once more. Irances felt quite happy about her, for she 
 knew that she was taking the present happiness as a prep- 
 aration for the return to life at Rilchester, and she bent all 
 her efforts to make the month in Wales as enjoyable as pos- 
 sible. | 
 
 Monday proved to be one of those delicious days of 
 early September, when even the most inveterate weather- 
 erumbler can not complain—a day of sunshine and soft 
 breezy air, of blue sky and fleecy white clouds—a day, 
 Esperance declared, on which it was impossible not to feel 
 happy. ‘The start was made early in the morning, Frances, 
 with a sense of responsibility, driving with her four charges 
 to the station, and feeling glad to have Esperance’s help in 
 keeping watch over the numerous possessions, ranging 
 from butterfly-nets to air-cushions and luncleon-baskets. 
 
 Madame, Mr. Henderson and Maggie met them at Ban- 
 
 gor, and they went on by rail to Lianberis, the children in 
 
 a state of uproarious merriment, Mme. Lemercier and Hs« 
 perance talking and gesticulating, and Frances and Mr, 
 Henderson finding plenty of time for almost equally ani: 
 mated conversation. At Llanberis there was a division, 
 Mr. Henderson well armed with oilskin bags and fern- 
 
 - trowels, preparing to go up Snowdon, with Fred and Harry 
 
 as companions, while the rest of the party arranged them- 
 selves In a capacious wagonette and drove up the pass. 
 
 Maggie, who had a good deal of romance in her disposi- 
 
 tion, insisted on telling them all the legend of Dolbadarn 
 Castle, and, indeed, it was partly owing to her pity and ad- . 
 miration for the beautiful heroine, Margaret, that she had 
 been so very anxious to come to Llanberis. 
 
 Esperance listened half dreamily, but could not bring 
 herself to associate anything sad with the surrounding 
 beauty—the ruined tower, the calm lake, the rugged 
 
 -granite-crowned mountains, were too restfully beautiful, 
 
 too calmly grand—she could not think of the past at all, 
 and Maggie could not win her sympathy for the tragedy of 
 pocr Margaret 
 
 Ho 
 
6 Ot4 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 oe ee 
 
 They drove slowly on, the pass getting more wild and , 
 
 rugged, and in one of the grandest, most desolate-looking 
 spots, were surprised to see two or three cottages nestled 
 down among the wide-scattered granite blocks, "and to be 
 greeted by “Ar Hyd-»-Nos,” that most pathetic of all airs, 
 chanted by some little bright-eyed children, with the 
 sweetness and inborn pathos which seems to characterize 
 Welsh singing. Then on again into perfect stillness, amid 
 the green of the grass and the ever -varying hues of the 
 granite, now black and frowning, now shining like silver in 
 the sunlight, till at length they reached Pen- -y-pas, and 
 were elad to get out of the carriage, and rest among the 
 surrounding loveliness. 
 
 Esperance was very happy, and, though she could not 
 join in any of the climbings of the rest of the party, the 
 afternoon did not seem the least long to her; she lay in a 
 shady corner and gazed down the pass, seeing all manner 
 of fresh beauties in its rugged grandeur, and making the 
 view thoroughly her own. ‘Then, from time to time Maggie 
 and Kathie bring her treasures, bright pieces of spar, ov 
 handfuls of heather and ling, or Frances and Mme. Le- 
 mercier would bring back glowing descriptions of some 
 fresh view which they had found. Later in the day mad- 
 ame settled herself down for another long chat, and Esper- 
 ance had still many questions to ask and inquiries to make 
 after her Parisian acquaintances. Even if madame had 
 not been so kind and lovable, she must have enjoy ed talk- 
 ing with any one who had known her father and Gaspard, 
 and poor old Javotte; and though most of the recollec- 
 tions they had in common were sad ones, there was a 
 strange pleasure in dwelling on them. 
 
 Soon after four o’clock the Snowdon party arrived, having 
 had a very successful day. ‘The boys were so ravenous 
 that tea was obliged to be hurried, and Mme. Lemercier 
 
 and Esperance, who had learned all sorts of little devices _ 
 
 in the siege, managed everything most daintily, while Mr. 
 Henderson and Frances examined the ferns, ane were se 
 _ much engrossed in their conversation that they continued. 
 it all through the picnic meal, leaving Fred and Harry to 
 describe the glories of Snowdon to the rest of the party. - 
 Then came the preparations for the return, the drive 
 down the pass, where already the shades were deepening, 
 the merry railway journey, and a general reeret as the 
 farewells were said at the Bangor station. Maggie and 
 
 Kathie were already arranging to write to each other; Mme.. 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 216 | 
 
 Hemercier and Esperance indulged in fervent embraces 
 and a torrent of rapidly uttered French; but perhaps Mr. 
 Henderson was the gravest and inost regretful of all as the 
 train moved off, and he raised his hat to Frances Neville. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast 
 Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last 
 In joy to find it after many days. 
 The work be thine, the fruit thy children’s part; 
 Choose to believe, not see; sight tempts the heart 
 From sober walking in true Gospel ways. 
 KEBLE, 
 
 Mrs. Morrniaxe had just returned from Scarborough, 
 and, to tell the truth, she was not sorry to be in Rilchester 
 again, for she had found two months at the watering- 
 place rather dull. She was fond of society, and had 
 been disappointed that scarcely any of her acquaintance 
 had come to the place, while Bella had been cutting her 
 seven-year-old teeth, and had been unusually fractious. 
 On the whole, Mrs. Mortlake did not feel the better 
 for her summer outing, and as she sat in the breakfast- 
 room at the deanery one sunny September morning, 
 her face bore a more than usually dissatisfied expression. 
 She was waiting for her father and Cornelia, and, although 
 the gong had twice sounded, and the breakfast was grow- 
 ing cold, they still lingered over their letters in the libra- 
 ry. Mrs. Mortlake, with growing dissatisfaction, cut the 
 leaves of the “Guardian,” and read the list of prefer- 
 ments, glanced through the topics of the week, skimmed 
 the correspondence, counted the humber of ladies want- 
 ing cooks, yawned repeated)y, and finally, with an impa- - 
 _- tient exclamation, rose and crossed the hall to the library 
 to remonstrate with the dean. 
 
 “My dear father, breakfast has been ready for half an 
 hour,” she said, in a reproachful tone. ‘Surely these let- 
 ters can wait.” | 
 
 Cornelia looked up ; - her face wore a startled, agitated 
 expression. | 
 _ * What is it, Christabel? Breakfast, did yousay? Yes, 
 I will come. You would like a cup of tea in here, quietly, 
 would you not?” she said, turning to the dean. 
 
 He assented, but did not look up, and Christabel, full of 
 
Nat ~ ‘ a ee ao it Gaus Oe a 
 = 7a. 
 
 216 WON BY WAITING. 
 curiosity, hastened back to the breakfast- -room, wondering 
 what bad news the post could have brought. She fancied 
 it must be in some way connected with the De Mabillons ; 
 no doubt her father would feel it a good deal nowif either 
 Gaspard or Esperance met with any disaster, but, after all, 
 need he reproach himself? He had been very liberal, and 
 they were only cousins. Children and grandchildren cer 
 tainly ought to be the first consideration. 
 
 She had made so sure that the trouble was connected 
 with her cousins, that she was doubly startled by Cornelia’s 
 abrupt utterance as she came into the room, closing the 
 door behind her. 
 
 “Well, Christubel, I don’t know what is to be done ; Pye: 
 
 George Palgrave has proposed to Bertha.” 
 
 «To Bertia!” exclaimed Mrs. Mor tlake ; “how alto- 
 gether absurd. He must have known my father would not 
 allow it.” 
 
 “On the contrary,” said Cornelia, “they don't seem to 
 have the least idea “that he will object. George writes very 
 properly, apologizing for having spoken to Bertha before 
 he had asked father’s leave, and explaining how it was 
 
 that-he was betrayed into a confession of his love before — 
 
 he had intended. It seems that he went to see’grannie at 
 
  $t. Leonards, and found Bertha staying there; thay were 
 
 a great deal thrown together, and you know what grannig 
 is when she gets young people with her, she did nothing 
 but plan excursions for them, and kept George hanging 
 about the place, till this was the result.” 
 
 “ What will father do ?” | 
 
 “He can only write to George, and refuse his consent, 
 Bertha, poor child, must come home at once; I am afraid 
 we have been partly to blame in this, we ought to have 
 spoken to her in the summer, only of course I always 
 thought she looked upon him as a sort of substitute for a 
 brother.” 
 
 “ Of course,” said Mrs. Mortlake. ‘I have no patience 
 with her, she must have known that my father would never 
 tolerate such a thing. A poor man and a cousin—prepos- 
 terous !” 
 
 “Do not be hard on her,” said Cornelia, pityingly ; “I 
 feel as if it were all my fault for not speaking to her, and 
 now she will have such sorrow, poor cuild.” 
 
 Cornelia was unusually tender-hearted this morning 3 
 she was thinking of an episode in her own life, years and 
 years ago, when love and happiness had seemed just 
 
 
 
 . 
 
Pings ed ee ee ah ee Ate ee ee Se 6 ee ele OM Ce 
 ah Cr bit | tien con Le ein ea SES hs 
 Sieh ce tee rele Ak 2 z ape S 
 Mh Sip tence 
 ess Cai 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ‘ O17 
 
 within her reach, and had been suddenly snatched from 
 her, leaving her chilled and imbittered. Her heart ached 
 for poor Bertha. 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake was more angry than pitiful. 
 
 * We have Esperance to thank for this,” she said, in hoz 
 vexed voice. “No doubt it was all brought on by that 
 visit to the Palgraves inthe summer. I knew no good 
 would ever come of it, when my father adopted that child.” 
 
 “That is sheer nonsense,” said Cornelia, in her abrupt 
 way. “tne only thing I do regret a little is, that you 
 have taken away Esperance’s attic, and put her in Bertha’s 
 room—the child will want to be alone.” 
 
 “On the contrary, I think it will be very good for her 
 to have a companion ; Esperance’s chatter will keep her 
 from brooding over her troubles; besides, I asked her in © 
 my last letter, and she made no objection. ‘Theatticmakes 
 
 a capital play-room for Bella.” 
 
 Cornelia did not care to continue the conversation, and 
 
 soon left the table to begin the difficult task of writing to 
 
 Bertha, which Mrs. Mortlake altogether declined. 
 
 Bertha came home the next day, and early in the fol« 
 lowing week Tisperance also returned. Frances Neville 
 was coming back with the children to Worthington, so 
 she was able to take her home in hercarriage. Isperance 
 had made up her mind to be very brave—she had even 
 persuaded herself that she rather wished to get back to 
 the discipline of Rilchester, that she was anxious to be at 
 work again after her long holiday ; but in spite of this 
 her heart sunk when she found herself once more 
 alone in the dimly lighted hall of the deanery. The dean 
 and Miss Collinson were at afternoon service, the footman 
 told her, and Mrs. Mortlake had visitors in the drawing- 
 room ; then he carried her trunk upstairs and disappeared. 
 
 Esperance stood quite still, as if anxious to face her 
 position. Her eyes wandered from the blue-and-white 
 tiled floor to the frosted windows, up the dark oak stair- 
 case, and round the wainscoted walls, and she shivered a 
 little as she remembered that this was a ‘coming 
 home.” She looked at the pictures of the dcan’s prede- 
 cessors, and fancied they looked down at her pityingly, 
 while the brown, glassy eyes of two stags’ heads looked 
 almost tearful, and seemed to say, “ We are sorry for you; 
 we too are prisoners, out of our natural element.” 
 
 She felt the tears gathering in her own eyes, and with 
 @n impatient exclamation rouged herself, and went upstairs 
 
Ae ae 
 
 218 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 to her room. Forlorn and uncomfortable as it had been, 
 she received a sharp pang when she found that the attic 
 was no longer hers ; it was all strewn with toys, Bella was 
 in one of the corners, beating a refractory doll, and her 
 nurse was working near the window. 
 
 She rose, and received Esperance with inquiries after 
 her health, and a warmth of welcome, which in the present 
 chilliness of her feelings was really comforting. Bella, too, 
 who was always much better bebaved when away from 
 her mother, ran up to kiss her, and, by the time the expla- 
 nation of the change of rooms had been made, Esperance 
 had quite recovered her spirits. She ran down-stairs to 
 Bertha’s room, and knocked at the door. 
 
 Bertha was sitting at her table writing; she put down 
 her pen, but Esperance was across the room in one bound, 
 and had both arms round her neck before she could rise. 
 She submitted to one of those warm, clinging French em- 
 braces, which Esperance was wont to give her, then said 
 in her quiet, impassive voice, “I did not know you had 
 come.’ 
 
 “T have been here five minutes, and nota Be have I 
 seen except Bella and nurse—just ‘think of that! You will 
 have to kiss me for all the rest of the family.” 
 
 _ “You look much better,” said Bertha, still very lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 «Yes, Tam quite well; it is you who look like the invalid. 
 What is it, Bertha? Iam sure you are ill!” 
 
 But she was not prepared for a sudden outburst of tears 
 from her usually reserved cousin. Bertha had in truth 
 found Esperance’s endearments too much for her. In a 
 few minutes she had, whether wisely or not, sobbed out 
 the whole story to this most sympathetic of auditors. It 
 liad been no comfort to her to speak of it to the others. — 
 She had sat in one of the great library chairs, and heard 
 her father express his slow, hesitating regrets that he was 
 obliged to cross her wishes, and only grown more heavy- 
 hearted. She had listened to Mrs. Mortlake as she sat over 
 her bazaar work, showing the many worldly advantages she 
 would have lost had she been able to marry George Pal- 
 grave, and had hurried away, at once sore-hearted and 
 angry. She had seen Cornelia in her study and had only 
 listened to her grave words of pity, with a conviction that 
 her sister had never expcrienced this kind of sorrow, and 
 had no right to talk. Now, with a sense of relief, she told 
 all to one who would sympathize without reproof, who 
 
WON BY WAITING. 919 
 
 would not add to her distress by saying, “You ought to 
 have known.” 
 
 And, luckily, Esperance was a safe comforter. She did 
 “not say, as some girls of seventeen would have done, 
 “Perhaps you father will change his mind or relent.” She 
 was so accustomed to think of a father’s slightest wish‘as 
 law, that this did not even enter her head; all her sympa- 
 thy was expressed either by outward demonstration, or by 
 soft, loving, pitiful ejaculations, yet Bertha was really com- 
 ,orted. 
 
 They went down-stairs together, and Esperance received 
 a kind greeting from her uncle and Cornelia, and a cold 
 kiss from Mrs. Mortlake; there were some inquiries after 
 her health, and a little conversation about Welsh scenery, 
 and then she settled down into her old niche at the dean- © 
 ery. 
 
 The old place, and yet certainly things were different 
 now, and Esperance herself was much changed. She did 
 not cease to feel Mrs. Mortlake’s snubs, but she would not, 
 allow herself to dwell upon them, and Cornelia was so much 
 kinder and less sarcastic than she had been, that her study 
 became a kind of refuge, though in the old times Esperance 
 had regarded it rather as a hornet’s nest where one was al- 
 ways liable to be stung. 
 
 She was constantly on the lookout for little ways of help- 
 ing Cornelia now, for she had a vivid remembrance of her 
 kindness to Gaspard, and the trouble she had taken during 
 her illness; and Cornelia was not insensible to the atten- 
 tions she received—it was pleasant to her to find the holes 
 in her gloves attended to, her pencils ready sharpened, and 
 her pens mended—it was also a comfort to the tempers of 
 both teacher and pupil, that the actual lessons were ended, 
 and an hour or two of solid reading substituted. 
 
 Bertha, too, was a constant interest ; she was much 
 more loving and dependent now, and Esperance was so 
 sorry for her in her trouble that she learned to love her 
 more than ever, and forgot her own sorrows in trying to 
 comfort her, 
 
 So the autumn passed away, and the frosty weather set 
 in ; furs and winter wraps were brought out, housekeepers 
 thought of their plum-puddings and mince-meat, and Lady 
 Worthington began to arrange the Christmas festivities. 
 
 “We must have a dance,” she said to her sister, one 
 December morning. “A delightfully mixed dance, te 
 which all Rilchester shall be invited, from the cathedral 
 
a 
 
 220 . WON BY WAITING. 
 
 d:gnitaries down to Mr. Jones’ s dispagecr. I do like 
 everybody to be happy, and for once all the cliques will 
 be fused.” 
 
 “They will keep in their own sets, I fancy,” said F'ran- 
 ces, “ whatever you do.” 
 
 - “Well, we shall do our best,” said Lady Worthington, 
 hopefully, ““and at any rate they will be all under one 
 roof, dancing to the same music—surely that will estab- 
 lish a sort of fraternity? Claude Magnay will be here, 
 too, and he knows everybody, and will dance with any one ; 
 and Henry will have some of his cousins down here. We 
 can do a good deal, you see, with our own party.” 
 
 “ When does Claude come ?” 
 
 “On the 23d, and he has solemnly promised that he will 
 not overwork himselr as he did last year, and disappoint 
 us just at the last moment. JI have set my heart upon 
 having him for this dance.” 
 
 ~“'To dance with the Miss Smiths?” said Frances, laugh- 
 ins. | . 
 
 “ Yes, to be useful, and to brighten everybody up. It 
 does one good to look at Claude, specially when he isin a 
 holiday humor. He is the most unspoiled genius I ever 
 knew, and so delightfully fresh and young still.” 
 
 “Yes, he does not look four-and-twenty. By the bye, 
 will not Esperance come out this winter >” 3 
 
 “T should think so, and we must have her to this dance, 
 whether or no. Let us write the invitations now, and we 
 will send her a separate one, so that Mrs. Mortlake shal) 
 not have a chance of preventing her acceptance.” 
 
 “You most cunning Katharine! I should never have 
 thought of that.” 
 
 “My dear, one must be careful with such people as Mrs. 
 Mortlake—TI do not trust her in the least.” 
 
 Tie invitations were received at the deanery with much 
 satisfaction. Mrs. Mortlake did indeed demur whether 
 isperance was old enough to go, but Cornelia was deter- 
 mined that she should have this pleasure, and made her 
 write to accept it, even condescending to talk of such trivial 
 matters as ball-dresses in order to please her. 
 
 + seemed likelv to be what every one called an old- 
 fashioned Christmas, for on the 23d there was a heavy fall 
 
 _ of snow, and Claude Maenavy, as he traveled down to Ril- 
 
 chester, was not sorry to find the usually bare, bieak 
 country beautified by this white covering. 
 On Christmas eve Ladv Worthington secmed bent upov 
 
 She aly eT, SR EAT TT a SE ST eh se ie STE te RD oe | oie eS oe oie: Le i. a ae CA a" a te 
 - ee a Ca f $e SES Sg CRS ae Sab et ore ey Leyes: net ay, eee 
 - +: OS ad SPS! - é 
 

 
 boo 
 a 
 ra. 
 aad 
 im 
 “38 
 
 
 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 221 
 
 making him useful, and allowed him to be her slave through 
 
 ~a morning of church decorating. In the afternoon a con- 
 
 tretemps arose. It was snowing so fast, and the roads were 
 so bad, that the coachman protested it was impossible to 
 take out the horses. 
 
 Lady Worthington was greatly distressed. 
 
 “But I really must goin to Rilchester,”’ she said, with 
 concern. “There are not half enough things for ihe — 
 school-children’s Christmas-tree, it is as bare as can be ; 
 and besides, ten new children came to school last Sunday, 
 and I have no presents for them.” 
 
 “They probably joined for the treat, my dear,” sail Sir 
 Henry. 
 
 “Well, Ican’t heln that ; they must have something, 
 poor little things. Surely Jenkins makes too much fuss 
 about the roads ?” 
 
 “T shall be very happy to walk in to Rilchester,” said 
 
 - Claude, “if I can be trusted to choose the things.” 
 
 “That is very good of you,” said Lady Worthington, 
 “but I am not quite sure that I could trust you, Claude. 
 ‘I believe you would ruin me—you would not buy anything 
 that was not highly artistic. But if you will walk in with 
 
 me we might really manage something together.” 
 
 So the matter was arranged, and Lady Worthington and 
 her companion started at once on their snowy expedition, 
 rather enjoying the novelty of trudging along country 
 roads, with a keen north wind driving ihe snow-flakes in 
 their faces. They shopped continuously for two hours, 
 and it was quite dusk before they turned home again; but 
 buying Christmas presents is tiring work, and the air was 
 intensely cold. Lady Worthington paused involuntarily 
 as they passed the gateway of the Vicar’s Court. 
 
 “What do you say toa cup of tea, Claude, and justa 
 few minutes by a fire, before we leave the town? I am sure 
 the dean would be delighted to see you, and Mrs. Mort- 
 lake’s tea is excellent.” 
 
 Claude thought the idea a good one, and certainly it was 
 a relief even to stand in the shelter of the deanery porch, 
 for the night was bitterly cold. 
 
 When the door was thrown open, a pretty picture was 
 revealed. The hall was brightly lighted, the tiled floor was 
 strewn with holly and evergreen. Bertha stood in the back- 
 
 - ground struggling with some tough sprays of yew, while 
 
 Esperance sat at the top of a pair of steps putting the 
 finishing touches to a wreath for one of the pictures. 
 
a Cia) - Fay ee dg pe ee hen eae eT a 
 
 993 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 She sprung down in a great hurry on seeing the visitors, 
 and Lady Worthington kissed her affectionately, while 
 Claude looked and wondered. His “Mariana” was gone! 
 this glowing-complexioned child of the south, with her in- 
 nocent wavy hair and her bright eyes, was not “ Mariana” 
 atall. Was it possible that it was indeed Esperance ? 
 
 He still gazed and wondered. Esperance half put out 
 her hand, then drew it back, a little vexed that he had so 
 | evidently forgotten her. 
 
 “My uncle will be delighted to see you, Mr. Magnay,” 
 she said, with a charming little touch of hauteur. 
 
 Claude started, as if from a dream, and the two shook 
 hands warmly. 
 
 “A thousand pardons!—but you are so altered that I 
 hardly recognized you.” 
 
 “Ah! itis my short hair,” said Esperance, coloring and 
 laughing. 
 
 Claude did not contradict her, but in reality it was the 
 change in her expression which he meant. ‘“ Mariana” 
 
 had fascinated him, but this was something far higher! , 
 
 He longed for fresh opportunities of studying her face, so 
 bewitching, whether in its sweet gravity or its smiling ra- 
 diance and animation. 
 
 “T hope you have good accounts of your brother,” he | 
 
 said, delighting in the swift kindling of the eyes at his 
 words. 
 
 “ Yes, Gaspard is very well,” she replied ; “I hear from 
 him every week, such long letters, too, almost like a journal.” 
 
 * And does he like his work?” 
 
 “Very much indeed. He has to superintend the coolies 
 you know, and see that they work well; he is out-of-doors 
 all day long, and is getting so strong and well again. £ 
 
 always feel when I read his letters how very much we owe - 
 
 to you and Sir Henry Worthington ; I have always longed 
 to tell you how very, very grateful I was, and Gaspard told 
 me it was quite your doing that he came to Rilchester—it 
 was. so good of you to send him ; it made the parting so 
 much less bitter.” 
 
 There was deep gratitude in her expression, Just touched _ 
 
 with sadness, then in a moment she smiled again, that 
 pure, radiant, winning smile. Claude feli as if he were in 
 some delicious dream—he made some brief response, he 
 hardly knew what, and then Esperance spoke again. 
 
 “There is tea in the drawing-room, ae you not come 
 in? you must be very cold after your long walk.” 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. | 993 
 
 Claude rubbed his snowy shoes on the mat, and followed 
 
 her into the almost oppressively hot drawing-room, where 
 he was warmly received by the rest of the family. He was 
 a favorite with the dean, and was at once pounced upon to 
 listen to something about the planet Mars, and some late 
 imprevements which had been made in the teleseope, and 
 fortunately the dean was too much engrossed to notice 
 that Claude’s answers were vague and monosyllabic, or to 
 perceive that he was bestowing all his attention on Esper- 
 ance. 
 He did not speak to her much more that evening. Lady 
 Worthington soon rose to go, and he was glad to hear her 
 gay to lisperance, “ We shall see you then on ‘Thursday 
 evening; mind you come in good time.” 
 
 Esperance promised, smiling, and then she followed them 
 into the hail, picking up her fallen wreath, and standing 
 
 in the doorway to wish them good-by, in spite of the cold. 
 ~ Claude walked away in silence, treasuring up his last 
 vision of her as she stood on the white door-step, holding 
 her holly wreath. He began to think less about painting 
 her. Whatif he could make. her his own, not artistically 
 but in reality! What if he could shield her from some of 
 the sharp, piercing sorrows of this wintery world! 
 
 “ Well, Claude, you found your ‘ Mariana’ a good deal 
 changed, did you not?” said Lady Worthington. 
 
 ~ “Quite; itis an angel face now,” and Claude did not 
 gpeak again, but fell into a deep reverie, and Lady Worth- 
 thington did not disturb him. 
 
 He was startled to find how strongly this new thought 
 possessed him; he could not believe that but a brief hour 
 ago he had been living without it, carelessly walking 
 through the Rilchester streets without even a thought that 
 he was near Esperance. 
 
 And yet it seemed to him that this was merely a revela- 
 tion, that he had really loved her since he first saw her, 
 more than a year ago. He tried to recall her as she was 
 then, the little, black-robed figure, with mournful look, 
 and wondering, interest-craving eyes, in the choir aisle; 
 the sad, wistful face, coloring at the accusation of admir- 
 
 ing only boulevards, in the dining-room of the deanery; 
 the drooping hopelessness and tearful eyes that had in- — 
 spired him for his “ Mariana,” and that last time when he 
 
 had interrupted Mrs. Mortlake’s scolding—-the despairing 
 look and quivering lips. All these images rose before him, 
 they were as so many steps 1n his love, but without to-day’ 
 
ie ae eh car or ce Gare Oe ae Gea ei FM ue miaks at 
 ’ SFT, Sate Pt Dea PEM he Sie hy MOY ey oie Pa or Raa oar 
 
 _ 
 
 224. WON BY WAITING. 
 
 vision of sweet, patient hope, they would have led to noth- 
 ing. But now! He thougit once more of the little brown 
 
 4 2 4 
 ss a1 ke i 
 
 ait Ge 
 diya’ 
 \ 
 
 hands holding the prickly wreath, of the dainty little feet. 
 
 on the slippery door-step, and felt that such things were 
 unsuitable to them. Esperance ought to be watched over, 
 guarded, caressed, she should not be left alone in the 
 world. 
 
 He was strangely absorbed that evening, alternating 
 between complete silence and excited merriment; when 
 any one spoke of the deanery, or of Esperance, his face 
 would suddenly wear en eager, expectant look, but he him- 
 self never mentioned her. Sir Henry proposed a rubber; 
 however, Claude was not fond of whist, and to-night felt 
 that it would be impossible to play; the quartet was made 
 up without him, and he leaned back again in lis chair 
 with a newspaper, of which he did not read a single word. 
 Frances was playing the “Moonlight Sonata ’—how could 
 he help dreaming of Esperance ? : 
 
 By and by he left the room, and Lady Worthington 
 coming down stairs from tucking up her clildren, found 
 him in the hall standing before his own picture of “ Mari- 
 ana.” He was too much absorbed to notice her presence 
 until she spoke. 
 
 that. 
 
 He started at the first word, and colored alittle. Yes,” 
 he replied, “I was just noticing what a difference there wag 
 —yet I don’t think this was at all exaggerated at the 
 time.” 
 
 He moved away, not feeling inclined to taik upon that 
 subject just then, and Lady Worthington said nothing, 
 but she had her own thoughts, 
 
 “Fisperance is very much altered since you painted _ 
 t B) 
 

 
 
 
 PERL ea WV IN” RO aT RYE ah Fy ae oy ee a eS Tg ACP ym oe ‘eah kee 
 neat creh eet Requester Seek ES am ts x 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
 Lovely wee thing, wast thou miue 
 
 I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
 
 Lest my jewel I should tine. 
 
 Wistfully I look and languish 
 In that bonnie face of thine, 
 And my heart it stounds with anguish, 
 Lest my wee thing be na mine, 
 | BURNS. 
 
 Bzaraa and Esperance were in their room dressing for 
 Lady Worthington’s dance ; they were both of them quiet 
 
 «nd a little depressed, for Bertha naturally thought of the 
 
 ball in the summer, when George had been staying with 
 them and all had been so different, and Esperance had her 
 own troubles. It had been a harassing day. Mrs. Mort- 
 Jake was in a bad humor, and Bella was suffering from the 
 effects of her Christmas dissipation, and was more than 
 ordinarily peevish ; then, too, she had been hindered in 
 writing to Gaspard, and had missed the mail, and though, 
 as Mrs. Mortlake had reminded her, the letter could go the 
 next day via Brindisi, yet the weekly postage told so 
 heavily on her purse that this was an expense she did not 
 at all care to incur. . 
 
 The uninterrupted quiet of the room was at last broken 
 
 _ by a knock at the door, and Cornelia entered in her black 
 
 velvet, carrying some sprigs of holly. - 
 
 “Tam so vexed,” she said, putting down her prickly 
 burden on the dressing-table. “I wanted you to have had 
 one of those white camellias in the conservatory, Esper- 
 ance, but Christabel has taken them both, and declares 
 that they are the only things she can wear.” 
 
 Esperance was a little disappointed; she had set her 
 heart on one of the camellias, but she was too grateful to 
 Cornelia for thinking of it at all, not to make light of the 
 matter. 
 
 They did what they could with the holly sprigs, but 
 even Hsperance’s clever fingers could not effect much with 
 them, they would look stiff and uncompromising. The ivy, 
 too, was large-leaved and ugly, and altogether, the decor- 
 ations were unsuccessful, which was the more provoking 
 because she was entirely dependent on them, having ne 
 
 ; jewelry. 
 
 WON BY WAITING 226 
 
 % 
 
226 } WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Her vexation was but momentary, however; she soon 
 forgot it in helping Bertha, and she arranged the white 
 eamellias in Mrs. Mortlake’s hair without the least tinge 
 of envy. 
 
 Then they all started, and her spirits rose high with the 
 prospect of this novelty and excitement; she chattered un- 
 interruptedly through the two miles’ drive, till even 
 Bertha was a little roused and began to take some slight 
 _ interest in what was going on. | 
 
 There was no one in the cloak-room when they arrived, 
 and Esperance had just taken off her wraps when Frances’ 
 little maid appeared—“ Miss Neville would be very glad if 
 Mademoiselle de Mabillon would come into the school- 
 room for a moment.” 
 
 “ To say good-night to the children, I suppose; you will 
 not wait for me, Cornelia? I can come down with Frances.” 
 
 Cornelia nodded assent, and Esperance followed the 
 maid to the school-room; but none of the children were 
 there, only Frances and Claude Magnay, bending over a 
 most lovely basketful of ferns and flowers. 
 
 ‘‘T am so glad you have come early,” Frances said, kiss- — 
 ing her. “Mr. Magnay has been spoiling us all; he walked 
 over to the nursery gardens this morning, and brought 
 home the most beautiful flowers, and we want you to wear 
 some of them.” 
 
 Claude was glad to have it putin this way, for having 
 spent the morning in scouring Rilchester in search of 
 these flowers for Esperance, he now hardly liked to offer 
 them. 
 
 Her delighted gratitude was very charming; and Claude 
 colored deeply, as, for a moment, her beautiful eyes met 
 his. 
 
 “ How kind of you! and how lovely they are!” she ex- 
 claimed, rapturously, “ you can’t think how much I wanted 
 a flower—holly is so prickly.” 
 
 Frances began to take the flowers from the basket, and 
 Esperance struggled to take off her sprigs of holly, but 
 could not manage it- with her gloves on. Claude was 
 
 Aelighted at this excuse for helping her, and took away the 
 sharp leaves and scarlet berries with unmixed satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 “You must enact Monsieur Worth, Claude,” said 
 Frances, looking up. ‘Now, Esperance, stand still, and 
 we shall hear exactly where your flowers are to be placed.” 
 
 She obeyed half laughingly, and Claude surveyed her in 
 

 
 ee mere | a ee ae a ee ey ee SP No ee *y ba ad Sy 
 ee 5 ie pa Seis ns ig twee pes Az: salad Der ae 3 
 = mA a eT Cw ma per; te 
 pe ae the me 
 
 — 
 
 . WON BY WAITING. OOF 
 
 silence, thinking but little of the flowers it must be con- 
 fessed. She had never looked prettier than at that mo- 
 ment, standing in her unadorned white dress, her lips just 
 parted, her eyes smiling half shyly, her cheeks glowing 
 with rich brown-red color, and the outline of her shapely 
 little head not at all veiled by the short, tendril-like curls 
 ~ which clustered round her neck, and overshadowed her 
 low, smooth forehead. 
 
 Claude was recalled to his duties by her clear, ringing 
 laugh. 
 
 “It is as bad as having one’s photograph taken,” she 
 said. ‘Iam sure Monsieur Worth does not keep his ladies 
 so long.” 
 
 “The oracle is dumb,” said Claude, smiling. ‘Shall we 
 try the effect of Christmas roses and maiden hair, Miss 
 Neville ?” 
 
 So the dress was beautified with the exquisite white 
 flowers, and drooping lady-ferns, and light, feathery 
 maiden-hair ; but ‘“ Monsieur Worth” had stipulated that 
 the curls should be left as they were, in their unadorned 
 beauty. 
 
 Then they went down-stairs to the great drawing-room, 
 which had been turned out for the occasion, and where 
 many of the guests were already assembled. Lady Worth- 
 ington was at the door and came into the hall to meet 
 them, stooping down to kiss Esperance in defiance of 
 custom. 
 
 ‘You have come in the character of the Christmas rose,” 
 she said, glancing at the happy, glowing face, “you will | 
 be just in time for the first dance ; Claude will take you in 
 to Mrs. Mortlake.” Claude assented, and led her across 
 the brightly-lighted room to the sofa where Mrs. Mortlake 
 and Cornelia were seated, and Esperance began to tell of 
 the surprise that had awaited her in the school-room, and 
 to show the flowers exultingly. Cornelia smiled kindly. 
 
 “She was disappointed of the flowers at home, but these 
 are far lovelier,’ she said to Claude, while Mrs. Mortlake 
 began abruptly to speak to her next neighbor. 
 
 He made some trifling response, and then turned eagerly 
 to Esperance, fearful that some one else might be before 
 him in asking her to dance. Cornelia watched her in secret 
 admiration as she was borne swiftly away, her pure, child- 
 like happiness was delightful to see; as they passed the 
 sofa every few minutes she caught a few words of French, 
 and knew that Claude was talking to Ler in her own lan- 
 
Or A Ee age A) OR I Bae os eg aero f- Oa ie id a ae pot = 
 oS et SF ries By NE ewan sire A Rey ote a Te = ae ROR Sy BTyaR ei > 
 4 : “ a ie rie ste g ‘ vga ‘. c <1 den 
 
 
 
 925 «WON BY WAITING. a 4 
 
 guage, and onee, when they paused for a minute's rest He- 
 _ perance came to her, eager for sympathy. | 
 
 “It is so delightful, Cornelia, and is not this ‘Blue 
 Danube’ waltz a capital one ?” 
 
 Cornelia could not understand the delights of a trois- 
 temps; she had never cared for dancing or any kind of ex- 
 ercise, but she liked being appealed toin this way, and 
 watched her little cousin with a certain comfortable sense 
 of pride and possession. This child whom she had nursed 
 
 and tended was beginning to make large demands on her, 
 
 love. 
 
 soon vanished under the influence of Esperances naive re- 
 marks and free simplicity, and very soon they drifted into 
 their former habits of easy, half-confidential talk, though 
 
 Claude was more reverential and less pitying than he had 
 
 been in old times. 3 
 
 He would have liked to prolong their dance indefinitely, 
 but Esperance had not come simply to enjoy herself, and 
 he was obliged to resign her to Fred, who came up with 
 such an entreaty that he could not be resisted—every one 
 was so stupid, they would not dance with him, and would 
 Esperance have him just this once? Of course she con- 
 sented, and when Fred, proud and happy, had brought 
 her pack to Cornelia, she was at once pursued by Harry 
 who would not be content till he had written his name in 
 unsteady round-hand on her programme. 
 
 She danced with Claude, however, several times, only re- 
 fusing him once when she wanted to sit out with Cornelia, 
 who was having rather adull time. (Olaude divined her 
 motive, and loved her all the better for it, even accepting 
 the hint she gave him to dance with Bertha, though it 
 
 took him away from her to g most indifferent set of quad- _ 
 
 rilles, in which every one danced languidly. He was re- 
 warded, however, later in the evening, by another waltz 
 with her ; as they were walking up and down the hall after 
 it was over he stopped for a moment before “ Mariana.” 
 _ “I-want you to look at this for a moment,” he said ; “it 
 is one of my pictures.” 
 She looked up eagerly. 
 _ “A new one of yours? I had not seen it—why, she is 
 - Just like Gaspard! that is exactly how he looked after the 
 capitulation.” / Sey os 
 Claude was much amused, and would not perhaps have 
 explained further had she not ppt a direct question. 
 
 Claude meantime was perfectly happy, his diffidence 
 

 
 
 
 i 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ~ 999 
 
 *Did you get the idea from Gaspard ?” 
 
 “No,” he replied, smiling. ‘Your brother saw the pic- 
 ture when it was done, and I made my confession to him 
 then. It was your face which inspired me.” | 
 
 “ Mine! how very funny!” cried Esperance, with her irre- 
 sistible laugh. ‘Do you mean that this is really meant for 
 me, and that I have been in the Academy without knowing 
 it? Ah! that is amusing! that is ridiculous!” 
 
 “J am afraid it was a great liberty,” said Claude, “but I 
 could not resist the temptation; perhaps some day you will 
 really give me a sitting; I should not paint you as ‘Mariana’ 
 now.” 7 
 
 “Why not?” asked Esperance; because I have lost my 
 hair?” 
 
 “No,” said Claude, hesitating a little, “because you 
 have not ‘ Mariana’s’ expression now. ‘Mariana’ never 
 grew bright, and patient, and hopeful; she must have 
 
 “grown bitter in her loneliness instead of sweet.” 
 
 He paused, half afraid he had said too much ; but Hspe- 
 rance was not thinking of herself. She was looking at 
 the picture. poe 7 
 
 “ How dreary you have made the fen look; I like that 
 dull, watery reflection of the moonlight, and the torn cure 
 tain, and that worm-eaten window-frame—ah! itis won 
 derfully done! How sad she looks, too, so weary and so dis- 
 appointed.” Then, with a sudden smile, “Surely I never 
 looked so despairing ?” 
 
 “You used to look very miserable,” said Claude. 
 
 « Ah! and I wasmiserable ; that was just the time when 
 T was most homesick and unhappy ; howI did hate Ril- 
 chester !” 7 
 
 * You do not dislike it now, then ?” 
 
 - “No, TI believe Iam really growing fond of it,” she an- 
 swered, smiling. ‘I wonder whether you know our prov- 
 erb, ‘ Quand on n’a pas ce que &0n aime, il faut aimer ce que 
 fon a.’ I think it is one of the wisest sayings, and really 
 it answers.” 3 
 
 She had applied the proverb only to places ; but Claude 
 
 felt sure that she really referred to people as well. She 
 
 was schooling herself to love her English relations—was 
 it not evident? If not, why had she taken pains to se- 
 cure a partner for Bertha, or lingered talking with Corne- 
 lia, or answered Mrs. Mortlake’s disagreeable questions 80— 
 pleasantly ? : 
 
 Just then Christabel appeared, _ 
 
a 
 
 250 
 
 “x1ou are .ery imprudent to stand in that draught, Ee 
 perance,” she said, coldly. 
 
 “Would you have liked your shawl?” asked Claude. 
 “Pray let me fetch it.” 
 
 “ We are going, thank you,” said Mrs. Mortlake ; “so do 
 not trouble ; only people who are always complaining of 
 the cold should use common seuse in—” 
 
 Her words were checked by Sir Henry Worthington, who 
 suddenly emerged from the door of the billiard-room. 
 
 “ Why, Mrs. Mortlake, you are leaving us very early.” 
 
 She was at once all smiles and courtesy. Claude hated 
 her, and gnawed the endg of his mustache fiercely, till Es- 
 perance’s voice recalled him from his angry thoughts. 
 
 “T think it is wonderful,” she said, taking a farewell look 
 
 at “Mariana.” ‘I am so glad you told me all about it. 
 Are you painting anything while you are here ?” 
 
 “No; Igo back to town to-morrow,” said Claude, rather 
 wistfully; * this has only been a few days’ holiday. Will - 
 you really keep your promise some time, and give me a 
 sitting ?” 
 
 “Yes, indeed; but what will you paint meas?” 
 
 “ As an angel, I think,” said Claude, gravely. 
 
 She laughed uncontrollably, and was so much amused 
 biy the idea that she would talk of nothing else while he was 
 fielpine her with her cloak; but just as they were passing 
 ‘fhrouch the hall again on their way to the carriage, she 
 aalf raised her scarf and showed him the Christmas roses. 
 
 “Your flowers are quite fresh still,” she said, glancing 
 ap at him half shyly. 
 
 And Claude was more thrilled by those words, than by 
 all her former thanks. “Your flowers ”—she called them 
 his and she wore them. Her hand lay in his for amoment 
 as he helped her into the carriage with elaborate care, then 
 the footman closed the door with vicious speed, and the 
 coachman urged on the horses. Claude felt desperate—he 
 must see her once more; this was a last chance for an in- 
 definite time, for he was to leave too early the following 
 day fora call at the de sanery to be possible. Regardless of 
 the snow, he hurried out all bareheaded as he was, threaded 
 his way among the crowd of carriages, and ran full speed 
 across the park to the lodge gate; it was a short cut over 
 the grass, and he easily custripped the deanery carriage ; 
 leaning breathlessly against the gate-post, he waited till the 
 sound of wheels aoe nearer, and the yellow lamps flashed 
 ito sight, the horses slackened their pace a little at the 
 
WON BY WAITING. 231 
 
 turn, and for an instant he had what he longed for, a last 
 ‘look at Esperance. She did notsee him, and he wished she 
 would raise her eyes just for a moment from something she 
 was looking at earnestly, but a sudden sense of gladness 
 filied his heart, when, as the carriage turued into the road, 
 the light fell for a minute on her hands, and he saw that 
 she was holding a Christmas rose. 
 
 Lady Worthington was no match-maker, and although 
 the union of her two favorite protegés could not but sug- 
 gest itself to her, she would not allow the idea to influence 
 her words or actions ; nor, although she strongly suspected] 
 that Claude had fallen in love with his former ideal, would 
 she make the slightest effort to win his confidence. He left 
 the Hall on the following day without saying a word to 
 her, and although she was a little curious, she wisely kept 
 silence, not even talking the matter over with lrances. 
 
 Claude went back to town, and worked hard at his paint- 
 ing, but owing to the short winter days much of his time 
 was necessarily unoccupied, and his thoughts were con- 
 * stantly reverting to Esperance. He took a fancy for going 
 to the afternoon service at the abbey, that he might be 
 hearing exactly what she was hearing; he took in the 
 “Guardian” and searched the columns anxiously for any- 
 thing relating to Rilchester. The very name of Dean Col- 
 linson was sufficient to set all his pulses throbbing, and 
 he took the most lively interest in all the special preachers 
 mentioned—men whom Esperance had seen, perhaps 
 shaken hands with. 
 
 This did all very well for a time; Parliament was 
 opened, and the Worthingtons returned to town. There 
 was plenty going on, the days were growing longer, but 
 yet as the spring advanced Claude grew more and more 
 restless; the brief allusions in the “Guardian” became 
 only tantalizing; the Westminster services no longer sat- 
 isfied him—he could not even succeed in drawing Esper- 
 ance’s face from memory, and had it not been for the hope 
 that he might really be working for her, his pictures would 
 have suffered considerably. 
 
 The opening of the Academy gave him some satisfaction. 
 Two of his pictures were on the line, and were very favor- 
 ably spoken of in thecritiques. He wondered if Esperance 
 ever read the papers, if by chance she would ‘see those 
 « Academy Notes.” By the third week in May both his 
 works wero sold. Evidently his reputation was greatly in- 
 
 ereased, and he felf @ certain sense of pleasure, but hig 
 
 
 
232 WON BY WAITING. 
 restlessness only grew greater. At iength he resolved 
 that he would tell all to Lady Worthington, feeling sure 
 that she would be both a safe and a sympathetic confi« 
 dante. 
 
 Sacrificing for this purpose even the afternoon light, he 
 started early in hope of finding Lady Worthington disen- 
 gaged, and before three o’clock was shown upstairs to her 
 
 drawing-room. The room was empty, and he had some 
 
 minutes to wait. He stood in one of the windows and 
 looked out on Kensington Gardens, abstractedly watching 
 the procession of nurse-maids and children, and the-bright 
 sunlight flickering through the fresh green of the trees 
 on to the brown paths below. Then Lady Worthington 
 came in with her hearty greeting, and he was roused from 
 his reverie. 
 
 “T was wondering what had become of you, Claude, 
 you have not been here for weeks, aud I actually heard of 
 your successes in the Academy from some one else.” 
 
 “T should have come before, but the truth is I have not 
 been out much lately; I have had a good deal on hand,” 
 - said Claude, rather hesitatingly. 
 
 “ And that is the reason you are declining so many 
 invitations? Two or three people have been quite dis- 
 tressed, I know, by your refusal. You are a ‘lion’ now, 
 you see, and a lion should be gracious, I think. You must 
 be working too hard.” 3 
 
 “I know I deserve a scolding,” said. Claude; ‘but I 
 have not been in the humor for gayeties ; it is not that I 
 am doing too much—I can’t plead that asan excuse, but—” 
 
 “But youare getting blasé at four-and-twenty, is that it ?” 
 
 Claude did not answer fora moment. He moved rest- 
 lessly, deliberating whether he should tell all to Lady 
 - Worthington or not, then looking up suddenly and turning 
 
 his eager eyes fully on her, he said, abruptly,. “ The fact is,. 
 
 Lady Worthington, that visit to you at Christmas quite 
 unhinged me—it was a revelation to me, and now I em 
 wild to get to Rilchester once more. You know what I 
 mean ?” | : 
 “T think I do,” said Lady Worthington, kindly, “and I 
 am very glad, Claude.” 
 - “You think, then, there is really some hope for me ?” 
 “TI do not see why there should not be,” said Lady 
 Worthington; “but you will not do anything in a hurry, 
 If you will let me give you a piece of advice, I should say 
 write to her brother before you breathe a word to heg 
 
 LEA ta hee ae ead | 2 3 « + Cloaey | i, aa ae 7 CPt oe ae ae 
 ete a SNE ee 2 ey * pe es _ Py A m ~* re 
 PPE etre sis aes ba Me Bots ea Saha : Poe i oe: a 
 
 Ca bie Poae : 5 tee i Sor 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 about it ioe I know the French are very particular about 
 such things.” 
 
 “T thought I could speak to the dean; but the worst of 
 it is, 1 don’t think it will be any use, she would only be 
 startled and repulsed. I must see her again. If only I 
 had the faintest shadow of an excuse for going to Rilches- 
 ter I would start to-morrow, but there is none; and she 
 will forget me, or some one else will— 3 
 
 “Come,” said Lady Worthington, smiling, “I don’t 
 think you need make yourself miserable about that. I sup- 
 pose if I were prudent I should tell you to wait till next 
 Christmas, and then to come down to Worthington and 
 see if you were in the same mind.” 
 
 “T have waited all these months already,” said Claude, 
 pleadingly ; “and you don’t know what it is to think of 
 her in that ‘wretched place, among people who don’t care 
 for her.” 
 
 “She is fast making them care for her,” said Lady 
 Worthington ; “but for all that, I can understand that it 
 is hard for you. Suppose I am imprudent, and ask you to 
 go down to Rilchester at once, and paint me a very beau- 
 tiful picture in the cathedral. I think I should like it to 
 be in the south aisle.” 
 
 “You are too good,” said Claude, earnestly ; “but I 
 ought not to have everything made easy for me.” 
 
 “No, seriously, I should hke the picture ; I commission 
 you now, Mr. Maenay, if it is not trespassing too much on 
 your valuable time. Shall I stipulate how many feet of 
 canvas you are to cover, like that interesting manufacturer 
 we beard of the other day, who ordered pictures by tlie 
 
 ard ?” 
 2 Claude laughed and reiterated his thanks, and Lady 
 Worthington spoke more seriously. 
 
 “TI do wish you all possible success,” she said, earnestly. 
 “T shall wait very anxiouslv to hear of the result, a4 you 
 will come and see me when you return.’ ; 
 
 Claude promised to do so, and just at that piri some 
 other visitors arrived, and he hastily took leave. | 
 
 To have an excuse for a fortnight’s visit to Rilches- 
 ter seemed to him the greatest bliss. He longed to start — 
 that very moment, but a perverse engagement on the 
 next afternoon prevented this, and he could not possibly 
 reach Rilchester before the last. train; but he should see ~ 
 her in two days’ time, and with this he might well be 
 
 —eontent. 
 
 93 
 
 
 
 ie “wor ‘By WAITING. | 233 ae 
 
~* 
 
 234 ‘WON BY WAITING 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Oft though Wisdom wakes, Suspicion sleeps 
 At Wisdom’s gate, and to Simplicity resigns her charge, 
 While Goodness thinks no ill 
 Where no ill seems. 
 : Paradise Lost, 
 
 Tux arrival of the post-bag at the deanery was a source 
 of mingled pleasure and vexation; the dean always dislike 
 letters, and Cornelia thought them tiresome though neces- 
 sary evils; but the other members of the family regarded 
 them in a very different way, and were apt to grumble if 
 Cornelia was at all late in bringing the key, and dispensing 
 them to their owners. 
 
 It was Monday afternoon, and Esperance was waiting 
 impatiently in the drawing-room expecting the arrival of 
 the post with her weekly letters from Gaspard; she was 
 treading aloud to Bertha, not very well, it must be con- 
 fessed, for her eyes and ears were alive to the slightest sign 
 which might indicate the arrival of her letter, and when, 
 Cornelia at last entered the room, she sprung forward, wait- 
 ing with eager impatience while the bag was opened. Thera 
 were only two letters, one from Ceylon, which Esperance 
 seized eagerly, and another for Bertha. | 
 
 “Tt is from one of the Palgraves, I think,” said Cor- 
 nelia, glancing at the envelope; Bertha took it, coloring 
 deeply. 
 
 You, from Adelaide,” she said in a low voice. . 
 
 Cornelia did not reply, but locked the bag again, and 
 left the room, while Bertha nervously opened her letter; 
 she gave an astonished exclamation when, on unfolding it, 
 it proved not to be from Adelaide at all, but from George. 
 She trembled violently —ought she to readit? The temy)- 
 tation was too strong for her, however; she moved further 
 from her cousin, and with her heart throbbing wildly read 
 
 the few hurried lines. George was coming to Rilchester, 
 
 but no one must know of it; he begged to see her once for 
 a few moments, and proposed that they should meet in 
 the garden that evening as soon as it was dusk. It was 
 a short, straightforward letter without the least approach 
 to sentiment, and Bertha could not realize that the in- 
 terview spoken of in such a business-like way wes a clan- 
 destine meeting, or if the thought did occur to her she 
 
 stifled it at once. George was in Rilchester at that very 
 
 ili ein Shai Saka Grae MR, Alita nen See ES) iN) IB ey tan i Ot oo 
 ve fe. gee ee oe : sf. 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING, | 435 
 
 mvynute, and that evening she might—she must, see him. 
 It was all decided in a moment ; she dared not stop to 
 think ; she disregarded all the arguments against such a 
 step, while a train of arguments in favor of it passed rap- 
 idly through her brain; she was of age, she had a right 
 to rule her own actions; George was her cousin, why 
 
 should she not speak to him for a few moments? If 
 it was in a secret way, that was only because he had 
 been forbidden to come to the house—it was her father’s 
 fault not hers. The idea having been once admitted, she 
 began to feel that life would be intolerable without just 
 this one meeting, and remembered with terror her startled 
 exclamation on opening the letter. Had Esperance no- 
 ticed it? She glanced across the room and felt relieved, 
 for Esperance was smiling over her own letter in happy 
 unconsciousness, looking so bright and innocent that Ber- 
 tha felt a sharp sting of remorse, as she contrasted that 
 happiness with her own excited, half-terrified pleasure. 
 While she was still musing Esperance looked up. 
 
 “Such a long letter, Bertha, and do you know, Gas- 
 pard’s salary is to be raised !” , 
 
 Bertha murmured something like a congratulation, and 
 ‘eft the room abruptly, avoiding Esperance for the rest of 
 the afternoon, for fear she should allude to that exclama- 
 tion which she might have heard. 
 
 Never had the hours seemed so long as on that day. 
 Bertha was miserably restless and frightened, but she did 
 not waver. Soon after nine in the evening she excused her- 
 self on the pleaof having some copying todo, and stole away 
 to the dining-room, wishing she had not been so conscious 
 that she was doing wrong. She lighted a candle, shut 
 the door, and for a few minutes made some pretense of 
 writing ; then she softly drew aside the shutters, opened 
 the French window, and looked out into the dusky gar- 
 den. The night was fine, but cold. She shivered a little 
 as the fresh breeze played upon her burning cheeks ; the 
 cathedral clock chimed a quarter past nine, and she started 
 with sudden fright, then recovering herself trembled te 
 think that she was guiltily afraid of being discovered. For a 
 moment she hesitated—her hand was raised to close the 
 window. Should she not, even now, give up this stolen 
 pleasure? But while she paused a dark figure stole 
 silently across the lawn ; it was too late! The next mo- 
 nent her hand was clasped.in her cousin’s, and the power ~ 
 
 ef willing anything seemed to have passed from her 
 
—_— 
 
 , lecting;” but Bertha in her fright fancied that she spoke a 
 
 836 won BY WattiNné. 
 
 Tn the drawing-room the dean had fallen asleep over hia 
 paper. Cornelia read a volume of the “Bridgewater Trea- 
 tises,” and Mrs. Mortlake talked snappishly to Esperance. 
 Tt was very dull; Esperance caught herself yawning re- 
 
 peatedly, and she was not sorry when her cousin was. 
 
 roused to an expression of annoyance. 
 
 
 
 “ Really, if you're so sleepy, you had better go to bed; 
 
 perhaps it would wake you up to go to the dining-room . 
 
 and fetch me my book of knitting receipts.” 
 
 Esperance gladly hailed the ‘opportunity of escaping a 
 
 ‘from the hot drawing-room, and walked leisurely across the 
 hall, indulging in fantastic arm exercises on the way to re~ 
 lieve herself ; then she opened tke dining-room door, and 
 
 a little cry of astonishment escaped her as she saw Bertha __ 
 
 in her white dress standing by the open window. Bertha 
 herself started violently, and hastily moved back into the 
 room. 
 
 “Oh, you are doing the copying,” said Esperance, recol- 
 
 satirically. She resolved to brave it out, however. 
 “ Yes, [am very busy; do you want anything?” 
 
 ce Only Christabel’s knitting-book,” said Esperance, and ‘ 
 
 she made haste to find the book and leave the room, see- 
 ing that Bertha did not wish to be interrupted. 
 
 ‘As soon ag the door had closed, Bertha turned again ue 
 the window. 
 
 “T am sure she suspected something,” she whispered. 
 “ Oh, George we must not risk it ; Esperance is so shar Dy 
 
 _ and she will put them on the right clew directly !” 
 
 “Tf there is any chance of that, you must find some 
 
 means of getting her out of the way. Could you not get — 
 
 grannie to invite her ?” 
 
 George spoke in low, authoritative tones: Bertha’s brief, 
 terrified whispers were evidently in subjection. She had 
 always bowed implicitly to his judgment. 
 
 “Stay, I have an idea,” he said, after a silence, and then 
 ensued a long, whispered dialogue, Bertha agreeing in 
 half-hesitating tones to all the propositions. The chimes 
 struck acain—they counted the notes breathlessly. It was 
 a quarter toten; George hurriedly took leave, and Bertha 
 closed the window, tremblingly put away ber writing ma- 
 
 - terials, and returned to the drawire-room. But her heart — 
 suddenly failed her when she saw the others sitting so 
 
 naturally at their work, and she felt a deep pang. of remorse 
 
 as she glanced at her father sleeping peacefully in his arme & 
 
 eae 
 
 
 
 + pe 
 

 
 RE aN USE Si o> EL NG eels 
 pi paaketigen se bao os at ge Ns 
 
 ae oe 
 
 
 
 a a oe Atte Le at 
 soap hie NEA ees URSIN ae ae: ae 
 3 AIRED odes SAS 1 Ded AY | See as Ray ln RS Ue ee ett 
 Sar okt Rie el gaa eh ge see ea Oia <4 Lean atone A 
 2 tles = Te bs 3 
 
 vee 
 
 “WON BY WAITING. | apiye 
 
  ehair, quite unconscious what was in store for him. Should 
 
 she write to George and say that she could not. keep her 
 
 : oe while her father lived she must stay with 
 
 im? But just then Mis. Mortlake looked up with her dis« 
 agreeable smile. 
 
 ““ Well, you've had a nice sociable evening, just after 
 ‘own heart.” 
 
 Bertha shrugged her shoulders—she had caught the 
 trick from HEsperance—and remembered that after all, 
 home was by no means the peaceful haven it looked, and 
 besides, would they really miss her? Yor a week or two, 
 perhaps, but not more. | 
 
 “T am going to bed,” she said, in her usual voice, to Mrs. 
 Mortlake, “I have a bad headache.” 
 
 Esperance looked up compassionately. 
 
 “Tamso sorry! Lwish I had helped you with that 
 writing.” 3 
 
 No one else spoke ; and Bertha, coloring deeply, left the 
 room. How she longed that evening to be alone! Much 
 as she loved Esperance, she felt that her presence now 
 would be almost unbearable. She hurriedly made her 
 preparations for the night, and lay down in the darkness 
 thankful for afew moments of quiet, in which she migit 
 think over the extraordinary and most unexpected events 
 of the day. In the morning she had had no thought of 
 _ disobeying her father’s wishes, and before the evening was 
 over she had weakly yielded to George’s long-premeditated 
 plan ; this was to be her last night beneath her father’s 
 yoof! She sobbed a little as she thought of this, partly 
 - from an odd sort of attachment to the actual house, hardly 
 to be called love, but a great deal more from terror and 
 the sense that she was about to do what all the world © 
 would blame. 
 
 “ While she was still crying, Esperance came up to bed, 
 shading the candle with her hand, and moving about the 
 room with noiseless steps for fear she should disturb her 
 cousin. Bertha watched her in silence for some minutes, 
 ~~ but she could hardly bear to look at the pure, child-like 
 face, it made her feel so guilty; at length a great sob 
 escaped her, and Esperance hastened to comfort her.” 
 
 “Ts your head so bad, chérie? Let me stroke it for you.” 
 Bertha allowed herself to be caressed for a minute, ther 
 with an irrepressible burst of tears, she sobbed out, “Oh, 
 
 _ Usperance, if the others had been like you, it would have 
 
 been very different.” 
 
 
 
 
 
Ne A aR SN cites an ete eed En Mah a me ae a TA 
 € 7 te 
 238 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 _ © What would have been different?” asked Esperance, 
 anable to understand Ler words. 
 
 « Everything—life!” sobbed Bertha, frigutened to think 
 bow searly she had betrayed herself. 
 
 But Hsperance never dreamed of suspecting her; she 
 thought her merely unhappy and overtired, and said she 
 would sing her to sleep; and Bertha lay still, listening to 
 an old French hymn, and let her eyelids fall toward the end, 
 but in reality she never slept at all that night. She only 
 kept up the semblance of sleep until the candle was out; 
 she heard the soft “ batser du soir” as Esperance kissed her 
 father’s miniature, the slight rustle of foreign paper, as Gas- 
 pard’s letter found its place beneath her pillow, and a few 
 minutes later the calm, regular breathing, which told that 
 her little cousin was asleep. Then she gave the rein to her 
 misery, and tossed through the long, wakeful night in a» 
 agony of suspense, terror, and regret. . 
 
 The next day, however, she was quite self-possessed; it 
 was one of those suddenly hot spring days when every ont 
 feels languid. She easily persuaded Esperance to stay in: 
 doors, and they read together a great part of the afternoon. __ 
 At dinner-time a note arrived for Bertha; her color cams ~~’ 
 and went, but no one observed her. She opencd it, and 
 said it was from Mrs. Passmore. 
 
 “No one has been to see grannie for the last week,” ob: 
 served Cornelia. ‘“ What does she want, Bertha?” 
 
 “She wants me to go down with Esperance to spend the 
 evening with her; she says she is feeling very lonely and 
 depressed ; if we could stay the night so much the better ; 
 she has heard that the carriage is being painted, and we 
 might not care to walk both ways. What do you think, 
 Esperance ?” 
 
 “TI should like to go very much,” said Esperance, 
 brightly, “we have not been out all day, and it would be sw 
 hice and cool now.” 
 
 “We will go down after dinner then,” said Bertha, 
 quietly; “I don’t know about staying for the night, 
 though ; we will see how grannie is when we get there. 
 
 If we do not come back by half past ten, Christabel, you 
 will understand that grannie was very pressing, and that 
 we stayed.” 
 
 Bertha’s cheeks were burning now, but no one noticed 
 her. Everybody was hot that evening—there was nothing — 
 unnatural in it. 
 
 The curfew had just ceased ringing when the two cousins 
 
SPC, Maus a Ye? Coke, NORM ae Spee ile at ttn ep EN) ty "ad 4d 1S 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 22 
 
 started. Bertha took her cloak and a small bag, just in 
 case they stayed for the nigit, she said. They passed 
 silently through the Vicar’s Court, then Bertha paused. 
 
 “Tam just going into the cathedral for a moment,” shg 
 said; “ I left my umbrella in the aisle at afternoon servict 
 _ —somebody may carry it off if it is left.” 
 
 “ But the great doors will be locked,” said Esperance. 
 
 « Yes, but I have both the keys. We will come in here 
 and go out by the west door—it will cut off a corner.” 
 
 _ She quietly opened the massive door, and locked it be- 
 hind them. The light within was already growing dim 
 owing to the stained-glass windows; they looked about for 
 the umbrella, walking slowly down the aisle to the closed 
 gate which led into the nave, but it was not to be found 
 Bertha unlocked the gate. 
 
 “Tam afraid we must give it up,” she said, in a strained, 
 unnatural voice; “the only place we did not look in was the 
 vestry; it is just possible that one of the vergers may have 
 put it there; just run and see, will you?” 
 
 Esperance obeyed, walking half-way up the aisle, ang 
 trying the vestry door, but it was fast locked; then she 
 turned back to rejoin her cousin, quickening her steps as 
 she saw that she had gone into the nave. ‘The iron gate 
 was closed; she supposed Bertha had left it on the latch; 
 but no, it was securely fastened, and pull or push as she 
 would, the gate would not yield. Was Bertha playing her 
 # trick,.she wondered. She called after her, feeling hali 
 amused, half frightened; her voice echoed long through 
 the vaulted roof, but thero was no reply, only she could see 
 that Bertha walked more quickly, and the next moment the 
 ereat west door closed behind her, the key grated in the 
 lock, and Esperance was left alone in the cathedral. 
 
 For an instant she stood half petrified with astonish- 
 ment, then glancing round she saw that Bertha had thrown 
 down her cloak within the choir aisle, and beside it a little 
 three-cornered note; she opened this eagerly, and read the 
 ee lines, which had evidently been written with a trembling 
 
 and: 
 
 ‘Forgive me, dear Esperance; I would not have left you in 
 this way, but I feared you suspected me last night, and = 
 could not bear really to implicate grannie; the blame of this 
 will fall on no one but ourselves. We shall travel all to-night; 
 to-morrow, by the time you are released, I think we shall be 
 married. Once more, forgive me, and love me still, if you can, 
 | “* BanirHa,” 
 
oo a * fi ES rap Poe EE ei Sar Gy er iry ge eee en eae aed Me nae tn May 2 in RN ae ae a ae eg el en ee Ee of et teal etl 
 : png Ne saa a eR a gaa erat oY irae he eae er GON ona in Same Bale Sar yh, 
 beep oe ; eae oS ol en e 3 Sh ea SRP eee 
 
 940 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 The note fell from Esperance’s hands, and a great cry of 
 despair rang through the cathedral. Bertha had eloped 
 with George, and she, the only person who knew of it, was 
 perfectly helpless! The horror of that moment, the dis- 
 may of that discovery altogether unnerved her. She 
 turned giddy, and sunk down on the cold stones, her hand 
 pressed against her temples as if to stay the fearful thoughts 
 
 
 
 which flashed through her brain. The cathedral waslocked 
 
 up for the night; the vergers had been their rounds ; no 
 cne would go up to the belfry even, for the curfew had 
 
 been rung. At the deanery no one would dream that any-. 
 
 thing was amiss; they thought them safely at Mrs. Pass- 
 more’s ; they were at this very moment going on with their 
 usual routine—the dean perhaps in his observatory, Cor- 
 
 aeliaand Christabel quietly reading and working, all within ~ 
 
 five minutes walkof her, and yet ié was as impossible to let 
 them know those terrible tidings, as if they had been at the 
 North Pole, And when the dean did know, would it not 
 almost break his heart! It must, it must be prevented! 
 
 Azain she read through the note of explanation, and dwelt | 
 once more on the words, “ we shall travel all night.” They ~ 
 
 would probably start by the 8:30 express, and already it 
 m13t be nearly time for it—even as she thought of it the 
 chimes struck the half hour, and the distant shriek of a 
 
 railway whistle made itself heard. Again that wail of — 
 anguish broke from Esperance, and reverberated through _ 
 
 the vast emptiness of the cathedral; she sprung to her 
 
 feet, and a sort of madness seemed to seize her ; she pulled — 
 
 and shook the iron gate as if she would have torn it from 
 its hinges, then remembering that this would only lead to 
 the nave, and more locked doors, she rushed to the eastern 
 
 end of the aisle and knocked and hammered with all her — 4 
 
 might at the south door. But the door was far from a 
 thoroughfare, and no one was likely to hear her. Once 
 
 she caught the sound of footsteps passing on the pathway - 
 
 _ a few hundred yards from her, and knew that it must be 
 
 the policeman on his rounds, and she called and knocked — 
 
 with the strength of despair, but the echoes only mocked 
 her voice ; the ponderous door seemed to let no sound 
 penetrate it, and the footsteps died away in the distance— 
 it was of no use. 
 
 Her hands were all bruised and bleeding with the un. a 
 
 - availing attempt; she sat down onthe step and leaned her 
 
 head against the hard, iron-studded door, crying piteously. 
 
 dt was long past nine now, and she could scarcely seeg — . 
 
 
 

 
 
 start just asthe great clock was tolling twelve,to wonder why. 
 ___her bed was so hard and cold, and then to realize every- 
 thing more fully than ever. Twelve o'clock, and George 
 
 
 
 AS Sid Nase SSO Sel tb Te ON ir at Ae, itp yn et ON ORLA ae 
 ara a) } F . . 4 
 
 the white pillars began to look grim and ghostly in the 
 
 gathering gloom. With a little shiver she roused herself 
 and began to pace up and down the aisle, though more 
 quietly. The doors of the vestry, the side chapels, and 
 
 ~ the choir were all locked; she tried them over and over 
 
 again with a sort of craving to get into some smaller place, 
 where the loneliness would not feel so awful; for now that 
 she had found it ciearly impossible to hinder Bertha’s flight, 
 
 _ the thought of her own position began to find place in her 
 
 mind. ‘To stay alonein the cathedral all night long seemed 
 to her a terrible prospect. She sat huddled up in a corner, 
 glad to keep her eyes shut, and full of a nameless, un- 
 defined terror. The clock struck ten, and she looked up; 
 from the east there was a faint gleam of light, coming, 
 perhaps, from the gas-lamps without; she groped ter 
 
 ‘way nearer to it and chose for her resting-place the 
 
 tomb of one of the great benefactors of the cathe- 
 dral, Baron de Gers, because he must originally have 
 been a Frenchman. And here she tried to go to 
 sleep, but for a long time without success, for the pain and 
 excitement of the evening had been too much for her. Then, 
 too, the eerie feeling of the place was the reverse of sooth- 
 ing. Esperance, thoughnot foolish, had been brought up 
 among the superstitions of the French peasants, and more- 
 over, she was very imaginative; she could not help pictur- 
 ing to herself the ghosts of those buried within the 
 
 _ eathedral coming to look at the unusual night visitant, 
 
 and, of course, she began to shiver a little. Just then 
 upon the awful stillness of the great building, there rose a 
 strange, weird, mysterious sound—a kind of onward rush- 
 ing, her teeth chattered, she trembled from head to foot, 
 and strained her terrified eyes into the darkness, fearing 
 she knew not what. The sound seemed now close to her, 
 then far away, then again it drew near and nearer, and 
 she distinctly felt her hand touched; she gave a little ery, 
 
 and, as if in- answer, the rushing sound passed by her’ 
 - once more, and she heard a sharp, clicking squeak, and 
 - knew that her ghost was, after all, only a bat. The relief 
 
 was so intense that she fairly laughed aloud at her mistake, 
 
 hoping that it was not sacrilegious, and then in a few 
 
 minutes she said her prayers and slept. 
 But her frights were not quite over. She woke with a 
 
 WON BY WAITING, = i a 
 
 
 
PPO SN SSS ET 9 LOE RE era) nCe aR TARR NT tek ee Re SONAR Tk eR) Ab ce as Me eee ae ee 
 os i SOR Raaei a: aire: ae ect ad chi ate PSE : AS +30 Ste BE ine ae eee 
 re ie: Peet ye ie LS aera Sy oy tay See era Tet ag. 
 } Opes : a ae : 
 
 - 942 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 and Bertha were far away, and every one at the deanery 
 must be sleeping peacefully, and she was alone in the 
 cathedral! Then, with the cold chill of terror creeping 
 over her once more, she looked up. What was that still, 
 white figure opposite her? It had not been there when 
 she fell asleep. She forccd herself to get up; and with 
 stiff benumbed limbs crossed the aisle to the object of her 
 alarm. But it proved to be no phantom—only the recumb- 
 ent figure of a crusader, the white stone being illumined by 
 
 a flood of silvery moonlight which shown through the south- 
 
 east windows. 
 
 She was relieved, and, in spite of her grief about Bertha 
 and the difficulties of her situation, she could not 1epress 
 an enraptured exclamation as she looked to the east end 
 of the cathedral. Hach arch and pillar rose in marble 
 
 whiteness, contrasting vividly with the black shadows . 
 
 around; the moon-beams fell with almost dazzling radiance 
 on the exquisite earving, while some of the windows re- 
 flected back the brightness, each tiny pane of glass spark- 
 ling like a diamond. Although the previous day had been 
 hot, Esperance was shivering with cold now. She crept 
 up to one of the stoves, knowing that for a great part of 
 
 the year they were kept up all night; but the fires had’ 
 been discontinued for some days, and the iron bars felt as — 
 
 cold as ice. Then she remembered Bertha’s cloak, which 
 
 must, evidently, have been left for her, and she went down. 
 
 to the iron gate once more, her footsteps echoing strange- 
 ly in the silent night. The moonlight did not fall upon 
 the nave at all, and the yawning blackness looked awful. 
 She turned to look once more at the radiance of the east, 
 and then again looked through the gate, while that appall- 
 ing darkness seemed to surge in upon her overwhelming- 
 ly. She picked up the cloak and moved back again to the 
 crusader’s tomb, not sorry to be in the moonlight region 
 again. 3 
 
 Just then a fresh thought occurred to her mind. The 
 vergers would come round at eight o’clock to unlick the 
 gates! how should she explain her presence to them? 
 Bertha’s flight must, if possible, be kept secret, and yet if 
 she were found locked in the cathedral in this unaccounta- 
 ble way they would surely suspect something. She hoped 
 and prayed that the dean, or Cornelia, or some one who must 
 eventuaily know, mielit come before ikem, and in the ¢on- 
 
 viction that all would in some way be made right, she fell — 
 
 acloep. 
 
 efit 
 " ay i 
 
 oe lend 
 we Mak ef + P 
 
 
 
 wets 
 
 nD 
 tT ee ee ee 
 
 aa F <2 oe yy Y ein A 
 Se RES 
 
 rs 
 
 eh ta 
 ie ere ee 
 
 aly 
 | es 
 

 
 ~ 
 
 WON BY WAITING. | 948 , 
 
 Claude Magnay wrote for rooms at the Spread Hagle- 
 and made eager preparations for his visit to Rilchester, 
 invoking blessings on Lady Worthington’s head. He went 
 by an evening train, and by an odd coincidence met two 
 of his Rilchester friends at the ticket-office—-the precentor 
 and Mr. White, the minor canon. T! ey traveled down to- 
 gether, Claude in very high spirits, finding the most trifling ~ 
 piece of Rilchester gossip fuil of interest. The precentor 
 was a middle-aged man, very musical, and a most devoted 
 worshiper of Wagner. He related piteous anecdotes of 
 his revolutionary attempts on the cathedral music, and the 
 cruel persecutions he underwent at the hands of the dean 
 and the organist, while Mr. White gave a graphic descrip- 
 tion of a scene in the vestry after a wedding, when the 
 precentor had succeeded in having the “Bridal March” . 
 from “ Lohengrin” asa voluntary, and the dean, not know- 
 ing what it was, had particularly admired it. Somehow 
 Claude rather enjoyed hearing of weddings in the cathe. 
 dral. He mide many inquiries about this one, and listened 
 contentedly to a minute and particular account of the state 
 of the choir—how Jones had just cracked, and was ap- 
 prenticed to a book-seller, and a young Smith was develop: 
 ing capituly, and had turned out first-rate soloist, while 
 Brown, the tenor, had meanly deserted them and gone of 
 to some better-paid appointment. 
 
 Tne precentor liked Claude—every one did, in fact—and, 
 moreover, next to music, he enjoyed nothing more than 
 talking, so he invited him to supper at his house, and 
 kept up a brisk current of talk till the clock struck twelve; 
 then Claude started up, saying that he wished to be early 
 in the cathedral so as to get the morning light. 
 
 “Tt is too late, I suppose, to knock up one of the verg- 
 ers?” he asked. “I wanted to get the keys; the dean 
 used to lend me his, but I can hardly go around there 
 now.” \ 
 
 The precenter at once produced his keys, and foliowed 
 his guest to the door. 
 
 «A beautiful moonlight night,” he said, looking out. 
 “T would give something to take you to the cathedral now, 
 but it’s against rules to go in at night, and except with 
 regard to Wagner, you know, I am very obedient.” 
 
 Claude laughed, and said he would be content with six 
 o’clock, then walked back to his hotel for a few hours 
 gleep and a dream of Esperance. 
 
 The morning was as bright and sunny as he could wish 
 

 
 MA WON BY WAITING. 
 
 He walked round by the deanery, and looked up wistfully 
 
 at the windows ; then remembering his work, he hastened ~ 
 
 on to the cathedral, walkea up the long, flacced path, and 
 unlocked the south door. Putting down his easel and bag, 
 he gave himself up for a moment to silent enjoyment of 
 
 the beauty around ; he glanced down the long vista of - 
 
 arches, then his eye traveled back slowly till it was arrest- 
 ed at the crusader’s tomb. His heart beat wildly, and he 
 hurried forward with eager though noiseless steps. Could 
 it indeed be Esperance ? ? He gazed long and wonderinely 
 
 at the little figure. She was nestled up into a corner, her 
 
 head had fallen forward and rested against the tomb, the 
 soft waves of dark hair contrasting with the white stone; 
 her long, black lashes lay calmly, her cheeks were flushed 
 with sleep, one little brown hand clasped Javotte’s cross 
 tightly, and her whole attitude and expression were of un- 
 disturbed peace. Some slight sound ronse | her at last ; 
 she looked up expectantly, and a glad light came into her 
 eyes as she saw Claude. 
 
 “Ah, Tam so glad!” she said ; “I knew some one would 
 be sent ; I am so glad it was you, Claude.” 
 
 The name slipped from her inadvertently ; lie colored 
 with pleasure. 
 
 ~“ Have you been locked in by accident?” he asked, won- 
 
 deringly. 
 
 Then the sorrowful look returned to Esperance’s face ; 
 ~ghe told him all, and asked his advice. He was much 
 startled and shocked, but he would dwell on Bertha’s in- 
 justice to her, and the cruelty of shutting her thus into 
 the cathedral. 
 
 “That does not matter, 1 is all over now,” she inter- 
 rupted, “but how am Ito tellthem at home? What will 
 they say?” — 
 
 He at once turned his touplits to her present diffi- 
 culties, and self-denyingly advised her to go to the dean- 
 ery as soon as possible and tell Cornelia, leaving her to 
 break it to the dean. While they were still talking it over 
 the clock struck seven, and Esperance moved toward the 
 door, feeling dr eadfully stiff after her hard couch. 
 
 “JT must go,” she said firmly, though she was beginning 
 to tremble at the thought of this hard task. “The house 
 will be open now, and we must lose no time. You are 
 staying in Rilchester, then ?” 
 
 Clau le assented. - 
 
 Tbs Bere wonderful that you gots have hither t@ 
 
 
 
 Ay berets 
 
 PEP neihigenniys 
 , re A eee re Te 
 
 he Der RSF fo eed 
 on eae’ 
 
 Teh Pe 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 | WON BY WAITING. ~ 245 = 
 choose this day, but things always are arranged just 
 rightly, are they not?” 
 Claude thought so too, as he watched the little figure 
 till it passed out of sight. And then involuntarily an idea — 
 struck him—how would this unlooked-for turn of affairs 
 
 
 
 affect his hopes? Would the deanery people leave Ril- 
 
 chester at once, and bear Esperance with them? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXT. 
 
 Henceforward squall nor storm 
 Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt, 
 * ¥ * * 
 
 Love trebled life within me, and with each 
 Lhe year increased. 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 Cornetia was like one stunned; she heard Hsperance’s . 
 words, felt her caresses, and struggled hard to grasp the 
 meaning of this terrible piece of news, reading over andl 
 over again poor Bertha’s farewell note. At last she burst 
 into tears; her head was bowed on Esperance’s shoulder . 
 and the strong, independent, hardened nature was thank 
 ful enough to feel itself infolded by loving, clinging arms 
 If she had been different, if the home had been a happier 
 one, this would never have happened—there was the sting! 
 
 She roused herself at last, and went to tell the dean and 
 Christabel, while Esperance hovered about restlessly, fear- 
 ing to meet any one, and yet finding solitude almost un- 
 endurable. . . 
 
 The dean did not appear at breakfast time; Cornelia 
 sent Esperance with a cup of tea to his study, and she 
 knocked, and entered tremblingly. Her uncle's. face was 
 so changed, even in that short time, that she could hardly | 
 bear to look at it ; his hand shook as he took the cup from 
 her ; he looked white and scared, yet there was a curious. 
 dreamy haze in hiseyes. She bent down to kiss him, but 
 did not say anything ; just as she was turning away, how- 
 ever, she fancied he spoke to her, and waiting, caught the 
 muttered words, “ Retribution! Retribution! the ohild is 
 like her father, too!” : 
 
 Esperance pondered long over that low ejaculation ; did _ 
 her uncle take this trial as a punishment for his harsh- — 
 ness to her father and mother? Perhaps Cornelia had — 
 this in her thoughts too; it certainly did pass through 
 
(an Arr ee —" y Sg PP ea ary - —_— eA, a A aera tele 
 
 246 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 her mind that some strange fatality must be attached te 
 marriages in their family. Christabel, after a brief and 
 not very happy union, had returned to her father’s house 
 as a widow, her own prospects of happiness had been diss 
 appointed, and Bertha had married rashly and disobe- 
 diently. 
 
 It was too late now to think of prevention 3 all thatcould 
 be done was to hush up the affair as much as possible, and _ 
 Bertha was so often away from home, and had so few 
 friends in Rilchester, that for the present concealment} 
 would not be difficult. | 
 
 Perhaps it was well for them all that their thoughts 
 were necessarily diverted by the dean’s illness ; 1b seemed 
 advisable that they should all go away as soon as possible, 
 and this making a convenient pretext, it was arranged 
 that Cornelia should go with her father to Germany, 
 ~ where he was to take a course of baths, while Mrs. Mort- 
 lake went to visit some of her husband's relatives, taking 
 Bella with her. . 
 
 Hsperance was sent to the Priory. It was a great relies 
 to her to be there once more; the strain of the last few 
 days had been great, and the quiet of old Mrs. Passmore’s 
 house seemed doubly restful. She had only been there a 
 few hours, however, when, from her retreat in the garden 
 she heard the front door bell, and fearing some visitor 
 from Rilchester who might ask tiresome questions, was a 
 little vexed. ‘The servant came across the lawn to her. 
 
 “ Mistress would be glad if she would step into the 
 drawing-room.” J 
 
 She obeyed, not very willingly, and the surprise was all 
 the greater when, on going in, she found the visitor to be 
 Claude Magnay. 
 
 Mrs. Passmore was in the middle of the stock remark 
 which old ladies seem to enjoy making to young men— 
 — ‘Remember him? of course she did, why she had 
 nursed him in long clothes!” 
 
 Esperance stood for a moment holding her brown straw 
 hat in her hand, her face was glowing, and her heait beat 
 quickly. Mrs. Mortlake had told her not to go into Ril- 
 whester more than she could help in order to ayoid ques- 
 tions; she had not been to the cathedral that day, and 
 vomehow she had so missed the bright morning greeting 
 und the few words which had always passed between her 
 snd Claude when she went in to service. » 
 
 Claude came forward eagerly to meet her, and she soo | 
 
Wher Wat \ bic kraomice O. cikaa hs ah, AS seg he UM a aed Male no er 
 Die \ MEA Se, Ae SALE image fealty Pata ta 
 Sear Nek a an? ig OS : Wegnig S 
 
 aah OR ae TS 5 Mngt tf CBRE SAN cE HSA an cng gly) oa na 
 
 
 
 WON BY WATHING. avin 
 
 _ forgot her momentary embarrassments, and began to talkas 
 naturally as ever. Mrs. Passmore was certainly the most 
 charming old lady. Claude blessed her inwardly when — 
 she sent them out into the garden; her cheery “ Now, chil- 
 dren! go and see the roses,” was really delightful. Hedid 
 not mind being considered a “child,” when Esperance 
 made the plural. They walked about the old garden half 
 the afternoon, they gathered flowers for grannie, and were 
 told not to forget themselves, so Claude took the role of 
 M. Worth again, and gathered a deep crimson rose for 
 Esperance, and Esperance, after some consideration, chose 
 a crimson carnation for his bution-hole. They wandered 
 about, and paced up and down the trim box-edged paths, 
 while the time slipped by unnoticed, and at length grannie 
 had to call them into tea in the little, old-fashioned parlor. 
 Esperance sat at the head of the table, and poured out tea 
 for them. She looked more bewitching than ever as her 
 hands moved deftly about among the old blue and white 
 china, and there was a delightful copper tea-kettle on the 
 hearth which Claude had the pleasure of fetching back- 
 ward and forward for her, a task which he liked so much 
 that he would quite have spoiled the tea by his frequent 
 attentions if she had allowed him. 
 
 Then he reminded her of her promised sitting, and she 
 
 - referred prettily 1o Mrs. Passmore, whereupon Claude took 
 the speaking-trumpet, and succeeded in making grannie 
 understand that he wanted to paint Esperance. This 
 seemed quite to gratify the old lady, and before he left it — 
 was arranged that he should come every afternoon to carry 
 on his work. | 
 
 Of course while he painted he talked, and Esperance, 
 who was never quiet for long at a time, talked too, and 
 blushed, and showed the most puzzling varieties of 
 expression, sometimes even forgot herself so far as to 
 gesticulate, so that had she been an ordinary model, 
 Claude would have been enraged ; as it was, however, he 
 was all the more delighted, and in spite of her delinquen- 
 cies, the picture was a great success. He found it very 
 hard now not to tell her of his love, but he remembered 
 Lady Worthington’s advice, and with a sigh resolved to 
 respect French customs, He asked her instead for Gas- 
 pard’s address in Dickoya, hoping she might perhaps guess 
 why he wanted it, but she enly looked provokingly 
 innocent, and began to talk of coffee plantations. 
 
 ajne day, however, when he walked out to the priory, he 
 
= hae 
 me 
 Sat 
 
 SOY cs WON BY WAITING. 
 
 snatches of song. 
 s & 
 
 
 
 a Ey ae Sc eb ee a ae Va a Soe "® 
 Lest ply Ee oe ys Soka rte Mee LES ame ee rial Geet Oe CP 
 SERA tin Nair Sap ae Bae Gh ah Nae NT Oe Be tan Shh 
 
 Re x. Saree a age: i 
 
 
 
 found Esperanee unmistakably grave and sad; .- .#e& 
 fancied she had been crying. In the course of the atter- 
 noon it transpired that Mrs. Mortlake had sent for her ; 
 Bella was poorly, and they were going at once to the sea- 
 side. 
 
 “TI do not want to leave grannie,” she explained, regret- 
 fully ; “it is so quiet and happy here at the Priory. 
 Besides, to-morrow is my jour de naissance, and we were to 
 have a féte.” 
 
 But the tears were not altogether for the lost féte, and,, 
 after all, the eighteenth birthday proved a day of strange, 
 dawning joy. Claude came to say good-bye to her just 
 before she started, bringing with him some exquisite flow- 
 ers. He would not have ventured to do so at another time, 
 but the féte day made a happy excuse, and his parting 
 words sent a glad thrill through Esperance. 
 
 “ You will not be at the sea-side all the summer, I hope, 
 for I shall be in Rilchester again in two months’ time.” 
 
 Her presence would make a difference to him, then! 
 She was glad to have the railway carriage to herself that 
 day, for she could not help bursting out into little ecstatie 
 
 * * * % * 
 
 Gaspard had had a rough, cross-country ride on his mare 
 Blanchette. It was Sunday morning, and he had been to a 
 store twelve miles off to service; now he was coming back 
 to Mr. Seymour’s-bungalow very hot and tired and hungry. 
 
 Mr. Seymour was standing at the door as he dismounted. 
 He himself did not manage to getto a Sunday service more 
 than once or twice in the year. mene 
 
 “You have had a hot ride, Gaspard,’—-the name of De 
 
 Mabillon was too long to please him. “I hope your parson 
 gave you something very superfine in the way of sermons 
 to make up for it.” | 
 
 ‘“‘Two in one,” said Gaspard, with a yawn, “lasting just 
 an hour, and out of a congregation of thirty, twenty-two 
 were nodding before the end.” , 
 
 Mr. Seymour made a gesture of compassion, then held 
 out two letters. : 
 
 “The post has come; there is a reward for you.” 
 
 Gaspard took the letters, scrutinizing them eagerly 
 while he led Blanchette round to her stable, then, having 
 
 banded her over to one of the coolies, he entered the — 
 bungalow, threw himself back in a wicker chair and opened — 
 Esperance’s letter. He was much startled by her news of 
 
 i Se 
 

 
 Map 
 
 Oleg 
 
 Bertha’s marriage, aud shocked to think of her night of | 
 loneliness and terror in the cathedral; but the end of her 
 letter reassured him. He liked to think of her with kind 
 old Mrs. Passmore, and with Claude Magnay to enliven 
 
 her every afternoon; there was a brightness of tone, too, 
 about her writing which made him feel happy about her. 
 However much she tried to make her letters uniformly 
 cheerful, he always managed to find out in what mood 
 they had been written, and about this letter there was an 
 unusually buoyant. happiness. 
 
 __- He opened the next one moreleisurely, wondering whom 
 it was from, then seeing the signature, was glad and yet 
 surprised that Claude should write to him. His bronzed 
 face wore a startled expression as he slowly deciphered the 
 large, irregular characters. He read on, however: 
 
 -**My pear Dr Masriton,—When we parted I did not know 
 how very soon I should have to come upon you for that promised 
 favor, which you were so pleased to have suggested to you last 
 summer. Iam taking you at your word, however, and am going 
 
 to make a very serious and great request. But first for a little 
 explanation. I was staying at Worthington Hall last Christmas, 
 and saw your sister twice. I realized then for the first time how 
 much I loved her, and since then time has only strengthened 
 these convictions. I -ritenowt ask if you will consent to my 
 proposing to your sister? I shall not dwell upon my love for 
 er—I can not write of it, and I believe you will understand me. 
 I think I could make her happy, and most earnestly beg that you 
 -will allow me to speak to her. With regard to money consider- 
 ations, you already know that I am notrich, but I am in receipt 
 of a small yearly income from invested capital, and am making 
 a good deal by my pictures, so that I think we could live very 
 
 _comfortably, and I would insure my life or do anything you like. 
 
 I shall await your reply very anxiously. My requestis a very 
 great one; but I know you too well not to feel certain that you 
 will grant it, if there is no real obstacle in the way. 
 s * Yours most truly, 
 ** CuauDE Maanay. 
 ** Riichester, 5th June, 1873.” 
 
 Gaspard’s face was a strange mixture of thankfulness, 
 joy, and regret when he put down the letter. He liked 
 Claude exceedingly, and felt that he could give Esperance 
 to him more willingly than to most men, but in any case 
 her marriage would involve a certain sense of loss to him- 
 
 self. There could be no happy visions of a home in Cey- 
 
 lon now. But Gaspard had unlearned his selfishness in a 
 hard school, and heloved Esperance far too mueh not t¢ 
 
 WON BY WAITING. = m9 
 
250 WON BY WAITING. c ‘i 
 rejoice in this gste., ect of happiness for her. Before the 
 Sunday was over he had written a brotherly letter to 
 Claude, inclosing another to be given to Esperance when 
 he had spoken to her ; and somehow the more he thought 
 uver this new suggestion the more he liked it, nor had he 
 much doubt what Esperance’s answer would be. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 It is not because your heart is mine, mine only, mine alone ; 
 
 It is not because you chose me, weak and fonely for your own $ 
 Not because the earth is fairer, and the skies spread above you 
 Are more radiant for the shining of your eyes—that Ilove you! 
 But because this human love, though true and sweet—yours and 
 
 mine, 
 Has been sent by Love more tender, more complete, more di- 
 vine ; 
 That it leads our hearts to rest at last in Heaven, far above you ; 
 Do I take you as a gift that God has given—and I love you. 
 A. A, Proctor. 
 
 By the end of July the family at the deanery were all at 
 home again ; the dean seemed much better for his stay in ” 
 Germany, and Mrs. Mortlake had recovered her spirits, 
 too ; it was only Cornelia who was permanently altered 
 by that time of grief, and shame, and self-reproach. She 
 never lost the lines of sadness which gathered then around 
 her firm, compressed lips, but the expression rather 
 softened her face than otherwise. : 
 
 Bertha’s marriage had now of course been published. 
 It was generally known in Rilchester that she had been 
 married abroad to her cousin, but that her family did not — 
 approve of the connection, so the subject was avoided 
 with the Collinsons, and, with the exception of Claude 
 Magnay, none but the very nearest relatives ever heard the 
 real story. ; 
 
 Claude waited impatiently through those summer months 
 for Gaspard’s reply to his letter, working hard at his paint- ~ 
 . ing, and alternating between hope and despair. At length 
 ore morning he found the long-expected letter on his 
 breakfast-table ; it was all that he could possibly wish ; 
 Gaspard was apparently pleased and gratified by his pro- 
 posal, and wrote most affectionately. Claude’s happiness 
 was complete—his long waiting had been rewarded ; he | 
 would lose no more time. He rang the bell at once and 
 wrdered the “angel-page ” to call a hansom, then unable 
 
WON BY WAITING. 25) 
 
 - € touch his breakfast, he rushed up to his room, tossed 2 
 few clothes iuto a portmanteau, and in ten minutes was 
 on ig way to the station to catch an early train to the 
 north. 
 
 Lhe journey rather quieted him down. By the time the 
 flat barren plain warned him that he was near Rilchester, 
 - he had become far less hopeful and confident, and when 
 the magnificent pile of the cathedral appeared in the dis-: 
 tance, a dark mass against the blue sky, he even began to 
 feel doubtful as to‘the wisdom of going to the deanery at 
 all. Should he write to her instead? He sent his port- 
 manteau to the Spread Eagle, and walked slowly away 
 from the station. Rilchester looked as peaceful as ever, 
 
 and eyen more deserted, for it was a very hot afternoon 
 and few people were stirring : you might have fired a can- 
 non down the High Street without hurting a soul. Claude 
 walked on, trying to make up his mind, till at last 
 he found himself close to the Vicar’s Court, then with 
 the sudden perception of his nearness to Esperance, 
 his hesitation disappeared ; he walked quickly through 
 the silent court, and across the square, graveled ap- 
 proach to the deanery, and rang the funeral-sound- 
 ing bell. He asked boldly for Mlle. de Mabillon. 
 She was at home; he entered the blue-and-white tiled 
 hall where he had seen her last Christmas with her holly 
 wreath, and felt his courage rising. The footman, who, of 
 -eourse, remembered him well, turned just as they were 
 crossing the hall—there were visitors in the drawing- 
 room—he believed ma’mselle was in the dining-room— 
 would Mr. Maenay see her there? Claude eagerly assented, 
 blessing the thoughtful footman, and registering a mental 
 vow that he would ever after tip him in gold; then the 
 heavy door was thrown back, he caught a momentary vision 
 of mahogany and crimson rep, and the next moment was 
 only conscious that he was in the same room with Espe- 
 rance, that he held her hand in his. They sat down near 
 the open window, he heard her speaking to him in ler clear 
 voice, and was vaguely aware that she looked cool and 
 beautiful in her white dress, among the hot, ugly surround- 
 ings, and that she wore a deep crimson rose, like the one 
 he had given her at the Priory. She was telling him of 
 
 their stay at the sca-side; then she asked if he had come te 
 
 paint another picture in the cathedral, and Claude suddenly 
 roused himself from his half-dreamy happiness, and replie@ 
 earnestly. 
 

 
 252 a WON BY WAITING. _ 
 
 *sNo, I have not come to paint this time. You remem: 
 ber, perhaps, that I asked you for your brother's addresr, © 
 when Lwas staying here before. Can you guess at all why ~ 
 kB wrote to him?” — i 
 
 He had spoken hesitatingly, his color had risen, and hee 
 began to wish most heartily that he had written to her. 
 How was she to guess from his floundering speech that he 
 loved her? Why had he begun with such an unangwera- 
 ble question? Esperance looked up at him with her — 
 
 vely-sweét eyes, her heart was beating fast, but she saw 
 Big sibaer ‘assment, and said, gently, “Tell me.’ 
 
 "Those two words, and the sweet, truthful, upward glanee 
 gave him fresh strength ; he stood up and drew nearer to 
 her, leaning against the window-frame. 7 
 
 set B wrote to: your brother,” he began, in a low voice, “be» 
 cause I had a favor to ask him. LIwrote to ask him if J 
 
 might come to see you; and this morning I heard from. 
 
 him-—he said I might.” Sarg 
 
 There was a pause—Esperance’s eyes were cast down _ 
 now, her cheeks were glowing; : little tabby kitten stole — a 
 in through the French window and played about at her s 
 feet, but “she did not notice it. _ *) 
 
 *Do you remember,” Claude began again— do you rée- 
 member that snowy-Christmas eve when you were in the 
 hall decorating ? You thought I did not recognize you — 
 then, but it was at that moment, really, that I first saw—” 
 
 He broke off abruptly. Why did that wretched little 
 kitten distract her attention just then by springing on to © 
 her knee? She took it in her arms, rose from her ehaie EY 
 and came to the window. Claude stroked the little in- 
 truder in silence, then Esperance looked up, and somehow — 
 their eyes met; he knew that she understood him then, and : 
 spoke with sudden confidence. us 
 
 ‘Esperance! I have no words with.me, but I love va ‘ 
 with my whole heart and soul! Tell me, darling, could — 
 you love me a little too, some day ?” 
 
 He had taken her hands in his, and could feel them — 
 trembling; her color came and went, but she did not keep Ae 
 him long in suspense; he knew his answer bythe rapturous 
 light that dawned in her eyes; and it was with his arms 
 round her that she sobbed out, * Oh, Claude, now-slayas 
 —with all the love I have!” Fs 
 
 Hither the kitten was endowed in the highest decree 
 with tact, or else she saw a biru in the garden, for when 
 Claude began to speak she suddenly scrambled down and e 
 
 et abs Fees fl a 
 
 yal 
 ~~ oe. #y: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING.” = i(isttitsi«éGD 
 
 ran away. The lovers were left undisturbed for at least an : 
 
 hour, then the cathedral bells began to ring for afternoon 
 service, and Claude rose to go, promising to call and see 
 
 the dean afterward. Esperance went up to her room, feel- 
 ing as if it were ali a wonderful dream, and glad to have 
 
 something tangible in the shape of Gaspuard’s letter of 
 congratulation to assure her that this great, awe-inspiring 
 
 joy was real and lasting. She was glad to be alone fora — 
 
 few minutes; then, hearing Cornelia pass along the gallery, 
 she opened her door and called timidly. : 
 Cornelia came with inquiry in her eyes, but one glance at 
 
 - Esperance told her all. 
 
 _ “So Claude Magnay has been here,” she said, quietly. 
 “Yes, he has been here a long time,” said Esperance, 
 
 - looking down. — “ And—and I have something to tell you, 
 
 dlear—he has asked me to be his wife.” 
 
 She had half hid her face on her cousin’s shoulder as she 
 said this; then, reassured by Cornelia’s embrace, she went 
 on more eagerly : 
 
 “And he loves me, Cornelia; he has loved me, he says, ever 
 
 - since Christmas. It seems so strange, so wonderful! Hesays 
 
 i shall sit with him in his studio while he paints, and we. 
 
 ~ ghall havea dear little cozy house—think of having a house 
 - Of one’s very own! And you must come and stay with us, 
 
 Cornelia, and then you will be able to hear all the great 
 people preach, and go to all the lectures. | Dear Cornelia, 
 he isso good! so wonderful! It seems almost too much 
 10 ! 33 rs 
 Cones kissed her repeatedly, but could not speak; then 
 suddenly she turned away, hurriedly took off her specta- 
 cles and wiped them. ‘ Will you like to come fo the serv- 
 ice or not?” she asked, in an odd, choked voice. 
 Esperance said she would go, and the cousins went 
 down stairs hand in hand, 
 
 Ciaude sat in the stalls just behind the deanery pew, and 
 somehow the service that afternoon seemed on purpose for 
 them. Nothing could have suited them so well as those 
 thirtieth-day psalms, with their praise and thanksgiving, 
 nor could the precentor have chosen a more fitting anthem 
 
 _ than “I waited for the Lord.” Cornelia could not help 
 
 ‘bears. 
 
 = glancing at Esperance’s sweet tranquil face as the full | 
 - chorus took up the words, “Oh, blessed are they that hope 
 - end trust in the Lord!” and when it was over, and she 
 
 was on her knees once more, she did not restrain her 
 
 - 
 
 
 
254 WON BY WAITING, os 
 
 Claude joined them as they went out, and Cornelia spoke 
 afew words of congtatuiation to him—kind, true words, 
 with no effusion. He looked so radiantly happy that she 
 half trembled to think of his interview with the dean; but 
 it passed.off better than might have been expected. ‘The 
 dean had a great regard for Claude; he was flattered that 
 he had thought of his niece, and there was nothing to be 
 said against the marriage. .He said he should like to see 
 Esperance, and Claude went to fetch her from the drawing- 
 room, keeping her hand still in his as they passed into the 
 gloomy library, and leading her up'to the dean. It re- 
 minded her of that other summons more than a year ago, 
 
 when she had heard that Gaspard was going to Ceylon; — 
 
 but how different was everything now! 
 
 The dean sat in his great leatherarm-chair. He looked 
 grave and rather severe, but it was his usual expression 
 now, and in agreeing to Claude’s proposal he naturally 
 thought of George Palgrave, and remembered easily Ber- 
 tha’s defiance of his authority. 
 
 “Claude has just informed me, my dear, that he has — 
 
 asked you to be his wife, and I desired to see you for a 
 few minutes that I might give you some words of advice 
 and congratulation.” 
 
 “This beginning sounded rather formidable. Esperance — 
 
 os 
 
 shrunk nearer to Claude, while he held her hand closely. . 
 
 The dean continued : 
 “You are about to enter on a most serious and solemn 
 
 undertaking. I trust that you have gravely. considered — 
 
 the matter at your leisure, and that you are well certi- 
 fied of the wisdom and fitness of your choice. Do not 
 be deluded into thinking that married life is nothing but 
 ‘bliss; if you prepare yourself to find it such, you will 
 be speedily disappointed, but act and think wisely and 
 soberly, and I most sincerely trust that such happinees as 
 is to be found in this world may be yours. You are greatly 
 ‘honored by receiving the affection and esteem of a 
 clever and worthy man, and I have no doubt that you 
 will endeavor to prove your gratitude.” 
 Claude was struck dumb by the pomposity of this har- 
 
 , ABS oe 
 ; 
 
 i! 
 
 angue, and Esperance could not help being amused by it, — 
 It had never entered her head to tiink of Claude as a — 
 “worthy man,” and tuere was something incongruous in’ 
 
 the term ; nor would she have dreamed of applying the 
 
 words “ esteem and affection” to the beautiful, soul-satis- 
 fying love which had just been revealed to her. But thas — 
 
 + 
 
 
 
WON BY WAITING. 255 
 
 happy French magic of saying the right thing at the right 
 
  tiine came to her aid. Before Claude had recovered from 
 
 his amazement she was kneeling beside the dean, and the 
 icy solemnity of the interview was at once broken. 
 “Dear uncle,” she said, eagerly, “I feel that we owe 
 
 everything to you. Ifit had not been for your kindness 
 
 to me I should never have seen Claude ; there is only one 
 more thing I want, and that is your blessing.” 
 The dean was touched. He put his hands on the two 
 
 young heads, and his words were unusually fervent, then 
 
 “or a few minutes they ali talked naturally, and before long 
 «laude had begged for the keys of the cathedral, and had 
 wandered away with Esperance for an hour's uninterrupted 
 peace before dinner. It was while they were standing in 
 the south aisle, beside the crusader’s tomb, that he drew 
 out a ring and placed it on Esperance’s finger. 
 
 “Do you remember,” he said, smiling, “that walk which 
 we had once together, when you told me your motto was 
 * Hspérez toujours’? I thought we would keep it still. If 
 you had said ‘No’ this afternoon I should have kept the 
 ring and the motto for my comfort.” 
 
 Esperance looked at the beautiful little ring and saw 
 what he meant. It was from his own design: a wide band 
 
 _ of gold with the motto in quaintly carved letters around 
 
 Pa a ae a On 
 
 ~ 
 
 wet 
 
 ~en 
 
 it. Nothing could have delighted her more. 
 
 Just as they were coming out of the cathedral they met 
 the precentor; he had already heard of their engagement, 
 and was fairly overwhelming with his kind wishes, making 
 HisQerance color deeply by asking which was to be the 
 “auspicious day. 
 
 The a as set Claude thinking; he did not speak of 
 ib again that afternoon, but before long he introduced the 
 subject. There was no reason for a prolonged engagement, 
 and before he left Rilchester it was arranged that the 
 marriage should take place at the beginning of the next 
 
 ear. 
 
 : On the whole that autumn passed happily; Mrs. Mort- 
 lake was quite in her element at such a time, and was much 
 more kind than Esperance had expected; indeed, after she 
 had heard that Bella was to be a bride-maid, she was 
 
 ' never tired of discussing the wedding-day. Cornelia was, - 
 however, the real sympathizer, and it was she who first 
 
 asked Esperance if there was no one she would like invited 
 
 _ to the wedding. 
 
 The Worthingtons and Frances Neville were, ef course 
 

 
 
 eae SW 
 ag a eres Ges, : 
 
 956 -——s WON BY WAITING. 
 
 to be present, and Esperance remembered Mme. Lemer- 
 
 cier, and wondered if Mr. Henderson would allow Maggie 
 to come too. “These, with an uncle of Claude's, a cousin, 
 whe acted ag best man, and Mr. White, the minor canon 
 
 
 
 made up the small wedding-party, for both Claude and 
 
 Esperance were singularly destitute of relations. Mrs. 
 
 Mortlake was quite sorry that the procession of guests 
 
 would not be more imposing ; she tried hard to find a few 
 friends for the occasion—sent a pressing invitation to Mr. 
 Henderson to accompany his little girl, and persuaded old 
 
 Mrs. Passmore to risk coming out in the winter. Then nb 3 
 Esperance had to choose who should marry them, and, ~ 
 
 having considered the various cathedral dignitaries for 
 
 some time, she finally selected the good-natured precenter __ 
 
 as the most kind-hearted among them, and a friend of 
 Claude’s as well. When this was arranged Mrs. Mortlake 
 
 suggested that the precentor’s eldest little girl would look - 
 
 charming as a bride-maid, and was exactly Bella’s height, 
 whereas Kathie was shorter, and would, no doubt, pair 
 
 much better with Maggie Henderson. Esperance, of — 
 
 course, agreed to this, and was a good deal relieved that 
 - Christabel should take such an interest in the preparations, 
 
 being quite well aware that if this had not been the case, 
 
 the autumn would have been a time of great discomfort. — 
 
 CHAPTER XXXTIT. 
 
 Love shall be purified by pain, 
 And Pain be soothed by Love again, 
 So let us now take heart and go 
 Cheerfully on through joy and woe; 
 No change the summer sun can bring, 
 Or the inconstant skies of spring, = 
 Or the bleak winter’s stormy weather, 
 For we shall meet them, Love, together ! 
 A. A. Proctor. 
 
 Lapy Wortuneron was delighted to hear of. Claude’s 
 success, and felt much satisfaction in remembering the 
 
 share she had had in bringing the two together. She 
 and Frances saw a great deal of Esperance, and were very 
 anxious that she should spend Christmas at the Hall; — 
 but she was obliged to decline the invitation, as she — 
 
 felt snre that Cornelia, at least, would be grieved te 
 
 lose her at all before the wedding-day. This had been — 
 fixed for the 6th of January, and the time waa drawing — 
 
 
 
 “a 
 ae. 
 
 aaa z A 
 aN SY OH OMe yee ae Be : - 
 ee Sea ahh sg ne cde ee ee oe aa eae rf 
 
otk ene ay Bee ees FL A ae en i ew ee OW gg 
 Ye . : : ms wee « 
 
 ey ep ee ey. eae, ie ae en De 
 
 WON BY WAITING. | O57 
 very near. Claude came down for a few days at Christ- 
 
 mas, vut he was obliged to go back to town again to make 
 his final arrangements ; as they intended to be abroad for 
 
 some months he had a good deal to do, and at the last 
 
 was so much hindered that he did not reach Rilchester till 
 the latest train on the evening of the fifth. 
 That was a strange day to Esperance—and rather a 
 
 dreary one. ‘J’rances Neville came to see her in the morn- 
 
 ing, and in the afternoon she drove to the Priory to see 
 Mrs. Passmore, hurrying back with the expectation of 
 Claude’s arrival. Instead of this, however, there was a 
 telegram to say that he must come by the later terain in- 
 stead, and, although the meeting was only postponed fora 
 few hours, she could not help feeling disappointed and de- 
 ressed, 
 
 : While she was sitting rather drearily with the tele- 
 gram in her hand, Mrs. Mortlake came in with a disturbed 
 face. 7 
 
 “Where have you been?” she asked, in a reproachful 
 tone. “So many callers have been here wishing to see 
 you and the presents—you really ought to have stayed in 
 this afternoon.” 
 
 “am wvery sorry 5 I went to the Pricry to see Mrs. 
 Passmore.” 
 
 “Oh! that is why the carriage is out! You really are 
 very inconsiderate, Esperance. I suppose you kept the 
 horses standing at the door for ever so long in that pour- 
 ing rain! You ought to be more thoughtful. I think it’s 
 the least you can do when you live in other people’s 
 houses.” 
 
 “T am very sorry, ’ repeated poor ER poranice. “but Cor- 
 nelia told me to drive.” 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake muttered something about the mistake of 
 having two mistresses, and left the room, while Esperance 
 
 * crouched down beside the fire and had a good cry. She 
 
 was tired and disappointed, and the gloomy twilight of the 
 dining-room made her feel still more dreary-and forlorn. 
 
 And to-morrow was to be her wedding-day! She tried 
 
 hard to realize it, and felt a little sad as she remembered 
 how far away Gaspard was, and wondered if other people 
 felt as lonely as she did on the eve of marriage. And then 
 that bitter reproach which Mrs. Mortlake was so fond of 
 using about “other people’s houses” stung her afresh, and 
 she felt that it was hard and cruel to have made it on thie 
 fast day. 
 
BSE as eae ts Er hs gna CNET Sea eee tT eee nae 
 is = ; 2 iss Se 
 
 
 
 258 WON BY WAITING, 
 
 ‘Her dismal thoughts were not put to flight till Cornelia 
 
 returned from the cathedral, and coming into the room — 
 
 was surprised to find her alone, curled up on the hearth- 
 rug. 
 
 “Claude does not ,come till half past ten,” she said, 
 mournfully. : 
 
 “Oh! I am sorry for that,” said Cornelia, kindly. Then 
 stirring the fire into a blaze, and glancing again at Espe- 
 -rance, “ Why, you have been crying; how is that, dear?” 
 
 “Tt was lonely, and Christabel was vexed with me, and I 
 think she will be glad when Tm gone, and somehow I 
 felt so wretched,” replied Esperance, nestling up to Cor- 
 nelia in the way which she had only lately dared to do. 
 
 “ Christabel will really miss you a great deal,’ said Cor- 
 nelia, decidedly, “ whether she says so or not. Iam sure 
 she will, for you have done a great deal for her; and you 
 know, Esperance, how much I shall miss you.’ 
 
 Cornelia could not say more ; she could not tell Esper- 
 
 ance of the wonderful change which had been wrought in ~ 
 
 her life during the last year and a half, of the cold, hard, 
 self-contained nature, which had first been softened by the 
 sight of her love for Gaspard, of the long-dormant 
 
 womanly tenderness which had been awakened at the time < 
 
 of her illness. Reserved she must always be, but no longer 
 with the cold suspiciousness of former times. 
 
 Esperance quite understood those few words, and an-- 
 
 swered them with such gratitude for the love which she her- 
 self had stimulated, and such lavish endearments, that Cor- 
 nelia could not help feeling deeply touched. After that they 
 talked for a good half hour about Claude, by which time 
 
 Hsperance was quite herself again, and ready to take the © 
 
 ereatest possible interest in the arrival of the “Hendersons 
 and Mme. Lemercier. 
 The 6th of January dawned gloomily enough; it was one 
 
 of those still, cold winter days, when not a ray of sunlight ~ é 
 
 seems able to pierce the gray, cloudy atmosphere. The 
 Rilchester people looked suspiciously at the sky, and quo- 
 ted the proverb about the bride whom the rain falls on, 
 and even the family at the deanery feit depressed, except 
 
 _ Indeed the little bride herself. Nothing could a‘fect her _ 
 
 happy serenity that day. 
 Frances and Mme. Lemercier helped to dress her in 1 the 
 
 Indian muslin which Gaspard had sent home, relieved by — 
 
 its prevty trimming of airy-light swan ’s-down, and tiny — 
 sprays of myrtle and orange-blossom. It was a, little toe 
 

 
 ‘WON BY WalTING. — 959 
 
 ginaple to please Mme. Lemercier, “too much like a dress 
 
 for a premiere communon, chérie,” she explained. 
 
 “T don’t think’it need be any better than that, dear 
 Madame,” said Esperance, simply. | 
 ~ Mme. Lemercier hardly understood the remark, but she 
 
 - expressed complete satisfaction when the tiny wreath and 
 
 veil of tulle were added, and declared that the tout ensemble 
 was perfect when Claude’s bouquet of Christmas roses and 
 
 maiden-hair was brought upstairs—he hud arranged it 
 himself, and would not admit any other flower. 
 
 For afew minutes she was left alone; then, when the 
 last party of guests had started for the cathedral, she 
 went quietly down-stairs to the drawing-room, expecting 
 to find her uncle there. The room was empty, however ; 
 she waited till the carriage was announced, then feelin e 
 just-a little fevlorn, she crossed the hall and knocked at 
 the library door. 
 
 The dean was bending over a great dusty volume. 
 
 “Oh! is it time, my dear?” he said, looking up. “Tl 
 just finish tnis page, and perhaps you would see to that.” 
 
 He held up a white glove which had lost a button, and 
 she took it obediently, and ran to look for her work-box. 
 In spite of the hinderance of trembling fingers, the glove 
 was ready for the dean long before he was ready for it; 
 however, at last he. did get up, carefully placed a marker 
 in his book, adjusted his white tie, put on the gloves, and 
 turned to his niece with a little bow. 
 
 *‘ Now, my dear, I am at your service.” : 
 
 For; moment she felt an unutterable longing for her 
 father, but she would not allow herself to be really chilled 
 by the dean’s frigid manner, knowing that he intended to 
 be kind. She lifted up her face to be kissed, and then 
 allowed herself to be led in silence to the carriage. he 
 dean was very absent that morning; he muttered to him- 
 self about somebody’s comet which was expected, and made 
 numerous little calculations during the drive. Esperance 
 said nothing, but held her Christmas roses tightly, and 
 
 wondered whether Gaspard were thinking of her. 
 
 Then they reached the west door of the.cathedral, and 
 the dean suddealy rousing himself gave her his arm, and 
 led her into the nave. The gloom was intense, and the 
 darkness and awe of the building would have chilled Hs- 
 perance, had it not been for Wagner's beautiful march 
 
 - which pealed forth from the organ as she entered. Claude 
 
 joined them within the choir Bate, and they passed on 
 
260 | WON BY “WAITING. 
 
 through the crowd of eager, curious faces, to the altar 
 Cornelia, from her place at She east end, watched anxiously, 
 but she could not feel otherwise than thankful and happy 
 when the little bride came into sight, a bright form in the 
 surrounding gloom. It could not be called an imposing 
 procession. Mrs. Mortlake, indeed, was vexed by its ex- 
 treme simplicity, and longed for more bride-maids and 
 more elaborate dresses, bub nevertheless there was some- 
 thing very striking aboufit. The dean, more erect than 
 usual, looked quite patriarchal, with his silvery hair and. 
 flowing white beard; Claude was eager-eyed and wistfully 
 grave; while between them was Esperance, with her ra» 
 diant brown eyes full of tender awe, and her sweet, tran- 
 quil face looking almost as child-like as those of her little 
 bride-maids. 
 
 The service proceeded, and the darkness grew more and 
 more oppressive, while the vows were interchanged between 
 “Claude” and ‘Kisperance Bien-Aimée;” the voices of the 
 choir sounded far away in the gloom as they chanted the 
 psalms, and the precentor could hardly see to read the 
 prayers. It was not till the very end of the service, when 
 Mendelssohn’s hymn “ Now thank we all our God” was 
 being sung, tbat the hght became suddenly brighter, and 
 as Claude led his wife from the altar, a gleam of sunslitne 
 penetrated the clear-story windows, and the dreary, op~ 
 pressive obscurity was at once changed to golden, mellowed 
 brightness. 
 
 But the transformation scene that awaited them without 
 was still more wonderful. As the great west doors were 
 thrown open, and the pealing bells overpowered the distant 
 notes of the organ, a brightness more dazzling than 
 the winter sunlight greeted them. The heavy, omin- 
 ous clouds had discharged themselves, and during the 
 service there had been a brief but heavy snow-storm; 
 now the ground was covered with a veil of the purest 
 white, the heavy sky had . changed to clear, 
 frosty blue, and the day seemed turned from mournful 
 gloom to rejoicing. Mrs. Mortlake would have been greatly 
 disturbed, had she known that the bride and bridegroom 
 were actually obliged to wait while the vergers swept the — 
 snow from the carpeted path, but happily they themselves — 
 did not the least mind. 
 
 “How beautiful it all looks,” said Esperance, as they 
 drove through the silent, snowy streets, caud Iam so glad 
 ‘the sun has come out to welcome us,” 
 
WON BY WAITING. SOG 
 
 “Yes,” replied Claude, “this accounts for the darknese 
 ‘ust now; it ought to be a good omen for our life, darling — 
 brightness and light after gloom.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Esperance, smiling quietly, “and a reason 
 and purpose in the gloom all the time.” 
 
 It was essentially a happy wedding; even Cornelia, 
 though feeling the loss of Esperance keenly, could not. 
 but rejoice for her, and there were no painful leave-takings. 
 ~The dean seemed pleased, and, on the whole, relieved— 
 his sister’s child was marrying well; he had had some 
 share in introducing her to Claude Magnay, and now . 
 his responsibility was over. Another comfortable reflec- — 
 tion was that she was no longer a “De Mabillon.” He 
 took much pleasure in speaking of her as “my niece, 
 Mrs. Magnay,” and in the strength of this new con- 
 solation, endured Sir Henry Worthington’s speech, with 
 its kind-hearted and delicate allusions to M. de Ma- 
 billon and Gaspard. HEsperance’s stay at the deanery had 
 effected much, but it had not eured the dean of his old 
 antipathy, nor had it in the least convinced him that he 
 ought to have owned himself in the wrong. 
 
 Lady Worthington watched the farewells with a good 
 deal of interest ; her own motherly kiss had been civen, 
 then came Mrs. Mortlake with her properly expressed 
 wishes for future happiness, Cornelia with her long, 
 silent embrace, the dean with his patriarchal bless- 
 ing, and lastly poor hittle Bella in floods of tears, 
 which seemed all the more surprising as she had always 
 been Esperance’s arch-tormentor. Mme. Lemercier also 
 shed tears, but the next moment she was smiling and 
 assuring Cornelia that it was the most beautiful wedding 
 that had ever been, and that Rilchester had made Espe- 
 rance like a “true angel.” Madame took great interest 
 in matters matrimonial, and since their Welsh tour she 
 had had a charming little project ; not that she was a 
 match-maker, she was scarcely in the position for it, but 
 she watched with hope and anxiety, and gave a little nod of 
 satisfaction when Mr. Henderson was carried off to see 
 the fernery at Worthington. Her rapid imagination had 
 arranged everything most satisfactorily, and before the 
 afternoon was over she had arrived at the conclusion that 
 Devonshire air would suit, Miss Neville’s health admirae 
 biy, and that Maggie would have a charming belle-mere. 
 

 
 262 _ ‘WON BY WAITING. 
 
 CHAPTER XAXIV. 
 
 Thy branches are not bare, and iy 
 What storms have shook them to and fro. 
 
 To thee haz time brought many Joys, 
 Tf many it has bid to go. . 
 
 Trust in that veiled hand which leads, 
 None by the path that he would go, 
 
 And from the Lord all good expect, — 
 Who many mercies strews below. 
 From the Arabic, Asp. TRENCH. 
 
 ESPERANCE Rall never traveled much before, and her 
 “reshness and naivete, combined with a very real appre- 
 tiation of the beautiful, made her a perfect traveling 
 zompanion ; while the freedom from all formahty and — 
 yestraint, and the constant sense of love and protection, 
 made that year of wandering one of the happiest of 
 ber life. Of the actual idleness of a honeymoon they ., 
 lad none. Claude worked assiduously from the very 
 first, but the work took him to all the most beautiful 
 places, and was never allowed to interfere with her com- 
 fort or enjoyment. They spent the winter in Italy, wan- 
 dering on from place to place ‘as they pleased, with no fixed 
 limit to their stay. 
 
 - It was while they were spending a few: days at a little Mes 
 village near Ravenna, that Esperance first learned Claude’s _ 
 strong predilection for waifs and strays. A certain black- 
 haired, large-eyed boy in tattered garments, had watched 
 him for some time when he was sketching one morning; __ 
 this was no novelty, as he not unfrequently had a small ge 
 crowd of children to watch him; but this particular boy 
 appeared day after day, at first looking on intently and-in. ~ 
 silence, but afterward venturing on intelligent questions, ~~ 
 The third day he brought a rough attempt ‘of his own to ae 
 
 show, and Claude, struck by its merits, believed he had ~ 
 
 discovered a second Giotto; the boy undoubtedly had great — 2 
 talent, and Claude at once offered to help him. Esperance ee 
 was amused and pleased at this novel addition to their 
 party. Beppo was a sharp boy, and was useful besides in 
 fetching and carrying; he also cleaned Clande’s palette 
 and washed his brushes: and seemed to be making real prog--  — 
 ress in his studies. But unfortunately one morning 2s 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING.  —_3 263. 
 
 o . 
 Claude found his paint-box ransacked, aud all his most val- 
 
 ~uable brushes missing—Beppo had ‘mysteriously disap- 
 peared in the night, and was never again heard of! 
 
 The next waif was rather more successful. She was a 
 lovely little Italian girl whom Claude picked up in the — 
 streets of Florence and brought home to paint. Esperance 
 liked her much better than the artistic Beppo, more espe- 
 cially when she found that she was homeless and without 
 belongings. “They kept her with them while they were in ~ 
 the place, and afterward sent her to an orphanage where 
 she was happy and well cared for, and every year sent letters 
 of grateful remembrance to the “dear signora,’ *as she 
 called Esperance. 
 
 The third waif was an old half-blind and half-starved 
 artist whom Claude found out in Rome. He was a German, 
 with along, ragged, gray beard; but Esperance forgot his 
 nationality in his misfortunes, and was very kind to him. 
 He dined with them every day, and grew perceptibly fatter 
 toward the end of the time. 
 
 After Easter they left Rome and spent several quiet 
 weeks in the most lovely parts of the Engadine, and Claude 
 found Switzerland so beguiling that the weeks passed to 
 months, and summer changed to autumn beforea return to 
 England was thought of. At last they spoke of really 
 
 ‘settling down in October,and Esperance began to think 
 
 how she should arrange her rooms at St. John’s Wood. But 
 
 a great surprise was being prepared for her. | 
 
 One day Claude came in with an open letter in his hand, 
 and his face brimming over with delight and triumph. 
 
 « Chérie,” he said, brightly. “ what do you say to spend- 
 ing the winter in Auvergne: oe 
 
 She gave a little ery of joy. They had always talked of 
 going home through France, but to spend the winter there 
 had never occurred to her. | 
 
 «You would really like it, then ?” said Claude, with setis- 
 faction. “I have been thinking of it for weeks, but the 
 tiresome proprietor of the chateau was so long in writing; 
 and I did not want you to be disappointed.” 
 
 “What! we shall really be at the dear old chateau ?” @x- 
 claimed Esperance, joyously. 
 
 “Yes, the present proprietor is away from home, and 
 he has agreed to let it to me for four months. Now at last 
 
 I shall be able to make good that promise I gave you 80 _ 
 
 long ago—to paint your dear mountains of Auvergne.” 
 Jud wo it usppenes that on @ lovely October evening 
 
264. WON BY WAITING. 
 
 er 
 
 a me (ree ee) ab 
 
 Esperance found herself once more in her old home. The 
 
 return might have been painful to her in other circum- 
 stances, but with her hand in Claude’s she could look with 
 happy recognition, and tender but not regretful memories 
 of the past, at all around her, from the beautiful Mont 
 d’Or itself to the dear old gray chateau, with its ruinous 
 walls and clinging ivy. It was all wonderfully litile 
 altered—the tiny village in the valley ; the convent where 
 she had spent her long afternoons ; the grassy terrace 
 on which she had so often walked with her father ; the 
 half-ruined pigeonnier, to the top of which Gaspard used to 
 carry her to the imminent peril of both their necks; lastly, 
 the great door itself, with its rough-hewn stone steps, and 
 a little crowd of old friends with an eager welcome. 
 
 There were a great many tears and embraces in spite of 
 Esperance’s newly acquired dignity. Mere Bonnier hung 
 about-her in an ecstasy of happiness; Marie was scarcely 
 less demonstrative, and Pierre, poor old Javotte’s son, now 
 a married man with two little black-eyed children of his 
 own, was eager to kiss “madame’s” hand. Claude was 
 amused and touched by the Jittle un-English scene, and 
 saw plainly enough that Esperance was not the only one 
 who would be gratified by his scheme for passing the winter 
 in Auvergne. ; 
 
 Nor was he inclined to accuse her of exaggerating the 
 beauties of her native place—the rich pasture-land, the fer- 
 tile valleys, the wild grandeur of the semi-volcanic moun- 
 tains, all filled him with admiration, while the beautiful au- 
 tumnal tints lent fresh glories to the thickly wooded 
 
 _ landscape. He worked hard for the next two months, and ~ 
 
 Esperance watched the progress of each picture with a de- 
 light and pride greater than that which she had taken even 
 in the most enchanting Itahan view. 
 
 Those autumn days were very restful and happy; she 
 used to take her needle-work and sit beside him while he 
 
 painted, wandering about when she pleased among the 
 
 woods in search of late flowers, or resting when tired in a 
 cleverly contrived hammock which Claude used to rig up 
 for her. 
 
 Then, when the light began to fail, and the ranz des 
 vaches echoed among the mountains from the clear voices 
 of the village girls, Claude wonld pack up his easel and his 
 painting apparatus, and they would go back te the old 
 chateau through the rustling fallen leaves and the golden» 
 
 brown woods. It was met until the trees were quite bare — 
 
 = 
 
ho 
 
 WON BY WAITING. ; 265 
 
 and leafless that Claude was obliged to go out alone to his © 
 work ; and the painting did not prosper half so well thei, 
 _ for somehow there was alwaysa good excuse for a speedy 
 return to the chateau—either the hghts were not favorable 
 or it was too cold, or he had forgotten some very necessary 
 implement, But perhaps this was not very blameworthy, 
 for in one of the quaint, rough rooms of the chateau, there 
 awaited him a study of life worth all the mountains of — 
 - Auvergne put together. 8 
 Qn Christmas eve a little son had been born to them, 
 and though Alphonse Noel, as they called him, was heir 
 to nothing but his father’s genius, the villagers were en- 
 thusiastic in their delight, and with M. le Curé’s leave 
 pealed the church bells till the mountains rang with the 
 echoes. ~~ 
 
 The baby grew and thrived, and was pronounced by 
 every one to be just like a De Mabillon. Claude wondered 
 what Dean Collinson would say ; but he himself was well 
 content that Noel should have inherited his mother’s radi- 
 ant, ever-varying brown eyes, her soft, dark hair, and 
 southern complexion. 
 
 _ Their time at the chateau was now nearly over; early 
 in February they were to return to England, and Esper- 
 ance began to dread all the farewells; however, they 
 passed off more happily than she had feared. Claude ar- 
 ranged a village féte in one of the great disused rooms, 
 and all Mabillon came to pay its respects to “madame” 
 and her baby. Nor was she to go back to England 
 alone; Murie Bonnier had pleaded hard to be allowed 
 to act a3 bonne to little Noel; and Esperance, 
 who knew well enough how faithful and devoted were 
 French country servants, gladly accepted her. Claude was 
 guilty of one other extravagance which perhaps pleased 
 lisperance more than anything—he insisted on conferring 
 a pension on Pierre, Javotte’s son, in memory of his 
 mother’s self-denying devotion. And Pierre was not too 
 proud to receive the substantial sowvenir, but gratefully 
 kissed madame’s hand, purchased a cow with part of his 
 newly acquired riches, and began to save up for his little 
 girl’s dot. | 
 
 The return to London was not without its pleasures. 
 Hisperance looked forward to arranging her new home, and 
 she was anxious to see Lady Worthington and Frances 
 again. Bertha and George, too, kad left their German — 
 home, and were now living at Bayswater, and the two 
 
8 Nag ER TES Ie LE RS AR Oe RE SE NE ER? a 
 : : = “7 aa TPO, ey oe 
 
 266 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 cousins made many plans for meeting. Dean Collinson 
 still refused to see his daughter ; aud though Cornelia had 
 written, she had not been up to town since tueir return, so 
 that Bertha welcomed Esperance doubly, longing to see 4- 
 home face once more. 
 
 In spite of that, however, the meeting was a very trying 
 one; Bertha was strangely subdued and changed, and 
 Hisperance was dismayed at her pale, worn face, and hol- 
 low eyes; the old nonchalant expression had certainly 
 quite vanished, but it was replaced by a look of sorrowful, 
 harassed anxiety, which made Esperance’s heart ache. 
 
 All she could do at present was to sympathize with her, 
 and try to give her fresh interests ; and Bertha did seem 
 rather happier when she was fairly out of the dreary Bays- 
 water lodgings, and established in Esperance’s pretty 
 drawing-room. George was in the city all day, and the 
 time passed slowly when she was alone ; but in the Mag. 
 nays’ house there was a brightness and geniality in the 
 very atmosphere which roused her from her depression of 
 spirits. After a time her visits there became almost daily 
 institutions ; she would sit nursing little Noel by the hour, 
 or talking sadly yet with a kind of pleasure of Rilchester 
 and the deanery, and the by-gone times. LEsperance was 
 only too glad to have her, and was always bright and 
 cheerful while she was present; but after she had gone 
 her face would become thoughtful and sad, and sometimes 
 a tear would fall on the baby’s white frock as she thought 
 over poor Bertha’s troubles. : 
 
 “Tf my uncle would only relent,” she used to say to 
 Claude, when most troubled by Bertha’s paieness and 
 ’ depression. 
 
 “ Well, chérie,” Claude would reply, “you and Noel must 
 20 to Rilchester and touch his heart, that is the only pian 
 I can think of.” 
 
 And Esperance would laugh, and hold her baby more 
 closely, while she declared that his little brown face would ~ 
 be worse than useless. 
 
 Strangely enough, before the summer was over, it seemed 
 likely that a visit to Rilchester might really take place. Claude 
 had a comission for another picture in Rilchester Cathed- 
 ral from a friend of the Worthingtons, who had seen and- 
 greatly admired his picture of the south aisle, and it was 
 arranged that they should go there early in the autumn. — 
 Esperance was very anxious to see Cornelia, but perhaps 
 she was more relieved than otherwise when a letter arrived © 
 
 ri} ae 
 
 e 
 
 a 
 
 re 
 
 ee 
 

 
 "WON BY WAITING. 267 
 house would be full all October, and that it would be im- 
 possible to accommodate them. She had no great love 
 
 for the deanery, and felt sure that it would be far more 
 convenient to have their own rooms at the Spread Eagle, 
 
 - where Claude could choose his own hours and 1gake as 
 
 great alitteras he pleased. Frances tried hard to per- 
 
 suade them to stay at Worthington ; bui much as they 
 
 would both have liked this, it was too far from the cathe-. 
 
 dral to be convenient, and Claude’s work was of course 
 the first cohsideration. 
 
 Cornelia was the only one who did not quite like the 
 
 arrangement ; she would greatly have preferred having 
 Esperance in the house; however, Christabel, as usual, 
 raised objections, and Cornelia, who never could argue on 
 household orderings without being worsted, was obliged 
 to submit. : 
 
 She came to the station to meet them on the day of their 
 arrival, and was delighted to find Esperance not the least 
 changed, perhaps looking even younger than before her 
 
 marriage. She could hardly realize at first that the bonne. 
 
 in the snowy-white cap,and the fine, dark-eyed boy of 
 
 nine months, really belonged to ber ; nor was Claude, with 
 
 his still boyish face, and easy, artistic dress, at all Tike a 
 paterfamilias.. 3 
 Rilchester seemed but little altered; and Esperance looked 
 at the quiet streets and picturesque houses with an odd 
 sort of affection ; she had learned a great deal while she 
 
 ‘lived there, and she could look back upon the suffering 
 
 \ 
 
 now with undisturbed serenity, seeing how good had come 
 out of the evil. It-was curious to drive down the very 
 streets which she used to pass through on her way to and 
 from the Priory, to recall the long, weary walks, her terro1 
 ‘when it grew dusk, and her encounter with the gang of 
 workmen, and then to look to the other side of the car- 
 riage and to see Claude giving a blithe recognition to the 
 precentor, and little Noel gazing with wide-opened eyes 
 at all about him. How little she had dreamed in those 
 dark days of the possessions which were awaiting her in 
 the future. 
 
 On the following day they were to dine at the deanery 
 and Mrs. Mortlake and Dean Collinson came to see them 
 before the afternoon service. Christabel was, of course, 
 
 _as polite and amiable as possible, and put on her very best 
 
 company manners, but Esperance knew she did not really 
 
 _ from Mrs. Mortlake, expressing great regret that the . — 
 
263  - WON BY WAITING. 
 
 like her any better than before, and disliked tha fussing 
 politeness almost more than the former sharp fault-finding. 
 The dean, too, seemed more pompous than ever; she had 
 mentioned Bertha’s name to him, but he had looked dis- 
 pleased, and had at once changed the subject. On the 
 
 whole the visit had been a disappointing one, ard she felt 
 
 weary and depressed. 
 
 “Why, my little ‘ Mariana,’ ” said Claude, as he returned 
 from seeing the visitors out, and found Esperance with 
 ‘the shadow of that old book on her face, “ what. has been 
 troubling you?” 
 
 * T don’t know,” said Esperance, “half laughing, and al- 
 lowing herself to be ensconced on the sofa, “I am cross and 
 stupid to-day, and somehow after our long happiness it 
 seems rather a weight to come back to Christabel. And 
 Uncle Collinson seems heartless—he did not even care te 
 hear of Bertha.” 3 
 
 «And if you've no burden of your own, you take other 
 people’s,” said Claude, smiling. “Never mind, chérie, it 
 will come right in time; try to | go to sleep, and prepare for 
 this evening.” 
 
 “That tiresome dinner,” sighed Esperance, “the rooms 
 will be so hot.” 
 
 “We will not go if you are not up to it,” said Claude, 
 drawing down the blind. “From the look of the sky [ 
 
 rather fancy there’s a storm brewing, and that will make an ~ 
 
 excuse.” 
 
 “No, no! we must go,” said Esperance, more cheerfully. 
 “JT would not disappoint Cornelia for anything,” and she 
 closed her eyes and settled herself resolutely to go to sleep, 
 while Claude watched her a little anxiously, hoping it had 
 not been imprudent of him to bring her to Rilckester at 
 this time. 
 
 
 
 oe 
 
WON BY WaITINg, == (GD 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Why need I fear when night may come, 
 
 Tf it will bring its moon and star; 
 
 Or what to me is sorrow’s gloom, 
 
 If it will show me worlds afar ? 
 
 May we but keep a constant mood, 
 
 Thus changeless through vicissitude, 
 
 Till in the strength of holy love, 
 
 We see things in the light.in which they’re seen above. 
 REY. O WILLIAMS. 
 
 ‘Mr. anp Mrs. Maanay!” 
 The heavy door was thrown back, the tall footman stood 
 aside, and Esperance found herself once more in the purple 
 
 _ drawing-room. Mrs. Mortlake had not come dewn; but 
 
 Cornelia came forward with her kind and real welcome, and 
 Esperance’s old friends, Mrs. Lowdell and her daughter 
 Grace, were also there. She was glad to be able to tell 
 them all about Gaspard, and she did not mind recalling the 
 past troubles which had happened during their last visit, 
 now that she could look across the room to where her hus- 
 band stood in conversation with the dean. 
 
 Dean Collinson had for the time lost his pomposity—he 
 was talking very eagerly. | 
 
 “T have been busy in the observatory,” Esperance heard 
 him say; “ we must go up there after dinner.” 
 
 Then in a minute both crossed the room to the window- 
 seat where she was sitting. 
 
 “Tet us come one moment, chérie; we want to see 
 what kind of a night it is,’ and Claude drew aside the 
 heavy purple curtains, and looked out intently, shading 
 his eyes from the light within. 
 
 -It was quite dusk, but not too dark to prevent their see- 
 ing great rolling masses of cloud away to the south-east. 
 
 “ A thunder-storm,” said Claude, “if I’m not mistaken; . 
 I thought it would have come on sooner, the sky was so 
 lurid this afternoon.” 
 
 “ Provoking!” said the dean, “it will prevent us from 
 taking our observations, but it will pasa over, I’ve no 
 doubt.” . 
 
 Dinner was announced just then. Esperance sat next 
 to Cornelia, and had so much to tell her that she got. 
 
 ae through the tediously long infliction better than she had 
 
nae ps Se Ey ee Bm eel . Ae ee wre ae eet > + ee ee ee eee Se oo Fae 
 . =k ae Ss a pate ae es pe ere, os ae 
 - / 3 oy et u a Ee rete ae 
 
 379 - WON BY WAITING. 
 
 expected. The gentlemen did not stay down-stairs long; 
 directly after tea they adjourned to the cbservatory, aud 
 Miss Grace Lowdell having expressed a wish to go up too, 
 Cornelia and Esperance followed with her. 
 
 Esperance was glad to peep into her old attic room, 
 
 now filled with Bella’s playthings, and she could not re- 
 
 press a little shiver as she remembered how much she hag 
 gone through there. She held Cornelia’s hand more 
 closely, and crossed the landing quickly to the observa- 
 
 tory, where Claude was working away at the great cog-. 
 
 wheel which turned the domed r: of, so as to open it for 
 the telescope, which was not yet adjusted. 
 
 Miss Lowdell was enchanted; she had never been in the 
 observatory hefore, and had no idea ingenious machinery 
 existed there. The dean had called Cornelia to the adjoin- 
 ing room, and Esperance and Miss Lowdell had just 
 climbed up the flight of steps on to the.little wooden 
 
 stage, when a sudden and very vivid flash of lightning © 
 
 startled them both. 
 “Oh, pray let us get down,” said Miss Lowdell, ner- 
 
 vously. We seem so terribly near to it up here. It must  . 
 
 be the beginning of a storm.” - 
 
 “Yes,” said Esperance, with a slight shiver, as another _ 
 
 flash succeeded, quickly followed by a tremendous clap of 
 thunder. . 
 
 Sne had a great horror of thunder-storms, and as Claude 
 came half-way up the steps to help her down, her hand 
 felt cold and tremulous. 
 
 “You must come down-stairs, darling,” he said de- 
 cisively. “ There is no use in our being up here till the 
 storm has passed.” 3 
 
 “ Noel will be so frightened,” she said, pleadingly, “don’t 
 you think I might go home to him ?” 
 
 «What! in the middle of the storm ?” E 
 
 “Tt has not begun to rain yet; and it is not far; besides, . 
 
 the lightning will not be worse out-of-doors than it is here. 
 - Cornelia will understand how it is—will you not?” she said, 
 turning to her cousin, who had just rejoined them. 
 
 “ Quite,’ said Cornelia, kindly, “ you must do just what 
 you like, dear.” — 3 
 
 «Then I will go, please, Claude, for I shall not feel 
 happy about Noel; you know Marie is very young.” 
 
 “Considerably older than her small mistress,” said_ 
 
 - Claude, with a comical look. 
 Qornelia and Miss Lowdell both laughed, while Esper- 
 
“WON BY WAITING, _ <-O71 
 
 ance drew Beret up with an expression of mock digs 
 nity. 
 “«T was twenty last birthday; and you’ ve no business to 
  Jaugh at me now [ am out of my teens.” 
 
 They laughed all the more, however, and it was not until 
 another still more vivid flash startled them all, that they 
 left the observatory, Cornelia and Miss Low dell j joining 
 -Christabel in the drawing-room, and Claude and Esperance 
 returning to their hotel. 
 
 There was a heavy oppressiveness about the atmosphere 
 —not a single star was visible—and as they crossed the 
 open square which led from the deanery to the Vicai’s 
 Court the darkness seemed to press almost painfully on 
 their sight. They had scarcely reached the old gate-way 
 when a flash—if flash it could be called—which seemed to 
 them like-a mass of golden-red fire, blazed past them, while 
 simultaneously came the most appalling thunder-clap. 
 
 Esperance was half deafened by it for a moment, but her 
 terror was conquered by her amaze. She had never seen 
 or heard anything so grandly awful. Claude put his arm 
 round her. 
 
 “Do not be frightened, darling, that is most likely the 
 worst we shall have.” 
 
 “Did the cathedral tower fall?” she asked. ‘ Surely 
 something fell in that great crash—something is falling 
 now! Qh, listen!” 
 
 Claude turned back toward the deanery—the direction 
 from which the noise came. The lamp-light was too dim to 
 _ reveal much, but the next moment the li¢htning illumined 
 the old house, and in that brief glance they could see that 
 the observatory had been altogether wrecked. The jagged 
 and irregular outline stood out darkly against the bright 
 sky, then in an instant the black darkness veiled it from 
 their sight. 
 
 “Qornelia! my uncle! Oh, Claude, they must .be 
 killed !” cried Esperance, in an agony of grief. “ Let us 
 go back !” 
 
 Claude was struck dumb by that terrible revelation ; he 
 could not refuse her, and they hurried back to the house, 
 ~ where all was confusion. By the time they had reached 
 the door Mrs. Mortlake, with poor little terrified Bella, 
 had rushed out, Mrs. and Miss Lowdell hurried after her, 
 while the servants had already fled and were standing on 
 the grass in front of the house, huddled together in theiz— 
 fricht, 
 
i ~ FE ea Ot Se ee ye ee ™ So «. ie ) ¢. et She ieee 
 
 973, | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “Oh, Esperance, it has been so terrible!” said Mrs. 
 Mortlake, clinging to her. “If it had been ten minutes 
 later Bella would have been upstairs !” 
 
 « Are you all safe ?” asked Esperance, shuddering. 
 
 “JT do not know. We were sitting in the drawing-room 
 when that fearful crash came, and the whole house seemed 
 to tremble and vibrate, and— 
 
 But Esperance interrupted her—‘ Where is Cornelia ?” 
 
 No one knew. 
 
 “And the dean!” said Mrs. Lowdell. “ Where is the 
 dean ?” 
 
 The little crowd round the house had increased, but the 
 neighborhood was so quiet and retired that it was still 
 small ; there was a low, awed murmur, as a dead silence 
 followed Mrs. Lowdell’s question. 
 
 Just then a light was seen within the hall; it ap- 
 proached slowly, and Esperance gave a glad cry as she 
 discerned Cornelia carefully crossing the pavement, which 
 was strewn with fallen beams and broken fragments of 
 glass. But as she came nearer her fixed, ashy-white face 
 
 ‘ SS aa . = 7 re a “alt ote tc ei | 
 red ae J Oren se ; - Anat: 
 
 put all rejoicing to flight, and fear made every one speech- — 
 
 less. 
 
 Claude went to meet her and first broke the silence. 
 
 “We have been so anxious about you!” he said, hurs 
 riedly. “I hope you bring us news of the dean?” | 
 
 She turned her rigid face toward him. 
 
 *T can not reach him. He was in the ante-room, close 
 to the observatory, when we came down—the way is im- 
 passable now!” 
 
 “Some one must go up and find him,” said Mrs. Mort- 
 
 lake, and she called the footman; but the danger was great, = 
 
 and the footman hung back reluctantly. 
 
 Claude left Cornelia then for a momert, and drew Es- 
 perance a little apart from the crowd. 
 
 “Darling,” he said, gently, “I must see if I can not 
 help to find your uncle. Will you go back to baby? Mrs. 
 Lowdell will go with you, Iam sure.” . 
 
 “i can not go till you come down again,” said Esper 
 ance, trembling.  “ And oh, Claude, it will be so danger- 
 ous! Must you—need you go?” 
 
 He held her closely. 
 
 “It seems the only chance, darling. I know the house 
 
 thoroughly, and am young and strong. The deen is a. | 
 feeble old man, I can not leave him without help—you — 
 
 ould not wish me to do so.” 
 
WON BY WAITING. 273 
 
 “No, no!” sobbed Esperance, “you must go, only let me 
 wait here.” 
 
 « But the rain is so heavy—it is so bad for you, and the 
 storm is not over.” 
 
 ’ ‘IT do not mind it—see, I do not even start now at the 
 
 lightning!” she pleaded. “Only let me stay here and I 
 will be quite good and quiet—it would be much worse for 
 me to have to go.” 
 
 He yielded to her entreaties, and bending down, kissed 
 her, caught her hands in his, and said in low, hurried tones, 
 “Pray for us, darling—and trust.” __ 
 
 “Yes,” she replied, earnestly —“ always.” 
 
 The last words passed her lips half-dreamily—she could 
 not have given her reason for adding it. The lamp-light 
 fell fully on Claude’s face now; she looked up into his 
 clear, grave, blue eyes—one last, long look,—then he 
 stooped once more to kiss her, wrapped her cloak more 
 closely round her, and walked hurriedly away. For a 
 minute Esperance strained her eyes to folow him in ths 
 dim light. Some one brought him a lantern, he spoke a 
 
 few words to Cornelia and then walked up the steps and 
 - disappeared in the darkness. Her head drooped then, and 
 she leaned against the lamp-post for support, waiting with 
 folded hands and closed eyes. 
 
 People gathered round her, and talked hopefully, but 
 she could not heed them, she never raised her eyes until a 
 half-whispered remark roused her—“ Poor Miss Collinson 
 seems quite stunned.” ‘Then she drew nearer to the door 
 where Cornelia was standing, and put her arm round her 
 waist, and held one of her cold hands in hers. Cornelia 
 looked at her pityingly. 
 
 “ My poor child, you ought not to be here.” 
 
 * Tt will not hurt me, he told me I might stay—we will 
 wait together,” she replied. 
 
 “Tell Christabel and the others to go under shelter 
 somewhere,” said Cornelia, uttering the words with diffi- 
 culty. | 
 
 operates obeyed, and Mrs. Mortlake and her guests 
 accepted the offer of one of the minor canons, and took 
 
 refuge in the Vicar’s Court. Then Esperance returned 
 again to Cornelia, and the two women waited in silence 
 through minutes which in their agony of suspense seemed 
 like hours—waited in the pouring rain, and the chill of the 
 autumn night, unheedful of all around, each knowing that | 
 the life most dear to her in the world wasin mortal danger. 
 
Co oe Oe OE ns cn ae ee Vie en ta al eS — < ek, ye ert AY yA re eee Y a a a e 
 ie ae en eS a a ere £4 20 rm Sag SOS NORTE aT er, Sega ey EL ner ed aba ce 
 : Are . Eee: ial, ; N . 
 = : é pe 2 ce ; e 
 
 a ye= 2 WON ‘BY- "WAITING. 
 
 There was an expectant hgh ; every one was listening 
 intently for some sign which might teli of Claude’s suc- 
 cess, yet to Esperance it seemed as if the quiet court had 
 
 never before been so noisy. Her ears were strained to ~ 
 
 cateh the faintest sound from the house, and the low 
 whispers of the lookers-on, the ceaseless drip of the rain 
 on the gravel, and the distant roll of the thunder, seemec\ 
 almost more shan she could endure. 
 
 Claude’s friend, Mr. White, and two or three servants 
 and neighbors, had ventured as far as the hall, and were 
 the first to hear the shout from above. Cornelia and 
 Hsperance haard the voice but could not distinguish the 
 words. Mr. White hurried out to them, however—it was 
 
 
 
 all right, the dean was unhurt. Cornelia uttered a fervent — 
 
 thanksgiving, then again there was unbroken silence while 
 
 the perilous descent was made down the shattered and 
 
 almost impassable staircase. Ladders had been procured, 
 
 but they had proved too short and could not be adjusted, 
 
 nor was the feeble old dean very anxious to try them. 
 Claude had found him in the room adjoining the observ- 
 
 atory, or rather among its ruins, just recovering from the 
 
 shock of the accident which had at first stunned him. Ho 
 was safe and unhurt, but so much agitated that to convey — 
 him safely down again was no easy matter. The wooden 
 
 balustrade and more than half the stairs themselves had 
 - been crushed by the falling-in of the observatory, and the 
 débris was strewn so thickly on the remaining portion 
 that walking was very difficult; more than once the dean — 
 
 turned oiddy, and was obliged to pause, but at length the 
 
 worst part of the descent was over, and they could see the ~ : 
 
 faces of the watchers in the hall. They had just reached 
 
 the top of the last flight where the foothold was rather 
 
 more sure, when the dean with fresh confidence began to — 
 
 move more quickly, missed his footing, grasped hold of . 
 
 Claude, slipped down a step or two, but finally recovered — 
 
 himself. 
 Claud, however, could not resist the sudden shock; the 
 dean was next to the wall, but he was on the outside, on, 
 
 ’ the very verge of the broken and shattered stairs. Foran — 
 instant he struggled hard to right himself, but in vain; the 
 dean glancing round, held the wall for protection with one _ 
 
 hand, and with the other clutched despairingly at his 
 
 rescuer. But it was useless; Claude fell heavily into the Bs 
 
 nall below. 
 T e noise, the horrified exclamations of those within the 
 
 2 
 
 (6 
 eee 
 
 on 
 a etek he 
 1 ees 
 

 
 
 
 WON BY WAITING. 275 
 house, and the sudden movement to the foot of the stairs 
 all served to tell Cornelia and Esperance that some disas- 
 ter had happened. Cornelia at once hurried up the steps, 
 and Esperance instinctively followed her, but suddenly re- 
 membering that she had promised Claude not to go into 
 the house, she stopped herself, though the longing to know 
 if he were safe was almost irrepressible. It was the first 
 time that her vow of obedience had directly clashed with 
 her will; the temptation was great, but she resisted it, not 
 knowing that that simple obedience was to be her salva- 
 tion. She could not have borne the terrible shock of the 
 sight which greeted Cornelia as she hastened forward into 
 the hall and joined the group standing beside the stair- 
 _ case. Some one had helped the dean down in safety, but Cor- 
 nelia could hardly think of him, she could only gaze as if 
 spell-bound at Claude’s motionless, rigid form, and at the 
 blood flowing fast from a wound in hishead. Was he only 
 stunned, or was this—? She could not frame her lips to 
 __ the question, nor could any one present have answered it. 
 Mr. White hastily dispatched one of the servants for a 
 doctor, and Cornelia, remembering that Esperance must 
 be prepared, and spared as much as possible, returned to 
 the door. 
 
 But her heart failed her when she saw the anxiously ex- 
 pectant face of the poor little wife—wife was she, or 
 widow? She held out her hands and tried to speak, but 
 no words would come. Esperance gathered the worss from 
 that, but those awful moments of suspense had not been 
 wasted; she was strong enough to endure the anguish that 
 
 awaited her, and instinctively she thought first of sparing 
 Cornelia. | 
 
 “Do not be afraid to tell me,” she said, ina strangely calm 
 voice ; “it can not hurt me more than this. Claude is—?” 
 
 “Seriously hurt, dear Esperance; he has fallen and is 
 stunned.” i sire 
 
 «You are not deceiving me? You are sure?” 
 
 “We hope, darling. We shall be sure when the doctor 
 comes.” 
 
 “TI must go to him; take me please, Cornelia,” and she 
 held out her hand feebly to be guided. 
 
 - But Cornelia would not let her come beyond the porch; 
 she dared not take her to the scene of the accident, it would 
 be safer, she thought, if Claude were moved to the outer 
 air; and Mr. White and one of the servants raised him and. 
 
 -_ garried him out. 
 
 
 
276 | WON BY WAITING. 
 
 Esperance had turned cold and faint, but the sight of 
 her husband revived her, terrible though it was. She took 
 off her eloak and spread it on the ground of the porch, 
 then signed to them where to place him, and, supporting 
 his head, wiped his face with her handkerchief. The others 
 .ooked on sadly; they had scarcely any hope. Cornelia 
 - quite dreaded the arrival of the doctor, so certain did she 
 feel that his first words would blast poor Esperance’s 
 hopes. 
 
 Claude’s death-like pallor and icy coldness had, however, 
 misled them, the doctor reassured them; he was still liv- 
 ing, but was unconscious from the effects of concussion of 
 the brain. The dean, who had been too much shocked till 
 now to speak, fairly burst into tears on hearing this; all 
 his pomposity vanished, and he sobbed like a child—* It is 
 my doing—my doing!” 
 
 Cornelia could not soothe him; but as Claude was placed 
 on a mattress, and borne slowly away to the hotel, Esper- 
 ance seemed to awake to the recollection of others, and 
 quickly perceiving how matters were, begged her uncle to 
 come back with her. ‘To Cornelia’s great relief the dean 
 at once assented, gave Esperance his arm, and walked 
 slowly away from the scene of the accident. 
 
 ‘The storm had passed over and the rain had ceased 3 
 the air felt deliciously fresh and cool as they passed 
 through the gateway into the Vicar’s Court. It roused 
 Esperance from the chilly numbness of feeling into which 
 she had fallen, the wave of grief and desolation surged 
 in once more upon her heart, and it required all her 
 strength of will to prevent her from breaking down utter- 
 ly. 
 
 She struggled hard with herself, and the dean only 
 noticed that her breath came in short, quick gasps, and 
 slackened his pace. Just then they came to the cathedral; — 
 there was no moon that night, but they could see the out. 
 line of the great, massive building looming out blackly 
 even in the darkness. There was something so strong 
 and unchangeable about it that Esperance was scothed 
 and vomforted. ‘The lamp-light shone over the smooth- 
 cut turf, and revealed the old, white grave-stones, then 
 again in blackest shadow the great tower rose solemnly 
 into the night sky, unshaken by the storm, steadfast and 
 grand and immovable, just as it stood for generations. It 
 was merely a fancy of course, but the old walls seemed to 
 be echoing with the sound of a distant chant, and i in: 
 
WON BY WAITING. 272 
 
 gtinctively she filled in the words, “Lord, Thou hast been 
 our refuge from one generation te another.” 
 
 There was need of strength that evening, and in spite of 
 her weariness Esperance kept up bravely, giving all the 
 necessary directions quietly and without fuss, comforting 
 the dean, reassuring Cornelia, and doing everything which 
 they would allow her to do for Claude. But hour after 
 hour passed and there was no s#n of returning conscious- 
 ness; and Cornelia, as she waited outside the door for 
 fresh tidings, knew that the doctors, feared the worst. It 
 was not till five in the morning that she saw Esperance 
 again ; she came out with a wan, wearied face, to order 
 fresh water for the hot bottles, and would have returned at 
 once had not Cornelia detained her, 
 
 “ You are not fit to go back, dear ; come and take a rest, 
 and you will be of much more use,” she said, earnestly. 
 
 “I can not leave him; you know it may be only—’ she 
 could not finish her sentence, and Cornelia again urged 
 her to rest, promising that she should be called at once if 
 there were the slightest change. She was too much worn 
 out to argue, and Cornelia led her into the room where 
 little Noel lay sleeping peacefully in his crib. She lay 
 down beside him on Marie’s bed, not trying to check her 
 fast-falline tears; and Cornelia, aware now that they 
 “would relieve her, was glad that it should be so. A 
 
 Before long she slept, and did not wake again till it wa 
 broad daylight ; the sunshine was streaming through the 
 half-drawn curtains, and Noel, surprised that no one 
 came to dress him, had pulled himself up in his crib, and 
 with one fat, dimpled arm thrust through the bars, was 
 stroking her face. It was certainly the most merciful 
 waking she could have had, and yet the pain was almost 
 unbearable; she took her boy in her arms and felt 4 
 momentary comfort as the soft baby face nestled against 
 hers, but the hot tears rained down her checks: and 
 Noel, who had never seen his mother ery, lifted up his big, 
 astonished, brown eyes to her face, and undoubled his tiny 
 hands to catch the drops, cooing to them in baby language 
 as they fell. | 
 
 After a time she recovered herself, and, hastily dressing, 
 left Noel with Marie and went to her husband’s room. 
 There was no improvement of any kind: Claude lay cold 
 and motionless—she only knew that he still lived by the 
 words spoken to her as she came in—‘“‘No change.” The 
 weary day passed on to its close and night came; tue nest 
 
978 WON BY WAITING: 
 
 morning and the next night, and still only a cor’ auation 2 
 
 of that awfv] death in life. On the evening or the third 
 
 duy Esperance’s hopes were raised, the deathly stilloess and 
 
 palivr changed, the paralyzed limbs moved once more; she 
 
 watched breathlessly. But alas! there was no comfort in 
 
 the wandering, unrecognizing gaze of the blue vyesas they 
 
 rested on her; the awakening was only to delirious ravings 
 and te feverish paroxysms terrible to witness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Espére enfant demain, et puis demain encore, 
 
 Et puis toujours demain, croyons dans l'avenir 3 
 
 Espére et chaque fois que s’eléve l’aurore, 
 
 Soyons 14 pour prier comme Dieu pour bénir. : 
 Vicror Hueco. 
 
 Lapy Worrsineton and Frances were away at the time of 
 the accident ; there had been a wedding in the family, 
 
 and they had been from home a week, but the news of the | 
 disaster reached them very soon, and Lady Worthington’s 
 
 first object when she returned to Rilchester was to go at. 
 once to see Esperance. Frances thought it best to defer 
 
 her visit, and left her sister alone at the Spread Eagle, © | 
 
 after hearing at the door that Mr. Magnay was no better. 
 There was something very sad in that first visit. It was 
 
 scarcely three months since Lady Worthington had-seen ~ = 
 
 Claude and Esperance happily settled in their Lon- 
 don home, and had rejoiced in the happiness of 
 
 her two protegés; now everything was grievously ~ 
 
 changed. She was shown into the deserted sitting- 
 room and looked sadly round. The room had that peculiar 
 
 air of desolation which hangs about any place where ~ 
 
 work and living has been abruptly stopped. Claude's 
 palette and brushes were left on the sideboard just as he 
 
 had thrown them down on the afternoon of that fatal day ; 
 his easel and an unfinished picture stood in the corner — 
 
 opposite. Would that canvas ever be used again? Lady 
 
 Worthington could not bear to look at it, and turned to 
 
 the other side of the room; but it was only to see what — 
 touched her even more—a skein of soft, white wool, some ~ 
 knitting-needles, and a tiny baby’s hood, evidently just — 
 
 made. “The tears were in her eyes, when MWsperance came 
 
 quietly into the roo with the hushed manner which peo- — 
 ple bring with them from a sick-bed; she was very pale, — 
 
aie ek ts OS Re em ee ae RE ny We TD ee dD ey oS i 
 Wi gcbres Oe CSS Car anaes ee, Se Sie a Ri ai et Uy cana? i 
 ree poy aw 3 yi EA eS i 
 
 WON BY WAITING. _ 219 
 
 - but her smile hid lost none of its radiance as she actoned 
 
 forward to kiss Lady Worthington. 
 
 “It was very good of you vo cume—I have so wanted to 
 
 see you!” 
 
 * My poor child! I have been so anxious about you! 
 We only heard on Saturday, and could not come back till 
 
 this morning. Iam afraid you have no better account to : 
 
 give me?” 
 “No,” said Esperance, wearily. “On Saturday evening — 
 
 _ there was a change, and inflammation’set in. Now he has 
 
 sunk acain into a quiet, insensible state, and there seems 
 so little one can do. The dean has telegraphed this morn- 
 
 _ ing for some London doctor—he has been very kind.” 
 
 / 
 
 “Was he any the worse himself? I did not hear if he 
 was injured at all ?” 
 
 “No, he is unhurt.” And Esperance gave Lady Worth- 
 ington all the details of the accident. While she was still 
 talking a servant came in with the midday letters—two 
 directed to‘Claude Magnay, Esquire,” which Esperance 
 put down with a quick sigh, and one to herself from Gas- 
 ee The tears rose to her eyes then—it was the first 
 jatter she had had from him since Claude’s illness, and he 
 of course knew nothing of her trouble; she could not 
 bear to open it. 
 
 “Tam very weak and silly to-day,” she said, sadly. “ But 
 ever since that dreadful night I have had such a longing 
 for Gaspard—it is the feeling of having to stand alone, I 
 
 suppose. You see, I have been so taken care of—and now 
 
 it is such an effort to think and arrange!” — 
 “My dear, you are not fit for it—you are worn out 
 
 already.” 
 
 “T am only tired,” said Esperance, in a weary voice. ‘ On 
 va bien loin depuis qu’on est las’—there is great truth in that — 
 proverb.” | ak 7 
 
 ‘But you will be very careful, dear—you will not over- 
 exert yourself? Will not Cornelia see that you are 
 prudent ?” 3 
 
 * Yes, oh, yes! Cornelia has been everything to me—she 
 fakes care of Noel—she does everything to save me—it 
 was wrong of me to complain. I must keep well for 
 Claude’s sake. But that is enough about it! Do tell me 
 
 about Frances—it is good for me to think of other 
 
 things!” 
 Lady Worthington could not enough admire the resolute 
 wav in which she turned from her troubles. nee 
 
 ~ 5 
 
ag! - >4 he fae. ees, oe a eS . 4% Sie Ye. ee oe. Se 
 . Cy $ < *y reer an gw 
 
 280 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 ‘‘Rrances came back with me this morning,” she said, 
 ‘¢T wonder whether you have heard any rumors of her piece 
 of news?” . . 
 
 “ What!” exclaimed Esperance ; “ is it really true, then! 
 I heard a true report that she was going to be married.” 
 
 “Trust Rilchester to be beforehand with gossip,” said 
 Lady Worthington, smiling. ‘But thisis reaily true. Can 
 you guess whom she is going to marry?” — 
 
 Esperance thought for a minute. 
 
 “A clergyman of some sort, I suppose; Frances would 
 make such a model clergyman’s wife.” 
 
 “No,” said Lady Worthington, with an amused look; 
 “you are quite wrong,” 7 
 
 “ Well,then—the squire of a country parish, where she will 
 be a Lady Bountiful.” 
 
 “Right!” said Lady Worthington. “And now who is 
 pe squire ?—you know him, but he lives a long way from 
 
 ere.” | 
 
 “The squire of a country parish, and I know him. ® said 
 Esperance, much puzzled. Then with a sudden rememe-- 
 brance—“ Mr. Henderson! can it be Mr. Henderson ?” 
 
 “Yes, it really is,” said Lady Worthington, smiling. - 
 “You and Madame Lemercier, you see, have helped to find 
 a husband for Frances.” : 
 
 Esperance was really very much pleased at this piece of 
 news, and Lady Worthington’s visit had cheered and re- 
 freshed her. . sf 
 
 “You always do me good,” she said, gratefully. “Do 
 you remember that first time when you came to see me on 
 the jour des moris? That will be just four years ago to- 
 morrow.” ; 
 
 Lady Worthington remembered the visit well enough. . 
 Could it be only four years ago? How much had happened ~ 
 gince then to her poor little protegée! She was taken up- 
 stairs to see Noel; and just as they passed Claude’s room 
 
 the door was opened, and Esperance, beckoning her in, ~ __ 
 
 took her to the bedside. 
 
 She was greatly shocked; at first indeed she could hardly 
 believe that it was Claude at all, so greatly was he 
 changed. He was in a state of stupor, lying perfectly still, 
 ‘and breathing heavily. His head had been shaved that 
 morning, and this of course made him look much more ill, 
 The sick-nurse had just left the room, and Esperance, put- 
 ting on a clean muslinette apron and bib, took her place 
 by the bed and began to change the ice bladders, It wag 
 
WON BY WAITING. — 281 
 
 _ evidently a great relict to her to be able to do anything, 
 and she was engrossed heart and soul in the present; but 
 Lady Worthington trembled when she thought of the prob- 
 able future. , 
 
 Leaving Esperance with her husband, she went down 
 again to the sitting-room, where she found the dean wait- 
 ing for the last accounts of Claude. He looked very much 
 aged and shaken, and Lady Worthington fancying he 
 woulg not care to see any one, would have left after the 
 first greeting and a few words of sympathy, but he begged 
 her almost pathetically to stay. 
 
 “Tf you could tell me, Lady Worthington, what I can 
 possibly do for that poor child, she is wearing herself out, 
 and I seem powerless to help—both their deaths will le at 
 my door.” 
 
 “ Hsperance told me that Cornelia has been the greatest 
 comfort to her,” said Lady Worthington, anxious to say 
 something soothing, but the dean only grew more agi- 
 tated. 
 
 “ Yes, Cornelia can help,” he said piteously, “ but I my- 
 seli—I who caused all the trouble, can do nothing but 
 watch the effects. Lady Worthington, I am an old man 
 -and a scholar, but now for the first time I have found that 
 all my life has been lived for self, and because of that 
 wrongs motive, I have been self-deceived. Isee it now ali 
 too plainly, but the punishment is very hard, very bitter. 
 {t is grievous to sit helplessly by, watching the ruin one 
 has caused in the present, haunted by the specters of past 
 deeds. My sister—whom you you yourself remember— 
 Monsieur de Mabillon, his son, even his own children, 
 all rise up before me with reproaches. I see that you 
 think this a strange confession for me to make; but I tell 
 you this that you may know how all important it is that I 
 should find some means of helping Esperance. You know 
 her better than any one, you and Miss Neville; can you not 
 
 think of something which I can do to relieve her ?” 
 
 _ Lady Worthineton’s still beautiful face was full of 
 sympathy ; her humorous gray eyes were softened, and 
 beamed with a kindly light ; years ago she had owned to 
 her husband that she felt that it would be a sheer im- 
 possibility to rouse the dean from his selfishness to a per- 
 ception of his duties, and now from his own lips she was 
 fearing that Claude and Esperance had succeeded in this. 
 She paused for a moment before answering, then, with the 
 hesitation of one who speake while yet thinking out some 
 
Se GL SED) he Sa tS. Sa ee Leet eal aS aoe fey 
 SSS 5) ne cl ee ia We Se ee pei a. 
 
 he a 
 
 p 
 «i 
 
 382 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 doubtful point, she said, “There is one way that has just 
 
 occurred to me, in whieh I think you might perlaps help 
 Mrs. Magnay. J know from what she said just now hcw 
 much she longs to have her brother with Nees ould it be 
 possible for lim to be sent for 2” 
 
 The dean started to his feet with sudden animation. 
 
 “Lady Worthington, I don’t know how to thank you 
 enough; she must surely be relieved by that; and it had 
 never struck me—you see I am not accustc med to think of 
 other people, I have been self-engrossed, that is the fact, 
 and now when I long to see how to help, and what to 
 do, I am blind and powerless. But that is really a good 
 idea! I will telegraph to Mr. Seymour, tell him to advance 
 the necessary money to Monsieur de—to Gaspard, and of- 
 fer any compensation which Mr. Seymour may think to 
 cha rge for his sudden withdrawal,” 
 
 “TI think you can hardly fail to comfort Esperance in 
 this way,” said Lady Worthington, warmly ; “ perhaps in 
 case of disappointment, though, you would not tell ler of 
 the idea until ycu have an answer from Ceylon.” 
 
 The dean fnlly agreed to this, and having escorted Lady 
 
 Worthington to her carriage, sat down again in the Mag- 
 
 nays’ sitting-room to consider the wording of his all-im- 
 portant telegram. He had never been an illiberal man, al- 
 though he had gained a reputation for being close-handed 
 
 “because he disliked anything which caused him personal 
 
 discomfort’ or trouble, but now that he was roused to take 
 areal interest in something altogether outside himself he 
 was really generous. 
 
 ‘The visit of the London doctor took place a little later | 
 in the week, and the dean built a great deal on it, hoping 
 
 that his opinion would be more favorable, or that he 
 
 would adopt some more active measures. He was terribly — 
 
 disappointed when Mr. Moore only confirmed the opinion 
 
 - of the Rilchester doctors—trepanning could not be at- 
 tempted ; in all probability the patient would never — 
 recover consciousness, but would sink in a few days. This 
 was the opinion given to the dean—the doctor faltered — 
 
 a little as Esperance drew him aside. 
 
 “You will not deceive me, I know,” she said, raising her 
 elear brown eyes to his. “Is there any hope of my 
 
 husband’s recovery ?” 
 
 Never had the doctor been so strongly tempted to hold re 
 
 cf Te EA 
 
 a 
 
 M 
 
 ‘ 
 tY 
 
 ty 
 
 Be iets att 
 a ric ots 
 Sorc ey, 
 
 4 
 
 oes 
 ae 
 
 ; TES eH ‘ ee ee: bf in 
 Fs Re ye ee ns ee 
 & wis a TAY So eg (areata 
 
 out false hopes. He was silent for a moment, looking at 
 
 the poor little wife, so young and Bee so unable to so 
 
 
 
WON BY WAITING. 283, 
 
 bear calamity. But those unflinching eyes would not 
 allow him to prevaricate. | 
 
 “1% is possible, madame,” he said, with emphasis. 
 
 Her lips quivered. She saw plainly how very little hope 
 he had. : 
 
 _ “ How long?” she asked, in a tremulous voice. 
 
 “Tt may be a few days,” he answered, “or it may pos- 
 sibly be weeks, or even months. There have been cases in 
 which the patient has lingered on in this way and ulti- — 
 mately recovered, but it is only fair to tell you, madame, 
 they are very rare.” 
 
 She asked a few more questions, keeping back her tears 
 bravely ; then with a few words of hearty sympathy Mr. 
 Moore took leave, hurrying away to catch the London 
 train. oe ; : 
 
 «A sad lookout for that poor young thing!” he said to 
 Mr. Maclaren, the Rilchester doctor, who accompanied him 
 to the station. “They have not been married long, I 
 
 “hear.” 
 
 ‘Not two years,” replied Mr. Maciaren. 
 
 .  “Humph! they say French women can’t speak the truth, 
 but they compel you to tellit, nevertheless. Fine eyes she 
 
 had, and uncommon—the color of Smyrna raisins ex- 
 
 _ actly!” 
 
 Then the two doctors fell to talking of other matters, 
 
 - and ina few minutes the celebrity upon whom Dean Col- 
 
 linson’s hopes had been centered was being whirled away 
 to London by the express. : 
 
 For a few minutes after his departure Esperance allowed 
 herself to give way to her overwhelming grief, then con- 
 
 trolling herself once more, she paced slowly up and down ~ 
 the room, despairingly, but with the enforced quiet of a 
 
 strong restraint. She paused for a minute at the window, 
 - but the November sunshine was streaming full into try 
 room and she could not look out, her weary sight was 
 dazzled by the brightness ; as she lowered her eyes, how- 
 ever, they rested for an instant on her betrothal-ring. The 
 sunli¢ht was illumining the raised letters! She read them 
 over and over, at first dreamily, but afterward with a sud- 
 den glad realization —“ Hspérez toujours !” | 
 
 She twisted the ring slowly from side to side, letting 
 the light play brilliantly on each letter. What memo- 
 
 ries those words brought to her! She let her thought — 
 
 travel slowly back. Now she was in the little salon 
 a6 Paris, with her father and Gaspard in theixz 
 
284 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 National Guard uniform, and those words were ring» 
 ing in her ears in her father’s own voice; then again she 
 was at a crowded London terminus, the door of the car- 
 riage was shut and locked, and Gaspard was whispering 
 those words of comfort to her; again—and her tears fell 
 fast at the remembrance—she was walking with Claude 
 along a straight, dusty road, bounded on each side by a 
 vast plain, and she had told him that this was her motto, 
 and he had remembered it, and reminded her of it as they 
 stood, later on still, by the crusader’s tomb; then on still 
 further to the old chateau, and the long hours of that 
 Christmas-eve when Claude had repeated the words, and 
 , they had soothed her like a sort of charm; later still 
 {fn that same day, and she was lying peacefully with her 
 little son beside her, and Claude’s bright face was bent 
 town to hers, to whisper, “‘ Hspérez toujours! But 
 \hat is the masculine for Esperance?” ‘Those two pre» 
 @ious words! Were not they indeed almost the last he 
 bad said to her? No, not quite! Aé that last terrible 
 parting in the darkness, and storm, and tumult, a broader, 
 grander word had risen to his lips ; it was hope, but yet 
 Nomething better than hope. 
 
 Could she disobey his last charge to her? Could she 
 
 ~ 
 
 shrink trembling from what must be best? For a few © 
 
 minutes she knelt in silence, and when she rose the despair 
 and anguish had died out of her face—it was tear-stained, 
 but quiet and serene. 
 
 Before long she went down to the sitting-room, where 
 she found her uncle and Cornelia. The dean was standing 
 _ with his elbow on the mantel-piece; he looked up as she 
 entered, then hastily concealed his face again. Cornelia 
 made room for her by the fire, and for a few minutes no 
 one broke the silence. She knew that they waited for her~ 
 to begin, and with an effort she turned to her uncle. 
 
 “Did Mr. Moore tell you anything, uncle ?” . 
 
 The dean looked up, and she was touched by the sight 
 of his silent grief. 
 
 “You saw him yourself, my dear, did you not?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Esperance; “and he told me the truth.” 
 
 “He fears the worst, my poor child—” but here the 
 dean’s voice suddenly failed him. He turned away, and 
 burying his face in his hands, sobbed unrestrainedly. 
 
 Cornelia, afraid that this would agitate Esperance, en- 
 treated him to control himself, but the disappointment of 
 this last hope seemed to nave crushed him, and ue only 
 
 eg. We 
 
WON BY WAITING. 285 — 
 moaned out sad words of self-accusation, and vain regrets, 
 repeating again that aie sentence, “The worst—he 
 feurs the worst!” | 
 
 Esperance stood for a moment apart, as if gathering her 
 strength ; then she bent down gently and put her arm ~ 
 round the dean’s neck, and laid her soft cheek against his 
 wrinkled one. 
 
 “Tt will be God’s best for all of us,” she whispered. 
 
 The dean could not but be comforted by her words; he 
 eels her hand in silence. Just then there was a quick 
 _knock at the door. Cornelia opened it and received a tele- 
 gram for her father. With trembling fingers the dean tore 
 open the envelope and read the brief lines. It was from 
 Mr. Seymour. Gaspard had already started, and in ac- 
 cordance with the dean’s wish woul! come by the overland 
 route ; they might expect him the last week in November. 
 
 They told Esperance quietly, and her thankful happi- 
 ness gladdened the dean’s heart. It seemed a ray of com- 
 fort in that dark day of disappointment ; yet none of them 
 dared to look forward to the end of those three weeks. 
 
 Day after day the dean’s voice, husky and trembling, 
 
 _asked the prayers of the congregation in the cathedral for 
 Claude Magnay; day after day Esperance watched and 
 waited beside her husband’s sick-bed—watched with an 
 intensity of hope, waited trustfully for that which should 
 be sent. 
 
 Cornelia tried not to be anxious about her, but she longed 
 
 
 
  unspeakably for Gaspard’s arrival, knowing that his pres- 
 
 ence would bea greater comfort and help to Esperance 
 than anything else. It was with a feeling of unspeakable 
 relief that she received the telesram. which he senf 
 from London. She herself went to the Rilchester Station 
 to meet him, longing for his arrival and yet dreading it, 
 and as she paced up and down the platicim, waiting for 
 the train, recalling sadly her first introduction to her 
 cousin years ago at the great London terminus. 
 _ He was not so greatly changed as she had expected. It | 
 
 was the same slight, trim fieure, the same rather grave 
 face, clear, brown eyes, and drooping mustache, only that 
 the healthy, bronzed complexion made him look younger 
 and handsomer than when she had last seen him. 
 
 She held out her hand, welcoming him with the answer 
 _to the question which she knew was on his ips. 
 “ Claude is still living, still unconscious.’ 
 “And Esperance ?” 
 

 
 286 Won BY WAITING. 
 
 “As well as we can expect. She thought it better nos 
 tc come to meet you; she is bearing up wonderfully.” 
 Gaspard asked anxiously for detaiis of Claude’s accident: 
 and illness, for the telegram had been necessarily brief, 
 and had only furnished him with the leading facts and the 
 urgent need of his presence. He listened sadly to Cor: 
 nelia’s account ; she could not conceal from him the hope- 
 lessness of the case. Very sadly he walked up the steps 
 at the entrance of the hotel. Cornelia led the way to the 
 sitting-room, and he followed her down the long, - dark 
 corridor. At the sound of their footsteps, however, a door 
 
 at the end was quickly opened, the light streamed down es 
 
 the passage, and looking up, he saw Esperance in the door= 
 way. 
 « Chérie !” he cried. 
 
 “Gaspard!” It was the only word witli would pass 
 
 her lips; she let Lim fold her in his arms, while her tear 
 rained down silently. 
 
 Cornelia left them together, and after a few minutes _ 
 
 Esperance was better able to feel the full comfort of Gas- 
 pard’s presence, and yet to both of them there was some- 
 thing inexpressibly sad about this return ; the meeting 
 
 which they had so often talked over, and had planned so . 
 
 joytuily, was indeed different to their expectations. It 
 was not tilt Noel’s baby voice was upraised that Esper- 
 ance dried her tears and Gaspard’s sorrowful face bright- 
 ened. 
 
 “Your little boy!” he exclaimed, “T have not seen him.” 
 
 Then as Noel crawled toward them: with slow but resolute — 
 
 baby efforts, “ Why heisa regular De Mabillon, eyes and 
 all.” 
 
 “‘T think he will be like our father.” 
 
 Just at that moment she was called away to Claude’ 8 
 room, and Gaspard was left alone with Noel, who did not 
 quite know what to make of this new arrival: he was be- 
 ginning to twist the corners of his baby mouth ominously, 
 when the door opened and Dean Collinson entered. 
 
 He had greatly dreaded meeting Gaspard, but when ho 
 saw his grave, sorrowful face, his courage suddenly re- 
 
 vived—the sorrow seemed to ares them. 
 
 “T am heartily glad you have come, Gaspard,” he said, 
 
 holding out his hand. 
 Gaspard made his grave and yather formal greeting; ey 
 
 - @ould not bring himself to speak very warmly, The old 
 
 “Yes,” said Esperance, lifting him upto greet his uncle, ote 
 
 Cpa Sat 
 
 £ - AY 
 
 
 
 
 
 ey grt ee PX ey rhe ba a 
 By GS Be it ne ae heen tes 
 
 + 
 
 ett 
 ess yee A 
 BL ae Ve 
 
 2 
 
 i 
 t yee 4 
 

 
 iets ae = 
 ar eee 
 ¢ 
 
 Lis ina as oe 18 a 
 ne vale oats Ai 
 Bry 
 
 
 
 SP Sole REE TE eG, Ve Ah LO 
 
 WON BY WAITING. = tts 
 
 -_ man was for a moment repulsed, but he had grown strangely 
 
 humble, and he said nothing, only a grieved lock passed 
 over his face. Then at once Gaspard’s better self returned, 
 he spoke courteously and gratefully. 
 
 “T have a great deal to thank you for,” he said; “it waa 
 very considerate of you to send for me, and the Jjourney—” 
 He was interrupted. Noel, unaccustomed to his voice, was 
 
 beginning to kick with all his might, and to hold out his 
 
 arms to the dean. 
 
 “Ah! you do not know your uncle, mon enfant,” said 
 Gaspard. 
 
 The dean received this new charge rather apprehen- 
 sively. It was many years since he had held a baby, and 
 Noel was at the most springy and troublesome age of 
 eleven months. He was pleased, however, at being looked 
 
 upon as a friend, and allowed the tiny fingers to play with 
 his long white beard. It was a pretty picture, the hoary- 
 
 headed old man, and the little bright-eyed baby. Gas- 
 pard looked and wondered. What would his mother’s 
 feelings have been could she have foreseen that her grand- 
 child would have been so caressed by her brother? The 
 dean, looking up, saw the expression of his face and guessed 
 his thoughts. 
 
 “You think it strange, Gaspard, that I should love Es- 
 perance’s child, but this boy has been more of a comfort 
 to me than [can tell you; [hope Imay be spared to be 
 of some use to him. You have probably been told the 
 reason of my dislike to your father. He crossed my plans, 
 he was poor, he was a foreigner, he unknowinely thwarted 
 
 my schemes for self-advancement. I see it plainly enough | 
 
 now, though at the time I should have said otherwise, but 
 
 - LT was blinded and self-deceived. You are a young man— 
 
 you can hardly realize what a terrible thing itis te look 
 back on years-of self-love and self-indulgence, to see all 
 the harm you have done, to think of the good left undone. 
 Yet I don’t think you are unmerciful—you have been 
 through too much trouble to be harsh in your judgments; 
 and I ask you now not to judge but to forgive me—to 
 
 forgive the injustice and hardness I showed to your father _ 
 
 and mother, and the cold uncharitableness I showed te 
 
 you.” 
 
 The color glowed in Gaspard’s cheeks, his eyes shone 
 with a bright light, and his face expressed at once sure 
 
 prise, admiration and relief. For a moment there was 
 _ gilence, then he spoke warmly. 
 
988 WON BY WAITING. 
 
 “Ta the name of my father and mother, I do forgive 
 you, uncle. As for my own pardon, I do not feel that I 
 have a right to use such a term to one so much my senior. 
 You disliked me—I was aware of it, and returned the dis- 
 like; necessarily there was coldness between us. I have to 
 thank you now for first breaking the ice.” 
 
 The dean held out his hand, and Gaspard grasped it in 
 silence, while Noel kicked and crowed lustily, evidently 
 finding the family reconciliation very amusing. 
 
 After this Dean Collinson seemed really happier; though 
 of course the long, wearing anxiety about Claude still 
 weighed heavily on his spirits. It was wonderful, how- 
 ever, how much comfort he met with from the least likely 
 quarters; people who a short time before would only have 
 bowed to him with cold respect, now ventured to stop him 
 in the street, and actually to sympathize with him—the 
 sensation was novel and pleasing. His observatory and 
 
 PANES on gE) eas ON SRL YR a TC ee ne ene dee ene Ue ar 
 
 his telescope were shattered to a thousand fragments. Ril- — 
 
 chester felt real pity for one thus rudely deprived of his 
 
 hobby, and people tried to interest him in other matters 
 instead. He meekly consented to be pleased with almost 
 anything; he allowed the precentor to persecute him with 
 Wagner, he gave his consent to several long-desired im- 
 provements in the cathedral, he made schemes for helping 
 the parochial clergy, and took a leading part in all the 
 winter charities. Even his sermons shared in the general 
 change: they were no longer the dry, learned discourses 
 of former years, but clever, earnest, powerful sermons, 
 -. which people flocked to hear; the dean was rapidly gaining 
 
 the respect and affection which, in the days of his exclu- 
 Biveness and self-indulgence, had never been accorded to, 
 
 him. 
 
 The short December days passed quickly by. The long — 
 
 nights succeeded each other one by one in needless monot- 
 
 ony, and still Claude lingered on almost miraculously; the 
 
 long unconsciousness still remained unbroken. 
 The last evening of the year came—a still, cold, frosty 
 
 , 7 i 
 
 night. Esperance found it hard then not to fear, almost — 
 
 impossible not to giance on tremblingly at the future. ~ 
 
 She listened to the cathedral bells as they rang out clearly 
 in the frosty air, and tried to take courage, but never be- 
 fore had it seemed so hard to trust patiently. She had 
 little sleep that night—at last, when her restlessness grew 
 ‘unbearable, she rose and dressed herself, and went to 
 

 
 WON BY WAITING. 289 
 
 her husband’s room, where Gaspard had been keeping 
 watch to relieve the sick-nurse. 
 He gave her his New-year’s greeting sadly. What a 
 
 Jour devan was this! She bent down to kiss her hus- 
 _ band’s unconscious brow, then turned away to the win- 
 
 _ dow to hide her tears. The night-lamp burned low; she 
 drew up the blind softly and looked out. 
 _ Many times before she had seen the dawn, but never 
 
 tad it looked so beautiful to her as now. Over the hard, 
 
 frozen earth there rose the soft, gray, pearly hue of morn- 
 ing ; far off in the city she could see the faint yellow 
 gleam of the street lamps, while above in brightest con- 
 
 trast, in the midst of the beautiful grayish-green haze, 
 
 hung the morning star, large and radiant, almost dazzling 
 in its brilliancy. 
 ‘ Gaspard’s voice suddenly recalled her. 
 _. “ Chérie, come here |” | 
 
 _ She hastened to the bedside. The heavy breathing had 
 grown more quiet, the arms were moved slightly, the eye- 
 lids quivered. Gaspard went to summon the nurse from 
 the adjoining room ; Esperance waited, scarcely able to 
 
 breathe for the terrible suspense. Was this a change for 
 
 life or death? One minute more and the long, long waiting 
 
 was over! Claude’s blue eyes—quiet, unchanged, recog- 
 
 nizing, looked into hers! He smiled, and his long sealed 
 lips uttered one faint word—*‘ Esperance |” 
 
 The look, the smile, the one word were all she could have 
 —but she was contented, She let Gaspard lead her from the 
 room at once, and in a few minutes he had taken the news 
 to the deanery, and had brought Cornelia back to Esper- 
 ance. The reconciliation with the dean had long been 
 effected ; but even had he not asked so humbly for par- 
 don, Gaspard must have forgiven him all when he saw the 
 
 intensity of his thankfulness at Claude’s restoration. Even 
 
 Mrs. Mortlake gave a sincere expression of joy, and Dean 
 Collinson was so much agitated that it seemed doubtful if he 
 would be sufficiently recovered in time for the morning 
 service. He went, however, and endured the longNew-year’s 
 sermon patiently. It was twelye o’clock before the full ser. 
 fice was completed, then he hurried off at once to the hotel, 
 _ No one was in tne sitting-room. He waited anxiously for 
 
  gome minutes; at iast Uornelia stole quietly down the 
 passage with a reassuring face. 
 
 a “Claude?” asked the dean—he could hardy speak for — 
 emotion, : : 
 
 “ 
 
290 WON BY WATTING. 
 
 “He is going on well—the doctors are quite satise 
 aed—only he must be kept perfectly quiet.” Then as the 
 dean turned away she continued with a smile, ‘‘ But we have 
 another New-year’s gift, father, to be thankful for!” 
 
 the dean turned around half apprehensible, “ What! 
 cuey never told me—” - : 
 
 « All has gone well,” said Cornelia, ina caim, glad voice— 
 “ Esperance has a little daughter!” 
 
 Chat day the dean exercised his prerogative, and altered 
 the anthem chosen to the opening chorusfrom the “ Hymn 
 of Praise.” 
 
 Some people declared that it was an unsuitable anthem 
 for the New-year, but they knew very little about it. Dean ° 
 Collinson’s head was bowed throughout ; people wondered 
 that he did not stand up, or show in some way that he 
 shared the spirit of the words, * All things with life and 
 breath, praise ye the Lord!’ But perhaps there had 
 never before been in the cathedral praise more true, and 
 humble, and heart-felt, than that which rose from the 
 hoary-headed dean, who shaded his eyes with his hand jest 
 any one should see the tears of thankfulness which he 
 could not check. | 
 
 ‘CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 Blest be a dew, and blest Thy frost, 
 And happy to be so crost, 
 And cured by crosses at Thy cost. 
 
 For as te hand the weather steers, 
 8o thrive I best ’twixt joys and tears, 
 And all the year have some green earts 3 
 : Hurry Vaveaax, 
 
 CravupE’s recovery was slow, but uhere were no relapses 
 he had now nothing but weakness to struggle against, and 
 day by day he made real and perceptible progress. It — 
 was not for several weeks, however, that they ventured to 
 let Esperance come into his room; ihey dreaded the ex- 
 citement for both alike, and Esperance was obliged to con- 
 tent herself with her little blue-eyed baby, while Claude 
 was able to grumble to his heart’s content to Gaspard— 
 the only person allowed to come into his room except the 
 sick-nurse. He was the very man to be with an invalid— 
 quiet and ready, sympathetic and yet firm, and Claude 
 
WON Ge WAITING. 5 ae 
 found some comfort in hie strong resemblance to Lsper- 
 ance 
 
 One day, however, when they were talking together, 
 Gaspard happened to say something in French; Claude 
 stared at him—he could not understand a word. It wa: 
 rather a shock to both of them, but the doctor made ligh: 
 of it, assuring him that in time 15 would come back to him. 
 It was exactly the samo im cther things. He took up a 
 newspaper ono day—the first time he had been allowed to 
 move from his bed, to = couch at the other end of the 
 
 - room—but to his dismay, instead of a refreshment it was a 
 
 serious labor—in ten minutes he had with difficulty 
 spelled through two or three lines—it was like learn- 
 ing to read over again. 
 
 Every time the doctor came he was besieged by impa- 
 tient questions—How was his wife, and when might he see 
 her? Esperance’s recovery had been very slow and pro- 
 tracted, and the meeting was postponed day after day till 
 Claude’s patience was fairly exhausted. One morning he 
 worked himself up into such an excitement, in trying to 
 prove how much better it would be for both of them to see 
 each other, that the doctor began to waver. Esperance 
 had had a bad night, however, and was really not equal 
 to any exertion. Mr. Maclaren wuuld not suggest it to 
 her, but he asked if she would spare the baby. 
 
 Claude was still talking fiercely to Gaspard of the folly 
 and uselessness of such precautions, when his door was 
 
 . opened and the doctor looked in once more. 
 
 “ Mrs. Magnay sends you a small deputy,” he said witha 
 
 _gmile, then standing back he made way forthe monthly, 
 
 nurse, who walked in with an important air, and placed a 
 small, closely wrapped bundle on Claude’sarm. ‘The baby 
 was asleep; he unfolded the shawls, and looked long and 
 earnestly at the little face. It was doubtless much 
 
 like other baby faces, but to his eyes a likeness wasto be 
 
 traced in every feature. The little, pointed dimpled chin, 
 the small mouth, the well-formed nose, at present almost 
 out of proportion to the rest of the face, the soft, dark, 
 clear skin, and a most unusual quantity of curly, dark, 
 
 brown hair, very noticeable in such a young baby, all 
 
 served to make his little girl a very comforting “ deputy.” 
 _ “She will be very like Esperance,” he said, glancing up, 
 
 and Gaspard fancied there were tears in his eyes, but he 
 
 hastily stooped down again and kissed the little uncon- 
 
 scious forehead gratefully, almost reverently. 
 
292 WON BY WAITING, 
 
 -T believe Esperance has been comforting herself with 
 the small woman’s likeness to you,” said Gaspard with a 
 Jaugh. “Time will show which is right, but her eyes are 
 certainly yours.” | 
 _ She was obliging enough to wake before long, and slowly 
 - to lift her sleepy eyelids, and Gaspard was certainly right. 
 
 The eyes, which had been Esperance’s comfort for the last 
 five weeks, were not the least like the De Mabillons—the 
 
 color of Smyrna raisins as the London doctor said—but — 
 
 large, well-opened dark-blue eyes, already expressing some- 
 thing of Claude’s ready observation and intelligence. 
 
 It was two or three days after this that Hsperance was 
 allowed to make her first visit to the sick-room. Gaspard 
 brought her to the door, just witnessing the dawning joy 
 
 of each face, the glow of color which rose to Esperance’s ~ 
 
 cheeks, and the bright, eager welcome from Claude; then 
 he left them to their happiness, and went to see Dean 
 Collinson. 
 
 One of the dean’s many schemes was to induce Mr. Sey- 
 mour to part with Gaspard. He could not endure the 
 thought of his return to Ceylon, and he had written some 
 
 time before to urge the coffee-planter to transfer him to the ~ 
 
 house of business in London. Mr. Seymour was fond of 
 Gaspard, and of course grumbled at the proposal, but it 
 happened that at that time the change was really feasible. 
 Mr. Seymour’s younger brother had just died; Gaspard was 
 fully competent to take his place, and although, owing to 
 
 his want of capital, he could not at present be received as 
 
 a partner, yet the coffee-planter hinted that in time this 
 
 difficulty might be surmounted. The salary was a good 
 
 one, and the dean suggested the change hopefully. Gas- 
 pard did not take long to make up his mind. English fogs 
 
 and vapors with Esperance, and the perfect climate of = 
 
 Dickoya without her, was to him a choice which required 
 
 little weighing; the decision to stay in England was at once 
 made, and Esperance’s delight warmed the dean’s heart. 
 
 _ Itwas while she was talking to him on this subject one 
 
 afternoon in March that she resolved to speak to him of 
 
 what had long been on her mind. “You are doing so = 
 much tomake me happy, uncle,” she said with a momen-. 
 
 
 
 PM tbh yer eet sis 
 Piss West Sal as i thy 
 oo aS a by cee, on) me amen ae 
 
 tary hesitation, “it seems almost wrong to ask you to do re 
 
 something else, and yet there is one thing which I very — a 
 
 much want.” 
 
 “ My dear |” exclaimed the dean, “let me hear it at once; a 
 
 if it is anything I can do I shall be delighted” 
 
 
 
ENG Se ae ee Pe en ee NP Sa ak Sinn A 
 
 aa Sed 
 
 ‘WON BY WALTIRG. er 293 
 
 Yam notsure whether it is,” said Esperance, musing|y, 
 “but I hope itis. I want Bertha to come to Rilchester, 
 uncle. I want George and Bertha to be at baby’s christen- 
 
 - The dean paced up and down the room three or four 
 
 times in silence ; then he stopped, and taking Eisperance’s 
 
 hand in his, he said, gently. ‘“ Yes, my dear, you are 
 
 -right—what am_ I, indeed, that I should refuse forgive- 
 
 ness to any! I will write to Bertha myself. When is 
 
 your little girl to be christenod ?” ee 
 
 “We thought we should like Easter-day, if it will be con- 
 venient, uncle. Mr. Maclaren thinks that Claude may go 
 then.” | 
 
 “And is the name decided ?” 
 
 * Claude says one name must be Esperance, but we have 
 not chosen the other.”’ Then with a sudden thought she 
 continued, “Is there any name you would like, uncle ?” 
 
 There was a strange huskiness in the dean’s voice as he 
 replied, “Yes, Esperance ; if you and Claude approve, 
 there is one name I should very much like—your mother’s 
 name—Amy.” 
 
 Frances Neville, Cornelia, and Gaspard were to be the 
 god-parents. The christening had been deferred till 
 Easter on Claude’s account, but that was the utmost limit 
 which could be allowed, for Mr. Henderson and Fran- 
 ces were to be married in the following week, and Es- — 
 perance had set her heart on their presence. 
 
 “T feel that my little girl belongs to you in a way already,” 
 she said one day to Frances, who was driving her over to 
 Worthington Hall in her little pony-carriage. ‘‘ When she 
 is older you willhave to teach her all that you have taught 
 her mother. I think Maggie is a very happy little girl; we 
 shall all envy her when she has you to herself in the 
 country.” | 
 
 “‘ Dear little Maggie,” said Frances, thoughtfully, “if 1 
 thought I should be half as wise with her as Madame 
 Lemercier has been I should be happy.” 
 
 “JT heard from madame only last week,” said Esperance. 
 * She wrote so happily; her passage is taken, and she gous 
 to Australia to join monsieur next month.” 
 
 “Yes, she has promised to stay with Maggie till we 
 come home,” said Frances. ‘“ We mean to dispense with a 
 regular wedding-tour, and te have a few quiet weeks in 
 
 _ Cornwall instead; then in the summer Norman says we 
 
 
 
 feuat all meot down in Wales Maggie and Kathie will sa 
 
294 | 
 
 joy bevag £0 chiar and I think you and Claude and the! 
 Feuies net e come too, it Bb not feel atall right if you 
 arerot there, and Qlauds Was Won. 2 lang? of am by that 
 time.” ‘e 
 
 “Tt would be very delightful, * gaid Esperance; 6 DUS 
 that is looking rather far ahead. 
 
 They reached the hall as she spoke, and Mr. Henderson, 
 who was staying there, came down the steps to greek, 
 them. 
 
 “ You remember Mrs. Magnay, Norman,” gaid Frances, 
 ‘‘we have already been discussing our next meeting in 
 Wales.” 
 
 Mr. Henderson shook hands with her wartnly. He had 
 not seen her since her wedding-day, but in spite of all she 
 had been through she was not much altered ; it was the 
 same gravely -sweet face, only there seemed greater depth 
 ia the eyes, and a more patient firmness about the mobile 
 lips. 
 
 aes had much to talk of, and thete was a sort of 
 sadness about the visit, because it was probably the last 
 which Esperance would be able to make before the bustle 
 
 and confusion of the wedding week began. But Lady 
 
 Worthington reminded them cheerfully that Devonshire 
 
 was one of the loveliest counties, and prophesied that before — 3 
 
 long Claude would have commissions in the neighborhoog 
 of France’s new home. 
 
 Esperance stayed as long as she could well be spared 
 from home, and then, as Frances was tired, Mr. Hender- 
 son drove her back to Rilchester in the pony-carriage. 
 She wic giad to have this opportunity of seeing him, for 
 although she had from the first thought him very pleasant, 
 she was not quite sure that he was “altogether worthy of 
 Fraaces, indevd, from her very slight acquaintance it wag 
 impossible for her to judge. H< talked to her kindly, and 
 quite in the way she liked, of Claude’s illness; then the 
 
 conversation turned to Mme. Lemercier and her happiness . 
 
 at the prospect of rejoining her husband; and finally it 
 drifted on naturally to recollections of their meeting in 
 Wales, while Esperance was delighted to tell of all Frances’s 
 kindness to her, and Mr. Henderson was of course delighted 
 to listen. By the end of the drive they were firm friends, 
 and Esperance felt quite sure now that she liked Frances’s 
 future husband. : 
 
 George and Bertha were expected on the following day 
 
 eethe Thursday in Holy Week. Every one a little dreaded 
 
 eee) iad oe 
 3 > Shite 
 eek 
 
 
 
WON BY WAITING. : 295 
 
 ~ heir arrival; even Cornelia, though thankful that her 
 _. father had sent the invitation, half shrunk from seeing her 
 sister. All passed off, however, better than she had feared. 
 The real joy of having Bertha once more at home overcame 
 the painfulness of the first meeting, and though they were 
 quiet and subdued, they were none the less really glad and 
 thankful to be all together once more. 
 
 Esperance,fancying that the first return would not be very 
 pleasant to Bertha, had planned the excitement of Claude’s 
 first visit to the deanery for the following day, and their 
 coming was such apleasureto the dean, and such an event, 
 that it seemed to put them all at their ease again. No one 
 quite understood why it was that,on the second day no 
 more awkward silences fell in the family circle, excepting 
 perhaps George; he could not help letting Esperance know 
 that he appreciated her thoughtfulness. 
 
 “From the first time I saw you years ago in Paris, ] 
 knew that you were blessed with that rarest gift of tact, 
 Mrs. Magnay, but I did not imagine how much I should 
 be indebted to you in future years. Your visit to-day has 
 thawed us all.” 
 
 “Claude’s visit, you mean,” said Esperance, smiling. 
 “Tt is the first time he has been here since the accident, 
 mnd the dean wants to show him all the alterations and im- 
 provements.” 7 
 
 “TI hear the dean is not going to have his observatory 
 rebuilt—is that true ?” 
 
 “He says he shall aot at present,” replied Esperance, 
 * but he has engaged a first-rate lecturer to give a course 
 of lessons on astronomy in Rilchester ; and I believe if the 
 people take up the subject at all warmly, he wiil build 
 another observatory, which may be used by the public.” 
 
 “IT must say he looks all the better for being without his 
 hobby. I suppose he gets out-of-doors more, instead of 
 being shut up all day studying and spending half the night 
 in star-gazing.” 
 
 Esperance glanced across at the dean, and smiled. He 
 certainly did look much happier and much less infirm 
 than in former times, but she did not think the change 
 was altogether owing to the loss of the telescope. 
 
 Easter-day was cold and unseasonable ; in spite of its 
 being in the middle of April there was snow on the 
 ground, and the cold east wind blew gustily round the 
 walls of the cathedral, whistling through the louver-boards 
 in the towers, and vainly seeking for an entrance at the 
 

 
 5 a ‘| . id 2 we ee ras 
 S ce : alle By # ase ee ties 
 es 
 
 296 = ‘WON BY “WAITING. 
 
 
 
 closed doors and windows. But the hurricane without 
 only made the calm within seem more restful, and the — 
 fitful gleams of sunshine streaming through the stained- 
 glass windows cast a fleeting radiance on the group” ee. 
 gathered round the massive old front. ae 
 Lady Worthington, standing rather in the background, —__ 
 - could watch the faces of those around; Claude, with the 
 gravely wistful expression which his face often bore, stood 
 close to the font, his color rather high, his short, newly- a 
 grown hair fairer and more bo yish-looking than ever. Es- 
 perance was close beside him, looking serene and happy, 
 and with a beautiful light in her soft, brown eyes; while 
 _ behind them stood Marie, in her fresh white cap, and little iS 
 Noel with his bright eyes full of grave wonder. Onthe 
 opposite side stood Frances and Mr. Henderson, Mme. 
 _Lemercier, using her handkerchief freely—Gaspard, with 
 an “unusually softened expression on his dark, handsome _ 
 face, and Cornelia, holding the baby carefully ‘and rather 
 - anxiously, with a womanly tenderness and love which she . 
 would once have scorned. But, perhaps, in all the little s 
 group there was no face which arrested Lady Whe oe 
 ton’s attention with such real pleasure as the dean’s. 
 
 This Easter-day was indeed one of rejoicing to him. It_ 
 was with mingled humility and joy that he received his 
 ‘sister’s little “grandchild in his arms, and bestowed on ~— 
 her the name which meant so much to him—“ Amy Espe- _ 
 rance.’ : 
 
 The short service over, the little group dispersed quickly, 
 Mrs. Mortlake lingering to help old Mrs. Passmore into 
 the carriage, and to hear her comments. can 
 
 «A most beautiful baby ! the finest I have seen for a 
 long time—and so healthy, too!” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mrs. Mortlake, ‘‘ a nice plump little thing 
 but scarcely pretty. Just compare her with Bella at that 
 age! Bella really was a lovely baby!” ae 
 
 “Mrs. Passmore did not stay to dispute the point, and @ 
 Mrs. Mortlake was recalled to the present by finding that 4 
 ‘Bella was playing at snowballs with Maggie Henderson 
 and the little Worthingtons, to the great detriment of her — 
 Sunday clothes. ne 
 
 There was to be no christening dinner, for Claude was gi 
 atill too much of an invalid to bear any more fatigue thab — 
 day ; it was not indeed till the evening that he was enough _ 
 rested to care even for conversation, but when Esperance ‘ 
 had brought him his tesa be revived, z) 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
WON BY WAITING. — 297 
 
 *Ti has not been too much for you?” she asked, a little 
 anxiously. 
 
 — ©Not the least. I wouldn’t have missed it for any- 
 
 thing, he replied, with sufficient energy to reassure her. 
 
 “Tt was worth a little exertion if only for the pleasure of 
 
 seeing the dean's face.” 
 
 «Was it not bright and glad!” said Esperance, smiling. 
 “And he held the baby so nicely! JI could not help think. | 
 ing as he said her name, how my mother’s belief had really 
 come true, and all was being made right at last. I wonder 
 if in Paradise they are allowed to watch the working to- 
 gether of things down here—whether she and papa could 
 see how the poverty and the suffering and the long waiting 
 were all leading up to the reunion which they had so longed 
 for?” 
 
 Claude did not speak for a minute or two, but twisted 
 her betrothal ring round, and mused on the motto. 
 
 “You naughty child,” he said, playfully, yet with a vi- 
 bration in his voice, ‘see how loose this thing has grown!” 
 
 And with that he pressed the litile thin hand to his lipy 
 and Esperance sniled—her eyes full of happy tears. 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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