

### WAS I RIGHT

About the Book

**(19 chapters, 60,000 words)**

May Lindsay and her young stepsister Maggie are left penniless and homeless when their father the local doctor dies. Maggie can go to live with her three maiden aunts, but May at the age of nineteen is faced with a choice. Should she take the position of companion to a girl she doesn't know, who lives some distance away, or accept a proposal of marriage from the man who has been her friend since they were small children?

May Lindsay makes her decision, but it is not long before she wonders if she has done the right thing.

This is a story of life in Victorian England as May, who has led a sheltered life, is pushed out into a much bigger world than she has previously known. She soon encounters titled families, and is taken on a tour of the Holy Land which occupies much of the story.

Two men seem to be a big disappointment to May Lindsay. Will her Christian faith hold strong in these troubles? Was she right in the decision she made before leaving home?
Was I Right?

Mrs. O. M. Walton
First published 1879

This Abridged Edition ©2015 Chris Wright

Illustrations © Simon Wright

(Redrawn from _Half Hours in the Holy Land_ 1884 _)_

E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

Also available as e-books

from White Tree Publishing

Abridged editions of

two more Classic Romances

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

(see end of this e-book for details)

_The Lost Clue_ E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

_Doctor Forester_ E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

and by Charles Sheldon

_In His Steps_ abridged e-Book

ISBN: 978-0-9927642-9-6

Paperback editions of all four books

are available from

most internet book sellers
This book is a work of fiction. Named locations are used fictitiously, and characters and incidents are the product of the original author's imagination. The names of places and people are from the original work. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

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**Table of Contents**

Cover

About this book

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

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Younger Readers

#  Introduction

This romance was first published in serial form in 1879 by the well-known English author Mrs. O. F. Walton. Mrs. Walton wrote many books in the second half of the nineteenth century, and is probably best known for two children's stories: _Christie's Old Organ_ and _A_ _Peep Behind the Scenes_. Several of her early children's stories are rather morbid, revolving around premature death. Fortunately, her adult romances are free from this.

In the early 1900s, Mrs. Walton wrote two more romantic mysteries, _The Lost Clue_ and _Doctor Forester_. Both these very readable books are available as abridged editions, as companion volumes for this title. They also have no children dying! The books have been lightly abridged, and a few minor changes have been made to the text to make some incidents more easily understood today. The storylines of all three books remain unchanged.

Mrs. Walton (born Amy Catherine Deck) was the daughter of a vicar in Hull, and she married the church's curate Octavius Frank Walton in 1875. Soon afterwards, her husband took up an appointment at a church on Mount Zion, Jerusalem where he and his wife stayed until 1879. The adventures in this book in the Holy Land are almost certainly based on fascinating eye witness accounts.

The formal way in which people address each other is very much part of the social etiquette of the period. Because this story was written at the time in which it takes place, rather than being seen through the eyes of a modern author, it provides a fascinating and accurate historical peep into life in the late nineteenth century.

The constant reference to servants would have been normal and acceptable to Victorian readers. Most families had at least one member of staff, and large, wealthy houses had many staff, ranging from domestics, to cooks, butlers, gardeners and estate managers. The system gave much needed employment to local people where no social care system was in operation.

One thing that is especially worth pointing out is the frequent mention of the ladies taking up their "work." The word "ladies" is used correctly here for this period, for they were part of the main family of the house. In order to be fully occupied for the improvement of their minds, they carried with them a bag containing sewing or embroidery to do while talking to each other. In this way they could not be accused of spending their time in idle chatter!

Chris Wright  
Editor

# Chapter One

THERE is one day in my life which stands out as a day above all others. As I look back to it I see myself, a girl of nineteen, sitting at my bedroom window lost in thought and perplexity. I can see in my mind's eye the garden just as it looked as I gazed out onto it that afternoon -- our quaint, old-fashioned garden with its hedge of laurel bushes, and the large elm trees at the end of it with the flickering light and shade underneath.

I can still picture the rabbits nibbling the grass on the lawn. I can hear the trickling of the stream which ran by the side of the house, in which I used to float toy boats with Claude and Maggie in the happy days when we were children.

Our father had been the doctor in the village. It was a very poor place, and the people never had any money to spare. My father was too kind-hearted to press for payment when he saw how hard it was for them to live. Although his practice was large, he saved very little money. But even this small amount never came to us, for just before his death the bank in which it was placed suddenly failed, so when he was gone Maggie and I were penniless.

Maggie was much younger than me. She was my half-sister, and her mother died three weeks after she was born. She committed her little baby to me when she knew that she must leave it, and from that day I became, as far as I was able, a mother to Maggie.

I was a very young "mother," for I was only seven years old at the time, but a feeling of great responsibility and trust came over me as I left the room where my stepmother was dying. I crept up to the nursery and stroked the baby's face, and felt as if she belonged to me from that moment.

And now Maggie and I were left without a penny in the world. A letter had come from Maggie's three maiden aunts, her mother's sisters, to insist on her going at once to live with them in the old Manor House at Branston. I knew that Maggie would be happy and cared for there, and certainly not living in poverty. It was a great relief to my mind, but there was no such home in prospect for me.

Maggie's aunts were, of course, not related to me, and my mother had been a friendless orphan, so I had no one to take compassion on me. Separated from the old home, separated from Maggie, life at the age of nineteen looked exceedingly cheerless.

My mind was full of trouble and perplexity, for on the table before me lay two letters which must be answered before evening, and on the answer to these letters would hang all my future life.

I sat at my bedroom window, not knowing what to do. The clock ticked on, the hands were moving round, and my letters were still unanswered.

As I gazed into the garden I can remember how the sun went behind a bank of heavy clouds, and all turned gloomy and dismal in a moment. The rabbits ran back to their holes, the sunbeams fled from the lawn, the wind whistled drearily in the chimneys of the old house and flapped the branches of the climbing rose tree against my bedroom window. It seemed to me then like the cloud which had come so suddenly across my hitherto happy life. And now, what was before me? Joy? Or sorrow?

It appeared to be left with me to decide. The two letters must be answered. The first of these was from an old governess of ours, a kind, good woman. I had written to tell her of my difficulties, and she advised me to apply for a situation as companion to a young lady of fortune, in answer to an advertisement which had just appeared in _The Times_ newspaper. A fair salary was promised, and all expenses of travelling would be defrayed.

That was one of the letters which I had to answer. That path of life did not seem bright in prospect. The position of a poor companion in a large household was certainly not one I would have chosen for myself.

I said, "Oh, no," instinctively when I first read the advertisement which Miss Morley enclosed. And yet the more I thought about it the more I felt that perhaps I _ought_ to apply for the situation. It was clear that I must work for my living in some way, so perhaps this would be the very place for me. And yet . . . and yet my heart shrank from what might be the path of duty.

There was another letter on the table. A very different letter. And this letter must be answered before I could decide about Miss Morley's proposal. I had read it so often during the day that I knew every word of it. It opened out to me another path of life -- a path which seemed as bright as the other was shaded.

The letter was from Claude Ellis, my old playfellow and friend. He was the son of the clergyman of the village, his only child. Claude had no companions at home, and therefore when we were children we went, day by day, to the Parsonage, or Claude came to us, and we played together between the hours for lessons. And then we grew older. Claude was sent to school, but always in the holidays our old friendship was renewed, and we walked together, read together, and played together as before.

But schooldays passed, and Claude went to Oxford. I remember so well the day on which he came to say goodbye to us before leaving home. He looked handsome, and was full of spirits, and was so much looking forward to his college life.

Maggie and I walked to the garden gate with him, and we talked of the time when he would come home again, and we would spend our days together as we had always done in the holidays. Then he went out, the gate closed after him, and Maggie and I watched him walking down the road. Maggie waved her handkerchief to him until he was out of sight. When we went hack to the house I counted how many weeks must pass before the term would be ended and Claude would be with us again.

But a short time after, the Reverend Ellis, Claude's father, was taken ill and the doctor ordered him to go to the south of France for the winter. So Claude spent his Christmas vacation with him in Menton instead of at home. And then we looked forward to Midsummer.

But Claude did not return home until the greater part of the long vacation was over. He was in Cornwall and did not come to the Parsonage until about three weeks before his return to Oxford. So Claude and I had not met for nearly a year.

"Claude is at home," said my father one morning at breakfast.

"Oh, is he?" said little Maggie excitedly. "How nice."

I was pleased also. I expected to see exactly the same Claude that I had parted from at the garden gate a year ago. I thought everything would go on just as it had done when he was a boy at school and came home for the holidays.

So when I saw him coming up the road, I ran into the garden to meet him.

"Oh, Claude, I am glad to see you," I cried, as soon as he opened the gate. And then I stopped short, and went up to him quietly. Giving him my hand, I said in a different voice, "How do you do, Claude? When did you come home?"

For in a moment it flashed across me that Claude Ellis and I were not the same. He and I had grown out of a boy and a girl into a young man and woman since we last met. All this flashed across me in a moment as I noticed the difference in Claude's dress, manners and appearance as he came in at the gate. And a chill came over me and I wished that I had not run to meet him quite so eagerly.

And yet when he began to talk I felt that he was in many ways the same Claude still; the same, but changed.

Was he changed for the better? In many ways he was. He was more manly, and had much to tell us of his college friends and college life, which made him a more amusing and pleasant companion than before.

And yet there was another change in Claude which I could not help noticing, in spite of my efforts not to do so. Before Claude went to college we often talked together of the Bible, and he explained to me many things which I did not understand.

We used to sit on the garden seat on Sunday afternoons and read a chapter together, and Claude used to talk so helpfully about it. He often spoke of the time when he would be old enough to be ordained, and when I could come to his church and hear him preach. He even told me what his first text would be, and how he had already written some pages of his first sermon.

But after Claude's return I noticed that he always avoided any mention of Christian subjects, and when, either in his own home or ours, any allusion was made to them, he quickly turned the conversation to some other topic.

I tried for some days to convince myself that it was not because Claude had ceased to care for what he had loved before, but rather that his feelings had grown so much deeper and truer that he felt divine things too sacred to be talked about. But before the vacation was over I was obliged to admit that Claude's views and opinions were completely changed about Christian things. He had begun to doubt what he had before received with child-like faith. He had begun to despise and hold in contempt that which he had learned to love and reverence.

"Oh, you have never been to Oxford, May," he said rather contemptuously one day, when I was trying to explain something to him from the Bible. "You should read some of the books which were lent to me by a friend at college. We are behind the times in this little out-of-the-way place. The world is growing clever and learned, and there are many things which you and I have always taken for granted about which there is really great doubt and uncertainty."

"What things, Claude?" I said.

"I mean parts of the Bible, May, and doctrines which are supposed to be proved from the Bible. But what is the use of talking about it to you? I don't want to unsettle your mind. If you like to believe it, and if it makes you happy, go on believing it, and be glad that you haven't read the books I have read."

"But you, Claude?" I said, sorrowfully.

"Oh, never mind about me, May. I am all right. I am a little wiser than you, that is all."

"Are you happier, Claude?" I ventured to ask.

"Oh, I don't know, May. I don't think happiness, if it is based on a delusion, is much worth having."

"Oh, Claude," I said, "it makes me wretched to hear you talk like that."

"Then talk about something else, May," he said brightly. "You began the subject, not I."

"But, Claude--"

"Now, that will do, May," he said impatiently. "We don't think alike about these subjects, simply because I know a great deal more about them than I did before I went away -- or than you do now. So let the matter drop."

I was unhappy after this conversation with Claude. He gave me no opportunity of renewing it; but though he had not explained to me any of his doubts, he had left an uneasy, troubled feeling on my mind, a feeling which I could not shake off.

When I went upstairs to bed that night I sat down to think over what Claude had said. What if, after all, I was resting on a delusion, building my happiness on an unreality? What if, after all, my faith was in vain, my hope unfounded?

Horrible doubts, such as I had never known before, came crowding into my mind. "Are these things so?" was the oft-repeated question of my heart. It was a sad awakening from the trust and implicit confidence of childhood; an awakening which perhaps comes to every thoughtful mind when its faith is brought into contact for the first time with the intellect of this world; an awakening which leads us either into the terrible region of doubt and uncertainty, or into faith, far firmer than ever before, because it is based not on mere childish impressions, but on the words and the being of the eternal God.

In this state of perplexity I went to my bedroom window and looked out. It was a bright, starlight night, so I put out my candle and sat by the window gazing into the sky at the countless multitude of stars. Who had made all these mighty worlds? Who was keeping them all in their places and making them fulfil the object for which they were created?

I knew who it was. My faith in the existence of an Almighty God remained unshaken. I could never look around on God's universe and doubt that God _is._

And then, as I looked at the stars, other thoughts came -- thoughts of the majesty and wisdom and power of the God who had made all these, and thoughts of the smallness and insignificance of our own little world in comparison with the rest of God's great universe.

And I -- what was I?

I was just one of the beings which inhabited this tiny world; one of the smallest and least wise of all in God's universe. Who was I, that I should say to God, "Why doest Thou this?" Who was I, that I should presume to sit in judgment on anything in God's revelation?

"His wisdom is unsearchable, His ways past finding out," was the verse from the Psalms in my heart. I am like a little child -- how can I know God's plans? How can I expect to understand that which is understood fully only by God Himself?

A feeling of my utter nothingness and insignificance in God's sight came over me so powerfully that I was almost crushed by it. "O Lord," I said, as I looked up into the sky, "I will be content to receive Thy Word with childlike faith, and what my mind is too weak and small to understand fully, I will yet believe, because Thou hast told me, and because Thy Word must be true."

A hundred books, written by the cleverest men on earth, could not convince me that the Bible was a mere human production, for I had found in it what I had found in no other book \-- peace for a troubled conscience, comfort in sorrow, victory over sin.

I lay down to sleep that night reassured and comforted, with my doubts entirely removed, and I do not remember that they ever returned to me.

But Claude, what could I do for him? I could do nothing but pray for him, for he never gave me an opportunity of speaking to him again about what had so troubled me.

His college days passed by, and every vacation that he was at home he came frequently to see us, and each time he came I felt more persuaded that his new views had not improved his character. He looked restless and dissatisfied, as if something was preying on his mind.

And yet Claude was kind to Maggie and to me. He never came home without bringing me some little present, and he never seemed tired of our company.

# Chapter Two

ONE DAY, about six weeks before the time at which my story commences, I had been spending the day at the Parsonage. I did not often go there any longer, but Claude Ellis was away and his aunt Miss Richards who had lived there since his mother died invited me to spend the afternoon with her. Claude had just left Oxford, and was staying for a few weeks with some friends in Scotland before settling down at home.

After dinner Miss Richards and I took our work into the little summerhouse and sat there until the evening. We talked on various subjects, the village, the people round, Mr. Ellis's health, and many other things. And then we talked of Claude.

"It will be pleasant to have Claude at home," said Miss Richards. "The house is so quiet when he's away."

"Yes, Miss Richards," I said, "you must miss him very much, but I suppose he will not be at home long. When is he to be ordained?"

She did not answer at once, and when I looked up I saw that her face was troubled as she bent over her work.

"Claude will not be ordained, May," she said at length. "I think that is absolutely decided now."

"Why not, Miss Richards?" I asked in astonishment. "I thought that had been settled years ago, when Claude was a little boy."

"It was only settled conditionally, May," she said. "Claude was to be ordained if it was his own wish to do so. His father would never press him into such work if he did not feel drawn to it himself."

"And Claude does not feel drawn to it?" I asked.

"Oh no, he has written to his father most decidedly, giving up all idea of becoming a clergyman and expressing his wish to study law."

"Is Mr. Ellis disappointed?" I said.

"Of course, he is disappointed in one way, May, for he has made a great effort to give Claude a university education in order to make him more fit for his work as a minister. But at the same time he quite sees that with those new views Claude has taken up at Oxford, his ordination is, at least for the present, out of the question."

I made no answer, but went on diligently with my work.

"Claude has been a great expense to his father," Miss Richards went on. "He has cost him much money at Oxford, and demands for payment are still coming in. Claude is young yet, you see, and I suppose all young men are extravagant. But it is a great pity that he let the accounts run on for so long. Some go as far back as his first term."

"What does Claude say about it?" I asked.

"Oh, he is always troubled when the accounts come, for he sees that his father has not any money to spare. So he talks about the time when he will have money of his own at his Uncle Charles's death, and when he will be able to repay all his father has advanced for him. He is quite certain that the tradesmen must have added a great deal which he never bought. But it is so long ago, May, nearly four years, so of course he cannot be sure of it."

"I am very, very sorry," I said.

"Yes, and so are we," said Miss Richards. "But Mr. Ellis would not mind how much money he had to pay, if only Claude had not taken such hostile views to the Christian faith."

"Does he still hold those views?" I asked. "He spoke to me once about them, a long time ago, but I have heard nothing of it since. I hoped Claude had studied the other side of the question, and had grown wiser."

"Oh, my dear," said Miss Richards, "he seems to me to get worse and worse. At first it was only some small parts of the Bible which he objected to, and which he maintained were not inspired. When he once began to doubt, there was no knowing where he would stop doubting. He carried the same spirit of critical suspicion into everything."

"But surely there are books which would in a great measure answer Claude's doubts?" I suggested.

"Yes, undoubtedly," said Miss Richards, "but it seems to me Claude prefers doubting, for he does not seem at all anxious to have his doubts cleared away. What he believes now suits his manner of living. If Claude would only prayerfully desire, and prayerfully strive to have his doubts removed, I would have no fear about him."

"I am so sorry, Miss Richards," I said again.

There was a long silence in which I did not like to say anything more.

"But I have not lost hope for Claude yet," Miss Richards continued. "I believe that when he is older he will be wiser in many ways. And May," she said, "my great hope for Claude lies in you. You have more influence with him than anyone has."

"I? Oh no, Miss Richards, you are quite wrong there," I said. "Claude will never even speak to me on the subject."

"Perhaps not," said Miss Richards, "but your quiet, loving influence must have its effect in time."

"But, Miss Richards, you are quite mistaken in supposing that I have any influence with Claude. I know when we were children together, we were like brother and sister to each other and I may have had some influence over him, but it is very different now."

"You have tenfold more influence with Claude now than you had then, May," she said quietly.

I felt my face growing crimson as Miss Richards said this. She had put into words a fear which had been hidden away in my heart for some months -- a fear that I had never dared, even in my own heart, to put into words -- a fear that I was becoming more to Claude than a mere childhood companion, and that he had plans and views for our future, his future and mine, which I could not, which I ought not, to entertain for a moment. And because of this undefined fear I had kept away from the Parsonage as much as possible during the vacations. I had avoided Claude as much as our old friendship would allow me, until sometimes my conscience had accused me of rudeness and unkindness.

Claude loved me, it was true, and liked to bring me presents. But surely it was only natural that he would do so, for we had been brought up together and learned together and played together, and had shared every thought and scheme in common. It was nothing more than that -- so I had argued with myself. But Miss Richards's words had revived my old fear, and increased it a hundredfold.

I was glad when, a minute or two afterwards, the village clock struck five and I could make an excuse to leave.

Miss Richards had evidently noticed my embarrassment, for she said kindly, as she wished me goodbye, "I hope I have not troubled you, May dear, but my heart is so full of anxiety about Claude just now, that I have spoken perhaps more strongly than I ought to have done."

I went home perplexed and troubled, but the next day my thoughts were turned into an entirely fresh channel by the sudden illness of my dear father. I will not dwell on the sad time which followed those days and nights of alternate hope and fear.

Miss Richards was kind to me during that time, giving me advice and help as I needed them, and relieving me greatly from the sense of heavy responsibility which rested on me.

Claude was still away from home, but he wrote a kind note of sympathy to me when he heard of my father's death. He said he was sorry that he was away at the time. Had he been at home he would have done all in his power to save me any unnecessary care and anxiety in my time of sorrow.

I tried to hope that this was only brotherly kindness, such as Claude had always shown me. I answered the letter by a short note, thanking him for his kind expression of sympathy, and telling him a little of our future plans -- how Maggie was going to live with her aunts in the old Manor House at Branston, and how I hoped soon to obtain a situation as governess or companion where I could earn enough money to keep myself in comfort and independence.

By return of post came a second letter from Claude. I almost trembled when I saw his handwriting on the envelope. I had not intended to start a correspondence with him. When I took the letter from the envelope, and saw its length, I was still more troubled and afraid. Then I read the letter; and when I had read it once, I read it again, and yet again. And now this letter lay on the table before me, still unanswered, and post time was drawing nearer and nearer. I looked at it once more, although I knew almost every word of it already.

Claude began by stating his utter disapproval of my scheme of obtaining a situation as companion or governess. I was not fitted for it, he insisted, and he would never allow it to be carried out. And then he went on to tell me that he had far different plans for my future -- plans which had mingled with his boyish dreams, and which had been for years the one idea of his life.

And then he told me how he loved me, how there was no one on earth that he had ever cared for except me, and how he felt that the time had now come to make me his wife and take me to a home of my own where I would be cherished and loved more than any wife had ever been before.

He said it was hard for him to put into a letter all the feelings of his heart. He had never planned to tell me all this by writing, but he felt compelled to write as soon as he received my letter, and the more so as, by a curious coincidence, by the same post he had heard of the sudden death of his uncle Charles who had left him a large sum of money -- quite sufficient, Claude said, to enable him to marry and take me to a comfortable home.

At the end of the week, he said, he hoped to be with me. But he could not wait until then to tell me all this, for he feared that I should in the meantime be answering some dreadful advertisement and making another and a very different engagement. He concluded by urging me to write by return of post, as he longed to know that the whole matter was finally settled and arranged.

The more I read this letter, the more persuaded I felt that Claude never, for a single moment, entertained the possibility of my refusing him. He seemed to look on it as a matter of certainty that I would be only too glad to do as he asked me. He was evidently utterly unprepared for anything but an immediate and hearty acceptance of his offer.

And now what answer should I give? I pressed my throbbing temples and tried to think the matter over calmly and deliberately.

Did I love Claude Ellis? Yes, undoubtedly I loved him very much indeed; not in the same way, it is true, as I had imagined that I would love the one who was to become my husband, but still I loved him warmly, as a sister loves a brother who has been everything to her since she was a small child. And surely a different kind of love for Claude might, and probably would, come into my heart after we were engaged.

Claude was certainly not at all like the husband that I had pictured to myself in the days long ago, when I was foolish enough to indulge in daydreams. I had never pictured Claude as the one who was to be all this to me. Yet surely he would be a kind, loving husband, and I might be very happy if I was his wife.

And I was so fond of Claude that I felt it would make me miserable to feel that there was any distance or coldness between us, as there undoubtedly would be if I refused to be his wife. Our old friendship, which had lasted so long, would come to an end. When we met we would feel restrained and uncomfortable in each other's presence. I could not bear to think that such would be the case.

And then Miss Richards -- how anxious she evidently was that I would use my influence with Claude. What would she say if I was to refuse him? How strange she would think it. How grieved and disappointed she would be.

And yet, with the thought of Miss Richards, came the recollection of what she had told me of Claude as we sat together. Would I be happy with someone as my husband who scorned the Book I loved best on earth, who slighted and neglected the Friend who was to me the chiefest among ten thousand?

Would I be happy with no family prayer in my household? With no reading of the Word of God, and with religious topics for ever banished because husband and wife thought so differently about them? Would the love between us be perfect when there was one subject -- and that one the subject nearest to my heart -- on which we had no communion? One Name, and that one the Name above every name, which neither of us ever mentioned to each other? Would I be really happy, really contented with such a state of things?

And then came another question. Even supposing I was happy, was it right for me to accept Claude's offer? Was it right in God's sight for me to marry one who was not a Christian? I knew there was a text somewhere in the Epistle to the Corinthians which spoke on this point. I opened my Bible and looked for it, and I found it in 2 Corinthians 6:14. "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?"

It was a clear command, and could not be mistaken. And yet I tried to argue myself into the belief that it did not apply to me. In the first place, I reasoned, Claude did not worship gods of wood and stone. He was looked upon as a Christian, and lived and had been brought up in a Christian family. But then I thought that the word unbeliever surely includes everyone that is not a believer.

Was Claude a believer? Could I honestly say that he was a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Would Claude himself like to be thought a believer? Could I from my heart say that I thought Claude was safe in Christ, resting his soul on Christ for salvation? No, I was obliged sorrowfully to admit to myself that such was not the case. But then, I argued, I was not perfect. Who was I, I thought, that I should set myself up to be better and more holy than Claude? Who was I, that I should say Claude was not good enough for me?

Yet the line of distinction in the text was clearly drawn, not between perfect people and imperfect people, but between believers and unbelievers. Was I then a believer? That was the question. Was I in action and in truth a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ?

A day many years ago came back to my mind. I remembered how anxious I had felt as I left the church one Sunday, and how I had come home and shut myself in this very room where I was now sitting. I had resolved not to leave the room until I had laid my sins on Jesus, and looked to Him by faith as my own Saviour. I remembered how all my sins had risen up before me that day as they had never done before; and how, one by one, I had taken them to Christ to be atoned for and forgiven.

Then I remembered the peace which followed, and how for days afterwards life was entirely new to me, and my thoughts and feelings and wishes were entirely different from what they were before. And since that time, though I had often grown careless and indifferent, still I had never been happy when I was not walking closely with God, and I had always longed at such times to be back in the sunshine and light of His presence again.

When I began to think the matter over, I was driven to the conclusion that Claude was far more likely to lead me away from Christ than I was to lead him to become a believer. If I could not convince him now, then surely after marriage I would become less of a believer, and he would remain still an unbeliever.

Christ's love or Claude's? Which should I choose? I could not have both, for I felt that to have both was impossible. Choosing Christ, I would offend Claude; choosing Claude, I would forfeit the love and the favour of Jesus Christ. Christ or Claude -- which? The answer was clear.

I knelt down and thanked God from the bottom of my heart for showing me the sure, the right way for me to take. Then I took up my pen to answer Claude's letter.

# Chapter Three

IT was not an easy task to answer Claude's letter, for I did not wish to wound him or pain him, and I felt sure he would be so utterly unprepared for what I felt obliged to say. Lest I should in any way raise his hopes, I began at once by telling him how difficult I felt it to write, and how much it cost me to tell him that what he had asked me to do in his letter was quite impossible. I thanked him for all his love for me, and for the kind way in which he had spoken of me; but I made it as clear as possible that although I hoped always to remain his friend, yet I could not be his wife.

I did not tell him my exact reason for refusing him, for I felt that Claude would not in the least degree understand it. I told him that my mind was fully made up, and I begged him at once to dismiss the idea of marriage to me from his mind. I tried to write decidedly and yet very kindly, and with the remembrance of our old friendship and love vividly impressed on my mind.

I ended by expressing my sorrow for giving him pain, and my earnest hope for his future happiness. I begged him to let no coldness and estrangement come between us on account of this, but to let our old friendship be strengthened and increased rather than weakened and lessened.

I was not at all satisfied with this letter when it was finished, but there was no time to rewrite it, for post time was close at hand, and the advertisement in _The Times_ newspaper must be answered at once or I would lose the situation.

The following afternoon Maggie was spending the day with a playfellow of hers in the village, and I heard footsteps in the hall. It was not Maggie's step. No, I knew the step well, and my heart beat fast, and I felt myself growing paler and paler every moment.

The door opened and Claude entered without any ceremony. He looked tired and troubled, and his clothes were covered with dust from his long journey.

"May," he said, "I got your letter this morning, and I have come at once. The Fitzgeralds thought I was mad. I started up from the breakfast table and said I must catch the nine o'clock train. I could not have waited another day. It would have been utterly impossible, May."

I tried to speak, but my heart was beating so quickly now that my words seemed as if they would choke me.

"And now," Claude said, sitting down by my side and taking my hand, "I want you to tell me what you meant by that cruel letter you sent me. Or rather, I want you to tell me that it was all a mistake, all a delusion, that you have thought better of it since, and that you wish you had never written it. I want you to tell me, May, darling," he said in a lower voice, "that the dream of my life is to be changed into a reality this very week. I want you to tell me that the bright days which I have always said were in store for us both are now close at hand."

"Claude, dear Claude," I said, as soon as I was able to speak, "you have my answer. As a friend I will always love you, but I cannot, cannot be your wife."

"And pray why not, May?" he said, rising impatiently and walking towards the window. "What absurd idea have you got in your head now? Who, or what is to hinder you from becoming my wife, I would like to know?"

"Claude, I _cannot_ ," I said; and the tears came, in spite of all my efforts to keep them back.

"But what is your reason, May?" he demanded, pacing up and down the room. "You must have some reason for what you say, and I cannot rest until you tell me what it is. What is it?"

"Claude," I said earnestly, "it would do no good. My mind is made up. I cannot do as you ask me, so please do not press me for the reason."

"But I _will_ know it, May," he said, almost angrily. "I am not going home until you have told me, so you had better let me hear it at once."

And then I felt that perhaps it was sinful cowardice which made me afraid to tell Claude my reason. Perhaps I was grieving my dear Lord and Master by being ashamed of Him, by being ashamed to tell Claude what it was that I held far more dear than his love for me -- the priceless, the everlasting love of my Lord. And yet how could I do it? Claude unexpectedly came to my help.

"May," he said, quickly, "do you love someone better than me? Is that it?"

"Yes, Claude," I said, "there is one love which I hold more dear than yours."

"Who is it, May?" he demanded. "I didn't realize you knew anyone else well enough. Who can it be?"

"It is no one on earth, Claude," I said. "It is the Lord Jesus Christ."

"What nonsense, May!" he exclaimed in laughter. "Whatever in the world has that to do with it? I am not going to interfere with your religion. You may be as religious as ever you please -- a perfect saint if you like. I won't hinder you. So put all those absurd notions out of your head and let us talk about the future. That matter is settled. You can be twice as religious after you are married as you were before."

"But, Claude, the matter is not settled," I said. "You know I could not expect to be happy, or enjoy God's presence, if I was disobeying His clear command."

"And pray what command do you mean?" asked Claude. "Really, May, this is too absurd!"

I opened the Bible and handed it to him. There was a mark against the verse in the Epistle to the Corinthians, and his face clouded over as he read the words.

"I wish that verse was cut out of every Bible in the world," he said irately. "I wonder how many people's happiness has been ruined by it. It is perfectly ridiculous. Why, May, you don't properly understand the wording of the text. You can't even read it in Greek, and yet you are going to overthrow all my plans and schemes for the future, and spoil all my happiness in the world, just for the sake of that one obscure verse."

I could not help noticing how much Claude dwelt on his own plans and schemes and happiness in the world, and how he looked at the matter only from his own point of view, and not at all from my side of the question.

"No, Claude," I said, calmly, "I cannot read it in Greek, but I understand quite enough of it to make me quite sure that if I were to consent to marry you, I would be grieving my best Friend by disobeying His clear command."

"Why, May, that just shows you know nothing at all about it," he said. "That verse has no more to do with you than it has with this table. It was spoken to the Corinthians, who before Paul preached to them were an ignorant lot of heathens, and all it means is that Christians are not to go and marry heathens. I'm not a heathen, bad as you seem to think me."

"But," I answered, "it says unbelievers, and surely that means those who are not believers, Claude. Are you a real believer in the Lord Jesus Christ? Can you honestly say that you are? Would you like to be called a believer by your friends?"

Claude could not answer this question, so he quickly turned the conversation into quite a different channel.

"And so you set up yourself as too good for me, May, that's what it is. You think yourself far too saintly to be joined to a poor heathen like me."

"No, Claude, indeed it is not that," I protested. "Indeed it is not. I am not good at all -- very, very far from it. But I do trust that I have come to the Lord Jesus, and that I believe in Him. Yes, though I am very imperfect and sinful, oh, Claude, I _am_ a believer," I said, with tears in my eyes.

"Yes, darling," said Claude, in quite a different tone. "I know you are everything good. I sometimes wish I was more like you. Won't you help me to become better, May? Won't you save me from myself, and teach me to love what you love? Surely you will not refuse me?"

And Claude took hold of my hand, and looked up pleadingly into my face.

A fierce struggle was going on in my mind. While Claude had been angry and impatient, it had been comparatively easy to be firm. But now, now that his voice was so pleading and tender, now that his hand was laid so lovingly on mine, now that his eyes were actually full of tears, I felt my resolution giving way, my faith failing.

What if, after all, Claude was right? What if I could indeed be the means of leading him to better things? Miss Richards seemed to think so.

And yet my conscience told me plainly enough that the opinion of a good woman like Mrs. Richards could not make a wrong action right. Was it right or wrong in the sight of God? That was the question, and every time I put it to my heart, the same answer came, in clear unmistakable terms: "Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."

I darted up one earnest, imploring cry to my Lord for help. My prayer did not, even in thought, resolve itself into words, but it was the language of my innermost soul. And it was not left unanswered. Four words came into my mind at that moment, which enabled me to gain the victory.

As clearly as if the sunbeams which were streaming in at the window had written them on the wall of the room, these four words flashed across me: For My Name's Sake.

"For My Name's sake; is it too much to bear for Me?" I heard Him ask me. I drew my hand away from Claude's, gently, but firmly. "Claude," I said, "do not let us make each other more miserable by going over and over the same ground. I will always love you, but I _cannot_ be your wife. That is my final answer, so please say no more about it."

I suppose I spoke firmly, though I had tried to speak calmly, for Claude became angry. A change passed over his face in an instant. I do not think he had dreamed for a single moment that I would be able to withstand his arguments and his persuasions.

He walked to the window and looked out on the garden below. "Then I am to look on this as final, May?" he said, bitterly.

"Yes, Claude, as final," I replied. "But you will not let our old friendship end, will you? Why should we not be like brother and sister to each other still?"

"There are two sides to that question," said Claude proudly. "I keep out of the way of those who think themselves too good to associate with me. There are plenty of other people who will be glad of my friendship."

And so Claude left me without another word. He went out of the room, slamming the door after him, and a moment afterwards I saw him cross the lawn rapidly and go out at the garden gate. And I knew, as well as if I could read the future, that that was the last time I would see him come to this house.

When I was left alone I felt as if I had gone through a great storm, and come out of it wearied and exhausted. My mind was too tired even to pray. I looked out over the distant hills, but after a time, when I was calmer and in a more restful state of mind, I opened my Bible at the place where it had been so often opened the last two days, and read again my Master's word of command.

And then I was enabled, though with tears in my eyes, to thank Him that through His grace I had been strengthened to keep it. This time I read the whole passage through to the end of the chapter.

I looked up into the sky, in which the sun was fast setting, and said with a thankful heart, "Lord, by Thy grace I have given up the affection which would have drawn me away. I have separated myself from the love which, however sweet, would have cut me off from Thy presence and from Thy love."

I heard Maggie's voice at this moment, so I hastily rose, wiped away the tears which were now only tears of joy and thankfulness, and went to meet her.

"How happy you seem tonight, May," she said, as we sat together at supper. Her lip quivered, and tears came into her eyes. "Oh, May, if only we could be together; if only I had not to go away and leave you. I counted the days this morning on the calendar, and there are only nineteen more."

"Poor little Maggie," I said, "what shall I do without you?"

"And what shall I do without _you_ , May?" she said. "My aunts are kind, but they are not like you. You are just like a mother to me. I shall never be happy, May, when I haven't you to talk to me, and I can't tell you all my troubles."

"But you can tell Jesus, Maggie," I said, "just as you have always told me. He will help you and comfort you far, far better than I could do."

"Yes, May," she said, "I will tell Him every day. I promise you that I will."

"And then you can write to me, Maggie," I said. "Look here what I have bought for you. I had meant to keep it until the last day, but perhaps I had better give it to you now."

I went to a drawer and brought out a writing case filled with paper, envelopes, pens, stamps, and everything necessary for letter writing.

Maggie was charmed with it, and was quite as happy as she had been sad before, and began to plan at once how many letters she would write me every week, and what she would say in them. She promised to tell me everything, even what time she got up every morning and went to bed every night.

Dear Maggie. How well I can picture her to myself as she looked on that memorable evening in my life, on which I had refused to be Claude Ellis's wife.

# Chapter Four

THOSE last days which Maggie and I spent together in the old home were happy ones. I took every opportunity I had of deepening in my little sister's mind the lessons I had tried to teach her from a small child, and which she had always loved so much. I had great reason to hope that they had not been in vain, but that my Maggie was in deed and in truth a child of God. We were busy sorting and packing our various possessions, and leaving all in the house in readiness for the sale which was to take place immediately we left.

I had received a satisfactory answer to my application for the post of companion, saying that Sir William Trafford, after due inquiries of my referees, would be glad of my services as companion to his daughter, Miss Evelyn Trafford, and would be glad to know on what day I would be able to commence my duties at Alliston Hall.

I did not see Claude again before I went away. The day after his visit to me I heard that he had again left home and returned to his friends in Scotland.

The evening before Maggie and I left our old home, I went up to the Parsonage to say goodbye to Miss Richards. She received me kindly, but we were both guarded in our manner, for we were thinking of the same thing and neither of us liked to mention it. We spoke of the weather, of my future plans, of the sale of the furniture, of Mr. Ellis's health, and of a variety of other things and people; but Claude's name was carefully avoided, and that which was filling our thoughts was entirely kept out of the conversation. So it was no wonder that our talk flagged at times, and we were far from being at ease.

Just as I was leaving I remembered how kind Miss Richards had been to me through my motherless life. She was always ready to help me with her advice whenever I needed help, and patient in listening to the small home worries which had crowded upon me when I first took upon myself the cares and responsibilities of housekeeping after my stepmother's death.

"Miss Richards," I said, "you have been like a mother to me. I shall never, never be able to thank you enough."

"Oh no, May," she said, warmly, "you must not speak of that. You have been quite as much, or more to me, dear. You have been a bright sunbeam. You have often brightened my life since I came here."

"Oh, Miss Richards," I said, "I never dreamed that I could make you any happier."

"You did it without dreaming then, dear," she said, smiling. "And, May," she added, "what has passed between you and my nephew Claude will make no difference in your love to me, will it? You will still treat me as a friend, and let me hear from you sometimes, won't you, dear?"

"Oh, Miss Richards," I said, "will you let me write to you? Then you are not angry with me?"

"Angry with you. Why?" she said. "For refusing Claude?"

"Yes," I said, "for giving Claude the answer I did."

"No, dear," said Miss Richards. "I was surprised, I own, and disappointed. I had counted so much on your influence with Claude, and was building my hopes on it far more than I ought to have done. But since then, I have felt that I had been looking at the matter entirely from my point of view -- mine and Claude's. You were quite right, dear May. I would have done just the same. Indeed once -- you will not mention it to anyone, I know -- I did exactly the same myself. It was hard at the time," said the good little woman, as the recollection of that sorrow. "It was hard at the time, for I loved him very much, but I can see it was the right decision now. I would have been a miserable, unhappy wife if I had married him, and I can thank God that I gave him up."

"Then you can understand how I felt, Miss Richards," I said.

"Yes, indeed," she said, earnestly. "You were right, perfectly right in obeying God's command. And I was wrong, very wrong, May, in wishing you to marry one who is not, by his own admission, a real Christian."

Miss Richards kissed me on the cheek as she said this, and I went home with a light and thankful heart.

Poor Miss Richards. I had never dreamed that there was a touching love story hidden away somewhere in her past. I was thankful that she thought I had acted rightly and would no longer blame me.

The busy time of packing and leave-taking was at length over. At the station and I had to purchase the tickets, look after the luggage and select a carriage. My mind was consequently so full of business that not until the train had started did I realize that Maggie and I had left our happy home, never to return to it again.

We were going that day to the old Manor House at Branston, where Maggie's aunts lived. They had kindly expressed a wish to see me, and had invited me to spend a week with them before going to my appointment of companion at Alliston Hall. Maggie was of course delighted at this arrangement, and I was not sorry to have a week's rest after the whirl of the last month, before starting my new duties.

This was my first visit to the old Manor House, but Maggie had spent a pleasant month there two years before, and was looking forward to seeing her aunts again.

We had a long journey, and it was late in the evening when we arrived at Branston.

"I expect John will be here to meet us," said Maggie, as we got out at the quiet country station.

John was there, awaiting our arrival. John was a fat, comfortable-looking old coachman who had been in the family for more than fifty years, and looked as if in the whole course of them he had never had one single day's hard work.

John was driving two horses equally fat, equally comfortable-looking, and equally, by their appearance, denying the bare idea of their ever having had any hard work to do.

John touched his hat and bade us welcome, and turning to Maggie he hoped "Missy" was quite well. He was evidently quite at ease, and accustomed to be regarded as a family friend.

We thanked John, and answered his inquiries, and then took our seats in the carriage. It was old, like John, and quite out of date, of unwieldy proportions, and made a great noise in the world.

We drove for about a mile and a half through rather an uninteresting countryside -- at least, so it seemed to me after the wooded hills and pretty valleys which had surrounded our old home. He went slowly indeed, and when there was the slightest rise in the ground the horses walked solemnly and cautiously up it, and I was more than ever convinced that the opinion I had formed, about the easy life that those two comfortable-looking horses had always led, was perfectly correct.

At last we went through a large iron gate and entered an old-fashioned garden surrounded by a high wall. At one end of this garden stood the Manor House, a quaint old place, built of red brick and partly covered with ivy.

As we drove past the window, Maggie's three aunts looked out and nodded and smiled at us. They did not come out to meet us for, as I afterwards discovered, they were afraid of taking cold and never ventured into the hall when the front door was open.

We were met on the steps by an elderly servant in a clean white apron and a large cap. She took us into the drawing-room, which was full of quaint and antiquated furniture, and abounded in sofas and armchairs covered with old-fashioned chintz.

In this room the three aunts were anxiously awaiting our arrival. They almost overwhelmed us with kindness, and insisted that we lay down to rest for half an hour on the comfortable sofas until tea was ready.

The room was hot. There was a large fire, and huge screens stood before the doors, and sandbags and curtains excluded every possible draught from the windows. I felt tired and worn out in mind and body, so I was not sorry to obey my kind hostesses and remain quiet for half an hour. It gave me time to think over the events of the day, and also to look at Maggie's three aunts who did not leave the room but went on with their work and their talk while we were resting.

The eldest sister, Miss Jane, was evidently the ruling spirit in the house. Her word was law, and her quiet firm decision settled every disputed question. There was plenty of firmness, plenty of good sense, plenty of real kindliness in her face as she bent over the stocking which she was knitting in the most energetic manner, sitting in one of the large armchairs near the fire.

Miss Hannah, the second sister, seemed to me to be a weak reflection of the eldest one, and I soon found out that she was ruled by her in everything, for she had not the strength of character to settle anything on her own responsibility. If Miss Jane's word was law to her household, it was more especially law to Miss Hannah.

"What do you think, sister?" was the question repeated by her many times in the day, in answer to which Miss Jane would give her opinion calmly and decidedly, and that opinion was always beyond question.

The youngest sister, Miss Louisa, was considered an invalid. The best of everything was always given her \-- the most comfortable chair and the warmest corner, the best seat in the carriage, and at all times of the day little tempting dishes were served up to induce her to eat. Miss Jane and Miss Hannah were never tired of waiting on Miss Louisa, and treated her almost like a spoiled child.

They were extremely kind to me, these three sisters during my stay in the old Manor House. They even said how much they wished I would make my home with them; but of course I could never dream of being a burden to them. It was kind of them to take Maggie -- I must make my own way in the world.

Everything in the Manor House was in the most beautiful order. The carpets looked as if in the whole course of their existence they had never known what it was to have a speck of dust or piece of cotton left on them. The furniture was so bright that you could see yourself reflected in every part of it. The carpet on the stairs was spotlessly white, as clean as if it was washed every morning. In fact, the most perfect neatness and order and cleanliness reigned everywhere throughout the old house. There were no little children to make dirty footmarks on the clean floors, or to soil the coverings of the chairs and sofas. And the regularity and punctuality in the house quite equalled its neatness and order.

At exactly the same moment every morning Miss Jane came downstairs to make the tea. At exactly the same instant, day by day, the old servants came into the room for prayers. Meals were never a moment late. As the clock struck we all took our seats and grace was immediately said. At exactly the same hour, every day, the three sisters took their morning drive or their afternoon nap.

The whole place seemed like some huge clock which had been wound up years ago, long before anyone could remember, and which had been going on and on and on ever since, without once needing to be wound up, or set going, or looked after again.

This regular, unbroken, undisturbed life in the old Manor House was pleasant for a little time. It was just what I needed after all I had gone through lately, but I decided that I would soon grow tired of it. I fancied that I would long for the doorbell to ring and an interruption to come in my clockwork existence. I would long for a little of the stir and bustle and motion of the world outside to creep into the monotony and unchangeableness of the life within.

Small matters, even the most insignificant trifles, became great events to the sisters. If one of the cows or horses took cold, or if a branch was blown down in the garden, or if the rooks built a new nest in the plantation, it was the topic of conversation for days.

I was a little troubled as I looked forward and pictured to myself the kind of training which Maggie would have in such a home. I was afraid that it would be rather relaxing to her mind and energies, so that if she came out of it into the coldness and roughness of the outside world she would feel the difference strongly, and would not be hardy enough to stand it.

However, I was not afraid that Maggie would be bored here, for she was a quiet child who was fond of playing alone and making her own amusements. There was a small farm close by, kept by old John and his wife, which was Maggie's constant resort. And here among the chickens, ducks, lambs, calves and pigeons, she found plenty to interest her, and plenty of recreation and amusement. The aunts were exceedingly kind to her, and I felt sure they would bring her up to the best of their ability.

All these concerns I carried one by one to my Lord, as they arose, and I felt unspeakable comfort and relief in placing my little sister under His almighty care.

Miss Jane was my favourite among the sisters. There was something in her face which made me trust her at once, and her good commonsense and real heartfelt sympathy could always be relied on. I found myself, almost before I was aware, giving her a history of our happy home life, and telling her many of my anxieties and troubles as I thought of the future. She made me promise that whenever I had a holiday I would come to the Manor House, and said I must remember that it would never be anything but a great pleasure to them all to have me there.

On Sunday we went to the village church together. A new clergyman -- Mr. Claremont -- had just been appointed. The sisters were hardly in a frame of mind to enjoy the services, for they had not ceased mourning over the late rector who had been there for forty years and who had been obliged to resign on account of ill-health. But as I had no recollections of the previous minister, and therefore no painful feelings on seeing the new minister enter Mr. Baker's pulpit, preach from Mr. Baker's Bible, and take possession of Mr. Baker's congregation, the service was a real delight to me.

The next day Mr. Claremont called at the Manor House and was received by the sisters with respect and dignity. I was practicing on the drawing-room piano when he came in, and was alone with him for a few minutes while Miss Jane, Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa were arraying themselves in their best caps.

He spoke to me pleasantly, and I took the opportunity of mentioning Maggie to him, and he kindly promised to see her sometimes, and try to influence her aright.

# Chapter Five

IT WAS the day before I left the old Manor House. I was packing my box in my bedroom, and thinking it would be rather hard to leave the kind sisters and my little Maggie and turn out into the world alone, when the door opened and Maggie came in with an open letter in her hand. "Oh, May," she said, "what do you think? Claude Ellis is going to be married."

My heart beat so loudly that I was afraid Maggie would hear it

"May," said Maggie in surprise, "whatever is the matter? You look so pale and ill. Shall I get you anything? I'm afraid I startled you, coming in like that."

"Oh no," I said, trying to smile, "I'm all right. Read me your letter, Maggie -- who is it from?"

"It's from Fanny." Fanny was Maggie's best friend and confidante. "Shall I read it all, May, or only the part about Claude?"

"Read the part about Claude first," I said, "and I'll lie down on my bed while you read. I feel a little tired with packing, and I mean to take half-an-hour's rest before dinner."

So I lay on my bed while Maggie read as follows:

"And now I must tell you the news. Who do you think is engaged? You will never guess, if you guess all night. It is Claude Ellis. I will tell you how I heard about it. Yesterday afternoon I went for a walk with Dash to the Endle Farm. As we were coming home, down that hilly part of the road where you and I played hide-and-seek among the furze bushes, I saw two people sitting on a stile at the bottom of the hill. One was Claude Ellis, and the other was a young lady.

"They did not see me until I was near to them, and then Claude pretended not to see me and got up, and they both walked down the lane. I followed them only a little way behind, so that I could see the young lady very well. She was prettily dressed, and was tall and good looking. She had the loveliest hair I ever saw, done in a number of most wonderful plaits. Claude was bending over her and talking to her. He looked happy, and so did she.

"They turned in at the Parsonage gate, and I went home wondering who she was. But I had not to wait long, for that evening papa came in with the news that Claude was engaged, and that the young lady was staying at the Parsonage. Mr. Ellis had told him, so there could be no mistake about it. She is the sister of one of Claude's Oxford friends. He has been staying with them in Scotland the last few weeks.

"Her name is Alice Fitzgerald, and she is very rich indeed. Papa says she is quite a prize for Claude, and that he will be a rich man now, with her money and his own money from his Uncle Charles put together. And papa says that is a good thing, for he has heard that Claude spent a great amount of money at Oxford, and that poor Mr. Ellis would have been almost ruined if Claude's uncle had not died just then and left him the money.

"Papa thinks Claude is extravagant, and he says he rather pities his wife. But I am sure Claude is fond of her, and he looked so happy today that I could not help feeling glad for him. He seemed so miserable the last time he came home. Do you remember when we met him in Bush Lane, how cross he was, and how he contradicted everything we said, and looked as if he had just heard all his relations were dead? Well, it's getting late, and I must end my letter."

"That's all there is about Claude," said Maggie.

When Maggie had gone downstairs, taking her new writing-case with her so she could begin to answer her friend's letter, I got up and locked my door and sat down to think over what I had heard.

The news of Claude's engagement had come upon me like a thunderclap. I tried to reason with myself that I ought to be glad that Claude was engaged, glad that he had found someone to make him happy. And yet it was so soon, so very soon, for Claude to forget his love for me. I thought that he cared for me more than that. I thought that he held my love too dear, so quickly and so easily to exchange it for another's.

I suppose it was my pride that was wounded, and the tears which rolled down my cheeks were tears of mortification. I felt vexed with myself that it should be so. I called myself all sorts of hard names, and wiped my eyes, and tried to think how nice it was that all was so comfortably settled for me \-- how delightful it was that I could feel that I had done the right thing, and that I had not brought a gloom over the whole of Claude's life.

And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I detected a secret hope which had been hidden there the last few weeks -- that some day or other Claude would give up his unbelieving ways and become a real Christian, and that we would meet again and become to each other what he had so earnestly wished us to be. I had even thought that perhaps this trouble might be the means of making Claude look into the reality of the Christian faith, and believe in that Saviour who is the only true source of comfort, and that thus the great obstacle to our union might be taken away.

Not that Claude was by any means my ideal of all that a man and a husband should be. But then he was, after all, the nicest man I had ever met, and it might be that my ideal was a thing of imagination, never encountered in real life.

On this particular day I was feeling lonely and desolate. I was about to turn out into the world alone -- alone among strangers. I was going to a great and fashionable household, where no doubt I would be looked down upon.

I felt unprotected, desolate and forsaken. I took up my Bible and turned wearily over the pages, hoping my eyes would fall on some words of comfort. And the words which caught my attention were these, in the thirteenth chapter of Saint John's Gospel: "Having loved His own which were in the world, He loved them unto the end."

"Unto the _end_." I had chosen the love of Christ -- an unchanging, untiring love.

The next morning I left the Manor House soon after breakfast. I was followed to the door by Miss Jane bidding me, in her calm, decided way, to be sure to choose a carriage with at least two elderly ladies in it, "Because, my dear, one reads of such awful robberies and murders taking place in railway carriages."

I was followed also by Miss Hannah, entreating me to remember what Miss Jane had said, and also to be quite sure that the guard had fastened the door securely before the train started -- followed by Miss Louisa, suggesting the advisability of always having both windows closed, and both ventilators securely fastened lest any draught should enter the carriage -- followed, not only to the door but as far as the garden gate by Maggie, crying as if her heart would break, and refusing to be comforted.

It was hard to leave them all, and especially to leave my little sister. But the promise of Christ's love which had been my comfort yesterday was my strength now, and the language of my heart was, "I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."

I wondered, as I was travelling that day, what Miss Evelyn Trafford would be like, and what my duties as companion would be. But it was no use wondering -- that evening I would know.

I had a long, tiring journey, having to change my train no less than four times and wait at cold, cheerless junctions for several hours.

But in spite of the three sisters' oft-repeated predictions of doom, I and my luggage arrived safe and sound at the little station of Alliston.

As soon as I left the carriage, a footman came up to me and touching his hat inquired if I was Miss Lindsay. When I answered in the affirmative he took charge of my luggage and led the way to a carriage which was waiting for me outside the station.

We drove on in the darkness for some distance, through what seemed to be country roads and lanes, for I could see no lights by the wayside, and nothing to break the darkness of the night.

After a long time the carriage stopped in front of a small house, which I saw must be a lodge. By the light which came from a diamond-paned window I could see a woman opening some large iron gates for the carriage to go through.

When we had passed the lodge I expected every moment to reach the house, and my heart beat faster and faster in expectation of my arrival. But we went on and on for at least a mile before the lights of the great house appeared, and we stopped outside the door.

The footman got down from the carriage and rang the bell. The door was opened by a grave and solemn butler, and I went inside feeling as if I was walking in my sleep, so tired and confused was I with my long journey.

I was ushered through a spacious hall filled with stags' horns and old swords, and stuffed birds and foreign curiosities, and old oak cabinets, and then up a wide staircase to a room at the top of the house. It was not a large room, but it was comfortable and a cheerful fire was blazing in the grate.

The maid who had shown me my room told me that Miss Trafford would be glad to see me as soon as I was ready, so I hastened to take off my dusty travelling dress and make myself ready to go downstairs.

After about half an hour the maid returned and showed me to Miss Evelyn Trafford's room.

The maid opened the door and I went in. The gas was not lit, but the fire was blazing brightly. By its light I could see a young lady lying on a low couch on one side of it. She was pretty, with small, delicate features, and a beautiful fair complexion. She appeared to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age. On the sofa beside her were two kittens curled up on a velvet cushion, and in front of the fire a little spaniel was fast asleep on the hearth-rug.

As soon as the door opened, Miss Trafford held out her hand to me. "Come in, Miss Lindsay," she said. "Come to the fire. You must be tired and cold. It's dreadfully cold out, is it not? There, Flossy, get up and let Miss Lindsay come to the fire."

She had a pleasant manner, which was very winning. "I am so glad you have come," she said when I was seated, "and you look so nice. Do you know I thought you would be dreadful? When papa said one day that it was so dreary for me here alone that he must get me a companion, I actually cried. It was silly of me, I know. I pictured to myself what this companion would be like, and I thought she would have gray curls, spectacles, and a brown alpaca dress, and always speak as if she was talking out of a book."

I could not help laughing heartily when she said this. An image came to my mind of a severe looking woman in a heavy, shapeless woollen outfit.

"Oh, I am so glad you can laugh," said Miss Trafford. "The companion, in the picture I made of her, never laughed -- she only smiled, as if she was thinking, 'How foolish everyone in the world is, and especially this weak-minded child I have to take care of!'"

This, of course, made me laugh again, to Miss Evelyn Trafford's great satisfaction.

"Papa said he would get me somebody young and charming if he could, and he told me how old you are. But I didn't think I would like you a bit, and I didn't want you to come at all."

"I hope you will change your mind soon, Miss Trafford," I said. "I will try not to be disagreeable."

"Oh, I have already changed my mind," she said quickly. "I changed it as soon as you came in at the door. I always judge by first sight. If I love people when I first see them, I always love them. And if I hate them, I always hate them. I never change my mind afterwards."

"Do you think that is a good plan?" I said. "Don't you think it is rather an unfair way of judging?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," she said brightly. "It always answers well for me. I liked you when you came in at the door, and I mean to like you always. I wish Ambrose would bring the dinner. The gong sounded long ago. I'm sure it is time for it, and you must be so hungry. Miss Lindsay, will you please ring the bell?"

One of the footmen soon appeared with a small round table which he placed between Evelyn Trafford's couch and my chair. The table was already set for dinner, with everything in its proper place.

"Oh, it is so nice to have you here," said Evelyn. "Do you know, I haven't been downstairs to dinner for five months? Isn't that dreadful? And I have always had dinner alone, except twice, when there was no one staying here, and then papa came up to my room and had dinner here. It was such fun. He and I had this little table, and Ambrose came in here to wait. I laughed all the time, and so did papa. It seemed such a little room after the dining-room downstairs."

"Then you have only been ill five months?" I said.

" _Only_ five months? As if that was not long enough!" she said. "It seems more like five years to me!"

"Yes, it is a long time," I said, "but I was afraid you might have been ill longer still. I don't know what made you ill."

"Didn't papa tell you? How funny of him. Now, if I had been writing to you I would have told you the whole story. What did he tell you?"

"He only said that he wanted a companion for his daughter, and asked for my references."

"That was just like papa," said Miss Trafford. "He always does everything in what he calls a business-like way, which I always say means never telling anybody anything."

"Will you tell me what made you ill?" I asked.

"Yes, it was my young horse," she said. "Such a beauty. You must see him, Miss Lindsay. He is black, and has a white star on his forehead, and his name is Wildfire because he flies along so fast. Papa said he was too young for me to ride. But I was not a bit afraid, and Cousin Donald asked me to go out with him for an hour. Cousin Donald is fond of me," she said, laughing. "He would like me to marry him, but that would never do. Papa says Cousin Donald has no money, and he would not hear of such a thing. But Donald is good-looking, and I like riding with him. He rides so well, and we had a splendid ride that day. But then Wildfire threw me, and all my fun was over."

"Were you badly hurt?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, "the doctors said my spine was injured. Only a little though," she added, quickly, "and if I keep very, very still, and never walk about for a year, they think I shall be completely well again. Oh dear, I wish the year was over now. But it will be much nicer now you have come."

"You must tell me, please, Miss Trafford, what my duties are," I said.

"Oh, don't talk about duties," she said, pretending to stop her ears. "I can't bear the word. I never could do anything because it was a _duty_. That's just the sort of word the companion in my imagination used to say. She used to draw up her head and look through her spectacles, and say, solemnly, 'Miss Evelyn, remember your _duties_!'"

"But you will tell me what my work is to be here," I repeated. "Your father, Sir William, did not mention it in his letter."

"You won't have any work," she said, "except to amuse me. You are to be my friend, if you like to call that work. You are to read to me, and talk to me, and have meals with me, and make the year go a little quicker."

"That isn't hard work," I said.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered. "You'll find me tiresome sometimes, and if you had been the brown alpaca dress, with gray curls and spectacles, I would have led you such a life that in less than a week you would have said to papa, 'Sir William Trafford, I must beg to resign the charge of your flippant and wilful daughter!' Before you came, papa said we were to have some profitable reading in the morning, and story books only after luncheon. But I hate profitable reading, and papa never makes me do what I hate."

"What kind of profitable reading do you mean?" I inquired.

"Oh, history and geography, and all such things. I never could bear them. What is the good of knowing who Henry VIII's wives were, and which of them he beheaded; and nearly giving oneself brain fever in trying to remember what relation John of Gaunt was to everybody else?"

"I'm fond of history," I said. "I think some parts are quite as interesting as a story book."

"Oh dear, oh dear," she said, "now you _are_ talking just like the brown alpaca dress. I shall expect you to pull the spectacles out of your pocket in a minute!"

At that I could do nothing but laugh, and in a moment she had changed the conversation and was rattling on about something else.

"There are not many visitors here just now," she said. "You'll see them all by and by. They generally pay me a visit after dinner. And mind you stay with me when they come. I want you to see them all. The brown alpaca always got up when anyone came in, and made a stiff bow, and went away and shut herself up in her bedroom. So mind you don't do the same. You must look at all the people carefully, and tell me what you think of them when they are gone."

"Oh, I wouldn't like to do that," I said.

"Why not?" she asked, laughingly. "I don't mind telling you what I think of anyone. There is Lady Eldridge. She's grand and stately, and I don't like her a bit. And there's Lord Moreton -- he never has a word to say, and is very stupid. But he has a quantity of money and a splendid estate, and papa is always saying what a nice young man he is. And so he may be, perhaps, in some ways. At least he's harmless, but then he squints, and I never could marry anyone who squinted. Could you, Miss Lindsay?"

"I don't know," I said, laughing. "I never thought about it."

"Well, I couldn't. It would drive me mad. And then there's Alicia Hay, papa's old-maid cousin. If you ask me what I think of her, I think she's trying hard to get married and never will. And then there's Lilla -- but I won't tell you about them all now. You'll see them for yourself in time."

# Chapter Six

"SHALL I ring the bell, Miss Trafford?" I inquired, when dinner was over.

"Don't call me Miss Trafford," she said quickly. "Call me Evelyn. It sounds much nicer, and is six letters shorter."

"But perhaps Sir William wouldn't like it," I objected.

"Oh, papa likes everything I like," she said decidedly. "I want you to call me Evelyn, and I mean to call you by your first name too. 'Miss Lindsay' sounds just like the brown alpaca. What is your Christian name?"

"My name is May," I said, "and I shall be glad if you'll call me May, instead of Miss Lindsay. If you do, I shall fancy I'm at home again."

"Well then it's settled, May," she said, laughing. "And now please ring the bell."

Soon after the dessert was cleared away, a rustling of silk was heard in the passages, the door opened, and three ladies entered the room.

The first was a stout, elderly lady, handsomely dressed. In her younger days I felt sure she had been a beauty, and I think she must have been greatly admired. But she had, I thought, an unpleasant expression on her face, and a haughty and disagreeable manner.

"Well, Evelyn," she said, as she swept past me without a word or a look, "how are you feeling now?"

"Oh, very nicely, thank you, Lady Eldridge," she said. "Miss Lindsay and I have had quite a pleasant chat together."

"Miss Lindsay? Ah yes, I see," said Lady Eldridge, turning to me for the first time. "The young person whom Sir William has engaged as your companion, I believe."

And then she took no further notice of me, but sat on the sofa at Evelyn's side, fanning herself vigorously.

There was something in Lady Eldridge's manner which made me uncomfortable and uneasy, and I had withdrawn to the table with my work as the two other ladies advanced to the fire, not intending to take any part in the conversation, when a pleasant, gentle voice by my side said kindly, "You must be tired with your long journey, Miss Lindsay. Had you to stop many times by the way?"

I looked up and met one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. It was not exactly a pretty face, but there was such a beautiful expression on it that you could never have called it plain. I would have been puzzled if anyone had asked me how old she was. At one time she looked quite young, not more than twenty-four or five; and the moment afterwards I detected strong marks of care, or anxiety, or trouble on the face, which made me think she must be at least ten or fifteen years older.

I told her about my journey, and then she asked me one question after another, in the kindest, pleasantest way, as if she really cared to know all I had to tell her. She led me on from one subject to another, and I found myself telling her of our old home; of Maggie, and my hopes and fears for her; and of many other things, while Lady Eldridge and Evelyn were talking together on the sofa. All the chill and repression which had come over me when Lady Eldridge entered the room entirely passed away, and I felt perfectly at my ease again.

When I told her of our leaving our dear old home, her eyes filled with tears, and she said quietly, "I know what a trial that is. I have gone through it myself. What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting and no going away."

Such a happy, thankful feeling came into my heart as she said this. There was something in the way she said it, as well as in the words themselves, which made me feel sure that my new friend was one who loved the same Lord I loved. If I had felt drawn to her before, I was doubly drawn to her now.

We had no opportunity for further conversation, for Evelyn was growing weary of Lady Eldridge, and invited us to come nearer to the fire.

"Put away your work, you industrious girl," Evelyn said to me. "The brown alpaca always had her work close to her fingers' ends at a moment's notice."

"My dear Evelyn," said Lady Eldridge, "a most profitable way for a young person."

But Evelyn took no notice of her, and turned to my new friend.

"Where have you been all day, Lilla?" she asked. "You have only been to see me three times."

"Have I been so negligent as that, dear?" she said. "I must mend my manners tomorrow; but I have been busy writing letters, so you must forgive me."

Until I had turned to the fire I had not looked at the third lady who had come into the room. She was sitting languidly in an armchair by the fire with her eyes fixed on the door, as if she was looking anxiously for someone to enter. She was decidedly advanced in middle age, yet she was dressed like a girl of seventeen in a low, white evening dress, and a most elaborate gold chain and locket round her neck. She looked dissatisfied and restless, as if striving to reach some object which was eluding her grasp. She took no particular interest in the general conversation which was going on, but seemed either lost in thought, or not thinking at all.

Lady Eldridge was giving an account of Near Eastern life, which she described as the most delightful life on earth. I found she had lived many years abroad, and was going to Constantinople the following spring. She could not settle in England more than a year at a time, she said. "Those miserable skies; those depressing fogs; those dreadful rainy days -- enough to make anyone commit suicide who has lived in the Near East, my dear." And Lady Eldridge fanned herself again at the recollection of it.

She kept up a continual run of conversation for about half an hour. But her chattering was brought to a close by a rap at the door, and the announcement that the gentlemen had arrived in the drawing-room.

"Those tiresome men," said Lady Eldridge. "As if they could not amuse themselves for half an hour without sending for us. Well, Alicia, I suppose we must obey the lords of creation and go downstairs. Good night, Evelyn, my dear."

And, without taking the slightest notice of me, Lady Eldridge sailed out of the room. The other two ladies said goodnight to both of us and followed in her train, and Evelyn and I were left alone.

"Well, what do you think of them?" Evelyn said, as soon as the door was shut. "Bring your chair close to the fire and tell me."

"I think that the lady who sat near me has one of the sweetest faces that I ever saw," I said. "I could easily believe in anyone loving _her_ at first sight."

"Oh, Lilla, yes, isn't she nice?" said Evelyn, carelessly. "Everyone seems to like poor Lilla."

"Why do you call her poor?" I asked.

"Oh, because she has had so much trouble," Evelyn answered. "She was engaged to a young army officer a good many years ago, and it was broken off. His father persuaded him to marry someone with more money. Lilla is papa's first cousin, and she often stays here. It is dull for her at home. Her father has married again, and his new wife is such a horrid old thing, and she treats Lilla as if she were a child of twelve. But Lilla never complains. She is very patient. And what did you think of Lady Eldridge?"

I shook my head. "I had rather not say, please, Evelyn. I don't think it's kind to talk about people so much."

"Oh, it won't hurt Lady Eldridge, I assure you," she answered. "She is miles too high up in the world to be hurt by anything you or I may say or think of her -- at least, she _thinks_ she is. Papa says she has nothing to boast of, if her antecedents were looked into. She was quite poor and lived in some Near Eastern city, when her good looks attracted Sir Hugh Eldridge's attention as he was passing through the place, and he married her. But she thinks herself a perfect queen now, and lords it over everybody. I often pity her poor maid. It is 'Lawrence, here!' 'Lawrence, do this!' 'Lawrence, do that!' from morning until night. Lady Eldridge thinks it's a disgrace to do the simplest thing for herself, or even to know how it ought to be done. She boasts of being ignorant as a baby about all money matters, and cannot even pay a bill for herself. Silly old thing," said Evelyn, contemptuously. "I have more respect for Alicia Hay than I have for her."

"Is that the lady who sat in the armchair by the fire?" I asked.

"Yes, poor thing," said Evelyn. "She wouldn't talk a bit tonight. I know why, and I know it just as well as if I'd been there. It was because Lord Moreton didn't take her down to dinner." Evelyn laughed at she thought of it. "Didn't you see how Alicia looked at the door every time a step came in the passage? Sometimes papa comes up for a few minutes on his way to the drawing-room to cheer me up a little, and sometimes he brings one of the gentlemen with him. But they didn't come tonight, so poor Alicia was quite disconsolate. She hadn't the heart to talk to anyone. And if she only knew -- oh, if she only knew -- what Lord Moreton really thinks of her!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "Is she very fond of him?"

"Oh, not of him in particular," said Evelyn, laughing, "but Alicia is getting old. She really is, though she'd be angry if anyone told her so. She wants to be married and have a home of her own."

I was tired after all the travelling and excitement I had gone through that day, so I was not sorry when Evelyn asked me to ring the bell for her maid Clemence and I was at liberty to go to my own room.

I lay awake for many hours, watching the flickering of the firelight, and listening for the striking of a large clock in the hall, whose deep, sonorous voice could be heard in every part of the great house.

The next morning I awoke before it was light, and had been dressed for more than an hour before Clemence came to conduct me to her young mistress's dressing-room. I found Evelyn lying on a sofa by the fire, in a pretty pink dressing-gown, with her fair hair hanging down in long waving tresses. She looked a perfect picture, I thought, and one that any artist would take pleasure in painting. She seemed pleased to see me, but was languid and tired, and not so much inclined for talking as she had been the night before.

Breakfast was brought up soon after I arrived, and while we were eating it, the door opened and an elderly gentleman came in. He had evidently been handsome in his younger days, and there was a cheerful, pleasant, good-tempered expression on his face which made him look younger than I imagine he really was.

"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, brightening up the moment that she saw him, "I'm so glad you've come. How naughty of you not to come last night. I wanted you so much to see Miss Lindsay. I call her May now," she added, laughing.

Sir William shook hands with me and said he hoped I would soon feel at home, and that his young daughter would not wear me out with her chattering.

"Now, papa, what nonsense," said Evelyn brightly. "May felt at home when she had been here ten minutes, didn't you, May? And she likes chattering just as much as I do. You talk just as if she was the brown alpaca I told you about. But she's not a bit like her. She's so nice, papa, and we get on together famously."

"That's good," said Sir William, seating himself on the sofa. "And how is my little daughter this morning?"

"A little tired, papa," she said wearily. "The pain kept me awake last night."

He looked at her anxiously I thought as he stooped over and arranged her pillows as carefully and tenderly as any woman could have done.

"Keep quiet this morning, little girl," he said. "I will not let any of them come near you. Miss Lindsay will read to you, and you can lie quite still."

"Oh no, thank you, papa," she said, cheerfully. "Let them all come. It does me good to have people coming in and out. It amuses me. They are so funny, some of them, aren't they, papa? Don't they make you laugh sometimes?"

Sir William made some evasive answer, and glanced towards the end of the room where I was sitting at work.

"Oh, you need not mind her, papa," said Evelyn aloud. "She's not the brown alpaca. I mean to tell her everything, and to talk just the same when she is in the room as when she is out of it."

Sir William seemed rather amused at the rapid friendship which had sprung up between us, for he smiled kindly at me and gave me a few more words of welcome as he rose to leave the room.

But when he got to the door he said gravely, "Lord Moreton is anxious to see you this morning, Evelyn. Shall I let him come when you get into the other room?"

Evelyn laughed heartily. "Yes, if it's any amusement to him, papa," she said, "for I'm sure he amuses me. Oh, if you had only seen him the other day. He came up when Alicia Hay was sitting beside me, and neither of them spoke a word. He sat looking at me, and Alicia sat looking at him, and they were both perfectly stupid."

"Lord Moreton is a worthy young man, Evelyn," said her father.

"Oh, a very worthy young man," she repeated in exactly the same tone, so exactly that I could scarcely keep from laughing out loud. "But the worst is, papa, that I don't like worthy young men. They are so dreadfully uninteresting -- at least, they are if Lord Moreton is a specimen. They sit and look at you, and then clear their throats and try to make some feeble remark -- and break down in the middle. Oh dear, it _is_ so amusing. Now Cousin Donald never does that. He can make himself very agreeable. I wish he'd come to see me."

"Donald has other business to attend to," said her father, rather sharply. "He has no time to lose now, because he has to make his own way in the world."

"Yes," she said, rather sadly, "poor Donald."

"I do not know why he need be pitied," said Sir William, dryly. "If your cousin will only get down to work he will soon be able to earn a very fair income."

"But Donald doesn't like work," said Evelyn. "He says he would like to be independent and have plenty of money."

"He never _will_ have plenty of money," said Sir William, almost angrily, as he shut the door.

"Papa doesn't like Donald," Evelyn said, as soon as her father was out of hearing. "But he's so handsome, and he has such nice brown eyes. I don't know why papa dislikes him. I think it's because he's afraid Donald likes me too much. It's strange that Donald does like me. I would have thought that he would have hated me, because if I had never been born, Cousin Donald would have lived here and would have been just like papa's son. That makes me feel so sorry for him."

"Is Donald much older than you?" I asked.

"Yes, he's six years older," said Evelyn. "Papa and mamma had been married a long time, and they thought they would not have any children of their own, so papa was talking of adopting Cousin Donald, and educating him and leaving the property to him. Uncle and aunt were pleased about it, because they have so many children. Cousin Donald is the eldest of thirteen now, and there were plenty of them even then, so they were quite willing to spare him to papa. But of course when I came I put an end to that little plan," she said, laughing.

"And where is your cousin Donald now?"

"Oh, poor fellow, he's in a bank, and he does so hate doing sums. He always did. They make his head ache, he says. He likes riding and shooting and fishing, and all such things; just the kind of life he would have had here, you know. It is hard for him, is it not? And I am afraid Donald is rather lazy, and they say he wastes his money. But he is so good looking, and I really think he cannot help it -- yes, I really think he cannot help it."

"Cannot help what?" I inquired.

"Oh, being extravagant," Evelyn explained. "He buys all sorts of unnecessary things, and the money goes fast. But it must be so hard to see nice things and not to be able to buy them. I would never be able to do that. As soon as ever I see anything I like, I send into the shop and have it brought out to me at once."

I smiled to myself as I went on with my work, for I was thinking how different Evelyn's experience had been from mine. She seemed to guess my thoughts.

"I suppose you have not always had everything that you needed and wished for?" she said.

"Everything I really needed -- yes," I answered. "Everything I may have wished for -- no."

"Oh dear, was it not tiresome?" she asked.

"I think it was good for me," I said.

" _Good_ for you?" she repeated. "That's just like the brown alpaca. How could it be _good_ for you?"

"I think it made me enjoy all the more the good things which were given me," I said; "things that perhaps you might have thought nothing of, and things which would have given you no pleasure at all."

"What sort of things?" asked Evelyn, sounding interested.

"Oh, any little present that was given me. Any new book, or picture; any little pleasure or treat of any kind. We had so few new things, that when anything fresh came it was prized and valued more than I can tell you. I really think it gave us more enjoyment than far grander things would give you."

"Oh, I dare say," said Evelyn. "There are some things that I wish for, and then when they come I don't care for them. If you only saw the number of books on those shelves which have never even been opened. I wished for them, and ordered them, but when they arrived I'd given up wishing for them, and I've never begun to read them."

I thought of the little shelves at home which had held my small library, each volume of which was the prized gift of some friend, and which had been read and re-read until I knew their contents almost by heart.

Before I had been long at Alliston Hall I came to the conclusion that the enjoyment of this life is much more evenly distributed than many of us think. For where pleasures are many, the enjoyment that they give is comparatively small. But where pleasures are few and far between, they cause so much more enjoyment, and the lives of those who receive them are quite as full of sunshine and brightness as they would be if their pleasures were more in number.

# Chapter Seven

MY LIFE at Alliston Hall was a happy one. Day after day went by without any care or anxiety, and everyone was so kind to me that I could not feel lonely or homeless any longer.

The more I knew of Evelyn Trafford the more I loved her. In spite of her light, careless way of talking, there was a great deal of genuinely kind feeling in her, and I am sure she did all in her power to make me happy. I never once remember, the whole time I was with her, feeling uncomfortable on account of my position in the house. Both Sir William and Evelyn treated me as if I was one of the family, and I received nothing but kindness from their numerous visitors and friends. Lady Eldridge was the only exception. Whenever she made her appearance at Alliston Hall, she thought it her duty to keep me fully aware who she, Lady Eldridge, was, and who I, May Lindsay, was, and of the immense and immeasurable distance between us.

The guests at Alliston Hall did not pay long visits, so I had constant change and variety in my life, and heard and saw a great deal more of the outer world than I had in our quiet country home.

And yet, although everything around me was so pleasant, and though everyone was so kind to me, I had not been many months at Alliston Hall before I began to feel restless and unhappy. I felt that I was not walking so closely with God as I had done before, but had become cold and careless, rising late in the morning and hurrying over my prayer and Bible reading, and then going through the day hardly ever thinking of my Lord or trying to please Him. But though I had so often forgotten Him, He still remembered me.

It was Sunday afternoon. Evelyn had fallen asleep on the sofa, and I went out into the garden until she awoke. There had been showers all morning, but now the sun was shining brightly, and the raindrops were sparkling like diamonds on the grass.

I went along one of the grassy terraces and turned down a quiet path, shut in by evergreens, which led by a gentle descent down to the sea. This was my favourite walk, and I always chose it when I came out alone. There were several seats on this path, positioned so as to catch a peep of the sea through the shrubs and trees which grew down to its edge.

As I turned a corner in this winding path I suddenly came upon Miss Lilla Irvine, sitting on one of the seats reading her Bible. I apologized for disturbing her, and was going to turn back, when she asked me to stay a little and read with her.

"You and I love the same Lord, May," she said. "I know we do, and I think it would help us to talk together of Him sometimes. At least," she added, "I am sure it would help _me_."

"Oh, Miss Irvine," I said, as I sat down beside her, "if you only knew."

"If I only knew what?" she said gently.

"If you only knew how careless I have been lately. I have hardly thought about Him at all."

"What has been the matter, May?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. "I think everything has been too smooth and nice lately. Somehow, it is easier to do right when the road is rather rough. Don't you think it is, Miss Irvine?"

"Yes," she said, "when things go wrong, and all seems against us, we are driven to prayer. But we ought not to need driving into our dear Lord's presence."

"I wish I could come back, Miss Irvine," I said, "but it's easier to get wrong than to get right again. I got up this morning rather earlier and tried to pray, but I couldn't fix my thoughts on what I was saying. All sorts of things kept coming into my mind, and I gave it up at last."

"I think," she said, "that the Holy Spirit has been grieved, and without His help we cannot pray."

"Then what do you think I should do?" I asked.

"I think," she said, "you should go back to the Lord, just in the same spirit in which you first came to Him. Ask Him to receive you to take away all the sin which is separating you from Him, and to give you the comfort of His presence again."

I left her sitting there, and went on down the winding shady path to the sea. It was a quiet, solitary place. The only sounds were the splashing of the waves on the rocks, and the cries of the white seabirds as they flew backwards and forwards on the little rocky islands which lay close to the shore.

I knelt down in a sheltered corner and felt myself alone with God. I do not think that I have ever realized the Lord's presence more than at that moment. And then I confessed it all to Him: all my coldness, all my carelessness, all my neglect of prayer, all my indifference to Him. And then I prayed earnestly for the Holy Spirit, pleading that promise of Jesus -- "If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?"

When I went back towards the house I found Miss Irvine still sitting in the same place, and she said, as she took hold of my arm to walk home with me, "Is it all right, dear?"

"Yes, Miss Irvine, I have asked Him to forgive me, and I am sure He has."

"Yes," she said, "if you have asked Him I am sure He has. He is always ready to forgive us, if we will only go to Him."

* * *

As I look back on that part of my life which was spent in Alliston Hall, I cannot be too thankful that God gave me the friendship of Miss Lilla Irvine. I found in her a true friend, one in whom I could confide all my troubles and anxieties, and one who was always ready to sympathize with me and to advise me. Her visits, to my great joy, were long ones. At the time of which I am now writing she spent several months at her cousin's house, so that I had many opportunities of seeing her.

As Christmas time drew near, the three sisters at Branston Manor House wrote to ask me to spend Christmas with them, and Sir William most kindly gave me a fortnight's holiday. Evelyn was loath to part with me, and told me she would be dreadfully bored while I was away. But Sir William would not hear of my refusing the invitation, and promised to do his best to make up for my absence.

"Oh dear, oh dear, it will be a long two weeks," Evelyn said, the night before I left. "You shouldn't be so nice, May. If you were only a little more disagreeable, just the smallest degree like the brown alpaca, I would not miss you half so much."

"Very well," I said, laughing, "I will come back provided with spectacles, and a brown woollen dress, and be as prim and precise as you please. And then I suppose I shall get plenty of holidays. Not that I want holidays," I said quickly, as I noticed the troubled expression on her face. "I was only joking, dear Evelyn. My whole life here is a holiday. I am very, very happy, because you are all so good to me."

"Just as if we could help being good to you, May," she said. "I told you that I loved you as a friend at first sight, and always would love you, and I am sure I do. And I do hope you will enjoy being with your young sister. But you must be sure to come back as soon as they can spare you."

It was six months since I had seen Maggie, and my heart beat fast as the train drew up at Branston Station and my young sister came forward to meet me. She had grown much since I had seen her last. Old John was waiting for us with the two luxurious horses, and we drove to the Manor House at the usual measured pace.

It was quite touching to see the welcome which the three sisters gave me. If I had been one of their own family they could not have seemed more glad to see me. Miss Jane, especially, took me under her wing from the moment that I entered the house, and it would indeed have been my own fault if I had not spent a pleasant Christmas time at Branston.

But what I enjoyed, perhaps, more than anything else, was hearing Mr. Claremont's sermons. There was something in this young pastor's plain, practical way of preaching which went direct to my heart. I always came away from hearing one of his sermons feeling thoroughly dissatisfied with myself, which perhaps, after all, is the best proof how useful they were to me.

On the last Sunday of the year I felt that indeed there was a message for me. In both his sermons that day Mr. Claremont spoke of the year that was past, gone for ever, with all its shortcomings and sins, all its neglected opportunities, all its wasted moments.

He told us that God had given to each of us a special work to do for Him, and that if we did not do it, the work would be left undone. And then he asked us whether all those who lived in the house with us were among the saved.

As Mr. Claremont spoke, one face was ever in my mind's eye. It was Evelyn Trafford. Loving and amiable and sweet tempered as she was, I knew that she cared nothing for the Lord I loved. She had never been taught to think of things above.

And yet what could I do for her? I had sometimes tried to get a word in, edgewise as it were, for my Master, but it was difficult and it never seemed to do any good.

Sometimes I thought it did harm. If she was alone with me she turned the subject so quickly, and did not seem so much at her ease with me afterwards. And if anyone else came into the room, she would begin to talk almost scoffingly of all that I loved and reverenced, as if she was determined to show me how little she cared for it all. And so I was beginning to think that it was wiser to be quiet and to say nothing.

Yet this sermon had made me uneasy. If Evelyn should die unsaved, and I had never once really spoken to her about her soul's interests -- oh, how I would blame myself. And yet, when could I do it? How could I begin the subject?

I met Mr. Claremont the next day as I was going to see one of Miss Jane's sick people, and I ventured to tell him how much I had felt challenged by his sermon.

"But does it not require great wisdom in speaking to others?" I asked.

"Undoubtedly," he said, "there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silence."

"But with me, Mr. Claremont," I said, "it always seems the time to keep silence."

"Ah," he said, "perhaps if you look carefully within, Miss Lindsay, you will find that at the bottom of it all there has been a little cowardice, a little unwillingness to be brave for the Master's sake. Please forgive me for saying so, but I have often found it so myself. Often, when I have neglected speaking to others about their souls, I have found that it was not from want of opportunity, but from want of courage to use the opportunities that were given me."

"Yes," I said slowly, "I believe you are right."

# Chapter Eight

I WENT BACK to Alliston Hall determined to be on the watch for the time to speak, and praying most earnestly for that time to come. Evelyn welcomed me warmly, and told me she had never known a fortnight pass so slowly.

"Have you many visitors here?" I asked.

"No," she said, "there is only Alice Fitzgerald. I didn't know she was coming when you went away, but I found out she was staying with friends of hers not far off, so I asked her to come here on her way home. Her father is an old friend of papa's."

"Alice Fitzgerald?" I repeated. "Alice Fitzgerald? I wonder if it is the same."

"The same as what, May?" Evelyn said, laughing at my astonishment. "Do you know an Alice Fitzgerald?"

"No," I said, "I do not know her, but she is a great friend of a friend of mine."

"Well, this Alice Fitzgerald. . . How pale you are, May," said Evelyn, suddenly stopping short in her explanation. "Are you very tired?"

"No, not at all," I said. "Go on, I want to hear about _your_ Alice Fitzgerald."

"Well, _my_ Alice Fitzgerald is a pretty girl, at least I think she is, and a nice sort of girl, though she isn't a bit like you. I don't mean that you are not nice, you dear old thing," said Evelyn, laughing, "but she is quite different from you. I'm rather afraid you will quarrel."

"Oh no, I hope not."

"No, you must not quarrel," said Evelyn, "though she has some strange ideas, but after all what does it matter what one believes?"

I was about to answer her when the door opened, and the subject of our conversation entered. She was a tall, fair-haired girl of about my age, and was indeed as Evelyn had said pretty.

"Alice, this is my friend, May Lindsay," was Evelyn's introduction, as she came in.

Miss Fitzgerald shook hands with me pleasantly, and then sat down on a low seat by the fire and took her work out of a pretty, embroidered bag which hung by her side.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," Alice said, "for I have been hearing your praises sounded morning, noon and night ever since I came."

"Well, isn't she nice, Alice?" said Evelyn, raising herself on the sofa. "Didn't I give you a good description of her?"

"I expect Miss Fitzgerald is not so hasty in forming her opinion as you are, Evelyn," I said.

"By the bye, Alice," Evelyn went on, "May thinks she knows a friend of yours -- at least, if you are the same Alice Fitzgerald. What is her name, May?"

"It is a gentleman," I said, turning red in spite of all my efforts to the contrary. "Mr. Claude Ellis."

"Claude?" repeated Miss Fitzgerald, in astonishment. "Do you know Claude? I never heard him speak of you."

"No, perhaps not," I said, "but I do know him very well indeed. We were playfellows when we were children, and lived next door to each other all our lives."

"How strange that I never heard your name," said Miss Fitzgerald. "I was staying at the Parsonage last spring. Were you in the village at the time?"

"No," I said, "we left a little time before you went there. Do you remember noticing a house standing in a large garden, close to the Parsonage?"

"Oh yes," she said, "it was shut up when I was there, and Claude said the doctor used to live there."

"The doctor was my father," I said, checking the tears which would come in spite of myself, and which nearly choked me.

"Well, that's funny," said Evelyn, "that you should know this dearly-beloved Claude, about whom I have heard so much lately. Did you know he's coming here tomorrow, to make my acquaintance? Papa has invited him to come for a day or two while Alice is here."

Claude coming to Alliston Hall? Claude coming tomorrow? How I wished that my stay with Maggie and her three aunts at the old Manor House had been a little longer. I made some excuse to leave the room, and went to my own bedroom and locked the door.

"Claude coming tomorrow," I repeated over and over to myself. All the old trouble seemed to have come back again. I had hoped that I would never see Claude again, that our paths in life would never cross each other. And now he was coming tomorrow. How astonished he would be to see me here. I wondered whether he would feel it as much as I did.

As I sat alone in my room I prayed for grace and help, and I felt that the strength came as I prayed. I felt that I could not go downstairs, but Evelyn's maid Clemence came to tell me that Miss Trafford wanted me.

"You naughty girl," said Evelyn when I entered, "what have you been doing? Why, you're as cold as ice. Come to the fire and warm your hands. I really couldn't let you stop up there any longer. Do you know I thought you were, at last, turning into the brown alpaca? She always shut herself up in her bedroom half the day."

"And who in the world is the brown alpaca?" asked Alice Fitzgerald. "Do tell me about her, Evelyn."

Evelyn was only too pleased to explain about her imaginary companion. And then we went on from one laughable subject to another, and Alice Fitzgerald told us a number of amusing stories in such an absurd way that we laughed until we were quite tired.

"There," Alice said at last, as Evelyn declared that she had not laughed so much the whole time she had been ill, and that she felt all the better for it, "that's just what I was saying before Miss Lindsay came into the room: if only people, when they are in low spirits would laugh more, they would be all the happier."

"But when you are in trouble you cannot laugh, Miss Fitzgerald," I said.

"Oh, then, you should try," she said firmly. "Try to forget the trouble and laugh it off. That's always my way when anything bothers me or vexes me. I try to think of something amusing, and forget it."

"And do you always succeed?" I ventured to ask.

"Well, no, not quite always," she said, rather sombrely.

It was the first time that I had seen her look sombre. Her merry, laughing face was clouded for a moment.

But it was only for a moment.

"Anyhow," she said, "if you don't succeed in forgetting your trouble, it makes it easier to bear. It's better to go laughing through a trouble than crying through it. But laugh it off if you can, that's much the best way."

"But, suppose you can't laugh it off," I said. "You agreed that there are some troubles which are too deep to be got rid of in that way. Suppose you cannot laugh it off, and the trouble comes back after every laugh as heavy as ever? What then?"

"Oh, then," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, "we must bear it, I suppose -- bear it as best we can. Don't you think so?"

"I never try to laugh trouble away," I said. "I try to pray it away."

"Oh," she said, scornfully, "you believe in prayer, do you?"

"Yes; don't you, Miss Fitzgerald?"

"No, not now," she said. "I did once. That is to say, I never prayed much myself, but I used to believe that it did some people good. But Claude says it's all nonsense. My brother Arthur and he are always having long discussions about these things. Arthur believes in the Bible with all his heart and soul, and Claude does nothing but laugh at him."

"And you agree with Claude, of course," said Evelyn, laughing.

"Yes," said Alice, "I agree with him. And yet, do you know, I sometimes wish I didn't."

"May I ask, why not?" I said.

"Well," she said, "you mustn't tell Claude, he would be so angry, but I can't help thinking if Arthur should be right after all -- what then?"

"Yes, what then?" I said. "If the Bible is true -- what then?"

"Why then," she said, laughing again, "we are all lost, I suppose. So the best we can do is to enjoy ourselves as much now as we can. A short life and a merry one, that's my motto. Well, I suppose it's getting near dinner time." She rose hastily, gathered up her work and left the room.

"She is a strange girl," said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut.

"She's not really happy, Evelyn," I said. "She tries to laugh it off, as she says, but there is a great deal of unhappy doubt in her heart, I feel sure of that."

"Well," said Evelyn, changing the subject, "I think you should go and dress for dinner."

So I left the room and went upstairs, and prayed very, earnestly for them both, and especially for Alice Fitzgerald. Oh, if she only knew where true joy was to be found.

The next day Claude arrived. I was in Evelyn's sitting-room when Alice Fitzgerald brought him in to introduce him to her. And then she turned to me.

"An old friend of yours, Claude, I believe," she said.

Claude started. He had not noticed me before. "May . . . Miss Lindsay," he said, colouring painfully, "I did not expect to see you here."

And then he turned the subject quickly, and began to give us an account of his journey, his Oxford adventures, and all sorts of other things, until dinner was announced. I could see that he was not at his ease, and I thought that Alice Fitzgerald noticed it also.

I saw little more of Claude that evening, for I always dined upstairs with Evelyn, and he spent the evening talking politics with Sir William over the library fire.

But the next morning when I came downstairs, Claude was alone in the breakfast-room. I said "Good morning," and then was about to leave the room again, when he called me back, and said hurriedly,

"May, what did you tell her?"

"Tell whom?" I asked.

"Tell Alice," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "What did you tell her about me?"

"Only that we played together when we were children, and lived next door to each other."

"Was that all?" he asked.

"Yes, every word," I answered. "You surely did not think, Claude. . ."

"Oh no," he said, "of course not. Only it's more comfortable to know. All right, May," he added, carelessly, "we will let bygones be bygones now."

And then he sat down to the piano and played a merry air.

I stood and looked out of the window, wondering at the shallowness of his heart. And I felt, as I had never felt before, that I had not made a bad choice when I chose Christ's love and gave up Claude's.

In a few minutes the others came down, and we had breakfast. While we were at breakfast, Ambrose came in with the letter-bag, which he solemnly laid before Sir William as was his daily custom. Sir William took a key from his watch-chain and unlocked the bag, and then proceeded to distribute the letters.

"None for you this morning, Miss Alice," he said, laughing. "Which would you choose: to have your young man here to talk to you, or to get a letter from him? None for you, Miss Lindsay, not a single one. Six for me, and one for Mr. Ellis \-- that's all."

Claude took his letter, opened it, and glanced hastily through it. The contents did not seem to be of the most agreeable nature, for he looked annoyed as he read it and then crushed it up impatiently and thrust it into his pocket. Alice glanced inquiringly at him, but Claude appeared to be engrossed in his food and took no notice of her inquiring looks.

When breakfast was over, Sir William went into the library where he generally spent the morning looking over the newspapers and writing his letters. We went up to Evelyn's room. I thought Alice wanted to linger behind to speak to Claude, but he did not seem disposed to take the hint, and he followed me closely upstairs.

We found Evelyn lying on the sofa, waiting for me to show her how to do a new pattern in crochet work which I had learned from Maggie's Aunt Jane who was clever with her fingers. I sat down on a low stool close to Evelyn, directing her as she worked. Alice and Claude went to the other end of the room, into the large bow window. Claude had brought a newspaper upstairs with him, and throwing himself into an armchair he began to read it with an air which plainly indicated that he did not wish to be disturbed.

Alice Fitzgerald came behind him. Leaning over his shoulder, with her arm on the back of the chair, she seemed to be reading the newspaper with him. But after a minute or two I heard her say, "Let me see that letter, Claude. What was it about?"

"Oh, it was nothing particular," said Claude, turning to another part of the newspaper. "It was only a business letter."

"That's always the way with men," interrupted Evelyn. "Whenever they don't want you to see a letter they always say, 'It's only a business letter.' Papa always does so, and it's of no use my telling him that I like business letters. He only laughs and says, 'Women don't understand business, or, if they do, they ought not!'"

But Alice Fitzgerald did not let the matter drop. In a few minutes I heard her ask again from whom the letter had come, and Claude answered in a vexed tone, "It is only from my father, Alice. There, take it and read it if you make such a fuss about it." And he tossed the letter onto the table.

Alice sat down and read it, and when she had gone through it once, she turned it over and read it again, and then folding it up slowly she handed it back to Claude. He put it into his pocket and went on reading. Alice leaned over his shoulder, and her face, which was generally so bright and merry, was serious and thoughtful. Evelyn and I were busy with our pattern, and for some minutes no one spoke.

Then I heard Alice say, in a low voice, "What enclosures were there, Claude? What is it that has vexed your father so much?"

"Oh, only some rubbishy old account," said Claude impatiently. "Those Oxford tradesmen are the greatest scoundrels on the face of the earth. It's always their way. But the best plan is to take no notice of them. Toss their accounts into the fire and leave them alone."

And, in spite of Alice's objections, he walked to the fireplace and thrust a wad of papers into the flames, and watched them turn to ashes.

"They will send them in again, Claude," said Alice.

"Then I shall burn them again," he said, with a laugh. "The rogues ought to know better."

"But are you quite sure they are wrong, Claude?" she said, as they went back to the window. "Are you absolutely sure you never bought any of the things? Have you looked through them carefully?"

"Oh, I know all about it," said Claude, in a vexed voice. "Do let it alone. I have plenty of money to pay them all, if necessary. So please leave me to manage my own affairs. There's a splendid leader in _The Times_ today, Miss Trafford. Have you read it?" he said, turning to Evelyn and beginning a conversation with her on the politics of Europe.

Alice Fitzgerald left the window, took her work out, and sat on a low stool by the fire. But she did not recover her usual good spirits for some time afterwards.

# Chapter Nine

FROM this time, as the spring advanced, Evelyn began to grow much stronger. The doctors seemed hopeful that she would soon be strong enough to go upstairs and downstairs quite comfortably, although she must spend a good deal of time on her couch. Sir William insisted on it, even though Evelyn did not think it really necessary.

I began to think that my stay at Alliston Hall would be drawing to a close, for when Evelyn was able to return to the active life that she had led before her illness, she would not need me any longer. However, when I once hinted at something of the kind to her, she vehemently declared that I must never leave her, and that she would be ill again if I were to go away!

If I had had a pleasant life before, it was still more pleasant now, for we were able to drive out together or sit with our work on a seat on the lawn whenever the weather was warm enough.

I shall never forget that spring. Everything looked so lovely in that beautiful park. The long avenue with its budding trees; the soft, fresh green of the grass; the woods yellow with primroses, and the birds singing their happy songs in the trees. Everything seemed full of life and of joy.

Evelyn was like a bird which had been long shut up in a cage and had suddenly regained its liberty. Her merry laugh was to be heard almost all day long, and her light step, as she went about the house again, showed that she was fast recovering her health and strength.

Yet one thought troubled me. Could it be that the opportunity was gone -- that I would never now be able to lead her to think seriously about her soul and about eternity? I had tried so often since my return to talk to her about these things, but the attempt always ended in failure. Though I prayed most earnestly that God would make a way for me, and give me the opportunity for which I was now eagerly watching, yet no way seemed to be opened, no opportunity seemed to be given. And now Evelyn was getting well, so what chance was there that she would be led to think seriously when all around her was so bright and pleasant?

Still I prayed on.

I had found a few needy people in the neighbourhood of Alliston Hall, among whom I was able to do a little work for the Master. There were one or two old people who were glad for me to read to them; and there was a girl, dying of consumption, who was always pleased to see me. Thus, whenever I managed to get an afternoon for myself, when Evelyn was engaged with visitors or was driving out with her father, I went across the park to visit these people, and always came back feeling refreshed in mind and body.

One afternoon I had been out rather longer than usual. I had left Evelyn busy with her letters, and as it was now past post time I was afraid she would be wanting me and would think that I had been a long time away. So as soon as I had dressed for dinner I hurried down to Evelyn's room.

As I came up to the door I heard a voice inside, and when I went in I found, to my astonishment, a young man there. He was sitting on a footstool in front of the fire, stroking Evelyn's little dog, and apparently completely at his ease. He was a handsome man, tall and well-built, with fine features and large dark eyes.

Who could he be? Where had he come from? I had not heard that any visitors were expected that day, and I was utterly at a loss to account for his sudden appearance.

He jumped up when I came into the room, and threw himself into the armchair by the fire.

"This is Cousin Donald," said Evelyn as I came up to her. "Do you think papa will be angry with him for coming?"

"Oh no, of course not. Why should he be?" said Donald Trafford carelessly. "When a poor fellow has been toiling away day after day for months, it would be a crying shame to grudge him a little change of air when he happens to get a day's holiday."

"Don't you like the bank any better, Donald?" asked Evelyn.

"Any better?" he exclaimed, starting up from his seat. "I hate it, Evelyn. I shall run away some day, I declare I shall."

"Oh no, you won't, there's a dear, good Donald," she said. "Papa would be so angry."

"I can't help that, Evelyn," he said. "You would run away if you were in my place. It is nothing but work, work, work, day after day -- and I hate work. I can't help it. It is my nature. I was never meant to work. Some people are, and they like work; but I never did and never shall."

At this moment Sir William's step was heard in the corridor.

"Here's papa," said Evelyn, hurriedly. "Oh, Donald, I wonder what he will say."

"I don't care," said Donald Trafford with a laugh. "If the old gentleman has the least sense of--"

But here the door opened, and Sir William came in.

His nephew rose to meet him in the most affectionate and confident manner, and as if he was perfectly sure of a welcome.

"Well, uncle, how are you?" he said. "I'm so glad to find Evelyn better. It is so nice to see you again."

Sir William took his hand and shook it coldly. "And pray where did you come from, Donald?" he asked sternly.

"Why, the fact is, uncle," said the young man, "today is a bank holiday, and I have been working so hard lately that I thought a little fresh air would set me up again. And as I had not seen you for such a long time, I thought I would look you up."

"When I was a young man, Donald," said his uncle, dryly, "I waited for an invitation before I went to visit my friends."

Donald Trafford colored, but he answered cheerfully, "I can put up at the Royal Oak tonight, uncle, if it is at all inconvenient for me to stay here. I didn't think the house would be full at this time of the year."

Sir William did not answer him, but turning to Evelyn he told her that the gong had sounded, and asked her if she wished to go downstairs to dinner.

"No, papa," said Evelyn, "I think May and I will dine upstairs. I feel rather tired this evening."

"Very well then, we will go downstairs, Donald," said Sir William, and they left the room.

"Oh dear, May," said Evelyn, as soon as the door was shut, "I am afraid papa is angry. I never saw him look like that before. But I don't know why he should be so angry, do you? It isn't as if Donald was no relation of ours. He is the son of papa's brother. I can't think why papa is always so upset when he comes here."

"I'm sorry you're so tired, Evelyn," I said, as I made her lie down on the sofa until dinner was brought upstairs.

"Oh, I'm not tired, May," she said. "I wanted papa and Donald to have dinner alone because, don't you see, papa will be obliged to talk to him now. If we were there I know just how it would be. Papa would talk to you and talk to me, and hardly say a word to Donald. But now he will have to talk to him, because there is no one else there. You wait and see, they will be quite friendly after dinner. Or at least, matters will be much better than they are now."

And to a certain extent Evelyn was right. When we went into the library we found Donald Trafford sitting comfortably in an easy chair, with _The Times_ newspaper in his hand, discussing the events of the day with his uncle, and apparently completely at his ease.

And Sir William? He was most clearly not at ease. I could see it by his tightly compressed mouth when his nephew was speaking, and by the careful way in which he tried to engross Evelyn's attention as soon as she came into the room. But still I could see that he found it difficult to keep up any appearance of displeasure in the face of Donald Trafford's pleasant, cheerful manner, and almost impossible to quarrel with a man who was determined not to quarrel with him.

Evelyn was silent the whole evening, and seemed in bad spirits. She talked a little to me, but she seldom spoke to her father or her cousin. Altogether it was a most uncomfortable evening, and I was not sorry when it was over.

The next day we did not see much of Donald Trafford, for Sir William took him out with him after breakfast and managed to keep him to himself nearly the whole day. Only once, when Sir William was unavoidably absent for a short time, was he left in the library with Evelyn and me.

"I wish you liked the bank better, Donald," said Evelyn, as soon as her father left the room.

"I never shall like it better, Evelyn," he said impetuously. "It is absurd my trying to live in London on the miserable allowance I get there. It is utterly ridiculous. No gentleman could do it."

"But, Donald," Evelyn said, "you really should be more careful with your money. You ought never to have bought that--"

At a sign from him she stopped suddenly in what she was saying. "You really ought not, Donald," she said instead.

"Yes, I ought, Evelyn," he said, in rather an annoyed voice. "It's all right. But it is really absurd their paying a fellow such a miserable salary. I don't mean to stand it much longer. I shall run away and try my fortune somewhere else."

"Oh no, Donald dear, you mustn't run away," said Evelyn. "Just think how angry papa would be."

But just then Sir William came back and invited Donald. Trafford to walk with him as far as his farm bailiff's house, and we did not see him again until he came to take leave of us before starting for the railway station. He whispered something to Evelyn as he bent over her to say goodbye, and I distinctly caught the words, _"_ Remember -- promise." Then he hastily shook hands with me and went out of the room.

I never knew Evelyn so difficult to please as she was that evening. Nothing that I did seemed to be right, and she was fretful and tired. Even when her father was in the room she made no effort to rouse herself or talk to him.

Sir William looked at her anxiously from time to time. I could see that he attributed this change in her to her cousin's visit, and I heard him expressing a hope that it was the last time that Donald would come without an invitation. He said he did not approve of the free-and-easy manners of the rising generation, and he was glad that he had spoken to him pretty plainly on the subject.

Evelyn went early to bed, and I went to my room, but not to sleep. I felt unhappy and perplexed. These two words which I had heard, against my will, haunted me: " _Remember \-- promise_."

What did Donald Trafford mean by it? What was Evelyn to remember, and what promise had she made which she would not either speak to her father or to me? It was so unlike Evelyn to keep a secret. She generally came out with everything at once, telling me just what she was thinking about. I felt sure that this must be something she did not wish her father to know, and the thought troubled me.

As I got up the next morning, I prayed for grace and strength to help me, if possible, to influence Evelyn to do what was right.

I found her in a different frame of mind from the night before. She was still clearly unhappy, but she put her arms round my neck and kissed me. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry with you? No indeed, Evelyn," I said. "Why should I be angry?"

"Oh, I was so horrid to you last night, I know I was. I can't bear to think how nasty and disagreeable I was. How you must have hated me."

"No, Evelyn," I said. "You were only tired and. . ."

"And what?" she asked.

"And troubled, were you not?" I ventured to say. "Troubled about something of which I do not know, and so cannot sympathize with you."

"Yes," she said, "I was bothered and troubled, and I wanted to tell you about it so much. But I didn't know whether I ought to do so."

I did not answer her, but went on quietly with my work.

After a minute or two she said in a whisper, "May, I'm not going to tell you anything, but I'm going to show you something. That won't be telling, will it? Hush, is that anyone coming? No, it's only Clemence going downstairs. But mind, if the door opens you must look just the same as usual and not say a word."

She drew from her pocket a little leather case and opened it. Inside was a beautiful diamond ring.

"Isn't it pretty?" she asked, as she showed it to me.

"Very pretty," I said. "Very beautiful. Did Sir William give it to you?"

"Oh no," she said, "papa doesn't know anything about it, and I mustn't tell him. You can guess who gave it to me. I am not going to tell you, but you can guess. And then, don't you see, if you know about it, then I can wear it sometimes. It seems such a pity never to wear it. I can put it on sometimes when we are here alone, and slip it off if I hear anyone coming. Don't you think so, May? How serious you look," she said, in an altered voice. "What is the matter? _Are_ you angry with me?"

"Not angry," I said, "but I feel troubled about what you have told me. Why don't you tell your father about it, dear?"

"Oh, I couldn't," she said. "He would be so vexed, so very vexed. I dare not tell him."

"Why do you think he would be vexed?" I asked.

"Oh, because it must have cost such a great deal of money. Look, May, they are real diamonds, and Donald has so little money to spend, and papa thinks he is extravagant." She stopped suddenly and looked at me. "There, I've told you who gave it to me. I didn't mean to do so, but of course you had already guessed."

"I think it would be much better if you told Sir William," I said. "He might be a little cross at first with your cousin for spending so much money on it, but I'm sure he would be far more vexed if he found out that your cousin Donald had given it to you, and yet you had never told him of it."

"Yes," she said, "I know he would, but the worst of it is, that isn't all, May. If I told him about the ring, I would have to tell him something else -- I could not stop halfway."

"But I think you ought to tell him all," I said. "You must hide nothing from him which you feel he ought to know. You would be much happier, Evelyn, if you told him."

"Yes," she said, "I know I would. But then you see I promised not to tell papa, and it would never do to break my promise."

"But if you promised to do what was wrong," I said, "it can surely not be right to keep your promise."

"I never thought of that before," she said. "You see, May, I promised Donald that afternoon, before you came in, that some day or other I would be his wife. I know I ought not to have promised him, but he was so nice and seemed to love me so much. He said he had brought that ring with him so that I could always keep it near me, and that whenever I looked at it I could think of my promise. And then he said that I must not tell papa, because he would be so angry if he knew. I told Donald that I should be obliged to tell papa, for we could never be married if papa didn't know about it."

"And what did your cousin say?" I asked.

"Oh, he said there was plenty of time for that. We couldn't be married for many a long day, and he would tell papa himself when the time was right. So then he made me promise not to tell him until he gave me permission -- and then you came into the room and we couldn't talk any more about it. I do wish I had never promised him."

"Yes, it was a great pity," I said. "But now I think the best thing you can do is to write to your cousin and tell him that you feel you were wrong to make the promise, and that you feel it would be still worse to keep it."

"Do you think that would be a good plan?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Yes," I said, "I am sure it is what you ought to do."

She did not answer me at once, but sat looking into the fire and thinking. I sent up an earnest prayer that she would be led to do what was right.

Presently she looked up at me, and said: "I can't do it, May, so it's no use thinking about it. I can't tell papa. Donald would be so angry. I don't think he would ever forgive me."

"Evelyn," I said, "you remember Herod's promise to give the daughter of Herodias whatever she asked for. Do you remember why he kept that promise, even when the keeping of it made him commit murder by cutting off John the Baptist's head?"

"Yes," she said; "doesn't it say it was because of his oath's sake. I suppose Herod didn't like to break his word."

"And Evelyn," I said, "why didn't he like to break his word?"

"Why?" she asked.

"The Bible says it was because of them which sat with him at meat. I think that was the real reason why Herod kept his word. It was not because he minded breaking a big promise \-- he was not the kind of man to mind that -- but it was because he was afraid of what his friends would say or think. He may have thought, too, that his wife would never forgive him, and so he kept his promise to kill John the Baptist. He was not brave enough to do what he knew was right."

Evelyn covered her face with her hands and cried. I sat beside her and put my arm round her, and we sat thus for some time in silence. Then she suddenly jumped up, went to the table and began to write.

"I am going to be brave, May," she said, as she smiled through her tears.

What Evelyn said to her cousin I do not know, but she cried a great deal while she was writing it. Then she slipped the letter into her pocket.

"It won't do to put it into the post-bag," she said. "We will get out at the post office and post it when we drive out this afternoon, and then I will tell papa this evening after dinner."

How thankful I was to hear Evelyn express this determination. I felt as if a great load had been lifted off my heart.

# Chapter Ten

EVELYN WAS pale, and trembled very much as dinner time drew near. She went downstairs as usual and tried to talk to her father and appear as if nothing was the matter. But I could see that it was a great effort for her to do so, and that she was dreading the time when her secret must be told. She had posted the letter to her cousin that afternoon, so it was too late now to draw back. I do not think that she wished to do so, but she dreaded her father's displeasure.

When dinner was over we went into the library where Sir William made Evelyn lie down on her couch, for he had noticed that she was pale and tired, and I, according to previous arrangement with Evelyn, made some excuse for leaving the room and left her alone with her father.

I went upstairs to Evelyn's room, and sat waiting for her, and praying that she would have courage to tell Sir William all, and that he would not be angry. I took up a book and tried to read, but though my eyes followed the words I could not fix my thoughts on what I was reading. Then I tried to sew, but that attempt was also a failure. So I went to the window and sat looking out at the setting sun until the room grew dark. Then Clemence, Evelyn's maid, came into the room for something, and seeing that I was in darkness she lit the gas and drew the curtains, and then once more I was left alone.

At last I heard a step on the stairs. It was Sir William, and he was coming up alone. He came into the room and shut the door behind him. Coming up to me, he said,

"Miss Lindsay, I have to thank you for the way in which you have influenced Evelyn today. She tells me that it is entirely owing to you that she has been led to confess to me her foolish conduct."

"I am quite sure, Sir William," I said, "that Evelyn is thankful that she has told you. She loves you so much, and it was misery for her to feel she was deceiving you."

_"_ Yes, poor child," he said. "She has suffered a great deal these last two days. I do not blame her. Of course, she acted wrongly, but the chief fault does not lie at her door."

I did not answer, and he went on,

"That nephew of mine wants putting in his proper place. I hope this will he a lesson that he will never forget. I shall not spare him, I can tell you. I am afraid he is a devious fellow. Evelyn does not see through him, but I do, and I shall let him know it too. But I need not trouble you with this, Miss Lindsay," he said, as he rose to leave the room. "I just wanted to thank you for being a true, wise friend to my daughter, and tell you how I value the influence you have over her."

This was a great deal for Sir William to say. He was a silent man, and seldom expressed his feelings, and therefore a few words of praise from him were worth double what they would have been had they come from anyone else. I felt thankful that God had enabled me to please him in this matter.

"Evelyn is coming upstairs shortly, Miss Lindsay," said Sir William, as he left the room. "Will you he so kind as to see that she goes to bed at once?"

I promised to do so, and presently he brought his daughter upstairs. She looked tired and troubled, and her eyes were swollen with crying, but she put her arms round me, and was loving and affectionate to me.

When her father had gone downstairs, she said, "Oh, May, I am so glad I told papa. So very glad. I am so much happier now."

"I was sure you would be, Evelyn," I said. "It is terrible to have a secret like that weighing on the mind."

"Yes," she said, "I am glad I told him. But oh, May, he was so angry -- not with me, not half enough with me. He simply would not see that it was my fault, hut he was terribly angry with Donald."

"I don't think you can be surprised at that," I said. "I don't think your cousin Donald behaved honourably, and your father is such an honourable man himself that he must have felt it keenly."

"Yes, perhaps so," she said. "But I'm sure Donald didn't mean any harm. Poor Donald doesn't think before he does things. He--"

But I would not let Evelyn talk anymore about it that night, and rang the bell for Clemence. As Evelyn said goodnight, she whispered, "Papa has taken that ring, May. He says it's valuable and he's sure Donald has no money to pay for it."

The next morning no one alluded to what had happened the night before. Even when we were alone Evelyn did not seem inclined to speak of it, and I made every effort that I could to turn her thoughts in another direction.

Sir William spent most of that day in his private room writing letters, including one to Donald, and we seldom saw him, but he was tender and loving to Evelyn whenever he came into the room, and seemed anxious to make her feel how completely he had forgiven her.

Evelyn and I were sitting together at the window with our work, when the servant started for the village with the post-bag containing Sir William's letter to his nephew. Evelyn watched the man out of sight, and then turned to me with a sorrowful face.

"Poor Donald," she said. "What will he say when he gets it?"

It was the first time that she had mentioned her cousin that day. I begged her to try not to think of what he would say, but to feel thankful that she had done what was right, and could now look her father in the face with a happy heart.

It must have been, I think, two days after this that as Evelyn was lying on the sofa reading, and I was sitting beside her writing a letter, we heard a carriage coming quickly up the drive.

"I wonder who is coming," said Evelyn. "Just look out, May."

I went to the window but I did not know the carriage at all, and as it came nearer I saw that it was a hired one, and that there was one gentleman inside.

"Can you see who it is?" Evelyn asked.

"I can see him, Evelyn," I said, "but it's no one I have ever seen before. I think he wants Sir William. The gentleman and Ambrose are standing on the drive together. There, the visitor has sent the carriage away. He is evidently going to stay."

"This is exciting." said Evelyn, laughing. "I must come and look."

She put down her book, got up from the sofa, and came to the window. Ambrose the gardener was still talking to the strange gentleman in the middle of the drive, and pointing to the various parts of the park as if he was trying to tell him where Sir William had gone.

"Oh, May," she said, "that's Uncle Edward. What can he want?"

"Uncle Edward?" I repeated.

"Yes," she said, "Donald's father. Oh, I wonder why he has come. I'm sure it is about Donald. What _can_ be the matter?"

"Don't be troubled about it, Evelyn," I said. "Very likely your uncle has only come in answer to Sir William's letter. Sir William would be sure to write to him as well as to Donald about what you told him the other night. And most probably your uncle wants to talk it over with him."

"Oh yes," she said, "that must be it. Do you think I should go down and speak to Uncle Edward?"

"No," I said, "you must lie down now. You don't look well enough to go downstairs. I will go into the garden and tell Ambrose to ask your uncle to come up here, if you wish."

But before I had time to carry out my intention the door opened, and Mr. Edward Trafford came in.

"How do you do, Evelyn, my dear?" he said in an agitated voice. "Can you tell me where to find your father? Ambrose has been trying to explain to me, but I could not make out what he meant. The different turnings in the park are so bewildering. I thought perhaps you would be able to explain better."

"It may be best to wait inside, uncle, until papa comes back," suggested Evelyn. "I don't think he will be long now, and you might miss him if you went outside to find him."

"Yes," he said, "so I might. I think I will wait."

"You will have luncheon, uncle?" said Evelyn.

"No, no, indeed, my dear," said her uncle. "No, I had something as I came along, and I could not touch anything now. I will go downstairs and see if your father is back."

"Is anything the matter, uncle?" asked Evelyn, anxiously. "Are any of them ill at home?"

"Oh no," he said, hurriedly. "No, dear, no one is ill. I just want to see your father on business."

He was pale and agitated, and looked, Evelyn said later, years older than when she had seen him last.

We watched him go out onto the drive again, and look first in one direction and then in another. Then he passed up and down in front of the house for more than half an hour, looking troubled and distressed, with his eyes fixed on the ground, but glancing up hastily every few minutes to see if his brother was in sight.

At last Sir William appeared. They did not come into the house, but turned into one of the private walks in the park and paced up and down, backwards and forwards, for more than an hour. Each time they turned round they came within sight of the house, and then they were hidden from our view by the trees and we could not see them again until they came back to the same place. They seemed to be talking earnestly, and now and again they stood still and spoke to each other face to face, as though they were arguing some important point on which they could not agree, or at least could not come to any satisfactory conclusion.

Evelyn was extremely restless the whole time. She began to follow the example of her father and uncle and pace up and down the room. But I insisted on her putting her feet up on the sofa and remaining quiet.

At length the two gentlemen brought their walk and their talk to a conclusion, and came towards the house. Sir William ran upstairs as soon as he came in.

"How are you, my dear child?" he said to Evelyn, even more tenderly than usual. "You look so pale. Please take care of her, Miss Lindsay, and make her lie down."

"What is the matter, papa?" whispered Evelyn, while I prepared to leave the room, thinking Sir William might wish to speak to his daughter alone.

"Oh, I will tell you about it afterwards," said her father. "It is some rather unpleasant business about which your Uncle Edward wanted to see me. Don't go away, please, Miss Lindsay. I have letters to write at once, so I must not stay now."

In spite of Evelyn's pleading glances, Sir William went downstairs, and he and his brother, after hastily partaking of dinner, spent the rest of the evening together in Sir William's private room.

"What can it be?" Evelyn kept saying. "What can papa mean by unpleasant business? It can't be about what I told him the other night, or he would have said so. What can be the matter?"

Of course, I could not help Evelyn find out. We could only wonder and wait.

Mr. Edward Trafford left the next morning at an early hour to catch the first train for London. Sir William and I were alone for breakfast, for Evelyn was not well enough to rise.

"How is Evelyn this morning? _"_ asked Sir William, anxiously, as I entered the room.

I told him that she had a bad night, and was still in bed.

"Oh dear, oh dear," he said. "I will not tell her today. I think it might upset her still more. I will wait until she is somewhat better."

"Don't you think, Sir William," I ventured to say, "that the suspense of not knowing what is the matter is worse for Evelyn than knowing the truth?"

"Well, perhaps you are right, Miss Lindsay," he said. "I will tell her after breakfast."

"I hope it is no great trouble, Sir William?"

"Well, it is a most unpleasant business," he said. "The fact is, that nephew Donald of mine is a thief. What Evelyn ever saw to admire in him I never could tell. I always knew he was good for nothing but mischief, and he has proved I was right. I will tell you about it, Miss Lindsay, and then you can advise me as to the best way of telling Evelyn."

I listened in silence as he poured out his heart.

"You know my brother was here yesterday," he said. "Poor fellow, he is dreadfully crushed by it. I am sorry for him, although, as I could not help telling him, he has himself to blame for it. He was so weak with that boy. He gave him everything he wanted as a child, and spoiled him, and pampered him, and petted him, and let him order everyone in the house about, and then was foolish enough to expect him, after this, to turn out well and earn his own living.

"But to make a long story short, my brother received a telegram the night before last, telling him that his son had run off from the bank, taking a large sum of money with him. No one knows where he is gone, and of course detectives have been sent off in all directions to catch him. His poor father is completely weighed down with shame and sorrow. If Donald is found, of course he will get a long term of imprisonment. And if he escapes, it is not likely that his friends will ever hear of him again, for he will never dare to return to England."

"Where do they think he has gone?" I asked.

"Probably to Spain," Sir William said, "but we cannot tell. And now, what do you think about my telling Evelyn? I am afraid it will upset her very much."

"Yes," I said, "I am afraid it will. She will feel it dreadfully. But I think it would be better to tell her, for she must know some time, and she will be less able to bear it if she is kept longer in suspense."

"Well," said Sir William, "I believe you are right, Miss Lindsay. I will go upstairs now. It will be better to get it over."

I sat in the library waiting his return, but more than an hour passed before he reappeared. Then he said, "I have told her, Miss Lindsay, and she bore it better than I expected, poor child. Will you go upstairs and try to comfort her a little?"

I went upstairs and found Evelyn still in bed, her face buried in the pillow, crying bitterly. I sat down beside her without speaking for some time, just holding her hand in mine, to show her how much I was feeling for her. What could I say to comfort her? I hardly knew what to say, and perhaps, after all, silent sympathy was the best.

At length she grew calmer, and said, without uncovering her face, "Oh, May, isn't it dreadful?"

"Yes, May," I said, "I am very, very sorry. I had no idea it was anything so dreadful as that."

"No," she said, "and I am sure _I_ had not. The worst that I could think of was that Donald had got badly into debt, and had wasted all his money. I certainly never dreamed that he--"

But here she burst into tears, and could not go on with what she was saying.

"Evelyn," I said, "for your father's sake try not to make yourself ill. He is so fond of you, and so distressed at the thought of what this trouble must be to you."

"Yes," she said through her tears, "papa has been so kind, so very, very kind. He told me that it was because he loved me so much that he could not bear to think of me caring for Donald. Papa says he always thought that Donald was good for nothing. But he seemed so nice, May, so very nice he was to me. I knew he was foolish and careless, but I never thought he could do a wicked thing like that."

Evelyn had stopped crying now, and could talk quite calmly.

"Do you remember, May," she said, "when Donald was here last, something that he said to you and to me about running away?"

"Yes," I said, "I remember it well. He mentioned it twice when I was in the room."

"Yes," she said, "so he did. Oh, May, could he have been thinking of taking the money then?"

"I don't know," I said. "We must hope not. We must hope that he yielded to a sudden temptation, and that he has been sorry for it ever since."

"No, May, I am afraid not," said Evelyn. "I seem to see Donald in quite a different light from what I did before -- more as papa has been seeing him all the time. I'm afraid papa was right about him, May, and I was wrong. Ah, poor, poor Donald."

I held Evelyn's hand tightly as she spoke.

"Will you ring for Clemence, May?" she said, a few minutes after this. "I wish to get up. I shall feel better if I'm dressed and in the other room."

But the other room made little difference to poor Evelyn's spirits. She tried to work, she tried to read, she tried to write, but all were alike impossible. Her thoughts were ever busy with her trouble, and every attempt to divert them was in vain.

As the day went on Evelyn talked much more, and it seemed a relief to her to tell me everything that her father had told her that morning.

"May," she said, "did papa tell you about the ring?"

"No," I said, "he only told me in a few words what was the matter, so that I would be able to tell him whether I thought it was better to tell you at once, or to wait until tomorrow."

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad you asked him to tell me today," said Evelyn. "It would have been dreadful to have waited all that time, and not to have known what the matter was. But I want to tell you about the ring. As soon as he received the telegram, Uncle Edward went to London to hear all he could about Donald's disappearance. He went, among other places, to Donald's lodgings and looked about the room and turned over all his papers to see if he had left any note behind him.

"Uncle Edward found a quantity of demands for payment, most of them unopened, and all of them unpaid. Among them was one from a London jeweller for a diamond ring _._ When he saw the price, Uncle Edward couldn't imagine why Donald had bought such an expensive item, and said it would be a heavy sum to pay, for he means to pay as many of the tradesmen as he can.

"So then papa told him the story of the ring, and gave it back to him to return it to the jeweller instead of paying the bill. Uncle Edward was annoyed that Donald should have treated papa so badly, after papa's kindness to him, for he would never have got that good place in the bank if it had not been for papa."

Oh, how I wondered if this was the opportunity for which I had been praying so long, the opportunity of speaking to my Evelyn about eternal things, and leading her to the Saviour. I hoped it was, and I turned the hope into an earnest prayer that I would have the wisdom to follow as God should lead, to step into the door as soon as ever His hand opened it.

Once or twice I thought of speaking, but then again I felt perhaps that until the first burst of her sorrow was over it was wiser to be silent. I would, however, continue to pray for the Lord's leading.

# Chapter Eleven

THE NEXT morning, as I was looking at the newspaper on the library table, my eyes caught the words:

ELLIS -- FITZGERALD

It was an announcement of Claude and Alice's marriage. It was wonderful to me how calmly and composedly I could read it. That trouble was a thing of the past. I had to admit to myself that there had been times, soon after writing my letter to him, when I had wondered whether I had been right in rejecting Claude.

I could rejoice now that the pain was over long ago. I could thank God with all my heart that He had not let me yield to the temptation which at that time was so strong to me, and that He had saved me from the circumstances which, a year ago, I had thought would be so bright. I took the newspaper with me when I went to Evelyn's room and pointed to the marriage notice. I thought it might help to turn her thoughts a little from her trouble.

"So Alice is married, poor girl," she said. "I had forgotten that it was to be so soon."

"Why do you call her poor?" I asked. "Most people would say happy girl."

"Oh, I don't know," said Evelyn. "Perhaps I ought not to have said so. Mr. Ellis is a great friend of yours, I know, but somehow I don't think I would like to marry him myself. Now, would you, May?"

"No," I said, decidedly, "not at all."

We went on with our work without speaking for some time, and then Evelyn asked, "May, do you remember what Alice Fitzgerald said about laughing trouble away?"

"Yes," I said, "very well."

"I don't at all agree with her," said Evelyn. "I can't laugh when I'm in trouble. It would be of no use trying. I couldn't laugh today. If I tried to laugh I would begin to cry."

"And even if you could laugh, Evelyn," I said, "the trouble would come back again the next moment heavier than ever."

"Oh, May," said Evelyn, suddenly, "I wish I could do the other thing."

"What other thing?" I asked.

"Why, pray," she said. "Don't you remember you said that you always prayed when you were in trouble? I wish I could do that."

I did not answer her until I had sent up an earnest prayer that I would be able to use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and step inside the door which at last seemed to be opened.

"But why can't you pray?" I asked.

"Well, May, I will tell you why," she said. "I've wanted to talk to you about it so very much, only I didn't like to begin. You see, I've been thinking a great deal lately, and wishing that I was happy like you. And one day when you were out of the room, you left on the table a bundle of those little books that you take with you when you go to see your people who are so poor. So what do you think I did? I thought I'd like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it."

"Which one was it that you read?" I asked.

"It was about the prodigal son. Don't you remember that one?"

"No," I said, "I've not read them all, but I know the story well. Jesus told it as a parable. Was it an interesting one?"

"This was a very different story," Evelyn said. "It made it clear about prayer, and I've been thinking about it often since."

"Will you tell me what you read?" I asked.

"This story pictured the prodigal son," said Evelyn, "going home after he had treated his poor father so badly, and saying, 'Please, father, I want a new coat!' and 'Please, father, give me some new shoes!' and, 'Please, father, I want some food very much!' It pictured him asking his father to supply his wants before ever he had asked him to forgive him for his bad behaviour to him. That wouldn't have been the right way, would it, May?"

"No," I said, "it wouldn't have done for the son to come before his father without first saying, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'"

"Yes," said Evelyn, "and your little book said it is just the same now, because so many people go to God and ask Him for all sorts of things when they get into trouble, and yet they never think of asking Him to forgive them."

"I see what you mean," I said. "We must speak to God about our sins before we can speak to Him about our troubles."

"Oh, May," said Evelyn, "I wish I could do that. I wish I could talk to God about my sins. I never knew until now how bad I have been to Him, but last night I seemed to see myself in quite a different way. I used to think, May, that I was not so very bad. I didn't think that I was at all good like you, but I thought that there was not so much wrong with me. But now I see that I'm bad altogether. I don't think that I have ever done anything good at all."

"Why don't you go and tell God about it, Evelyn, just as you've been telling me? You can use the words of the prodigal son, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before Thee."

"Yes, May," she said, "but suppose I tell Him that with all my heart, is that enough?"

"Yes, quite enough, if you ask God to forgive you because Jesus has died, and if you trust in Jesus as your own Saviour," I said.

"Oh, May," said Evelyn, with a sigh, "come and sit beside me and make it plain and simple for me -- as you would for a small child. I'm so afraid of making a mistake."

Oh, how earnestly I prayed that I would also make no mistake, but would be helped to lead her to Jesus.

"Evelyn," I said, "I want to tell you something that I was reading in one of my favourite books the other day, because I think it makes it so plain. You remember the three crosses on Calvary?"

"Yes," she said, "there was the middle cross, with Jesus on it, and on each side of Him there was a thief."

"Yes," I said, "and both the thieves had been great sinners, both had led bad lives, and yet, oh, how differently they died. One thief went straight to Paradise, to be welcomed there by Jesus, the other was lost to God. Now, why was there this difference? Did you ever think why one thief was saved and the other thief was lost?"

"I suppose," she said, "it was because one thief looked to Jesus, and the other did not."

"Yes," I said, "quite so. But that is not all. What did looking to Jesus do for the thief?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Well," I answered, "the book I was reading puts it in this way. Both thieves deserved to be lost for eternity because of their sins. Both of them before they were nailed to the cross had sin _in_ them, for they both had sinful hearts. They were born in sin, and they were both sinners. And they had also both of them sin _on_ them, the burden and guilt and punishment of their sins resting on them. They both must suffer the consequences of their sin."

"Yes," she said, "I see that."

"But now let's look at them again some hours later. They have been nailed to the cross, and one thief has looked to Jesus, but the other thief has not. Just look at the three crosses now. First, there is the thief who would have nothing to do with Jesus. Has he still sin _in_ him?"

"Yes," she said.

"Has he still the guilt of sin resting _on_ him?"

"Yes, he is just as he was before."

"Now, then, look at the middle cross. Look at Jesus. Has He sin _in_ Him?"

"Oh no," she said, "Jesus never sinned. He was absolutely holy."

"But was there sin _on_ Him?" I said.

"Was there, May?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "Don't you remember the Bible says? 'The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all.' It wasn't His own sin that was resting on Jesus, but ours."

"Oh yes," she said, "I see what you mean."

"And now look at the third cross. There hangs the thief who has looked to Jesus. He still has sin _in_ him. Until he gets to heaven, his heart will be sinful still. But has he sin _on_ him? That is to say, do the guilt and consequences of his sin still rest on him?"

"No, I don't think they do," she said.

"No," I said, "for he has laid his sin on Jesus. It is no longer resting on him. It is taken off him and put onto Jesus, and therefore this thief is saved. Now, do you see what looking to Jesus means? It means that the thief looked to Jesus as the One who was being punished for _his_ sin, and who was suffering in _his_ place. Do you see?"

"I think I do," said Evelyn.

"Well, my book goes on to say that all the people in the world die as one or other of those thieves died. All without exception die with sin _in_ them, for the Bible tells us that, 'if we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves.' But those who look to Jesus as the One who has been punished in their place, though they have sin _in_ them until they die, yet they have no sin _on_ them, for the guilt and responsibility of their sins no longer rests on them, but on Jesus. They are free, no longer under the condemnation of God. You remember that hymn:

"I lay my sins on Jesus,

The spotless Lamb of God;

He bears them all, and frees us

From the accursed load."

"Yes," Evelyn said, "I know that hymn. I do wish I could do it, May."

"You are going to do it this morning, Evelyn," I said.

"Oh, May, do you think I can?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm sure of it. Jesus is longing for you to cast your sin upon Him. He asks you to look at Him as the One who died instead of you, to look at Him as the One who was punished in your place. Evelyn, He wants you to come to Him now and receive forgiveness."

"Oh, May, I would like to do it at once," she said.

So I went downstairs and left her alone, and yet not alone.

I did not see Evelyn again until I went upstairs to her room for luncheon. She was lying quietly on the sofa where I had left her, but she called me to her side and whispered, "Oh, May, I am so happy now. Sin is still in me, but no longer on me, for I have laid it on Jesus."

I need hardly say how thankful I felt to God for answering my prayer. It seemed almost too good to be true. A blessing that we have been waiting for, anxiously longing and waiting for, is always of double value when it comes.

* * *

From that day I began, as it were, a new life in Alliston Hall. Before this, Evelyn used to dislike and avoid any approach to what she considered "religious talk," but now her great delight was to read a chapter with me in the Bible, and ask me questions about anything which she did not understand.

I shall never forget that summer. It was a peaceful and happy one. I had every reason to believe that Evelyn's heart was indeed changed. Everyone noticed the difference in her, and many who did not understand the power of the Holy Spirit in the heart wondered what was the cause of it.

There was one who rejoiced in this change in Evelyn quite as much as I did, and that was Miss Lilla Irvine. She spent nearly the whole summer at Alliston Hall, and Evelyn, instead of avoiding her company as she had so often done before, delighted to talk with her about heavenly things.

Day by day Evelyn grew in grace. She was much braver than I was in speaking to others about their eternal welfare. I often felt ashamed of myself when she told me how she had spoken to Clemence her maid, or to one of the other servants. And she did it in such a simple, natural way, that it was always well received and never gave offence.

But though Evelyn was growing in grace day by day, she way not growing in bodily strength. Indeed, as the summer went on she seemed to get weaker instead of stronger. The troubles with her cousin Donald had been so sudden and unexpected that she had not recovered from the effects of it.

Evelyn never, so far as I knew, mentioned her cousin's name in her father's presence, and only once did she name him to me when she asked me if I knew whether anything had been heard of him. But I noticed how anxiously she asked for the newspapers every day, and with trembling fingers turned over the pages.

There had been an account of the theft in _The Times_ the same week that it happened, and Evelyn was continually expecting to read that Donald Trafford had been apprehended. But there was no further notice of it in the newspapers, and one day Sir William told me that his nephew had evidently made his escape to some foreign land, and he did not think that he would ever be heard of again.

As the summer passed away, and the days became shorter and the nights cooler, Evelyn became no stronger. She had a troublesome cough which kept her awake at night, and she looked pale and fragile.

Sir William was anxious about her, and had many consultations with the doctors. At last it was agreed that the best thing possible for her would be to leave England for a time and spend the winter abroad.

The doctors said that the warmer climate would be good for Evelyn's health, and Sir William felt that the excitement and pleasure of travelling would turn his daughter's thoughts from her trouble and disappointment with Donald.

"And where do you think we are going, May?" said Evelyn, when she told me with great joy what her father had decided.

"I don't know, Evelyn," I said. "I thought perhaps it would be to Menton on the French Riviera, or perhaps somewhere in Italy."

"Oh no," said Evelyn, "nowhere so ordinary as that! Guess again."

But I could not guess. So she told me with great delight that Sir William's plan was to go down the Mediterranean to Egypt, and then, if she was well enough, to go on in the early spring to Jerusalem.

"To Jerusalem? Oh, Evelyn," I said, "you _will_ enjoy that."

"Yes, and so will you, May," she said. "I know how you long to go there. I was as glad for you as for myself, when papa told me."

"Oh, Evelyn," I said, "do you mean to say that I'm going too? I never dreamed of that."

"Of course you're going," she said indignantly. "Do you think I could do without you? Oh, May, isn't it delightful."

It seemed to me far too good and too wonderful to be true. To go to Jerusalem, the city which our Lord loved and over which He wept; to see the hillsides where He so often sat, and to tread the mountain paths on which His feet had so often walked -- this seemed far too great a joy ever to be mine.

But there was little time to sit and dream over it, for we were plunged into all the bustle and confusion which a departure from home for a long time causes in large households as well as in small ones.

We were to start in three weeks' time, for Sir William was anxious that we should get the sea voyage over before the weather became colder and more unsettled. He kindly gave me leave to go to the Manor House at Branston for a few days, to say goodbye to my sister Maggie before being parted from her for so long. I would never have thought of asking for a holiday at this busy time, but Sir William proposed it himself, and was good enough to say, when I began to suggest difficulties, that he would insist on my going whether I liked it or not.

It was indeed a pleasure for me to see my dear Maggie again, and the three sisters were kindness itself to me. But they did not at all like the idea of my going to Jerusalem. Indeed, at first, they even wanted me to throw up my employment because of having to go abroad. However, when they saw that it was no use trying to persuade me to do this, and that I was looking forward to the proposed journey as a most delightful and pleasant thing, they all united in trying to warn me of the consequences.

Miss Jane had an ancient book, describing the adventures and narrow escapes of some travellers in Palestine many years ago. She brought this book out from her bookcase and read all the most alarming passages for my edification, until poor Maggie was frightened and clung to me, and said she would never let me go.

I assured them that travelling in Palestine in those days was a different thing, and that now the dangers were much less, and the difficulties not nearly so numerous. But Miss Jane did nothing but shake her head mournfully, and say she would indeed be thankful if I came back alive. Miss Hannah and Miss Louisa actually shed tears at the thought of the perils I was about to undergo. However, I comforted them by promising to write often, and I told them that I would give them an account of all my adventures, though I did not think they would be so exciting or remarkable as those of the gentlemen in Miss Jane's book.

When I returned to Alliston Hall I found that all necessary preparations were made for the journey. Sir William had travelled a great deal when he was a young man, and he was looking forward with pleasure to taking Evelyn to some of the places which he had visited many years before.

At length the last night came when everything was packed, and we had nothing to do but to sit at the window and talk of the journey before us.

I was feeling the reaction, which so often comes after the excitement of preparations for a journey, and was almost wishing that, after all, we were not going so far away. Who could tell whether we would all return? Who could tell whether I would ever see my young sister again?

At this moment the door was opened and a letter was brought in which had come by the evening post. The letter was from Miss Lilla Irvine to say how much she would think of us while we were travelling, and how often she would turn the text, which she enclosed, into a prayer on our behalf.

"What is the text, I wonder?" said Evelyn, as she put down the letter. "Oh, I see, there are two cards in the envelope. One for you, and one for me."

She handed me mine, and the text seemed an answer to my fears: _The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore._

# Chapter Twelve

WE LEFT England and began our exciting journey at the end of October. Evelyn improved in health and spirits from the moment that we started, and Sir William was thoroughly happy in witnessing the enjoyment of his daughter. I need hardly say what a treat this journey was to me. I had never been out of England before, and therefore everything abroad was new and strange to me, and I felt as if I was having a pleasant and delightful dream.

We spent some time in Paris, and went to all the places of interest both in and near the city. From Paris we went to Turin, where we rested for more than a week before undertaking the long and tedious journey from Turin to Brindisi in the south of Italy. We arrived at Brindisi late on Saturday night, and were all tired and worn out, and exceedingly glad to get to our journey's end.

We stayed at an hotel near the sea, such a curious place with bare stone floors and whitewashed walls, and only as much furniture in the large rooms as was absolutely essential.

The next morning I awoke early and went to my window and looked out. It seemed a perfect fairyland to me. The harbour was as still as a lake, and covered with the reflection of the ships and boats with their pretty lateen sails. And beyond the harbour there was the blue Adriatic Sea sparkling in the morning sunshine.

It looked unlike Sunday, for work was going on just as on any other day. The people of Brindisi were buying and selling and hurrying along as though it was the busiest day in the week.

I took my Bible and sat a little distance from the window, and had a quiet time alone before Clemence came to say that Evelyn was dressed and was going downstairs for breakfast.

We were to go on board the steamer that night, as it was to leave early the next morning. But Sir William arranged that during the day we would stay quietly at the hotel.

The weather had been cold when we were at Turin, but we found a great change of climate at Brindisi. The sky was a deep, unclouded blue, and the sunshine was so hot that we found it difficult to keep cool. Evelyn and I discovered a seat on the flat roof of the hotel where we were shaded from the hot sun and could read together quietly. We read aloud the Psalm for the day, Psalm 122, verse by verse. It was with a wonderfully strange feeling that we read those words: "Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem."

"May," said Evelyn, "can you believe that verse is really true of us?"

When we had finished our reading, Sir William came out to us and persuaded us to venture out of the shady corner in which we had been sitting, and walk to the other end of the roof to look at the view from there.

To our surprise we found that we were not alone on the roof. An English gentleman was leaning over the parapet with a book in his hand, looking towards the sea. He turned round as we came up, and slipped his book into his pocket. I fancied that it was a Bible.

The gentleman soon got into conversation about Brindisi and its surroundings, and he pointed out several objects of interest in the neighbourhood. He was not a very young man, though I fancied that he looked older than he really was. There was something in his face, when it was at rest, which made me think that he had been through a great deal of trouble. And yet when he smiled his whole face was lighted up in a moment, and he looked perfectly different. He was not exactly a handsome man, and yet his was a face which, having once seen, you could never forget, and which you could not help liking. That was my first impression of Mr. Stanley, so far as I can now remember.

Sir William was charmed with him, and said afterwards that he had seldom met such a well-read, sensible man. We sat together on the roof, and Evelyn and I acted the part of listeners, while the two gentlemen talked.

"You are going to Jerusalem, I think," said Mr. Stanley, as Sir William was unfolding his plans to him. "I have been there several times."

This led to many inquiries on Sir William's part about the accommodation and the sights to be found in Jerusalem. But Evelyn and I wondered how Mr. Stanley knew that we were going to Jerusalem. Could he have heard us reading that Psalm, and saying that it was soon to be true of us?

"I am afraid you ladies will be disappointed in Jerusalem," said Mr. Stanley, turning to us. "You must remember that though it is still 'beautiful for situation,' as the Bible says, yet Jerusalem is no longer 'the joy of the whole earth.' It is, indeed, beautiful at a distance, and everyone is charmed who sees it for the first time. But when you go inside the walls, and know it well, you cannot help but feel depressed and saddened."

"But there are brighter days coming for Jerusalem," I ventured to say.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Stanley, "Jerusalem will be a hundredfold more than she ever was before -- the City of the Great King."

But Sir William always regarded the study of prophecy as a mixture of presumption and romance, and he quickly led the conversation into a different channel. But I longed to hear what Mr. Stanley's views were about the return of the Jews and the restoration of Jerusalem.

That evening we went on board the Peninsular and Oriental Company steamer which was to take us to Alexandria. There were a great many first-class passengers, and we had some difficulty in obtaining a cabin to ourselves. At length Sir William managed to secure a small one for Evelyn and me, in which there were only two berths.

There were not many passengers present at dinner. Mr. Stanley was there, and a few others whom we had seen in the hotel at Brindisi, but most of the people came on board as we were going to bed. They had just arrived by the late train from Turin, and had secured their cabins beforehand by telegraphing to the captain.

Evelyn and I were undressing when we heard a voice outside the cabin door which we were almost sure we knew. It was a lady's voice, and she was giving orders to the stewardess in an imperious tone with regard to the arrangement of her cabin.

"That sounds like Lady Eldridge," said Evelyn to me. "It's exactly like her voice!"

Clemence went at this moment to get some hot water, and returned with the information that it was indeed Lady Eldridge, and that she had taken the next cabin to ours.

"Oh dear," said Evelyn, "I wonder where she's going. I hope not to Cairo. I remember she often spends the winter there. Well, we shall hear in the morning."

As Lady Eldridge's voice had been the last thing we heard at night, so it was the first thing that we heard in the morning. She had brought no maid with her, and as she was utterly unable to do anything for herself, she was constantly calling the poor stewardess who had already more work than she could get through, to help her in the various stages of her dressing.

"Oh dear," said Evelyn, as Lady Eldridge's voice was heard again and again, "I do hope she's _not_ going to Cairo. We must find out at once."

We met Lady Eldridge at breakfast. She professed herself delighted beyond measure at meeting Sir William and Evelyn, and wished to know where they were going, and for how long she would have the wonderful pleasure of travelling in their company.

_'"_ It is such trying work travelling alone, my dear," she said to Evelyn, "and I am naturally nervous. It is really quite miraculous my meeting you. Sir William, I feel sure you will not refuse to take me under your care."

Sir William bowed, and said he would be glad to help Lady Eldridge in any way he could. But I did not think he seemed particularly glad of the addition to our party, for that is what Lady Eldridge, from that moment, considered herself to be. She turned over all responsibility about her baggage to Sir William, and she used Clemence as freely as if she had been her own maid.

'But," said Lady Eldridge, as we were finishing breakfast, "you have never yet told me where you are going, Evelyn, my dear."

Evelyn was about to answer, when to my surprise Sir William prevented her.

"Our plans are not yet formed, Lady Eldridge," he said firmly. "I am going to consider this morning what our tour will be, and then I shall be able to let you know."

"Oh, you must come to Cairo," said Lady Eldridge. "There is no place like Cairo in the winter. The climate is simply perfect, my dear," she said, turning to Evelyn. "Now, Sir William, you must decide to stay at least three months at Cairo, and then we can all spend the winter together. Now come, I think that is a capital plan."

Sir William smiled and said he would consider the matter, but explained that there were many other places that he wished to visit and he could not make up his mind hastily.

We did not see much of Lady Eldridge after breakfast, for she remained in the saloon the whole day reading a French novel, and seemed to think us extraordinary girls because we chose to go on deck.

Evelyn and I found a sheltered seat where the cold wind did not reach us, and here we sat with our books and our work until the evening. The steamer had started early in the morning, and though a fresh breeze was blowing, the sea was not uncomfortably rough, and we were beginning to think that sea voyages were not half so disagreeable and uncomfortable as people made them out to be.

Sir William paced up and down the deck with Mr. Stanley nearly all the morning, discussing his future plans. Every now and then they stopped to examine a map or a guidebook, and at length they sat down on a seat where Sir William took a pencil from his pocket and wrote notes at Mr. Stanley's dictation.

"I wonder what papa has decided," said Evelyn. "I wish he would come and tell us. I'm sure he doesn't want to go to Cairo now that Lady Eldridge is going there. Did you notice that he wouldn't let me say where we were going?"

When Sir William had finished writing, he and Mr. Stanley came towards us and Sir William told us to our great joy that we were not staying in Cairo for a few days as originally planned, but were going at once to Jerusalem. Mr. Stanley had told him that there was a clean, comfortable hotel there, and that the climate in December and January was generally beautiful.

"So I think we will stop in Jerusalem a month or two," said Sir William, "and then decide where we go next. What do you say to that, Evelyn?"

"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, "it's just what I wanted. I _am_ longing to get to Jerusalem."

"Our feet shall stand within thy gates, O Jerusalem," said Mr. Stanley with a smile. And then we were sure that he had heard us reading the Psalm!

At sunset the wind became strong. The ship rolled heavily, and the passengers were glad to go to their cabins. It was a dreadful night. I shall never forget it. Every hour the storm became more terrible. I had never thought that a storm at sea could be so dreadful. The waves were beating over our heads, and every now and then the cabin was lit up by a livid flash of lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a terrible clap of thunder.

Every two or three minutes we heard the crash of breaking crockery; and the broken cups, and jugs, and glasses were thrown backwards and forwards on the floor as the ship pitched and tossed.

I wonder why so many people have such peaceful ideas of the Mediterranean -- after reading the Bible accounts of various voyages. Often during that dreadful night we thought of Saint Paul in the storm, probably in this very part of the sea. And we could so perfectly picture that scene in Jonah's life when the sailors, unwilling to cast him overboard, made a last mighty effort to bring the ship to land, but because of the wind and the waves they were not able to manage it.

"Oh, May," said Evelyn, as I crept to her side when the storm was at its height, "what a comfort it is to know we're safe in the Lord, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, "I cannot think how anyone dare travel, and go through all the perils by land and water, without knowing that."

"I would not have known it if we had come a year ago," said Evelyn. "Oh, May, I would have been terribly frightened then."

We did not sleep once the whole night, and very long the hours seemed to us.

At about three o'clock in the morning we heard Lady Eldridge's voice crying for help. She was calling first for Clemence and then for the stewardess, but their cabins were at the other end of the saloon and neither of them heard her.

"What can she want?" said Evelyn.

I put on my dressing-gown and managed to go as far as the door of Lady Eldridge's cabin.

"Just look here, Miss Lindsay," she said when she saw me. "The porthole has sprung open, and water has come onto my bed. Do go and call the stewardess, and tell her to bring me clean linen and blankets."

"I don't know whether I can walk as far as the stewardess's cabin, Lady Eldridge," I said, "but I will try. It is terribly rough."

"Oh, nonsense," she said. "Hold on by the wall, and you will be all right. You don't mean to say you are seasick, Miss Lindsay? You ought to get over it. I never believe in seasickness. If people only try, they can keep it off. I feel as well at sea as on land."

I could not help thinking that, this being the case, she might have gone for the stewardess herself instead of insisting that I should go for her. However, I did my best, and managed to stagger down the saloon, though I fell several times, and cut my hand on a broken plate which was being swept across the floor, backwards and forwards, as the vessel rolled from side to side.

I found the stewardess lying on the bed in her cabin, crying. She told me that she was a widow with three little children whom she had left in England. She had been persuaded to try this way of earning her living, and this was her first voyage. She said she did not think she could ever go to sea again, for she had no idea that it would be so dreadful. She told me this as she was getting out the sheets for Lady Eldridge's bed, and she said that, as I came in, she was crying because she was thinking of her little children who might soon be without a mother.

I tried to say a word to comfort her, but the noise of the storm was so great that we could hardly hear each other speak. It was some time before she had collected everything that was necessary, and Lady Eldridge was impatient and cross when we arrived at her cabin. I helped the stewardess arrange the bed, and went back to my own berth, thankful to be able to lie still again.

Morning came, but the storm continued. It raged all Tuesday, all Tuesday night, and all Wednesday, and we were not able to leave our cabin the whole time. Only on Wednesday did the storm begin to abate, and we were able at last to have a quiet sleep. We awoke on Thursday to find the wind gone and the sea much calmer. We were to arrive at Alexandria in the afternoon, and everyone seemed glad that the stormy voyage was drawing to a close.

Lady Eldridge was annoyed when she found that we were not going with her to Cairo. She told Sir William that it was simply madness on his part to take a delicate girl like Evelyn to Jerusalem. But Sir William only smiled, and said it was Evelyn's wish as well as his own.

I had a talk with the stewardess that morning, and I was so glad to find that she knew where to turn for comfort and for help. She was a real Christian, and in simple faith she had trusted her children to God's care. She now felt sure that He would watch over them until she was able to be with them again. She had left them with her brother and his wife, and her thoughts seemed to be constantly with her little absent treasures. I was so glad that I had spoken to her, for she thanked me and told me that the few words I had said to her in the storm had been a great comfort to her, and had made her ashamed of herself for being afraid.

At length we arrived at Alexandria and enjoyed the sight which met our eyes -- the intensely white city, the blue water in the harbour, and the pilot with a dark hood over his head arriving in his little boat and coming on board the steamer. He was followed by countless other boats, filled with clamorous Arabs who were contending with one another to secure the largest number of passengers to row to shore. It was curious to watch them almost fighting each other while looking so picturesque in their various costumes.

After much pushing and quarrelling and scuffling and shouting had been gone through, we found ourselves in the same boat with Mr. Stanley. He had taken us all, Lady Eldridge included, under his care and had bargained on our behalf in Arabic, and made, after much difficulty, a fair agreement with the boatman as to the price he would charge for his boat.

"We stayed one night in Alexandria at the hotel, but did not see much of the city for we were too tired from the voyage to go out. We were glad to rest quietly until it was time to go on board the ship which was to take us to Jaffa, and which started early the next day. We left Lady Eldridge in the hotel, and were not sorry to say goodbye to her.

It was a small old-fashioned vessel which was to take us the rest of the way, very dirty and forlorn, and very different from the comfortable steamer of the Peninsular and Oriental Company which we had just left. But the sea was calm, so we felt we could thankfully bear any amount of discomfort.

We were the only first-class passengers on board, but a large party of travellers was to join us at Port Said, and they had already engaged their cabins.

We stayed on deck until late that evening, walking up and down, looking at the sun setting over the sea, and talking of all that was before us. Sir William had numberless questions to ask about Jerusalem, and Mr. Stanley was well able to answer them all, for only two years earlier he had spent a whole winter in Jerusalem to sketch some of the many places of interest in the city and its neighbourhood. He promised, at Sir William's request, to let us see his sketches some day.

# Chapter Thirteen

EARLY on Saturday morning we arrived at Port Said, and Sir William proposed that we should go on shore and escape from our uncomfortable quarters in the dirty little steamer.

We had no difficulty in obtaining a boat rowed by Arabs, but immediately we touched land we were marched off to the Custom House so that our passports could be examined. Sir William had been told in London that passports were not necessary for British travellers, so we had not provided ourselves with any. He was rather at a loss what to do. However, Mr. Stanley came to the rescue, and after he had harangued the Turkish officers in Arabic, and had given them a suitable amount of _baksheesh_ , we were politely bowed out of the office and allowed to enter the town. Here Mr. Stanley left us, and we found our way to the one hotel of the place where we had breakfast amidst a crowd of English and American travellers who we found were to be our companions into Syria.

The hotel was uncomfortably small and noisy, so after breakfast we took a walk to discover what was to be seen in Port Said.

It was such a curious town. It looked as if it had sprung up in a single night like a mushroom. Nearly all the houses were made of wood, and looked like large booths put up hastily for a pleasure fair, to be taken down again as soon as the fair was over.

The streets -- or rather the empty spaces between the rows of houses, for they did not deserve the name of streets -- were covered with orange-peel, oyster shells, dead dogs and cats, decaying vegetables, and all manner of filth. The whole place looked, Sir William said, like pictures he had seen of the wooden towns set up near the gold-diggings in America.

We met people of almost every nationality in the streets of Port Said. Many of them were unprepossessing in appearance, and we were told that a number of the worst men of all nations found their way there, for they knew that there was little law or order in the town, and that they would therefore be free from observation and allowed to do as they liked.

The week before we arrived at Port Said there had been a great many murders there. We saw a notice in the hotel advising Europeans not to go out after dark, as the authorities would not answer for the consequences if they did so. An open square in front of the hotel had been turned into a garden. There were not many flowers in it, but there were a few trees and shrubs, and a small stone fountain in the centre. There was a seat in this garden, and Sir William, Evelyn and I sat here for some time watching the tourists coming in and out of the hotel, consulting their guidebooks, asking countless questions of their interpreter and guide, and apparently impatient to be once more on the move.

There were several French shops in a block of buildings which formed one side of the square. Evelyn caught sight of these and asked me if I thought she would be able to buy one or two little things which she was anxious to get before going to Jerusalem, where she was convinced we would find no shops at all.

"Go and see, my dear," said Sir William, "and I will wait here until you come back. I shall be close by if you want me for anything, and I can see which shops you are in as I sit here."

So Evelyn and I opened the gate of the hotel garden and crossed the road to the shops. They were curious shops. A great variety of articles seemed to be sold in them: all kinds of French goods, fancy articles of every description, and a few useful things such as travelling bags, knapsacks, sunshades, and hats with wide brims to provide protection from the sun.

We selected the shop which appeared most likely to contain all we wished to buy. Evelyn went in first, and I followed her. The shop keeper was at the other end of the shop attending to some customers, and Evelyn and I examined the articles which were exposed for sale until he was ready to serve us. Then he came up to us, and asked in French what we wanted. Evelyn looked up from the box of ornaments over which she was bending, and was about to answer him when I saw her suddenly start back in astonishment.

I looked up to see what had taken her so much by surprise, and I saw in a moment that the young man in the shop was no French tradesman, as we had taken him to be. He was her cousin, Donald Trafford. Evelyn had not looked at him when we first came into the shop, but as soon as their eyes met she recognized him in spite of his foreign dress and appearance, and he at the same moment recognized her.

Before we had time to recover from our surprise he disappeared through a door into an inner room, and sent a young Frenchwoman to wait on us.

"Oh, May," Evelyn whispered, "never mind about the things. Let's go back to papa."

I made some excuse to the French girl, telling her that we could not wait longer, and we left the shop at once. But when we were outside, Evelyn turned so white and faint that I did not know how to get her back to the garden. I made signs to Sir William to come, but he was reading the newspaper and did not look up. I did not like to leave Evelyn alone while I went to call him.

At this moment, to my great joy, Mr. Stanley came up. Seeing how ill Evelyn looked, he at once offered her his arm and walked with her back to her father.

As I followed them into the hotel garden I could not help contrasting Mr. Stanley's open face with that of Donald Trafford, who had by no means improved in appearance since I saw him last. I wondered whether Evelyn was struck by the difference. I almost thought that she was, for she thanked Mr. Stanley pleasantly for his kind help, and explained that she had suddenly turned faint when she was in the shop, but said she would feel better in a few moments.

Sir William was alarmed when he saw his daughter come up to him looking as pale as death and leaning on Mr. Stanley's arm. But she tried to laugh him out of his fears, and told him that she was rather tired and it was nothing of consequence. Mr. Stanley, however, hurried up to the hotel to get a glass of water, and as soon as he was gone Evelyn burst into tears.

"What is the matter, my darling?" said Sir William, in a distressed voice. "I am afraid the journey has been too much for you. Perhaps I was foolish not to follow Lady Eldridge's advice and go on with her to Cairo. You are not strong enough to rough it yet. I almost think we had better turn back."

"Oh no, papa, it is not that," said Evelyn. "It is not that at all. Tell him, May, what it was."

"Evelyn had a great surprise when she went into that shop, Sir William," I said. "There, dressed like a foreigner, and selling behind the counter, was her cousin, Mr. Trafford."

"Donald?" said Sir William, jumping from his seat. "Donald in that shop? Surely not! Surely you must have been mistaken. I cannot think that he would dare to come to a place like Port Said where so many English people are continually passing through. Oh no, Evelyn, child, you must be wrong."

"No, Sir William," I said, "we certainly saw Mr. Trafford. I am absolutely sure we were not mistaken."

At this moment Mr. Stanley returned, and we could not talk any more about it. But Sir William seemed lost in thought, and did not enter into the conversation which Evelyn and I tried to keep up.

"Miss Lindsay" he said, at last, "would you show me in which of those shops you were looking just now? Evelyn dear, you sit still here until we come back. Mr. Stanley, may I leave my daughter in your care for a few minutes?"

I thought Mr. Stanley was not sorry to be left in charge; but Evelyn had turned as pale as she was before, and was trembling from head to foot.

Sir William and I left them on the seat near the fountain, and walked towards the row of shops.

"I really think you must have been mistaken, Miss Lindsay," he repeated.

But I told him that I was sure that Mr. Trafford had recognized us, for he had suddenly disappeared and sent a Frenchwoman to serve us.

I waited outside, while Sir William went into the shop. He came out in a few minutes, looking much relieved.

"It is quite a mistake, Miss Lindsay," he said. "Donald Trafford is not here. I have made full inquiries."

Then he told me that there was no one but the Frenchwoman in the shop when he went in, but he had asked to see the young Englishman who was serving in the shop a few minutes earlier. The Frenchwoman, however, had assured him that there was no Englishman there, nor was there anyone who could speak English. It must have been her husband whom the ladies had seen. He was in the shop a few minutes ago, but he was an Italian. His name was Signor Rialti. Sir William had asked to speak to her husband, but she told him he had been unexpectedly called away on business, and would not return until Monday.

"Then Signor Rialti is evidently the name Mr. Trafford has taken," I said.

"Oh, I think not, Miss Lindsay," said Sir William, decidedly. "You and Evelyn have been mistaken. I have no doubt that the young Italian bears a strong resemblance to Donald Trafford, and that circumstance has led you both to imagine that it must be he."

But though I was silenced by Sir William's firm manner, I was far from being convinced. I was persuaded in my own mind that it was indeed Evelyn's cousin whom we had seen that morning.

Mr. Stanley seemed to notice, with the ready perception which he always showed, that something had happened to disturb us, and that we would like to be left alone. In a few minutes he made an excuse about having to call on someone at the other end of Port Said, and took leave of us.

"Well, Evelyn," said Sir William, as soon as we were alone, "you were quite wrong. You need not have been so agitated, dear. It was nothing more than a mistake." And he told her what he had heard in the shop.

"It is all a lie, papa," she said, when he had finished. "Donald is afraid of being found out, and he has put her up to telling that story in case any inquiries should be made about him. He will not be back until Monday, did she say? Of course not. He knows quite well that our steamer will start late Sunday evening!"

I saw Evelyn glancing several times at the French shop as we sat there talking of other things, and I was glad for her sake when Sir William proposed that we should return to the ship.

We spent a comfortless Sunday on board the wretched little steamer. It was impossible to find any quiet place below, for the saloon was filled by the large party which we had seen at the hotel at Port Said, and most of them spent the day in playing cards and chess, and talking over their journey in loud voices. They made so much noise that we found it was utterly useless to attempt to read or be quiet in there.

So we went on deck and found a shady corner where we were at least in comparative silence, for even the lower deck was the scene of great confusion and noise as a number of pilgrims, who were on their way to Jerusalem, were coming on board. There were Greek pilgrims, Latin pilgrims, and Muslim pilgrims, all of them dressed in what seemed to us the most extraordinary manner. They seemed to be shouting their various languages at the top of their voices. Mr. Stanley told us that at times the steamers were crammed with these pilgrims on their way to the different shrines and holy places. They came from great distances, and went through a great ordeal, and spent large sums of money to obtain, as they vainly hoped, forgiveness of sin.

"I often think," Mr. Stanley said, "that their earnestness puts us to shame."

"Yes," said Evelyn, as she watched a fresh detachment come on board, "and do you not long to tell all of them how sin can really be forgiven?"

"I do indeed," said Mr. Stanley, "but, Miss Trafford, have you any idea what a difficult matter that would be? How many different languages do you think I would have to learn before I could speak to all these pilgrims?"

We thought perhaps five or six would be necessary, but Mr. Stanley told us to our astonishment that he had just had a conversation with a gentleman who had taken the trouble to go round the vessel in order to find out what were the different nationalities of the people on board. He had made the discovery that there were no fewer than thirty different nations represented in that one steamer.

* * *

We sailed from Port Said on Sunday evening, and came in sight of Jaffa at six o'clock the next morning. We were up early, for we were longing to get our first view of Palestine. It was a lovely morning. The sea was as smooth as a millpond, and the view was exceedingly beautiful as the sun rose behind the Judean hills.

Jaffa looked a pretty place as we saw it from the deck of the steamer, with its white houses overlooking the blue Mediterranean, a green circle of orange trees round it, and the quiet hills beyond.

But we had little time to take in the fact that we were now gazing at the ancient port that was once called Joppa, the very spot from which Jonah boarded a ship for Tarshish, and where Peter lodged and saw the wondrous vision where God told him that Jesus had come to save the Gentiles as well as the Jews, and where Dorcas lived and made garments for the poor, in those far-off Bible days. We had little time for thought of any kind, for as soon as we came in sight of Jaffa a whole fleet of small boats came out to meet us, as they had done at Alexandria.

After the usual tumult we secured a boat, and were rowed to the shore which was a mile and a half away. This would not be at all a safe undertaking in stormy weather, for the only entrance to the harbour was a narrow opening between dangerous rocks. The harbour of Jaffa was a natural one, and had never been improved since the time of Solomon when the timber which Hiram cut down in the Lebanon for the Temple must have been brought to land through this very passage between the rocks.

When we drew near the shore we saw crowds of Arabs waiting for us, screaming and fighting and wrestling in savage earnestness. They seemed ready to tear us in pieces rather than lose the chance of carrying our luggage to the hotel. Evelyn was frightened and clung to her father, and even Sir William seemed agitated and alarmed. But Mr. Stanley's quiet voice reassured us.

"Oh, it is nothing," he said. "Arabs in these parts always make a noise like this. It is nothing unusual, I assure you," he added, laughing, as he fought a passage for us through the crowd to the little Custom House which was already crowded with the travellers who had arrived before us. We had, therefore, to wait outside for some time, but Mr. Stanley gave Evelyn a camp-stool to sit on, for she was looking faint and tired. The heat, even at that early hour, seemed to us to be great.

At last the Turkish officer was at liberty to receive the bribe, the _baksheesh_ , which Mr. Stanley had ready for him. He passed our boxes without opening them, and we were allowed to proceed to the hotel.

It was a tiring walk, for the narrow streets of Jaffa were covered with hot, burning sand in which our feet sank with every step we took. Every now and then we looked round to find ourselves nearly knocked down by a huge camel with boxes on its back, which had come noiselessly behind us over the soft sand; or a mule laden with luggage and rushing frantically along, determined to pass us, pushing its way through our midst in the most resolute manner.

Mr. Stanley had advised us to go as far as Ramleh that day, as it was forty miles' ride from Jaffa to Jerusalem, and he thought we would be too tired if we went so far in one day. Accordingly, that afternoon he hired horses for us, and we mounted for our first ride in Palestine.

It was no easy matter guiding our horses through the crowds of Arabs, the strings of camels and mules, and the heaps of filth in the streets of Jaffa. We were glad to leave the town and reach the road which took us through one of the orange groves by which Jaffa was surrounded. Everything looked so strange, and the scent of the oranges was delicious. We passed through the Plain of Sharon, and at about five o'clock in the evening we reached Ramleh after rather more than four hours' ride.

# Chapter Fourteen

THERE ARE some moments in our lives which it is impossible to describe. We never forget them, and the impression which they leave behind never fades from our memories. But when we try to speak of them to others, even to those whom we love best, words fail us, and seem too weak to express what we mean.

I will not, therefore, attempt to describe the rush of feeling which passed through my heart when I first came in sight of Jerusalem. Others who have had a like privilege will understand what I felt as Mr. Stanley made us pull up our horses on the top of a hill about half a mile from the city gate.

He said to us, "Well, what do you think of Jerusalem?"

Neither Evelyn nor I could answer him. Sir William had many questions to ask about the houses and other buildings on the road leading to the Jaffa Gate, but we scarcely heard what they were saying. It seemed to us a matter of small importance which was the Austrian consul's house, which was the Pacha's country residence, which was the German deaconesses' school and which was the Russian church and convent.

At that moment when we were able for the first time in our lives to say, "This is Jerusalem," we had neither time nor thought to spare for any interest in the modern buildings of the city.

We rode on in silence, seeing as if in a dream the crowds of people taking their evening walk on the Jaffa road -- people from every quarter of the globe, dressed in costumes as varied as the colors of the rainbow.

Mr. Stanley rode up close beside me as we went through the Jaffa Gate, and said quietly, "I know just how you are feeling, Miss Lindsay. It is, indeed, a wonderful moment in one's life."

We had some difficulty in getting through the gate, for a number of camels and mules were coming out of the city at the time, heavily laden with baggage. Then we passed the Tower of David, and turned down a quiet street where stood the hotel in which Mr. Stanley had secured rooms for us. He took leave of us there, as he was going to lodge at the Latin Convent which was in another part of the city where he had stayed when he was last in Jerusalem.

The landlady of the hotel was Scottish, and was kind and attentive. Our rooms were beautifully clean, with white stone floors, white walls, white curtains before the windows, and white coverings on the beds.

We did not sleep much that night. The excitement which we had gone through the day before would have been sufficient to keep us awake; but even had we felt disposed to sleep, I do not think we would have been able to do so. The noises in the city during the night were so many and so varied that it seemed to us that under any circumstances sleep would be difficult to obtain. Our landlady had told us that she hoped we would not be alarmed at any sound we might hear in the night, for a wedding was going on in a house close by, and the festivities would be kept up until the morning.

Accordingly, for many hours we were kept awake by the noise of music and singing, by the beating of drums, and by the shouts and laughter of the wedding party. But as morning dawned the wedding guests grew quieter, and we hoped to be able to sleep. Now, however, we were disturbed by the howling and barking of the street dogs which at times was quite deafening. Mr. Stanley later told us that these dogs had no owners, but acted as the scavengers of the city, eating anything they could find among the refuse and dirt of the streets.

Each dog had his appointed place in the city, and Mr. Stanley believed there to be a code of honour among them, that no dog was to go into any other quarter of the city except that in which he was born and bred, and in which he ordinarily got his livelihood. Immediately a strange dog from another part of Jerusalem made his appearance, he was driven away by the united efforts of all the dogs in the street which he had invaded, with enough noise to awaken the whole city.

Poor Evelyn tossed about wearily through the night, and I was really afraid that she would be ill again. But her merry spirits seemed to buoy her up, for she found amusement in all our little discomforts, and made me laugh in spite of myself many times during that long, tiring night.

At length a lull came in the barking of the dogs, but now several bells began to ring in the Greek and Latin convents of the city. Then we heard the shouts of muleteers and camel-drivers, and the tinkling of the mule bells as different parties of people set off in the cool of the morning for Jaffa or one of the distant villages.

We got up at eight o'clock, tired and unrefreshed. Sir William had slept much better and was in good spirits, and anxious to go out and explore Jerusalem. We needed no guide and interpreter to take us to the various places of interest, for Mr. Stanley who knew his way about the city as well as any of the inhabitants did, was kind and anxious to help us.

I fancied that it was something more than ordinary kindness which made him always so willing to join our party. I could not help thinking that he was attracted by Evelyn's sweet face and winning ways. Who could help loving her, I said to myself, as I thought the matter over a hundred times during our first day in Jerusalem. I could not help noticing how diligently he kept near us, and how pleased he seemed that Sir William thankfully accepted his offer to be our guide while we stayed in the Holy City.

I shall never forget my first walk through the streets of Jerusalem. We would grow so familiar in a few weeks' time with all the sights and sounds that we scarcely would notice them, but that morning everything was strange and fresh and full of interest.

We went first across an open square in front of the Tower of David where a provisions market was being held. Chickens and eggs, oranges and lemons, were being exhibited for sale by the women from the villages round about Jerusalem, and were being bargained for and bought by the townspeople.

Mr. Stanley called our attention to the enormous cauliflowers. Mr. Stanley told us that one cauliflower was sufficient to feed a family for a whole day. There was so much noise and confusion in this marketplace that it was difficult to keep up conversation.

I was convinced that no business transaction is done in Jerusalem without a dispute, so fierce that if it occurred in England we would expect it to end in blows. The salesman asks three times as much for his goods as he expects to receive, and the buyer offers a third of what he knows he will eventually have to give. And then they begin to dispute, and wrangle, and scream, and shout, and swear, and stamp their feet, and shake their fists, as if the affairs of a whole nation depended on it. We saw one such business transaction going on in a street through which we passed.

"What is the matter here?" said Sir William, as he tried to make his way through an angry crowd who were screaming and gesticulating in the most alarming manner as they clustered round a camel and a camel driver.

"Oh, nothing at all," said Mr. Stanley, laughing as he listened to what they were saying. "That man in the centre of the crowd is buying a load of charcoal, and he and the owner of the charcoal are disputing about a piastre, more or less, which in English money is about equal to two pennies."

"But who are all these other people?" asked Sir William. "They cannot all have an interest in this one load of charcoal."

"Oh no," said Mr. Stanley, "but they happened to be passing at the time and stopped to give their opinion. Some are taking the part of the buyer and some of the seller, and all of them are adding to the general confusion by shouting and swearing and yelling at the highest pitch of their voices."

We were glad to get out of the noisy crowd and descend a flight of steps in the narrow street.

"Do you mind coming in here for a minute?" said Mr. Stanley, as he stopped before a clean-looking building and opened a small door in the wall.

We followed him into a large room. All round the room were Jewish women in their picturesque dresses, sitting on mats on the floor. They were busily engaged with various kinds of needlework, and an English lady was going about among them, helping them in their work and teaching them skills which they did not already know.

We were interested in all she told us of these women, and how they were learning by degrees to make their homes bright and comfortable, and make garments for their husbands and children. Above all, they were learning to love the Word of God which was read aloud to them as they worked, and which was quite a new book to them. These Jewish women in Jerusalem knew as little of what we call Old Testament Scriptures as they did of the New Testament. We gave them several orders for various kinds of lace, which they made most beautifully, and Sir William left a donation towards their savings bank which was doing much good among these poor mothers, encouraging them to lay by part of the money which they earned as a fund from which they could draw in times of sickness or distress.

Then we passed from that room into another part of the building which was used as a girls' school for Jewish children, and it was indeed pleasant to see their bright happy faces, and hear their intelligent answers to the questions put to them. Mr. Stanley told us afterwards that there was a good work being done in this mission school -- for the children were carefully and prayerfully taught, and as the mothers of the next generation they would undoubtedly pave the way for missionary effort among their nation.

The lady who managed the school took us to see all the different classes, and we were especially interested in a large class of Spanish Jewish women, natives of Jerusalem, who were being taught in their own language, and who were learning, little by little and step by step, to know and love that Saviour whom their nation had rejected.

We left the school, hoping to visit it again another day, and were turning round a corner when Mr. Stanley stopped and showed us some curious old stones in the wall of the street. The stones evidently formed part of an old archway, and Mr. Stanley told us that it was believed by some to be the most ancient place in all Jerusalem, being supposed by those who have studied the matter to have been part of the old city of Jebus where the Jebusites lived, before David conquered them and turned their old fortress of Jebus into Jerusalem, the City of David.

As we turned into the large bazaar in one of the principal streets in Jerusalem, we had great difficulty in getting on, so narrow was the street, and so crowded with camels, donkeys, mules, and people standing in front of the curious little shops, bargaining with the shopkeepers inside.

We were making our way slowly down the street when I heard a well-known voice behind us, saying, "Miss Trafford, this _is_ a surprise."

Evelyn and I turned round, and I said involuntarily, "Claude! Where have you come from?"

He told us that he and his wife Alice had been spending a month in Cairo, and had now come to see Palestine. "But there does not seem to be much to see here," he said. "It is a wretched place after Cairo."

"How long have you been here, may I ask?" said Mr. Stanley, when he had been introduced.

"Two long days now," said Claude. "We're thinking of moving on again tomorrow."

"Then you will excuse my saying that you have not begun to see Jerusalem yet," said Mr. Stanley, with the least possible touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Oh, I don't know," said Claude. "It seems such a stupid place. I can't think why so many people take the trouble to come here. But won't you come and see Alice?" he said, turning to Evelyn. "She will be delighted to see you."

We walked in the direction of the Damascus Gate, near which their tents were pitched.

"By the bye," said Claude, "I met a friend of yours in Cairo, Miss Trafford."

"A friend of mine." said Evelyn, colouring. "Whom do you mean?"

She thought, and I thought too, that Claude must have met Donald Trafford, and Evelyn was considerably relieved by his answer.

"It was Lord Moreton. He was there with a party of his friends, staying in the same hotel that we were. They were going up the Nile. He told me that you were travelling in the Near East, but that is a wide term, and I did not expect that we should meet."

"But why do you call Lord Moreton a friend of mine?" said Evelyn, laughing, though her father looked at her reprovingly.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Trafford," said Claude, "but I thought he was a great friend of yours. I assure you he talked so much of you and Sir William in the short time that we were together, that I thought. . ."

But Claude did not tell us what he thought, for we had to separate at that moment to let a string of laden camels pass by, and the conversation took another turn when we were able to walk together again.

Claude and his wife were travelling with a small party under the escort of a guide, and their tents were pitched in the olive grove just outside the northern gate of the city. Alice was glad to see us, and she, Evelyn, and I had a long talk together as we sat in patriarchal fashion at the tent door, while the gentlemen paced about among the olive trees, talking to the guide, and referring to their guidebooks.

"Is it not strange to be in Jerusalem, Alice?" said Evelyn. "I sometimes feel as if I'm dreaming."

"Oh, I don't know," said Alice, "I have not been much impressed by it. You see, we have become quite accustomed now to Near Eastern manners and customs -- we saw plenty of them in Cairo. And as for the old ruins and buildings here, they are not nearly so ancient as the Pyramids. And there is really very little to be seen, after all, except by those people who believe the lies that are told them about the holy sepulchre, and the tomb of the Virgin, and the manger at Bethlehem. Why actually, in one street, in quite a new wall, our guide pointed out to us a stone which is believed to be the stone that Jesus said would have cried out if the children had held their peace. Such _nonsense_! I have no patience with it!" said Alice scornfully.

"Oh yes," said Evelyn, "I quite agree with you about all those absurd tales. I wouldn't walk a hundred yards to see one of those shrines, but after all this _is_ Jerusalem, and it was _here_ ," she added, "that our Lord walked, and preached, and died, and was buried, and rose again."

"Oh yes, of course," said Alice carelessly, as if that fact was but of small importance to her.

"And if we really love Him," said Evelyn, "if He is dearer to us than anyone else, don't you think we must look upon Jerusalem and those places where He lived with a strange and wonderful feeling?"

Alice looked at Evelyn in astonishment. She had clearly never heard her speak in that way before, and must have no idea how much Evelyn was changed since she had seen her last. She made no answer, and I think would have turned the conversation to some other subject if Evelyn had not spoken first.

"You look surprised, Alice," she said. "You didn't expect me to say that, did you?"

"No, indeed," said Alice, laughing. "I thought that both you and I were quite free from all sentimental nonsense. I'm afraid Miss Lindsay has been talking you around to her way of thinking."

" _Is_ it nonsense?" asked Evelyn gravely, passing over Alice's last words. "Because if it isn't nonsense, surely it is a great reality."

"Oh, I don't know," said Alice lightly. "Claude says the greater part of religion is nonsense, and I suppose he ought to know. He has studied the matter, and I have not."

"Oh, Alice," said Evelyn, with tears in her eyes, "if you only knew how very, very happy I have been lately. I never knew before that it was possible to be as happy as I am now."

"That may be," said Alice, "and I have to admit that I am _not_ happy. Sometimes I am miserable," she said bitterly, with the sad expression that I had seen on her face once before. "But still I cannot help agreeing with Claude that it is better not to be comforted at all, than to get comfort out of a lie."

"Oh yes," I said, "your husband is quite right in that. But the whole question turns on this: is the Bible Satan's lie, or God's truth? It must surely be either one or the other."

"Well," said Alice, "it's too hot to enter into a theological discussion. I will call the guide and get him to send us some lemonade. Our cook makes it splendidly."

"Poor Alice," said Evelyn, when we were left alone in the tent.

"Yes," I said, "she's not comfortable in her unbelief. She has doubts even about her own doubting."

Alice came back to tell us that the gentlemen had planned a ride to the Mount of Olives, and the guide had gone to hire horses for the whole party so that we could start together from the Damascus Gate as soon as it began to be a little cooler.

Meanwhile Mr. Stanley guided us to our hotel. We went back a different way, keeping outside the city until we reached the Jaffa Gate. Sir William and I walked first, and Mr. Stanley and Evelyn followed. Sir William was reading his guidebook, which he kept open in his hand and consulted as he walked along, and I had much time for thought. Once or twice I could not help overhearing the conversation which was going on behind me.

"So you know Lord Moreton, Miss Trafford?" I heard Mr. Stanley say.

"Yes, and papa knows him well, and he likes him very much," said Evelyn, laughing.

"And you do not?" said Mr. Stanley.

"Oh, I don't _dislike_ him," said Evelyn; "only I think him stupid and uninteresting."

I thought Sir William must have heard this remark, but if he heard it he took no notice of it, but appeared to be deep in his book.

"Lord Moreton stupid? Lord Moreton uninteresting?" said Mr. Stanley. "Then excuse my saying, Miss Trafford, that if that is your opinion I am sure you do not know Lord Moreton. No one who really knew him would ever come to such a conclusion."

Mr. Stanley had spoken rather firmly, and Evelyn said in an apologetic tone: "I'm sorry, Mr. Stanley. I see Lord Moreton is a friend of yours. I didn't realize you knew him at all."

"Yes," he said, smiling, "we were college friends, and have been like brothers ever since. I think I may say that I know Lord Moreton better than anyone else knows him. And the more I know him, so much the more I respect him."

"He always seems to be so shy and awkward," said Evelyn.

"Yes, so he is with strangers," agreed Mr. Stanley. "He is a shy man. It is his nature, and he knows it. But when he can shake off his shyness, he is quite another man. I wish you could have heard him address a meeting of undergraduates the other day. You would not have believed it was the same person."

"Addressing them? On what subject?" asked Evelyn, now more astonished than ever.

"Oh, about personal faith. Lord Moreton has a wonderful power with young men. He is not at all nervous when speaking to them. It is you ladies that make him so shy," said Mr. Stanley, laughing. "You are such formidable beings!"

"Well, I _am_ surprised." said Evelyn. "I would not have believed it, if you had not told me. And he is a real Christian? I'm so glad to hear it."

"Yes," said Mr. Stanley, "he is a man who lives near to God. His one desire and aim is to bring people to the Saviour. Indeed," he added, "it was his words and his example which first made me decide for Christ."

I could hear no more, for we had reached the Jaffa Gate and passed into the noisy square in front of the Tower of David.

Whether Sir William had overheard the conversation I did not know. He looked pleased and half amused as it was going on, but perhaps he may have been reading some interesting anecdote in his guidebook.

Mr. Stanley left us at the Tower of David, and we went to the hotel to rest until the evening.

# Chapter Fifteen

IT WAS still hot when we started from the Damascus Gate and rode in the direction of the Mount of Olives.

"What a wretched little hillock it is," said Claude, as we drew near to it. "It does not even deserve the name of a hill, much less of a mountain."

But to most of us in the party this "wretched little hillock" was the most sacred spot on earth. There was no doubt about its identity. "The mountain on the east side of the city" could not be mistaken for any other. No vain superstition, no improbable legend had fixed on this hill as the place where our Lord's feet had so often trod. The hand of time, and the cruel devastations of war which had laid low the beautiful Temple and made Jerusalem a heap of ruins, had not been able to obliterate this spot, nor make us doubtful as to whether it was indeed the same Mount of Olives of which we had read so often in the Gospels.

We crossed the Valley of Jehoshaphat, passed the wall of what was believed to be Gethsemane, and began to ascend one of the steep stony paths which led across the mountain to Bethany.

"Do you know, Miss Lindsay," said Mr. Stanley, "that these paths on the hillsides are probably less changed than anything in the whole country? They must have gone in the same direction years ago, and this is without doubt the very road our Lord's feet so often trod to and from the city on His way to Martha's house."

I felt as if it was almost too sacred ground. I did not answer him, for I could not have done so without tears. So we rode on in silence a little way behind the others. Evelyn told me afterwards she would have been thankful to have been with us, for Claude and Alice were laughing and talking the whole way, telling amusing stories of things and people in England, and taking little or no notice of the scenes and places around them. The Mount of Olives was nothing to them.

Mr. Stanley rode forward as we came to a turn in the road on the shoulder of the hill, and made them all stop and look round at the city. "It is at this place, when coming from Bethany, that Jerusalem first comes in sight, and there," he said, "must have been the very spot on which our Lord stood when, 'He beheld the city and wept over it.'"

Evelyn came close to me and whispered, "Oh, May, I cannot help it, the tears will come. Let's go a little way off by ourselves. Claude and Alice will chatter so."

We got off our horses, left them with the guide, and went a short distance from the road to a clump of olive trees. Here we stood, looking down on the city. If our Lord wept as He gazed on it in its glory, because He saw in the far distance the shadow of ruin and desolation creeping towards it, how much more would we weep, who saw the once beloved city, the joy of the whole earth, made a very curse among men.

"Look forward as well as backward," said Mr. Stanley's voice behind us.

"Forward to what?" Evelyn asked.

He rode closer. "Forward to that day when Isaiah says the Lord will no longer weep over Jerusalem, but will rejoice over her."

"Doesn't it remind you of the shepherd's joy in Jesus' parable," I said, "as he brought back his lost sheep, rejoicing himself, and calling together his friends, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost'?"

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Stanley. "I never thought of that. The two passages are wonderfully alike."

"Oh, Mr. Stanley," said Evelyn, as he turned round, "must we go? It's so delightful to be here."

"I think we must come again another day by ourselves," said Mr. Stanley in a whisper. "Your friends are rather impatient to be moving. They find little to interest them on the Mount of Olives."

"I'm not surprised," said Evelyn. "Half the Bible they don't believe in, and the other half they don't care for. But, oh dear, I do wish they hadn't come with us. I didn't think we would feel it so much."

Evelyn went ahead reluctantly to join her father. Mr. Stanley stayed behind a moment and gathered a spray of olive leaves which he gave to me, and asked me to keep it, "As a remembrance of the place, and of our coming here together."

I have that spray of olive leaves now, and shall keep it as long as I live.

So we went on to Bethany. The road must have taken the same course in our Lord's time, for there was a deep valley, and the road ran at its head. And it must have looked just the same then, with the same wild flowers growing by the wayside, the same blue mountains of Moab in front, and the same green valley beneath.

Mr. Stanley pointed out to me some fig trees growing close to the road, just as they did when the Saviour, hungry with His long walk from Bethany, searched among the leaves for fruit to refresh Him on the way. I had no idea before that it was so far from Jerusalem to Bethany. Jesus must have been weary as He went backwards and forwards every day of that last, sad week of His life on earth. Only once do we read of Him riding. It was all on foot, in the weariness and heat of the day, with the same sun beating on His head as was shining on us at that very moment.

I never enjoyed anything so much as that ride to Bethany. It was quiet and peaceful, for Sir William and Claude were some way in front with the guide, and Evelyn, who rode next with Alice, was not much inclined for conversation and kept her laughing companion tolerably still, so that Mr. Stanley and I were not interrupted in our quiet talk together.

Then we came to Bethany, a miserable, wretched, dirty village, and here a group of Arabs ran out of their houses to look at us and beg for money, while a number of noisy dogs barked and howled and jumped up at our horses' heads. We were glad to get as quickly as possible out of the narrow street and gradually climb the eastern side of the Mount of Olives.

"I think the Ascension of Jesus must have taken place somewhere here," said Mr. Stanley. "It would be just far enough away from the noise of the village, and such a likely place for them to come to."

A lovely view was spread out before us. The village of Bethany lay almost at our feet to the south-east, and the great wilderness of Judea stretched far away, and beyond it in the distance we could see the fertile plain of the Jordan like a line of silver running into the deep blue Dead Sea. Beyond it, the grand Moab Mountains stood out like a wall against the sky.

"This is fine," said Claude, as we stood looking at it. "This is well worth coming to see."

I found it ironic that this was the same view that Lot had gazed on, yet where today were the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah on the plain which he had seen in their glory?

Then we crossed over the top of the mountain and began to descend the western side, by the path which David took when fleeing from Absalom. David had climbed up barefoot, and with his head covered, weeping as he went at the ingratitude and cruelty of his son.

We had a different view now, and a beautiful one. The city of Jerusalem was lying at our feet, nestling among the hills.

"'As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people, from henceforth, even for ever,'" said Mr. Stanley to Evelyn and me, as he rode between us.

"If we could always remember that verse from the Psalms," said Evelyn, "how happy it would make us."

"Yes," said Mr. Stanley, "it would indeed. But is it not a comfort to know that He _is_ round us, whether we remember it or not? The mountains do not go, even though the clouds hide them from our sight."

"I shall never forget this ride," said Evelyn, after a pause.

"And I am sure _I_ shall never forget it," said Mr. Stanley.

"But I thought. . ." said Evelyn.

"What did you think, Miss Trafford?"

"I thought that it would not seem quite the same to you as it does to us. I thought you would have become so accustomed to it that you wouldn't enjoy it so much."

"Oh, I never feel _that_ about the Mount of Olives," said Mr. Stanley. "Other places in Jerusalem, I grant, have somewhat lost their sacredness in my eyes, but the Mount of Olives always seems holy ground. I think we can never forget that this was the last place our Lord's feet touched before He left us, and that it will be the first place they will touch when He comes again. The prophet Zechariah says, 'His feet shall stand in that day upon the Mount of Olives which is before Jerusalem, on the east.'

"And then," he added, after a pause, "I have enjoyed it specially today."

Claude and Alice left Jerusalem the next morning to continue their journey through Samaria and Galilee, and we were not sorry to be alone when we visited the other truly interesting places in and near Jerusalem.

Sightseeing in Palestine is, in this respect, different from sightseeing in other places. Unless there is some communion of heart between you and those who are with you \-- unless they love the Book and the Name which make every place around you so sacred -- their remarks, and indeed the whole tone of their conversation, cannot fail to jar upon you and be somewhat trying and irksome.

After Claude and Alice were gone, we thoroughly enjoyed our daily excursions in the city and its neighbourhood. Although Mr. Stanley was comparatively a stranger, we had learned to know him so well in those few weeks that he seemed more like an old friend. He was a wonderful help to us in our exploration of the city, for not only did he know Jerusalem well himself, but he had during his long stay there made many friends among the residents who obtained for us admittance into several places which were closed to ordinary travellers.

One of these, a German gentleman, was most kind in guiding us to several interesting spots, and took us among other places to Solomon's Quarry.

"Would you like to see Solomon's Quarry?" said Mr. Stanley to Sir William, one day.

"Solomon's Quarry?" repeated Sir William. "Where may that be, pray?"

"It is underneath the city," said Mr. Stanley "It is a most curious and interesting place. My friend who will guide us has been active in its exploration, and has made a splendid plan of the whole place. He knows every inch of the way."

"But is it really _Solomon's_ quarry?" said Sir William, incredulously.

"Probably so, for it is clear that stone has been taken out of it for some great building, and then you remember what is told us of the building of Solomon's Temple: 'And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.' Now we have only to look at the stones which still remain of the wall which Solomon built round the Temple platform, to see that the stones he used were so enormous that they are unlikely to have been brought from any great distance away. In order to move them at all, the labour must have been immense, and it has always been a mystery how such huge blocks could be hewn from any rock within a short distance of the building so that they could be easily moved to it, and yet be so far away that no sound of axe or hammer would be heard in the Temple itself."

"I see," said Sir William; "and the discovery of this quarry explains the mystery, for the stones could be hewn and finished underground, and then brought to the surface, and put at once in their proper positions. How interesting."

"But we have a still stronger reason," said Mr. Stanley, "for feeling sure that this is Solomon's Quarry. I have been reliably informed that there is no other place in the whole country round which shows signs of having been used as a quarry from which stone could have been taken for any large building. The stone in these underground quarries is, I believe, the same kind of stone as we find in the Temple buildings."

"How very, very interesting." said Sir William. "When can we go there?"

"I have arranged with my friend to meet us at the Damascus Gate tomorrow morning. If that will suit you," he added, turning to Evelyn.

We had no engagement for the next day, so it was settled that Mr. Stanley would call for us at eleven o'clock.

But when the morning came, poor Evelyn was not well enough to go. She had a slight attack of the fever which apparently was common in Jerusalem, and the doctor advised her to keep quiet for a day or two lest she should have it more severely. I wanted to stay with Evelyn, but she would not hear of it and insisted on my leaving her in the care of Clemence.

"If _you_ don't go, May," she said, "I shall never hear anything about it. Papa never can describe places. Now don't be unkind and disobedient, but put on your hat and get ready!"

So, rather against my will, I set forth with the others. The gentleman who was our guide was most kind in explaining everything to us, giving us some most varied and interesting information.

"How were these quarries discovered?" Sir William asked.

"In a curious way," he said. "Not many years ago there was a lad shooting rock pigeons outside the northern wall. He had a dog with him, and the dog suddenly disappeared. He had seen it last going behind an olive tree which grew at the bottom of the rook on which you see the wall is built. He went to look for the dog, and found on the face of the rock quite a small hole, so small that he could not get through it himself, though he heard his dog barking inside. So he came back into the city for help, and then the hole was made bigger, and they discovered this place."

"How curious." said Sir William.

"Here we are," said Mr. Stanley. "Here is the hole. Now, Miss Lindsay, are you ready to leave the sunshine behind?"

We had brought candles with us, and we lit them and began slowly to descend, crouching for some distance almost on our hands and knees. After we had gone a few yards we found ourselves in a large, rock-hewn cave as spacious as an immense church, and from this point passage after passage went in different directions.

Our guide led the way and we followed. Hall after hall, passage after passage we explored as we went for nearly a mile underneath the streets of Jerusalem.

"Can you picture the scene, three thousand years ago," said Mr. Stanley to me, "when the place was full of Solomon's workmen? Look, here are the marks of their tools in the stone, as fresh as ever. And do you see this?" he said, as he pointed to a little niche in the wall. "This is where a workman put his lamp while he was at work. You can even see the black smoke which the flame left on the stone above."

"How wonderful," I said. "Oh, Mr. Stanley, it _is_ an interesting place."

Mr. Stanley got for me a piece of stone from the walls of the quarry, with the marks of the chisel on it, and I put it carefully away with my spray of olive leaves.

# Chapter Sixteen

The next morning Evelyn was much better. The fever had passed away, but she felt tired and exhausted. So she decided to keep quietly in her room until lunch time, as she was anxious to join us in an expedition which Mr. Stanley had planned for that evening. We were to visit an old tomb which had just been discovered on the road to Bethlehem, and in which Mr. Stanley's German friend, Mr. Schwarz, took a great interest. Mr. Schwarz would not be able to guide us there himself, as he was going away from Jerusalem for some weeks on business. But he kindly promised that his daughter would show us the way to the tomb, as Mr. Stanley had never been there before.

Evelyn was most anxious to go with us, so we arranged to start when the day began to grow cooler, for Mr. Schwarz assured us that it was not a long ride and we could easily be back before sunset.

I was up early that morning, and leaving Evelyn in bed I went downstairs to write an account of our visit to Solomon's Quarry in a letter to my sister Maggie. Her aunts took great interest in hearing of all the places I was visiting, although I was certain they still predicted that I would not come back alive.

I was busy with my letter, sitting at a small table in the window of our sitting-room in the hotel, waiting until Sir William came downstairs for breakfast, when the door opened and Mr. Stanley came in.

"Oh, how lovely," I exclaimed, as soon as I turned round.

He had a basket in his hand, filled with maidenhair ferns, scarlet anemones and cyclamen.

"They are beautiful, Mr. Stanley. Where did you get them?"

"I have been for an early walk in the Valley of Hinnom, and found them on the hills on either side. I am so glad you like them. I thought you would."

"Evelyn will be charmed," I said. "She is so fond of flowers. I will put them in water and take them upstairs to her. She is better today, Mr. Stanley."

"I am glad of that," he said. "The fever soon passes away if care is taken. But I gathered these flowers for you -- if you will have them."

"Thank you, very much indeed," I said. "I didn't know they were for me. It was very good of you."

"I am so glad you like them," he replied. "I could see you were fond of flowers when we were on the Mount of Olives. I must be going now. Will you tell Sir William I will meet you at the Jaffa Gate at four o'clock? There are several people I must see today about various things, so I'm afraid I must leave you all to your own devices until evening. Goodbye, and take care of yourself -- I don't want _you_ to have fever."

He was halfway to the door when he turned back again. "There is a little piece of paper in the middle of the flowers," he said. "It is for you, for no one else, remember. The verses are only written in pencil. I don't know whether you will be able to make them out. They are about the flowers," he added, smiling. "You will not be angry, will you?"

"Oh no," I said, and he was gone.

I put the paper which I found among the ferns into my pocket, for a minute afterwards Sir William entered the room. I gave him Mr. Stanley's message, and he admired the flowers and rang the bell for water that I could arrange them before they withered. I did not tell him that they were for me.

After breakfast Sir William asked me to read aloud to him the leading articles in a copy of _The Times_ which had arrived by the mail that morning, and so it was some time before I could find an opportunity to look at my paper.

I opened it as soon as I was alone, and read it more than once.

The Flowers' Message

We grew upon the very hills

Where Jesus used to stand;

We blossomed on the lonely paths

Of God's once Holy Land.

There is a city near our home --

A sad and ruined place --

For those who lived within her walls

Let slip the day of grace.

Yet beautiful in all the earth

Mount Zion used to be --

The city of the Heavenly King,

And Israel's glory she!

Now, filled with misery and sin,

Defiled by guilt and shame,

And trampled underfoot by those

Of every creed and name.

Oh pray, then, for Jerusalem,

The city of our birth;

Oh shed a tear for her who was

The joy of all the earth.

The ancient promise holdeth good,

It hath not been reversed --

"Blessed is he who blesseth thee,

And he who hates is cursed."

So we from the Judean hills,

This simple message bring --

"Oh pray for poor Jerusalem,

The city of the King."

_For_ M. L.,  
_from her friend_ Howard Stanley.

I looked forward to that evening ride, and four o'clock seemed as if it would never come.

At last the horses arrived, and Sir William, Evelyn and I mounted and rode to the Jaffa Gate.

Mr. Stanley had not come, but Miss Schwarz was there waiting for us. We had been introduced to her the day before, so she came at once and spoke to us, and we rode up and down together, looking from time to time at the gate to see if Mr. Stanley was coming.

"It is extraordinary," said Sir William, "that he should be late. We have always found him such a punctual man. Are you sure he said four o'clock, Miss Lindsay?"

"Oh yes," I said, "quite sure. 'Four o'clock at the Jaffa Gate,' that was what he said."

"Yes, he told me to be here at four o'clock," said Miss Schwarz. "He will come in a few minutes, I think. Shall we ride towards 'the big tree,' as we call it? It is not really large, but we have no trees that deserve the name in Jerusalem, so it looks big to us. It is only a little way, and Mr. Stanley will see us there, and we shall get some shade."

"Very well," said Sir William, "you had better go. I want you to keep out of the sun as much as possible, Evelyn. I will wait at this corner and catch Mr. Stanley as he comes through the gate."

So we rode down to the big tree, and Miss Schwarz told us how she used to come and play there with her friends when she was a child, and how beautiful and green she thought it until she had been to Germany and had seen the trees in Europe.

We found Miss Schwarz a pleasant companion, and the first few minutes passed away happily. But as time went on, we began to wonder why Mr. Stanley did not appear.

After about half an hour Sir William came slowly down the road to meet us. "I cannot see him," he said. "It is very strange. He must have forgotten. I think I will go as far as the Latin Convent and inquire for him."

"I don't think he would forget," I said.

"Oh, I don't know," said Sir William. "Young men often have short memories, and you said he was going to visit various friends this morning. I will just go and inquire for him. I shall not be long."

It was, however, some time before Sir William reappeared at the Jaffa Gate, and then he was alone.

"Well, papa," said Evelyn, "did you find our runaway guide?"

Sir William looked grave and perplexed. My heart beat fast, for I felt sure that something was the matter.

"I cannot make it out," he said. "Mr. Stanley has gone to Jaffa."

"Gone to Jaffa?" we all exclaimed together.

"Yes," he said. "The porter tells me he took a horse early this morning. It must have been soon after you saw him, Miss Lindsay. About ten o'clock the man said, and he went down to Jaffa. The porter thinks he was going back to England. I cannot understand it; it is very strange."

"What can be the matter?" asked Evelyn.

"I have no idea," said Sir William. "I think he might have let us know. The porter said he did not even take his luggage, but left it to be sent after him by the next steamer. It seems there is a steamer that leaves Jaffa for Alexandria tonight, and I suppose he wanted to catch that."

"Didn't the man know why he left in such a hurry?" Evelyn asked.

"No, he did not seem to know. I asked him if a telegram had arrived for Mr. Stanley, and he said he did not think so, for he had not taken one in. But the man talked such extraordinary French that I could not understand him very well. I wonder why Mr. Stanley did not let us know he was going. It was thoughtless of him."

"Perhaps he will write from Jaffa," Evelyn suggested.

"Well, I hope so," said Sir William. "But I think he might have let us know before this afternoon, and not have kept us waiting here in the sun. I gave him credit for more consideration. It is a strange thing, and I do not like it at all. Well, what are we to do, Miss Schwarz? We ought not to keep you standing here. Will it be too late to go to the tomb?"

"Oh no," she said, "not at all. It is quite a short ride, and we shall be back long before sunset. Shall we go at once?"

"Yes, I think perhaps we had better go," said Sir William, with some hesitation. "You can talk Arabic, I suppose, Miss Schwarz, in case we need an interpreter?"

"Oh yes," she said, laughing, "as well as any Arab. I could talk Arabic before I could talk German."

So we set off for the tomb, but we were none of us in good spirits. Sir William was complaining all the way of Mr. Stanley's inconsiderate behaviour, and Evelyn was defending him to the best of her power and assuring her father that there was certain to be a letter from Jaffa.

I am afraid that Miss Schwarz must have thought us dull and uninteresting people. She was an exceedingly nice girl, just my own age, and at any other time I would so much have enjoyed my ride with her. But that afternoon I could not understand what the matter was with me, and it was an effort to talk. I roused myself once or twice to take an interest in the places and the people that we were passing on the green Bethlehem plain, but I found it difficult because my thoughts seemed to be far away. I was ashamed of myself, and struggled against it, and asked Miss Schwarz many questions about the place to which we were going. She took great pains to explain everything to us, to make our ride pleasant and interesting. I hope she did not think us ungrateful.

We went for some distance along the road to Bethlehem, and then we turned up among the mountains. It was a wild, rough road. Indeed, after a time we had no road at all, but had to cross over ploughed fields and the stone-covered hillsides. The view was splendid. A valley lay beneath us, completely surrounded by hills, on the sides of which we could see the remains of many of the ancient terraces. It must, indeed, have been a lovely place when it was planted with trees, but had it not been for a few patches of green, and the scarlet anemones and yellow Bethlehem stars which were peeping up between the bare stones, the hillsides would have been monotonous. In the distance we could see the blue waters of the Dead Sea, and the white limestone of Mount Quarantania. At last we reached a place where there were many ruins and the remains of an ancient village. There were several old wells, and stones with crosses carved on them which showed that they dated back to the times of the Crusaders. We passed through these ruins, and Miss Schwarz took us to the side of the hill where the newly-discovered tomb was to be found.

It seems that the Arabs living in a nearby village were ploughing on the hillside, and one of them moved a large stone out of the way of his plod. To his astonishment he saw that the stone had covered a deep, dark hole. He went down into this hole and found himself in a stone chamber, the masonry of which was perfect. Another entrance had been afterwards made into the tomb, and through this Miss Schwarz led us.

She told us that her father thought it was a burying-place for Christians in the fifth or sixth century, so it was not very old compared with most of the places in Jerusalem, but it was most curious and interesting. There were five stone steps leading down to the door of the tomb. The door itself was made of one block of stone, and was still on its hinges, and moved backwards and forwards quite easily.

All round the chamber were places cut out of the stone for the coffins to lie in. There were twelve of these in the principal room, but two other smaller chambers leading out of the first one contained more graves, but these had not been fully opened when we were there. A large stone was at the mouth of each grave when it was discovered, and the Arabs had torn these away hoping to find some treasure buried with the dead. But though they opened every grave, they found inside nothing but dust.

We were just peeping into one of the further chambers, and trying to count the number of graves in it, when we heard a great noise outside -- shouting and yelling and jabbering \-- and to our great alarm and dismay a number of Arabs rushed into the tomb, shaking their fists at us and screaming at the top of their voices. Sir William looked frightened, for it was a wild and lonely place far out of the reach of any European building or any public road.

We scrambled out as quickly as we could, followed closely by the Arabs. Miss Schwarz was haranguing them in Arabic. We could not understand what they were saying to her or she was saying to them, but we felt sure that they intended to rob us, or even murder us.

When we came out of the tomb we were still more terrified, for we saw that some of the Arabs had seized our horses which we had tied to a tree near, and were preparing to lead them away.

"Oh dear, I wish we had never come," said Sir William. "What shall we do? If I could only talk to these fellows. Don't be frightened, Evelyn darling. What do they want, Miss Schwarz? What do you think had better be done?"

"I think they only want money," she said, turning away from the Arabs who were shaking their fists at her. "I will see what can be done. They say we have insulted the sheik of the village by entering the tomb without permission, and of course they threaten all sorts of dreadful things. But I will manage them, don't be alarmed. Have you any money with you, Sir William?"

"Yes, a little," he said. "Not very much. How much will they want?"

"Oh, they shall not have very much," she said. "Have you a silver mejidie? It is a large Turkish coin -- larger than half a crown."

"Yes, I think I have," he said. "I will look."

"No, not now!" Miss Schwartz said quickly. "Please wait a minute or two."

She had another long conversation with the Arabs, and to our astonishment they brought up our horses and helped us mount them. When we were ready to start, Miss Schwarz turned to Sir William, for the Arabs were all holding out their hands greedily to Sir William to receive the coin.

"They may have the mejidie now," she said. "If you will give it to me, I will hand it to the sheik, and he will divide it among them. And then we will ride on quickly."

"You are a splendid guide, Miss Schwarz," said Sir William, when we were safely on our way. "How did you manage them so well?"

"Oh, I threatened them with the English consul, and the German consul, and with the Pacha, and with all sorts of other authorities," she said, laughing. "I knew they would not dare hurt us, for they would never hear the last of it if they did. And, besides, the sheik knows my father well, and as soon as I mentioned his name they became civil. I hope you did not mind giving them the mejidie, Sir William, but I promised them a little reward if they were good."

"Oh, not at all," he said, laughing. "It was a cheap way of making our escape. They would not get much each, poor fellows."

"Oh, quite enough," said Miss Schwarz. "If they had been more civil we might have given them a little more. I hope you were not frightened, Miss Trafford."

"Only a little," said Evelyn, but she looked pale, and we were all glad to get safely back to the hotel.

Evelyn lay on the sofa in the sitting-room all evening, and I sat beside her, while Sir William went into the coffee room and discussed the adventures of the day with a party of English travellers who had arrived that evening from Jaffa.

My present from Mr. Stanley of the beautiful ferns and flowers looked withered after the heat of the day, so I gave them fresh water and pressed one or two of the prettiest in blotting paper so that I could remember them for ever. Then I sat down beside Evelyn with my work in my hand, but I did not feel inclined to sew. I felt depressed, and Evelyn seemed so likewise. I said to myself that it was only the reaction after the excitement and fright we had experienced that afternoon, and yet I felt that, after all, that was not the real reason.

Was it because -- _could_ it be because \-- Mr. Stanley had gone away? For, after all, he was only a stranger. A pleasant -- yes, a very pleasant -- travelling companion who had been kind and useful to us when we were in his company, but who would think no more of us now that he had gone away. Like ships meeting on the sea, we had gone side by side for a little time, but now we had parted -- probably never to meet again. That was all. It was nothing to be miserable about. And I was angry with myself for having given way to the feeling of depression which had crept over me.

I tried to think of my work, of Maggie, of our encounter with the Arabs in the tomb, of anything but Mr. Stanley's mysterious disappearance. But, somehow or other, I could not tell why, my thoughts _would_ come back to it in spite of all my efforts to turn them to other subjects.

I could not help wondering whether Evelyn was thinking the same thing. Why was she so quiet this evening? Could it be that she missed Mr. Stanley? Was I right in fancying that was the reason? Did she really care for him more than for an ordinary acquaintance?

I looked up at Evelyn, and found she was watching me with a curious expression on her face -- half amused, half inquiring. I rather resented it, I am afraid, and looked down again quickly and started on my work.

"It will all come right, May," she said, after a pause.

"What will come right, Evelyn?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean about Mr. Stanley's mysterious disappearance," she said, smiling. "I am sure we'll get a solution to the mystery in a day or two."

"Oh yes," I said carelessly, "we'll be able to find another guide. That is the only drawback."

"The _only_ drawback?" she repeated.

"You don't think so?" I said.

"You don't think so either, May," she replied. "I know you don't."

"Well, perhaps not," I said. "How close it is tonight, Evelyn. Would you mind me taking a little walk on the verandah outside the window, to get cool before bedtime?"

"Oh, not at all," she said, smiling. "Go, May dear, it will do you good."

It was a quiet, starlight night, and the stars in that part of the world seemed wonderfully brilliant and beautiful. I walked up and down for some time, not exactly thinking, not exactly praying, but with my heart lifted upwards above this changing world to the unchanging Friend above. And an answer came to that upward appeal.

I thought of Solomon's Quarry, with the marks of the tools where stones had been hewn to make a building fit for the Lord God. Was this God's chisel at work upon me now? When troubles come which I cannot understand, which seem so hard to bear, I was slowly learning that it is a sign that my Heavenly Father is working on my heart.

It is not always pleasant to feel the pick and the chisel at work on us, but it is a comfort to know in whose hand the tool is, and that He can make no mistakes.

# Chapter Seventeen

A FEW DAYS afterwards, as we were sitting at breakfast, the waiter came into the room with a letter. Sir William looked at the postmark.

"Alexandria." he said. "Well, I am glad he has written at last."

"Is it from Mr. Stanley, papa?" asked Evelyn.

"Yes," he said, "I would think so. I do not know anyone else who is likely to be in Alexandria."

He opened the letter and glanced hastily at its contents. Then he took up the envelope and looked at it again. Then he turned once more to the first page of the letter and began to read it through.

Evelyn and I sat watching him. I tried to go on with my breakfast, but I felt as if the food would choke me, for Sir William looked more and more agitated as he went on reading.

When he had finished he tossed the letter on the table, saying angrily, "He is a good-for-nothing rogue!"

I looked up quickly, and Evelyn asked in a trembling voice, " _Who_ is, papa -- not Mr. Stanley?"

"No, not Mr. Stanley," he said. "At least, he may be. I do not know if he is, but that cousin of yours, Donald Trafford -- the letter is from him. An idle good-for-nothing rogue, that is what he is. And I shall tell his father so when I see him!"

"Let me have the letter, papa," said Evelyn. She was as white as a sheet, and trembling.

"Well, don't trouble about it, darling," said Sir William, in quite a different tone from that in which he had spoken before. "He is not worth troubling about; he really is not. If I could only get you to see that. Here, take the letter. I suppose I shall have to let you see it, but don't make yourself ill again, for my sake."

Evelyn took the letter and read it slowly. As she read, a deep crimson flush came into her pale face, but this faded away and left her pale when she had finished reading. Then she rose from the table, and without speaking a word she left the letter lying beside her plate and went out of the room.

I was rising to follow her when Sir William said, "Wait a little, Miss Lindsay. Perhaps she will get over it better alone. If she has a good cry it will do her good. Poor child, what a pity she ever took a fancy to that worthless fellow. Read his letter, Miss Lindsay, and tell me what you think of it."

I took it up, and read as follows:

My Dear Uncle,

I have no doubt you believe that I am in Port Said, though I did contrive to keep out of your way during your short stay in that delightful place.

But I am not there now, but have moved to a town many miles distant, which I will not name lest you should feel it your duty to report me in England.

I should not have troubled you with a letter, but I want to ask you to lend me some money to start me in business in the town in which I am now living. I have had the offer of a first-rate partnership, which will enable me soon to become a rich man, but it is necessary that I should advance something in the shape of capital.

I am sure, dear uncle, you will not refuse to grant this request, when I tell you that I have a wife depending on me, and that unless I can avail myself of this opening (which is really a splendid one), there is nothing but starvation before us both.

As I am now a married man, there is no chance of my again being an annoyance to you, so I feel sure you will not deny me this final favour.

Please address to "Monsieur Junot, Post Office, Alexandria." M. Junot is my wife's brother. She is a French girl, and he will call for the letter, and forward whatever remittance you feel it in your heart to send.

With love to Evelyn and yourself,

Believe me, dear uncle,

Your affectionate nephew,  
Donald Trafford.

P.S. -- You will wonder how I knew you were in Jerusalem. I met a guide the other day who was onboard the same steamer with you, and he heard that you were to spend a long time in Jerusalem.

"Did you ever hear anything like that!" said Sir William, as I folded up the letter. "Is not that a piece of cool impertinence?"

"He does not seem much ashamed of himself," I could not help saying.

"Ashamed of himself? No, indeed! There is not a word about his running off with that money, or wanting to repay it. He is an idle, selfish, good-for-nothing fellow. And he was always the same. It was always a mystery to me what Evelyn could see to like in him. Poor child, I hope it will not make her ill again."

"Oh no, I think not," I said. "I think she sees now what his real character is."

"I hope so," he said anxiously. "Perhaps if you went upstairs now you could say a word or two to comfort her. You know best. Do you think we should leave her alone or not?"

"I think I will just go upstairs and see," I said.

To my astonishment I found Evelyn sitting in her room busily at work, looking calm and cheerful. I fancied she had been crying a little, but she welcomed me with a smile and asked me if I had read Donald's letter. I told her that Sir William had wished me to do so, and then she asked me what I thought of it. I did not answer her directly, for I did not like to say what I really thought.

"I will tell you what I think of it," she said, "and I shall tell papa when I go downstairs. I think it is a _shocking_ letter. I cannot think how Donald could ever write it. But, May," she said, "please don't think I am troubled about it. I had given up loving Donald some time ago -- ever since I found out that he was so different to what I always thought he was. But I pitied him dreadfully. I thought he would be so miserable and wretched, and feel so guilty and ashamed when he thought about his having taken that money. I always pictured him wishing, oh, so much, that he had never done it, and trying hard to save his money so that he would be able to pay it all back. But now, May, I can neither love him nor pity him. He doesn't deserve either love or pity, does he?"

"No, he does not," I said. "The only thing for which we can pity him is his wickedness."

"Just think of his marrying a French girl," she said. "I wonder if it's the one who waited on us in the shop in Port Said. Well, I'm glad he wrote that letter. It is far better to know what he really is. I cannot think how I could have been so much deceived by him. I am afraid I cannot read people's characters very well. But don't let's talk about him anymore today, May. The trouble has completely gone, but I don't like to talk about it. Let's speak of something else."

Sir William was relieved to find that Evelyn was in good spirits, and that she shared his view of Donald Trafford's conduct. He was still ruffled and annoyed by the letter, and was in consequence fidgety and impatient with the world in general all day. Not liking to speak about his nephew for fear of distressing Evelyn, he gave vent, instead, to his feelings about Mr. Stanley's disappearance.

"Mr. Stanley evidently does not intend to write now!" he said forcibly. "It is one of the strangest things I ever knew, his going off in that way. It just proves what I have always heard, that it does not do to make friends with people that you meet while travelling. It is impossible to tell what they are, and you may be imposed on to a great extent."

"Oh, papa," said Evelyn, "what do you mean? Surely you do not mean that Mr. Stanley imposed on us?"

"Well, I don't say that he _did_ ," said Sir William, "but I say that we don't know that he did _not._ You must confess that it was an odd thing his disappearing so suddenly, and never giving us a hint as to where he was going. I don't like it at all."

I longed to speak, but I felt as if I could hardly trust myself to do so, for I might say more than I intended if I opened my lips. So I left the defence to Evelyn, and she took it up indignantly.

"It is really too bad, papa," she said, "to speak of Mr. Stanley in that way. I think he is one of the nicest and best men I have ever seen."

"So he seemed to be, I grant," said Sir William. "But how do we know who he is, or what he is? We only know it from what he told us himself. Yes, that _may_ be true -- I hope it is -- or it may be false. That is why it is foolish ever to be too friendly with people you meet when travelling. They may be all they profess to be, or they may not."

"But Mr. Stanley is a great friend of Lord Moreton, papa," said Evelyn. "I know he is. He told me he was, on the day Claude and Alice were here."

"Yes, I know he _told_ you so," said Sir William. "But I never heard Lord Moreton mention him."

"Will you not write and ask Lord Moreton, papa? Then we shall know one way or the other."

"Yes, perhaps I will write," said Sir William. "That will settle the matter. Perhaps Lord Moreton will be able to clear up the mystery."

The next day was the mail day, and Sir William gave me his letters to take to the man who was going to post them. I looked through the addresses as I went downstairs, but there was none to Lord Moreton. He had forgotten it.

* * *

We did not much enjoy our time in Jerusalem after Mr. Stanley left us. We had cold and cheerless weather, and the bare stone floors and covered stones were poor substitutes for the richly-carpeted rooms and bright blazing fires in Alliston Hall. Then during the cold weather it rained incessantly the whole day, and the rain was far heavier than we ever see it in England.

We were obliged to keep indoors in the hotel, listening to the sound of water rushing down the spouts of the house into the cisterns, in which it was carefully preserved for use during the following summer, and trying to amuse ourselves as best we could with our work and the few books to be found in the hotel. Sir William became increasingly impatient, and a great longing came over him to go home. He said he was tired of foreign travelling, and foreign places, and foreign hotels, and Evelyn seemed so well and strong that he thought there could be no risk in her returning to England.

Evelyn and I assented cordially to the proposal, so it was decided to leave Jaffa by the next steamer.

We visited many places in Italy and Germany, and spent a long time on the return journey; for Sir William was afraid, for Evelyn's sake, of arriving in England before the spring.

I was interested in a great deal that we saw, and yet I did not enjoy it nearly so much as I had always imagined I would enjoy a tour of the Continent. I felt unsettled and restless, and longed to be back in England.

We stayed for some weeks in London before going on to Alliston, for Sir William had some business that he was anxious to transact before returning home. London was bright and busy just then, and we enjoyed our visit very much. But what gave me more pleasure than anything else was meeting Miss Lilla Irvine again. Her home in London was in the next street to the one in which we were staying, and we saw her every day.

We were interested in hearing of the work for God that Miss Irvine was doing in one of the poorest of the London parishes. She spoke little of it herself, but we found out by degrees that during the last few months a most wonderful work, of which she was at the centre, had been going on among the people who were crowded together in the alleys and courts of that part of London.

While we were there, a tea was to be given to the women who attended her mothers' meeting. Their husbands were also invited, for Miss Irvine hoped by this means to be able to reach many whom it was impossible to see or speak with in any other way.

She asked us, the day before the tea took place, whether we would like to be present. Evelyn accepted her invitation joyfully, but Sir William demurred a little when he heard of it.

"I don't like your going into those parts of the city, my dear," he said to Evelyn. "In your state of health you ought to be careful. There are sure to be people there just recovering from fever or smallpox, and it can't be good for you to go through those dirty, close streets."

Evelyn looked disappointed. "I want so very much to see Lilla's poor people, papa," she said.

He was going to answer her, when Miss Irvine said, "Perhaps if Evelyn does not come, you will look in for a few minutes, Sir William? Lord Moreton is going to give them a little talk after tea, and he would like to meet you."

Sir William fell into the snare she had laid for him.

"Lord Moreton?" he exclaimed. "How did you get him to come? Why, is he in town now?"

"No, but he is coming up for my tea party," said Miss Irvine, laughing. "He takes a great interest in my mission work. Indeed, if it had not been for Lord Moreton I could not have carried it on. He supplies the means, while I try to find the workers. He hires the room for me in which I have all my meetings, and in which the tea will be given tomorrow night."

"Indeed," said Sir William, "I had no idea of that. And you say he is going to give a talk?"

"He has promised to say a few words to the mothers. He has spoken to them before, and interested them very much. He puts the way of salvation so simply before them that it seems to go straight to their hearts."

"Well, I really think we must go and hear him. Evelyn, my dear, I don't think it will hurt you if you do not dress too warmly. Those places are always so close. We will drive there and keep the carriage windows closed, so that the foul air of the streets will not come in. What time shall we be ready, Lilla?"

All arrangements were made, and Evelyn and I both looked forward with real pleasure to the following evening.

# Chapter Eighteen

MISS IRVINE'S mission room was a bright, cheerful place, decorated for the festive occasion. The walls were ornamented with texts cut out in red and white paper and wreaths of greenery. Long tables had been covered with white cloths and spread with a most beautiful food which was arranged as carefully and tastefully as if it had been set out for a wedding breakfast.

The guests had all arrived when we went in, and were already sitting at the tables: tired mothers, many of them with babies in their arms; husbands whose faces bore marks of care and toil, and many of whom showed plainly the signs of drink that was ruining their homes; and children with pinched and unchildlike faces. Most of the men were in working clothes, for Miss Lilla said they possessed no others in which to come, but they had all made themselves as clean and tidy as they could.

They began to seem more at their ease when a blessing was asked, the tea poured out, and we all sat down together. Then the tongues began to be busy, and their careworn faces looked glad and happy.

Lord Moreton was there, looking after the wants of every one of the people, and talking amiably with them. He was a tall man with dark hair. I thought him handsome indeed, in spite of the slight cast in his eye of which Evelyn had complained so much. But it was so slight that it was not at all displeasing, and I wondered why she had considered it such a drawback.

He came up to us as soon as we entered the room, and seemed pleased to meet Sir William and Evelyn. But we had little time for conversation until the work of the evening was over.

After tea came Lord Moreton's address. It was simple and very much to the point, and I could see that the people were paying great attention to every word. He spoke to them of the love of Jesus, and how He was longing and yearning for them to come to Him; how He was following them like the shepherd after the lost sheep, seeking them by night, seeking them by day, seeking them in sickness, seeking them in health, seeking them in their sin and trouble and misery, ever seeking them, ever longing for them to turn round and let Him find them.

And then Lord Moreton begged them to turn round to Him that night, to leave drink behind, to leave sin behind, to leave shame behind, to turn their back on Satan and all his ways, and turn to the Good Shepherd and to say to Him, "Lord Jesus, save me!"

There were few dry eyes when Lord Moreton had finished. He did not show his nervousness at all when he was speaking. I fancied that his hand trembled a little, but his voice was clear and steady, and he spoke so naturally and unaffectedly that you forgot the man altogether and became engrossed only with what he was saying. There was something in his quiet, persuasive, pleading manner which would require a hard heart to withstand. I could see that Evelyn was moved, though she made no remark on it afterwards.

When the people had left, and only the helpers remained in the room, we had more time for conversation. Then for the first time I saw that Lord Moreton was indeed a nervous man. He was so shy and reserved when he first came up to us that I could hardly believe he was the man who had spoken so easily and naturally to the assembled people.

But Sir William soon set him at ease by telling him of our journey to the Near East, and some of our adventures while we were there.

"You met a friend of mine in Jerusalem, I think," Lord Moreton said.

"Oh yes, you mean Mr. Stanley," said Sir William, as if he had never doubted for a moment Mr. Stanley's friendship with Lord Moreton. "He proved a capital guide to us. We were sorry he had to leave so abruptly."

"Yes, poor fellow," said Lord Moreton. "It was a great shock to him."

"What was a great shock to him?" asked Sir William. "We never heard why he left Jerusalem so suddenly."

"Oh, did you not?" said Lord Moreton in surprise. "Howard told me that he had written to you, and I think he was a little disappointed that he did not get an answer. It was on account of his father's illness. I sent him a telegram to tell him how dangerously ill his father was, and he left Jerusalem immediately he received it. But he was too late. His father had been dead some days when he arrived. Poor fellow, it was a terrible time for him."

"I am really sorry," said Sir William. "I had no idea that he was in such trouble. It seemed strange to us, as you may imagine, his disappearing so suddenly and without any reason so far as we knew."

"Yes, of course it would," said Lord Moreton. "Howard will be extremely vexed when he finds his letter did not reach you. He is _such_ a nice fellow. He is just like a brother to me. The Stanleys' place is close to ours, so we see a great deal of each other. And of course we shall be more than ever together now that Howard has come into his father's property."

"I am sorry to hear of his father's death," said Sir William again.

"Yes," answered Lord Moreton, "and you would have felt it if you had seen his grief when he arrived and I had to tell him that his father was gone. His mother died a few years ago, and there were no other children, so he and his father had been all in all to each other. Howard was unwilling to go abroad this year, for he fancied his father was failing a little. But the old man insisted on his going, for Howard had a severe illness just this time last year and the doctors said he would not be strong again until he had had a complete change."

"Poor fellow," said Sir William. "Can you give me his address? I would like to write to him and express my sympathy, and explain why I did not write before."

Lord Moreton took a leaf from his pocketbook, wrote the address, and handed it to Sir William. "Howard is busy now, of course, settling his affairs, but in a month's time I have persuaded him to go with me for a holiday in the Highlands. I am sure it will do him good."

"In the Highlands?" said Sir William. "Then you will, of course, come to us on the way, both of you. And remember, we shall not be content with a three days' visit. You must spare us a week or ten days at least."

So it was all settled, and Lord Moreton said goodbye to us, for he was to leave town by the early train the next day.

"Well, papa," said Evelyn, as we drove home in the carriage, "Mr. Stanley was not an escaped convict after all!"

"I never said he was, my dear. I always thought him a remarkably nice fellow. Only, of course, his sudden disappearance was a little puzzling and somewhat mysterious. If we had only got his letter it would have been all right."

Then Sir William changed the subject by complimenting Miss Lilla Irvine on the success of her entertainment, and speaking highly of Lord Moreton's forcible address.

We went back to Alliston the following week, and to my great joy Sir William proposed that I should go at once to the old Manor House at Branston to see Maggie. The three aunts wrote that they would be delighted to have me, so I went there the day after I had received their letter.

Maggie was on the railway platform to welcome me, and John and the comfortable horses were waiting for me at the entrance to the station.

The sisters received me with open arms and with tears in their eyes, and Miss Jane returned thanks at family prayers that night, "For the marvelous escapes, and wonderful preservation in the midst of many and great dangers, which had been vouchsafed to one of our number, during her residence in the land of the infidel and the heretic."

I found everything in the house and around it just the same as when I had left it. The same neatness and order and punctuality and regularity reigned everywhere, and the same kindly feeling pervaded the whole place. I had much to tell, and they had much to hear, and the fortnight passed away all too quickly.

During the second week Maggie and I went for a two days' visit to the Parsonage in my old village. Miss Richards was anxious to see us again, and sent me a touching letter saying that if we would not mind spending a quiet day or two with her, she would feel it a real kindness, and it would be a great cheer and comfort to her. She wrote that she did not think her time on earth would be long. She said that the doctor had told her that she might linger for a few months, but she was suffering from a complaint which must end in death. "So he says, my dear," wrote the good old lady, "but I would rather say it must end in _life_ \-- life in our Lord's presence, where alone is fullness of joy."

When we arrived we found Miss Richards much altered, weak and fearfully thin, yet still able to go about a little to look after her housekeeping and sit in her easy chair in the garden with her work or her book.

We had many quiet, happy talks together, and I felt it a great privilege to be speaking to one who was, as it were, close on the threshold of heaven itself.

Claude's father, Mr. Ellis, looked careworn and depressed. He was exceedingly kind to us, but he seemed as if a heavy weight was resting on him which he could not shake off.

While we were in the village, Maggie and I went and peeped through the gate of our old home. It was not altered at all. The rabbits were nibbling the grass on the lawn, the stream was trickling peacefully along, and every bush and tree and flowerbed looked just as they had done on that memorable day when I had sat by my bedroom window with Claude's unanswered letter in my hand.

But the home was no longer ours, and even as we looked at it, children's faces appeared at the window of my old room and reminded me of this.

I thought of Miss Irvine's words as I turned away. "What a comfort that there is one home where there will be no parting, and no going away."

That evening, after Maggie was in bed, Miss Richards called me into her room and spoke to me about Claude.

"May, dear, you remember our last talk together before you went away," she said. "You were indeed right, and I was wrong. I would not have you to be Claude's wife now for the world. You had, indeed, a fortunate escape."

"I think I told you we met Claude and Alice in Jerusalem, Miss Richards."

"Yes, and they are still abroad, spending what money they have. It will all be gone soon, and then they will be obliged to return home and the crash will come."

"What do you mean, Miss Richards?" I asked. "I thought they were rich."

"So we thought, my dear, and so they thought. But Alice's money has proved a mere bubble. Her father has speculated a great deal, and the whole of her money has gone now, every penny of it. They did not know about it when you saw them in Jerusalem. It has come out since. And Claude, you know, has not much money of his own. It would have been a nice little sum yearly if he had been careful. But oh, the demands for payment, my dear. Scores of them are waiting for him. They send a great many here to be forwarded. I believe that is why he does not come home, but he must come some time or other. His father thinks that more than the whole of Claude's capital will be swallowed up in order to pay his debts, and what will they do then, my dear?"

"I am sorry to hear it," I said.

"Yes," said Miss Richards, "and this trouble is just crushing the life out of his poor father. I try to comfort him, and I tell him that I hope this trial will be the means, by God's blessing, of bringing Claude to the Saviour. But though I tell Mr. Ellis so, my dear, I feel doubtful about it, for Claude has so hardened his heart, and has so shut his eyes and refused to believe the truth that I am much afraid there is not much hope for him. I don't tell his father so, but I have great fears myself that even this trouble will not bring him any nearer to God."

"I was afraid his views were the same, when I met them in Jerusalem, " I said.

"Oh yes, they are even more pronounced now," said Miss Richards. "And he has made his poor wife almost as great a doubter as himself. She is a nice little thing, very affectionate and good to me, and I feel for her terribly in this trouble. I am afraid it will make great unhappiness between them. I dread their coming home."

That was the last time I ever saw Miss Richards. She took a loving farewell of me the next morning, and we both of us knew that when next we met it would be in the land where partings are unknown.

I heard of her death, or rather of her entrance into life, only a few weeks after our visit to the Parsonage.

Maggie's aunts were anxious that I should spend another week with them before going back to Alliston Hall, but Evelyn Trafford had written to me saying that Lord Moreton and Howard Stanley were expected on the day that I had already fixed to return, and she hoped that I would not fail to appear, as she wanted us all to have a good talk together about Jerusalem and our adventures there. I told Maggie and the aunts that I did not like to disappoint Evelyn and felt that as she wished it I ought to go back at once. I did not say anything of my own feelings in the matter.

I arrived at Alliston Hall just as Evelyn was dressing for dinner. She welcomed me with great joy and told me that the visitors had arrived, and that I must get ready with all haste as the gong would soon sound for dinner.

When I was dressed I went into the library thinking that I was late, and that everyone would have assembled, but I found no one there except Howard Stanley. I did not know why it was, but I suddenly turned shy and nervous. After shaking hands with him I was on the point of making an excuse about wanting to go upstairs to get my work, when he began to ask me many questions about Jerusalem, and I was obliged to stay.

"So I was put down as a suspicious character," he said, smiling, "when I disappeared so suddenly."

"Sir William thought it strange," I said, "and he began to doubt a little if you were what you said you were."

Howard laughed. "And you?" he asked.

"Oh, I knew it would be all right."

" _You_ did not doubt me then?"

"No, not at all," I said.

"Thank you."

"I was sorry to hear of the death of your father," I said.

"We must not be sorry," he replied gently. "For my father it is great gain, and for me. . ."

"For you?" I asked, for he seemed as if he did not like to go on.

"I ought not to be sorry, ought I?"

"We are told in Corinthians to be 'sorrowful, yet always rejoicing,'" I said. "Don't you think it is a comfort that the two are put together?"

"Yes," he said slowly, "I see. Our Heavenly Father does not blame us for being sorry, so long as we do not sorrow as those who have no hope. 'Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.' Thank you so much for the thought."

I fancied that he had a tear in his eye as he spoke, but I could not be sure, because a minute afterwards Sir William entered the room and seemed as cheerful and full of spirits as he had always been while we were travelling together.

"So you never got my letter," Howard said to Sir William. "I am sorry, but I gave it to a guide whom I knew pretty well, at the Jaffa Gate. He was not a Jerusalem guide, but one who had come with some people from Cairo, and he promised to deliver it at once. He must either have forgotten it, or conveniently lost it, but I'm sure he took care not to lose the _baksheesh_ I gave him at the same time. Well, it does not matter now."

"Oh, no," said Sir William, "of course not. But that fellow deserves to hear of it again. Tell me, how was it they knew nothing of your telegram at the Convent?"

"I met the man in the street bringing it, just after I left you, Miss Lindsay. He knew me by sight and handed it to me at once, and then I just hurried back to the Convent and told them I must leave immediately. But I was too distressed to go into particulars with them."

When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Stanley brought out a number of splendid photographs of Jerusalem and its neighbourhood which he had purchased in London, and had brought with him to show us.

Sir William was engrossed for some time in an interesting debate which he had just found in _The Times_ newspaper, but Evelyn explained the Jerusalem photographs to Lord Moreton, while Mr. Stanley sat by me and pointed out the different places which we had visited together.

There was a beautiful view taken from the Mount of Olives, just at the turn of the hill where we had stood to look down on Jerusalem.

We studied this photograph a long time. I thought it more beautiful than any of the others. Jerusalem stood out clear and bright in the sunshine, each house, each mosque, each dome standing out before us almost as distinctly as we had seen it on that lovely evening when, like our Lord and Master, we had beheld the city and wept over it.

"I shall never look at that photograph," said Howard Stanley, "without thinking of those words: 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which I had lost.' Do you remember when you said them to me there?"

"Yes," I said, "that was a very pleasant ride."

"Are the olive leaves still safe?" he asked.

"Oh yes," I said. "Did you think I would lose them?"

"No, I did not think so, but I wanted you to tell me, that was all."

How much there was to talk of during those few days, and how many times we said the words, "Do you remember?" I have heard it said that when we use those three words it is proof that we are talking to friends and not to strangers. To strangers we can never say, "Do you remember?" but to friends, to those who have gone side by side with us along any part of the pathway of life, how often we say to them, "Do you remember this?" "Do you remember that?" And how pleasant it is to recall first one thing and then another in the past, and talk it over together.

I think this will be one of the pleasures of heaven when we shall often, I think, use those three words, "Do you remember?" as we go over together in memory all the way that the Lord our God has led us, and we recall the many proofs of His love, His goodness and His wisdom that we enjoyed together on earth.

* * *

It was the last evening of Lord Moreton's and Howard Stanley's visit. The next day they were to leave us for the North.

We were wandering about the lovely gardens of Alliston Hall, gathering fresh flowers for Evelyn's sitting-room, for I would never let anyone else arrange the flowers there.

Lord Moreton was anxious to see a new and rare shrub that Sir William had planted at the other side of the gardens, and Evelyn took him to see it.

Howard Stanley and I stopped behind, for he complained of feeling tired, and I had not finished gathering my flowers.

"I am so sorry we are going tomorrow," he said.

I did not answer him, but bent over the bed to gather a beautiful white lily-of-the-valley.

"But I shall not disappear so suddenly and mysteriously this time," he said.

"No, that is a comfort," I said involuntarily, and then felt annoyed with myself for having said it.

"Why is it a comfort?" he asked. "Was my leaving Jerusalem any trouble to you?"

"Yes," I said, "of course I was sorry. I did not like Sir William to doubt you."

"I am glad you trusted me through it all," he said.

I was gathering some more lilies, so I did not look up until he spoke again, and then he only asked me a question, and I do not remember that I ever answered it.

"Will you trust me through life, May?" he said.

# Chapter Nineteen

MONDAY morning's post brought me a letter, written in pencil and almost illegible. I did not recognize the writing, and therefore glanced to the end and was surprised to see the signature -- Alice Ellis.

Yes, the letter was from Claude's wife. It was a short one. I turned to the beginning, and read as follows:

My Dear Mrs. Stanley,

I want to ask a great favour of you. Will you come and see me as soon as you can after you get this letter? I want to speak to you. There is something that I want to ask you.

I am very ill, so please forgive this untidy note, for I am writing it in bed. Do come at once _,_ if you can.

Please forgive me for asking you.

Believe me, dear Mrs. Stanley,

Very sincerely yours,

Alice Ellis

We do not live far from London. It is only about an hour's journey, so I went by the next train. I wondered why Alice Ellis had sent for me, and what she wanted to ask me.

When I arrived in London I took a cab to the address she had given me on the letter. The cabman drove for about a mile through a gloomy part of the great city and stopped before a high dismal house, in the midst of a row of high, dismal houses. These houses were confronted on the opposite side of the street by another row of houses just as high and just as dismal.

I dismissed the cabman and rang the bell. The door was opened by an untidy servant with no cap or collar on, but wearing a dirty, ragged apron. She showed me into a room, the windows of which looked out into the narrow street, and asked me to sit down while she went to tell "the folks upstairs" that I had come.

The room was shabbily furnished, and the atmosphere was close and stifling as if the windows had not been opened for a long time

Was it possible that Claude and Alice were living here, or had I made a mistake in the address? I referred to the letter in my pocket and found I was correct as to the name of the street and the number of the house, and certainly the girl who had admitted me implied that Mrs. Ellis lived here.

But how forlorn and dreary everything looked. I was glad when I heard a slipshod footstep on the stairs and a sullen-looking girl of about fourteen years old came in and asked me to come upstairs to "missus." She took me into a bedroom at the top of this high house, and there, lying in bed and looking fearfully ill, I found Claude's wife, Alice.

She welcomed me warmly and thanked me again and again for coming so soon, but I could hardly hear what she said, for her baby, who was lying on the bed beside her, was crying so loudly, and her every effort to pacify him was in vain.

"Jane, you can take baby into the next room," she said to the girl. "He is so fretful. Does he not look ill?" she added, turning to me.

I took the child in my arms. He was dreadfully thin, and had a careworn, wasted face, more like that of an old man than of a baby three months old.

"Poor little fellow," I said.

"Yes," she said, with a sigh, "I almost wish sometimes that he would die."

"Oh, Mrs. Ellis," I exclaimed, "you don't mean that!"

"Yes I do," she said, bitterly. "I had rather that he died before I do. Take him into the next room, Jane."

The girl took the child from me and went away, leaving the door open behind her.

"Would you mind shutting the door?" said Alice. "She always will have it open. Then I can talk to you comfortably and we shall feel quite safe. I have been wishing to see you for more than a week," she went on; "ever since I knew that I was so ill. Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I am so utterly miserable."

"I am very sorry to find you so ill," I said.

"Yes," she said, "I am very ill, and I shall never be well again. The doctor says I am in a rapid decline. It is trouble which has brought it on. You will have heard what trouble we have had."

"Miss Richards told me something about it, when I was with her a few months before she died," I said.

"Yes, all my money has gone. Every farthing of it. My father made some mistake about it, and the investments failed and we lost it all. Claude is so angry about it. He says my father has deceived him, and he is just as vexed as if it was my fault. He has not seemed to care for me a bit since then. But I did not mean to speak of that. I don't want to complain. It is natural, I suppose, that he would be vexed, He thought we were rich, and we went on spending a quantity of money, and then, when this came out, all the people sent in their accounts, and now all Claude's money has gone too. I don't know what will become of us."

"You cannot stay here," I said. "You ought to be taken care of, Mrs. Ellis."

"Oh," she said, "I don't mind so much for myself. It is poor little baby that makes me so unhappy. He cries so much, and that girl is so careless with him. Old Mr. Ellis is very kind. He wants me to go there, but Claude won't hear of it. I don't know why. We could not live at all if it was not for Claude's father. He is always sending him money."

"But could you not be moved into a more comfortable lodging than this?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not. It _is_ dirty and untidy, but the people are good in one way. They do not hurry us about paying them, so it seems a pity to move. But I did not send for you to tell you all our troubles, Mrs. Stanley," she said. "I wanted you, if you could, to help me to get a little comfort."

"In what way?" I asked, for I wanted to hear what she would say.

"Do you remember a conversation we had together when I stayed at Alliston Hall? I told you then that I always tried to laugh trouble away, and you said -- do you remember what you said?"

"What was it?" I asked.

"You said that there were some troubles that could not be laughed away. Those troubles have come to me now. I can't laugh now, Mrs. Stanley, but I wonder if you remember what else you said that day. You told me that you never tried to laugh troubles away, but you always prayed them away. Oh, if I could only do that."

"Do you believe in prayer, Mrs. Ellis?" I asked.

"Yes, I do," she said earnestly. "I do now. I used to laugh at it when Claude laughed at it, and I used to try to think it was all nonsense. But the other day the doctor was here, and I said, 'Doctor, please tell me the truth: shall I ever get well again?' And the doctor said, 'I am afraid not, Mrs. Ellis.' Then I asked him how long he thought I would live, and he said perhaps a month or two. And then he went away.

"I told Claude what the doctor had said, but he answered, 'Oh, nonsense, that doctor is a fool. Don't believe him. You have nothing the matter with you. You will be all right when the warm weather comes.' And then he went out, and he did not come home until past midnight. He is always out until late every night. I don't know where he goes. He never will tell me, and he's always so tired and cross when he comes in.

"Well, that night I lay awake thinking the whole time, and, Mrs. Stanley, I was so frightened. I knew the doctor was right. I felt that I had not long to live, and then I asked myself, 'Where am I going? I must be going somewhere.' Oh, Mrs. Stanley, I felt that night, and I feel now, that the Bible _is_ true. My own heart tells me so. I cannot doubt now that I am dying. I made up my mind that night that I would send for you, but since then I have been putting it off. I was afraid you would not like to come because we have seen so little of each other. But yesterday I thought I would write and tell you, for there is no one else I can think of who would be able to help me."

"I am glad you have sent for me," I said, taking her thin hand in mine. "And please call me May, and I will call you Alice. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

"I want you to tell me very simply," she said, "how to be safe in death. Tell me what I must do to get rid of my sin. Oh, May, I have done so many wrong things. What must I do? I will do anything I can, if I only know what it is."

"There is nothing to do," I said. "Nothing at all. If you feel your sin, and long to get rid of it, there is nothing to do."

"Nothing to do?" she said, incredulously. "May, there must be _something_ to do."

"No," I said, decidedly, "there is _nothing_ to do. But there is something to _take_."

"Something to take?" she repeated, in somewhat of her old manner. "I suppose you mean that I am to take salvation. But that is so indefinite, May. I know all those set phrases so well, but they mean nothing to me now. What is salvation, and how am I to take it?"

"You are quite right, Alice," I said. "You must have nothing to do with set phrases. They are hollow and worthless. You have to deal, not with dead words but with a living Saviour. Alice, it is the Lord Jesus whom I want you to take -- as your own Saviour. I want you to take Him as the One who can alone save you from the guilt and power of your sin, and who can alone give you the right to enter heaven. He comes to you, and He says _:_ 'Take Me, Alice, take My love as your own; look on Me as the One who has died to save you, and then you need not fear.' Do you understand how it is that He is able to save you, Alice, that He has been punished instead of you? Your sins have been laid on Him, and He has suffered the penalty that your sins deserve."

"Oh yes," she said, "I know all that with my head, but I want to be able to put it into practice. How am I to be sure that Jesus has done that for _me_? How am I to know that He has taken _my_ sin away?"

"Because God's Word tells you so," I said, and I took my Bible from my pocket and read, "He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned everyone to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all."

"Then what is there left for me to do?" she asked.

"Only to accept the Lord Jesus as your Saviour," I said. "Go to Him and say, 'Lord Jesus, I do thank Thee for bearing my sins; I trust myself to Thee to be saved. I want to be forgiven through Thy death, and because Thou hast been punished in my place.'"

"Is that all?" she said.

"That is all," I answered. "You cannot do more. One of my husband's tenants was in great trouble a few months ago. He was not at all a rich man, and he had got into some serious trouble with the law. My husband heard of it, and when he had been told the whole story he felt that the man was to be pitied. The poor wife came and pleaded with tears in her eyes for help, so my husband went to the trial to see what could be done. The sentence was pronounced -- the man was to pay a large fine, or failing that, he was to go to prison. The poor man could not have paid even a small fine for he was badly off, so he was quite prepared to be led off to prison. But at that moment my husband stepped forward and laid down the money. What was left for the man to do? Nothing. But he came forward and said, with tears in his eyes, 'Mr. Stanley, I thank you kindly, sir. I shall never forget it as long as I live."

"I see," she said. "I see it all now. And is that just what _I_ have to do?"

"Exactly," I said. "You must go to the Lord Jesus and say, 'Lord, I have nothing with which to pay. I am a great sinner, and owe a great debt, but Thou hast paid it all. I look upon Thee as my Saviour, and I shall never forget it as long as I live.' It is quite touching to see that poor man's love for my husband now. He tries in every way he can to show his gratitude."

"I see," she said; "and we love Jesus because He first loved us. Oh, May, thank you so much!"

I did not leave the house until I had reason to believe that Alice had indeed taken the Lord Jesus as her own Saviour, nor until she could tell me with a smile on her thin, wasted face, "I am not utterly miserable now, for I have a sure hope for the future. He has forgiven me."

I did not see Claude once, though I was with Alice for several hours. Perhaps he purposely kept out of sight, and I must confess I was glad under the circumstances not to meet him, for I felt angry with him for his heartless neglect of his poor wife.

I returned home by the evening train, and then came the contrast. My husband was at the station to meet me, and we drove back together to our home. On the way I told Howard of my visit to Alice, and of the conversation I had with her.

He was interested in all I told him, and when we had talked it over for a little time he said, "I have a letter for you in my pocket, May, which came by the evening post. I think I have been very good not to open it, for I am most anxious to hear the news contained in it."

The letter was from Evelyn Trafford. I took it from him and opened it.

"Oh, Howard," I exclaimed, as I glanced at the contents, "I am so very glad."

"Yes, and so am I," he said. "I am sure I know what it is about. There was a letter for me from Charlie by the same post. He has been staying at Alliston Hall for a week, and it seems to be all settled now. How nice it will be for you to have your friend Evelyn so near. Carrington Hall is only five miles from us, and you will be able to meet as often as you like."

"Evelyn sounds so happy," I said, as I handed him the letter, "and she seems to have quite forgotten that she said she would never marry anyone who squinted. I have no doubt now that she would agree with me, that in spite of it, Lord Moreton is a handsome man."

"I am glad it is so agreeably arranged," said my husband. "More than one good thing came out of our journey to Palestine, little wife. Do you remember that it was my conversation with Miss Trafford near the Damascus Gate which first made her look more favourably upon poor Charlie? The 'stupid, uninteresting man' as she called him then."

As he said this we turned in at the gate and drove past the shrubbery to the house. How beautiful everything looked that evening. The rhododendrons, the lilacs and the laburnums were in bloom, and the evening sunshine was streaming across the distant hills and casting a golden light over everything.

"Oh, what a contrast, Howard," I said, as we stood together at the window that evening.

"A contrast to what?" he asked.

"A contrast to the wretched lodging I have been in today. I always felt that mine was the happiest home in the world, but I feel it more than ever tonight."

"Are you really happy?" he asked.

"Happy? Oh, Howard," I answered, "what a question! You know, surely you know, how happy I am."

"You are not more happy than I am, May," he said. "I little thought when I met you first on the roof, in Brindisi, what bright days were in store for me."

"Howard," I said, after a pause, "just think if that wretched lodging that I saw today had been my home. And it might have been."

He knew what I meant, for I had told him of Claude's letter.

"Yes," he said, "it might have been, if you had not resisted the temptation put before you that day. But you are not sorry now, May, that you decided as you did. You think you were right, do you?"

"Right? Oh, Howard," I said, "I feel as if I could never be thankful enough that I chose as I did!"

THE END

More books from White Tree Publishing are on the next pages, many of which are available as both eBooks and paperbacks. More Christian books than those listed are planned for 2016-2017.

White Tree Publishing publishes mainstream evangelical Christian literature in paperback and eBook formats, for people of all ages. We aim to make our eBooks available free for all eBook devices, but some distributors will only list our books free at their discretion, and may make a small charge for some titles -- but they are still great value!

We rely on our readers to tell their families, their friends and churches about our books. Social media is a great way of doing this. Take a look at our range of fiction and non-fiction books on the following pages and pass the word on. Also, please write a positive review if you are able.

### Christian Non-fiction

Four short books of help in the Christian life:

So, What Is a Christian? An introduction to a personal faith. Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-2-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-2-6

Starting Out \-- help for new Christians of all ages. Paperback ISBN 978-1-4839-622-0-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-0-2

Help! \-- Explores some problems we can encounter with our faith. Paperback ISBN 978-0-9927642-2-7, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-1-9

Running Through the Bible \-- a simple understanding of what's in the Bible \-- Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-6-5, eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-3-3

### Be Still

Bible Words of Peace and Comfort

There may come a time in our lives when we want to concentrate on God's many promises of peace and comfort. The Bible readings in this book are for people who need to know what it means to be held securely in the Lord's loving arms.

Rather than selecting single verses here and there, each reading in this book is a run of several verses. This gives a much better picture of the whole passage in which a favourite verse may be found.

As well as being for personal use, these readings are intended for sharing with anyone in special need, to help them draw comfort from the reading and prayer for that date. Bible reading and prayer are the two most important ways of getting to know and trust Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour.

The reference to the verses for the day are given, for you to look up and read in your preferred Bible translation.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

116 pages 5x7.8 inches

e-Book ISBN: 978-0-9933941-4-0

A Previously Unpublished Book

The Simplicity of the Incarnation

J Stafford Wright

Foreword by J I Packer

"I believe in ... Jesus Christ ... born of the Virgin Mary." A beautiful stained glass image, or a medical reality? This is the choice facing Christians today. Can we truly believe that two thousand years ago a young woman, a virgin named Mary, gave birth to the Son of God? The answer is simple: we can.

The author says, "In these days many Christians want some sensible assurance that their faith makes sense, and in this book I want to show that it does."

In this uplifting book from a previously unpublished and recently discovered manuscript, J Stafford Wright investigates the reality of the incarnation, looks at the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, and helps the reader understand more of the Trinity and the certainty of eternal life in heaven.

This book was written shortly before the author's death in 1985. The Simplicity of the Incarnation is published for the first time, unedited, from his final draft.

Paperback ISBN: 9-780-9525-9563-2

160 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-5-7

### Bible People Real People

An Unforgettable A-Z of Who is Who in the Bible

In a fascinating look at real people, J Stafford Wright shows his love and scholarly knowledge of the Bible as he brings the characters from its pages to life in a memorable way.

Read this book through from A to Z, like any other title

Dip in and discover who was who in personal Bible study

Check the names when preparing a talk or sermon

The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly – no one is spared. This is a book for everyone who wants to get to grips with the reality that is in the pages of the Bible, the Word of God.

With the names arranged in alphabetical order, the Old and New Testament characters are clearly identified so that the reader is able to explore either the Old or New Testament people on the first reading, and the other Testament on the second.

Those wanting to become more familiar with the Bible will find this is a great introduction to the people inhabiting the best selling book in the world, and those who can quote chapter and verse will find everyone suddenly becomes much more real – because these people are real. This is a book to keep handy and refer to frequently while reading the Bible.

"For students of my generation the name Stafford Wright was associated with the spiritual giants of his generation. Scholarship and integrity were the hallmarks of his biblical teaching. He taught us the faith and inspired our discipleship of Christ. To God be the Glory." The Rt. Rev. James Jones, Bishop of Liverpool

This is a lively, well-informed study of some great Bible characters. Professor Gordon Wenham MA PhD. Tutor in Old Testament at Trinity College Bristol and Emeritus Professor of Old Testament at the University of Gloucestershire.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-5-6

314 pages 6x9 inches

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

Note: This book is not available in all eBook formats

**Christians and the Supernatural**

J Stafford Wright

There is an increasing interest and fascination in the paranormal today. To counteract this, it is important for Christians to have a good understanding of how God sometimes acts in mysterious ways, and be able to recognize how he can use our untapped gifts and abilities in his service. We also need to understand how the enemy can tempt us to misuse these gifts and abilities, just as Jesus was tempted in the wilderness.

In this single volume of his two previously published books on the occult and the supernatural (Understanding the Supernatural and Our Mysterious God) J Stafford Wright examines some of the mysterious events we find in the Bible and in our own lives. Far from dismissing the recorded biblical miracles as folk tales, he is convinced that they happened in the way described, and explains why we can accept them as credible.

The writer says: When God the Holy Spirit dwells within the human spirit, he uses the mental and physical abilities which make up a total human being . . . The whole purpose of this book is to show that the Bible does make sense.

And this warning: The Bible, claiming to speak as the revelation of God, and knowing man's weakness for substitute religious experiences, bans those avenues into the occult that at the very least are blind alleys that obscure the way to God, and at worst are roads to destruction.

Paperback ISBN 13: 9-780-9525-9564-9

222 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-4-0

Howell Harris

His Own Story

Foreword by J. Stafford Wright

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-9-5

Howell Harris was brought up to regard the Nonconformists as "a perverted and dangerously erroneous set of people." Hardly a promising start for a man who was to play a major role in the Welsh Revival. Yet in these extracts from his writings and diaries we can read the thoughts of Howell Harris before, during and after his own conversion.

We can see God breaking through the barriers separating "church and chapel", and discover Christians of different denominations preparing the country for revival. Wesley, Whitefield, Harris. These great 18th century preachers worked both independently and together to preach the Living Gospel. This book is a vivid first-hand account of the joys, hardships and struggles of one of these men -- Howell Harris (1714-1773).

From the Streets of London

to the Streets of Gold

The Life Story of

Brother Clifford Edwards

A True Story of Love

by

Brother Clifford Edwards

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

(A printed copy is available directly from Brother Clifford)

This is the personal story of Clifford Edwards, affectionately known as Brother Clifford by his many friends. Going from fame to poverty, he was sleeping on the streets of London with the homeless for twenty years, until Jesus rescued him and gave him an amazing mission in life. Brother Clifford tells his true story here in the third person, giving the glory to Jesus.

English Hexapla

The Gospel of John

(Paperback only)

Published to coincide with the 400th anniversary of the Authorized King James Version of the Bible, this book contains the full text of Bagster's assembled work for the Gospel of John. On each page in parallel columns are the words of the six most important translations of the New Testament into English, made between 1380 and 1611. Below the English is the original Greek text after Scholz.

To enhance the reading experience, there is an introduction telling how we got our English Bibles, with significant pages from early Bibles shown at the end of the book.

Here is an opportunity to read English that once split the Church by giving ordinary people the power to discover God's word for themselves. Now you can step back in time and discover those words and spellings for yourself, as they first appeared hundreds of years ago.

Wyclif 1380, Tyndale 1534, Cranmer 1539, Geneva 1557,

Douay Rheims 1582, Authorized (KJV) 1611.

English Hexapla -- The Gospel of John

Published by White Tree Publishing

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-1-8

Size 7.5 x 9.7 inches paperback

Not available as an eBook

Roddy Goes to Church

Church Life and Church People

Derek Osborne

No, not a children's book! An affectionate, optimistic look at church life involving, as it happens, Roddy and his friends who live in a small town. Problems and opportunities related to change and outreach are not, of course, unique to their church!

Maybe you know Miss Prickly-Cat who pointedly sits in the same pew occupied by generations of her forebears, and perhaps know many of the characters in this look at church life today. A wordy Archdeacon comes on the scene, and Roddy is taken aback by the events following his first visit to church. Roddy's best friend Bushy-Beard says wise things, and he hears an enlightened Bishop . . .

Bishop David Pytches writes: A unique spoof on church life. Will you recognise yourself and your church here? ... Derek Osborne's mind here is insightful, his characters graphic and typical and the style acutely comical, but there is a serious message in his madness. Buy this, read it and enjoy!

David Pytches, Chorleywood

Paperback ISBN: 978-09927642-0-3

46 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches paperback UK £3.95

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

eBook coming late 2015

### Heaven Our Home

William Branks

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

e-Book only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

"I go to prepare a place for you." This well-known promise from Jesus must cause us to think about the reality of heaven. Heaven is to be our home for ever. Where is heaven? What is it like? Will I recognize people there? All who are Christians must surely want to hear about the place where they are to spend eternity. In this abridged edition of William Branks classic work of 1861, we discover what the Bible has to say about heaven. There may be a few surprises, and there are certainly some challenges as we explore a subject on which there seems to be little teaching and awareness today.

I See Men As Trees, Walking

Roger and Janet Niblett

Roger and Janet Niblett were just an ordinary English couple, but then they met the Lord and their lives were totally transformed. Like the Bethlehem shepherds of old, they had a compulsion to share the same good news that Jesus Christ had come into the world to save sinners. Empowered by the Holy Spirit they proclaimed the gospel in the market place, streets, prisons, hospitals and churches with a vibrancy that only comes from being in direct touch with the Almighty and being readily available to serve Him as a channel of His grace and love. God was with them and blessed their ministry abundantly. Praise God! (Pastor Mervyn Douglas, Clevedon Family Church)

The story of Roger Niblett is an inspiration to all who serve the Lord. He was a prolific street evangelist, whose impact on the gospel scene was a wonder to behold. It was my privilege to witness his conversion, when he went forward to receive Christ at the Elim Church, Keynsham. The preacher was fiery Scottish evangelist Rev'd Alex Tee. It was not long before Roger too caught that same soul winner's fire which propelled him far and wide, winning multitudes for Christ. Together with his wife Janet, they proceeded to "Tell the World of Jesus". (Des Morton, Founder Minister of Keynsham Elim Church)

I know of no couple who have been more committed to sharing their faith from the earliest days of their journey with the Lord Jesus Christ. Along the way, at home and abroad, and with a tender heart for the marginalised, Rog and Jan have introduced multitudes to the Saviour and have inspired successive generations of believers to do the same. It was our joy and privilege to have them as part of the family at Trinity where Janet continues to serve in worship and witness. Loved by young and old alike, they will always have a special place in our hearts. (Andy Paget, Trinity Tabernacle, Bristol. Vice President, International Gospel Outreach)

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-1-0

Also available as a paperback

(published by Gozo Publishing Bristol)

paperback ISBN: 978-1508674979
eBook coming April/May 2016

### Leaves from

### My Notebook

New Abridged Edition 2016

William Haslam

(1818-1905)

You may have heard of the clergyman who was converted while preaching his own sermon! Well, this is man -- William Haslam. It happened in Cornwall one Sunday in 1851. He later wrote his autobiography in two books: From Death into Life and Yet not I. Here, in Leaves from my Notebook, William Haslam writes about events and people not present in his autobiography. They make fascinating and challenging reading as we watch him sharing his faith one to one or in small groups, with dramatic results. Haslam was a man who mixed easily with titled gentry and the poorest of the poor, bringing the message of salvation in a way that people were ready to accept. This book has been lightly edited and abridged to make reading easier today by using modern punctuation and avoiding over-long sentences. William Haslam's amazing message is unchanged.

Original book first published 1889

e-Book only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-2-7

eBook coming 2016

Blunt's Scriptural Coincidences

Gospels and Acts

J. J. Blunt

New Edition

This book will confirm (or restore) your faith in the Gospel records. Clearly the Gospels were not invented. There is too much unintentional agreement between them for this to be so. Undesigned coincidences are where writers tell the same account, but from a different viewpoint. Without conspiring together to get their accounts in agreement, they include unexpected (and often unnoticed) details that corroborate their records. Not only are these unexpected coincidences found within the Gospels, but sometimes an historical writer unknowingly and unintentionally confirms the Bible record. J. J. Blunt spent many years investigating these coincidences. And here they are, as found in the four Gospels and Acts.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-5-8

First published in instalments between 1833 and 1847

The edition used here published in 1876

eBook coming 2016

Fullness of Power

How to Obtain

Fullness of Power in

Christian Life and Service

R. A. Torrey

White Tree Publishing Edition

From many earnest hearts there is rising a cry for more power: more power in our personal conflict with the world, the flesh, and the devil, more power in our work for others. The Bible makes the way to obtain this longed for power very plain. There is no presumption in undertaking to tell "How to obtain Fullness of Power in Christian Life and Service"; for the Bible itself tells, and the Bible was intended to be understood. The Bible statement of the way is not mystical nor mysterious, it is very plain and straightforward. If we will only make personal trial of "The Power of the Word of God," "The Power of the Blood of Christ," "The Power of the Holy Spirit," "The Power of Prayer," "The Power of a Surrendered Life," we will then know "The Fullness of Power in Christian Life and Service." We will try to make this plain in the following chapters. (Foreword by W. A. Torrey to the original edition that is just as relevant today as it was then.)

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-8-9

The edition used here published in 1903
eBook coming 2016

Gospels and Acts

Charles Foster

White Tree Publishing Edition

# In 1873 Charles Foster published his much acclaimed paraphrase of the whole Bible, adding his simple explanations of various events along the way. It had the rather misleading title of The Story of the Bible which implied it was the history of how we got our Bible. Charles Foster made a single account from the four Gospels -- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John -- combining the four Gospels relating Jesus' birth, life, death and resurrection into one continuous narrative. For this edition, White Tree Publishing has taken just the Gospels and Acts from the original, and updated thee and thou to you and your etc, bringing the work inline with modern practice. Some of the traditional wording has been left alone, but we have added speech marks and more modern punctuation, while making no changes to the Bible message. Included in this White Tree Publishing e-Book is Foster's account of the period between the Old and New Testaments, and his brief summary of the Epistles and Revelation. For readers unfamiliar with the New Testament, this book makes a valuable introduction, and it will surely help those familiar with the New Testament to gain extra knowledge and understanding as they read it. Please note that this is not a translation of the Bible, it is a paraphrase.

eBook only

e-Book ISBN: 978-0-9935005-9-6

### Christian Fiction

The Lost Clue

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

With modern line drawings

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

Living the life of a wealthy man, Kenneth Fortescue receives devastating news from his father. But he is only able to learn incomplete facts about his past, because a name has been obliterated from a very important letter. Two women are vying for Kenneth's attention -- Lady Violet, the young daughter of Lady Earlswood, and Marjorie Douglas, the daughter of a widowed parson's wife.

Written in 1905 by the much-loved author Mrs. O. F. Walton, this edition has been lightly abridged and edited to make it easier to read and understand today. This romantic mystery story gives an intriguing glimpse into the class extremes that existed in Edwardian England, with wealthy titled families on one side, and some families living in terrible poverty on the other.

Doctor Forester

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

with modern line drawings

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

Doctor Forester, a medical man only twenty-five years old, has come to a lonely part of Wales to escape from an event in his recent past that has caused him much hurt. So he has more on his mind than worrying about strange noises behind his bedroom wall in the old castle where he is staying.

A young woman who shares part of the journey with him is staying in the same village. He is deeply attracted to her, and believes that she is equally attracted to him. But he soon has every reason to think that his old school friend Jack is also courting her.

Written and taking place in the early 1900s, this romantic mystery is a mix of excitement and heartbreak. What is the secret of Hildick Castle? And can Doctor Forester rid himself of the past that now haunts his life?

Mrs. O. F. Walton was a prolific writer in the late 1800s, and this abridged edition captures all of the original writer's insight into what makes a memorable story. With occasional modern line drawings.

* * *

Ghosts of the past kept flitting through his brain. Dark shadows which he tried to chase away seemed to pursue him. Here these ghosts were to be laid; here those shadows were to be dispelled; here that closed chapter was to be buried for ever. So he fought long and hard with the phantoms of the past until the assertive clock near his bedroom door announced that it was two o'clock.

Was I Right?

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Victorian Romance

With modern line drawings

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

May Lindsay and her young stepsister Maggie are left penniless and homeless when their father the local doctor dies. Maggie can go to live with her three maiden aunts, but May at the age of nineteen is faced with a choice. Should she take the position of companion to a girl she doesn't know, who lives some distance away, or accept a proposal of marriage from the man who has been her friend since they were small children?

May Lindsay makes her decision, but it is not long before she wonders if she has done the right thing. This is a story of life in Victorian England as May, who has led a sheltered life, is pushed out into a much bigger world than she has previously known. She soon encounters titled families, and is taken on a tour of the Holy Land which occupies much of the story.

Two men seem to be a big disappointment to May Lindsay. Will her Christian faith hold strong in these troubles? Was she right in the decision she made before leaving home?

Mrs. O. F. Walton was a prolific writer in the late 1800s, and this abridged edition captures all of the original writer's insight into what makes a memorable story. With occasional modern line drawings.

In His Steps

Charles M. Sheldon

Abridged Edition

This new abridged edition of a classic story that has sold over an estimated 30 million copies, contains Charles Sheldon's original writing, with some passages sensitively abridged to allow his powerful story to come through for today's readers. Nothing in the storyline has been changed.

A homeless man staggers into a wealthy church and upsets the congregation. A week later he is dead. This causes the Rev. Henry Maxwell to issue a startling challenge to his congregation and to himself -- whatever you do in life over the next twelve months, ask yourself this question before making any decision: "What would Jesus do?"

The local newspaper editor, a novelist, a wealthy young woman who has inherited a million dollars, her friend who has been offered a professional singing career, the superintendent of the railroad workshops, a leading city merchant and others take up the challenge. But how will it all work out when things don't go as expected?

A bishop gives up his comfortable lifestyle \-- and finds his life threatened in the city slums. The story is timeless. A great read, and a challenge to every Christian today.

Also available in paperback 254 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-19350791-8-7

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9927642-9-6

A Previously Unpublished Book

Locked Door Shuttered Windows

A Novel by J Stafford Wright

What is inside the fascinating house with the locked door and the shuttered windows? Satan wants an experiment. God allows it. John is caught up in the plan as Satan's human representative. The experiment? To demonstrate that there can be peace in the world if God allows Satan to run things in his own way. A group of people gather together in an idyllic village run by Satan, with no reference to God, and no belief in him.

J Stafford Wright has written this startling and gripping account of what happens when God stands back and Satan steps forward. All seems to go well for the people who volunteer to take part. And no Christians allowed!

John Longstone lost his faith when teaching at a theological college. Lost it for good -- or so he thinks. And then he meets Kathleen who never had a faith. As the holes start to appear in Satan's scheme for peace, they wonder if they should help or hinder the plans which seem to have so many benefits for humanity.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-4-1

206 pages 5.25 x 8.0 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-3-3

Silverbeach Manor

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

Pansy is an orphan who is cared for by her aunt, Temperance Piper, who keeps the village post office and store. One day Pansy meets wealthy Mrs. Adair who offers to take her under her wing and give her a life of wealth in high society that she could never dream of, on condition Pansy never revisits her past life. When they first meet, Mrs. Adair says about Pansy's clothes, "The style is a little out of date, but it is good enough for the country. I should like to see you in a really well-made dress. It would be quite a new sensation for you, if you really belong to these wilds. I have a crimson and gold tea gown that would suit you delightfully, and make you quite a treasure for an artist." This is a story of rags to riches to ... well, to a life where nothing is straightforward. First published in 1891.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-4-1

eBook coming 2016

Gildas Haven

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

For several years in the peaceful village of Meadthorpe, the church and the chapel existed in an uneasy peace while the rector and the chapel minister were distracted by poor health. When a young curate arrives at St Simeon's, he brings with him high church ritual and ways of worship. Gildas Haven, the daughter of the chapel minister is furious. The curate insists that his Church ways are right, and Gildas who has only known chapel worship says the opposite.

Battle lines are quickly drawn by leaders and congregations. Mary Haycraft writes with light humour and surprising insight in what could be a controversial story line. With at least one major surprise, the author seems to be digging an impossible hole for herself as the story progresses. The ending of this sensitively told romance is likely to come as a surprise.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-7-2
eBook coming 2016

Amaranth's Garden

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

"It seems, Miss, Mr. Glyn drew out that money yesterday, and took it all out in gold. The Rector happened to be in the Bank at the time, but was on his way to town, and could not stop to talk to your father just then, though he wondered to hear him say he had come to draw out everything, as treasurer of the fund." Amaranth Glyn's comfortable life comes to an end when the church funds disappear. Her father, the church treasurer who drew out the money, is also missing, to be followed shortly by her mother. The disgrace this brings on the family means Amaranth's marriage plans are cancelled. Amaranth is a competent artist and moves away with her young brother to try to earn a living. There are rumours that her parents are in France and even in Peru. Living with her sick brother, Amaranth wants life to be as it was before the financial scandal forced her to leave her family home and the garden she loved.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-6-5

### Books for Younger Readers

(and older readers too!)

Mary Jones and Her Bible

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

The true story of Mary Jones's and her Bible

with a clear Christian message and optional puzzles

(Some are easy, some tricky, and some amusing)

Mary Jones saved for six years to buy a Bible of her own. In 1800, when she was 15, she thought she had saved enough, so she walked barefoot for 26 miles (more than 40km) over a mountain pass and through deep valleys in Wales to get one. That's when she discovered there were none for sale!

You can travel with Mary Jones today in this book by following clues, or just reading the story. Either way, you will get to Bala where Mary went, and if you're really quick you may be able to discover a Bible just like Mary's in the market!

The true story of Mary Jones has captured the imagination for more than 200 years. For this book, Chris Wright has looked into the old records and discovered even more of the story, which is now in this unforgettable account of Mary Jones and her Bible. Solving puzzles is part of the fun, but the whole story is in here to read and enjoy whether you try the puzzles or not. Just turn the page, and the adventure continues. It's time to get on the trail of Mary Jones!

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9525956-2-5

5.5 x 8.5 inches

156 pages of story, photographs, line drawings and puzzles

eBook ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-9933941-5-7

Pilgrim's Progress

An Adventure Book

Chris Wright

Travel with young Christian as he sets out on a difficult and perilous journey to find the King. Solve the puzzles and riddles along the way, and help Christian reach the Celestial City. Then travel with his friend Christiana. She has four young brothers who can sometimes be a bit of a problem.

Be warned, you will meet giants and lions -- and even dragons! There are people who don't want Christian and Christiana to reach the city of the King and his Son. But not everyone is an enemy. There are plenty of friendly people. It's just a matter of finding them.

Are you prepared to help? Are you sure? The journey can be very dangerous! As with our book Mary Jones and Her Bible, you can enjoy the story even if you don't want to try the puzzles.

This is a simplified and abridged version of Pilgrim's Progress -- Special Edition, containing illustrations and a mix of puzzles. The suggested reading age is up to perhaps ten. Older readers will find the same story told in much greater detail in Pilgrim's Progress -- Special Edition on the next page.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-6-3

5.5 x 8.5 inches 174 pages £6.95

Available from major internet stores

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9933941-6-4

Pilgrim's Progress

Special Edition

Chris Wright

This book for all ages is a great choice for young readers, as well as for families, Sunday school teachers, and anyone who wants to read John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress in a clear form.

All the old favourites are here: Christian, Christiana, the Wicket Gate, Interpreter, Hill Difficulty with the lions, the four sisters at the House Beautiful, Vanity Fair, Giant Despair, Faithful and Talkative -- and, of course, Greatheart. The list is almost endless.

The first part of the story is told by Christian himself, as he leaves the City of Destruction to reach the Celestial City, and becomes trapped in the Slough of Despond near the Wicket Gate. On his journey he will encounter lions, giants, and a creature called the Destroyer.

Christiana follows along later, and tells her own story in the second part. Not only does Christiana have to cope with her four young brothers, she worries about whether her clothes are good enough for meeting the King. Will she find the dangers in Vanity Fair that Christian found? Will she be caught by Giant Despair and imprisoned in Doubting Castle? What about the dragon with seven heads?

It's a dangerous journey, but Christian and Christiana both know that the King's Son is with them, helping them through the most difficult parts until they reach the Land of Beulah, and see the Celestial City on the other side of the Dark River. This is a story you will remember for ever, and it's about a journey you can make for yourself.

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-8-8

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-7-0

5.5 x 8.5 inches 278 pages

Available from major internet stores

Zephan and the Vision

Chris Wright

An exciting story about the adventures of two angels who seem to know almost nothing -- until they have a vision!

Two ordinary angels are caring for the distant Planet Eltor, and they are about to get a big shock -- they are due to take a trip to Planet Earth! This is Zephan's story of the vision he is given before being allowed to travel with Talora, his companion angel, to help two young people fight against the enemy.

Arriving on Earth, they discover that everyone lives in a small castle. Some castles are strong and built in good positions, while others appear weak and open to attack. But it seems that the best-looking castles are not always the most secure.

Meet Castle Nadia and Castle Max, the two castles that Zephan and Talora have to defend. And meet the nasty creatures who have built shelters for themselves around the back of these castles. And worst of all, meet the shadow angels who live in a cave on Shadow Hill. This is a story about the forces of good and the forces of evil. Who will win the battle for Castle Nadia?

The events in this story are based very loosely on John Bunyan's allegory The Holy War.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-9-4

5.5 x 8.5 inches 216 pages

Available from major internet stores

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-6-4

Agathos, The Rocky Island,

And Other Stories

Chris Wright

Once upon a time there were two favourite books for Sunday reading: Parables from Nature and Agathos and The Rocky Island.

These books contained short stories, usually with a hidden meaning. In this illustrated book is a selection of the very best of these stories, carefully retold to preserve the feel of the originals, coupled with ease of reading and understanding for today's readers.

Discover the king who sent his servants to trade in a foreign city. The butterfly who thought her eggs would hatch into baby butterflies, and the two boys who decided to explore the forbidden land beyond the castle boundary. The spider that kept being blown in the wind, the soldier who had to fight a dragon, the four children who had to find their way through a dark and dangerous forest. These are just six of the nine stories in this collection. Oh, and there's also one about a rocky island!

This is a book for a young person to read alone, a family or parent to read aloud, Sunday school teachers to read to the class, and even for grownups who want to dip into the fascinating stories of the past all by themselves. Can you discover the hidden meanings? You don't have to wait until Sunday before starting!

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-8-7

5.5 x 8.5 inches 148 pages £5.95

Available from major internet stores

E-book ISBN: 978-0-9927642-7-2

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