

ABOUT THIS BOOK

**(30 Chapters, 68,000 words)**

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.

The Lost Clue

Mrs. O. M. Walton

First published 1905

This Abridged Edition ©2015 Chris Wright

Illustrations ©Simon Wright

E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

Also available as e-books from

White Tree Publishing

are abridged editions of

two more Classic Romances

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

(see end of this e-book)

_Was I Right?_ e-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

_Doctor Forester_ e-book ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

and by Charles Sheldon

_In His Steps_ 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 Book

Introduction

Chapter 1: In the Arcade

Chapter 2: A Difficult Position

Chapter 3: Captain Fortescue's Promise

Chapter 4: A Troubled Night

Chapter 5: The Safe Opened

Chapter 6: The Two Envelopes

Chapter 7: A Walk Through Borrowdale

Chapter 8: Honister Crag

Chapter 9: A Finished Chapter

Chapter 10: Goodbye

Chapter 11: Daisy Bank

Chapter 12: A Walk

Chapter 13: Black Country Roses

Chapter 14: Mother Hotchkiss

Chapter 15: The Old Oak Cupboard

Chapter 16: 156, Lime Street

Chapter 17: The Blotted Word

Chapter 18: A Strange Letter

Chapter 19: Words to be Remembered

Chapter 20: Grantley Castle

Chapter 21: The Photo of a Friend

Chapter 22: Lord Kenmore

Chapter 23: Mr. Northcourt's Opinion

Chapter 24: A Most Charming Girl

Chapter 25: The Picture Gallery

Chapter 26: Waiting for the Answer

Chapter 27: A Christmas Journey

Chapter 28: Another Chapter Closed

Chapter 29: Watendlath Forget-Me-Not

Chapter 30: The Missing Word Found

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#  Introduction

This romantic mystery for adults is by Mrs. O. F. Walton, the well-known author of children's books such as _A Peep Behind the Scenes_ and _Christie's Old Organ_. It has been lightly abridged for this edition to help the story flow more smoothly. The storyline remains unchanged.

The wife of a clergyman, Mrs. Walton and her husband lived for some years in Wolverhampton, a few miles north of Daisy Bank described in detail here. Many of the descriptions must come from Mrs. Walton's own familiarity with the area. The railway cutting at Daisy Bank is still there today. Enter "Daisy Street, Bilston, Staffordshire" into Google Maps, and on the satellite image the path of the old railway line can be seen coming in from the north at the junction of Daisy Street, Ash Street and Rounds Road. The station used to be just across the road. The neighbourhood is now a mixed residential and industrial area.

In some people's eyes, Mrs. Walton is only connected with mawkish stories like _Little Dot_ , where a young girl wanders around a graveyard, watching funerals and cheerfully facing an early death. _The Lost Clue_ is one of Mrs. Walton's later works, and readers can be assured that no children were harmed in the writing of this book!

This story was written and takes place around 1905, a time of social extremes, when some people were enormously rich and influential but many were living in unbelievable poverty. The formal way in which people addressed each other in those days, even within the same social stratum, is accurately portrayed here. More importantly, inside these pages we get a glimpse of both sides of the rigid class division in England in the Edwardian era (1901-1910). And it _was_ a division.

There is a Victorian hymn that we still sing today: _All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small._ We go on to sing about purple headed mountains, little flowers opening, and the pleasant summer sun. It's a much-loved hymn, but there's a verse in the original that I can remember singing as a child in a country church that goes: _The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate._

In other words, the verse seems to teach that God made us to be either rich or poor, so it is how we are meant to remain. I suppose it made the rich feel less guilty about their way of life, and the poor were told that they must stay in their place and not cause trouble. I can't imagine anyone singing that verse today, and I doubt if it is included in any recent book of hymns.

Two world wars helped break down the gulf between these class extremes, due in large part to so many young men going to war and either never returning, or returning to other work. Of course, not all the wealthy exploited the poor, and not all the poor lived in squalor. In Britain, Quakers like the Fry, Cadbury and Rowntree families, who made their fortunes through chocolate, saw their wealth as a way of helping the needy. They built good housing, schools, libraries, shops and churches for their workers, and were certainly not alone in doing this.

Many families of all social standing kept servants, cooks and domestic helpers. Although this can seem exploitive to us today, the system provided employment, food and shelter. We must remember that this was a time when there was no state welfare system to provide a safety net. It was the relationship, in both directions, between employer and worker that was so important in Christian witness, just as it is today.

Chris Wright

Editor

Publisher's Note

Although not in the original, Bible quotes have been added in square brackets [thus] to enable the reader to confirm the words, or check them in another version.

There are 30 chapters in this book. In the second half are advertisements for our other books, so this book may end earlier than expected! The last chapter is marked as such. We aim to make our eBooks free or for a nominal cost, and cannot invest in other forms of advertising. However, word of mouth by satisfied readers will also help get our books more widely known. When the book finishes, please take a look at the other books we publish: Christian non-fiction, Christian fiction, and books for younger readers.

#  Chapter 1

### In the Arcade

IT WAS the busiest time of the day at the ever-busy New Street Station in Birmingham, as the London express came thundering in. It had rushed on like some great monster of the deep, flying through air instead of water, puffing, snorting, panting, but never once stopping after leaving London, until it came running triumphantly into Birmingham, having accomplished its journey of over a hundred and twelve miles in the short space of two hours.

As it steamed in, a long line of expectant porters awaited its arrival. As it began to slacken its speed they kept their eyes fixed on the line of first-class carriages, for that way lay tips. There was a dining-saloon on the train, and the first-class part of it was well filled. Most of the passengers were, however, going on further; but one man, with a long kitbag in his hand, came to the carriage door and prepared to alight from the train.

The porters made a rush in his direction, eager to relieve him from his burden. The man selected one of the group and handed him the bag.

"Where for, sir?"

"The Midland train north. Which platform will it be?"

"Number 5, sir."

The man thought for a moment. "Let me see; it starts at 5:30. An hour to wait, I believe."

"Not quite, sir. You're a bit late. It isn't often the express loses a minute, but she's five minutes late today."

The traveller took out his watch to compare it with the great station clock, and then followed the porter up the steps to the bridge. On platform 5 he dismissed the man, who departed with a satisfied expression as he pocketed double the sum which he had expected to receive.

For some minutes the young man of twenty-five paced the platform restlessly. The shriek of an approaching train, the rattle of a departing one, the rumble of the porters' trucks, the shouting of the newspaper boys, the ceaseless rush of people in all directions; all these distractions tired him, for he had much on his mind.

He was accustomed to London streets and London stations, which were often louder than this. He did not mind noise at other times. He resolved to leave the station and take a walk in the city until it was time for his train. He left his bag at the Midland Luggage Office, climbed the long flight of steps, and made his way to the street beyond.

As he did so, more than one person turned to look at him. He was a man who, even in a crowd, attracted attention. Tall and well built, he was every inch a soldier. But it was not that which caused the passers-by to notice him, and look after him as he walked on. It was not so much his upright figure as his extremely striking face, with its refined features, which made him a marked man. His dark hair, hazel eyes, long eyelashes, aquiline nose, and short upper lip gave him a decidedly aristocratic appearance, which could not fail to strike the most casual observer.

He turned into Corporation Street. The shop windows were all lit up. It was December, and dark at half-past four. The street was crowded, for it was close on Christmas, with people gazing into the brilliantly illuminated windows.

A row of flower sellers stood in the road at the edge of the pavement, and he stopped to buy a bunch of violets from a girl who looked tired and cold. He did not want the violets, but he was touched by her face, and he gave her three times the price that she asked for them.

Then he turned into the Arcade, which was a blaze of electric light. All the shops were displaying choice and attractive articles suitable for Christmas presents. In a niche in the wall, near one of the toy shops, an old man stood on a pedestal. He was dressed in red cloth, trimmed with swans-down, with long white hair and beard, and a cocked hat on his head. He was supposed to represent Father Christmas, and he too looked cold and tired as he stood motionless as a waxwork figure, taking no notice of the busy scene around him.

A group of children had gathered at the foot of the pedestal, looking up into his face with admiring glances, hoping to beguile him to fill their stockings on Christmas Eve with all the things their hearts desired.

On the right-hand side of the Arcade were several jewellers' shops, a glittering mass of beauty. Tiny electric lamps illuminated the countless sparkling and costly articles exposed for sale, and made them even more bewitching and tempting than they would appear by daylight. The door of one of these shops opened just as he passed it, and a young lady, stylishly dressed, came out of it. She caught sight of him immediately, and put out her hand as she exclaimed, in a surprised voice,

"Captain Fortescue."

"Lady Violet, I never dreamed of seeing you. What are you doing in Birmingham?"

"We're staying with the De Courcys, only six miles out, and we've come in to do a little Christmas shopping as we shan't have much time after we get home. Isn't it strange we should meet?"

Kenneth Fortescue tried to conceal his surprise at seeing this aristocratic young lady, whom he knew well, here at the crowded shops.

She smiled at him warmly. "Why, we haven't seen you since that time in the Riviera. Come and speak to mother. She is in this shop buying my younger sister Maude a bracelet. Mother promised her one for Christmas, and she thought Maude had better choose it herself. But she can't make up her mind, and I was coming outside to look at one we saw in the window. Come in, and give us your advice."

Captain Fortescue followed Lady Violet into the jeweller's and saw her mother and sister standing at the counter which was covered with bracelets of every variety, all of them sparkling with jewels exceedingly beautiful and costly.

"Mother, whom _do_ you think I found in the Arcade? Look here."

The elder lady turned round. "Captain Fortescue, is it possible? I'm delighted to see you again. We haven't seen you for months. Where are you stationed now?"

"I'm at Aldershot at present, Lady Earlswood, but we're likely to be moved soon. I wrote to your son Berington, but he hasn't answered my letter."

"Naughty boy. He's a shockingly bad letter writer. He always was. But what are you doing in Birmingham?"

"I'm only passing through," said the captain, looking at his watch. "I'm going on by the five-thirty, Lady Earlswood."

"How lucky we just met you. Now you _must_ come and see us soon. We're having a large house party for Christmas. Are you able to join us? Berington will be at home."

"Yes, do come," said Lady Violet. "It will be like having those wonderful days in the Riviera back again, and I want you to see the photos I took then. They have come out splendidly."

Captain Fortescue smiled. "I should like to come, but I'm afraid it is impossible."

"Is it really quite impossible?" asked Lady Earlswood. "Do try to arrange it."

"I'm afraid I shall not be able to do so. You see, my father appears to be in some sort of difficulty -- in fact, I am going there to see him now. I had a letter from him yesterday morning, written apparently in good spirits, and then today I had a wire begging me to go at once. If he is ill and needs me, of course whatever leave I get I must spend with him."

"Yes, of course, but it may not be that," said Lady Earlswood. "He may want to see you for some other reason. If so, do let me know. Just send me a line or a wire with the one word 'Coming.' That will be quite enough."

"Thank you, Lady Earlswood, I shall certainly not forget. Now I must leave Lady Maude to choose her bracelet and hurry back to New Street."

"Must you really? Can't you have tea with us at Fletcher's? We are going there in a minute or two."

The captain looked at his watch again. "I'm afraid not. I shall miss my train if I do."

He said goodbye to them, and walked quickly down the Arcade, but young Lady Violet came to the door again to look at another bracelet in the window -- at least, so she said; but her eyes, when she got outside, were certainly not turned in the direction of the brightly lit shop window.

"How little they know," Captain Fortescue said to himself as he went down the crowded steps to Platform 5. "I sometimes think I ought to tell them that I am not one of their standing in society."

#  Chapter 2

### A Difficult Position

KENNETH FORTESCUE was in good time for his train, and secured a corner seat in the carriage. He had bought a book at the stall and opened it when the train started, but he read only a few pages. He was wondering why his father had sent for him so urgently.

When he was last at home he had thought his father was aged and altered, and therefore he had suspected that illness was the reason of his summons. The letter received yesterday contained no hint of his father feeling indisposed at the time of writing it. So why this sudden call to return home at once?

His father was a man who had "risen," as people were accustomed to say when they spoke of him. And yet he had _not_ risen. Certainly his position in life was altered, for instead of being a miner, obliged to work hard for his daily bread, he had been able to buy a large house, with servants. How this had been accomplished, even his son had not the remotest idea.

His father was exactly the same uneducated man that he had been in his days of hard work and poverty. He could barely read or write, and he never made the slightest effort to improve in either. He cared for little but eating and drinking. He domineered over his servants and dependants at one moment, and spoiled them the next. He was lavish in his expenditure at times, and at other times would haggle over a halfpenny. He had not even learned to speak good English.

No one realized all this more than Kenneth Fortescue, yet it gave him a pang even to harbour the thought of it for a moment, for his father had been good to him in many ways. He had shouted at him and blustered at him from his youth up, but he had never begrudged him anything. He had lavished money in the most generous way on his son's education. When he was seven years old his father had sent him to the most expensive preparatory school that could be found. From thence he had gone to Eton, and in due course had passed into Sandhurst. No nobleman's son had ever had more spent on him. The best coaching that London could produce had been his; he had been given every opportunity, every possible advantage.

Kenneth Fortescue had been gazetted to a cavalry regiment, and his pay consequently was far from adequate for his expenses; but no money that he needed was withheld from him. A handsome allowance was supplemented by numerous checks to supply the wherewithal for various outgoings in the way of travelling or pleasure.

The Honourable Evelyn Berington, Lady Earlswood's younger son, his friend throughout the whole of his Sandhurst course, had far less money to spend than he had. This made Kenneth Fortescue feel that, whatever his father might be, and however much his lack of refinement might jar on him, it was his bounden duty to give him the affection and respect due from a loyal and grateful son. Besides which, Kenneth Fortescue was a man with a deep Christian faith. He knew the requirements of the Fifth Commandment. He knew that, so far as it was possible for him to honour his father, that honour must be readily and cheerfully given.

He felt deeply grateful to his father for all that he had done for him in the past, and yet now he was inclined to think that it had been a terrible mistake. He had been educated out of his proper position in life. His friends and acquaintances were all men moving in an utterly different circle to that of his father. His sympathies and interests and attractions were in a sphere which he could never have any right to enter. He knew that if Lady Earlswood saw his father, she would never have dreamed for a moment of inviting him to her Christmas house party, or of reckoning him among her friends.

Captain Fortescue felt like a walking impostor. There had been times when he felt it his duty to tell his friend Lady Violet and her mother Lady Earlswood the truth, and had once been on the verge of doing so. As they had walked together in the Riviera, under the blue Mediterranean sky, he had more than once been on the point of blurting out the fact that he was not of noble birth, but was the son of a man who had once been a working miner.

He had, however, at the last moment withheld from making this disclosure; not so much because he was afraid of what they might think of him, or of how they might treat him, but was it right to publish his father's humble origin to the world?

Thus time had drifted on, and he had moved in the highest circles and had been received into the best society, and no one knew anything of his father beyond the fact that he lived at Ashcliffe Towers, near Sheffield, had a large estate, and was evidently a very wealthy man.

When, two hours later, the train entered the large Sheffield Station, he called a hansom cab and was soon going rapidly through the busy streets and out towards the country beyond. As he went he wondered again what he would find at his journey's end, and whether his father would come out as usual to welcome him on his arrival.

After about half an hour's drive, the cab turned in at the lodge gate, and he could see, through the fir trees in the avenue, the lights in the windows of his home.

The old butler came to the door in answer to the cabman's ring. Elkington had lived with his father for years. Mr. Fortescue objected to keeping many servants. They were only a trouble, he said, and he did not care to have a young jackanapes of a footman to stand and watch him when he ate. Elkington had white hair, and his hand trembled as he took the bag from the driver. He did not speak until the man had driven off, and then he said, "I'm glad you've come, sir."

"What's the matter, Elkington? Is my father ill?"

"Very ill, sir," said the old man. "Come into the library, sir. The doctor is upstairs now."

"That bag's too heavy for you, Elkington. Let me take it."

"No, no, sir, I can manage all right. I'm getting a bit short of breath, that's all."

Captain Fortescue insisted on taking the bag himself. "My father has summoned me urgently. I heard from him yesterday. He seemed quite well then."

"Yes, sir, and he was all right yesterday, _and_ when he got up this morning. He came down to breakfast as usual. He always will have it at eight, you know. Well, he'd just sat down when there come a ring at the front door bell. It's Watson's duty to go to the door when I'm waiting, but she never came down, and just as I was getting the master his bacon the bell rings again. Well, your father shouted and he stormed . . . Beg your pardon, sir, you know how he carries on. You'll forgive me saying it."

"I know, Elkington. Go on."

"So I put the bacon down, sir, and I went myself to see who was there. It was a boy with a telegram. He held out the yellow envelope to me, and he stood waiting while I took it in to the master.

"'What have you got there, Elkington?' he said, and when he saw what it was he turned as white as the tablecloth. 'Take it out of the envelope, Elkington,' he says, 'my hand trembles so.' So I took it out and handed it to him, and he just looked at it one minute, and then he fell back in his chair in a dead faint. The telegram slipped down on the floor under the table. I was that frightened, sir, I didn't know what to do. And then Watson came running in to know what was the matter. She do give herself airs, that housekeeper, sir."

Kenneth Fortescue nodded. He knew exactly what Elkington meant.

"Well, if you'll believe me, sir," the old butler continued, "she swept me aside and she took the master in her charge, and said no one should touch him or do anything for him but herself. I said I would go for the doctor, and she said, no, I shouldn't, and he would be all right presently. By-and-by the telegraph boy comes out of the hall and asks if he's wanted, and is there any answer? So I went out and sent him off, and I ran in the front and told Roger, the garden boy, to fly off for Dr. Cholmondeley."

"And what did Watson say to that?" the captain asked.

"She was glad, sir, for by then we thought your father was dead But the doctor brought him round. It was weakness of the heart, he said, and he was to be kept quiet."

"I'm glad you sent for me, Elkington," Kenneth said.

"It was the master did that, sir. I went in his room to take some hot water, and I heard him say to Watson; 'Send for the captain,' he says. 'No, sir, you keep quiet,' she says. 'You don't want the captain here. You're all right now.' You'd never believe, sir, how that woman lords it over him. Why, none of the rest of us dares to contradict the old gentleman, but ever since she came here she's been worming herself into his favour, and making herself that useful to him he thinks he can't get on without her. But this time she was not going to get her own way. I heard what she said, and I went up to the bed and said, 'Shall I wire for the captain, sir?' and the old gentleman nodded his head, and Watson looked as if she would kill me. She doesn't like you, doesn't Watson, sir."

"I know she doesn't, and I don't like her."

"So I sent off the wire, and I'm glad you've come, sir. You weren't long getting here."

"No, Elkington, but I only just caught the express. Is that the doctor coming down?"

"I believe so, sir. I'll bring him in here."

The next minute the doctor entered. He was a middle-aged man with a quiet, dignified manner which inspired confidence in his patients. "Captain Fortescue, I believe."

"Yes, doctor. I am anxious to hear what you think of my father."

"It's a case of shock," explained the doctor. "Your father received some very bad news, I gather, this morning, and that is a great strain upon a man of his age. The action of the heart is weak -- in fact, it had nearly ceased altogether. He has pulled round a little now, but there may be a relapse at any time."

"Perhaps I had better not see him tonight."

"Under ordinary circumstances I should most certainly have agreed with you, but he is most anxious to see you. He heard the cab stop, and he asked if you had come. Watson advised him to wait a little. Good faithful soul that Watson, I should imagine."

Captain Fortescue did not answer.

"You don't like her?"

"No, I don't, but I really can hardly tell you why. Then you think I had better go up?"

"Yes, if your father insists on seeing you. Did it ever occur to you that he might have some special reason for wishing to see you, something that he wanted particularly to say to you or to ask you?"

"Has he, do you think?"

"I fancy so. I may be wrong, mind you, but I've a good idea that it is something more than mere affection that has made him so anxious for you to arrive. I have been in several times today, and each time your father has asked if the captain has come, and whether I thought he would be able to speak to you when you did come."

"Well, I shall see when I go up," said Captain Fortescue. "I don't know in the least what it could be."

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," said the captain.

A middle-aged woman entered. The housekeeper was short in stature, with sharp features and a receding chin, and was heavily marked by smallpox.

"Has my father sent for me, Watson?" Kenneth Fortescue asked.

Watson shook her head. "No, sir, he does not feel well enough to see you now. He will see you after dinner."

With these words she left the room.

"Better so," said the doctor, as he took leave. "Better for you and better for him."

#  Chapter 3

### Captain Fortescue's Promise

WHEN Dr. Cholmondeley had gone, and while the old butler Elkington was laying the cloth in the dining-room, the captain sat in an armchair by the fire in the library.

How well he knew that room, and how the furniture had appalled him in days gone by. The gaudy amber colored carpet with its huge floral pattern; the tablecloth of velvet plush, but of a different red from that of the carpet; the massive bookcase with its rows of books chosen because of their gilded binding, but with total disregard of their contents; the pictures on the walls selected for the splendour of their frames, but possessing nothing in themselves to charm the artistic eye.

The great mirror in its elaborate gilt setting; the massive coal box with its startling pictorial design; the bright blue curtains in the window embellished with a golden pattern; the ornaments standing on the mantelshelf -- one and all were costly and magnificent indeed, but at the same time utterly lacking in the elements of taste or beauty. These, however, he passed over today, without even giving a single sigh of regret over the large sums of money which had been wasted on them.

But one object in the room he did look at and sigh over, and that was a large picture in a gorgeous gilt frame on the wall, just opposite the chair in which he was sitting. It was the full-length portrait of a woman of about forty, with dark hair, high cheekbones and a red face. She was arrayed in gaudy colors, which harmonized as little with each other as did the colors of the room. It was a heavy face, with no hint of alertness in it.

Captain Fortescue gazed at it. It was the picture of his mother. She had died when he was a few months old, and he often wished that he had never seen her picture. He would have drawn her so differently with the pen of imagination. He would have painted her in such subdued and beautiful colors. He would have made her tall and fair and lovely, with a sweet, gentle face, a graceful figure, and eyes which had a world of tenderness in them. But here was her picture drawn from life. She was his mother, and he must try to think as dutifully of her as he could.

Again he said to himself that his father's generosity to him had been a mistake. It had caused him to have feelings and ideals out of keeping with his position; it had made him even dissatisfied with his own mother.

"Dinner is ready, sir," said Elkington's voice behind him.

"Elkington."

"Yes, sir."

"What became of that telegram?"

"It's here, sir, on the writing table. I put it there myself. I'm afraid it's bad news, sir. You'll excuse my having read it, but it was lying open on the floor."

Captain Fortescue took the pink paper, opened it, and held it close to the light. It contained these words, mine flooded -- all lost -- utter ruin _._

He looked up in surprise. "What does that mean, Elkington? My father never told me any of his business affairs. Had he money in a mining company?"

"I believe so, sir. I'm afraid so. I think he must have lost heavily, and I think, too, he must have already feared bad news this morning. He turned so white as I brought the telegram in."

Kenneth Fortescue did not eat much dinner, and was glad when the last course had been cleared away. "Now, Elkington, see if I can go to my father."

The old butler soon returned with the message that his master would like to see the captain at once. He therefore went up the wide staircase and crossed the landing to his father's room. The door was open, and he could see Watson standing by the bed giving him something from an invalid cup.

"Father, I'm sorry to find you in bed," he said, as he went forward.

"Yes, Ken, I've had a bad turn this time. I'm glad you've come. Watson, you can go and get your supper. Do you hear? And don't come till I ring for you."

Watson put down the cup with a bang, as if she resented being dismissed, and stalked out of the room.

"Has she gone, Ken?"

"Yes, father."

"See if she's shut the door."

No, the door was ajar, but the captain closed it and turned the key in the lock.

"I'm very ill, my boy."

"Dr. Cholmondeley hopes you may feel better soon. I've been talking to him downstairs."

"Look 'ere, Ken, I don't believe in doctors. They only say what they think folks will like to hear. I know better."

"Don't tire yourself, father."

"I must tire myself, Ken. I've got something as I want to say to you. I'm not a-going to put it off, or it may be too late. I got a telegram today."

"Yes, I saw it downstairs. What does it mean?"

"It means I'm ruined, Ken. That's what it means."

" _How_ ruined? In what way?"

"Why, all of my money was in that there mine. Every small farthing of it."

"Surely not _all_."

"It _was,_ Ken. They paid five, ten and even twelve percent sometimes, but it was all a humbugging affair as it turns out. I got a letter only yesterday from a man as I know who has shares in it too, and he told me as how he was a-going to sell out, and I meant to do the same. I should have done it today, but it's too late now. That there wire was from him."

"That is terrible," said the captain.

"Terrible? I should just think it is, Ken. And all your money was there, too."

" _My_ money?"

"Well, yes; money as I had to spend for you. But it's gone along of the rest. I've given you a good eddication, Ken. No one can say as I haven't. I've not stinted you, have I?"

"Never, father, never."

"I've done my best for you, ever since you was a little lad -- a little motherless lad, Ken."

"You have, father, you have."

"And if this mine hadn't gone smash, I should have left you a rich man."

"Never mind about me, father. I'm very sorry for you."

"Well, I'm not long for this world, Ken, so it matters little for me; but I'm glad you've come. I wanted to see you and put matters straight for you for when I'm gone."

"Don't talk like that, Dad" He found himself using his old name for his father from his younger days. "I hope you'll soon be much better."

"Perhaps so, Ken, but perhaps not. Now, listen. When I'm gone, you take this 'ere key, you see it on this bunch, it's the one with a bit of pink string tied round it."

"What key is it for?"

"It's the key of the safe over there, in the corner of my room, just by the cupboard door. Open the safe and you'll see my will. It's not worth the paper it's written on now. Well, underneath the will you'll see an envelope addressed to you."

"To me, father?"

"Yes, Ken. You take that there envelope, and inside of it you'll find some information as you ought to have. Follow it up, Ken, and I hope as it will put you all right."

"What is it about, father? Let me get the paper now."

"No, no, I won't have it opened till I'm gone. Time enough then. Time enough then."

"Shall I take the key?"

"No, no, leave it on the table beside me. I'll have no one meddling with my keys while I'm here to look after them. Put the bunch where I can see it as I lie here. Pass me the drink, Ken, I feel a bit faint."

Captain Fortescue held the cup to his father's lips.

"There, there, that's better, lad. Raise me a little."

"Won't you be quiet now, father? You've talked enough. Let me call Watson."

"No, no, I haven't told you yet what I want to say."

There was a low knock. Kenneth Fortescue unlocked the door. It was Watson. "The master mustn't talk anymore," she said sharply. "Dr. Cholmondeley would be very displeased."

"You mind your own business," said her master.

"Let me give you some milk, sir."

"I've had some. Go away, Watson, I want to speak to my son. Don't you come till I send for you."

Watson bounced out of the room and slammed the door after her, and once more father and son were left alone.

"Ken, keep that woman out till I've told you what I want to tell you. Is the door shut?"

"It's shut, father."

"Well, you remember a man of the name of Douglas?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh no, of course you don't. The Reverend Douglas was parson of the church here when you was away at boarding school. He was only here a few months. I was churchwarden then, and so I saw a good bit of him. Well, he preached one Sunday in the church, and the next day I heard as how he was dying. He'd broke a blood vessel or something of that sort. He sent across to know, would I go and see him. When I gets there he says to me, 'Now, Fortescue,' he says, 'you've handled a lot of money in your day, and you know what to do with it. And I want you to be so good as to help my wife when I'm gone.'"

Kenneth Fortescue shifted uneasily as he listened to this story. His father noticed.

"I wanted to help her, Ken," he said. "She were there, sobbing away by his bed, a fine looking woman too. 'I haven't much to leave her and the children,' Parson Douglas says. 'She has a little bit of money of her own, but all as I've saved I've paid away for insurance, in case anything should happen to me. Now, what I want you to do,' he says, 'is this. Help her to get that money invested in something as will bring her in a good interest, and yet be a safe concern. I've never had much to do with money,' he says. 'I've had so little of it, but you've made a big pile, and you _do_ know. So I want you to help the wife when I'm gone.' Well, I promised him, Ken, and that night the poor fellow died."

The son looked at his father. This was the first time he had heard the story. "And she got the insurance money, I suppose."

"Oh yes, Ken, she got her money, and I took charge of it for her. I said as how I would invest it and send her the interest. I put it into India three and a half percent, and forwarded her the dividends reg'lar, just as they came to me. Then this goldmine in Brazil was started, and I put all my own money in it, and I got rattling good returns. So I thinks why shouldn't poor Mrs. Douglas have a slice of good luck along of me? So I put her money in it too. I ought to have asked her say-so, but I didn't. You see, we'd had a bit of a tiff just at that time. She lived up in York then, but she's moved now. I used often to run over when her interest was due and take it with me instead of writing. It seemed more friendly-like. And I took a great fancy to her, and I wanted her to come and be your ma. But she wouldn't hear of it, and drew herself up and looked at me in such a way it fair scared me. So I didn't want to go and see her, and I'm a bad hand at letters. I just sent her the money and said I was glad the interest was better. And, Ken, she believes today that it's still in the India three and a half percent."

"Do you mean to say, father, that all Mrs. Douglas's money is lost?"

"Every farthing of it, worse luck."

"And are they badly off?"

"I'm afraid they are, Ken. I'm very much afraid they are. I'm awfully sorry about it."

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man said feebly, "Ken, I've been a good father to you."

"Yes, indeed you have."

"Now, I want you to make me a promise."

"What is it, father?"

"I want you to promise that you'll go and see Mrs. Douglas when I'm dead, and tell her about it."

"Can't I write to her?"

"No, I want you to see her and break it gentle-like to her, and tell her I was sorry. Be sure and tell her that, Ken."

"I could write all that, father?"

The old man's natural impatience returned. "Can't you do what I tell you?" he demanded.

"It won't be pleasant to tell her, father -- most unpleasant, I should say."

"Never mind about that. I've done lots of unpleasant things for you, as you'll know some day. Promise me, Ken."

"Well, father, if it will be any comfort to you I'll promise, but I would much rather not go on such an errand."

But Mr. Fortescue eventually got the promise that he wanted, and he knew that the captain was a man whose word could be depended upon.

"Ring for Watson now, Ken."

The woman came in and began to bustle about the room, putting things straight for the night.

"Are you going to sit here with my father, Watson?" the captain asked.

"Yes, of course," she said shortly. "The master can't be left."

The captain noticed that she omitted the usual "sir" in speaking to him, but Watson's bad temper was well known to him, and he was not surprised.

"Call me if I can be of any use, Watson."

But Watson pretended not to hear, and began putting coal on the fire, noisily rattling the fire irons as she did so. The old man had closed his eyes and was apparently fast asleep. So Captain Fortescue crept out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.

On the landing outside he found the old butler.

"How is the master, sir?"

"No worse, I think, Elkington. He seems to be sleeping now. My old room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, your bag is there."

"Good night, Elkington."

"Good night, sir. I hope you'll find all comfortable."

Kenneth Fortescue retired to his room.

#  Chapter 4

### A Troubled Night

IT WAS NOT, however, a good night as far as Captain Kenneth Fortescue was concerned, for he found it utterly impossible to sleep. The startling summons here, the suspense during the journey, the unexpected meeting with the beautiful Lady Violet in Birmingham, the sad news on arriving home of his father's illness -- the remembrance of all these kept sleep far away from him. And then there was the cause of that illness -- the ruin at the goldmine in Brazil which had befallen all his hopes and prospects.

How could he continue in the army if his father was correct in saying that all his money was lost? It would be impossible. He was not an extravagant man, but he knew that even with the greatest care and economy he could not live on his captain's pay. What, then, could he do? What would become of him? What future could possibly be in front of him?

Then his thoughts travelled to the mysterious envelope which lay in the safe in the next room. What would he find when he opened it? What revelation did it contain?

His father had said something about money for him which had been lost with the rest. He had never known that he possessed any. Could it be money settled on his mother, which reverted to him at her death? If so, why was he never told of this? Why was it not handed over to him when he came of age? Could there be wrongdoing on his father's part of which he as yet knew nothing?

Then even more troubled thoughts distracted him and kept him long awake. He thought of poor Mrs. Douglas -- a parson's widow with a family dependent on her -- and then of the awful news which he had to break to her in person -- news which made him ashamed of his own father. What business had his father to put trust money -- for surely that insurance money was exactly that in reality -- into such a risky concern as a South American goldmine?

How could his father have been so foolish -- he had almost let himself think the word _wicked_ \-- but because all the old man's own money was invested in the same concern he gladly altered the word to _foolish._ But how could he ever tell Mrs. Douglas? How could he possibly soften down so hard and terrible a blow? What could he say to let her know how much he felt for her? He would always look on the four thousand pounds as a debt that he owed to her and to her family. If not legally bound to repay her, he felt that morally he was responsible. Yet how could he possibly do it? He knew not how to provide for his own wants in the future, much less how to be able to save so large a sum.

Then he thought of his father dying in the next room; that he _was_ dying he had little doubt. There was a look in his face which he had never seen there before, and he knew what that look meant -- the soul was striving to escape from the worn-out body. And where was that soul going? Was his father ready for the great change so close upon him?

It was only lately that Captain Fortescue had felt the all-importance of knowing that the soul was safe for eternity. His regiment had been ordered out to war, and on the eve of a great battle he was resting in his tent when three officers rode past. They pulled up close to where he was, and stood looking at the sunset, which was a glorious one that evening. One of the officers, a major and the oldest of the three, said as he looked across the valley at the long lines of the enemy, "I wonder where we three will be when the sun sets tomorrow evening?"

The man next him laughed, and said lightly, "Well, who cares? A short life and a merry one for me."

"What do _you_ say?" asked the senior officer, turning to the young lieutenant who was riding on the other side of him.

As Fortescue lay in his tent, with the door open to the west, he could see the young officer, whom he had known at Sandhurst, looking steadfastly at the fast-setting sun; and he could hear him say softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself, the words of a hymn:

"Peace, perfect peace, my future all unknown?

Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

The next evening came, and the sunset was as fine as the night before, but the golden rays streamed down on a blood-soaked battlefield covered with the dead and dying. The major who had asked that question of his companions was riding across the valley, but he was riding alone. His two friends lay among the dead, cold and still. Fortescue saw him, and he knew that he alone of the three was left to see the sun go down. And as he looked, he envied the young lieutenant who had met death with such calm confidence. Perhaps the next battlefield might be his own last resting place. Who knew? As he knelt in his tent that night to say his prayers, he asked that that perfect peace might be his also. And now he, too, could say, "Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne." And the effect of the realization of God's forgiveness had been profound.

But could his father say that? He was afraid not. He felt that he ought to speak to him, but it would be difficult.

The captain was a reserved man, a fact that he readily recognized. He would have found it extremely difficult to speak to anyone on such a subject, but to say anything of the kind to his father seemed to him a task which he dared not undertake. Perhaps he could persuade him to see a clergyman tomorrow. He could, at any rate, venture to suggest that he should do so.

And so at last morning dawned, and thoroughly wearied by the many troubled thoughts of the night, Captain Fortescue got up and dressed. But before he went downstairs he crept into his father's room and stood by his bed. Watson had gone to the kitchen for something she wanted, and he found no one in the room. The old man's eyes were closed, and he thought he was asleep. But he opened his eyes after a time, and looked at his son.

"Kenneth," he said.

"Yes, father. I came to see how you are."

"Remember your promise to see Mrs. Douglas."

"I won't forget."

"I'm very ill, Kenneth."

"I'm afraid you are, father. Won't you let me send for the clergyman to come and see you?"

"No, Kenneth, no. I don't know him. He's only just come here. He did call once, but I was out."

There were a few minutes' silence after this, and then his father said, "Couldn't you talk to me a bit, Ken? You know more of these things than I do. I want . . . I want. . ."

"You want to know where you are going, father. That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it, Ken. It's all dark-like, and I've not been what I ought to ha' been."

Captain Fortescue repeated words they both knew from the Prayer Book. "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have left undone what we ought to have done, and have done that which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us."

"That's it, Ken," said the old man. "That's just it."

"But the Lord Jesus came to save the lost sheep, father. He will save _you,_ if you ask Him. He died for sinners, you know."

"Yes, Kenneth, yes, but I don't know how to ask Him. What shall I say?"

"Say the words of this hymn, father: 'Just as I am without one plea, But that Thy Blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come.'"

The old man repeated the words of the hymn after his son, and many and many a time during the day, as Kenneth Fortescue sat beside him, he heard him saying softly,

"O Lamb of God, I come."

Kenneth Fortescue never went to bed that night. He sat holding his dying father's hand.

Watson did her best to get rid of him, but in vain. He insisted on remaining where he was. The old butler Elkington crept into the room and sat watching his master from the foot of the bed.

And, just as the first morning light came streaming through the window, the captain heard the old man say for the last time, "O Lamb of God, I come."

And the next minute all was still, and their long watch was ended.

#  Chapter 5

### The Safe Opened

BEFORE Captain Fortescue left his father's room that morning, he took up the bunch of keys on which the old man's eyes had rested with such anxious care, and which were still lying on a small table near his bed. He slipped them at once into his pocket, for he did not know who might come into that room, and he wished to feel assured that the safe would not be tampered with.

But, eager though he was to discover what secret the letter addressed to him contained, it was not until late in the day that he went into the room where his father lay at peace at last, to open the safe and find the envelope which his father had described to him.

He had been much moved by his father's death, and he shrank from too quickly bringing to light that which might possibly reveal to him something in his father's past life -- something which would bring discredit on his memory and might cause him to think less kindly and tenderly of the dead.

It was his father's intense anxiety that the paper should not be read in his lifetime, which led Captain Fortescue to surmise that the contents were in some way not creditable to him.

But in the evening, when all arrangements for the funeral were made, and the servants were below at their supper, he crept in with a candle in his hand. He felt almost as if he was a thief as he crossed the floor and passed the silent form on the bed.

His father had never allowed anyone to open that safe. In the days of his childhood he had been accustomed to look at it with awe and wonder as he speculated on the mysteries it might contain. Now he was going to open it, and the hand that had so carefully guarded its contents lay cold and lifeless on the bed. He felt almost as if he would hear his father's protesting voice as he fitted the key in the lock. He even glanced back at the bed, as if to assure himself that there was no movement there.

The key turned easily, and the massive iron door swung slowly open. As he looked inside he saw several packets of deeds tied up with red tape, a pile of account books and countless old check books. But he did not stop to look in detail at what the safe contained. His eyes sought eagerly for the will, for had not his father told him that, underneath the will he would find the secret information that he wished him to receive?

Yes, the will was there. He saw the large envelope on which was written, in clear legal copperplate characters, _Last Will and Testament of Joseph Fortescue._ But the will had little interest for him now. Of what use was it to be told that so many thousands had been bequeathed to him, when he knew that those thousands did not exist, but had been swamped in the ruinous flooding of that distant mine? As his old father had said, the will was not worth the paper on which it was written. He lifted it with beating heart, and looked underneath it.

Yes, there was the letter. He could see his father's writing on it -- he could read the words, _For my son. To be opened after my death._

He was just slipping it into his pocket when he heard a movement in the room. He turned round and saw Watson standing behind him. How she had crept into the room without his hearing her he could not imagine.

"What do you want, Watson?"

"I was passing the door, sir, and saw a light, so came in to see that all was right. You've soon found your way to the safe, sir."

Captain Fortescue took no notice of this insolent remark. He was not going to give vent to his feeling of anger here. So, without deigning to reply, he locked the safe, and taking the will and the keys in his hand he went out of the room.

Crossing the landing, he entered his own bedroom and closed and locked the door. Now he was safe from intrusion and from Watson's prying gaze. He put his candle on the table, drew a chair near it, and sat down to open the letter. He had a nervous dread of the revelation he was about to receive, and at the last moment he was afraid to look on that which before he had been so anxious to see.

He tore open the long envelope, which was securely fastened at one end, and drew out a sheet of foolscap paper folded into four.

He spread it before him. He turned over the page. He looked at the back of it.

He could see nothing -- not a single word appeared to be written on it. So far as he could tell, it was simply a blank sheet, unused, unsoiled, utterly void of any information on any subject whatever. He held it up to the light. He tried to imagine that he saw secret marks on it. He turned the page over and over, but he could find nothing but emptiness -- a plain white surface that seemed to mock his scrutiny.

Surely he had brought the wrong envelope. But no, there were the words on the outside in his father's childish handwriting, _For my son. To be opened after my death._ Could the old man have made a mistake and placed the wrong document in the cover?

He went back to his father's room, carefully locking the door this time, and made a thorough investigation of the contents of the safe. But he found nothing whatever to repay his search: no other envelope, no other letter -- nothing at all but old accounts and a few business papers.

He stood by the bed and looked at his dead father, and longed to ask him what he had done with the information which he had so much wished him to receive.

Kenneth Fortescue went to his bedroom again, and once more examined the sheet of paper. Then a bright thought seized him. Could it be that his father, fearing lest the document should fall into other hands, had written it in invisible ink? Was it possible that, if he only knew how to deal with it, be might be able to fill that blank page with words of weight and importance? He remembered, when he was a boy, having a bottle of ink which made no mark on the paper unless heat was brought to bear on it. Perhaps his father had remembered it also, and recollecting the fact that his son had known the secret as a boy, he had adopted this means of making his letter even more private, and had thus considerably lessened the liability of its being read by anyone else.

Kenneth Fortescue went to the library and carefully held the foolscap sheet to the fire. But beyond a slight mark of scorching on the page, it remained unchanged and exactly as he had found it.

Then it crossed his mind that possibly there might be chemicals, which if applied to paper that had been prepared in a certain way, would bring to light hidden writing and make it legible. He had read of something of the kind being used in time of war, in the place of the ordinary cipher. Possibly this was the explanation which he was seeking. He rang the bell, and Elkington answered it.

"What time do the shops close, Elkington?"

"Eight o'clock, sir."

The captain looked at his watch. "A quarter past nine. Too late, then."

"What am I thinking of?" said the old butler. "Of course, it's Saturday night. They won't close till ten, or eleven, maybe."

"That's right. Can you send for a cab for me, Elkington?"

"Is it anything I can do, sir?"

"No, Elkington, thank you. I'm afraid not."

"Do you want the cab at once, sir?"

"Yes, at once. The sooner the better."

The old man hurried off to do his young master's bidding, and Kenneth, after placing the precious sheet of folded paper carefully in the breast pocket of his coat, stood waiting in the hall until the cab arrived. He saw Watson come to the top of the stairs and look down, as if she was watching his movements. Then she came into the hall.

"Are you going out, sir? So late, too," she added.

The cab drove up at this moment, so that he did not deem it necessary to answer, but he saw her craning her neck forward to catch the direction that he gave to the cabman. Consequently he altered what he had intended to say, merely naming the part of the town to which he wished to be driven.

The streets of Sheffield were brilliantly lit as he drove through them. Crowds of working people were thronging the main thoroughfares and filling the various shops. But the large chemist's, at which he told the cabman to stop, was practically empty, and the assistants were preparing to close for the night.

"Is Mr. Lofthouse here?" he inquired of one of them.

"He is in his private room, sir. I'll call him. You are only just in time to catch him."

"Do you think I could speak to him for a few minutes on a private matter?"

"I'll ask him, sir."

In a few moments Kenneth found himself seated beside the old chemist, near the fast-dying embers of the fire in the room behind the shop. He brought the sheet of paper from his pocket and explained his errand. He told Mr. Lofthouse that the paper contained, at least so he believed, information of grave importance to him, and that while it was impossible for him to read it at present, he suspected and hoped that the action of some chemical might be sufficient to bring the writing on it to light.

When he took Mr. Lofthouse into his confidence by telling him that a relative of his, who had lately died, had informed him on his deathbed that this paper contained information which it was important for him to receive, the chemist dismissed his assistants, locked the shop door, took his visitor into the laboratory, and proceeded to try the effect of various chemicals on the paper which he had brought.

For more than an hour the man worked away on the mysterious page, but at the end of that time the old chemist declared his firm conviction that the captain was in some way mistaken, for that nothing whatever had been written on the sheet of foolscap. He could find no evidence of the paper having been chemically treated, and he felt sure that in some way or other the paper had been put into the envelope in the place of the paper which Captain Fortescue had expected to find there.

It was late at night when Kenneth returned home. He slept soundly for the first time since his arrival in Sheffield.

Then followed the long quiet Sunday. After morning service he sat in the darkened library and thought of the changes that this week had brought into his life, and of the uncertain and difficult future which lay ahead of him.

The funeral was fixed for Tuesday. There were no relations to summon, for he knew of none. He never in his life remembered seeing anyone except his father who could claim any relationship to him, however distant. And now that only relation of his was gone, and he was left entirely alone in the world so far as any natural tie was concerned.

Not only so, but he realized that with his father's total financial ruin he had lost all his former friends. The schoolfellows at Eton, the men he had known at Sandhurst, the friends he had made since he had entered the army, would now be parted from him by a social gulf which neither he nor they would be able to cross. He would have to leave the army and sever his connection with them all. He must begin life anew, and it must be, in future, the life of a man dependent upon his own work for his daily bread. He felt utterly and entirely alone.

But, at that moment, there suddenly flashed across him four lines from a hymn which he had learned to love in brighter and happier days, but which now came back to him with fresh meaning, as they seemed to express the inmost feeling of his heart:

* * *

I do not ask my cross to understand,

My way to see;

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,

And follow Thee.

#  Chapter 6

### The Two Envelopes

KENNETH FORTESCUE followed his father to the graveside, the chief and only mourner. No one else was present, except Mr. Fortescue's doctor and lawyer who came in their official capacity. The extensive town cemetery in a narrow valley looked the picture of desolation and gloom. The rising ground on either side, and the stretch of lower ground that lay between, was densely covered with the resting places of the dead.

"Earth to earth; dust to dust; ashes to ashes."

And so the poor earthly remains were left behind. When Kenneth arrived home and walked into the empty house which he would never again call home, he determined, however, to face the future bravely, and in a higher strength than his own, and not to flinch from any duty, however unpleasant, which lay along its course.

In the strength of this resolution he rang the bell as soon as his solitary dinner was over, and requested all the servants to assemble in the library as he had something which he wished to say to them.

He went in, carrying his father's will in his hand, and told them that he felt that it was only right they should know that their old master had remembered their faithful service, and had intended rewarding it by a handsome legacy, the amount of which was regulated by the length of time each had lived with him. But, he continued, it was his sad and painful duty to inform them that the whole of his father's invested money had been lost, and that therefore he feared that these legacies existed merely in name.

"Do you mean to tell us, sir, that we shall get _nothing_?" inquired Watson.

"I fear not, Watson. Time alone will show. My father's lawyer, Mr. Northcourt, who was here today, is winding up his affairs of which I know practically nothing. Should there turn out to be money available, of course the legacies will be paid."

"It's very hard, sir, to be turned adrift after all these years."

"It _is_ hard, Watson, but you must remember I am a sufferer as well as you. It is very hard for me too."

Watson gave a sniff of contempt. "You have your commission, sir, and your grand friends."

"Say _had,_ Watson, not _have_. All that will be a thing of the past. I must leave the army."

"Dear, dear," said the old butler. "Dear, dear. I _do_ feel for you, sir."

"But surely," said Watson, "there will be _something_. Look at all this furniture, and the house and park. _They_ haven't gone."

"Yes, there may be something, Watson. I can't tell yet until I know what my father's obligations were. I fear that he was more than an ordinary shareholder in this mine, and that those who have lost by means of it will come upon his estate for such compensation as it may be able to yield. You may rest assured, however, that your legacies will be paid before I myself touch a single penny of my father's money."

"It's good of you to say so," said the old butler, "but I'm sure none of us would like to rob you, sir."

"It would be no robbery, Elkington, only justice," said the captain.

"Well, it's hard," said Watson. "Very hard. And what's to become of me I'm sure I don't know. I can't take another situation at my time of life, and the old gentleman always promised he'd see I was provided for."

"Again I say, Watson, I am sorry. I can't say more. And now there is something else I want to say to you." He folded up the will. "I would ask you to give serious attention to what I am about to tell you. My father informed me, the day before he died, that he had addressed a letter to me and had put it in the safe in his bedroom with his will. That letter I have never received. The envelope was there, addressed in my father's handwriting, but when I opened it, it contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. Now I am convinced that someone has tampered with that envelope. I am certain that it has been opened, that the paper my father expected me to find there has been removed, and that the blank sheet has been inserted in its place. I want you to help me to discover how and when this was done, and by whose hands. Elkington, do you know where my father kept the keys of his safe?"

"The old master always had them about him, sir, day and night, as you might say. He carried them in his pocket by day, and at night they were either under his pillow or on the table by his bed."

"Did you ever know him leave them about, or forget them?"

The old butler shook his head. "Never, sir, never once. He were as careful of these keys, and kept them as well within his reach, as a cat does a mouse she has caught. He seemed always to have an eye on them."

"Well then, we come to the day of his sudden seizure when the telegram was brought in. Where were his keys then?"

Elkington looked up. "In his pocket, sir. I know he had them, for the postbag was brought up from the lodge a few minutes before, and I took it to him, and he brought the keys out of his pocket to open it."

"And put them back again?"

"Oh yes, sir, he never forgot to do that."

"Well, then the doctor came, and what happened next?"

"He was carried upstairs, sir. Dr. Cholmondeley helped us, and then we got him into bed,"

"Who did?"

"The doctor and me. And Watson."

"Where were the keys then?"

"In the pocket of his coat, sir. But as soon as ever he came round a bit and opened his eyes, he asked for them. It was almost the first thing he said."

"And where did you put them?"

"On the table where you saw them, sir, close to his bed. They were there, as far as I know, till you took them away."

"Just after the old master breathed his last," added Watson.

"Now," said Captain Fortescue, "it seems to me we are getting the question into a small compass. My father was taken ill early in the morning, and for a short time those keys were left in his pocket. How long, Elkington?"

"About an hour, sir, I should say."

"Well, either at that time, or some time during the following night, someone must have gone to the safe and taken out my letter."

"How dare you speak like that?" shrieked Watson. "Suspecting and accusing your poor father's faithful servants. I suppose you mean _I'm_ the thief, or Elkington?"

"I accuse nobody, Watson. I only ask for an explanation of what is so mysterious to me."

But Watson marched out of the room, saying she was not going to stay there to be called a common thief; she would pack her box that night, and get away from a house where she was so insulted.

The servants filed out of the room, but the old butler lingered behind. "Sir," Elkington said, "do you think that woman has done it?"

"Elkington, I have no proof, and therefore I do not like to say that _anyone_ has done it. It may have been a mistake on my father's part."

"Not likely, sir, not likely. He was so careful-like about things of that sort."

"Well, Elkington, I don't know what to think."

"I _do_ know what to think," said the old butler to himself, as he went out of the room.

The next day a solution of the mystery came to light. It was late in the evening, and Elkington was waiting at dinner when there was a loud ring at the front door. He went to open it, for now that Watson was gone he was doing most of her work as well as his own. The elderly butler came back with a card in his hand, which he said had been given to him by a gentleman who had just called, and who was now in the library.

"I told him you were at dinner, sir, but he said he would wait, as he particularly wished to see you tonight."

Captain Fortescue looked at the card. It was not a visiting card, but one evidently used as a tradesman's advertisement. The words were printed in various styles of type.

"Do you know this man, Elkington?"

"What is his name, sir?"

"Makepeace. He is a bookseller and printer in the town."

"I've heard of him, sir. His shop is in York Street, isn't it?"

"Yes; 149, York Street."

"I believe my master dealt there sometimes. I think I remember seeing his name on parcels that came. Paper and suchlike, I think they were."

"He has probably brought his bill, then, and wants to make sure he is paid before others come in for the spoil. Tell him I will see him in a few minutes, Elkington."

When Fortescue entered the library, the man was standing with his back to him, gazing intently at the portrait of Mrs. Fortescue which hung over the chimneypiece. He was a tall thin man, with black hair, and as he turned round the captain could see that his face was sallow, that he had a short beard and small, cunning eyes, and that he was wearing spectacles.

"Good evening, sir. I hope you will excuse my intruding at this hour, but I come on a matter of importance."

Captain Fortescue motioned him to a chair, and said he supposed it was a business matter which had brought him there.

"Not exactly, sir. Your father _did_ do business with me at times, and it is in connection with one of these times that I want to see you. The fact is that a letter, which Mr. Fortescue wrote to you last week, has, by some mistake, come into my hands."

Kenneth looked eagerly at the envelope which Makepeace drew out of the breast pocket of his coat. What revelation did it contain? And how unfortunate that that revelation should have fallen into the hands of a stranger.

The envelope was a foolscap one, precisely similar to the one he had found in the safe. He stretched out his hand for it eagerly.

"Wait a minute, sir," said the man. "Allow me, if you please, to explain to you how this letter came into my possession. Last week -- it would be Wednesday, I think -- your father came into my shop. It was the last time, I believe, that the old gentleman was out. 'Makepeace,' he said, 'I want some foolscap paper.' My assistant brought some out and showed it to him. We have some blue and some white. He selected the white, sir, but when he looked at it he declared that it was poorer in quality than what he had bought off me before. I told him that could not be the case, inasmuch as I had bought it all from the same firm and at the same time.

"Well, he seemed much put out, and he shouted and stormed at me. It was a way he had, you know, sir, and he wanted to make out I was trying to impose on him by giving him different paper. I didn't want to offend the old gentleman, for he was a good customer, so I told him if he would send me a sheet of the foolscap which I had sold him before, I felt sure that I could match it exactly. I meant to give him what I had in stock, for I knew it was exactly the same, but I thought this would satisfy and pacify him.

"Well, he calmed down after that, and said he knew I always did the best I could for him, and he told me he would slip the paper into an envelope as soon as he got home and send it to me by post. On Thursday the letter arrived, but I was from home, and my wife was away too. I've only got a young assistant, and he did not like to open my letters, so there it remained on my desk until I got home today."

"And then you opened it?"

"Yes, and found inside, not the plain sheet of foolscap as I expected but a letter, evidently intended for you, sir. It begins, 'My dear Ken,' and it ends 'Your loving father.' I haven't read it, sir, I assure you. I wouldn't do such a thing, and I've brought it at once to you. Do you think he can have put the letter in the wrong envelope? Have you found any other envelope containing a blank sheet of foolscap paper?"

"Yes, I have," said Captain Fortescue, "and have been extremely puzzled by it, for my father expressly told me that he had written a letter which he particularly wished me to receive."

"Then I am only too glad to restore it to you, sir," said Josiah Makepeace, as he handed the envelope to him. "And now, sir, I will bid you good evening."

Captain Fortescue thanked the bookseller for taking the trouble to come up at once to see him, and assured him that the information which he had given him was an intense relief to his mind.

As soon as he was alone, he unfolded the letter which had at last come into his possession. His hand trembled as he did so, and as he wondered what disclosure it would make to him.

Yes, there was his father's uneven writing. He began at once to read it. It was dated Wednesday, December 18, and ran as follows:

My Dear Ken,

I was glad to get your letter, and hope as this will find you well as it leaves me very middling, and Doctor Cholmondeley has given me a tonic, so hope soon to be better. There is something as I think you ought to be told, as it will come more easy to you if things goes wrong, as it seems likely they will. I have had a letter from Berkinshaw, a friend of mine in London, and he has found out that a certain concern, what I put my money in, is getting shaky and not likely to pay. So I'm going to sell out tomorrow, unless I hear better news from him by the morning post. And if I do sell out, I shan't be so flush of money by a long chalk, and that will mean I can't send you such a big allowance as you have been having. I thought it was better as I should tell you, in case you might be disappointed when I send your next check. Go easy then, till you hear again from me,

Your loving father,

Joseph Fortescue.

And that was all. There was not a word more. It all seemed such past history now. And moreover his father had told him a great deal more than this letter contained. Why, then, was he so anxious for him to receive it? What did he mean by saying that he hoped it would put him right, and that he was to follow it up? Could his father simply have written this letter to prove that, whatever roguery there might be in connection with the Brazil mining company, his son knew nothing at all about the concern, and could not therefore be held in any way responsible?

Then again, it seemed strange that the letter had never been posted. Why had he not received it on the Thursday morning? He could quite understand that it was possible for his father, having addressed the two envelopes at the same time, to have put the wrong enclosure in each; thus sending the letter intended for his son to Makepeace, and at the same time sending his son the blank sheet of foolscap intended for the bookseller and printer. But supposing this to have been the case, why then were not both letters posted? Why was one sent and the other kept back? And why, being kept back, was the letter placed in the safe?

The captain meditated for a long time over this difficult question. He supposed that after the two letters were closed and ready for the post, they lay together on the library table. Then, after a time someone, probably his father himself, took up the one addressed to the printer and put it into the post-bag, but that the other letter, addressed to his son, was inadvertently left behind and forgotten, being covered up at the time perhaps by something on the table. Then subsequently, late at night and after the post-bag had gone to the lodge, his father discovered that he had omitted to post it; and then, because the letter contained matter of a private nature, he did not care to leave it lying on the table but had carried it up with him to bed. In accordance with his usual caution and suspicion had placed it in the safe until the morning. If so, on the Thursday, before he had opportunity to post it, the telegram arrived and his sudden illness occurred. Consequently the letter written the day before was left in the safe. Then he had appeared on the scene, and of course his father, having no longer any occasion to post the letter, had merely called his attention to it and told him where it had been placed.

Kenneth Fortescue went up to bed that night feeling considerably relieved that the communication in the letter was, after all, of so harmless a nature. He had evidently been making much ado about nothing. The so-called mystery had turned out to be most easy of solution and had nothing mysterious about it.

But as he lay awake thinking of it all, and only half satisfied with the explanation that he had worked out with so much care, an unanswerable problem suggested itself to him, and made him feel that, after all, he had by no means got to the bottom of the strange occurrence, and that there still remained much that was mysterious and suspicious.

Why was the letter to himself addressed in the way it was? Did it not say on the envelope, _For my son. To be opened after my death_? His father would never have addressed it in that way if he had intended to post it.

What did it all mean? The former theory was entirely upset by the remembrance of this fact. He felt that he had not worked out the solution correctly after all.

His brain was in a whirl. The longer he puzzled over it, the more hopelessly bewildered he became. All night long he was struggling to find some possible explanation which might prove satisfactory in all points, but he utterly failed to discover one.

Tired in mind and body, he rose in the morning determined to lay the whole matter before his father's lawyer. He went to Mr. Northcourt's office in Sheffield and took him entirely into his confidence, but neither he nor the lawyer were able to come to any conclusion as to what had happened with regard to the two letters.

The captain suggested calling in a detective, but Mr. Northcourt dissuaded him from pursuing this course of action, at any rate for the present, because he failed to see any real indication that there had been foul play in the matter. Surely, he said, if the bookseller and printer Josiah Makepeace had had any hand, directly or indirectly, in removing the letter from the safe, why was he so anxious and ready to restore it to its rightful owner? However, Northcourt promised the captain that he would lose no opportunity in trying to discover a clue to the mystery, and told him that if anything came to his knowledge at all bearing on what had happened, he would not fail to communicate with him immediately.

#  Chapter 7

### A Walk Through Borrowdale

A FEW DAYS later, during the first week of the New Year, Kenneth Fortescue was once more at the large railway station in Sheffield. He was doing what he had never done in the whole course of his life before: he was a poor man now and was obliged to take a third-class ticket.

It was a new experience for him to stop himself at every turn when he was on the point of spending small sums of money. Instead of buying, as before, several books and papers at the stall, he contented himself with a copy of one newspaper only. Instead of ordering a luncheon, he carried in his pocket a small packet of sandwiches which old Elkington had carefully wrapped up for him that morning. Instead of coming to the station in a cab, he had made use of a public conveyance.

Although all this was new and strange to him, he had endured the hard life in the war without a murmur, and the cessation of these little luxuries was to him a trivial matter. But he did feel a pang of regret when he had to give the porter a small coin instead of his former generous tip, and another pang when he slipped a penny into the box of the blind man at the station gate instead of the shilling which he had usually given him when he passed by.

When the train started, Kenneth Fortescue was soon engrossed in his newspaper. He was glad of anything to turn his thoughts from the errand on which he was going. For he was on his way north to Cumberland to fulfil his promise to his father to break the news to poor Mrs. Douglas, the parson's widow, of her heavy loss. He had experienced some difficulty in finding her address. He remembered that he had been so filled with horror at his father's disclosure that he had never asked him where she was now living.

He had hunted through the old man's papers in vain. He had discovered her address in York, but his father had said that she was no longer there, and he failed to find any recent address. However, the old butler Elkington, on being questioned, told him that he had several times addressed letters for his master to Mrs. Douglas, and that he could therefore quite distinctly remember her address. He wrote it carefully on a piece of paper, and Captain Fortescue took it from his waistcoat pocket now and looked at it more than once during the journey. In the old man's trembling handwriting he read these words:

Mrs. Douglas, Fernbank,

Rosthwaite, near Keswick.

Kenneth, much as he wished to get this dreaded visit over, had postponed it until after the New Year. He knew that he was the bearer of bad tidings, and he was unwilling that the evil news should come as a cloud across their happiness at Christmas time.

He had thought once of writing to say that he was coming, but on second thoughts he decided not to do so. He would keep his promise to his father. His father had implored him not to write, and he would therefore refrain from doing so, and would not even prepare Mrs. Douglas and her family in this way for the sad news which he was bringing. He could easily find some place in which to stay the night, and would return to Sheffield early the following morning.

Kenneth Fortescue was alone the first part of the way, but at Penrith a young man jumped into the carriage and took the seat opposite. He was short and rather thin, with dark hair and brown eyes.

The newcomer put his bag on the rack, lit a cigar, and turned over the leaves of a magazine. But he did not seem much inclined for reading, and soon closed his book and began to talk, opening the conversation, as Englishmen always do, with a remark on the weather.

"Horrid cold day," he said.

"Yes, I think it's the coldest day this winter," Kenneth answered. "It feels to me like snow."

"Have some of my rug," said the newcomer.

Kenneth smiled. "Thank you, I shall only be too glad. I forgot to bring mine, and the foot-warmer is quite cold now."

They exchanged names, although Kenneth Fortescue omitted his title of captain, and the newcomer introduced himself as Louis Verner.

"Have you come far?" Louis Verner asked.

"Well, a good way -- from Sheffield. I'm going to a little place somewhere near Keswick. Do you know Keswick?"

"I certainly do. I'm going there myself."

"Oh, then you're the very man I want. I have to get to a village called Rosthwaite. Do you know it?"

"Rather. Why, we live only about two miles from Rosthwaite. At Grange, at the lake head."

"Derwentwater, is that?"

"Yes, we're at the other end of it from Keswick. It's a pretty long way from the station. Do you know Cumberland?"

"I never was there in my life. Is there an inn at Rosthwaite?"

"Oh yes, two of them, and they're both comfortable, I believe. Are you thinking of staying at Rosthwaite long?"

The captain shook his head. "I'm only going there on business. I want to find some people who live there. I wonder if you have ever heard of them and can tell me where they live."

"What's the name?"

"Douglas."

"Of course I know the Douglases. I've known them nearly all my life. I spend most of my time there when I'm down from university. Too much time, my father says. You see, he wants me to work, but it's an awful grind out of term time. I do a little, of course, but not enough to please him, I'm afraid."

"Are you at Cambridge?"

"No, Oxford -- Magdalen."

"And what are you going to be? "

"Oh, I don't know. Anything that's not too hard work. My father says I ought to settle, but it's difficult. Every time I come down he wants to know if I've made up my mind. But there's time enough yet."

"Don't you think it's better to have an aim in view?"

The young man drew in a long breath through his cigar. "I suppose it is. Oh, I shall think of something one of these days. You were asking about the Douglases?"

"Yes. Do you mind telling me what you know about them?"

"They're jolly, all of them. You're sure to like them."

"What does the family consist of?"

"Well, there's Mrs. Douglas. _He's_ dead. Was a parson, I believe, and had a church in Sheffield. He's been dead years now. We never knew him."

"Is Mrs. Douglas an elderly lady?"

"Oh dear no. She isn't young, but she isn't what you would call elderly. Her hair isn't white."

"And what family has she?"

"Three girls. Awfully jolly girls, too. And then there's little Carl."

"I didn't think she had a young child."

"No, she hasn't. Carl is Mrs. Douglas's grandchild. Leila is his mother. Leila is Mrs. Douglas's oldest daughter. She was only married a few months when she lost her husband, and this little chap was born after his father died. So Leila had to come back home because she was left so badly off."

"Then the girls will be quite grown up, I suppose?"

"Indeed yes. Phyllis is the youngest, and she's nineteen. Marjorie is my age. Our birthdays are on the same day. We shall both come of age next month. They're really awfully nice girls. I don't know which I like best, Marjorie or Phyllis. Sometimes I think I like one, sometimes the other."

"It's a case of 'How happy could I be with either,'" said Kenneth Fortescue, laughing as he recalled the words from The Beggar's Opera. "Fernbank, I think, they live?"

"Yes, it's up on the hill close to the bridge. They have a nice little garden. Leila lies out on her couch in it in summer. She's an invalid now, and has been for months, and they're afraid she'll never be strong."

"What's the matter with her?"

"Something to do with her spine, I believe. She looks very ill sometimes. We shall soon be at Keswick. What do you think of our Cumberland hills?"

"Beautiful," said the captain, as he looked out of the window. "Have you had much snow this winter?"

"A good deal. It's done nothing but rain or snow for the past two weeks. Horrid nuisance, too."

"I'm glad it's fine today," said the captain.

"Yes, if it will only keep so. How are you going to get to Rosthwaite?"

"Are there public conveyances running there from Keswick?"

Louis Verner shook his head. "Not in winter, but there are plenty in summer."

"Then I must take a cab. How much do they charge?" It was a new question for Kenneth Fortescue to have to ask.

"A good bit, I believe. It's a long way, you see. I can give you a lift as far as Grange if you like. The pony trap will be there to meet me."

"It's kind of you. I shall be most grateful. How far is Grange from Rosthwaite?"

"Oh, a very little way. A short two miles, right through Borrowdale."

When they arrived at Keswick Station, the captain's new friend led the way to the road outside where they found a pony carriage and a smart-looking groom waiting, and they were soon going quickly through the streets of the pretty little town.

Then the lake came in sight, beautiful even on that wintry afternoon. A fringe of snow covered the top of Cat Bells and the higher hills on the opposite side of the water, and Derwentwater was lit up by the rays of the red sun which had not yet dipped behind their white summits.

Captain Fortescue thought he had never beheld a lovelier scene. The wooded islands with which the lake was studded; the dark fir trees on Friar's Crag; the rocks and trees on the margin of the lake reflected in the still water; the high mountains of Borrowdale shutting out the view before him; and Skiddaw standing in solitary grandeur behind him. All these combined to form a glorious panorama of beauty on which he gazed with great admiration.

Louis Verner talked the whole way, pointing out the different mountain peaks; stopping the carriage so he that could hear the roar of Lodore as its waters, swollen by winter snows, dashed a hundred feet over the precipice; and then, when the lake was left behind, showing him in the distance the beautiful double bridge crossing the rushing river as it ran towards the lake.

"Do you see those houses," he said, "just in front of us? We are coming to Grange now."

"That is where you live?"

"Yes, in that house on the other side of the river. You can just see the chimneys among the trees."

"Then Rosthwaite is two miles further?"

"Not quite two miles. It's a glorious walk."

"Is there any fear of my losing my way?"

"No, it's quite impossible. Keep straight along the road and it will take you there."

"I am most grateful to you for the help you have given me," said the captain. "How long have you lived here?"

"My father, Colonel Verner, came to live here ten years ago."

"I'm glad we have met," the captain said. "It has made the last part of my journey pleasant. Do I get out here?"

"No, wait till we get to the bridge. Why, I do believe that's Marjorie Douglas coming across now. Lucky for you if it is. She'll show you the way. Hurry up, Stephens, and we'll catch her before she turns the corner."

They drove quickly on, and Louis Verner called out to the girl who was nearing the end of the long bridge, "Marjorie! I say, Marjorie!"

She saw them coming and waited at the corner, and Louis jumped out of the carriage followed by the captain, and went to meet her.

She was wearing a navy blue motor-cap, a coat and skirt of the same color, and sable furs. She had the brightest, sunniest face Kenneth thought that he had ever seen. Her hair was a lovely shade of brown, and she had a clear complexion and rosy cheeks. Although he could remember having seen faces far more beautiful in feature -- Lady Violet's, for instance -- he could not recollect having in his whole life seen a single face so lovely in its expression, so vivacious, and so full of intelligence.

"Marjorie, look here. I want to introduce this gentleman to you. Mr. Fortescue -- Miss Douglas. He is going to Rosthwaite, and I think he wants to call on your mother."

"Mr. Fortescue?" said Marjorie, in a surprised voice. "Why, I thought . . ."

Kenneth laughed. "You thought Mr. Fortescue was not quite so young, Miss Douglas. Was that it?"

"Well, yes," she said, laughing in return. "Mother gets letters sometimes from you, and I pictured you a very old man with white hair and spectacles. Why, I don't know, but I always picture people to myself, and often make mistakes."

"That was my father, Miss Douglas. He is dead now."

"Dead. Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I would not have said that if I had known."

The captain merely smiled in reassurance.

"Well, Marjorie, will you guide Mr. Fortescue to your home?" said Louis Verner.

"Yes, Louis, I'm going home now, so we can walk together."

When the carriage had driven on, and the captain found himself alone with Miss Douglas, all the weight of the errand on which he had come returned. He had tried to forget it for a time. He could not forget it now. Marjorie Douglas was so bright and cheerful, so anxious to point out to him all the beauties of the scenery through which they were passing, making the walk as pleasant to him as she possibly could. He felt sick at heart when he remembered that his visit would bring a heavy cloud over her life, and drive the sunshine from her face. Why had his father asked him to do this thing?

They were now passing through the narrowest part of Borrowdale, where the steep hills confronted each other closely in all their rugged beauty. At the bottom of the gorge the river was rushing madly over its rocky bed, while overhead towered the mighty Castle Crag, guarding the narrow pass. Every kind of beauty of rock and wood and river, of mossy bank and fern-covered glade, seemed crowded together in this lovely spot.

"What do you think of it, Mr. Fortescue?"

"Glorious," he said. "How delightful to live among it all."

"I don't think I could bear to live in a dirty, smoky town after this," she said. "Do you see that great stone above us on the hill -- the Bowder Stone. People always go and look at it, but there isn't really much to see."

Kenneth did not answer her. The burden of his message was becoming more than he could bear. A sudden thought crossed his mind. Should he tell Mrs. Douglas's daughter why he had come? Perhaps, if he did so, Marjorie would help him to think of the best way to tell her mother.

"Miss Douglas," he said, "I suppose you have been wondering why I am going to see your mother?"

"Woman's curiosity, I expect you think. Well, you men are just as inquisitive sometimes. Yes, I did wonder rather what it was about," she said, laughing.

"May I tell you?" he answered, so gravely and seriously that her laugh died away and a look of anxiety came into her face.

"Yes, tell me," she said quietly. "Not bad news, I hope?"

"I'm afraid it is. I'm much afraid you will think it _very_ bad news."

She waited for him to go on, which he did, speaking with difficulty, for he was touched to see that her color had faded in a moment. It was a white face which was turned to him now.

"My father managed a business matter for your mother," he continued. "Your father was my father's parson in Sheffield. When your father was dying, he asked my father to invest some money for her."

"Yes, I know. Mother has often told me how kind he was in doing it for her, and in looking after it all these years."

"He put the money -- your father's insurance money, I believe it was -- in India three and a half percent."

"Yes, mother said it is there."

"It _was_ there."

"Is it not there now?"

"No, not now. My father found what he thought was an exceedingly good investment. He put all his own money into it. Miss Douglas, please remember that -- _all his own money._ And he wanted your mother to share in the good interest that he was receiving. So he took her money out of the three and a half percent, and put it in with his own."

"And you have come to tell us it is all lost," Marjorie Douglas said. She did not say it angrily or bitterly, only very sorrowfully.

"All lost," he repeated. "It was invested in a mine. The mine is flooded, and has been an utter failure. The shares are not worth a single halfpenny."

"Poor mother. Poor, poor mother."

"Has she much besides?"

"Not much. There is a little, a very little; but, you see, there's my older sister Leila now and little Carl."

"They live with you, I believe."

"Yes, and little Carl will have to be educated. There is nothing for him whatever, only what mother can do. But how selfish I am," she went on. "I have been thinking of ourselves, and never thought of you. Won't it make a great difference to you?"

"Yes, of course I shall have to leave the army."

"I thought you had the look of a soldier."

"I have recently got my captaincy."

"What will you do?"

"I have no idea yet. Go into business, I suppose. But it does not matter about me, if only I could have spared _you_ this awful shock."

"Oh, please don't think of me," she said, smiling again, though there were tears in her eyes. "I am young and strong and can easily find something to do. Oh, something is sure to turn up. It is only mother I was thinking of, but I know she will be helped. Please don't trouble about us. It is quite hard enough for you."

"Now, how shall I tell your mother, Miss Douglas?"

"Would it help you if I told her?"

"It would help me very much, but I'm afraid I cannot let you do that. You see, I promised my father that I would tell your mother myself."

"Did you? Oh, then you ought to do it, of course."

"When do you think I had better come?"

"Do you mind coming after tea? Leila will have gone to bed then, and I think it would be better for her not to be there. You see, she's a great invalid, and she always goes to bed when little Carl does."

"Shall we say half-past seven, then?"

"Yes, that will do well. No one will be there but ourselves. Louis Verner comes in most evenings, but he won't come tonight, as he is only just home from Penrith. But won't you come to tea? I'm so sorry, I ought to have asked you before."

"No, thank you, I would rather go straight to find an inn for the night. There are two, I believe. Which do you recommend?"

She told him their respective merits, and they settled together to which he should go. Then she talked of the village and the church, and pointed out the different mountains, and did all she could to put him at his ease again. It was obvious that she saw how deeply he had felt having to tell her of the heavy loss of which his father had been the cause.

Then they came to a stone bridge which crossed the stream just at the entrance of Rosthwaite. It was almost dark when they got there, but she pointed out the chimneys of her home, standing among the trees on the hillside, and she said goodbye to him in a cheerful voice. She continued on over the bridge, while he walked on a few yards further and found the clean country inn at which he was to spend the night.

#  Chapter 8

### Honister Crag

WHEN Captain Fortescue set out that evening at half-past seven for Fernbank, a fearful gale was blowing. The trees rocked and strained overhead, and so violent was the wind as it came sweeping through the narrow gorge down which he had come that afternoon, that he could hardly fight his way against it as he attempted to retrace his steps as far as the bridge.

It was a terribly cold night, the ground was as hard as iron, and the bridge was so slippery that he stumbled as he crossed it.

He followed the path beyond, which wound steeply up the hillside and climbed towards the house, guided as he did so by the lights in the windows. He wondered whether Marjorie Douglas had told them that he was coming. Perhaps she had, and they were expecting him anxiously, trying to conjecture what news he had come to bring them. But no, on second thoughts he felt sure that she would _not_ tell them, lest they should ask her whether she knew what his errand was.

He found the garden gate with difficulty, for it was a dark night, and began to climb the steep path leading towards the front of the house. This path took him past a bow window, the blind of which was only partly drawn down.

He only glanced at this window for a single moment, turning his eyes away immediately, but in that one glance he had taken in the whole scene, and it remained imprinted on his memory.

A lady was sitting at the table, darning stockings by the light of the lamp. On the opposite side of the table, with her back to the window and busily engaged in the same occupation, was his companion of the afternoon, Marjorie Douglas; while leaning back in an armchair by the fire, with her feet on the fender and a book in her hand, was a pretty fair-haired girl whom he concluded was the younger sister, Phyllis.

Only one glance -- and yet the picture of homely comfort impressed itself on him. He even noticed the bricks and tin soldiers on the floor, left behind by the young boy who had gone to bed.

And now he had come to bring a blight on their quiet happiness. Had it been possible, even at the last moment, he would have turned back. But it was not possible, for a promise made to the dead was surely too sacred to be disregarded. Whatever it cost him, that promise must be fulfilled.

He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly servant to whom he handed his card, which she at once carried to her mistress.

"Come in, please, sir," she said, as she opened the door of the room into which he had looked.

All three ladies rose as he entered, and Mrs. Douglas said, "Are you the son of my husband's old friend in Sheffield?"

He told her that he was, and then informed her of his father's death. When she had expressed her regret for this, he told her, as gently as he could, the heartbreaking news that he had to bring her, telling her at the same time that all his father's money had been invested in the same mine, and assuring her of the old man's deep sorrow at what had occurred. He also told her how his father had made him promise to acquaint her of the loss by word of mouth, instead of sending the bad news in a letter.

She listened quietly, as if she was mentally stunned by the blow that had fallen on her. For some minutes she did not speak, and then she asked, "Are you sure there is no hope of recovering anything?"

"None, I'm afraid," said Captain Fortescue. "I wish I could give you any hope, but I fear I cannot. It is hard for you to hear, very hard, and it is hard for me to tell."

"I'm sure it is," said Marjorie. "I think it is worse for you than for us."

"Mrs. Douglas," he said, "I am a poor man now. I cannot continue in my regiment, and so far no path in life has been opened to me. But I assure you of this, that I shall look on the four thousand pounds you have lost as a debt binding on me as long as I live, and that, if God prospers me in the future, every single penny of it shall be repaid. I will not wait, however, until I am able to restore the whole capital, for that I fear will be the work of a lifetime. But I will send you from time to time such money as I am able to save, and I will not allow myself a single indulgence of any kind until the full amount is in your hands."

"It is good of you -- very noble," she said, "but you must not make such a resolve. _You_ are not to blame for our loss. You yourself have lost still more heavily. I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in that way."

"God helping me, Mrs. Douglas," he answered, as he rose to leave, "my promise will be kept."

"Is there any hope that there will be money from your father's estate for you?"

"None at all, Mrs. Douglas. Everything has to be sold to pay the creditors. If only . . ."

"If only what, Captain Fortescue?" Marjorie asked when he hesitated.

He forced a smile. "A letter of great importance to me from my father was stolen from the safe in his bedroom," he said. "It might have affected the whole matter of his money."

"Is there no possibility of recovering this letter?" Marjorie Douglas asked.

"Very little, I fear. But please forgive me for even mentioning it, Miss Douglas, for I have no wish to burden you further with bad news." He spoke so firmly that the matter was immediately dropped.

Mrs. Douglas pressed him to stay for supper, but he did not accept her invitation. He felt that Mrs. Douglas and her daughters would want to be alone, to talk over what had happened. So he said goodbye, and Marjorie went to open the door for him. The wind rushed in with hurricane force as soon as it was opened.

"What an awful night, and how dark," she said, closing the door again. "I will light the lantern and go with you to the gate, or you will never find it in this darkness."

He begged her not to come, but she would not listen. Catching up a shawl from the hall table, she wrapped it round her and went in front of him down the garden path with the lantern in her hand. At the gate she stopped.

"How can I thank you, Miss Douglas?" he asked.

"Don't try," she said, laughing. "Can you find your way now, do you think?"

"Oh yes, quite well. Goodbye. I am returning to Sheffield early tomorrow morning."

"Then we shall not see you again?"

"No," he said sadly, "perhaps never again. Birds of ill omen are never welcome, are they?"

"Oh, don't call yourself a bird of ill omen," she said. "Goodbye, Captain Fortescue."

He had left her, and was going towards the bridge when he thought he heard her calling. He turned round and saw that she was still standing at the gate with the lantern in her hand.

"Did you call, Miss Douglas?" he asked when he had hurried back.

"I ought not to have brought you back, but I did want to thank you."

"I don't know why you should thank me."

"For being so good to mother," she said, and then she turned round quickly and went up the hill. He watched the light of her lantern until he saw it pass inside the door of the house.

What a wild night it was. He slept very little, for the wind was howling in the chimneys of the old inn, rattling the badly fitting windows, sweeping down the narrow valley, and tearing with terrific force across the open country beyond. He lay listening to the wind, and thinking many troubled thoughts during the long hours of that wakeful night.

He had ordered a carriage to take him to Keswick in time for the early train, so he jumped out of bed as soon as he was called and went to the window of his room to look out at the weather. The whole country was covered with deep snow. Mountains, rocks, woods, houses, fields, gardens, were alike arrayed in white robes, pure and spotless, sparkling in the morning sunshine as if covered with countless diamonds.

When a little later he went down to the coffee room, the landlord came to speak to him.

"I'm afraid, sir, you won't be able to go today. There's been a terrible snowstorm, and Borrowdale is blocked."

The captain pointed out of the window. "Surely it is not so deep as that."

"Not here, sir, nor for about a mile down the road. But when you come to the turning at the narrowest part of the valley, the snow has drifted there to a fearful depth. For about half a mile the snow is so deep it would be impossible to get through it. We are shut off from Keswick entirely."

"Won't they clear the road?"

"Well, sir, they'll try to make a way through, but it will be a long job. I'm afraid we shan't get through today."

"Then there is no help for it," said the captain. "I must stay."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry you should be so inconvenienced, but I'll do my best to make you comfortable. And it's a beautiful country. If you haven't been here before, you might like to see a little of it, and it's good walking round here and on towards Honister, if you care to take a look round."

Yet Kenneth Fortescue felt he was in no hurry to go out, or to leave the great fire in the large grate. He sat beside it with a copy of yesterday's newspaper in his hand, reading at times, and at other times gazing at the blue smoke curling up the chimney. And then, after a while he stood at the window, gazing absently out into the village street.

He had much on his mind that morning, and he felt that even the loveliest scenery failed to beguile him from pursuing the troubled train of thought which he felt impelled to follow. But presently he was recalled from the future to the present by seeing Marjorie Douglas pass the window with a covered basket in her hand. Her face looked as bright and cheerful as it had done before he had told her the sad news. The clouds seemed to have dispersed, and the sunshine to have come back to it.

Kenneth wondered where she was going. He caught up his cap and ran after her, intending to ask how her mother was, and how she had borne the sad tidings he had brought her. Marjorie Douglas heard him coming behind her, and turned round in the greatest surprise.

"Captain Fortescue, I thought you had gone."

"No, Miss Douglas, I'm the bad penny as well as the bird of ill omen," he said. "The fact is, there is a snowdrift in the valley, so I have to stay here till tomorrow."

"How tiresome for you."

"Yes, it is rather, but I shall see a little more of the country. It looks beautiful this morning. Where are you going, Miss Douglas? Let me carry your basket for you."

"Not until you get your coat," she said. "It's far too cold to stand talking without it."

He ran back for it, and soon rejoined her.

"I am going to Seatoller," she said.

"Who is Toller?"

She laughed at this question, and told him that Seatoller was the name of the little hamlet where old Mary lived.

"Do you mind my coming with you, Miss Douglas? It's awfully tedious going for a walk alone."

"Not at all. Only take care how you carry that basket, because old Mary's pudding and beef tea are in it."

"Who is old Mary?"

"She's a dear old woman who lives in one of the cottages at Seatoller. Look across the valley, you can see the white houses of the little place. There are only about six, I think. They are just at the bottom of Honister Pass."

"Do you often go to see her?"

"Whenever I can. We have quite a number of elderly women here. I think the air must be so healthy, because they all live to be so old. They are all friends of mine, and they have to take their turn. This is old Mary's day."

"How they must look forward to their turn," he said.

"Yes, I think they do, but I'm afraid none of them will get a turn soon. I'm going away, Captain Fortescue."

"Going away?"

"Yes, from home. We settled it last night. You see, we had a little family council after you had gone, to talk things over. Mother wanted to send Dorcas away -- that's our old maid -- but I don't think that would do. She is very faithful to mother, and though I think I could do most of her work, still on the whole I think it would leave more for mother to do. Dorcas does the washing so well, and she's so useful in every way, and we don't like to send her away if we can possibly help it, poor old soul."

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"Well, I don't quite know yet. Go as companion or mother's help, I suppose. I don't think I could get any teaching, because I've never passed any exams. Everyone seems to require that now. Louis always brings us the _Standard_ when his father has read it, and we shall look in the advertisements."

"It will be awfully hard for you to go away."

"Oh, I don't know. Yes, I suppose it will rather, but I don't mind, if only they get on all right at home. I think they ought to, if only my sister Phyllis will take care of mother. I think she will. Only, you see, she's the youngest, and I'm afraid we've spoiled her a little. But she's such a dear girl, and I do think she will try."

"I'm terribly sorry that you should have to go."

"Oh, you mustn't be sorry for _me_ ," Marjorie Douglas said, laughing. "I'm not going to be sorry for myself. I dare say I shall be happy soon, and if not -- well, it really doesn't matter. It will be all the nicer when I get home for the holidays. Now here we are at old Mary's cottage. I must just run in with her things."

Marjorie took the basket from him and went into the house, and as Kenneth Fortescue watched her he wondered what the old woman would do when she missed the bright face and cheerful voice of her friend.

When Marjorie came out she took him up the steep pass to see Honister Crag in the distance, standing out in all its majestic grandeur at the head of the pass. On their left-hand side was the mountain torrent, dashing noisily over the rocks, coming down so fast that no frost could stay its course. On their right was moorland, the dead heather thickly covered with snow.

About a mile up the pass the snow became deeper and they had to turn back. Passing Seatoller again, they retraced their steps to Rosthwaite. Marjorie never alluded again to her going away, or to the loss of the money. She seemed anxious that he should forget everything painful, that he would be able to carry back with him a happy memory of her beautiful home.

When Kenneth left Marjorie Douglas at the garden gate he went back to the inn feeling more hopeful about the future. If she was determined to face it so bravely and happily, surely he could do the same.

After luncheon he was sitting over the fire in the coffee room, looking at a paper two days old, and wondering how he should get through the long solitary evening, when the waiter came in and handed him a letter. It was from Mrs. Douglas, inviting him to spend the evening at Fernbank, and assuring him that he would be conferring a favour on them by doing so. She wrote that in winter they were so shut out from the world beyond the valley, that they seldom had the pleasure of meeting anyone outside their own little circle of friends in Borrowdale.

The invitation was so gracefully worded, as if the obligation was entirely on his side, that the captain felt he could only send an affirmative answer, nor if the truth was told, did he desire to send any other.

So at five o'clock he once more crossed the bridge and climbed the hill to Fernbank.

He was shown into a small drawing-room, plainly furnished but bearing unmistakable marks of taste and care. A china bowl of fern-like moss stood on the table, in which snowdrops were arranged singly, as if they were growing in it. A flower stand filled with hyacinths of various colors stood in the window. In one corner of the room ivy was growing in a large flowerpot, climbing over the chimney-piece and hanging in graceful festoons from the over mantel, while a vase filled with Pyrus japonica and yellow Jessamine stood on the shelf below, and was reflected in the glass.

They all gave him a welcome and made him feel that they were glad to see him. There was no allusion made during the evening to what he had told them the day before. The bird of ill omen was treated as if he had been the harbinger of good news. Kenneth had been to many costly entertainments of various kinds, but he thought that the homeliness of that Cumberland tea eclipsed them all.

The snow-white cloth, the bright, well-trimmed lamp, the early violets and snowdrops tastefully arranged on the table centre, the freshly baked scones, the girdle cakes -- a specialty of the Lake district -- the crisp oatcake, the honey from the hive in the garden, the new-laid eggs from their own poultry yard -- all these combined to make the meal an inviting one. Long afterwards, Kenneth Fortescue could recall it with pleasure, and wonder if he would ever again see a like picture of home comfort.

"You look sleepy, Phyllis," said Marjorie, as they sat down to tea. "You ought to have come with me to Seatoller. It was lovely out today."

"What's the good of going out when there's nowhere to go?" the younger sister said. "Besides, I was reading. I wanted to finish that book Louis brought. I never can stop when I'm in the middle of a story."

Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Phyllis is afflicted with deafness at times, Captain Fortescue," she said. "And if she is reading, she is stone-deaf the _whole_ time."

The oldest sister Leila had joined them at the table, and Carl, a boy of three, with fair hair and blue eyes, was seated on a high chair by her side. Leila looked ill and depressed and spoke little, but the child was full of life.

After tea they had games and music. Phyllis was talented at the latter and sang well. She was not at all like her sister. Kenneth thought she had rather a discontented face, and she moved wearily when she was asked to do anything by her mother, as though every exertion, however small, cost her an effort.

It was Marjorie who was the life of the party, who saw at a glance what everyone wanted, who was ready to run here and there for them all. It was Marjorie who carried Carl up to bed, who picked up her mother's ball of wool when it fell, and who kept her eyes open all the time to see what she could do for the others. He found himself thinking what a blank there would be if she left them.

The pleasant evening came to an end at last, and Kenneth rose to take leave. Then, for the first time, he mentioned the object of his visit to Rosthwaite. As he shook hands with Mrs. Douglas, and thanked her for her great kindness to him, he said, "I shall not forget my promise."

She pressed his hand affectionately as she whispered, "God bless you." and he knew the words came from her heart.

Then Marjorie ran for the lantern, for there was not a star in the sky, and she insisted on lighting him to the gate.

"Now it really is goodbye," he said. "The road has been cleared, and I am off early tomorrow." He paused. "Miss Douglas . . ."

"Yes, Captain Fortescue."

"I have kept my promise to my poor old father as well as I could."

"You have indeed," she said.

"Now I want you to make _me_ a promise."

"What is it?" she asked.

"I want you to let me know as soon as your plans are settled where you are going and what you are going to do. Will you?"

"Yes, I will."

He nodded. "You won't forget that promise, I know. Goodbye."

History seemed to repeat itself, for as on the night before, he heard her calling him back when he had gone a few steps along the road.

"How can I let you know, when I don't know your address?" she said.

"Of course, I quite forgot I am leaving Sheffield."

He took out a card, and by the light of her lantern he wrote on it the name and address of his father's lawyer, Northcourt.

"That will always find me," he said. "Once more, goodbye."

Again he stood at the gate as she climbed the hill, and when once more he watched her go into the lighted hall and close the door behind her, he thought that the night looked darker and more dreary than before.

#  Chapter 9

### A Finished Chapter

CAPTAIN FORTESCUE was up early the following morning, and set off in good time for the morning train.

On his way to Keswick he passed Louis Verner in Borrowdale, who stopped the pony trap to speak to him. Louis told him that he had tried to get through the valley the day before, but had found the road quite impassable. He said he was on his way to Fernbank to take Mrs. Douglas a copy of the _Standard._

The train journey was a cold one, and the Kenneth Fortescue was not sorry to reach Sheffield. He had wired the time of his arrival to the old butler Elkington, and he found a bright fire in the library. Drawing his chair near it he opened the pile of letters addressed to his father, which had arrived during his absence from home.

Most of these were requests for payment, but he came to one addressed to him in a lady's handwriting, with a coronet on the envelope. He opened it, and found that it was a kind note from Lady Earlswood telling him that she had seen in _The Times_ the notice of his father's death, and she wished to express her deep sympathy with him in his bereavement. She also wished to invite him to come to Grantley Castle on his way back to Aldershot.

The house party had broken up, but her son Berington was still at home, and they would all be delighted to see him for as long as it was possible for him to stay.

He sat down after dinner to write an answer to this letter, in which he thanked Lady Earlswood for her kindness, but at the same time politely declined her invitation.

He had finished this letter, and was putting it in the envelope which he had addressed, when he suddenly changed his mind, tore up what he had written, and wrote another letter. He would go to see them, and once there he would explain his altered position. It would be better so, and if they chose to drop his acquaintance after they knew all, they could do so. Berington, he thought, would always remain his friend, at least he hoped so; but he was not so sure what Lady Earlswood's view of the subject would be. She might not care to have him at her house when she knew how greatly his prospects had altered.

In a week's time he had wound up his father's affairs as far as it was possible for him to do so. The house, the land and all property were to be sold to meet substantial debts. There would be nothing for his servants, nor for himself. His father had died penniless and heavily in debt.

He dismissed the servants, took an affectionate farewell of old Elkington, and started on his journey to Lady Earlswood at Grantley Castle. As he stepped that afternoon into the light four-wheeled carriage waiting for him at the station, he felt as if he was beginning to write the very last page of the first volume of his life.

A five miles' drive took him to the entrance to the Castle, which stood on the side of a hill several hundred feet above sea level. He drove in at the great gates, which were opened by the lodge keeper as the carriage was heard approaching. The drive was made through a beautiful avenue of beech trees, and led steeply uphill. The house stood on a plateau, from which was a glorious view of the valley below and the wooded hills beyond.

The door was opened by a footman, and Kenneth entered a magnificent marble hall filled with palms and other hothouse plants, tastefully grouped round the lovely statuary of pure white marble, like the portico in which it stood. A flight of marble steps led him to another door, where he was met by the butler and conducted to the library.

Lady Earlswood welcomed him kindly. Her daughter Lady Violet, who was pouring out tea at a small table in the window, told him how delighted her brother Berington was that he could come to see them. Berington had been obliged to make a distant call that afternoon, but would be home in a short time. Then the conversation turned on the Riviera and the happy month which they had spent together there the year before.

Lady Violet went for her photo album, to show him the prints of the negatives which he had helped her to take. Captain Berington came in before they had looked through them all, and they talked together of the many places which the photos recalled, the different pleasant excursions during which they had been taken, and the various amusing incidents which had occurred while they were there. Kenneth himself appeared in several of the photographs, and as he looked at these he wished that he could feel once more the light-heartedness which he had then enjoyed.

Then it was time to dress for dinner, and he went to his room feeling as if he was in a dream, or rather, as if _this_ was reality, and the past three weeks had been a distressing dream from which he had awaked.

He went down to the drawing-room and found young Lady Violet there before him. She looked lovely in her pale blue evening dress, wearing the magnificent diamond necklace which had been her mother's present to her when she came of age.

"I'm awfully glad you were able to come," she said in a low voice.

"Thank you, Lady Violet. I am glad too. I have come because I want to say goodbye to you all."

"Why goodbye?"

"May I tell you in the morning some time, if you and Lady Earlswood could spare me half an hour? I had rather not talk about it tonight, if you don't mind. I think I should like to tell you just before I go."

"But you're not going tomorrow. You _must_ stay longer than that."

"Impossible, Lady Violet. My leave has been extended more than once, and I'm due in Aldershot tomorrow."

"Oh, what a pity. I thought . . ."

But what Lady Violet thought she never told him, for at that moment her brother and younger sister came into the room together, and Lady Earlswood soon followed. And then dinner was announced.

The dinner table was decorated with the rarest hothouse flowers and ferns, among which were burning numbers of tiny electric lamps, the brightness of which was reflected in the shining silver and glass. As Kenneth Fortescue sat talking to Berington after the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, he could not help wondering whether he would ever again sit down at such a table.

The evening passed pleasantly and all too quickly. Lady Earlswood had the happy gift of making all who came to her house feel at home and thoroughly at their ease, and she expressed great sorrow when Captain Fortescue announced that he must be back in Aldershot the following day. She looked somewhat surprised when he asked her if he might speak to her on a personal matter.

She glanced at Lady Violet, and wondered if the interview he had asked for had anything to do with her. If so, she felt inclined to listen favourably to what he had to say, for Captain Fortescue was apparently the richest man of her acquaintance, and certainly the most aristocratic in appearance. He had no title, which was, of course, a serious drawback, and she would have to make full inquiry about his family and prospects before giving her consent. But if Violet was fond of him, and if all turned out satisfactory, now that Captain Fortescue would have inherited his father's money, an offer from him would, at any rate, have her serious consideration.

Thus Lady Earlswood looked forward to the appointment that she had made with Kenneth Fortescue, to come to her morning-room after breakfast the following day.

"You would like to see me alone?" she whispered, as they rose from the breakfast table and were leaving the room.

"No, Lady Earlswood. If you do not mind, I should like all of you to hear what I have to say."

Lady Earlswood was surprised. Surely his private communication could not be what she had expected. However, she at once fell in with his suggestion, and soon the family party was gathered together in her pretty boudoir.

Then he told them all. He laid before them the story of his life, speaking tenderly of his father, dwelling on his self-denying love in bringing him up and educating him regardless of expense. He said that he had often wished to tell them of this, but a feeling of loyalty to his father had held him back from doing so.

Then he went on to the cause of his father's death. He told them of the telegram from Brazil, and of the terrible news it contained; and then he spoke of the consequence of that news to himself. He said that he was intending to throw up his commission in the army, inasmuch as he could not possibly live on his captain's pay; that he must now turn his attention to something which would be sufficient to provide for him in a quiet and simple way, and which might also enable him, by means of the greatest economy, to repay an obligation incurred by his father some years ago, and for which, as his son, he felt morally responsible.

They did not interrupt him as he was telling this story, but listened attentively. Lady Violet, with heightened color, turned a little away from him as he was speaking, and as soon as he had finished the young lady rose and left the room.

Lady Earlswood thanked him for speaking as frankly as he had done. She said that certainly it was the only right thing to do, for, in their position of life, there were obligations which they owed to society, and her husband, the late Earl, being dead, these obligations of course devolved upon herself. She was sorry that circumstances, over which of course Captain Fortescue had no control, had occurred to terminate what had been a pleasant acquaintanceship. She wished it could have been otherwise, but she felt sure he would see that she had no choice in the matter but to ask him to see no more of her and her two daughters. At the same time she could only repeat that she was exceedingly sorry, and that she wished that it could have been otherwise.

It was what Captain Fortescue had expected her to say, and he was therefore neither surprised nor disappointed as he rose to take leave of her and her daughter Lady Maude.

Berington, who had not spoken once during the interview, now told him that he was coming with him to the station and would join him in a few minutes. As Kenneth passed through the inner hall on his way to the door where the carriage was waiting for him, Lady Violet was just crossing it. She was still flushed, and he thought that she had been crying. He went up to her to say goodbye.

"I think you might have told us all this before," she said.

"I have only known it three weeks myself, Lady Violet."

"Oh, about the money -- yes. But about your father -- you knew _that_. You see, it has put us in an unpleasant position."

"I think I explained to you why I did not tell you before. It was for my poor old father's sake."

"It makes it awfully hard for us."

"It will not be harder than I can help, Lady Violet. You need not be afraid that I shall presume upon our former acquaintance. I know my altered position, and I shall never forget it, I hope. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Captain Fortescue."

She did not even shake hands with him as she said it, but ran swiftly upstairs, and Kenneth passed on through the marble hall to the carriage waiting at the door.

Berington was most friendly during the drive, but did not allude to the conversation that had taken place until he was standing at the carriage door just before the train started.

Then he grasped Kenneth's hand, and said, "You and I can still be friends, Fortescue. Of course my mother has to be particular for the girls' sake, and my older brother, the Earl, is more particular still. He's obliged to be, I suppose. But I'm only a younger son, so can do as I like. Goodbye."

The train moved off before Kenneth could answer, and as it left the station behind he felt that in spite of Berington's friendly words, he had reached the last line of the last page of Volume One of his life story.

But as he journeyed on to Aldershot, and recalled Lady Violet's words, "It makes it awfully hard for us," he could not help contrasting them with other words, spoken by another voice, only ten days before, "Please don't trouble about _us_. It is quite hard enough for _you_." And, as he thought of the difference between the two remarks, he mourned less than he would otherwise have done over the _Finis_ which he had now placed at the bottom of that last page.

#  Chapter 10

### Goodbye

WHEN Louis Verner arrived at Fernbank on the morning of Captain Fortescue's departure, Marjorie Douglas was looking out for him. As soon as he took the _Standard_ out of his pocket she ran upstairs and carried it to her own room. Spreading the paper out on the bed she turned to the advertisement page and looked down the column headed Situations Vacant. She passed quickly over these at the top of the column, _Wanted, a Gentleman of Smart Habits_ ; _Wanted a Salesman_ ; _Wanted a Well-educated Youth,_ etc., and passed on to those advertisements which referred to women.

A Working Housekeeper wanted for a London Business House.

"I should not do for that," she said.

Lady Cook wanted at once.

"I should not like to be a lady cook, nor do I know enough about cooking. Oh, this is better." _Mother's Help \-- Nice young girl._ "I wonder if I _am_ a nice young girl," she said, laughing. _Three boys, ages 11, 5, and 2. Good reference. Write fully, Mrs. Burstall, 51, Lester Street, London S.E._

"Some registry office, I suppose. I don't like the sound of that nice young girl. Oh, here's another." _Mother's help wanted, fond of children, must be thoroughly domesticated, comfortable home, one servant kept. Apply by letter, Mrs. Holtby, Daisy Bank, Staffordshire._

"That sounds better. I _am_ fond of children. I wonder if I _am_ thoroughly domesticated. And Daisy Bank sounds inviting. I wonder if it is the name of the house or the place. I _should_ like to go to a pretty place, if possible. Of course it does not matter really, only after Borrowdale. . ."

And Marjorie looked lovingly at the beautiful view from her bedroom window.

"Mother," she called, as Mrs. Douglas passed the bedroom door, "come and look at these advertisements."

Mother and daughter sat down together and read them through, and Mrs. Douglas agreed with Marjorie that the Daisy Bank one appeared to be the most promising.

"But, oh, darling," she said, "how shall I ever get on without you?"

"Or I without you, mother?" said Marjorie. "But we must do something, and this seems the best, does it not?"

"I suppose so, dear."

"And I do think it will be good for Phyllis. She is a clever and capable sister -- when she gives her mind to anything. I am sure she will help you all she can, and _she_ would never settle away from home, would she?"

"Oh no, that would never do," said Mrs. Douglas. "I don't think poor little Phyllis is cut out to rough it at all."

So that day the letter was written, and Marjorie took it herself to the post office and dropped it into the box.

How impatiently she waited for the answer. It came two days afterwards in a man's handwriting.

Colwyn House,

Daisy Bank.

Dear Miss Douglas,

Mrs. Holtby being ill and unable to write to you herself. She has asked me to inform you that we have written to your referees, and if all proves satisfactory she will be pleased to engage you at a salary of twenty-five pounds per annum. Your duties will be quite simple, and we shall treat you as one of the family. As you ask for a reference from me, I beg to give you the following: --

A. Crayshaw, Esq.,

The Laurels,

West Bromwich.

Should you decide to come to us, we shall be pleased to receive you this day week.

Yours truly,

Lionel Holtby.

"What do you think of it, mother?"

"I think it sounds all right, dear, but of course we must write to this Mr. Crayshaw before deciding anything."

The letter from West Bromwich proved satisfactory, bearing witness to the respectability of the Holtby family, and therefore, after much thought and also much prayer, Mrs. Douglas consented to Marjorie's going to Daisy Bank.

"You can come home again if all is not right," she said. "Rather than you should be unhappy, we will forfeit anything."

That last week at home seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. There was so much to be done. Their heads were so fully occupied in thinking of what was needed for Marjorie's outfit, as she called it, their hands were so busy in cutting out and making sundry blouses and morning dresses, that there was little time to dwell on the parting that was coming.

It was not until the last night, when her trunk was locked and strapped and taken downstairs, and when only the dress-basket, which was to be left open until the morning, remained in her room as evidence of her coming journey, it was only then that for a little time Marjorie's heart failed her. It was so hard to leave them all, but especially her mother. She could not help her tears falling fast as she thought of it.

She was going out into the world alone. No, not alone. Jesus, her best Friend, would go with her. She would not forget that. She looked up and read a card which she had bought the last time she was in Keswick, and which was hanging over her bed. In the middle of this card, in gold letters, were these two words \--

Yes, Lord

Underneath them was this verse --

One great Eternal yes

To all my Lord shall say;

To all I know or yet shall know

Of all the untried way.

As Marjorie knelt by her bed, the _Yes, Lord_ was said, and when she went downstairs not a sign of trouble was left on her face. They would all feel rather gloomy that night, she said to herself, and she must try to cheer them.

"I wonder Marjorie can be so merry when she is going away for so long," said Phyllis that night, as she went into Leila's room to say good night to her widowed sister.

"Marjorie never thinks of herself," was Leila's answer. "She only thinks of mother."

Phyllis stooped to kiss little Carl as he lay asleep in his cot, and as she did so she said to herself that she would try, when Marjorie was gone, to follow in her footsteps.

The next morning was bright and frosty, and the sky was without a single cloud. The hills and dales were flooded with sunshine, which was unusually bright for the time of year. The snow had all gone, and the spring flowers were coming up fast in the garden. As Marjorie went away, she held in her hand a large bunch of violets and snowdrops which Phyllis had gathered for her before breakfast. Her mother came with her to the gate, where Colonel Verner's pony trap was waiting, for Louis had promised to drive her into Keswick.

It was hard work to say goodbye to her mother, but Marjorie tried to do it with a bright face. She did not want to make it harder for her mother at that moment. Then she got up beside Louis; and Phyllis, who was coming to see her off, jumped up behind.

Marjorie turned round as they drove over the bridge, and saw her mother and little Carl at the garden gate still looking after her. She looked up at the house and at old Dorcas who had come to the door and was waving her apron, and higher still she saw Leila watching from the bedroom window, and she was afraid that Leila was crying.

Never did Borrowdale look more beautiful in Marjorie's eyes. She gazed fondly at every mountain peak that came in sight. She longed to store away in her memory each bit of the loveliness, so that when she was far away she could refresh herself by the recollection of it all.

Louis was angry that Marjorie was going from home. He would not believe that it was necessary, and he thought that when he came back from Oxford for the Long Vacation it would be a great nuisance to find her gone. He had quite come to the conclusion lately that he liked Marjorie better than Phyllis, and now she was going away from him. He wished heartily that Captain Fortescue had never come to Rosthwaite, upsetting all their plans and making a break in the happy little party at Fernbank. He wanted life to go on smoothly and comfortably, and could not see why it should not always do so.

"Louis," said Marjorie, as they drove along, "when I come home, the first question I shall ask you will be this: 'What are you going to be when you leave University?' And I shall expect a satisfactory answer!"

"Oh yes, I'm sure to have decided by that time; but it's difficult, isn't it?"

"Not if you give your mind to it and find out what you're fit for."

"Oh yes, I _will_ try, Marjorie. It's an awful nuisance your going away. You might have helped me to settle."

"I? What nonsense, Louis. No one can do that but yourself. But you _must_ do it. I can see that your father Colonel Verner is worried about it."

"I believe he is. Well, I _will_ try, but don't let us talk about that now, Marjorie. You'll write to me, of course."

"I will if I have time, Louis, but I don't know what my duties will be," she said, laughing.

"Oh, never mind the duties. I shall expect to hear from you. Don't forget, Marjorie."

"When do you go back to Oxford?"

"The beginning of next week. It _is_ a grind. I feel as if I had only just come down."

They were early for the train, and walked up and down the platform till it came. As they did so, Marjorie kept remembering many little things she wanted to say to her younger sister.

"Don't forget Leila's tea in the morning, Phyllis. You _will_ get up, won't you?"

"Oh yes, Marjorie."

"And look after mother. And if she seems tired, get her to rest a little. And, Phyllis, do be careful that Carl doesn't go near the river. That garden gate ought always to be kept shut."

Then the locomotive came steaming into the station pulling the Cockermouth train, and in a few minutes Marjorie was leaning out of the window and waving a last goodbye to Louis and Phyllis who had run to the end of the platform to watch the train out of sight.

#  Chapter 11

### Daisy Bank

IT WAS DARK that evening when Marjorie drew near her journey's end. She had to change at Wolverhampton and go to another station, so she could travel by the Great Western line.

"What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her box into the van.

"In ten minutes, miss. Third station."

She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was passing.

By their bright light she could see men at work, their faces lit up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the next.

The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank, Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could see no one, but as she walked along the platform to get her luggage out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.

"Are you Miss Douglas?"

"Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"

"Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for it."

"Can't I get a cab?"

The girl laughed. "Cab?" she said. "I should think not. We've no cabs here!"

They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she went along a roughly made cinder path, and Marjorie followed a little behind, at times stepping into great pools of water which she could not see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery mud.

Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of all kinds had been thrown down, and left to find their own level and own position. They passed one or two grimy shops, which appeared to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and cheap sweets.

As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which also lacked color was untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown tam-o'shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing. There was an older, womanly look about her face, as if she had never been a child but had begun life as a grownup person.

As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long stretches of darkness between them. At length, the furnace lights formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a scene of utter desolation.

"What a curious place," Marjorie said to the girl at her side.

"I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does too."

"Why do you live here, then?"

"Oh, father is the manager at the works over there. We _have_ to live here, I suppose. It's a hateful place."

"What is your name?"

"Patty. It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call me after her."

"How many are there of you?"

"Seven. Isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."

"Are you all at home?"

"Yes. We go to school, of course."

"Then there _is_ a school here."

"Oh yes, a big one. I'm glad you've come, Miss Douglas."

Marjorie smiled a warm smile. "Thank you, it's nice to have a welcome."

"You see, we're all so upset since mother got so ill. She's almost always in bed now. She hasn't been up for five weeks at all, and we _do_ get in a muddle. I do what I can, but I can't do much. I have to go to school, you see, and our young maid Bessie is so slow. She's not a bad sort, but she can't hurry. Some people can't. And my brothers are so tiresome, and they won't do what I tell them."

"Where are we going now?" asked Marjorie, as they seemed to be leaving the road and turning into the darkness.

"Oh, it's a short cut over the mounds."

"Mounds?" queried Marjorie.

"Oh, there are coal pits and furnaces all round here. The mounds are where they tip the waste. Take hold of my arm. You can't see, and you'll be walking off into one of the pit pools. The lakes we call them." Then she added, with a laugh, "You come from the Lakes, don't you?"

"Yes, from such a lovely place."

"Well, you won't like _our_ lakes, I'm afraid. They're only rainwater that lies in the hollows between the mounds. There are plenty of them about here."

"Isn't it better to keep to the road such a dark night as this?"

"You can't," said Patty. "It's all deep mud. You'd stick fast if you tried."

At length they saw a light coming from the windows of a square stone house with a small garden in front of it. Patty took a latchkey from her pocket and opened the door. Marjorie heard a rush from an inner room, and six children of various ages ran out to see the newcomer.

"Shake hands properly, and don't stand staring," said Patty. "Tom and Walter, Miss Douglas; they come next to me. Then there are Nellie and Alice. Oh, Alice, what a dirty pinafore you have. Why didn't you get Bessie to put you a clean one on? And here are the two little ones. Come and kiss Miss Douglas, Bob and Evie." She turned to Marjorie. "They're very dirty. They almost always _are_ dirty, but they're such darlings."

"How old are they?" asked Marjorie, as she stooped to kiss the cleanest part of the dirty little cheeks.

"Just three. They're twins, you know. Now run away, children. Miss Douglas must come upstairs and see mother."

Patty spoke as though they were all many years younger than herself, and as if all the cares of the household rested on her shoulders. Marjorie followed her up the narrow stairs, and she led the way into a bedroom where Mrs. Holtby was lying in bed.

Marjorie thought it was one of the most untidy rooms she had ever seen. Dust lay on everything, and the table, chest of drawers, bed, and floor were covered with all manner of things, crowded together in hopeless confusion. Mrs. Holtby raised herself on her pillow as Marjorie came in.

Marjorie at once took the flowers that her sister Phyllis had given her out of her coat and gave them to Mrs. Holtby.

"I'm glad to see you, Miss Douglas. Oh, what beautiful violets. They remind me of home."

"Did you live in the country?"

"Yes, all my life, till I was married. I'm afraid you won't find things very comfortable, Miss Douglas, but I can't help it."

"No, of course you can't," said Marjorie, kindly.

"Patty has got your room ready, haven't you, Patty?"

"Yes, as well as I could," said the girl. "I'm afraid it isn't very nice."

"Never mind," said Marjorie. "We'll soon get everything straight. May I take my coat off?"

Patty led the way to a small back bedroom, rather scantily furnished, but unlike the one she had just left it was tidy and fairly clean. She was surprised to see a little bunch of ivy lying on the dressing table.

"Who was kind enough to put this here?" she asked.

"I did," said Patty. "It isn't black. I washed it at the tap. I thought as you came from the country you'd like to see something green."

Marjorie turned round and gave her a kiss. "Thank you, dear," she said. "I _do_ like it very much."

But in spite of this kindly thought on Patty's part, it was hard for Marjorie to resist the feeling of homesickness which crept over her when she was left alone. How could she ever live in such surroundings, so utterly different from everything to which she had been accustomed?

She determined to be brave and hopeful, and went downstairs to find tea ready for her in the dining-room. The cloth was dirty and the food not tempting, but Patty, who poured out the tea, seemed so ashamed of it all, and so anxious that she should have what she wanted, that Marjorie felt obliged to eat as much as she could, lest she should be disappointed.

After tea Mr. Holtby came in, a tall silent man with sandy hair and a most worried expression on his face.

"Glad to see you, Miss Douglas," he said. "I hope Patty has taken care of you. Patty, I want some stamps. Just put on your hat and get some."

Without a word Patty set out in the darkness, and soon returned with what he wanted.

"Patty, those boys are quarrelling in the next room. Go and see what the matter is," said her father.

"I expect Patty is tired," said Marjorie. "I'll go."

The boys stopped quarrelling when Marjorie entered, and a packet of chocolates which she brought from her pocket soon restored harmony in the back sitting-room, as it was called. She then went up to Mrs. Holtby, to learn what she wanted her to do.

Marjorie found that Mrs. Holtby was a gentle, kind-hearted woman, but worn down by ill health and the cares of her large family. She said that her father had been a land-agent, and she had lived in a lonely place in Shropshire, and had known far better days. Marjorie felt sorry for her and anxious to help her, but it was late when she got to bed that night, and she felt almost as if life in that house would be more than she could bear. But when she knelt in prayer, she remembered that she had come there willing to do God's will, whatever that might be, and she determined to make the best of the home to which she had come, and do her utmost to brighten it.

The next morning Marjorie was awakened at six o'clock by the sirens and horns in the different works calling the men to begin their labour for the day. She jumped up, wondering what the noise was and where she could be. Then she remembered to what a forlorn place she had come the night before, and she determined to make things a little more comfortable as soon as possible. She lit the gas and dressed quickly, and as she was doing so she heard Mr. Holtby knocking at the maid Bessie's door and telling her to get up.

Marjorie was downstairs long before the maid, and finding a little gas stove in the back kitchen she lit it and boiled some water in a small kettle which was standing on the shelf. Mrs. Holtby was surprised when as soon as her husband had gone downstairs, there came a knock at her door and Marjorie entered with a cup of tea and a thin slice of bread and butter.

"Oh, how nice," she said. "I am so thirsty. I have had such a restless night. Whatever made you think of it?"

"I have a sister in poor health at home," Marjorie said, "so I know what it is like. Now I will help Bessie to get breakfast ready, and then dress the twins."

The next hour and a half was a busy time. It was like starting a regiment, to get all those children off to school. Everything that they wanted was lost, and the scampering up and downstairs after books, boots, hats, caps and coats was a most wearying proceeding.

At last they were off, and the house was quiet. Only the twins were left behind, and they were busily playing on the floor with a large box of bricks. Marjorie went upstairs to take Mrs. Holtby's breakfast, and see what she could do to make her comfortable.

She felt that nothing short of a regular spring cleaning of the bedroom would make it really clean, and she longed to do it, but she did not like to propose that the first day. She must get Bessie to help her, but the maid could not be driven too fast. She had her own ideas, and these were slow to the last degree.

So on this first morning Marjorie contented herself with smaller measures of reform. She brought warm water and sponged the sick woman's face and hands, and then she went quietly about the room, tidying it and clearing away the piles of rubbish which it contained. The children's clothes she carried to their own room, the books and papers she dusted and took downstairs, and then after shaking up the pillows and straightening the bedclothes she went downstairs to see what the maid was doing about dinner.

"What time do the children come in, Bessie?"

"One o'clock, and the master a quarter-past, miss," Bessie said.

"What is there for dinner?"

"There's a piece of beef. I can cook that."

"That's a good idea, Bessie. What about pudding?"

"Well, we haven't had many puddings lately. Not since missus has been ill."

"Do you think I should make one, Bessie?"

"Yes, if you will. They won't half smile if you do."

This, Marjorie discovered, was the Daisy Bank way of expressing great satisfaction.

"Very well, Bessie, let me see what you have in the house."

Marjorie soon made a large suet pudding with plenty of raisins in it for the children, and a dainty custard pudding for their mother. Then she laid the table for dinner, for which she found a clean tablecloth, washed and polished the electro-plated forks and spoons, made the dull and dirty tumblers shine brightly by washing them first in hot and then in cold water, and afterwards rubbing them with a dry cloth. She managed to have the dinner cooked and all in readiness by the time the children came in from school.

"You _have_ made it nice, Miss Douglas," Patty said as she looked at the table. "I wish mother could see it."

"Will you help me to get your mother's dinner ready, Patty?"

"Yes. What shall I do?"

"Find me a little tray. And, Patty, have you any serviettes?"

"Yes, there are some in a drawer upstairs. I'll get one."

Patty was only too delighted to help, and when Mrs. Holtby's dinner was ready, she carried the tray with great glee up to her mother's sickroom.

Mr. Holtby looked round with satisfaction as he took his place at the head of the table, but he said nothing. He was a most silent man, and Marjorie found that his words of commendation were at all times few and far between.

#  Chapter 12

### A Walk

THAT AFTERNOON, Mrs. Holtby insisted on Marjorie going out for an hour or two to get some fresh air after her hard work. Marjorie proposed taking the twins with her, but their mother said that the roads were too wet for their thin shoes, and that they would be quite happy playing in her room. So she set out alone, not sorry to feel free for a little time.

So far, she had seen practically nothing of Daisy Bank, for it was too dark the night before for her to do more than see the dim outline of what she passed. From the windows of Colwyn House there was merely a narrow view, shut in by houses on either side. She had not expected to see much to charm her during her walk, but she was hardly prepared for the scene that met her eyes as she went down the muddy lane leading from the house.

On one side of it were a few tumbledown cottages, damp and discoloured. On the other was an open waste tip, strewn with the remains of old furnace heaps. She looked across this wilderness to the huge pit mounds, rising in all directions, a picture of gloom and misery.

Finding that the lane was still impassable due to the depth of mud, she turned onto the waste common, parts of which were covered with thin, smoke-begrimed grass. Here stood two old houses, even more forlorn than those she had already passed. The bedroom window of one was partly blocked with wood, and the room was given up to pigeons which flew in and out at pleasure. The door of the other house was open, and she saw a cock and a hen and three fat ducks walking about as if the whole place belonged to them.

A little further on she found two ragged women, down on their knees on an old mound, raking over the muddy ashes and picking out the wet and dirty cinders which were to be found among them, stowing them away in an old sack.

"What are you doing?" Marjorie asked.

"Getting cinders for the fire."

"Will they burn?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes, with a little coal. It's better than no fire at all."

Marjorie walked on, sick at heart as she thought of the kind of homes that those women must have. The cold, icy wind blew in her face, and she shivered as she thought of the apology for a fire which would be kindled with those cinders.

After this she passed more houses and more mounds, but nowhere in the whole place did she see a vestige of anything that was pleasant to look upon. The houses were destitute of paint, the doors and window frames were bare and unsightly, and the numberless broken panes were filled in with rag or paper. More than one of the houses was in ruins -- every window broken, and the walls ready to fall in.

The coal mines below had caused these houses to sink, and they had been pronounced unsafe and left deserted. But no one had taken the trouble to clear away the bleak ruins. There they stood, blackened with furnace smoke, unsightly and melancholy objects.

Only two coal pits were working, so a man told her, who was smoking a dirty clay pipe at his door. Some pits had stopped because of bad trade; some were worked out; some had filled with water and were therefore abandoned. Yet at the mouth of each of these deserted pits the heavy wooden frame and great horizontal winding wheel remained -- a gloomy memento of more prosperous days.

In every direction in which she looked, Marjorie saw unmistakable marks of squalid, cheerless poverty -- the only prosperous-looking building being the public house at the corner, which appeared to do a thriving trade. The whole country was honeycombed with mines, and in consequence many of the houses had sunk below the level of the others in the same row. Everything in Daisy Bank seemed crooked and out of shape. Other cottages were scattered among the furnace waste, built anywhere and everywhere that a place could be found for them, on different levels and in sundry nooks and corners of the hilly spoil tips.

Then she came to higher mounds still, and crossing these she saw deep, black pools in their hollows, stretches of dark stagnant water which she thought never reflected anything that was pretty or bright except the moon in God's pure heaven above. Here and there someone, more thrifty than his neighbours, had made a little garden in the waste, but a few struggling plants of the most hardy kinds were all that the best garden in Daisy Bank could produce.

Marjorie was glad to get back to the dismal house in which her lot was cast. It seemed almost cheerful after the unkempt hideousness of these depressing surroundings.

#  Chapter 13

### Black Country Roses

THAT FIRST DAY at Colwyn House in Daisy Bank was a fair sample of many others that followed it. Bit by bit Marjorie restored order to the once untidy and comfortless house. Mrs. Holtby's room was made as sweet and cheerful as it was possible for any room in such a neighbourhood to be. The floor was washed, the carpet shaken, clean white curtains were hung in the window, and fresh coverings placed on the bed. On the table stood a vase which was filled with spring flowers, a constant supply of which was sent regularly by her sister Phyllis from the Rosthwaite garden.

Then Marjorie took another room in hand, and with Bessie's and Patty's help worked the same reformation there, and so by degrees the house looked more homelike and far less dreary. But it was an arduous life to which she had come, and sometimes she felt inclined to despair.

Work as hard as she might, from early in the morning till late at night, Marjorie could never keep pace with the darning and patching, the clearing and dusting, which seemed always waiting to be done. Her feet were weary with running up and down stairs; her head ached with the noise of the children, and at times she longed terribly for a single day's holiday and rest. But of this she saw no prospect whatever. Beyond a daily walk over the pit mounds she never got out, and she saw no one in these walks to whom she could speak. Apart from her love for Jesus, her thoughts were her only companions, and they were anxious ones at times.

The home letters sounded bright as a rule, but now and again some sentence in her mother's made her feel how much she was missed there. Her own letters were as cheerful as she could make them, although she wrote a truthful account of the place to which she had come, for she had promised her mother that she would do so.

As Marjorie wandered over the wilderness of ashes day after day, she thought of her family and her home in the Lakes, and a terrible yearning came over her to see them again, and to look even for five minutes at the scenes she loved so well. And then her thoughts would wander to Captain Fortescue. She had kept her promise to him before leaving home. She had written once through his lawyer to tell him where she was going, but she had never received an answer. Sometimes she wondered whether her letter had ever reached him. What was he doing now? Had he left the army? Was he happy in the new life on which she supposed he must have entered?

She thought of the captain's words to her mother. "I will not allow myself a single indulgence of any kind until the full amount is in your hands." What a hard life that would mean if he kept his word. And she believed that he would keep it, for she felt that he was a man to be trusted. Over and over again her busy thoughts returned to this subject, and in her prayers for those at home his name was added. It could not be wrong to pray for him, surely.

One day when spring weather was beginning, and when even Daisy Bank looked a degree less dismal, Marjorie was passing one of the tumbledown cottages when she saw an old man tending a pot containing a small rose tree. Then she noticed that a row of similar pots stood in the sunshine against the discoloured wall of the house.

The roses were just coming into leaf, and she watched as the old man turned and bent lovingly over them, loosening the soil near their stems, and giving each of them some water from a jug which was standing on the doorstep. Marjorie felt that at last she had found something in Daisy Bank at which it was pleasant to look. She went up to the old man and admired his roses, and he showed them to her with great pride, telling her the name and the color of each.

"Would you like to see my garden, miss?" he asked.

He took her through the kitchen, which was surprisingly clean although bare of paint and whitewash, and led her to the back of his cottage. There he showed her his lawn, a tiny strip of green about three feet long and two feet broad, covered with grass. This he watered daily, to keep it from being blackened by the smoke-laden atmosphere, and kept it short by cutting it every evening with a pair of scissors.

He introduced himself as Enoch. He was clearly intensely proud of his miniature lawn, and of a row of hardy plants which were leading a struggling existence under the wall of the house. London Pride was, perhaps, the only one which did not appear to be depressed by its surroundings, and which Marjorie thought might rightly have changed its name to Daisy Bank Pride.

But the old man was proud of them all, and beamed with delight when Marjorie stooped to examine them. That tiny garden was the joy of his heart, as dear to him as the lovely home garden in Rosthwaite had been to her, and quite as beautiful in his eyes.

"It's a wonder that anything will grow here," Marjorie said.

"Ay, it's unlikely soil, but the Lord's plants do thrive sometimes in that."

"Yes," said Marjorie, although she did not quite see what he meant.

"There was old Dan'el in Babylon, and Obadiah, him as lived in Jezebel's time, and there was saints in Nero's household. They had bad soil, all of 'em, but they was faithful trees of the Lord's planting, that He might be glorified."

And then Marjorie knew that she had found a friend. Old Enoch would have been stamped as an uneducated man by many, but he knew his Bible well and could repeat much of it by heart. It was his daily study, and he was taught by the Spirit of God. Many and many a time, when things seemed darker than usual, Marjorie would run in to see him, and she always came away feeling brighter and better.

It was on the very day on which she first made old Enoch's acquaintance that, as she was going back to the Holtby family in Colwyn House, she had a great and most unexpected surprise. Coming along the lane to meet her, and picking his way among the pools which even the spring sunshine had not dried up, she saw a well-known figure, and her heart danced with joy at the sight, for it seemed to her like a bit of home put down among the dreariness of Daisy Bank.

It was Louis Verner.

"Oh, Louis, how nice to see you," she cried. "It _is_ lovely to see a home face."

"I thought you would be pleased to see me, Marjorie. I'm on my way home, and I thought I could tell your family about you."

"And you've come out of your way on purpose to see me. How awfully good of you, Louis."

"Not at all good. I wanted to come." He hesitated, then said, "Marjorie, you're prettier than ever."

"Don't talk such nonsense, Louis," she said. "Tell me about yourself. How have you been getting on?"

"Oh, fairly well, I think. We've had an awfully jolly term. All sorts of things going on."

"And what are you going to be when you leave Oxford?"

"Now, Marjorie, that's too bad. You said you would ask me when you came home next."

"Very well, I won't scold you today when you've been so good as to come and see me. How long can you stay?"

"Only an hour."

"Will you come in?"

"I'd rather not," said Louis. "We can't talk if all those people are there. Can't you come for a walk?"

"I'll ask Mrs. Holtby."

The permission was readily given, and Mrs. Holtby who was sitting up in her room, crept to the window and peeped through the blind with true feminine curiosity to see who was the friend from home with whom her much-valued mother's help was so anxious to go out.

"A very particular friend, I should imagine," she said to herself with a smile, as the two disappeared together over the pit mounds.

"Marjorie," said Louis, as she joined him, "of all detestable and hateful places on the face of this earth, I do think Daisy Bank is the worst."

"Don't be too hard on it, Louis. You should see it at night when the sky is lit up by the furnaces. We have constant illuminations here!"

"I don't know _what_ your mother will say when I tell her."

"Then you _mustn't_ tell her, Louis. I shall be angry if you make it out to be blacker than it is."

"I couldn't do that," said Louis, laughing, "No matter how hard I tried!"

"Well, what does it matter, Louis? If _I_ don't mind it, why should anybody else?"

They came now to one of the large dark pools.

"What a ghastly hole." he said. "Just the place to tempt a fellow to commit suicide."

"Now, Louis, that is our best lake. The Derwentwater of these parts."

"Derwentwater, indeed!" said Louis, scornfully. "Look here, Marjorie, I don't like your being here at all."

"I assure you, Louis, there is no need to pity me."

Then Louis suddenly changed his tone. "Marjorie . . ."

"Yes, Louis."

"Why do you never write to me?"

"I haven't time, Louis. It's as much as I can do to write home."

"But I _do_ think you might write to me, because I am -- well, I really am awfully fond of you. I like you better than any girl I know. Upon my word I do."

"Thank you, Louis," said Marjorie, with a mock bow. "That's a very pretty compliment"

"It isn't a compliment, Marjorie. At least, I mean it's quite a true one. Did you get the picture postcards I sent you? "

"Yes, thank you, Louis. I asked mother, if she was writing to you, to thank you for them."

"So she did, but I had rather have had a letter from you."

They were walking towards the railway station when the hour was over, and Louis's train was almost due, when he said suddenly, "Marjorie, I'm going away, and you haven't said anything nice to me."

"Now _that_ isn't a compliment." she said, laughing again. "Look, Louis, the signal is down. We must hurry."

They ran down the steps, and Louis had barely time to get his ticket before the train came in.

As he jumped into the carriage, Marjorie could not help wishing that she was going with him, or at any rate that she was on her way to the same destination.

#  Chapter 14

### Mother Hotchkiss

AS TIME went on, in spite of her hard work, Marjorie began to feel not merely accustomed to the life at Colwyn House, but really fond of the people with whom she lived. Mrs. Holtby was grateful for all that Marjorie had done for them, and was willing to fall in with any suggestion that she made. Her health was gradually returning, and she was able to come downstairs and relieve Marjorie of several lighter duties.

As for Patty, she was Marjorie's firm ally and most willing helper. Marjorie rejoiced when she saw the look of care departing from the girl's face, as she realized that the burden of the family no longer rested on her shoulders. The boys were at times exceedingly naughty and troublesome, but the twins were devoted to "Miss Duggie" as they called her, and loved to sit on her knee listening to Bible stories, or to children's hymns which she sang to them. Their mother would often creep into the room and listen too. She told Marjorie that it made her think of her own mother, and of the lessons she had learned long ago, but which, alas, she feared that she had forgotten.

On Sunday, Marjorie took the older ones to the church which stood on a hill overlooking the cindery waste, and which could be seen from any part of its forlorn parish. Mr. Holtby never went to any place of worship. Both he and his wife had become accustomed, after years of neglect, to regard Sunday as little more than an excuse for a better dinner than usual, and an opportunity for a certain amount of self-indulgence.

One day in the early summer, when the sun was shining as brightly in Daisy Bank as in more favoured spots, Marjorie was standing at old Enoch's door, once more admiring his roses. They were actually coming into bud, and the old man's excitement was great as he counted the coming blossoms.

"The very first rose that comes out shall be for you, Miss Douglas."

"Thank you, Enoch. I wonder which it will be."

"This Crimson Rambler, miss, I believe. Look at it. You can just see the color coming in the bud."

"So I can."

"Miss Douglas," the old man went on, "do you ever go to see old Mother Hotchkiss?"

"No, I've never heard of her."

"She lives in that old house down the lane. You must have noticed it, surely. Two big square windows, almost like shop windows, and lots of nice plants in them."

"Oh yes, I know."

"Well, I wish you'd go and see her. I don't think she's long for this world, and she's never learned so much as a letter in the book."

"Poor old thing."

"Ay, you may well say poor old thing, Miss Douglas. She knows nothing. She can neither read nor write, and as for Scripture, why, a baby in yon schools over there knows more about it."

"I'll go and see her, Enoch. Who looks after her?"

"Nobody much. The neighbours go in a bit, and I do what I can."

"Has she no one belonging to her?"

"She has a daughter called Carrie, but she's married and away -- a pretty girl too. Carrie went to school here in Daisy Bank and she was a good hand at learning, so I believe. They made her a pupil teacher, and her mother wasn't half proud of her. But she went to be a teacher up in the North country somewhere, and she got married there, and now I'm told that she and her husband have gone abroad. And except for Carrie, I don't believe poor old Mother Hotchkiss has anybody else belonging to her."

The next day Marjorie fulfilled her promise to Enoch and knocked at the door of the house in the lane. The old woman came to open it, with a red shawl over her head.

"Mrs. Hotchkiss," said Marjorie, "I've brought you a few flowers which came this morning from my home in the country."

"Are they for me?" asked the old woman, stretching out her hand eagerly for the moss rosebuds and mignonette. "Come in, miss. I've seen you pass. You're Holtby's girl, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, smiling to herself at her new title, "and Enoch told me you were not well."

"I'm very ill, miss. Awful bad. Getting worse every day, that's what I am."

Marjorie followed the woman through a spacious room with wooden beams across the ceiling, and entered an inner room, more spacious still. "What a large house you have, Mrs. Hotchkiss."

"Too large," groaned the old woman. "It used to be a farm."

"A farm here?" exclaimed Marjorie.

"Yes, long ago, in the old time when they hadn't found the coal. It was all country here then."

"It looks like a very old house," said Marjorie, as she noticed the overhanging chimneypiece with its long, narrow shelf on which stood a china teapot and various other treasures. On either side of it was a deep recess or chimney corner in which were curious, ancient cupboards, only about two feet in height, with doors of dark oak.

Opening out of this large kitchen was a stone flight of steps leading down to an underground dairy, with three wide shelves one above another. These, in the olden time, would surely have been kept spotlessly clean and covered with large flat bowls of milk and cream; but now they were thickly coated with dirt, and piled with all manner of rubbish.

The old woman could not talk for some time, for the effort of going to the door had brought on a severe fit of coughing, so while she recovered her breath Marjorie had plenty of time to look round the room. It was appallingly untidy and dirty, but that did not surprise her, for old Mother Hotchkiss was too ill to do more than creep out of bed and come downstairs to the fire, where she sat in an old armchair with her feet on the fender.

"Have you been ill long?" Marjorie asked, when the old woman was able to speak.

"Ever since my daughter Carrie went away. Not so bad as this, though."

"May I come and see you sometimes?"

"Yes, my dear, do."

"Would you like me to read to you a little when I come?"

"Ay, do, for I can't read. There was none of this schooling in my day, and it's lonesome sitting here and doing nothing."

"Then I'll come tomorrow. I always get out about this time, and I'll come as often as I can."

When Marjorie left old Mother Hotchkiss she looked at her watch and saw that it was time that she was going home, as it was getting near teatime. But as soon as she opened the door of Colwyn House, Bessie who was cleaning the kitchen left her work and came to meet her.

"There's a gentleman been here while you were gone, miss. He didn't look half sorry when I said you was out. He said he would look if he could see you about anywheres."

"Who was he?"

"He didn't leave any name. He was an awful nice gentleman, too."

"Bessie, could you see that Mrs. Holtby gets her tea, if I go to look for him?"

"Yes, miss, I'll see to her."

Marjorie said to herself that Louis would be so disappointed if he missed her, after coming so far out of his way to see her again.

"Which way did he go, Bessie?"

"Well, I told him I thought you had gone Bradley way, so I should think you'd find him somewhere over there. He hasn't been gone long."

Marjorie hurried on over the muddy road, and then climbed one of the highest mounds if coal waste and ashes to be able to see in which direction Louis had gone. Yes, there he was, crossing the opposite one, and coming to meet her.

But no, it was not Louis. Her heart beat quickly as she saw who it was. It was Captain Fortescue.

"Miss Douglas," he called, "I've found you at last."

She hurried over to him. "I am so sorry you have had such a hunt. Where have you come from, Captain Fortescue?"

"Not _Captain_ Fortescue," he said, coming closer. "I have dropped that title since I left the army. I am living in Birmingham now."

"Oh, so near as that? I mean, I did not know you were anywhere in this neighbourhood," she explained.

"I have been in Birmingham a fortnight now. Thank you for keeping your promise, Miss Douglas."

"Oh, then you did get my letter?"

"Yes, I did. I meant to answer it when I could tell you what I was going to do, and then I found that Birmingham was to be my headquarters, so I thought I would come and answer it by word of mouth."

"What are you doing in Birmingham?"

"I'm an agent for a large insurance company. I think I'm fortunate to get anything to do so soon. It's a pretty good appointment, too. I hope each quarter to be able to send a small instalment to your mother in Rosthwaite, Miss Douglas."

"It is good of you," she answered, "but I do hope you are not stinting yourself by doing so. It troubles me when I think that you are."

He gave her a grateful look as she said this. "Now, Miss Douglas, you are never to trouble about me again. I have given up smoking, and one or two little things that I am all the better without, but beyond that I assure you I am not suffering hardship in any way. How could I take a nice excursion like this if I was short of money?"

"I'm afraid it is not a pleasant place for you to come to for an excursion," she said, laughing.

"It doesn't quite come up to our last walk together."

"Where was that? Oh, I remember," she said. "Up to Seatoller and Honister. How far away it all seems."

"How is old Mary? How does she get on without you?"

"Oh, poor old thing. Mother goes to see her when she can. I've just found an old woman here, Captain Fortescue."

"Have you? Is she like old Mary? "

"Oh dear no. A poor, dirty old woman, but I'm glad to have someone to go and see. She likes me to read parts of the Bible to her, and even asks me to pray."

They were standing now beside one of the dismal ponds in which a number of ragged boys were wading.

"Miss Douglas," he said, "I am going to ask you a question, and I want a truthful answer. I know you will give me one."

"How awfully solemn it sounds." she said, laughing. "Nothing very dreadful, I hope?"

"No, not dreadful, but something I want to know. Are you happy here?"

"Oh yes," Marjorie said quickly. "I think I can truthfully say that I am. Of course it is a busy life, but I'm getting fond of the people and it's far better than I expected it would be."

"Thank you," he said. "Now, I wonder if you would mind doing something else for me."

"I will if I can, Captain Fortescue."

"Will you tell me exactly what your life here is? Take an ordinary day, yesterday for instance. Tell me what time you got up and went to bed, and give me a sketch of the day."

She did as he asked her, in as lively and cheerful a way as she could, making the best of everything, and dwelling very little on the discomforts of her life, or on the hard work which she had to do.

"Thank you," he said again, when she had finished. "I'm afraid you will think me awfully inquisitive, but I had a reason for wishing to know."

"A reason did you say? What was it?"

He hesitated a little before answering her.

"Never mind," she said. "Don't tell me if you would rather not."

"Oh, I don't mind your knowing, if you don't mind my telling you, Miss Douglas. You see, I sometimes -- I often think of you and wonder what you are doing -- and now I shall be able to picture it."

They walked on without speaking for a minute or two after that, and then he looked at his watch and said he must catch the next train at Deepfields on the London and North-Western Railway line, as that was the best way to get back to Birmingham.

"Please don't come any farther, as it is a long walk to the station."

"Do let me come," she said. "It is only a mile and I so seldom have anyone to talk to."

They spoke of many things after that, and the time seemed to fly all too quickly.

"I have enjoyed my time here very much," he said, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train. "May I give you my card? That is my address in Birmingham. Now, you made me a promise when we said goodbye last, and I want you to make me another promise now."

"What is it?" she asked.

"It is this: that if you are in any difficulty or trouble, if things don't go happily in any way, you will write to me or come to me. Will you promise?"'

"Yes," she said earnestly, "I will."

"Thank you. Goodbye." He jumped into the train as he said this, and she stood watching on the platform till it was out of sight.

#  Chapter 15

### The Old Oak Cupboard

THE YEAR was passing on, with day after day, week after week, month after month following each other in quick succession. Marjorie was keeping a calendar, counting the days that must pass before Christmas came when she would be able to go home for her first holiday.

Daisy Bank did not alter much with the changing seasons, for there was little to mark the progression of spring, summer and autumn. Barely a tree was in sight, and the few that were to be found were so stunted, blighted, and covered with smoke that the spring freshness of their leaves lasted but a few days. Upon the mounds grew a few coarse daisies -- at least, the children called them daisies. They were a kind of feverfew with a daisy-like flower. Nothing else would grow there, but these flowers were perhaps how the place got its name, a name which had at first appeared to Marjorie to be utterly unsuitable.

During all the summer months and throughout the early autumn, her life had been most uneventful and monotonous. There was the daily routine of household duties, "the common round, the daily task," but nothing more. No one else came to see her, and from that day in June, when he had stepped into the Birmingham train, she had seen and heard nothing more of Captain Fortescue. She would always think of him by his old name, even though she knew that he had dropped the military title.

The arrival of the home letters was the great event of Marjorie's week, and she read and re-read them until she almost knew them by heart. They made her homesick at times, but she fought bravely against the feeling, and looked on hopefully to Christmas.

All this time old Mother Hotchkiss had been growing more and more feeble, and as autumn advanced she was quite unable to leave her bed. A ragged girl of sixteen called Anna Maria, who lived next door, waited on her, and Mother Hotchkiss seemed to have plenty of money to pay her, and she was never behindhand in her rent. How she lived, old Enoch said he did not know. He told Marjorie that Mother Hotchkiss used to be very badly off, and that he had often seen her scraping up the cinders on the ash heaps, but he fancied that her married daughter Carrie must be sending her money, as she seemed to have sufficient for all she wanted.

Marjorie often took Mother Hotchkiss soup and milk puddings. Mrs. Holtby was pleased that Marjorie should make these for the old woman who was always grateful for them. Old Mother Hotchkiss much enjoyed hearing Marjorie read, and a feeble glimmer of light seemed to have penetrated to her poor dark soul as Marjorie tried to teach her how to pray.

But one day, late in October, when Marjorie went to see her, she found old Mother Hotchkiss crying and evidently in great trouble. She wondered if there was a connection with the tears and a Bible reading and prayer she had shared with the old woman on her last visit.

"What is it, Mrs. Hotchkiss?" she asked.

"The doctor has been," she said, "and he says as how I won't be long now. I heard him telling it to Anna Maria when she let him out."

"Well, don't cry," said Marjorie. "You know what I told you when I was here last."

"Yes, I think of it all the time."

"And have you said that little prayer?"

"Yes, my dear, I have. 'O Lord, forgive me my sins, for Jesus Christ's sake.' I've said it scores of times, but I don't believe He _will_ forgive me, all the same."

"Why not?"

"Oh, because . . . because. . . But I mustn't tell you. You see, I promised not to tell. But God will never forgive me, I know He won't."

"But He says He _will._ There's that promise in the Bible: 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"

"Yes, that's just it. That's just what I mean, my dear. _If_ we confess our sins. But I haven't confessed my sin. See?"

"But, dear Mother Hotchkiss, you _must_ confess it," said Marjorie.

"But I can't -- I can't -- you don't understand, my dear. It's something as I _can't_ confess."

Marjorie talked to her for some time longer, and the old woman cried and said again and again that she wanted to tell her, but she couldn't, no, she couldn't. At last Marjorie was obliged to leave. She felt sorry for Mother Hotchkiss, and when she knelt to pray before getting into bed, she prayed earnestly for the old woman who was so fast passing away, that she might find comfort and peace before the end came.

Marjorie was tired that night, and soon fell asleep. She was dreaming that she was in Borrowdale, sitting on a stone by the river when suddenly a pebble hit the rock on which she was perched, and she looked up to see Louis's merry face on the bank above her. Then another pebble came, and she woke. No, she was not in Borrowdale, but in her little bedroom in Daisy Bank. What was that noise, then? Someone was throwing pebbles at her window. She was startled, but got out of bed and looked out. It was dark, and she could see no one.

She opened her window a little way, and said, "Who is there?"

"It's me, miss," said old Enoch's voice. "Poor Mother Hotchkiss is much worse, and she wouldn't give us any peace till we said we would fetch you. She says she _must_ see you, and she can't die happy till she has."

"Who is with her, Enoch? "

"Peggy Jones, that's Anna Maria's mother, but I've been there the last hour. They fetched me. See?"

"I'll come, Enoch."

"I'll wait for you, miss, and take you across," he said.

Marjorie dressed quickly, and knocking at Mr. and Mrs. Holtby's bedroom door she explained where she was going and why. Mr. Holtby got up and let her out. Then guided through the darkness by old Enoch, she made her way to the curious old house.

Marjorie found Mother Hotchkiss far more ill than when she had left her that afternoon, but the frail woman raised herself in bed when Marjorie went in, and taking her hand she held it between both her own.

"That's right, dear," she whispered. "I've been just longing for you to come. Send them out, and I'll tell you."

"I think she has something she wants to say to me," said Marjorie to Enoch and Peggy Jones, who were standing by the window. "If you would like to rest for a little, I will take care of her."

"Don't you mind being left, miss?" said Peggy.

"Oh no, not at all," said Marjorie. "And I will call you if she is worse."

"Rap on that wall," said Peggy. "My bed is just on the other side of it, and I'll be with you in a moment. Our house was once part of this one, you know."

They left the room together and went down the steep stairs, and presently Marjorie heard them closing the outer door, and she knew that she was alone in the house with the dying woman.

"Are they gone, my dear?" Mother Hotchkiss asked.

"Yes, they are gone," said Marjorie.

"Are we quite alone?"

"Yes, quite alone."

The old woman closed her eyes for a moment. "You know what you said about confessing?"

"Yes. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"

"I want to ask you something, dearie. Stoop your head down to me, for I want to whisper. If you was to make a promise to somebody, and if it was a wicked promise that you had no business to have made, ought you to keep it?"

"Certainly not," said Marjorie. "It would be wrong to make a wicked promise, and it would also be wrong to keep it when you had made it."

"Do you think so, my dear? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Then listen, dearie, and I'll tell you. I feel as if I can't die till I do. I feel as if I must tell somebody. See? You know who Carrie is?"

"Yes, she's your daughter."

"Ay, and I wasn't half proud of her. A clever girl too, and such a scholar. Well, Carrie married a man as she met up Sheffield way, and he was well-to-do and all that. I believe they had a comfortable home, but he was awful mean to Carrie. He never would let her send anything to her poor old mother. I was nigh starved, my dear, I was indeed. If I hadn't raked in the ash heaps there's many a day I wouldn't have had a fire. I only had parish pay, and not too much of that. But one day they came to see me."

"Who did?"

"Carrie and her husband. And he spoke very fair, and he said if I would do a little thing for him he'd allow me ten shillings a week as long as I lived. Well, my dear, I said I would do it if I could. He wouldn't tell me what it was till I had promised that I wouldn't tell anybody. And then he went to his bag and he brought out a tin box, like a small biscuit tin, and it had a bit of string tied tight round it. 'Now, mother,' he says, 'I want you to hide this 'ere tin in one of them little cupboards in the chimney corner till I send for it. I'm a going to Ameriky,' he says, 'and when we're settled there and have got a home of our own, I'll write you word where to send it."

"'Can't you take it with you?' I says. 'It isn't big, and it won't take much room in your boxes.'

"'No,' he says; 'I'd rather you sent it, mother, and I'll let you have the address. Old Enoch will direct it for you. You can tell him it's something as Carrie left behind her.'

"Well, my dear, it seemed a stroke of good luck for me, didn't it now? And then he said they must go, but Carrie begged and prayed him to let her stay just one night with me, as she was going so far away, and might never see her old mother again."

"And did he let her?"

"He wouldn't at first, but Carrie cried, my dear. And at last he gave in, and said she was to follow him the next day. Well, we went to bed, Carrie and me, dearie, and when she was lying beside me that night I told her I did not much like having charge of that tin box, because folks might rob an old woman like me. And I asked her did she think it was jewels, or what was it?"

"What did she say?"

"She said it was naught but paper -- some letter, she said -- and then she began to cry. So I asked her what was the matter, dear. And she said she didn't like it at all, but they wouldn't listen to what she said."

"Who wouldn't?"

"Him and his sister. They'd stole this 'ere letter from someone as his sister lived with. _She_ stole it, I believe, and then he took it and raised money on it."

"How could he do that?" asked Marjorie, mystified.

"I don't know, my dear. I can't understand these things. She called it hush money, or some such name. There was somebody as didn't want what was in that letter to be known. And Josiah Makepeace -- that's my daughter's husband, dearie -- kept on threatening him that he would tell, and then making him pay money to get him to hold his tongue. Carrie said that some day Josiah would sell this man the letter, and get hundreds of pounds for it. But he wanted first to see how much he could get out of him by threatening him, without parting with the letter."

"I wonder what it was about," said Marjorie.

"I don't know, my dear. Carrie didn't know either, for he wouldn't let her read it. And I've never opened the tin, and I couldn't read it if I did."

"Then your daughter did not like what her husband was doing?"

"No, she was frightened, my dear. Mr. Forty Screws was in a great way about losing the letter, see. And Josiah was afraid he would put the 'tectives on them, so that's why they was going out of the country. His sister was going with them -- his half-sister she was. She was the one that stole it from Mr. Forty Screws, and they didn't want to take the letter with them, lest the 'tectives should search them and find it in their boxes. When once they got over to Ameriky they thought they was safe. See? Carrie did cry about it, though, my dear, and she said if she had her way she would give it back to Mr. Forty Screws, and have done with it all."

"What a curious name. Are you sure that it was Forty Screws?"

"Well, something like it, my dear.'

"Where is the tin now?"

"In the cupboard below. One of those little cupboards by the fire."

"Then they never sent for it?"

"Never, dearie, and I haven't heard a word from them. It's more than six months now since they sailed. There was a ship went down in them parts soon after they went -- at least Enoch told me so. He saw it in the papers, and sometimes I think they all went down in it. I'm sure Carrie would have written to me if she'd been alive. Well, now I've told you, my dear. Have I done right, do you think?"

"Quite right, Mrs. Hotchkiss, and I think you ought to do more. You ought to send that letter back to the man from whom it was stolen."

"I don't know where he lives nor nothing about him, my dear. And then it seems mean, after taking Josiah's money, to go and tell of him."

"How can Josiah be drowned if he still sends you the money?"

"He doesn't send it now, my dear. He left enough to last for a year with Tom Noakes at the public house here, and he pays it to me reg'lar, Tom does. Then Josiah said that he would send more when the year was up. See?"

"That letter ought certainly to go back to the man to whom it belongs," said Marjorie. "I am sure of that."

"But how can I tell who it is?"

"May I look at the letter? Perhaps his address is on it."

"Yes, my dear, you may if you like. Will you go and get it?"

Marjorie took the candle and went down the rickety stairs. A cold wind blew up from the vault-like dairy as she passed the flight of stone steps leading down to it. She felt almost like a thief herself as she crossed the kitchen and made her way to the ancient fireplace. There was the old oak cupboard, the door of which had often attracted her attention by its quaint appearance.

The small cupboard was locked, but the key was in it. She turned it in the lock, and the carved door came open. She hunted among the rubbish with which it was filled, but she found no tin. Odds and ends of all descriptions were there, but nowhere could she discover the one thing she had come to seek.

Perhaps the letter was in the other cupboard. There was no key in that, but she found that she could open it with the key from the first one. She unlocked it, and at first she thought that this second cupboard was empty, for she could see nothing whatever in it.

However, as she felt along the shelf she discovered in one corner of it, tightly jammed into the wall and well out of sight, a small biscuit tin. It took her some minutes to get it out, and then by the light of her candle she looked at it. It was tied up tightly with string, and the string was sealed in several places. She carried it upstairs and put it in the old woman's hands.

"Is that it?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear, that's it. Will you open it?"

"I hardly like to do it, and yet . . . Did you say the name was Forty Screws?" asked Marjorie, suddenly remembering that Captain Fortescue had said something about a stolen letter when they first met. "Do you think it possible, Mother Hotchkiss, that it could have been _Fortescue_?"

"Very likely, my dear. I never _can_ remember names, only I thought of the screws in a tin my old man used to keep 'em in. They're there yet, dear. And then I thought of forty of them. See? And I remembered it that way. But maybe I didn't hear her quite right, my dear."

Again Marjorie hesitated. But if it _should_ be -- if it was possible that it _could_ be the letter that had been stolen and that _he_ wanted -- the letter that he would be glad to have once more in his hands. . . Yes, she would open it. It could not be wrong -- it surely could not be wrong.

She broke the seals and unfastened the string. Then it was easy to take off the lid of the tin. Inside was a sheet of foolscap paper, closely covered with writing

She glanced at the beginning, " _My dear Ken_ ,"

She looked at the end, " _Your loving father, Joseph Fortescue._ "

Yes, it was the same. Even the handwriting was familiar to her. She had often seen it when old Mr. Fortescue had written a letter with the checks which he sent to her mother.

Hastily she put the letter back in the tin, closed the lid and tied the string tightly round it. Not a word of it should be seen by anyone. She was trembling with agitation as she did so, and the old woman noticed it.

"You know him, my dear?"

"Yes, I know him," she said, but her teeth chattered as she spoke.

"You're cold, my dear."

"No, not cold, only so glad."

"Has he wanted it, my dear?"

"It may be everything to him just now if it's good news. I hope it is."

"Will you take it to him, dear? "

"Is that all right?"

"Yes _do,_ dear. Don't tell anybody else, will you?"

"No, I won't. No one else shall know."

"Promise you'll take it to him yourself?"

"I promise."

"Now, my dear, I can say my prayer. I think He'll forgive me now."

"Yes," said Marjorie, as her tears fell fast. "Dear Mother Hotchkiss, I _know_ He will. The promise is in the Bible. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.' He is faithful, because He has promised to forgive us, and so you see He can't say no when we ask Him. And He is just, because the Lord Jesus has been punished instead of us. So God cannot punish us too for the same sins. Do you see?"

"Yes, my dear, thank you. It all makes sense to me now. I shall die happy."

Soon after this, steps were heard on the stairs and the old woman signalled to her to hide the tin. Marjorie slipped it under her coat just as Peggy Jones came into the room.

"You'll let me come now, miss," the neighbour said to Marjorie. "You must be so tired. You ought to go home and get a bit of sleep."

Marjorie stooped down and kissed the poor old face lying on the pillow, and then she crept downstairs and went out into the darkness. But she did not mind even that tonight. She felt as if she cared for nothing. Not only was the tin safe, but old Mother Hotchkiss was safe for eternity.

When she got to the house the door had been left on the latch, so she let herself in and crept up to bed, carrying the precious tin with her.

#  Chapter 16

### 156, Lime Street

MARJORIE was wakened the next morning by hearing someone moving about in her room. She looked up and saw Patty standing near her bed, with a small tray in her hand.

"Miss Douglas, I've brought you your breakfast," she said. "Shall I draw up the blind?"

"Oh dear," said Marjorie, jumping up, "I had no idea it was so late. Why did nobody wake me?"

"Mother wouldn't let us. She told us you had been up half the night."

"Yes, poor old Mother Hotchkiss sent for me."

"Miss Douglas, old Enoch has just been here, and he said we were to tell you she is dead. She went to sleep soon after you left her, and when Peggy Jones looked at her about an hour afterwards she found that she was dead."

"Only just in time," said Marjorie to herself when Patty had gone, as she felt for the tin which she had put under the bolster the night before. Yes, it was safe.

She wondered what information the letter contained. The captain must have it at once, without even a single day's delay. She would never be happy until it was safely in his hands. What if the old woman's son-in-law should return and demand that what he considered to be his property should be returned to him? Perhaps, after all, he had never gone to America. Perhaps he had deceived the old woman, to put the police off the scent in case they came in search of him.

Marjorie was tired and depressed after her wakeful night, and fears of all kinds crowded into her mind. In her nervous haste she longed to run to the railway station at once, to catch the first train to Birmingham carrying the precious tin with her, and find the address Captain Fortescue had given her on his card. Then she could rid herself of the heavy responsibility which she felt rested on her, so long as that letter was in her charge.

But Marjorie could not go off thus hurriedly without giving a sufficient reason to Mrs. Holtby, and she knew that the busy morning's work was already waiting for her.

She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. Never did she work so hard as on that morning. Never did she try so earnestly to get ahead of time, or to cram the work of two hours into one. When dinnertime came she had not only done the work of the morning, but she had finished the darning and the mending which she usually did on Friday afternoon, and had put by all the clean clothes from the weekly wash.

Mrs. Holtby came down just before dinner and Marjorie went to make her request. Would it be possible, she asked, for her to be spared for half a day? There was a friend in Birmingham whom she particularly wished to see.

"But won't you be too tired to go today, Miss Douglas? You look white, after your bad night."

"Oh no, I am not at all tired. I should like to go if you can spare me. I have got on well this morning, and have done all the mending."

"You never neglect anything, dear."

It was the first time Mrs. Holtby had called her "dear," and the word had a home-like sound that went warm to Marjorie's heart.

Then Mrs. Holtby brought out the timetable and looked out her train. There was one that left Deepfields at 2.30, and she told her to get her dinner at once and not to wait till the others came in, so that she would be off in time to catch it.

"Don't hurry back, Miss Douglas," Mrs. Holtby said, when Marjorie looked in to say goodbye. "Stay as long as ever you like."

So with the tin wrapped in paper and tightly held in her hand, and with the card which Captain Fortescue had given her slipped inside her glove, Marjorie set off on the mile walk to Deepfields Station.

It was a pouring wet day, and the mud was, if possible, worse than usual, but she hardly noticed it. She would have gone through a perfect flood without minding it, so intense was her eagerness to get to her journey's end. How glad he would be to get that letter. How thankful he would feel that it was found at last.

But _would_ he be glad and thankful? As she sat in the train, a horrible fear crossed her mind. What if she was bringing him bad tidings? What if she was indeed what he had called himself -- a bird of ill omen? She hoped not, she prayed not, but how could she tell?

Arriving at Birmingham, she found herself in New Street Station at one of its most crowded moments. She took out the card, and looked at it once more -- _156, Lime Street_. How could she find it? She asked a porter who was wheeling a barrow of luggage, but he said he had never heard of it. Then she went up the steps to the bridge, and felt in a perfect whirl as the busy crowds rushed past her. Hundreds of strange faces -- all of them intent on their own business, and none of them having a moment to spare for hers: all these she saw as if she was in a dream. Which way should she turn at the top of the bridge? There seemed to be two exits to the station. Which should she take?

She went to the one to which most people seemed to be going. It took her out into Corporation Street. All looked strange to her. She had no eyes for the beautiful shops; the Arcade failed to tempt her as she passed it. All she wanted was to get to her journey's end.

At last she met a policeman, and found from him that she was walking in the wrong direction. He sent her back almost to the station and told her to take a turning to the left and walk on until she saw a large church, and then she must ask for further directions.

The rain was now coming down in torrents, and a strong wind was blowing in her face, but she struggled on bravely against it. She found the church at last, and went into a small shop to ask her way. Again she set forth, and walked on for another mile, and after getting wrong once or twice, and stopping to inquire many times of the passers-by, she at last reached the street which she was seeking.

Lime Street was long and dismal-looking, with two rows of houses facing each other, all exactly alike, and all standing close to the pavement, with not even a pretence to a front garden. The street surely looked, if possible, more gloomy than usual that afternoon. In the merciless rain everything was wet, dirty and uninviting.

Now for No. 156. It was at the other end of that long street, and she hurried on to find it. But as she got near, the thought of seeing him again, the doubt as to the news which she was bringing him, the strange feeling of responsibility which rested on her in thus doing the bidding of one who had so lately passed away from earth -- all these made her pause as she stood on the doorstep.

When she had steadied herself for a few moments she rang the bell, and a stout elderly woman came to the door.

"Is Captain Fortescue at home?" she asked.

" _Mr._ Fortescue lodges here. He isn't a captain, miss, but he's out just now."

"When will he be home?"

"Oh, not for long enough yet. He mostly comes in about six or half-past."

Marjorie looked at her watch; it was a quarter to four. Her heart died within her. Two hours and a quarter, or perhaps longer still. Where could she go, and what could she do till six o'clock? Where in those wet and dirty streets could she find a shelter?

The landlady was closing the door, but as she did so she noticed the look of dismay on Marjorie's face.

"Have you come far, miss?" she asked.

"Yes, a long way," said Marjorie. "From near Bilston in Staffordshire, and I know nobody in Birmingham."

"Is it very particular that you see the gentleman?"

"Very. I _must_ see Mr. Fortescue tonight."

"Come your ways in, then," said the woman, kindly. "There's a bit of fire in his sitting-room, if you would like to wait there."

Marjorie thanked her gratefully, and she led the way into a small room at the back of the house. After putting some coal on the fire she told her to sit by it and warm herself after her cold, wet walk. Then as she was going out she noticed how drenched Marjorie's coat was, and made her take it off so she could dry it at her kitchen fire.

When the landlady was gone, Marjorie looked round the room. It was plainly and even shabbily furnished. A worn horsehair sofa stood against the wall, the deal table was covered with American cloth, and the carpet was patched in several places.

Marjorie walked to the window and looked out. No wonder the room was dark. High buildings backed onto the house and shut out nearly all the light. Only a strip of cloudy sky could be seen above, while below was a small courtyard filled with clothes which had evidently been put out to dry before the rain commenced, but which were now more soaked than they had been before, hanging dismally from the line stretched across from wall to wall of the small backyard.

How depressing it was. Marjorie remembered Kenneth Fortescue's words to her mother. "I will not allow myself a single indulgence of any kind until the full amount is in your hands."

How faithfully he was keeping that promise! How bare of all luxury was the room to which he came home after his long tiring day. But what was that over the chimney-piece? A photo in a frame. It carried her miles away in thought as she looked at it, and a great feeling of home sickness came over her.

It was a picture of Honister Crag.

#  Chapter 17

### The Blotted Word

TIME SEEMED to Marjorie to be standing still as she sat in the dingy back parlour on that wet afternoon. She felt sometimes as if six o'clock would never come. As it grew darker, the stout landlady came in and lit the gas. There was only one burner, and it gave but a dim light. Then, later still, she came again to lay the cloth for tea. Such a poor scanty meal, the loaf and a small pat of butter -- that was all.

There were no flowers on the table. Nothing to relieve the bareness and austere simplicity of it all. Marjorie's heart ached for him as she looked at it. What an utter contrast to the luxury in which she knew that he had lived before.

Mrs. Hall, the landlady, lingered when she had laid the table, and seemed inclined to talk. "You'll excuse me, miss," she said," but are you Mr. Fortescue's sister?"

"No, not his sister."

"Well," she said, "I'm sorry you're not, because if he _has_ a sister I should like to have a bit of a talk with her. _Somebody_ ought to come and look after him!"

"Is he ill?" asked Marjorie quickly.

"Well, no, not what you can call _ill_ , but he soon will be if he goes on as he's going on now."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, he doesn't get enough to eat. At least, he has plenty to eat of a kind, but it isn't what a man like him, as is working hard all day, ought to have. He gives me the money for his food, and I gets the best I can for the little he gives me. Look at his tea now. It don't look as it ought to be for a grown man, do it now? And his dinner. He has it out some days, and what he gets then I can't say. Not much, I'll be bound. But some days he comes home for it, and I assure you I'm fair shamed to get him the dinners he orders. One day it will be, 'Mrs. Hall, I'm very fond of herrings. Do you think you could get me a couple of nice ones for my dinner?' Another day he'll say, 'Mrs. Hall, you make awfully good soup. I should like that better than anything today.' 'And what to follow, sir?' I says. 'Oh, one of your nice rice puddings. That will be just the kind of dinner I like.' Another day it's sausage, or a bit of bacon, or bread and cheese, and not too much of any of them, either. Why, my last lodger would clear off in one meal double what he eats in a day. And such a nice gentleman, too. Always so pleasant, and thanks you for all you do for him just as if you didn't get paid for doing it. And so hard he works, too. Why, if you'll believe me, he's at them books and accounts, and them business letters of his, long after I've gone to bed. I hear him come upstairs, and I know he's tired by his step, and well he may be, for he's tramping about visiting clients most of his time."

Mrs. Hall clearly loved a chat, and would have gone on for much longer enlarging on the many good qualities of her lodger if she had not at that moment heard the sound of a key being put into the latch of the door.

"Why, there he is at last," she said. "I'll go and make the tea."

Marjorie's heart was beating quickly now. She heard the door open and Mrs. Hall's voice outside.

"Why, you're not half wet, sir. Let me take your coat."

Then the well-known voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Hall, it will be all the better for a dry by your fire."

"There's a lady waiting to see you, sir, in the parlour there. She's been here the best part of the afternoon."

"A lady for me?" He stopped to ask no question, but came quickly into the room. "Miss Douglas! I have been thinking of you as I came up the street, wondering how you were getting on in your hard life at Daisy Bank. And now here you are. This is the last place I would ever have dreamed of seeing you, sitting in the armchair by the fire in my little room."

She rose to meet him, and at once held out the precious tin. "Captain Fortescue, I have come to bring you this. It is something which I think -- I hope -- you will be glad to get."

He took the tin in his hand but did not open it. "What is it?" he asked. "Do sit down, Miss Douglas."

He noticed how agitated she was, and he wondered what had caused her to be so.

"Have you not lost something?" she asked.

"Only an umbrella," he said, laughing. "I lost one last week, but that can't be in here."

"No," she said, "I believe this is something that was lost much longer ago. Think, Captain Fortescue. Did you not tell me that you lost a letter that you wanted to find? Was a letter not stolen from you by someone? And have you not tried in all ways to find that letter, but in vain?"

He understood now. All the color faded from his face. Was it possible, could it be that his father's letter had been found -- and by _her?_

"Is it in this tin?" he asked.

"There is a letter, and I do hope it is the right one. Will you open it and see?"

He cut the string which she had knotted tightly round it, and drew out several sheets of paper. He saw his father's well-known irregular handwriting.

Yes, it was evidently the letter which he ought to have found in that envelope in the safe, the envelope of which was still in his possession, and which was addressed, _For my son. To be opened after my death._

"Is it the right one?"

"Yes, it is, Miss Douglas. How can I thank you?"

"May I tell you how I found it? And then I must go."

She knew how he was longing to read the letter, and she thought that he would want to read it alone. Her one desire was to tell him how it had come into her possession, and then to leave him. But he would not hear of her doing this. He made her sit down again, and before she could stop him, he rang the bell for Mrs. Hall and told her to bring another cup so that his visitor could have some tea before she left.

Then Marjorie told her story as briefly as she could. She spoke of old Mother Hotchkiss' unhappiness during her illness; she told him of her midnight call to the old house, and of the secret that had then been told her about the letter stolen by Josiah Makepeace's sister. She described the place in which she had discovered the tin. She confessed that she had broken the seals and opened it, to see the name at the end of the letter to know whether Mr. Forty Screws and Mr. Fortescue were the same. And now, she said, as she got up from her chair again, she was thankful, very glad and thankful that it was safely in his hands, and she must go. She really must go. She knew how he was longing to read it, and she would not keep him another moment.

"Miss Douglas," said Kenneth Fortescue, "I am not going to allow you to leave until you've had some tea, and then I am going with you to the station. But if you are sure you do not mind, I will read the letter first, and then I shall be able to tell you what it is about, and for what I have to thank you."

When she saw that it was of no use to protest any further, Marjorie Douglas sat down again by the fire while he took a chair to the table, and by the dim light of the solitary gas burner sat down to read the letter. She glanced at him from time to time as he bent over it, wondering what its contents might be. He read on intently, and without once looking up. Marjorie could hear the clock in the passage ticking loudly, but no other sound disturbed the stillness of the room. He did not speak a word, nor utter a sound, till he turned to the last page, and then he gave a loud exclamation of dismay.

"Is it bad news?" she asked fearfully.

"No, not bad news. It is good news. Very good news," he said, "but those rascals have tampered with the letter."

He held it up to her, and she saw that one word, a long word too, had been completely blotted out.

"It has evidently been done on purpose," he said, "lest this letter should by any means fall into my hands."

"Is the word of much importance?"

"Of every importance. In fact, it is the most important word in the whole letter, Miss Douglas. We will have some tea, and then I want you, if you do not mind, to read the letter you have brought."

"May I? But are you _sure_ you would like me to read it?"

"I am quite sure. Indeed, so far from minding it, I am most anxious that you _should_ read it."

He put the armchair near the table for her, and began to pour out the tea, but his hand trembled so much with strong emotion that she asked him if she could do it for him. He told her that if she did not mind doing it, he would like to remember it after she had gone. It would be something to think of when he was alone.

"It's rather different to the last tea we had together," he said. "Do you remember that homely tea in Fernbank? If I had known you were coming, I would have had some cake."

At that moment Mrs. Hall came into the room with a hot teacake in her hand. "I've just baked 'em, sir, and they're nice and light, and I thought as the lady was here, perhaps you would accept of one."

Kenneth Fortescue took the plate. "Thank you, Mrs. Hall. It looks delicious."

They did not talk much during tea, for his mind was on the letter he had just read. He asked Marjorie from time to time to give him further details of the history which she had heard from Mother Hotchkiss. He had no doubt whatever that the bookseller and printer Josiah Makepeace was the man who had married Carrie Hotchkiss, and he remembered hearing that his father's housekeeper Watson had a half-brother living in Sheffield. Evidently, then, he had been right in his former suspicion: Watson had undoubtedly been the thief. She must have been listening at the bedroom door when his father told him to look under the will in the safe for the important letter that he wished him to receive.

Then, when she found herself alone with the old man for the night, Watson must have taken the keys from the table while he was asleep, unlocked the safe and taken out the letter, replacing it, either then or afterwards, with a blank sheet of foolscap paper. Then, when she had satisfied her curiosity, and had also discovered the importance of its contents, she had evidently carried the letter to her brother Josiah Makepeace, and they must have plotted together that they would keep it back in the hope of making it into a kind of goldmine -- were they fortunate enough to discover the father who had deserted his infant child.

Watson and Makepeace could not help being aware that the information in the letter was of such a nature that it would be of the utmost importance to that man to have it suppressed. Then, after that, Watson must have found that other letter, the one the printer Makepeace had brought him, lying un-posted on the table, and then either she or her brother must have invented the plausible story which Josiah Makepeace had told him when he called that night, in order to prevent any suspicion from falling upon Watson.

All this probable explanation of the strange mystery flashed through Kenneth Fortescue's mind, and Marjorie could see that from time to time his thoughts were far away, although he always seemed to notice in a moment if she wanted anything, and he was not content until she had done justice to Mrs. Hall's large teacake. He ate very little himself, and as soon as she had finished he drew her chair nearer to the fire and handed her the letter.

"Are you quite sure you want me to read it?" she asked again. "Do say if you would rather I did not."

"It will be a comfort to me if you do not mind reading it, Miss Douglas."

She could not refuse after that. She took the sheets of paper and began to read.

#  Chapter 18

### A Strange Letter

MARJORIE held the letter in her hand, and this is what she read:

My Dear Ken,

_I feel as if I might not live for many years longer, so I am writing this, so that you can read it when I am dead and gone. I feel as if I ought to let you know, and yet I promised him to keep his secret as long as I lived,_ all the days of my life _. Them was the words as he made me say. But I didn't promise not to tell_ when the days of my life was over _, Ken, and they_ will _be over when you get this here letter._

_Well, Ken, I'm a-going to tell you something that happened to me about twenty-five years ago. I heard as there was good luck to be had in the gold mines out in South Africa. So me and your ma talked it over, and we settled we would go out there and make our_ _fortunes. We had saved a bit of money, and we paid our passage and we went out, and we got on pretty fair. The work was good, and so was the pay, but things was a lot dearer out there than at home. I worked on, Ken, first in one place and then in another, and at last we settled down near some mines not far from Kimberley. There was a lot of miners there, a rough set most of them, and the life was a pretty hard one. I made good money there, though I spent it pretty nigh as fast as I made it. We got a decent sort of a house, and your ma took a pride in it, and I bought some furniture off a man who was going back to England, and we fed on the fat of the land. It was when we was there that I got a man, who had been an artist afore he left England, to paint a big picture of my missus, and I paid him well for doing it. That's it as hangs in the library, Ken._

Well, it was while we was living there in a ramshackle sort of town, that one night after dark Jack McDougall, him as kept the Inn there, came to our house. "Joe," he says, "here's a nice job we're in for at our house. Here's a gent as is travelling on to Kimberley, and he came to our house with a lady last night, and now there's the lady ill in bed and a little baby born in the night. And doctor, him from over yonder, has just been here, and he says the lady is very bad and going to die."

"That's a bad job, Jack." I says. "Yes, Joe," he says, "and my missus is that scared she don't know what to do, and there's nobody else about but old Nurse Grindle, and she's half drunk. So I came across to see if your missus would come over and help us a bit."

Well, your ma went. She were that handy when folks was ill, and she did what she could for the poor lady. But it weren't of no use, and the next day she died. My missus was fair cut up when she had passed away. She said she had the prettiest face and the loveliest hair she had ever seen, and she looked so young too. Your ma brought the baby over to our house, such a poor little thing it was. Doctor said he didn't think it had a chance to live. Well, we said we would keep it till after the funeral, but that night, when I was just a-going to bed, I heard someone at the door. I went down, and there was a fine-looking gentleman, the handsomest man I've ever seen, excepting one, and that's yourself, Ken. I guessed it was the baby's father. I thought he had come to fetch his child, and I told him my missus had taken it up to bed, but I would tell her he had come for it. He said, No, he hadn't come for the baby, but he had come to talk to me. So I asked him in, and we sat over the fire together.

He did not speak at first, and then he said, "How would I like to be a very rich man?" I said as how I would like it very much, nothing better. And then he said he could put me in the way of being one if I liked. He could make a gentleman of me, and I would never have to work anymore. You can think I opened my ears then, Ken, and I asked him how he was going to manage it, and what he wanted me to do. He didn't answer for a bit, and then he said he would tell me. He wanted me and my missus to take charge of the baby. "For how long?" I asked.

"For always," he said. "I want it to stop with you altogether, if so be that it lives, which it won't do. The doctor gives it three months at most. Still, there's just the chance it may. So I want you to adopt it, in fact," he says.

I thought it was awfully strange of him, Ken, to want to get rid of his own child. It seemed to me unnatural-like, so I asked him why he did it. He told me he was in a bit of a difficulty, and this would help him out of it. I said I wouldn't do it unless he told me what the bother was. So then he went so far as to say his father had written him a letter, and that letter obliged him to do it. But I wasn't satisfied, Ken. I said I must know what the letter was about, and then it all came out.

His father, he said, was a very wealthy man in England who had married an American lady with a big fortune of her own. She was now dead, and all her money had come to him. But of course it was nothing to what he would get when his father died, for his father had a grand estate somewhere, and he was the heir to it.

However, his father had married again about a year ago, and this second wife now had a child by him -- also a boy. So he was a step-brother. Then this gentleman went on to tell me that his father had for a long time set his heart on him marrying a lady who owned the next estate. She had one of the biggest rent-rolls in England, and if he married her they would own the whole county between them. She was older than he was, but he had no objection to marrying her now that his young wife was dead so suddenly. In fact, he thought it was the best thing he could do. But of course this woman in England would never dream of marrying him if she had any idea that he had been married before, or had a child living who would be heir to his title and estates.

He said he had been married abroad, and his father knew nothing about it. She was the daughter of a chaplain at one of the places he had stopped at. I told him if he was so fond of his wife, he ought to be fond of her child. But he said the child had cost her her life, and how could he bear to look at it? He felt as if he never wanted to see it again. Besides, it was no use talking about the child. If he was to take it back to England (and how could he possibly travel with so young a baby?) what would his father say? He had had a letter from his father, in which he told him that, if he didn't do as he wanted him about marrying this girl (or this woman, whatever she was) that lived near them, he would leave all his money to the little boy -- the child of his second wife. He couldn't leave him the title or the estate. They had to go to the eldest son. But he could leave his money to whoever he liked.

Well, Ken, he talked and he argued with me half the night, and at last I called my missus and told her to get up and come downstairs. She didn't like the thought of it at first. It seemed like cheating the poor child, she said, and keeping him out of his rights. But he offered us a big sum of money, a fortune, Ken, half of what he'd got from his step-mother, that rich American lady, if I would only say I would keep the child. So at last me and my missus came round to it. She told him he was a heartless man, and she didn't like doing it, but you see the money was a big temptation, Ken. Never to have to work anymore, and to live like grand folks, seemed almost more than we could put aside. And then we had no children of our own, and the missus had always wanted one, and she were kind of wrapped up in this little baby.

Well, the end of the matter was that we said we would consent, and then he made me take a solemn promise that I wouldn't ever tell anybody that it wasn't my own child, but that I would keep his secret all the days of my life.

He asked me then what my name was, and I said Tomkins, and he laughed and said, "Give the poor little beggar a better-sounding name than that. Change your name, Tomkins," he says, "to something that sounds a bit more aristocratic than that." "What shall it be, sir?" I says. "I'm not going to tell you, Tomkins, nor do I want to know," he says. "Get a pen and I'll write you out a check. But no, that won't do!" he says. Then he sits and thinks a bit. You see, Ken, he didn't want me to know his name nor who he was, and the check would have told me. "I know," he says at last, "I'll cash the check myself, and bring you the money. They can easily wire to my English bankers from the Kimberley Bank, and they'll find it's all right."

So a day or two after that he brings the money, Ken -- a great roll of notes it was, and each note was for £100. He counted it all out, what he'd agreed to give me. And then he said he was going to give me £5000 extra for the poor little beggar, in case he lived. He would like him to be educated as a gentleman, he said. I think his conscience had smote him, Ken.

Well, I promised that I would do the best I could for the baby, and then my missus said should she fetch it, so that he could give it a kiss? But he said No, he thought he had rather not see it. He was a heartless man -- very.

Then I asked him, Ken, if I might know his name and address, in case I had anything to tell him about the baby. How could I let him know if it died or anything happened to it? But he said there was no need to let him know, and he did not intend to tell me his name. I had got my money, and what more did I want?

Well, he got up to go, and I helped him to put on his coat, for it was raining when he came, and then I noticed for the first time that he had something the matter with his hand. The last joint of the little finger of the right hand was gone.

After that he went away, and I've never seen him, Ken, from that day to this. I went to the Inn, and I found that there he had given the name of Vavasour, but I feel sure that was not his right name. He were far too clever for that.

Some time after all this, I came across a man who had travelled out with him from England -- at least I think it must have been the same, from this man's description of him and his wife. He told me that these people he had met were going out to South Africa, and he wondered whether they had ever come to Kimberley.

He told me that the man was a lord, and that someone on board ship, who had seen him before, said that he was the son of Lxxx Xxxxxxxxxxxx.

Now, Ken, what I've got to tell you is this. That man was your father, and you are that deserted little boy. I've done my best for you, Ken. You know as I have. I had a hard time with you at first, for we started off for England when you was about two months old, and before we got halfway home my poor missus died, your ma as you have always called her. And there was I on board ship, left with no wife, and a tiny weakly baby.

But I reared you, Ken, and you lived and grew strong, in spite of yon old doctor at Kimberley, and now you're a fine handsome young man, and I love you as if you was my own son. But I would like for you to have your rights, Ken. Find that man if you can, and tell him he's your father. If he has any conscience (he hasn't much, I'm afraid), he'll be obliged to own you when you show him this letter and tell him how you got it. And mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like. I mean to say you're like what your father was when I saw him. Now he will be a man over fifty, I should say.

Follow this up, Ken, and don't rest till you're got your rights.

Your loving father,

Joseph Fortescue.

P.S. I chose Fortescue because I thought as it sounded like the name of a gentleman.

#  Chapter 19
#

### Words to be Remembered

MARJORIE did not speak while she was reading the whole of that long letter, and Kenneth Fortescue sat and watched her, just as before she had sat and watched him. He saw her face flush as she read on, and once he felt sure that he saw a tear on her cheek.

When at last she handed him the letter, she said, "How _could_ that man be so cruel? It was awfully heartless, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was most unnatural, but such things have been done before. Even a mother has been known to desert her own child."

"I wonder if he is alive."

"So do I. If only that word had been there."

"Let us look at it carefully," Marjorie said. "Perhaps we can make it out."

They bent together over the paper, as they held it in the light of the lamp.

"It must be a long name," she said. "Can it all be one word? I think _Lord_ is the first part of it. That looks to me like part of the loop of the L above the blot."

"Yes, I believe you are right. Even so, I think it is a long name -- ten or twelve letters, I should say."

"Oh, I wish we knew," said Marjorie.

"I wish it very much for one reason, Miss Douglas."

"What is that?"

"If I could find my father, and if he was prepared to own me, or was compelled to do so, I could repay your mother in full."

"Oh, why are you always thinking of that?" she asked. "You must not do so. You are stinting yourself and making your life miserable, just for us. And it isn't right. Oh, it isn't right."

She was crying now. She could not help it. The thought of his constant self-denial for their sakes, even though the debt had never been his; the recollection of all this touched her so deeply that she found it impossible to keep back her tears.

"This letter changes everything," she said. "Do think of that. Even if you felt yourself bound to repay us when you thought you were Mr. Fortescue's son, you cannot feel so now. He never was your father, except in name. Do remember that, and do give up, once for all, the idea of giving us that money back. The loss of it had _nothing_ to do with you, nor with anyone at all belonging to you."

"I cannot look at it in that light, Miss Douglas," he said. "Even though I now know he was merely my father in name, he was the only father I have ever known. God helping me, that debt shall be paid."

"Captain Fortescue."

"Yes, Miss Douglas."

"I'm afraid that letter is not of much use, after all."

"It may be," he said. "Who can tell?"

She sat looking into the fire for some minutes without speaking, and then she said, "I rather hope . . ." and then stopped.

"You rather hope _what,_ Miss Douglas?"

"Oh, never mind. I did not mean to say it aloud. It was only a foolish thought which had no business to come into my mind."

"What was it?"

"Oh," she said, laughing through her tears, "such a silly thing. I was going to say that I rather hoped you were not a lord."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. I only thought we would not feel that you were quite so much our friend. It was foolish, I know. Only you would seem so different to us then."

"Would I? I hope not," he said thoughtfully.

"And now I really must be going. What time is it, Captain Fortescue?"

He looked at his watch, and they found it was getting late, so he got her coat and she said goodbye to the old landlady, and they set out for New Street Station. Then he went for her ticket and put her into the train, and just before it started he stepped into the carriage and sat down beside her.

"Won't the train be off soon?" she asked.

"Yes. I am coming with you."

"Coming with me? Why?"

"I'm not going to allow you to walk alone along that dark road from Deepfields Station at this time of night," he told her.

"Oh, I'll be quite all right. You really mustn't come. You will be so tired, and it is not at all necessary. Please don't come."

But he would take no refusal. There would be plenty of time for him to catch the last train back to Birmingham, he said, and Marjorie felt sure that when he had once made up his mind about anything, there would be no possibility of moving him from it.

They talked of the letter most of the way to Deepfields, and as they went through Daisy Bank, Marjorie pointed out the dark cottage where the still form of the old woman was lying on the bed upstairs.

"How strange to think that my letter has been near you all this time," he said.

Then they got to Colwyn House, and at the gate he said goodbye. But before he left her he took her hand between both his own, and said in a whisper, as he held it for a moment, "Thank you for all you have done for me today."

The next instant he was gone, and Marjorie let herself in with her latchkey. She found that Mr. and Mrs. Holtby were having supper. They wanted her to join them, but she said she was tired and would rather go to bed.

She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and she dreamed that his hands were still holding her own, and she thought that she could still feel their pressure as he said those words, which would ever remain in her memory as long as life should last.

"Thank you for all you have done for me today."

#  Chapter 20

### Grantley Castle

TWO MONTHS after her visit to Birmingham, Marjorie Douglas was standing on the platform at Daisy Bank, waiting for the Wolverhampton train, excited to be starting her well-earned holiday. She was going home to the Lakes for Christmas. She could hardly believe that it was only a year since she had seen her family, and to have a whole month with them seemed almost too good to be true.

Patty had come with her to the station, and was full of regret at her departure, full of promises to take her place in the holidays, and to do all she could to keep the house tidy and clean.

As Marjorie looked at her, she could not help feeling that the last few months had made Patty quite a different girl. The brusqueness of her manner was gone; she was more happy and more contented, and in leaving her in charge of the children and her mother, Marjorie felt that she was leaving one who would tread, as far as possible, in her footsteps.

Marjorie knew that as Patty would not have to go to school during the time of her absence, she would be able to keep all things as she had left them, and save her mother from having any extra work. Thus Marjorie was going home with a happy heart, prepared to thoroughly enjoy her well-earned holiday.

Marjorie's thoughts were busy that cold wintry day. Not only was she full of anticipation, picturing to herself the joy of arriving home and seeing again the friends from whom she had so long been parted; but at times, as she travelled on, her thoughts, instead of flying northwards far ahead of the train, travelled southwards and found their way to a little back sitting-room in a dingy street in Birmingham.

What was Kenneth Fortescue doing that day, she wondered? Was he still living in that poor, dismal neighbourhood? Was he still denying himself in countless different ways for their sakes, or had he discovered the missing word in the letter? Had he found the father who had cast him off as a child? Had he been owned and reinstated in his rightful position? Perhaps he had. Perhaps even now he was taking his place among the wealthy families of England, and they would hear of him no more.

But no, in that case he would write to her mother, she was sure of that. If he was rich and was able to do so, that money would be repaid. She knew that he would never forget his promise, and that the revelation made to him in that letter would in no way alter his former determination. What if her mother had already heard from him? What if she was keeping the secret as a pleasant surprise for her on her return? So her busy thoughts wandered on, as the busy engine, puffing hard at times as they got into the hilly country of the North, bore her onwards towards Cumberland.

Then, as she drew nearer home, her thoughts were all cantered on Keswick Station. Who would be there to meet her? Which of the home faces would she see first? She gazed eagerly out of the window long before the station came in sight. She scanned the platform as the train began to stop.

Yes, there they were, her mother and Phyllis and Louis Verner. It seemed too good to be true. What a drive home that was, and how much they had to say to each other. How beautiful it all looked. She had never realized before that the mountains were so high, or the Lake so lovely, or Borrowdale so fine, or Castle Crag so magnificent. She had loved them all from her childhood, but she knew she had never fully appreciated them until this day.

And then they reached home, so free from smoke and dirt and everything ugly or depressing. Little Carl was at the gate. He had grown since she saw him last. And Leila was at the door, looking much better and stronger, and old Dorcas came running out of the kitchen to welcome her. And now she was in the cheerful dining-room, and how charming it all was. The table seemed laden with good things. This was _home,_ and that was best of all.

The days flew quickly after that. There were so many friends to be seen, there was so much to be said and to be done, that the first ten days seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Old Mary and the other old women in the village were overjoyed to see her again, and sometimes she felt as if she had never really been away. Daisy Bank appeared to her like a dream from which she had awakened.

She went alone one day up the steep pass towards Honister Crag, and thought of the photo which she had seen over the mantelpiece at Birmingham. She wondered where Kenneth Fortescue had bought it, and why he had chosen it. Was it in remembrance of the walk that they had had there together? No, of course it could not have been that. It was a beautiful place, and anyone who had seen it would be glad to have a picture of it.

Marjorie was charmed to find how well her younger sister Phyllis had taken her place in her absence. Phyllis had shaken off to a great extent the natural apathy of her nature, and had risen to the occasion in a way which Marjorie would hardly have thought possible. Her mother had been cared for and Leila had been waited on, doubtless as well as Marjorie had done it before she left home. She felt that she could go back to Daisy Bank with a happy heart, knowing that all was going on well in the home she had left.

Louis Verner was, of course, a constant visitor at Fernbank, and was just the same easy, good-natured fellow as he had ever been. He was now in his third year at Oxford, and was still trying to discover his vocation. His father, however, declared that if Louis came to no decision during that vacation he should settle the matter for him. It was finally decided that Louis should try to get into the Consular Service, and must sit for an examination to be held the following year. Whether he would be able to succeed in this was, Marjorie thought, extremely doubtful, for Louis had no love for work, and went through life doing as little of it as he possibly could.

Nevertheless, Louis was a most amusing companion and a good-hearted affectionate fellow -- too affectionate sometimes, Marjorie thought. But she made fun of all his appealing speeches, and treated him, as she always had done, with sisterly candour. He did not mind what she said to him, although she spoke plainly to him at times, and they were ever the best of friends.

But when Marjorie had been at home about a fortnight, something happened which brought a great cloud over her happiness.

"A letter for you, Marjorie," said Phyllis, who had gone to meet the postman at the gate, "and it has such a black border."

Marjorie took it hastily from her. She knew the writing well: it was Patty Holtby's from Daisy Bank. Such terrible news the letter contained, that poor Patty had been almost broken-hearted as she wrote it. Her father had gone to the works the day before, apparently quite well, but a short time after he arrived there he had been seen to stagger and fall, and when they went to him they found that he was dead. It had been an awful shock to them all, and Patty said that she could hardly yet believe that it was true.

Marjorie felt as if all the brightness of her holiday had passed away. She realized now how fond she had become of the people with whom she had lived for the last year, and she longed to be with them in their time of trouble. She wrote at once, offering to return immediately if it would be the least comfort to them. She would only be too glad to come to them.

Marjorie waited anxiously for the answer. It came in poor Mrs. Holtby's writing. It would be an unspeakable help to have Marjorie there, she said, but their plans were so undecided now that she thought it would be better for her to wait for a few days. Her brother had come for the funeral, and he was helping her to arrange matters, and she would write again shortly.

When Mrs. Holtby's next letter came, it was a sad one. She was grieved to have to say that it would be impossible for Marjorie to return. They were leaving Daisy Bank, and her brother, who was a widower, had invited them to come and live with him. Of course, now she would have to be careful of expense, and could no longer afford to have a mother's help. She added that she could never thank Miss Douglas enough for all she had done for them. She would miss her more than words could say, but she felt sure that she would rejoice to know that Patty had profited so much by the good training she had received from her, that she was becoming the greatest comfort and help to them all.

She ended by saying that she could hardly bear to think that Marjorie was not coming back to them, and it was one of the most painful consequences of her heavy bereavement.

So that chapter of Marjorie's life was ended. Daisy Bank was now nothing but a memory of the past. Never more would she climb the pit mounds, or watch old Enoch tending his roses, or walk among the heaps of furnace waste. A year ago she would not have believed that she would have felt the parting so much as she did, nor that she would have so many pleasant remembrances of what was known as the Black Country.

Now she must begin life again somewhere, and where would it be? She dreaded the thought of going once more among strangers, for even Colwyn House had become a kind of second home to her. Well, she must not be faint-hearted. She had been guided so far, and she knew that Jesus, her Guide, would not forsake her.

But January passed away, and February came, and no opening had been found for her. Marjorie was beginning to feel anxious on the subject of the family finance, when one day, returning from a walk, she found Colonel Verner's carriage at the door.

Louis had long since returned to Oxford, and Mrs. Verner was housebound and not able to call, so she was somewhat surprised to see the carriage, and wondered whom she should see when she went into the house.

She heard voices in their little drawing-room, and her mother came to the door and called her in. Marjorie found Colonel Verner, and with him a lady whom she had never seen before. The Colonel introduced Marjorie, and she found that the lady was Colonel Verner's cousin, and her name was Mrs. St. Hellier -- the Honourable Mrs. St. Hellier, she discovered afterwards. The lady was spending a few weeks with the Colonel at Grange.

Mrs. St. Hellier seemed an exceedingly pleasant woman, and Marjorie felt much drawn to her. After a little conversation on general subjects, she told them that a friend of hers was most anxious to find someone who would be willing to act as companion to her daughter, Lady Violet. This young lady had met with an accident in the hunting-field, and was confined to her room, or rather to her rooms, for she was wheeled on an invalid couch into an adjoining apartment where she lay during the day, unable to move or raise herself from her recumbent position.

Young Lady Violet of course felt frustrated. The monotony of such an existence was a sad change for her, after the active life which she had been accustomed to lead, and Lady Earlswood, her mother, was therefore anxious to find someone who would be willing to come to them as her daughter's companion. She would have no work of any kind to do. The lady's maid would undertake everything that was necessary in dressing and otherwise waiting upon her daughter. She simply wanted someone who would be a cheerful companion, and who would be ready to read to her, amuse her, and turn her thoughts as much as possible from her helpless condition.

Then Mrs. St. Hellier went on to say that she had heard from Colonel Verner that Miss Douglas was looking for something of the kind, and she wanted to know whether she would like her to name her to Lady Earlswood. She thought she was at liberty to tell her that the remuneration would be a handsome one. Fifty pounds a year was the amount mentioned by Lady Earlswood when she spoke to her on the subject.

Marjorie felt that this was indeed an answer to the prayers she had offered, and she gratefully accepted Mrs. St. Hellier's proposal that she should write to Lady Earlswood without further delay.

In the course of the following week Marjorie received a kind letter from Lady Earlswood, and in a short time all the preliminary arrangements were made, and she once more took leave of her home, setting off for Grantley Castle.

What a contrast she found on her arrival compared to her reception at Daisy Bank. A footman with a cockade on his hat came up to her on the platform and told her that he would attend to her luggage, and the carriage was outside waiting for her. During the five miles' drive to the Castle, Marjorie leaned back among the cushions of the luxuriously comfortable brougham, and wondered what was in store for her in the new home to which she was going.

When the carriage stopped, she was taken through the marble hall, and at the top of the long flight of steps she found the housekeeper awaiting her.

"Lady Earlswood is out this afternoon, Miss Douglas," she said, "so she asked me to receive you. May I take you to your room? You will find a good fire, I think, and I will send you some tea in a few minutes. Lady Violet has had tea, so perhaps you would like to have it in your own room."

Marjorie thanked her, and followed her up the wide staircase into the bedroom which she was henceforth to call her own. It was not a large room, but it was most beautifully furnished. A pretty French bedstead with dainty rosebud-covered hangings, a comfortable sofa covered with the same delicate chintz, an armchair by the bright fire, a writing table with inkstand, blotter and pens, at which she would be able to write her letters \-- all these made her feel that she had come to a home where comfort and ease abounded.

Then she went to the window. It was not yet dark, and she could see hills and woods in every direction, while close to the house were three long terraces, one above another, from the various heights of which glorious views of the surrounding country could be obtained. What a strange contrast to the views from her bedroom window in Daisy Bank!

Then there came a knock at the door, and a maid brought in a tray with a small silver teapot and cream jug, a china cup and saucer, and a plate of delicately cut bread and butter. It seemed strange to Marjorie to be waited on, for she had been waiting on others all her life.

As she sat in the armchair by the fire, pouring out the tea which had been placed on a small table beside her, she felt that, so far as she could see at present, the lines had indeed fallen for her in pleasant places.

#  Chapter 21

### The Photo of a Friend

WHEN MARJORIE first saw Lady Violet, she thought that hers was the most beautiful young face that she had ever seen; yet she was pale, and had a weary look in her young eyes which told of pain and weakness. She held out her hand as Marjorie entered.

"Miss Douglas, I am glad to see you."

Marjorie took the low chair by Lady Violet's side, and told her that she hoped she would tell her exactly what she would like her to do, and that she would let her help her in any way that she could.

"Oh, I don't want you to _do_ anything," she said, "except to amuse me. I'm so sick of seeing nobody but Collins my maid. My mother and sister come up as often as they can, but we have so many visitors, and they have so many calls to make, and there is so much going on of one kind and another, that they are obliged to leave me hours alone sometimes. This is my worst time. I get so tired in the evening, and awfully cramped with lying so long in one position. You mustn't mind if I am cross on occasions. I often am."

Marjorie laughed, and told her she did not think that was possible.

"Oh, but it is. I worry poor Collins to death. Now I am tired and do not feel inclined to talk. Will you talk to me?"

Marjorie found it difficult to know what to say, even though Lady Violet was about her age. It was one thing to join in a conversation, and quite another thing to talk to a silent person without having anything particular to say. She could not imagine how to begin, and then a bright thought struck her.

"Shall I tell you about my home, Lady Violet?"

"Yes, do. It will be just like a story."

So Marjorie began by describing Borrowdale and their house on the hill. She told her about her mother, Leila, Phyllis and little Carl. She spoke of the garden with its spring flowers; of the walk through the woods to Watendlath at the top of the hill; of the quiet village church; of her old women and the quaint cottages in which they lived, and of her life at home and of how she had spent her days. All this she told in her own bright way, until the poor girl beside her was soothed and interested, and forgot her pain and weariness while she listened.

"Thank you," she said, when Marjorie stopped. "I can see it all as if I had been there. May I have another chapter tomorrow evening, and will you call Collins now to help me into bed? And _do_ you mind telling me your Christian name? I should like to call you by it if I may. Miss Douglas sounds so formal."

"Please do. My name is Marjorie. I shall feel I am at home, Lady Violet, if I hear you say it."

As the days went on, Marjorie soon became accustomed to her new life in Grantley Castle. Beyond going for a walk daily in the lovely park and gardens, she spent all her time with Lady Violet. They had meals together in the sitting-room, and Marjorie saw little of the other members of the family. When they came to see Lady Violet, she generally went into her bedroom to write her letters, or strolled along one of the grassy terraces, or gathered primroses and moss in the copse wood to adorn Lady Violet's room.

By degrees, very slow degrees at first, Lady Violet let her companion know a little of what her thoughts and feelings were. She had been most reserved at first, and at one time Marjorie had felt as if she would never really know her. But one evening, when Marjorie had been at Grantley Castle about a month, the ice was broken for the first time.

Lady Violet had been restless and impatient all day. Nothing was right that was done for her. She found fault with everyone, and Marjorie herself experienced some difficulty in keeping bright and cheerful when all her efforts to cheer the patient seemed such an utter failure.

But after dinner, when Marjorie was sitting beside her with her work in her hand, Lady Violet suddenly said, "Marjorie, I've been horrid all day. Why don't you tell me so?"

Marjorie laughed. "Do you want a scolding?" she asked.

"I don't mind one from you. But I do think it's a shame, a horrible shame."

"What is a shame?" asked Marjorie.

"My being laid on my back like this. Do you know, Marjorie, I was to have been married in May?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Marjorie. "I had not heard about it."

"Oh, didn't you know? We were going to London to get my trousseau the very week that this accident happened. We were making all the plans about the wedding, and actually had patterns in the house for choosing the bridesmaids' dresses. And now here I am, lying helpless on my back, and my wedding put off indefinitely. It is an awful shame."

"Don't say that, Lady Violet," said Marjorie, "because God has allowed the trouble, hasn't He?"

"Has He? Then I think God is very cruel. What pleasure can it be to Him to punish me like this?"

"He doesn't like to see you suffer, Lady Violet. Oh, don't ever think that. It is because He loves you He has let this trouble come."

"I don't see much love in it. I suppose you mean that God thinks I need punishing, but I've never done anything to deserve it, and I do think it's a horrid shame."

"Oh, don't say that," repeated Marjorie. "Dear Lady Violet, don't say that."

"But I _must_ say it," she answered impatiently, "because I feel it, and it does me good to come out with it."

Marjorie did not speak for a few minutes, and Lady Violet said, "Talk to me, Marjorie. Scold me if you like, only don't sit quiet like that. Tell me what you were thinking about."

"I was thinking about the eagle's nest, and that you were like one of the eaglets."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know how the eagle makes her nest on the ledge of some high rock, building it of sticks and briars and then lining it with moss, and hay, and wool, and soft feathers out of her own breast."

"Well," said Lady Violet, as Marjorie stopped, "go on."

"And then she lays her eggs, and the eaglets are hatched, and they lie down in the soft nest. They are so comfortable that they never want to leave it. But as they grow older the mother bird wants them to learn to fly, that they may be able to soar up with her towards the sun. So she hovers over them and tries to persuade them to stretch their wings. But the nest is far too comfortable and snug for them to want to leave it, and they nestle down again in the moss and hay.

"The mother knows what they will lose if they do not learn to fly, so she rakes out the wool and feathers with her strong beak, and makes the thorns and briars come to the top. Then, when all the soft lining is gone, the young birds shuffle about uncomfortably. The nest is not such a nice place after all, and by degrees they creep to the edge of it and sit there miserably. And now the mother bird again tries to get them to fly, and they spread their small wings, and she puts her great strong wing underneath them, so that they won't fall, and soon they are soaring with her into the glory above."

"Yes, go on," said Lady Violet impatiently.

"Do you remember that God says He is like that eagle? And so He rakes up the comfortable home nest, and lets us feel the prickles of pain and sorrow, not because He is cruel, not because He wants to punish us, but because He wants us to rise to something brighter and better. Now, Lady Violet, I'm afraid I've been preaching quite a sermon, and it is good of you to listen; but don't you think this illness is one of the sharp thorns in the nest, to bring you to the edge and make you care for something better?"

"Perhaps. I don't know, I'm sure."

They were silent for some time after this, and then Lady Violet said suddenly, "It seems a pity now that I was ever engaged."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, it's such a nuisance for him, you see."

"Do you mean for the gentleman you are going to marry?"

"He wanted me to marry him a long time ago, but I refused him. At least, I didn't actually _refuse_ him, but there were reasons why I couldn't marry him then, one reason especially. But all that is over now. I had just accepted him, and all was nicely settled, when this happened."

"But the doctor hopes you will be all right soon, doesn't he?"

"Oh yes, in time. But it's an awful nuisance for him having to wait. He has only just come into his property. It's a nice little place, and he has a fair amount of money. It belonged to his mother's father, but some day he will come into a much grander estate and be awfully rich. His step-brother owns it now, but he is getting an old man and has no children. It's really a good match for me, but it's a long time to wait, and I think he's getting rather impatient. And I did so want to have next season in town."

"Has he been to see you?"

"Oh yes, once or twice. Just before you came he was here. But he lives a long way off, and I don't really want him to come too often -- it's so tiring seeing people when you're ill."

Marjorie rather wondered at this remark. Surely if Lady Violet was fond of her _fiancé_ she would not find his company tiring, although she was ill. However, she made no remark, but went on quietly with her work.

"Marjorie," said Lady Violet, presently, "you've never seen my photographs. I have two large albums full. Would you like to look at them?"

"Very much indeed. May I get them?"

"Yes, do. They're on the bottom shelf of that bookcase in the corner. Switch on more light, and sit in that armchair. You will see them better there."

Marjorie brought the albums, and sat down to look through the hundreds of photos with which they were filled. There were views of the park and the woods, of the church and the village, groups of various friends who had stayed at Grantley Castle, photos of Lady Violet's horse and of the two St. Bernard dogs. There were river scenes and lake scenes, photos taken at all seasons of the year, some with the trees in full leaf, others with bare branches, some showing the broad shadows of a hot summer's day, others taken in snow with every tree and shrub looking as if it were growing in fairyland.

"They are lovely, Lady Violet," Marjorie said, as she laid down the first volume, and took up the one lying on the table.

"Oh, those are foreign views. I don't know whether you will care for them so much. They are in the Riviera chiefly. We were there for a month about two years ago, and had an awfully jolly time."

Marjorie was turning over the leaves of the album, and had just been admiring a beautiful view of Monaco, when she suddenly came to one which brought all the blood rushing into her face. It was a photo of Lady Violet sitting on a rock near the sea, and close by her side and looking over the same book with her was Captain Fortescue.

Marjorie would have known him anywhere, but she had never seen him look quite as he looked then. There was not a vestige of care on his face, and he was evidently enjoying life to the full. She gazed a long time at this picture, and Lady Violet, glancing up, noticed how she colored when she looked at it, and then how all the color faded out of her face.

"Oh, that is a great friend of mine," she said. "He helped me to take nearly all those Riviera photos. My brother Berington took several of us together, and they came out well. What is the matter, Marjorie?"

"Oh, nothing. Only it reminded me of someone I know."

"Did it? Isn't it awfully funny how one sees likenesses sometimes. Turn over, there are some more of him in that book. Isn't he good-looking?"

Marjorie did not answer. Her heart was beating too quickly. So Captain Fortescue knew Lady Violet -- yes, and admired her too. She could see that by his face in several of the photos where they were taken together. And what a handsome pair they made. They were just suited to each other. Had he discovered his parentage? Had he, in those long months since she had heard of him, found his father and claimed his fortune? Could it be that he was the one whom Lady Violet was about to marry, the one who had admired her long ago, but whom she had refused because of some reason which stood in the way? Could that reason have been the loss of his money, and his being compelled to leave the army? If so, Marjorie could quite understand that this difficulty was probably removed. If he had found his father, if he had inherited a title, if he was heir to a large property, then surely no objection to their engagement could be urged.

Now, of course, she could see the reason for his long silence. It was already the end of March, and she had never seen Captain Fortescue or heard from him since that October night when he had brought her home from Birmingham. Why had she expected to see him or to hear from him again? How blind and foolish she had been.

Lady Violet seemed impatient to close the book, so Marjorie put it back in its place on the shelf. She wanted to ask her if Captain Fortescue was the one to whom she was engaged, but she felt that she could not bring herself to do so. She was so strongly convinced in her own mind that she was right in her conclusion, that she felt as if she could not steady her voice sufficiently to frame the question.

Not for worlds would she have Lady Violet know what she had felt when she saw that photograph. How silly she had been. How foolish it was to have dwelt on what was merely a passing feeling of gratitude for a little service which she had rendered the captain. No one must know; no one must ever guess what she had sometimes thought and hoped for. Least of all must Lady Violet know or guess.

So Marjorie talked to her on all manner of subjects, and was apparently never in better spirits, until at last the long evening wore away. Alone in her own room, she sat by her fire. Gazing into its red blaze she began to pull down stone after stone of her fragile castle in the air, and then, when it was all laid in ruins, she prayed for contentment and for peace. Surely she ought to be glad to hope that Kenneth Fortescue's troubles were over. Surely she should rejoice, if the desire of his heart had been granted to him.

#  Chapter 22

### Lord Kenmore

THE SPRING ran its course and the beautiful days of early summer began, and Marjorie sometimes felt as if she had lived at Grantley Castle all her life. It was a most restful time for her after the hard work of the year before at Daisy Bank, and she knew that she had much for which to be thankful. Lady Violet was still obliged to lie down, although her health and spirits were daily returning, and she was far less easily tired than she had been when Marjorie first came.

The house was now full of company, and Lady Earlswood, whose time was much occupied, was the more gratified that her daughter Lady Violet was so charmed with her companion, and that the arrangement she had made had thus turned out so satisfactorily. She was always gracious to Marjorie; and Lady Violet's younger sister, Lady Maude, thanked her several times for cheering up "poor dear Vi," as she called her.

Lady Maude was full of life and spirits, and her energy knew no bounds. She delighted in golf, motoring and bicycling, and though she was fond of her sister and sorry for her, she was of too restless a nature to stay long in the sick room, and was therefore glad to feel that Marjorie's presence there enabled her to go to her various amusements with a clear conscience.

"Vi likes Miss Douglas," Lady Maude would say to her friends. "They get on wonderfully well together, and she keeps her in a far better temper than I can do."

So Marjorie had few difficulties to contend with in her new position. Even Collins the maid was glad that she had come and was able to relieve her from constant attendance on her young mistress, and from the fretful fault-finding to which she had been obliged to submit before Miss Douglas arrived.

Marjorie was thankful for all this, and for the letters from home which were very cheering. Her widowed sister Leila was becoming quite strong again, and the money Marjorie was earning, and which she had been able to send home at the end of her first three months at Grantley Castle, had enabled her mother to buy many much-needed things for the household, and had considerably relieved the strain consequent upon the loss of the insurance money.

Marjorie searched the home letters carefully for any mention of Captain Fortescue -- she still called him that to herself -- but there was no mention whatever of him.

Marjorie knew that Lady Violet often received letters from her _fiancé_ , and she wrote to him in pencil from her couch, but this was in the afternoon after luncheon when Marjorie had gone out for her daily walk and when Collins was in attendance. This meant that the letter had been carried down to the post-bag before her return.

But one wet day in the beginning of June, when Collins was lying down in her room with a swollen face, Lady Violet said, "Marjorie, will you get me my writing case? I want to write to Lord Kenmore."

_That_ was his name, then -- _Lord Kenmore._ She would have thought that the missing word in the letter was a longer word than that, but she remembered that old Mr. Fortescue's writing was most uncertain and irregular, and he would probably spread out this name more than the rest of his writing, in order to make it clearer and more distinct.

_Lord Kenmore._ Could she ever think of Captain Fortescue by that name? It seemed so strange, so difficult to understand. But why was she letting these thoughts come into her mind? She had resolved never to think of him in that way again, never to recall that walk from Deepfields to Daisy Bank, or the grasp of his hand when he had said goodbye to her. She had been a girl with foolish dreams in the past; she would be a wise one in the future.

Lady Violet Kenmore. What a pretty name it would be when Lady Violet married Captain Fortescue. " _Thank you for all you have done for me today."_ Of course, she could see now that the captain was thinking of Lady Violet when he said those words of thanks after she brought the letter to his dismal room in Lime Street. He knew that Lady Violet had not been able to accept him because of the loss of his money; but all that time he had loved her, even though it had appeared hopeless. But if the letter had been found, enabling him to prove his noble birth and recover his rightful possessions, he would feel that Lady Violet might still be his.

No wonder then that he had said his thanks so earnestly. No wonder that he had pressed her hand in gratitude when she had been the means of bringing him hope. Marjorie saw it all now, and she marvelled at her former folly.

But all that was in the past, and she took the letter from Lady Violet when it was finished -- the letter to _him --_ and carried it down to the bag.

LORD KENMORE,

ROCKCLIFFE CASTLE.

That, then, was his address. She saw that, but she saw no more. What right had she to look at the letter to see his address? She would put it in the letterbox at once. It was nothing to her where he lived.

It was about a week after this when one morning, as Marjorie was going out, Lady Earlswood asked her to go into the village to take five shillings which she had promised to an old man living in a cottage near the church, and who had once been a gardener at the Castle. Marjorie called at the cottage, had a chat with the old man, and then returned through the lodge gates and began to climb the long ascent to the Castle.

The beech trees looked lovely that morning in their pale spring dress, the moss by the side of the road being covered by the pale brown covering of the buds which had fallen off as the leaves opened. The colouring was perfect, and Marjorie was thoroughly enjoying her walk.

But suddenly, as she turned a corner of the long avenue, ahead of her she saw something which took all the brightness out of her face. She saw Captain Fortescue walking rapidly towards Grantley Castle. Yes, she was sure it was he. She could not see his face of course, but he was the same height, he had the same figure and hair, and he walked in the same erect way. All the feelings which she had been repressing and keeping down for so long flooded back.

It was hard work to walk on towards the house. She felt unsteady, and turned off the road and sat down on the gnarled roots of a giant beech tree. But she prayed for strength and courage, and soon walked on again to the Castle. The road was empty now. She could see the great pillars of the portico and the closed door between them. He had evidently gone inside.

Once a wild hope darted across her mind that after all she had jumped to a wrong conclusion. Perhaps Captain Fortescue and Lord Kenmore were after all not the same. If so, could it be that the captain had found out where she was, and had come to see whether she was happy at Grantley Castle, just as once before he had come to Daisy Bank?

But this faint hope was dispelled as she went upstairs, for Collins the maid met her as she was going to her room, and said, "Miss Douglas, perhaps you had better not go to my lady just now. Lord Kenmore has come to see her unexpectedly. His motor broke down just outside the village, and he had to walk the last part of the way."

Marjorie went into her room determined to be busy and give herself no time to think. She hoped, fervently hoped, that she would not see him. Perhaps he would not be able to stay long, and he would probably go downstairs for luncheon, and then afterwards she could go out in the garden or take a long walk on the hills. Meanwhile she would remain in her room, change her dress, and write home.

Marjorie found, however, that writing was an impossibility. Her thoughts would wander to the next room. How well she could picture him sitting in _her_ usual place by Lady Violet's couch. How good he would be to her; how much he would feel for her in her suffering. What a comfort his sympathy and tender care would be to her.

And so more than an hour went by, and then came the sound of the bell in Lady Violet's sitting-room. This bell rang upstairs in Collins' room, so that her mistress could summon her whenever she required her. She heard Collins come down and go into the next room, and soon afterwards there came a knock at her bedroom door.

"Come in, Collins."

"If you please, Miss Douglas, my lady would like you to go to her."

Marjorie's heart died within her. He was still there, and now she would have to meet him. She wondered whether he knew that she was at Grantley Castle, or would he be surprised to see her here? Probably Lady Violet had told him, and hearing that he knew her, had sent for her to come and see him.

With a prayer in her heart for help, Marjorie crossed the landing and went into the next room.

"Marjorie," said Lady Violet, "come here. I want to introduce Lord Kenmore to you."

Almost tremblingly, Marjorie went forward, but to her utter astonishment a perfect stranger stood before her. His face was as unlike that of Captain Fortescue as it was possible for two faces to be. The figure, the build and the color of the hair were exactly similar, so that Marjorie was not surprised that as he walked ahead of her in the drive she had imagined that he was Captain Fortescue. But the features, the eyes, and above all the expression of his face, were totally different.

Lord Kenmore was an exceedingly plain man, with the palest of blue eyes which seemed wholly devoid of expression, with thin lips, a pallid, unhealthy-looking face, and a most cynical and unpleasant expression. How could she think for a moment that this was Captain Fortescue? He bowed stiffly when Lady Violet introduced him to her companion, and sat down again in the low chair beside the couch.

"Marjorie, I have been telling Lord Kenmore about the kind of paper I print my photos on. He is a photographer too. Would you mind getting those books you looked through the other day?"

Marjorie brought the albums from their place on the shelf, and handed them to Lord Kenmore. She was going to leave the room when Lady Violet called her back.

"Don't run away, Marjorie. Lord Kenmore is going down to lunch in a few minutes, and I shall want you then."

Marjorie took her work bag from the table, and sat down in the window, busy with a table-centre which she was working for her mother. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her heart. She had never realized how crushing the weight had been until she felt the relief she experienced now that it had gone. Captain Fortescue was _not_ Lord Kenmore. It seemed too good to be true. He had not been thinking of Lady Violet when he said goodbye at Daisy Bank.

Meanwhile Lord Kenmore was turning over the photos, commenting on them as he did so. He was opening the Riviera book now.

"These are good." she heard him say.

"Yes, we had a lovely time there two years ago."

"Hello, who's this?"

He had come to the photo which had made Marjorie's face flush as she looked at it.

"Oh, that's a friend of my brother Berington. They were at Sandhurst together, and we met him out there."

"I can't think who he reminds me of," said Lord Kenmore. "He's like someone. Dear me, who is it? "

"That is just what Marjorie said when she looked at that photo," said Lady Violet, laughing. "He is just like some friend of hers. He seems to be like a good many people!"

"What's his name?"

"Captain Fortescue. Perhaps you knew him at Sandhurst."

"No, I was at Woolwich. I can't think whom he reminds me of."

"There's another of him on the next page."

"Yes," he said, turning over the leaves, "he seems to have been fond of being photographed with you, Vi."

"Yes, we saw a good deal of him there. He is very good-looking, isn't he?"

"Well, yes, I suppose he is. I don't care for that kind of face, though. Why, there he is again. A conceited sort of fellow, I should think."

Was he jealous? Marjorie wondered.

"No, he wasn't at all conceited," Lady Violet replied. "You would have liked him, I'm sure."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No, not for ages. He has lost all his money, poor fellow, and is as poor as a church mouse. I don't know what has become of him."

Lord Kenmore seemed relieved to hear this, and there followed a long discussion on the relative merits of various makes of photographic printing papers, which lasted until the gong summoned Lord Kenmore to the dining-room.

"Will you put these books away, Marjorie?" said Lady Violet when he had gone. "It was too bad of him to run down poor Captain Fortescue."

Marjorie saw no more of Lord Kenmore, for he had gone when she returned from her afternoon walk. Lady Violet seemed tired and out of spirits, she thought. Perhaps she had felt the parting with him, for it was only natural that she should.

Marjorie devoted herself to Lady Violet more than ever that evening, and was determined to do all that she could to cheer her. She had such a light heart herself that it was not a difficult task to be bright and cheerful. And all the time she found herself wondering what had become of Captain Fortescue.

#  Chapter 23

### Mr. Northcourt's Opinion

WHEN Kenneth Fortescue had left Marjorie at the door of Colwyn House in Daisy Bank, he blamed himself that for even a single moment he had allowed his feelings to be seen by her. Perhaps she had not noticed. He hoped not. For what right had he, a practically homeless and penniless man, to allow any girl to see that he loved her, or to attempt, in however small a degree, to win her love in return? It was cruel, utterly heartless and unworthy of a man, he told himself.

What hope of future happiness could such love ever bring? As long as he was so heavily in debt to Marjorie's mother -- for he refused to allow that the letter she had found had in any way cancelled that obligation -- every penny of his salary, beyond what he actually required for food and clothing and the other small necessities of life, must be sent to Mrs. Douglas at Rosthwaite. He intended to send it in future at the end of each year, and as his salary was a fairly good one, he hoped to be able to remit a substantial sum the following Christmas.

Four thousand pounds was a considerable amount to reach, and he realized that it would take many years before he could return it all, if indeed his life was spared long enough for him to do so. Meanwhile the thought of a home of his own was one of the many things denied to him, one of the indulgences which he had told Mrs. Douglas that he should renounce.

Moreover, as he travelled back from Daisy Bank to his room in Lime Street in Birmingham, while he could not help a feeling of satisfaction that his origin was not so humble as he had imagined, yet at the same time he reflected that his real father, whether he was a lord or not, was by no means a father of whom he could be proud. His foster father, poor common miner though he was, had shown far more feeling than his real father, and had behaved in a manner which was vastly superior to that of the heartless man who had deserted his own helpless baby in South Africa, and had left him to the care of complete strangers so that he could marry a wealthy woman back in England. Still, if only that name had not been blotted out in the letter, he might have been able to prove his claim on his real father's consideration, and might have compelled him to reinstate him in the position which was his by birth.

For certain, he would then be able to make good his promise to repay the insurance money to Mrs. Douglas that his foster father had lost in a reckless gamble.

As it was, he knew not what steps to take. He decided at length to go to Sheffield to see Mr. Northcourt, his father's lawyer, and take his advice in the matter.

Accordingly, the following week Kenneth Fortescue travelled northward, and reaching Sheffield went at once to Mr. Northcourt's office.

The lawyer was interested in the information laid before him. He read and re-read the letter several times. He took a magnifying glass and tried to discover the word covered by the ink, but at last he was obliged to confess that it was hopeless to attempt to decipher it. He was, however, strongly of opinion that the missing word or words had undoubtedly been the correct name. Watson and the printer Josiah Makepeace would not have made that name illegible, had they not known beyond all doubt that it was the name of his lost father.

What use the pair had made of that knowledge, Mr. Northcourt said it was impossible to tell. Probably the story that Miss Douglas had heard from the old woman in the cottage at Daisy Bank, and which Kenneth Fortescue had just told him, was perfectly true. They had found this name mentioned in the letter as the possible name of Kenneth Fortescue's father. They had then sought out and discovered the man named, and by threatening to disclose what they knew of his past history they had extracted large sums of money from him, money which they were now spending abroad, or which, quite possibly, lay with them at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Mr. Northcourt asked Kenneth Fortescue to leave the letter in his charge, as it would prove most valuable evidence should the case ever come to trial, and he promised meanwhile to make all inquiries that were possible. At the same time he was obliged to tell Kenneth Fortescue that he much feared that no solution of the mystery would be forthcoming. The two guilty persons had evidently made good their escape, and he was therefore sorry to say that in his opinion Kenneth Fortescue had not yet found the clue which would lead him to the discovery of his family.

After his interview with the lawyer in Sheffield, Kenneth came away feeling downcast and disappointed. He was walking towards the station, hoping to be in time to catch the Birmingham express. He wanted to get back that night, as he had work that must be done the following day, when he heard a well-known voice behind him.

"Captain Fortescue, sir."

He looked round and saw old Elkington, panting with the exertion of hurrying after him.

"Excuse me, sir, for stopping you, but I was so pleased to see you again."

He shook hands warmly with his father's old butler. "How are you, Elkington?"

"Fairly well, sir. I'm living with my daughter now. I'm too old to take another situation. Have you found it, sir?"

"Found what, Elkington?"

"The letter you lost, sir."

"Yes, I found it three days ago. At least, a friend of mine found it in the cottage of an old woman not far from Birmingham."

"Then it wasn't Watson who took it, sir?"

"Yes, it was Watson. She and that bookseller Josiah Makepeace between them. He was her half-brother, Elkington."

"Was he, indeed, sir? Well, I never knew that. I always suspected her, sir."

"I knew you did, Elkington."

"She didn't like you, sir. She thought you kept her in her place."

"She needed to be, Elkington."

"She did, sir, but she didn't like it for all that. It was a bit of revenge, I should say, sir."

"Perhaps. But Watson and her brother raised money on it, too."

He then told Elkington a little of what he had heard, in which the old man was deeply interested.

"Was the letter what you wanted, sir? I mean was it worth having?"

"To a certain extent, Elkington, but those two rogues had blotted out the most important word, lest I should ever see it."

"The rascals," Elkington exclaimed. "Well, well, I'm not surprised at anything that woman did."

The old man insisted on going with the captain, as he called him, to the station, and stood respectfully on the platform with his hat in his hand as the train moved off.

Sitting back in his third-class seat, Kenneth Fortescue did not see that he could do anything further in the matter at present, nor indeed had he either time or opportunity to make any other attempt to solve the mystery of his birth.

He was now at the head of a large and important branch of a great fire insurance company, and had much business to transact. How could he neglect his only means of livelihood, in order to attempt to investigate a matter which baffled the legal mind of Mr. Northcourt?

* * *

As the months went by, and brought with them a continuous stream of business engagements that filled up the moments of a busy life, there was left little time for thought or for brooding over the past. It was only when he returned to his drab little sitting-room in Lime Street, and was resting by the fire for a short time before beginning his evening's work, that his thoughts would wander, in spite of himself, to Daisy Bank and Marjorie.

One evening, his eyes dwelt on the photograph of Honister Crag which was hanging over his mantelpiece. He looked back on that walk with such happy remembrance. How much he had enjoyed it, and how far away it seemed now. He seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. Again he wondered how Marjorie was getting on. Was the hard work in Daisy Bank telling on her? Could she keep her bright cheery spirit after so long a time spent in such grim surroundings? He checked himself. He must not make contact with her again. It would be cruel and selfish to raise the young lady's hopes of a deep friendship. Indeed, it was perfectly possible that by this time such a lovely young woman was being courted by another more worthy of her affection.

He realized that it was six months since he had last seen her. Surely there would be no harm in his running over to Daisy Bank for an hour the next time that he had a spare afternoon. He would be careful, very careful. Not a word or a look must reveal his secret feelings for her. He would simply see her and come away, content if she was happy, and thoroughly satisfied if he knew no trouble was hanging over her.

At last the spare afternoon came, and he felt a great rush of excitement as he got out on the Deepfields platform. Perhaps he would meet her on the road. It was the time when she usually took her walk.

But no, she was not there today. He walked on over the pit mounds to Daisy Bank, and the walk seemed almost without end. He passed the old cottage where his father's lost letter had lain so long. It was shut up and deserted. He hurried on. Colwyn House where the Holtby family lived was only a little further down the lane. He would soon be there, and would see Marjorie Douglas again.

He was going up to the door when he drew back in dismay. The windows were covered with dirt. Several of the panes were broken, the steps were a mass of mud, and the small garden was overgrown with weeds. The house which Marjorie had brightened by her presence was left untenanted and utterly desolate.

He stood looking at it for some moments in hopeless bewilderment. A lad, who had come from his work in the pit, was standing near, leaning against a broken-down wall.

"How long has this house been empty?" Kenneth Fortescue asked.

"Six months, or maybe more," said the boy.

"Have they moved to another house here?"

"No, they're gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know. Right away somewhere down south."

"Why did they go?"

"The master fell down dead. Soon after New Year it were."

"Do you know if Miss Douglas went with them?"

"Who did you say?"

"Miss Douglas."

"Never heard of Miss Douglas. They've all gone, so I suppose she did."

That being all the information he could extract from the boy, Captain Fortescue returned to the railway station feeling much depressed by the result of his expedition. What had become of Marjorie Douglas? He thought once of writing to her mother in Rosthwaite to inquire, but on second thoughts he dismissed the idea promptly. What right had he to make such an inquiry? None whatever. Nor did he see any prospect that such a right would ever be his.

So he went back to his hard work and his cheerless room as contentedly as he could, and tried to banish the restless thoughts that came to disturb his peace of mind. He determined to take each day as it came, and not allow himself to indulge in daydreams of the future -- which were never likely to become more than dreams.

#  Chapter 24

### A Most Charming Girl

WHEN the autumn came round again it found little change in Kenneth Fortescue's life, save that he had risen rapidly in the esteem and confidence of his employers, and had been entrusted with the supervision of their agents in a still larger district.

Nothing, however, took place of a personal interest until the fourteenth of October. It happened to be the day on which Marjorie had come to visit him here in Birmingham just one year ago, and which would ever be a red-letter day in his life, when he was requested by the head office to travel northwards to investigate the amount of damage caused by a great fire that had taken place in a nobleman's castle, which was heavily insured in his company.

Eagleton Castle was a most ancient building, filled with countless heirlooms of olden times. The picture gallery was hung with paintings by the famous artists of many successive generations; the grand staircase was of carved oak; several of the palatial rooms were panelled in wood; while the great fireplaces were surrounded by exquisite carvings, the work of some forgotten genius long since dead, who had left behind him these beautiful trophies of his skill.

Kenneth Fortescue knew that these ancient buildings were often extremely unsafe. The builders of olden time, in spite of the roaring fires which in those days blazed nightly on the hearth, built the wide chimneys with little regard to the necessity for care in the matter of fire.

An old beam, in the near neighbourhood of one of the chimneys in Eagleton Castle, had become ignited. The fire had smouldered on for hours, completely hidden from sight, and unperceived by the large household of the castle. But in the middle of the night a gale, blowing down the wide chimney shaft, had caused the smouldering fire to burst into a blaze. The floor of an adjoining room had been caught by it, and when the Earl and his household were at length aroused, the fire was becoming serious.

Fire engines were at once summoned by telephone, and were soon on the spot. The servants were hard at work clearing the rooms in the vicinity of the fire. The numerous guests, headed by the Earl himself, carried out armful after armful of valuable heirlooms and piled them on the lawn in front of the castle. The firemen worked on manfully, but several hours passed before the flames were finally extinguished.

The damage done to the building was great. Several ancient rooms were destroyed, but the most serious loss, in the Earl's estimation, was that of many of the works of art in the picture gallery. Some of these were family portraits dating back for many centuries, the loss of which could never be replaced. No amount of money could bring the dead earls out of their graves to be painted afresh. No compensation from the insurance company could ever restore to the Earl of Derwentwater those much-prized and valuable mementos of his long line of ancestors.

Still, whatever compensation could be afforded, in addition to the cost of those articles which it was possible to replace, would have to be supplied by the company in which the Earl had insured for many years. The head office, knowing the capability and thorough trustworthiness of Mr. Fortescue, had requested him to visit Eagleton Castle and report to headquarters the probable extent of their liability.

It was for the purpose of making these investigations that Kenneth Fortescue stood on the northbound platform at New Street Station. As he was looking at the signals and watching the line, he suddenly felt a hand on his arm.

"Fortescue! I'm delighted to see you again. I thought I could not be mistaken."

It was Captain Berington, the brother of Lady Violet and Lady Maude.

Kenneth was pleased to receive so friendly a recognition from an old acquaintance, whom he had never met since the day he had left Grantley Castle after telling the story of his life, so far as that story was then known to him. He knew more about his early life now, but he was not at all anxious to let his former friends hear what had come to his knowledge. Moreover, he felt that he was in one sense worse off than he had been before. _Then_ he had a name which he thought he could call his own; _now_ he was nameless.

However, he was glad to see Berington again; doubly glad that Berington seemed pleased to see him.

"Here's the train, Fortescue. Let's get a carriage to ourselves, and then we can talk."

"I've a third-class ticket, unfortunately."

"Never mind, we can settle up with the ticket collector. Here's an empty compartment. Get in."

"Where are you going, Berington?"

"Home. I'm awfully glad I met you. Now tell me all about yourself."

Kenneth Fortescue told him what he was doing, and mentioned that he was on his way to Eagleton Castle to assess the damage caused by the fire.

"What a terrible fire that was," said Berington. "It does seem an awful shame when old places like that are burned. My sister Vi was worried over it. You see, Lord Derwentwater is Kenmore's half-brother, and Kenmore is heir to Eagleton."

"Who is Kenmore?"

"Oh, don't you know? Vi is engaged to him. In fact, they were to have been married last year if it hadn't been for that nasty accident of hers."

"I didn't know. What accident was that?"

"She was thrown from her horse in the hunting field. Came down on her back, poor girl. It was an awful thing. We were afraid she would not get over it at first, and then when she seemed to have taken a turn for the better, the doctors discovered that the spine was injured and said she would have to lie on her back for months. It's been a terrible time for her."

"It must, indeed. How long is it since her accident?"

"Oh, nine months or more. She's a great deal better now. She gets out on the terrace, and is beginning to walk a little. They talk of having the wedding next May, if she is well enough. Poor girl, it has been awfully hard lines for her, but the doctor hopes she may be much stronger by that time. By-the-by, I have got a photo of her lying on the couch out on the terrace. I'm just taking her a print of it. She hasn't seen one yet. I was at home a fortnight ago, and took it then."

"Then you are still keen on photography? "

"Yes, and I think this is a very good picture. It was a nice clear September day, and I got a capital negative."

Berington was hunting among some papers in his pocket book as he said this, and at last found the photo in question and handed it to his friend for inspection. Kenneth Fortescue could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise as he looked at it.

"You are astonished to see her so altered," said Captain Berington. "Yes, she is thinner, much thinner. Still, she's wonderfully better than she was."

But it was not Lady Violet's altered appearance which had caused Kenneth Fortescue's exclamation of astonishment. He was not even looking at her; he was gazing with the greatest attention at someone else in the picture. On a low chair by the side of Lady Violet's couch, with her hat lying on the grass beside her, and with her lap covered with roses which she was arranging in a china bowl standing on a garden table near her, was Marjorie Douglas.

He could hardly believe his eyes. For a whole year he had heard nothing of her. He seemed to have completely lost sight of her, and now at last he had found her, and in that unexpected place.

Berington saw how earnestly Fortescue looked at the photograph. He thought that he noticed something more than mere attention in his gaze. There was a look in Kenneth Fortescue's eyes which told his friend a story about which his lips were sealed. But he interpreted that look wrongly.

"Poor Fortescue. I remember he was rather smitten with my sister Vi once upon a time," he said to himself. "I ought not to have shown him that photo."

He put out his hand for it, to replace it in his pocket book, but at first Kenneth did not seem to see.

"It's a beautiful photo, Berington. I suppose you haven't one to spare."

"Well, I am afraid not. I have another here, but I promised it to Miss Douglas. She wants to send it to her mother in the Lakes."

"Is she . . ."

Kenneth paused. He was going to say, "Is she well?" but that might have let out that secret of his, which his lips must guard with care. Berington noticed his hesitation, but put it down to quite a different cause.

"She's an awfully jolly girl. She's a kind of companion to Violet. It has made all the difference in the world to Vi having her."

Kenneth did not answer. He handed the photo back, though he would much have liked to have slipped it into his pocket.

"You've no idea what a nice girl Miss Douglas is," Berington continued. "She is always good-tempered and cheerful, and never gets put out when poor Vi is cross. I'm sure we were awfully lucky to get her. She really is a most charming girl!"

Kenneth Fortescue did not speak; perhaps because the words had moved him too deeply. And when, soon after this, Berington left the train and he saw the carriage and pair waiting to convey his friend to Grantley Castle, a great feeling of loneliness crept over him as he leaned back in the corner of the carriage.

Berington was going to see her, to talk to Marjorie Douglas, and give her the photo. And he said he thought her a most charming girl.

Kenneth wondered what Marjorie thought of Berington _._ Well, he said to himself, he must try to be glad that she was in a comfortable home, and was no longer toiling away among the pit mounds and coal dust of Daisy Bank.

#  Chapter 25

### The Picture Gallery

WHEN, some hours after his parting with Berington, Kenneth Fortescue arrived at his destination, North Eaton Station, he got out of the train with rather a heavy heart and made inquiry of the stationmaster as to the best way to Eagleton Castle. He found there was a horse-drawn omnibus running from thence to the village, which was three miles away, and that this bus would start in five minutes. When he went out of the station he saw it at a little distance along the road, waiting for passengers. He jumped up beside the driver, and soon the jolting vehicle was carrying him towards Lord Derwentwater's beautiful old mansion.

The fire at Eagleton Castle, although it had taken place some days before, was still the great topic of conversation. Finding that Kenneth Fortescue was a stranger, the driver and the passengers united in giving him a detailed account of it, relating how they had first heard of the fire, and how they had felt when the news was received.

When these various versions had come to an end, Kenneth asked a few questions about the place to which he was going. "Is it a large estate?"

"Tremendous. The Earl, he is the grandest man in all the country round."

"Has he any family?

"Neither chick nor child, and never had any."

"Who is heir to the property, then?"

"Lord Kenmore, brother to the Earl. He don't come here much, though. Earl and him don't seem to hit it, somehow. They are only half-brothers, you see. Their father, the old Earl, was married twice, and the little 'un was born when his elder brother were growed up. Twenty-five years atween them. That was a lot, wasn't it? They didn't seem a bit like brothers, did they now?"

"No, it was a great difference in age," Kenneth agreed. "One brother was old enough to be the father of the other."

"You're right there, sir," said an old woman on the seat behind, "and the old Earl's second lady were a hard woman. A hard woman, that's what _she_ were," she repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words.

"Ay," said the driver, "and she did her best to get the old Earl to leave his money -- what wasn't tied up of it, you understand -- to her little 'un. She couldn't get him the title nor yet the estate, but she got him all that she could."

"Ay, she did _that_ ," said an old man. "She were a crafty one, were my lady."

"But I suppose she had to leave the Castle when the Earl died."

"Ay," said the old man, with a chuckle, "and we none of us shed a tear we didn't, I assure you."

"Then the present Earl came here?" asked Kenneth.

"Yes. He'd been travelling in foreign parts, South Africa I think, but he came home afore the old Earl died, and he married a lady o' these parts too."

"Is she living? "

"No, she lies in the churchyard over there. Ye can see the old church tower over them trees."

"Has she been dead long?"

"It'll be about a year now. Since my lady died he has had a good few of his friends at the Castle. There was some of them there for the shooting. The Castle was pretty full the night of the fire."

"Was Lord Kenmore there?"

"Not he. He don't come here if his brother the Earl can help it. Lord Kenmore has an estate down south somewhere. He got it from his mother's father, so I'm told. We don't want him here, do we, Betty?"

"No, we don't," agreed Betty. "Chip off the old block, that's what _he_ is."

"Does the Earl live alone?"

"Well, so to speak he is alone. There's the visitors, of course, but they come and they go. None of them stays more than a day or two. It's a pity he hasn't got a son or a daughter to keep him company, isn't it now? "

"You like him?" asked Fortescue.

"Yes, we like the Earl well enough. He's a bit hard sometimes, so folks say."

"But we're mighty sorry for him," added the old man. "He looks that wretched sometimes, my Tom says. Tom is footman up the Castle. Now, sir, you look ahead and you'll see the Castle up on the hill."

Captain Fortescue looked, and he saw before him the most beautiful old castle he had ever beheld. It was built of grey stone, which bore the marks of age, though not of decay. Its mullioned windows had looked out for centuries over the beautifully wooded park, for the Castle stood on such high ground that it commanded a view of all the surrounding country, and the trees in the avenue which led up to it looked many of them even older than the Castle itself.

Through this avenue of ancient oak trees Kenneth Fortescue walked, when he had left the horse-drawn bus at the great entrance gates. He lost sight of the Castle as soon as he entered the avenue, but he gazed with the greatest admiration on the loveliness which met his eye at every turn. Now and again there was a break in the trees, and he looked down a peaceful glade where deer were feeding in the shade of the silver birch wood, or he stopped for a few moments to watch a busy little stream which ran by the side of the road and then disappeared beneath a rustic bridge into the depths of the woodland beyond,

The trees were putting on their warm autumn garb; the squirrels were running up the trees, busy in secreting nuts and corn for their winter store; rabbits were scampering across the road to their holes in the mossy bank; a cock pheasant in his bright plumage was strutting along the road before him. The whole place was alive with birds, singing joyfully in the oaks overhead.

Then, as he drew near the Castle, he came upon an extensive lake, dotted with islands and surrounded by a plantation of lovely shrubs and ornamental trees. On this lake swans were swimming gracefully in the autumn sunshine; the fish were splashing in the water; a covey of wild ducks had taken wing and were flying over the avenue. A heron stood at the edge of the water, hunting for frogs. There was life and movement everywhere.

He looked at the Castle, and he marvelled at its beauty. He had thought Grantley Castle a fine mansion, but that was far more modern, and would not bear comparison for a moment with the ancestral home of Lord Derwentwater.

Kenneth Fortescue rang the bell which hung in front of the carved stone portico, and the door of the Castle was opened by a footman to whom he handed his card which bore his own name and the name of the insurance company of which he was the representative.

"The Earl is expecting me, I believe," he said.

He was shown into a room not far from the entrance hall, in which the Earl was accustomed to transact his business. Here he found a gentleman of about his own age, sitting at a writing table and hard at work, with a voluminous correspondence spread out before him. He bowed as Fortescue entered, asked him to be seated, and told him that Mr. Montague Jones would arrive shortly.

Kenneth supposed the man must be Lord Derwentwater's secretary, as he watched him sorting and filing the letters with which the writing table was covered. But who in the world could Mr. Montague Jones be?

After he had waited about a quarter of an hour, a stout man with reddish hair, a florid complexion, and gold eyeglasses made his appearance and introduced himself as Mr. Montague Jones. He informed Kenneth that he was my lord's agent, and that my lord had requested him to conduct Mr. Fortescue, as the representative of the insurance company, to the scene of the late fire.

Leaving the secretary to continue his labours, Kenneth followed Mr. Montague Jones up a wide flight of stairs to the upper floor of the Castle. So far he had seen no sign of the destruction wrought by the fire, but as they went down a long corridor towards the west wing of the building they came upon the room where the conflagration had begun. Everything was blackened by the smoke and drenched with water. The furniture was either destroyed or completely ruined. The handsome silk hangings of the windows were gone, and an unpleasant smell of burning and charred wood filled the whole place.

From thence they went into the other rooms in which the fire had raged, and as they entered each, Mr. Montague Jones handed him an inventory of the valuable articles which that room had contained: the pictures, china, statuary, pier glasses, and costly furniture with which it had been filled; and the carpet, curtains and elaborate draperies which had covered and adorned it. These rooms were totally wrecked, for the flames had spared nothing. The ruin was terrible and complete.

Then the agent led him on to the picture gallery, a long and wide corridor having windows overlooking the lake in front of the Castle, through which the light fell on the beautiful works of art which the gallery contained. The fire, however, had only reached one end of this corridor.

Some of the pictures were altogether unharmed, while others were merely discoloured by the smoke. At that end of the gallery, which lay nearest to the rooms in which the fire had broken out, several large pictures had been totally destroyed and many others had been hopelessly damaged.

"Portraits, all of them," said Mr. Montague Jones. "Of priceless value to the Earl. Family portraits that cannot be replaced. This one of the Earl himself, painted when he was a young man, has only just escaped."

Kenneth Fortescue gave a start as he looked up at that picture. The picture was that of a man of his own age, and the hair was _his_ hair; the eyes were _his_ eyes; the carriage of the head was _his;_ the nose, the lips, the chin were the counterpart of those which he had seen in the looking glass that morning.

The portrait might have been his own portrait, painted that morning.

What did it all mean? Was it just a chance coincidence, or was it more? Was it the echo of the words he had read in that letter just a year before -- " _Mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like"_?

He wondered whether Mr. Montague Jones noticed the strange resemblance. No, he was a short-sighted man and he noticed nothing. He was busily engaged with his papers and with the notes he was making in his pocket book for the benefit of the Earl. Then he led the way on to another picture, one much damaged, and which was hanging in a bad light between the windows. Kenneth looked at it absently. He spoke about it, but spoke as if he was in a dream.

As they passed that other picture on their way back through the corridor, Kenneth stood and gazed at it again. The likeness seemed to him more striking than before.

"There is no need to look at that one," said the agent. "It isn't damaged at all."

They left the picture gallery and went down the wide staircase. Kenneth had no excuse for remaining any longer. He had obtained the information which he needed for the head office. He would be able to write to London, giving a full account of what he had seen. Why, then, could he linger? What reason could he give for doing so?

The agent was walking with him to the door, when the busy secretary came out of his den. "Mr. Jones," he said, "the Earl would like to speak to Mr. Fortescue."

Kenneth Fortescue was not naturally a nervous man, and he was not oppressed by the grandeur of the place in which he found himself. He had moved in such society, and was able to hold his own in whatever company he found himself. The presence of an earl was no more uncomfortable to him than the presence of that earl's footman. But at this moment he felt apprehensive.

Mr. Montague Jones had preceded him, and he heard himself announced. "Mr. Fortescue from the Insurance Office is here, my lord."

"Come in, Mr. Fortescue. I want to hear the result of your investigation. I want to know . . ."

_What_ did Lord Derwentwater want to know? He seemed to have forgotten. He was looking at the representative of the insurance company with a strangely puzzled gaze. Only for a moment, though. In the next he recovered himself and began to give an account of the recent fire, and of the damage done by it, and his reasons for demanding such a large compensation from the company.

Kenneth Fortescue looked intently at the Earl as he spoke. He wondered, as he did so, if he was looking at his _own_ likeness, not of today, but of a quarter of a century hence. The features bore the strongest resemblance, but the hair was white and the figure far less upright.

As the Earl spoke on, standing with his back to the fireplace, Kenneth stood facing him, apparently listening to his words, and yet in reality hearing nothing of what he was saying. He was looking for something -- looking intently and eagerly. Why did the Earl keep his hands behind him? Why did he stand in that position all the time he spoke? How could Kenneth ever discover that which he so much wanted to know?

But at that moment there came bounding into the room a beautiful collie dog, white as snow with long, silky hair. It ran to the Earl and looked up into his face. It was his favourite dog, his constant companion. He stooped to pat it as he spoke, and as Kenneth looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie he saw at last that for which he had been looking -- he saw that the little finger of the Earl's right hand had lost the last joint.

Then, in a moment, he knew the missing word in the letter found in the safe. He knew beyond all doubt that he was at that moment standing in the presence of his own father.

#  Chapter 26

### Waiting for the Answer

"WELL, I do not think we need detain Mr. Fortescue any longer. I want to speak to you for a few moments on another subject, Mr. Montague Jones."

It was the Earl who spoke, and his words roused Kenneth from a feeling almost of faintness which had crept over him as he looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie. He bowed to the Earl, and at once took his departure. This was not the time to approach the subject on which his thoughts were cantered. If he spoke to the Earl, he must speak to him alone, not in the presence of Mr. Montague Jones. Moreover, in his present tumult of feeling, he did not feel capable of speaking at all. He required time for thought and reflection.

He walked down the avenue, seeing and hearing nothing. The beautiful scenery was completely lost on him. He passed through the great gates, hardly noticing the lodge keeper who opened them for him.

He went on, not knowing or caring where he was going, having not the least idea what course of action he should take. He wanted to be alone to think.

He found himself at last on a hill covered with Scotch firs. He climbed to the top and sat down on a fallen tree. There lay the beautiful old Castle beneath him -- his home -- the home of which he now believed he had been cruelly deprived by the man he had just seen -- a man who had no right to the name of father. A great feeling of anger rose up in his heart against this man who was living in luxury and splendour, while his own son was struggling on, obliged to be content with the bare necessities of life in Lime Street.

How could he ever pardon such heartless conduct? How could he ever forgive his father for his base desertion of him when he was a helpless infant? His whole nature rose in revolt against such behaviour.

"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."

Yes, he must forgive even _this,_ if he would be the follower of Jesus, the Son of God, who prayed for those who hung Him on the cross. He pleaded for help from above to enable him to do this, and as he prayed he grew calmer.

Still he sat on, trying to plan what his next step should be. Should he go to Sheffield and see Mr. Northcourt, or should he call at the Castle and ask for an interview in private with the Earl? Yet what if this interview was refused? What if the Earl had noticed the likeness, and not wishing to own him would henceforth be on his guard against seeing him again?

At length he determined not to go to the Castle, but to write. He would telegraph to the insurance office that he was unavoidably detained at Eagleton. He would stay at the little village inn that night and dispatch as soon as possible a letter to the Castle, and would await the Earl's reply. What would be the use of putting the matter into the hands of a lawyer if his father was willing to own him? Why should their family affairs be brought to the attention of an outsider?

Kenneth returned to the village, sent off his telegram to his employers, and went to the Eagleton Arms. Then, after much thought and prayer, he wrote his letter.

He began by recalling to the Earl's memory events which had taken place twenty-five years ago. He reminded him of his early marriage to the girl he loved, of her death in the mining district in South Africa after giving birth to the little boy. He asked him to think of the tiny deserted infant left in the custody of a miner, with no evidence of his father's care save the money for his education.

He then drew a sketch of the life of that child, at Eton and then at Sandhurst; brought up as far as his education was concerned in his proper position, but having as his only reputed relative the miner who had done everything that in his position it was possible for him to do -- to be a father to him. Then he described the death of that foster-father, and told of the letter that he had left in the safe.

Kenneth was careful to remind the Earl that the man to whom he had given the baby had faithfully kept the secret during his lifetime, according to his promise; but he told him that his foster-father had felt that, in making such a promise, he had done a great injury to the child left in his care; and that, therefore, he had written an account of what had happened in South Africa, and had left it with his will, to be opened and read after his death.

Then Kenneth went on to tell the Earl that _he_ was that deserted child, and to inform him that he had stood this day for the first time in his rightful home, and had beheld for the first time his own true father. He appealed to the Earl by all the love that he had had for his mother, by all the humanity of his heart, by all his sense of justice and right, to investigate the truth of his claim. He implored the Earl to notice the remarkable resemblance between himself and the picture of the Earl painted when he was a young man, and he entreated him to allow him to come to the Castle again so they could talk together, so that the Earl could more closely observe that resemblance.

He ended his letter by saying that he was anxiously awaiting his reply at the Eagleton Arms, where he would remain until that reply reached him.

It was late in the evening when the letter was finished, but he found a messenger and dispatched him with it to the Castle. No sooner did he know that it was in the Earl's hands, than he began restlessly to await the answer. He felt as if he could not sit still for a single a moment. He went outside and paced on the road. He reasoned with himself that no reply could possibly come that night, yet he still looked out for it.

But at length the Eagleton Arms was closing, and he was obliged to give up his watch. He went to bed, but not to sleep. All night he was lay restless, wondering what the morrow would bring.

Then, with daybreak, he was up and out. He stood at the great gates and looked at the morning light streaming down the avenue. What was that in the distance? Was it someone bringing the expected letter?

No, it was only a gamekeeper early at work, shooting the rabbits which were nibbling the short grass at the edge of the road. He went back to the inn and tried to eat some breakfast, but he felt as if he could not swallow it.

Then he watched again, and at last, at ten o clock, a messenger came riding along the road from the Castle. He pulled up his horse at the Eagleton Arms.

Yes, he had brought a letter. The coronet was embossed on the envelope.

The landlord was standing at the door. He took the letter and handed it to Kenneth. "From the Earl," he said, "for you, sir."

Kenneth took the letter quickly to his own room and opened it with trembling fingers. Then he read as follows:

Eagleton Castle,

October 15.

Dear Sir,

The Earl of Derwentwater requests me to state that he has no knowledge whatever of the subject matter of your letter. There will therefore be no necessity for you to call at the Castle. He regrets that you have been so grossly misinformed.

Yours truly,

Harold Milroy,

Secretary.

Kenneth Fortescue felt as if he had received a heavy blow. What should be his next step? There seemed no reason to remain at Eagleton. If the Earl flatly denied his claim, all that he could do now would be to put the matter into Mr. Northcourt's hands.

Accordingly when he reached the railway station he took a ticket for Sheffield, and arriving there some hours later he was just in time to catch the old lawyer before he left the office for the night.

They were together for a long time in Mr. Northcourt's private room, and Kenneth gave an account of his visit to the Castle. He told the lawyer of the picture he had seen in the corridor, of his interview with the Earl, and how he had noticed that the joint on the Earl's right hand was missing, just as his foster-father had seen and described. Then he told Mr. Northcourt how he had written to the Earl, and he showed him the downright denial which the Earl had given in the answer which he had received that morning.

Mr. Northcourt meditated for some time on the case of his client. But the longer he thought about it, the more his legal mind saw great difficulties in the way of substantiating the claim.

There were several questions which would immediately be raised by the other side; questions which, if unanswered, or if answered in an unsatisfactory manner, would most certainly render Mr. Fortescue's claim invalid. Who was Lord Derwentwater's first wife? They did not even know her name. Where were they married? They had no idea. Were they married at all? They had no proof whatever of the marriage, except the declaration of an old man who was now dead, and who had only stated it on hearsay.

If the marriage had taken place in the neighbourhood of Kimberley, search might have been made for the marriage register; but apparently, according to the letter from the safe -- to which Mr. Northcourt again referred, spreading it out on the table before him -- the marriage, if marriage there had been, had taken place before reaching Africa in some place or other where the Earl's maternal grandfather had been chaplain. But what that place was, there was nothing in the letter to show, nor probably had old Mr. Fortescue ever known.

The lawyer explained that by law a claim for inheritance could only be substantiated if the parents were legally married. Altogether it would be a most difficult case to bring forward, and undoubtedly further evidence would have to be obtained before taking matters any further.

So Kenneth Fortescue returned to Birmingham, feeling as if he had been on the threshold of triumph, and then had been relentlessly drawn back into a land of toil, anxiety and privation. It was hard to settle down again to the weary routine of his daily duties. The little back parlour had never seemed so dismal before. He was as far as ever from gaining his proper position in the world. While matters continued as they were, he saw no prospect of having a home of his own, and therefore no hope of being able to make any attempt to win Marjorie Douglas's love. And Berington had every opportunity of seeing Marjorie now that she was assisting his sister Lady Violet, and he thought Marjorie a most charming girl!

Kenneth Fortescue was in low spirits during the dark November days that followed. Heavy smoke-laden fogs rested on the city. The gloomy skies were not calculated to cheer him, and he had made no friends in Birmingham to whom he could turn to relieve the monotony of his life.

One Sunday evening he was walking through the muddy streets, which with their closed shop windows looked even more dismal than usual, when he heard the sound of a church bell. It was not the great church near his lodgings in Lime Street, which he usually attended on Sunday. He had walked into a part of the city where he had not been before. It was a small church begrimed outside with smoke, and possessing no beauty within -- a plain, unadorned building in a poor part of Birmingham. He thought he would obey the call of the bell and go to the service. Perhaps there would be some word for him there that evening.

The clergyman was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, and his voice was far from melodious. But he had got his message straight from his Master, and Kenneth realized he had been sent to receive that message.

The words of the text fell on his heart like the soothing touch of a cool, loving hand on the fevered brow.

The words came from the Prayer Book version of Psalm 27, verse 14. "O tarry thou the Lord's leisure; be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord."

Then followed the simple sermon, devoid of all oratory, free from any attempt at grandiloquent language, as the preacher urged his hearers to take the text as their watchword during the coming week. Each had his secret care; let him turn that care into earnest prayer. Then, having done that, let him wait patiently. God was sure to answer, but the answer must come in God's own time. Prayer cannot be lost, but we must not try to hasten God's hand. We must tarry, wait for the Lord's own timing. Then, doing that, we shall be strong and comforted.

The preacher ended with a verse from a poem, of which each member of the congregation was given a copy on leaving the church. Kenneth Fortescue kept that verse as one of his greatest treasures.

Oh, tarry and be strong;

Tell God in prayer

What is thy hidden grief,

Thy secret care.

Yet, if no answer come,

Pray on and wait:

God's time is always best;

Never too late.

#  Chapter 27

### A Christmas Journey

CHRISTMAS was now drawing near, and the Birmingham streets were as busy as on that day, two years ago, when Captain Fortescue had seen Lady Violet at the door of the jeweller's shop in the Arcade. He wondered whether she was now recovered from her accident, and if Marjorie Douglas had returned home to Rosthwaite in the Lakes.

He had saved fifty pounds during the year, and two days before Christmas he sent it to Mrs. Douglas with a short note in which he said that he hoped she and her daughters and grandson were well, and wished them all a happy Christmas. He put another sentence in the letter, asking if Miss Marjorie Douglas was at home for Christmas, but after he had written it he thought it had better not be inserted. He tore the letter up, and wrote another.

On Christmas Day an answer arrived. Mrs. Douglas thanked him warmly for the money he had sent. She said it was far too much for him to have saved in so short a time. She feared that he was denying himself comforts which he ought to have, and she would have liked to return the check. Not wanting to do this, lest he should think her ungrateful, she could only urge him most earnestly not to attempt to send her so large a sum the following year. She was glad to tell him that they were all at home, and quite well, and they united in wishing him every blessing and good wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

Kenneth was sitting in the old armchair by the small fire in his dreary room, reading this letter for about the tenth time, when Mrs. Hall came in to lay the table for dinner. She had insisted on his having "something decent to eat," -- as she expressed it -- on Christmas Day, and had cajoled him into the extravagance of allowing her to buy a chicken for his dinner. She had cooked it with great care, and now brought it in triumphantly and put it on the table.

"There's a beauty, sir, if ever there was one. And I've made some good bread sauce, and the greens are nice and fresh. I got them in the market yesterday, and there's some fine brown gravy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hall, you take good care of me. I shall get spoiled if I stop here much longer."

"Bless you no, sir, _you'll_ never be spoiled. Not while my name's Mary Ann Hall -- that you won't."

"Perhaps you are thinking of changing your name, Mrs. Hall?"

"Changing it? No, sir, catch me changing of it -- not if I knows it. I've had one husband, and that's enough for me."

Whether this was a compliment to the late Mr. Hall, Kenneth did not know. His landlady bustled out of the room, glad to think that her lodger would enjoy himself for once in his life. She had asked his permission to buy the chicken, but the plum pudding, which followed, she had ventured to make without having received leave beforehand. He would only have said, "No, Mrs. Hall, I really couldn't eat anything more, even if you were to make it."

Mrs. Hall carried it in with great delight: a brown, well-boiled Christmas pudding, bristling with numberless almond spikes, like a porcupine covered with quills.

"There, sir."

"Mrs. Hall, Mrs. Hall, what am I to do to you? You'll ruin me one of these days."

"Nonsense, sir. _You'll_ never be ruined by a bit of Christmas pudding. Eat it while it's hot, sir. It's sickly-like when it's cold."

Kenneth had just finished this Christmas dinner when there came a loud ring at the bell. Mrs. Hall went to the door, and presently returned with a yellow envelope in her hand.

"A telegram, sir. It went to the Insurance Office, but the boy says he found it closed, and the caretaker sent him on here."

Kenneth took it from her and opened it without any feeling of surprise or curiosity. Telegrams often came to the office, and he had left word that in his absence they were to be sent on to his lodgings. But when he saw the words on the pink paper inside he turned so pale that Mrs. Hall, who was waiting at the door to see if he wished to send an answer, could not help noticing it.

"Not bad news, I hope, sir?" she said.

"I hardly know, Mrs. Hall. Ask the boy for a form. I must send an answer."

It was a short reply, soon written and quickly dispatched. coming immediately it said.

The telegram was addressed to, "Milroy, The Castle, Eagleton."

When the boy had been dismissed, Kenneth looked at the pink paper again.

the earl is ill -- wishes to see you as soon as possible.

He got out his Bradshaw railway timetable and found that being Christmas Day there was only one train by which he could go, as the trains were running as on Sunday. There was no time to lose, for he must be at New Street Station in three quarters of an hour.

He made his preparations forthwith, hastily packing his bag. He told Mrs. Hall that he had been summoned to a relative who was ill, and he managed to arrive on Platform 5 a few minutes before the train was due.

During the journey his thoughts were busy. What would he find on his arrival? Had the Earl's change of heart, for which he had been trying to wait patiently, at last arrived? He had trusted the matter to higher care than his own. Was that trust now to be rewarded?

It was late at night when he reached North Eaton. There was no horse-drawn omnibus or cab to meet the train. However, after he had walked a little way along the dark road he saw the lights of a carriage coming his way.

It stopped when it came up to him, and the coachman, bending down to speak to him, said, "Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Fortescue?"

Kenneth having replied in the affirmative, the coachman said, "My lord gave orders that the carriage was to meet the last train. I'm sorry I'm late, sir."

Kenneth stepped into the carriage and felt as if he was acting it all in a dream. He heard the gates being opened by the lodge keeper, and then it grew darker as they drove beneath the overhanging branches of the oaks in the avenue. He knew when they were coming out into the open park when he could see the stars shining through the trees, and there was the moon rising behind the plantation on the other side of the lake. He was getting near now, and his heart beat quickly as he considered what reception he would have. What would he find when he entered the old Castle?

The carriage stopped before the great door. There was no need to ring. They were evidently expecting him, listening for the first sound of the carriage wheels, for the door was thrown open immediately. He was ushered into the library, the same magnificent room in which he had seen the Earl, the room in which the Earl's hand had rested on the head of the white collie.

The dog was there, lying before the fire. It got up and ran eagerly forward when the door was opened, but drew back disappointed when it saw a stranger enter, and threw itself despairingly on the tiger skin rug.

In a few moments Mr. Milroy, the secretary, came in. "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Fortescue. We have been longing for you to arrive."

"Would you mind telling me why you have sent for me? I have heard nothing as yet."

"The Earl is very ill, Mr. Fortescue. Dangerously ill, I may say. We have two doctors in the house now. One or other has been here night and day the whole of the last week. Tonight both are here."

"What is the matter with the Earl?"

"It is the heart. I suppose he has had heart disease for a long time, so the doctors say, and every now and then he has a most alarming attack. He had an awful attack the day after you were here last. We had to wire for Sir Lawrence Taylor at once, and he thought the Earl's condition then most critical. He fancied that the excitement caused by the fire had brought on the attack. However, they consider that he has been much worse this time."

"Does he want to see me?"

"Yes, indeed he does. In fact, he will give himself no rest at all until he _has_ seen you."

"Do you know why?"

"I haven't the least idea. Perhaps _you_ know, Mr. Fortescue."

"How should I know?"

"Did you not send the Earl a letter when you were here last? I remember writing an answer at his dictation. Now, whatever that letter of yours contained, I should imagine it would be the reason of his wishing to see you now."

At this moment Sir Lawrence Taylor the physician entered, and Mr. Milroy introduced Mr. Fortescue to him.

"The Earl wishes to see you at once, Mr. Fortescue. It was quite against my judgment that he should see anyone. Perfect quiet is essential for him, but I find that we shall have no hope of allaying the present alarming symptoms until he has had the interview on which he insists. Will you, therefore, be so good as to follow me to his room?"

They ascended the great staircase and went into a large bedroom, the mullioned windows of which looked out towards the front of the Castle. The bed was draped in costly Oriental silk hangings, and beneath these, propped up by so many pillows that he was sitting more than lying, Kenneth saw the Earl. Two nurses were in attendance, and a doctor was sitting beside him with his finger on his pulse.

The Earl looked up eagerly as the door was opened, and Kenneth went forward and stood by the bed.

"My lord, you sent for me," he said gently.

Lord Derwentwater motioned to Sir Lawrence Taylor to come near him. Then Kenneth heard him say in an agitated whisper, "I must be alone with him. Tell them all to go out."

"My lord, you must promise me not to exert yourself more than is actually necessary."

"I will promise anything, only leave us alone."

At a word from Sir Lawrence Taylor the nurses left the room at once, the two doctors followed them and closed the door behind them.

As soon as they were gone, the Earl held out his arms to Kenneth who was standing motionless by his bed.

"My son -- my dear boy, come to me. Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for the way in which I have treated you?"

Kenneth came close to his father, and Lord Derwentwater put his arms round him and kissed him. The Earl had refused to kiss him when he was about to forsake him in South Africa, a poor, helpless, motherless babe; but now the kiss, so long withheld, was given, and the father's tears fell fast as Kenneth knelt down by his bed and took hold of his hand.

"Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me?" the Earl repeated feebly.

"Freely -- fully," said Kenneth, as he remembered the words with which he had that morning concluded his prayer in his church service for Christmas, "As we forgive them which trespass against us."

"I do not even know your name," said the Earl.

"Kenneth, my lord."

"Don't call me by that title," he said impatiently. "I loved your mother, Kenneth."

"Tell me about her, father."

"Her name was Mirabel. She was the only one I ever really loved. Her father's name was De Sainte Croix. He was of Huguenot descent, and was chaplain in Hyeres in France when I was there. We were married at Hyeres, Kenneth. I have written a statement, which will be quite sufficient, should I die, to put you in your rightful place. My lawyer was here yesterday. I made him read it through, and I signed it in his presence. The marriage certificate is with it, so there can be no difficulty about that."

"Thank you, father, for doing all this."

"Don't thank me," he said. "It's justice -- common justice. It's what ought to have been done long ago. I can never make up to you for what is past. Who saw that letter, Kenneth?"

"What letter?"

"The one old Tomkins, your foster-father, left in the safe. _Someone_ must have got hold of that letter."

"How do you know that, father?"

"I know it because I have had threatening letters, anonymous ones at first, just vague hints of what might be done. But after several of these had come, I had a mysterious visitor. He waylaid me one evening when I was walking in the shrubbery. I could not see his face well. He wore a long coat, and his collar was turned up, and I feel sure that he was wearing a sham beard and moustache. He told me that he knew something in my past life, unknown to the world at large. He said that he had met a man whom he knew to be my son, born in South Africa not far from Kimberley. And then he informed me that if I did not give him a large sum of money he would at once disclose my desertion of that son, and cause my secret to be known to the world. Kenneth, I never knew till then that you were alive. You were such a small, sickly baby that I had no thought or expectation of your living more than a few months at most."

Kenneth sat quietly, waiting for his father to continue.

"The man waited for my answer, and I told him to come again to the same place at midnight. I went in to consider what I should do. The Countess was alive then, and I dare not let her know how I had been married before. Anyway, she would never have married me had she known that I had a son, for her great desire had been to have a child of her own to inherit my title and both our estates. But how could I, after all those years, let her know that I had deceived her? She was a hot-tempered woman, and there would have been an awful scene. So, like the coward that I was, I wrote the check, and gave it to him under the deep shadow of the great chestnut tree near the lake."

"Did you ever see him again, father?"

"Twice again, and each time he demanded a larger sum. At last I told him that I declined to give him another farthing until he revealed the source of his information, and brought some proof of the truth of his statements. From that day to this I have never seen or heard of him. Do you know who he is, Kenneth, and how he got to know?"

Kenneth gave his father the history of the housekeeper Watson, and of the disappearance of the letter from the safe, and then he told him what Marjorie had heard from old Mother Hotchkiss in whose house at Daisy Bank the letter had been found.

"That explains it all, Kenneth. Now that brings us to the time of the fire and your visit to the Castle. When you came into the library that day, I saw the strong likeness to myself at once. I knew you must be my son. At one moment I thought I would send Montague Jones away and tell you the truth; at the next my heart failed me. What would the county families round think of my behaviour? What a revelation of cowardice and injustice it would be to the servants and tenants. How it would lower me in the estimation of everyone I knew."

His father paused again, breathing deeply before continuing.

"Then your letter came, Kenneth, telling me facts which I knew to be true, leaving no room for speculation or doubt. You will wonder why my heart was not touched by it. I wonder at it myself. But I hardened my heart against you. I dared not lose the good opinion of my friends. Above all, I dared not tell Kenmore, my half-brother. He considers himself my heir. He prides himself on it. I have been told that he has already planned how to alter and improve the park and gardens when I am gone. He does not care for me, nor I for him, but I felt that I could not bear the storm which this revelation would raise. But since then -- that was in October, was it not?"

"Yes, father, the fourteenth of October."

"Since then I have been miserable, utterly wretched. I have felt sometimes as if Mirabel, my pretty little bride of my first marriage, came in my dreams to reproach me with the way I had treated her child. So I began to write the statement for my lawyer. It is here, Kenneth, in this large envelope under my pillow. Take it, my boy. We will have no tampering with _this_ letter. Keep it under lock and key, and never let it go out of your possession. I wrote it, Kenneth, and then I thought I would leave it with my lawyer, to be opened after my death. Cowardly again, wasn't it? But then this heart attack came on, and something tells me that the next one will be my last. The doctors seem to be warding off the fatal consequences of this one, but another may seize me at any moment. When I knew that, and began to face death, and thought of standing before my Judge, my heart failed me. Of all the sins of my guilty life, I feel that this desertion of my own child has been the worst. And so I sent for you, and you say you forgive me."

"I do, father, indeed I do."

"Thank you, Kenneth. It's more than I deserve. I wish I could know that I had Divine forgiveness too, but I'm afraid that is out of the question now. It is far too late for that."

"It is never too late, father. You forget how God longs and yearns to forgive us. He wants to forgive far more than we want to be forgiven. Why, He wants it so much that He sent His own Son to die for us, that He might be able to forgive us. You see, He couldn't have forgiven us otherwise, for it wouldn't have been just. He is _obliged_ to punish sin."

"Go on, Kenneth. I know it all in a way, but I want to see it more clearly now."

"Well, you see, He let His Son be punished instead of us on the Cross, so that when we come to Him He can be _just,_ and yet able to forgive us. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"

It was the same verse which Marjorie had repeated to old Mother Hotchkiss. And the simple words which comforted the heart of the poor old woman in Daisy Bank, who could neither read nor write, now brought peace and a sense of pardon to the highly cultured and refined nobleman. He grasped Kenneth's hand

"I will rest on those words, Kenneth. _'Faithful and just.'_ Now I am afraid you must call the nurses. Get some dinner, and rest, and come to me again in the morning."

His father grasped his hand warmly as he said goodnight, and Kenneth opened the door and admitted the doctor. He was leaving the room when his father called him back.

"Sir Lawrence Taylor, may I introduce my son to you -- the future Earl?"

Sir Lawrence looked in astonishment at Kenneth who was standing by the door. The nurses who had followed the doctor into the room also looked round in the utmost surprise.

"It is true, Sir Lawrence. This is my son. I have not seen him for twenty-five years, but _before you all_ ," _\--_ he looked round at the nurses -- "I own him as my lawful son and heir. I have sinned against him in the past, but from this day he shall take his proper and rightful place here. Goodnight, Kenneth, I must rest now."

Was the Earl wandering? Was the brain weakened as well as the heart? No, he was quite collected and calm. Moreover, they had only to glance at Kenneth standing by, with the signs of deep emotion on his face, and then look from him to the Earl lying prostrate with exhaustion after the effort he had made; they had only to compare the two faces to feel convinced that the words he had spoken were not the expression of some fancy of the wandering brain of delirium, but were on the contrary the sober words of truth and of justice.

A footman was standing at the door with a tray in his hand, waiting to bring in beef-tea which the nurses had ordered. He heard what was said by the Earl, and needless to say the news spread rapidly through the Castle. In the housekeeper's room, in the servants' hall, the strange tidings were eagerly discussed, and the stately butler, who came to the library soon afterwards, was the first to address Kenneth by the lawful title of which he had been deprived during twenty-five years of his life.

"Dinner is served in the dining-room, my lord."

#  Chapter 28

### Another Chapter Closed

KENNETH'S first fortnight in the home of his ancestors was an exceedingly stormy one. Lord Kenmore, on receipt of a letter from the Earl informing him of the existence of his son, immediately determined to vigorously contest Kenneth's claim.

All his life he had believed himself to be the heir to the Derwentwater title and estates. His elder brother was married, certainly, but he had no family, and he therefore saw no prospect whatever of anything occurring to militate against his succession. He had told Lady Earlswood what his prospects were, and on the strength of them she had given her consent to her daughter Violet's engagement. The estate which he had inherited through his mother was not a small one, but the income was a mere bagatelle when compared with that of Eagleton.

And now, just when Lady Violet was recovering from her accident, when the date of their wedding was once more fixed, when all their arrangements were made, and when everything seemed going well, this letter from the Earl arrived, informing him that a son of his, ignored and disowned for twenty-five years, had turned up, had been received and welcomed, and was now to inherit his title and estates.

The story appeared to Lord Kenmore to be simply implausible. He could not bring himself to believe that it was founded on fact. He would not, even for a moment, accept such a ridiculous statement, even though he had it in the Earl's own handwriting. Whatever was written, there was no way he would meekly submit to being disinherited.

Thus Lord Kenmore drove up to the Castle in a towering passion, marched past the footman and butler, walked imperiously upstairs, and demanded an interview with the Earl immediately.

When the doctors told him that this was impossible until the next day, as the Earl was extremely weak that evening and must be kept perfectly quiet, he was more angry still. And when he discovered from the servants that the impostor, as he called him, was at that time sitting in the Earl's bedroom, to which he was admitted at all hours of the day and night, his indignation knew no bounds. He utterly declined to take the slightest notice of the so-called son, or even to see him.

He ordered dinner to be served in his own room, as he did not choose to sit down with the man who had supplanted him, and he went to bed that night determined to fight to the last for what were surely his lawful rights.

The following day Lord Kenmore was admitted to the Earl's presence, and going into the room he found the family lawyer sitting by the bedside. On a table before him lay the indisputable proofs of the first marriage and of the child's birth, and bit by bit the lawyer, who was the spokesman on the occasion, showed Lord Kenmore that if he attempted to establish his claim in a court of law he would simply incur great and needless expense, for he would be perfectly certain to lose his case.

"I'm sorry, very sorry, Kenmore, that you have been kept in ignorance of this so long," said the Earl. "I feel for you in your disappointment, but I must do justice to my own son."

Thus the interview ended, and Lord Kenmore, still only half convinced, ordered the carriage and drove away from the Castle without meeting the nephew who had taken his place.

He wrote many angry letters after his return home, but after taking legal advice he was at last compelled to accept, sorely against his will, that nothing could be done to reverse the ill luck which had fallen on him.

There was great consternation at Grantley Castle when the news arrived there. Lady Earlswood felt that Lady Violet's prospects were now far below her expectations. Had she known that Lord Kenmore was a comparatively poor man, she said she would never have consented to the engagement. However, it was now too late to draw back, and she must hope to find a better settlement for her younger daughter, Maude.

Perhaps this newly-discovered son of Lord Derwentwater might be eligible. He was a young man by all accounts, and she gathered from Kenmore's letter that he was unmarried. She had no idea who he was, but Lord Kenmore told her that he had been born in South Africa, and that he thought he had turned up from some place abroad. Never for a moment did Lady Earlswood or her daughters connect him with the son of the miner whom they had discarded two years ago, and whom they now supposed to be earning his living somehow or other in a humble manner. Her son Berington had not mentioned his meeting with Kenneth, and they had heard nothing of him since the day that he left Grantley Castle.

All the love which had been denied Kenneth for twenty-five years seemed to have accumulated, and Kenneth devoted himself to his true father, and was an unspeakable comfort and help to him in countless different ways.

Kenneth had the joy of knowing that the Earl was clinging with childlike faith to the Savoir of sinners, and that he was resting all his hopes on the finished work of Christ.

The Earl recovered from his severe illness to a great extent, and was able to be moved daily onto a couch in his own room; but on the fourteenth of March another heart attack occurred, more violent than any of those which had preceded it, and holding Kenneth's hand, his last words had been those which had first brought him comfort and peace: " _Faithful_ and _just_ to forgive us our sins."

Lord Kenmore would not even come to his half-brother's funeral, and uncle and nephew had therefore never met.

Kenneth returned once more to the little back parlour of Mrs. Hall's house in Lime Street. He had come to Birmingham to pack up his belongings, and finally close his connection with the insurance company. He had been unable to leave Eagleton Castle before, for his father had been reluctant to spare him even for a day.

Mrs. Hall was sorry to lose her lodger, and told him that she would never have another like him. He paid her in full for the time he had been away, and delighted her heart by the present of a new carpet and some fine furniture to adorn her little room.

"Well, now, to be sure, if ever there _was_ a gentleman, _he's_ one," she said to her friends.

Kenneth sat at the table in the window of the lodging he was leaving, writing a letter to Mrs. Douglas.

156, Lime Street,

Birmingham,

April 3.

Dear Mrs. Douglas,

I am hoping to have the pleasure of calling on you some time next week. I was so charmed with the peep I had of Borrowdale two years ago that I am planning a little holiday in your beautiful neighbourhood, and I think of making the comfortable inn at Rosthwaite my headquarters during the time I am in Cumberland.

I am glad to be able to tell you that I am receiving more money this year, and therefore hope that my next remittance will be a somewhat larger one.

With kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

Kenneth Fortescue.

He read this letter through several times after he had written it. He had purposely addressed it from his old lodging in Birmingham, and carefully concealed his present position. He was mindful of the words Marjorie had once said: "I rather hoped you were not a lord. Only you would seem so different to us then."

Why, then, should he tell her? He would go unattended, as the impoverished man he had been when she saw him last in Daisy Field. Then Marjorie would feel that no wide social gulf had come between them. He had no fear that she had discovered who he was. Even Kenmore would never connect him with the Captain Fortescue of whom he might possibly have heard at Grantley Castle. In the Earl's statement, his foster-father had been called by his proper name, Tomkins. The name Fortescue had not even been mentioned. So Kenneth felt sure that his secret was safe, and he hoped that therefore he would not seem so different to the Douglas family, and consequently so much less their friend.

He had to spend two days in Birmingham winding up his accounts, and at the end of them he received Mrs. Douglas's answer. She told him that she was glad to get his letter, and that they would all be pleased to see him again in Borrowdale.

Kenneth hoped from this letter that he might find them all at home. He had received a letter from Berington at Christmas, in which he told him that his sister Violet was quite well again, and that he was sorry to say that Miss Douglas was leaving. Kenneth wondered whether Marjorie had by this time undertaken any other work. He could not help hoping that she was included in the _all_ in her mother's letter.

When at last his packing was finished, Mrs. Hall took an affectionate farewell of her lodger. He told her that he would like to hear now and again how she got on, and he would therefore give her his future address. He handed her his card, and when she had glanced at it she turned quite pale.

"Who's this, sir?" she said. "This isn't _your_ name."

"It is, Mrs. Hall -- my very own."

"But you're not an earl, surely!"

"Yes, I am, Mrs. Hall."

"Deary me, and I've waited on you and scolded you when you wouldn't pay me for better dinners. I'm fair scared, sir!"

Kenneth laughed at her dismay. "Never mind, Mrs. Hall," he said, shaking hands with her at parting, "you've been a good friend to me, and I shall never forget your kindness."

He would travel to the Lake District by train today, and stay overnight in the little inn. And in the morning he would walk to Fernbank to meet the Douglases, a walk which he was looking forward to with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

#  Chapter 29

### Watendlath Forget-Me-Not

MARJORIE DOUGLAS began to climb the hill behind Fern Bank to pay her weekly visit to one of her favourite old women. Her heart was as full of brightness as the spring day, for was not this the day in which Captain Fortescue had said he was coming to Rosthwaite?

She had not seen him for a year and a half, and had heard nothing of him save those two short notes which he had written to her mother. Evidently he had never yet discovered the missing word in the letter, for he was still living in Birmingham in that house in Lime Street.

She was glad that he was going to have a little holiday from his hard work. She was pleased to think that Borrowdale would look its loveliest when he arrived, and she knew that her mother would be glad to see him and to have a talk with him again.

As for herself? Well, she knew she would be glad too.

The path led her through a copse wood where the primroses were a sight to see, and then as she went higher still she came on a rough mountain road. She followed this for some way, and after a stiff climb over the moorland she came to the little hamlet of Watendlath nestling in a hollow among the hills. A more picturesque place could scarcely be found. The few white farmhouses and small thatched cottages stood by the side of a quiet mountain tarn, reflected in its still waters. The little village seemed completely shut off from the world by the mountains which surrounded it.

Old Sarah Grisedale lived in a cottage a little distance from the lake. She was a tall, thin woman, active in spite of her great age, and still able to walk over the mountain to church, and climb the steep hill again without even the help of a stick.

Marjorie had a long chat with her old friend who was sitting in her usual place on a three-legged wooden stool in front of the peat fire, and then she emptied her basket of the good things she had brought for Sarah, and went on to an ancient farmhouse standing just above the tarn to buy some eggs which her mother had asked her to get. Several dogs ran out barking when she drew near, but they knew Marjorie well and were quiet as soon as she spoke to them.

The old farmhouse had stood in the secluded spot for many hundreds of years, and its low ceilings, oak panelling, heavy wooden beams, deep chimney corners, and carved cupboards were all relics of the days of long ago.

When Marjorie left the farm she crossed the little bridge over the stream running into the mountain tarn. As she did so, she noticed growing by the edge of the water a quantity of large blue forget-me-nots. She climbed down the bank to the water and gathered the flowers, and then sat down on the grass to arrange the flowers in her basket above the eggs.

As she did so, sitting by the side of the rushing brook and hearing nothing but its noisy babbling, she was startled by something bouncing against her arm. It was a large white collie, which had come bounding down the steep bank and which now lay down beside her, putting its paws on her knees.

"O you beauty, you lovely fellow," said Marjorie, as she stroked the dog's head. "Where have you come from, and whose dog are you?"

She was not left long in doubt on this point, for the dog's master was close at hand. She heard a voice behind her, a voice she knew well. "Miss Douglas, I've found you at last."

"Captain Fortescue, how did you know I was here?"

"I called at Fernbank, and your mother told me you had come up the hill, so Laddie and I came in search of you."

He climbed down the bank and took her hand in his.

A piece of blue forget-me-not fell at his feet as Marjorie got up to speak to him. He picked it up and asked, "Is it for me?"

"If you like," she said shyly.

"I expect you thought I _had_ forgotten you," he said. "But there is no need to give me the forget-me-not, I assure you, Miss Douglas. I have _never_ forgotten you. I never _could_ forget what you did for me the last time I saw you."

"And yet it was all of no use," she said sadly.

He smiled. "Don't say that. Who can tell? That letter may yet prove to be a most important link in the chain. What a lovely place this is. Shall we sit here and talk a little? It is so quiet and beautiful."

They sat down on the rocky bank, and the collie laid his chin on Marjorie's arm and gazed up into her face.

"Tell me what you have been doing the last eighteen months, Miss Douglas."

She told him of Mr. Holtby's death, and how the family had left Daisy Bank.

"Yes," he said, "I went there one day to see you, and found you gone."

"Did you? I wish I had known. "

"Why? Oh, I see. You thought I _had_ forgotten. Well, where did you go next?"

"I went to some friends of yours, very great friends, I believe, at Grantley Castle. I was companion to Lady Violet."

She glanced doubtfully at him as she said this, as though she wondered whether the mention of the name would give him pain, but she was reassured by his face. There was no trace of anything in it but great interest in her story.

"I wonder how you found out that I knew them."

"I saw your photograph in Lady Violet's book."

"Yes, in the Riviera. I remember I was photographed with her a great many times."

"And I thought . . ."

"What did you think?"

"You will laugh when I tell you. I thought you were Lord Kenmore!"

"Kenmore, of all people on earth! Why did you think that?"

"I knew that Lady Violet was engaged to Lord Kenmore, and I thought that perhaps Kenmore was the missing word which we tried to read in the letter."

"I see. And you thought Lady Violet and I seemed very much together in the photos? I understand now. Have you seen Lord Kenmore?"

"Yes, once. He came to see Lady Violet, and I went into the room expecting to see you. I had followed him up the avenue, and he looked exactly like you in the distance. Have you ever met him, Captain Fortescue? "

"Never."

"His figure is really very like yours, and his hair and the way he walks -- really very much alike; but his face is quite different."

"Were you glad or sorry when you found that I was not Lord Kenmore."

Marjorie did not answer. He repeated the question, but she was busily throwing the forget-me-not flowers on the water and watching them float under the bridge, and still she did not speak.

"How long were you at Grantley Castle, Miss Douglas?"

"I left at Christmas. Lady Violet was quite well then."

"Were you sorry to leave?"

"Yes, in some ways. It's a lovely place, and they were really good to me, all of them. I think, I am _sure_ , Lady Violet would have liked me to stay a few months longer, to help her in the preparations for her wedding; but . . ."

"But what?"

"Well, I fancy Lady Earlswood was anxious that I should not stop longer. Captain Fortescue, do you know Lady Violet's brother, Berington?"

"We were at Sandhurst together."

Marjorie stopped, as if she did not like to say more.

"Please go on, Miss Douglas. What about Berington?"

"Well," she said, "perhaps I ought not to say it, especially as you know him, but I rather think it was on _his_ account that Lady Earlswood wanted me to leave."

"Why on his account?"

"Well, he was kind to me, and when I went for my afternoon walk in the park he often happened to be going in the same direction. I couldn't help it, could I? But I think Lady Earlswood thought I could, and it was rather uncomfortable, you see, so I was glad to get away."

"Really glad?"

"Yes, really glad. It was so awkward. He always seemed to turn up wherever I went, and I did not know what to do."

"So you came home at Christmas?"

"Yes, on Christmas Eve."

"Have you heard from any of them since?"

"Only once. I had a letter from Lady Violet a few weeks after I left, saying there was some disturbance about Lord Kenmore's property, or rather the property which he expected to get at his brother's death, and she was afraid he would be robbed of what rightfully belonged to him. But she did not say what the trouble was, nor who wanted to rob him. That was in January, and I have never heard since."

"Not from any of them?"

"Oh no. Now, will you tell me what _you_ have been doing?"

"Well, things have brightened a bit for me. As I told your mother in my letter, I am better off than I was. I am leaving Mrs. Hall."

"Poor Mrs. Hall."

"Yes, she seems sorry to lose me, good old soul."

"Where are you going to live? At the other end of Birmingham?"

"No, right out in the country."

"Not the Daisy Bank way?" she asked, laughing.

"No, north of Birmingham."

"I'm so glad you will be in the country. I love the country, and it will be so restful for you after your hard work in the city."

"Yes, I hope it will. Well, I feel sure it will."

"What is the name of the place?"

"North Eaton."

"Have you got nice lodgings there? "

"No, I am not going into lodgings again. I am going to start housekeeping."

"Housekeeping? Have you got a house?"

"I have had one for a few weeks now."

"Is there a garden?"

"A nice garden; and the house is -- well, rather a nice house, I think. It only wants _one_ thing. Marjorie dear. Can you not guess what that one thing is?"

She was bending over Laddie, so that he could not see her face.

"Can you guess, Marjorie?"

She shook her head.

"You _can't_ guess?" he whispered, as he took hold of the hand which was stroking Laddie's head. "Then I shall be obliged to tell you. Marjorie darling, it wants _you_."

#  Chapter 30

### (Last Chapter)

### The Missing Word Found

IT WAS a lovely morning in June, and the little village of Rosthwaite was all astir and filled with pleasurable excitement. Some were standing at their doors, and others were looking out of their windows. From many a farm on the hillside, from many a lonely cottage, people were coming in little groups towards the church. The whole place, so quiet at other times, was filled with life and movement. Work was laid aside and everyone was in holiday attire, for it was Marjorie Douglas's wedding day.

Everyone loved her. She had grown up among them from childhood. She had gone in and out among them as a friend, and they were loath to part with her. But on her wedding day they knew they must not think of that. She must see none but bright faces. Old Mary had hobbled on her stick all the way from Seatoller. Sarah Grisedale had come down from the mountains and had waited an hour in the churchyard before the time of the wedding, and many another whom Marjorie had helped and comforted was there in the little church to pray for a blessing on the fair young bride.

The wedding was by license, and the Vicar, at the bridegroom's dictation, had filled up the required information in the register before the arrival of the bridal party. Only two people knew what name was written there, above the name of Marjorie Douglas. The clergyman knew, of course, for he had written the words; and Mrs. Douglas knew. Kenneth had told her the night before. Marjorie herself had no idea, as yet, of the future that lay before her, or of the name which would that day become hers.

It was a pretty, though quiet wedding, and as Mrs. Douglas heard Kenneth's strong voice saying, in tones of deepest feeling, "I, Kenneth, take thee, Marjorie, to my wedded wife," she felt that she was giving her child to one whom she could fully trust; one who was not only a kind and honourable man, but who was, above all things, a true servant of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Then came the signing of the names in the marriage registers. Mrs. Douglas was talking to Marjorie while Kenneth signed both books, and then the clergyman called her to write her name below. He had placed the blotting paper over the upper line on which Kenneth's name stood.

"Do you mind leaving it there, Marjorie?" he said. "I am particular about the neatness of my registers, and the lace on your sleeve may blot it."

Marjorie laughed, and wrote her name without removing the blotting paper which covered the entry above. Then the books were closed, and the bridal party drove to Fernbank, amidst the cheers and good wishes of the villagers.

About an hour afterwards, Colonel Verner's carriage stood at the gate, waiting to convey the bride and bridegroom to Keswick station, and Kenneth and Marjorie came down the garden, followed by the whole family, including old Dorcas. Then the last goodbyes were said, and they drove off. At the bridge, Kenneth stopped the carriage. He had forgotten his stick, he said.

He soon returned with it, but Marjorie did not know that he had purposely left it behind in order to slip a small envelope into her mother's hand. And when Mrs. Douglas opened it, after the carriage had driven away, she found that it contained a check for four thousand pounds.

The honeymoon was not to be a long one. Only a fortnight in Scotland amidst the beauties of the Northern Highlands. Kenneth was anxious to get back to Eagleton, for he had much to arrange there, and Marjorie was eager to see her new home.

She asked many questions about it during their wedding tour.

"Will all be ready when we arrive?"

"Oh yes, the servants are there."

"Servants? Are we able to afford to keep two? Will it not be too extravagant?"

He could not help smiling when she said this, and nearly let his secret out.

"Wait till we get home, Marjorie," he said, "and if you then think it is too many, we can send one away."

At another time she wanted to know how many rooms there were in the house, and what it was like. He told her that he was a bad hand at describing places, so she would have to wait to see it when they got there.

"Is it a large house? "

"Larger than Mrs. Hall's."

"As big as Fernbank? "

"Yes," he said, laughing, "quite as big as Fernbank."

And so the happy fortnight passed away, and the day arrived on which they were to return home.

"First-class tickets again. How extravagant you are, Kenneth!" she said, as they got into the train.

"One isn't married every day, Marjorie, and this is our honeymoon, remember."

Some hours later Kenneth stood up. "We are near North Eaton, Marjorie," he said. "I think it is the next station."

Marjorie looked eagerly out of the window. "What lovely countryside," she said. "I am so glad I am to live in such a pretty place."

"The train is slowing down now, Marjorie."

"Oh, Kenneth, there is such a beautiful carriage waiting at the station, with a pair of lovely cream-colored horses."

"Very likely. There are several large estates in the neighbourhood."

A footman was standing on the platform, and came to the carriage door touching his hat.

Kenneth got out and spoke to him, and walked with him a little way down the platform. Then he came back to where Marjorie was standing.

"Now, Marjorie, we will go to the carriage. Charles will see after the luggage."

"What carriage?"

"The one you saw standing on the road outside."

"Whose is it?"

"Lord Derwentwater's. It is going to drive us home."

"Do you know Lord Derwentwater, Kenneth?"

"Yes, very well."

"How kind of him to send his carriage for us," Marjorie observed.

They got in, and were soon driving rapidly along the road to Eagleton.

"Will we be home soon?" she asked presently.

"Yes, very soon now. It is about two miles, I think."

Marjorie was too excited even to talk now. She was longing to see her new home, of which she knew so little.

"Kenneth," she said, about ten minutes later, "where are we going? We are stopping before a lodge, and they are opening the great gates. They must have made some mistake."

"No mistake at all, dearest. It is quite right."

"But look at this lovely avenue. We seem to be getting near some grand house. Are you sure it is all right, Kenneth?"

"Quite right, darling. Look ahead, and you will see the house more clearly in a minute."

They came out of the shade of the avenue into the bright evening sunshine beyond, and there before them, in all its magnificence, stood Eagleton Castle.

"Marjorie, do you like your home? "

"Kenneth," she said, in a half-frightened whisper, "I can't understand it. What does it all mean?"

"It means, my dear little woman, that I have found out the missing word in the letter, and that you are Lady Derwentwater!"

THE END

### More Books

More Christian books from White Tree Publishing are on the next pages, some of which are available as both eBooks and paperbacks. More books than those shown here are available in non-fiction and fiction, for adults and younger readers. The full list of published and forthcoming books is on our website www.whitetreepublishing.com. Please visit there regularly for updates.

White Tree Publishing publishes mainstream evangelical Christian literature 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, 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 and pass the word on. You can even contact your Christian TV or radio station to let them know about these books. Also, please write a positive review if you are able.

Christian non-fiction

Christian Fiction

Younger Readers

Return to Table of Contents

## 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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9933941-4-0

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

116 pages 5x7.8 inches

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.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-5-7

Paperback ISBN: 9-780-9525-9563-2

160 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### 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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-7-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-5-6

314 pages 6x9 inches

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.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-4-0

Paperback ISBN 13: 9-780-9525-9564-9

222 pages 5.25 x 8 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### Howell Harris

### His Own Story

Foreword by J. Stafford Wright

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).

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-9-5

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 -- thejesusbus@hotmail.co.uk

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.

### Seven Steps to

### Walking in Victory

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-3-5

Also available as a booklet

www.lenandlin.com

How is your Christian life going? Finding it hard and not sure why? Wherever you might be, Seven Steps to Walking in Victory is a very short book to help you see where you are in the Christian life, and help you keep on the right path to the victory that comes through walking closely with Jesus -- to live the Christian life you always wanted to live!

### Seven Keys to

### Unlock Your Calling

Lin Wills

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-2-3

Also available as a booklet

www.lenandlin.com

God has a special plan for each and every one of us -- that includes YOU! He has given all of us unique gifts. Not sure what that might mean for you? Seven Keys to Unlock Your Calling is a very short book that will help you discover how to explore those gifts and encourage you to go deeper into all that God has for you.

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

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-0-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-09927642-0-3

46 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches paperback UK

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### Heaven Our Home

William Branks

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

"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.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9933941-8-8

### 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

### Leaves from

### My Notebook

New Abridged Edition

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

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-2-7

### 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 a historical writer unknowingly and unintentionally confirms the Bible record.

Within these pages you will see just how accurate were the memories of the Gospel writers -- even of the smallest details which on casual reading can seem of little importance, yet clearly point to eyewitness accounts. J.J. Blunt spent many years investigating these coincidences. And here they are, as found in the four Gospels and Acts.

First published in instalments between 1833 and 1847

The edition used here published in 1876

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-5-8

### Fullness of Power

### in Christian Life and Service

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

R. A. Torrey

Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

This is a White Tree Publishing Home and Group Questions for Today Edition. At the end of each chapter are questions for use either in your personal study, or for sharing in a church or home group. Why? Because: "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. R. A. Torrey (1856-1928) was an American evangelist, pastor, educator, and writer whose name is attached to several organisations, and whose work is still well known today.

"The Bible statement of the way is not mystical or 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. There are many who do not even know that there is a life of abiding rest, joy, satisfaction, and power; and many others who, while they think there must be something beyond the life they know, are in ignorance as to how to obtain it. This book is also written to help them." (Torrey's Introduction.)

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9935005-8-9

Ebenezer and Ninety-Eight Friends

Musings on Life, Scripture

and the Hymns

by

Marty Magee

Samuel, Mephibosheth, and a woman on death row -- people telling of our Savior's love. A chicken, a dinosaur, and a tarantula -- just a few props to show how we can serve God and our neighbors. Peanut butter, pinto beans and grandmother's chow-chow -- merely tools to help share the Bread of Life. These are just a few of the characters in Ebenezer and Ninety-Eight Friends.

It is Marty's desire to bring the hymns out of their sometimes formal, Sunday best stuffy setting and into our Monday through Friday lives. At the same time, she presents a light object lesson and appropriate Scripture passage. This is done with the format of a devotion book, yet it has a light tone and style. From Ebenezer to Willie, Marty's characters can scarcely be contained within the pages of this whimsical yet insightful volume.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-1-1

Also in paperback

from Rickety Bridge Publishing

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

ALSO BY MARTY MAGEE

### Twenty-five Days Around the Manger

# A Light Family Advent Devotional

Marty Magee

Will a purple bedroom help Marty's misgivings about Christmas?

As a kid, Martha Evans didn't like Christmas. Sixty years later, she still gets a little uneasy when this holiday on steroids rolls around. But she knows, when all the tinsel is pulled away, Whose Day it is. Now Marty Magee, she is blessed with five grandchildren who help her not take herself too seriously.

Do you know the angel named Herald? Will young Marty survive the embarrassment of her Charley Brown Christmas tree? And by the way, where's the line to see Jesus?

Twenty-Five Days Around the Manger goes from Marty's mother as a little girl awaiting her brother's arrival, to O Holy Night when our souls finally were able to feel their full worth.

This and much more. Join Marty around the manger this Advent season.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-1-0

Also in full colour paperback

from Rickety Bridge Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-4923248-0-5

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

The Gospels and Acts

In Simple Paraphrase

with Helpful Explanations

together with

Running Through the Bible

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing presents a paraphrase in today's English of passages from the four Gospels -- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John -- relating Jesus' birth, life, death and resurrection in one continuous narrative with helpful explanations, plus a paraphrase of events from the book of Acts. Also in this book is a 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 some extra knowledge and understanding as they read it. Please note that this is not a translation of the Bible. It is a careful and sensitive paraphrase of parts of the New Testament, and is not intended to be quoted as Scripture. Part 2 is a short introduction to the whole Bible -- Running Through the Bible \-- which is available from White Tree Publishing as a separate eBook and paperback.

Translators and others involved in foreign mission work, please note: If you believe that this copyright book, or part of this book, would be useful if translated into another language, please contact White Tree Publishing (wtpbristol@gmail.com). Permission will be free, and assistance in formatting and publishing your new translation as an eBook and/or a paperback may be available, also without charge.

Superb! I have never read anything like it. It is colloquially worded in a succinct, clear style with a brilliant (and very helpful) running commentary interspersed. I have found it a compelling read -- and indeed spiritually engaging and moving. Canon Derek Osborne, Norfolk, England.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9935005-9-6

### Faith that Prevails

The Early Pentecostal Movement

Home and Group Questions for Today Edition

Smith Wigglesworth

Study Questions by Chuck Antone, Jr.

This is a White Tree Publishing Home and Group Questions for Today Edition. At the end of each of the seven chapters are questions by Chuck Antone, Jr. for use either in your personal study, or for sharing in a church or home group. Why? Because _Smith Wigglesworth, often referred to as the Apostle of Faith, putting the emphasis on the work of the Holy Spirit, writes, "_ God is making people hungry and thirsty after His best. And everywhere He is filling the hungry and giving them that which the disciples received at the very beginning. Are you hungry? If you are, God promises that you shall be filled."

_Smith Wigglesworth was one of the pioneers of the early Pentecostal revival. Born in 1859 he gave himself to Jesus at the age of eight and immediately led his mother to the Lord._ His ministry took him to Europe, the US, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, the Pacific Islands, India and what was then Ceylon. _Smith Wigglesworth's faith was unquestioning._

_In this book, he says, "_ There is nothing impossible with God. All the impossibility is with us, when we measure God by the limitations of our unbelief."

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-4-1

### The Authority and

### Interpretation

### of the Bible

J Stafford Wright

When we start to think about God, we soon come to a point where we say, "I can discover nothing more about God by myself. I must see whether He has revealed anything about Himself, about His character, and about the way to find Him and to please Him." From the beginning, the Christian church has believed that certain writings were the Word of God in a unique sense. Before the New Testament was compiled, Christians accepted the Old Testament as their sacred Book. Here they were following the example of Christ Himself. During His ministry Jesus Christ made great use of the Old Testament, and after His resurrection He spent some time in teaching His disciples that every section of the Old Testament had teachings in it concerning Himself. Any discussion of the inspiration of the Bible gives place sooner or later to a discussion of its interpretation. To say that the Bible is true, or infallible, is not sufficient: for it is one thing to have an infallible Book, and quite another to use it. J Stafford Wright was a greatly respected evangelical theologian and author, and former Principal of Tyndale Hall Theological College, Bristol.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-9-6

### Psalms,

### A Guide Psalm By Psalm

J Stafford Wright

The Bible Psalms. Do you see them as a source of comfort? A help in daily living? A challenge? Or perhaps something to study in depth? Psalms, a Guide Psalm by Psalm will meet all these requirements, and more. It is an individual study guide that can be used for daily reading in conjunction with your own Bible. It is also a resource for group study, with brief questions for study and discussion. And it's a Bible commentary, dealing with the text of each Psalm section by section.

eBook only

eBook ISBN 978-0-9957594-2-8

### The Christian's Secret

### of a Happy Life

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Christian and happy? Do these two words fit comfortably together? Is our Christian life a burden or a pleasure? Is our quiet time with the Lord a duty or a delight? The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life was first written by Hannah Whitall Smith as monthly instalments for an American magazine. Hannah was brought up as a Quaker, and became the feisty wife of a preacher. By the time she wrote The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life she had already lost three children. Her life was not easy, with her husband being involved in a sexual scandal and eventually losing his faith. So, Christian and happy? An alternative title for this book could have been The Christian's Secret of a Trusting Life.

How often, Hannah asks, do we bring our burdens to the Lord, as He told us to, only to take them home with us again? There are some wonderful and challenging chapters in this book, which Hannah revised throughout her life, as she came to see that the truth is in the Bible, not in our feelings. Fact, faith and feelings come in that order. As Hannah points out several times, feelings come last. The teaching in this book is firmly Scripture based, as Hannah insists that there is more to the Christian life than simply passing through the gate of salvation. There is a journey ahead for us, where every step we take should be consecrated to bring us closer and closer to God, day by day, and year by year.

eBook only

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-6-6

### Every-Day Religion

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

How are we to live out our Christian lives every day? This book isn't about everyday (ordinary) religion, but about a living faith that changes our lives day by day. Hannah Whitall Smith had to live her life based on her trust in Scripture and the promises of God. In 1875, after the loss of three children, and her husband suffering a mental breakdown after being accused of infidelity, she was able to write The Christian's Secret of a Happy Life, in which she showed that it is possible to find peace with the Lord, no matter what life throws at us, through trusting in His promises.

In 1894, after the death of yet another child, with her three surviving children professing atheism, and her husband losing his faith, Hannah's trust in the Lord Jesus is still so strong that she is able to write in her introduction to her Scripture-based Every-Day Religion, that the purpose of the book is, "To bring out, as far as possible, the common-sense teaching of the Bible in regard to every-day religion. ... How to have inward peace in the midst of outward turmoil."

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-0-9

### Haslam's Journey

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

Previously published 2005 by Highland Books

If you only intend to read just one Christian book, this should be the one! You may have heard of the clergyman who was converted while preaching his own sermon. Well, William Haslam is that man. It happened in Cornwall one Sunday in 1851, and revival immediately broke out. Later, another of William Haslam's "famous" sermons will cause a mass walkout of assembled clergy in St Paul's Cathedral! Once he starts to preach the Gospel with zeal, you can rejoice over powerful conversions in nearly every chapter.

Haslam's Journey consists of selected passages from William Haslam's two autobiographies: From Death Into Life (published 1880, his Cornish ministry) and Yet Not I (published 1882, set mostly in Bath, Norfolk and London), abridged and lightly modernised. Just under half of the originals is included. With copious notes and appendices by Chris Wright, editor of Haslam's Leaves also from White Tree Publishing. William Haslam writes with humour and great insight.

William Haslam writes about his early life: "I did not see then, as I have since, that turning over a new leaf to cover the past is not by any means the same thing as turning back the old leaves and getting them washed in the blood of the Lamb. I thought my acceptance with God depended upon my works. This made me very diligent in prayer, fasting and alms deeds. I often sat and dreamed about the works of mercy and devotion I would do."

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

### My Life and Work

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Rodney "Gipsy" Smith was born in a gipsy tent in Epping Forest, England. He was the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his wife Mary. Growing up, he had to help support the family by making and selling items like clothes pegs around the area. He only had a few weeks at school one winter, and was unable to read or write. One day his father Cornelius came home to say that he had been converted, and was now a Christian. Cornelius helped bring his son to the Lord, and from that moment, Rodney wanted to share the way of salvation with others.

Now followed a difficult time, because he knew that in order to preach to others, he had to be able to read the Bible, both for himself and aloud to others. He writes, "I began to practise preaching. One Sunday I entered a turnip field and preached most eloquently to the turnips. I had a very large and most attentive congregation. Not one of them made an attempt to move away." When he started preaching to people, and came across a long word in the Bible he was unable to read, he says he stopped at the long word and spoke on what had gone before, and started reading again at the word after the long one!

Gipsy Smith quickly learnt to read fluently and was soon into fulltime evangelism, where he soon became known as Gipsy Smith, a name he accepted gladly. He joined the Salvation Army for a time, until being told to resign. Instead of this being a setback, he now took up a much wider sphere of work in England, before travelling to America and Australia where he became a much-loved preacher. In spite of meeting two American presidents at the White House, and other important figures in society, Gipsy Smith never forgot his roots. He never pretended to be anything other than a Gipsy boy, and was always pleased to come across other Gipsy families in his travels. Like Billy Bray and others uneducated writers, Gipsy Smith tells the story of his life in a simple and compelling way. This is the account written by a man who gave himself fully to the Lord, and was used to help lead thousands to Jesus Christ as their Saviour.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-4-7

eBook Coming January 2018

### Living in the Sunshine:

The God of All Comfort

Hannah Whitall Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

Hannah Smith, who suffered so much in her personal life, has an amazing Bible-based grasp of God's love for each of us. She writes in this book: "Why, I ask myself, should the children of God lead such utterly uncomfortable Christian lives when He has led us to believe that His yoke would be easy and His burden light? Why are we tormented with so many spiritual doubts, and such heavy spiritual anxieties? Why do we find it so hard to be sure that God really loves us?

"But here, perhaps, you will meet me with the words, 'Oh, no, I do not blame the Lord, but I am so weak and so foolish, and so ignorant that I am not worthy of His care.' But do you not know that sheep are always weak, and helpless, and silly; and that the very reason they are compelled to have a shepherd to care for them is just because they are so unable to take care of themselves? Their welfare and their safety, therefore, do not in the least depend upon their own strength, nor upon their own wisdom, nor upon anything in themselves, but wholly and entirely upon the care of their shepherd. And if you are a sheep, your welfare also must depend altogether upon your Shepherd, and not at all upon yourself!"

Note: This is Hannah Smith's final book. It was first published as Living in the Sunshine, and later republished as The God of All Comfort, the title of the third chapter. The edition used here is the British edition of Living in the Sunshine, dated 1906.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-3-0

eBook Coming early 2018

### Evangelistic Talks

Gipsy Smith

White Tree Publishing Edition

This book is a selection of 19 talks given by Gipsy Smith which will provide inspirational reading, and also be a source of help for those who speak. There are also 20 "two-minute sermonnettes" as the last chapter! Rodney "Gipsy" Smith was born in a gipsy tent in Epping Forest, England. He was the son of gipsies, Cornelius Smith and his wife Mary. Growing up, he had to help support the family by making and selling items like clothes pegs around the area. He only had a few weeks at school one winter, and was unable to read or write. One day his father Cornelius came home to say that he had been converted, and was now a Christian. Cornelius helped bring his son to the Lord, and from that moment, Rodney wanted to share the way of salvation with others.

He quickly learnt to read fluently and was soon into fulltime evangelism, where he became known as Gipsy Smith, a name he accepted gladly. He preached throughout England, before travelling to America and Australia. Wherever he went he was a much-loved and powerful preacher, bringing thousands to the Lord.

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-7-8

eBook Coming early 2018

### I Can't Help Praising the Lord

The Life of Billy Bray

FW Bourne and

Chris Wright

White Tree Publishing Edition

This challenging and often amusing book on the life of Billy Bray (1794-1868) has a very strong message for Christians today. Billy, a Cornish tin miner, believed and accepted the promises in the Bible, and lived a life that was Spirit filled.

FW Bourne, the writer of the original book, The King's Son, knew Billy Bray as a friend. In it he has used Billy's own writing, the accounts of others who had met Billy, and his own memories.

Chris Wright has revised and edited FW Bourne's book to produce this new edition, adding sections directly from Billy Bray's own Journal, keeping Billy's rough and ready grammar and wording, which surely helps us picture the man.

eBook

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-4-7

Paperback ISBN: 9785-203447-7-5

5x8 inches 80 pages

Available from major internet stores

Also on sale in Billy Bray's Chapel

Kerley Downs, Cornwall

Christian Fiction

### The Lost Clue

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

With modern line drawings

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-2-6

### Doctor Forester

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Romantic Mystery

with modern line drawings

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-0-2

### Was I Right?

Mrs. O. F. Walton

Abridged Edition

A Victorian Romance

With modern line drawings

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-1-9

### 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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-9-6

Also available in paperback 254 pages 5.5 x 8.5 inches

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-19350791-8-7

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.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9932760-3-3

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9927642-4-1

206 pages 5.25 x 8.0 inches

Available from bookstores and major internet sellers

### When it Was Dark

Guy Thorne

Abridged Edition

What would happen to the Christian faith if it could be proved beyond all doubt that Jesus did not rise from the dead? This is the situation when, at the end of the nineteenth century, eminent archaeologists working outside Jerusalem discover a tomb belonging to Joseph of Arimathea, with an inscription claiming that he took the body of Jesus from the first tomb and hid it. And there are even remains of a body. So no resurrection!

As churches quickly empty, some Christians cling to hope, saying that Jesus lives within them, so He must be the Son of God who rose from the dead. Others are relieved that they no longer have to believe and go to church. Society starts to break down.

With the backing of a wealthy industrialist, a young curate puts together a small team to investigate the involvement of a powerful atheist in the discovery. This is an abridged edition of a novel first published in 1903.

Guy Thorne was the English author of many thrillers in the early twentieth century, and this book was not intended specifically for the Christian market. It contains adult references in places, but no swearing or offensive language. Although it was written from a high church Anglican viewpoint, the author is positive about the various branches of the Christian faith, finding strengths and weaknesses in individual church and chapel members as their beliefs are threatened by the discovery in Jerusalem. White Tree Publishing believes this book will be a great and positive challenge to Christians today as we examine the reality of our faith.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

Published jointly with North View Publishing

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-0-3

### 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

### Gildas Haven

Margaret S. Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

For several years in the peaceful English village of Meadthorpe, the church and chapel have existed in an uneasy peace while the rector and the chapel minister are distracted by poor health. Now a young curate arrives at St Simeon's, bringing high church ritual and ways of worship. Gildas Haven, the daughter of the chapel minister is furious to discover the curate is enticing her Sunday school children away. 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

### Amaranth's Garden

Margaret S. Haycraft

Abridged edition

"It seems, Miss, your father 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. Caring for 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

### Rose Capel's Sacrifice

Margaret Haycraft

White Tree Publishing Edition

Rose and Maurice Capel find themselves living in poverty through no fault of their own, and their daughter Gwen is dangerously ill and in need of a doctor and medicine, which they cannot possibly afford. There seems to be only one option -- to offer their daughter to Maurice Capel's unmarried sister, Dorothy, living in the beautiful Welsh countryside, and be left with nothing more than memories of Gwen. Dorothy has inherited her father's fortune and cut herself off from the family. Although Gwen would be well cared for, if she got better and Rose and Maurice's finances improved, would they be able to ask for Gwen to be returned? Another story from popular Victorian writer Margaret S. Haycraft.

White Tree Publishing Abridged Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9954549-3-4

### Una's Marriage

### Margaret Haycraft

Una Latreille inherits the St Pensart's estate which has been in the family since the Norman Conquest. Unfortunately the estate is now bankrupt, and although still in mourning, Una's only hope of living in the style to which she has been accustomed is to marry a wealthy man, and quickly. Several suitors have disappeared after learning of the debts, and the one man who still expresses any interest in Una is Keith Broughton. Keith started work as a mill hand, and is now the young and wealthy owner of a large woollen mill. But how can she possibly marry so far beneath her class? Reluctantly, Una agrees to marriage on condition that there is no physical contact between them, and certainly no honeymoon! She also insists that she will never, ever suffer the indignity of meeting anyone in his family, or put one foot inside the door of his mill. This book was first published in 1898 by SW Partridge and Co, publishers of both Christian and secular books. Although there is no openly Christian message in this story, unlike the majority of Margaret Haycraft's books, it deals sensitively with the true nature of love -- as well as being an extremely readable story.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-5-9

### Miss Elizabeth's Niece

### Margaret Haycraft

"You have scandalised your name and ours, and the only thing to do is to make the best of it, and teach Maisie at least the first principles of ladylike conduct." Trevor Stratheyre, from a wealthy and aristocratic English family, impulsively marries Maisie, a servant girl he meets while touring the Continent. Maisie's mother had died at an Italian inn, leaving three-year-old Maisie to be brought up by the landlord and his wife, where she helps as a maid at the inn and cares for the animals. Maisie is charming and affectionate, but when Trevor brings her back to Stratheyre in England as his bride, to the large estate he is expecting to inherit, it is clear that Maisie's ways are not those of the upper classes. When she tells titled guests at dinner that she was once herding some cows home and one was struck by lightning, trouble is bound to follow.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-7-3

eBook Coming November 2017

### Keena Karmody

Eliza Kerr

Keena Karmody finishes school in London and invites her young French teacher, Marie Delorme, to stay with her on her grandfather's estate at Céim-an-eich in Ireland as her tutor, to complete her education. One day Keena will inherit the large house and the family money. As time goes on, Marie Delorme's stay becomes permanent as she makes secret plans to take possession of the estate. When Keena's grandfather dies, Keena finds that he has made a very different will than the one everyone expected, and Marie is now mistress of the house. What is the shameful family secret that no one has ever discussed with Keena? Her only hope of getting her life back together lies in discovering this secret, and the answer could be with her father's grave in Tuscany. Homeless and penniless Keena Karmody sets out for Italy.

"When she had sought out and found that grave in the distant Tuscan village, and learned the story of her father's life and death, perhaps then death would come, and she might be laid there at his side in peace, and Marie would dwell in Céim-an-eich."

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-5-4

eBook coming December 2017

### The Clever Miss Jancy

### Margaret S. Haycraft

Miss Orabel Jancy is indeed clever, and she knows it. The oldest of widowed Squire Jancy's six children, all living at home, Orabel is the author of several scientific books, and has many letters after her name. To Orabel, education and intellectual pursuits are everything that matter in life. She is secretary of a women's intellectual club that teaches that women are superior to men, and the members have all agreed to remain single because men would hold them back in their academic goals. However, when Orabel was born, a deathbed promise was made with a friend that Orabel and the friend's son, Harold Kingdon, should be given the opportunity to marry. Nobody thinks to mention this to Orabel, and she only learns of the arrangement when she is grown up and Harold Kingdon is already on his way from India -- to propose to her! Even before Harold arrives, Orabel decides she cannot possibly marry a lowly military doctor, when she is so intelligent. As soon as they meet, the feeling of dislike is mutual. But Orabel's younger sister, Annis, who never did well in academic subjects, is also of marriageable age, and would dearly love to settle down with the right man. Their younger brother and small sisters view the developing situation with interest.

The Squire had never found courage to broach the fact of the offer to Orabel, who looks as though her blue eyes would wither the sheet of foreign notepaper in front of her.

"You know, Orabel," puts in Annis, "we did hear something long ago about papa and mamma promising somebody or other out in India should have a chance to court you."

"Oh, do say 'yes,' Orabel," pleads a chorus of little sisters. "It will be so lovely to have a wedding, and Phil can be a page and wear a fancy dress."

"Can he?" growls Philip. "I'd like to catch myself in lace and velvet like those kids at the Hemmings' last week. Orabel, I think you ought to send him your portrait. Let him know, at least, what he's wooing."

With these words Philip beats a prudent retreat, and Orabel gives utterance to such tones that Annis, trembling at her side, is almost in tears.

"Has it come to this," Orabel asks, "that I, the secretary of the Mount Athene Club, should be affronted, insulted by a letter like this? Am I not Orabel Jancy? Am I not the pioneer of a new and emancipating system? And who is this Harold Kingdon that he dares to cross my path with his jests concerning infantile betrothal?"

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-9-7

eBook coming January 2018

### A Daughter of the King

Mrs Philip Barnes

There are the usual misunderstandings in the small village of Royden, but one year they combine to cause serious friction. An elderly lady, the embodiment of kindness, is turned out of her favourite pew by the new vicar. Young and old residents start to view each other with suspicion when a banished husband returns, allegedly to harm his wife and children as he did once before. Both Mary Grey and Elsa Knott want to marry young Gordon Pyne, who lives in the White House, but Gordon is suddenly accused of his father's murder. This is a very readable romance from 1909, with many twists and turns. It has been lightly abridged and edited. A story in the style of those by White Tree Publishing's most popular author, Margaret S. Haycraft.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-0-9957594-8-0

eBook coming January 2018

### Hazel Haldene

Eliza Kerr

Two grownup sisters live under their older brother's thumb. He is obsessed with perfect Christian doctrine and farming, and cannot see why his sisters should want any company but his own. Marie is fond of a local artist, but her brother will not allow such a marriage. Marie's only hope of freedom is to run away and marry in secret. When she returns to the family home eight years later with a child, surely she will be welcome by a brother who professes religion. This story by Eliza Kerr again takes the theme of rejection, but her stories are all very different as well as involving.

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-8-5

eBook Coming February 2018

### Rollica Reed

Eliza Kerr

When Rollica Reed is left an orphan at the age of sixteen, a friend of her father's takes her in, much to the dismay of his wife and two older daughters who consider themselves to be the cream of Victorian society. The wife and daughters resent Rollica as an intruder, and try to make her life wretched, humiliating her in front of friends and telling her she is too common to be a lady. The two unmarried daughters are concerned by Rollica's naturally good looks, and want to cut her off from meeting any of their friends. Rollica soon learns she must not show any sign of weakness if she is to survive. But can she ever forgive?

White Tree Publishing Edition

eBook only

ISBN: 978-1-9997899-6-1

## Books for Younger Readers

(and older readers too!)

### The Merlin Adventure

Chris Wright

The day Daniel Talbot brought home a stuffed duck in a glass case, everyone thought he'd gone out of his mind. Even he had his doubts at times. "Fancy spending your money on that," his mother scolded him. "You needn't think it's coming into this house, because it isn't!"

When Daniel, Emma, Charlie and Julia, the Four Merlins, set out to sail their model paddle steamer on the old canal, strange and dangerous things start to happen. Then Daniel and Julia make a discovery they want to share with the others.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-2-7

Paperback ISBN: 9785-203447-7-5

5x8 inches 182 pages

Available from major internet stores

The Hijack Adventure

Chris Wright

Anna's mother has opened a transport café, but why do the truck drivers avoid stopping there? An accident in the road outside brings Anna a new friend, Matthew. When they get trapped in a broken down truck with Matthew's dog, Chip, their adventure begins.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-6-5

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-0-5

5x8 inches 140 pages

Available from major internet stores

The Seventeen Steps Adventure

Chris Wright

When Ryan's American cousin, Natalie, comes to stay with him in England, a film from their Gran's old camera holds some surprise photographs, and they discover there's more to photography than taking selfies! But where are the Seventeen Steps, and has a robbery been planned to take place there?

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-7-2

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-6-7

5x8 inches 132 pages

Available from major internet stores

### The Two Jays Adventure

The First Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are on holiday in the West Country in England where they set out to make some exciting discoveries. Have they found the true site of an ancient holy well? Is the water in it dangerous? Why does an angry man with a bicycle tell them to keep away from the deserted stone quarry?

A serious accident on the hillside has unexpected consequences, and an old Latin document may contain a secret that's connected to the two strange stone heads in the village church -- if James and Jessica can solve the puzzle. An adventure awaits! This is the first Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9954549-8-9

Available now in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5203448-8-1

5x8 inches 196 pages

Available from major internet stores

### The Dark Tunnel Adventure

The Second Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are on holiday in the Derbyshire Peak District in England, staying near Dakedale Manor, which has been completely destroyed in a fire. Did young Sam Stirling burn his family home down? Miss Parkin, the housekeeper, says he did, and she can prove it. Sam says he didn't, and he can't prove it. But Sam has gone missing. James and Jessica believe the truth lies behind one of the old iron doors inside the disused railway tunnel. This is the second Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-0-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5206386-3-8

188 pages 5x8 inches

Available from major internet stores

### The Cliff Edge Adventure

The Third Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

James and Jessica's Aunt Judy lives in a lonely guest house perched on top of a crumbling cliff on the west coast of Wales. She is moving out with her dog for her own safety, because she has been warned that the waves from the next big storm could bring down a large part of the cliff -- and her house with it. Cousins James and Jessica, the Two Jays, are helping her sort through her possessions, and they find an old papyrus page they think could be from an ancient copy of one of the Gospels. Two people are extremely interested in having it, but can either of them be trusted? James and Jessica are alone in the house. It's dark, the electricity is off, and the worst storm in living memory is already battering the coast. Is there someone downstairs? This is the third Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-4-2

Paperback ISBN: 9781-5-211370-3-1

188 pages 5x8 inches

Coming December 2017

### The Midnight Farm Adventure

The Fourth Two Jays Story

Chris Wright

What is hidden in the old spoil tip by the disused Midnight Mine? Two men have permission to dig there, but they don't want anyone watching -- especially not Jessica and James, the Two Jays. And where is Granfer Joe's old tin box, full of what he called his treasure? The Easter holiday at Midnight Farm in Cornwall isn't as peaceful as James's parents planned. An early morning bike ride nearly ends in disaster, and with the so-called Hound of the Baskervilles running loose, things turn out to be decidedly dangerous. This is the fourth Two Jays adventure story. You can read them in any order, although each one goes forward slightly in time.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-9997899-1-6

Also available in paperback

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-5497148-3-2

200 pages 5x8 inches

### 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!

eBook ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-9933941-5-7

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9525956-2-5

5.5 x 8.5 inches

156 pages of story, photographs, line drawings and puzzles

### 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.

eBook ISBN 13: 978-0-9933941-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-6-3

5.5 x 8.5 inches 174 pages

Available from major internet stores

### 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.

eBook 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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9932760-6-4

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-9-4

5.5 x 8.5 inches 216 pages

Available from major internet stores

### 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!

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9927642-7-2

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9525956-8-7

5.5 x 8.5 inches 148 pages

Available from major internet stores

Don't forget to check our website www.whitetreepublishing.com for the latest books, and updates on availability

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