FEBRUARY.] "Don't talk about going, father," he would reply, anxious to put off serious thought. "But my health is breaking, and I am old. I shall soon die, George, and I have nothing to leave younot a farthing. Oh, I'll take care of myself, father." "But how? Have you any plans ?" "Not I; something will turn up.' "I am afraid nothing will for you." Why for me, in particular?" "You have no habits of application." "I I have not; at least, father, I have suppose never given you cause to think differently, I allow that. But if I were like other fellows, and had power to choose my own course, I would choose it and follow it up, too." "And what would it be?" "I want to be a soldier. You need not speak, father; I know, without your telling, that I might as well try for the post of Man in the Moon,' as think of getting a commission, and I don't think of it." "With your commission and outfit, it will take, at least, five hundred pounds to start you.' "That, at least. Well, father, I am tired of staying in the house this fine, bright day. I am off to the village." "Do not be late to-night in returning home, George." These would always be the last words on George's leaving home, and George would always promise with a ready, "Oh no, sir;" but, alas! the promise was seldom kept. II. Mr. Lisle lay ill of his last illness-a natural, slow His mind was perfectly sinking of the whole man. clear to the last, and perfectly calm and happy, except on one subject—the after-fate of his children. Many a poor, wretchedly-paid, over-worked clergyman must be troubled in his last hours with similar reflections to those of Mr. Lisle. The simplicity and thankfulness with which he spoke of his past life and its mercies were touching. He had not been able to save any money, as may be supposed; and except an insurance effected some years before on his life for five hundred pounds, he had nothing to leave him. "This five hundred pounds must be yours only, my dear Clara. Your brother must strive to maintain himself. The interest of this money will suffice to clothe you, and supply many little needs. You know aunt wishes to receive you, do you not?" your he said, shortly before he died. "Aunt Bradford ?" that Yes, my dear. Her kindness in making the offer took me by surprise. She knows that you will have enough for dress and pocket-money; but for that she could not have taken you, she said. You know she has many children and little means.' "Dear papa, it grieves me terribly to hear you speak of dying. You will not die; you will get strong again, I trust and pray.' "Never, my child, never! But we will not speak of that now; your brother-your poor brother's future that is the subject which presses on me in my dying moments, and deprives me of rest. I have no hope for him, Clara; he will, I fear, turn out a depraved, bad man.' "He must go into the army." "Ah, if he could! All his wishes lie there." "Tell me, my child, I am weak; tell me how you mean. "He must have the five hundred pounds, papa." "I know she could not receive me; I should not wish it. But I can take care of myself; I can go out as a governess. I can teach-you know you have taught me so carefully-and I am fond of children." "A hard, hard life you would choose, my child. No, Clara, it must not be." "Dear papa, it would be the greatest comfort I could have. George would do so well; and then, when he is a fine brave colonel, he could come home and take care of me. Besides, Aunt Bradford is poor; and even though she were rich, I had rather earn my own bread." She spoke with deep and earnest feeling, and in a voice often scarcely audible for weeping. Her father never took his gaze from her face, and slowly, but surely, her earnestly-pleading looks affected him. He slumber. When he woke he called her to him. did not answer her at the time, but sunk into a quiet "Clara, I have thought of your words, and you you nothing but my best blessing." 'No, George; you would soon grow weary. know your kind heart, but that sort of life would not suit you; and, besides, I have a little pride; I want to to have an officer for my brother." "You are a silly little thing." "I cannot help that." "It wouldn't take five hundred pounds for my commission; as for my outfit, any army agent would advance me money. I am sure I could leave at least fifty pounds with you." 64 No, George; do nothing of the kind, You would be charged extravagant interest most likely, and it is useless for you to imagine you could save anything out of an ensign's pay. You must keep the money; our dear father left it entirely for your own needs now, and if ever you are rich you can help me." Thus Clara unselfishly decided. Her brother was at first deeply affected by her kindness, and constantly protested against her self-sacrifice; but in a few days the warmth of his first feelings wore off, and she had nothing left to sustain her in the hard path of duty she had chosen but her desire to do right, and her unselfish love for him. Clara and her brother left the little parsonage-house within ten days after their father's death. They took, for the time being, a lodging in the village, in the house of a good old woman, to whom their father had been very kind. Willingly would old Mrs. Reid have taken them in for nothing, but Clara declared to her that she had enough to meet all her requirements for some time to come. They were scarcely two days settled in their new abode, when Clara received a letter from her Aunt Bradford, to the effect that she was coming to visit them; and the next day she arrived. A quaint, fussy old body was Mrs. Bradford, full of ideas of her own importance,' and very fond of her own will and way. Clara was alone when her aunt was ushered into the little ground-floor parlour. After the first greetings and condolences, Mrs. Bradford remarked, with a business-like change of tone- "And the five hundred pounds, my dear; how did your poor father-my poor brother- how did he arrange about it? He left it all to you, of course ?" "I think he would have done." "Would have done ?" "Yes, but he saw it well to change his mind.” 'Nonsense, my dear! why should he change it ?" "He thought I could do better without money than George." "Your father must have lost his senses!" "No, indeed, aunt; he knew it was my wish. George will do very well if he is given a chance; but ho must be given the chance, poor fellow." "Well, my dear, you must appeal to George's good senge and brotherly feeling, and I should think he will give up his share." "It is not a share; he has all." would not be such a great burden to me. I know, my dear, you would shrink from the thought of being a burden." "I should, indeed; but once for all, dear aunt, I must tell you that I shall have none of the money." "Then I must be plain with you, Clara-I am plain and honest in all my dealings; and I feel bound to tell you that, under the circumstances, I cannot undertake to support you." "I do not expect it. I should be very wrong to expect it. I can work for myself; I mean to be a governess." "You ought to have a little more pride." "I don't think I ever had any pride, aunt," said poor Clara, with a heavy sigh. "More shame for you, then; a young woman is nothing without proper pride. If you are not proud, you are very self-willed, I am sorry to say. How do you mean to provide yourself with proper mourning, and the many things needful, if you are to appear as a lady, in whatever house you take a situation ?" "I have thought of that it is very painful, but I must do it. I have a few little ornaments, and then there are a few of my dear mother's; they will bring about twenty pounds. "Sell them! Sell your poor mother's ornaments! Was ever anything in this world so heartless? You cannot be in earnest." "There is one thing I can keep, and it comforts me for the rest-this I will never part with." And as she spoke she drew out a black ribbon from her neck to which her mother's wedding-ring was fastened. It would be but painful to prolong an account of the conversation between Mrs. Bradford and Clara. The reader must, by this time, have seen that Mrs. Bradford was a cold-hearted, worldly, calculating woman. We are afraid the reader would add "cruel" to our "All! And the little plate, and the house furniture, list of epithets, if we were to go on and repeat some of and your father's books ?" "Well, your father must have been mad!” "Oh, aunt, it grieves mo so to hear you speak thus! He knew what my wish was, and what poor George's needs were; and he acted for the best for both of us.' "Well, if you think it's for the best, of course, I've no more to say." "I do, indeed! I trust we shall all find it so. George will help me when he can; I can trust his kind heart." Fiddle, faddle!" said Mrs. Bradford, sharply. "It is his time of need just now, aunt. He must be propped up, at any little cost or sacrifice on my part." "Well, you know your own plans so well that it seems I need not take upon me to advise. Perhaps I may just remark, that having four or five girls of my own to provide for, and little enough for them, you can scarcely expect me to find you in clothes or pocketmoney, I should think." "I do not expect it, aunt!" and a bright blush suffused her cheek as she spoke. "Because, if you do, I must disappoint you. But perhaps you will think better of the matter, and use your influence with George. Mr. Bradford says he could get you eight per cent. for that money; and, let me see, five eights are forty. You see, it would be forty pounds a year if you get the whole five hundred, as you certainly ought. You could allow me thirty of that, and then you would have ten for yourself-quite enough for a young girl to dress on. I could often give you a dress of mine that would suit you nicely. Then you would be such a help to me, I know. You could teach the three younger girls, they are very obedient; and in this way you her bitter rebukes to poor Clara; and we do not wish to show up the worst side of human nature more than is needful. IV. George obtained his commission, and went to join his regiment. Clara obtained a situation as governess in the family of Mrs. Brentwood, of Brentwood Hall. A pleasant situation Clara's was. Mrs. Brentwood was a kind-hearted, motherly sort of person, a widow lady Her two little girls (Clara's charges), lively, bright children, were rather a pleasure than a trouble to Clara; then her mind was at peace; also she had constant and cheerful letters from her brother, speaking, of his happiness in his new life; lastly, Brentwood Hall was a fine old English place, and there was much to be daily seen and enjoyed, both in and outside the house, Painting, books, hothouses, fine stately old trees, pleasant shady walks, lovely gardens, all were here in abundance; and, in her own quiet enjoyed all. way, Clara The next gentleman's seat to Brentwood-in fact, the grounds adjoined was Earlsford Chase. Its owner, Frank Earlsford, was the last representative of a very old family-a dashing, handsome, generoustempered young man, and a great favourite with all his dependants, but reported amongst his elders to be somewhat wild; no act of a decidedly bad nature was ever attributed to him, however. Frank Earlsford had neither sister nor brother. His mother, Lady Julia Earlsford, lived with him at the Chase, and he was to her the most affectionate and dutiful of sons. "Frank, my dear boy, you must really settle down, and be a little steady," said his mother, as they sat together in the open bay-window of the library at tea. FEBRUARY.] Steady, mother! You don't want me to sit at home and knit?-crochet, you call it, I believe." "You might read more than you do." "Read! I read all the winter, except when I am Let me enjoy shooting, or hunting, or skating. myself just now after my own sort. I shall come to no harm." "But you might get killed, dear," persisted his mother; "you might, indeed, Frank. Why need you break in those horses yourself?" "The colts, mother?" "Yes; why not leave them to the trainer?" "Oh, it's fun; its something to do," "If you get your leg broken?" "It could be set, I suppose.". "Or a severe bite ?" They are not vicious." "You cannot be sure. I am certain harm will come of it." "Why, mother, they are quite gentle-as gentle as your old greys. Of course, they have a little spirit; but I have always two or three grooms at hand." Well, I it is all right. What were you suppose doing out last night?" "Never mind, mother," said Frank, with a merry laugh, and looking as though he was thinking about some droll sight. "But tell me, Frank." that left little room for any sober remark of Clara's to "Such a splendid place Earlsford is!" cried Rose. Mary. "That is not right," said Clara, smiling. "It is wrong to covet what is not ours; and, besides, few little girls have such a beautiful home as Brentwood." "She is a pretty girl," said Frank Earlsford, as he and his mother turned into the house, having said good-bye to the last of their little visitors on the lawn. Who, Frank ?" "Miss Lisle, mother. No one else is pretty when she is by." "Take care of your heart, my son;" and Lady Julia smiled. "You may be sure she is engaged, mother. One of the children pulled at a black ribbon she wore round her neck, and out came a wedding-ring at the end. She looked at it with such a look as she put it back." "Her mother's ring, no doubt. She is an orphan." If I had a "No; I am sure it is some token. magician's ring this moment, mother, I should see some pale young man working at St. John's, Cambridge, perhaps, for his degree; and, when he is ordained, he will come down here and carry her off.. Perhaps it is some poor fellow down in Scotland, "I could not but laugh, mother. I was thinking of trying to take out a medical diploma in the cheapest the ghost.' แ "What ghost, dear ?" Myself-such a splendid ghost as I made!" "Ah, that was it. You were frightening poor people out of their wits all night, and staying away from home till I grew so miserable. I am sure it was three o'clock in the morning before I heard your foot on the stair. I sat up till one, waiting for you." "You shouldn't grow miserable, mother, and you should never sit up till one. I always fall on my feet, as the saying is. Oh! such fun as I had. I am certain at least twenty people in the village would be ready to swear they had seen a most awful ghost this morning, if they were to be questioned." "And suppose some one had died with fright?" "Nonsense, mother!" "Or lost their senses ?-such things have been." "They would have been very silly. One good look would have shown the joke." "Well, dear boy, I know you never mean any harm; but I wanted to tell you, and was just forgetting-I mean to have a children's party to-morrow. The little Brentwoods have been longing to spend a day here, so I have asked them to come to-morrow, and I will ask a few other children to meet them." "Then I had better not bring any one home to dine ?" had better not. I am scarcely "I think you strong enough, you know, to entertain much company at once." "Will the pretty governess come with them?” "I suppose so. "How pretty she is!" "She is very sweet-looking, Frank; and as good as she is pretty, from what Mrs, Brentwood says.' "She is dreadfully silent, mother." "I suppose she knows her place, and fears to seem to intrude her remarks." "No; I think it is her way. It is a pity." By what circumstances it was brought about I will not undertake to say, but certain it is that, before many days passed, Mary and Rose had another invitation to Earlsford Chase. Clara suggested that Mrs. Brentwood would probably like to go with them. "The little change would be good for you, Mrs. Brentwood," she said. "No, my dear girl; I am not equal to it." "Do you not think they might go with nurse for once ?" "I think you had better take them, dear. If you do not feel inclined to-day, put it off till to-morrow; it will be all the same." So Clara had to go to the Chase after all. There was no party to meet them when they arrived at Earlsford; but a treat particularly delightful to the children had been prepared-they were to have tea in the woods. A very picturesque spot in the woods had been chosen; and when Clara and the children, escorted by Frank, reached it, they saw Lady Julia, book in hand, sitting at a pretty rustic table, on which the tea 'er it. equipage was spread-in the background a little fire, with a kettle suspended in true gipsy fashion The whole scene was very rural and pretty-p. ettier still when the animated faces had gathered round the table. An accident for the moment spoiled the general mirth. A large dog of the bull-dog kind rushed out through the underwood behind the little party so suddenly as to overthrow the table, and for the instant He, however, seemed inclined to attack Frank. defended himself with his cane, and soon drove the animal off. "Follow and shoot that dog," Frank said. "Just go and tell some of the men to look after him. He is back again in the stable-yard most likely by this time. I ordered the brute to be shot before; he is incurably vicious." "Very well, sir;" and the man touched his cap and went. Tea over, the children strayed a little way into the woods to gather flowers. Frank walked towards the stables to see that his order was carried out, and Clara sat talking to Lady Julia Earlsford. "I wish the children would keep within sight," Clara said, after awhile. "I think I had better go after them, and bring them back, Lady Julia." "No need to tire yourself; they are safe," "But the dog!" Ah, yes, the dog. Well, bring them here; there are plenty of flowers here." Clara took the path she had seen the children take, and walked a long way without seeing them; then, feeling sure they could not have gone so far, she retraced her steps a little, and struck into a cross path, which they might easily have taken. But path after path met her at short intervals now, so that she began to grow really confused. She stood, shading her eyes with her hand from the slanting evening sun, and looked and listened intently. Suddenly she heard a loud bark; then a rushing sound through the underwood; and she knew that the savage dog was coming her way. At that moment there was a flash, a sharp crack, and a keen pain, as of a sharp blow, shot through her arm, and she uttered a slight cry, and sank fainting on the grass. The next moment Frank Earlsford was beside her, gazing on his work. He thought she was dead. He did not speak or move, or utter any sound, but stood looking on her, with his face fixed and as white as death. Her eyelids moved, the eyes opened. He saw the sign of life, and threw himself on his knees beside her. "Oh, speak!" he cried; "and tell me I have not killed you." "Where am I?" she asked, faintly. "Safe. I am with you. Have I hurt you? or can it be that it was but the alarm ?" he asked, eagerly. "I am hurt; it is not much," she said. And he saw that a small stream of blood was stealing down her dress. "She is hurt-hurt to death, perhaps; and through me!" he cried, forgetting all caution. 'No, no, it is but a little-only my arm." He helped her into a sitting posture, and she sat propped against the trunk of a mossy tree. There, sure enough, was the wound in the arm, and the arm was powerless, and seemed to be broken. "I think it is broken," she said; "it is such pain to move it." "Broken! and I have done it. What shall I do ?" said poor Frank, his eyes filling with tears. "I would rather have shot myself yes, shot myself dead, than have hurt you." "It is not much; do not grieve so. seem to hurt so much now. handkerchief tightly round it. it stops the bleeding." It does not Will you draw your Yes, so-tighter yet; "But I am making you faint again." "No, I shall not faint-make it tighter yet. not look so distressed, Mr. Earlsford." Do "I do not like to leave you while I go for some help; you might faint again. Can you walk with my help P "Yes-see, I can walk quite well," she said; but they had not gone many yards before Frank felt her head droop on his shoulder. She had fainted again. He lifted and carried her with speed in the direction of the house. About ten minutes after Lady Julia and the children were startled by seeing him appear, in breathless haste, with a very pale face. "Come back, mother-back to the house. Come, mother, for pity's sake!" he cried. "Killed her?" cried Lady Julia, with a face of terror. "No, thank heaven! But she is fainting. She is on the library sofa." When the doctor came he pronounced that the arm was broken. Clara wished to go home in the carriage at once; but the doctor would not hear of it. "She is inclined to feverishness," he whispered to Lady Julia, "and must not be fatigued; she had better stay here." "Of course, doctor; we are going to keep her: and you must sleep here to-night, too." "Now, Lady Julia, give this young lady a quiet room up-stairs; she will be the better for a little quiet sleep. I shall not think of looking after the ball till to-morrow." VII. The broken arm did not turn out to be so trifling a matter as might have been supposed. Clara's recovery was but slow. The doctor declared her to be the most perfect patient he had ever attended. Lady Julia echoed all the doctor's favourable opinions, and found also the sweet patience and affectionate gratitude of the orphan girl wind in no small degree about her own heart. "I do not know what I shall do when you have to leave me, my dear child," she would often say. Frank was a very miserable man during the first days of Clara's illness, and remained so long after any idea of danger had disappeared. Even when she was enough restored to strength to join them in the drawing-room, he could not but bitterly accuse himself at the sight of the pale, wan face so dear to him—yes, dear to him. All the love of which his generous nature was capable had been drawn out to Clara Lisle in the very first moment of their meeting. "Clara Lisle thinks of leaving us to-morrow," came as a most painful announcement from his mother's lips. He thought awhile silently, and then spoke. 'Mother, I desire her most earnestly as my wife." "You are telling me no news, Frank;" and his mother smiled, and touched the head he had bent towards her with her hand, tenderly stroking his hair, as she had done when he was a boy. "You guessed it, mother ?" "I saw it, Frank." "And what do you feel? Let me know all." "She is a lady, Frank, by birth; and you have money enough for both. I am not apt to consider the accidents of position and fortune where the heart is concerned." "But of herself, mother-what of herself?" "She is all that my desire could paint; lovely in mind as in outward face and form, Frank." "She would be happy in having such a noble, generous, loving mother as you," said Frank, pressing his mother's hand to his lips. He left her, and passed through the open window into the garden, taking & straight line towards a certain arbour. His mother, looking after, watched him with a smile till he was hidden from her sight. And she sat by the open window thinking on happy days of her own. So an hour passed. Lady Julia looked up, and saw Clara Lisle coming slowly through the gardens, leaning on Frank's arm, the bright evening sun, falling like & glory on her golden hair, touching her with brightness to the very feet. A moment more and they were near, and she saw their faces-their happy faces, and they told her all. |