.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49787
   :PG.Title: Love's Golden Thread
   :PG.Released: 2015-08-16
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Edith \C. Kenyon
   :DC.Title: Love's Golden Thread
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1905
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD
====================

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   .. _`WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET`:

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      :alt: "WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET." (p. 134)

      "WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET." (p. `134`_)

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      LOVE'S GOLDEN
      THREAD

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      BY

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      EDITH C. KENYON

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      AUTHOR OF
      "A GIRL IN A THOUSAND," "A QUEEN OF NINE DAYS,"
      "SIR CLAUDE MANNERLEY," ETC. ETC.

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      \Mark how there still has run, enwoven from above,
      \Through thy life's darkest woof, the golden thread of love.
      \                                    ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

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      *WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS*

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      London
      \S. \W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
      \8 & \9, PATERNOSTER ROW
      1905

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   CONTENTS.

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CHAP.

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I.  `LOVE AND HOPE`_
II.  `A TERRIBLE WRONG`_
III.  `THE PENCIL NOTE`_
IV.  `A HARD WOMAN`_
V.  `BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS`_
VI.  `DORIS ALONE IN LONDON`_
VII.  `FRIENDS IN NEED`_
VIII.  `NEW WORK FOR DORIS`_
IX.  `ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS`_
X.  `DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER`_
XI.  `AN UNEXPECTED MEETING`_
XII.  `AN ARTIST'S WRATH`_
XIII.  `CONSCIENCE MONEY`_
XIV.  `BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS`_
XV.  `ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS`_
XVI.  `THE GREAT RENUNCIATION`_
XVII.  `IN POVERTY`_
XVIII.  `NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS`_
XIX.  `A POWERFUL TEMPTATION`_
XX.  `THE WELCOME LEGACY`_
XXI.  `BERNARD SEEKS DORIS`_
XXII.  `TOO LATE!  TOO LATE!`_
XXIII.  `ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION`_
XXIV.  `NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER`_
XXV.  `A HAPPY WEDDING`_
XXVI.  `TWO MONTHS LATER`_
XXVII.  `RESTITUTION`_
XXVIII.  `CONCLUSION`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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`WITH A GLAD CRY BERNARD SPRANG TO HIS FEET`_ . . . *Frontispiece*

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`THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT`_

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`SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE`_

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`"GO!  YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE"`_

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`"READ IT," HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER`_

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`DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST.  "YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE
A DEAR SISTER TO ME"`_





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.. _`LOVE AND HOPE`:

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   LOVE'S GOLDEN THREAD.

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CHAPTER I.

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LOVE AND HOPE.

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..

   |  Little sweetheart, stand up strong,
   |    Gird the armour on your knight;
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  There are battles to be fought,
   |    There are victories to be won,
   |  Righteous labours to be wrought,
   |    Valiant races to be run:
   |  Grievous wrongs to be retrieved,
   |    Right and justice to be done:
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  Little sweetheart, stand up strong,
   |    Gird the armour on your knight:
   |  Sing your bravest, sing your song,
   |    Speak your word for truth and right.
   |                            ANNIE L. MUZZEY.

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"You know, Doris, to-morrow I shall be of
age and shall come into my inheritance, the
inheritance which my dear father left me,"
and the speaker sighed lightly, as his thoughts
went back for an instant to the parent whose
loving presence he still missed, although years
had passed since he died.

"Yes, dear, I know," said Doris, lifting
sweet sympathising eyes to his.  "And,
Bernard, it will be a trust from him; he knew
you would use it well; you will feel almost
as if you were a steward for him--for him
and God," she added, almost inaudibly.

He gave her a quick nod of assent.
"Money is a talent," he said, "and of course
I shall do heaps of good with mine.  But you
know, dear, I've not got such a wise young
head as yours.  I shall be sure to make heaps
of blunders, and, in short, do more harm than
good unless you help me."

He looked at her very meaningly.  But
her eyes were fixed on the green grass
of the hill on which they were sitting, and
instead of answering she said, rather
irrelevantly, "You will be a man to-morrow; quite
legally a man.  I'm thinking you'll have to
form your own opinions then, and act upon
your own responsibility."

"Well, yes.  And one day does not make
much difference.  I *am* a man now."  He held
himself up rather proudly; but the next
moment, as "self passed out of sight," he drew
nearer to his companion, looking down into
her sweet flushed face very wistfully.

"To-morrow will make a difference," she
said lightly:

   |  "The little more, and how much it is!
   |  And the little less, and what miles away!"

she quoted.

"I was thinking of those lines, too," said
the youth, "but not in connection with my
coming of age.  Doris, dear, the day after
to-morrow I shall return to Oxford."  He
hesitated.

"Yes, I am sorry you are going."

"Not half so sorry as I am to have to leave
you!" he exclaimed.  "However, it is my last
term at Oxford.  When I return next time
it will be to stay."  He hesitated a little, and
then, summoning his courage, added hastily,
"Doris, couldn't we become engaged?"

The girl looked up, startled, yet with love
and happiness shining in her bright blue eyes.
"Is it your wish?" she asked.  "Is it really
and truly your wish?"

Bernard assured her that it was, and moreover
that he had loved her all his life, even
when as children they played together at
making mud-pies and building castles in the
sand, on the rare and joyous occasions when
their holidays were passed at the seaside.

"You see, dear," he proceeded, after a few
blissful moments, while the autumn sunshine
fell caressingly upon their bright young faces,
"I am rather young and could not speak to you
quite like this if it were not that to-morrow I
shall be fairly well off.  My money--oh, it
seems caddish to speak of money just now!--is
invested in Consols, therefore quite safe,
and it will give me an income of £500 a year.
We shall be able to live on that, Doris."

"Yes."  The girl looked down shyly, her
cheeks becoming pinker, and her blue eyes
shining.  She was only nineteen, and she loved
him very dearly.

"Of course I shall have to assist my mother,"
continued Bernard.  "She has very little money
and will have to live with us when we marry.
You won't mind that, dear; if we keep together
there will be enough for us all."

"Yes, of course."  But for the first time a
shadow stole across the girl's face.  She was
rather afraid of Mrs. Cameron, who was the
somewhat stern widow of a Wesleyan minister.

Bernard Cameron divined her thoughts.
"Mother's sure to like you, Doris," he said.
"She's a bit particular, you know.  But you
are *so good*.  She cannot fail to approve of you.
Ours will be a most suitable match in every
way.  Mother will be very pleased about it."

The shadow passed away from Doris's face,
and she smiled.  Bernard knew his mother
much better than she, therefore he must be
right.  And her last misgiving vanishing,
she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the
present.

Time passed as they sat there on the pretty
hill at Askern, where so many lovers have sat
and walked, plighting their troth and building
castles in the air; and it seemed as if these
two, who were so young and ardent, would
never tire of telling their version of the old,
old story of the love of man for woman and
woman for man.  It was all so new to them
that they would have been both startled and
incredulous if any one had suggested that the
same sort of thing had gone on continuously
ever since Adam first saw Eve in the Garden
of Eden.

However, everything comes to an end, and
the best events always pass the quickest; and
so it happened that, in an incredibly short
time, the sun sank low in the heavens and
finally disappeared, leaving a radiance behind,
which was soon swallowed up in twilight and
the approaching shades of night.  The girl
first became uneasy at the lateness of the hour.

"We must go home," she said.  "Mother
will think I am lost.  Oh, Bernard, I did not
know it was so late."

"Never mind," said he, "we have been so
happy.  This has been the first--the very first
of many happy times, darling."

"But I don't like annoying mother," said
Doris penitently.  "Oh, Bernard, let us hurry
home!"

"All right, darling."

So they went down the hill and across the
fields to the village of Moss, situated between
Askern and Doncaster, where they lived; and
as they walked they talked of the bright and
happy future when they would be together
always, helping and encouraging one another
along the path of human life.

It was so fortunate for them, they considered,
that Bernard Cameron's father had left him
£25,000 safely invested.  Doris's father,
Mr. Anderson, a retired barrister, was one
of Bernard's trustees, the other was a
Mr. Hamilton, a minister, who knew little about
business but had been an intimate friend of
the late Mr. Cameron's.  Mr. Hamilton was
expected at Bernard's home on the day
following, when both trustees would meet to
hand over to the young man the securities of
the money they held in trust for him.
Mrs. Cameron would then cease to receive the
income that had been allowed her for the
maintenance of her son, and it would become
Bernard's duty to supplement her slender
resources in the way which seemed best to her
and to him.  There were people who blamed
the late Mr. Cameron for leaving the bulk of
his property to his son, instead of to his
widow--that happened owing to an estrangement
which had arisen between husband and wife
during the last years of Mr. Cameron's life.

Bernard mourned still for the father of
whom his mother never spoke; but he was
attached to her also, for she was a good
mother to him, and he meant to do his duty as
her son.  It was his intention after taking his
degree to devote himself to tutorial work, as
he was fond of boys.  In fact he intended to
keep a school, and he told Doris this as they
walked home together, adding that he should
realise part of his capital for the purpose of
starting the school.  He talked so convincingly
of the number of boys he would have,
the way in which he would manage them,
the profits which would accrue from the
school-keeping, and the enormous influence for
good which he hoped the scheme would give
him over the young and susceptible minds of
his pupils, that Doris felt convinced that the
enterprise would succeed, and admired his
cleverness, business-like ability, and, above all,
his wish to help others in the best and highest way.

Timidly, yet with a few well chosen words,
she sought to deepen and strengthen his
purpose, assuring him that nothing could be
nobler or more useful than to teach and train
the young, and promising that she would do
everything in her power to assist him.





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.. _`A TERRIBLE WRONG`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   A TERRIBLE WRONG.

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..

   |  All day and all night I can hear the jar
   |    Of the loom of life, and near and far
   |  It thrills with its deep and muffled sound
   |    As the tireless wheels go round and round.

   |  Busily, ceaselessly, goes the loom,
   |    In the light of day and the midnight's gloom.
   |  The wheels are turning, early and late,
   |    And the woof is wound in warp of fate.

   |  Click!  Click!  There's a thread of love wove in:
   |    Click!  Click! another of wrong and sin--
   |  What a checkered thing will this life be
   |    When we see it unrolled in eternity!
   |                                          *Anon.*

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It was late when Bernard Cameron left Doris
at the garden-gate of her home--so late indeed
that the girl hurried up the path to the house
with not a few misgivings.

How angry her mother would be with her
for staying out so late with Bernard!  Doris
was amazed that she had dared to linger with
him so long; but time had sped by on magic
wings, and it so quickly became late that
evening.  Well, she must make the best of it, beg
pardon and promise not to offend in that way
again.  And perhaps when her mother knew
what had been taking place, and that she
and Bernard intended to marry when he had
obtained his degree and was ready to launch
out into his life-work, she would be pleased
and would forgive everything.  For
Mrs. Anderson admired Bernard very much, and
had been heard to say that she almost envied
Mrs. Cameron her son.

"He will be mother's son-in-law in time,"
thought Doris.  "I am sure she will like that."

Doris had reached the hall door now.  It
was locked, and she hesitated about ringing
the bell, being dismayed at the unusual darkness
of the house.  Why, it must be even later
than she had imagined, for the servants appeared
to have fastened up the house and gone to
bed!  The top windows which belonged to
them were the only ones that were lighted.
No one appeared to be sitting up for her, and,
not liking to ring the bell, she went round to
the French windows of the drawing-room, in
the hope that she might be able to open one
of them.  But they were closed and in darkness.
Then, going a little farther, Doris turned
to see if the library window would admit her,
and found, to her satisfaction, that a gleam
of light from behind its curtains revealed the
fact that it was an inch open and that some one
was within.

The girl was about to open wide the window
and enter the room, when her attention was
arrested by hearing her father exclaim, in tones
of agony:

"I am ruined!  I am quite, *quite* ruined!
And what's more I've speculated with Bernard's
money--and it's all gone!  It's all gone!  And
to-morrow they'll all know!  Everything will
come out--and I shall be arrested!"

"Oh, John!  John!  What shall we do!"  It
was her mother's voice, speaking in anguish.

Tremblingly poor Doris drew back, away
from the window, feeling overwhelmed with
horror and consternation.  What had she heard?
Bernard, her lover, ruined by her father!  She
felt quite stunned.

How long she stayed there in the dark, afraid
to enter by the library window lest her appearance
just then should grieve her parents, and
uncertain what to do, she never knew; but
at last she found herself standing under her
own bedroom window.

There was a pear-tree against the wall.  A
boy would have thought nothing of climbing it
and of entering the room through the window;
Doris herself had often done that as a child,
but now she hesitated, feeling so much older
because she had received her first offer that
day from the man whom she loved devotedly,
and because, since then, great shame and pain
had overwhelmed her in learning that it was
against him--of all men in the world!--her
father had sinned.  Therefore she felt it
impossible to climb that tree, as a child, or a
light-hearted girl, might easily have done.  So
she stood beneath it, with bowed head, feeling
stunned with misery and utterly incapable of
effort.

Above her the stars looked down, and the
lights of the village shone, here and there, at
a little distance, while the night wind stirred
the trees and shrubs close by, and gently swept
the hair from off her brow.  Just so had she
often seen and felt the sights and voices of
the night from her bedroom window up above;
but everything was different now.  No longer
a child, she was a girl engaged to marry
Bernard Cameron, whom she had always loved,
and whom her father had plundered of all that
made his life pleasant and that was to make
their marriage possible.

For a moment Doris felt angry with her
parent, but only for a moment: he was too
dear to her, and through her mind surged
memories of his kindness in the past and of his
pride and joy in her, his only child.  It might
have been that in speculating with Bernard's
money he was animated by the thought of still
further enriching the son of his old friend.  At
least Doris was quite certain that her father
had not meant to do him such an injury.

"But oh, father, if only you had not done
this thing," thought the poor girl distractedly,
"how happy we should be!  But now, what
shall we do?  What will poor Bernard do?
And I, oh! what shall I do?"

For a little while she stood crying under the
old pear-tree, and then a prayer ascended to
the throne of Grace from her poor troubled
heart.





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.. _`THE PENCIL NOTE`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   THE PENCIL NOTE.

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..

   |  The winter blast is stern and cold,
   |  Yet summer has its harvest gold.

   |  Sorrow and gloom the soul may meet,
   |  Yet love rings triumph over defeat.

   |  The clouds may darken o'er the sun,
   |  Yet rivers to the ocean run.

   |  Earth brings the bitterness of pain,
   |  Yet worth the crown of peace will gain.

   |  The wind may roar amongst the trees,
   |  Yet great ships sail the stormy seas.
   |                              THOS. S. COLLIER.

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It was impossible for Doris to stay out in the
garden all night, within reach of her comfortable
bedroom, and presently she took courage to
climb the tree and enter by the window.

The little room, with its snow-white bed
and dainty furniture, including well-filled
bookshelves and a pretty writing-table, looked
different from of old; it did not seem to belong
to Doris in the familiar way in which it had
always hitherto belonged to her.  Everything
was changed.  Or perhaps it was she who
was changed and who saw everything with
other eyes than of yore, and, recognising this,
she sobbed, "It will never be the same again--never,
never!  I shall *never* be happy again."

And then, because she was so lonely and
so much in need of help, she knelt down by
her bedside, and poured out her full heart to
Him who comforts those who mourn and who
strengthens the weak and binds up the
broken-hearted.  After which, still sobbing, though
more gently, she undressed and went to bed.

Thoroughly tired out in mind and body
the poor girl slept heavily and dreamlessly for
many hours, so many in fact that she did not
awake until quite late the next morning.

Then, oh, the pain of that awaking, the pain
and the shame!  Would she ever forget it?

The maidservants came into her room one
after another, the young housemaid and cook,
and Susan Gaunt, the faithful old servant who
acted as working-housekeeper; they were all
in consternation, asking question after
question of the poor distracted girl.  Where were
her parents?  Would she tell them what she
knew about them?  When had she seen them
last?  What could have happened to them? and so on.

Doris asked what they meant?  Were not
her father and mother in the house?  What had
happened?  What were they concealing from
her?  "Tell me everything?" she implored in
piteous accents.

The servants, perceiving that she knew
nothing of her parents' disappearance, began
to answer all together, making a confusion of
voices.  Their master and mistress had gone
away: they had vanished in the night.  Their
beds had not been slept in.  No one knew
where they had gone.  And this was the day
upon which Mr. Bernard Cameron was to come
of age.  Mr. Hamilton and the family lawyer
were expected to lunch, and so were
Mrs. Cameron and her son.  What should they (the
servants) do if the master and mistress were
absent?

Doris, half stunned and wholly distracted,
ordered every one to leave the room, and,
turning her face towards the wall, shed a few
bitter tears.  That, then, was what her parents
had done; they had run away and had left their
unhappy daughter behind.  "It's not right!
They have not done the right thing!" Doris said
to herself.  "And they might have offered to
take me with them," was the next thought:
though, upon reflection, she knew that she
could not have borne to leave Bernard in such
a way, and neither would she have consented
to flee from justice with those who had
wronged him, even though they were her own
parents.

It was no use lying there crying, with her
face turned towards the wall, and so she arose,
and, having dressed, began to search for a
letter or message which might have been
left for her.

After a long search, by the accidental
overturning of the mat by her bedroom door, she
discovered a note which had been left under
it and had thus escaped earlier recognition.  It
was from her mother.

Doris locked herself into her room in order
to read the letter, which was blotched and
blurred with the tears that had been shed
over it:

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DARLING CHILD,--

.. vspace:: 1

"I am grieved to tell you that a very
terrible thing has happened.  Your father has
unfortunately lost all Bernard Cameron's
money.  He speculated with it as if it were
his own, in the firm belief, he says, that he
would be able to double the capital.
However, he lost everything, and he is
overwhelmed with grief and remorse, realising now,
when it is too late, that he had no right to
speculate with Bernard's money.  Indeed, a
terrible penalty is attached to such a
mistake--the law deems it a crime--as he has made.
He dare not face Bernard and his mother,
Mr. Hamilton and the lawyer to-morrow, and
his only chance of escaping from a dreadful
punishment is by flight.  Doris darling, my
heart is torn in two; I cannot let him go alone
for *his heart is broken*--and something dreadful
may happen if he is left to himself--so
you will forgive me, darling, but I must go
with him--*I must*.  For twenty years we have
been married, and I cannot leave his side, now
that he is in despair.  Oh, I know it would
be better of him, and more manly and just,
if he would stay and face the consequences of
his sin, but I *cannot* persuade him to do it,
though I have implored him with tears, and
so, if it is wrong to flee, I share the
wrong-doing, and may God forgive us!  Now, my
dear Doris, when we have gone you must tell
Susan that she must give notice to our landlord
that we give up our tenancy of the house;
then she must arrange with an auctioneer to
sell all the furniture; and tell her when that
has been done, after paying the rent and taxes
and the tradesmen's bills, she must put the
remainder of the money in the bank to your
father's account.

"And then, as for yourself, my dear child,
it will be better for you to know nothing of
our whereabouts, or our doings.  You must
go to London to my dear old friend Miss
Earnshaw, and ask her *for my sake* to give
you a home.  I am sure she will do that, for
she is so good and loves me dearly.  She lives
at Earl's Court Square; and you must go to
her at once, travelling by train to King's Cross,
and then taking a hansom there.

"Once before, long years ago, Miss
Earnshaw wanted to adopt you and make you her
heiress, but your father and I could not give
you up.  Tell her we do so now, and consent
that you shall take her name--which was the
sole condition she made--it will, now, be more
honourable than our own.  Farewell, dear, my
heart would break at parting from you thus
were it not that what has happened has broken
it already.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your loving Mother,
        "DOROTHY ANDERSON."

.. vspace:: 2

Doris read the letter over and over again
before she could quite realise all that it meant.
She was nineteen years old, had received a
fairly good education, and now her parents had
forsaken her, leaving her entirely to her own
resources, except for the command that she
should go to London to Mrs. Anderson's old
friend, Miss Earnshaw.

Doris had never been to London, and she
had never stayed with Miss Earnshaw, though
the latter came to be at the hydro at Askern
every year, and never left without visiting them
for a few days.  She was rich and generous,
and Doris knew that she would be willing
to give her a home.

"But oh," said the girl to herself, "it is
hard to have to leave here in this way--never
to return--under a cloud, too, a dreadfully
black cloud!"  And she sighed deeply, for
it was difficult for her to understand how her
father could possibly have speculated with
money that was not his own.  He was a
reserved man, who had never spoken of
business matters to her, and she was a child
yet in knowledge of the world, and did not
comprehend such things as speculating on the
Stock Exchange; but she knew that he had
done wrong--for had not her mother acknowledged
that?--and realised, with the keenest
pain, that Bernard Cameron, her lover, was
ruined by it, absolutely ruined, for he could
not continue his career at Oxford, and the
capital with which he meant to start his school,
afterwards, was all lost, too.  Moreover, they
could not marry, for he was penniless, and she
a beggar, going now to beg for a home in
London.  All thoughts of a marriage between
them must be over.  It was a bright dream
vanished, a castle in the air pulled down and
shattered.

"I suppose we must prepare the luncheon,
Miss Doris?" said Susan, when, at length,
in answer to her persistent knocking at the
door, Doris turned the key to admit her, and
as she spoke the woman cast an inquiring
glance toward the letter in Doris's hand.

"Lunch?  Oh, yes, Susan!  Mr. Hamilton,
Mrs. Cameron, and the others will be
coming--although----"  The poor girl broke down
and wept.

"Don't, Miss Doris!  Don't cry so, dear!"
said Susan, pityingly, wiping her own tears
away as she spoke.  "Master and mistress
may return in time to sit down with their guests."

"No, they won't.  They'll never come
back!" exclaimed Doris, with another burst
of sobs.

"What do they say in the letter?" asked
the old servant.

"It's awful!" replied Doris.  "Just see"--she
passed the letter, with a trembling hand--"see
what mother has written to me.  *You*
may read it, Susan, though no one else shall.
There's a message for you in it about the
house."

Susan adjusted her glasses and began to read
the letter with some difficulty, for tears were in
her eyes, and she had to take off her spectacles
again and again in order to wipe them away.

"Oh, dear!  Oh, dear!" she ejaculated
more than once, as she read the letter.  "That
I should have lived to see this day!  My poor
mistress!  What she must be suffering!"

"And father!" exclaimed Doris.  "Oh,
how miserable he must be!  For it is his fault,
you know, and the knowledge of that must
be so dreadful."

"I cannot understand his doing it," said
Susan, looking deeply pained.  "Such a
high-minded, honourable gentleman as he always
seemed.  Your poor mother! your poor
mother!" she repeated.  "What must she be
feeling."

"It's bad for me, too," said Doris, "to be
deserted, to be left behind like this."

"Aye, dearie, it is," sighed the old servant,
looking at her with great affection.  "But
you must remember, 'When my father and
mother forsake me then the Lord taketh me up.'"

"I don't feel as if He takes *me* up," sobbed
Doris, whose mind was too full of trouble to
receive any comfort just then.  "Father and
mother *might* have kissed me and said
good-bye!  Oh, it was cruel, cruel to steal away
when I was asleep!"  And again she cried
as if her heart would break.

Susan endeavoured to calm her, but for
some time in vain.  At last, however, the old
servant, glancing at the small clock on the
mantelpiece, exclaimed:

"We *must* prepare to meet the visitors
who are coming!  Miss Doris, rouse yourself,
be brave; we have our work to do
now--afterwards we can weep."  Susan brushed
away her own tears as she spoke, and,
drawing herself up, added in her more usual,
matter-of-fact tone, "I should like to have
this letter, or at least the part of it
containing that message to me, so that I
may be able to show it to those who may
question my right to sell the furniture, etc."

"I can't spare the letter," replied Doris, "but
I will tear off the half sheet containing the
message to you."

"Yes, do, dearie, and write your mother's
name after it, and your own, too."

"Very well," said Doris, "I will write my
own name beside mother's--then it will be
seen that I have written hers for her."  She
did so, adding "pro" before writing her
mother's, and then Susan took the half sheet
and went to prepare for the coming guests.

An hour afterwards, as Doris was mechanically
arranging the drawing-room in the way
her mother always liked to have it when visitors
were expected, Bernard Cameron entered
unannounced.

"Doris!" he exclaimed, coming up to her
with outstretched hands.  "My dear Doris,
what has happened?  Crying?  Why, darling,
what is the matter?"

"Oh, Bernard!  Bernard!"  She could not
tell him for her tears; but the touch of his
cool, strong hand was comforting, and she
clung to it for a moment.

He soothed her gently until she was able
to speak and tell him what had happened since
she parted from him the night before, then she
allowed him to read her mother's letter.

It was a great blow to the young man full
of bright anticipations and ambition, in the
full tide of his Oxford career, on the eve of
his engagement of marriage, and on the day
of his coming-of-age, to learn that he was
bereft of his entire fortune and rendered
absolutely penniless by one who had undertaken to
care for him and protect his rights; who was,
moreover, the father of his beloved, with whom
he intended to share all that he possessed.
Small wonder was it that the young man drew
back a little, covering his face with his hands,
and uttering something between a boyish sob
and a manly sigh.

The next minute he would have turned to
Doris again, in order that he might say kind,
reassuring words; for not for a moment was
his love for her affected by her father's
wrong-doing, but they were interrupted, Mr. Hamilton
being announced.

The trustee looked worried.  He came
forward nervously, inquiring if Doris knew
where her father was.  It was evident that he
had already heard from the servants of
Mr. Anderson's absence.

Doris could not speak.  She looked helplessly
at the man, and then at Bernard, rose
as if to leave the room, made a step or two
forward, stumbled over a footstool, and would
have fallen if Bernard had not caught hold
of her.

"All this is too much for you," he said,
in a quick, authoritative manner.  "You must
go and lie down.  Mr. Hamilton, be so good
as to touch the bell.  Thank you.  Doris does
not know where her father is.  That will do,
Doris.  No need to say any more at present.
Susan," he continued, as the door opened,
"help Miss Anderson to her room.  She is ill."

He handed Doris over to the maid with care;
but it seemed to the poor girl that he was only
too anxious to get rid of her, now that he was
aware of the wrong her father had done him.
She was, however, relieved to be able to go
to her own room, and, under the plea of illness,
escape the harassing questions which, otherwise,
the coming guests might oblige her to answer.
In sending her to her room Bernard was really
doing the kindest thing.  It never occurred to
him that she could possibly imagine that he
blamed her, or in any way felt his love for
her diminished by her father's heinous conduct.

It was a pity, and the cause of much unhappiness,
that he had not time to say one kind word
to the poor girl, after the grievous disclosure
she had made to him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A HARD WOMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A HARD WOMAN.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  O for the rarity
   |  Of Christian charity
   |  Under the sun!
   |              LONGFELLOW.

.. vspace:: 2

"I have come to say a bit of my mind, Doris
Anderson!"

The words were hard and uncompromising.
Mrs. Cameron, who, in the twilight, had sought
and obtained access to the bedroom of the
missing trustee's daughter, stood over her
with a gesture which was almost menacing.
The difficulty she had met with in forcing her
way upstairs against the wishes of Susan and
the other frightened maidservants, in whose eyes
she looked terrible in her wrath, had much
increased her displeasure.  She now longed to
"have it out" with the only member of
Mr. Anderson's family within her reach, or, as she
expressed it to Doris, to give her a "bit of
her mind."

It was not a nice mind, Doris knew, so far
as gentleness, charity, and courtesy constitute
niceness, and the poor girl shrank away from
her visitor, burying her tear-stained face still
deeper in the pillows.  A pent-up sigh
escaping as she did so might have appealed to a
more tender-hearted woman, but only served
to still further incense Mrs. Cameron, who,
tossing her head with a muttered malediction,
forthwith proceeded to disclose the real
vulgarity and unkindness of her nature.

"It's no use sniffing and crying there, young
woman," she said, "and it's not a bit of good
your playing the innocent, and pretending you
knew nothing of what was going on.  Your
father is a thief and a scoundrel!  Now what
is the use of your sitting up, with that white
face, and pointing to the door like a tragedy
queen?  I shall say what I've come to say,
and no power on earth shall stop me.  John
Anderson, your father, has stolen my poor
boy's money, and wasted every penny of it!
There is nothing left!  Nothing!  All has
gone!  Twenty-five thousand pounds were
entrusted to your father by his dying friend
Richard Cameron, my husband, who had
unlimited faith in him, as had also Mr. Hamilton;
and it's all gone!  There is nothing left!
Nothing!  *Nothing*!  My poor boy is ruined,
absolutely ruined!  Just at the starting of his
life, when he is doing so well at Oxford, with
all his ambition----"

She broke down for a moment, with something
like a sob, but, suppressing it, frowned
the more fiercely to hide the momentary
weakness, "He has this blow hurled at him by
one of the very men who, of all others, were
appointed to protect his interests, and make
everything smooth before him.  It isn't as if
your father wasn't paid for being acting
executor, or trustee.  My husband, who was
always just"--Mrs. Cameron was one of those
wives who abuse and quarrel with their
husbands while they have them, but after their
death wear perpetual mourning and lose no
opportunity of sounding their praises--"left
John Anderson a legacy of a hundred pounds,
to repay him for any trouble the business of
administering his estate might cause.  Little
did he think what a thief and rogue the man
would turn out to be!"

"Leave the room!" gasped poor Doris,
sitting up and waving her hand frantically
towards the door.  Whatever her father had
done, she could not listen to such abuse of him.

"Leave the room, indeed!" cried
Mrs. Cameron, sitting down on a bedroom chair,
which trembled beneath her weight--she
weighed at least twelve stone, being stout and
tall--"I shall leave it when I choose, and
when I've said what I have to say, and not
before!  And it doesn't become you, Doris,"
she cried--"it doesn't become you to speak
saucily to me.  You're as bad as John
Anderson, no doubt.  Like father, like daughter!
You're all tarred with the same stick.  If you
didn't actually take my boy's money yourself,
perhaps you used some of it; or, if you didn't,
no doubt it was your extravagance and your
mother's that made Anderson want money so
badly that he took what was not his own.
However," she went on inconsequently, "you
are as bad as he if you defend him, and take
sides against my poor boy, who never did
anything to harm you in his life----"

"Oh, I don't!" interrupted Doris, distressed
beyond measure at the idea of such a thing.
"If you only knew how I esteem Bernard, and
I----"  She broke off with a saving instinct
which told her that not by pleading her love
for Bernard would she soften his mother's
heart.

"Esteem him, and yet take the part of the
villain who has robbed him of everything?"
cried the other indignantly.

"You forget"--almost soundlessly murmured
Doris, her white lips only just parting for the
words to escape--"you forget, the wrong-doer
is my father.  Yes, he has done wrong--I
acknowledge it," she cried pathetically.
"But still he is my father!"  And the tears
fell down her cheeks.

It was a sight to melt a heart of stone; but
Mrs. Cameron was not looking.  Though her
eyes were fixed upon Doris, and her ears heard
the faintly uttered words, she perceived nothing
but her boy's wrongs and her own, the vanished
£25,000, the stopping of Bernard's education
at Oxford, the failure of her own tiny income to
provide for their daily bread and the commonest
clothes, the sinking of her son into a poor,
subordinate sphere at the very commencement
of his life, the slipping of herself into squalid,
poverty-stricken surroundings, and a narrow,
meagre old age.  Another picture, too,
presented itself the next moment, and that was
the mental vision of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson
enjoying themselves abroad, in the lap of
luxury, eating and drinking at the best hotels,
arrayed in handsome clothing, and laughing,
yes, actually laughing together about the way
in which they had lightened the Camerons
pockets.

That being so, it was no wonder that
Mrs. Cameron's next words were even harsher than
those which had preceded them.

"Yes, you've a scoundrel for a father!  You
must never forget that!" she cried.  "Never,
never, for one moment!  Wherever you are,
whatever you may be doing, you must never
forget that.  You'll have to take a back seat in
life, I can tell you.  Not yours will be the lot
of other girls.  With a father who is a felon in
the eyes of the law you can never marry into
a respectable family without bringing into it
such a load of disgrace as will do it a cruel wrong."

She fixed her eyes sharply on the girl's pale
miserable face as she spoke, with more than
a suspicion of a love affair between her and
Bernard, which she determined to quash, cost
what it might to Doris.

"If you marry," she continued harshly,
"you will take your husband a dowry of
disgrace--that, and nothing else!"  She laughed
harshly.  "Why," she ejaculated the next
minute, "why, the girl's not listening!" for she
perceived Doris springing from her bed and
beginning, in trembling haste, to dress herself.

To get away from that terrible voice, and
the sound of those cruel words, was Doris's
first determination; her second was to go
where she could hide for ever and ever from
Bernard Cameron, lest in his noble,
disinterested love for her he should venture,
in spite of what had occurred, to insist upon
marrying her.  The idea of bringing him a
dowry of disgrace was so frightful that it
over-balanced for the moment the poor, distraught
mind of the suffering girl.

Mrs. Cameron was one of those women who,
when wronged, are blind and deaf to all else;
suffering acutely, they pour out torrents of
words, unseeing, unheeding the mischief they
may be doing to others.  She, therefore,
continued talking, in a loud, harsh voice, with
unsparing bitterness, all the time Doris was
dressing and putting on her plainest outdoor
apparel; and the mother's mind having turned
to the subject of marriage, and her wish being
to destroy any thoughts Doris might have
cherished of Bernard as a possible husband,
she said:

"My son, though poor as a pauper now--thanks
to your father--bears an unblemished
name.  Honourable as the day, he comes of
a most honourable race of men.  In time,
when he has worked up some sort of position
for himself, he may marry a girl with money,
and thus, in a way, attain to something like
the position he has lost.  It is all a chance,
of course, but it is the only chance he has.
There are lots of girls with money.  He is
handsome and taking; he must marry one of
them.  Do you hear me, Doris?  I say he
must!  It is the only chance he has.  Are
you not glad for him to have just that one
little chance?"

Doris was silent.

"Ha!  You do not answer?  Can it be,
can it possibly be," Mrs. Cameron's voice
grew hysterical, in her fear and anxiety, "that
from any foolish words the poor, ruined lad
has said--such words as lads will say to giddy
girls--you can possibly consider him at all, in
any way, bound to you?"

The poor girl would not answer.  She
looked appealingly around.  Was there no one
who could save her from this woman?  Where
was Bernard?  Why was he not at her side, to
shield and protect her?  The next moment
she realised the impossibility of his being there
in her bedroom; and again her eyes roved
longingly round the limited space.

On the morrow no doubt pitying friends,
hearing of her trouble, would rally round her:
the clergyman's wife, the doctor's, the ladies
to whose school she used to go, and others,
acquaintances more or less intimate.  There
was not one of them who would not be kinder
to her than this woman, who was goading her
now beyond endurance.  But they were absent--and
Mrs. Cameron was so very, very present.

"Do you mean to say--do you mean to say--there
is anything between you, the daughter
of a criminal, who shall yet be brought to
justice, if there be any power in the arm of
the law, and my son--my stainless, innocent
child?  Will you answer me?"

The room, which was going round and
round, in a cloud of darkness crossed by sparks
of light, seemed to Doris to assume once more
its ordinary appearance, as she came round
out of a half-swoon.  What to answer,
however, she knew not.  She could only dimly
comprehend the question.  Was there
anything between her, overwhelmed as she was
with disgrace, and Bernard, poor, defrauded,
yet honourable in the eyes of all men?  Was
there anything between them?  Yes.  There
was something between them--there was love.
But could she speak of that to a third person,
and that third person one so aggressive as
Mrs. Cameron?  She felt she could not:
therefore again she was silent, while the woman
poured out on her the wrath which now
completely over-mastered her.

"You bad girl!" she cried.  "Not content
with your father's having ruined my boy by
stealing all his money, you are mean enough
and wicked enough to deliberately determine to
cut away his one remaining chance of rising
in the world!  'Pon my word"--all the
vulgarity of the woman was coming to the
surface--"you would ruin him body and soul, if you
could!  All for your own ambition, that you,
too, may rise in the world; you intend to cling
to him as a limpet clings to a rock--and he
won't be able to raise you, not he, poor
lad! but you will drag him down into the mire,
which will close over his head and then--then
perhaps you will be content."

She waited for Doris to speak, but still the
girl was unable to articulate a word.  She was
fastening her hat now, and putting the last
touches to her veil and gloves; in a moment
or two she would be able to escape into the
open air, and into the night, now fast coming on.

"It is to his chivalry, doubtless, that you are
trusting, to his generosity, his love, his charity,
his magnanimity.  By his virtues you would
slay him, that is, I mean, debase him in the
eyes of the world--the world we live in,"
continued the upbraiding voice.

Then Doris, stung beyond endurance and
driven to bay, made answer, confronting
Mrs. Cameron proudly, with her little head held
high:

"You may keep your son.  I will never
marry him.  He is nothing to me now--*nothing*."

"I can tell him that?"

"Tell him," cried Doris passionately, "tell
him that I would not marry the son of such
a mother for any consideration in the world!
Tell him that I would *rather die*."  She
felt at that moment as if she would, for the
woman's cruel words had dragged her heart
far from its moorings.

The next moment Mrs. Cameron was alone,
standing in the middle of the room, where she
had so brow-beaten and insulted the innocent
daughter of that unhappy house, listening to
Doris's retreating footsteps on the stairs and in
the hall, and then the gentle closing of the
outer door.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BERNARD SEARCHES FOR DORIS.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Life is so sad a thing, its measure
   |    Brims over full with human tears;
   |  A blighted hope, a buried treasure,
   |  Infinite pain, delusive pleasure,
   |    Make sorrowful our years.
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  Heaven is so near, oh friend, 'tis yonder,
   |    God's word doth clear the uncertain way;
   |  His hand will bear thee, lest thou wander,
   |  His Spirit teach thee thoughts to ponder
   |    Till thou hast found the day.
   |                                LOLA MARSHALL DEANE.

.. vspace:: 2

Doris had gone.  She had promised never to
marry Bernard.  The young people were parted
for ever.  Mrs. Cameron, though poor, had
her son, her dear, if penniless, son all to herself.
By a vigorous onslaught she had defeated and
driven away the enemy, utterly routed and
confounded.  It was a moment of triumph for
her, and yet she felt anything but triumphant;
and it was with a cross and gloomy countenance
that she proceeded downstairs in search of her
son, whom she found at last closeted with
Mr. Hamilton in the study.

"How is Doris?" asked Bernard, rising as
his mother entered, and offering her a chair.

Mrs. Cameron sat down heavily, a little
disconcerted by this interrogation.

"What does that matter?" she snapped.
"The question is how are we, the wronged,
defrauded, robbed?"

Her son looked at her impatiently.  "After
all, it is worse for Doris," he said, with great
feeling.

"Worse?" ejaculated his mother.

"Worse?" echoed Mr. Hamilton.  He was
a long, lean man, remarkable for his habitual
silence and great learning.

"Yes, ten thousand times worse!" cried
Bernard.  "We have lost only our money, but
she has lost her parents, her home, her money,
and everything--that is, almost everything,"
correcting himself, as a smile flitted across his
face, "at one stroke."

"Bernard is right--and the poor girl has
the disgrace to bear as well," interjected
Mr. Hamilton.

"Humph!"  Mrs. Cameron tossed her head.
"The Andersons deserve all that they have
got," she was beginning, when Bernard stopped
her hastily.

"Mother," he said, and his tone had lost
its usual submissiveness in speaking to her,
"Doris has nothing to do with the cause of
our misfortunes.  She knew nothing about all
this until after it had happened."

"How do you know?" asked Mrs. Cameron sharply.

"Doris told me so."

"Doris told you so!  And you believed her?"

"Yes, and always shall!" cried Bernard, his
face glowing and his eyes flashing.  "And I
would have you understand, mother, that I
will have no word said against Doris.  She
and I are engaged to be married.  She is my
promised wife."

There was a dead silence in the room when
his clear, manly voice ceased speaking.  His
mother was too much astounded and disturbed
to easily find words; she had not imagined
things had gone quite so far as that between
the young people.  And Mr. Hamilton, not
knowing what to say, shrank back into his
habitual silence.

"She is my promised wife," said Bernard
again, and there was even more pride and
confidence in his young tones.  A smile, joyous
and brilliant, broke out all over his handsome
face.  Forgotten were the pecuniary troubles
now, the broken career at Oxford, the school
that would never be his.  In their place was
Doris, his beautiful beloved, who would more
than make up to him for all and everything.
To his mother's amazement and consternation
he went on rapidly, "I shall marry her at once,
then I shall have the right to protect her against
every breath of calumny,--though indeed, if
you will respect my wish, Mr. Hamilton," he
added, turning to the minister, "and will not
tell the police, or prosecute Mr. Anderson, the
matter can be hushed up as far as possible,
and her name will not be tarnished.  But in
any case, *in any case*," he repeated, "Doris
is mine.  I shall marry her and work for her.
If the worst comes to the worst, I can get a
clerkship, or a post as schoolmaster--and
with Doris, with Doris," he concluded, "I
shall be very, *very* happy."

His mother's words broke like a bombshell
into the midst of his fond imaginings.  "Doris
has just been telling me," she said, in low,
cruel tones, "that she will *never* marry you!"

"What?  What are you saying?" exclaimed
Bernard, agitatedly, the joy in his face giving
place to an expression of great anxiety.

His mother said again, "Doris has just been
saying to me that she will never, *never* marry
you.  She told me I was to tell you so."

"But this is most unaccountable!" cried
Bernard, beginning to walk up and down the
room.  "This is most unaccountable," he
repeated.  "Why, she told me----" he broke
off, beginning again, "Where is she?  I must
see her--must hear from her own lips the
reason of this change."

"You cannot see her, Bernard," said his
mother, in slow, icy tones.  "You cannot see
her.  She is not in this house----"

"Not in this house?  Not here?  What
do you mean?"

"She has gone away."

"But where?  Where has she gone?"

"I do not know."

"But has she left no message for me?" he
asked, with exceeding anxiousness.

"She left the message I have given you,"
answered his mother.  "Tell Bernard," she
said, "that I will never, *never* marry him!"

"That message I refuse to receive!" cried
Bernard.  "Poor Doris was in such trouble
she did not know what she was saying--I am
sure she did not mean that."

"I suppose you think I am telling you a
lie?" began his mother hotly.

Bernard did not reply, indeed he did not
apparently hear her words.  He hurried out
into the hall, got his hat, and then returned
to the room to say to his mother:

"Have you no idea where Doris has gone?"

"Not the least!" snapped Mrs. Cameron.

"I shall find out.  I shall follow her,
wherever she has gone.  You will not see me again
till she is found!"

"Bernard!  You silly lad!"

But he had gone.  No use, Mrs. Cameron,
in rushing after him into the hall, with all the
arguments you can think of!  No use in standing
there, frowning and execrating his folly!
The influence that draws him after Doris, in
her poor distracted flight, is stronger than that
which binds him to your warped and selfish
nature.  Love is spurring his footsteps onward,
far, far away from you.  If you wish to keep
him by your side, you, too, must have some
of its magic.

Bernard first went on his bicycle to
Doncaster, to the railway station, where, after
many inquiries and much futile questioning,
he ascertained that a young lady answering
to the description he gave of Miss Anderson
had booked for King's Cross, London, and
had set off to go there by the 7.34 train.

Without hesitation he determined to follow
her by the next express, which was to leave
Doncaster at 11.18.  It was then eight o'clock,
so he had time to cycle back to Doris's
home, there to question Susan Gaunt as to
what relations or friends Miss Anderson had
in London besides Miss Earnshaw, for he
thought that in case Doris had not gone to
her, as her mother had directed in the letter
he had seen, she might be with other friends.

Susan was in a state of great distress and
anxiety when she heard that her dear young
lady had gone alone to London so late in the
evening.  "There will be no one to meet her
when she arrives!" cried the good woman.  "It
will be night, and Miss Doris has never been
to London before!  She won't know what to do.
There won't be any one to take care of her.
Oh, dear!  Oh, dear! what will she do?"

"Well, I'm going after her," said Bernard,
"as fast as I can.  And I intend to go straight
to Miss Earnshaw's in Earl's Court Square.
She will go there, I suppose?"  And he looked
searchingly into the old servant's face.

"Yes, sir.  She will go there, for her mother
told her to do so."

"But, in case she is not there when I
arrive?" said the young man tentatively,
"have you any idea of any other friends in
London to whom she may go?"

"No, sir; no," answered Susan, shaking
her head.  "She knows no one in London
except Miss Earnshaw.  How should she
when she has never been there?  Oh, my
poor young lady!  My poor, dear young lady!
God grant she may find Miss Earnshaw!"

Bernard left her in tears, and hurried off to
his home, in order to pack a small bag which
he could carry on his bicycle to Doncaster
Station.  Having trimmed his bicycle-lamp
and eaten a little supper, without much appetite,
he strapped his bag on his bicycle and again
set off for Doncaster, arriving there in time
for the first night express.

During the hours of that long, rapid journey
south he was full of fears and doubts; fears
for the welfare of the girl who had run away
from her old home in such terrible grief, and
despair and doubt as to his power to find,
console, and persuade her to take back her
promise not to marry him.

The hours of the night wore slowly away,
until at 3.5 in the morning his train arrived
at King's Cross.  Nothing could be done at
that hour, and, after making inquiries at the
station as to whether any young lady had
arrived by the train from Doncaster, which
reached King's Cross at 10.45 P.M., without
eliciting any satisfactory information, he lounged
about for a couple of hours, and then went out
in search of a coffee-house, and was glad to
find one at last where he could obtain some
hot, if muddy, coffee, and a little bread and
butter.

The homely fare caused him to realise the
state of his finances as nothing else would
have done.  This was what it meant to be
bereft of fortune!  For others would be
the comforts and pleasant appointments of good
hotels; for others would be ease, culture,
and luxuries: he himself would have to
take a poor man's place in the world.  He
would have to be content with penny cups
of coffee and halfpenny buns, with poor
clothes and a little home--thankful indeed
if he could secure that.

"But no matter," he said to himself, raising
his head and smiling so brightly that several
persons in the coffee-house turned to look at
him.  "No matter, if I win Doris for my wife.
With her dear face near me, and her sweet
and gentle words of encouragement sounding
in my ears, I can bear all and everything.
She will transform a plain little cottage into a
palace by her presence, and will make a poor
man rich.  I can be content with anything,
shall want nothing, when I have Doris."  And
afterwards, when he was walking about in the
soft, misty rain, which seemed to him so black
and cheerless, he said again to himself, "It
doesn't matter.  Nothing matters now that I
am going to Doris."

For he felt confident that he would find
her at Earl's Court Square when he arrived
there.  Of course she would have gone straight
there in a cab, as it would be night-time
when she arrived at King's Cross.  There was
nothing else that she could do.

He would follow her as soon as he possibly
could.  Dear little Doris!  How glad she
would be that he had not taken her at her
word, if indeed she had sent him that cruel
message!  How devoted she would think him
to follow her at once!  How much comforted
she would be to receive the protestations of
unchanging, nay, more, increasing love!

Time seemed to drag with leaden wings,
until what he thought a decent hour for calling
upon Doris began to approach.  Then he took
a hansom in a hurry, bidding the cabman
drive to Earl's Court Square as fast as he
could.

It was scarcely ten o'clock when he stood at
the great door of the house in Earl's Court
Square, touching the electric button, and
waiting in breathless suspense for the door to
open.  No one answered his summons for
quite five minutes--which seemed an eternity
to him--then the door slowly opened, and a
lad in plain livery stood before him.

"Is Miss Anderson in?" inquired Bernard.

"Miss Anderson, sir?" asked the page slowly.

"Yes, Miss Anderson.  Has she not arrived?"

"No, sir.  I don't know whom you mean, sir.
There is no one here of that name."

Then Doris had not arrived!  It was a
great blow to poor Bernard.  "Can I see Miss
Earnshaw?" he asked at length.

"No, sir.  You can't, sir.  She is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, sir.  She died suddenly yesterday of
heart disease.  Very sudden it was, sir."

Dead!  Miss Earnshaw!  Then what had
become of Doris?  "Are you quite sure that
a young lady did not come here in the early
hours of this morning?" asked Bernard, slipping
a coin into the youth's hand.

The touch of silver seemed to quicken the
latter's memory.  "I was in bed, sir.  But
if you wait here I will ask Mr. Giles, the
butler," he said, inviting Bernard into the hall
and going in search of the information he
needed.

Presently he returned with a deferential
butler, who said to Bernard:

"There was a young lady came to this
house in a hansom, sir, about one o'clock this
morning.  She wanted Miss Earnshaw, and
seemed terribly cut up to find she was dead.
She saw Mr. Earnshaw, Miss Earnshaw's
distant cousin, who inherits everything.  But
I think he couldn't do anything for her, sir,
for she went away in great trouble."

"Where is Mr. Earnshaw?" demanded
Bernard excitedly.

"He went off by an early train to Reigate,
where he lives.  He won't return until the day
of the funeral."

"When will that be?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"Give me his address.  I must wire to
him!" exclaimed Bernard.  "Did you observe
whether the lady went away in a cab or
walked?"

The butler had not noticed the manner of
her departure, nor had any one else in the
house.  All the inquiries Bernard made--and
they were many--resulted in nothing.  Doris
had vanished as completely as it was possible
for any one to vanish in our great and crowded
metropolis.

Bernard was in the greatest distress and
anxiety about her, and sought for her in every
possible way, by advertising, through the police,
by telegraphing, and when he returned from
Reigate by a personal interview with
Mr. Earnshaw, who said that he had told her that
any claim she, Miss Doris Anderson, had on
Miss Earnshaw could not be considered at all
by him, for he had nothing to do with it, and
could not see his way to do anything to help her.

Bernard said strong words, and looked with
exceeding anger upon the wealthy man who
had just inherited the great house.  But the
warmth of his feelings only hastened his
own departure, for Mr. Earnshaw requested
his servant to show him out with all speed.

And nowhere in London could Bernard
discover a trace of Doris Anderson, though
he sought for her diligently and with care.

Bernard was a true Christian, possessing
earnest faith, otherwise he would have been
perfectly overwhelmed by these sad reverses
of love and fortune; as it was, although he
was very unhappy, hope never quite left him,
and in this, his darkest hour, he was able to
trust in God and take courage.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DORIS ALONE IN LONDON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DORIS ALONE IN LONDON.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Most men in a brazen prison live
   |    Where is the sun's lost eye,
   |  With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly
   |  Their lives to some unmeaning task, work give,
   |  Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall.

   |  But often in the world's most crowded streets,
   |    And often in the din of strife,
   |  There rises an unspeakable desire
   |  After the knowledge of our buried life.
   |                              MATTHEW ARNOLD.

.. vspace:: 2

Doris felt quite stunned when she found that
her friend Miss Earnshaw was dead, and that
Mr. Earnshaw, the heir, refused to recognise
any obligation to be kind to one whom she had
loved.  Night though it was when Doris
arrived in London she hurried to Earl's Court
Square in a cab, for she knew not where else
to go.  It seemed to her most fortunate that
Miss Earnshaw's house was lighted up, little
knowing the reason for it.  And then the shock
of learning the sad news of the sudden decease
of her old friend was great, and the cold and
almost rude behaviour of Mr. Earnshaw, who
would have nothing to do with one whom he
looked upon as a protégée of his late cousin's,
gave poignancy to her distress.

.. _`THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT`:

.. figure:: images/img-061.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT."

   "THE SHOCK OF LEARNING THE SAD NEWS WAS GREAT."

Doris had very little money in her purse,
and knew not what to do.  Mechanically therefore
she returned to the cab, whose driver she
had not paid, and re-entered it.

"Where next, madam?" asked the cabman.

Not knowing what to say, Doris made no
answer.  Was there in all the world, she
wondered, a being more deplorably hopeless,
homeless, and overwhelmed with trouble
than she?  Where could she turn?  What
could she do?  It was out of the question that
she should return to Yorkshire, where there
was now nothing but ruin and disgrace for an
Anderson.  She would not encounter
Mrs. Cameron again if she could by any means
avoid doing so, and she had promised never to
marry her son.  Bernard would be sorry for
her now, she knew, yes, very sorry indeed.
Still he had shrunk from her and looked very
strange upon hearing of her father's misappropriation
of his money and absconding, which
was enough truly to seriously lessen his
affection for her.  Indeed, Doris thought he could
no longer love her, in which case she had
certainly lost him entirely.

Father, mother, lover, all gone; cut off from
friends by a black cloud of disgrace and shame,
penniless and alone, terribly alone in a world of
which she knew so little, amidst dangers more
vast than she, with her limited experience,
could imagine, what could she do?  Surely
God as well as man had forsaken her!  She
turned quite sick and faint.

"Where to, lady?" asked the cabman again,
and this time there was a note of compassion
in his rough voice which appealed to Doris.

She burst into tears.

The man turned his head aside.  He was
one of nature's gentlemen, though only a poor
cabman, and it was not for him to look upon a
lady's tears.  He stepped back to his horse
the next minute, and pretended to busy himself
with the harness.

Doris had time to recover.  In a few
minutes she was able to check her tears.  Then
she beckoned to the cabman to approach.

"I am in trouble," she said; "the friend to
whose house you have driven me died suddenly
yesterday----"  She broke down pitifully.

The cabman nodded.  "That's bad!" said
he, looking down on the ground.

"I don't know what to do," added Doris in
tones of despair.

"There'll be servants in this big house,
won't they take you in for the remainder of
the night, at least," suggested the man.

"I dare say they would if they were alone,"
answered Doris.  "But there is a man in the
house--I cannot call him a gentleman--who
says everything is now his, and that I have
no claim upon him, and he will do nothing
for me."

The cabman muttered something strong, and
then broke off to apologise for speaking so
roughly.  "You'll excuse me, miss," he added,
"if I say I should like to punch the fellar's
'ead.  May I go to the door and make 'em
take you in if I can?" he asked finally.

"No, thank you," replied Doris.  "I am
poor and homeless"--her lips quivered--"but
I am too proud to intrude where I am not
wanted."  She turned her head on one side.

The horse started forward a step or two,
and the cabman went to its head.  A sudden
gust of wind and rain swept over Doris through
the open door, causing her to shiver.  The
man returned to her side.

"We can't stay here any longer, miss," he
said.

"No"--Doris hesitated--"no, but----" she
paused.

"Where shall I take you, lady?" asked the
cabman.

"I don't know," replied Doris miserably.

The man stood waiting somewhat impatiently.
All was silent in the square: there were no
passers by, except one solitary policeman, who
stood to look at them for a moment, and then
passed on.

"Drive me to an hotel, please," said Doris
at length.

"Yes, lady."

The cabman drove her to two or three hotels
without avail; either they were closed for the
night, or the night-porter on duty refused to
admit a lady without any luggage.

Again the cabman came to Doris for orders.
"What will you do?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Doris, pitifully, with
quivering lips.  She felt terribly desolate and
lonely.

Fortunately for her the cabman happened to
be an honest man, who had a wife and children
of his own, therefore seeing his "fare" so
helpless, and so entirely ignorant of the great
city, with its immense dangers for a young
and solitary girl, stranded in its midst, in the
night-time, he suggested, "You might go to
a decent lodging, lady, until morning."

"Yes, I should be glad.  But how can I
find one?  Do you know of one?" asked the
girl desperately.

"There's my mother at King's Cross.  She's
poor, but respectable, and she lets lodgings
and happens to have no one in them at
present."

Doris looked at him as he spoke.  Could
she venture to go to his mother?  He seemed
an honest man.  And what else could she do?

"Mother's house is clean," continued the
cabman.  "She lives in a quiet street a few
doors from where I live with my wife and
children.  Mother's always been very particular
about her lodgers: and she's so clean," he
persisted.  "Any one might eat off her floor,
as they say."

The simple words appealed to Doris; they
bore the stamp of sincerity, and so also did the
honest kindly face of the poor man.  But still
she hesitated: her common sense told her she
could not be too careful.

"Perhaps you'd look at this, miss," said the
man, putting his hand in his breast pocket
and producing a small New Testament.  He
opened it and pointed to the inscription written
on the fly-leaf, which Doris read by the light
of the cab-lamp:

"Presented to Sam Austin by his friend and
teacher the Rev. Charles Barnett, as a small
acknowledgment of his valuable assistance in
the St. Michael's Night School, London, N."

"How nice!" said Doris.  "Thank you for
showing that to me.  I will go to your mother's.
I am sure she must be a good woman."

"She is indeed, lady.  A better woman
never lived, though I say it."

"Drive me there, please," said Doris.

The man shut the door of the cab and
returned to his seat.

An hour afterwards poor tired Doris found
herself comfortably lodged in a small but
respectable house near King's Cross, and
before retiring to rest she thanked God for
His providential care of her during the
difficulties and dangers of the night.

Downstairs Mrs. Austin was giving her son
a cup of cocoa and asking questions about the
young lady he had brought to her.

"We don't know anything about her, Sam,"
she said cautiously.  "There is of course no
doubt about her being in trouble, and looking
as good as an angel, too, but one can never
tell.  I'd rather she'd have had some luggage.
Don't you think if she had come up from the
country to stay with her friend, now, she'd have
had some luggage?"

"Well, yes, so she would in an ord'nary
way--but we don't know all the circumstances.
And it was a first-class big house in a fashionable
square, and she went up to the door as
boldly as if she expected a welcome----"

"Which she didn't get, and they wouldn't
have anything to do with her there.  That
looks bad.  For the rest you have only her
own tale to go by."

"Mother, are you going to turn her out?"
asked Sam, with reproach in his voice.

"No, Sam, I can't do that.  But I shall
keep my eyes open."

"You'll be good to her, mother, I know."

"Yes, of course."  Mrs. Austin smiled, and
her son knew that she would keep her word.

He went away then with his cab, and Mrs. Austin
closed her house for the night and went
upstairs to bed, pausing on the landing by her
new lodger's door.  Did the girl want anything,
she wondered, and after a low knock she
opened the door softly.

Doris was kneeling by her bed-side, and with
a little nod of satisfaction Mrs. Austin withdrew.

Doris's sleep, when at last she sought her
couch, was long, so that when she awoke it
was afternoon and she found her landlady
standing by her bedside, with a little tray, on
which was tea and toast.

"You are very good to me, Mrs. Austin,"
she said, gratefully, as she partook of the
refreshing tea.

"I'm very pleased to have such a nice
lodger, miss," said the widow, completely won
over and forgetting all her misgivings, as her
stout, good-humoured countenance expanded in
a broad smile.  "There are some who like
gentlemen lodgers best, but I don't.  'Give
me a nice young lady,' says I, 'and you may
take all your gentlemen!'"

Doris smiled a little dolefully.  "But I
haven't very much money----" she began.

"Don't you worrit yourself about that,
miss!  The sovereign you gave me when you
came in will see you through at least two
weeks here, so far as lodging is concerned--of
course the food will come to rather more--but
it may be that you will find work, if it is
work you are wanting, miss, though you do
seem too much of a lady for that sort of
thing."

"I shall have to work," said Doris, "because
I have very little money, and no one to give
me any more."

"Dear me, that's bad.  Might I make so
bold, miss, as to ask if you have been running
away from home--from your parents, miss?"

Running away from her parents?  How
different the case really was!  It was her
parents who had run away from her!  But she
could not tell Mrs. Austin this.  She therefore
only shook her head, saying gently, "I lost my
parents before leaving home.  The--the reason
I have no luggage is this, I--I was in great
trouble when I came away, and so I forgot
to pack any."

"Then can't you send for your luggage,
miss?" asked the woman.

"No, no.  There are reasons why the people
I left, at least one of them, must not know
where I am.  So I can't send.  Besides, I left
in debt, and as I cannot pay the money, I want
the people to have my clothes and jewellery."

Mrs. Austin's round eyes opened wider.
It was queer, and her first feelings of
compassion, which had been aroused by her lodger's
pitiable situation, and by the fact that she had
seen her on her knees, became mingled with
doubts and suspicions.  This young lady left
the last place she stayed at in debt; it would
behove her present landlady to be careful lest
she, too, should be taken in.  Miss Anderson
was very young and innocent-looking, but it
was wonderful how sharp those baby-faced
girls could be!

"I shall have to buy a few things," said
Doris, "and that will cost money.  But I must
look out for work immediately.  The question
is, what can I do?"

"I should think you can do a great many
things, miss," said Mrs. Austin.  "A young
lady like you will almost have been taught
everything."

Doris shook her head.  "I know a smattering
of many things," she said, "but I doubt
if I could earn money by any one of them."

"Well, miss, time will show.  I wouldn't
worrit myself about it this evening, if I were
you--I would just lie still and go to sleep.
You're worn out, that's what you are."

Doris took this good advice so far as to lie
down again after she had her tea, with her
face to the wall.  But for some time she did
not go to sleep, for her heart ached too much;
yet she did not weep, though there was a pain
at the back of her eyes which hurt more than
tears, and did not give her the relief that they
would have given.  She felt keenly her changed
circumstances.  Two days ago she had a
good home, kind parents, an ardent lover,
and many friends and acquaintances; now she
had lost all.  She was homeless, her parents
had forsaken her, she and her lover had
parted for ever.  She was without friends
and without acquaintances, for they, too,
were left behind.  "I am alone, quite alone,"
she thought; and then remembered that the
best Friend of all, her Heavenly Father, was
still with her.  That idea saved her from
despair, and gave birth to the resolve that she
would not allow herself to sink beneath her
troubles, but would keep a brave heart and
endeavour to live worthily.  Her life would be
different from of old; yes, but it need not be
worse--rather, it should be better.
Longfellow's familiar words rose to her mind:

   |  Not enjoyment and not sorrow
   |    Is our destined end or way;
   |  But to act that each to-morrow
   |    Finds us further than to-day.

And she grasped the idea, even then, in that
hour of bitter humiliation and despair, that
the brave soul is not made by circumstances,
and the environment which they bring, but,
strengthened by Him who first trod the narrow
way, it makes stepping-stones of what would
otherwise deter and hinder it, pressing on to
the prize of our high calling, the "Well done,
good and faithful servant!" of our Master.

So Doris said to herself, "I will live to
some purpose, and first of all I will set before
myself one aim above all others.  If I possibly
can earn money enough, in some way or other,
I will repay Bernard the money of which my
father robbed him--yes, that shall be my
ambition.  To pay the debt--the debt my
father owes him."

Twenty-five thousand pounds!  An immense
sum truly!  But immense are the courage
and the hopefulness of youth, inexperienced,
ignorant but magnificent with the rainbow hues
of undaunted imagination.

When at last Doris fell asleep the last words
she murmured to herself were these:

   |  To pay the debt.

And her last thought was that she would be
honourable and true to the teaching of that
Voice which is not far from any one of us,
if only we have hearing ears and an
understanding heart.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FRIENDS IN NEED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FRIENDS IN NEED.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads
   |    Let Love through good deeds show.
   |                            SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

.. vspace:: 2

This is a very hard world for those who,
untrained for any special vocation, find
themselves through stress of circumstances driven
into the labour market, to oppose with
unskilful hands and untrained brain the skilful and
highly trained labour of professional workers.

Pretty golden-haired Doris, with her slender
array of accomplishments and small amount of
book learning, found herself at a great
disadvantage as compared with girls who had
received a sound Board School, or High School,
education.  As a teacher she could find no
employment, having no certificates, and
testimonials, or references to give.  After
answering many advertisements, which entailed much
expenditure in bus and train fares, though she
walked whenever she could, thereby saving her
pennies at the cost of shoe leather, she was
obliged to come to the conclusion that not
by teaching would her money be earned.  The
same ill success attended her search for a
situation as lady's companion.  Her want of
references alone debarred her from any chance
of success in that direction.

One day, when passing down a well-known
street in north London, she perceived a notice
in a dress and milliner's shop window stating
that young girls were much needed as junior
assistants.  She therefore went in to make
inquiries, and found that if she liked to go
there and sew from morning to night she
would receive in payment a couple of meals
a day and eighteenpence a week.  It would
be impossible for her to be lodged also, the
manageress said, as they had as many hands
living in as they had beds for.  Plenty of girls
were to be had for that trifling wage, as they
went there to get an insight into the business,
hoping to pass on to better work and higher
wages in due course.

As it was impossible for Doris to pay for
a bedroom out of such a wage she was
compelled to decline the work; and as the weeks
passed by and nothing better turned up she
at last found herself in a pawn shop, trying
to raise a little money on her watch and chain,
and undergoing a truly humiliating experience.

The day came, only too soon, when Doris
was obliged to confess to her landlady that
she could no longer pay for her week's lodging
in advance.  By that time, however, Mrs. Austin
had conceived a real attachment to her
young lady lodger.  When, therefore, Doris
stated her sad case, with tears in her eyes,
the good woman's heart was touched.

"Now don't you take on about that, miss,
don't!" she cried.  "I shall not ask you for
any more money till I am obliged, miss.  I
know you will pay me when you can."

"You may be quite sure I shall do that,"
said Doris.  "I am only too distressed at the
idea of your having to wait for the money."

Mrs. Austin went out of the room, to return,
however, in a few minutes with what she
thought might be a "helpful suggestion."

"If you can paint, miss," she said, "perhaps
they may be willing to sell your pictures at
some of the picture shops."

Doris's face brightened.  Her little
water-colour and oil paintings had been very much
admired at home.  But she sighed the next
moment, as she said gently, "I have no paints
here, or brushes, or canvas, or anything!"

"I have thought of that," said Mrs. Austin
cheerfully.  "Just you come upstairs with me."

She led the way up the narrow stairs to the
back bedroom where she slept, and pointed
to a chest of drawers with no little pride.
"My Sam made that," she said, "when he
was a joiner and cabinet maker, before he took
to cab driving, which I wish sometimes he had
not done.  For it's a life of temptation.  The
fares so often give drinks to cabmen--'specially
on cold nights.  Sam says it's almost impossible
sometimes to keep from taking too much; and
his wife has cried more than once because he
has come home 'with three sheets in the wind,'
as they call it.  And he's reckoned a sober
man, for he's that naturally, only he lives in
the way of temptation.  But now, look here,
miss!"

Opening a drawer Mrs. Austin displayed all
sorts of painting materials heaped up within it.
Water-colour paints, drawing blocks, palettes,
oil-tubes, canvases, pencils, and chalks were all
mixed up together.

"These belonged to my dear son Silas,"
said Mrs. Austin, wiping her eyes with a
corner of her apron.  "He was never strong
like Sam, he was always a delicate lad.  He
couldn't do hard work, with his poor thin hands
and weakly legs.  But he was a rare lad for
a bit of colour.  'Mother, I'll be an artist,'
he oft said to me.  And I had him taught.
He used to attend classes, and go to a School
of Art--I was at a deal of expense--and now,
now he's gone!"  She broke down, sobbing
bitterly, while Doris put her arms round her
neck and kissed her poor red face, which was
all she could do to comfort her.  "He's gone,"
continued the widow pathetically, "to be an
artist up above, if so be it's true that God
permits people to carry on their work on high."

   |  "On the earth the broken arcs, in the
   |  Heaven a perfect round,"

quoted Doris softly.

"Ay, miss, I think so," said the poor woman,
whom sorrow had taught much.  "My Silas,
he said to me when he lay dying, 'Mother, God
is the Master Artist, He began me, just as
I begin my pictures, and He never makes
mistakes, or wastes His materials; He'll turn
me into something good over there, as it isn't
to be down here.'"

"He had beautiful faith," said Doris, "and
I am sure it will be as he said."

"Oh, my dear young lady," cried the other,
with great feeling, "I thank God that He
sent you here!  I do feel so comforted to have
you here, and I do hope you will do me the
favour to accept these painting things--every
one of them, please.  Then you can paint
pictures and sell them, as my poor dear boy
wanted to do."

Doris, however, was reluctant to accept so
much, and only did so at last on the
understanding that if she were so fortunate as to
sell her pictures Mrs. Austin should have a
percentage of the pay, for the use of the
materials.  That settled, it became necessary
to arrange where the work should be done;
for both Doris's bedroom and the little front
parlour, where she sat and had her meals, were
too dark for the purpose.

Mrs. Austin was equal to the occasion.
"Why shouldn't you have the top attic, where
my boy used to paint?" she said.  "There's
a sky-light, you know; and my Silas always
said the light fell beautiful in his study, or
studio, as he used to call it.  Do come upstairs
and see what it is like?"

Doris did so, and found a large attic lighted
by a huge sky-light.  Boxes and lumber littered
the floor, an old square table was against the
wall, and a rather decrepit easel stood under
the sky-light; a few plaster casts, and big
discoloured chalk drawings, were scattered
about, or stuck on the walls with gum-paper,
or sealing wax.  The atmosphere of the attic
was close and fusty, it having evidently been
shut up for a long time.

"Why, this is the very place for me to
paint in!" exclaimed Doris.  "Will the
skylight open?  Oh, thanks!" as the landlady,
opening it, let in a pleasant draught of fresh
air.  "That is charming!"

"I will clean and tidy up the place for you,
miss, and bring a chair or two in, and scrub
the table clean, and then you can begin as
soon as you like."

Mrs. Austin was as good as her word, and
when Doris returned to the attic in the
afternoon quite a transformation had taken place,
and, if not an ideal studio, it was certainly a
light and extremely picturesque one.  An old
but clean rug had been found for the centre
of the floor, an old-fashioned Windsor
armchair and a three-legged stool were placed
near the table, on which was spread a large
old crimson cloth, while a little cheap art
muslin of the colour of old gold was draped
here and there as curtains to hide the unsightly
lumber.  The attic smelt rather strongly of
soft soap and soda, but that, the landlady
remarked succinctly, was "a good fault," and
certainly through the open sky-light came
remarkably good air for London.

Doris could not do anything that first day,
as by the time she had put a few touches to
the room and arranged her things it was too
dark to paint.  But there was gas laid on,
so she sat at the table that evening, with
pencil and paper before her, making little
sketches from memory of places she had seen,
which she intended to utilise for her paintings
by daylight.  And as she did so, for the first
time since the dreadful night on which she had
heard of her father's crime, something like
happiness returned to her.

Great is the power of work to tide us over
waves of trouble--waves strong enough, if we
sit brooding over them, with idle hands clasped
on our knees, to sink our little crafts in the
sea of life, so that they will never reach the
quieter waters where they can sail serenely.
"Work hard at something, work hard," said
the Philosopher of Labour, over and over
again.  "Idleness alone is worst: idleness
alone is without hope."  Work, he went on
to say, cleared away the ill humours of the
mind, making it ready to receive all sweet and
gracious influences.  And in Doris's case it
was so for a while that evening; and day
by day afterwards as she sat busily working
in her attic, the cloud of shame--laid upon
her innocent shoulders by her guilty father--lifted
and disappeared; for she felt instinctively,
as she worked, that she, at all events, had no
part nor lot in that matter, but was doing her
best--feebly enough, yet nevertheless her best--to
destroy one of the consequences of his
sin, which was certainly the right thing to do.

And as she worked Hope came, touching
with rainbow hues the dreary outlines of her
dismal thoughts, letting a little light in here
and shutting a little dark out there, until the
future began to look less drearily forlorn, and
even became gradually endowed with pleasant
happenings.  She would sell her pictures, at
first for low prices which would tempt
purchasers; they would be liked, orders would
pour in, she would raise her prices, earning
more and more money.  Living on quietly
where she was, with good, kind Mrs. Austin,
she would save what was not actually needed
for her simple wants; and thus would begin that
secret hoard which, she hoped, would one day
grow to such dimensions that she could pay part
of the debt her father owed Bernard Cameron.

Then she grew happier every day, and as
Mrs. Austin never failed to applaud loudly
every little picture that was made she thought
that others, too, would see some beauty in
them.  She knew, of course, that the good
landlady was only an uncultivated, ignorant woman,
and therefore one who could not be a judge
of art, yet Doris fondly imagined that, having
had a son who aspired to be an artist,
Mrs. Austin must know more of such things than
ordinary women of her class.

She was disillusioned only too soon.  There
came a day upon which, having half a dozen
little pictures finished, she ventured out bravely
for the purpose of offering them for sale.  Sam
Austin, who took a great interest in the project,
had, at his mother's solicitation, written down
for her the names and addresses of three or
four picture-dealers, and, not content with
doing that, he was most anxious to drive her
to their shops in his cab, in order that she
might make a good impression.

"It won't do, mother," he said, "to let
them dealers imagine that she can hardly scrape
together a living by her work.  They would
not think it very valuable in that case.  Folks
usually take us for what we appear to be in
this world; and if we want to get on we must
not let outsiders peep behind the scenes."

Doris would have preferred to go alone, in
order that she might make her little venture
unobserved even by the cabman's friendly eyes;
but, not liking to grieve him and his mother,
she accepted the offer of his cab, and was
accordingly driven over to what she hoped
would be the scenes of her triumph and success,
but which proved instead to be those of bitter
humiliation and disappointment.

Cheerful and brave she was when she stepped
out of her cab and entered the first picture-dealer's
shop, with her brown paper parcel in
her hand, to return saddened, disheartened,
and chagrined ten minutes later, with the same
parcel rather less tidily wrapped up.  The
cabman, who hastily opened the cab-door for
her, guessing the truth, regarded her very
seriously, whereupon she endeavoured to smile;
but the attempt was a failure, and only her
pale face quivered as she bowed assent to his
proposition that he should drive her on to the
next dealer's.  Here, as before, she was
received with effusive politeness--for, coming up,
as she did, in a cab, the driver of which hurried
down from his seat to open the door for her,
touching his cap most deferentially as he did
so, the shopkeeper expected that at least her
parcel contained some valuable picture which
they were to frame for her.  But when it
turned out that she was only offering them
what one or two men rudely termed "amateur
daubs" for sale, their manner changed with
extraordinary rapidity.  It appeared that they
did not want any pictures to sell, either in oils
or water-colours.  They had more of that sort
of "stuff" than they could do with.  Young
ladies supplied them with any amount for a
nominal payment, and did the paintings better,
too, than those which were being offered.
"Even if we bought yours," said one dealer,
"and I tell you they are not good enough for
us, we should only offer you a price which
would scarcely pay for your materials."

It was plain to poor Doris at length that
there was no market at all for her wares, and
Sam waxed furious as he read the truth in her
pitiful face.  As he drove her homeward he
was divided in his mind as to two lines of
conduct.  Should he go back and give these
dealers a bit of his mind, or should he try to
speak words of comfort to the poor young lady
as he left her at his mother's door?  Finally
he decided to do the latter, and therefore as
he opened the carriage door for her to alight he
ventured:

"I ought to have told you, miss, that it's
terrible hard for any one without a connection
to get a footing in the business world.
Dealers always know people who can do work
for them if they require it, and outsiders have
but little chance."  This was a long speech for
Sam to make to a lady, and he only got through
it by looking into his hat steadily all the time
he was speaking.

"Yes," said Doris, "I suppose so.  I am
very much obliged to you, Mr. Austin," she
added gratefully.  "I am sure," she continued,
her pale face lighting up with a smile, "if
these picture-dealers were more like you they
would be much improved."

"If I was a picture-dealer," said Sam to
himself, as he drove off with his empty cab,
thinking over this compliment, "I'd buy the
whole bloomin' lot of pictures at a price that
would ruin me rather than bring tears to the
eyes of that blessed little angel.  It's
horsewhipping, or else shooting, them dealers want,
and I'd give it them if I was the Government,
I would, as sure as my name is Sam Austin."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NEW WORK FOR DORIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEW WORK FOR DORIS.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Have hope, though clouds environ now,
   |    And gladness hides her face in scorn:
   |  Put thou the sadness from thy brow,
   |    No night but hath its morn.
   |                              SCHILLER.

.. vspace:: 2

That was a dark time with Doris.  Long
afterwards she looked back upon it as the
hour of her deepest humiliation, when the tide
of her life was at its lowest ebb, and Giant
Despair held out claw-like hands to seize her
for his own.

She was unsuccessful: the pictures she had
thought so pretty were of no commercial value,
her only hope of making a living for herself,
not to mention her magnificent project of
repaying Bernard Cameron some of the money
of which her father had robbed him, was
completely destroyed.  She had no gift by
means of which she could

   |  Breast the blows of circumstance
   |  And grapple with her evil star,
   |  And make by force her merit known.

And she was friendless, except for the Austins,
and alone in London; moreover, she was
absolutely penniless, nay, worse than that, she
was in debt, not having paid for her food and
lodging for at least three weeks.

Going upstairs as quickly as possible, in
order that she might escape Mrs. Austin's
questions and even her sympathy, which just
then she could not bear, Doris entered her
little room, and, locking the door, flung
herself on her knees by her bedside.

She had no words with which to beseech the
intervention of the All-Powerful; but words
were not needed, her very attitude was a
prayer, her want of words a confession of the
extremity of her need.  It was impossible for
her to do anything more for herself.  She
knelt there and waited for assistance.

Now it happened that Mrs. Austin, on an
errand to her grocer's, meeting her son Sam,
as he was driving away with his empty cab,
learnt the truth about Doris's failure from him,
greatly to her disappointment.

"Oh, poor dear young lady!" she cried,
"what will she do now?  Whatever will she
do now?  Painting was the only thing she
could do?"

"Well, she'll have to do something else,"
said Sam, "since those picture-dealers won't
'ave her work."

"But what else can she do?" ejaculated
Mrs. Austin in consternation.

Sam did not know; but he was obliged to
drive on, having spent more time than he
could afford on Miss Anderson's business that
morning.  Mrs. Austin returned home, and, by
way of comforting Doris, set the kettle on, and
began to prepare a little meal for her.  As she
was thus busily engaged the door-latch was
raised, and a youth entered dressed as a
shop-boy and bearing a family resemblance to the
Austins.

"Good afternoon, aunt," he said, looking
round the room with sharp eyes that noted
everything.

"Good afternoon.  I suppose you are in
want of a bite or a sup?" she remarked
sagaciously.

"Well, I do feel a bit of a sinking here,"
and he made a rapid gesture indicative of
hunger.

"Sit you down then; I'm just making a little
dinner ready, and a cup of tea for my
lady-lodger, and you shall have some too, Sandy, if
you'll wait."

"All right, I'll wait," and so saying he sat
down and watched his aunt as she boiled a
couple of eggs and made tea in a little brown
teapot which had seen many days.

As she worked Mrs. Austin talked, and,
because her mind was full of Doris she spoke
most of her, not exactly revealing her artistic
efforts and subsequent failure to effect a sale of
her pictures, but still graphically portraying her
need of remunerative work.

Sandy listened with scanty attention.  He was
much more interested in the egg and large
cup of tea which his aunt placed before him,
and it seemed as if he were the last person in
the world to do Doris any good.  Indeed,
Mrs. Austin suddenly perceived that her words were
absolutely wasted, and therefore pulled herself
up short, with the exclamation, "I declare, I
might as well talk to this lampshade as to
you!"  She glanced as she spoke at the pretty
crimson shade over the gas-light.  It was
made of crinkled paper, tied together with a
narrow ribbon.

"You never have an idea in your head,
Sandy," she added.

Sandy grinned.  "Who made that lampshade?"
he asked, as he cut the top off his egg.

"What shade?  Oh? the gas-shade!  Miss
Anderson, my lodger, you know, made that for
me one evening, with a bit of crinkled paper
that only cost 2-½*d*.  Very handy she is with
her fingers."

Sandy made no further remark until he had
finished eating and drinking everything that
was placed before him.  "There," he said, at
last, "I've done!  Now then for a look at this
shade," rising to look at the pretty lamp-shade,
tied with a knot of crimson ribbon, which Doris
had made in a few minutes with her clever
fingers, as a small thank-offering for her landlady.

"Well, what do you think?  Isn't it pretty?"
asked Mrs. Austin.

"Pretty?  Yes, well, it's pretty.  I reckon
if your lady-lodger made some of these for our
shop they'd sell."

"Would they now?"  There was eagerness
in the question.  Could this possibly prove to
be a chance of work for poor Miss Anderson?

"Yes.  We sell lots of flimsy silk
lampshades that cost heaps of money.  And
we're often asked for something cheaper.  Our
manager might be inclined to buy some like
this."

"Would he indeed?  Oh, Sandy, Sandy!"  In
her eagerness the good woman caught hold
of his arm.  "Poor dear Miss Anderson does
not know where to turn for a penny.  Could
you get her this work to do, for good pay, do
you think?"

Sandy grinned again.  "You said I never
have an idea in my head," he began teasingly.

"I did.  Yes, I did, but I won't say so
again.  I won't if you'll get my dear young
lady some work that will keep the wolf from
her door."

"The wolf?  What wolf?"  Sandy looked
round with an assumed air of alarm.

"The wolf of hunger."

"I shouldn't have thought you would have
allowed him to come near a lodger of yours."

"Get out with you!" Mrs. Austin pushed
him towards the door.  "Run and see if there
is a chance for Miss Anderson."

"A chance?  Oh, I see what you mean.
Just ask her first if she would be willing to
do the work at a fair price."

"Willing?  She'd jump at it.  But I tell
you what, Sandy, we must not have her
disappointed again.  I won't say anything to her
about it until we know whether she can have
the work and on what terms."

"But the manager will want to see a
specimen," protested Sandy.  "He's a big man.
You can't rush before him with nothing.  He'd
order me off at once for fooling round in that way."

"Specimen?  Oh, well, if you want one,
take this," said Mrs. Austin, carefully taking
down the pretty shade Doris had made, blowing
the dust from it, and wrapping it lightly up in
a huge newspaper.  "Now you must hold it
in this way not to crush it," she said, "and
make as good terms as you can for my young
lady; tell your manager she is a real lady, who
won't do things for nothing."

"All right!"  Sandy darted off with the
shade, and Mrs. Austin went upstairs with
her tea-tray.

Doris opened the door slowly.  Her eyes
were red with weeping, and her hair was
dishevelled and dress untidy.  "Oh, Mrs. Austin,"
she said, "I've been so unfortunate!  No one
will have my pictures.  They are not good
enough to sell----"

"Nay, nay.  That's not it.  But there's no
market for such pretty things.  I know all
about it, my dear young lady.  I met Sam
and he told me.  He is so sorry, he has a
feeling heart, has Sam.  But there, there,
don't you take on so!  Don't cry, dearie!"  She
was crying herself, with sympathy.

Doris had burst into tears, and sat down
weeping as if her heart would break.

"Come! come! we mustn't give way.  It's
always the darkest hour before the dawn," said
the good woman soothingly.

"If only I hadn't wasted all this time, and
used your painting materials!  And now what
shall I do?  What shall I do?" cried Doris.

Mrs. Austin's resolve not to tell her about
the lamp-shade making until Sandy returned
with good news vanished in the stress of this
necessity, and she hastily related to Doris that
her nephew had thought of some paying work
which she might be able to do.

The girl was startled at the idea of such
work.  It was very different from what she
had been attempting; but her downfall was
too real for her to be able to indulge in her
former hopes, and her need of money was too
great for her to be fastidious, she therefore
brightened up a little, and began to talk about
the new project.  At all events this might
provide her with sufficient money for food and
lodgings until she could procure something
better.

The two went on discussing the matter
whilst Doris drank her tea and ate her egg and
bread and butter; and then Mrs. Austin took
the tray down, and waited impatiently for the
return of her nephew.

At last he came in, bringing the manager's
compliments to Miss Anderson, and he begged
her to call upon him the next day.

Doris, therefore, went to the ironmonger's
shop in the morning, was duly shown into
the manager's room, and, after remaining there,
some little time talking over the matter with
him, the result was that she was engaged to
work at lamp-shade making for the firm, in
a little room behind the shop, for eight hours
a day, at a salary commencing at sixteen
shillings a week.

This arrangement Doris thought a more
desirable one than another which would
necessitate her providing her own materials,
making the shades in her attic, and receiving
so much a dozen for them.  She stipulated,
however, that if the shades sold well her salary
should be increased in proportion.

Weeks and months of pretty, if monotonous
work followed for Doris.  Her candle- and
lamp-shades were a decided success, and sold
quickly at low prices.  One window of the
shop was given up for a display of them,
and they made a "feature," or a "speciality,"
which attracted customers.  The head of the
firm, Mr. Boothby, sent for Doris one day,
praised her handiwork, and raised her salary to
a pound a week.

Doris was very thankful for the additional
money, as it enabled her gradually to pay her
kind landlady all she owed, and still have fifteen
shillings a week for her board and lodging.
More than this the good woman would not
take, and as for Sam, he stoutly refused to
be paid anything for the use of his cab on
the picture business.  One favour only he
begged, and that was that Miss Anderson
would give him one of the little pictures he
had endeavoured to assist her to sell.

Doris chose one of the best, and wrote his
name on the back of it, much to his delight.

She became contented, if not happy, as time
went on, knowing that she could earn her
living by work which was not too hard for
her strength; but her old dream of partially
repaying Bernard Cameron was no nearer
fulfilment, for what could she do with only
a few shillings a week for dress and personal
expenditure?  Sometimes, as her fingers
worked busily, her thoughts were turning over
new schemes for earning money, which might
in the future develop into something greater
and more lucrative than what she had in hand
just then; and on a Saturday afternoon or
Sunday, when walking or sitting in Regent's
Park, or more occasionally in Hyde Park,
or even at Richmond or Kew Gardens, her
thoughts would fly to those who loved her,
and she would long to see again her mother
and father, and look once more on the
beloved face of Bernard Cameron.

Did they ever think of her? she wondered.
Would she ever meet them again?  They
could have no possible clue to her whereabouts.
She, buried in a little back room at the
ironmonger's shop for eight hours a day, had small
chance of being seen by any one except
workpeople and shop assistants.  And even if she
were out-of-doors more, walking about in those
North London streets, or in the parks, or
mingling with the "madding crowd" within the
City, what likelihood was there that she would
run across any of the three who, in spite of
the sad separation from her, yet occupied the
largest share of her heart of hearts?  Where
were they now?  Probably her parents were
hiding away somewhere abroad, perhaps in
America or Australia, banished for ever
from England by her father's sin and fear
of the penalty of the laws which he had
broken.  It was wretched to think of them
in their self-imposed, compulsory exile.  Her
mother's words, "Farewell, my child: my
heart would break at parting from you, were it
not that what has happened has broken it
already!" recurred to her, to fill her eyes with
tears, and make her heart ache painfully.

Scarcely less painful was it to think of
Bernard, and of his tender love, because that
was followed by his shrinking back from her
when she last saw him, and by his mother's
upbraiding and harsh cry, "If you marry, you
will take your husband a dowry of shame."  And
again, "Do you mean to say that there
is anything between you, the daughter of a
criminal who shall yet be brought to justice
if there be any power in the arm of the law,
and my son, my stainless, innocent child?"
and then her excited denunciation:

"You bad girl!  Not content with your
father having ruined my boy by stealing
all his money, you are mean enough and
wicked enough to deliberately determine to
cut away his one remaining chance of rising
in the world!  You would ruin him ... you
intend to cling to him as a limpet clings to
a rock ... he won't be able to raise you, poor
lad, but you will drag him down into the mire,
which will close over his head!"

Well, she had given him up; goaded by
those words, following his obvious shrinking
from her, she had left him a message which,
if he loved her still, would sting him to the
quick, and, in any case, had sufficed to sever
them for ever.

It was done now.  She must not brood;
that would do no good, it would only unfit her
for her daily work.  Perhaps in time the
feelings which racked her heart when she
thought of these things would grow blunt,
the hand of Time would still the pain, and
her Heavenly Father would send angels down
to whisper to her words of peace and consolation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ALICE SINCLAIR'S POT-BOILERS.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Yet gold is not all that doth golden seeme.
   |                                    SPENSER.

.. vspace:: 2

"Good-morning!  Some one has told me that
you have a garret to let in this house."  The
speaker, a merry girl a little over twenty, stood
in Mrs. Austin's doorway, smiling up at her,
one hot day in summer.

"A garret, miss.  Who for?" asked Mrs. Austin,
smiling back at her visitor.

"Well, for me," answered the girl, quite gaily.

"For you, miss?" exclaimed Mrs. Austin,
in surprise.  "Why, you don't look like one
who would sleep in a garret!"

"Well, no.  I don't think I should like to
sleep in a garret, unless it were a very pretty
one.  But I want to rent one, if I can find one
with a good skylight.  I want it for artistic
work."

"Oh, indeed, miss!  Are you an artist?"

There was respect, and even awe, in Mrs. Austin's
tone.  She had not imagined that such
a merry-looking lady could be one of the elect.

"Well, yes, in a way I am; and I want to
do something--paint some pictures, you know--in
a quiet, respectable garret, where I shall
not be interrupted.  Is it true that you have
one to let?"

"Yes, miss.  I have one to let.  I had an
artist son once who used to use it.  He's
gone"--Mrs. Austin wiped her eyes with the
corner of her apron--"and since then," she
continued, "I let my young lady lodger have
the use of it for her painting.  Not that she
uses it now,--poor dear!--still, it's supposed
to be hers."

"If she does not use it, would she object
to my having it?"

"I don't know, miss.  I'll just run over
to Boothby & Barton's shop, in the next street,
and ask her.  It is there she works."

"Tell her I shall be immensely obliged if
she will give up the garret to me--that is, if
it suits me--as I particularly want to have a
garret with a good skylight, and I should like
you to be my landlady."  The young lady
smiled again in Mrs. Austin's face.

"Well, miss, you are flattering!"  Mrs. Austin
caught up an old bonnet and proceeded
to put it on.  She looked doubtfully at her
visitor as she did so.  Would it be safe to
ask her to sit down in the house until she
returned?  She thought so, and yet, "One
never knows who strangers are," she said to
herself.  She, therefore, closed the door, locked
it, and put the key in her pocket, saying,
"Perhaps you'll step along with me, miss,
then you'll know sooner if you can have it."

"Very well.  And now," the girl continued,
as they walked down the street, "I must tell
you my name.  I am Miss Sinclair."

"Oh, indeed!  And I am Mrs. Austin."

"How much a week shall I have to pay
you for your attic, if I take it?"

"Well, miss, there is not very much furniture
in it."

"All the better.  I shall require a good
deal of room for my own things."

"Shall you require much attendance?"

"Oh, no, very little!  But people will come
to see me sometimes, and they will bring things
and take them away--there will be a little
wear and tear of your stair carpets."

"I see, miss.  Would six shillings a week
be too much for you to pay?"

"No, I can pay that."  The girl's face
brightened; she had feared the rent would be
heavier.  "And I can give you a month's pay
in advance."

Mrs. Austin looked pleased.  When they
reached Messrs. Boothby & Barton's she went
in alone to see Doris, and speedily returned,
saying Miss Anderson had readily consented
to the arrangement.  She would remove her
few things out of the garret that evening, and
then it would be quite ready for Miss Sinclair.

"That is very kind of her.  She must be
very pleasant," said Miss Sinclair.  "I have
been wondering," she continued, "what work
a lady who paints can find to do in a shop
like this?"

Mrs. Austin told her, for Doris made no
secret of her employment, and the stranger
was greatly interested, and could easily
understand the difficulty she had experienced in
trying to sell her paintings.  "The fact is,
too many people paint," Miss Sinclair said.
"There are nearly as many amateur artists as
there are people to look at their productions.
Your lodger is quite right in taking a more
practical line.  I'm doing that sort of thing
myself."

"Indeed, miss!  What may you be doing?"

Miss Sinclair did not answer, but went
upstairs to look at Mrs. Austin's garret when
they got to the house, and, expressing herself
as very well satisfied, engaged it at once,
saying she would begin to use it on the
morrow.

Accordingly, the following day, just after
Doris had gone to her work, Miss Sinclair
arrived early, together with a couple of boys
bearing great packages, canvas frames, and
millboards.  The boys went to and fro a great
many times, bringing pots of paint, sheets of
gelatine, etc.

Mrs. Austin's eyes opened wide with astonishment
at some of the things which were carried
up her stairs that day, but she did not interfere.
Her new lodger made the boys assist her to
prepare the garret for her purposes and arrange
her work.  Then she sent them away, and
remained alone in the attic for two or three
hours.  When at last she left it she locked
the door, saying to Mrs. Austin, as she passed
her on the stairs, "You may have another key
for the garret, but please do not allow any one
to enter it, or even look in.  I know I can
trust you."  She put her hand in the widow's
as she spoke.

Mrs. Austin rose to the occasion.  "No
one shall enter or look in, miss," she said.
"You have paid for the garret for a month,
and it is yours."

When Doris returned home in the evening,
however, Mrs. Austin confided to her that she
thought Miss Sinclair must be a funny sort
of artist, if indeed she was one at all.

Doris felt a little curious, too, about the girl
who painted with such odd materials.  But
as she came after Doris went to her work
in the mornings, and had usually gone before
Doris returned in the evenings, several weeks
passed before their first meeting.  As time
went on Mrs. Austin told Doris tales of beautiful
oil-paintings being carried out of the garret
and downstairs by men who came for them.

"I only just catch a glimpse of them sometimes,"
she said, "and they fairly stagger me,
they are so gorgeous.  Mountains and lakes,
cattle and running streams, pretty girls and
laughing children, animals of all sorts and I
don't know what besides!  Miss Sinclair must
be a popular artist."

Doris felt a little sceptical.  A young girl
like Miss Sinclair to do such great things all
alone, and so quickly, too!  It seemed very
strange.

"I wonder if they are real paintings?" she said.

"You might almost think she is a magician,
or a fairy godmother, or something or other,"
said Mrs. Austin.  "Oh, yes, they are saleable
goods, for she gets lots of money for them--I
know she does.  She told me she was
getting on so well that she could give me half
a crown a week more for the garret, and
would be glad to do that, for she liked it so
much."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Doris
kindly.  "You deserve every penny, dear Mrs. Austin."

"Eh! dear, there's no one like you, Miss
Anderson.  I am well off to have two such
lodgers--one that pays so much, and the other
that upholds me with good words."

Another evening she said to Doris, "Do you
know, miss, I heard a dealer saying to Miss
Sinclair to-day, 'Well, I'll buy as many
dozens of that picture as you can do for me."'

"Dozens of that picture!"  Doris opened
her eyes widely.  *Dozens*?  What was this
artist who painted dozens of paintings all
alike?

"I'm afraid, miss," continued Mrs. Austin,
reading her thoughts, "that although the
paintings do seem really beautiful to me when
I get a glimpse of them from the garret door,
or pass them as they are being carried out
of the house, they are not what may be called
genuine works of art.  Still, they're very pretty:
and they bring in lots of money!--and what
more do you want?"

What indeed?  Dealers would not buy the
painstaking efforts of amateur artists, and yet
they flocked to a garret to purchase dozens
of pictures, which, to put it mildly, could not
be called genuine works of art.  The public
must buy these things, or the dealers would
not want them.

"What a strange girl Miss Sinclair must
be!" thought Doris, "to work away at that
sort of thing all alone.  And she must be
clever, too.  I wonder how she does it, and
why she does it?"

Doris was soon to know.  Her work grew
slack at the ironmonger's shop.  A rival firm
in the same street had started selling tissue
paper lamp-shades, which were prettier than
those Doris made, and cheaper also.  Messrs. Boothby
& Barton tried to do it as cheaply
but failed, although they reduced Doris's wages
and bought commoner tissue paper for less
money.  Doris tried to improve her shades,
or at least copy those in the rival shop, but
could do neither well, and, disheartened
and dissatisfied, her work grew irksome to her.

It was then extremely hot weather, and
Doris, drooping in her little close workroom,
grew pale and thin.  She needed change of
air and scene, rest and freedom from anxiety
as to ways and means, and she could get none
of these things.  A presentiment that she
would lose her employment weighed heavily
upon her mind: and one night she returned
home in such low spirits that Mrs. Austin
discovered the whole state of affairs.

The good landlady endeavoured to comfort
Doris as best she could, declaring that if she
lost her work something better would turn up.

"And in any case, my dear," she said in her
motherly way, "you must put your trust in the
Lord and He will provide."  And when at
last she left Doris it was with the words,
"Don't lose heart.  You have at least one
friend in the world who, although only a poor
woman, will share her last crust with you."

The next morning, when Miss Sinclair was
working hard in her garret, with her door
locked as usual, Mrs. Austin stood outside,
knocking for admittance.

"If you please, miss, might I speak with
you?" she asked through the keyhole.

The worker within uttered an impatient
exclamation, but opened the door, saying,
with a little sigh, "Well, come in.  I thought
it would come to this sooner or later."

.. _`SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE`:

.. figure:: images/img-109.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE."

   "SHE UTTERED AN EXCLAMATION OF SURPRISE."

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, miss,"
began Mrs. Austin.  Then she uttered an
exclamation of surprise, as she looked round
on the oil paintings propped up on the table,
against the walls, on the old easel, and indeed
everywhere about the room.  Three or four
were duplicates of the same picture, and
the colours were very vivid and brilliant.
Most of them were landscapes; but there were
one or two ladies in ball-dresses, and a couple
of gaily dressed lovers.

"What do you think of them?" asked Alice
Sinclair, who stood by the easel, a slight, tired
girl in a huge, paint-smeared apron that
completely covered her dress, which fell open at
the throat, revealing a pretty white neck.

"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated the landlady.
"I never saw such pictures!  Have you done
them, miss?"

"Yes, I have painted them--that is, I
mean, I have coloured them.  Do you like
them, Mrs. Austin?"

The landlady thought of her son Silas, and
the pretty sketches Doris had taken such pains
over, and her answer came slowly, "They'd
just suit some people.  Now, my son Sam,
who was never satisfied with his brother's
paintings, would go wild over these."

"Is Mr. Sam an artist?"

"No, he's a cab-driver."

Alice began to laugh rather hysterically,
and, turning playfully to Mrs. Austin, she
pushed her gently into the Windsor armchair.
"Sit there," she said, "and listen to me.  I
like you because you speak the truth!  I'm a
bit of a sham, you know, and so are my pictures,
and you have found me out."

"I'm sure I beg pardon, miss."

"No, it is I who must beg your pardon for
using your garret for such a purpose."

"The garret's no worse for it, miss.  And
there'll be lots and lots of people who will be
that pleased with your pictures!"

"Yes, there are more Sams in the world
than Silases!" said Alice, with a little sigh.
"And I give people what they want for their
money."

"Yes, of course, miss.  When my boys
were little 'uns they used to spend their pennies
over humbugs.  The money soon went, and
so did the humbugs.  But they were quite
satisfied, having had their humbugs."

"Just so--and my pictures are like the
humbugs, only they don't vanish, they stay.
I'm a bit of a humbug myself," continued
Alice ruefully.  "I must say this, however,"
she added, "what I do I do from a good
motive----"

"And the motive's everything," interposed
the widow.

"Mine is to make money--and I succeed in
making heaps."

"Oh, but, miss, surely to get money isn't
a very high motive, if I may say so."

"But I did not tell you what I want money
for.  It is in order that I may be able to
support and maintain one of the greatest of
God's artists, whilst he works at his
heaven-sent tasks.  He would have been starved to
death by now, or would have had to abandon
his work, if it had not been for this!"  She
waved her hand towards the pictures.  "I
hate the work.  I loathe it," she went on, with
a little stamp of her foot, "and never more so
than now--for, to tell you the truth, I am feeling
ill and overworked--yet I am obliged to go
on, as my artist has only half finished his
picture.  *I must go on*."

"But not to kill yourself," interrupted
Mrs. Austin, whose opinion of her lodger had gone
through various stages since she entered the
garret.  At first she disapproved of Miss
Sinclair's work, then greatly admired the noble,
self-sacrificing spirit of the worker, and now
the latter's ill looks appealed to her motherly
heart.

"Oh, it does not matter about me," said
Alice, with a little tired smile; "but I must
not waste any more time in talking.  A man
will be here for these pictures in a couple of
hours, and I haven't quite finished them off.
Why did you come?  I mean, what did you
come for?"

"Bless me!  I'm forgetting.  I came to
ask you if you could help poor dear Miss
Anderson, who is in trouble.  Her wages have
been reduced, and she has reason to think
she will lose her employment."

"I should think she is about tired of it,"
said Alice.

"She will have no means of livelihood if she
loses her work," continued the landlady.  "She
is very poor, and gets very anxious about the
future.  She looks so thin and pale.  I made
so bold, miss, as to think that perhaps you
would allow her to assist you, or even that
you would suggest to her that she could do
so in time."

Alice smiled, and, taking the good woman's
hands in both hers, cried:

"You dear old soul!  Here am I, ill
through overwork, and earning lots of
money, and you ask me to help a girl
who is ill from want of work and want
of money!  Of course I must help her.
That belongs to the fitness of things.  You
must go now.  I will stay a little longer
than usual to-day, and when Miss Anderson
comes in ask her, please, to step up to my
garret."

"Oh, thank you, miss.  Thank you very much."

"But remember," said Alice finally, "that
I don't expect Miss Anderson will like the
idea of joining me in my work.  She will
think that I am a sham and that my pictures
are sham pictures, and will have nothing to
do with me, but will leave me to make my
pot-boilers all alone."

"She won't do that!  Not if you tell
her what you've told me," continued Mrs. Austin.

"Perhaps you had better tell her about
that--I don't think I could tell the tale a
second time," said Alice, with a little wan
smile.  "Tell her everything, dear Mrs. Austin,
and then if she cares to come to me----"

"She will--she will," and so saying the
good woman hurried downstairs.

That evening, as Alice knelt on her garret
floor, sand-papering the edges of her pictures,
in order that the paper on the boards might
not be detected, there was a little knock at the
garret door, and in answer to her "Come in"
Doris entered.

The two girls looked at each other: one
from her lowly position, flushed with exertion,
the other standing just inside the doorway,
with outstretched hand and a smile on her
beautiful face.

"I have come," said Doris.  "Will you let
me help you?"

Alice rose from her knees, and took the
outstretched hand in hers.  "Do you know
everything?  Has Mrs. Austin told you
everything?" she asked.

"Yes.  I honour you.  And the work that
is good enough for you is good enough for me.
Besides I--I have been dismissed from my
employment.  My lamp-shade work has failed,
at last----"  Doris broke down a little, remembering
her despair, but clung to the proffered
hands.

"Poor dear!"  Alice kissed her, and from
that moment they were friends.





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.. _`DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   DORIS AND ALICE WORK TOGETHER.

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..

   |  He that is thy friend indeed,
   |  He will help thee at thy need.
   |                      *Old Proverb*.

.. vspace:: 2

A very beautiful thing is true friendship.
History and mythology give us many notable
examples--for instance, David and Jonathan,
Damon and Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, and
so on.  Man was not meant to live alone.  All
cannot marry, but no one need be without a
friend.  Our Lord Himself loved one disciple
more than all the others, and made him a
friend.  "Friendship is love without wings,"
says a German proverb, and certainly it is
often more stable and more enduring.

The friendship between Doris Anderson and
Alice Sinclair began warmly, and gave promise
of growing apace.  They were both young and
comparatively friendless, they had both seen
much trouble, and both were compelled to
work hard and continuously.  In some respects
alike, their characters were in others dissimilar:
in fact, they were complementary to each other.
Doris was gentle and good-tempered, affectionate
and reserved, painstaking and conscientious:
in fact, truly religious.  Alice, on the
other hand, was lively, almost boisterous,
sometimes passionate, yet loving withal, and frank,
clever and enterprising, but not very scrupulous,
and though religious extremely reserved
about it.

"I must tell you exactly how I came to make
imitation oil-paintings," said Alice candidly, as
she sat on the three-legged stool in her garret
that first evening, with Doris in the Windsor
chair beside her.  "I was forced into it by
necessity.  I am an orphan, you must know,
and I live with my dear elder brother Norman.
He is an artist--a real gifted, talented artist:
he can paint such glorious pictures!  But they
don't sell yet.  The fact is, the British public is
so foolish!"  She tossed her curly head as she
spoke.  "It--it prefers these," waving her
hand towards the artificial oil paintings.  "And
meantime," she continued, "meantime, Norman
and I have come to the end of our resources.
He doesn't know.  He is such a dear old
muddle-head about business matters that he
thinks the ten pounds he gave me last
Christmas is still unfinished!"

She laughed--it was characteristic of her,
Doris found, to laugh when others would cry.
"And I had been so puzzled," Alice continued,
"as to how I should be able to find the means
of subsistence for us both.  For I had long
known Norman hadn't another five-pound-note
that he could put his hands upon.  I looked in
his purse often, when he was asleep, and in
the secret drawer of his writing-table, which
he uses as a cash-box, and which he fondly
imagines no one can open except himself.
Don't look so shocked!  Motive is everything,
and I don't pry about from curiosity, but
simply to keep the dear old fellow alive and
myself incidentally.  Oh, where was I?" she
paused for a moment in order to recover breath,
for she talked with great rapidity.  "Oh, I
know, I was saying we had come to the end
of our resources.  I had sold my watch and
my hair--oh, yes, I didn't mind that.  It is
much less trouble now it is short, though I
have to put it up in curlers at night, which
makes it rather spiky to sleep upon.  However,
I am always so tired that I can sleep on
anything.  And, to cut a long story short, I sold
everything I could lay my hands upon that
Norman would not be likely to miss.  Then
I saw in a magazine, in the Answers to
Correspondents, that very striking imitation oil
paintings could be made in a certain way, which
would sell well amongst ignorant, uncultured
people, and, knowing what numbers of such
folk there are, I determined to try to make
them."  She paused for breath.

Doris said nothing.  Her blue eyes were
fixed upon the other's face and she was reading
it, and reading also between the lines of her
story as she listened to her talk.

"I practised the work at home first," said
Alice, "until I could do it properly, and had
secured a few customers.  But I was nearly
found out, for that dear old stupid brother of
mine must needs take it into his head that
a very old engraving he wanted was in the
attic--it wasn't, Doris!  Pity me!  I had turned
it into one of my oil-paintings, and it had been
sold for five shillings!  Norman went to search
in the attic, and was amazed to find lots of
my things, pot-paint, and so on, about the
place, which made him almost suspicious for
a time.  But, happily, his painting absorbed
him again, and he forgot about the queer things
in the attic.  However, I thought it would be
better to avoid such a risk in the future, and
so went, one morning, to search for a garret
which I could rent, and in which I should be
able to work by day.  When I had fixed upon
this one, and it was settled that I should have
it, I had to make some excuse to Norman for
my long absences from home--don't ask me
what I said; I mean to tell him the whole
truth one day, and then, perhaps, he'll despise
me!  I cannot help that.  It doesn't matter
about me."  She tossed her head, as if
dismissing the idea at once.  "What does matter,"
she continued very earnestly, "is, that I am
maintaining my dear old Norman, while he is
painting his beautiful picture.  He will live,
and his picture will be painted--and only I
shall be in disgrace.  I don't care!" but tears
were in her eyes.

"Disgrace!"  Doris leaned forward and
caught hold of the small hands, hard and
discoloured with work and paint.  "Disgrace!
I should think he will honour you, for your
love and cleverness and self-sacrifice.  He will
say you have made him.  He will thank God
for such a sister."

But the other shook her head.  "You don't
know Norman," she said.  "He would not
mind dying, and he could give up finishing
his picture sooner than endure the thought that
I had 'gulled' that poor, stupid, credulous
British Public--at least the uneducated section
of it.  He has a great reverence for truth and
sincerity, and he hates and abhors a lie and
a sham."

"Why do you do it, then?"

"I am forced," returned Alice plaintively.
"We *must* live.  And I want him to finish
his picture, yes, and others.  I hope he will
have more than one in the Academy next year.
I want him to be great--a great artist,
recognised by all the world."

"How you must love him!" exclaimed Doris.
"And what faith you have in his gift for
painting!"

"I have no one except him," said Alice,
simply.  "He is father, mother, and brother
to me.  And he has a great gift.  I believe
he will win fame, and be one of the celebrities
of the age--if I can keep him alive meanwhile
with my pot-boilers.  But now about yourself,
will you help me?"

"Certainly.  Only too gladly.  I also have
a most excellent reason for earning money."

"What is it?  Have you any one depending
upon you?  A parent perhaps?  Or a brother
or sister?"

"No, I have no one like that.  I stand
alone!"  Doris sighed deeply.  When Alice
was talking of her brother she had said to
herself, "If I had only a relation to work for
like that how happy I should be!"

"Poor Doris!--you will allow me to call
you Doris, won't you?--you shall never stand
alone any more.  I will be your friend."

"Will you?  But perhaps you wouldn't,
if you knew all.  I am under a cloud, and I
cannot--cannot tell you everything."

Alice looked quickly and searchingly at her,
as the unhappy words fell slowly, tremulously
from her lips; and there was that in Doris's
expression which reassured the artist's sister.

"Tell me nothing if you prefer," she said,
"but come and work with me every day here.
You shall be well paid, and you will have my
friendship----"

"Which will be worth more than the pay!"
cried Doris delightedly.  "Oh, how glad I
am!  How very glad I am!  I thank you a
thousand times!"  In the intensity of her
gratitude she raised the other's hand to her
lips.

Deeply touched, Alice threw her arms round
her neck and kissed her.  "Now we are
friends," she said, "and chums!  We shall get
through lots of work together."

When they were a little calmer Doris explained
the process, as she called it, by which
her "pot-boilers" were made.  She bought
prints, both plain and coloured, and mounted
them on stretched canvas frames, or on thick
mill-boards, being very careful to exclude all
air bubbles from between the board and the
paper.  Then she carefully rubbed the edges
with sandpaper, in order to conceal the edge
of paper; and afterwards the surface was
covered with a solution of prepared gelatine,
upon which the picture was easily coloured
with paint, and made to look as much as
possible like a genuine oil-painting.  The
coloured prints were less trouble, because they
had simply to be painted as they really were
underneath the gelatine.  The plain prints,
on the other hand, required taste and judgment
in the selection of colour and its arrangement.

Doris was able to do this last extremely
well, as she knew how to paint much better
than Alice, who had never attempted anything
of the sort before she embarked on her present
undertaking.  For Alice had only watched her
brother painting, and his method was widely
different from hers.  The dealers who bought
her pictures paid £2 a dozen for them, and
took them away to frame and sell for at least
fifteen shillings or £1 each.  That the sale of
them was good was evidenced by the dealers'
quick return to the garret with further orders.

As for the business arrangement between
the girls, Alice began by giving Doris a weekly
salary for assisting her; but as they prospered
more and more, the arrangement was altered,
and Doris received a third of all the profits
they made--more she would not take, for, as
she said, she brought no capital into the
business, nor connection, as did Alice.

Weeks and months passed away, whilst the
two who worked together in Mrs. Austin's
garret became sincerely and devotedly attached
to each other.  Alice often talked freely to
Doris of her beloved artist brother, and told
how when one beautiful picture was finished,
he began another, in the hope that he would
have two or three ready for the Royal Academy
the next year.  But Doris never told her
secret, for her dread lest Alice should turn
from her if she knew of her father's crime was
always sufficient to close her mouth about the
past; and neither could she tell of the great aim
of her life which was to make at least some little
reparation to Bernard Cameron, as to do so
would necessitate the sad disclosure of how he
had been robbed.  She was therefore very
reticent, which sometimes chafed and irritated
Alice, who was, as we have seen, so very frank.

But the quarrels of lovers are the renewal
of love.  And after every little coolness the
two became more devoted to each other than ever.





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.. _`AN UNEXPECTED MEETING`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

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..

   |  Have hope, though clouds environ now,
   |    And gladness hides her face in scorn;
   |  Put thou the shadow from thy brow,
   |    No night but hath its morn.
   |                            SCHILLER.

.. vspace:: 2

It was a dull Sunday in November, cold, too,
and damp and comfortless.  Grey was the
prevailing colour out-of-doors; the clouds were
grey, so, too, were the leafless trees and bushes
in Kew Gardens,--a dirty, brownish grey.
And grey appeared the pale-faced Londoners,
who sought in the nation's gardens for
recreation and beauty.

In the Palm House certainly there was vivid,
beautiful green in the fine trees and tropical
plants collected there.  It was very warm,
too, and over the faces of those who entered
tinges of colour spread and stayed, whilst smiles
broke out, like sunshine illuminating all around.
But it was too enervating to remain there long,
and Bernard Cameron, who had wandered
alone through the place, not excepting the
high galleries, hurried out of the house at last,
and breathed more freely when once more
outside in the damp greyness of the gardens.

"It is a heated, unnatural, artificial life in
there," he said to himself, "and does not
appeal to me as does the beauty of the Temperate
House, with its healthy green in trees and
plants, and, at this time of the year, its masses
of brightly coloured chrysanthemums."

He walked off quickly in the direction of
the Temperate House, looking closely at all
those he met or passed upon the way.  "I
never see Doris," he said to himself.  "I
never, never see her!  She is not among the
workers in London, so far as I can find
out--though certainly the field is so vast that I
have scarcely touched it in my search for
her--neither is she in any pleasure resort.
Sometimes I think she must have left London, and
that she may have returned to Yorkshire.
But I, having obtained a situation at a school
at Richmond, must remain here for the present.
Oh, Doris!  Doris!  Why did you leave me?
Could you not have trusted my love for you?
Why, oh, why did you send me that cruel
message?  No doubt mother had irritated you,
yet I had given you nothing but love!"  The
greyness of the day seemed concentrated in his
despairing face as he said this.  He looked ten
years older than he did on that bright, glad
evening--his last happy day--when he
proposed to Doris upon the hill at Askern Spa.
His clothes were a little worn and untidy.  He
had grown thin, and there were sharp lines
indicative of care and anxiety upon his face.
His dark brown hair was longer, too, than he
used to wear it, and he had all the appearance
of one who had come down in the world after
having had an unusually sharp tussle with
fortune.

He had been wandering about for hours
that Sunday, having a day's leave of absence
from the school, and he felt tired and
disheartened, for wherever he went he looked
for Doris, and nowhere could he find her.  He
was, therefore, glad when, upon entering the
Temperate House, he was able to find a vacant
seat, where he could rest undisturbed.  It was
most people's luncheon time, and there were
not many in the House just then--the other
seats were occupied, certainly, but they were
a little distance off.  Bernard felt the comparative
seclusion very pleasant; he closed his eyes
in order to rest them, although, indeed, the
green around was very refreshing to look
upon, and, once again, he fell into a reverie--a
sad one now, for he was thinking of his
mother, who was so hard and bitter about
Doris and her parents.  Terrible had been
the scene when, in spite of Mrs. Cameron's
earnest request that he should do so, Bernard
refused to prosecute John Anderson.

"Then you will be as bad as he!" cried
the incensed woman.  "You will be compounding
a felony," she went on wildly.  "You
will be breaking the law of the land."

"Nay, nay, mother.  Come," he answered,
"look at the matter reasonably.  My prosecuting
Mr. Anderson will not restore the money to me."

"But it will cause him to be punished," she
exclaimed.  "That is what we want--we want
him to be made to suffer."

"*I* do not want him to surfer."

"You're so foolish, Bernard, so very foolish!"
screamed Mrs. Cameron, scarcely knowing
what she said.  "It's that daughter of his
you are thinking about.  I know it is.  You
are perfectly infatuated with her."

"Will you please keep her out of this
discussion?" asked Bernard.

But his mother was unreasonable, and would
drag Doris in, time after time, telling him that
she was a chip of the same block as John
Anderson, saying, "Like father, like daughter,"
and declaring that she would never consent to
his marrying Doris if there were not another
woman in the kingdom.

Bernard was as patient as he could possibly
be, but at length, finding it impossible to
endure any more such talk, he caught up his
hat and went out, with his mother's parting
words ringing in his ears.

"Unless you prosecute that rogue, John
Anderson, and give me your promise that you
will never marry his daughter, my house shall
be your home no longer: you shall not sleep
another night under my roof!"

Hard words! stinging words!  They seemed
to ring in Bernard's ears again, as, sitting
there on a seat in the central walk of the
Temperate House in Kew Gardens under
the shade of a fine Norfolk Island pine, he
thought about them sadly.  No wonder was
it that when they were uttered they drove him
immediately--and he thought for ever--from
his mother's house.  Since then he had come
to London and obtained an ill-paid assistant
mastership in a suburban school, and now
he spent all his time searching for Doris, yet
in vain.  "I have lost her," he said to himself,
"I have lost her in this huge metropolis.  Yet
I forbore to prosecute her father for her sake:
and for her sake I am an outcast from home,
a mere usher in a school, earning my daily
bread in the outskirts of this city!"

A great longing to see the girl he loved
once more filled his whole heart; he longed
to see her inexpressibly.

And just then she came.  Talk about
telepathy, about magnetism, about the hypnotism
of will as people may, can anyone explain how
it is that immediately before a longed-for
person, or a longed-for letter arrives, that
person or that letter is prominently present in
the yearning mind?  The same thing is seen
intensified in answers to prayers.  The one
who prays longs unutterably for the boon he
asks.  It is given; and he thanks God and
knows that he has received an answer to
prayer.  And it may also be that He Who
alone knows the heart of man, is continually
answering the unspoken prayers of those others
who long unutterably for those things which
yet they do not ask in words.

So Doris came, walking straight down the
central path in the Temperate House, talking
to Alice Sinclair, or rather listening, whilst
Alice prattled to her about the trees and
flowers.

"Look!  See, there is a poor tired Londoner
asleep," said the merry voice.  "He has been
somebody's darling once," she added in a lower
tone, which Bernard could just hear.

"Hush!  He will hear you.  Why--oh!----"  Doris
opened her eyes wide, a look of apprehension
came into them, and she reeled as if
she would have fallen.

.. _`134`:

"Doris!  Doris!"  With a glad cry Bernard
sprang to his feet, holding out his hands.
"Doris!"

The girl recovered her presence of mind
first.  She touched Bernard's hands for a
moment, and then, releasing them, observed to
Alice, with forced calmness, "This gentleman
is an old acquaintance of mine from Yorkshire."

"An acquaintance!  Oh, Doris!"  Bernard's
voice expressed his chagrin, nay, more, his
consternation.  He had found Doris at last.
But she was changed: she was no longer his
Doris.  He had slipped out of her life, and she
had adapted herself to the altered circumstances.
Glancing at her quickly, sharply, he perceived
that she looked well, and even happy.  The
unwonted exercise and the fresh air of Kew
had done her good and brought a pretty colour
into her cheeks.  She was with her dear friend
Alice, and the delightfulness of mutual sympathy
and love had caused her eyes to sparkle and
her step to regain its buoyancy.  Besides, the
meeting with her lover, calmly though she
appeared to take it, had brought back a tide
of young life in her veins and imparted to her
a sweet womanliness.  Altogether she looked
quite unlike the drooping, heartbroken Doris
whom Bernard had last seen, and whom he
had been picturing to himself as unchanged.

"Allow me to introduce you to my friend,
Miss Sinclair," said Doris, disregarding his
protest.  "Mr. Cameron, Miss Sinclair," she
said, adding, "Mr. Cameron comes from
Yorkshire."

Alice bowed and held out her hand, in her
usual good-natured way.

"We thought you were a poor, tired
Londoner," she remarked with a smile, "and
lo! you come from the North."

"I live in Richmond now," Bernard remarked
quietly.  "I have a--position in a school there."

"Indeed?"  Alice was regarding him
critically.  He was a gentleman, handsome,
too, and he looked good.  But he was also
rather shabby: there was no doubt about that;
and she did not think Doris looked particularly
pleased to see him.  There was an expression
of apprehension in her eyes which Alice had
never seen there before.

"Do you live here?" Bernard asked Doris.

"No, no.  We have only come over for the day."

"Where are you living?"

Doris made no reply.  She stopped the
answer Alice was about to make by a
beseeching look.

"We have not any time to spare for visitors,"
she said, rather lamely.

"Will you allow me to walk with you a little
way?" he asked.  "Or perhaps," he hesitated,
looking at Alice uneasily--"perhaps you will
sit here with me a little while?  There
is--is--room for three on this seat."

Alice good-naturedly came to his assistance.
"Doris," she said, in her brisk, businesslike
way, "sit down and have a chat with your friend
while I go over there to the chrysanthemum
house to look at the flowers.  I do so love
chrysanthemums."

"And so do I," said Doris quickly.  "I will
come too."

"Doris!"  Bernard's exclamation was pitiful.

Alice felt for him, but concluding Doris did
not wish to be left, she said briskly, "We will
all go there.  Come on."

Accordingly they all went to look at the
chrysanthemums, amongst which they talked
mere commonplaces for a little while.

Bernard was miserably disappointed.  Doris
was uncomfortable and frightened--the shadow
of her father's sin seemed to rest over her,
filling her with shame.  She did not know
whether Bernard was prosecuting her father or
not, and feared that he might say something
which would betray the wretched secret to
Alice.  Even if he regretted the way he shrank
from her when hearing of her father's
misappropriation of his money, or if he wished, as
seemed evident, to renew their former relations,
she could not and would not ruin his life, as
his mother had said she would ruin it by
marrying him.  Poor he was, and shabby.  Not
a detail of this escaped her--his worn clothes
and baggy trousers touched her deeply; but
at least he bore an unblemished and honourable
name.  Was she to smirch it?  Was she to
bring to him, as his mother had said, a dowry
of shame?  No, no.  His mother's words were
still ringing in her ears.

Stung beyond endurance by the remembrance,
Doris raised her head and confronted Bernard
proudly.

"Mr. Cameron," she said, "you must see--I
mean, do you think that it is quite right
to--accompany us--when----"

"When I am not wanted," he suggested,
bitterly.

"I did not say that exactly.  But----"

"You meant it."  Bernard's eyes flashed.
He, too, was stung now.  "I will say 'Good-bye,'"
he said, raising his hat.

The girls bowed, and, turning away, walked
quietly out of the great house, leaving Bernard
to return to his seat a crushed and miserable man.

He thought that it was all over between
him and Doris.  His mother had spoken the
truth in saying the girl had declared she would
never marry him.  He need not have grieved
his mother by refusing to prosecute her father:
he need not have lost his home for that.
Doris no longer loved him; she no longer
loved him at all.  He had lost his money, and
he had lost Doris.  That was the worst blow
that had ever befallen him; nothing mattered
now, nothing at all: he was in despair.  It
was far worse to have met Doris and found
her altogether estranged from him than not to
have met her at all.

"She wasn't like Doris," he said to himself,
miserably.  "She wasn't like my Doris at all.
It might have been another girl; it might have
been another girl altogether."  The hot tears
came into his eyes, and he buried his face
in his hands that others might not see them.

"Oh, don't, don't be so unhappy!" said
a voice in his ear, suddenly.  "Didn't you
notice that her manner was forced--unnatural?"

"Oh!"  Bernard rose, and stood looking
wonderingly into Alice Sinclair's face.  It was
full of kindness, and seemed to him, then,
one of the sweetest faces he had ever seen.

"I have returned," she said in a low,
confidential tone, "ostensibly to find a glove I
dropped somewhere, but really in order to tell
you our address.  For I think--that is, I
imagine, you might call to see her one of these
days."

"Oh, can I?  Do you think it is possible?"

"Certainly.  This is a free country.  Call
by all means.  Doris was awfully sad a few
minutes after we left you.  I am sure she was
repenting her harshness to you.  She was
crying, actually crying.  And you looked so
miserable when we left you, so I thought I
might try to help you both."

"You are good!" cried Bernard, taking
one of her hands in his, and pressing it warmly.

The next minute he was alone, with an
envelope in his hand, upon which was written,
"Miss Sinclair, c/o. Mrs. Austin, 3, Haverstock
Road, King's Cross, London, N."

"How good she is!" Bernard thought.
"And what a difference there is now!--I am
no longer in despair."  He looked round.
What a change had come over everything!
The huge conservatory in which he stood was
a vast palace of beauty: birds--robins mostly--were
hopping about and singing a few notes
here and there.  The visitors looked very
happy, and through the glass he could see
gardens that were dreams of loveliness.  It
was not a dull, grey world now: oh, no, but a
very pleasant place, full of boundless possibilities!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN ARTIST'S WRATH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN ARTIST'S WRATH.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  A man may buy gold too dear.
   |                          *Proverb*.

.. vspace:: 2

"What does this mean, Alice?  Is it here
you work?  What are you doing?"

"Oh, Norman!  You here?  Oh, dear!"  Alice
looked up in dismay from her work on
the floor of the garret to the tall figure standing
in the doorway, with head bent to prevent its
being scalped by the low top.  "You shouldn't
have come, dear," she faltered.

"Shouldn't have come!  I think it is time
I did come!  Great Scott!  What are you
murdering here?"  He had reached the middle
of the room with two strides, and was stooping
over a brilliantly limned "oil-painting" Alice
had just finished, looking at it with eyes blazing
with wrath.  "Did you do this?" he demanded.
"Did you do this atrocious thing?"

"Yes--yes, Norman, I did," faltered his sister.

"Then I'm ashamed of you!  Here, let me
put it on the fire-back."  Lifting the picture,
he strode towards the fireplace with it.

"Don't, Norman!  Don't!  You must not!
It--it is *sold*!"

"Sold!" cried the artist.  "What do you
mean?  Can any one be so debased as to
have bought a thing like that?" he demanded.

Alice began to laugh a little wildly.  "Oh,
Norman, how innocent you are!" she cried.
"Don't you know that some one has said that
the population of this island consists of men,
women, and children, mostly fools?  There
are a great many more who admire and buy
'works of art' like mine than there are to
appreciate such paintings as yours!"

"You little goose!" he exclaimed,
impatiently.  "Are you content to cater for
simpletons, aye, and in the worst way possible,
by pandering to their foolish, insensate tastes?"

Alice was silent a moment, and then she
said, rather lamely, "It pays me to do so."

Her brother would not deign to notice that.
He began to walk up and down the room,
with long strides and a frown on his face.  He
was above the average height of men and
broad in proportion, and his irregular features
were redeemed from plainness by the beauty of
his expression and his smile, which was by no
means frequent.

Doris was painting at her easel on one side
of the room, but the visitor did not appear to
see her; his mind was absorbed with the
distasteful idea of his sister demeaning herself to
cater for the uneducated masses.

"It isn't as if you were trying to raise
them," he burst out again.  "You are not
teaching them what beauty is--you are
pandering to their faults!  Leading them
astray.  Making them believe good is bad
and bad is good!  For, don't you know"--he
stopped short by his sister's side, and laid a
heavy hand on her shoulder--"don't you know
that every time you make them admire a false
thing--a thing that ought not to be admired--you
rob them of the power to appreciate what
is truly great and beautiful?  It is a crime--a
crime you are committing in the sight of God
and man!"  He gave her another frown, and
began again to walk up and down quite
savagely.

Alice looked wistfully towards Doris, but
the latter was painting steadily on, with
heightened colour and hands that trembled,
in spite of the effort she was making to control
herself.

Norman then began to examine the pictures
standing about in the room in varying stages
of completion.

"Ha!  I see!" he said, scoffingly.  "The
way you get your drawings is to buy prints,
and stick them on mill-boards.  Yes, and then
you smear them over with gelatine and colour
them with this wretched paint.  How is it you
are not found out?" he continued, looking
sharply at her, and then turning to examine
the edges of one of the pictures.  "Ha!  I
see!  Sandpaper!  So you rub the edges
smooth with that!  You little cheat!  You
defraud your purchasers!  I really--you must
give up this work at once.  Do you hear?
You must give it up forthwith--*immediately*!"

"I cannot, Norman!"

"Why not?"

"It pays so well.  Sometimes we get eight
or nine pounds a week by it."

"Pays well!  Eight or nine pounds a
week!"  There was intense scorn in the
artist's tones.  "So, for money--mere
money--you will sell your soul!"

"Nonsense!  We must live.  I pay for
food--your food and mine--and our clothes,
yes, and rent, gas, coal, and the servant's
wages, with this money."

He stared at her.  "I gave you money for
those things," he said.  "I'm sure I gave you
ten pounds not so very long since."

"Last Christmas!  Nearly twelve months
ago!  You are so impracticable, Norman.
That ten pounds was used in a few days, to
pay bills that were owing."

"You never asked me for more."

"Could you have given it me if I had?"

A dusky red stole over the artist's face.  He
became conscious of the presence of a stranger.
"This lady must pardon us," he said to his
sister, with a glance at Doris, "for speaking
of our private affairs before her."

"Oh, she does not mind, I'm sure," said
Alice.  "May I introduce my brother to you, Doris?"

Doris bowed coldly.  She went on with her
painting, begging them not to mind her being
there.  "It is most important that the work
should be finished to-night," she said, "and
I must work the harder because Alice is being
hindered."

"I fear I am the cause of that," rejoined
the artist, quite meekly.  "But I have had
some difficulty in finding the place where my
sister works, and now that I am here I must
say what I think."

Doris made no rejoinder, and, having cast
an admiring glance at her winsome face and
pretty figure, he turned to Alice again, saying,
"No consideration of mere money should
prevent your instantly ceasing this disgraceful
work."

Alice began to pout.  "It's all very fine
talking like that, Norman," she said, "but how
do you propose to keep us if--if I abandon
this?"  She looked from him to her work.

"How did we live before?  I suppose we
can exist in the same way."

"We cannot!  I have nothing more to
sell, or--pawn."

"If only my paintings would sell!"  He
began to walk up and down again.  He was
thinking now, with huge disgust, that he had
been living for many months upon the proceeds
of sham oil-paintings.  It was a bitter thought.
"Better to have died," he muttered, "than to
have lived so!"  Aloud he said, "But I must
insist upon your giving up this work.  It is
wicked, positively wicked work!  You must
not do it."

"I cannot give it up.  I must do it."

"You must not!  You shall not!  I really----  Upon
my word, if you do such things you
shall not live with me!"  He was in great
anger now, the veins upon his temples stood
out like cords; he could scarcely refrain from
rending into pieces the hateful "frauds" upon
which he was looking.

A cry of pain escaped from his sister's lips.
She was pale as death.  Her brother had never
been angry with her before.  Their love for
each other had been ideal.

Then Doris spoke, turning from her easel
and looking up at the artist with flashing
eyes.

"There are vipers," she said, "which sting
the hands that feed them.  Alice, dear," she
added, with a complete change of tone and
manner, "come to me."  She held out her
arms, and Alice flew into them, clinging to
her and crying as if her heart would break.
"Go!" said Doris to the artist, pointing to
the door.  "Go, and live alone with your
works of art.  You cannot recognise or appreciate
the self-denial and love which is in the
heart of one of the noblest sisters in the
world!"

.. _`"GO!  YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE"`:

.. figure:: images/img-147.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'GO!  YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"

   "'GO!  YOU CANNOT APPRECIATE SELF-DENIAL AND LOVE.'"

Norman Sinclair went out of the room as
meekly as a lamb, all his wrath leaving him
as he did so.  Indeed, to tell the truth, he felt
very small and despicable, as he mentally
looked at himself with Doris Anderson's eyes,
and saw a man, who had been fed for many
months by the hard, if mistaken, toil of his
young sister, threatening her with the loss of
her home in his house if she would not abandon
her only source of income.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONSCIENCE MONEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONSCIENCE MONEY.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

No one should act so as to take advantage of the ignorance of
his neighbours.--CICERO.

.. vspace:: 2

After Norman Sinclair went away Doris
comforted Alice as well as she could, and then
both girls set to work to finish the pictures
which a dealer would send for that evening.
Alice, however, performed her part half-heartedly.
Through her ears were still ringing
her brother's fierce denunciation of her
employment.  It was a crime; she was a cheat,
defrauding the ignorant, making them believe
bad was good and good was bad; for money
she was selling her soul.  Oh, it was terrible
to remember!  Her tears fell down and smeared
the brilliant greens and yellows, blues and reds,
upon her mill-boards.

Doris, seeing what was going on, felt
extremely uncomfortable.  She imagined that
Alice was fretting because her brother had
practically turned her out of his house, and her
wrath against him increased.  But for some
time she could not stop working in order to
give utterance to her feelings; the men would
come soon for the pictures which must be ready
for them, and they had to be finished off, or
the way they were made would be detected.
So the work went on until evening came, and
with it the men from the dealers, who packed
up the sham oil-paintings and carried them off.

Mrs. Austin had been upstairs more than
once, to see if her young ladies, as she called
them, were ready for tea--which, in those days
they usually took together in the sitting-room
before Alice went home--and the landlady's
importunity caused them both to leave the
garret at length and descend to the sitting-room.

"Now, darling, you shall have some tea,"
said Doris, affectionately.  "Sit there in the
armchair.  I will bring you a cup."

She did so, and then, pouring out one for
herself, sat down on the stiff horse-hair
sofa, and began to make plans for the future.

"You and I, Alice," she said, "shall always
live together."

"Yes," said Alice, slowly, and with a little
hesitation, which the other did not appear to
notice.

"Your brother has, by his own act and
deed"--that sounded legal and therefore
businesslike, so Doris repeated it--"by his
own act and deed, forfeited his claim to you.
Instead of honouring you, as I honour you,
darling"--she caught up Alice's hand and kissed
it--"for your bravery and cleverness and
industry, he has actually dared to blame you in
most unwarrantable, most uncalled-for language,
and in the presence of a third person--which
makes his conduct far more heinous----"

"Isn't that a little strong?" interposed
Alice.  "Doris, I love you for your love, but
you must remember he is my brother.  He
has a right to say what he likes to me, for I
am his sister, and--and I cannot bear even you
to blame him."

"I beg to apologise!" said Doris, instantly.
"It isn't right of me to speak against him to
you.  And, now I think of it, I was wrong
in ordering him out of our--your--garret----"

"Well, yes, dear, a little----"

"I was wrong," said Doris, "and perhaps
one day I will apologise.  But however wrong
I was, that does not make him right.  He has
behaved abominably."

"Now, there you are again!  You must not
blame him to me, dear."

"I beg your pardon!"  Then Doris was
silent a minute or two.  It was hard to be
pulled up at every point.  Still, Alice was
right, therefore her sense of justice caused her
to refrain from taking offence.  "But, Alice,"
she said, at length, "the fact remains, that he
will not consent for you to remain in his house
if you carry on your work here."

"He is an autocrat!" Alice burst out.  "A
martinet!  A tyrant!  I must carry on my work.
I must.  I have nothing else to sell.  I have
nothing else to do.  Either I must continue
what I am doing, or we must starve, or go
into the workhouse.  We cannot live on air."  She
paused, breathless.  It was like her fervent,
inconsequent way of reasoning to speak so
strongly against her brother, whom she had
just been chiding Doris for blaming.
However, we are all apt to say things about our
relations which we would not tolerate from
other people.  It is like blaming ourselves, or
hearing others blame us.  A man may call
himself most foolish, yet if any one else were
to say so it would be unpardonable.

Doris was silent, and in that she showed
wisdom.  Left to herself, Alice would say all
that Doris had been about to utter, and would
act upon it as the latter wished her to do.

"I cannot return to his house," said Alice,
with a little sob.  "He has indeed turned me
out; for I cannot give up my means of
livelihood.  Who will give me an income if I
throw away the one I have?  No one.  No
one.  The world is a world of adamant to those
who have no coin."

"It is indeed!" said Doris, tears filling her
eyes as she thought of her own struggles.

"But where shall I live?" continued Alice.
"Will you let me live with you, Doris?"

"Yes, darling, of course I will!  I love you,
darling, as you know; and we will live together,
and be like sisters--only--only perhaps----"

"Perhaps what?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't let me if you knew
what a cloud of disgrace hangs over me----"

Doris broke down weeping.  Was that cruel
disgrace always to balk her every time she saw
a prospect of happiness?

"Disgrace!  How you talk!  It is I who
am in disgrace."  Alice flung her arms round
her friend, and their tears mingled as they
wept together.

Mrs. Austin, coming in to see if they wanted
any more tea, was quite affected by the sight
and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen.  "It
all comes of that horrid Mr. Sinclair forcing his
way up to their garret," she said to herself,
mentally determining to admit no more visitors
to her young ladies without first acquainting
them with their names.

When they were calmer the two girls
discussed the feasibility of their living together,
as well as working together, with the result
that they agreed to try the plan.  Accordingly,
when night came, they withdrew to Doris's
room, and lay down side by side in Doris's
bed, which happened to be a rather large one.

Tired out, Doris slept so heavily that she
did not hear her more wakeful companion's
sighs and sobs, nor did she see her slip out
of bed in the early morning, dress hurriedly,
and then go downstairs.

When at last Doris awoke, Mrs. Austin
was standing by her side, looking very grave
and with a letter in her hand.

"What is the matter?" asked Doris, sleepily.
"Have I overslept?  Oh!"  She looked round
for Alice.  "Where is Miss Sinclair?" she
asked.

"Gone!" cried Mrs. Austin, tragically.

"Gone?  When?  Where?" cried Doris,
in alarm.

"I don't know, miss.  She went before I
came down.  When I came down this morning
I could see that some one had gone out at
the front door, for only the French latch was
down.  And there was this letter for you on
the sitting-room table, and Miss Sinclair's boots
had been taken from the kitchen, so I felt sure
she must have gone."

"You should have awoke me at once."

"I came upstairs to do so, miss, but you
were in such a beautiful sleep, I really hadn't
the heart to disturb you.  But now it is
getting late, and I have brought your hot
water."

Doris opened the note when Mrs. Austin
had left the room.  It was short and to the
point.

.. vspace:: 2

"DORIS DARLING,--

.. vspace:: 1

"You are *sweet* to want me to live with
you, and I should love it.  But I have been
thinking how kind Norman used to be when
I had the toothache, and that he gave me such
a nice copy of Tennyson on my last birthday,--and--the
fact is, no one can make his coffee
as he likes it in the morning but me--so I must
go and look after him.  Poor old Norman!
He has no one else to look after his little
comforts.  And he will starve, *absolutely starve*
if left to himself.  I shall always remember,
darling, how you wanted me to live with you.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours lovingly,
        "ALICE.

.. vspace:: 1

"\P.\S.--I make you a present of the business.
Perhaps when we are starving, you will fling
us a crust.  Norman can't object to my
receiving charity, although he will not allow me
to do the only work I am fit for.

.. vspace:: 1

"\A.\S."

.. vspace:: 2

Doris sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.
What a child Alice was, after all!  And how
impracticable and unbusinesslike!  The head
of the firm, she had given up her position in
favour of her junior partner without demanding
any compensation!  "However, she knew
she could trust me," said Doris to herself.  "I
shall make her take half, or at least a third,
of the proceeds.  But it will be hard on me
to have to do all the work alone, and I shall
miss my dear partner.  I hope she will come
to see me sometimes."

After breakfast Doris went to the garret,
and all day she worked hard, scarcely leaving
off to eat or rest for a few minutes.  A dealer
came with a large order, and, after expressing
his surprise at finding her alone, advised her
to engage a boy or two to do the rough work
and to assist her generally.  In the evening
she was almost too weary to eat her supper,
and when Mrs. Austin was lamenting the fact,
she told her what the dealer had suggested.

"Well, now, how that does fit in, to be
sure!" said the landlady.  "It was only this
afternoon that my nephew Sandy came here,
to tell me that he and another nice lad, his
friend, had lost their situations through
Messrs. Boothby & Barton's bankruptcy.  They
would be rare and glad to work for you till
such time as they could get another place."

"I think I should be very glad to have
them," said Doris, after a little consideration.
"Your nephew did me a kindness about the
lamp-shades, and I shall be pleased to offer
him work now that he is out of a place."

So the next day the two boys came up to
the garret, and set to work manfully to assist the
young lady.  They could soon do most of
the work really better than she could herself,
and she found it a great relief to confine her
energies to the mere colouring.  It was,
however, not nearly so pleasant for her working
with the two lads as it had been with her
dear friend Alice, whom she missed at every turn.

On the Wednesday morning she received
a little note from Alice, saying that at present
she was forbidden to go to Mrs. Austin's, but
hoped later on to be able to do so.  "My
brother is angry yet about the 'oil-paintings,'"
wrote Alice, "but he is very glad to have
me back; and, by the way, Doris, he would
give worlds, if he had them, to make you sit
for a picture of Rosalind in her character of
Ganymede in *As You Like It*.  Don't you
think you could give him that gratification,
dear?  But I know these are early days to
speak of such a kindness as that.  And you
would never have the time, even if you could
forgive poor, blundering old Norman."

Then she referred to the letter Doris had
sent her, in which the former stated that half
the money earned would still be set aside for
Alice.  "It is lovely of you to say that about
the money, dear," wrote Alice; "but Norman
declares I am not to touch what he is pleased
to call ill-gotten gains.  Lest I should do so,
he declares he will not eat anything I buy,
and in consequence he is living upon oatmeal
porridge and lentil soup!  Oh, and the
oatmeal is nearly finished!  I have been thinking
that if you would kindly send a five-pound-note
now and then, anonymously, to him--mind,
to him, not to me--and just put inside
the envelope that it is 'Conscience Money'--that
would be quite true, you know; for if you
had not a conscience you would keep what
I have thrust into your hands--he might use
it, thinking it was the repayment of some old
debt.  For he has lent lots of money, in the
old days, to people who have never let him
have it back again.  I hope you can see your
way, as the dealers say, to do this.  We must
live, you know.  It is so miserable to starve,
and it's worse for the housekeeper, as the fault
seems to be hers."

"I don't like complying with her request,"
thought Doris.  "Her brother is an honest
man, a most awkwardly honest man, and it
is a shame to deceive him.  Yet the money is
Alice's.  It is a point of conscience with me,
as she says, to give it her.  But I wish it
could be done in some other way.  It seems
such a shame to make him eat food which
his very soul would revolt from, if he knew
everything."

She thought over the matter as she was
working, and the more she thought about it
the less she liked it.  But when a dealer came
in that afternoon, and paid her ten pounds that
was owing to the firm, in two five-pound notes,
she immediately posted one of them to Norman
Sinclair, Esq., at his address in Hampstead,
writing inside the envelope the words
"Conscience Money."

That done, she felt more comfortable about
Alice, for at least she would not starve when
that money arrived.  Doris still missed Alice,
however, exceedingly; and though turning to
her painting with fresh energy, alas! she felt
for it more distaste than ever.  For Doris
could not forget--it was impossible for her to
forget--that an honest man had called her work
wicked, and declared that it was a crime in
the sight of God and man.  If that were true,
and it was a crime, then she was a criminal
just as her father was!  Hereditary?  Yes,
the criminality must be hereditary.  In her
thoughts she had been hard upon her father.
Was she any better herself?





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.. _`BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   BERNARD CAMERON VISITS DORIS.

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..

   |  Patience and abnegation of self and devotion to others,
   |  This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
   |                                              LONGFELLOW.

.. vspace:: 2

It was on Saturday afternoon that Bernard
Cameron called.  Doris had been through a
particularly trying morning.  It began with a
letter from Alice, evidently written at her
brother's instigation, advising her to give up
the business of making sham oil-paintings and
thus defrauding the public.  "Better to be
poor and honest and honourable," wrote Alice,
virtuously.  Doris read between the lines that
her brother wished her to say these words,
and that annoyed her extremely.

"What business is it of his?" she said to
herself, resenting his interference.

When she went upstairs to the garret, to
begin work for the day, she accidentally
overheard Sandy saying to his fellow-worker,
"Ain't folks simple to buy these for genuine
oil-paintings?  I know a chap who gave three
pounds for a pair of them at a shop.  And,
says he, them's real oil-paintings.  As proud
as a peacock he was!"

"He shouldn't have been so green," said
the other youth.

"The Government is down on folks who
sell margarine for butter; it can't be done
now-a-days, but there don't seem to be no
penalty for this sort of thing!"  He tapped
one of the pictures meaningly.

Doris entered, and the conversation ceased;
but all the morning her assistants' words and
Alice's letter rankled in her mind.  No doubt
the business was not by any means a high-class
one, but no one would buy her genuine paintings,
she therefore told herself she was driven
to make what she could sell: and now she had
quite a nice little sum already in hand, to form
the nucleus of what she would require to pay
the debt to Bernard Cameron.

However, it was rather too much for her,
when, as she was snatching a hasty lunch
in the little sitting-room, she overheard Sam
Austin saying to his mother in the kitchen,
"Mother, I used to think them pictures Miss
Anderson made so fast were really beautiful,
and my wife went and bought one at a shop,
but when the Vicar was in our house the other
day, and she was showing it to him, he says,
'My good woman, that's no more a work of
art than that stocking you are knitting, and
it isn't half so useful!  Don't you waste your
money over such stuff!' says he.  I felt so
ashamed-like, mother, that our young lady's
work should be so spoken of.  And the Vicar
is a gentleman who knows what's what."

"Hush, Sam!  Miss Anderson is in the
room, and she might hear.  I am sure she
thinks they are all right and worth the money,
or she would not do them."

When the good landlady entered the room,
a few minutes afterwards, she was dismayed
to find the door ajar, and not closed, as she
had imagined.  This caused her to turn very
red.  But Doris did not refer to what she
had overheard, for in truth she did not know
what to say.  Later she might refund
Mrs. Sam her money, and have that off her
conscience; but what about all the other people
who had purchased her pictures?  She felt
sick at heart, and quite unable to do her work
as usual.  However, it had to be done, and
she went upstairs slowly and heavily.  "What
shall I do?" she thought.  "I cannot earn
my living unless I do it in this way, which is
not honest--I see that now; at first I thought
it was, but I know Alice's brother is quite
right.  I'm a cheat and a fraud, a humbug
and a thief; for I take money out of people's
pockets, and make them no adequate return
for it, although I make them think I do."

And then Bernard called.  He was dressed
in his worn clothes, and looked tired and
harassed, but "every inch a gentleman," as
Mrs. Austin said when she gave his name to
Doris, asking if she would come downstairs to
see him.

At first Doris thought she ought to send
word that she was engaged.  But she could
not do it.  She was so miserable and so
hopeless; and the very thought of Bernard's
presence there in the house caused hope and
joy to spring up in her heart, and was like
new life to her.  She, therefore, took off her
painting-apron, washed her hands, and went
down to the sitting-room.

"Doris"--Bernard spoke very quietly, holding
out his hand exactly as any other visitor
might have done--"Doris, I have called to
see you.  It is very kind of you to come down.
I--I will not detain you long."

"It is kind of you to call," said Doris,
rather lamely, noticing all at once how thin
and worn he looked, "and I haven't much
time to spare, but I could not--could not
refuse."  Her voice trembled and broke; tears
filled her eyes.  It was hard, very hard to
have to speak thus to one she still loved
dearly.

"Oh, Doris," he cried, hope springing up
in his heart by leaps and bounds at the sight
of her downcast face, "Doris, darling, I
cannot bear to see you looking so sad, and to
know that you are alone here except for your
friend----"

"She has left me!" interrupted Doris, crying
now.  "I am quite alone."

"Left you!  You are alone!  Oh, my
darling!"  He put his arms round her slim
waist.  "You are not alone!  You need never
be alone again, for *I* am here.  Nay, don't
send me away, dearest," he pleaded; "hear
me, I beg.  I love you, Doris.  I love you
with all my heart.  The loss of my money--ah! forgive
my mentioning it--it is as nothing
to the grief of losing you.  Ah, you don't
know what I have suffered!  Without you
this world is to me a howling wilderness."  He
drew her to him.  "Darling," he continued,
low in her ear, "*never* send me away again."

The girl was powerfully tempted to
surrender her determination and submit her
weaker will to his stronger one.  Her inclination,
her heart was on his side; but what she
thought was duty, and her sense of right, held
her frail bark to its moorings.  She therefore
drew herself away, and with a little gesture
waved him back, and then, to make her
position more secure, she feigned anger.

"Don't!  Don't!" she exclaimed sharply.
"You go too fast, Mr. Cameron, much too
fast!  What we might have been to each
other in happier times, events have rendered
impossible now.  You know they have----"

"No, no, not impossible!" he cried.

"I say impossible," insisted Doris.  "My
father appropriated your fortune.  He stole
from you your birthright."

"What of that?  I forget it.  I have forgotten it."

"You think so now.  In your magnanimity
you choose to think so; but supposing I were
to trust to that, and we were to marry, do you
think you could live with me day by day, in
poverty, remember--for we should be very
poor--without remembering that my
father--mine--stole from you all the money your father
left you?"

"I shouldn't think of it, or, if I did, I would
say to myself that you have, by giving me
your hand"--he took hers in his as he spoke--"and
promising to be my wife," he added,
"righted the wrong, paid the debt, made me
rich indeed with what is worth far more than
money, yes, infinitely more."  Raising her
hand to his lips, he kissed it.

"Don't!"  She drew her hand away.
"And there is another side to the question,"
she continued.  "Could I be happy seeing
you poor, and knowing what was the cause of
it?  Don't you think that daily, hourly, I
should realise with pain that my father's crime
was blighting your life?"

"Nonsense!  Mine would be a poor life
indeed, if the loss of money--mere
money--could blight it!"

"It has a very stupefying effect on one to
have no money," said Doris, with a little sigh,
thinking of her past experience.  "Don't you
know the song--

   |  Dollars and dimes!  Dollars and dimes!
   |  To be without cash is the worst of crimes!

It gets one into disgrace, anyway," she added.

"Poor child!  I am afraid you have been
hard up since----"

"Well," she interrupted, "it takes the
courage out of one to have no money.  You
know that verse--

   |  Whereunto is money good?
   |    Who has it not wants hardihood;
   |  Who has it has much trouble and care,
   |    Who does not have it has despair."
   |

"*I* shall have despair if I have not you!"
he declared, moodily.

"No, you will not.  You will find some one
else to love--some one who has heaps and
heaps of money.  Then you will marry--will
marry her."  Doris's voice shook a little, but
she waved him back when he would have
drawn her to him again.  "You will marry
a girl with lots of money," she continued, more
firmly now.  "That is what your mother wants
you to do.  It is your one chance, she says,
of retrieving your fortune."

"Did she say that to you, Doris?"  His
voice was hoarse, he looked very pale.

"She did."

"And that caused you to send me that
dreadful message?" he asked.

"What message?"

"That you would never, *never* marry me."

"Yes."

"Ah!  I understand it now."  He passed
his hand wearily across his brow--"I
understand.  But I can't help it, and she is my
mother!"  Again he was silent, struggling to
control himself.  "Do you know," he said,
"she turned me out of my home?"

"She did?  Why?"

"Because I would not prosecute your father."

"Ah!  You have not attempted to prosecute him?"

"Doris!  Did you think that I *could*?"

"Forgive me," she said.  "But after your
shrinking from me, as you did, when you
heard what my father had done----"

"Shrinking from you!  Shrinking!  Surely
you did not think that I could ever have done
that?"

"But you did, Bernard.  You did.  It was
that which broke my heart."

"My darling, you must be mistaken!"

"Indeed I am not.  You shrank away from
me.  And then, your mother came and said
those dreadful things--so I gave you up
entirely, and I said that I would never marry
you."

"But now that you know that I never
intentionally shrank from you--and indeed I think
that it must have been your fancy, darling--surely
you will unsay those cruel words?"

Doris looked at him, at the love in his eyes,
and his earnest face as he pleaded thus, and
she softened considerably.

"I'll just tell you how it is, Bernard," she
said, and now her tone was kinder, and there
was a light in her blue eyes corresponding with
the glow in his.  "I'll just tell you how it is,
Bernard, exactly.  I feel that, because my
father robbed you, I have had a share in the
crime, and so I am going to work hard, in
order to make you some little reparation--though
of course I can never repay you all the
money.  Do you understand?" and she looked
up earnestly into his face.

"To make some little reparation?  To repay
money?  What do you mean?"

"Twenty-five thousand pounds is so large a
sum!" she said.  "I can only repay a small
part of it.  But I'm doing my best; I'm putting
by four or five pounds a week, and I have
already saved forty pounds.  You can have
that forty pounds now if you like.  It's yours."

"Forty pounds!  My dear Doris, what are
you talking about?"

"I'm going to earn as much money as I
possibly can for you, Bernard," said the girl
firmly, "in order to repay you at least some
of the money my father took from you."

"You earn money for me?  Your little
hands"--he looked down admiringly on
them--"your little hands earn money for me?"

"Of course I must.  It is my bounden duty.
And I'm getting on splendidly as regards
money: only they say, do you know, Bernard,"
and her tones were troubled, "they say that I
ought not to earn it in the way I do.
However," she broke off, and began again, "I
mean to earn you a lot of money, that you may
have part at least of that which is your very own."

"The idea!" he exclaimed; "the very idea
of your earning money with these hands, these
little hands," he repeated, "for me!  Why, if
only you would give me your hand in marriage,
I should be more than repaid for all and
everything?"  He spoke eagerly.

"Bernard, I shall not marry you until I have
done all that I possibly can to pay the debt."

In vain the young man protested, pleaded,
and expostulated.  Doris was firm: the utmost
that she would concede was that he might
visit her occasionally and see how she was
getting on.

When that matter was quite settled she gave
him some tea, and then explained to him about
her work, which he was astonished to find so
remunerative.  He did not think it wrong of
her to make those poor imitation oil-paintings.
He said that people could not expect to obtain
real oil-paintings for such small sums.

"You do not call them oil-paintings," he said,
"you call them pictures; and if people think
them oil-paintings that is their fault: it is
because they are ignorant that they make the
mistake.  You are not answerable for that.
The case of margarine and butter is different.
It was because margarine used to be called
butter that it was made illegal to sell it as
such.  Margarine is still sold, but it is called
margarine."

"How very sensible you are, Bernard!" said
Doris.  "I wish----"

"What do you wish?" he asked earnestly,
for he longed to serve her.

"I wish you would convince the artist, my
friend Alice's brother, that he is wrong in
thinking it so wicked to make those pictures
and sell them."

"Does it matter what he thinks?" asked
Bernard, full of a new alarm.  "Is the man
anything to you, Doris?"

"Anything to me?  No, I have only seen
him once."

"Yet you would like to stand high in his
opinion?"

"Well, yes.  There is something grand--heroic,
about him.  He would die for the truth.
The man is made of the sort of stuff of which
the old martyrs used to be made."  Doris spoke
with great enthusiasm.

Bernard's alarm increased by leaps and
bounds.  "Oh, Doris, darling, don't have
anything to do with him!" he exclaimed
passionately.

"Why not?"  She looked startled.  The flush
which had risen to her face as she spoke so
earnestly of Sinclair deepened into a very warm
colour.

"Because I do not wish you to know him."

"Why not?" she repeated.

"My instinct tells me that he has impressed
you strongly and that you think a great deal
of him, and if you get to care for him, this hero
whom you admire so much, you won't care
for your poor Bernard any more!"  He ended
in doleful tones.

"You foolish boy!" Doris cried, with
complete change of voice.  "You know very well
that although our engagement has been broken
off and I have vowed that I will never, never
marry you--that is, unless some of the debt is
paid--I shall never love anybody in all the
world as I love you," she ended with a little
sob, and buried her face in her hands, lest he
should see the tears which filled her eyes.

It was impossible for him to refrain from
kissing her then; but she only suffered him to
touch her hands, and then, starting up, waved
him aside.

"No, no!  You must not," she exclaimed.
"I shall not go back on my word.  I shall
stick to my purpose.  You may come to see
me sometimes if you like, but I shall promise
nothing."

He looked despairingly at her as she stood
there, tall, erect, a very queen of beauty, with
brilliantly coloured cheeks, shining blue eyes,
and golden hair like an aureole above her small
beautifully shaped head.

"Oh, my dear, you cannot earn money for
me!" he cried; "I would never touch it.
*Do* dismiss the idea from your mind!  What
I want is *you*, to be my own darling wife.
We might be ever so happy--even if we are poor."

"I don't want you to be poor, Bernard," she
rejoined.  "If you are it will be my father who
has made you so, and I could not endure to see
it.  Now, don't let us waste time in arguing
about that again.  I shall continue my work
here: for you have made it plain to me that
it is all right.  You may come to see me
occasionally, as I said----"

"What do you think if I were to throw up
my tutorship--it is badly paid--and come daily
to assist you with your work?  It would be
awfully jolly working together, and I could see
that your lads did their share, instead of
wasting their time in chattering about what they
do not understand."

But Doris would not hear of that arrangement
being made.  The work might do for
her, but she revolted mentally from the idea of
her Bernard pursuing a calling which the artist
had declared to be so utterly and radically
wrong: and it was like her inconsequent, girlish
way of reasoning not to see that what was
right for one was right for the other, and *vice
versa*.

However, when Bernard went away, she
felt ever so much happier than she did when
he arrived.  He loved her and she loved him:
that was the chief thing; all else was of
secondary consideration.  He approved of,
and saw no harm in her occupation--could he
by any possibility see any harm in anything
that she did?--and that was healing balm to
her hurt, despondent feelings.

"He is very nice and sensible, is Bernard,"
she said to herself, last thing that night, as she
laid her head on her pillow; "he is very different
from poor Alice's despotic brother.  Now, I
like a man I can convince even against his
will--and Bernard does love me in spite of
everything."  She fell asleep thinking about him,
and dreamt that they were again in the
Temperate House, looking at the chrysanthemums,
and she was not trying to send him away as
she did before, but, on the contrary, her hand
rested within his arm, which held it tightly.





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.. _`ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   ANOTHER VISITOR FOR DORIS.

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..


   |  Shun evil, follow good, hold sway
   |  Over thyself.  This is the way.
   |                    SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

.. vspace:: 2

After Bernard's visit and his approval of her
work, Doris went on with it doggedly,
disregarding all doubts that arose, and justifying
her doings to herself by thinking of Bernard's
opinion of the rightfulness of her
occupation--exactly as men and women have sheltered
themselves behind the views of others ever
since the day when Adam screened himself
behind his wife's, and she behind the serpent's.

The business prospered, so that the girl's
little store of money increased, and she began
to anticipate a not very distant time when there
would be one hundred pounds saved wherewith
to make her first payment to Bernard.  She
determined to begin by paying him one hundred
pounds at once, and wondered if the time
would ever come when she would have so much
as one thousand pounds to hand over to him.
The girl had a very brave spirit, but it was
often daunted by the herculean task she had
set herself.

One day, when she was very busy with her
assistants in the garret, Mrs. Austin knocked at
the door and asked her to be so good as to
come outside to speak to her.

"That gentleman's come again," she said.
"He who frightened away Miss Sinclair.  It's
you he's after now, I'm thinking.  But oh,
Miss Anderson, don't see him!  He's got an
awful look on his face, as if we kept a
gambling-place at least!  Don't see him!  For, oh, my
dear, you must live!  What is to become of
you if you give up such a good business as
you have got?  Remember what a hard world
this is for those who have no money, and how
difficult you found it to get dealers even to look
at those genuine little paintings you took so
much trouble over!"

"Mr. Sinclair might have saved himself the
trouble, if he has come to try to persuade me
to give up the business," said Doris, rather
hotly.  "I wonder what business it is of his,
by the bye!  No, I will not see him."

"Ah, forgive me, I followed your landlady
upstairs!  I beg a thousand pardons for the
intrusion."  The artist stood behind
Mrs. Austin, towering above her.  He spoke very
humbly, but there was an air of determination,
if not of censure, about him which displeased
Doris.

"I am engaged," she said, shortly.  "I was
just sending you word that I could not see you."

"But I bring you a message from my sister,"
he observed, after a moment's pause.  "Surely
you will receive it?"

He looked at her as he spoke, and again
Doris felt the dominating power of his strong
will.  She was vexed with herself for yielding,
and yet could scarcely avoid it.  Slowly and
with reluctance the words fell from her lips, "I
cannot hear it here," as she looked significantly
at her assistants, who, busy though they
appeared to be, were listening to what was being
said; "we will go downstairs."

In the room below they stood and looked
at each other--he tall, broad-shouldered,
vigorous; she slim and slight, but beautiful as
a dream.  The girl did not ask him to be
seated, nor did she look at the chair he offered
her with a gesture which was almost compelling.

For a moment or two there was silence.
Then Doris spoke.

"You have come between your sister and
me," she said.  "You have drawn her away
and prevented my visiting her, and yet you
have"--she paused--"condescended," she
hazarded, "to bring me a message from her!"

"I have.  Alice wants you to give up
this--this business----"

"If that is all," interrupted Doris, hotly,
"you might have saved yourself the trouble of
coming here."

"Don't say that!  Listen to me.  No doubt
you are angry because I come here, as I
came before to express my disapproval of the
whole affair.  I feel it my duty to do so.  It
is a prostitution of Art--a robbery in her
name----"

"Stay!" interrupted Doris, passionately.
"I know what you think it, and I know also
what I think of your speaking to me like this!
You may lecture your sister and do what you
please with her, but is it any business of
yours--I mean, what right have you to come here
to find fault with *my* work?  As I was saying
to Mrs. Austin when you----"

"Intruded," he suggested, bitterly.

"Yes, intruded," she went on, with severity,
"upstairs, it is no business of yours."

"I think it is," he said, more gently.
"You are Alice's friend, and I do not wish
my sister to associate intimately with one
who----"

"If I am not fit for your sister's society----"
began Doris, furiously.

"Don't you think it is a pity for us to
quarrel in this way?" Mr. Sinclair said, in a
calm manner.  "Please sit down, and let us
talk calmly and reasonably."  He again waved
his hand towards the chair which he had placed
for her.

Doris sat down rather helplessly.  How he
dominated her!  She felt as if she were a
little child, who did not know what to say in
the presence of a grown-up person.

"My sister is extremely attached to you,"
said the artist, his rich voice full of feeling and
his grey eyes shining as they looked straight
into Doris's, as if they would read her soul.
"She thinks that no one in the world is like
her friend.  Nothing that one can say--I
mean that one can do--that is, that can be
done--has any power to shake her loyalty to
you----"

"Ah!  You have been trying to estrange
her from me----"

"I will not deny your charge," said the
other, "for there is some truth in it.  I do
not wish my sister to see much of one who,
for money--mere money--is content to do that
which is wrong.  The love of money is the
root of all evil."

"And you think," exclaimed Doris, "you
think *I* love money?  You think that for
money I am content to do wrong?"

"What else can I think?"

"You are exceedingly uncharitable," cried
the girl, bitterly, "to beg the question in this
way!  Let me say that, in the first place, I
do not love money.  That I want to earn as
much of it as possible is true; but I do not
want the money for myself.  It is to help to
pay a debt, a debt of honour so large that
it is not possible for me to pay it all; but if
I can in time pay a few hundreds of pounds,
I shall be very glad."

"A debt of honour!  A few hundreds!  My
child, you cannot earn all that by such trashy
work as this that you are doing!"  In spite
of himself, Norman regarded her with great
admiration.

"The word cannot is not in my dictionary,"
said Doris, rather grandiloquently.  "It must
be done!"

"Impossible!" he ejaculated.

"And as for the work being wrong,"
continued Doris, "I do not know that it is
wrong."

"Not know that it is wrong!" exclaimed
the other.  "When every one of your
oil-paintings is a sin against truth.  You know
it; surely this must appeal to your honour!"

"I do not *call* them oil-paintings," said
Doris, proceeding to repeat rapidly Bernard
Cameron's arguments, and ending with the
words, uttered very meaningly, "What is
truth?  We can but obey it as it appears to
us.  You judge of my pictures from such a
different standpoint.  They are untrue to all
your canons of high art.  But I know nothing
comparatively of art: I only try to make
pictures which will please people, and be worth
the trifling sums of money they give for them.
Such people could not see any beauty in
great works of art; but they say, 'That's
pretty!  That's very pretty!' when they see
mine."

The artist was silent.  It was true.  What
beauty could Jack Hodge and his cousins Dick,
Tom, and Harry, see in the Old Masters,
or in the new ones either?  Yet they were
the people who paid their shillings, and even
pounds for such pictures as this young girl
provided for them.

"Believe me," continued Doris, "there is
room in the world for workers of all sort.  The
birds cannot all be nightingales; the flowers
are not all roses; and the human beings who
entertain mankind are not all the best and
highest of their kind.  But there is a place
for the homely sparrow, the little daisy, and
the poor picture-maker to fill; and it is
not--not generous of those more gifted to come and
find fault with them!"

Her voice trembled and shook as she
concluded; and, feeling that she was about to
break down, she bowed slightly to her visitor
and left the room.

Mr. Sinclair sprang up as if to stop her, yet
did not do so.  He opened his mouth to speak,
yet no word fell from his lips, and so he allowed
her to pass out.

"What a wonderful girl!" he muttered aloud,
when she was gone, closing the door softly
behind her.  "I admire her exceedingly!
And I have hurt her feelings!  She has gone
away to cry!  What a stupid blunderer I am!
How brutal of me to wound her so!  I'm sure
I'm very sorry.  I'll write her a message."  He
looked round for pen, ink, and paper,
and, having found some, wrote one line only:

"Forgive me, I cannot forgive myself.
Norman Sinclair."

Having folded the paper, he addressed it
to Miss Anderson, and laid it conspicuously
upon the table, and then very quietly left
the house.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GREAT RENUNCIATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GREAT RENUNCIATION.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  And things can never go badly wrong
   |  If the heart be true and the love be strong;
   |  For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain
   |  Will be changed by the love into sunshine again.
   |                                    G. MACDONALD.

.. vspace:: 2

Doris was quite touched when, on coming
down to tea, she found Mr. Sinclair's
communication upon the table.  He could scarcely
have written anything which appealed to her
more.  If he had given in to her arguments,
and had said she was right and he was wrong,
her feelings about him would have been
contemptuous: and if, on the other hand, he had
persisted in condemning her work she would
have considered him unreasonable.  As it was,
however, she could not feel either contempt
or anger for the man who simply asked for
her forgiveness; and she thought better of him
for showing in that way that he was sorry for
the pain his arguments, and indeed his whole
visit had caused her.

She sat and thought about him a long time.
How different he was from Bernard!  Not
so loving and lovable, not nearly so loving and
lovable, and yet there was a grandeur about
him, and an air of distinction which Bernard
did not possess.  "I wish I could see his
paintings!" she said to herself.  "Alice used
to rave about them.  But I did not take much
notice.  I thought her simply infatuated with
her brother; she thought no one was his
equal.  Perhaps if I had a brother I might
have felt like that about him."  And so, on
and on went her thoughts, always about
Norman Sinclair, except when they flew for
a moment or two to Bernard, though always
reverting quickly again to the artist.
Mr. Sinclair was the greater man of the two, there
was no doubt about that, and her first feeling
of annoyance at its being so had changed into
esteem for him; yet she loved Bernard all the
more because he did not stand on a pedestal,
he was on her own level--or it might be even
a little lower--which gave her such a delicious
sense of motherhood towards him.  The latter
feeling no doubt made her so determined that
he should have his own again, even if she had
to wear herself out in winning it for him.
Bernard should not suffer loss, if by any
exertion on her part it could be averted.

"I do hope, miss," said Mrs. Austin,
coming in at last, unbidden, to clear away the
tea-things, "I do hope that gentleman hasn't
gone and worried you with his tall talk!  It
is all very fine to tell other folks to give up
their businesses, but would he give up his
own, I wonder?  And will he ensure your
having a good income if you throw away the
one you are earning?"

Doris rose.

"Mrs. Austin," she said, laying one hand
on the good woman's shoulder, and smiling
kindly into her anxious face, "I am afraid I
cannot discuss Mr. Sinclair even with you.
He is good and honourable, but I--I do not
see things quite as he does; and you may trust
me not to be such a child as to lightly throw
away my good business."

With that Mrs. Austin had to be content.
But she distrusted the stranger's influence
over the young lady, and never willingly
admitted him into her little house when he
called--as he did call--time after time to see Miss
Anderson.

"I would rather see the other gentleman,
Mr. Cameron," said the landlady to herself
many a time.  But Bernard was not well, he
had taken a severe cold, and the mists rising
continually in the Thames Valley caused him
to have chest troubles.  He could therefore
only write to Doris, now and then, expressing
hope that he would soon be better in health
and able to call upon her again, and regretting
deeply the delay.

Left alone, Doris quite looked forward to
the artist's visits.  He never stayed long, and
the short time he was with her was such a
pleasant break in the monotony of the girl's
daily life.  She was too unsophisticated to
scruple to receive him in her little sitting-room,
and he was altogether too great a Bohemian
to hesitate to go there alone.  To his mind
Doris stood on an entirely different plane from
other girls.  The concern with which he had
seen her making her poor pictures had become
merged in admiration for her bravery in
attempting to earn a few hundreds of pounds
with which to pay part of a debt of honour.
How could it have been contracted, he wondered,
by one so guileless?  *She* could not have lost
the money by gambling.  It was impossible
that such an innocent girl could know
anything about gambling.  And yet in what
other way could she have become indebted
to such an extent?  He was soon to know,
for as his influence over her increased, she
became possessed with a restless longing to
stand well in his opinion, and it seemed to her
untruthful to conceal from him the cloud of
disgrace which hung over her family, although
she had thought it right to keep the matter
from Alice.

She therefore told him, one day when he
lingered with her a little longer than usual,
and the early twilight favoured confidences,
softening as it did the austere lines in the
artist's face and revealing only the good
expression of his countenance.

He listened in amazement and distress,
having had no idea of the tragedy in her
young life.

Simply and as briefly as possible she related
the story of her father's appropriation of his
young ward's money, and his subsequent flight,
with her mother, in the dead of night.  She
was a little tired and dispirited that day, and
her voice broke now and again as she recounted
the wretched happenings of that woeful time,
and then not allowing herself to break down,
or shed a tear, went on bravely to relate about
the letter her mother left for her, with its
scanty information and command to her to
proceed to London, there to live with their
good friend Miss Earnshaw.

But when Doris proceeded to relate how
Mrs. Cameron came into her room in order to
upbraid her in her misfortunes, being overcome
by the recollection, she completely broke down
and wept.

Norman Sinclair was deeply moved.  The
tears were in his own eyes as he waited in
silence, without venturing to touch, or speak
to her, lest any move on his part should check
her confidence.

Presently she continued, "You must know
I was just becoming engaged to Bernard
Cameron when all these things happened----"

"Engaged?" interrupted the other, in dismay.

"Yes.  Bernard and I had loved each other
long.  But she--his mother, you know--made
me vow that I would not marry him--to bring
disgrace upon him."

"Disgrace?"

"Yes," Doris said.  "The only thing my
father had left him, Mrs. Cameron told me,
was his honourable name, which would be sullied
if I married him, and also, she said, the only
hope for his being able to retrieve his position
was for him to marry some one who had money.
I therefore declared that I would never, never
marry him, and I ran away at once that I
might not see him again."

"Ran away?  Alone?"

"Yes," and then Doris told about her
travelling to London and upon arriving at
Earl's Court Square in the night finding her
friend Miss Earnshaw dead, so that there
was another person in possession of the house,
who was unkind and inhospitable.

"My child, what did you do?"  The
words escaped involuntarily from Norman's
lips.

Doris told him of the compassionate cabman,
who most fortunately being a good and honest
man, took her to his mother, who proved to
be a good Samaritan to her in her poverty
and need.  Then she spoke rather shyly of
her abortive attempts to paint pictures which
would sell, and the work she found at last
of lamp-shade making, which supported her for
a time, until, upon its failing her, she joined
Alice Sinclair's more remunerative business.

"You spoilt our partnership," she said in
conclusion, "but I am getting on all right now,
and have saved nearly one hundred pounds for
Bernard.  In time I hope to let him have much
more."

"You consider yourself so greatly in his
debt?" queried the artist, in amazement.

"Certainly.  My father robbed him of
much money.  I must try to pay some back."

"But the man cannot legally claim a farthing
from you.  A girl--under age, too--cannot be
made to pay a debt."

"You don't understand.  It is a debt of
honour.  Ah!" she smiled sadly, "you thought
I acted dishonourably about the pictures, so
you cannot understand my being honourable
about anything else."

"You could not be dishonourable," exclaimed
Norman, quite hotly, "or anything else except
most honourable.  About the pictures you hold
a mistaken view, that is all.  For the rest,
your taking upon yourself this debt is *noble*.
I only know one other girl who would have
attempted it."  He smiled grimly.

"Alice?"

"Yes."

"Ah, she would have done it.  How I wish
you would let her come to me!  I have not
many friends," Doris's lips trembled.  There
were times when she yearned for Alice's bright
young face and loving words.

"You have not lost her love--she is always
wanting to come to you.  But I really----" he
hesitated, seeking a word.

"You think I am not good enough to
associate with Alice--that I should contaminate
her if she came here----"

"Not good enough?  Contaminate her?"
Sinclair cried excitedly.  "Oh, if you knew
what I think of you, how I esteem and admire you!"

"Hush! hush! please," said Doris.  "You
are speaking excitedly--you do not consider
what you say.  The fact remains that you think
my work altogether wrong.  'A crime,' you
have called it, 'in the sight of God and man.'  And
you have forbidden your sister to come
here.  That shows you have not changed your
opinion."

"I have forbidden my sister to come here
lest she should have a relapse into her former
views, and insist upon joining you again at
the business."

"You would not allow her?"

"Most certainly I should not allow her."

His tone was emphatic.

"Then you still think it wrong of me to
do it, in spite of what I have said?"

"I think you are mistaken.  I am sure you
would not knowingly do wrong."

After he had gone, for he went soon afterwards,
not being able to trust himself to stay
there any longer, Doris sat a long time thinking
over what had passed.  His evident admiration
and indeed love for herself--which she had
discouraged, because if she belonged to any one
it was to Bernard--only heightened the effect
of the uncompromising way in which he
regarded her employment.  It was, then, in
the eyes of an honest man a fraud which even
the exigency of her need of money wherewith
to pay Bernard his own again could by no
means exonerate.

"It certainly is wrong to do evil that good
may come," she said to herself.  "And oh! my
heart tells me that I have known in its
depths for a long time, in spite of what Bernard
said, and in spite of my sheltering behind his
opinion, that mine is very questionable work,
leading, as I fear it often does, to poor and
ignorant people giving their money for what
is of no real value.  If the shops would sell
my pictures for a few shillings it would not
be so bad; but though the dealers only give
me a few shillings for each, they sell many
of them for as much as a pound or thirty
shillings each.  I should not like any one I
loved to pay such a price for them--and it
isn't fair to cheat other people's loved ones.
Every one is the loved one of the Lover of
mankind," was the next thought, "and He said,
'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of
the least of these My brethren, ye have done
it unto Me.'"

The solemnity of the thought was great.
"Unto Him!" she murmured.  "Do I treat
Him like that?  Can I possibly do it to
Him?"  She thought over the essential points
of her religion; over what He had done for
her, and then asked herself how could she
make Him such a return?

The fire sank low in the grate.  Sounds of
the little house being locked up for the night,
and the footsteps of Mrs. Austin going
upstairs to bed fell unheeded on her ears, as she
sat there still absorbed in these reflections.

The business was wrong; she must get
out of it, must give it up.  But, could she?
Would she have strength of mind and will
sufficient for the task?  It would be a hard
thing to do.  "If thy right hand offend thee,
cut it off and cast it from thee."  Yes, she
would do it.  For conscience' sake, she would
strip herself of this really lucrative business
which was so wrong, and would commence
in some other way to toil for the money which
was required to pay some of the debt to
Bernard.  With a capital of a hundred pounds
she might start some business, she thought,
which would enable her to earn money rapidly.

Having made up her mind for what she
called "The great renunciation," she lost no
time in setting about it.

And first of all, before going to bed, she
ascertained from her books what sum of money
was due to Alice--for all this time she had
regularly forwarded to her ex-partner's brother
one third of all profits made in the business--then
placing the amount in notes, in a sealed
envelope, in the inside of which she wrote
"Conscience Money," she went out and
slipped it into the nearest pillar-box.  "I
cannot bother to register it this time," she
said to herself, "it will get there all right."  Then,
quickly re-entering the house, she locked
and bolted the door, and went upstairs to
her bed-room.  But not to sleep.  For hours
she lay awake, pondering over ways and
means.  Should she hand over to Bernard
the hundred pounds there would be altogether,
after she had sold the last remaining pictures,
and the paint, mill-boards, etc., she had in the
garret?  Or should she trade with the hundred
pounds in some way, with the view to making
it bring forth a hundredfold?  But in what
way could that be done?  And, supposing she
were to lose it?  Bernard might never have
even that hundred pounds restored to him.

She fell asleep at last, her thoughts running
to the tune of the hundred pounds, and awoke
about seven o'clock, still with the problem
unsolved.  But the post brought her a letter
from Bernard, saying that he was ill and in
trouble.  He had lost his situation through
ill health, and was alone, helplessly ill, in his
lodgings at Richmond.

That morning Doris left her assistants to
pack up her stock-in-trade, while she went to
Richmond to see Bernard, whom she found
in a small, dingy house in Jocelyn Road.  He
was not in bed, but lying on a couch, looking
ill and unhappy.  His unhappiness, however,
quickly disappeared when he perceived her.

"You here!" he exclaimed.  "Oh, Doris,
does my sight deceive me?  Are you really
standing before me?"

"Yes.  It is I," replied Doris, and then,
laying her cool hand upon his burning brow,
she added, "Why, how hot you are!  What
is the matter?"

"The doctor calls it influenza, but I think
they call everything influenza in these days.
I know I have been ill a horribly long time,
and I can't get better.  I have written to my
mother, Doris.  I have been obliged to write
to her.  Perhaps if I could go home a
little--quite away from this wretched place--my
native air might restore me.  But mother has
not replied.  I think she will have nothing
more to do with me.  The old idea of the
prodigal son's being welcomed back with best
robes and rings and fatted calf is exploded.
Parents are not like that in these days!"  He
spoke bitterly.

"But you have not been a prodigal son,"
said Doris.  "Perhaps if you had been, your
mother would have proved more merciful.  It
is the fact that you have acted more nobly
than she about not proceeding against my
father which stings and humiliates her.  Don't
you know, dear, that the higher we raise our
standard the more it seems to reflect upon
those who allow theirs to drag in the mire?
Your mother cannot forgive you for being
better than she."

There was silence for a few moments in the
little room.  Bernard could have said several
things, but he did not wish to speak against
his mother.  Presently, however, he remarked,

"I don't feel as if I could get well here.
These are such nasty, fusty rooms--so
depressing--such a want of air and light--so
different from dear old Yorkshire and the
breezes to be had on Askern Hill.  Do you
remember Askern Hill, Doris?"

Did she remember?  The colour returned
into her pale cheeks, and the light into her
eyes, as she remembered the last happy occasion
upon which she and Bernard trod that hill.

"Oh, Bernard, you ought to go back there!"
she said.  "My poor boy, you would get well
and strong if you were there again."

"You also," he rejoined, with a look of
yearning love.  "Oh, Doris, if we could return
together!"

"If wishes were horses beggars would ride,"
she said, lightly.  "Look here!" she spread
a little heap of bank-notes before his astonished
eyes.  "Count them.  There are ninety
pounds," she said, for she had brought with
her the money she had saved.

"Ninety pounds!" exclaimed he.

"Yes.  Ninety pounds.  It is yours.  I
repay that much of our debt to you to-day."

"Ninety pounds!  You repay!  Debt!" cried
he, in bewilderment and indignation.  "What
nonsense!  I cannot take your money."

"You must!  I insist upon it!  I have earned
it for you.  See.  It is all yours," and, gathering
up the money, she tried to put it into his hand.

But he would not take it.  He was no cad
that he should take money from a girl.  And
he seized the opportunity to show her practically
that it was quite impossible for him to accept
any payment at all from her.

The little contest made him so ill and
feverish that Doris had to call in his doctor,
who, after giving him a draught, insisted upon
his going home to Yorkshire forthwith, while
he was still able to travel.

Doris went to the telegraph office, to wire
to his mother to say that he was returning
home ill, and afterwards while she was packing
up for him the reply telegram arrived.  It was
short, but to the point:

.. vspace:: 1

"Shall be glad to see you.  Come immediately."

.. vspace:: 2

In the afternoon, Doris and Bernard went
to King's Cross in a cab, and there the girl
saw him off in an express for Doncaster.

He urged her to accompany him, but this
she declined to do.

"Well, of course, if you won't marry me at
once, dear," he said, "it would be a pity for
you to leave your good, paying business."

Doris had not told him that she was
relinquishing the work, and he departed in the
belief that she still retained her remunerative
employment.

But the girl returned slowly to Mrs. Austin's,
to sell the tools of her trade, which she no
longer required, and thus complete the
renunciation of her business.

And if the thought of that strong man,
the champion of truth and honour, Norman
Sinclair, was a help and support to her in
this difficult crisis of her life, who can wonder
at it?

Bernard was ill and far away, and the artist
had powerfully influenced her.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN POVERTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN POVERTY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Give me neither poverty nor riches.
   |                          *The Prayer of Agar*.

.. vspace:: 2

Doris realised ten pounds by the sale of her
stock-in-trade, the materials and the pictures
which had not been paid for previously, and
then, having altogether one hundred pounds in
hand, she imagined herself fairly well off, and
with means sufficient to maintain herself in
comfort until she could find some other employment.

And now she bought newspapers and
frequented public reading-rooms, in order to
search through the columns of advertisements
in papers and ladies' journals for some post
which she could hope to obtain.  Her idea
of paying back even a small portion of her
father's debt to Bernard being now exploded,
she hoped to obtain a comfortable home and
small salary as lady's companion, or governess,
or secretary; and many were the applications
for such places that she made personally, or
by letter, but always in vain.  Having no
better reference to give than poor Mrs. Austin,
and having had no experience of the work, she
was so unfortunate as to meet with refusals
everywhere.  She was too pretty for some
mistresses to tolerate the idea of having her
in their homes, and she was too reticent about
her parents and home to suit others.

It would have been better for her had she
written to some of her old friends in Yorkshire
asking if they would allow her to refer people
to them, but a mistaken idea that the knowledge
of her father's crime might prevent their
vouching for his daughter's rectitude prevented
her.  Since she left Askern she had written
only once or twice to Susan Gaunt, and
then had given no address but the vague one
"London," which caused poor Susan to wring
her hands in dismay, and complain that Miss
Doris couldn't want to hear from her.  Perhaps
Mrs. Cameron's insistence on the shame which
attached to her as being her father's daughter
unduly influenced the girl's mind, for she felt
an intense shrinking from renewing her former
relations with her old friends.

So it came about that, as weeks and months
passed by, Doris found that her money was
rapidly diminishing, while her prospects did not
brighten.  Bernard only wrote once after the
first brief note saying that he had arrived at home
and received a kind welcome from his mother,
and no more letters coming Doris understood
that Mrs. Cameron would not permit the
correspondence, and therefore she ceased writing.

Mrs. Austin, who had deeply lamented the
termination of the picture-business and had
even suggested its resuscitation, was loud in
expressions of grief and concern.

"To think," she said,--"to think that you,
who could earn ever so many pounds a week,
cannot now earn as many shillings!  It all
comes of that Mr. Sinclair's coming here
unsettling you!  But there, I won't say any
more about him, Miss Anderson dear, since you
don't like me to do so."

"Thank you," said Doris, gently.  "But
now for business," she added, with an attempt
at cheerfulness.  "I cannot pay you for this
nice bedroom much longer"--they were in her
bedroom, and she looked round at its cosy
little appointments as she spoke--"you must
try to let it to some one else."

"What?  And part with you?  Not if I
know it!" cried Mrs. Austin, throwing up both
her hands to emphasise her words.

"You need not part with me," said Doris,
putting her arms round the good woman's neck,
and speaking with real affection.  "Dear
Mrs. Austin, I should be homeless indeed if I left
your roof!  What I want is this: Let me
have the garret--only the garret; make me
up a nice little bed there, and let me have my
food--anything that you happen to be
having--for a moderate charge."

The widow began to protest vehemently, but
Doris cut short her vociferations by declaring
that if her proposal was not agreed to she
would have to seek a lodging elsewhere, for
she could not use the bedroom when it was
quite impossible to pay for it.

Accordingly, that very day, a notice that
a bedroom and sitting-room were to let was put
up in the front window, and when at length
they were let Doris carried up all her
belongings to the garret, which Mrs. Austin made
as comfortable as she possibly could.

Then Doris continued her weary search for
work, even applying at shops for a post as
cashier or shop-assistant.  But her lack of
knowledge of book-keeping precluded her from
the one--even if she could have given better
references than the poor Austins'--and her
want of experience and of testimonials caused
her failure as an applicant for the other.
Every evening she returned to her garret worn
out with the futile attempt to obtain employment,
and every evening Mrs. Austin brought
her up a nice little hot supper, in spite of
her protestations and declaration that she was
not at all hungry.  That was true enough,
alas! for she lost her appetite and grew thin and
worn during those days; and there were times
when she doubted her wisdom in having given
up the sham oil-painting business.  "One must
live," she said to herself, "and I had nothing
else.  But at least--at least I have cast into
God's treasury all that I have.  Will He bless
me for it, I wonder?  It does not seem like it at
present; but I suppose I must have faith, only
I feel too weary to have faith in these days."

Such thoughts often came at nights, and she
wept as she lay on her poor garret bed, so
that sleep forsook her, and she arose in the
morning unrefreshed and weary still.

The artist called several times when she
was out, and not being liked by Mrs. Austin,
he found the good woman taciturn and
uncommunicative, so that he did not hear anything
about Doris's business having been given up,
and was in total ignorance upon that point.
But Alice had heard the news from Doris:
for the latter was obliged to mention it in
giving a reason for the money remittances
having ceased.  To tell the truth, Alice was
dismayed, and very sorry that Doris, too, felt
it to be her duty to abandon the work.  Though
Alice, under her brother's compulsion, had
once requested Doris to give it up, she had
not really wished her to do so, for Alice was
essentially practical, having, moreover, the
responsibility of keeping her artist brother alive
until he won his spurs as a Royal Academician.
Sometimes Alice thought of acquainting her
brother with the fact that Doris, too, had given
up the work he abhorred, but as they had
nearly quarrelled about Doris more than
once--owing to Norman's forbidding Alice to visit
her--each was very reticent about the girl.
Alice did not know of the artist's visiting
Doris; and he did not know that she and
Doris corresponded regularly.

"Oh, you poor, dear darling!" wrote Alice
to Doris, "what an awfully inconvenient thing
it is to have a conscience!  And an appetite
for food, with a conscience which prevents one
from having the means to satisfy it, is a piling
on of the agony!  With Norman on his high
horse, so that he will not allow me to do this
and that, and you with a conscience which
prevents your sending me any more money,
truly I am in a fix.  But I won't be beaten.
I must find grist for the mill somewhere and
somehow, if I have to sing in the street, or
be a flower-girl.  My dear old Norman shan't
starve to death while I have any wits left at
all.  As for you, if you were not too proud,
there are artists who would pay much for the
privilege of painting your lovely face.  I know
Norman would be charmed to have it for his
picture of 'Ganymede.'  Indeed, he is painting
her astonishingly like you, although an ordinary
model is sitting for it.  Your face is your
fortune, darling, when all is said and done.
And you'll marry a duke, no doubt, in the
end, while I shall be only an insignificant
nobody, perhaps mentioned in the 'Life of
Norman Sinclair, R.A.' as having fed the
lion when he was oblivious of such mundane
things as pounds, shillings and pence.  Good
night.  When I have thought of what I will
do, I'll send you word.  Then maybe you will
join me in doing it: and we won't let anybody
come between us ever again.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Thine,
        "ALICE."

.. vspace:: 2

Another day, when Doris was despairing of
ever getting anything to do, she received a
second letter from her friend, which was short
and to the point.

.. vspace:: 2

"Eureka!  I have found it," wrote Alice,
"now at last our woes will be all over.  Our
work will be honourable of its sort, and it will
pay a little--enough to feed the lion and our
humble selves, although we shall not be able
to save money.  Oh, dear no.  But we must
be thankful for small mercies in these days.
Meet me to-morrow at twelve o'clock at the
Park Square entrance to the Broad Walk in
Regent's Park; then we will have a walk and
talk about it.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Thine,
        "ALICE."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEW EMPLOYMENT FOR DORIS.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  No soul can be quite separate,
   |  However set aside by fate,
   |  However cold or dull or shy
   |  Or shrinking from the public eye.
   |  The world is common to the race,
   |  And nowhere is a hiding-place:
   |  Behind, before, with rhythmic beat,
   |  Is heard the tread of marching feet.
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  And as we meet and touch each day,
   |  The many travellers on our way,
   |  Let every such brief contact be
   |  A glorious, helpful ministry:
   |  The contact of the soil and seed,
   |  Each giving to the other's need,
   |  Each helping on the other's best,
   |  And blessing, each, as well as blest.
   |                            SUSAN COOLIDGE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, my dear Doris, isn't it lovely to be out
here in the fresh air and sunshine, with you, too,
at last?  At last!"  Alice's feet almost danced
over the ground, as with a smiling face she
drew her friend along the Broad Walk in
Regent's Park.  "Oh, I have so much to tell
you!  We have been parted ages--*ages*!" she
cried.

"Ages indeed!" sighed Doris.  "It does
seem such a long, *long* time: and yet I
suppose it is barely four months since you
left me."

"Months?  Four months did you say?  It
seems like *years*!  Why, it was the depth
of winter then, and now it is spring, though
the trees are bare yet," and Alice glanced up
at the fine chestnut trees on both sides of the
walk.

"I am afraid I cannot walk so fast as this
if I am to talk as well," panted Doris, as she
was being hurried along.

"Why, what is the matter with you?  You
dear thing, what is the matter?  You are pale.
You are ill?"  Alice was looking at her now
with great concern.

"Not at all.  I'm all right, only I cannot
walk so quickly.  You walk very fast."

"How worn your clothes are!" cried Alice,
scrutinising her closely.  "And how thin you
are!  Doris, I believe you are *starving*."

"Nothing of the sort."  A bright colour
had come into Doris's face now, making it
look more beautiful than ever, although it was
so thin.

"Have you had a good breakfast?"
questioned practical Alice.

"Yes.  Mrs. Austin saw to that.  She is
very good to me."

"Oh, Doris!"  Alice read between the lines.
Her friend had been suffering want; indeed,
was suffering it now.

"I am all right," declared Doris again.
"Come, tell me, dear, what is the work you
have found for me to do?"

"Well, it is honest work, at all events, and
although it isn't at all romantic, it is interesting
enough.  I tried to get into several other
things first, but found them all so difficult
without a special training, and time is the
commodity in which we are deficient: for what
we want is immediate money--cash *down*" and
Alice gave a little stamp with her foot to
emphasise "down."

"It is, indeed," cried Doris.  "Go on
quickly, please.  Tell me what you have found
for us to do?"  It was a matter of vital
importance to her, for she had reached her last
coin that day, and her only hope was in Alice's
promised work.

"It is account collecting.  You know, calling
at people's houses for the money they are
owing."

"Oh!"  Doris's "Oh!" was rather dubious.
Such work seemed indeed most unattractive.

"It was my grocer who gave me the idea,"
Alice went on briskly.  "I was apologising for
not paying him at once, and he said that he
wished every one was as honest.  Upon which
I remarked that I was looking out for work,
and should have more cash in hand when I
obtained it.  He seemed quite sorry for me.
'It is only temporary, of course, this want of
yours,' he said, oh, so kindly; and then I was
such a goose, I couldn't help the tears coming
into my eyes, upon which he jumped up, went
into an inner room, and presently returned to
invite me in.  Then he asked if I would like
to collect his outstanding debts, the debts
people owed him, you know, and he offered
me from 5 per cent. to 10 per cent. on all the
money I got in for him.  'Young ladies do
such work,' said he, 'and if you are successful,
Miss Sinclair, I will recommend my friends to
employ you also.  I know one or two
lady-collectors,' he added, 'who make from £50 to
£100 a year by this sort of thing.'  Beggars
cannot be choosers; therefore I accepted the
work, and began at once."

"How clever of you!"

"It was a bit rough on me at first, you
know.  People very rarely indeed pay their
debts pleasantly.  Most people who greeted
me with smiles when I went to their houses,
looked considerably less amiable when they
found out that I wanted some of their money;
and then going about in all weathers--for the
money has often to be collected weekly--is not
nice.  Nevertheless, I am getting on.  I earned
a pound a week at first, and now it is usually
nearer two pounds a week than one.  And,
best of all," Alice gave a little laugh, "dear
old Norman hasn't found out about it yet;
and--and," she could scarcely speak for laughing,
although there was a little choke in her voice,
"he swallows the fruits of my toil beautifully!"

"Alice," exclaimed Doris, with immense
admiration, "what a brave girl you are!  A
sister in a thousand!"

"And now I have more work than I can
do," went on Alice earnestly, "and I thought
you would assist me, dear.  If I could hand
over some of the surplus work to you, why, it
would prevent my overworking, and it might
help you."

"It certainly would!" exclaimed Doris.
"But before taking up the work I ought to
have good references to give you and your
employers, and who----"

"*I* should be responsible, of course,"
interrupted Alice.  "You will simply act as my
assistant.  I will give you your work to do,
and you will have a percentage of all the
money you collect.  It will be all right.  You
will simply act for me."

Doris could not do otherwise than gratefully
accept this kind offer.  Indeed, there was
nothing for her between it and starvation, unless
she would be a helpless burden upon poor
Mrs. Austin.  Alice explained to Doris fully
about the work, arranged where they should
meet daily, and went thoroughly into every
detail connected with the new employment.
Moreover, she thoughtfully advanced ten
shillings, that Doris might be able to buy
herself a new hat, veil, and a pair of gloves, also
a note-book and pencil.

When that matter was settled, the girls
sat down under one of the chestnut trees,
enjoying to the full the sights and sounds of
spring about them, the fresh green of the
grass, the blue sky, and the sunshine resting
over all and everything--not to mention the
singing and twittering of the birds, the barking
of dogs, the rolling of the carriages, and the
bright appearance of the ladies walking or
driving by.

Presently Alice ventured to ask after Bernard
Cameron.  Upon which Doris, with her heart
lightened from carking care and warmed by
her friend's affection, for the first time took
her entirely into her confidence, by relating
how matters stood between her and the young
man, together with a full statement of the
manner in which his money had been lost.
She could trust Alice completely, and,
moreover, felt that, as the latter was about to be
responsible for her honesty in dealing with
other people's money, no detail of the cloud
of disgrace resting over the Andersons should
be concealed.

"But it does not make the slightest difference
about you, darling," cried Alice, looking
tenderly into Doris's downcast face.  "It is
very sweet of you to tell me all about it.  And
I think, dear, that you take rather too serious
a view of your father's fault----"

"Say, *sin*," corrected Doris, gravely.  "Let
us call things by their right names----"

"Well, *sin*," conceded Alice.  "But in my
opinion it was not so bad as you think.  When
he speculated with Bernard Cameron's money,
of course he thought it quite safe to do so,
and anticipated a big profit, which no doubt
he intended to hand over to Bernard.  If
things had 'panned out,' as the Americans
say, successfully, no one would have blamed
him.  Indeed, people would have thought he
acted very cleverly and with rare discrimination.
It seems to me that it was the mere
accident of non-success, instead of success,
which made his conduct reprehensible and not
praiseworthy."

Doris took no little comfort from this view
of the matter, and wished she had confided
in Alice before.

"How very sensible you are, Alice, dear!"
she cried.  "Oh, I am fortunate in having
such a friend!"

"And I am fortunate in having you for a
friend, darling!" returned the other, adding,
in her most matter-of-fact tone, "When an
outsider brings eyes that haven't been saddened
by grief to look at a trouble, of course the
vision is clearer.  And I must say, also, that
I like Bernard for not accepting that money
from you."

"Oh, but I did want him to take it," said
Doris.  "Though, really," she added, "I don't
know what I should have done without it.  He
does not know that I have given up my lucrative
business," she said in conclusion.  "He
thought it all right."

"Have you heard from him lately?" asked Alice.

"Not very lately.  He wrote to tell me of
his safe arrival in Yorkshire, and that his
mother was very kind in nursing him.  And
then he wrote again, to tell me he had been
very ill, and mentioned that his mother worried
him considerably by endeavouring to induce
him to do things which were utterly distasteful
to him.  'But this is a free country,' he wrote,
'and I shall do as I please.'  Since then,"
Doris continued, "I have heard nothing;
indeed, I have not written much lately."

The two girls sat there talking for some
time, and then went to get some lunch at
Alice's expense.

On the day following, Doris commenced
work as Alice's assistant account-collector.
But, being thoroughly run down and out of
health, she found her duties extremely arduous
and fatiguing.  She was not adapted for the
work, and it was to her most irksome and
unpleasant to have to ask people for money.
She would rather have given it to them.
When they were disagreeable--and, as Alice
had said, it was rarely indeed that people could
be pleasant when they were asked for money
by an account-collector--Doris had the most
absurd inclination to apologise and hurry away.
In fact, she did that more than once, and had
to be severely scolded by Alice for neglecting
her duties.  It was in vain, however, that
Alice lectured and coached her; Doris was
much too tender-hearted to make a good
collector.  When people began to make
excuses for not paying their debts it was only
with difficulty she could refrain from assisting
them to do so; her sympathy was always on
their side, consequently she did not earn much
of a percentage.

Alice paid her liberally, as liberally indeed
as she could afford to do, for she had her
"Lion" to keep, and her means were limited;
but Doris earned barely enough money to pay
her rent for the garret and for the food with
which Mrs. Austin supplied her, and, in
consequence, her clothes grew shabbier and her
health became worse every day.  She did not
hear from Bernard, and was often despondent
and hopeless about the future.  How could she
possibly pay him back any money out of the
trifling sums she was earning?  And he would
not take it if she could.  He would rather
remain poor, and there could never be any
marriage between her and Bernard Cameron.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A POWERFUL TEMPTATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A POWERFUL TEMPTATION.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  When shall this wonderful web be done!
   |    In a thousand years, perhaps, or one--
   |  Or to-morrow: who knoweth?  Not you or I,
   |    But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly.

   |  Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,
   |    But each one is nearer the end, we know:
   |  And some day the last thread shall be woven in,
   |    God grant it be love, instead of sin!

   |  Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say?
   |    Do we furnish the weaver a web each day?
   |  It were better then, O kind friend, to spin
   |    A beautiful thread--not a thread of sin.
   |                                            *Anon*.

.. vspace:: 2

"Is Miss Anderson in?"

"Well, yes, sir, she is, but----"

"Be so good as to announce me!"

"I don't know about that, sir.  Miss Anderson
is not very well; and I think--I think it
might be better for her not to see visitors."

"Visitors?  I am not visitors.  Be so good
as to show me in."

Mrs. Austin reluctantly led the way to her
sitting-room--a small one at the back of the
house--where Doris was reclining on an
old-fashioned sofa.  She started up on perceiving
Mr. Sinclair, and would have risen, but he put
her gently back again.

"Don't let me disturb you, I beg," he
entreated.  "I shall have to go away if you
don't lie still.  And I want to see you very
much," he pleaded.  "It is so long since I had
that pleasure."

As of old, his strong will dominated hers,
and she fell back against the soft pillows
Mrs. Austin had placed for her head, and looked
at him in silence.  Her blue eyes seemed
bigger than ever, and her complexion was
more clear and waxen; but her cheeks were
too thin for beauty, and her mouth drooped
pathetically.

"My dear child, what have you been doing
with yourself?"  Norman's tone was more
fatherly than loverlike now: he took Doris's
hands in his and held them gently.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to command
herself, she burst into tears.  What had
she been doing?  Much, much that he little
suspected.  She had visited a pawn-broker's
shop more than once, for the purpose of raising
money on articles of dress.  That was because
her earnings were not sufficient for her
maintenance; and then she disliked her work
exceedingly.  There were all sorts of annoyances
connected with it.  More than one irate
householder, on learning that her visit was for money
owing, had treated her with rudeness and
disrespect, shutting the door in her face.  She
had also been affronted with coarse jests and
familiarities, which terrified and wounded her
more than unkind words.  Sleepless nights
and unsuccessful, ill-feel days combined to rob
her of health and strength, while uneasiness
about Bernard's lengthened silence and anxiety
about ways and means harassed her mind
continually.

They were alone in the little room,
Mrs. Austin having returned upstairs.  Norman
Sinclair's heart ached for the poor girl's distress,
although he by no means knew what occasioned
it.  He soothed and comforted her as best he
could, and then, bit by bit, as she became
calmer, drew from her the history of those last
months since he had seen her.

Doris could not keep anything back.  Now,
as ever, the strong will of the man compelled
her to reveal her very soul, with all its doings,
yearnings, and despair, even in regard to
Bernard Cameron.

When all was told there was silence in the
little room, save for the ticking of the
eight-day clock and the purring of the cat upon the
hearth.  Doris had said everything there was
to say: she could add nothing, but only waited
for the artist to speak.  She looked at him to
see why he did not begin.

His head was averted, as if he were trying
to conceal the emotion which caused his strong
features to work convulsively.  Then he
turned towards her, and the love revealed in
his eyes and in his whole expressive countenance
blinded and dazzled her.

Suddenly, with a swift movement, he took
her hands, saying in tones full of deep feeling,
"You must come to me.  You are totally
unfitted to contend with this wicked world.
Will you not be my wife?" he pleaded.

"I am to be Bernard's," she faltered,
releasing her hands with gentle dignity.

Sinclair frowned a little.  He did not think
that Bernard Cameron loved her; from what
Alice had told him he was inclined to think
the young man was treating her rather badly.

"Are you quite sure that he loves you?"
asked Norman Sinclair drily.

Doubts born of Bernard's long silence
recurred to the girl's mind.  If he loved her,
surely he would have written, in spite of his
mother's prohibition.

"I have given him time," persisted Norman,
"but he has apparently deserted you, whilst
I am----  Oh, Doris, you little know how
much I love you!  Will you not be my wife?"

"Oh, hush!  Hush, please!" said Doris.  "I
am *so sorry*!  You have been such a dear,
good friend--I have thought so much of your
advice--you know it was that mainly which
caused me to give up my business, and
sink--sink into poverty."

"It was very brave of you to do it."

"I have thought so much of your advice,"
she repeated, "and have looked up to you so
much.  Do not spoil it all."

His face fell.  Where was his power over
her.  She seemed to be receding from him.

"Doris," he urged, "will you marry me?"

"I cannot," she replied, very earnestly.
"Indeed I cannot!"

"You cannot?"  There was a great disappointment
in his tone.

"I cannot," she repeated.

For a minute or two after she said that,
the artist sat motionless and silent.  Then
he began to speak rapidly and with deep
feeling.

In a few well-chosen words he described
graphically the loneliness and hardship of his
orphan boyhood, when Alice was a baby and
therefore unable to give him even sympathy;
and then he spoke of the dawning of ambition
within him and of his boyhood's dreams that
one day he would become an artist worthy of
the name, and went on to relate the story of
his striving to acquire the necessary skill and
culture, and to mount one by one the golden
stairs.  Tremendous difficulties had to be
overcome, indomitable, unfaltering resolution and
untiring industry had to be displayed by him:
perseverance under many adverse circumstances
became almost his second nature, until at last,
gradually, success came nearer.  Then he spoke
of his hard work more recently, and of the
pictures he had painted that last year, two of
which had now been accepted and hung in the
Royal Academy.  Only quite incidentally did he
mention that he and Alice would have actually
wanted bread sometimes if it had not been for
mysterious bank-notes arriving anonymously,
labelled "Conscience Money," which made him
think they came from one or another to whom
he had formerly lent cash which could ill be
spared.  In conclusion he said quietly, "However,
thank God, all that is ended, for, through
the death of a rather distant relation, I have
quite unexpectedly inherited a fortune of one
hundred thousand pounds.  As soon as I was
absolutely certain that there was no mistake
about the matter, I said to myself, 'I will go
to Doris.  If she will share my life and help
me to do some good with the money, ah, then
I shall be happy.'  So, Doris dear, I came."

The girl was silent.  She was deeply touched.
He came to her as soon as the cloud of poverty
had lifted and he was able to offer her a home
and plenty.

"You came to me," she faltered at length,
without daring to lift her eyes to his, lest he
should see the tears which filled them--"you
came to me--a beggar girl--a pauper----"

"No," he said, "a brave, hard-working,
honourable girl!  Doris, you have suffered,
are suffering now; but by marrying me you
will be lifted at once out of all difficulties.
Think, dear, how easy and pleasant your life
would be, and how useful, too, for you would
help me to do much good with our riches."

But Doris shook her head.  She could not
accept his offer.

Sinclair went away presently, disappointed
for the time being, but determined to try again.
The next day he sent his sister to visit Doris,
and Alice brought her useful presents of
chickens, jelly, cream, and cakes.

"It's so delightful to be rich," she said.
"You've no idea how pleasant it is to be able
to buy everything we want!  Wouldn't you
like to be rich, too, Doris?" she asked.

"Yes," said Doris.  "Yes, I should.  I hate
poverty.  It is so belittling--so sordid to have
to think so much of ways and means!  I should
like to forget what things cost, and accept
everything as unconsciously as we accept the
air we breathe."

"And yet you won't be rich," said Alice,
with meaning.

Doris coloured a little.  "How can I?" she
asked, "when there is Bernard?"

"Perhaps he would like to be rich, too?"
suggested Alice.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, *do* you think it would be best for
him to marry you, and plunge both himself
and you into poverty?" asked Alice.

"You talk as his mother did," sighed Doris.

"After all, there was commonsense in her
view of the matter," persisted Alice.  "What
is the use of two young people marrying, and
living in poverty ever after, when they may
both be rich and happy if they will?"

"Riches and happiness do not always go
together."

"I don't think poverty and happiness do,"
said Alice, curtly.

Doris felt a little shaken.  Would it really
be better for Bernard and she to be true to
each other, when their marriage would only
mean poverty and anxiety?

Norman came again that afternoon when
Alice had gone.

"Doris," he said, when they were conversing
in Mrs. Austin's back parlour, "perhaps, as
Cameron has been so long in writing, he may
have ceased to care for you."

"Perhaps so indeed!" rejoined Doris, with
a sigh.

"Couldn't you ascertain whether it is so?"
suggested the other.

"Yes--if he will answer me; but--I don't
know how it is--I receive no answer to my
letters," faltered the girl.

"Is there no one else to whom you can
write in Yorkshire--I mean, so that you
can get to know his feeling about you?"

"There's only Susan Gaunt, our old servant,
I might write to her; but I scarcely think that
she can do anything, though she has known
him since he was a boy, and he is always nice
to her, and talks to her quite freely."

"Well, ask her about him.  And write to
him, too, once more, asking him straight out
if he has changed towards you."

"I think I will," said Doris.  "It can do
no harm."

She accordingly wrote that evening both to
Susan and to Bernard.

The old servant answered immediately.  Her
letter was as follows:

.. vspace:: 2

"MY PRECIOUS MISS DORIS,

.. vspace:: 1

"At last you send me your address,
and I hasten to write these few lines to ask
if you are well, as this doesn't leave me so
at present.

"My heart is very bad, dearie, and the
doctor says I may die quite suddenly any time.
Well, I've always liked that verse--

   |  Sudden as thought is the death I would die--
   |  I would suddenly lay these shackles by,
   |    Nor feel a single pang at parting,
   |    Or see the tear of sorrow starting,
   |    Nor feel the hands of love that hold me,
   |    Nor hear the trembling words that bless me;
   |        So would I die,
   |    Not slain, but caught up, as it were,
   |    To meet my Captain in the air.
   |        So would I die
   |    All joy without a pang to cloud it;
   |    All bliss without a pain to spoil it,
   |    Even so, I long to go:
   |    These parting hours how sad and slow!

But I would like to see you once more, my
precious young lady, before I go.  I have
cried about you often and often, and I always
pray for you day and night--I did so specially
that first night when you went away--that
God would guard and protect you.  And He
did, didn't He, or you would not now be
writing to old Susan so peacefully?

"You ask about Mr. Bernard Cameron.
Don't think any more of him, lovey.  I have
heard on the best authority that he is going
to marry a rich young lady at Doncaster.  It
is his mother's doing, no doubt; she always
hankered after riches, and while he has been
ill she has had him to talk to morning, noon,
and night--and this is the result.  So don't
think any more of him, dear Miss Doris, but
look out for a good, honourable gentleman,
and don't marry at all unless you find him.

"Please excuse bad writing--I know my
spelling is all right, for I always was a good
speller--and accept my love and duty.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your faithful servant,
        "SUSAN GAUNT."

.. vspace:: 2

There was no letter from Bernard; no letter,
though Doris waited for it many days.

It seemed clear, therefore, that he must be
going to marry the young lady at Doncaster,
of whom Susan wrote; and that being so,
and poverty and starvation weighing heavily
in the balance against prospective wealth and
every comfort that money can give, Doris
yielded at length to Sinclair's persistent urging,
and consented to become his wife.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WELCOME LEGACY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WELCOME LEGACY.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  All things come round to him who will but wait.
   |                            *Tales of a Wayside Inn*.

.. vspace:: 2

"Late for breakfast again, Bernard!  It's idle
you are!  Bone idle, that's what it is!"  Mrs. Cameron's
tones were angry, and when angry
they were very shrill.

Bernard, who had entered the room languidly,
did not hasten to reply, but stood
leaning wearily against the mantelpiece.  His
face was pale, his eyes heavy and a little
bloodshot; he looked unhappy and as if he had
passed a sleepless night, which, indeed, was the
case; but he had not spirit enough to plead
that as an excuse for his lateness.  Instead, he
glanced at the clock, murmuring that it was
scarcely half-past eight.

"And late enough, too!" cried Mrs. Cameron,
who was pouring out the coffee as
she spoke.  "I told you breakfast would be
at eight.  You are quite well now, and must
get out of the lazy, lackadaisical habits of an
invalid."

"Yes, yes!  All right."  Bernard took his
place at the table opposite his mother, looking
askance at the large plate of porridge set there
for him to eat.

"Your porridge will be half cold by this
time," continued the scolding voice.

"It is."  Bernard just tasted it, and pushed
the plate away.  "I cannot eat porridge yet,"
he said.

"You must try.  Porridge made as Jane
makes it, of good Scotch oatmeal, is just what
you want to put some life in you."

Bernard did not think so.  He drank his
coffee disconsolately.

His mother looked as if she would have
liked to make him eat the porridge, as she had
done often in that very room when he was a
little pale-faced lad, with a small appetite and
a strong will of his own.  As it was, however,
she pushed a loaf of brown bread towards him,
saying that he could have some bread and
butter, though it was poor stuff compared with
porridge.

"Are there no fresh eggs?" asked her son.

Mrs. Cameron reluctantly conceded that
there were such things in the house, and
Bernard rang for them.

After that, the breakfast proceeded in silence
for a time, and then Bernard remarked that he
hoped to get another situation as tutor, near
London, very soon.  "I have written to one
or two agents," he said.  "I want to get a
private tutorship, if I can.  It will be less
disagreeable than being an under-master in a
school."

"Why do you want to be near London?"
asked his mother, frowning.

Bernard did not answer.  She knew very
well that he wanted to be near Doris Anderson,
and he did not wish to discuss Doris with her.
During his illness, it had been one of his
heaviest afflictions that he could not escape
from the sound of his mother's voice, as she
railed against Doris and her parents.

"Has the newspaper come?" he asked presently.

"Yes."  Mrs. Cameron pointed to the local
daily newspaper lying on the sideboard; and,
as her son rose to get it, she remarked: "I
cannot think why the postman has not come."

"Oh, he has.  I took the letters from him
at the door, as I was passing it----"

"You did?"  Mrs. Cameron looked annoyed.
"How often have I requested you to allow
Jane to bring the letters into the room in a
decent manner!" she snapped.

"They were only for me.  Surely a man
is entitled to his own letters!"

"Whom were they from?" was the next
sharp question, as his mother looked keenly
at him over her glasses.

"I really don't know.  I simply glanced at
them to see----"  He stopped short, not caring
to say that, as there was not a letter from
Doris, he had not deemed the others worthy
of immediate consideration.  Thrusting his
hand into his pocket, he produced a couple
of unopened letters.

"We will see what this one is," he remarked
with an attempt at cheerfulness, taking up a
table knife and cutting open an envelope.

"Ha!" he exclaimed as he read.  "Oh,
mother!  Oh, how good of Mr. Hamilton!
How good of him!  What a boon!--what a
great boon for us!"

"What is it?  What do you mean?" exclaimed
his mother, in great excitement.

"Read it," he said, handing her the letter,
and leaning back quite faint and dizzy with
surprise and gladness not unmingled with sorrow.

.. _`"READ IT," HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER`:

.. figure:: images/img-239.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'READ IT,' HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER."

   "'READ IT,' HE SAID, HANDING HER THE LETTER."

Adjusting her glasses, his mother read the
letter, which was from a well-known firm of
lawyers in Birmingham.

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR SIR,

.. vspace:: 1

"We have to inform you that by the
will of our late client, the Rev. John Hamilton,
you are bequeathed a legacy of five thousand
pounds free of legacy duty, as some compensation
for the loss of your fortune, for which our
client always felt a little responsible, as, had he
been a more businesslike man, he might have
prevented the defalcations of your other trustee,
Mr. Anderson, or at least he would not have
left your money so entirely in his hands.

"If you would kindly write and tell us how
you would like to receive your legacy--whether
we should pay it into your bank, or directly to
yourself, you would oblige,

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent-white-space-pre-line

   "Yours faithfully,
        "MARK AND WATSON,
            "Solicitors."

.. vspace:: 2

"Well," cried Mrs. Cameron, "I never was
more surprised in my life, nor more pleased!"
she added.  "And it was right, too, of
Mr. Hamilton!  I told him about his being to
blame, you know, for not looking after his
co-trustee--and I told him my mind about it;
and he went away in anger.  But, you see, he
has been thinking about my words, and he
recognised the justice of them----"

"Oh, mother, I wish you hadn't blamed
him!" exclaimed Bernard.

"Wish I hadn't blamed him?  How silly you
are, Bernard!  Why, it's to that you are
indebted for all this good fortune.  If I hadn't
stood up for you and put his duty before him,
you wouldn't have had anything."

"Did you suggest he should leave me
money?" asked Bernard, aghast.

"I did that!  I said it was his bounden duty
to give you a thousand or two."

"Mother!  How could you?"

"Well, I could.  It was for you I did it.
What right had he to leave all your money in
that Anderson's hand?  What right had he
to sign papers--as he confessed he did--at
Anderson's request without reading them?  I
told him he ought to have been ashamed of
himself, and, in fact, that he ought to give you
half of all that he possessed--we all knew he
had a lot of money somewhere."

"Will it be wronging his relations if I take
this legacy?" asked Bernard.

"If you take it?  Why, Bernard, how silly
you are!  You'll deserve to starve if you don't
take what the man has left you," cried his
mother, angrily.

"I won't take it--if any one else ought to
have it," said Bernard.

"Simpleton!" muttered his mother.  Then
she added, "He hadn't a single relation nearer
than a second cousin, who is a rich brewer, so
you may make your mind quite easy about that."

Bernard felt much relieved.  In that case he
would not have any scruples in accepting the
legacy which his late trustee had left him, and
how welcome the money would be!

"My boy," cried his mother, with more
kindliness, as she realised what a blessing the
money would be to them, "you can return to
Oxford, obtain your degree, and afterwards
have a school of your own!"

Bernard smiled, as he mentally said good-bye
to hard toil as an usher, or assistant-master
in another man's school.  He would have one
of his own one day; but first there was
something else of great importance for him to do.

Later in the day, after he had written to
the lawyers thanking them for their communication,
and asking them to be so kind as to pay
the five thousand pounds to his account in the
London and County Bank, and after he and his
mother had discussed Mr. Hamilton's somewhat
sudden decease during an attack of pneumonia,
he damped all her joy by declaring that the first
step he should take would be to go to London
to Doris Anderson, and the second would be
to marry her forthwith.

"I think she will consent," he said, "as her
only reason for refusing me before was that the
debt was not paid.  Now I have only to go to
her and say, 'Doris, part of the debt is paid.
I have come to marry you,' and then she will
consent--oh, yes, I know she will consent!"
and his face was bright with joy and thankfulness.

It was in vain that his mother vociferated
and protested against his marrying Doris, he
would not listen to her any longer.

"It is of no use your talking about the
matter, mother," he said; "I am going to marry
Doris, and no amount of talking will prevent me."

His mother was miserable; now less than
ever did she desire Doris to be her son's wife.

As she lay tossing about on her sleepless
bed that night she almost wished Bernard had
not received his very substantial legacy, as
he was going to use some of it for such a
purpose.

In the early morning she dressed hurriedly,
purposing to speak to her son on the subject
before he started for Doncaster to catch the
early express for London.

Early as she was, however, Bernard had
been earlier, for he had already left the house
when she came downstairs.

Mrs. Cameron hired a dogcart and ordered
a man to drive her as fast as possible to
Doncaster Station.

But it happened that the dogcart collided
with a waggon on the way.  No one was hurt,
but there was some confusion and considerable
delay, and when at length Mrs. Cameron was
able to walk into the station at Doncaster, it
was to catch sight of the express fast
disappearing in the distance.

"I have lost my son!" said the unhappy
woman to herself.  "He will never speak to me
again when he finds out about the letters I
have suppressed.  He will hate me--yes, he
will hate me for doing it."  The thought followed
that she would deserve her fate, for if ever
a parent provoked her son to wrath she had
done so.





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.. _`BERNARD SEEKS DORIS`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   BERNARD SEEKS DORIS.

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..

   |  The course of true love never did run smooth.
   |                                  SHAKESPEARE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Is Miss Anderson in?"

"No, sir.  She doesn't live here now, sir,"
answered Mrs. Austin, in melancholy tones.

"Not live here!  Then where is she?" cried
Bernard somewhat faintly, for in his surprise
and consternation at not finding Doris there a
return of the faintness that had before troubled
him seemed imminent.

The good woman caught hold of him by the arm.

"Excuse me, Mr. Cameron, sir," she
exclaimed.  "You are ill.  Come inside, sir.
Come inside the house."

Bernard shook her hand off, declaring he
was all right; but he walked unsteadily into
the little sitting-room, where he had expected
to find Doris.

"Sit down, sir; I'll get you a glass of water
or a cup of tea in a moment----"

"Nonsense!  I mean, I'm much obliged to
you.  But all I wish to know is this, where
is Miss Anderson?  Where--is--Miss--Anderson?

"Oh, I'll tell you, sir, in a moment," answered
Mrs. Austin, bustling about and getting him
some water.  "Take a drink, sir," and she held
the glass to his lips.

He drank slowly.  The room, which had
been turning round and sinking into the
ground, became once more stationary, whilst
the clouds of darkness disappeared, and it was
light again.

"There, you'll do now," said Mrs. Austin.
"Miss Anderson told me that you had been ill."

"Never mind me.  Where is she?" Bernard
asked the question impatiently.  Would the
woman never answer him?

"There have been changes, sir, since you
were here," said Mrs. Austin, rather nervously,
standing before him, twisting her apron round
her fingers, with her eyes fixed upon it.  "It
all came of the artist gentleman.  I wish to
goodness he had never set his foot inside of
my door!"

"Do you mean Miss Sinclair's brother?"
interrupted Bernard, taking alarm at Norman
Sinclair's influencing Doris's movements.  He
remembered warning her against him in this
very room, and telling her that if she grew to
care for him she would not love her Bernard
any more.

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair.  I begged her not to
listen to him.  But she did.  And he came
again and again, until he had persuaded her
to stop making those pictures and give up
her business, which was paying her so
grandly."

"Give up her business!  Did you say he
persuaded her to give up her business?  Did
she do that?"

"Yes, sir, yes.  Didn't she tell you?  For,
now I come to think of it, she had done that
before you were ill, when she went to see you
at Richmond."

"Had she taken such a step then?  She
never told me so.  She never said a word
about it to me."

"Didn't she, sir?  Then perhaps she thought
you were too ill to be bothered.  She told me
when she returned from Richmond that she
had seen you off by train for the north, hoping
that your native air and your mother's nursing
would restore you.  Not that it has done much
for you, sir, as far as I can see----"

"Never mind that.  Tell me what Miss
Anderson did next?" Bernard asked anxiously.

"She told me that she sold what she had
left of the pictures she had finished, and all the
materials she had bought in for others; and
then, having given up the business, she began
seeking employment again, answering advertisements,
applying at shops, and all that sort of
weary work.  It made my heart ache to see
her come in at nights tired out, pale, and
worn--a lady like that, who ought only to have
been fatigued with cycling, or tennis, or
amusing herself as other young ladies do!
'Perhaps I shall have more success to-morrow,'
she would say to me, with her patient smile.
But months went by, and it was always the
same, until, at length, she came towards the
end of her savings, and then she began to
economise and pinch herself of comforts,
and--necessaries."

"You don't say so!" cried Bernard in
consternation.

"I'm afraid you are ill, sir," exclaimed
Mrs. Austin, seeing him turn very pale.

"No, I'm all right.  Go on," he said
though his old faintness was troubling him.

"Well, sir, the day came when Miss Anderson
said to me very plainly that she had no money
left, or next to none, so she begged me to
allow her to give up her rooms and just have
the garret to sleep in until she found work that
she could do."

"Why didn't she write to me?" cried Bernard.

"She hadn't much time for writing, sir, when
she was all day seeking work; and at nights
she was too tired, too down-hearted.  And I
think, sir, she kept looking for a letter, which
didn't come, from you."

"From me?  Why, I wrote to her almost
every week when I was well enough, until,
latterly, having no answer, I became
discouraged.  But hurry on with your story.
Where is she now?"

"She had a letter from Miss Sinclair which
made her very glad; and then Miss Sinclair
found her some work, about which she was
very hopeful at first; but it was difficult to do,
I am sure, for she used to come home quite
fagged out, and it must have paid badly, for
she had very little money.  'I'm such a poor
hand at it, Mrs. Austin!' she used to say.
And sometimes she used to add, 'My heart
isn't hard enough for it.'  Poor dear!  If it
was a hard heart the work wanted, Miss
Anderson was quite the wrong lady for it.  I've
seen ladies who would 'skin a flint,' as the
saying is, but----"

"Never mind that!" interrupted Bernard
with more impatience than courtesy.  "Tell
me where Miss Anderson is?"

Mrs. Austin began again, for she would tell
things in her own way.  "She fell into a poor
state of health, and got a hacking cough, which
wouldn't be cured, though I made her linseed
tea, and honey and lemon, and----"

"Where is she?  Speak!  Tell me, is she
alive?"  For now Bernard's fear caused him
to leap to the conclusion that Doris must have
died.

"Oh, dear, sir, she's alive, of course!  Though
she was in a bad state at that time, and had
a regular churchyard cough."

"Go on.  You frighten me."

"I'm sorry, sir.  Where was I?  Oh, there
came a day when she couldn't go out.  I made
her lie on the sofa in my back parlour, and it
just happened that Mr. Sinclair called: he had
been many times when she was out, but that
day he called when she was in.  He had a
very long talk with Miss Anderson.  And she
was very much excited after he had gone.  She
cried a good bit, and then, next day, his sister
came to see her, and afterwards he called again,
and then Miss Anderson sat down and wrote a
letter to you, sir, and another one to an old
servant in Yorkshire, and she cried while she
was writing them.  I think those were very
important letters, sir, for she was very anxious
that they should be safely posted.  I had to
put on my bonnet and take them to the post
myself, for she would trust no one else.  And
then she waited so anxiously for the answers,
but only the old servant wrote.  Oh, sir, why
didn't you write?"

"I received no letter from her.  I have had
none from her since the first week after my
return to Yorkshire."

"And I'm sure she wrote to you, sir, several
times."

Bernard uttered an exclamation.  It was
clear to him that his mother must have seized
his letters and kept them from him.

"There was something in the old servant's
letter," continued Mrs. Austin, "which struck
my dear young lady all of a heap and made
her go about like a stricken lamb, with her
poor young face so white and drawn.  She did
not cry then, sir.  I only wished she would,
for there was a heart-broken look in her poor
face.  Then Miss Sinclair came, full of
affectionate concern, and she did her best to
comfort Miss Anderson; but in vain.

"'It's no use,' she said to me, 'I cannot
make Doris cheer up.  I shall send my brother.'

"And then, the next thing was Mr. Sinclair
came, and after he had gone, Miss Anderson
said to me, quiet-like, 'I'm not going to be
poor any longer, Mrs. Austin!'  And then she
went on to say, 'It will be better for you, dear
Mrs. Austin; I've only been a burden on you
lately, and now you will be well paid for all
you have done for me---not that money will
ever repay you, my good, kind friend!' and,
throwing her arms round my neck, she kissed
me more than once.  'I should have died if it
hadn't been for you,' she said.  'And now I
am going to live and be Mr. Sinclair's wife.
He is rich now, and I have promised to marry
him.'"

"To marry him!" Bernard exclaimed,
starting up so violently that he overturned a
small table.  "Did she say to marry him?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Austin answered, with
great sympathy; "I'm sorry to say she did."

"But she is *my* promised wife!" cried
Bernard, picking up the table and beginning
to pace up and down the room, in his agitation.

"Indeed, sir!"  Mrs. Austin's round eyes
opened widely in astonishment.  She had
always understood that Mr. Cameron loved
Doris, and indeed she wondered who could
help loving her!  But it was altogether another
thing to hear that Doris had promised to
marry Mr. Cameron.

"Where is she?  I must speak to her--must
hear from her own lips how it was that
she could do such a thing.  Where is she?"
cried Bernard.

"Wait a minute, please, sir," said
Mrs. Austin.  "I must tell you that after the
engagement was settled Miss Sinclair came
the next day and took Miss Anderson away.
Miss Sinclair gave me her address,--Steele's
Road, Hampstead, and said that I was to
forward all Miss Anderson's letters there.  Miss
Sinclair also gave me a five-pound-note, and
Miss Anderson promised to come and see me,
and settle up everything before she got married.
She begged me to pack up all her things, and
take care of them for her; but she said, too,
that she would never be able to come and live
here again.  'No,' I said, 'you are going to
be a grand lady, and you'll forget all about
poor Mrs. Austin!'  But she said, 'No, no,
indeed!' and she cried, and kissed me.  'I'm
not very happy,' she said, and could say no
more for weeping, especially as Miss Sinclair
came up to urge her to make haste, for the cab
was waiting.

"Not very happy?  I should think not
indeed!  Oh, Doris!"  The last words were
said very low, as Bernard turned his head
away for a few moments.

"She looked miserable, sir.  I'm thinking it
was only for a home and support that she was
thinking of marriage."

"But she wouldn't sell herself for that!"
exclaimed Bernard.

"And then it was such a grievous thing,
sir, that you didn't write to her.  Hope deferred
maketh the heart sick.  And very sick at heart
my poor dear young lady was, many and
many a time, while she was looking for the
post bringing her a letter, in the days before
she got engaged to Mr. Sinclair."

"But I did write!  I wrote many more
letters than I received from her.  I never
heard from her after the first week."

"Then there has been foul play, sir,
somewhere!  Letters have been stopped, and have
got into the wrong hands before to-day."

Bernard knew well who must have been the
culprit.  His mother had wronged and sinned
against him in a way which would be hard to
forgive.  She had done all she possibly could to
destroy his happiness in this world.  But he told
himself that he must not waste time in thinking
of that just now; he would hasten to Doris and
have a talk with her.

"Do you say she is at Hampstead?" he
inquired, hastily.

"She went there with Miss Sinclair, but
they are not there now, sir.  They have gone
to the seaside somewhere, for the benefit of
Miss Anderson's health."

"Gone!" cried Bernard.  "To the seaside!
What seaside?  Where?"

"I don't know, sir.  They'll tell you
at--Steele's Road, Hampstead."

"I'll go there at once.  You've been a good
friend to Miss Anderson.  Allow me," and he
pressed a sovereign into the landlady's hand,
and hurried out of the house.

In the shortest possible time he was at
Hampstead, inquiring at Steele's Road for
Miss Anderson's address.  Mr. Sinclair
happened to be out--which Bernard thought was
just as well for him; but the servant being
under the impression that his master was
somewhere about the house, Bernard was
shown up into the studio.  There, as he waited,
he perceived more than one painting in which
Doris's fair sweet face was beautifully
delineated.  The sight of it there, however, only
maddened her unhappy lover.  What right had
the fellow to make Doris's loveliness so
common?  What right had he to possess the
presentment of it there?  By the power of
his strong will and helped by his riches he
had prevailed upon the lonely girl to promise
him her hand in marriage.  In the absence
of her own true lover he had stolen her from
him.  But a Nemesis had come, was coming
indeed; and when Doris saw her Bernard and
spoke with him, face to face, she would throw
over the usurper, and matters would be
readjusted as happily, nay, more happily, than if
this engagement had not occurred.

   |  "'For things can never go wholly wrong
   |  If the heart be true and the love be strong'"--

quoted Bernard to himself, "and there shall
be no mere engagement, but a marriage shall
take place forthwith.  For, thank God!  I am
rich enough now," he said to himself, "to be
able to marry my Doris.  Yes, all will come
right when I see her again."

A maidservant entered, bringing in an
address on a slip of paper.  "Mr. Sinclair is
out," she said, "but this is where we have
to send all letters that come, either for Miss
Sinclair or Miss Anderson."

"Thank you," said Bernard, taking up the
scrap of paper, and reading, "The Queen's
Hotel, Hastings," upon it.

"I will go there immediately," he said to
himself, as he left the house.  "I will take the
very first express train to Hastings."  He
hailed a cab.  "Drive me to Charing Cross,"
he ordered, "and drive your fastest."





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.. _`TOO LATE!  TOO LATE!`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


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   TOO LATE!  TOO LATE!

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There is no disguise which can long conceal love when it does, or
feign it when it does not exist.--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

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"How strange it is to be rich!" cried Alice
Sinclair, as she sat with Doris in a shelter
by the sea at Hastings.  "It *is* delightful!"

Doris smiled, but her smile only seemed to
enhance the sadness in the expression of her
beautiful face, and she shivered slightly as she
drew a fur-lined cloak more closely round her.
"This is different from account-collecting," she
said, looking at the fashionably dressed people
sauntering by, and then allowing her eyes to
rest upon the beauty of the sunlit waves before
them.

"Yes, or making imitation oil-paintings
either!" exclaimed Alice.  "Who would have
thought to see us, now, that we were two poor
girls toiling in a London garret not long ago?"

"To feed a 'Lion' and pay a monstrous
debt," said Doris, plaintively.

"And now our task is done," continued
Alice, with cheerfulness.  "The Lion is fed,
and is roaring loudly in the Royal Academy:
moreover, he has food enough for a lifetime.
And as for you, your struggle with the hard
cold world is ended, dear," and as she spoke
she laid her hand on Doris's thin arm.  "Are
you not glad?" she asked a little wistfully, for
the sadness of her friend was a great trouble
to her.

"I try to be," answered Doris.

"Try to be?" Alice raised her eyebrows.

"Yes.  I have to try, you know, for I don't
feel able to rejoice about anything in these
days."  The tears came to Doris's eyes as she
spoke, and her lips trembled.

"Poor dear!  That is because you are out
of health----"

"Sometimes I wish it was out of life,"
interrupted Doris wearily.  For it was a dark
hour with her, and, in her trouble in losing
Bernard's love and having promised to marry
a man for whom she had no affection, she had
for the time being lost her usual happy faith
in the golden thread of her Heavenly Father's
love.

"Oh, Doris!" Alice was shocked.  Things
were even worse than she had feared.

"I cannot help it," returned Doris.  "I
am sad, and there is no denying it.  Whichever
way I look I see nothing but sadness--sadness
in the past, in the present--and, God
help me, in the future."  Her tones were
miserable.

"In the future with Norman?  Oh, Doris,
you cannot *love* him!"  Alice's tones were
full of distress.

"At least, I am not deceiving him.  He
knows what my feelings are."

"Do you think he does--quite?" asked
Alice, softly.

"Yes, quite.  And he is content: he says
the love will come in time--that he will win it."

"I don't think he will," said Alice--they
were talking in low tones which others could
not hear, as they had the shelter to
themselves--"love cannot be compelled.  I don't know
much about it myself," she added candidly;
"no man has ever wanted to marry me, and
I have never cared for any one so much as I
care for Norman, but I have read about love
in books, and I know it cannot be forced.  You
do not love Norman."

"Alice," protested Doris, "you ought not
to say that!"

"Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your
innermost heart you know that I am right.  I am
only calling a spade a spade, and it isn't the
least use to make a pretence of calling it
anything else.  You do not love Norman.  Now,
dear, hear me out, *you do not love him at all*.
I was watching you this morning when you
received that letter from him, and you looked
infinitely bored.  When he is over here you
escape from his presence whenever you can,
especially if I am not with you.  You say that
he is not being deceived, but does he realise
what a wretched man he will be if he marries
you when you are feeling like that?  He is
full of love and tenderness towards you, and
you have not even the old liking for him and
interest in his talk and doings which you had
at first.  You can, in fact, barely tolerate him
now.  Think, then, what it will be to have to
live with him for years and years, until you
are old and die----"

"Hush, dear!  Perhaps I shall die soon."  There
was a peculiar sound in the poor girl's
voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching
eyes, could see that her heart was breaking,
and that she would indeed die soon if she were
not released from what was slowly killing her.

"The marriage must not take place," said
Alice, firmly.  "If not for your own sake, you
must stop it for Norman's.  If *your* heart is
breaking now, *his* will break after marriage,
when he finds that he has only bought an
empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman
without a heart which can return his love,
a wife without the wifely qualities he craves.
Poor old Norman!  He deserves a better fate,"
and there was indignation in her tones.

"Yes," said Doris, "it is true.  He deserves
a better fate."

They were silent for a few minutes after she
had said that.  The girls sat watching the
sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of
various descriptions.  They listened to the
gentle lapping of the waves, the shouts and
laughter of the children paddling on the beach,
and the scraps of conversation from the
passers-by.  But mentally they were seeing very
different scenes, and they were hearing, too,
other more interesting words.  Doris was
thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth of
their love for each other, and his proposal upon
the hill at Askern in Yorkshire, and, later on,
his more mature declaration of love, in
Mrs. Austin's house in North London.  Alice, on the
other hand, was thinking of her brother
Norman, and of the pained expression of his
face when Doris too manifestly avoided a
*tête-à-tête* with him.  If it were so now, what
would it be when they were married?  What
prospect of happiness could there be for either
of them?

"Look!  See who is coming towards us!"
exclaimed Doris, suddenly.  Her face had
lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and
she was leaning forward the better to discern
the features of a tall young man hurrying
towards them through the promenaders on the
front.

"Why, it is Mr. Cameron!" cried Alice,
in great surprise.  "What can he want here?"

It was soon evident what he wanted, for
he came straight up to Doris, exclaiming, "Ah,
you are here!  How are you?"  His eyes
sought hers, eagerly and with great wistfulness.
"And how are you, Miss Sinclair," he added,
holding out his hand to Alice; but his eyes
went back to Doris.  "They told me at 'The
Queen's,'" he went on hurriedly, "that I should
find you here, so I came straight along, looking
in at every shelter."

"We are very glad to see you," said Alice,
rather gravely.  Was it for the best, she
wondered, for her brother and Doris, that the
latter's first lover should return to claim her?
She knew instinctively that it was for that
purpose this very resolute young man had
come.  Perhaps, indeed, this would be the
solution of the very unsatisfactory state of
things she had been grieving over.

Doris said nothing.  She dared not bid
Bernard welcome, but she could not feign
displeasure at his persistency in following her
there: it was impossible for her to simulate
unconcern and coldness.  She was glad to see
him, and to know, by his very presence and
the way in which he came to her, that she
still possessed his love: a great weight was
lifted from her heart, and a glow as of returning
happiness crept through her frame, bringing
the pretty colour into her cheeks, reddening
her pale lips, and brightening the eyes which
had shed so many tears.

Alice, glancing at her, understood that
Doris's happiness, perchance even her life
itself, might depend upon her interview with
Bernard at this fateful time.  "He has her
heart," thought Alice, "he may as well have
her altogether: for Doris without a heart
would make poor Norman as miserable as
she would be herself."  Therefore Alice said
briskly:

"I am glad you have come up, Mr. Cameron,
for I want to do some shopping, and you can
sit here with Miss Anderson whilst I am
away.  I did not like leaving her alone, but
now I can go.  You will be all right with
Mr. Cameron, Doris, and I will return
presently," and before they could make any
coherent reply, she had set off, walking
briskly away from the sea-front.

Bernard gave one grateful look after her,
then he quickly turned to Doris.  "I may
sit down," he said, "may I not?  For I have
much to say."

Doris bowed.  She could not speak, for
hope and happiness had come to her, which
she was vainly endeavouring to resist.  Bernard
was there, she had him all to herself; might
she not for one half-hour give herself up to
the happy present before she was made
miserable for life?

"Have you anything to say to me first?"
asked Bernard, gently.  She looked so frail
that he determined to be very gentle with
her, and he said to himself that he could not
really believe that she was engaged to Norman
Sinclair, unless she said it with her own
lips.

Doris could not speak.  She endeavoured
to do so, but in vain.  It did not seem to her
to be right to say what she wanted to tell
him, and yet she could not utter the words
that duty demanded.  Therefore she remained
silent.

"I have given her a chance to speak of
her engagement to Sinclair, and she has not
availed herself of it; therefore I will not believe
she is engaged to him," said Bernard to
himself; and then one of his hands stole under
Doris's fur cloak and clasped hers warmly,
as he cried in low yet earnest tones, "My
darling, I have brought good news.  I have
had a legacy left me in part payment of my
lost money."

Doris uttered a cry of joy.  "My father!"
she exclaimed.  "You have heard from him!
He has sent you money!  Oh, thank God!
Where is father?  Tell me quickly!  And
did he mention mother?"  She spoke rapidly,
in intense eagerness.

Bernard was grieved to disappoint her;
still, the truth had to be told, so he said
quickly, "The money was not from your
father.  Mr. Hamilton, his co-trustee, has
died and left me five thousand pounds in
his will, he said, as some compensation for
my lost money.  Immediately I knew it I
came to claim you, my dearest!"  He drew
the shrinking girl a little nearer.  "I always
said," he continued--"I always said that you
and no other woman in the world should be
my wife."

"I cannot!  Oh, I cannot!"  The words
were only just audible, but reached Bernard's
ears at length.

"Cannot!"  He looked at her with pained
surprise.  Being very sanguine and also very
young, he had already, in the last few minutes,
almost forgotten the unwelcome news of her
having become engaged to Norman Sinclair,
which he had heard in London, and which
had hurried him to Hastings.  "Cannot!"
he repeated.  "But you must, and you shall!
I have been too poor and too ill to claim you
for some time.  Now, however, that that
money has come to me, I have immediately
hastened here, in order to claim the fulfilment
of your promise made to me upon the hill at
Askern Spa.  Don't trifle with me, Doris,"
he added, with a little choke in his manly
voice.  "I have been through so very much
that I cannot bear it."

"I have, too," she faltered.  "God knows
what I have been through."

"But that is ended," he said, quickly.
"Thank God, that is all ended, and I have
come now to *claim your promise*?

"I cannot marry you--I cannot," she repeated.

"Why cannot you?" he demanded.

"Oh, Bernard, do not try to question me.
Dear Bernard," she looked up at him
beseechingly, "be so very good as not to ask
me that question.  Take my answer, dear,
and go away."

"Go away!  Doris, do you know what
you are saying?  I come to you in order to
claim you for my own, and you tell me to go
away."

"Forgive me, dear," she said, weeping now
and turning away her face so that he might
not see her tears.  "Forgive me, dear, and go."

"I shall not.  I cannot--I will not unless
you say that you have ceased to love me."

"I cannot say that, Bernard, for I love
you," Doris answered, "and I know that I
shall never love any other man as I love you."  Then
she tried to rise, as she ended miserably,
"Nevertheless, *I cannot marry you*."

"Sit still."  He placed her on the seat
again.  "You say that you love me, and yet
persist in saying you cannot marry me.  I
must know how that is.  You must tell me,
dear.  I have a right to know."

Slowly the words dropped from Doris's lips,
"I cannot marry you, because I am engaged
to Norman Sinclair."

"Engaged to Norman Sinclair?" Bernard
repeated indignantly.  "Then it is true, that
tale they told me in London.  You--my promised
wife--have engaged yourself to marry
that man!"

"Yes, it--is--true," again the words dropped
falteringly from the poor girl's lips.  "But I
could not help it, Bernard," she added, quickly.
"I could not help it--I was obliged.  You
see, you did not write.  There was nothing
before me except starvation; and then Norman
came to me with his offer, and I was tempted.
Oh, Bernard!" she exclaimed, "why did
you not write?  I waited and waited for a
letter so anxiously, especially after I had told
you about Mr. Sinclair's offer.  Oh, you
might have written just one line!"  She looked
at him with reproach in her blue eyes.

"My dear girl, I did not receive that letter,
or any at all from you after the first week
of my return to Moss, although I wrote
repeatedly.  Some one has suppressed our letters,
Doris!"

"Cruel!  Cruel!" cried the girl, instantly
suspecting who it was.  "But how was it
that, not hearing, you did not come to me
in order to ascertain the reason?  It is such
a long, long time since you returned to
Yorkshire, almost a year--and it seems more."

"I have been so ill," replied Bernard sadly,
"and when I recovered from my first illness,
I caught chills and had bad relapses.  I was
not out of the doctor's hands during nine
months, and my mother nursed me so devotedly.
How could I suspect that at the same
time she was grievously injuring you and me?"

"And then there was another thing,"
complained poor Doris.  "I wrote to Susan, our
old servant, you know, and asked her about
you; whereupon she replied that I was to
think no more about you, as she had heard
on good authority that you were going to
marry a young lady at Doncaster."

"Oh, but you couldn't believe that, Doris?
Surely you had more faith in my love!"
exclaimed Bernard, reproachfully.

"What else could I believe when you never
wrote and she said that?"

"Doris, I should not have believed it of
you!" exclaimed Bernard, stopping short, with
a little frown, as he remembered that she had
become engaged to Norman Sinclair.

Doris looked up miserably.  "Circumstances
were too much for me," she said, "and, forgive
me--I thought that they had been too much
for you."

"Did you think I was so weak?" cried
Bernard--"so weak," he repeated, "as not
to be true to the only girl I have ever loved?"

"How was it," asked Doris, gently--"how
was it that Susan could hear on good authority
that you were going to marry a Doncaster
lady?"

"Well, if you must know," said Bernard,
"my mother set her heart on the match, and
she was always having the girl over and trying
to leave us together, and taking her with us
everywhere, and she must have spread it about
that we were engaged; so I daresay she told
Susan the same thing."

"Which would account for Susan's saying
that she had the news on good authority,"
interposed Doris.  "But tell me, was the girl
rich?  And did you like her?" and she looked
searchingly at Bernard.

"Yes, she was very well off," he admitted,
"and she was nice enough; but of course I did
not love her, for I love you."

"It's very, *very* sad," said Doris, the tears
rising to her eyes as she spoke.  "But, dear
Bernard, there is nothing to be done.  It is
too late!  Too late!"

"Oh, but it is not.  You are not married yet.
You will have to break with Sinclair."

"I cannot.  He is a good and honourable
man, and he loves me.  I cannot break my
promise and make him miserable."

"But your engagement was made upon false
premises: you thought I was faithless, and I
was not.  Everything must be explained to
Sinclair, and as a man of honour he will feel
bound to release you."

Doris shook her head.  "I cannot make him
miserable," she said.

It was in vain Bernard argued and pleaded,
he could get no concession at all from the poor
distracted girl, who simply repeated in different
words her one cry, "I cannot, dear, I cannot
be your wife."

The young man became angry, at length, at
her unreasonableness, as he called it, declaring
that she could not love him as much as he
loved her, or she would not see such great
difficulties in the way of their union; and when,
upon his adding that he would see Mr. Sinclair
and thrash the matter out with him, she said
that she could not consent to that, he got quite
out of patience with her, and, saying goodbye
rather coldly, went away towards the railway
station, with the intention of taking the next
train for London.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ALICE SINCLAIR'S INTERVENTION.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  It never could be kind, dear, to give a needless pain:
   |  It never could be honest, dear, to sin for greed again,
   |  And there could not be a world, dear, while God is true above,
   |  When right and wrong are governed by any law but love.
   |                                                  *Anon*.

.. vspace:: 2

Bernard Cameron was hurrying along towards
the station when he met Alice Sinclair.

The girl looked immensely surprised to see
him there, and immediately exclaimed:

"What?  You here, Mr. Cameron?  Why,
I left you in charge of Miss Anderson until I
returned.  I was on my way back, now," she
added.

"I am off by the next train to town," said
Bernard, in very injured tones.  "I was a
fool," he added, bitterly, "to come down here
at all."

Alice read the lines of distress and
disappointment written upon his face, and was
very patient with him.

"There isn't a train to London for at least
an hour," she said, "and you must not think
of going until you have had some tea.  Let us
return to Doris, and then we will go into the
Creamery and have some tea."

"I must beg you to excuse me," said Bernard,
stiffly.  "I have taken leave of Miss Anderson,
and must now bid you good-bye."  He held
out his hand as he spoke.

Alice perceived that he had been hard hit.
"You must not leave me like this," she said,
gently.  "Mr. Cameron, I thought you and I
were friends."

"So we are.  You have always been
good to me, but----"  He stopped short, and
his eyes wandered in the direction of the
station.

"It is no use thinking of starting to London
yet.  As I said, there is no train for fully an
hour.  Tell me," she regarded him very
sympathisingly, "what is the matter?  Have you
and Doris quarrelled?"

Bernard looked at her kind sympathising
face and his resolution wavered.  "Quarrelled
is not the word," he said; adding, with an
effort, "I should like to tell you all about it,
Miss Sinclair, if I might."

"I wish you would," said Alice, earnestly--it
was one cause of her influence with others
that she was always in earnest.  "Come and
let us walk up and down in Cambridge Gardens,
where it is quiet.  Then we can have a long
talk."

They turned into the less frequented street,
and walked slowly along, whilst in low, rapid
tones Bernard told Alice all his trouble, and
especially the grievous fact that his and Doris's
letters had been suppressed and kept from
them for many months, finally ending by
complaining bitterly of Doris's ultimatum.

"Doris must not marry your brother, Miss
Sinclair."  Bernard's tone was as decided and
masterful as the artist's as he concluded with
these words: "She must marry me.  We loved
each other long before your brother ever saw
her, and we love each other still--and shall
until death."

It seemed to Alice, walking by Bernard's
side and listening to his low, earnest voice,
that no power on earth would be able to
separate him from the girl he loved, and
certainly Norman would not endeavour to do
so.  Norman was a man of honour, and when
he learnt how the two lovers had been kept
apart and separated by the wickedness of
Mrs. Cameron, and after everything was
explained to him he would release Doris
from her engagement, no matter at what cost
to himself.

Alice tried to say something of this sort to
Bernard, but he scarcely listened.

He was glad of her for a confidante, but did
not want to hear her views or listen to her
advice, because in his own mind he had
already solved the problem.  And first, his
thoughts, as was natural, returned to Doris,
from whom he had parted in anger.

"All this time," he said, hastily, as if only
then realising it, "Doris, whom I left in anger,
must be in distress.  She must be suffering
intensely, for you know she is so very
sensitive.  I must therefore return to her at
once, and must encourage her to hope that
all will yet be well.  If she will not throw
Sinclair over----"

"Allow me to remark that you are speaking
of *my brother*," interposed Alice.

"I beg your pardon," said Bernard, in
remorseful tones, as he looked at the kind girl,
whose colour had risen.  "It was an awful
shame for me to speak like that, but----"  He
broke off, and began again, "I thought we
were agreed that she would have to give him up."

"That is not the way to put it," said Alice.
"My brother, who is really the soul of honour,
will have to release Doris from her promise.
He must do it--and will, when he knows
everything."

"Yes, of course.  As I was saying, if Doris
will not--I beg your pardon, as she cannot
in honour release herself, I shall go to Sinclair
and tell him that it will be most dishonourable
of him if he does not release her from her
engagement----"

"That won't do!" exclaimed Alice; "that
won't do at all.  If you go to Norman in
that spirit you will soon be outside his door
again.  My brother is a bit of a lion, you
know, in more senses than one.  He might
listen to any one speaking very courteously,
but if a bear comes in and tries to get his
bone, oh! there *will* be a pandemonium!"

"Well, he must be told----"

"I will tell him," said Alice.  "I will go
to London to-morrow, and will see him
and explain everything to him.  It will not
be a very pleasant task--it will pain me
very much to make my brother unhappy,
but I will do it for dear Doris and for you."

"It is very, *very* good of you," said Bernard,
gratefully, "to say that you will go and
explain everything to your brother.  Perhaps
you will be able to do it in a nicer way than
I could."

Alice smiled.  She certainly thought that
was possible.  "Norman is very good," she
said.  "I am sure he will release Doris, but it
will be a dreadful sorrow to him, for he loves
her very much."

"I am sure of that.  Though he shouldn't
have come poaching in my preserves!"

The last words were uttered so low that
he did not intend Alice to hear them.  But the
girl heard, and instantly retorted:

"You forget that was the fault of the person
who kept back Doris's letters and yours,
causing her to think that you no longer loved
her; so that naturally both she and Norman
concluded that she was free to marry whom she
pleased."

"Yes, of course.  You are right.  I beg
your pardon for forgetting that," said Bernard,
penitently.

"Now we will return to Doris together, and
after we have explained to her how matters
stand, we will go and have some tea at
the Creamery in Robertson Street.  Afterwards----"

Alice paused, looking wistfully at him.

"I will keep out of her way until you return
from London," Bernard said, understanding
that he ought not to proceed further until
Norman had freed Doris from her engagement
to him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NORMAN SINCLAIR'S LETTER.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Not only those above us on the height,
   |    With love and praise and reverence I greet:
   |  Not only those who walk in paths of light
   |        With glad, untiring feet:
   |  These, too, I reverence toiling up the slope,
   |    And resting not upon their rugged way,
   |  Who plant their feet on faith and cling to hope,
   |        And climb as best they may.

   |  And even these I praise, who, being weak,
   |    Were led by folly into deep disgrace:
   |  Now striving on a pathway rough and bleak,
   |        To gain a higher place.
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  Oh! struggling souls, be brave and full of cheer,
   |    Nor let your holy purpose swerve, or break!
   |  The way grows smoother and the light more clear
   |        At every step you take.
   |  Lo! in the upward path God's boundless love
   |    Supports you evermore upon your way:
   |  You cannot fail to reach the heights above
   |    Who climb as best you may!
   |                            EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD.

.. vspace:: 2

Doris sat alone in the shelter, after Bernard
had left her, in a state of unhappiness so great
that she could not even weep.

"All is over between us," she sighed,
"and Bernard has gone away in anger.  How
wretched it is!  Nothing could be more
wretched!  Nothing!  I am the most
unfortunate girl in all the world!"  And she sat
with her pale face turned towards the sunlit
waves, watching them and yet in reality seeing
nothing except her own utter misery.  What
had become of all her prayers, she wondered--the
prayers which she had poured out to
her Heavenly Father from a sorrow-laden heart?

He had saved her from starvation, and
placed her in a position of great temporal
prosperity; yes, but what about her previous many,
many prayers for Bernard, for their mutual
reconciliation and union when a part at least
of the debt was paid, and for the happy and
useful married life which they had once planned
together on the hill at Askern, and for which
she had so often longed and prayed?

"I have done my best," thought Doris,
"and have tried to serve God all the while.
The thought of Him was ever in my heart,
and I gave up my prosperous little business--all
that I had--in obedience to His Voice,
speaking to me through Norman's words and
my own conceptions of what I ought to do.
I cast my all into His treasury: and all
the time--every day--I prayed for Bernard--and
for our future together--until--until I
was led by circumstances to believe that
he did not love me.  And since then--since
then everything has gone wrong, and
I seem to have lost hope and faith in God
and man."

She was in despair.  It was the darkest hour
of all her sorrowful young life, and she could
see no gleam of light in any direction.

How long she sat thus she never knew, but
it seemed an immense time before she heard
the cheerful voice of Alice behind her saying
brightly, "Doris!  Doris darling, we have
brought you good news!"

"There is no good news for me," answered
Doris, without turning her head, and the two
who loved her were aghast at the hopelessness
of her tones.

"Doris!" exclaimed Bernard, "I have returned,
in order to bring you the glad news
that there is hope for us, and help, for Miss
Sinclair is going to be our good angel and is
going to save the situation."

"How?  What?  I don't understand," said
Doris, turning to look at them in relief and
surprise.  "Do explain, please," she added,
tremulously, feeling quite unable to bear any
more suspense.

Sitting down beside her, they hastened to
tell everything, and then to combat her conscientious
objections to Alice's proposed arbitration,
as it seemed to her, at first, that it was
scarcely right for Alice to persuade her brother
to release his *fiancée*.

"I shall not persuade him," replied Alice, "I
shall simply tell him the facts of the case, and
leave him to act as it seems right to him.  But
I will tell you this, Doris," she added, "I know
dear old Norman will at once release you from
your engagement."

Then Alice carried them off to the Creamery,
and, after they had partaken of a charming
little tea, she invited Bernard to meet her at
the Warrior Square Station at five o'clock on
the following day, when she expected to be
back from London, in order that she might tell
him first what her brother decided.  When that
matter was settled to every one's satisfaction,
Bernard took leave of the girls and went away,
to pass the time as best he could until Norman
Sinclair's ultimatum was received.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



The following evening, as Doris sat in one
of the large balconies of the Queen's Hotel,
enjoying the fine air, the pleasing sea view, and
most of all the delightful hope that all might yet
be well, Alice, who had been to London, and
Bernard, who had met her at the station, came
to her there.

"All is well," said Alice, "as I knew it
would be.  Doris," she took the girl's thin hand
in hers, and placed it gently within Bernard's,
"Norman has sent you your freedom.  You
can marry Bernard now as soon as you like,
and Norman hopes you will be very happy.
He has sent you a letter, dear," she said in
conclusion, putting one into Doris's hand.

Doris swayed in her chair.  She could not
even see the letter for the tears which filled
her eyes.

Alice, too, began to cry, and Bernard had
to clear his voice two or three times before he
could speak.

"I am afraid I was a little rough on your
brother, Miss Sinclair," he said at length.
"He is indeed a man of honour.  I am sure
I beg to withdraw all that I have said against
him, and to apologise for my hot words.  I
hope that you will tell him how grateful we are
when you see him."

"I'm afraid I shall not see him for a very
long time," answered Alice; "he is going
abroad alone."  She looked deeply pained.
"He wishes me to stay with Doris and see
after her getting married."  She said the last
words more cheerfully, for, being a woman, the
idea of a wedding was pleasant.

"There won't be much to see about in my
wedding," said Doris, with a smile, "for I
shall have to do without a trousseau and
without a good many things, because I am not
taking Bernard any money.  You will have
a poor bride, Bernard."

"I shall not!  You will be the very best
bride that ever a man could have!" he cried,
rapturously.

Then Alice went away, and left them together.
Later on in the evening, when Doris
was alone, she opened Norman's letter, which
was as follows:

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR DORIS,

.. vspace:: 1

"I give you back your promise to
marry me.  I am sorry for the mistakes which
have been made and the suffering through
which you have passed, and trust that your
future life with Mr. Cameron may be all joy
and gladness.

"You will, I am sure, do me the justice to
believe that had I known he was true to you
I should not have tried to induce you to
become engaged to me, however much I loved
and esteemed you.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Yours very faithfully,
        "NORMAN SINCLAIR."

.. vspace:: 2

Doris shed tears over the letter, for she
knew that, reticent though the writer was
about his own feelings, she must have made
him exceedingly unhappy.

And when Doris thanked God that night
before she slept that He had heard her prayers,
and that He had mercifully given her her
heart's desire, she prayed, also, for Norman
Sinclair that he might be comforted and blessed
exceedingly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A HAPPY WEDDING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A HAPPY WEDDING.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Never to part till angels call us home.
   |                              *Song*, "*Golden Love*."
   |
   |
   |  The span of life's not long enough,
   |    Nor deep enough the sea,
   |  Nor broad enough this weary world
   |    To part my love from me.
   |                            *Anon*.
   |
   |
   |  So they were wed, and merrily rang the bells,
   |    Merrily rang the bells when they were wed.
   |                                    LONGFELLOW.

.. vspace:: 2

"After all, Doris," said Alice, the next
morning, "you will have a trousseau, and a
very pretty one, too.  For I am going to buy
it for you.  Yes, indeed, it is to be my
wedding present."

"I don't know how to thank you," said Doris.

"Then don't try.  Pay me the compliment
of accepting what I have much pleasure in
giving."

Doris rose, and, throwing her arms round
her friend's neck, gave her a hug.

"How soon do you intend to be married?"
asked Alice, presently.

"In three weeks.  There is no reason for
delay."

"Of course not.  The sooner the better.
Where shall you be married?" asked Alice,
a shadow falling across her face at the thought
that she could scarcely take her friend home
to be married from Norman's house.

"Oh, here, in this dear place, where my
happiness has come to me!" said Doris.

"Here?  At Hastings?  From this hotel?"

"Yes, why not?  I am sure the Vicar of
All Saints, whose church I have attended,
will marry us."

"Oh, I don't doubt that!  Yes, of course
you shall be married here."

"There's only one thing," said Doris.  "The
Austins are not here.  And I must have dear
Mrs. Austin, and her good son Sam, at my
wedding."

"Send for them all," interposed Bernard,
entering the room and overhearing her
last remark.  He had been for a bathe,
and was looking well and happy.  There is
no greater restorative for body and mind than
happiness.

"Send for them?" said Doris.  "Oh, but
I don't think they will come if we send for
them.  I think I shall have to go and see
Mrs. Austin, and arrange with her about their
coming down."

"You're not strong enough to take all that
trouble," said Bernard.  "It will take you all
your time until our wedding-day"--he spoke
with joy and pride--"to recover sufficiently
for it and for our little tour afterwards."

"We'll not go far," said Doris.  "Why
should we go far," she laughed happily, "when
we have found each other?"

"Why indeed?  Supposing we go to the
Isle of Wight, will that do?"

"Yes, charmingly.  I have never been
there.  But, Bernard, I must go to see dear
old Mrs. Austin and invite her to the wedding."

"Cannot you write to her?"

"No, a letter will not do.  Think how good
she was to me when I was penniless and a
stranger in London!  Can I ever forget how
she received me into her house, and trusted
me to repay her as I could?  And then she
gave me her late son's painting materials, and
tried to make me believe I should succeed as
an artist,--and, afterwards, when that had
failed, she comforted and encouraged me, and
got her nephew to find me work, and, later,
interested Alice in employing me; and then
afterwards, when I gave up the business and
became poor again, she stood by me, trusting
and caring for me more lovingly than ever.
Bernard, if there is one friend in all the world
whom we ought to value and esteem next to
the Sinclairs it is Mrs. Austin, and, next to
her is Sam Austin, the cabman."

"What did he do?" asked Bernard, though
indeed he partly knew.

"He saved me from despair that first night,
when, on coming to London by the night
train, I found my godmother, Miss Earnshaw,
had died, and that I was alone in the great
metropolis, with only a few shillings in my
pocket, and no claim upon any one in all the
vast city.  He took me to his mother, and
persuaded her to receive me into her house;
and then, afterwards, when I had made my
first little water-colour sketches, he drove me
round to the dealers in his cab, and would
take no payment then, nor afterwards, until
I was earning a lot of money, and then
compelled him to do so."

"He shall come to our wedding, too," said
Bernard.  "They shall both be our honoured
guests."

"Oh, thank you!  Thank you!"

"And I'll tell you what we will do, darling.
We will give them a wedding-present, yes,
we will!"

"Oh, thank you!"

"Nay, you must not thank me, dear!  It
is you who will invite the wedding guests,
that is always the prerogative of the bride.
I will pay their expenses, if you will allow me."

"Thank you, I will," said Doris, gladly.

"Shall we go up to town to invite her?"
said Bernard, tentatively.

"I should like to do so," said Doris.

"But----"

"Wouldn't it be too tiring for you?" said
Alice.  "Otherwise," she added, "I should
like to go up to shop with you in Bond Street."

"And I," said Bernard, "should like to go
over to Richmond on business.  The fact is,
I have heard that the school in which I used
to work is for sale, and I rather think of
buying it.  When I was a poor assistant
there I used to think what a future it might
have if it were more efficiently managed.
How would you like to live on Richmond Hill, Doris?"

"Near the Terrace, with the loveliest view
of the Thames to be seen anywhere!  Oh,
Bernard, how charming that would be!"

"Well, I'll go and look after the school, if
you like; and if you come, too, we can see the
Austins while we are in town and invite them
to our wedding."

In about a week Doris was strong enough
for this arrangement to be carried out.  She
and Bernard, accompanied by Alice as far as
Victoria, where they separated, went to London
for the day, and after going to Richmond,
where negotiations were commenced for the
purchase of Bernard's former school and the
head master's house, they went on to King's
Cross in order to see Mrs. Austin.

The good woman was delighted to see them
together, apparently on such intimate terms.

"Miss Doris!" she cried.  "And Mr. Cameron!
And both looking so happy!  So very happy,"
she repeated.  "Don't tell me anything, I
know it all.  There'll be a wedding.  I saw
it in the fire last night.  Come in.  Come in."

They followed her into her little room,
which seemed to Doris to be smaller and
dingier than ever after the great rooms to
which she was accustomed.

"Oh, Mrs. Austin, I am so happy!" she cried.

"It's Mr. Right this time, and no mistake!"
exclaimed the good woman.  "Between you
and me, miss," she added aside, "I didn't
want you to marry that other gentleman.  Miss
Sinclair was a dear, sweet lady, but the brother
was so upsetting!"

"He has been very, very kind to me," said
Doris, "and to Mr. Cameron, too.  He has
been a very good friend to us."

"Has he, miss?  Well, I'm glad to hear it,
but----" she broke off, and began again, "Give
me Mr. Cameron, for a fine, pleasant-speaking,
right-living gentleman!" she declared.

Doris laughed, and her eyes rested on
Bernard with loving pride.  "Do you know,
Mrs. Austin," she said, "I was engaged to
him before I came to London at all--only
unfortunately our engagement had been cruelly
broken off."

"Indeed, miss!  Ah, I could see you were
in deep sorrow when you came to me.  If you
had seen her then, Mr. Cameron," and she
turned to Bernard, "you would have been
sorry.  She was that white, and there was
such a stricken look upon her poor, dear face.
And yet, for all she was in such trouble, she
did me good; so that I thanked God for
sending her here."

"She does me good, too," said Bernard.
"That's why I love her."

"Ah, he's one of the right sort!" exclaimed
Mrs. Austin to Doris.

"Yes, *I* think so," said Doris, laughing
merrily.

Mrs. Austin looked wonderingly at her.

"I never heard you laugh like that before,
Miss Anderson," she exclaimed.

Presently the widow's two visitors sat at
tea in the little parlour.

"And how are you getting on, Mrs. Austin?"
asked Doris, presently.  "You say so little
about yourself."

"Well, miss, this is such a joyful occasion I
don't like to spoil it----"

"Oh, then, I'm afraid you are not doing
well?" said Doris, sympathisingly.

Tears came into the widow's eyes; but
she dashed them off with a corner of her
apron, and tried to smile, as she answered,
"I have a lodger in my front rooms, and a
young shop-girl rents my attic; but--but----"
and she broke down, weeping bitterly.

Doris and Bernard tried to comfort her,
and at length ascertained, with some difficulty,
that the cause of her distress was that her
landlord had given her notice to leave the house.

"And I've lived in it all my life," she said.
"I was born in it and brought up here: my
dear mother lived with me here till she died,
and when my husband made me an offer of
marriage I said, 'Yes, if you'll come and live
in my dear home.'  And he did, and was so
good to my mother--as good as good could
be--always taking off his boots before he went
upstairs on the stair carpets, and always
lighting the kitchen-fire and making me a
cup of tea before he went to his work, till
he fell ill of his last illness.  He died in the
front sitting-room.  I had the bed brought
down there for him.  And there was my
Silas, he was born in my front bedroom;
and he used to paint his lovely pictures, as
you know, miss, in the attic; and he lay down
and died, as sweet and calmly as a child, in
the back bedroom, 'Going Home,' he said,
'to the Great Artist, Who will put in the
finishing touches to the work that He has
made.'  I couldn't bear to leave this house,
with all its memories!  It will kill me--I
know it will!  And my Sam feels almost as
bad.  'I shall never drive down this road,
mother,' he says, 'when the old home isn't
yours.'"  Mrs. Austin stopped at last for
want of breath.

"But why does the landlord want to turn
you out?" asked Bernard.  "You must be
such good tenants."

"Mrs. Austin is," said Doris.  "She pays
her rent regularly."

"Yes, miss.  I've always paid it to the day,
though I have been rather hard put to sometimes,
when my lodgers haven't paid up.  It's
not for want of the rent that the landlord gives
notice.  It's because he's selling a lot of his
houses to a man who wants them for his own
workpeople, and therefore must have them
emptied."  The widow's tears flowed again.

"Don't cry, Mrs. Austin dear!" said Doris,
rising and putting her arms round the good
woman's neck, while she kissed her kind old
face.

"You shall not be turned out," said Bernard;
"I will see your landlord, and buy the house,
if I can.  Then you shall not be turned out."

"But, sir, it will cost you a lot!"

"It will be an investment, and I shall
have a good tenant.  You know, Doris," he
added, turning to her, "I must not put all the
money into the school."

Having asked the landlord's name and
address, Bernard left Doris resting in Mrs. Austin's
sitting-room, and departed to transact
the business, which he was able to do
satisfactorily, as the landlord happened to be in
a hurry to sell.

"I have bought the house for three hundred
and fifty pounds," Bernard announced, on his
return to Doris.  "You tell Mrs. Austin, dear,"
he added.

So it was Doris who had the pleasure of
telling the good woman that Mr. Cameron had
bought her house, and so she would be able to
remain in it as long as she lived.

"Thank God!  Thank God!  That is all I
want.  And you shall have your rent regularly,
sir," said the widow.

"You shall never be asked for it," said
Bernard.  "When you have the money to spare
you can pay it, and when you have not any
to hand over, nothing shall be said."

"You are too good, sir," began Mrs. Austin.
But Doris interrupted:

"He is only treating you as you treated me,"
she said.  "When I could not pay you, dear
Mrs. Austin, you always let it pass over, and
forgave me the debt."

"But you have paid everything now, miss."  (Through
the Sinclairs' kindness Doris had
been able to do this.)

"I can never repay you for all your exceeding
kindness," cried the girl; adding, "And I am
delighted that we can enable you to remain in
your comfortable home."

Mrs. Austin was overjoyed.  She shed tears
again, not for sorrow now, but for joy.
"How little I knew when I took you in,
Miss Anderson," she said, "that I should be
entertaining an angel unawares!"

Then Doris asked Mrs. Austin if she would
come to Hastings with her son, in order to
be present at the wedding, and this the widow
joyfully consented to do, saying:

"I would go further than that, miss, to
see you married, and so would my Sam.  We'll
come to your wedding, if we have to walk
every inch of the way."

"That's right," said Bernard; "that's the
right spirit!  But you will have to allow me
to pay your fare, for you might not arrive
in time if you walk the sixty miles or so to
Hastings, and I shall be only too pleased to
pay your fare."

Doris wanted to see Sam, but he was away
with his cab, and therefore she could only
leave a message for him.

She was exceedingly happy as she returned
to Hastings with Bernard in a luxurious
corridor-train--so happy, indeed, that she felt
at peace with all the world, and therefore
ventured to suggest:

"Couldn't we have your mother to our
wedding, too, Bernard?"

The young man's face darkened, and his
voice shook as he answered, "No, I think not.
I--I *could* not."

"We shall have to forgive her, dear,"
pleaded Doris.

"Yes--in time.  You must give me time,
dear."  Bernard was silent for several minutes
after that, and then he said abruptly, "We
will go to see her after we are married."

"Yes, dear," acquiesced Doris; "I should
like that."

The day came quickly which was to make
them man and wife.

Theirs was a pretty wedding, although the
wedding guests were only two, and they were
not of the same rank in life as the handsome
bridegroom and the beautiful bride, supported
by her friends, and bridesmaid, dressed like
herself in costly silk and lace.  Doris was in
white, and Alice in creamy yellow, whilst
Bernard, of course, was in immaculate attire,
his good-looking young face lit up with love
and joy and thankfulness to God.

"Bless them!  God bless them!" exclaimed
good Mrs. Austin as the young couple left
the vestry, where Doris had signed her maiden
name for the last time.

"Amen," said Sam, "and may they live
long happy years!"

Sam had only one regret about the wedding,
and that was that he could not bring his cab
down to be used on the occasion.  "I should
like to have driven them to church in it,"
he confided to his mother.  "It would have
been a sort of finish to the two rides I gave
Miss Anderson in it.  First when I drove
her to Earl's Court Square, and then home
to you when she was in such distress, and
afterwards when I drove her round to see
those skin-flinty old picture-dealers about
selling her pictures."

But now the bride and bridegroom had
to be met, congratulated, and wished all sorts
of happiness.

"Thank you!  Thank you!" said Doris,
shaking hands with Sam, and lifting up her
glad young face to kiss his mother, while
Bernard shook hands warmly with them both,
thanking them for himself and his bride.

Later in the day Alice drove with Bernard
and Doris to the station to see them off in the
train for Portsmouth, as they were going to
the Isle of Wight for their honeymoon.

Doris clung to her a little at the last.  "I
don't know how to thank you, Alice," she
said; "you have been like a dear sister to me."

.. _`DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST.  "YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME"`:

.. figure:: images/img-303.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST.  'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"

   "DORIS CLUNG TO HER AT THE LAST.  'YOU HAVE BEEN LIKE A DEAR SISTER TO ME.'"

"I don't want thanking," protested Alice.

"But you will feel so lonely, dear, when we
have gone."

"Never mind me," said Alice; "you know
to-morrow I shall start for Switzerland, in order
to join my brother there, and then there will
be no more loneliness for me."

"You will Give him our kindest remembrances,
Miss Sinclair," said Bernard, earnestly.

"If I can I will--that is, if he speaks of you."

The train began to move off, and there was
no time to talk any more.

"Good-bye--good-bye, dear," cried the
travellers, and then--Alice Sinclair was left
alone upon the platform.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TWO MONTHS LATER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TWO MONTHS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Time and the hour run through the longest day.
   |                                    SHAKESPEARE.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Cameron was a miserable woman.  Poor,
unhappy, and remorseful, she sat alone in her
solitary house--even her one maidservant had
left her--thinking dismally of her sad past,
mournful present, and hopeless future.  On
her lap was her son's letter of two months
before, the only one he had sent her since he
left home to go in search of Doris, and she
thought that it would probably be the last one
she would ever receive from him.

"I know all that you have done," he wrote,
"to destroy my happiness and that of my
beloved Doris, and the means by which you
sought to separate us for ever in this world,
and I write to inform you that your schemes
and machinations have failed; for we are
engaged to be married, and, there being no
longer any obstacle to prevent it, the marriage
will take place on the 20th of this month.

"That, I think, is all I need say now, or at
any time, to one who has done her utmost to
alienate me for life from the one I loved.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "I remain, Mother,
        "Your much-wronged Son,
            "BERNARD CAMERON."

.. vspace:: 2

"A nice letter for a mother to receive!"
grumbled the widow.  "Yet I know that I
deserve it," she added mentally.  "I've been
too hard--too hard on him, and too hard on
other people.  If I hadn't been so quarrelsome
with my husband, he would not have left most
of his money to Bernard, and that wretch
John Anderson would not have had the chance
of stealing it all.  And if I hadn't been so
hard on Bernard and on Doris Anderson, I
should have retained my boy's love, which
would have been better than nothing."  She
sniffed and passed the back of her bony hand
across her tearless eyes.  "Yes, it would have
been better than nothing, and I might have
come in for a bit of his money now he is
richer; but, as it is, I've got nothing, neither
money, nor love, nor anything at all!"

She looked dismally at the dusk stealing
across the room with its threadbare carpet and
faded chairs and curtains.  There was no
servant to come in and light the gas and
close the blinds.  She was all alone, and so
hopeless that she did not care whether the gas
was lighted or not.  "What matter if it is dark,
so long as I have nothing to do but think!"
she said to herself, dismally.  "They'll have
had their honeymoon now, and perhaps will
be getting settled in their new home.  I
wonder where it is?  To think that I shouldn't
know where my son is going to live!  I never
thought Bernard would turn against me; and
yet--and yet I deserve it, for mine was a
crooked policy, directed against all his wishes
and ignoring his rights.  I told myself I was
doing it for him, for his best interests; but
really I was doing it more for myself, that
he might become rich and be in a position to
give his mother a good home; and out of
spite, too, against those Andersons, and a
determination that Doris should not have
him."  She paused, listening.

Some street singers were wailing forth the
hymn, "O God, our help in ages past!"
before the house; but the woman, who had
found no help in God, because she had never
sought it, was only angered by the sound.
Rising and going to the window, she made
emphatic signs to the man and woman--the
latter with a child in her arms and another
clinging to her skirts--to pass on; but they
either could not see her in the deepening
dusk or would not be persuaded to go away,
for they continued singing even more loudly
than before.

"Well, I shall not give them anything!"
declared Mrs. Cameron, relinquishing the
attempt to stop them and returning to her
chair by the fireless hearth.  "What right
have they to come disturbing folks in this way?"

Again she sank into gloomy, miserable
reflections, while the darkness increased about her.

The door-bell rang; but she paid no attention
to it, thinking that it was only the singers
wanting alms.  "They may want!" she said
to herself grimly.  "Other folks want what
they can't get, too!"

Once more the bell rang, and yet a third
time, and even a fourth; but still Mrs. Cameron
remained firm in her determination not to
speak to the intruders.

"I'm a hard woman," she said to herself;
"aye, and I'll be hard.  I'm too old to change
now, and nobody cares, nobody cares what I'm
like or what I do.  If any one cared ever such
a little bit, I might be different; but nobody
cares, least of all God; He's shut me out of
His good books long ago.  I shall never get
to His Heaven, never!  Even if He let me
into His Heaven, I shouldn't be happy
psalm-singing, and praising Him, and living in His
presence.  Not I!  I don't care at all for Him,
and that's truth.  And if, as some say, in
heaven the angels are always ministering to
others and doing deeds of kindness, that work
wouldn't suit me.  Not it!"  She laughed
shrilly, as if in derision of the idea; and the
darkness deepened around her.  "I don't care
an atom for other people.  Not I!" she went
on, and again her weird, unholy laugh rang
through the room.

Its echoes reached a young man and woman
who stood at the door, hesitating before ringing
the bell again, and caused them both to shiver.

"Nobody cares for me, and I care for
nobody!" soliloquised Mrs. Cameron.  "If
any one cared ever so little, it would be
different.  Oh, dear!  What's that?"

An exceedingly loud rapping at the street
door made her start up, exclaiming angrily,
"Those tramps again!"

She bounced out of the room and across
the little hall to the door, opening it somewhat
gingerly, and crying out the while in her sharpest
tones, "I've nothing for you!  Get away!
Go!"  Then she attempted to shut the door,
but a strong hand held, it so firmly that she could
not close it, whilst a voice spoke, which she
was unable to hear for her own clamour.

"If you don't be off I'll prosecute you!" she
cried, menacingly.

"Mother!  It is I, Bernard!  Let me in."

The words reached her ears at last,
penetrating even to her starved and icy heart.

"Bernard!"  She fell back a pace, and the
door flew open, revealing her son and a lady
by his side.  The street light fell upon the two,
and also upon the pale, astonished face of
the unhappy woman they had come to see.

"Bernard!"

"Mother!"  He put his arms round her
neck, in his old boyish way, forgetting everything
except that she was his mother, who was
looking miserable, whilst he had come to her in
his joy, with his dear young wife by his side.

"If any one cared ever so little, it would
be different," she had said to herself.  Well,
here was Bernard, and he cared for her, in
spite of everything, and--*it was different*.

"My son!  My son!  Forgive me," she
said, clinging to him, her tears falling on his
manly face and neck, as he kissed her tenderly.

"All right, mother!  The past is past," he
whispered.  "I want you to welcome Doris,"
he added low in her ear.  "She is my wife now."

Mrs. Cameron turned to Doris, holding out
her hand, but the young wife raised her face,
and she had to kiss her, too.

Then they went in, closing the street door
after them; and Bernard, striking a light,
lit up every gas-burner he could find about
the place; so that the darkness was gone, and
it was light, very light.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RESTITUTION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   RESTITUTION.

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  Does any one know what's in your heart and mine,
   |        The sorrow and song,
   |  The demon of sin and the angel divine,
   |        The right and the wrong:
   |  The dread of the darkness, the love of the day,
   |        The ebb and the flow
   |  Of hope and of doubt for ever and aye,
   |        Does any one know?
   |                          NIXON WATERMAN.
   |
   |
   |  He wins at last who puts his trust
   |  In loving words and actions just.
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  On every action blazon bright,
   |  "For toil, and truth, and love, we fight."
   |                                      T. S. COLLIER.

.. vspace:: 2

An hour later, after they had partaken of a
substantial tea-supper, the principal constituents of
which Bernard fetched from the village shops,
with boyish glee, renewing his acquaintance with
the shop-keepers quite merrily, Mrs. Cameron
and her son and daughter-in-law sat round
the fire Doris had lighted, talking about the
future.

Bernard had placed the school at Richmond
(of which he had now completed the purchase)
in good hands, and he and Doris were going to
live in rooms at Oxford until he had obtained
his degree, when they would at once proceed
to their new home in Richmond.

"We want you to come and live with
us, mother," said Bernard; "or if you
would prefer not to live with us, at least
to occupy rooms near us, so that we may
often look in upon you, to prevent your
feeling lonely."

"Do you wish that, too, Doris?" asked her
mother-in-law, quite timidly.

"Yes, indeed I do," said Doris, heartily.  In
her great happiness it was impossible for her
to cherish any resentment against Bernard's
mother.

Mrs. Cameron looked red and confused.
Their love made a difference, yes, a very great
difference in her feelings.  But she shook her
head, saying, "You will be better without me.
Far better.  I will remain here.  You can
come and see me sometimes, and you must
remain here a few days now.  I'm afraid we
are rather desolate here in the house, but I'll
have a charwoman in to-morrow, and we'll try
to make the place comfortable."

"The house ails nothing," said Bernard,
"for it is home."

"Yes," remarked Doris, brightly, "and you
know, 'East or West, home is best.'"

Mrs. Cameron thought remorsefully that
she had made only a poor home for Bernard
in the last year or two, since he lost his
money.

But he appeared to forget all about that,
as he merrily assisted her and Doris to
arrange a room for their accommodation that
night--in point of fact he had engaged a
bedroom at the comfortable hydro at Askern,
but he did not venture to mention that to
his mother under their altered and happier
relations.

The next morning, as they were sitting at
breakfast, the postman dropped a letter into
the letter-box, and Bernard, upon going to the
door to fetch it, discovered that it was addressed
to himself.

Bringing the letter into the room he looked
at the envelope curiously, and perceived that it
bore the impression, "London, City & Midland
Banking Company, Ltd," whilst the postmark
was Doncaster.

"Why, what's this?" he said, and then, opening
it wonderingly, found that it was an official
intimation from the Doncaster branch of the
London, City & Midland Bank, saying that
the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds had
been placed there to his credit.

The young man put his hand to his brow
in great bewilderment.  What did it mean?
Mechanically he handed the document to his
mother, saying, "Look at this.  What does
it mean?"

Mrs. Cameron fumbled about for her spectacles,
found them, could not see through them,
shook her head, and, handing the document to
Doris, remarked, "You read it, Doris.  What
does it mean?"

Doris read aloud the printed and written
words, which stated that the bank had
received twenty-five thousand pounds, and
placed the money to the credit of Bernard
Cameron.

"Twenty-five thousand pounds!" cried
Mrs. Cameron, excitedly.  "Why, some one has
restored your fortune to you, Bernard!"

Bernard was amazed and glad.

"Who can have paid the money in?"
questioned Doris.

"You will have to go to Doncaster to the
bank, to see the manager, and ascertain who it
is," said Mrs. Cameron.

"Yes," Bernard agreed, still looking very
mystified.

"It may be some mistake of the bank's,"
suggested Mrs. Cameron.  "It is dated all
right for yesterday."

They were still wondering and conjecturing
about the matter, when the sound of a carriage
driving up to the door, followed by a loud peal
of the door-bell, startled them.

Bernard went to the door, and, upon opening
it, perceived, to his intense astonishment, his
wife's father.

"Is Mr. Cameron in?" began the visitor,
and then, recognising Bernard, he cried,
"Bernard!  My dear fellow, I *am glad* you are
at home."

"Mr. Anderson!" exclaimed Bernard.  "Mr. Anderson
*here*!"

"Father!  Father!" cried Doris, overhearing
Bernard's greeting, and running into her father's
arms.  "My dear father!"  Forgotten were all
his shortcomings, his desertion of herself and
appropriation of Bernard's money, forgotten
was everything except love in that glad moment
of reunion.  "Where is mother?" asked Doris,
kissing him again and again.

"In the cab, there."  He waved his hand
towards the vehicle, out of which Mrs. Anderson
was leaning forward, in the endeavour to obtain
a glimpse of her child.

Doris ran to the cab, and disappeared
within it, as there only could she have her
beloved mother entirely to herself for a few
moments.

Mr. Anderson signed to the cabman to wait
for a little while, and then went into the
house with Bernard, asking, "Are you alone?
Or is your mother within?"

"She is here.  This is her house still,"
answered Bernard, leading the way into the
dining-room, where Mrs. Cameron stood, very
erect, and looking extremely grave.

Mr. Anderson bowed without making the
attempt to shake hands, indeed she had
placed hers behind her with a very significant
gesture.

"I have to thank you, Mrs. Cameron," said
the barrister, "and your son, for your exceeding
clemency in not prosecuting me for my terrible
defalcations more than a year ago, and I must
explain how it was that I lost your son's
money, and how it is that I have been able
yesterday to place the whole amount in the
Doncaster branch of the London, City &
Midland Banking Co. for him.  Have you had an
intimation of this money being placed in the
bank to your credit, Bernard?" he asked the
young man.

"Yes.  This morning.  I could not understand
who placed it there.  I am glad it was
you.  Oh, Mr. Anderson, I am *very glad*!"  Bernard
seized the elder man's hand, and shook
it with warmth.  "I feel inclined to throw up
my cap and shout 'Hurrah!'" he continued,
boyishly, "for I am so delighted for your sake
and for Doris's!"

"Well, it's a good thing you've done it," said
Mrs. Cameron.  "I must say I'm surprised--I
never thought you would.  What are you
nudging me for, Bernard?" she asked, rather
crossly.  "You know very well that I always
say what is in my mind.  And I must tell
you, Mr. Anderson," she continued, "that
it's not me you have to thank for not being
prosecuted.  I was determined to set the
whole machinery of the law to work--I was so
mad with you--but Bernard would not
have it.  He would not raise a finger against
you--no, not though I turned him out of my
house for his stupidity, as I thought it then,
though it seems to have answered well," she
admitted.

"Bernard," said Mr. Anderson, looking
gratefully at him, "my dear boy, how can I
thank you enough?  What you must have
borne for me!"

"I'm afraid I thought most of Doris," said
Bernard, honestly.  "It would never have
done for me to have brought disgrace and
trouble upon her family."

"I sinned," said Mr. Anderson, regarding
Bernard's stern mother very mournfully, "I
sinned greatly in using money which was not
my own for speculations which were risky,
as most speculations are.  And when all was
lost, and I possessed nothing with which to
meet my liabilities, as you know, instead of
courageously confessing and submitting to the
penalty I had incurred, I absconded.  Later
on, together with my wife, who would not
leave me, I took refuge with an old servant
of ours, who had married a shepherd in Wales,
and there, in a remote place up amongst the
mountains, we hid ourselves for a long and
weary time.  Often I thought of coming down
and surrendering to justice, but as often my
wife persuaded me to remain in concealment.
Eventually, however, I became so convinced
that the only right thing to do was to give
myself up to the police that, leaving my retreat,
I returned, accompanied by my wife, to
Yorkshire.

"Then," continued he, "a strange thing
happened.  Upon reaching York I first went
to a lawyer with whom I had formerly
transacted business, whereupon he informed me
that there had never been a warrant taken out
for my arrest, thanks to you, my dear Bernard,"
and again the elder man gave the younger
a grateful glance.  "Moreover," the barrister
continued, "the lawyer told me that Howden,
the man who in the first place led me into
those disastrous speculations, had just died,
and in his last hours, remembering remorsefully
his bad advice to me about speculating,
which led to my ruin and desiring to make
reparation as far as possible, he bequeathed to me
by will the large sum of thirty thousand pounds.
You can judge of my extreme delight.

"As soon as the will had been proved and
I was in possession of the money I returned
to Doncaster, paid all my debts in full, and
placed twenty-five thousand pounds in the
bank for you, Bernard.  After which I came
here in the hope of finding you at home.
I cannot tell you," Mr. Anderson added,
with deep feeling, "I cannot tell you all
that I have suffered on account of my sin,
nor can I say how great is my relief and
satisfaction in being able to restore to you
your fortune."

The tears were in his eyes as he said this,
and they perceived that his hair had become as
white as snow during the last thirteen months,
and also that care and trouble had drawn deep
lines upon his face.  They could not, therefore,
doubt the truth of what he was saying, and
so Mrs. Cameron as well as Bernard hastened
to express their entire forgiveness of his sin
and sympathy with him in his sufferings.  And
if the mother did it less gracefully than her
son, Mr. Anderson could not cavil at that, for
he knew that it was much more difficult for
her, with her hard nature, to speak so kindly
than for Bernard.

And when she added, penitently, "I, too,
must ask your forgiveness, Mr. Anderson, for
the harsh and bitter thoughts I have cherished
about you and the hard words I have said,"
he was only too glad to shake hands with her
and say she was not to trouble about that
any more.

Upon this touching scene entered Doris and
her mother--the two who having not sinned
in the matter of the pecuniary defalcations,
had yet suffered so grievously by reason of
them.  Whereupon, kind and loving words
were exchanged, and the new relationship of
the young people was discussed and approved
of by her parents, who both said that they
could not have wished for a better husband
for their daughter.





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.. _`CONCLUSION`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII.


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   CONCLUSION.

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..

   |  Poets are all who love, who feel great truths
   |  And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.
   |                                          BAILEY.

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In Switzerland, where Alice had joined Norman
as soon as Doris's marriage had taken place,
Alice heard of the surprising restoration
of the lost money with the greatest satisfaction.

Doris wrote a full account of the return of
her father and the wonderful restitution he was
able to make of all the money that he had
taken from Bernard and that which he owed
the tradespeople.

"Do you know, dear Alice," she wrote in
conclusion, "I often and often prayed that he
might be able to do this, but it seemed as
if my prayers were all in vain, both about this
and other matters, and then I grew despondent
and doubted--oh, I doubted dreadfully!  What
patience God must have with us when we have
so little faith!  And how impatient and
short-sighted we are!  Why, I might have been
sure that just as He clothes the lilies and feeds
the birds of the air, so He would give me
all things that were needful and that were
according to His will.  And it must have been
His will that my father should be enabled to
do right in the end.  Well, I'm going to
believe in future that He really meant His
words when He said, 'Ask, and ye shall
receive.'

"And there's another thing, dear Alice," the
writer continued joyfully, "Bernard and I want
to make one or two thank-offerings for the
great mercies we have received.

"First for poor Mrs. Austin, who was so
very good to me.  You know that Bernard
bought her house, in order to prevent her
being turned out of it, and now we are
giving it to her for life, and to her son
after her.  She is so delighted, and so is
Sam, and it is such a pleasure to us to do this.

"And then, with regard to the school at
Richmond, you know Bernard purchased it,
and arranged for it to be managed for him
until he has finished his career at Oxford, after
which he will take it in hand personally; and
now he has determined that he will always
give schooling and board to two pupils free of
charge.  They need not necessarily be orphans,
but they are to be poor boys of gentle birth,
who would otherwise be worsted in the battle
of life.  They are to receive exactly the same
benefits as the other boys, and I am to provide
them with clothes, and look after them as a
mother might.  I need not tell you how glad
I am to do this.

"Dear old Susan is coming to live with
us and be our matron, much to her satisfaction.
She is so glad that Bernard and I are married.
You know we could not have her at the
wedding, as Mrs. Cameron was not there--for
it might have made the villagers at Moss
talk if one had been present and not the other,
and it would certainly have hurt Mrs. Cameron's
feelings.

"Write to me, dear Alice, and let me
know what you think of these schemes,
which we have planned in this lovely Isle of
Wight."

Alice read the letter aloud to Norman,
a little later, when, having left Switzerland,
they were going up the Rhine in a river-steamer,
one lovely day in autumn.  She was
glad of her friend's happiness, and rejoiced
in it so much that she could not keep the
letter to herself.

"Cameron seems a decent sort of fellow,"
said the artist, "after all."

"Oh, yes, he is.  Wasn't it nice of him
to buy Mrs. Austin's little house in order
that she might not be turned out of it, and
then to give it to her when he became
richer?"

"Yes," said Norman, "I must say that
Mrs. Austin deserves it for her goodness to
Doris; though she never favoured me, but
always endeavoured to make me feel that I
was an intruder."

"But she was very good to me," said Alice,
softly.

"Yes," said her brother, "and for that, too,
she shall be forgiven everything by the poor
artist, whom you fed when he was a surly,
inconsiderate old bear."

"I'm very proud of my Lion!" exclaimed
Alice, lovingly.  "See," she added, "I have
brought out with us some London papers
which arrived just as we were leaving
our hotel.  I want you to see what is
said of your Academy pictures, especially of
'Ganymede.'  The likeness of the girl," she
added, "is so marvellously like Doris, that
I expect her husband will be wanting
to buy it."

"Don't!" said Norman, walking a little
way apart, in order that she might not see his
face.

Presently he returned to her without a
shadow on his fine expressive countenance.

"I hope you are observing the beauty of
all this Rhine scenery," he said, with a smile.
"It ought to appeal to the poetry in your
nature."

"Poetry!  Poetry in my nature!" exclaimed
Alice.  "Why, Norman, I always thought that
you considered me so *very* prosaic and matter-of-fact."

"On the contrary," said her brother.  "It
is *I* who have been so often matter-of-fact;
*you* have always been steeped in love, so much
so, in fact, that you have idealised and nursed
illusions for the sake of your beloved ones.
Don't you know--

   |  Poets are all who love, who feel great truths
   |  And tell them, and the truth of truths is love.

Yes," continued Norman, humbly, "you are
before me, Alice, in the great race, because
through your life--as through Doris's--the
golden thread of Love leads you and
dominates your actions.  Not the mere lover's
love for one, but a noble enthusiasm and
love for all who are near and dear to you."

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   THE END.

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   *Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
   London and Aylesbury*

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