[Illustration: PLANNING OUT THE GROUND. 

_See page 14. _]

HOLIDAY TALES. 

BY FLORENCE WILFORD, AUTHOR OF 'NIGEL BARTRAM'S IDEAL, ' 'AN AUTHOR'S CHILDREN, ' ETC. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 

[Illustration: Emblem]

 GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN & WELSH, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS, WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. E. P. DUTTON & CO. , NEW YORK. 

_The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved. _

CONTENTS

 SEVEN CAMPBELLS I. MOTHER AND SONS 5 II. JOHNNIE'S PROTEGE 29 III. WHAT SEVEN CAMPBELLS CAN DO 56

 CECIL'S MEMORABLE WEEK I. CECIL'S MEMORABLE WEEK 73 II. A BACHELOR'S LUNCH 98 III. GOOD NEWS 123 IV. IT'S ALL RIGHT! 139

[Illustration]

SEVEN CAMPBELLS. 

CHAPTER I. 

MOTHER AND SONS. 

'MAMMA, there's such a fine poem here about "seven lovely Campbells"whose father's name was Archibald; it must mean us, --don't you thinkso?' And a very pretty boy about ten years of age, who had been poringfor some time over Wordsworth's Poems, lifted his roguish face to hismother's with a look of pretended conviction. 

'Not exactly, Willie, seeing that the poem begins, "Seven _daughters_had Lord Archibald!"'

'Ah, mamma, you are not to be caught. I do believe you have readeverything that ever was written! But now, mamma, which would you ratherhave--seven daughters or seven sons?'

'I would rather have just what I've got, Willie. '

'Seven sons, then. Oh! mamma, I'm glad you said that; and you know weshall be of much more use to you than a lot of girls. Why, if the Frenchwere to come, you needn't be a bit afraid, with all of us to defendyou. '

'Baby at the head, armed _cap-à-pie_, I suppose, ' smiled the mother, dancing in her arms her youngest son, a little fellow of about two yearsold; but she soon set him down in her lap again, for she had been ill, and was still so weak that the least effort tired her. 

'Mamma, I think you'd better let me ring for nurse to take Georgie, andthen you can lie upon your sofa again and have a nap; and I'll go andask my brothers to play in the rough ground, where you won't hear theirnoise, ' said thoughtful Willie. 

The mother assented to all these proposals; but when, after ringing thebell, the boy turned to go, she beckoned him back to her side. 'Tell mydarling Johnnie that I hope he'll come and sit with me this afternoon;only he must be wise and quiet, and not get into one of his harum-scarummoods, or papa won't let me have him. '

Willie nodded sagaciously. 'I'll keep guard over him, mamma, so that heshall behave like a mouse all dinner-time, and then papa won't be afraidto trust him. Now let me give Georgie one kiss. ' His mother watched himfondly as he caressed the little brother, whose baby mind took smallcognizance of such affectionate demonstrations, and then, drawing hiscurly head down to her, she gave him a true mother's kiss, andwhispered, 'Mamma's own good boy. ' Willie tripped lightly down thestairs and into the garden, where three little boys, of the respectiveages of eight, six, and five, were playing at the well-known game whichCharles Dickens terms 'an invasion of the imaginary domains of Mr. Thomas Tytler. '

'Here, Duncan, Seymour, Archie, I want you to come into the "desert"with me and have a game there. Mamma's going to take a nap beforedinner, and she won't be able to sleep while you make this row under herwindow. Come along, there's good fellows. ' The two little ones left offpicking up gold and silver directly, and Duncan descended from the rankof a landed proprietor with great good-humour;--not that Mr. ThomasTytler's domains were the only ground belonging to him: he had a neatlittle flower-plot in one corner of the garden, as had all the elderbrothers except Johnnie, who had been deprived of his by his father forhaving neglected to cultivate it, and who from that day forward had beenknown in the family by the soubriquet of 'Jean-sans-terre, ' otherwise'Lackland. ' Willie led the way out of the garden into a rough piece ofground covered with weeds and stones, and called by the children the'desert, ' because nothing grew there but a few stunted shrubs. He leftthe younger ones to play about there, while he passed on and walkedalong the high road to meet his two elder brothers, Honorius and John, who attended a day school in the neighbourhood, and always came home attwelve and returned in the afternoon. Willie was of an age to go toschool too; but his father, who was not a rich man, could not afford tosend him just then, and therefore instructed him himself, together withDuncan and Seymour, though rather in a desultory fashion, as he was adoctor, and could not command much uninterrupted time. 

The Doctor's seven sons were well known in the neighbourhood, andacknowledged by every one to be 'nice, gentlemanly boys;' so Willie hadto receive and return some greetings both from high and low as he passedalong. But before he had gone far he descried an elder boy with somelesson-books in his hand coming towards him, whereupon he shouted 'Isthat you, old fellow? What have you done with Johnnie?' and bounded tohis side. 

Honorius was, like his name, grave and dignified, --at least as much soas a boy of fourteen can be without affectation. He answered quietlythat Johnnie had taken the path through the fields in order to hunt forsticklebats in Farmer Merryman's pond, and that he did not know whenthey might expect to see him again. But at that very moment a bright, mischievous face peered over the hedge at one side of the road, andthen, with a warning to them to stand clear, and 'a one, two, three, andaway, ' Johnnie--for he it was--took a running leap, cleared the hedge, and stood beside them. Willie explained his reason for coming to meetthem, and the three boys took their way to the desert, lamenting thatthe ground was not smooth enough there to admit of their playingcricket, as they did on the lawn. 

'Do you know I've been thinking, ' said Willie suddenly, 'that it wouldbe very jolly if we could dig up the desert, and make it a nice placefor mamma to walk in when she gets better? We might have paths this wayand that, and then flower-beds or turf between; though, to be sure, papa_did_ say that when he could afford to have it cultivated, he wouldplant some of it with potatoes. '

'Oh, plebeian notion!' said Johnnie, tossing his handsome head, 'he willpropose keeping pigs next! What do you say to it, my Emperor? is notyour royal mind duly horrified?' The Emperor, as his brother called him, in allusion to his imperial namesake, by no means showed the disgustexpected of him: he turned up a bit of the soil with his pocket-knife, and said reflectively, 'I should think it would grow potatoes very well, but it'll want a dealin the way of preparation. I don't believe we could dig it up properly, for there are none of us strong enough for the work but myself and you, Johnnie; and you're such an idle fellow, you wouldn't work for more thanten minutes together. '

'Oh yes, he will, if it's for mamma, ' cried Willie; 'and papa would beso pleased. Do let's begin, Honorius; I can dig quite well, and thelittle ones might pull up some of the weeds. '

'We must mark the paths first if we're to do it at all, ' said Honoriusin his deliberate way. 'Who's got a ball of string?'

'I have, ' began Johnnie, putting his hand in his pocket; but he drew itforth again empty, and jestingly continued, 'No, "it's gone from my gazelike a beautiful dream. " I have lost it, I suppose. We must advertisefor it; or, considering all things, perhaps it would be cheaper to buyanother. '

'You'll lose your head some day, ' observed Honorius calmly. 'Run intothe house, Willie, and ask cook for some string; and you might fetch thespades, Lackland, --they're in the arbour. '

The two boys darted off on their separate errands, and the Emperorwalked up and down, devising how the desert might be best improved. 

'Rather stupid of us not to have thought of doing something to itbefore, --it's more than four months since papa bought it; but, to besure, the weather has not been fit for out-of-door work, and papa alwaystalked as if it would take two or three men to put it in order. I don'tthink he'll mind our having a try at it, for at any rate we can't domuch harm. I'm very glad he bought it: it would have been horrid to havehad it let on a building lease, and some great house run up that wouldshut out the view from our windows, that mamma likes so much. It's nicethat her own room does not overlook this, or she'd see what we areabout, and I should like it to be a surprise to her. It's quite Willie'sidea; he's a capital chap for thinking of things to please her. I wishthat funny fellow Lackland had half as much sense. '

Willie came back very soon with the string, and assisted his brother infastening a stake in the ground where the path was to begin, and then, tying the string to it, drew it along in a straight line to the placewhere the path was to end, at which they stuck in another stake, andagain fastened the string. 

Johnnie did not reappear for some time, and then wore an air of ratherdroll vexation. 'Pity me, ' he exclaimed as he gave the spades toHonorius, 'I have fallen foul of my paternal relative. I found a lot ofbirds in the arbour, and served them with a notice to quit by clappingmy hands and hooting to them, when who should appear but papa, askingwhat the noise was about, and how I could be so inconsiderate as todisturb mamma?'

'No wonder, ' said Honorius. 

'Oh, and I promised to keep you quiet!' exclaimed Willie in greatdistress. 

Jean-sans-terre laughed his merriest of laughs. 

'Keep me quiet! you silly fellow. Did you really think it possible?'

'Yes, for mamma's sake, ' said Willie stoutly. 'You can be quiet if youchoose; and I told you what she said about her wanting you to sit withher this afternoon. '

'And you think paterfamilias will forbid it on account of my ill-timedsparrow-hooting?'

'I think, ' said Honorius, 'you had better speak of my father by hisright name, and endeavour to behave rather less like an idiot. Here, take a spade, man, and come to work. '

Johnnie shrugged his shoulders, made an indescribable grimace, and begandigging vigorously, humming the Jacobite ditty, 'Wha is it noo we ha'e gotten for a king, But a wee wee German lairdie? And when we went to fetch him hame, He was dibbling in his kail-yairdie. '

Honorius sketched in his pocket-book a sort of plan of what the desertwas to be like when its cultivation was completed. There was to be apath crossing it each way exactly through the centre, and along eachside of these paths there was to be a broad flower-border, which wouldpartially conceal from view the potatoes and other useful vegetableswhich were to occupy the chief part of the ground. 

'It's not too late in the spring to plant potatoes, I suppose, Honorius, is it?' said thoughtful Willie; 'and papa will give us those, I'm sure. But where shall we get the flowers? I don't think papa will buy them forus. '

'We can get some seeds of different annuals, such as nemophila andcandytuft, ourselves. That won't cost very much, and I've got threeshillings that I can spend on it; but then we shall want roots of otherthings and rose-bushes, and they cost more. Have you got any money, Johnnie?'

'No, not I. I am "sans argent" as well as "sans terre. " I know one wayof getting some, though. Papa said if I would translate that favouritepiece of his in Cæsar all through, _well_, he would give mehalf-a-crown. But then, consider the labour! I have a strong suspicionthat it might prove fatal to my constitution. '

'Oh, humbug! you could do it easily if you chose, ' said the elderbrother. 'Besides, I'll help you, if papa doesn't mind. '

'You'll do it, I know, ' pleaded Willie softly; 'and I've got a shillingthat'll go towards buying some roots. '

'And Seymour and I have got sixpence between us, ' cried Duncan. 'I say, Honorius, haven't we pulled up a jolly lot of weeds already?'

'Oh, famous, ' cried the Emperor approvingly. 'Work away; we shall haveto go in to dinner soon. '

He himself toiled with all his might, for the soil in some places wasvery stiff, and resisted the incision of the spade. Whenever he came toa part where it was looser, he turned that over to the younger ones; forHonorius, though occasionally sharp in speech, was almost invariablykind and considerate in his actions. 'Deeds, not words, ' was hisfavourite motto; but it would sometimes have been well if he hadremembered that we must give account for words as well as deeds, andthat the law of love should govern both. 

The boys worked on for some time almost in silence. Johnnie wasexpending his energies in hard digging, and dropped for the while hisusual character of 'merry-andrew. ' He was considering with himself, too, whether he should undertake the task his father had proposed to him. 

'To be sure, I have a strong motive now for earning the half-crown, which I hadn't before, ' thought he; 'but papa's so awfully particular, and I'm--yes, I must allow--I'm such an awful blockhead, that it's aslikely as not I shall not win the money after all. However, I can buttry; yes, and I will try too. '

Lackland's face was very bright when he took his place at dinner thatday, but his behaviour was more quiet and guarded than usual: heconducted himself more like Willie's ideal mouse, than like the noisy, rattling fellow he usually appeared. The brothers sat, three on eachside of the table; no one claimed the place at the top, where the motherwas accustomed to sit when well. Dr. Campbell looked tired, and was verysilent, but took care that his sons' vigorous appetites should be dulysatisfied, and was always ready with a kindly 'Willie, my boy, don't youwant some more?' 'Seymour, pass your plate to me, ' whenever the silenceof one knife and fork told that its owner had finished the portionallotted to him. Johnnie glanced at him sometimes, but did not addresshim till after grace had been said and they had risen from table, when, approaching him, he asked gently if he might be allowed to sit a littlewhile with his mother that afternoon. 

'Can I trust you to be quiet, Johnnie?' said the Doctor doubtfully. 

Lackland blushed, and fidgeted with his feet. 'I will try to be quietindeed, papa. I am sorry I made such a row in the arbour this morning. '

'Very well, you may go to mamma, then, as soon as I come down; but Ishall beg her to send you away if you get riotous. '

'Yes, papa; and, one thing more, may I do that bit of Cæsar that youoffered the half-crown for? I didn't care about doing it the other day, but I should like to, now. '

'You may do it, certainly. I am glad you wish to--without help, mind--and I will look over it as soon as I have time. Well, Honorius, 'as his elder son drew near, 'have you something to ask too?'

Honorius's errand was to obtain his father's sanction for the changesthey were making in the desert. Dr. Campbell smiled as he heard theirplans. 'It would take two men's hard labour to put that place in order, 'he said; 'I don't think you'll be able to do it. '

'Papa, you don't know what seven Campbells can do!' said Willie in atone of triumphant heroism. 

'Seven! What! have you pressed Georgie into the service? Well, good luckto you all, it'll be a nice amusement for you; you can't do much harm, at any rate. '

He left them and hastened up to his wife's room, but Willie ran afterhim to beg that the plan might be kept a secret from her. Dr. Campbellreadily promised secrecy, but the boys were disappointed that he had notseemed more delighted with their scheme. 

'If papa thinks it's nonsense, there's no use going on with it, ' saidHonorius moodily. 

'Yes, there is, ' said Willie; 'it'll show him what we can do. He thinksit nonsense, because he doesn't know how hard we mean to work, and howsteadily we'll keep on at it. It'll be such fun when he sees we can do agreat deal more than he thinks!'

Honorius allowed himself to be convinced by this reasoning, and wentwith Willie and Seymour to the desert to work away till it got nearthree o'clock, at which time he had to return to school. Johnnie workedsteadily at Cæsar till he heard his father go out, and then wentup-stairs softly and tapped at his mother's door. Her 'come in' was gladand eager, and a soft pink colour flushed into her cheeks when she sawit was really Johnnie. This good mother, so just and tender to all hersons, kept a special corner of her heart for the merry scapegrace whoexcelled the family cat in a talent for unintentional mischief, andalmost equalled that luckless animal in a facility for getting intouniversal disgrace. In another minute Johnnie was squatted on afootstool by the side of her sofa, holding her thin white hands in hisown, and sometimes kissing them with a pretty devotion, which, mother-like, she thought very charming, though she pretended to call it'silly. '

'And how is my Johnnie getting on at school?' she asked presently. 'Whereabouts in the class are you now? At the top, I hope!'

Johnnie screwed his mouth up, shook his head, groaned, and made allmanner of funny faces. 'I'm at the bottom, mother, ' he said at last, ina voice that might have been intended to be penitent, but did not soundso. 

'Oh, Johnnie! and I was hoping you would never do so badly again. What_will_ papa say if this half-year's report is as bad as the last?'

'I don't know, ' said Johnnie in a way that might almost have been takento mean, 'I don't care;' then, more softly, 'I am sorry you are vexed, mother. '

'Yes, I am indeed, Johnnie. It is not as if you were really dull andslow: then your low place in the school would not be your fault, and weshouldn't mind so much; but you can learn very well if you like. '

'But I was born with a disposition _not_ to like it. I can't help beingidle, really, mother; "it's the natur of the baste!"'

'Then you must conquer your nature, ' she said in the spirited tone ofone who had never sat down helplessly under her faults and talked about'natural infirmity. ' 'What should any of us be worth, Johnnie, if weyielded to all our foolish inclinations?'

He had not an answer ready, so played with her rings, and glanced at herdeprecatingly and coaxingly from under his long, dark eyelashes. 

'I didn't mean to scold, ' she said relentingly, 'especially this day ofall days, when I may have you for one of the little talks we haven't hadfor so long. But, Johnnie, you don't know how hard it makes it for me tosubmit to be ill and helpless, when I think that because I am not ableto watch over you, you are running wild, neglecting your lessons, andvexing poor papa, who has so much to trouble him. '

Jean-sans-terre's brown eyes looked odd in their expression of mingledfun and sadness; he was trying to feel sorry and ashamed, as he knew heought, but penitence was so very difficult to him. 'Dear little mother, don't fret; I'll do better for the future, ' he said caressingly. 

No experience of the fragile nature of his promises had availed to makehis mother distrust him. 'My darling, I'm sure you will, ' she answeredwith ready confidence. 

He was so anxious to assure her of his good intentions, that he hadnearly revealed the secret of his intended labour at Cæsar, and hisdesire to obtain the half-crown to aid his plans for the desert, but heremembered in time that it was his brothers' secret as well as his own;and Lackland, if he lacked wisdom and steadiness and industry, was atleast not deficient in a sense of honour, so he was silent. But he couldalmost have thought that she guessed at his scheme when she went on, 'Ifyou would only pursue one thing steadily, and _make_ yourself do it inspite of disinclination, you don't know what good it would do you, andhow it would help you in everything else. Be a hero, Johnnie, andconquer your idleness!'

'I mean to be a real hero some day, mamma, ' he answered, smiling. 'Youknow Uncle Gustavus has promised to use his interest to get me acommission, and then you shall see how well I'll serve the Queen. Don'tyou remember telling me how Bertrand du Guesclin was a great bother toeverybody when he was a boy, but yet he grew up so jolly brave thatpeople were glad to run to him for help when he was a man?'

'And his mother hadn't patience with him, and yet afterwards lived to beproud of him: is that the inference you mean me to draw, Johnnie?'

'No, no, no! she was a cross old thing. Don't you remember how she wasgoing to have Bertrand beaten, when that kind old nun stopped her?You're not a bit like her, dear little mamma, --not a scrap, not an atom!But oh, mamma, when will you be able to read us all those famous storiesabout heroes? They're the only things I ever remember, and I'm piningfor one of them. '

'You shall have one as soon as papa thinks I'm strong enough to readaloud. But, my hero, I want you to consider that before you can get acommission you must pass an examination, and knowing about Du Guesclinwon't make up for deficiency in arithmetic and French grammar. '

'Oh, I'll see about all that; I'll work night and day sooner than notpass, for I _must_ be an officer. You know, mamma, we've settled it all. Honorius is to be a doctor, like papa, and I'm to be a soldier, andWillie is to be a clergyman, and Duncan a sailor, and Seymour amerchant, and Archie a lawyer, and Georgie--somehow we never can settlewhat Georgie is to be--but something, of course, you know; and then youwill have us all, mamma, your seven sons, "seven Campbells, " as Williehas taken a fit for saying, and we shall make you so proud of us!'

'I hope so; but, my Johnnie, we must not forget that if my seven arespared to me, and I to them, it will be by GOD'S great mercy. '

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II. 

JOHNNIE'S PROTEGE. 

JOHNNIE completed his task in two or three days, labouring at it atfirst very earnestly, then growing tired, getting careless, and finallyfinishing it up in a hurry, with so little effort at accuracy ofrendering or clearness of style, that any one less sanguine than hewould have considered the attainment of the half-crown hopeless. Honorius glanced over the translation, and shook his head ominously, wishing that he might be allowed to make some improvements in it; buthis father's injunction to Johnnie to accept no help put this out of thequestion, so it was delivered into Dr. Campbell's hands just as it was. The first part was very satisfactory. 'Very good, very good indeed, Johnnie!' he exclaimed as his eye ran rapidly down the neatly writtenlines; but his face lengthened as he went on. 'Why, how you have begunto scribble here, Johnnie!' he said as he reached the middle. 'And what_do_ you mean by this? You have not even given the sense of this passagecorrectly. Here, take the book and translate it to me word by word. '

Johnnie stumbled wofully in his rendering, not from confusion, but fromsheer ignorance; and both the written and verbal translation went ongetting worse and worse, till at last the Doctor, who was rather a hastyman, lost all patience, and tossed the whole production into the fire, exclaiming, 'Pshaw! far from deserving any reward, that translation isthe most wretched exhibition of carelessness and idleness that I eversaw. I don't know what's to become of you, Johnnie, if you can't, orrather _won't_, do better than that!'

The little boys glanced at poor Lackland in terror and dismay, andWillie's eyes filled with tears; but Johnnie only coloured, and, shutting up the volume of Cæsar, put it in its place again, and resumedthe occupation of making a willow-wand into a bow, on which he had beenengaged when his father summoned him. If Honorius had met with such arebuff, he would have remained bitterly hurt and ashamed for the rest ofthe day, and Willie in the same case would have been utterly humbled anddiscouraged. Not so 'Jean-sans-terre. ' What his cogitations were, hisbrothers could not decide; but the result was, that when he had biddenhis father good-night, he paused a minute, and then added, 'May I haveanother try at Cæsar, papa?' The tone was bright and cheery, and Dr. Campbell looked up in pleased surprise--

'Do you really mean it, Johnnie?' he said hopefully. 

'Yes, I do indeed, papa; but perhaps you wouldn't like the trouble oflooking over another translation. I know that one was awful. '

'If you can take the trouble of writing it, I shall not begrudge thetrouble of looking over it; but mind, it must be well done. I'd ratheryou took a month about it than brought me such a one as that ofto-night. '

'Oh, thank you, papa, but that wouldn't suit me at all; I want thehalf-crown as quick as I can get it. I'll work night and day rather thannot have the translation done soon. '

'Then I am to understand it is merely for the sake of the half-crown youare willing to do this bit of Cæsar over again?' said Dr. Campbelldisappointedly: 'I had hoped that it was from a better motive--a realdesire to improve and conquer your carelessness, or a wish to pleaseand satisfy your mother and me. ' He looked full at his son as he spoke, and seemed to expect an answer. It came, bold and true: 'I was onlythinking of the half-crown, papa. ' Yet if Dr. Campbell could have knownto what purpose the half-crown was to be devoted, he would have seenthat love to the mother was the primary motive, after all, and would nothave turned away so coldly as he did from this apparently mercenaryspeech. Honorius thought so, and would have explained; but Johnniepulled his sleeve and whispered something, and meanwhile the Doctor leftthe room. 

'Oh, how could you answer like that, Johnnie?' remonstrated Willie whenthe two boys were alone in the attic which they shared together. 'If youhad told papa what you wanted the half-crown for, he would have beenpleased, whereas now I don't know what he thinks of you. '

'I only gave a plain answer to a plain question, ' said Johnnie. 'If hehad asked me what I wanted the money for, I might have told him. '

'But it appeared----'

'I don't care what it appeared, ' interrupted Lackland, laughing; 'I onlywish papa hadn't burnt the whole of my translation: the beginning of itwas all right, and I might have copied it straight off, instead ofhaving to make it all out again. '

'Oh yes! that was dreadful, ' replied Willie. 'And then what he said too!I was so sorry, Johnnie; I knew you must be so ashamed. '

Jean-sans-terre's eyes seemed to be searching after penitence again, asthey had when his mother spoke to him. 

'_Ought_ I to have been ashamed?' he asked with simplicity. 

The question appeared to Willie so extraordinary, that he really didn'tknow what to say in answer. He pondered over it seriously while he wasundressing, and added to his evening prayers this clause: 'Make Johnniemore sorry when he has vexed papa. '

Dr. Campbell was certainly vexed and disappointed with his son, andshowed it a little in his manner, which was, however, quite useless asfar as Johnnie was concerned, for he never even remarked it. There arechildren so sensitive, that the faintest shade of sadness or disapprovalin the manner of their elders towards them will suffice to make themunhappy for days; there are others who, unless they are actually scoldedor punished, never perceive that anything is amiss: and Johnnie was oneof these last. He was just as pleasant and affectionate to his father asusual, just as fearless in his remarks and questions, and showed up histranslation, when he had finished it, quite as unconcernedly as if noprevious one had ever existed. He got the half-crown this time, and afair meed of praise, which he received with undisguised satisfaction, and the mental reflection that 'papa was very kind. '

Dr. Campbell did not inquire how he meant to spend the money, notwishing to show a want of confidence in his son; and Johnnie tarried forno explanation, but raced off to the nurseryman's, only pausing to tellHonorius that he was no longer 'sans argent, ' and to ask what plants heshould buy. 

The boys, by constant labour, had managed already to dig up the proposedflower-border and to level the part intended for the paths; but Honoriuswas sadly at a loss as to where they should get gravel for the latter. He could not help looking rather wistfully at a great heap ofit--beautiful golden gravel too--which lay in one corner of the gardenof an old lady to whom his father one day sent him with a message; andMrs. Western--as this old lady was called--noticed her young friend'sexpression, and asked what he was thinking of. He told her of his plansfor the desert, and inquired where such gravel was to be bought, and ifit were very dear. She replied that it was rather so, but this had beengiven her by her son-in-law, who had a gravel-pit on his estate, andadded very kindly, 'You are quite welcome to have what you see there, for I have used as much as I shall want for the present; only you mustsend some one for it, for I can't ask my maid to carry gravel. ' Honoriusthanked her warmly, and joyfully accepted her offer, promising to sendsome one for the gravel as soon as he possibly could. 

The difficulty was to know whom to send, for the Campbells' in-doorservants were all maids; and when the boys begged the old man who tookcare of their father's horse and drove his gig to go to Mrs. Western'sfor them, he replied surlily that he had hard work enough as it was('night and day both, sometimes, when master is sent for from adistance'), and declined to assist them. 

'I know, ' said Johnnie. 'The next half-holiday Bob Middleton would do itfor sixpence or a shilling; he could take the wheelbarrow and get a loadat a time. I declare I wouldn't mind fetching it myself, if I thoughtpapa wouldn't object. '

'Oh, nonsense, ' said Honorius. 'Work as hard as you like here, but don'ttake to wheeling gravel through the village, pray. Bob Middleton mightdo, only he's such an impudent fellow. I hate having anything to say tohim. '

'Oh, I'll transmit your royal commands to him, if that's all, ' saidJohnnie; 'only say yes, and I'll look him up this afternoon: perhaps hemight go to Mrs. Western's for us at once. '

Honorius gave a reluctant consent, and accordingly Johnnie appeared inthe desert soon after three o'clock, accompanied by a youth of fifteen, very raggedly attired, and with a face which was an extraordinarycompound of ugliness and roguery. Bob undertook for a shilling to fetchall the gravel from Mrs. Western's, and set off at once for the firstload, with which he returned ere long. He came and went several times;but at last such a long interval elapsed between his going andreturning, that the boys began to be alarmed. 

'He's gone off with the wheelbarrow, I do believe, ' said Honorius. 

'"Body o' me!" as old King Jamie used to say, you don't suppose such athing, ' cried Johnnie. 'Spite of his objections to soap and water andthe English grammar, I have a higher opinion of Bob than that. '

But as still time passed on and Bob did not return, Duncan and Seymourwere sent in search of him. They looked for him by the way, but sawnothing of him, and at length arrived at Mrs. Western's house and rangthe bell. 

'Has a boy been here for some gravel Mrs. Western promised us, or is hehere now?' inquired Duncan of the maid who came to the gate. 

'He has been here, Master Campbell, ' she replied, 'but he's gone off asfast as his legs can carry him, and he's taken mistress's newthermometer with him that hung on the south wall, and he's trampled overall the beds, and Mrs. Western she saw him from the window; and your pa'was passing, so she called him in; but the boy made off, and it'll be awonder if the police are not sent for. They're a bad set, thoseMiddletons. '

Duncan's eyes grew round with excitement, and Seymour, who was rathertimid, began to cry. He wanted to run home again, but Duncan consideredsuch a proceeding cowardly; and while they were debating the point, Dr. Campbell saw them, and called to them to come in. 

'Who sent Bob here for the gravel?' he inquired. 

'Johnnie sent him; Honorius said he might, ' replied Duncan. 

'Of course they never thought how the boy would behave, ' said kind oldMrs. Western. 'I daresay they didn't know he wasn't a fit person to betrusted. '

'They might have known, ' said Dr. Campbell; 'Johnnie at least has heardme say that Bob was ripe for any mischief, and he knows I refused to lethim take him out fishing with him. If Honorius had told me of your kindpresent, I would have sent some proper person for the gravel. '

'Honorius did say Mrs. Western had promised us some gravel after dinner, papa, but you were just going out, and I suppose you didn't hear him, 'said Duncan. 'He didn't like sending Bob much, but we didn't know whoelse to get. '

'You should have asked, ' began his father; but seeing that Seymour wasfrightened, he checked himself, saying, 'It's no blame to you littleones; I don't suppose you had anything to do with it. Run away home ifyou like. '

'Oh, but let Sarah cut you a piece of cake first, ' said Mrs. Western. 'My dear (to Seymour), don't fret; you shall have the gravel all thesame. '

Mrs. Western's maid brought them out two large slices of pound-cake, which, after they had thanked their kind old friend, they took away withthem, Seymour beginning directly to munch at his slice, while Duncan puthis into his pocket. 

'Papa didn't say we _must_ go home, ' he observed, --'he only said we_might_ if we liked; so you can go, and I'll try and find Bob, and tellhim I'll give him this piece of cake if he'll give back the thermometer. I'm so afraid, if he doesn't, Johnnie'll get into trouble; and besides, it's so wicked to steal. '

'Yes, ' said Seymour with his mouth full of cake; 'and I'll tell youwhat, Duncan, ' reluctantly but firmly, 'you may take the rest of mypiece too. '

Duncan, however, declined this, and trudged away, resolutely resisting, as he went along, the temptation to eat even a _crumb_ of his owndelicious-looking slice. He soon arrived at Mrs. Middleton's cottage, but of course Bob was not there; and his mother, who was a widow, andsupported herself by washing, came to the door with her arms coveredwith soap-suds, and after hastily answering that 'Bob was nowhere'sabout, plunged them in the wash-tub again, and took no more heed ofDuncan. He hesitated whether to tell her about the thermometer or not, but had been so impressed with the naughtiness of 'telling tales, ' thathe could not make up his mind it could be right, even in this case, andso turned away and ran back to the desert, where he found his fatherspeaking to Honorius and Johnnie. 

'Didn't you remember, boys, what I said about Bob when you wanted totake him out fishing with you?' he was asking. 

'It was to me you said it; Honorius was not in the room, ' Johnnie saidquickly. 

'Very well, then, you at any rate knew my opinion of Bob Middleton, andmust have known that you were doing wrong in employing him without myleave. '

'I didn't think, ' said Lackland carelessly. 

'Then I must teach you to think. Put down your spade and go into thehouse, and up to your room. '

There was no mistaking Dr. Campbell's manner now; even Johnnie wasobliged to perceive the displeasure he had provoked: he stuck his spadeinto the ground, and turned towards the house. 

Duncan dashed after him. 'Here, Johnnie, take this piece of cake. Mrs. Western gave it to me; it's so good--do have it, see!'

Lackland was by no means too miserable to appreciate this attempt atconsolation. 'It looks jolly, ' he said, 'but I won't take it all; youmust have half yourself, Duncan, ' and he broke it in two. 

Duncan would rather his brother should have had the whole, but he wasglad to see him munching the half even so contentedly. 'Do you think Imay go up into your room with you?' he inquired. 

'No, no; papa didn't mean that, I'm sure. Don't stop me, old fellow;good-bye, ' and Johnnie ran off and up to his room as fast as he couldgo. He had not been there more than five minutes, when there was a soundof little toddling steps along the passage, and two fat hands camedrumming on the door. 'What do you want, baby?' said Johnnie, rising andopening it. 

'I want to tiss 'oo, ' answered the child, lifting up his chubby face. 

Johnnie bent down and kissed him, asking, 'How did you know I was here, Georgie?'

'Ma heard 'oo tome up 'tairs; ma say what matter wis 'oo?'

'Tell her papa sent me up, ' faltered Johnnie; 'or stay, say----'

'I say 'oo naughty, ' said Georgie, whose infantine mind had alreadyjumped to the right conclusion. He scampered off with this message, butspeedily returned: 'Ma say she vezy sorry; ma say I may tiss 'oo again. '

'I wish I might go to her, ' thought Johnnie, and in his softened moodthe little brother's kisses were so sweet to him, that he could scarcelymake up his mind to let Georgie go. But he did, and stepped backresolutely into his room, while the little one, announcing, 'I going totea now, ' trotted off again down the passage. Meantime Honorius wasshowing his father the scarlet geraniums that Johnnie had bought withhis half-crown, and expatiating on the quantity of digging he had gotthrough, although, being occupied with Cæsar, he had not had so muchtime to spend in the desert as the others. 

'Poor fellow! Well, he has behaved much better than I thought, ' said Dr. Campbell relentingly. 'I'm afraid I was rather hard on him just now;that's the worst of being too hasty. '

Of all things, Honorius could not bear that his father should reproachhimself. 'I'm sure Johnnie admits that he was in fault about Bob, papa, 'he said. 

'And do you know I've got a bright idea about Bob and the thermometer, papa, ' said Willie. 'May I go as far as Farmer Merryman's field andback? I won't be long. '

'Certainly you may, if it's necessary for the development of your brightidea, Willie; but make haste home to tea. And you, boys, come in withme; if you're not hungry, I am. '

In the strength of his bright idea Willie ran along like a greyhound;moreover, it was pleasant to feel how completely his father trustedhim. He went across the fields till he came to Farmer Merryman's pond, which was overhung by a willow-tree, whose branches were thick enough toafford a tempting seat: it was a lonely place, and a favourite resort ofBob's, as Willie well knew; and here he hoped to find him. Was he there?Yes--no--yes! and Willie almost shouted with delight, but restrainedhimself, and advanced cautiously to the foot of the tree. 'Bob, ' he saidsoftly, 'Bob, I want to speak to you, please. '

Bob gave a violent start, and looked down rather savagely at theadventurous child who had discovered his hiding-place. 'What d'ye comeprying here for?' he asked rudely. 

'I came to ask you to give back Mrs. Western's thermometer, ' saidWillie; 'and my brother Johnnie says he's _quite_ sure you didn't meanto steal it. '

'No more I did; what's the worth of it to me? I'd only taken it downjust to look at it, like, when out came those maids a-storming anda-scolding, and vowed they'd fetch the justice; so I made off, and tookthe 'mometer with me, for I hadn't had half a look at it. '

'Oh, but you've done with it now, so do take it back, ' pleaded Willieurgently. 

'Don't you wish you may get it? You'd like to see me make such a fool ofmyself, wouldn't you?'

'Well, then, let me take it, and I'll tell Mrs. Western how it was, andask her not to be angry with you. If you give it me, I'll give you theshilling that you were to have had when you fetched all the gravel: ofcourse you can't fetch any more of it for us now, but we would ratheryou had the shilling. I'm so glad you didn't mean to steal. '

Bob calmly surveyed the flushed, eager face that was turned up to his. 'It's you that's to be the parson, ain't it?' he said mockingly. 

Willie made no reply, but folded his arms and leant back against thetree, looking such a perfect little gentleman, that some dim perceptionof his own impertinence flashed upon Bob's eccentric mind. 

'It worn't all on my account you comed along here, was it?' he inquired. 

'No; partly on Mrs. Western's, and partly on my brother Johnnie's. Papais displeased with him for having sent you for the gravel; and, Bob, youknow Johnnie _trusted_ you. '

Bob grinned, and Willie felt that the appeal to his sense of honour hadfailed; but, though very impertinent and mischievous, he was not athoroughly bad boy, and now swung himself down from the tree, bringingthe thermometer with him. 

'If I give it to you, you must promise not to tell where you found me, 'he said; 'I won't have other folks prying after me here. '

'I won't tell Mrs. Western, if that's what you mean, ' said Willie; 'andI'll ask her to forgive you. '

[Illustration: 'CAN'T HELP THAT, --HERE GOES. '

_See page 52. _]

'My! you may do as you like about that. I ain't in such a hurry to beforgiven. But what I mean is, you ain't to tell your father nor nobodywhere you found me. '

'I must tell papa if he _asks_ me, ' said Willie. 

'Then you shan't have the 'mometer; I'll pitch it into the pond. '

'That would be wicked, ' said undaunted Willie, 'for it does not belongto you. '

'Can't help that; here goes, ' and he held it over the edge of the pond. 'It'll be in in another minute if you don't say you'll not tell yourfather. '

'I shan't tell him if he doesn't say I am to; but if he does, I must. '

'Why must you?'

'Because I must obey him, even when I'd rather not; it's right. '

'That beats all, ' said Bob in unbounded surprise; but he didn't throwthe thermometer into the pond. It was some time, however, before Williecould persuade him to give it up, though at length he did, and receivedthe shilling, observing, 'I could ha' took this from you if I'd liked, and kep' the 'mometer too;but I ain't a thief, let folks say what they please. '

'No, I know you're not, ' said Willie. 'Oh, Bob, if you would only----'

'What?' said Bob; 'you hadn't no call to stop just then. I thought youwas a-going to make a fine speech. '

'No, I mustn't. '

'Mustn't what?'

'Mustn't lecture; mamma won't ever let me. There are other people toteach you. '

'They did teach me a lot, --parson did, and schoolmaster did; but I gottired of it, and now I'm too big to go to school. But I'm thinking oflooking out for a bit of work. '

'Oh do, do, _please_; we should be so glad. '

'If you ain't the funniest little gentleman!' said Bob with increasingastonishment. 'But I kind o' like you too, I ha' been thinkin' o'taking a turn for the better, as they say, lately; but bless you, noteven my mother would believe I was in earnest, so who is there to careif I do?'

'Seven Campbells, ' said Willie; and then, fearing this was not quite thetruth, he added, 'No, Georgie is too young to care, but all the rest ofus would be glad, Bob;' and when he had said this he ran home. Hisarrival with the thermometer caused great delight to all his brothers, and Dr. Campbell called Lackland down to hear the good news, sayingkindly, 'You have had opportunity for a little thought, Johnnie, my man, and I hope will be more careful not to act contrary to my known wishesanother time; so now come and help us to rejoice over the recovery ofpoor Mrs. Western's thermometer. ' Johnnie came, nothing loth, pausing, however, to ask, 'May I speak to mamma first? She heard me comeup-stairs. '

Permission was given, and after a preliminary tap the bonnie facepeeped into the sickroom. 'All right, dear little mother: I _was_ ratherin a scrape just now, but papa has forgiven me, and I'm goingdown-stairs again. Good-night, dear mamma. ' The white curtains of thebed were drawn aside for one minute, and the sweet motherly eyes lookedout at him. 

'Good-night, and thank you for coming to me, my darling boy; onlyremember'--very gently--'a _pardoned_ fault needn't be a _forgotten_one, Johnnie. '

'No, mamma. ' There was a momentary quiver in the gay, ringing voice, andit was quite enough for the mother. 'That will do; I can trust you notto forget _this_ time, Johnnie, ' she said, and with a happy smile shelay down to sleep. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III. 

WHAT SEVEN CAMPBELLS CAN DO. 

SPITE of obstacles, the labours of the 'Seven Campbells, ' as Williegrandly called them, did effect a great improvement in the desert, andthe seventh certainly took his share, so far as such a very small mancould; for he pulled up a great many weeds with his little fat hands, and brushed down the gravel on the walks with a tooth-brush! The Doctor, seeing his boys were in earnest, lent them his help whenever he couldspare time, sent for the remainder of the gravel for them, showed themhow to lay it, trimmed the borders, sowed some potatoes, and presentedthem with four apple-trees, which he planted at four corners of theground, and called 'Gozmaringa, Geroldinga, Crevedella, and Spirauca, 'after the names of some apple-trees that belonged to King Charlemagne. But, spite of his assistance, there was a great deal requiring the boys'exertions; and they worked like Trojans, devoting nearly all theirplay-hours and pocket-money to this object, and finding in it bothinterest and amusement. Johnnie had learnt one or two lessons from thisundertaking: first, that in working for a good object, it is not onlynecessary to have a right intention at starting, but that constant painsand perseverance are requisite, --as in the matter of Cæsar; secondly, that a privilege earned is sweeter than one bestowed as a favour, --as inthe spending of the half-crown, which his own toil had procured;thirdly, that even for a good object we must not use bad or doubtfulmeans, --as in the matter of the gravel; and fourthly, that hardwork--digging, or what not--from a right motive, becomes a much greaterpleasure than any that can be procured by idleness. And he had foundtrue, too, what his mother had said, that if he would pursue _one_ thingsteadily, and make himself do it in spite of disinclination, thedetermination and energy thus acquired would help him in everythingelse. 

Midsummer came, and by that time the desert was a desert no longer: itwas a neat, trim-looking piece of ground with smooth walks, some smallbut promising crops, and a flower-border gay with geraniums, nasturtiums, sweet-peas, nemophila, and convolvulus. The mother wasrapidly regaining strength, and had been down-stairs several times, butonly into the drawing-room, which did not look towards the desert: fromthe school-room and dining-room, which had a full view of it, she hadbeen jealously excluded. It is to be feared that this precaution hadcaused her a little anxiety, and that she had a secret vision of brokenslates, torn pinafores, and blotted lesson-books, which she imaginedwere being concealed from her in these forbidden chambers till she wassupposed to be strong enough to bear the sight of such calamities. Butthe day was now come when her fears were to be dispersed, and a fardifferent and much pleasanter surprise was to dawn upon her. 

She was to take her first walk, leaning on her husband's arm; and he hadbeen privately instructed by his sons to bring her in the direction ofthe quondam desert. They had erected a triumphal arch over the littleentrance-gate, formed of bent osiers twined with flowers, and surmountedwith paper flags, on which were inscribed, in large coloured letters, such mottoes as the Scotch 'Ye're gey welcome, ' and the Irish 'Cead milefailte. ' Archie and Georgie, gaily bedizened, and with wands in theirhands, were stationed at each side of the gate to welcome her, and wereto marshal her up the centre walk, at the top of which her other sonswere to receive her, and conduct her to a seat which had been preparedfor her to rest upon. Such was the programme; but how could English boysadhere to anything so formal? Directly Archie announced that 'mamma wascoming' Georgie pushed the gate open, and toddled to meet her, followedby all the rest of the boys, leaping, shouting, and laughing, forgettingall preconcerted speeches, and much too happy to be even coherent. 

'Papa' was afraid such noisy glee would be too much for the invalid, but'mamma' would have her way for once, and indulge the boys to the top oftheir bent; so they led the way into the desert, all laughing andtalking at the same time, till Willie bethought himself that the noiseand excitement would really be too much for his mother, and first loudlyexhorted his brothers to be quiet, and then--which was muchbetter--became quiet himself, and thus set an example ofconsiderateness. 

Mrs. Campbell's surprise and delight were great enough to satisfy hersons, which is saying a good deal. She would not sit down till she hadmade the tour of the garden (it would be an insult to say 'desert' anylonger); and she accepted a sprig of Johnnie's geranium, and a handfulof Duncan's sweet-peas; _tasted_ one of Archie's nasturtium flowers whenassured by him that it was 'so nice;' was duly edified by the sight ofthe remains of the tooth-brush, worn to a stump by Georgie's sedulousand novel use of it; allowed Honorius to pull up a potato root, that shemight see how healthy and free from disease it was; submitted patientlyto have her hair ornamented with some of Seymour's convolvuluses; andonly declined to taste the one hard green apple born by Geroldinga(Gozmaringa, Crevedella, and Spirauca were as yet fruitless), from afear that the tender, careful guardian at her side would beirrecoverably shocked at such imprudence. She sat down at last on thechair of state that had been prepared for her, and owned herself alittle tired; but her interest and amusement never flagged, and shelistened with eager pleasure to the history of her sons' exertions. 

'They've all worked like horses, --even Georgie, I do believe, ' said Dr. Campbell, smiling. 

'And Johnnie too!' said the mother delightedly. 

'Yes, Johnnie has done his work manfully, and has found out thatindustry is pleasure, after all. Haven't you, my boy?' and the fatherlaid his hand on his son's shoulder with a proud, pleased look, such asLackland had but seldom called up before. 

The bright eyes, which never looked down in fear, looked down now. Jean-sans-terre was not so unsensitive to _praise_ as he was to_blame_. 

'Ah, papa, ' said Willie, 'you laughed at us when we began to dig up thedesert, but now you see seven Campbells can do more than you thoughtthey could. '

'And now, when we want anything done, we may look to our seven Campbellsfor it, said Mrs. Campbell gaily. 'Honorius, you were the directinggenius, were you not?'

'Yes, I believe I planned how it was to be, but it was Willie who firstthought of it, and proposed that we should do it to please you. I am soglad you are satisfied with our work, mother. '

'Satisfied! I am delighted, my Emperor. But now that the desert is _put_in order, who is going to _keep_ it so? Are we to look to our seven sonsfor that?'

'Yes, oh yes!' was chorused by six of the seven voices. Johnnie alonewas silent; but his dimples were all in play, and he had never lookedmore roguish. 

'Sans-terre means to steal a march on us, and do more than any of us, Ido believe, though he won't make promises, ' said Honorius. 

'Sans-terre shall be sans-terre no longer, ' said Dr. Campbell; 'he hasearned back a right to his own plot of flower-garden, and may enter intopossession again to-night, if he pleases. '

But Lackland shrugged his shoulders, and declined the burden ofproprietorship. 

'I don't care to have any garden of my own, thank you, papa, ' heanswered; 'I'm happier without it than with it, and there's plenty ofwork for me here. I never want to have anything belonging to me except asword. '

'And some clothes, Johnnie, ' said Seymour, who was very matter-of-fact. 

The boys laughed, and Johnnie replied, 'Oh, certainly, Seymour. I'm notprepared to adopt the full dress of a Mexican general even--a cocked hatand a pair of spurs; I must have a full suit of uniform, at any rate. But I mean to say I'll never be bothered with a house or a wife, oranything like that. '

'Ah, Johnnie, ' said his father, 'I may say to you in the words of theold song, "Bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye dinna ken what'll betide ye yet. "

For aught you know, "A canty wee house and a cosie wee fire, And a bonnie wee bodie to praise and admire, "

may be your destiny; and perhaps some day you will appreciate thosetreasures as much as I do now. '

Johnnie looked incredulous. But the attention of all was diverted by thesudden appearance of a sun-burnt, grinning face over the paling whichseparated the kitchen garden (no longer desert) from the road. 

'That's Bob Middleton, I declare!' said Honorius. 'Do you know, papa, Farmer Jennings has taken him to work in his hay-field, and says if hedoes well he may perhaps keep him as a farm-labourer?'

'And Mrs. Middleton told Mrs. Western that Bob was beginning to hold uphis head a bit, and that if he had only a decent jacket she reallythought he would go to church with her on Sundays, ' said Willie. 

'Honorius has an old jacket that is only fit for giving away, ' said Mrs. Campbell; 'don't you think we might make poor Bob a present of it, dearArchibald?'

'Oh do, papa, ' cried the boys unanimously. 

Dr. Campbell had no objection; so Honorius ran into the house to fetchthe jacket, observing, 'I shall tell him to take himself off when I'vegiven it him; it's not manners to stare over at us in this way. ' When hereturned, however, from his colloquy with the grinning Bob, heexplained, 'He doesn't mean to be rude, he says, but he's so pleasedthat we've made the desert so trim, and that "madam, " as he calls mamma, is able to come out and see it. He's immensely pleased with the jacket, but he doesn't want to go away till he's spoken to Johnnie and Willie. '

Willie ran off at once. Johnnie turned to go with equal haste, thenpaused and glanced at his father: the forgiven fault had _not_ beenforgotten. 

'Yes, go, my man, ' said Dr. Campbell; 'and you may bring Bob in if youlike, just to take a turn round the garden; but don't encourage him tostay. '

'Oh, and mayn't we give him Geroldinga's apple?' said Duncan; but theDoctor answered, laughing, 'that that would be anything but a benevolentpresent, and that Geroldinga's solitary fruit had better be allowed toripen. '

'I shan't take it, ' said Archie, thus innocently revealing, what wasindeed the case, that he felt some temptation to do so. 

'Nor baby won't, ' said Georgie manfully. 

'No, my little boys will not touch what is not their own, ' said themother, glancing down tenderly at the two small faces; 'and somesummer, perhaps, we may find Gozmaringa and the rest covered withapples, and then what apple dumplings we shall have!'

Archie's broad smile told that he relished the idea. Georgie, to whomapple dumplings were as yet an unknown delicacy, looked grave and asked, 'Is appy dumpions nice?'

'Very, ' said the laughing mamma. 'But see, here is Bob coming this way. Well, Bob, what do you think of my sons' work?'

'It's fust-rate, ' said Bob, pulling his rough forelock. 'I hopes youfinds yourself better, mum. '

'Much better, thank you, and very glad to be out again. I have beenwatching the hay-making in Farmer Jennings' field from my window; I wasvery glad to see _you_ at work there, Bob. '

Bob made an indescribable contortion of his figure, charitably supposedto be intended for a bow, and passed on. 

'Madam looks palish, ' he observed to Johnnie, who was escorting himabout; 'I doubt she's not very hearty yet. '

'No, it'll be some time before she's quite strong. Has she ever spokento you before, Bob?'

'Oh my! yes. Why, she brought me some doctor's stuff and some sweet colddrink when I was so bad with fever two winters ago, and she took andspoke up to me last autumn when I was throwin' stones at parson'schickens. Besides, I've seen her in the school when I was a littlechap. ' He was evidently proud of his acquaintance with so sweet-spokenand kind a lady, and when he left the garden with the jacket under hisarm, remarked, 'I'll make a bigger haycock than e'er a one else in thefield right under madam's window, that'll pleasure her, maybe, for itsmells fust-rate, it does. '

He fulfilled his intention, and pleased Farmer Jennings so much by hischeerful industry in the hay-field, that he took him on trial for amonth as farm-lad, and finding him tolerably satisfactory in thatcapacity, gave him permanent employment. His impudence was not at onceconquered, and brought him into some trouble; but when he found that thefarmer and his men would not put up with it as his mother had, helearned to put a check on it, and others besides the seven Campbellsencouraged him in taking a turn for the better. 

Johnnie still remained 'sans terre, ' by his own desire, but worked awayin his father's garden as he never had done in the part that was calledhis own. He began to get on better at school too; and Willie joined himthere after the summer vacation, and helped to keep him steady by hisexample and admonitions. For Willie had certainly a little taste forlecturing; and Lackland, the harum-scarum and good-humoured, was justthe boy both to provoke it and to bear it: if he was a Du Guesclin inbravery, he was not in quarrelsomeness, and nothing that Willie couldsay ever made him angry. The mother, too, became well and strong again, able once more to exercise her sweet influence through all thehousehold; and between the father's firmness and the mother'sgentleness, those seven boys were well and wisely trained. 

 * * * * *

Many years have passed since then, and the seven Campbells are no longerboys Honorius has been taken into partnership with his father, and isknown by the whole country-side as 'the young doctor;' Johnnie isserving the Queen in a line regiment in India; and Willie has latelybeen ordained, and is working hard as a curate in a large manufacturingtown. So three of the seven have had their wish. But Seymour has beentaken by one of his uncles, a rich banker, into his counting-house;Duncan is not gone to sea, --he has just passed a competitiveexamination for the Indian Civil Service; as for Archie, he is stillonly a schoolboy, and he and Honorius live at home, while the others arescattered far and wide. 

But nowhere on earth could you find all those seven Campbells now, andthere has never been any need to decide on a profession for Georgie: theyoungest, the darling, the flower of the flock, has been called to restthe first. Wide tracts of sea and land lie between the mother and herdarling Johnnie, and a wider distance still severs her from her littleGeorge, yet to her the seven are but as one band, united for ever by acommon faith and mutual love. And so much is this the feeling of themall, that if you should chance to meet one of those Campbells, and toask of their number, I think, like the child in the ballad, he wouldanswer, 'We are Seven. '

[Illustration]

CECIL'S MEMORABLE WEEK. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE SENTENCE. 

IT would be hard to find a pleasanter family group than that which hadgathered round the tea-table at Wilbourne Rectory one hot bright eveningin the end of July: a kindly-looking mother, with a dark, sweet, brunette face, that _would_ not be careworn spite of forty years oflife, seven children, and a slender purse; a tall, slight, brown-beardedfather, a little bald, and with deep lines of thought on the broadforehead and around the rather sunken blue eyes; a fair, round-facedgirl of fifteen, sitting next him; two smaller lasses, with long blackhair almost straight, clear brown complexions, and a bit of brightscarlet bloom on each cheek, that was just like the mother's, onlyfresher and less fixed; a little curly-haired lad of eight, that waslike nobody in particular; and last, but not least, a Sandhurst cadet, awell-grown youth of seventeen, with dark hair, cut very short inmilitary style, and a little dark down on cheek and lip, which _he_called whiskers and moustaches. He sat on one side of his mother, and onthe other sat a person who was _not_ a member of the family--Mr. Cunningham's curate, a great big broad-shouldered young man, six feetthree at least in height, with a pleasant, open face, rather sun-burnt, and the most good-tempered smile that you can possibly conceive. 

Two of the children of the house were absent--the second son, amidshipman in the Queen's service, who was now on his way to Japan; andthe third, who was expected home this very evening from school. 

A little talk sprang up about him among his brothers and sisters, begunby a 'wonder' from one of the little girls as to when he would arrive;and strange to say, at the mention of his name, the lines on thefather's brow deepened a little, and Mrs. Cunningham's face took for amoment quite a sorrowful expression. 

'I almost hope he will not come till tea is over, ' she said. 

It did not sound like a motherly sentiment, but it was spoken out of thedepths of a true motherly feeling. 

Cecil Cunningham was coming home in a kind of disgrace. He had beenplaced at a good grammar school in the county town, some fourteen milesfrom Wilbourne, had won for himself an 'exhibition, ' as it was called, by which the greater part of his school expenses were defrayed, andwould have been allowed to keep it till he went to college had hisprogress during the first year been sufficiently good. But, alas! it hadjust been discovered that the marks he had gained for his variousstudies throughout this time did not, when counted up, amount to therather high total which the founder's will required; and so it had beenannounced to him and his parents that he had forfeited the 'exhibition, 'and could not be received at the school again unless his father wereprepared to pay the full terms, which, though not very high, happened tobe more than Mr. Cunningham could justly afford. The middy had latelybeen fitted out for sea. The son at Sandhurst was a considerableexpense; and though it was hoped that after another six months he wouldsucceed in getting a commission without purchase, there would be hisoutfit and yearly allowance to provide; and altogether, Mr. Cunninghamdid not see his way to giving Cecil such advantages as he could wish, without the help of that 'exhibition' which the boy had just lost byhis own fault. 

Cecil was very clever, and, though rather idle by nature, had promisedto work hard at school, and had been supposed to be conscientious enoughto be sure to keep his word. He greatly wished to be a clergyman; andthis desire of his had been an intense joy to his father, who, though agood deal disappointed at his two elder sons choosing army and navy, hadconsoled himself with the thought that _one_ at least of his childrenhad a real desire for the priesthood, and this the very one whosetalents best fitted him for a university education. From school he wasto have gone to Oxford; and his whole prospects had seemed fair enoughtill now, so that it was not wonderful that the unexpected news of hisfailure had occasioned great disappointment at the Rectory. His fatherwas much displeased with him, and meant that he should feel how great afault his idleness had been; and his mother, who knew this, and believedthat her boy was _already_ feeling it, was anxious that the firstmeeting should be got over without the presence of spectators. 

But just as she spoke, Cecil, followed by the gardener wheeling hisluggage in a barrow, was seen coming up the gravel walk towards thehouse. 

The little curly-haired boy rushed off at once to meet him, --not to openthe hall door, for that stood wide open already, --but a restraining lookfrom the mother stopped the girls, who were rising also; and when Cecilcame in, the greetings were very quiet, though not in the least cold, except perhaps on Mr. Cunningham's part. Cecil had his mother's face, atonce dark and bright, with brown clear eyes that looked full ofintelligence, and, alas! seemed to say that their owner might have kepthis place in the school with ease had he but so chosen. He did not seemvery conscious or very miserable: he had the true boyish instinct ofhiding feelings, and looked much as usual, though there was nothing likebravado or nonchalance in his manner. When his father shook hands withhim gravely, and merely said, 'Well, Cecil, ' in a short dry way, asudden flush mounted up in his brown cheek; and there was a littleanxiety in his face when he turned to kiss his mother, as if a suddenfear had come over him that she might refuse the caress. But she didnot; and he sat down calmly enough to his bread and butter, showing avery tolerable schoolboy appetite, and munching away rather quickly whenhe found that the others were near the end of their meal. His sistersand his little brother volunteered some information about his rabbits, and so on; but when they began to ask questions concerning hisschoolfellows, their father said quietly, 'Let Cecil have his tea, ' andbegan a conversation about politics with the curate, in which none ofthe juniors ventured to join except the cadet. 

When they rose from the table, the two gentlemen went off to the study;and with a sigh of relief one of the little girls exclaimed, 'Oh, nowyou _can_ come and see the rabbits, Cecil; father won't want you!'

Cecil glanced at his mother; but though she was longing for a good hugand a little private talk, she thought it better to refrain just then, and said gently, 'Yes, you can go with Jessie, but don't go out ofearshot;' after which she turned away and went up-stairs. 

Jessie, who was just a year younger than Cecil, was his special friendand ally, and the other long-haired lassie considerately left themtogether, and went off to do some gardening; while little Lewis followedat a respectful distance, not able to tear himself quite away fromCecil, and yet not presuming to interrupt the confidential talk betweenhim and his sister. 

The rabbit hutch was in a little yard not far from the house, and withinview, as it happened, of the study window. Cecil stroked the softcreatures' ears, and fondled them a little, and fed them with somecabbage leaves with which Jessie supplied him; but his manner was ratherabsent, and presently he said abruptly, 'I say, Jessie, isn't it anawful shame?'

Jessie was not prepared for this view of the question. 

'I am so sorry, ' she said doubtfully. 'I never once thought of itshappening till Dr. Lomax's letter came; for you know, Cecil, you told meyou meant to work. Oh! don't you remember saying it here, in this veryplace, when you were making the new bars to Lop-ear's hutch?'

'Well, and I did, ' said Cecil gruffly. 

'Yes, I know you did; and that made me think you would do it. '

'Well, so I did do it--that's what I mean' said he more gruffly still. 

'Did work!' exclaimed she gladly, and quite ready of belief, with thetender trustfulness of a true sister. 'But oh, then, Cecil how was itthat they didn't give you marks enough? I thought you would have lots tospare--I did indeed!'

'Humbug!' said Cecil, but not gruffly now; 'it's not so easy to getmarks as all that. I was quite sure of having enough, though--so surethat I hadn't a second thought about it; and I can't tell to this momenthow it was I didn't, except that Lomax is such a brute!'

'The Doctor!'

'No--his son, the junior master; it was he who counted up the marks. '

'Do you mean the marks you got at the examination?'

'No, the weekly marks I had got in all my studies during the half-year;that's the way they calculate to see whether one may keep the"exhibition. "'

'Do you think he can have made any mistake?'

'He might, perhaps, to spite me; it's not likely otherwise, for he's adab at arithmetic. I asked the Doctor to let me see the book, but hewouldn't; and of course I couldn't tell him what I thought, and it wouldhave been no use if I had. '

'And you did really work all the time?' said Jessie, looking at himtenderly and seriously out of her big black eyes. 

'Well, almost all--not quite the last week or two, perhaps: it wasawfully hot weather, and being so sure, I thought I might take it easy;but that couldn't have made the difference. '

'I wish you had been able to say you worked quite all the time, ' saidJessie gravely, with a little sigh, 'for then father couldn't have beenangry. '

'I'm afraid he's awfully vexed, isn't he?' said Cecil, with rather ananxious glance towards the study. 

'I think so; and Percy says' (Percy was the cadet) 'that he doesn't knowhow to manage about your education. Francie and I have been so anxiousabout it: it would be too dreadful if you were not to be a clergyman, wouldn't it, Cecil?'

Cecil said nothing, but absently doled out the last cabbage leaf to therabbits in such small morsels, that they nibbled at his fingers as ifthey thought those part of the provender. Jessie was lost in acalculation of whether if Frances and she were to have no new frocks fora twelvemonth, and to save up all their pocket-money, that would make itpossible for Cecil to go back to the grammar school, when Mr. Cunninghamleaned out of the study window and called him. 

Though he had been expecting the summons, he started and colouredviolently, but ran off at once, going in by the back door, which was thenearest way. 

Jessie went into a little tool-shed, which was close to the rabbits'dwelling-place. She did not like to watch the window, but was tooanxious to be able to go and help Francie with her gardening, or to playwith Lewis, who was wandering aimlessly about. 'Father, ' who was sotender to his little girls, who was the very very best man, as Jessiebelieved, in the whole world, could nevertheless be very severe when hesaw occasion--could reprove in a way which an offender was not likely toforget. He had wonderful patience for the blunders of little Lewis, whowas rather dull, and found lessons a daily difficulty; but he had alwaysexpected much more of Cecil, who was really full of ability, and hadsometimes dealt seriously with his fits of idleness in the days of hishome teaching. And _now_--now when the boy had failed just when everyprinciple of duty should have made him exert himself to the utmost--whatcould be looked for? Oh, what a bitter half-hour this must be to Cecil!

Yes, for half an hour passed, and still Cecil did not come back. Jessie's fright and agitation were growing very hard to bear. 'Oh I knowit is right!' she said, clasping her hands together; 'I know we _must_be scolded and punished for our faults; only I wish it was me, and notCecil. And, after all, I think there must have been some mistake, for hesays he _did_ work; and if father could only believe it, I am sure hewouldn't be angry, even though Cecil _has_ lost his place in school! Oh, I wish it could be made clear somehow! I know! I will ask God to make itclear. ' And then the little girl prayed to the heavenly Father, whom theearthly father had taught her to seek in all her troubles. 

Eight o'clock struck, and she started to her feet. 

'Oh! I must go in and do my work--I shall only just be able to finish itbefore bed-time. Father must have gone to the choir practice. I wonderif he has taken Cecil with him, and if _that_ is the reason why hehasn't come back?'

With a deep-drawn breath of relief at this possibility, she ran into thehouse, and meeting her eldest brother in the hall, hastily inquired ifhe knew what had become of Cecil. 

'He's in his room, I think, ' was the answer. 'Poor little beggar! Ifancied I heard him sobbing, and wanted to go in, but he wouldn't letme. I've just been telling Mary, that if I don't succeed in getting mycommission without purchase I shall enlist as a private, and never comehome at all. I couldn't stand seeing you all look as glum about me asyou do about Cecil. '

'Oh, but, Percy, would that be--' began little Jessie in consternation;and then he laughed, and she saw that he was joking. 

'Mother's been looking for you, ' he said as she turned towards thestaircase; 'she wants you to do some work. '

'Where's father?'

'Gone to the choir practice a quarter of an hour ago. Good-bye; I'mgoing out for a stroll. Try and cheer up that poor little chap; perhapshe'll let you in, as you're his chum. '

Jessie longed to try that moment, but she knew she was due at herneedle-work, and very unwillingly went into the drawing-room, where hermother and sisters were sitting round a lamp-lit table, stitching awayvery busily at a new set of shirts for Percy. 

'I was looking for you, Jessie, ' said the mother in her pleasant voice;'come and work at double speed, to make up for lost time. '

Jessie had never felt less disposed to work; but when Mrs. Cunninghammade room for her, and gave her the seam she was to do, with a kindlysympathy in tone and glance that seemed to say she knew just what thelittle girl was feeling, though she wasn't going to talk about it, allher unwillingness melted away. 'Mother is sad too, ' she thought. 'Iwon't do anything to vex her;' and so she worked away as neatly anddiligently as she could till nine o'clock, which was her bed-time. 

'I may go to Cecil before I go to bed, mother, mayn't I?' she whisperedas she was bidding good-night. 

Mrs. Cunningham gave permission, and Jessie rushed up-stairs two stepsat a time, but controlled herself to give a very gentle tap at Cecil'sdoor. It must have been too gentle, for he took no notice of it; but inanswer to another, rather louder, came the question, 'Is it you, Jessie?' And when he found it was, he opened the door, which was locked, and let her in. 

He seemed to have been unpacking, for his little portmanteau was open onthe floor, and some of his clothes and other possessions were strewnupon the bed and the one chair, which was the only seat that the littleattic could boast; but he was flushed, and his eyes were red, as if hehad been crying, and he turned away abruptly from his sister when he hadlet her in, and began to dive into the portmanteau again. 

'Can't I help you?' said she, not knowing well how to begin her task ofcomfort. 'I'll fold up the clothes and put them in the drawers, whileyou take out the books. Oh! perhaps you meant to leave them in, though. You won't want them for the holidays?'

'Pretty holidays!' said Cecil passionately, more to himself than to her. 'A single week!'

'I don't understand, ' she rejoined in consternation. 'You're not goingback to school in a week, surely?'

'I'm not going back to Eastwood at all, but I'm going to a horrid, odious, beastly little day school in Fairview;' and Cecil flung out somebooks upon the floor, in a manner which did not bespeak very exemplarysubmission to his father's decrees. 

[Illustration: 'JESSIE CAME OVER TO HIM AND HUGGED HIM. '

_See page 92. _]

The information itself, and Cecil's terrible adjectives, both dismayedJessie, and for a minute or two she did not speak. Then she said, 'Butsurely there must be holidays at the day school too?'

'They're just over--they began in June. Of course those sort of placesdon't break up at the same time as the public schools, like _we_ do, 'said Cecil with wrathful contempt. 

'And must you begin when the school does?'

'I've got to--that's all; it's to be my punishment, father says, --justas if losing the exhibition were not punishment enough!' And he buriedhis face in the portmanteau to hide his tears. 

Jessie came over to him and hugged him; and he didn't seem to mind, though she could only kiss the side of his cheek and his shirt collar, for the greater part of his face was hidden among the books. 

'Did you tell him you worked nearly all the time?' she faltered in anunsteady voice. 

'I began to say something, and he asked me if I could honestly say I haddone my very best, and I couldn't quite say that, you know, and then hewouldn't hear any more. And oh, I'm sure he thinks I did nothing butidle my time away!'

'Did you tell him you thought there must be some mistake?'

'I said something about Lomax spiting me, but he wouldn't listen tothat. '

'Oh no, ' said Jessie, who readily understood that her father would neveradmit _that_ explanation of the affair. 'Oh, Cecil, I am so sorry, so_very_ sorry!'

'If I had really been idle, ' said Cecil, raising up his tear-wet face, more crimson than ever from its sojourn in the box, 'then I shouldn'tcare--I mean, it would only be fair that I should be served out for it;but when I haven't--when I have tried all this year--oh!----' and he wasnearly choked by the sobs which, in his desire to be manly, he wasstruggling to repress. 

Jessie believed him entirely, and was grieved to the very heart. 'I amso sorry, ' she repeated. 'But, dear Cecil, _God_ knows; He sees you havebeen trying; _He_ isn't angry with you. '

'Then why does He let this happen?' said Cecil fiercely. 

Jessie was startled and shocked, and had no answer ready. 'I don'tknow, ' she said at last, through her tears; 'I can't tell why, but He isso good--oh, He is _so_ good!--perhaps it will all come right still. Iwill ask Him; and you will, won't you, Cecil? Isn't there something inthe Bible about its being acceptable with God, if we do well and sufferfor it?'

'Yes; but I'm not suffering because I've done well, but because I'msupposed to have done ill, ' said Cecil gloomily. 'There's no goodtalking, Jessie; you'd better go to bed. '

'Perhaps I had, ' said Jessie, a sudden thought striking her as she heardher father's voice in the passage below; 'but I can't bear to leave you, Cecil. I am so sorry, and I do love you so!'

He half returned her tender, sorrowful hug; and then she ran away, butnot straight to her own room. She darted down one flight of stairs, andcaught hold of her father, who had come in from the practice, and hadbeen washing his hands before going to supper. 

'Father, ' she said breathlessly, 'please let me say it: Cecil _has_ beenworking--he has indeed. Oh, I am sure you would believe it if you hadheard what he said to me just now!'

Mr. Cunningham did not draw himself away from the detaining clasp, buthe said gravely, 'I quite believe that Cecil does not think he has beenso very idle, but he admits that he has not done his best, and I hopein a little while he will see all his fault, and be sorry for it. Don'tlet him talk to you any more to-night. '

'But don't you think there may have been some mistake?'

'No, indeed, ' he answered in a surprised tone, which showed that no suchsupposition had ever entered his head. 

Then, as she still lingered, he stooped to kiss her, and said kindly, 'Don't try to comfort Cecil with such an idea as that, my child, but seeif you can encourage him to do his best for the future. '

'And--father, ' she said timidly, 'is he really only to have a week'sholiday?'

'Yes, ' said Mr. Cunningham in his most decided tone; then more gently headded, 'I am afraid that is punishing you as well as him, but it can'tbe helped; and as he is only going to a day school, you will not losehim entirely. '

Remembering the adjectives Cecil had heaped upon the day school, Jessiecould not feel this to be quite consolatory; but she only said'Good-night, father, ' and held up her face for another kiss, which wasgiven very tenderly. 

Poor little girl! there was a great deal of grief and perplexity in herheart that night; but the comfort was, that though she so pitied Cecil, she did not distrust the goodness of either the heavenly or the earthlyfather. She could not see the why and wherefore of it all; but when shehad said her prayers, she laid herself down to sleep trustfully andpatiently, while Cecil was tossing and tumbling about, feeling as ifeverybody except Jessie were against him. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II. 

A BACHELOR'S LUNCH. 

THE bells were ringing for Sunday Morning Prayer at Wilbourne Church, and the congregation was pouring in at the large west door, and thechoir boys taking the little path towards the vestry, when Mr. Yorke, the tall curate, opened the small side gate, which was his nearestentrance to the churchyard. 

He was passing quickly along, when he caught sight of a boy leaning overthe paling a little beyond the gate, in rather a disconsolate attitude;and first he paused for a minute, and then struck across the grass andlaid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder. 

'Come in with me, Cecil, ' he said in his most cheery tone--knowing thatthe lad usually formed one of the choir when at home, and thinking thathis ill success at school had made him shy of facing the otherchoristers, who probably knew all about it by this time. 

'No, I mustn't, ' said Cecil, turning round abruptly and colouring verymuch. 

Mr. Yorke was surprised, and showed it. Knowing that Cecil's generalconduct at school had been very good, he had not thought that exclusionfrom the choir would have formed part of his punishment. 

'It's not because of _that_, ' said the boy, reading his thoughts in hisopen, kindly face, 'at least not of that alone; it's because I don't sayI'm sorry, and behave as I'm expected to behave. But oh, if fatherknew----'

He broke off and turned his face away; but Mr. Yorke, who liked the boywell, and had one of those sympathetic natures that can feel foreverybody's troubles, was touched by the bitter, hopeless tone. 

'Suppose you come home with me after service, and spend the rest of theday with me, ' said he, feeling it might really do the boy good to havehis Sunday free from the sort of atmosphere of disgrace which he felt orfancied surrounded him at home. 

He could see that Cecil caught at the notion, by the eager way in whichhe looked up; though the answer was, 'Thank you; but perhaps father wouldn't like it. '

'I don't think he will mind; I'll ask him myself. Don't suppose I'minviting you to any great treat: cold mutton and bread and marmalade areabout all that I have to offer. I don't like to keep my landlady fromchurch. '

'Oh, thanks, ' said Cecil, laughing, not at all as if the prospectalarmed him; and Mr. Yorke laughed too, and saying, 'Well, then, lookout for me after service, ' strode away across the grass, looking back, however, at the vestry door, to see if Cecil were turning his stepstowards the church. 

Cecil had not at all liked the idea of taking his place among thecongregation: he thought that those who noticed him would wonder why hewas not in the choir, and in his present mood the least humiliation wasintolerable to him. The two days which had intervened since his cominghome had not been well or happily spent: he had gone about in a sulkyinjured way, keeping aloof from his father and mother, answering shortlywhen spoken to, and being anything but sociable even with his brothersand sisters. Some of them had almost ceased to be sorry for him, becausehe made himself, as they said, 'so disagreeable;' but his faithfulfriend Jessie had borne with him uncomplainingly, and continued to feelfor him with all her heart. He was a little cheered now by the thoughtthat Mr. Yorke felt for him too, and did not seem to condemn himaltogether; and so--rather slowly--he walked towards the church and wentin, and took a place near the door, where he thought scarcely anybodywould see him. 

His thoughts wandered far and wide during the prayers, though now andthen he recalled them by an effort, and tried to attend for at least afew minutes; but he could not help listening to the sermon, which waspreached by his father--his father, whom at the bottom of his heart hedid warmly love and respect, spite of all the rebellious feelings of thelast day or two. The text was, 'While I live will I praise the Lord: Iwill sing praises unto my God while I have any being;' and therefollowed a beautiful, fervent exhortation to the spirit of constantpraise, and then a consideration of the hindrances which check this flowof thankfulness in Christian souls. Cecil listened most attentively, andwith a kind of awe, when among these was named the pride of heart whichwould not acknowledge as deserved such punishment as God might send, either directly from Himself or through others--the temper which calledit 'very hard' that this or that suffering should be laid upon us. Hedid not suppose that his father was thinking of him--nor was he; but inthe vivid description of feelings which followed he recognised his own, and a strange thrill of heart seized him when Mr. Cunningham went on:'There is no peace like the peace of those who have conquered all suchrebellious impulses, such self-justifying thoughts, who have giventhemselves up lovingly to God to be chastened as much and as long as Hewills. There is no praise like the praise of a soul that can say withholy Job, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" or withHabakkuk, "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruitbe in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fieldsshall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, andthere shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, Iwill joy in the God of my salvation. "'

'If I had sung in the choir to-day, it wouldn't have been real praise; Ishouldn't have thought of it or meant it, ' Cecil owned to himself; andit did not seem to him so hard as before that he had been excluded, though he was far from entering fully into the spirit of submissionwhich Mr. Cunningham had set before his people as the thing to be longedand striven for. Entering fully! Ah, with most of us it takes a lifetimeto do that; but none of us are too young to _begin_ to learn it. 

Cecil went back to his old position by the churchyard palings afterservice to wait for Mr. Yorke, but could not quite escape some greetingsfrom his village friends, who were 'glad to see him back, and hoped hehad his health. ' He looked up anxiously when he saw his father and thecurate come forth from the vestry together; but they soon parted, andMr. Yorke came across the grass to him, saying, 'All right, Cecil; youcan come home with me. '

'Home' was some bachelor lodgings in a very rustic cottage with a porchall overgrown with Tangier peas, and a queerly-shaped dining-room, theceiling of which was so low that Mr. Yorke's head seemed but a littleway off it as he walked about. On the other side of the passage was adrawing-room, wonderfully smart and uncomfortable, with groups of waxfruit under glass shades on rickety tables, crochet couvrettes over theback of almost every chair as well as on the sofa, and a wonderfulfestoon of green and yellow tissue paper round the glass above themantelpiece. Mr. Yorke took Cecil in there while the cloth was beinglaid, but told him he never sat there, as there was not a single chairwhich would bear his weight, nor a table which did not creak when it wasleant upon. 

'I should turn all this trumpery out, and make Mrs. Keeling give mesomething sensible, ' said Cecil, with a boy's rough-and-ready way ofdisposing of difficulties. 

'No, you wouldn't, if you saw what a delight she takes in it all, andwhat a solace it is to her to come and dust and admire. Between thedining-room and a little den I have up-stairs, I do very well. I onlyhope you'll have as snug a little hole and as worthy a little landladywhen _you_ are a curate in lodgings. '

'I don't know whether I shall ever be a clergyman now, ' said Cecilgloomily. 

Mr. Yorke, who was standing at the window looking out, while his guesthad ventured on one of the dangerous chairs, turned round in surprise. 'You don't mean to say you are giving up that? I thought you had wishedit ever since you were four years old. '

'So I have; and if I had stayed at Eastwood, I might some day have gotone of the Hulston scholarships, and that would have helped me atcollege; but now there's no chance for me. I'm going to old Bardsley'sday school in Fairview, and there's nothing to be got _there_. '

'Still I wouldn't give up if I were you, my boy; I would keep the hopebefore me. There's nothing like a high aim to help one through thedrudgery of school-work, and keep one out of stupid, little, meantemptations. '

'I know, and it was for that I worked, ' said Cecil, 'at least for thatchiefly; but it was all no use, and it doesn't seem worth while to tryany more. '

Mr. Yorke, who had supposed that Cecil _hadn't_ worked, did not quiteknow what answer to make to this. 

'I think it seems more worth while than ever, ' he said after a minute. 'If one has lost ground, one must make it up again somehow. You know youmight be ordained even without going to Oxford, though I don't mean tosay that a college education is not a good thing, if one can have it. '

'Father went to Oxford, and so did you, didn't you?' said Cecil. 

'Yes, there was no difficulty about that, as it happened; but my way wasnot all smooth, any more than yours. I had not been meant for aclergyman, and there were objections to be got over, and a good dealthat was discouraging; but it all came right at last. '

He broke off his sentence rather abruptly, but in his heart it was endedthus: 'Thanks be to God for it. '

If Cecil had ever seen the luxurious home from which the curate came, orhad known what good worldly prospects he had given up to enter holyorders, he would have made quite a hero of him in his own mind; but, even as it was, he looked up admiringly at the tall manly figure andbright resolute face. He liked to feel that Mr. Yorke was his friend, and for the moment longed to tell him all his trouble, and see if hecould give him more help in bearing it than little Jessie could. But hewas shy of beginning; and before he had opened his lips, a plump littleold woman in a black silk dress and spotless apron appeared at the door, and announced, 'Your lunch is ready, sir. '

_Lunch!_--so they were to dine late; and though the cold mutton was notlikely to prove a much greater dainty at six than at one, Cecil felt alittle pride and pleasure in keeping such grown-up hours. 

In honour of the young guest, Mrs. Keeling had set out every smallluxury that either her lodger or she possessed; and there were poachedeggs, and gooseberries, and sardines, and honey, and pickles, andgingerbread, and potted meat, arranged with great display upon thetable, while the bread and butter and cheese, as being altogetherordinary, were exiled to a little sideboard behind Mr. Yorke's chair. 

'Is there anything more you require, sir?' said the old dame beforewithdrawing, in a complacent tone that seemed to say, What _could_ theyrequire when such a variety was before them?

'Thank you, let me see: would you like some mutton, Cecil?'

Mrs. Keeling almost frowned at this proposal. How could the good younggentleman be so inconsiderate, she thought, as to propose to his visitorfor _lunch_ what was by and by to come up for _dinner_? She was quiterelieved, however, by Cecil's eager negative, and went off to herkitchen well satisfied; while Mr. Yorke, after saying grace, proceededto do the honours of the repast. 

'May I give you some pickles, Cecil?' he said mischievously. 'I don'tsee anything to eat with them, so I suppose they are meant to form acourse by themselves. '

'They wouldn't be bad with bread and cheese, ' rejoined Cecil, laughing;'some of our seniors eat them with all sorts of things. '

'Well, you can try the combination if you like, but I don't see anycheese; and oh, hulloa! there's no bread either. Will you ring the bellwhile I help the eggs?'

'I see them--they're behind you--I'll get them, ' and Cecil jumped up andset down the bread, but, among the array of dishes which covered thesmall table, could find no room for the butter or cheese. 

'We can turn out the pickles, and the gooseberries too, for thepresent, ' said Mr. Yorke with a look of amusement. 'Thank you, Cecil; Iseem to have brought you here to wait upon me. '

'Oh, it's such fun!' said Cecil delightedly. A thoroughly well-arrangedmeal would not have given him half the pleasure that this queer littlebachelor lunch did. 

Before it was over, his spirits were such as entirely to satisfy hishost; and Mrs. Keeling, when she came to clear away, was gratified tofind that her home-made gingerbread had by no means been despised, though she had been a little offended in the interval by water beingrung for. What could Mr. Yorke be thinking of, to let the littlegentleman drink water, when there was cowslip wine and raspberry vinegarof her own making in the house, supposing that ordinary wine or beerwere thought too strong for him?

But Cecil had affirmed that he always drank water at home, and wishedfor nothing else, and Mr. Yorke knew better than to try to lead him toother tastes. He liked Cecil's bringing-up altogether--the hardiness andthe good sense of it, and the kindness that was never spoiling; andcould sympathize the more with the boy, under the cloud which had comebetween him and his father, because he knew how happy the relationsbetween them had been till now. He was ready to talk about school andcricket, and his own younger brothers, and anything that seemed tointerest him; and was rather startled when, as they sat together afterlunch in a queer little arbour at the end of the garden, Cecil suddenlysaid, 'Do you think a person can help being miserable when they arepunished for a fault they haven't done?'

'I think it is a great trial, ' he answered after a moment's reflection. 'But surely they would have more reason to be miserable if they _had_committed the fault. '

Cecil pondered over this a minute; then he said, 'But how is it _just_that they should be punished for what they haven't done?'

'Why, I suppose the person punishing thinks they have done it. '

'Yes, the person, ' said Cecil, --and there he hesitated, --'I mean, ' hesaid at last, not irreverently, but in a low, earnest tone, 'why arethings like _this let_ happen?'

Mr. Yorke could only guess what 'this' was, and did not seek to have itexplained, not wishing to make himself a judge of anything that laybetween Cecil and his father. 

'You mean, why is disgrace allowed to come upon a person which theycannot feel they have deserved? I don't think we can always tell why--Ithink we must be content to trust and submit; but it may often be toteach them some lesson which they could not have learned without it. Forinstance, suppose a very proud person were punished for telling anuntruth, which he had not really told: the humiliation might be a checkto his pride, and in that way might be for his real good. '

'And he deserved it, you mean, for being proud, though he didn't foruntruth?'

'Yes; and when he came to see this, he would no longer say it was veryhard. '

This reminded Cecil of his father's sermon, which indeed Mr. Yorke hadin his mind when he spoke. He was silent a good while, then he began onwhat seemed at first another subject. 'If something that wasn't your ownfault had come to hinder you when you were being educated for aclergyman, shouldn't you have thought you weren't meant to be one?'

'I think it would have depended on what the hindrance was, and a goodmany other circumstances. It isn't only book-learning that makes peoplefit to be clergymen; perhaps I might have been hindered in that, only tomake me more fit in some other way. '

'What kind of way?'

'Well, I might have needed to learn submission or humility, or a hundredthings. '

Cecil clasped both hands round his knees, and went swaying himselfbackwards and forwards in a queer kind of way that was more reflectivethan polite. 

'I suppose it wouldn't do for a clergyman to be cock-a-hoop, ' he saidpresently. 

'Well, not exactly, if he meant to be in any sense an example to hisflock, ' returned Mr. Yorke with a smile. 

'I know I was very cock-a-hoop just before this disappointment came, 'thought Cecil, 'and that last week I was careless and all. I wonderwhether that is why all this has happened!'

He did not say any of this aloud, but it was not pride that kept himfrom the avowal, only a very natural and reasonable shyness of talkingabout himself. He stopped rocking, and sat with his gaze fixed on thetrees in the distance, without really seeing them a bit. A new feelingof half-dismayed contrition was springing up in his heart, but thebitterness of resentment and the sense of injury were passing away. 

He started when the church bells began to ring. There was eveningprayer, with catechizing, at three o'clock at Wilbourne Church, andevening prayer again, with a sermon, at seven. 'Are you going, sir?' hesaid as Mr. Yorke rose up. 

'Not to church now, but I must be off to Bar-end, where I have my classof hobbledehoys from the farms. '

'Do you think father will expect me at the catechizing?'

'I should think he would be glad to see you there. '

'I mustn't stand with the choir, I suppose, ' said Cecil, hesitating. 

'No; but I think, if I were you, I should be all the more anxious to go. You're not sulking, I can see, Cecil; so why should you let any onethink you are?'

'I have been, though, ' said Cecil rather awkwardly, breaking through hisshyness now that truth seemed to require it. 

'Well, Sunday is a good day for turning over a new leaf, ' said Mr. Yorke, with a smile in his eyes that seemed to make no doubt at all ofCecil's willingness to do it. 

'It seemed so hard at first, ' he answered, feeling as if he must excusehimself a little. 

'Yes, it _is_ a struggle sometimes to accept one's position; but whenonce one has, all the bitterness goes, and one finds oneself not half somiserable as one expected. '

How true this was, Cecil soon began to find out from his own experience. It was a struggle to take his place beside the schoolboys, instead ofwith the choir, at the catechizing; it cost him something to open hislips when first his father seemed to address a question to him, butafter the first effort it was not half so hard as he had thought itwould be. He answered thoughtfully and well, and, without puttinghimself unduly forward, showed that he was paying attention, and wasreally anxious to understand and to learn. 

Jessie ran up to him in the churchyard after service. 

'Oh, Cecil, I am so glad you came! I thought you would have gone toBar-end with Mr. Yorke. Are you coming home now?'

'No, I am going back to his place; he said I might amuse myself with hisbooks till he came in. I haven't had dinner yet, ' and Cecil felt amomentary importance in saying it. 

'How hungry you must be!' rejoined Jessie innocently. 'Are you going, Cecil? I shall wait for father. '

'Here he is!' said Frances, who was waiting also. 

Cecil felt an impulse to rush away instantly, but was glad he had not, when his father said in a kind voice, 'Are you coming with us, Cecil?'Though he answered, of course, in the negative, his heart felt lighterfor that kind tone and those few casual words. It was his own sulkinesswhich had made great part of his misery before, and he could see thatplainly now that he was beginning to get the better of it. 

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, and Cecil enjoyed his talkwith his good-natured friend very much, though nothing more was said onthe one subject which absorbed him the most. It was quite bed-time whenhe went home, so he had no opportunity of putting in practice that nightthe good resolutions which were springing up within him; but the nextday all the brothers and sisters remarked how much more amiable he was, and little Jessie's intense belief in his goodness revived in fullforce. He was not so merry as usual: it was impossible he should beafter his deep disappointment, and with the sense of his father'sdispleasure resting on him, and the prospect of the day school beforehim. Both father and mother were touched sometimes when they caught thesad expression of his face; but he was no longer sullen; and if apettish word escaped him, he seemed to catch himself up quickly beforeit could be followed by another. 

'I can't see the rights of it yet, ' he said to Jessie privately, 'norwhy I should be so served out for not working, when I _did_ work; but Ithink there were things--feeling set up, you know, and crowing overother fellows, and all that--which may have brought me in for this in akind of way. '

Jessie could hardly bring herself to believe that he could have deservedit in _any_ way, but his submission was much less grievous andperplexing to her than his rebellion had been; and she received thesefew words--spoken rather gruffly, with his back turned to her--as agreat proof of confidence, which indeed they were. 

'If being very good makes people ready to be clergymen, I'm sure Cecil'sgetting ready as fast as he can, ' she remarked to Frances. 

And though Frances was not so firmly convinced as her sister thatCecil's troubles had not been brought on him by his own fault, sheanswered readily, 'Yes, he has been so nice and pleasant since Sunday, and hasn't grumbled once about having to go to Mr. Bardsley's. '

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III. 

GOOD NEWS. 

MR. BARDSLEY'S was rather a large day school, in a town about two milesdistant from Wilbourne. His terms were low, and he was not particularwho the boys might be that came to him, so that they behaved themselveswhen they did come; but he taught really well, and was veryconscientious, and therefore even very careful parents allowed theirsons to go to him, convinced that there they would be at least wellgrounded in classics and mathematics, and would learn nothing amiss fromthe general tone of the school, though individual pupils in it might notbe all that could be wished. 

[Illustration: 'GOOD-BYE, CECIL. '

_See page 124. _]

Cecil was to start from home each day about half-past eight, and not toreturn till after the school broke up at five o'clock, except on the twohalf-holidays--Wednesday and Saturday. Eight miles' walking would havebeen too much for him; and it had been arranged that on the four otherdays he should dine with Mr. And Mrs. Bardsley, and his hours of workwould be from nine to twelve and from two to five, with tasks to prepareat home in the evening. 

It seemed rather hard to begin this routine just in the first days ofAugust, when the weather was so lovely, and the woods so enticing, andholiday cricket-matches going on in Wilbourne Park. Cecil's face was alittle dismal at breakfast the first morning, and it was realself-government which kept him from grumbling when Jessie was helpinghim to put his schoolbooks together. Just as they were firmly strapped, his mother came to bid him 'good-bye for a few hours, ' with a tenderkiss and a few cheerful words, and after that his heart felt lighter, and he set out bravely; but he was just beginning to think what a longdull walk it was, and what a dusty road, and how delightful it would beif he might shy his books over the hedge and strike off across themeadows to join Percy, who had gone out fishing, when he heard stepsbehind him, and turning, saw the tall curate running along with rapidstrides. His first impression was that something had happened at theRectory since he started, and that Mr. Yorke was come to take him back;but he was soon undeceived. 

'I've got business in Fairview, ' the young clergyman explained, 'and Imeant to go in early; and when I saw you pass by, I thought I might aswell get ready and try to overtake you. I like company myself; don'tyou?'

'Yes, very much, ' said Cecil, swinging his books over his shouldercheerfully again, instead of dangling them drearily from the end of thestrap, as he had been doing before. 'Lewis wanted to come with me, butmother wouldn't have liked his walking back alone; and besides, onedoesn't always want a little chap like that after one. '

'I thought Percy might want to get his watch-chain mended, ' said Mr. Yorke, with rather a droll expression in his eyes. 'Doesn't it requiremending periodically? That was what he always used to tell me lastvacation, when I met him going into Fairview. '

'He hadn't had his watch long then, and was always taking it out to lookat it, ' said Cecil, laughing. 'I think that was how the chain gotbroken. He's used to it now. I wonder if Uncle Percy will give _me_ awatch when I'm sixteen. Of course Percy wanted one particularly, becauseof his going to Sandhurst. He's gone out fishing this morning: mustn'tit be jolly in the water-meadows?'

'Very; but how well this part of the road is watered!--it's quitepleasant walking here. I suppose the Fairview water-carts come out asfar as this. '

'I wish they'd come all the way, ' said Cecil; 'I was just thinking howdusty it was before I met you. '

'And I was wondering whether you chose the road instead of the path onpurpose, because you _liked_ the dust: there's no accounting fortastes. '

'I'll try the path next time, ' said Cecil with a smile. 'Do you know oldBardsley, Mr. Yorke?'

'Yes, I met him at the Institute one day, and we had a lively discussionabout Greek roots. He's a clever man, I think, and has a real taste forteaching. When he gets hold of a fellow that cares to learn, I'm toldthere's no limit to the pains he'll take with him. '

'Jim Payne didn't like him at all, ' said Cecil, alluding to the son of asmall farmer in the neighbourhood; 'he said he was an awful brute. '

'Jim Payne likes nothing but idleness, and his father is mistaken enoughto let him have his way. '

Cecil wisely suppressed some further quotations which he had meant tomake from Jim Payne's account of Mr. Bardsley; and they walked onsociably together, talking of other things. It really seemed quite ashort walk, after all, though Cecil had fancied it very long when hefirst set out. 

He was in tolerably good spirits when he trod that road again in theevening, though this time he was alone the whole way. He did not dislikeeither the school or the schoolmaster as much as he had expected; and hefelt that if he worked hard, and conformed to rules, there was no dangerof his ever finding Mr. Bardsley the terrible monster that Jim Payne haddescribed him to be. 

It would, and did, seem a drudgery to prepare school tasks that evening, while Percy was enjoying 'elegant leisure;' but there was the Saturdayhalf-holiday to look forward to, and Cecil's health was good, and notlikely to suffer from his speedy return to work. Seeing him so patientand industrious, his father wondered how it was that he still expressedno sorrow for his past idleness, but did not press him for any suchacknowledgment. He believed that it would come in time, and was quitecontent to take his present good conduct as a sign of penitence. 'Hewould not bear his punishment so well if he were not really sorry forhis fault, ' he said to himself. 

'You are not angry with Cecil now, father, are you?' said Jessie softlythe next morning, as they stood watching him trudge down the gravel pathtowards the gate on his way to school. 

'No; very much pleased in some ways, ' he answered. 'How late the post isthis morning! I'm afraid old Hawkins is stopping for a long chat withMrs. Giles. Just run down the lane and see; and if there is any letterfor me, bring it at once to my study. I have to go out in five minutes. '

Jessie was running off directly, with her long hair streaming in thewind, when her mother called to her to put something on; and she cameback, snatched her garden-hat and holland cape from their peg, and flewaway again. Yes, the old postman was standing gossiping with Mrs. Gilesat her garden gate, just as Mr. Cunningham had foreseen. When Jessiebreathlessly inquired if there were any letters for the Rectory, the oldman answered composedly, 'Yes, Missy, three letters for your house--twofor your reverend father, and one for Miss Mary. Shall I take 'em round, or shall I give 'em to you?'

'Oh, I'll take them, please, ' said Jessie; and back she flew with them, and straight into the study she went, holding out the two that belongedto Mr. Cunningham. 

'Thanks. This is the one I wanted, from your Uncle Percy, ' he said as hetook them from her; 'and this is from Dr. Lomax. What makes him writeagain, I wonder?'

'Oh, father, do open it, please!' said Jessie excitedly, a sudden hopespringing up in her breast. 

'My child, what can there be in it to signify? It is an account for someschoolbooks, perhaps, ' said Mr. Cunningham, rather as if he thought hera very silly little girl. But when he looked up and saw her eager, quivering face, he added, with a smile, 'Well, to set your mind at rest, I will just take a glance. '

He opened the letter as he spoke, but it was much more than a glancewhich he gave it. A minute passed, two minutes, three, and still he readon and did not speak. Jessie never took her eyes off his face; hope andfear struggled together in her heart, and hope was uppermost. But forthe gravity of her father's silence, she would have felt sure that allwas coming right. 

At last he spoke. 'There _was_ a mistake, Jessie: the marks were countedup wrong, it seems, and your brother has not been to blame, after all. '

'And not lost the "exhibition?"'

'No; his marks more than entitle him to keep it. '

'And you will let him go back next month, father?'

'Certainly. Why, my dear----' For Jessie was off like an arrow from abow, and did not even hear his exclamation. 

He supposed she had gone to tell the others, and paused to read over theletter once more, with deep thankfulness, and much sympathy for Cecil. It was from young Mr. Lomax, not from the Doctor: the similarity in thehandwriting had misled Mr. Cunningham. He said the mistake had beendiscovered by his father, but that, as it had been made by him, hecould not rest without personally acknowledging it, and expressing hisregret. He had been himself surprised, in the first instance, at theresult of his addition; but as he had only to do with Cecil inmathematics, in which he was not _remarkably_ proficient, it did notseem so astonishing to him as it did to his father, who had watched theboy's progress in classics. Dr. Lomax had not gone over the bookshimself at the time, but having occasion to refer to them for somethingthe morning of the day on which Mr. Lomax wrote, he had counted upCecil's marks throughout the year, just for his own satisfaction, and indoing so had discovered the mistake that had been made. 'We have sincebeen over it all together, ' continued the son; 'and being now fullyconvinced of my mistake, I hasten to apprise you of it, and to expressmy deep regret. ' If Cecil had seen this sentence, and some whichfollowed, he would certainly have abandoned his idea that 'young Lomaxmight have done it to spite him. '

'Mother!' called Mr. Cunningham, suddenly remembering the appointmentwhich this letter had made him forget for a few minutes; and as his wifecame running down in answer to his call, he went on: 'Has Jessie toldyou, love? I mustn't stay--but take the letter; I shall try to get downin time to meet that poor boy as he comes out from morning school. '

'I haven't seen Jessie, ' Mrs. Cunningham answered; but she seemed toguess instinctively what the letter contained, and one glance at itconfirmed her impression. 

'My darling boy! oh, thank God!' she exclaimed. 'Lewis, you will bringhim straight home with you, won't you?'

'If I don't, I shall have you following me and hugging him before thewhole school, ' said her husband, laughing, but almost with tears in hiseyes; and he hurried away, while she went joyfully back to thedrawing-room to tell Mary and Frances the good news. 

They literally 'jumped for joy;' and there was a kind of triple hugbetween the mother and her daughters, from which Frances was the firstto break away, crying, 'Oh, where's Jessie? do let me tell her! how gladshe will be!'

'She knows, I think, ' said Mrs. Cunningham; 'it was she who broughtfather the letter. But find her by all means, and Lewis too, that we mayall be happy together. '

Lewis was easily found, but nothing could be seen of Jessie; andpresently her little brother was sent to the meadows where Percy wasfishing, to see if she had run there with the tidings; but there she wasnot, and there was some consternation at the Rectory when the fact wasannounced. 

'I really think she must have gone to Fairview, ' said Mary anxiously. 

'Perhaps she thought she could overtake Cecil, ' suggested Frances. Andthough they did not know it, this guess hit the exact truth. 

When Jessie left the study, she firmly believed that if she were onlyquick enough she could catch Cecil, who was very likely to linger on hisway; and she had a vision of finding him leaning over a certain gatewhich opened into a harvest-field, and which was a favouritehalting-place with all the young people. 

No, he was not at the gate; but Jessie, full of her one idea ofovertaking him, flew on and on till she had reached the outskirts of thetown, and still she saw nothing of him--the truth being, that not havingallowed himself more than enough time for his walk that morning, he hadhurried on instead of stopping anywhere, and was in school by this time. She was dismayed when the country road began to turn into a street, andrealized for the first time how far she had come. She had not had athought of doing wrong when she began to run after Cecil, but now shewas struck with a sudden sense of misdemeanour, and a fear that 'mother'would be angry. 

'I wonder if I ought to go back, ' she said to herself, 'or whether I mayjust go on to Mr. Bardsley's! It isn't far now, and then Cecil couldcome back with me, I daresay. Perhaps I could still catch him just ashe's going in. '

Inspirited by this thought, she began to run again, and in a littlewhile she was standing opposite the square brick house which she knew tobe Mr. Bardsley's. There was not a sign of a boy on the steps, nor wasthere any sound of voices from the playground; evidently Cecil and hiscompanions were already at study. She stood there, panting and weary, not very well knowing what to do next. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV. 

'IT'S ALL RIGHT!'

JESSIE fancied that if she rang the bell and asked for Cecil, she shouldbe either sent away or shown into the great schoolroom; and the idea offacing Mr. Bardsley and all the boys seemed to her very terrible--almosttoo terrible to be entertained for a moment. But then, to leave Cecil inignorance of the good tidings that she had run all this way to bring tohim!--to let him go on through the day still feeling himself indisgrace, and not knowing that all was explained! No, she could not bearthat either. She put up a trembling hand, and not daring to meddle withthe big knocker, which looked prepared to make any amount of noise, took hold of the bell at the side of it, and gave a feeble tinkle, which would scarcely have been audible to the housemaid had she nothappened to be close at hand cleaning the hall lamp. She opened the doorso suddenly, that Jessie, who was prepared to wait some time, was quitestartled, and so confused that she could not say anything. 

'Did you ring?' asked the maid sharply, looking down in amazement at thedusty little figure and flushed frightened face. 

'Yes; oh, please, ' said Jessie, recovering herself, 'is MasterCunningham here? and would you tell him that I want to speak to him aminute?'

'The young gentlemen are in school--they can't be disturbed now, 'replied the servant, preparing to shut the door. 

'But oh, please, if you would tell him I've come with news from home, and I want to see him so much, ' said Jessie desperately; 'I'm hissister. '

The maid looked hard at her, and Jessie felt sure she spied out thegloveless hands under the holland cape; but with as much dignity as shecould muster, the child added, 'I'm Miss Jessie Cunningham;' andsomething in her tone and manner must have borne out the assertion, forwith a quick 'Step in here, please, and I'll speak to Mrs. Bardsley, 'the maid opened the door wider instead of shutting it, and allowed herto enter the hall. 

She then gave her a chair, and went into a room close by, from which shesoon reappeared, followed by a quiet-looking lady, not very old, butwith a cap and spectacles, and something about her which made Jessiefeel quite ashamed of her own heated, untidy condition. 

'You have come with a message for Master Cunningham, I understand; Itrust no accident has occurred at his home, ' said Mrs. Bardsley in avoice as quiet as her face. 

'Oh no! it's all good news, and I thought I should have overtaken him, but I didn't; and oh! if you would please let me see him, and thenperhaps he would come back with me. '

'I don't think he can return till after school, unless you have broughtan order from his father to that effect, ' said the schoolmaster's wife;'but come and sit down, and then perhaps you will be able to explainyourself more fully. '

She took Jessie into a prim-looking sitting-room; and in rather aconfused way the little girl did contrive to explain what had broughther, and how important her news would be to Cecil. 'And if Mr. Bardsleywould let him come back with me I don't think father would mind, andmother would like it so much better than my going back alone. I oughtn'tto have come, I'm afraid, ' she wound up, feeling every minute more andmore dismayed at herself. 

'I fear you must be causing anxiety at home, ' said Mrs. Bardsley, stillrather stiffly. 'I will send and ask Mr. Bardsley to allow your brotherto speak to you for a minute;' and she went out of the room, leavingJessie alone. 

Some minutes passed, and Jessie grew more and more nervous; but atlength appeared Cecil, looking very schoolboyish, with a great dab ofink on his collar. 

She jumped off her chair and ran to him, and got out one great 'Oh, Cecil!' and then, instead of saying anything more, she began to sob. 

'What is it? what's up?' said he in utter amazement. 'Don't cry, don'tcry; is anything wrong at home?'

'Oh no! it's all right! and you've got enough marks, and you're to goback after the holidays. And oh, Cecil! I'm so glad! and I'm so hot, andI've run all the way!'

'And you're obliged to cry about it, ' said Cecil, laughing, and kissingher. 'I say, sit down here in this arm-chair; there, I'll fan you withmy pocket-handkerchief. How's it all come out? has the Doctorwritten--or what?'

'Yes, I think it was he; and father's so glad, and he said himself youshould go back. He counted up the marks wrong--not father, but somebody, you know--and you've got plenty, and you're not a bit to blame; fathersays you're not. '

A sort of dancing light came into the boy's black eyes, but he didn'tsay a word. Jessie was quite astonished, and a good deal disappointed, at his taking the matter so quietly. 

'Aren't you glad?' she said; 'I thought you would have been ready tojump out of your skin for joy. _I_ was; but I came straight off, thinking I should overtake you. How fast you must have walked to gethere first! Oh, Cecil, do you think I could have a little water?'

'You're too hot to drink cold water, ' said Cecil in a wise, elder-brotherly way. 'I've got an apple in my pocket; you shall have abit of that. '

It was rather a greenish specimen, and one bite of it more thansatisfied Jessie, without refreshing her in the least; but she satholding it in her hand, and looking at Cecil with loving eyes, too happyto mind much about her thirst and fatigue. 

'Do you think Mr. Bardsley will let you come back with me?' she saidpresently. 

'Not till twelve o'clock, I'm sure; perhaps he would then. Father didn'tsay I was to come, did he?'

'No, I was so silly I didn't wait to ask him; he didn't know I wascoming. Cecil, do you think they will be very angry with me? I havenever been so far alone before. '

'I'm afraid mother won't like it, ' said Cecil; but he thought to himselfthat he should always love her for it; and if he had been a girl insteadof a boy, he would have told her so. 'I must go back to study now; butI think you had better wait here, if Mrs. Bardsley will let you, ' hecontinued, after a minute's reflection. 

'But what will they think at home? They must have missed me. Cecil, I'dbetter go;' and she stood up, feeling how dreary the lonely walk backwould be, with those tired feet of hers that had run along so merrilywhen the thought of telling the joyful news had been the only onepresent to her mind. 

'There's father, I do declare, in old Mr. Rawson's gig!' exclaimedCecil, who was looking out of the window; and sure enough, at thismoment, a funny old-fashioned carriage drew up at the door, and Mr. Cunningham got down from it and shook hands with the owner. 

_He_ was not afraid of the big knocker, but the maid was much longer inanswering his rat-tat-tat than Jessie's feeble ring; and only a sensethat they were not in their own house, and must not take liberties, restrained the children from opening the door themselves. They could notresist running out into the hall to meet him, thus forestalling anyinquiry for them by their immediate appearance. 

'Well, Cecil!'--oh, such a different 'well' from the one that hadgreeted him on his return for the holidays!--then to Jessie: 'And so youare _here_, little madam! Mother is making herself quite unhappy aboutyou. '

Before Jessie could answer, he turned to the maid, asking her to requestMr. Bardsley to see him for a minute; and she ushered him into thesitting-room where the children had been, and went off with the message. 

Then his little daughter got hold of his hand and whispered, 'I didn'tmean to vex mother; I thought I could have overtaken Cecil. I am verysorry. '

'Well, I don't think I need tell you not to do such a thing again, ' saidMr. Cunningham with a smile, 'for the temptation is not likely torecur. These things don't happen every day; do they, Cecil? My boy, I amsorry for this week of disgrace, and more glad than I can tell you tofind it was not deserved. '

Cecil looked down, coloured, put his hands in his pockets and took themout again, twisted his eyes in a vain attempt to see the whole extent ofthe ink spot on his collar, and finally, standing quite upright, andlooking straight before him, said in a very modest and yet manly way, 'Iam glad you know that I was not really idle, father; but I didn't workso hard as I ought the last week, and I was stuck-up and made too sureof success. I would rather you knew that. '

Jessie, looking to see how her father took this, was struck by theshining of his eyes as they rested on his son; but before he had time tomake any reply, Mr. Bardsley came in; only, Cecil was sure, by the wayhis father's hand remained upon his shoulder while he was speaking tothe master, that he understood and appreciated the frank confession, andthat they should be closer friends henceforth than ever before. 

Mr. Bardsley gave leave for Cecil to return home at once; and Mr. Cunningham said he would call again the next day, out of school hours, to explain more fully how Cecil's prospects were altered, and 'make somearrangement. ' Jessie was rather alarmed at the sound of this, but Cecilguessed that his father meant to withdraw him from the day school, andwished to offer some compensation for taking him away in this suddenfashion, just at the beginning of the half-year. 

Spite of Jessie's tired feet, the walk back was very pleasant; andneither she nor Cecil were insensible to the honour of having theirfather all to themselves, and at this unusual time of day too. Heexplained that he had met their mother in the village, so anxious aboutJessie, that instead of waiting till towards twelve o'clock to go intoFairview, he had got Mr. Yorke to finish his parish business for him, and had started off at once, accepting a lift from Mr. Rawson by theway. And when he added quietly, 'You will take care that she is nevermade uneasy again by any thoughtlessness on your part, Jessie!' thelittle girl answered, 'Yes, father, ' in a very subdued and humble tone, and felt quite as sorry as if he had lectured her for an hour. 

'Do you think Mr. Yorke will be at home again now? Might I run in for aminute, father?' said Cecil as they passed the curate's lodging. 

'I am not sure; you can see if you like. ' And Cecil _did_ see; andfinding his friend busily engaged sermon-writing in the queer littledining-room, tarried only for a few words. 

'I suppose father has told you, ' he said as he burst in. 

'Yes, I am _so_ glad;' and Cecil's inky little paw was enfolded in thecurate's heartiest grasp. 

'I shan't forget this week in a hurry, ' the boy continued; 'but I'm notso very sorry now that it all happened. Thank you for that nice Sunday. '

He did not say, but he implied how much it had helped him through; andMr. Yorke answered cheerily, 'I could have sympathized more if I hadknown all that I know now; but I don't think you wanted pity. I believeyour father's sermon showed you the way to bear your trouble. '

Cecil's cheeks were burning, and he only said shyly, 'You showed metoo;' and then hastily adding, 'I want to catch up with father before hegets home, ' ran off again, after one more hearty shake of the hand hadbeen exchanged between them. 

If the memory of pain could be effaced by after-happiness, the remainderof this day would have amply sufficed to blot out the past week. Neverdid Cecil feel more glad than when his mother kissed him, called him herown darling boy, and at his request forgave Jessie's escapade, and gaveher and Frances a week's holiday, that he might have as much of theircompany as he chose. And on the following Sunday, when he took his placein the choir again, and Mr. Yorke came to dinner at the Rectory, and allwas thankful rejoicing, that sorrowful Sunday on which he had felt as ifthe whole world were against him seemed already far away. 

The trial was gone by, and some of the effects it had left behind itwere very pleasant. But for it, Cecil felt he never could have known Mr. Yorke so well, nor his own little sister Jessie. They were his especialfriends from henceforth, in a way which they had never been before, eventhough Jessie had always been regarded by Percy and others as 'Cecil'sparticular chum. ' Percy himself had seemed hitherto at an immeasurabledistance from Cecil, and had generally appeared to expect to be treatedwith the same sort of respect as would have been shown to a school'senior;' but now, wonderful to relate, a change came over him, and hecondescended to unbend not only a little, but a very great deal. Itactually seemed as if he had begun to respect Cecil! No one but aschoolboy, with an admired and venerated elder brother rather given tosnubbing, can quite realize how astonishing this change appeared to theperson most concerned. For Percy to invite Cecil to come out fishingwith him, in the genial tone of an equal who really cared for hiscompanionship, instead of ordering him in a lordly way to take histackle down to the river for him, was something so unexpected andflattering, that it went nearer to turning Cecil's head than anythingthat had happened yet. Perhaps it really might have done so, but for thewholesome lessons the boy had learned during his time of humiliation. 

These fishings with Percy became a sort of institution during that week, which Jessie had rather counted on for having Cecil all to herself. 'Francie doesn't care, because she wants to do her gardening; but whatmade me like so to have holidays, was only that I might go about withCecil, and now he goes off with Percy and doesn't want me!' thought thepoor little maiden, in rather an injured way, as she sat forlornly inthe wide window-seat on Wednesday morning, watching the retreatingfigures of her brothers. Spite of all her unselfishness, that sense ofinjury _would_ come, and was very disagreeable. 

'Who will take the boys' dinner down to the meadows for them by and by?'said her father, coming suddenly into the room. 'I have promised them along, uninterrupted time for their sport to-day, because to-morrow weare all going for a picnic to the Beacon, and there will be no fishingthen. You and Francie are the two idlest folk in the house just now, aren't you, Jessie? so suppose you turn errand-women?'

'Oh, father, are they going to fish all day?' exclaimed Jessie, jumpingup when she was spoken to, but showing no great alacrity in offering herservices. 

'Till tea-time, I believe, if they don't get tired of it. Do you know Iam so glad of these fishings, Jessie?'

'Are you, father?' she said, rather drearily, conscious that there wasno gladness in her own face or voice. 

'Yes, because I know what a brother's friendship is worth. I believePercy's good-natured patronage seems to Cecil the greatest reward he hashad yet for his bravery in bearing his misfortunes. '

Jessie did not like the idea much; it seemed to her that if it weretrue, her father and she had _both_ reason to feel slighted. 

'Use your imagination, Jessie, ' said Mr. Cunningham, smiling; 'you haveplenty, I know, and the great use of it is to help us to see things fromother people's point of view. Shall I tell you something else? I am soglad of this companionship because I believe Cecil, though the younger, will do Percy good. '

Jessie quite understood this; her face brightened, as it always did atanything like praise of Cecil, and she felt it very delightful to betaken into her father's confidence in such a 'grown-up' kind of way. 

'I can carry the dinner, if you like, father, ' she said briskly. 

'Suppose Francie and you both go, and take your own dinners as well?That will be a kind of picnic on a small scale, almost as pleasant, perhaps, as the grand one of to-morrow. You can come away afterwards, and leave the boys to their sport. '

Jessie looked rather cloudy again for a minute; it was so like beingoffered a little slice when she had wanted the whole loaf!

Her father was standing quite near her now, and he smoothed down herhair softly with his hand, as he said, 'Jessie, have you ever thoughtwhat a sweet and happy thing love is when it has overcome jealousy? Itis not worth _very_ much till then. '

For one moment there was a sharp struggle within her, and then shepressed her cheek against his arm, with a loving, grateful gesture. Hehad no fear that his little maiden would give way to jealousy anylonger. Now that he had given the sore feeling a name, he knew that shewould be as anxious to drive it away as he was. 

That dinner in the meadows was very pleasant--'Quite enchanting, 'Frances declared. 'Awfully jolly, ' said Cecil, who was not so choice inhis vocabulary. Percy looked on it as rather a childish entertainment, and said more than once that he wished 'they' hadn't forgotten that healways took pepper with everything; but he never blamed either of hissisters, only this mysterious 'they, ' and made an excellent dinner, spite of the absence of the pepper-box. He was very kind to Jessietoo, --so kind that she quite forgave Cecil from henceforth for thinkingPercy's notice a very grand sort of thing; it seemed as if he almostincluded _her_ in the new respect he had begun to have for his youngerbrother. And then, Cecil! Cecil was so entirely delightful on thisoccasion, that she wondered how, even for a moment, she could havethought him anything but the most perfect of all possible brothers. Fromthe noble way in which he dispensed the tart, only leaving himself avery small piece, though she _knew_ he liked it better than anything, down to the good-nature with which he gave his last bit of cheese to thelame old setter, that had limped down to see after them, everything inhis behaviour was just according to her own heart, and totally unlikethe selfish greediness of what she called 'common schoolboys. ' And then, when, instead of going back to his fishing directly after dinner, heasked her to walk with him as far as the bridge and watch the troutleap, she was the very happiest and proudest of little sisters. If ithad not been for what her father had said, she would have lingered nearhim the whole afternoon; but as it was, she came away quite contentedlyafter she had watched his angling for a minute or two, and really felthow nice it was that Percy and he should have become such allies, --howmuch pleasanter for him than having only her for a companion. Percy'svacation would be over before his, and then her time would come perhaps;anyhow, she was much too sure of Cecil's love to have any excuse forjealousy in seeing him taken up with others. He had opened his heart toher when he was in trouble, she should never forget that. Oh! how dearthis had made him to her, both 'for then and for always!'

No after-trial worth recording shadowed Cecil's boyhood; and now he is aman--just such a man as Jessie longed to see him. He very seldom thinksof the incidents here related, but yet the lesson he learnt in thatmemorable week is still bearing fruit in his life; and when any trialcomes to him, he does not say it is 'very hard, ' but takes it as a newproof of the fatherly love that watches over him, and, in dark seasonsas well as bright ones, is ready to sing with the psalmist, 'Every daywill I give thanks unto Thee, and praise Thy name for ever and ever. '

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

The original text had no table of contents. One was added as an aid tothe reader. 

Page 31, "emained" changed to "remained" (have remained bitterly)

Page 51, "See page 52. " was added to the text to conform to remainingillustrations. 

Page 52, "tel" changed to "tell" (you'll not tell)