CHAPTER II.

CHARITY and Edwin had very few relatives. Their father had lost all his brothers and sisters in early life. There was only their mother's sister, who had for many years been married and settled in a distant part of England. She was written to at once about Mr. Mitchel's sad and unexpected death. And her husband, Mr. Hawke, at once travelled to London, to be present at the funeral, and to take his little niece and nephew home with him. Ill-health prevented Mrs. Hawke from coming with her husband.

Poor Charity! How she dreaded the first sight of her strange uncle! How she shrank from the first sound of his voice!

Nor was the first sight of him such as to cheer her. He was a tall, stout man, with a somewhat harsh face and sharp manner. He was not wanting in kindly feelings towards the little orphans, and he really wished to set them at their ease, but his quick loud voice terrified Edwin, and made Charity long for her father's gentle tones. Mr. Hawke had not intended to alarm them, but he did not know how to speak to shy, timid children. And they soon crept away from him to nurse, where they sobbed out their sorrows together.

"Oh, nurse, he isn't the very least like dear papa," said poor Charity.

"I wish, oh, I wish he had never come!"

"My dear, that isn't right," said nurse, tenderly. "He'll give you a home, and you ought to be very thankful for that. You'll be well taken care of—please God," she added, reverently.

"I don't like him—I can't go with him," said Edwin, clinging to her arm with fast-falling tears. "He speaks so loud;—oh, nursie, let us stay with you."

"So I would with all my heart, if I had a home to offer you," said nurse, fondly. "My poor little ones!" she added, sadly. "It's a bitter grief for you both. But there now, Miss Charity, don't you cry so. You'll be very happy in a little while with your cousins and your aunt. Why, she's your own mamma's sister."

"I shan't be happy—I can't without papa," sobbed Charity. "I shall never be happy again."

"That isn't what your dear papa would have liked you to say, Miss Charity. Don't you think he would wish you to be happy?" She stroked back the damp disordered hair from Charity's brow as she spoke. "I know it's very hard; I've gone through it all myself. But you mustn't forget that your dear papa is in heaven, with the Lord Jesus Christ. And you must try now to do the things that he would like, if he were still here."

Charity's head dropped sadly on nurse's knee.

"Ah, if I could!" she murmured. "But I will try—I will try."

"And may be, dear Miss Charity, you will find many things in your new home not like what we have here. Things won't go so smoothly, perhaps, and then you'll find it trying to the temper."

"My birthday text!" Charity interrupted with a sob. "Papa said I should want it more some day. Oh, I will try—I will try, nursie. But I do want papa so very, very much. Oh, if I had only known that morning that I should never see him again! Oh, papa—dear papa!" And throwing herself into nurse's arms, the poor child wept long and bitterly,—wept, till from very weariness her tears ceased to flow, and she fell asleep.

Two days after this the funeral took place, and the following day Mr. Hawke desired that speedy arrangements should be made for the return journey. Parting with nurse and leaving their old home was a great trial to both the children.

They paid a farewell visit to every spot in the garden, and every corner in the house. But Charity's pale cheeks, when it was over, made nurse doubt her own wisdom in allowing such a tour.

The last moment came, and patting kisses were somewhat roughly cut short by Mr. Hawke, who was in great fear of being late for the train, and also much dreaded tears. He did not take the best means to check them. Edwin looked only bewildered and distressed, but Charity sobbed all the way to the station, and long after she was seated in the quickly-moving train.

It was a melancholy journey to them both, of many hours' duration. Mr. Hawke spoke to them every now and then, and handed them plentiful supplies of buns and sandwiches, but otherwise he left them very much to themselves. At length the train stopped at a small country station, and Mr. Hawke started up, hurried them out on the platform, and secured their luggage. Then they went to the back of the station, where a small chaise was waiting. The two children were helped into the little back seat, Mr. Hawke took his place in front beside the driver, and in another moment they were trotting down a narrow green lane.

"How pretty!" Edwin whispered; and Charity nodded.

The fresh evening breeze, the bright rays of the setting sun, and the fair beauty of the country around, all combined to give her a feeling of quiet enjoyment, despite the weight of sorrow at her heart. Mr. Hawke looked back at them after awhile.

"So you like this, little ones?" he said in his blunt tones, which Charity was beginning to think less rough than she had at first imagined. "Worth a hundred of London streets!"

"It's prettier," said Charity, her throat swelling at any allusion to the old home.

"And you will like it better in every way before long, or I am much mistaken. Have you ever been in the country before?"

"Not country like this," said Edwin. "We've been often to the parks. And once we went to the sea-side."

"That's a different thing," said Mr. Hawke.

He turned away again as he spoke, and left them to themselves during the remainder of the drive.

Presently they drew near a small country house, and at the gate Charity could see a girl and two boys—the former seeming to be about her own age, and the latter, one older, one younger. They stood looking on as the chaise stopped, and the children were lifted down, till Mr. Hawke called out:—

"Here, Lottie, come and see after your cousins. Boys, you had better take Edwin under your care."

Lottie, a pretty, lively, but somewhat untidy little girl, stepped forward and kissed them both. George, a tall lad of twelve or thirteen, shook hands carelessly; and Wilfred, a stout boy about nine years old, followed his example. They both looked, half in surprise and half with disdain, upon Edwin's small slight figure and pale timid face. His little cold hand was clasping Charity's, and she held it tightly, despite George's audible whisper,—

"What a baby! He looks fit for nothing but to be tied to his nurse's apron-strings."

"Mamma told me to bring you into the house," said Lottie. "She can't walk easily, you know."

Charity knew, though she had just then forgotten, that her aunt was lame, and much confined to the sofa. She followed Lottie in silence, still pressing her little brother's hand. But the first glimpse of the sweet face that awaited them in the drawing-room swept a load from Charity's heart. She felt from that they had found a friend, and she sobbed aloud with the very relief, as she found herself clasped in her aunt's arms.

"Poor child!" Mrs. Hawke said softly once or twice, while with her disengaged hand she patted and caressed Edwin's cheeks. "Come, don't cry so, Charity. You must both be very happy here. It is to be your home, you know."

"I wouldn't let papa come in and find you crying, if I were you," said Lottie, in the quick, almost sharp tone that was so like her father's. "He doesn't like tears, does he, mamma?"

"He generally thinks little girls have something better to do than to cry," said Mrs. Hawke, smoothing down Charity's hair. "Suppose you run upstairs with Lottie, and take off your things, and bathe your eyes, while I make friends with Edwin. When you come down again we will have tea."

"I hear your box being taken up now," remarked Lottie. "You are going to sleep in my room, Charity. Come along," and seizing her cousin's hand she ran quickly upstairs.

The bedroom that they entered was airy and light, with a bunch of flowers on the table, the very sight of which had a soothing effect upon Charity. Lottie ran away for a few minutes, and she was not sorry for a little quiet time, in which to collect her thoughts.

She leaned out of the window, looking up into the wide expanse of clear blue sky, with the soft breeze blowing her hair away from her forehead. And gradually the sorrowful feeling and the tendency to cry gave way to a quiet, peaceful trust. Lonely, orphaned, sad, she still was. And she felt even more than she had hitherto done that she might have many trials to undergo in her new home, much to try her pride and her temper, much that might tend to draw her away from her dear Saviour.

Yet Charity remembered the promise of that loving Saviour,—

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."

And it was a great comfort to her. "I must not forget it," she thought. "I will pray that I may not. Nurse told me I must never forget to pray; and dear, dear papa always said that was the first thing that we were inclined to be careless about. And I must try not to seem dull and unhappy, for darling Edwin's sake. I do think dear Aunt Lottie will love me. I ought to be very thankful for such a kind, sweet aunt. I never expected to like her so much. I'm afraid the boys are not so nice. But I must try not to be angry with them, even if they do say unkind things. I must try hard to 'suffer long and be kind.' And the only way is to pray for help. I will not forget that."

With these and many more such thoughts, Charity stood by the window for nearly ten minutes, unaware how time was going. She was roused by a touch, and found Lottie standing by her side.

"Are you dreaming, Charity? I thought I should find you ready for tea."

"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed Charity, looking distressed. "I was thinking, and I quite forgot. But I have only to take off my boots and smooth my hair."

"Never mind; there's no hurry," said Lottie. Something in her cousin's face touched her, for she came close to her, and said in a manner quite different from her usual abrupt quickness, "Charity, I hope you will be happy here. I really am glad to see you, only it isn't my way to say much."

Charity's arms were round Lottie's neck in an instant. "Are you really glad? Oh, Lottie, will you love me, and be my sister? I never had a sister."

"I'll try," Lottie replied, gravely. "I never had one either. Only I know I shall be cross to you sometimes, because I can't help it. You mustn't mind when I am, because it is my way when I am provoked."

"I hope I shall not provoke you," said Charity, gently. "I want to be kind—and to bear things."

"There are some things that one can't bear," said Lottie, decidedly. "You don't know what it is to have brothers like George and Wilfred—noisy, romping, teasing fellows. I expect you will hate the sight of them before you have been here a week."

"Oh, I hope not," said Charity, surprised and shocked that Lottie could speak in such a way of her brothers.

"You don't know them," repeated Lottie. "Nobody can manage them except papa,—and mamma always keeps them good when they are with her, but not when they are away from her. But I mean to try and defend you from them."

"Thank you," said the little girl, slowly and thoughtfully. "But perhaps—perhaps the best way would be—" she hesitated a moment, and then added, in a lower tone,—"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind.'"

"That's a text," remarked Lottie. "Mamma sometimes talks like that, but it really is of no use to be kind to the boys. The more you bear, the more they provoke you."

Charity did not argue the point, though she was not convinced. Lottie now took her downstairs, where Edwin was still seated by his aunt's side, chatting more freely than Charity could have expected so soon after his arrival among those who really were strangers to him. The boys were very quiet and subdued in their father's presence, and altogether the little orphans' first evening in their new home was a peaceful one.

Mr. Hawke did not pay them much attention, but when he noticed them, it was done kindly. Mrs. Hawke's gentle ways won both their hearts at once, and Lottie's manner was warmth itself.

Both children were too tired that night for any walking out of doors, and they went to bed early. Charity did not forget, when she knelt by her bed, to thank her heavenly Father for guiding them to a home, where, if they could not quite expect the peace and happiness to which they had been accustomed, they would not be without care and affection. Earnestly too did she pray for grace and strength to continue in the right way, and for a spirit of love to bear with all trials and vexations that might cross her path.

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