CHAPTER V.

"YOU have grieved me more than I can tell, boys! I could never have imagined such conduct on your part. From you, George, especially, it is disgraceful. I did not know you were capable of such cruelty towards a poor little orphan girl. I am ashamed of you."

It was late in the evening of the day on which the accident had occurred. Charity had been brought home in a cart, belonging to a farmhouse which stood near the place where she fell. Lottie, in her indignation, had poured out the whole story to her parents. The doctor had just gone after paying a long visit. And after his departure, Mr. Hawke came into the drawing-room, where the boys were sitting, with the above words.

George looked fully as much ashamed of himself as his father could have been of him. He sat with downcast eyes, without attempting to defend himself.

Wilfred fidgeted uneasily, and Edwin asked tearfully—

"Please, is Charity much hurt, uncle?"

"I am afraid she will have to lie down a long time, and bear a great deal of pain, my little man. But, thank God, it is nothing dangerous. Her ankle is very severely sprained, and there is a small bone broken, so that it must be a tedious affair. It is very sad, especially when we think of the way in which it has happened."

Poor little Edwin began to sob, and a hot flush came up into George's cheeks. He turned away his head, and fidgeted with the things on the table. But his father saw how nearly he was overcome, and this decided him to say no more just then. So he only remarked—

"If you will be a good quiet boy, Edwin, you may come and see her for a moment. Only you must not cry or do anything to excite her."

Edwin could hardly believe it was the rough, stern uncle, of whom he had been so much afraid, who was now clasping his hand, and leading him so kindly out of the room. There was silence after they had gone, till Lottie came in with red eyes.

"Well, George, I hope you think you have 'paid out' poor Charity at last," she said, bitterly. "She certainly won't be much in your way again for some time to come. The doctor says it will be weeks before she will put her foot to the ground. But I suppose you are glad to hear it."

Lottie stopped suddenly, for George had broken down, and was sobbing aloud.

Lottie was quite silent, almost dismayed at the effect of her words.

Wilfred jumped up and ran out of the room, and then she ventured to say—

"I didn't quite mean that. I did not know you minded it."

"I do," sobbed George. "It's dreadful, Lottie. I shall never be happy again until she is well."

"Perhaps she will get over it sooner than the doctor thinks," said Lottie.

"I don't know," was George's desponding answer. "If I could only see her, and tell her that I really did not mean any harm,—" and he sighed heavily, not only at the thought of having caused her so much suffering, but he could not forget the manner in which he had long treated her, and induced Wilfred to treat her. Still less could he forget her gentle forbearance, and "long-suffering," and "kindness."

But it was many days before he obtained his wish, and was allowed to enter her room. When the time came he began to think he would almost rather have stayed away, but he could not well draw back, so he went in and sat down by the sofa on which she was lying, with a shawl spread over her.

Nurse was present, but she left then alone, saying she should be in the next room, and George could call her if she was wanted. Perhaps she guessed what he wished to say.

"Charity, can you ever forgive me?" he asked.

"Oh, George, you mustn't talk like that," said Charity. "I forgave you long ago. I wish you would never speak about it again."

"I must," replied George. "You know, Charity, it was all my fault. 'I' thought of it, and proposed it to Wilfred, and made him do it. I can't think how I could have behaved to you in such a shabby way, when you have been so good."

"Not good," said Charity, quietly. "None of us are good, George."

"Then how was it that you bore things as you did? I can tell you that I often felt ashamed of myself. I did that day in the woods, but I tried to forget it."

Charity put her hand out to the little side-table by the sofa, and took up her birthday gift, the illuminated text.

"Look," she said, "I never showed you this, George. I always keep it hanging up on the wall, but I have had it down this morning. Papa gave it me on my birthday, that last birthday!" And tears came into her eyes.

George read the words in silence—"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."

"But I don't see how that can help you," he said.

"Charity means love," said the little girl, quietly laying it down on the table again.

"Well?" said George, still looking puzzled.

"It means that if we love God we shall pray to be made meek and kind like the Lord Jesus," said Charity, slowly. "You know that, George?"

George knew very little about it. He had been taught from childhood the truths of the Gospel, and knew many parts of the Bible by heart. But this was mere head-knowledge, which without the teaching of the Holy Spirit is of no more avail than utter ignorance. He looked gravely for a moment at his cousin's face, and then said—

"I think Charity is just the name for you."

"I wish it were," said Charity.

"It wouldn't do for me—I mean if I were a girl," said George.

"But it ought," said Charity, gently. "It ought to do for all God's children."

"I'm not," George began, and then stopped. After a pause he went on, in a lower voice, "I'm 'not' one of them."

Perhaps Charity had expected him to say so. A gentle, tender look came into her face as she said timidly—

"Won't you pray that you may be one, George?"

"I don't know how;" and the stout strong boy looked anxiously at his little cousin. "I should like to be what you are, Charity, and to be sure that I should not treat any one again in such a way."

Charity hardly noticed the last few words. "You must know how," she said; "you must know, George."

"I don't," George repeated.

"Aunt Lottie will tell you."

"I can't ask her. I want you to tell me. Nurse will come back directly."

Charity hesitated no longer, though she flushed as she laid her hand in George's. "You must go to the Lord Jesus Christ, and tell Him you are sorry, and ask Him to forgive you, and cleanse you in His blood. He will make you His child, and teach you all you don't know. I can't tell you any more, George. Only He has promised that all who believe in Him shall be saved."

Quickly and almost in a whisper the words fell from little Charity's lips. George listened in silence. Then nurse came back, and warned him that he must leave the room, as he had promised not to stay beyond a certain time.

He only bent over the sofa, and said, "Thank you!" very softly, before he went.

But little Charity felt very glad that strength had been given her to say so much.

For many long weeks she was confined to the sofa, from the effects of her fall. All through the bright, warm, summer days, she was obliged to lie quiet and still, or to move about very slowly for a few yards at a time, when she began to improve. But she bore it all without a murmur—without a word or look to show that she remembered who had caused her all this suffering.

George might, and often did, allude to it, but a remark on the subject never passed her lips, unless in answer to him.

Everything, however, was done to make her captivity to the couch a happy one, not only by kind Aunt Lottie and by Edwin, but by George, and Wilfred, and Lottie, and by Uncle Hawke himself. Charity had never expected to grow so fond of her Uncle as she did in the course of this summer. He was, for a long time, very much displeased with the two boys, and it was Charity who persuaded him to take them back into favour again, and showed him how much George had grieved over his conduct.

Indeed, George was now as much her friend as was Lottie, which is saying a good deal, and Wilfred and Edwin were almost always to be seen together. Little did Charity know how much of this happy state of things was owing to herself! Little did she think how often Mr. and Mrs. Hawke had grieved over their children's irritable tempers, or how grateful they felt to their little niece, whose gentle, forbearing spirit had, by God's blessing, worked so much good among them.

Had not Charity's prayer been fully answered—that she might have grace given her to "suffer long and be kind," in her new home?

THE END.

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