CHAPTER XIV

.

_NEW EXPERIENCES._

IT was a good while, however, before I appreciated the state of the case. I understood, indeed, the words which were said to me, but they seemed to convey no real meaning to my mind. I lay still quite contentedly as long as Mrs. Lee bade me; and when, in the morning, she took me up and set me in a great chair by the window, I was just as contented there, with only one idea—namely, that the dream was lasting a long time, but that I should wake up pretty soon. The minister and his wife came to see me and were very kind, and Mrs. Lee and her daughter were unwearied in their attentions.

I believe Mr. Wyndham was much alarmed about me, but Mrs. Lee reassured him.

"It's the bump that she got on her head as has confused her and knocked all the memory out of her, poor dear lamb!" said she. "It isn't uncommon for shipwrecked folks to be that way, but they mostly come to after a good sleep, and I expect she will. Bless your heart, I've seen a plenty of 'em in my day."

Mrs. Lee was quite right. I sat in the same dazed state all that day, but at night I slept long and soundly, and in the morning I was quite myself and able to listen to and understand Mr. Wyndham. I found he knew no more than I did of the cause of our disaster. James Satterlee, the only other survivor, as far as we knew, supposed that the captain must have mistaken his reckoning. All Mr. Wyndham knew was that he was waked by a dreadful shock, and had come on deck to find the ship rapidly sinking, that he had roused my aunt and Elmina, and had been able to secure certain important papers, but that was all. He had hoped we might all be together, but the captain had arranged it otherwise. He was much effected in telling the story, and we wept together.

"Your aunt was a lady of a thousand—of ten thousand—Olivia," said he; "I have hardly ever seen her equal. I feel almost guilty of her death because I persuaded her to come abroad. But for me she might have been alive at this moment."

"I don't think you ought to feel so, Mr. Wyndham," said I. "You could not tell that the ship would be wrecked; and besides," I added, "unless Aunt Belinda had thought it right to come, all the persuasion in the world wouldn't have moved her an inch."

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Wyndham; "she was a lady of great firmness of character. But now, my dear child, we must think what is to become of you. I consider you a sacred charge, Olivia, as much as if you were an orphan sister of my own, and I assure you, you shall never want for anything which I can provide for you. You shall have the best care and education which the country affords, and it shall be my object to make up to you so far as I can for the friend you have lost."

"I am sure you are very good," said I; "but I don't want to live in England. I want to go home to my father and mother in America."

"Your father and mother!" said he. "I thought you were an orphan?"

"Oh no," I answered; "my father is a farmer, and lives in Vermont now. We used to live in Massachusetts, but father lost a good deal of money, and then he moved to Vermont, and I went to live with Aunt Belinda to finish my education. I thought you saw my father when he was in Boston just before we came away."

"I must have been in New York at that time," answered Mr. Wyndham; and I was surprised to see that he looked downright vexed and disappointed. "I never asked the question, to be sure, but I took it for granted that you must be on the same footing as Elmina. Have your father and mother other children?"

"Oh yes," I answered. "There is Ezra, and Tom, and my adopted sister Jeanne, and Ruth, and Henry. Tom is living with my uncle at Salisbury to learn the iron business, and Ezra is going to college to learn to be a minister, and then he is to marry Jeanne."

"Indeed! I had a reason for asking the question. You cannot imagine how desolate one feels who finds himself bereft of the comforts and society of a home. But, Olivia, I have been pleasing myself all day with the thought that I was going to have an adopted daughter too—a dear little girl to console me for the children I have lost. Don't you think your father and mother would spare me one out of their flock? They have so many to love them, and I have none at all."

"I don't believe they would," said I, very much moved. "You see, mother will want me to help her when Jeanne is married; and besides, I am sure they would not want me to grow up an English girl, after father fought so many years to make a country for ourselves. I am sure you are very good and kind, Mr. Wyndham, and I like you very much, but I don't think I could be anybody's daughter only my own father's and mother's. Please don't be angry or think I am ungrateful," I added, crying.

"There! Don't cry, my dear," said Mr. Wyndham, hastily; "you will make yourself ill again. There is no danger of my thinking you unkind or ungrateful; I like you all the more for your loyalty. But you see, Olivia, I had my own castle in the air, as well as you and poor Elmina; and when it fell into the sea, I thought I might keep one little wing of it. There! We won't talk any more now, for fear of making your head ache;" and so saying, he went hastily out.

I did not at the time understand what he meant by his "castle in the air;" but when I came to consider it afterward, I thought I comprehended the case. Mr. Wyndham had admired Aunt Belinda very much from the first, and I believe he hoped he might make her his wife.

In the afternoon Mr. Wyndham came in again.

"They have found the bodies of our poor captain and two of the sailors," said he. "They are to be buried in the church-yard here, and I must attend the funeral. After that I will tell you what I think we had better do for the present."

I begged earnestly to be allowed to see the funeral of my poor friends, and at last Mr. Wyndham consented. Mrs. Lee demurred, though she allowed that the wish was right and natural, but at last consented on condition that her husband should carry me up to the church.

"For I'm sure she'll never get up the stairs alone, poor dear! And you ain't able to do no more than carry yourself, sir."

I wondered what Mrs. Lee meant by the stairs, but I discovered presently. The main street of Clovelley village is neither more nor less than a stair-case, and a tolerably steep one at that—steeper than most stair-ways in private houses. The steps are cut in the rock, with frequent landings, to be sure, but it is to all intents a stair-case. The cottages are of stone, each with its little garden, where grow a great many flowers and plants that won't stand the winter here at all.

When we reached the church-yard, I thought all the inhabitants of the village must be present. Of course I was an object of great attention, and I heard many subdued exclamations of "Poor dear heart!" "Poor tender lamb!" from the kind-hearted fishermen and their wives as they opened a way for Mr. Wyndham and myself to pass to the church, where the bodies lay. They were those of Captain Coffin, his nephew David, and another Cape Cod man, Jethro Farnham.

The funeral services were very solemn and affecting. The minister—they call him the rector there—made a short address, in which he spoke of the fact that all three of those lying before them were Christian men, and no doubt prepared to go when their time came, and urging those present to be likewise ready.

It was a dreadful moment to me when the words "dust to dust, ashes to ashes" were pronounced, and I heard the hollow sound of the earth falling on the coffin-lids, and thought of my poor aunt and cousin, whose bodies were lying somewhere in the great ocean, spread out so blue and beautiful to the far horizon. It seemed as if my grief would not be so hard to bear if only I could know that their bodies were sleeping in this beautiful green church-yard, under the shadow of the gray old church, and grown over with flowers in the spring-time. I grew so hysterical that when the service was over Mrs. Carey would have me go into the rectory and lie down while she got me some restorative.

Presently Mr. Carey came and sat down by me.

"Your friends' graves shall be cared for, my dear child," said he. "We will have proper stones put up as soon as may be." He paused a moment, and then went on, speaking very gently and softly: "I dare say you are thinking of your aunt and cousin?"

"Oh," I sobbed, "if they were only buried here, it would not seem half so bad."

"I understand you," said Mr. Carey. "I have two dear brothers lying somewhere in the ocean, and many an old friend and playmate's bones rest out under those blue waters. But, my child, your friends are not there, only their bodies. They themselves—all that part of them which loved you and which you loved—are safe in heaven. And even their bodies will be kept quite safely; and when the last trumpet shall sound, they will be raised as quickly and with as much of glory and honour as those which sleep under the turf in the church-yard."

A good deal more he said in the same gentle way. There was nothing original or brilliant in his remarks; but when people are in real and great trouble, they don't seem to me to want brilliancy or originality. They want brought up and brought home those grand truths which they have heard and known all their lives, but of which they do not feel the real need till all other stays are knocked away.

I grew quite composed after a while, and was able to sit up to my tea, which I had by myself in the library, Mrs. Carey rightly concluding that I would not care to face any strangers, especially half a dozen great boys, as she said.

I had finished my meal, and was sitting looking out of the window, when Mr. Wyndham came in and took a seat by me.

"Do you think you will feel well enough for a journey to-morrow?" said he. And then he told me that he had decided as to what I was to do for the present. "I have two maiden half-sisters who live about thirty miles from here," said he. "They are excellent old ladies, and very fond of children. I think I cannot do better than to place you under their care till I can communicate with your parents and find suitable means for sending you home, if, indeed, you must go home."

I had no objection to make to this arrangement, for I had the most entire faith in Mr. Wyndham. But when the morning came, it was very rainy, and we had to wait till next day, after all. Meantime, Mrs. Carey had found suitable materials for a new frock, and some one to make it; and when the time came for me to go, I was once more arrayed in new deep mourning. I took leave of my new friends with many tears. If Alice should ever go to England, I hope she will visit Clovelley and find out the graves of her countrymen there.

We had a long day's journey in a post-chaise, stopping for dinner on the road at a place whose name I don't remember, and arriving at our destination about dark. I was very tired, and my head ached terribly. I was dimly conscious of a very light porch and entry, some dogs and servants, and two old ladies, and of hearing Mr. Wyndham say,—

"Put her to bed directly, Dorothy; she is tired out. Take good care of her, Mrs. Austin."

"But don't you think she should have some medicine, Brother Augustus?" said a sweet but high-pitched and quavering voice—"Some camphor julep, now; that is very simple, you know."

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" broke in another voice, also high-pitched. "The child wants rest and sleep and a good cup of tea. Put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!"

"Yes, put her to bed, Austin, put her to bed!" chimed in the first voice like an echo. "To be sure, Sister Deborah knows best, but a little camphor julep, now, or some chamomile tea—"

These words seemed to follow me as I was taken up a short easy stair-case and into a tiny room where there was a little white bed which looked wonderfully inviting.

"Here's everything ready, miss, you see," said the respectable elderly woman who had me in charge, and who directly made me think of my aunt Phebe, though she was as rosy as a frosted Spitzenberg. "Now let me untie your gown and put you in bed like a dear, and then I'll bring a nice cup of tea. Bless me, the pretty dear!" she exclaimed as she took off my hood and saw my thick light hair all curling with the damp; "why, she's as white as I am."

"Why shouldn't I be white?" I asked, laughing in spite of my troubles. "Do you think we are all red Indians over there?"

"Well, to be sure, I might have known better, miss, but somehow—However, we mustn't talk, and your poor head ready to split, I can see," she added as I put my hand to my forehead. "There, now! I'll go and get you a nice cup of tea and a bit of toast."

She bustled away, and I took the opportunity of her absence to say my prayers. I was still on my knees when Mrs. Austin returned, and with much delicacy she set down her tray and went into an adjoining room. When she came back, I was in bed; and oh how sweet and soft and comfortable it was! (I am content and proud of my own country, and always was, but I do envy the English two or three things, and among those are the heaps and heaps of lavender and sweet wood-roots they have to put in their linen presses. To be sure we can get the dried lavender at the druggist's, but it is not the same thing at all, and sweet wood-root does not grow everywhere, even in England.)

"That's a good young lady!" said Austin, as she arranged my pillows and set my tea before me. (In England upper servants are usually called by their surnames—a thing which seemed very odd to me.) "I can see miss has been well brought up. There! Drink your tea and eat a bit, there's a dear, and it will do your head good."

I did not feel like eating, but I had been early taught that it is a part of good manners not to refuse what people have taken pains to prepare for you; and when I forced myself to taste the tea and toast, I found them so refreshing that I soon finished them.

"That's right!" said Austin. "Now lie down and sleep."

I was not long in obeying this injunction.

Austin drew the curtains of my bed and left me, telling me that she slept in the next room and should hear me if I called, and I believe I was asleep before she left the room.

I was waked next morning by the sweetest music I thought I had ever heard, which seemed to come floating through the air. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but the white dimity curtains of my bed. Everybody used bed-curtains then, and why we didn't all get sick for want of air I don't know; but we didn't.

Putting aside my curtains, I saw that I was in an odd little old-fashioned room, all angles and corners, with no carpet on the polished oak floor save a little strip at the bedside and one before the toilet-table. There was a tall looking-glass draped with white dimity and trimmed with a great deal of daisy fringe, as were also the toilet-table and the bed- and window-curtains. At the side opposite the mirror was a long, projecting casement window with little diamond-shaped panes in leaden sashes. Some of the panes in the centre of each sash were coloured, and bore certain figures which I afterward found out were heraldic devices.

Everything seemed very still. Nobody was stirring about the house, and there were no sounds outside save the singing of birds, a distant cackling and crowing of poultry, and the beautiful music I have spoken of, which I now guessed was made by the bells of a church not far away, the tower of which I could see rising above the trees. There was a flower-garden below the window, and a field beyond, where were feeding a red and a snow-white cow. It was all very beautiful, peaceful, and lovely, but it was very strange, and made me feel more than anything I had yet seen how far I was from home—a stranger in a strange land. What would I not have given for a sight of the familiar ugly stone walls and rail fences of my old home in Lee, or the narrow Boston streets that I used so to dislike when I lived there!

I leaned my head against the side of the casement, and felt utterly forlorn and desolate—too forlorn even to cry. The bells had ceased for a minute or two, but they now struck up a familiar psalm tune—mother's favourite tune. I seemed almost to hear the words:

"How gentle God's commands! How kind his precepts are! Come, cast your burden on the Lord, And trust his constant care."

I remembered vividly the time they had brought me such comfort before—the time of my trouble about my precious Lanesborough doll. I remembered how I had then been moved to cast my trouble on him, and how he helped me. I bethought myself that the distance was nothing to him, and that though the great ocean rolled between myself and my parents, yet we were all in his presence as well as Aunt Belinda and Elmina, who were probably praising him in heaven. It was his will that I should be where I was. He had given me a kind friend in Mr. Wyndham, and brought me to a pleasant place, where every one was good to me, and I hoped he would in time bring me home again. Or if he did not see fit to do that, there was that other home where Aunt Belinda was, and which my mother had charged me never to forget; and that home was as near in England as America.

Then I thought of another hymn—the very first I could ever remember learning, and which I had in turn taught Harry and Ruth:

"This God is the God we adore, Our faithful, unchangeable Friend; His love is as great as his power, And knows neither limit nor end. 'Tis Jesus, the First and the Last, Whose presence shall guide us safe home We'll praise him for all that is past, And trust him for all that's to come."

I said these words over to myself; and began to think of texts in the Bible which agreed with them. It is a great blessing to children when their memories are early stored with good things—with hymns, and, above all, with the very words of Scripture. For that reason I like the old-fashioned Sunday-school plan of learning seven verses a week better than any of the new-fashioned ways.

I felt that morning, as I had done before, but never so strongly, that this unchangeable, faithful, all-wise, all-loving, all-powerful Friend was my Father—my own; that he loved me—poor little lonely, shipwrecked, sorrowful girl, foolish as I was, and wicked as I was—that I was not, as I used sometimes to think at Aunt Belinda's, a part of some great machine, but a child in my Father's house, a sheep in his pasture, a lamb to be carried in his bosom. My heart rose with a great emotion of joy and thankfulness, and the words, "What shall I render to the Lord for all his gifts to me?" came of their own accord to my lips. I resolved that I would try to please him in all things, to be good and obedient to the ladies I was to live with, and to learn all that I could. How peaceful was my mind whilst, thus employed! Then I crept back to bed, and soon fell asleep again, which was the best thing I could do.

I was awakened after a while by the sound of a door shut softly, and presently I heard voices engaged in conversation, as it seemed under my window.

"She is sound asleep yet, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, and in my humble judgment it is better to let her sleep."

"Your judgment is good, Austin, very good," said a voice which I recognized as one I had heard the night before. "Let her sleep, by all means. Sleep is the best medicine."

"Yes, your judgment is good, Austin, very good, as my sister Deborah says," chimed in another voice, which I knew must be Mrs. Angelica's; "but as for sleep being the best medicine, I am not so sure, and I 'can't' think a little camphor julep or some chamomile tea would do her any harm."

"How did she seem to sleep, Austin?" asked the first voice. "Did you hear her move at all in the night?"

"No, madam, only once that she talked a little, and called for her mother, poor lamb!"

"No wonder, poor little thing! We must be very kind to her, Austin."

"Yes, we must be kind to her, Austin, as my sister Deborah says; but talking in the sleep is a sure sign of indigestion, and so you see I was right about the camphor julep," said Mrs. Angelica's voice, in a kind of mild triumph.

"I dare say she is very ignorant," continued the first voice. "Of course we could not expect anything else, growing up in the wilds of America, as she has, and among rebels too. But no doubt she will learn. I wonder if she can read?"

"If you please, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, I think the young lady has been well taught; because she says 'If you please' and 'Thank you' so prettily. And she washed her face and hands and rinsed her mouth of her own accord, ladies. And, more, when I came back with her tea, she was saying of her prayers—yes, Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, she was saying of her prayers, ladies. And so I think she has been well brought up, ladies."

I was rather indignant, and then a good deal amused, to think that Mrs. Deborah should doubt my knowing how to read, and in my childish vanity I wondered what she would say when she found that I had been all through Murray's grammar and could play on the piano; and then it occurred to are all at once that I was not playing a very lady-like

## part in listening to a conversation about myself, and that I had better

get up.

When I was dressed and had said my prayers, I began to wonder what I had better do next. With all my self-confidence, I was terribly afraid of committing any breach of decorum, especially before these English ladies, who, I thought, would be sure to lay all my limits to my American bringing-up. I was determined to do nothing which should disgrace my country: so I said to myself, poor little chit that I was! But, after all, the feeling was an honest and good one. And then I remembered my first tea at Aunt Belinda's, when I had made the same resolution.

"Why shouldn't I ask help about that as well as anything else?" I thought. "Mother said I was always to ask whenever I needed it;" and I did ask it then and there.

Then I opened the door and went rather timidly down a very wide and easy stair-case of oak, which was almost black with age, and so smooth and slippery that I came very near going down the whole flight at once. The stairs landed me in a square entry—a hall, I should have called it at home—from which several doors opened, but they were all closed at present, and I was debating what I should do next and wishing I had stayed up stairs, when, to my great relief, Mrs. Austin appeared on the scene.

"Why, well done!" she exclaimed, in a cheery voice. "Here is our young lady all dressed and as fresh as a rose. Good-morning, miss."

And then, throwing open one of the doors, she led me into a very pretty room where the two ladies I had seen the night before were seated at a breakfast-table placed near a large bow-window which I perceived corresponded with the projection in my room.

"Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica, ladies, here is the young lady."

I made my courtesy, as I had been taught—for children used really to "learn manners" in those days, and were not left to pick them up or not as they pleased—and then, as Mrs. Deborah held out her hand, I drew near the table.

"Very good, very well!" said Mrs. Deborah. "I hope the headache is quite gone?"

"Quite gone, thank you, madam," I answered.

"Are you sure it is gone?" asked Mrs. Angelica, with an air of anxiety.

"Oh yes, madam."

"But it might come back, you know," said Mrs. Angelica; "headaches do come back very often, I think. Now, Austin had a bad headache last Sunday was a week, and yesterday—no, the day before it was—it came back again. And I do think a little mild medicine—say some chamomile tea—"

"Nonsense, Sister Angelica!" interposed Mrs. Deborah. "Let the child have her breakfast in peace. Any one can see that she needs no medicine but rest, and I will not have her dosed."

"No doubt you are right, Sister Deborah—you are always right," replied Mrs. Angelica; "but Austin's headache did come back. Now, didn't it, Austin?"

"I don't think it was the same headache, Mrs. Angelica, ma'am; it was quite different from the other," answered Austin, with perfect gravity. "Shall I ring for breakfast, or wait for Mr. Augustus?"

"Why, I think we won't wait, Austin. You know Mr. Augustus was always a sad boy for sleeping in the morning; and I dare say he is tired. Ring the bell, Austin, and we will have prayers."

Mrs. Austin rang the bell, and presently two women and an elderly man-servant came in and sat down near the door. Mrs. Deborah read a psalm, and then some prayers. It happened to be the first time I had ever heard prayers read from a book, and the custom struck me with surprise, but Mrs. Deborah's manner was very reverent, and I could not but confess that the prayers themselves were very beautiful and suitable.

"Now, then, we will have breakfast," said Mrs. Deborah, briskly. "We must not wait longer, for fear of being late at church. Bring the tea now, Richard, and a plenty of new milk for little miss. And you may bring some honey, Richard; children are usually fond of honey."

It struck me as very odd at first that there should be no meat on the table, only toast and eggs and a great loaf of bread on a wooden trencher—a fashion which I understand has been revived of late—and the tea-things. Mrs. Deborah made tea in a little squat silver teapot which looked to my fancy like the grand-daughter of the urn, and Mrs. Austin placed before me a large basin of sweet new milk such as I had not seen since I left Lee. I made a hearty breakfast, finishing with bread and honey and a cup of tea.

The meal was nearly over when Mr. Wyndham came down, apologizing for having overslept:

"There must be something in the air of your bed-room, Sister Deborah; I haven't slept so soundly since I went away."

Mrs. Angelica struck in directly:

"Really, Augustus, I don't think it can be the bed-room, do you? You know you always were fond of sleeping in the morning, because once in your holidays when we were all going to Plymouth to spend the day with Uncle Robinson, you slept so late that you could not go."

"I dare say I did it on purpose," said Mr. Wyndham. "Sister Deborah, I shall eat everything on the table. In America they give us beefsteaks and broiled fish, and so forth, for breakfast; don't they, Olivia?"

It was plain that Mr. Wyndham was a great pet with his elder half-sisters. Mrs. Deborah sent for a cold chicken pie and hot toast directly; while Mrs. Angelica plaintively hoped that Augustus had not learned to like America better than England,—a theme which, to my relief, put the camphor julep and chamomile tea out of her head.

We went to church that day, walking through the garden and across a corner of some woods which Mrs. Angelica informed me were a part of the duke's park.

"But he kindly lets us come through by this path," continued Mrs. Angelica, "because it cuts off a long piece of the walk, especially in summer, when the leaves are on the trees. It is very good in His Grace."

"Especially as His Grace can't help himself if he would," said Mr. Wyndham. "It is our right of way, and he has no more power to shut it up than I have to shut up his dining-room."

Mrs. Angelica took this speech as a new proof that her brother had imbibed those dreadful French and American notions, as she said, and lamented over it till we came to the church door.

It was a very odd little church. The walls were so thick that it seemed as if the room inside had been hollowed out of them. There was a very fine painted window over the chancel, and some of the other windows had stained glass in them. Small as the church was, nearly a quarter of it was taken up with monuments, on several of which were statues of men in armour lying down with their hands joined and their feet crossed. There was a gallery at one end which seemed to be filled with schoolchildren, all dressed alike in green woollen gowns, with white bib-aprons and little white hoods. There were three pews, high and square, with cushions and curtains all round, which could be drawn so as entirely to conceal the occupants. The rest of the space not occupied by the monuments before mentioned was filled up with hard, rude oaken benches which at once put me in mind of Miss Tempy's school-room at Lee.

The service was unlike any I had ever attended, being that of the Church of England, and the whole place was so curious and so different from anything I had ever seen that it is no wonder my attention was a little distracted; but I tried to remember where I was, and to join in the prayers and psalms with all my heart. The psalm happened to be the one hundred and seventh, and I never hear it in church to this day without having the whole scene brought vividly before me, making me, as it were, smell the very air of that little gray church, with its queer, dusty, mouldy odour mingled with fresh, sweet air from outside, and the perfume of otto of rose which was diffused from Mrs. Angelica's dress and handkerchief.

I cannot tell anything about the sermon, for, to my great shame and confusion afterward, I fell sound asleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Deborah roused me to go home. I had never slept in church in my life before. I suppose the air and my fatigue made me sleepy. Nobody found any fault with me for it, and Mrs. Deborah said it was "only natural."

That evening I walked in the park and to the church-yard with Mr. Wyndham, and we had a long, confidential conversation. He informed me that he meant to leave me with Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica till he should hear from my parents, to whom he should at once send word of my safety, or till a suitable opportunity offered for sending me home. He asked me if I thought I could content myself with his sisters.

"They are very kind ladies, though they have their little ways," said he, "as most of us have, for that matter. Deborah especially is a wise and reasonable woman, and able to teach you many things."

"I am sure they are very good, and so is everybody," said I, in rather a quivering tone; "but oh, Mr. Wyndham, I do want to go home so."

"And so you shall, my dear, if your heart is set upon it; but, Olivia, you know your aunt would have remained abroad for six months, at any rate, for the benefit of your education. Now, cannot you content yourself as long as that? I promise that you shall have every advantage for continuing your music and other lessons. By that time spring will have come round again, and pleasant weather. Of course I will send you home at once—that is, as soon as I can find a safe opportunity—if you are really going to die of home-sickness, like the poor Esquimaux the good captain was telling us of; but I think you are too sensible for that. And when you do set up that famous boarding-school," he continued, smiling, "you can apply to me for a reference and testimonial."

"Oh, Mr. Wyndham!" I exclaimed, blushing scarlet I don't know why. "How did you know about my boarding-school?"

"I used to hear you and poor Elmina talking about it on ship-board. You need not blush, Olivia. I assure you I think it an excellent thing to set such a definite plan of usefulness before yourself. I advise you not to give it up, but to take every pains to fit yourself for it, and then you will be prepared for any station in life to which you may be called. But now, in view of the boarding-school, don't you think a half year with a good governess would be a help to your plan?"

"I suppose it would," said I, feeling very much pleased at having my favourite scheme approved by one for whose judgment I had so much respect. "Mr. Wyndham," I added, after minute's silence, "I don't think I ever could leave my father and mother and my own country for good; but as for the rest, I will do just as you tell me in everything, and I will try to please Mrs. Deborah and Mrs. Angelica; only I hope Mrs. Angelica won't want me to take medicine all the time," I added, remembering the camphor julep.

"Deborah will attend to that," said Mr. Wyndham. "My dear Olivia, you speak very sensibly, and justify the good opinion I had of you."

##