CHAPTER III.

DORA GROWS METHODICAL.

IT was decided that with turning and a little alteration the dress would do very nicely for the Pafford's party. And as soon as tea was over, Dora, Katie, and Olive, who was very proud to help, set about taking out the seams. Before the unripping was finished, Robert returned. He did not seem in a very talkative mood, and glancing up presently from the little sock she was darning, his mother was struck by the weary look on his face.

"You seem tired, dear," she said. "What have you been doing all day?"

"Oh, lots of things," he replied, as he hastily took up a book and opened it. "Jack and I were out of doors the greater part of the time."

"And I could declare I saw you once," said Katie briskly—unpicking the dress was a delightful occupation—"But I knew I was mistaken because this boy who was so like you was on the ice. It couldn't have been you skating."

"No, of course it couldn't," and Robert gave a short laugh. But behind his book, his face, which had been crimson a moment before, suddenly grew pale. He gave a sigh of relief as he heard Giles ask for an explanation of a passage in the story he was reading. In a few minutes he rose, and saying he was "tired out," asked his mother to excuse him and let him go to bed.

Poor Robert! He carried a heavy heart with him upstairs, because for the first time since he had understood the sin that is committed in giving utterance to a lie, he had sullied his lips with a falsehood.

The dress was unpicked at last, and a note sent to the dressmaker who often worked at 99, Madeira Street, to beg her to come to superintend the re-making of the white serge as soon as possible. Then, when Katie had taken her departure to bed, Dora put herself in her favourite attitude on the hearthrug, and with her elbow on her mother's knee, said,—

"Now, please, let us have our talk together. I have a pencil and note-book, and I mean to write down all the duties you are going to give me to do."

[Illustration: "NOW, PLEASE, LET US HAVE OUR TALK TOGETHER."]

"Again I ask you not to be too eager, Dora," said Mrs. Grainger. "Those who start too hurriedly in the race are apt to come in last."

"Yes, I know, but I am so anxious to have things settled. As soon as the holidays are over, and that will be at the end of the week, will you let me take your place in the schoolroom and teach the children without any help from you?"

"You would find that no light task, dear."

"I am sure I could do it," said Dora. "I am quite aware Giles is often trying to one's patience. He asks the why and the wherefore of everything, and it is not always easy to explain. And then Lottie frequently loses her temper. But I am certain I could manage them and teach them into the bargain."

"I cannot have you neglect your own studies, and you must keep up your music and French. You know, dear, you are very young to have left school, and you must try to carry on your education for a while alone, or with such little help as Edgar or I can give you. I hope you will some day have the advantage of more lessons."

"Of course I must study, but I shall have plenty of time for everything," said Dora. "Now see here," and she began to use her pencil. "From half-past nine till twelve I shall teach the children. Then I shall take them out for a walk till one. After that, lessons again from half-past two till four."

"That leaves you very little time for yourself."

"I can practise from four till five," went on Dora. "Then in the evening I can have half an hour for French, and an hour for other things, and after that, help you with the mending. There, mother, shall I not be your right hand if I do all that?"

"Indeed, my Dora, if you do half, you will relieve me of much," and Mrs. Grainger stroked back the soft curly hair from the girl's forehead. "I shall indeed be thankful," she continued, "if this should prove a new starting-point in your life. It has seemed to me that my daughter was getting a habit of dreaming of what might be, instead of acting in the what is. Now I think she is going the right way to work to cure that defect in her character."

"Yes, I know that is a fault of mine," and tears sprang to Dora's eyes, "but I will try to struggle against it, and not only dream, but do. Perhaps writing stories isn't a good thing for me. I won't write any more for a whole year."

"It will do you no harm to indulge in your favourite pursuit, if you do it in moderation," said her mother, smiling. "Only you must not let it interfere with more important occupations. I do not think it improbable that some day your desire will be fulfilled, and that you will find yourself a recognised authoress."

"Oh! Do you?" And Dora's face grew rosy red, and her eyes glistened through the tears that had gathered in them.

"You know the old precept and promise, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.' Be content that God shall direct your life and guide your steps. Then, if this desire of yours should be good for you, He will accomplish it; if not, you will still be able to say, 'It is well.' But leave all that for the future, dear child. You will be doing as true work for God now in teaching your little brothers and sisters, and helping me in my household duties, as ever you would be as a famous writer. Yet, my Dora, your power of imagination, and your love of literature, and that appreciation of loveliness in nature and art with which God has gifted you, are responsibilities not to be lightly considered."

"How do you mean, mother?" asked Dora, wonderingly.

"This, dear, that where much is given, much will be required. You often have beautiful thoughts; you are quick to recognise the deeper, hidden meanings which the lessons of nature, and of our own lives, teach us. I heard what you said to Lancie about the coat of self-sacrifice, and was struck by the truth of your remarks and the insight they displayed. In proportion to the light that has been given you, my child, so will you be expected to mould your life."

"Oh, mother, how solemn and serious a thing you make of it all!"

"Life is solemn and serious, but remember you have only to live one day, nay, one hour at a time. Do the duty which that hour brings with a whole heart and singleness of purpose, and you need not fear for the rest." Then changing her voice, Mrs. Grainger continued,—

"I am glad you have put down on paper what you intend doing. There is nothing like having fixed and settled rules, and I think you know you are naturally wanting in order and system. At the same time, I am sure it would be better if I were in the schoolroom in the afternoon. The children do nothing then except read and prepare their lessons for the next day, and so it does not matter if I leave them for a little while every now and again. I must own it has always troubled me that I was so constantly going from the room in the morning to attend to household duties. They will certainly be the gainers if you become their teacher, for with me they were often alone for an hour together."

"Oh, please give them up to me entirely," said Dora, pleadingly. "I don't want to do a little to help you; I want to do a great deal."

"Very well, dear," replied her mother, "you shall make the trial, and until you say you cannot get through all your duties properly, I shall not interfere with you. But you must not feel ashamed to tell me that you have set yourself too hard a task."

Dora made no audible answer, but in her heart arose the words—"I shall never do that. Mother doubts my powers, I see, but in a little while she will own she has misjudged me."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by Edgar's entrance. He looked very tired as he threw himself wearily down in an arm-chair.

Mrs. Grainger went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"For your sake I shall be glad when Mr. Barfitt has balanced his accounts, dear boy," she said, fondly. "Now you shall have a cup of cocoa, and then you must go off to bed at once. You were awake at half-past four this morning, and that left you a very short night's rest."

"I suppose that is the reason why I feel so tired," he replied with a sigh. "But you know I am very glad to go to Mr. Barfitt in the evening, and it's really very good of him to have me. He must find me a very different accountant from father. Need you go to make the cocoa, mother?"

Edgar would have liked to keep her soft warm hand in his, and she knew it. But the little maid had gone to bed, and Dora, sitting on the hearthrug, was gazing fixedly at the clear, red-hot coal. She was enjoying a reverie, and her mother would not disturb her.

"I shall not be a minute, dear. I will fetch the little kettle, and boil it here."

Dora was still in the same position when she returned, and not a word had passed between the brother and sister. But the clatter of the teacup and saucer, as Mrs. Grainger placed the tray on the table, aroused her, and the next instant she rose from the floor.

"I think I'll go to bed now, mother," she said. Then as she saw the kettle, she added, "Why didn't you ask me to fetch that for you?"

"You were busy, dear, with your own thoughts, and I did not wish to interrupt you."

Dora laughed a low, happy laugh.

"I was dreaming a dream that shall come true," she said, and having wished her mother and brother good-night, she ran lightly upstairs to her room.

But she did not undress and prepare for bed. She first of all wrapped an old shawl around her, and sat down at the little deal table on which stood her writing materials. Then she took from a drawer a sheet of manuscript paper, and with a ruler carefully ruled some lines. These formed divisions for the labours of each day in the week, and Dora then began to write the hours at which the many tasks she intended to do should begin and end.

"Mother thinks I am wanting in order and system," she said to herself with a smile, "but perhaps she will own herself just a little bit mistaken when she sees this."

Monday's work was thought over, and put down, and from early morning till late at night every minute was occupied. Tuesday was treated in the same fashion, and Wednesday was being taken into consideration, when there came a soft tap at her door. It was so soft that she did not hear it.

But on a repetition she said "Come in," and glancing up she saw it was Robert.

"Why! I thought you'd gone to bed hours ago," she exclaimed in surprise, "and you haven't even undressed yet."

"No, there's—there's something bothering me, and I saw a light under your door, and I thought perhaps you'd let me talk to you a bit."

"Oh dear!" said Dora, with a sigh. "And I did so want to finish this while I've got everything fresh in my mind." Then she added impatiently "Is it very particular, Robert?"

He did not answer, but bending over her table asked what she was doing.

"It's a time-table," she replied. "It is settled that I am to teach Lancie, and Giles, and Olive, and Lottie. Then there are my own studies and countless other things. I shall be busy all day long. You see, Robert—"

"Yes?" he said, for Dora had stopped short.

"I am determined to fufil dear father's trust, and the more I relieve mother, the better I shall be doing it."

"And what about the promise?" Robert asked. But he did not put the question without difficulty.

"Oh! I mean to do great things this year," returned Dora, eagerly and confidently. "Mother and I have been having a lovely talk, and I shall set to work so that I may have a good account to give father. Why, Robert," as her eye for the first time fell upon his face; "you are shivering, and you look so pale. You had better go to bed, and leave me to finish this."

He moved away, but before he had reached the door, turned and came back.

"Dora," he said, in a low voice, "I wonder whether father is thinking about us all now?"

She was just in the act of dipping her pen in the ink to continue her work, but at Robert's question, she leaned back in her chair, and answered slowly,—

"Yes, I am sure he is. He is thinking—"

"Well, go on. You are dreaming again, I know that by the look in your eyes. What is he thinking about?"

"He is wondering what we are all doing, and in fancy, he sees each one of us, and can read our hearts as well. It troubles him that every minute is putting a farther distance between him and us, but he has no fear that separation will weaken our love for him. He knows, indeed, that we shall only love him more, and strive to show that we do. And as he remembers this, the sorrowful expression leaves his face, and raising his eyes, he whispers softly, 'God bless and keep them all!'"

In imagination Dora saw her father standing on the deck of a ship. Around him was a wide vast expanse of ocean, and the silent silvery stars looked calmly down from the deep blue sky above. So distinct was the vision that she seemed to hear the throb of the engine, and the rush of water as the vessel ploughed her rapid way through the sea.

And thus it was she did not perceive that tears were running down Robert's cheeks, nor that he had great difficulty in choking down his sobs. She only knew that a moment after she ceased speaking, he left the room.

And then accompanying the words, "Now I really must get this finished," with a little shake of her body, as if to detach herself from the scene she had conjured up, she once more concentrated her thoughts on the time-table before her.

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