CHAPTER VIII.

DORA RECEIVES A CHEQUE.

BUT many days passed before Robert was able to come downstairs. The long time he had sat in his wet clothes had given him a severe chill, which, combined with the great nervous shock he had experienced, brought on a low fever. He required constant attention and nursing, and the unceasing care with which he was tended would have touched a harder heart than his.

"Oh, mother," he would say, "what a trouble and expense I am to you. This is a nice way, truly, of fulfilling the trust father left me."

"It is not too late yet, Robert, to prove that you have endeavoured to live up to the high standard he put before you," would be the gentle reply. "Your duty now is to do your best to get well as quickly as possible, and the less you worry and distress yourself, the sooner it will come to pass."

During the fortnight he spent in bed, Robert learnt that the hardest thing in the world is to be patient, and bear weakness and suffering without complaint. But he did try to let his weariness and restlessness have as little outward expression as possible.

This common bond of suffering drew him and Lancie very near together. Robert had had no illness since he was a baby, and for the first time he gained some true idea of what the little cripple's ill-health and feeble body entailed upon him.

And now Lancie, to his great joy, found himself able to render active service. For about a fortnight Robert was extremely weak, and Lancie delighted in waiting on him and being hands and feet to his sick brother. As soon, too, as he was well enough to care for the amusement, he read aloud to him, and many hours that would otherwise have passed heavily and wearily were made pleasant and bright by Lancie's loving anxiety to do "what he could."

Nor was Robert forgotten by those outside his home circle. Mrs. Armstrong was especially kind. During the first days of his illness it was necessary for somebody to sit up with him at night, and she had shared these nights of watching with his mother. Then as he began to get better, many a little dainty to tempt his appetite did she bring in her basket to 99, Madeira Street.

But, perhaps, of all who came to the house to inquire for the invalid, Jack paid the most frequent visits. He himself had felt too poorly to do much on the day following the accident; he had got up late, and, by his own request, gone to bed early. But on the Monday he was well enough to go to school, and on his way he looked out anxiously for Robert.

No Robert, however, did he see, and when at half-past twelve the boys were dismissed, he determined to ask the head master, Mr. Bullen, if he knew the reason of his friend's absence. In reply he was told that Mrs. Grainger had written saying her son was seriously ill, and though she did not think the fever would end fatally, yet it might be several weeks before he would again be able in attend school.

The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger came to him.

She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into mischief again.

And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good, Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big baby," as he told Robert afterwards.

He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.

Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a long and lasting effect.

It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his repentance was sincere.

"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when are you going to write to father again?"

"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when you are all in bed."

"Does he know I have been ill?"

"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really doubted your recovery."

"But, mother, he ought to know what made me ill, and how, if I had been obedient, I should never have gone to Hendon that day. Will you please tell him everything. I shall feel happier then."

"Won't you wait till you can tell him yourself."

"No, I want him to know as soon as possible, and I'm not strong enough yet, for much scribbling. But please, I'll put a few words into your letter. I'll write them now, if you'll bring me a piece of paper and a pencil."

She brought what he required to "Lancie's sofa," where he was now lying, and in a few minutes, he handed her a tiny note. It ran as follows:—

"DEAR FATHER,—I have asked mother to tell you all. I had been on the ice that day when I promised you I would be obedient and dutiful, and I let you go away thinking I was truthful and honest. Mother has forgiven me. Can you?

"Your sorrowful boy,

"Robert."

After this his mind seemed more at ease, a certain restlessness that had beset him vanished, and his recovery was much more rapid.

His last day at home was marked by an event that was memorable to all, and especially to Dora. She was practising in the drawing room after tea when Mary brought her a letter. The envelope was very business-looking, the handwriting decidedly masculine, and she broke the seal wondering who could have sent her such an epistle.

Apparently the contents were slightly mystifying, for, having glanced at the first two or three lines, her lips tightened, a half-eager, half-doubtful expression came into her eyes, and, with a low, breathless, "It can't be true," she began again.

This time she read steadily to the end. Then she started up with an energy that threw the music stool to the ground, crossed the hall at a bound, and the next instant was in the sitting room, where the whole family was gathered.

"Mother! Mother!" she exclaimed, as she waved a piece of paper above her head, "What do you think has happened?"

"If I know I couldn't say, for you are nearly stiffing me," replied Mrs. Grainger, laughing.

At that Dora released her mother from the close clasp of her arms, and, darting across to Lancie—he, not Robert, was on the sofa this evening—gave him a similar embrace, crying—"Oh, Lancie! Who would have thought it? You shall have—yes, I think I may promise you at least a dozen rides in a bath chair. And mother shall have the prettiest, bonniest cap I can find, and I'll buy that little fluffy toy rabbit that Phil saw in a shop yesterday, and cried because he couldn't have it. And I'll write, oh! I'll write heaps of stories, and who knows whether I mayn't have made a fortune before I die?"

Incoherent as her speech was, it gave her mother some idea of the truth.

"You have been writing a story and received that cheque in your hand for payment?" she asked. "My child, I can hardly believe it possible."

"That's not a bad guess, mother mine, but it isn't quite exact." And Dora, who was now somewhat quieted, sat down in front of the fire and took Phil on her knee. "I wouldn't tell you before," she went on, "because I never really thought anything would come of it. But when we all went to Mrs. Armstrong's to tea, she told me of some prizes that were offered for original stories, and showed me the notice in a magazine. Then I thought, 'Why shouldn't I try?' for there was a guinea prize offered for the best tale written by girls of from fourteen to sixteen. I had not very long to do it in, but I got up early and sat up late, and so managed to get it off in time. That's more than six weeks ago, and I had almost forgotten—"

"And you have got the prize?" interrupted Lancie, with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes. "I knew it. Oh, Dora, how proud we all are of you!"

And then Dora did what she afterwards called "a very silly thing." She buried her face on Lancie's shoulder and burst into a fit of weeping. It was not until Phil began to cry for sympathy that she was able to stay her tears, and tell them brokenly "they mustn't take any notice of her. She couldn't help it, for she was just so happy she did not know what she was doing."

Surely very few guineas have given greater pleasure than did that which Dora received as a reward for her story. So many plans were discussed for its expenditure that Mrs. Grainger, thinking it would save much after disappointment, said not half Dora's promises could be carried out.

This remark cast a temporary cloud over Olive and Lottie's faces; they soon cleared again, however, and both little girls declared Lancie should not be robbed of one of his dozen rides, and that they would be content with their fair share of the "lovely plum cake" which Dora declared should celebrate the memorable event.

After that it was impossible for the happy winner of the prize to settle down to her usual evening occupations. The best part for her, she said, was yet to come; for though she was glad enough of the money, it would afford her infinitely more pleasure to see her story in print. The editor had told her it would be published in the next month's number, and there were joyful anticipations of its appearance, and much talk of father's astonishment and delight when he should see it, for it was agreed that the circumstance should be kept a secret until the story could be sent out to him in the magazine.

So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it happened that she and her mother were the last up.

"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.

"Yes, dear."

"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I should break down!"

"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I have feared the strain is getting too much for you."

"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."

"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."

"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a writer than ever you will be as a musician."

"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger. "To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others, and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire, Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that first night of your father's absence?"

The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her meaning clear.

"Mother, I had forgotten. Oh, if I had only made it easy for Robert to tell me, instead of making him feel it was impossible to say a word. But you do know how sorry I have been, don't you?"

There were tears in her eyes again now, and this time they were not tears of happiness.

"I do, dear," and her mother took her hand, and stroked it fondly; "but there is the danger that you will be so wrapped up in striving to do great things, that opportunities for little acts of kindness will pass unnoticed. It is 'he that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much;' not, he that is faithful in much is also faithful in the least."

After all it was with a grave face that Dora went up to bed that night.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]