CHAPTER IX.

ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD.

TIME passed quietly on until Easter, which brought a fortnight's holiday. It came late that year. The weather was warm and fine, and the children enjoyed the rest they had honestly earned; for, under their sister's charge, they had worked well and made marked progress.

But though Dora needed the rest far more than her pupils, she would not take it. She had received an unexpected present of half a sovereign from a relation. This would just pay the fee of an examination she was anxious to pass; and she resolved to "study up and go in for it." In vain her mother begged her to give herself more time for preparation. Dora had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.

Edgar had a much shorter holiday than his brothers and sisters. He had, however, both Easter Monday and Tuesday, and a fellow clerk having invited him to spend the time at his home in Hampshire, he went down with him on the Saturday afternoon and returned late on the following Tuesday. He came back full of pleasant recollections of his visit to the old-fashioned, comfortable farmhouse, where he had been so kindly and hospitably entertained.

His mother fearing that his work the next day in the close, noisy city would prove more irksome than usual, and that he might find the house quiet when he came in, purposely gave the children their tea early and sent them for a walk under Mary's care. But he looked so cheerful and bright that she knew at once he was neither weary nor depressed.

"Where's Giles?" were his first words.

"In the schoolroom, working away at the Latin exercise he intends asking you to correct presently," replied Mrs. Grainger. "The little ones have gone out with Mary. Sit down, dear, and take your tea."

Instead of obeying her, he put his arm round her shoulder, and, bending down over her, said,—

"There's no need to bother about Dr. Fowler's bill, mother dear. I've got a rise in my salary."

He received the sympathy he wanted, as he knew he should. After all he had found many compensations for the work that was so uncongenial to him.

"The tea must get cold to-night," he continued. "I must have a word or two with Giles before I do anything."

With that he went to the schoolroom, where he was welcomed with a very bright smile.

"You haven't had tea already, have you?" Giles asked.

"No, not yet."

"Will you help me a bit afterwards?"

"Of course I will. Exercise 40? Why, you're getting on famously. How surprised Mr. Millen will be when you go back the week after next!"

For a moment Giles made no answer. When he looked up, his lip was quivering. He rarely showed any deep outward sign of emotion, and until now Edgar had never really known how deep a grief it was to him to be obliged to get his education at home.

"Don't tease a fellow," he said, trying hard to smile and speak bravely. "But when I go back, they'll find I haven't wasted my time."

"I'm not teasing; I mean it," said Edgar. "I'm to have more money from now, and to-day Mr. Darby—that's the head man in the firm, you know—gave me a sovereign because I had had the ordinary sense to see a blunder somebody had made in the books. We'll borrow the rest of mother until I get my next month's salary then I'll pay her back. And we'll ask her to write to Mr. Millen this very evening, send him the fee for the next term, and tell him to expect you after the holidays."

As Edgar went on talking, Giles' face became radiant. Now it suddenly grow serious.

"But are you sure you don't want anything yourself?" he asked. "You said the other night you wished you had a book on medicine. I forget the name of it. Couldn't you buy it with this sovereign?"

"Perhaps I might," replied Edgar, lightly, "but getting it for myself wouldn't give me half so much pleasure as sanding you to school. Besides," he continued, more gravely, "I daresay I shall get the book after a while. I am beginning to believe in that old saying, 'All things come round to him who will but wait.' Do you know who put that belief into me in the first instance?"

Giles shook his head.

"You did yourself. I have an inward conviction that some day my longing will be realised, and that I shall be a doctor. I know it seems all but impossible, but I have the faith, and that makes all the difference in the world. You see I owe a great deal to you, Giles."

A few more words passed between them, and then Edgar went back to his mother and his tea. He left Giles very happy, but with a quiet kind of happiness. In Dora's unexpected joy, she had not known how to keep herself still, but Giles sat with only a slight smile on his face. Then a grave, studious expression stole over his features, and with doubled application, he went on with his exercise.

Katie, comparatively speaking, spent very little of her holiday at home. The Paffords had decided to change their abode, and on Tuesday in Easter week began their removal. Katie, who was very good-natured, offered her services, and as her training had made her extremely useful and quick, she gave considerable help. Indeed, Connie took more help from her than was just or right. She had been told she must pack all her own possessions in her room, and, finding Katie willing to pack, fetch, and carry, she merely directed, and her friend did her utmost to obey her wishes.

By the end of the holidays the Paffords were tolerably settled in their new home, and Katie was filled with envy at the large, freshly-painted apartments and handsome furniture. Above all, she longed to possess a similar room to Connie's. With its pretty maple-wood suite, and its dainty curtains and toilet arrangements, it presented an unpleasing contrast to the barely furnished, almost carpetless room which she shared with Olive and Lottie.

Connie had often talked of a grand party her parents meant to give as a house-warming, and as several young people were to be invited, Katie naturally looked forward to being one of the guests. The party, however, was postponed until the beginning of June, and Connie had told her that a marquee would be erected on the lawn, which, decorated with flowers and Chinese lanterns, would serve for a supper-room.

But Katie received no invitation, and as the time drew near she wondered whether she had not better give Connie a hint that she had forgotten to say she would be expected, when a conversation she overheard explained the omission. Poor Katie! It was a hard lesson she learnt that morning.

The room in which Miss Loam's pupils hung their hats and jackets was separated into two divisions by a curtain, one being used by the elder, and the other by the younger girls. Now Katie had been asked if she would kindly see to the dressing of two little sisters, and on this particular day she was attending to this duty when she heard Connie's voice on the other side of the curtain.

It was the mention of her own name that first attracted her attention. Of course she should have made her presence known, but she was so astonished, hurt, and indignant at what she heard, that it never once entered her mind she ought to warn her schoolfellows that she was within earshot. So, with burning cheeks and great anger at her heart, she bent over little Nita Westmacott's shoe as she buttoned it, listening to what was said of her.

[Illustration: SHE BENT OVER LITTLE NITA'S SHOE.]

"Aren't you going to invite Katie Grainger?" asked Ethel Wilson, the girl to whom Connie was talking.

"No," was the reply. "It's a great nuisance, because she really has been very useful to us. They're awfully poor, you know, and so I suppose she's used to doing a servant's work. Mamma says she shall make her a present some day as a return. But we can't ask her to our party. Sir Edwin Osmond's two nieces are coming, and lots of swell people, and we can't have them see anybody at our house in such a shabby, old-fashioned dress as Katie would be sure to wear."

"But she has been to your parties, hasn't she?"

"She came to one in the winter, and I never saw such a dress as she wore in all my life. It looked as if it was made in Noah's Ark. And she couldn't dance—had never learnt, she said; and she actually came without gloves. I suppose she had never been to a dress party before, and didn't know they were necessary."

And Connie went off into a peal of laughter, while Katie, on the other side of the curtain, shook with anger and mortification.

"You are ready to go now. Good-bye, dears," she said in a whisper, and the two little girls trotted away, leaving her still concealed behind the curtain.

She stayed till Connie and Ethel Wilson had taken their departure; then she hastily put on her own hat and jacket, and went home with hot tears running down her cheeks. Arrived at No. 99, she went straight to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, sobbed with wounded pride and indignation.

Presently she heard cries of "Katie! Katie! Where are you, Katie?"

"I am coming," she called out, and having bathed her eyes and smoothed her hair, she stepped outside.

On the landing was Robert.

"Why, what's the matter, Katie?"

"Nothing that you'd understand," she answered a little ungraciously.

"You might give a fellow a chance of proving that," he said, a little reproachfully.

Before school life had separated them, the twins had been noted for their friendliness and good understanding. During the last three or four years, however, they had drifted apart. Now as Robert put his arm fondly round her in the way he had often done in the old days when they were little children, she felt all her heart suddenly going out to him.

"Oh, Robert," she said, "I've been such a simpleton."

"Is that all that's bothering you?" he asked. "Why, you little goose, I might have told you that myself."

It is not the words that are spoken; it is the manner in which they are said that affects us. This speech of Robert's was just the most loving one he could have given her.

"It's about Connie," said Katie, breaking into tears again. "She's mean, and horrid and nasty. She makes use of me, and then laughs at me behind my back, and sneers at me because we are poor and I wear shabby clothes. I wouldn't have believed it of her."

"It's just what one might expect of the Paffords," said Robert, quietly. "I'd give them up if I were you."

"Yes, I will," and Katie's anger blazed forth and shone in her eyes. "I'll never speak to Connie again as long as I live."

"Isn't that going a little too far? I fancy mother would say so if she heard you."

"But she doesn't deserve it; she isn't worthy to be my friend," sobbed Katie, vindictively.

"I don't want to be a prig and preach to you," and Robert blushed crimson, "but if I were you, I'd try to return good for evil. Don't put yourself in her way and court her friendship, as I'm afraid you have done. Let her know, if you like, you are quite aware why she lets you think you are one of her chums—I suppose you help her with her lessons and things, don't you?"

Katie confessed she had often made clean copies of exercises for Connie, and frequently acted as monitor in her place, staying behind the rest of the girls and seeing the schoolroom was left in order when her friend was anxious to get home early. She had, in fact, done more than she had honestly any right to do.

"H'm!" said Robert, musingly. "Well, take my advice," he continued, "and leave Miss Connie to look after her own work. But if the chance to do her a good turn should happen, show her you don't bear malice, and that you're still willing to do her a kindness. You know what I mean—heap coals of fire on her head."

Katie felt very solemn. All the anger faded from her face and some of the anger from her heart.

"But I should have to forgive her to do that," she said in a low voice.

"And can't you?"

"No."

"I think you'll have to, old girl. Mother forgave Jack, you know, for having led me into mischief. Not that I blame him," added Robert, hastily; "'twas a deal more my fault than his."

"It isn't the same kind of thing at all," said Katie, decidedly.

"I'm not so sure of that. Mother had a wrong to forgive, and so have you. The two things are alike there, at any rate. And see what a lot of good it has done Jack. Mother's beginning quite to love him, and he knows it, and it makes a different boy of him."

"I know somebody else who's a different boy," said Katie.

And then, as there was nobody there to see, and his manner was so encouraging, she put her arm round his neck and gave him what in her childish days she used to call "a bear's hug," and Robert not only submitted, but seemed quite to enjoy it.

"Katie," he said, half-shyly, "you've lost a friend to-day; suppose you make one of me instead. I think we could help each other to be—what father hoped we should try to be."

His words brought the promise she had made suddenly to her mind.

"Oh, Robert!"—and she actually gasped for breath—"I've forgotten all about that. I haven't tried yet one bit."

"It's not too late to begin, and you haven't—" he stopped a moment, then went on rapidly—"done anything awful as I have. But I know father has forgiven me. Katie, would you like to see the letter I got from him a few weeks ago? I haven't shown it to anybody yet—not even to mother; but I'd like you to read it."

Katie had no thought of herself as she went with her brother into his room and read that letter. It was full of forgiveness and loving counsel. Towards the end came the words:

"Don't think I love you less because of what has happened; I love you more. I know from what your mother has told me that you are not merely showing your repentance by words. Struggle on, dear boy, and with the help of God's Holy Spirit, which will be given in proportion as you ask, you will conquer nobly and bravely in the end."

"It's a beautiful letter," said Katie, as she handed it back to Robert, adding in a little outburst of love, "Oh? Isn't father good!"

"Yes, won't you try to be like him?"

"I can't. I—what do you mean, Robert?"

"In one way you can follow his example; you can forgive."

For a few minutes Katie looked steadily at the vision of chimney-pots that could be seen from the window. Then her eyes came back and met her brother's.

"Robert," she said, "I can do it. I feel I can do anything because you and I are going to love each other and help each other to be good."

Ah! There is nothing like love. It makes the roughest road easy; the heaviest burden light. Oh, children! Love your good heavenly Father, and love each other; for love overcometh all things, love is stronger than death, and love will lift us from earth to heaven, and set us spotless at God's right hand.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]