CHAPTER XVI.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

"I HAVE a letter here which obliges me to run up to town for a day or two," said Walter the next morning as they sat at breakfast.

He looked very disappointed, but the "ohs" that went round the table made him smile.

"What will become of our service?" said Ada.

"Yes, that quite makes me sorry; but I think I shall go directly after it to-day, and try to be down early the day after to-morrow; that is, if I can; but duty must come first you know."

So he went at one o'clock, and they all felt strangely dull without him.

That afternoon Mrs. Arundel, going upstairs for something, found Nellie in her room crying bitterly, and drew back astonished.

"My dear Nellie," she said kindly, when she saw her entrance was perceived, "is there anything the matter?"

But she only obtained sobs for her answer. Really puzzled, Mrs. Arundel stood waiting until she was quieter, and then poor Nellie began to apologise.

"It is so stupid of me," she said; "and I never thought of your coming up, mamma. But I am all right now."

"But what is it, dear Nellie? What has made you sad? You would not cry without a cause. Are you ill?"

"I am so ashamed, mamma," she said, tears falling afresh. "I am afraid I was counting too much on Walter's being here, and now he has gone!"

Mrs. Arundel sat down by her, and took her little trembling hand while she said soothingly, "It is a long lesson, dear, and hard to learn, not to prize some of God's gifts too highly; but it is one which He would have us learn without the bitter sorrow we sometimes bring upon ourselves. What if by this short separation, Nellie, He is wishing to give you a gentle reminder that you are living too entirely for Walter?"

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Nellie, deeply distressed. "Have I been? Did you think so? Have I been neglectful of other duties?"

"Not so bad as that, dear; I have thought once or twice that I ought to warn you, but then I could not bear to break in on your happiness."

Nellie hung her head and wept bitterly.

Her mamma touched her softly. "Darling, don't cry any more. Look up, Nellie. The loving Father above saw the danger before I did, and has prepared just what would make you think."

"But I shouldn't have thought, if you had not happened to come in," she answered brokenly. "I should only have pitied myself for being disappointed."

"Ah! But then He prepares all things, my dear, and sent me up just at the right time, perhaps."

With a kind and comforting kiss, she rose and left the room, only turning at the door to say cheerfully, "Lie down for an hour, Nellie, and then we will have tea, and a pleasant evening of reading."

Left alone, Nellie again burst into tears—not tears of pity for herself, but tears of repentance; for this conversation, so unexpected and so painful, had revealed to her, what she had no idea existed, the way in which all her thoughts, anticipations, and joys were bound up in Walter and Walter's hopes. She knew it was wrong; it did not take her tender conscience long to be assured of that. And as the review of her thoughts of the last fortnight passed before her, she felt deeply grieved to think how much they had been occupied with her brother, and how little with her Saviour.

So she told Him all about it; how sorry she was; how thankful that He had stopped her in time; and then the Holy Spirit whispered words of healing, and she arose, leaving the burden behind her.

"'Thy sins are forgiven thee.'"

"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.'"

The next day passed very quietly. Great was the surprise of the children on the beach to be informed there would be no service, and a good many looked really sorry.

Christina and her aunt joined the Arundels as usual on the sands, and they spent their morning in work and reading; but Walter's absence made a blank which all felt.

"Arthur, will you and Ada walk dawn to the Royal Parade and fetch me this evening?" said Nellie at dinner.

"Where are you going?" asked Arthur, opening his eyes wide.

"To Christina's to tea."

"Oh!" said Arthur.

"I wish she had asked me too," said Ada.

"Catch her!" answered Arthur, more brotherlike than polite.

Ada pouted. "What time are you going?"

"About four," said Nellie.

When she arrived at Christina's house, she was shown into the drawing room, where Miss Arbuthnot sat alone, knitting.

"I am so glad to see you, Miss Arundel," she said, kindly taking Nellie's hand, "for I owe you all a debt of gratitude."

Nellie looked up to see what she meant. "My niece has been a different creature since you came."

"I am so glad if we have done anything," said Nellie, "but I did not know we had."

"You have given her something besides her grief to think of; it has been a new interest."

"I am very glad," said Nellie again, feeling rather uncomfortable.

Miss Arbuthnot seated herself, and went on quietly, in her old-fashioned manner: "I was at a loss at first to know how to help her after her sorrow; and indeed it was impossible for any earthly help to reach her, so I was obliged to wait patiently. Now, I thank God, He has sent her just what she needed most."

"We all admire her and love her so much."

"Yes; she is a sweet girl," said Miss Arbuthnot; "I do not wonder at it."

Christina entered at this moment. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but my dog hurt his foot a little this morning, and I was just dressing it."

"Are you a good surgeon?" said Nellie.

"Oh, pretty fair! I think I should do for a lady doctor."

"Oh, no!" said Nellie, shrinking.

"Do not you like them, then? Well, I do; but let that pass now."

With one of her bright smiles she took Nellie's hand, and led her out of the room.

"When you have taken off your hat, we will have a nice talk, Nellie; for I want to consult you."

"Me?" said Nellie, blushing.

"To be sure; who better? My aunt rests between four and six o'clock, so we shall be all to ourselves."

When they re-entered the drawing room, Miss Arbuthnot was gone, and they sat down in two arm-chairs close to the open French window, and began to be "cozy."

"Do you remember giving me a little paper to read the other day?" asked Christina.

"Yes."

"Well, two or three words in that have set me thinking a great deal."

"What words?"

"That I am going to tell you presently. You know I shall not always care to live here in lodgings; it is a life I do not like, and it has cost me a great deal of thought where I should fix my home."

"You are free to choose anywhere?"

"Anywhere," answered Christina, sighing; then, checking the sigh, she added, "Where would you choose if you had all England before you?"

"Somewhere in the sweet country," said Nellie.

"I have thought of that. But there are some things which make me wish to live within easy reach of London; for one thing I want to be somewhere near all of you."

"Oh, we should be so glad!" said Nellie earnestly. "It would be the greatest pleasure."

"Can you suggest? Come, I want you to name a place."

"Would Hampstead be near enough?" asked Nellie, hesitating.

Christina paused. "I do not know much of Hampstead, except by name, and for the donkeys; is it nice?"

"Very nice; we have an aunt living there. It is such a breezy place, and has such views."

Christina smiled, and answered, "Well, supposing we say Hampstead. I will go and look at it at any rate. But I am keeping you in the dark, Nellie. The paragraph in that paper was about a lady who had gathered some little children round her, and was making them happy, when otherwise they would have been workhouse children, and it said, 'Why did not women who had no ties'—" She stopped short for a moment at that word, and her face turned very pale.

Nellie touched her hand softly.

"Yes, dear," she said, recovering herself, "no ties—'why did not they find some little outcast children, and bring them up for the Good Shepherd, and meanwhile fill their own empty hearts with joy and happiness?' I read the piece over and over. Was I meant? Was that written for me? It occurred to me that this was work I might do; and ever since the thought has been growing upon me, and has made me so happy."

Nellie was so carried away by Christina's enthusiasm, that she had not time for a thought; but now Walter's hopes flashed upon her.

"You don't agree?" asked Christina, looking slightly disappointed. "Am I too—too—not suitable?"

"Everything that is dear and lovely," said Nellie, turning scarlet. "But, dear Christina, you may be—married perhaps."

Christina's eyes turned from Nellie's glowing face to her own hands, which lay so quietly in her lap, with one ring sparkling against her black dress.

She hesitated a moment, and then said very low, "I thought you knew—or I never thought about it—Nellie, I was to have been married. This August I should have been married a year. Oh, Nellie, when I think of it, of what might have been, I can hardly bear it! He died just two months before the day fixed."

"Dear Christina," said Nellie, with full eyes, "I had no idea. I would not have said that for the world had I known."

"I am sure of that," she answered, "and I am glad for you to know."

They were silent for a moment. Nellie was trying to command herself to face the bitter disappointment which was sweeping over her like a deluge of cold water, and Christina was filled with thoughts of the past which were sweeping over her.

Nellie dared not think of Walter. She shuddered at the bare idea of his return. But she remembered his words, and with one instant's prayer for help, she again touched Christina's hand.

"I am so dreadfully sorry for you," she said in a broken voice.

Christina clasped her hand warmly, and roused herself.

"He died away from me," she said softly. "I will tell you all now, and then we need not refer to it again till I can speak of it more calmly. It was small-pox—on the Continent. There was a delay in the letters; and before my parents and I reached the place, he was gone, and all that remained to me was a new-made grave. Dear Nellie, don't cry so.

"We had a very simple stone put, on which our favourite words were engraved in three languages, that all might know that he who rested there was among the multitude that no man can number. The words were:

"'I am the Resurrection, and the Life: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.'

"He did believe, Nellie. But for that my heart would have broken."

"Did he know you were coming?" asked Nellie presently.

"Yes; he got the telegram the day he died.

"'Tell her,' he said, 'that it is only for a little while, and then we shall be for ever with the Lord.' Those were his last words."

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