CHAPTER XXVIII.

"GOOD-BYE."

THOSE last weeks flew quickly by. But before the end of them, Nellie had wonderfully cheered up; for she had been obliged to confess to herself that she had latterly felt strangely dull. However, as Walter's face brightened, so the weight passed away from her heart.

The new baby was a great interest to all, and kept them well employed in working to provide it with a wardrobe.

Arthur said it was hard that he should not be able to contribute; for, having spent all his available pocket-money at South Bay, he had nothing left. His mother, however, often had a remedy for the small evils of life, and she asked him if he could not think of anything to make, which he could sell, and afterwards spend the money for the baby. He sat a very long time silent; and his mother did not help him while he could help himself. At last he looked up, "Do you think I could make a blotting portfolio, something like those we did at South Bay?"

"Yes," answered his mother; "or needle-books made in the same way, only very neatly, are pretty; or you might make a scrap-book on coloured calico, and paint the pictures nicely for some nursery."

"Nobody would buy that," said Arthur.

"Indeed I think they would, but whichever you like best, dear; or you can do fretwork."

"So I can; that's the best thought, because I can make something really pretty, and it would be sure to sell."

So Arthur made a fretwork book-stand, and after some little trouble and inquiry found a purchaser in his grandmamma, who happened to be visiting London at the time. He received four shillings; and when it was safely in his hand, he felt very proud and happy.

"Now to spend it!" he exclaimed. "Who will go with me to see about the things?"

Ada, who had now returned from Hampstead, willingly proposed to help him; and after a little consultation with their mother, the two set forth. They made their way to the shop mentioned by Mrs. Arundel; and Ada rather bashfully asked to see some warm stuff suitable for a baby's pelisse.

The shopkeeper knew the children, and guessed it was for some charitable object. "Is it for your own baby brother?" he asked prudently.

"No; it is for a poor little girl who has been left an orphan."

"Well," said he pleasantly, "I have something very nice here—a remnant—how much were you to spend?"

"Three shillings, and a shilling for some narrow velvet," said Arthur; "I'm afraid it will not buy anything very nice."

"I should be pleased to let you have this remnant for that money, for a little orphan," he answered, "if you will allow me to help to that small extent. And do you think a couple of yards of flannel would be acceptable?"

So the children returned home delighted with their parcel, and unfolded before their mother's appreciating eyes sufficient warm, soft, grey french merino to make a beautiful winter pelisse, displaying also the nice piece of flannel which would be so useful too.

"How very kind of Mr. Thorne!" she said.

That evening, while Arthur read to them, Ada and Mrs. Arundel proceeded to cut it out, and all hands set to work to get it made. It was to be very plain—"none of your grand furbelows," Arthur had said, and Mrs. Arundel's taste said the same; the little motherless babe should be very quietly dressed.

In two days, the busy fingers had finished it. "Ada will be quite a seamstress," said her mamma; "I never thought she would be so industrious."

Arthur and Ada went together to Sunnyside to see it put on the baby. Two weeks of good air and plenty of food had already told upon the little creature, and in its clean clothes and comfortable surroundings, it looked its best when introduced for the first time to Arthur.

Christina was delighted with the pelisse, said it was the thing of all others she wanted, "for baby has not been beyond the garden yet; as I was rather ashamed of its shawl, and all the pelisses I could see were either so common or else so splendid that I would not buy one; but this is perfection!"

October was slipping away all too fast; and much as some of the little party wished to defer it, the very last day of Walter's stay in England at length arrived.

Christina had come to No. 8 to spend it with them there; and she and Walter had been for a long walk in Regent's Park. In the evening they all gathered in the drawing room, and talked over the many new interests of the last three months.

"Your text has borne fruit, dear Walter," said his stepmother, while her hand rested lovingly in little Tom's.

"It has indeed, thank God," he answered; "though I was but watering the seed you and my father have been sowing for so many years."

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel thoughtfully; "so that 'he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together.'"

"I have only one word of caution to say to you all, dears," he said, "Christina and I have been thinking of it a great deal this afternoon. Remember that whatever work we do outside our homes is as nothing compared to the work inside. If we were to be ever so busy at work, but be cross, or fretful, or disobedient at home, it could not be accepted by Him who says it is the heart He wants: 'I dwell with him who is of humble and contrite heart, and who trembleth at my word.'"

"But you do not think, Walter, it has made us cross," said Ada, looking up.

"No, dear, indeed; but there is a tendency in all of us to neglect our own souls, especially when we are busy in work for God. Never let anything hinder you all from reading your Bibles and spending a little time with God every day. It would be as foolish for us to think of going to our daily tasks without it, as it would be of a young man to attempt to climb a mountain without his breakfast."

"We will try not to forget," said Arthur.

"There is the clock striking nine, and we agreed to say good-bye then," said Walter; "and afterwards I must take Christina home. Nellie, I shall see you to-morrow before I start at five."

The farewells were spoken hurriedly now; and Walter only seemed to hear his father's words, "My son, I bless God for the day you came home."

When he parted from Christina at her own door an hour later, he said, "How I wish it were 'taking you home' instead of parting from you. But one thing, dear, I do feel, and that is my only comfort, you are safe in more tender, more protecting, more wise, and more loving care than even mine could be. Good-bye till—"

"Till God brings you home again, dear Walter."

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