CHAPTER II.

The Twins.

"ANYTHING the matter down in the lower regions, my dear? You look annoyed," said the mild, placid little husband of Mrs. Mellor, as his lady entered the drawing-room in which he was resting himself after his walk.

"Oh! We've had a tempest in a teapot!" replied Mrs. Mellor. "Miriam is in one of her tempers."

"I thought that I heard loud voices as I came into the house," said the quiet, easy-going master, as he laid down on the table a new magazine which he had been reading as he walked.

The attention of Mrs. Mellor was attracted by the shine of the paper cutter which was placed between the leaves as a marker.

"Why, there's the very silver knife which has caused all this storm!" cried the lady. "I never dreamed of your having taken it out of the room."

"I wanted it to cut the leaves of my book. Is any harm done?" asked her husband.

"I'm afraid that that paper knife has lost me one of the most honest, most industrious, most steady girls that I ever had in my service," replied Mrs. Mellor, who was really vexed at what had occurred. "However, it may not be too late to set matters right," she added; and after hastily ringing the bell, she quitted the room.

The loud voices which her husband had heard from the kitchen were sounding louder than ever. Mrs. Mellor had rung the bell rather sharply, but it was not till she had more than once called out the name of Miriam, that Miriam appeared up the kitchen stairs.

"Miriam, the paper knife is found; your master had it," said the lady in a mild voice, intended to soothe the feelings of the maid. "All is right now, all is cleared up; I've no wish that you and I should part because Caroline made a mistake."

"All's not right," said Miriam with petulance; "hurt feelings can't be plaistered up with a word. I can't stop in this house with Caroline. I'm going to tell my brother, ma'am, that I've given you warning."

And the ill-tempered girl, turning her back on her mistress, hurried upstairs to put on her bonnet and shawl.

"What a sad pity it is that Miriam, a good girl in other respects, lets herself be so conquered by her temper," thought Mrs. Mellor, as, with just displeasure, she returned to the sitting-room in which she had left her husband.

The lady would have thought it sadder still, had Miriam been long enough in her service for her to have known all the noble qualities possessed by this ill-tempered girl. Miriam had as high a sense of honour as could have been hers had she been born and bred a lady. Her lips were never stained with untruth, she never did a mean or deceitful thing. Had Miriam found the door of her mistress's store-room open, there would not have been in it one spoonful of tea or one lump of sugar the less. Had Miriam discovered the contents of a purse scattered over the carpet, Mrs. Mellor's gold would have been as safe in Miriam's care as if locked up in an iron box. There was no wretched purloining of trifles, no picking or stealing with Miriam; her conduct was as upright when no mortal was near to watch it, as if she had known that her actions were witnessed by all the world.

For Miriam Macbean lived in the fear and love of God. Religion with her was no empty name. With all the straightforward earnestness of her nature, she had given herself to the service of her Heavenly Master. When, at her confirmation, in answer to the question whether she would take upon herself the vow made for her at her baptism, she had uttered the solemn words "I Do," that answer came from the bottom of her heart, and with a fervent prayer that God would help her to keep her vow. Miriam had never forgotten that day, and had often repeated that prayer.

And Miriam was not only of a conscientious spirit, she had a warm affectionate heart. She and her twin brother Hamil had at an early age been left orphans, and almost alone in the world. Never, perhaps, had brother and sister loved each other more fondly than did the young Macbeans. Often would Miriam recall the days of her childhood, when the twins lived in a country home. There was a brook which flowed near the cottage in which they had dwelt, and often, when fording this brook, Hamil would carry Miriam with tottering footsteps across the water, to save her from wetting her feet. The boy, who was strong and hearty, would never allow that the weight of his dear little sister could tire him.

A slight incident which had occurred when the children were scarcely ten years of age, had shown how warmly Miriam returned the affection of her twin brother. Hamil, when searching a hedge for blackberries, had chanced to be bitten by a viper. The boy's cry of terror and pain had brought Miriam in alarm to his side. Child as she was, her little foot was in an instant stamped upon the head of the snake that had wounded her brother; her love seemed to take away fear, and catching up a large stone, she actually succeeded in killing the reptile.

Then, seeing the small mark of the serpent's bite in Hamil's bleeding hand, the brave child, without a moment's hesitation, drew it to her lips, and with all her might proceeded, as she said, "to suck out the poison."

A farmer who happened to be not far from the spot, and who had seen what had happened, came up just as Miriam, panting and excited when all the danger was over, was embracing her young brother with a violent burst of tears.

"Well done, my brave little maiden!" exclaimed the farmer, clapping her on the shoulder. "But you did not stop to think that you might have been sucking poison in while trying to suck it out."

"It didn't need thinking!" cried the child through her tears. "I'd much rather have lost my life than my brother!"

Happily neither of the children suffered from the effects of the venom; but Hamil never forgot the proof of affection given to him by his sister.

The tie which united the hearts of the twins did not become weaker by the lapse of years, and parting was a sore trial to both when Miriam entered her first place, and Hamil enlisted as a soldier.

Most of the young maid's spare moments were given to writing to her absent brother, and when he was on his campaign in Abyssinia, a letter with the African post-mark on it, filled her with keen delight. The letter would be read over and over again, and then hoarded amongst her treasures.

When victory crowned the British arms, when Magdala fell, Miriam was as proud of her hero brother as if the whole success of the war had depended on the prowess of his single arm. She was almost wild with joy when she heard that Hamill was ordered home, and that, after their painful separation, she should see her twin brother once more.

Great joys and great sorrows are often closely linked together; sometimes when we are feeling for the sweet ripe fruit, we unexpectedly find the serpent. Miriam had some difficulty in getting leave to go and see her brother, who was stationed for a short time at Greenwich after his arrival from Abyssinia. Miriam's impatience was so great that she almost threw up her place, because she had to wait for two or three days before obtaining this leave.

At last, with a heart bounding with joy, Miriam set out on her little journey in company with Mrs. Smith, a soldier's wife, who was going to her husband at Woolwich. Fast went the train, but not fast enough to suit the impatience of Miriam. Short was the journey, but to the eager girl every mile seemed to swell into ten.

Woolwich was reached, and Miriam with her companion was soon hurrying up one of the streets.

"How fast you walk, my dear," observed Mrs. Smith with a smile; "you must remember that I'm not quite so young as you are. I'll get my husband to find out your brother and bring him to our meeting-place at the baker's; for, eager as you are, I suppose that you'll hardly rush right into the barracks to see him."

Miriam laughed—how merry and blithe was her laugh—and slackened her pace a little.

As they turned the corner of a street, Mrs. Smith spoke again, but in a lower tone, to her young companion.

"We had better cross over to the other side of the road; don't you see that soldier in front of us can't walk straight, I'm sure that the fellow is drunk."

Miriam did not appear to have heard what was said, and when Mrs. Smith put her hand upon the girl's arm to draw her across the road, to her surprise she felt that the arm was nervously trembling! Looking into Miriam's face, Mrs. Smith saw that she had suddenly turned very pale, and that her eyes were fixed with intense emotion upon the form of the soldier in front, though his back was turned towards them.

"Come, I say, he's in liquor," repeated Mrs. Smith in a whisper, "let's go to the other side of the way."

At that moment the soldier chanced to turn round: it had not been needful for Miriam to see that face—that flushed face: she had already recognised her darling brother in the half-intoxicated man whom her companion had been afraid to pass!

Hamil was not so far gone in drinking as not to recognise Miriam; the sudden meeting half-sobered him, and he gave her a loud, much too loud a greeting. But the red face, the thick utterance, the unsteady gait, the noisy mirth, all cut like a knife into the heart of poor Miriam. She had never thought, till that day, that she could be ashamed of her brother.

She would have given anything that Mrs. Smith had not seen him, that he had not turned round, but gone on his way. The words, "I'm sure that he's drunk," seemed to haunt her, ringing in her ears all the rest of the day, and breaking her rest at night, after she had returned from her miserable visit to Woolwich. Wretchedness made Miriam's naturally warm temper very irritable indeed on that evening.

Caroline wondered what could have come over her, and Mrs. Mellor determined that she would not soon again give her young servant an afternoon's leave.

After a sleepless, wretched night, poor Miriam rose before daybreak, and wrote a letter to her brother. A very touching letter it was, and blotted with her tears. There was not a word of reproach in it, but much sorrow and more love, and gentle tender counsel, such as a pious mother might have given to her son. No stranger who might have chanced to see "Miriam in one of her tempers," would have believed that that girl with flashing dark eyes and unbridled tongue could ever have written such a letter.

With sickening suspense Miriam awaited her brother's reply. At that time her soul was almost constantly wrestling in prayer. Whether she were employed in dusting the room, or preparing the meal by the kitchen fire, or at the wash-tub, Miriam was silently lifting up her heart in an agony of entreaty for her twin brother.

The answer to her letter came before long. Miriam's heart was in a flutter as she tore the envelope open, then she could scarcely read the lines before her, because of the thankful tears which flowed before she had read the letter half through. Hamil was quite as much ashamed of his conduct as his sister had been, and the young soldier had the manliness to own it. He had been led away by evil company, he had not had the strength to resist the temptations which beset a man in barracks, but he promised to struggle against what he confessed to be his besetting weakness, a taste for ardent spirits. Hamil asked his sister to pray for him; he would, he wrote, follow her good advice, and "watch and pray" for himself. He trusted that he would never again give his darling Miriam cause to blush for her brother.

A great weight was lifted from the heart of Miriam; Hamil seemed dearer than ever. Again the sister could go on her way rejoicing in hope. To Miriam's great satisfaction, Hamil was soon afterwards removed to barracks in London.

Though her brother was now so much nearer to her, Miriam was but seldom able to see him. She was too upright a girl to spend on her own gratification without leave, the time which belonged to her mistress. Miriam was by far too honest and conscientious to entertain even a brother without her employer's knowledge, and still less at her employer's expense. Miriam was a Christian girl, and in this behaved like a Christian. An occasional meeting with Hamil on a Sunday afternoon, when they would walk to church together, was all that the sister could venture to expect, but this was enough to make her whole life brighter. Miriam looked forward through all the week to her happy hour upon Sunday.

Matters had thus gone on quietly for some little time, when the unfortunate affair of the silver knife occasioned the scene related in the first chapter. From childhood, Miriam had had a hot impatient temper, and though she had often regretted it, she had never striven against it with all her heart and soul, as against an enemy that was drawing her into serious sin. It was natural to her, Miriam would say, and this wretched excuse served in some measure to quiet her conscience.

Miriam saw other people selfish and mean, dishonest and untruthful; she knew that her fellow-servant's standard of duty was very much lower than her own. Miriam did not realise that she, with all her scrupulous honesty and piety, was bringing disgrace on her religion by a temper quite unworthy of a follower of Him who was meek and lowly; nay, that her conduct was actually a stumbling-block in the way of Caroline, who almost dreaded and disliked, while she could not help in most things respecting her.

"It's all very fine Miriam's pretending to be better than other folk!" exclaimed Caroline, when Miriam, as has been related, left the kitchen to obey her mistress's call. "But her praying, her Bible-reading, and church-going, don't prevent her from flying out like a fury. I wouldn't have her temper for the world! For all her strict notions, I take it that I'm as much of a Christian as she!"