CHAPTER III.

A BAPTISM.

"Jesus, bless our little one With the shining hair! We would hold our treasure safe 'Neath a Father's care."

THE quiet baptism was over, and Dr. Warner, who had been much overcome during the ordinance, had left the room, followed by the vicar.

The sponsors alone remained behind—Priscilla holding the babe in her arms, a strong gust of love towards the helpless little one filling her heart; and silently she was asking help to be faithful to the vows she had taken as regarded the upbringing of the child. So absorbed in thought had she become, that she had not observed that Miss Vernon also had left, leaving her alone with Harry Lascelles.

These two were fast friends, though the young navy doctor was ten years her senior. He was an orphan, brought up from early childhood by his maternal grandfather, the vicar of the parish, part of which was in the town of Hereford, in the suburbs of which Dr. Warner's residence, "The Grove," was situated.

Harry was a fine, open-hearted young man, with a large amount of common sense. He was a Christian in the fullest meaning of the word; and he really strove, like his divine Master, to "go about doing good."

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might," was, as the vicar loved to say, the motto of Harry's life. His bright, cheery ways made him a special favourite with all the youngsters at the Grove; and a groan of vexation was heard from the boys when it was announced that Harry Lascelles was about to start as naval doctor on a long expedition to the African coast.

He was the first to break the silence when he also discovered that Priscilla and he were left alone with the little one whom they had unitedly promised to train for God. He stepped forward and, with the freedom of an old friend, laid his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Poor Sissy!" he said (using unconsciously her mother's pet name for her). "I am so sorry to have to go and leave you all in this time of sorrow. I, too, feel as if I had lost a mother in dear Mrs. Warner, and am so glad your father has asked me to be godfather to the wee motherless babe; but the real charge, Sissy, will devolve on you. You have, indeed, a great work before you in the care of all these children, for it is to you, far more than to Miss Vernon, they will look to fill their mother's place. And such a mother! You have, indeed, a work to do which even the angels might envy!"

The girl looked up, restraining with an effort the choking sob which the sound of her pet name had evoked.

"Yes," she said half proudly, "I have a work to do, Harry; and I am determined to do it—to prove to my father that, though 'only a girl,' I can do as much as a man, ay, and more than many of them can."

The words and tone startled the young man, and he answered quietly, "I do trust, Prissy,—" (he had dropped the pet name now), "that you will indeed prove to your father that, because you are 'only a girl,' you can do a work in which the greatest of men would fail; but take care you find out what that work really is."

She gave no answer, but said abruptly, "And you go to-morrow, Harry, and may not be back for years?"

"Even so," he replied. "Don't forget me, Prissy. And one word ere I say good-bye: look lovingly after the boys. They will sorely miss their mother," and he lowered his voice as he spoke. "Make the evenings at home as cheerful as you can for Lewis."

"Why for Lewis?" she said half-angrily, for he was not her favourite brother, and she fancied that others as well as her father thought more of him than of Austin.

But ere Harry could answer her question, the door opened, and Lewis, followed by Miss Vernon, reentered.

And in a few minutes, Harry Lascelles' farewell words were spoken to all three. And imprinting a kiss on the forehead of his little, sleeping god-daughter, he said, "Of such is the kingdom of God."

Then turning to Austin, who stood near him, he said (as if in allusion to something they had talked of before), "We must all help on the kingdom of God, not only by doing great things, but also little ones." And with these words he was off, to do the work of life appointed to him in scenes far distant from the quiet vicarage where he had been brought up.

Priscilla stood a minute or so still with the infant in her arms, a stunned feeling in her heart. She had heard Harry's farewell words in a sort of stupor, and hardly yet realized that her kind, cheery friend's good-bye had been really said, and that years might elapse ere he would be again at home.

Miss Vernon's voice aroused her.

"Give me baby, Priscilla," she said kindly. "You look tired. Had you not better rest a bit before church time?"

"Oh, I'm not tired," was the reply. "I can take baby to the nursery myself. I'll join you all before you set out for church;" and so saying she left the room.

Her heart was full, but not a tear fell till she was alone; then it seemed as if her very heart would break with the feeling of desolation and misery that overwhelmed her. Would life, she asked herself, be always like this—one great sorrow, with none to love or help her? The only voice that answered her question was that of conscience, and she tried not to listen to it; but she caught the words—"Are you going the right way to win love, or are you not rather repelling it? God has given you plenty of work to do to deaden the sense of desolation; and are you not putting it from you and preferring your own work?"

No wonder that downstairs Miss Vernon was chafing at the coldness of the girl to whom she was at least desirous of acting kindly; whilst the boys were heard to mutter that Prissy was as changed as she could be, and never cared to please any one now.

The same spirit of discontent and weariness pervaded the household all the rest of the day. More than ever the gentle mother was missed then; and not without a pang of compunction did Prissy hear Lewis, as he kicked off his boots ere going to bed, mutter that the day of little Ruth's baptism might truly be called the "Black Sunday."

"How could it have been otherwise?" she said.

Yet the thought would arise that she might have made it different to the boys at least; but she comforted herself that next day, things would be better, and she, occupied with the great work of her life, would be happier also. Yet even in her dreams the question arose, Was that the work which Harry had said "angels might envy"? Was she really going by it to help on the "kingdom of God"?