CHAPTER IX.

TWO ANGELS.

"Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her Grief will pass away; Hope for fairer times in future, And forget to-day. Tell her, if you will, that sorrow Need not come in vain; Tell her that the lesson taught her Far outweighs the pain."

"COME, Nora, make haste and finish dressing your hair; the guests will be arriving before long, and I want so much to see how you look with your lovely diadem on. Papa says you will be the beauty of the room to-night. Do make haste, dear."

Clara Ross was the speaker of these words, as she and her cousin Nora stood before a large mirror, engaged in dressing for an evening party which was to take place at the Rosses' house in Edinburgh, whither Nora had lately arrived to spend some weeks.

Three years and more have elapsed since we accompanied the cousins on their picnic up Schiehallion, and Nora is a young lady now—a very pretty one, we must confess. She stands now as when we first saw her, poising the costly diadem in her hand, wearing, however, a more thoughtful face than she did then. She is attired in a simple dress of white, worked muslin, her dark-brown, wavy hair simply braided, but caught up at the back of her beautifully-formed head by a comb, from which it fell in a profuse quantity of natural curls down her neck. Her face still has the same sweet, open expression of her childhood's days; but there is a sad look in her blue eyes as they rest on the diadem.

In reply to her cousin's words she said, resolutely, "I am finished, Clara, but I shall not wear the diadem to-night; I am too young for such an ornament. Another year, perhaps, I may, but not yet. I tried it on, and it felt strange. I could not wear it."

And as she spoke the girl raised her head, as if to efface the mark the coronet had left on her hair. As she did so a slight shudder passed over her, and words she had thought forgotten recurred to her memory. Once more old nurse's voice seemed sounding in her ear:

"I'm wonderin', my lambie, what kind o' a crown is to sit on your bonnie brow. Is it to be the crown o' a vain world's folly, or the everlastin' one your mother prayed might rest there?"

Then, as if to stifle thought, she put the diadem once more into the casket and shut it in with a sharp click.

"Well, Nora, you are a queer girl, and no mistake," said Clara. "Not going to wear your beautiful diadem after all, and you know Walter Lushington and Alick, and even little Pedro, have been longing to see you with it on."

"No; for once you're wrong, Clara," said Nora, testily. "Walter and Alick may have said so, but not Pedro: boy though he is, he would rather one day see another crown on my head."

And as she spoke she took the casket and locked it in her drawer.

Clara gazed at her in amazement. "Well, perhaps you are right about Pedro, but then he has such peculiar, old-fashioned notions. But what's wrong with you to-night, Nora? you're not a bit like yourself. I don't believe you'll enjoy the party at all in that mood; and really, you know, it's your first quite grown-up ball, and you don't look a bit glad about it."

"Well, Clara, to tell the truth, I don't feel glad. I wonder if it is the right sort of life for me, or—" and her lip quivered as she spoke—"if mamma would have cared for me entering on it; aunt does not, and Ronald does not, and—" But the sentence was left unfinished, for Clara broke in indignantly—

"Papa and mamma think it is the right sort of life for my sisters and me, so why not for you? Though you are different from us, too; I suppose it is your bringing up that has made the difference."

And Clara was right; the blessed influence of her Christian upbringing had told on Nora, and although this was now the third winter she had spent in the Rosses' house, she remained quite different from them: she had developed into a truly beautiful character. Not in vain had the example of her aunt and uncle's daily life proved; not in vain had the seed of good been planted in her heart. From everything mean and unwomanly Nora shrank; with all her cheerfulness, there was never levity in thought or word; from senseless frivolity her heart recoiled; and many noticed that the light joke or malicious remark ceased when Nora drew near. The charm of true, noble womanhood was around her; and even her young admirers checked the idle compliment or flattering words, with which they were wont to greet other girls, when they spoke to her.

Yet her winning manners attracted all who saw her, and her influence was always exercised for good: she was still the gentle, helpful hand in a sick-room she had been in her childish days; her voice had become even sweeter in reading and singing than of yore; and in all household matters she was an expert, as even Mrs. Ross testified. But the one thing needful was wanting still: man had done his part—the Christian training had been given, the wood was piled on the altar; only, the fire from Heaven, the breath of the Holy Spirit, was still awanting to set it aglow.

The girls were dressed at last, and ready to go downstairs; yet Nora still lingered, she scarcely knew why. Was it that in her heart she shrank from the knowledge that this evening was a sort of crisis in her life? Hitherto she had been regarded only in the light of a school-girl; now, when her seventeenth birthday was fairly passed, she was acknowledged in that character no longer; and Mr. Ross had openly declared that the ball that evening was in honour of little Nora's début.

From henceforth she knew that invitations to dances and parties of all sorts would pour in and have to be accepted; and something within her whispered that ere long the crown of this world's folly would get so firmly set on her head that it would be difficult to detach it.

"How was it," she asked herself impatiently, that even as she descended the stairs, "the Wishing-Well, with all its surroundings, rose so clearly in memory's eye?" Was the life she was about to enter on the best preparation for becoming what she had wished for that day, of seeking what her mother had desired she might possess—the "wisdom which is above rubies"?

Just then the postman's bell rang, and before she entered the ball-room, a servant, silver salver in hand, gave her a letter.

"From uncle," she said to Clara. "I'll not read it till the party is over;" but even as she spoke, her eyes rested on the words, "In haste."

A feeling of deadly faintness came over her, and, seizing Mr. Ross's arm, who had come out of the room to look for Clara, she said, "Oh, please take me to the library for a moment; I fear there is something wrong at Benvourd."

And so it proved. In a few words Mr. Macleod told that Minnie, the only girl and pet of the house, lay at the gates of death.

"She has asked for you, Nora, more than once. We hardly like to say 'Come;' yet we know how much you love her. Your aunt is fairly worn out with grief and three nights' watching, and I can only say your presence would be a comfort to us all."

Impatiently Nora threw aside the letter and unfastened the string of pearls round her neck, her only ornament.

"How could uncle doubt I would come! Minnie, my pet Minnie, dying, and I not there! Mr. Ross, I must start at once; the last coach north starts in an hour; I know all about it. Uncle went by it the last time he was here. Please let Williams get me a cab. I'll be ready in a few minutes."

Mr. Ross interrupted her. "Nora, you cannot go to-night; think of the hour—and alone, too—it is out of the question. I am very sorry for you, dear; just wait till morning, and I will take you back myself. Don't cry, child; your cousin may not be so very ill; naturally a father gets easily alarmed. Just come away, and try to enjoy yourself; this is your first grown-up ball, you know, and—"

But the indignant flash in Nora's eyes stopped him. "Dance, when Minnie is dying, Mr. Ross! And those who have been as father and mother to me are in such grief! Surely you do not mean it. Not for all the balls in the world would I remain away an hour longer from them than I could help. Please do not detain me, or you will break my heart. I can go alone. As you said this morning, I am a woman now, and surely am to be trusted. I do not wish to take any one away from the party; perhaps Susan will come with me to the coach, if she can be spared."

Mr. Ross stood a moment undecided; but seeing that Nora was resolute, he said kindly, "Well, well—I daresay you are right. Go and get ready; we'll catch the coach yet; and I'll speak to Mrs. Ross. Alick must take my place to-night, and I'll take you to Benvourd myself."

The packing was quickly accomplished, Clara helping and comforting her cousin as much as she could, for in truth she felt for her.

"Poor little Minnie," she said, for Clara knew and loved the little one. "How terribly sad it will be if she dies. O Nora, I don't believe she will. Keep up your heart, dear; she'll get round yet."

Nora's tears were falling fast, but she faltered out the words, "If she dies, Clara, it won't be sad for her; she loves Jesus with all her heart, and he'll take care of her. But oh, how auntie and uncle and all of us will miss her. She was my special pet, my little Minnie."

Mrs. Ross came to help. She was put out at this sudden break-up of plans; and although sorry for Nora, still the worldly life she led had in part hardened her heart, and she wished heartily that the ball had been over ere the bad news had come. But she helped forward the packing, bade Nora an affectionate farewell, and telling her husband to come back as soon as possible, she resumed her preparations for the ball.

Wearily sped the hours of the night as the travellers drove along. With a sickening heart, Nora watched the sun rise over the distant hills, wondering all the while whether the spirit of the little child she loved so well had already entered the land "that needeth not the sun;" and in the coach, with strangers around her, Nora prayed as she had never done before—prayed for the life of her little cousin—prayed a very earnest prayer for herself, that God would answer her in these prayers for Christ's sake, and make her truly his child, even as little Minnie was.

It was midnight of the following day before they reached Benvourd, to find Mr. Macleod awaiting them, with the strange, sad light on his countenance that one sometimes sees on the faces of those who have stood by the death-bed of dying Christians, whether that of an aged saint or a little lamb of the Good Shepherd's flock.

"Thank God you have come!" he said, as he folded Nora in his arms. Hushing as best he could the girl's burst of heart-felt grief, as he gently whispered the words, "Jesus has taken our little daughter to his heavenly fold; she was glad to go, Nora, she loved him so. Hush, my darling—compose yourself—it is well with her; the loss is ours. You are greatly needed here, my child."

He had half carried her into the parlour, and laid her down on the sofa. Quietly he stood by for a few minutes, with bent head and lowered eyes, letting her give vent to the tears which come so easily from hearts in their first sorrow, and which bring such blessed relief.

Mr. Ross stood by much touched; there was something in the quiet, resigned, though sorely-stricken look on the father's face that made him wonder.

"Thank you for bringing her," had been the courteous greeting he had received; but now, in this sacred sorrow, he felt almost an intruder.

"She must be terribly exhausted," he said, as Nora lay almost stifled with sobbing; "she has hardly tasted food to-day."

Her uncle bent over her lovingly. "My Nora," he said, "be brave; help us to say, 'Thy will be done.' Your poor aunt will need all your help. There have been two angels here this evening, darling—one of death and one of life. One hour after our darling fell asleep in Jesus, God sent us another little daughter to comfort us."

In a moment Nora was on her feet. "O uncle, take me to aunt; I will be brave, indeed I will, God helping me," she added.

And amid all his sorrow, these words sent a thrill of joy through Mr. Macleod's heart, for hitherto Nora had seemed to feel that she could do all things in her own strength; but in the bitter hours of sorrow, and self-reproach, and self-examination through which she had passed that day, she had been brought to see her own weakness as never before.

Very softly she slipped into her aunt's room, and bent for a moment over the bed.

"Auntie, dear auntie, I've come," she said; but despite her efforts at self-control, one hot tear fell on the pallid face as she kissed the soft cheek.

A quiet, feeble voice said, "'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

No more words were allowed to be spoken then; and Nora, forcing back her blinding tears, turned to look at the babe who had come as a little messenger of comfort into the house of mourning.

But Nora would not rest that night till she had taken one look at Minnie as she lay beautiful in death. A smile seemed to rest on the little lips, and the golden hair still lay in curls round the fair face; and as the girl kissed the cold brow, she fancied she saw it already crowned with the everlasting crown which is fairer far than any earthly one of gold and rubies.