CHAPTER XIV.

NEWS.

MR. WESLEY was right in saying that Mr. Cheriton might make up his mind to suffer persecution. He was also right in saying that religion was at a low ebb in the Church of England at that time.

With some most honorable exceptions, pastors seemed to content themselves with a perfunctory performance of such duties as they could not get rid of. They read prayers on a Sunday, when they could not afford a curate at less than a man-cook's wages to do it for them, preached now and then a moral essay, of which the substance was pretty much poor little Betty's—that it was pretty to be good and naughty to be bad—and too often spent the rest of the Lord's day in idle amusements, especially in card playing and light reading.

It was considered to show a want of taste, and even a want of good manners, to mention religion out of church, and any man who showed the least earnestness on the subject was at once dubbed an enthusiast, or suspected of being a dissenter.

Of course, there were honorable exceptions, as I said, among clergy and laity, and there were many humble souls who fed on the sincere milk of the word, and were comforted by those wonderful and glorious prayers which no indifference on the part of the reader could quite spoil.

Into the midst of this state of things descended the Wesleys, preaching the plain unvarnished truths of the Gospel, declaring all men lost sinners, with no way of escape but by personal repentance, and a personal acceptance of the salvation offered to all alike.

Preaching to the poor colliers and miners and others, who had been suffered to live like the brutes and perish like them, teaching them that they, even they, might and ought to sustain personal relations to the God who made them, and setting before them a wonderful ideal of personal purity and holiness, attainable to every one who would seek it in the right way. They did indeed preach deliverance to the captive, and opening the eyes to them that were blind. Doubtless there were among the converts many cases of delusion, many of mere animal excitement, and some of sheer hypocrisy, but no one who knows what was the state of such places as Kingswood and the mining villages in Cornwall, before and after the preaching of the Methodists, can doubt that the good done was greatly in excess of the evil.

Mr. Wesley had already been preaching for several years, and people had become in some degree used to his erratic course. But when Mr. Cheriton, the rector of St. Anne's, son of one of the best families in the country, and probable heir to a title—when he took to preaching faith and repentance, and "all that sort of thing," as Mrs. Cropsey said—his course caused a great sensation.

Still more, when he took to holding week-day services, giving lectures and teaching classes in the poorer parts of the parish, when he talked to the very children in the parish school about loving their Saviour. At first, the novelty of the thing brought many of the genteel people of the town to hear him, but they soon fell off. As the sexton said, they were willing to call them miserable sinners in the way of business, but it was another thing to hear themselves proved so, and to have plainly held up before them, in the clearest Scripture language, the consequences of continuing in such a course. So by degrees, the fine people fell off, and their pews stood empty Sunday after Sunday, while the free seats and those of the trades-people were always crowded.

Then the most outrageous stories were circulated about Mr. Cheriton. He was a drunkard and a gambler. He had half a dozen low intrigues on his hands with girls who came to his classes. He used his influence for the worst purposes, and had been thrashed by the father of one of his victims. We heard plenty of this sort of stuff, for Mrs. Thorpe's shop continued to be a rendezvous for all the fine people, notwithstanding her audacious conduct in taking in the poor preacher's wife.

Mrs. Cropsey, who disapproved vehemently of Mr. Cheriton's course for no particular reason except that Mr. Cropsey had never done so, tried her best to induce us to go with her to St. Nicholas' Church, where the congregation were certainly not disturbed by any extra earnestness on the part of the preacher. But we liked Mr. Cheriton too well to leave him.

We had taken to spending an hour, two or three days in the week, in the school. The old dame, who had been half blind and more than half deaf for a dozen years, had been persuaded to retire on a pension, paid out of Mr. Cheriton's own pocket, and a new mistress had been found in the person of a widowed sister of Mrs. Bunnell, Lady Throckmorton's humble companion. She was a woman of good education, and certainly made a great change in the parish school. The little maids really learned to read, to sew, and to spin, to keep themselves neat, and behave nicely in the church and in the street. It was even proposed to teach them to write, but such an outcry was made at this daring innovation * that the matter was dropped for the present.

* See Mrs. Hannah More's Letters.

I had a knitting class, and Amabel undertook to instruct some of the elder and more promising girls in fine work of various sorts, that they might be prepared to take places as nursery and dressing-maids.

Mr. Cheriton never came to the school while we were there, and, indeed, we saw much less of him than formerly. He was kept very busy and so were we, and I suppose a feeling of delicacy on his part might have had something to do with it. I had seen from the first how greatly he was taken with Amabel, and I presume he thought it would not be honorable for him to try to engage her affections in the absence of any of her relatives.

It was about the first of October, when a letter came from London with sad news. Amabel's step-mother was dead of a fever, taken it was supposed in court whither she had gone with several other fine ladies, to hear sentence pronounced upon a famous highwayman, who had been a terror to all travelers on the North Road for years. It seemed that several of the prisoners brought to the bar at the same time, were suffering from jail fever, and the infection spread to a number of the court officials and spectators, notwithstanding the sweet herbs placed, before them, to ward off such dangers. * Poor Lady Leighton carried the dreadful disease home to her little son, and the two died on the same day.

* See Howard's "Journal" and other memoirs of the time.

It Was not to be expected that Amabel should feel much sorrow for the death of her step-mother whom she had never seen, and who had held very little communication with her, but she grieved sadly over the little brother, about whom she had built many air-castles.

It seems that Mrs. Deborah had written to her brother concerning us, for Mrs. Thorpe received a letter at the same time, thanking her for her care of us, approving the measures taken for our education, and requesting her to continue her guardianship, till such time as the Mrs. Leightons should be able to receive us, or he should make arrangements for our coming to London.

"You will please see that Miss Corbet has her fair share of all my daughter's teachers and other advantages;" the letter concluded. "I consider her a sacred trust committed to my care by her father, who was my dear friend, and her mother, who rendered to my own daughter services which I can never repay. I wish my daughter to form no acquaintances at present." The no was emphasized. "And I wholly approve of your course in that matter, as related to me by my sister Deborah."

Sir Julius sent a sufficient sum to put us both into handsome deep mourning, and requested Mrs. Thorpe to supply us with a certain moderate monthly allowance of pocket money.

This letter put me entirely at my ease, with regard to my future position in life; more so than it would have done, had I known my man better. I have no doubt at all, that Sir Julius meant it at the time; but he was a man easily swayed by those about him, whether for good or ill. His late wife, from all I could learn, was a worthy lady on the whole. I certainly had reason to think well of her, for she left me a pretty remembrance of a necklace and some other trinkets and a small sum of money.

"So you are now your father's heiress!" was Mrs. Cropsey's comment when she heard the news. "I dare say, he will send for you to London, and provide a grand match for you."

"I hope not, I am sure!" said Amabel, looking a little alarmed.

"Oh! But you would like to marry a title, would you not, and have a coach and four of your own, and be presented at court, and all that?"

"I do not want any of these things. They are not at all to my taste."

"Oh! But you do not know because you have not tried them. Look at Lady Throckmorton, how she goes about to the Bath, and Cheltenham, and everywhere she pleases."

"I would rather be the poorest lay sister in a convent—I would rather teach a village school all my days, than to be Lady Throckmorton!" returned Amabel, with more vehemence than was at all common with her. "I think such people as she are the greatest fools in the world. They are like the little silly sparrows Lucy and I saw yesterday, building in the house that was at that moment being torn down. She has her portion in this world, and thinks no more of the other, than as though there was no such thing. Suppose she is killed by an accident, like that poor lady who was thrown from her horse the other day—whose then shall those things be, in which she delights, or what of them all will she carry with her?"

"Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Cropsey, taken rather aback. "Of course it is right to think of death, and judgment and such solemn matters at proper times, as in Lent and Advent and before the sacrament. But one cannot always be dwelling on them; one owes a duty to the world; as you will find out when you come to go into society."

"Where in the Scriptures is one's duty to the world set forth, Mrs. Cropsey?" asked Amabel, in a tone of simplicity. "I do not remember seeing the place in my reading."

"Oh, my dear, you have taken up such a set of notions from Mr. Cheriton! I am sure it was a bad day for him, when he fell under Mr. Wesley's influence, poor man. Just look at the difference it has made in his church, that used to be so fashionable. Why, he has actually put John Winne out from the organ gallery, because he says it is not fit that a blasphemer and an infidel should lead the people in praising God; the very best voice he had. But talking of Lady Throckmorton, her gaiety is like to come to an end for the present. Have you not heard? Poor Sir John who has been in a declining way so long, has had two strokes. And they say this morning, he can hardly live the day out. So sad for his poor mother; and he has no son either, so all the entailed property will go to Lord Bulmer, who has enough already, one would think. However, they say her ladyship will be left very rich as it is."

We heard the next day that Sir John was dead. He had a grand funeral, being carried all the way to his own mausoleum, at his ancestral home up in the hills. All the black crape and cloth in Newcastle were in requisition to do him honor, and the hearse was one great pile of nodding plumes, while the four grand black horses which drew it stepped off haughtily as if proud, poor things, of their burden of senseless clay.

We heard afterwards through Mrs. Bunnell, that the poor gentleman had earnestly desired to see Mr. Cheriton, but his wife would not permit it; saying that the canting Methodist who had slighted her invitations, should never darken her doors. However, Mrs. Bunnell, who nursed him during his last illness, was able to lead him in the right way, and he died at last in hope and peace.

We stayed on two months longer at Mrs. Thorpe's, for after the Mrs. Leightons left Cullercoats, they went on a round of visits among their acquaintances, and it was not till the first of December that we received letters from Mrs. Deborah, bidding us be in readiness to join herself and sisters, when they should be in Newcastle in a week's time.

This was important, and I must say, anything but welcome news. We had fallen into a very pleasant way of living with Mrs. Thorpe, to whom we were much attached. We were getting on finely in our lessons with good Mr. Lilburne, who had wonderfully enlarged our knowledge of the world we lived in, and we were much devoted to the church and to our work in the schools.

It was no wonder we dreaded the idea of leaving it all and going once more among strangers. Mrs. Cropsey, who (as my readers—if I have any, may already have discovered) was not the most discreet person in the world, did not make matters any better, by lamenting over our banishment to the wilds of Highbeck Hall.

"A wilderness, an absolute wilderness, my dears. No neighbors within a mile or two, and the ladies seeing very little company, and so very peculiar. Why, they say one of them has kept her bed for twenty years, just because of a love disappointment when she was young."

"I never heard of that!" said Amabel.

"Oh! But my dears, I assure you I had it from excellent authority. I do wonder your respected father should send you into such banishment, instead of establishing you in London, with a suitable lady to matronize you, and masters to carry on your accomplishments."

And Mrs. Cropsey, who I fancy, saw in this determination the downfall of certain airy castles of her own, actually shed tears.

"I dare say Sir Julius knows best!" said I, feeling myself a good deal disturbed by the near prospect of the change, but determined to make the best of it. "I am sure Mrs. Deborah was very kind to us when she was here."

"But she is very peculiar—everybody allows that!" said Mrs. Cropsey. "I dare say Sir Julius has not seen much of his sisters of late years, and an heiress like yourself, Miss Leighton, it does seem a pity."

"Mrs. Cropsey!" said Amabel seriously. "My father doubtless has his reasons for disposing of us in this manner. For my own part, I would quite as soon go to Highbeck Hall as to London. At all events, you must see that it is our duty to consent cheerfully to my father's will, whatever it is. Moreover we have the word of One far higher and wiser than Sir Julius himself, 'that all things work together for good to them that love God.' If he sends us to this place, 'tis doubtless because he has something for us to do or to learn there."

"Oh! Miss Leighton, there is no talking to you since you have taken up with such a set of Methodistical ideas," said Mrs. Cropsey, somewhat angrily. "For my part I have not so high an idea of myself and my own consequence, as to think that the Almighty concerns himself with all my notions."

"I suppose I am of as much consequence as a sparrow, and we have His word that every one of them is cared for," answered Amabel composedly. "I see no presumption in taking the Lord at His word and believing what He himself says."

"No presumption in applying the words of Scripture to ourselves? They are meant for the whole human race, and not for individuals."

"If they are meant for the whole human race, then are they meant for every one of the human race," argued Amabel: "and if for every one, then for me."

"Well and logically argued, Mrs. Leighton!" said old Mr. Lilburne, who had come in just in time to hear the last sentence.

"Of course you are against me, Mr. Lilburne!" said Mrs. Cropsey, with wounded dignity. "But you will never persuade me, that this way of using Scripture is right. I know not what my honored father would have said or done, had any of his family presumed to answer him with a text of Scripture, as Miss Leighton does me. But you are bewitched as well as all the rest. I hope you enjoy playing to the trades-people and sailor's wives, with whom Mr. Cheriton has filled his church, as well as to Lady Throckmorton, and Lord Bulmer, and Mrs. Perry—that's all."

"Madam!" said the old man with dignity, "I never in all my life played one note to Lady Throckmorton, or any other fine lady or gentleman. My playing, such as it is, has been addressed to One far more exalted than either—even as the Heaven is higher than the earth—and if He has left the church, I have not yet discovered His absence. Come young ladies, let us make the most of our time, while we have it. I have brought you the score of Mr. Handel's grand oratorio, 'The Messiah,' and I want to hear Mrs. Corbet's voice in that most beautiful song—'I know that my Redeemer liveth'—the most wonderful song ever written, to my mind."

Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Crump undertook our packing for us, so that we might have as much as possible of the time that yet remained for our lessons. Sir Julius had desired Mrs. Thorpe to provide us with a maid—a luxury to which we had never aspired, and which, to say truth, we had not desired. To our great joy, Mrs. Thorpe proposed that we should take her own apprentice, Mary Lee.

"It will be better for the girl than sitting closely at her sewing," said she. "And she is rather too pretty for me to like to take her into the shop at present—I have too many fine gentlemen customers. Mary is a good girl, and well brought up; she understands all sorts of work. I will have her take a few lessons in hair-dressing from Neighbor Frizzle, who will do me so much of a good turn, I am sure."

Mary herself was very well-pleased with the change from an apprentice to a lady's maid, and we had become very fond of her, so we were well suited all round.

The time sped on as fast as time does speed under such circumstances. We made little presents to our scholars at the school, to the old women in the almshouse that we visited, and to the clerk's wife, who lamented greatly over our departure. Master Tubbs had not become any more reconciled to the new state of things at St. Anne's, but he was obliged to allow that his wife was much easier to live with since she had come round to Mr. Cheriton's way of thinking.

"And I can't find it in my heart to blame Mr. Cheriton when I hear the poor thing as used to fret and groan from morning till night and back again, a singing of Mr. Wesley's hymns softly to herself now and again. And when them dreadful pains come on, and she can't help crying out, she says between whiles—"

"'Never mind, David, I'll soon be where there's no more crying.'"

"And Mr. Cheriton comes to see her every week—and such prayers as he makes. No, I can't find no fault young ladies, so long as I sees the poor old woman so happy. But what she will do when you are gone, I don't know, for she says you bring the sunshine whenever you come."

Two more important events were destined to be crowded into this eventful week. One day, when Amabel and I came home from walking, we were met by Mrs. Thorpe with the news that a gentleman had called to see me, and would call again.

"To see me!" said I, surprised. "Are you sure, Mrs. Thorpe?"

"Quite sure, Miss Lucy. He is an elderly man, and gave the name of Corbet, so I fancy he may be some connection to your family. He said he would not wait, but would come again in an hour."

I did not know that I had a relation in the world, though Mrs. Crump had told us that there were still persons of the name living in Cornwall. It may be guessed that I waited with no little impatience and curiosity to see the stranger. He came punctually to his time—an old gentleman, but hale and well preserved, with black eyes and eye-brows like my own. His manner was just that mixture of fatherliness and gallantry which is apt to take young girls, and I was very well-pleased when he gave me what he called his credentials, namely, a letter from Sir Julius Leighton, introducing him as Mr. Andrew Corbet, my father's uncle, and a gentleman of some property in Cornwall.

"Yes, I am your uncle," said he, as I curtsied and gave him my hand, while he kissed my forehead. "Your father was a great favorite of mine, before he vexed me by moving up here into Northumberland. But never mind that now. He was a good man, and I hope his daughter is as worthy of him as she is like him. And this lady, I suppose, is my kinswoman also? On my word, niece, I don't think I was such an old fool after all, in coming all the way up here to find such a pair of relations."

"I am sure it was very good of you, sir," said I, and, indeed, I felt it so, for the journey was a very serious one in those days. "It is a long way to come."

"Oh, I am an old sailor, child, and the distance from Cornwall to Northumberland does not look so great to one who has been two or three times round the world."

"Have you really been round the world?" I asked.

"Yes, niece, more than once, and would like to do it again to-morrow. What say you, girls, shall we charter a fast-sailing vessel and set off on a voyage of discovery?"

"I should like it, but I don't believe Amabel would," said I, feeling myself greatly drawn toward this lively old gentleman. "She was dreadfully seasick coming from France this summer."

"Ah, then I fear we must give up our cruise round the world, and be content with one around Newcastle instead. It is too late this afternoon, but to-morrow, we will go about and see the town a little."

Captain Corbet—such was his title, he having been for many years commander of a great ship trading to India—spent the evening with us, and made himself very agreeable. He told us stories of his travels in all sorts of outlandish places, and gave us a very interesting account of the English colonies in the North America. We were surprised to learn that the people there were quite as civilized as ourselves—that they had churches, schools, and colleges—and were much given to reading.

"They will be an important addition to the British Empire in time," remarked Mr. Cheriton, who had come to pay his respects to my uncle—very kind in him, I am sure.

"It is my opinion that they will not always belong to the British Empire," replied Captain Corbet. "They are growing a great people, and are like enough to set up a nation for themselves some day, though none of us may live to see it."

Nevertheless almost all of us have lived to see it. The British colonies have really set up for themselves after fighting seven years for the privilege, and seem likely enough to do well.

"There is a great difference, sir, between the English and Spanish colonies in the New World," remarked young Mr. Thorpe, who was also present. He was staying with his aunt over at Gateshead, and we saw him now and then, but not often. He had known Captain Corbet in foreign parts, and hearing of him from Mrs. Thorpe, had asked permission to pay his respects to him.

"You are right, Mr. Thorpe, and you will see the same difference every where," answered the captain. "Look at the Swiss cantons, for instance. You can tell the moment, you pass from a Protestant to a Roman Catholic canton, by the look of the farms and the people."

I had seen young Mr. Thorpe several times, though his aunt did not greatly encourage his visits. But he had taken us all to see his ship, and we had gone in company once to visit good Mrs. Davis in the country. He was moreover a constant attendant at St. Anne's, and dutifully gave Mrs. Thorpe his arm home to her own door every Sunday. He was second Lieutenant on board His Majesty's ship the Spitfire, and in a fair way of rising in his profession.

"You are likely to see service, from what I hear in the town!" observed Captain Corbet.

"I believe you are right, Sir. We have heard, though it is not yet fully made known, that we are to join the fleet very soon; and I am glad of it with all my heart, for this recruiting business is not all to my mind. I would far rather be fighting the French, than helping to drag poor fellows from their wives and families, perhaps never to see them again?"

"War is a sad necessity," observed Mr. Cheriton, "and this business of pressing men into the navy is not the least cruel part of it. I heard the other day in Berwick, that a company of poor persons were assembled in a cottage for the purpose of prayer and reading the Scriptures, when a press-gang fell upon them, and carried off the men to the number of ten, including the local preacher."

"Like enough, Sir. Few gangs would miss such a chance, and some of our officers would think it an excellent joke to break up a Methodist meeting in that way."

"But what, sort of sailors will your Methodists make?" asked Captain Corbet.

"Capital, Sir! To judge from the two or three specimens we had last year. One of them was a preacher, and I never saw a man more devoid of fear. He had hard measure from his mates at first, but he bore all so patiently and cheerfully, returning good for evil whenever he had a chance, that the most of them were won to his side. And when he finally died of wounds received in an action, I believe he was lamented by all."

"I dare say you are right!" remarked Captain Corbet. "These Methodists are doing a wonderful work in our parts. I never saw a grander sight, than the great open air amphitheatre of Gwennap, filled from end to end, a sea of upturned faces, intent upon Mr. Wesley's preaching. It was truly wonderful to see how he held all these wild folks, half of whom had never heard a sermon in their lives, or entered a church, except to be christened or married; how they hung upon his words and would hardly let him go."

"They say, or at least some people do, that the effect produced is mere animal excitement, and that half of the converts go back to be as bad as they were before."

"That some of them should do so, is to be expected!" replied Mr. Cheriton. "But I do not believe from what I have myself seen, that nearly so many as half fall away."

"And suppose they did, would that be any argument against Mr. Wesley's preaching?" asked the elder sailor with some warmth. "Would you refuse to go to the rescue of a shipwrecked vessel, because you could probably save only half the passengers?"

"Oh! I have nothing against Mr. Wesley, I assure you!" Mr. Thorpe hastened to say. "I would go to hear him to-morrow, if he came this way; and I like him all the better for talking as though he himself believed what he said. I can understand a man's refusing to consider or believe in the Christian religion at all, but how a man can profess to believe in it, and even make a business of preaching it, and yet be perfectly indifferent and careless about the matter—that passes my comprehension. It seems to me that religion must be all or nothing."

This was the last time but one that I saw Mr. Thorpe before his ship sailed. We met indeed, next day, and exchanged a few words while my uncle was examining a new kind of weather-glass or something of that sort, in an instrument-maker's shop. He bade me good-bye, and gave me a little keepsake—an ivory whistle made of the tooth of a great monster like a crocodile, curiously wrought on the outside, and set in gold, with a little gold chain attached. He told me he had made it himself on shipboard. I don't know; I suppose it was not quite right, but I gave him in return a little prayer-book which I had bought to carry in my pocket. We parted then and there, and I have never seen him since. Ah well!

Amabel had excused herself from going out with us. My uncle took me into a great many fine shops and would have bought innumerable fairings for me, if I had let him. I compounded for a watch, which I really did want, and some books of poetry and history; but he would not be withheld from giving me a fine cloth cloak, or mantle lined with fur, saying that winter was coming on, and I would find Northumberland far colder than I was used to. We had some very serious talk together, and the more I saw of him, the better I liked him.

"I should love dearly to have you with me, my maid, if I were settled any where!" said he, as we walked slowly homeward. "I have neither chick nor child of my own. You are my nearest relation, and almost my only one; save the Stantons in Devonshire, who are too great folks to care for an old fellow like me, though the Corbets were settled there long before the Stanton were ever heard of.

"'Corby of Corby sat at home, When Stanton of Stanton hither did come.'

So the rhyme runs. However, that does not matter. You are my nearest of kin as I said, and it is but right and natural that I should make you mine heir, though I desired to see you, before the matter was finally settled. But I am more than satisfied with you."

He then told me that his will was already made in my favor, and deposited in the hands of a legal gentleman in Exeter, whose address he gave me, bidding me to keep it carefully.

"He is an honest and worthy gentleman, and will stand your friend if you need one. Meantime do you keep this matter to yourself for the present. I should like, as I said, to have you with me, but I must make one more voyage before I give up the old ship I have sailed in so long, and besides it would not be fair to Sir Julius Leighton to deprive his daughter of her companion."

"Do you know Sir Julius, sir?" I ventured to ask.

"Oh yes, I know him," answered Captain Corbet, with a peculiar accent, which did not escape me. "He is a kind-hearted man in the main, but easily swayed—easily swayed. He was wholly in the hands of his late wife, and it was well for him that she was in the main a good woman. You owe him all duty. But should you need a friend, you can safely apply to Mr. Carey, in whose hands are placed all my small means."

This conversation brought us home to Mrs. Thorpe's door, where we parted for the time. Amabel was not in our room, and I was not sorry to have a few minutes to myself wherein to compose my spirits, which had been considerably shaken by all the events of the morning.

It was a wonderful thing to me that I should be an heiress in ever so small a way, and, of course the prospect was a pleasant one. It set me to thinking what had become of my father's little property in Northumberland, a question which had never occurred to me before, and I determined to find out on the first opportunity.

Mr. Thorpe had said he should call in the evening to say good-bye to his aunt, so I did not look upon our parting as final, though it proved to be so in the end. I was not quite sure I had been right in exchanging keepsakes with him, but I instinctively put off the consideration of that subject for the present.

After a time, looking out of the window, I saw Amabel and Mr. Cheriton in deep conversation over the church-yard wall, just where a neat plain stone had been put up to Mrs. Edwards and her babe. Mr. Cheriton was bare-headed, and seemed very earnest about something. Amabel was looking straight before her, and, though her color was deeper than usual, she did not seem displeased. They parted at last, and Amabel came into the house.

She started at seeing me as though I had been a ghost.

"I did not know you had come in," said she.

"I have been here some time," I answered. "See what I have for you!"

And I displayed the pretty watch like my own which my uncle had purchased for me.

"What were you and Mr. Cheriton talking about so earnestly?" I asked, after Amabel had admired her present sufficiently. "You seemed very deeply absorbed, I thought."

Amabel blushed and looked down a moment. Then she raised her clear shining eyes to me.

"I suppose I had better tell you, though it may never come to any thing," said she. Then after another little pause in which I guessed well enough what was coming—"Mr. Cheriton asked me whether it would be agreeable to me, if he asked my father's permission to pay his addresses to me."

"Oh!" said I, considerably amused. "I suppose of course he would not pay them on any account without your father's consent?"

"Certainly not," answered Amabel, with such grave simplicity that I could not for very shame laugh at her. "That would not be right nor honorable."

"And you told him—"

"I told him that I was very young to think about such matters, but if his parents and mine saw no objection—" and here she made a pause and steadfastly studied the face of her new watch.

"And suppose your father does not consent, and even wished you to marry some one else," said I, rather cruelly, "what will you do then?"

"I will obey him so far as I can in conscience—at least till I am of age," she answered. "But there is no use in thinking about that."

"True," I answered. "'Sufficient unto the day is evil thereof.' Besides, I do not see why it is not a good match. Mr. Cheriton will have a good estate of his own, as I understand, besides being heir to Lord Carew, in Devonshire, if his poor son dies."

"You are not used to be so mercenary, Lucy," said Amabel, with a little indignation in her voice. "I should love—I mean I should like—Mr. Cheriton just as well if he had not a penny to call his own—if he were a poor curate, or a sailor, like young Mr. Thorpe."

This was carrying the war into Africa, as Mr. Lilburne's phrase was, and I hastened to parry the unintended attack.

"And so should I," I answered. "The question with me is what Sir Julius may like. He is a man of the world, you know, and you are his heiress. He may look for a grander match—some one like Lord Bulmer, for instance."

"Lucy!" said Amabel, with flashing eyes. "I would rather lie down in my coffin than marry Lord Bulmer."

"And I would almost rather see you there," I rejoined. "The man is detestable to me."

Amabel was silent again for several minutes, leaning her head on her hand so that I could not see her face. Then she raised it toward me filled with a kind of solemn brightness.

"Lucy, I think I can leave it all in my Father's hands," said she, smiling, though the tears stood on her long lashes. "I am sure He will do what is best for me and for—for Mr. Cheriton. I am quite sure that I shall never marry any one else. That cannot be my duty. But let us not borrow trouble about it. Tell me of your walk. You said you met Mr. Thorpe. Is he really going to-morrow?"

"He really is, and he has given me this little whistle made of a crocodile's tooth, though that is not the word—alligator I think he calls it, though 'tis a creature of the same kind. Is it not pretty?"

But I did not tell her what he had told me—that whoso receives one of these little amulets will surely never forget the giver.

"He is a fine young man," remarked Amabel, after she had admired the little whistle, which had a peculiarly sweet, ringing note. "I shall never forget how he looked when we first saw him, holding up that poor fainting woman. Did you give him nothing in return?"

"Yes, I gave him my little pocket prayer-book!" I answered. "I thought it might be useful and a comfort to him."

"I dare say!" answered Amabel gravely, and then we were both silent for a long time, till we were called to our dinner.

At tea-time, Mrs. Thorpe told us how disappointed she was, that she should not see her nephew again. His ship was to sail with the tide at nine o'clock, and he had sent her a hasty note to say that it was impossible for him to come to bid good-bye. My heart went down as into deep cold water, but I gave no sign as Mrs. Thorpe went on praising the young sailor, saying what a dutiful son he had been to his mother, and how fast he had risen in his profession.

One only beside Amabel gave a guess at my feelings. When my good uncle bade us good-night and good-bye—for he too, was to go early in the morning—he whispered in my ear—

"Keep a good heart, my pretty! There are many more sailors come home than ever are drowned, and the winds are in the hollow of His hand."

True enough. But those who are drowned are drowned just as much, for all that. But there has been no rebellion in my heart, at least I trust not—for many a long year. I have found plenty to do, and have been made to keep house and be a joyful mother of children, though I never had one of mine own.

We had one more Sunday at St. Anne's—one more afternoon at the school, and then came a messenger from Mrs. Deborah to say, that his mistress would be in Newcastle the next day, and hoped to set out for home on Wednesday.

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