CHAPTER XII.

_OFF TO LONDON._

"WHERE is uncle going?" exclaimed Mary Loveday the next morning, as she and her aunt sat in the vicarage dining-room after breakfast.

"Up to the mill, Mary."

"Oh, auntie, how kind of him, so early!"

"We were young ourselves once, Mary," she said; "and besides—"

Mary had been very brave, but at the kind tone she broke down. She had no mother into whose arms she might throw herself, and sob out her grief. Perhaps her aunt felt that, for she came over to her, and put her arm round her shoulders.

"It will surely come right in the end, if we trust it to God, Mary," she said gently, "but this suspense is a sore trial for you."

"It is not exactly suspense," said Mary brokenly "because—except for God having it in hand—it is too late. My letter must have reached him before he sailed yesterday, and he has sent me no answer."

Her aunt was silent. It was a great perplexity, and gave her more heartache than she liked to acknowledge.

But Mary raised her head.

"Aunt, I'm not going to think how hopeless it is. Pollie said, 'It couldn't happen without God's will,' and that is true. I am not going to grieve any more."

She was walking by faith, and not by sight. She had hold of her Father's hand, and knew that, come rain or shine, she was being led "by the right way."

Would she be able to thank Him by-and-by for even this dark bit?

In an hour the vicar returned, and he came at once to where his wife and Mary were sitting working.

"I'm going to London," he said, "by the two o'clock train. And if you are well enough, Mary, I am going to take you for the little jaunt with me, to give you a change."

"I? Oh, uncle!"

"Yes, you! And I thought there was another little body that would be pleased to go to London, so I've done a bold thing, my dear," turning to his wife. "I've asked Mary at the mill to bear our Mary company for two days. I like that girl! She's as true as steel—or what is it, Mary? Something better than steel, eh?"

"Asked Mary at the mill?" echoed Mrs. Loveday, astonished. "Did her father like her to go?"

"Yes, to be sure, he did! Why not? It was her mother who hesitated, but I think that was about a hat or something."

"'Just let her put on what she comes to church in on Sundays,' I said, 'and she will be all right. She is always neat, and what do you want more?'"

"Where will she meet us, uncle?" asked Mary. "Will she come here, or go to the station?"

"Yes, come here at half-past one. I said I would drive you both in the trap."

So Mary ran up to make her few preparations, and then, till lunch should be ready, she went out into the garden, glad to be quiet for a few minutes. What did her uncle mean by this sudden journey to London? And how could it be of any use if Harry had already sailed?

While Pollie was turning over her drawers at the mill, trembling with excitement, and wondering whether her things would be good enough to do honour to her dear Miss Mary, Mary herself, ready for her journey, stood looking into the stream at the bottom of her uncle's garden, and wondering what her journey to London would bring forth.

She had longed to be alone that she might recollect once more that she had given all up into her Lord's hands, and was going patiently to wait till He should do His will.

How still the water was. How silently it flowed on and on; how clear its depths; how bright its reflections when it caught the sunlight.

Mary was fond of turning to-day's sights and sounds into little lessons of love set by her heavenly master, so she thought now that she would wish to be as the stream, deep and still in the shade, and bright and praise-giving in the sunshine.

"I want to 'please' Jesus," she said, with a happy smile, turning away now she had had a glimpse, by faith, of her Saviour, "and He knows that!"

People often wondered why Miss Loveday had such an influence among her class of girls.

But some one had once said to her, "Never be satisfied in the day till you have seen Jesus!" and this was her secret.

So if a cloud arose, she tried to have a moment's quiet to get a sight of her Saviour, and having had that sight, she went on her way rejoicing.

So she turned from the stream and left its singing waters behind, with their shadows and sunshine, and made her way back to the house, ready to enliven her aunt, or meet Pollie, or do anything happily that came to hand.

Meanwhile Pollie was wishing her mother good-bye at the mill, and feeling as if, even for two days' absence, the parting was harder than she could bear. She tried to say everything, and ended in saying nothing. She wanted to tell her mother that she was sorry she had been so tiresome lately, but the words stuck in her throat and made a sort of ball there. She wanted to beg Jim to do everything for her mother, even better than she had, but instead she only got out the words, "Don't forget to water my plants!"

And then she found herself running down the field-path as if she were pursued, with her eyes so blinded that she nearly went headlong in her best clothes.

At last she paused at the stile at the bottom, and just as she was going to spring over it, she met the vicarage maid hurrying up.

"Pollie," she exclaimed, "Miss Mary wants to see you!"

"Why, I was coming!" said Pollie, surprised. "It isn't late, is it?"

"No—not late, only—"

Pollie had swallowed her tears. The maid did not explain, but seemed in a great hurry to get back, so Pollie followed her in silence, inwardly wondering why Miss Loveday had sent to meet her, but concluding it might be because she feared that she might be late for the train.

At the vicarage gate the trap was already standing waiting. Was she late after all?

As they entered the hall door, Mary ran out from the drawing-room and took Pollie by both hands, drawing her into the dining-room and shutting the door.

"Pollie!" she said. "Shall you be dreadfully disappointed if we do not go to London after all?"

"Why, no, dear Miss Loveday, if you would rather not!"

"Uncle says you and I shall go another time, if possible," she said hurriedly, "but such a strange thing has happened, Pollie! He's come—"

Pollie was just going to ask who, but something in Miss Loveday's face made it unnecessary.

"Harry?" she asked, and then crimsoned at her familiarity. "Mr. Fulbert—I mean?"

"Yes."

Mary sat down, still holding her little friend's hands; and then she disengaged one, and stroked the glowing cheeks softly, while she said, as if she could say nothing else, "How nice you look, dear! And how kind of your mother to spare you! I cannot bear that you should not go—and yet—"

"I do not mind a bit—not a bit, if you are glad, Miss Loveday!"

Mary paused for a moment, and then she said, looking down and speaking softly, "It has been so wonderful, Pollie, that I can hardly believe it. But you have been such a dear little friend to me that I should like to tell you all about it."

She took off Pollie's hat and gloves, she folded her necktie, but still she did not seem as if she could begin.

At length she said, in a low tone, "I went down to the stream this morning to have a little quiet time alone. I wanted to tell God all about it, Pollie—to ask Him to take every bit of anxiety away about all this, and to take charge of everything for us, so that we might know that He had it in hand.

"While I was there, and while my uncle was finishing up a few things before he started, a stranger came to the door and asked for him, and sent in his card—Mr. Filbert.

"Yes, Pollie, it was Harry! He did not get my letter till he was just starting for China, and then he could not bear to go. And I do not know yet how he managed it all, but he found somebody to exchange his passage, and the gentleman went to China instead of him, and he came here!"

"Oh, Miss Loveday!" exclaimed Pollie, with her face glowing. "And is he—is he the true golden gold?"

"How could you think anything else, Pollie? I 'knew' he was!"

"And will Mr. Loveday allow it now?" asked Pollie longingly.

"Harry does not wish it to be settled till he has sent for his mother, but my uncle is perfectly satisfied. He said, Pollie, that he knew 'the true ring' when he heard it."

Pollie did not know what "the true ring" meant; and before she could ask, Miss Loveday had risen.

"Harry is talking to my aunt, and I must go and put on my hat. He is going back by our train, Pollie, to meet his mother in London. He will telegraph for her at the station; and he says he knows she will come. She is staying near London, and they may be back here to-night. I am going to drive him to the station, only I wanted to see you first."

Mary stooped and kissed her little friend.

"I shall never forget what a comfort you have been to me, nor all that you have done for me," she added gratefully. "It was you who won my uncle to think it was possible there might be a mistake!"

"I had better go back home, dear Miss Loveday," said Pollie. "I am so glad that we had not started."

"So am I. But we will go to town another day, Pollie."

Pollie set off homewards, and just as she got to the stile, she heard wheels, and in a moment, before she could disengage her dress from a nail which had caught it, Mary and Mr. Fulbert were close upon her, as the vicar's fleet pony took them quickly past. Not too fast, however, for Pollie not to recognise, in her dear Miss Loveday's friend, some one whom she had seen before, and knew long ago to be the true golden gold!

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