CHAPTER XIII.

_POLLIE RECOGNISES A FRIEND._

"MOTHER!" exclaimed Pollie, running over the green in front of the mill and throwing herself into her mother's arms, "I haven't gone! But it's all right. There is no need to go now."

"You don't say so?" asked her mother. "I am glad, but I expect you are rather disappointed, my dear!"

"No, I'm not; I'm too glad to care on my own account. And, besides, I could not bear to leave you, mother."

"Foolish little girl!" said her mother fondly, but there were tears in her eyes as she said it. Perhaps she felt at that moment rewarded for all the love and care she had expended on her wayward child.

"And, mother," Pollie went on unconsciously, "such a wonderful thing has happened. Come in, and I will tell you."

They entered the mill together, and Pollie went to put away her best hat, wondering if it could be true that it was only an hour since she had put it on with such care for her visit to London.

When she came back into the kitchen, her mother was getting out some teacups.

"Come along, my dear," she said in her cosy way; "you had but a mouthful of dinner before you started, and I daresay you will not be sorry to see a cup of tea. I shall not, myself, I am sure; and then you can tell me your tale."

Pollie thought that there was nobody in the world so comfortable as her mother, and sat down by the fire with a very contented face.

"Well, my dear?" asked her mother, smiling at her.

"Oh, such a wonderful thing!" exclaimed Pollie again. "Do you remember, two years ago, when I was at Aunt Elizabeth's?"

"I remember that very well—and so do you," answered her mother.

"Yes—; and do you remember I told you about the gentleman that was preaching there, and how good he was, and how interesting?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"Well, mother, 'he' is Mr. Harry Fulbert! No need for anybody to send up to London to ask about him now, for the moment I saw him driving by the side of her I knew him again. He's the one that—that brought me to Christ, mother; and now, if you will let me, I want to go back and tell the vicar. May I, mother?"

"I'll think about it. But you are sure, Pollie?"

"'Sure?'" asked Pollie. "I should know him anywhere. I could never forget him, never."

Then Pollie explained all about Mr. Fulbert's coming, and about the postponed visit, and the afternoon slipped away so fast that it was nearly her father's tea-time before she had finished.

When he came in, he did not see any objection to Pollie's paying the vicar another visit, and himself accompanied her down the hill, promising to wait for her at her Uncle Brown's till she should have made her call.

The vicar was standing at his door with his hat on. He greeted Pollie very kindly, and asked her if she would walk up the road with him, as he had just been called to a village two miles up the valley to see a dying man, and he could not venture to wait.

"Life and death are awful things, Pollie," he said solemnly. "Life without Christ is hopeless enough, but death—"

They walked along in silence for some time, till the vicar said suddenly:

"You wanted to speak to me."

Then Pollie told him about it, and was quite surprised at the vicar's gratitude.

"I call you a very kind little friend," he said, when she had finished. "It is not that I doubted him in the very least after the talk I had with him, but to find that my Master has honoured and blessed him by giving him 'souls for his hire' makes me more glad than I can say. Mary was quite right, you see, in saying that there could be no mistake in such an one as he. She 'knew' it was all right."

So Pollie retraced her steps a happy girl, and found her father deep in a political discussion with his brother, and not having found the time at all long.

"So you've never been to London after all!" he said, as she took his arm affectionately, and they turned homewards.

"No," said Pollie, shaking her head, "but that can wait. I never was so happy and grateful, I do believe, father! At least, never since that day at Aunt Elizabeth's. Of course that was the happiest day."

Her father nodded emphatically.

"It's a wondrous thing to be allowed to carry the King's messages," he said thoughtfully, referring to Harry Fulbert. "Perhaps some of us would be trusted with more of them if we were more willing!"

Meanwhile the lamp was lighted, and Mary and her aunt sat working in the pretty vicarage drawing-room.

The train could not come in till after nine that night. And unless Harry had sped wonderfully well, he and his mother could not arrive even by that.

But he had sped wonderfully well. His mother had been at home when the telegram reached her, and had prepared to start back with him as soon as he desired.

"I shall telegraph to you, anyway," he had said to Mary, as they were driving to the station, "then you will know when to expect us."

They sat very silent.

Mary's aunt was thinking of the change it would be to them all if Mary should go to China. And as to Mary, she was praying that the happiness which had come into her life might never make a cloud between her and her Lord.

She had said something of that sort to Harry that afternoon, and he had answered, "You cannot desire that more than I do, Mary. I want Him to be first to both of us."

Mrs. Loveday was called away to attend to the needs of some villager, and was detained some time. When she came back, Mary was sitting where she had left her, but her work had dropped on the floor, and instead, she was studying a pink piece of paper which had arrived during her aunt's absence.

"Here it is, auntie," said Mary, springing up. "Just read it yourself."

"All well; my mother and I just starting from Paddington."

How cheerful it all looked when at half-past nine o'clock the wheels were heard on the drive, and the travellers walked into the room!

Mrs. Loveday went forward to greet her guest, and one look into the sweet placid face, beaming with love and hopefulness, was enough to satisfy her.

"Where is Mary?" Mrs. Fulbert asked, and held out her arms. "I have wanted a daughter all my life, and now I shall have one!"

"You will indeed," said the vicar heartily. "Harry must forgive all the trouble we have given him, in the blessing of having our Mary for his own. I was convinced this morning that I might happily give her to him, but since then I have had most unexpected confirmation, and I have nothing to say but to thank God that my brother's child has found such a helpmeet."

Such a supper table as that was! Mrs. Fulbert sat with "her two children" by her, and when she looked at the face of one, she turned and looked into the face of the other with a mute appeal that touched them both very much.

"I was coming to see you directly Harry had sailed," she said once, "but I was not very well. Little did I think that you could have had all this to go through."

"It has been all for the best," said Mary, gently. "I would not have it different."

"Nor I," said Harry, smiling. "But for this, I should have been on my way to China!"

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