CHAPTER IX.

_SUBMISSION._

THE morning sun streamed into Pollie's room, and her eyes opened to it with a sense of relief. But soon came back the dull ache of yesterday's wrong feelings, and she wondered if to-day could possibly be as unhappy as that had been.

She heard her father moving about in the kitchen, and in another moment, he put his head in at the door.

"Get up now, Pollie, and light the fire, while I go to see to the mill. Your mother's a bit better, I hope, to-day."

He went, and Pollie hastened to dress herself. She lighted the fire, filled the kettle at the well, and then set the breakfast; after which she called James, and then when her father came in, she asked if she might take up her mother's breakfast.

Her father hesitated, glanced at her intently, and then gave her permission.

So Pollie poured out the tea, and slowly began to mount the stairs.

Here was her chance, but though she had assured herself last night that she had had none, when it came she was not ready to take it.

She entered her mother's room, and crept across to her side.

"I am sorry you are ill, mother," she said gently. "I hope you feel better now."

Her mother looked pale and quiet, but answered pretty cheerfully that she did feel better, and should get up after breakfast.

And Pollie, having deposited the little tray, had nothing further to do, and came down again.

Yes, she had missed her chance! It would be infinitely harder to meet her mother next time, and have to say it then. How could she have been so stupid, she thought, not to have done it when she might?

"You can go down to the village after breakfast with those eggs," remarked her father, as they sat together. "There's more than we can eat, and it's a pity to let them spoil."

"The first thing?" asked Pollie, with beating heart. Then she should perhaps see Miss Loveday, and have to tell her that she had broken her promise.

"Yes, directly; because if your Uncle Brown is going to sell them, he will want them early."

So she started at once with her basket of rich brown and white treasures, and soon her quick steps brought her to the bottom of the hill, and in front of the church where her Uncle Brown's shop stood.

She handed them across the counter with only the number named, and then running out of the shop, looked up the street to the vicarage, where her darling Miss Loveday lived.

Yes, there she was, standing at the gate waiting for the postman, and Pollie came quite close before the quiet eyes turned in her direction.

"Oh, Miss Loveday!" she exclaimed. "I've never done what I promised! I said I would tell mother, and I haven't."

Miss Loveday looked down in her face inquiringly.

"I couldn't; I did not see her last night, and then this morning I did not feel as if I could. Miss Loveday, why is it so hard to do things?"

"Then I am afraid, Pollie dear, you did not ask the Lord Jesus to do for you what you were not willing to do yourself?"

Pollie hung her head. "I was so vexed I did not care to—"

"Poor little girlie," said her teacher, with tender sympathy, "I know how hard it must be. I have gone through it myself lately, so I know. But oh, Pollie, I know one thing too, and that is, that the Lord works in us by His Spirit to do the things to please Him, which otherwise we could not do. With God 'nothing' is impossible."

How earnestly she gazed down the road! And what a colour flashed into her face as the postman came in view, and trudged into one cottage garden after another.

Pollie stood spell-bound, watching him too. Would he pause at Miss Loveday's side, and hand her a precious missive? Why had her pale cheeks turned to deep crimson? Was the letter she was expecting of such great importance?

No! He came up quickly to where they stood, and with a smiling "None for you, miss," passed on.

The crimson cheeks were pale now. Miss Loveday seemed as if all life and hope had gone out of her face.

"Come into the garden, Pollie," said her teacher slowly.

Perhaps she craved human sympathy; perhaps she thought that Pollie's own struggling little experience would help her to understand better than anyone at the parsonage.

They walked quickly through the garden, and Miss Loveday led the way down to the stream which flowed so quietly at the bottom of the hill; nor did she stop till they stood close to the water's edge.

"Pollie," she said, catching her breath, "I have need to remember what I have said to you!"

"Did you want a letter so much, dear Miss Loveday?"

"Oh, Pollie!" Miss Loveday sat down on a rock and hid her face.

"Perhaps it will come another day," comforted Pollie.

"I do not think it can. He will have sailed by this time," she whispered.

Pollie did not know what to answer, for she did not know all that had come and gone. She laid her little trembling hand on her teacher's knee, and knelt down by her side in silent sympathy.

"I will tell you, Pollie, because—oh, because I'm so very, very miserable—because I want to do right, and it is so hard!

"You know I live with my uncle and aunt? My father left me to their care, to take their advice, to do exactly as they bid me. He made me promise that I would obey them as if they were my own parents."

Pollie pressed her hand softly; she did not dare to interrupt by a word.

"Then I went on a visit to Devonshire, and while I was there I met someone who—who wanted me to go out to China with him, to make his home happy there."

Pollie shrank—Miss Loveday going away! But how selfish of her to think of herself! It was evident Miss Loveday wanted to go, and that she thought it would make her happy.

"When I came back from Devonshire I told my uncle and aunt, and they said they would make inquiries about—my friend—Harry Fulbert.

"When the answer came to their letter, I thought my heart would break. My uncle forbade me to speak to him again. I was to write to him once and say so, and that was all."

"Oh!" said Polka with filling eyes. "How dreadful! Did you have to?"

"For days and days I could not—I would not. I felt sure my own father and mother would not have done such a thing, and my heart was all in a tumult, and I felt dreadfully angry that my uncle and aunt could be so cruel.

"I would not speak to them about it, I felt so bad. And so it went on for nearly a week.

"At last came Sunday, when we had those words in our lesson (do you remember them, Pollie?): 'If ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses'; and I thought how could I prepare to give you girls that lesson, if I could not say the words from my heart myself?

"Oh, Pollie, it was dreadful. At last I thought, as I have told you, that what I could not do of myself God could enable me to do, and I knelt down and asked Him to help me to submit to His will, and to feel rightly towards my uncle and aunt.

"Then, Pollie, I went down to them, and I told them how wrong I had been to be so angry; and then I asked them why it was I might not see Harry, and begged them to let me do so.

"Then, Pollie, they told me that they had heard, on authority which they could not question, that Harry was not good and steady, and told me that I must have nothing to do with him. I cannot tell you all, but at last I had to let him go; they would not give way, and I dare not disobey; and that is the end of it!"

Pollie listened intently, her eyes gazing in the sad ones which, like a dumb suffering animal's, sought her sympathy.

At last she said shyly:

"'Did' God help you to do His will?"

There was an instant's breathless pause. Then Miss Loveday's head sank lower, and she said brokenly, "There was nothing else to do; I dare not disobey."

"Then I suppose it must have been," added Pollie reverently.

"And if it was His will—you think I ought to be glad to do it, Pollie?"

Pollie was sobbing now. Miss Loveday opened her arms, and they cried together for ever so long.

At last, Miss Loveday wiped away her tears, and began to prepare herself to go back to the house.

"I'll never forget—never," said Pollie, clinging to her; "and I'll pray every day that God will let him come back!"

"There 'must' be some mistake, Pollie, or I ought not to wish it, of course. But I am sure—so very sure—that he loves my Saviour, and wishes to serve Him."

"I will pray," whispered Pollie brokenly, and then she sped home, her anger all gone, nothing but love left in her heart which had been so hard.

"Oh, mother!" was all she could say when she found her sitting in the kitchen. And then she found kisses of forgiveness pressed on her face, and arms of forgiveness clasping her round.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]