in and bought this roll, and am going to try my very clumsy and unaccustomed hands at making the garments up. But I shall have to manage very carefully how I convey the gift, for they would be sensitive about receiving anything in charity, and I should be sorry to wound their feelings.' "I'm afraid my looks again betrayed me, as I listened with unrestrained admiration to this simple and unaffected recital, bringing as it did into strong relief that better side of Florence Mercier's character, which the people at St. Francis have never done justice to, and which I am certain only needs development to show what noble stuff she is made of. "Have you seen papa?' she asked suddenly; 'he is in his study, and I will ask Barbara to show you upstairs.' She rose to ring the bell, but I stepped forward and placed my hand on hers just as it had reached the handle. "I have already seen him,' I said, and I looked earnestly at her. She seemed at that moment to gain the first glimpse of what was coming, for the colour on her face deepened, and a startled, uneasy look came into her eyes. 'Your papa has sent me to plead my own cause, Florence, and I want you to be my wife.' "You must imagine the rest, Llewellyn, for my recollection of the conversation that followed is a little confused and uncertain. Florence was quite as much surprised at my avowal as her father had been, and seemed so agitated and overcome by it, that I dared not press my suit further. But she promised to write and give me a decisive answer, and with that I must content myself for the present." "Judging from appearances," I remarked, when my friend had thus finished his narration, "you seem tolerably certain of the result." "I think I shall win her in the end," he replied thoughtfully, and shortly afterwards we separated for the night. On the following Sunday morning he came into my room while I was at breakfast, carrying a letter in his hand. "Here is the sequel to my tale of the other evening, Llewellyn. You are my earliest and best friend here, and shall see my first love-letter. Let me have it again before I start to Church, for I feel that I shall preach all the better if it is near me in the pulpit." And handing me the note he left the room. There were two enclosures in the envelope, the first of which ran as followsDEAR MR. STAUNTON, I have thought very earnestly over what you said the other evening; indeed, I fear I have thought of little else. And when I come to write to you as I promised, I do not know what answer to send. I feel myself so unworthy of a love like yours that I dread to give you the slightest encouragement, and yet I cannot dishonour that love by deceit or untruthfulness. Ever since I came to this place, I have been sensible of a gradual change in myself. Things that I used to do and say without a thought of wrong, would cause me shame if I were now to repeat them, and I have been trying very hard to make my life less selfish and unaimiable. This I owe entirely to you, and again and again as I have thought of you, and have listened to your sermons at St. Francis, I have wished for the courage to come and ask for more direct and personal teaching. And now you have asked me to become your wife! Dear Mr. Staunton, I little deserve such an honour, and it seems almost like a dream, but oh! I feel very, very happy! and I will do just as you and dear papa think best. Sincerely yours, FLORENCE MERCIER. The second enclosure was from Major Mercier : MY DEAR STAUNTON, The fear still haunts me that I behaved rudely to you the other night. If I did, I very sincerely ask your forgiveness. As the best proof of my personal feelings towards you, I give you free permission to win Florence if you can, which -judging from the note she has dutifully left for my inspection, and which I enclose herewith,-seems a task scarcely beyond your power. Meanwhile, wishing for God's blessing on you both, Believe me, yours sincerely, ARTHUR MERCIER. Their engagement created no little stir at St. Francis, and poor Florence must have found this fresh ordeal of inspection and criticism rather trying. But she bore it bravely, and looked more beautiful than ever I had seen her before. I admitted to myself that Staunton had proved a better judge of female character than I, and had won a prize whose true worth had hitherto lain unaccountably dormant. It was curious to see the change gradually wrought in her whole appearance and manner, and people who had hitherto been unfriendly, found their dislike insensibly turning to esteem and admiration. The old hauteur and isolation were gone, and a kindly smile and greeting were now at the service of all. Love, that grand alembic,-had purified rather than transformed her, and in the crucible of Edmund Staunton's affection and influence, the outer dross of her character fell gradually but surely away. The Major was deeply sensible of the change, for it penetrated largely into the home life of the The Lysways. Affectionate his daughter had always been; but this new gentleness of disposition, and utter abnegation of self, manifested itself in ways to which he had been unaccustomed, and caused him much wonder as well as delight. And so the months rolled on, and arrangements for the marriage began to be talked of. My friend had already bespoken me for his 'best man,' and various furtive enquiries had been made after eligible houses that were actually or prospectively available. But how can I go on in this strain when such details seem now like a hideous mockery, and the recollection of these things brings the hot scalding tears into my eyes while I write of them? Would that some other pen could take up the record, and save me the pain and grief of recounting what has to follow. Little did I think, in those happy days, that the finger of an inscrutable and mysterious Providence was even then beckoning my beloved friend away from us, and that the Angel of Death had charge concerning him. But it was so; and again were men and women of large faith and patience to wait in solemn, silent awe, for an explanation of the good God's seemingly terrible and unequal dealings. CHAPTER VII. It was Miss Mercier's birthday,-surely the saddest on which the sun had ever shined!—and I, with several other friends had been invited to spend the evening at the Major's. The guests were few and well chosen, and the hours went gladly by. An indescribable charm seemed to pervade this affectionate family circle; and probably few of us could refrain from picturing the future happiness of Staunton and his bride. The former looked supremely contented, but was evidently fatigued ; and he answered the loving solicitude of his betrothed by recounting what calls had been made on him during the day. They sat hand-in-hand while we conversed, and coffee had just been brought in, when Barbara came and whispered to her young mistress. A troubled look came into Florence's face, and she went to the door, beckoning me to follow her. "What am I to do Mr. Llewellyn?" she asked, after closing the door upon her guests; "poor Henderson has come to ask Edmund to visit his daughter, who is ill with scarlet fever. Surely it will not be wise for him to go," and she looked at me appealingly. "Certainly not," I replied, for I knew that a malignant form of this dread disease had attacked the dwelling of my friend's ancient adversary. "Had we not better withold the message from him?" she went on, "for I fear if he hears of it nothing will restrain him from seeing her." The door opened, and Staunton himself appeared. "What is all this conspiracy about?" he enquired, placing his arm affectionately round her waist. We looked at each other, and knew not how to reply, when Henderson's voice sounded from the passage in tones of urgent entreaty. Before we could prevent him, Staunton strode along the hall, and heard his sad tale. He came back with a grave face, and lifted his hat from its place. "My darling, I'm sorry to leave you on this of all other evenings, but Mary Henderson is dying, and wishes to see me. Will you make my excuses to our friends ?" "Edmund, dear," she answered, clinging to his arm, "both Mr. Llewellyn and I think it would be most imprudent of you to run such a risk. Do stay, love; for I really cannot let you go." I added my entreaties to hers, and endeavoured to prevent him, but it was useless. He gently disengaged himself, and kissed her tenderly. darling, of this poor child lying there, waiting for my coming. has asked her father to be sure and bring me." "Think, And she She clung to him still more closely, and the tears came into her beautiful, pleading eyes. He seemed greatly distressed, and for a few seconds wavered, but I knew how it would end. Kissing her again and again, he at length tore himself away, and left the house. A wretched foreboding came over me that mischief would follow this visit, and Florence evidently shared it. She returned, weeping, to her room, and I went back to our friends to relate what had occurred. Within a very short time Staunton sickened, and so virulent was the seizure, that within a week the doctors pronounced his case hopeless. The Major and I scarcely left him during the whole of the time, and if prayers, or skill, or watchfulness could have saved our friend, he had been with us now. But no such reward was vouchsafed to us. The dear sufferer and I were alone together when the final struggle came, and he literally died in my arms. The memory of our solemn parting will haunt me until my own summons comes; and often in my very dreams does the vision of that angelic smile-transfiguring his countenance with the coming glory-appear to me with a distinctness almost too terrible. I must draw a veil over all that followed. Mere words cannot tell, in faintest degree, the pain and grief caused by the martyrdom of onr revered friend and pastor. Such an assembly as gathered at his funeral had never before thronged the church-yard of St. Francis, and they lowered his coffin into its resting place to an accompaniment of irrepressible sobbings from the vast crowd. I dared not intrude on the awful suffering of poor Florence. For many weeks her own life hung on a mere thread, and the doctor replied to my daily enquiries with an ominous shake of the head. But by and bye the turn came, and she was pronounced out of danger. As soon as her strength permitted it, the Major took her away for a change of air and scene, and no one knew whither they had gone. My own daily life became a solitary blank, and neither work nor books could rouse me from my sense of loneliness and loss. Month after month passed, and the fading leaves on my friend's grave first awakened me to the rapid flight of the Autumn; for I visited that hallowed spot early each morning, while the dew was yet deep on the grass, and my communion with the dead was secure from interruption. Every Sunday I used to take a special offering of wild flowers, the best I could gather on my rambles the evening before, and weave them into an immortelle; for I remembered Staunton's passion for these modest product of the hedgerows, and how he ever preferred them to the daintiest hot-house rarities. One Sunday I was engaged in arranging them as usual, when the shadow of a figure suddenly flitted across the grave, and caused me to look sharply round. "Miss Mercier!" I exclaimed. And it was indeed she who, clad in deepest mourning, stood above me; her face much paler and thinner than when last I saw her, but wearing a strangely peaceful and happy expression. For a moment I stood speechless with astonishment, so unexpected had been her apparition; but she held out her hand in the old kindly way, and, seeing at a glance how I had been engaged, gave me a look of gratitude which told how deeply the scene had gone to her heart. And then she knelt down at her lover's grave, and finished my task with a rare taste and skill, watering the flowers with tears that fell fast, in spite of her outward calm. I turned to go, feeling a sense of intrusion, for I knew she must have expected to be alone at that early hour; but she rose at the same moment, and, linking her arm in mine, asked me if I would see her home. And as we walked together to The Lysways, she told me the secret of her sudden return. "Papa and I only came back last night, and I thought if I visited dear Edmund's tomb this morning, it might give me courage to attend the Service at Church afterwards. I'm so glad I found you here, Mr. Llewellyn, for I want to tell you what has been weighing deeply on my mind since I got better, and have been able to think of my sad loss more calmly. At first, I shuddered at the thought of returning to this place, and papa had decided to leave The Lysways and take a house near his brother in Ireland. But gradually this feeling changed, and one night, in my dreams, I thought I saw my lost love's beautiful face hovering over the bed, with a mournful reproving look. Presently, his lips moved, and I thought he seemed trying to say 'St. Francis,' but the words would not come; and when I repeated them aloud myself, as though to remove his difficuly, he smiled lovingly and was gone. I'm sure God sent him to me, although it was only a dream, and from that night I have felt a yearning to come back. And now, Mr. Llewellyn, will you help me in the task I have set myself? You were Edmund's nearest and best friend, and I feel that I am almost speaking to a brother. Shall we allow his work in this district to end with his life, and make no effort to go on with it for his dear sake? You know how completely his heart was in it, and you know also how he feared lest, being laid aside or called away, the Church might fall back into its old indolence and indifference. For myself, I have decided to stay here, and, with dear papa's entire sanction, dedicate myself to those duties which, if God had permitted me to become Edmund's wife, would naturally have fallen to my share. And I want you to promise to remain at St. Francis also, and work side by side with me." And I did promise. For who, with a recollection such as mine of my departed friend, would have found it possible to resist that touching appeal. And, God helping me, I intend to keep my promise, although I never enter the Church now without the saddest misgivings. BY THE SEA. Always the same, for ever; Always the same for ever; And the tender voice of my lover Comes back to me for ever, From lips that are far away; Always the same for ever, M. A. L. ZETA. |