Everybody's business

CHAPTER XVII

MAKING A COLLECTION

THE Vicar was not one who would allow grass to grow under his feet, as the saying is, or who would allow the heated iron to become cold before he struck it.No later than Monday afternoon he set forth upon a round through his parish, subscription list in hand, bent upon getting as many gifts as possible towards the needed lifeboat.He was very much in earnest, very eager in his quest; and, like all subscription collectors, he met with varying success, sometimes receiving more from a quarter where he had expected less, and sometimes receiving less where he had expected more.

The list was headed by ten pounds from himself.This, out of the Vicar's small stipend, after the expenses of his long illness, and considering that he had no private property of his own, meant a great deal more of self-denial than anybody in the Parish was likely to guess,—except indeed his old housekeeper, who "did" for him, with the help of one young girl.But the old housekeeper was no gossip, and Old Maxham was not likely to be the wiser for what she knew.

Mr. Bateson, the doctor, despite his large family, his limited number of paying patients, and his unlimited number of non-paying patients, followed up this donation with another of five pounds; and, to everybody's surprise, Mildred Pattison came forward with a second five-pound note.

Her wish would have been to give it silently, with no name, as a secret token of thankfulness for her own preservation.She could be thankful now, feeling that she had been kept to do some work in life which needed to be done.Sometimes, however, it may be a duty to make one's expression of thankfulness a public matter; and in this case the Vicar was anxious to have the influence of her example for others.Mildred yielded to his wish, simply saying, "I will do as you like."

Mrs. Groates, notwithstanding the pull of her boy's accident, persuaded Groates to offer a pound to the fund; and though he made a long face over it, he gave way.Miss Perkins offered another pound, and this again was a matter for general surprise, since she had never been regarded as of a liberal nature, but rather was reckoned to be parsimonious.Jessie, out of her small purse, bestowed half-a-crown; not without a sigh for the pink ribbon which she had intended to buy.And since the giving of the half-crown meant doing without the ribbon, and since she cared a great deal about having the ribbon, her contribution had the added worth which is involved in self-denial.

Old Adams and the fisherman, Robins, would not withhold their little gifts also, though they had already made the much greater offer of themselves for the work of rescue.Nor were Mrs. Stokes and her husband behindhand; and even wee Posie No.2, with pink cheeks and much excitement, pushed a whole penny into the Vicar's hand.The young Vicar, who dearly loved children, took her into his arms, and kissed the soft little face.

"That penny will surely bring a blessing," he said.

"She's talked of nothing but the boat and the poor sailors, sir, since last Sunday," Mrs. Stokes remarked."You wouldn't think it, to see her, how Posie listens to the sermons, nor how much she understands and remembers.She's such a little thing, but she's wonderful quick to take in things."

"She isn't too much of a babe to listen to the 'old, old story,' Mrs. Stokes," the Vicar said.

In certain quarters matters went less swimmingly.Mr. Mokes, who was credited with large savings, talked of "hard times," and averred the impossibility of going beyond five shillings; a sum which in his case could by no means be reckoned as anything approaching "widows' mites."The Misses Coxen declared themselves to be unable to give anything at all.Work had been slack lately, they said, and money was short, and it wasn't they who were to blame, but other people who ought to have known better; and if those other people liked to give, the Misses Coxen had nothing to say to it, but as for themselves they just couldn't, and that was all about the matter.Other individuals offered more or less, according to their means, according to the claims upon their purses, and according to the spirit of generosity or the reverse which happened to be theirs.

Mokes' very small gift was a disappointment to the Vicar.It might be that Mokes had not so much laid by as was supposed; but as the longest-established and most successful tradesman in the place, he might have given a good deal more than two half-crowns without being a sufferer from his own liberality.The Vicar had looked for at least five pounds from that quarter; perhaps even ten.He spoke rather plainly to Mokes.

And Mokes rubbed his hands deprecatingly and talked anew of "bad times.""He couldn't afford more," he said, "not just then.Perhaps by-and-by—"

The Vicar knew what that was worth.

So the list grew irregularly, as such lists do grow, and the Vicar met with a good deal to encourage him, as well as with a certain amount that was saddening.

He did not, however, depend upon the neighbourhood alone, but wrote to friends and acquaintances and strangers too, in all parts of England, asking them to contribute towards the same object.So vigorously did he exert himself, that in a few weeks he was able to announce good success from the pulpit.He was indeed far from having gained the whole sum, but he had received actually as much as three hundred and fifty pounds; and if he could collect one hundred pounds more, that would suffice.He had been in correspondence with the National Lifeboat Institution; and that Society having just received an unexpected legacy of six hundred pounds towards the purchase of a lifeboat in some locality, where it might be needed, was willing to use this legacy for the needs of Old Maxham.

"The cost of a lifeboat, fully equipped, with carriage and boat-house, amounts to about one thousand and fifty pounds," the Vicar said."That six hundred, with the three hundred and fifty which we have collected, gives us nine hundred and fifty pounds; and I have undertaken, if possible, to get the remaining hundred pounds.When the boat is actually started, there will of course be a certain amount of annual outlay, to keep it in an efficient state,—repairs, salaries to the men, and so on,—amounting to about one hundred pounds a year.For this we shall have a committee and collect what we can, and the rest will be undertaken by the Society.

"And now, my friends, I want you all to help me.Some of you have done much already, I know; and most of you have done something.Still, perhaps you may be able to do just a little more.Think how much the boat is wanted.Think,—if a storm should come,—what a difference the presence or absence of that boat would make!"

And the very next day a storm did come.The winds raged, and the waves leaped in fury over the outlying range of rocks known to Old Maxham as "the reef."All through the evening hours matters grew worse and worse, till only a strong man could stand upon the shore, facing the blast.And in the darkness, those who were there believed that they heard an awful cry, as of human beings in the last extremity of danger.One wild wail, and a pause; then another wilder wail, and a longer pause; then a third—and no more.Some said it was only the shrieking of the gale, and others hoped it might be fancy.

"Even if a barque was on the reef, we couldn't have heerd them here," it was declared.

But the older sailors shook their heads, and said that the thing was not impossible, for such a sound had been heard before, when a wreck had taken place, the wind blowing direct from the reef.Nothing could be done, however; for no ordinary small boat could keep afloat in such a sea as was running that night.

And when the morning dawned, and the fury of the wind had grown less, and the frantic waves had died into a sullen swell, fragments of a broken barque were borne in by the next rising tide, and with the fragments came two drowned bodies of sailors, stark and stiff.Only those two.The rest were gone, and the barque itself had vanished.

They were taken up and were reverently buried in the churchyard, and the Church's prayers were read over them, a large crowd having assembled around.

The Vicar officiated, and he used the opportunity to say a few more words upon the subject which lay near his heart.Many words were not needed, for those two drowned men had cried with a loud voice to the people of Old Maxham.But the Vicar could not quite pass the matter by.He looked round with sorrowful eyes as he said,—

"My friends, if we had had a lifeboat ready, it might be that we could have welcomed these sailors living, in our midst, instead of only giving them a corner of cold earth for their resting-place.

"Who can say?You all know that cries were heard in the night,—cries for help,—and no help could be given.No boat except a lifeboat could have floated yesterday night.

"And whose fault is it that we had not a lifeboat?It is certain that one ought to have been procured, long long ago.I am not going to reproach you now for the past.That which is done cannot be undone; and that which has been undone in the past must remain undone in that past.In the present and for the future it can be done, and it ought to be done, and till it is done we are one and all blameworthy.How many more poor fellows are to die thus, for want of our brotherly care?"

Then a flush came to the Vicar's face."It is nobody's business, perhaps," he said."Nobody's business, in particular; therefore, everybody's business in general.What!—Nobody's business, when we are here, when you and I are here, when God expects us to do what we are able to do!

"Nobody's business!Will that excuse serve, do you think, when we stand face to Face with our Lord, and He searches into our actions and motives and the use that we have made of our time and money and talents?

"Will it do then for us to say, 'It was nobody's business, and so it was not mine!'I think His answer would be, 'The blood of thy brothers crieth unto Me from the ocean.'I think He would ask of us, not, 'Have you bought the lifeboat?'but 'Hast thou done what thou couldst?'

"I cannot judge for one or another of you, whether you have or have not 'done what you could.'But He, your Lord, knows.He never makes a mistake.He never misjudges.He searches into all the underlying motives.

"If you have honestly done your utmost, then you may be at rest in spirit.If you have not, then think of those two poor fellows whom we have laid in the earth: think of all the others who have gone down in the night in an unnamed watery grave.Think of the many more who will yet come to our dangerous coast, and see what you can do, even beyond what you have already done, for their safety."

Tears were in the Vicar's eyes when he stopped, and some of the women present were sobbing aloud.And the Vicar went home and added two more pounds of his own to the collection, resolving to spare them somehow, at the cost of some added self-denial, though he was hardly yet in a condition of health for severe treatment of himself as to food or comforts.

CHAPTER XVIII

WHO COULD HAVE SENT IT?

THAT afternoon the front door of the Vicarage had a busy time of it, and the old housekeeper-cook, Mrs. Maggs, had a busier.No sooner did she get into her kitchen than she had to walk out again.

"There wasn't no getting anything done," she declared."One had need to be made of two, ta answer that there bell, and keep everything going besides."

For the girl was after some rough cleaning and therefore was not presentable for the front door.Still, though Mrs. Maggs complained a little, she was as much pleased as anybody could be, that more money should flow in for the lifeboat.Whether she cared very greatly or no for the lifeboat, she did care for anything that made the Vicar happy, and this lifeboat lay very near to his heart.

First came a succession of notes, or little packages, containing coins; small coins, most of them, perhaps, but none the less welcome for that!Half-a-crown, two shillings, three shillings, one shilling, a sixpenny piece—one after another dropped in, done up in paper or in an envelope; each with name or initials attached, and each given in "for the lifeboat collection."Each in succession was carried by Mrs. Maggs to the study, to gladden the Vicar with fresh hope.

He was trying to get an hour's work over his next Sunday morning's sermon; but the effort seemed likely to be a fruitless one.Note after note arrived, and had to be opened; and then people began to arrive.

Miss Perkins was the first.She had brought ten shillings, and she expressed herself glad to give the extra donation, but she didn't want her name down nor anything said.

"It ain't that I'm making believe to be humble," she avowed with delightful frankness; "but I don't want a lot of talk made, nor the neighbours all wondering however in the world I can manage it.And it isn't nobody's business, except my own."

"You are sure you can afford so much, Miss Perkins?"The Vicar put this question involuntarily.He knew that Miss Perkins had a penniless niece dependent on her.

"I'll make shift to afford it somehow," Miss Perkins responded grimly."I ain't going to have none of them drownded men laid to my score!"And there was the sound of a suspicious sniffle.

Miss Perkins had been present at the funeral of the nameless strangers; and when other people had wept, she had remained stolidly composed.Now her eyes were red, and her pocket-handkerchief was rolled in one hand, ready for emergencies.

"You know best, of course, Miss Perkins.I'm most grateful for your kind help,—and every mother in the land, with a sailor-son at sea, would be the same if she were here now.But I don't ask anybody to give more than can rightly be spared.That would be unreasonable."

"Shouldn't think there wasn't overmuch danger of that, sir!"Miss Perkins sniffled afresh.

"If others respond as quickly as you have done, I don't think we shall wait much longer for the lifeboat," hopefully remarked the Vicar.

Hardly had Miss Perkins vanished, before Mildred Pattison appeared on the scene.

"I've brought another pound," she said simply."And I'm afraid that's the most I can manage."

"I think you have done your share already, Miss Pattison—I really do," protested the Vicar."I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke to-day."

"No, sir.But you made me think of myself.If anybody ought to do more, I'm that one.Saved as I was from out of the waves."

Mildred had brought her invariable companion, Hero, who was always admitted into the Vicarage.He had grown to be an immense favourite in the place; and with nobody was he more of a favourite than with the Vicar.Mr. Gilbert's hand rested on the dog's great solid head, as he talked with the dog's mistress.

"But you lost your all on the rocks when you were saved from the wreck.If any one had a reason not to give, some would say that you were that one," the Vicar added impulsively.

In the churchyard he had seen only the other side of the question.Now he was realising how much was meant in the lives of Old Maxham people by the self-denying gifts for which he had pleaded so strongly.

"I don't see it so, sir.And if you don't mind me saying it, I doubt if you do either."

The Vicar smiled."No, you are right," he said."I do not really, perhaps.It was no hardship for your dear ones to be called home as they were.The only hardship was for you—not for them.We may be very sure that they would not wish to come back here, if the choice could be given them.It has been a sore trial for you to lose them, but you may indeed be thankful,—both for them and for yourself."

Mildred's eyes were full.She wiped away the tears, and said simply,—"I do try."

After Mildred's departure, in walked the doctor.

"Now, I say, Gilbert, this sort of thing won't do," Mr. Bateson."You're enough to worm a toad out of a stone.As for giving more, I can't afford it, of course,—but there's no resisting you.Here,—" and he slipped a gold coin into the Vicar's hand."You may have that, and that's all.Can't do more.There's no end of broth and good things wanted just now among my poorer patients.Glad to do all I can, but limits must exist.Well—I hope you'll succeed in the end.Nothing like perseverance.I've tried to stir the sensibilities of a patient of mine, just come down from London; perhaps I ought to call him a 'paying guest,' rather than a patient.One might as well try to rouse a log to generosity.He really isn't badly off, and he might have spared you at least a few shillings.He didn't seem to look upon the matter in that light: and one man can't see with another man's eyes.Good-day, and don't make yourself ill over this business."

Then was ushered in Alice Mokes, the silent and useful daughter whom everybody liked and few knew well.She had no message from her father, but she brought two shillings out of her own little store."I wish it was more," she said sadly."I haven't much."

"That makes the more of the little that you can give, Alice."

"I'd make it more if I could," she said, hardly grasping his meaning."I did think father might—but—"

"No hope in that direction, I suppose?"

She shook her head."If father once makes up his mind, nothing turns him from it," she said."And he has made up his mind."

"Was he at the funeral?"

"No, sir.He said he couldn't spare the time."

Alice had a class in the Sunday school, and she stayed to ask a question on some point that had puzzled her.The Vicar explained her little difficulty with clearness, and she tripped off smiling, only to make way for Mrs. Groates.

"Come in, Mrs. Groates, come in.I'm glad to see you," the Vicar said, with his heartiest welcome."How are you getting on?Jack all right?"

"He is; thank you kindly, sir.And I've brought just half-a-crown for the lifeboat, and I wish it was ten times as much."

"So do I, Mrs. Groates, because that would show your husband's business to be prospering particularly well.However, I hope it does prosper.Of course you are a large party, and you have a good many expenses.Sit down, and tell me all about yourselves.Stop a minute; I'll note this down.'Mrs. Groates, two and sixpence.'That's right.I didn't think your husband looking well the other day?"

"No, sir.Nor happy."Mrs. Groates spoke with emphasis.

"Sorry for that.I hope nothing is wrong—You are such a happy-looking woman yourself—"

"I'm glad to say I've always been blessed with good spirits.But Jim, he's more of an up-and-down sort; and it's been all down lately, not up.He don't and won't tell me why, and I thought I'd just mention it to you, sir, thinking maybe you might some day have a bit of a talk with him.If anything is gone wrong, he'd tell you, perhaps, when he won't tell me."

The Vicar thought this doubtful, but forbore to say so.

"We've had a lot of talk lately about my boy Jack—our boy I mean.Jack's always been a good boy to me, sir; the best boy a mother ever had.I've never had a hard word from Jack, not since he was a baby.But you know he's engaged to be married now."

"I know.To Jessie Perkins.Nice girl too."

"Yes, she's a very nice girl, sir; I wouldn't wish a nicer for my Jack; and nobody could wish a better young man for her than him.Jessie always was nice, but she's ever so much nicer since Miss Pattison went to live in that house.She's done a lot of good to Jessie.But it was about Jack that I wanted to ask you, sir.I do think, and so does Jack, that he'd ought to be in some other place, and doing something better than he's doing now.It's all very well his helping in our shop, but that won't lead to nothing better by-and-by; and there ain't no real need for Jack to help.Mimy and me can do all that's wanted.It isn't as if the shop was so very big, nor as if the business was getting to be more and more, for it don't; and I don't mind saying that to you, sir, though I wouldn't like it to be farther."

"No, no, I'm safe.You may trust me.Perhaps that is what troubles your husband."

"Maybe so, sir.I couldn't say.He won't allow that things ain't all just as they should be—and maybe they are better than I think.But I do know Jack had ought to get something better to do.He'd ought to be in some biggish town, where he can learn his business thoroughly, and hope to rise by-and-by.I've always told them so, and Jim wouldn't listen, and Jack didn't mind.Jack's easy-going, you know: and he's a good home-boy too, and didn't want to leave us all.But now he's thinking of getting married, it makes all the difference.He don't like the thoughts of going, but all the same, he knows it's got to be, and wants it as much as anybody."

"Yes, yes, I see.And what does your husband say?"

"He don't seem over well pleased, sir, but he don't say much.He's sort of gloomy-like, and don't talk much about nothing.He says he s'poses Jack 'll have to do as he chooses."

"And you want me to help you.I'll think about the matter.Perhaps I could write on his behalf to one or two large houses of business, where I am well-known.Worth the trial, at all events."

A little more talk on the subject, and Mrs. Groates decamped, to be followed by somebody else.

So the afternoon wore away; and by the time darkness settled down upon the land, the lifeboat collection had made sensible advance.More than seven pounds had been added to it since lunch.

Seven pounds!But one hundred pounds were needed!

"It will come.We shall get it," Mr. Gilbert said aloud, cheerily."I must send out fresh appeals by post.And now, positively, I must get half-an-hour's reading."

It was early in the week, but the Vicar generally liked to fix upon his next Sunday's subjects in early days, so as to allow time for thought.

A modest little ring presently sounded, and he glanced up to murmur,—"Another half-crown, probably.It is nice to see the dear people responding as they do.Up to and even beyond their ability, I do believe—in some cases.Yet, others could give more," and he thought of Mr. Mokes.

Mrs. Maggs brought another envelope; just a common envelope of cheap white paper, addressed to "The Vicar."

"Who left this, Mrs. Maggs?"

"I really couldn't tell you, sir.There wasn't any name said; and I couldn't even see what sort of a person it was.It gets dark so soon at that back door.Yes, he came to the back door, and he had a sort of woollen muffler up to his face, and he didn't scarcely look at me.He just poked that into my hand, with a sort of a queer grunt, and was of in a moment, before you could say so much as 'thank you.'"

"What sort of man?"

"I couldn't tell the very least, sir.I didn't get a proper look at him at all."

"One of my working-men friends, perhaps,—a little shy of being seen to do a generous act.Another half-crown most likely.Or let us hope for five shillings.Perhaps the name will be inside.Wait, and I will tell you.I really do believe you are as much interested in this lifeboat affair as I am myself.Eh, Mrs. Maggs?"

The Vicar beamed up at her with his bright boy-like smile, and Mrs. Maggs said, "Yes, sir," decorously, with an affectionate glow at her heart.There was not the least need to specify how much she cared for its own sake, and how much for his sake.Perhaps she did not know herself.

A folded blank sheet was within, and inside that sheet were three or four thin papers, at sight of which the Vicar stared in amazement.Across one corner of the blank sheet was written, in a very minute neat hand, "For the lifeboat fund."Nothing more; and no name.The Vicar flushed, and his heart beat fast.

"Bank-notes, sir!!!"said Mrs. Maggs.

"Yes, bank-notes, Maggs!For how much do you think?Maggs, how much do you think?"The Vicar was so excited as to go back to his earlier style of designating Mrs. Maggs, forgetting that he had taken of late to always calling her "Mrs. Maggs," by way of inducing proper respect for her in the village."How much do you think?"he repeated.

"I couldn't guess, sir."Mrs. Maggs smoothed down her apron.

"Ninety pounds, Maggs!There are bank-notes here for no less than ninety pounds!"

"Sir!"

"It's true!Ninety pounds!"The Vicar sprang to his feet, and waved the notes over his head, with a hearty "Hurrah!"which rang through the house.Then he stopped, bent his head, and said reverently,—

"Thank God.Now we can do it."

"Ninety pounds!"repeated Mrs. Maggs.

"Ninety pounds, Maggs!Not one penny less."

"But who—?"both voices exclaimed together.

"Who, indeed?"Mr. Gilbert's mind was already running over the list of his friends and acquaintances in Old and New Maxham, rejecting the thought of each in turn.Most of them simply could not have offered such a gift; and the very few who perhaps could, he felt sure would not.Or if they would, he saw no reason in their case for secrecy.

"It is extraordinary.I have not the vaguest idea who the money can be from.Most singular.Somebody in the place; that seems certain.He must have been at the funeral, or else he must have heard about it from others.This plainly comes as a response.On Sunday—only this last Sunday—I gave out that one hundred pounds more would be required; and the giver of this has evidently reckoned that the neighbourhood might make up ten pounds of that amount.He has reckoned rightly too.Seven of the ten we have already; less than three more wanted.A mere nothing!But ninety pounds!And brought to the back door in such a quiet way.No fuss or ostentation.I am utterly at a loss.And we shall have to be at a loss.The good man does not mean it to be known—whoever he is and of course we cannot try to find out.He has a right to his secret if he chooses."

The Vicar was unable to settle down to any more sermon-preparation that afternoon.He put his books and papers away, and went off to tell his people the good news.Many of them would rejoice heartily with him; not least among them the inhabitants of Periwinkle Cottage.

CHAPTER XIX

JESSIE'S WONDERINGS

"I WONDER, I do wonder, who it could have been.Don't you, Millie?Who ever could have given such a lot?Only fancy—ninety pounds!And this isn't like a big town, where a lot of rich people live.Why, there's hardly anybody in Old Maxham with any money at all to spare.Unless it's the Mokeses.Mr. Mokes wouldn't give ninety pounds, nor ninety shillings, for anybody in the world, except himself.You needn't look so grave, because I've known Mr. Mokes pretty nearly all my life, and I know just exactly what he is.It isn't Mr. Mokes that's given the ninety pounds.And who else it can be, I don't know.Even in New Maxham there's nobody really rich.And nobody likely to give such a lot, all at once, without a word.Who do you think it can have been?What do you think?"

"I think—that skirt has to be finished," Mildred said in tranquil tones.

"I'm getting on with it; I am really.But I'm not like you, and I do get a little excited sometimes.And this is exciting, I am sure.Mr. Gilbert was excited.I never saw him with such a colour."

"Yes; he is very glad indeed.I don't think it is for himself, though.He was thinking of all the poor fellows who might be wrecked upon our rocks; and that now they might be saved."

"And you don't think I am thinking of the sailors too?"

Mildred's grave eyes looked across with a meaning expression."No," she said."I don't, Jessie dear."

Jessie was silenced for several minutes, and her sewing-machine went fast.This was the next morning after Mr. Gilbert's call, with news of his unexpectedly large contribution towards the lifeboat fund, and perhaps Jessie's eagerness was not surprising.Mildred's feelings were deeper, and did not easily find vent in words.

"There!"Jessie said at length, bringing the machine to rest."I've got round that whole skirt, and it's done.It hasn't taken me long either.I should like to go out, and see what people are saying."

"Does it matter what they say?"

"Oh, but I like to know.And perhaps some one may be able to guess who can have given the money."

Mildred was silent.

"Millie, why did you say that just now; you didn't suppose I cared about the sailors?I do care."

"I don't think I said anything about your not caring.It was only a question whether you were thinking of them just then.And whether your being so excited was only for their sake."

"Why should you think it wasn't?"

"I'm not setting myself to judge you," Mildred answered, putting another piece of work into Jessie's hands."Just hem these, dear;—no, not with the machine; and it must be your best work.If you can tell me that you care as Mr. Gilbert cares, I'm bound to do my best to believe you.But it didn't look like that."

"I don't suppose I do, exactly."Jessie spoke in subdued tones."I do care about the sailors being saved, really and truly; but just to-day I suppose I want more to know who has given the money."

"And that is what you are not meant to know.Whoever gave the money intends nobody to know his name, and it is no business of ours to try to find out.Didn't you see?Mr. Gilbert will not try.He may wonder, as you and I do, but he will not stir a finger to find out anything about it."

"Only, if one could just guess—"

"You have been guessing for the last hour.That doesn't do much good or much harm.If you tried deliberately to find out, I think you would be wrong."

"Millie!You didn't give the ninety pounds?"

Mildred laughed."No, I did not," she said."I have not the ninety pounds to give.All the same, I think you were wrong to ask me, if you had the least idea of such a thing being possible."

"I know one thing," Jessie exclaimed."I wish I hadn't given my half-crown."

"Why?"

"Why, what's the use?Two and sixpence!And ninety pounds!Think of the difference.The person who gave ninety pounds could easily have given another half-crown.And I dare say his ninety pounds were nothing to him, and my two-and-six pence was a great deal to me."

"I don't see why you should suppose his ninety pounds to be nothing to him.It may be just as much to him as your half-crown was to you.If not—that would only mean that in one sense your gift was the larger of the two."

"Millie!"

"I mean it really.Did you not understand the Vicar when he preached about the widow's mites?Her gift was actually more than what the rich men gave."

"Now, Mildred!More in a sort of way, I suppose, but not really more."

"I mean what I say.The way God looks upon a thing is the real way, and our way of looking is often wrong.Which do you suppose is most, the half of a thing or the whole of a thing?"

"The whole, of course.At least—well, of course half-a-sovereign is more than a whole five-shilling piece."

"Ah, but that is the wrong way of measuring.It isn't the question, how much a sum of money will buy, but, how much it is out of what a man has.The half of what a man has is always less than the whole of what a man has.If one man has a hundred pounds, and gives ten pounds out of it, then he gives one-tenth of what he has, and he keeps nine-tenths.And if another man has one pound and gives one pound, then he gives his all and keeps nothing for himself.Don't you see?The ten pounds is more in man's sight, but the one pound may be more in God's sight.It is a very simple sum, if one takes it in the right way.I'm not talking now about one's reasons for giving.Only God can know what they are, and we have no business to judge one another's motives."

"But one pound isn't more than ten pounds!"

"It might be very much more to the man himself; and if so, it would really be the larger gift.The man who gave away ten pounds and kept ninety, would not miss so much what he gave, as the man who had only one pound, and who gave that pound, and kept nothing at all for himself.Of course if he was sure of food and clothes and comforts, when he gave his pound, one could not say that he had really had nothing more—even though it might have been the last coin in his pocket."

"And it mightn't be right for a man to give away all he had, if he had children depending on him."

"Certainly it might not."

Jessie worked busily for some time, not talking.

"Do you know about Jack?"she asked suddenly.

"What about Jack?"

"He wants to go away to get work somewhere else.He says he can never get on here.And Mrs. Groates spoke to Mr. Gilbert yesterday—I was there in the afternoon when she came in—and Mr. Gilbert is going to try to help Jack to find something."

"I think Jack is right.It has seemed to me for a good while that he ought not to stay here.There is no chance of his getting on."

"That's what they all say.And Jack wants to begin to lay by.He says he ought."

"Of course he ought.No man has any business to think of marrying, until he has a good hope of giving his wife a comfortable home.If Jack and you were to marry, with nothing laid by, and only just making enough to carry you on from week to week, you would have very little comfort.Loss of work or of health would mean misery at once."

"But it will be so horrid to have him go away from Old Maxham—so dull."

"Not horrid at all, if it is the right thing for him to do.You are both young enough not to mind waiting.Jack will never make his way in Old Maxham."

"He might, if the shop did as well as it ought," meditated Jessie."So Mr. Groates says.He says he has no chance against the Mokeses."

"You see Mr. Groates is comparatively new to the place, and the Mokes family has been here for at least three generations.That makes all the difference."

"I shall be so dreadfully dull," sighed Jessie again.

"O no, you will not.You will be brave and sensible, and make the best of things.You and Jack will meet sometimes, and you can write to one another.And you will both work hard, and not spend all you earn in pretty things to wear."

Jessie blushed a little, and said, "No; but I do like pretty things."

"Most people do.But you are not a child any longer, Jessie.You and Jack are thinking of being married some day; and with that before you, you ought to think of the future.You ought to deny yourself now for the sake of by-and-by.It isn't only yourself that you have to think of—nor even only yourself and Jack."

"Jessie!"called Miss Perkins.

Jessie sprang up and ran out of the room, Mildred following; for something in the tone of that cry was unusual.

"Jessie!"

"I'm coming, aunt.What is the matter?"

The voice was broken and appealing.Miss Perkins stood at the foot of the stairs, holding the baluster with one hand, and holding her side with the other.She breathed hard, as if she had been running up-hill, and her face was yellow-white.The first impression made upon the minds of them both was that Miss Perkins had been taken ill.

"Let me help you into the dining-room," Mildred said kindly."Lean upon me—so—don't be afraid.You will feel better presently."

"Can't I get anything?"asked Jessie.

"It isn't—it isn't—me!I'm all right," gasped Miss Perkins."At least—I'm only—only—it gave me a turn—made me feel like—" and she hid her face in her handkerchief.

"What was it that gave you a turn?"asked Mildred, she and Jessie exchanging glances.

Miss Perkins shuddered.

"Come in here, and sit down.Jessie, get a glass of water, dear.Thank you.Now, Miss Perkins, take a sip or two.Has anything happened?"

Miss Perkins groaned.

"Tell me what it is.Anybody hurt?"

"Killed!"whispered Miss Perkins.

"Who was it?"Both Mildred and Jessie grew paler.

"Killed outright," moaned Miss Perkins."And not a moment's warning!O dear me!"

CHAPTER XX

RUN OVER

"WHO is killed?"asked Mildred.

Miss Perkins shivered, and Jessie stood gazing in a vague dismay.

"Tell us what has happened, and who is killed," repeated Mildred, pressing her hand gently upon Miss Perkins' shoulder."I might be some help perhaps.Where did it happen?Near here?Who is it, Miss Perkins?"

Miss Perkins preserved a resolute silence.

"It would be better to tell us at once," Mildred said gravely, and at the same moment Jessie murmured, "Jack!"

"Poor Jack!"sighed Miss Perkins.

Jessie broke into a frightened sob.

"No, no, not that; she does not mean that," said Mildred."Jack is not killed, Miss Perkins!No, I thought not," as Miss Perkins shook her head."Then who was it?Not the Vicar?"

Another shake, and Mildred drew a breath of relief.

"Just out in the street," Miss Perkins began, suddenly finding her voice."And I'd been talking to him only one minute before.He said it was a fine day, and I said yes, it was.And he said he didn't think it would be so fine to-morrow, the clouds were gathering up so.O dear, never thinking that there wasn't to be no to-morrow for him!And I said what a wonderful thing it was about the money for the boat, and didn't he wonder who it was that had given it?O dear me!"with another gasp."And he said he wouldn't have thought there was a person in the place as had got anything like as much to spare; and he only knew he hadn't.

"'Times is bad,' says he, with a sort of a melancholy smile, 'and it's hard enough to make both ends meet nowadays,' he says.

"And then I said, 'Good-morning.'

"And he says 'Good-morning.'And then he turned back as I was turning away, and he says, 'So Jack's going to leave us.'

"And I says, 'A very sensible plan too.'

"And he says, 'I'm not so sure about that either.'"

A faint "Oh!"had escaped Jessie's lips, and she looked imploringly at Mildred.

"And then—?"said Mildred.

"And then Mr. Gilbert came up, and he stopped to speak to me; and Mr. Groates was standing in the road, close to the corner, and he stopped to look our way, and nodded to Mr. Gilbert, and I saw Mr. Bateson coming along the road quick.And that very moment Stobbs' cart dashed right round the corner.Nobody could have seen it coming, nor warned Mr. Groates.He was just knocked down flat, and it went over him, and his head struck on the curb-stone.And I was looking, and I saw it all," added Miss Perkins, with unnecessary pity for herself.

"I'm sure it gave me such a turn . . .I don't know whenever I'll get over it.It's made me feel all a sort of upside down.And I couldn't move, no more than if I'd been turned into a stone; but I had to hold on to the lamp-post.And they all came running, and the boy jumped down, and he did look frightened, and no wonder, to see Mr. Groates lying there on the ground.But nobody hadn't time to see to him, though I'm sure he deserved a scolding, tearing round corners at that rate.It's a shame the way those butcher boys do go about.I wonder people aren't killed every day.The boy said the horse was running away, and he couldn't hold it in; but there's no knowing whether he spoke the truth.

"And Mr. Bateson stooped over Mr. Groates, and looked into his face and felt his pulse, and we all waiting round, not knowing whatever was going to happen.And Mr. Gilbert said something quite low, so as I couldn't catch it, and Mr. Bateson shook his head, and said, says he, 'Quite dead!'That's what he said, as plain as I'm speaking now.'Dead!'says he, and he seemed mighty sorry too."

"Jack's father dead!"Jessie broke out in bewilderment.

"That's what the doctor said; and Mr. Gilbert asked if he was sure, and if there wasn't just a chance, for I heard him.And Mr. Bateson said, no, nothing could be done, and Mr. Groates was killed.It was the blow on the head had killed him, he said.And then Miss Sophy Coxen came and asked if I wouldn't have her arm home, and I'm sure I don't know how I'd ever have got home without.It does give one a turn to see anybody killed like that.But she wouldn't come in, because she'd got to go and tell her sister, and she said maybe she'd be wanted.And Mr. Gilbert, he ran after me, and he says, 'This is awfully sad,' says he, 'and you can tell Miss Pattison,' says he."

"Yes, I will go to them at once."Mildred said, as if in answer to a call.Then she looked at Jessie."Unless you wish it," she added."Dear Jessie, you have a sort of right,—but I think I could be of more use, just at first.If you will stay and take care of your aunt."

"Oh I couldn't help—with him," Jessie said, with a shudder."I should be afraid."

"Not if there was need!No woman who is worth anything will hold back when there is need.You would not be a coward then.But I have had so much more experience, that it is better for me to go now.It will be a sad household."

Mildred ran upstairs and was down again almost immediately, in bonnet and cloak.She kissed Jessie's pale and dismayed face, told her to give Miss Perkins some hot tea, and advised Miss Perkins to lie down for an hour.Then she hurried away.

There was a general air of oppression in the place.A sudden death in a small village is felt by everybody; and Groates, if in no especial sense a favourite, was generally respected and to some extent liked.At all events, his wife and eldest son were liked, and that in no common degree.And this ending to the life of one of themselves had come about with frightful suddenness, without the smallest warning.One moment well and healthy, talking lightly about the morrow's weather, the next a poor helpless body lying in the road, no longer a living man.

Anything so terrible had not happened for a long while.When the drowned sailors were washed ashore, and were buried in the old Churchyard, people had been forced to feel a little more vividly than usual the very narrow line which divides this existence from the next.Still, those sailors had been strangers, men unknown to any one in Old Maxham.Groates was known personally to them all.It was the grim hand of death descending into their very midst, and taking away one of themselves.

Was he ready for the great change?People asked this question with bated breath.Happily it is a question which we are not called upon to answer, one for another.No time at the last had been allowed him, if he had not used the time at his disposal before.It was "fearfully sudden," one and another said.But if he were ready for the call, the suddenness would be nothing.To those who live in daily communion with God, a sudden call Home means only sudden rejoicing.

Mildred might have spent a long time talking in the street, had she been so minded.Several tried to stop her, to see how much she had heard, to find out whether she could give information: but Mildred would not be delayed.Those who wished for a brief talk had to keep pace with her rapid footsteps.

Outside Groates' Store she was literally seized upon by Miss Sophy Coxen, and to escape instantly was beyond even Mildred's power.

"Do tell me how that poor dear Miss Perkins is," panted Miss Sophy, in vehement excitement."She did look bad, and no mistake.And you're going to ask about them over there?O well, I can tell you all you want to know.I've been to the door, and they wouldn't let me in.They won't let anybody in.So it's no manner of use your going.You'll only just give them the trouble of answering the door again.The shop's shut up, and nothing going on.Mr. Bateson and Mr. Gilbert are both there, and I should have thought they'd have wanted a woman to help, but it's no good saying anything.Those Groateses are such queer people, there's no getting hold of them.Then you mean to go just the same!O well, it isn't my fault if you are turned away from the door.That's all I have to say."

Or rather, perhaps, it was all that she had the opportunity of saying, so far as Mildred was concerned.

Mildred attempted no argument, but quietly withdrew from Miss Sophy, went to the door, rang, and was admitted.

"Now, I wonder what that's for?"demanded Miss Sophy in dudgeon."I should have thought I was as good any day as Miss Pattison, and I've been used to turn my hand to things, and I could have been a help.She won't be no sort of good.Well, I do think it's an ungrateful sort of world.The times I've spoken kindly to the Groateses, and the times we've bought things at their shop, just to give them a bit of encouragement, because they didn't seem to be getting on; and then to be turned off like this, and Miss Pattison let in!Pretty near a stranger to the place as she is, and we who've been here for years and years and years!I do think it's a shame.I shan't go to Groates' shop again in a hurry, I can tell them."

Then she remembered that Groates himself was no longer head of that shop, that Groates had passed away from their midst, and her mutterings died away under a sense of awe.

Meanwhile, Mildred passed into the darkened house, and was met first by the Vicar's kind hand grasping hers.

"This is good of you," he breathed."I felt sure you would come.I've had to refuse Miss Sophy Coxen; the poor things seemed to dread seeing her.But somebody is wanted."

"How is Mrs. Groates?"

"Wonderful!I never saw such courage.Took it all in at the first moment, and had him laid on the bed, and insists on doing all that is needed for him herself.She's there now, and I've been thinking who to get to help her."

"I'll go, sir, at once.I can help."

The Vicar looked questioningly.

"Yes, I have done it before.I know what to do."

"Then come this way, please."

Mr. Bateson met them, coming from the bedroom door, and his face gained a look of relief the moment his eyes fell on Mildred."That's right," he said."I can't get Mrs. Groates away, but she must have somebody with her.You can do it?"questioningly, like the Vicar.

"Yes, sir."

"True woman, ready at a pinch!"murmured the doctor.

"According to that definition, a good many women in the world are not true women," the Vicar remarked, in a tone of consideration.

"Very much the other way.It all depends," the doctor said."If a woman thinks first of herself, she is useless; if she thinks of others, she is able to do anything."

"Sad day for these poor Groateses!"sighed the Vicar."Everybody will feel for them.I don't fancy many knew Groates well, but his wife has won golden opinions, and Jack.By-the-bye, where is Jack?"

"Gone to the farther end of New Maxham.I don't think he is expected back for another hour or two,—unless the news reaches him.Stobbs ought to take warning from this, and not let his lads drive at such a reckless pace.If the poor fellow's head had not struck the curb-stone, he might have got off with broken ribs.I suppose there is no more I can do now.I'll look in by-and-by, just to see how Mrs. Groates is.She may suffer later from her courage now."

Mr. Bateson disappeared, and the Vicar waited for what seemed to him a long time.At length the bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Groates came out with Mildred.

"It's all done, sir, now," Mrs. Groates said, facing the Vicar.She was very pale, and her eyes had a curious fixed look, as if she hardly knew how to open them properly; but her voice and manner were composed."Miss Pattison says she'll stay and have a cup of tea with me."

"Yes, yes, quite right.I knew you would find Miss Pattison a help.And . . .one question, Mrs. Groates,—if you don't mind.Can you tell me where Jack has gone?"

A kind of startled cry escaped her.She seemed suddenly to remember that Jack was still is ignorance of the loss which had befallen them.Her hands were wrung together.

"Don't try to say much.Only a word, to tell where Jack might be found.I should like to go after him at once."

"I'm sure it's very kind," faltered Mrs. Groates."Everybody is so kind.He was going to the old windmill, sir, beyond New Maxham, to see about flour.Yes, walking,—he meant to walk both ways.And he was to come home by the sea-road, because Mimy meant to meet him, if she could get there in time."

"Then I will meet him, instead of Mimy.That is better.I will take care how he is told."

"Thank you, sir, kindly;" and Mrs. Groates looked at him with a glimmer of tears in her eyes.She had not yet wept at all."It will be a comfort when my Jack comes back."

CHAPTER XXI

THE TELLING OF THE NEWS

"LET her to have a good cry, poor thing, if you can.Much better for her," the Vicar said to Mildred in a low tone, as he was going away.

Mildred did not find the advice easy to carry out.Mrs. Groates sat down, indeed, by the fire, when desired to do so, and dropped into a waking dream, with the same fixed look in her eyes, and hands clasped forlornly on one knee; but she showed no signs of breaking down.

It so happened that nobody else was in the house.Jack was away on business: the second boy, Will, had been at sea during many months past; the two next boys were at school; while Mimy had taken the youngest boy and girl for a ramble.So there was nothing to rouse Mrs. Groates; and she remained seated, half-stupefied, gazing into the fire.

"Try to take a little tea," urged Mildred.

Mrs. Groates looked at her with blank eyes.

"Just a few sips!"

"Tea,—O yes; thank you, my dear."

But when the cup was raised to her lips, she turned from it."I don't think I can just now.Seems as if I couldn't swallow.I'd rather wait."

Again she sat, lost in thought.Mildred's hand stole into hers, and was gently pressed.

"You're kind to stay with me.It's very good of you.I do feel strange,—it's come so sudden."

"It is terrible for you, poor thing!"

"It don't seem long since that day—when he asked me to marry him.All those years ago.I used to think he'd outlive me—such a strong man."

"No one can ever tell.The strongest are often taken first."Tears were running down Mildred's cheeks, and Mrs. Groates looked at her in a kind of wonder.

"I can't cry," she said."And you can.I wish I could.It seems to have dried away all tears.Poor Jim!"

"He was a good husband to you."

"Yes,—he's been a good husband.Not as he ever was one to say a great deal.But he's been a good husband, and he always meant more than he'd say."Then a thrill of recollection passed over her, and her face changed.

"Yes,—what is it?"

"Something he said only last Sunday,—and I'd forgotten till this minute.I wonder what made him say it?"

"Tell me what he said."

Mrs. Groates' lips were trembling now, and her fingers plucked nervously at her apron.She shook her head as if words failed.

"Tell me.I want to know.What did he say last Sunday?Don't mind crying, but just tell me," begged Mildred."Last Sunday he said,—"

"He said—he didn't know—how ever in the world he'd have managed—if he'd had a different sort of wife.He said—said—'I'm a crusty sort, Jane,' says he,—'but you've been the best thing in my life.'And he says too, 'A good wife is something to thank God for.'"

Mrs. Groates broke down, and sobbed.

"Cry away, poor dear.That will do you good," Mildred said, putting kind arms round her.

And when Mrs. Groates could again look up, her face, though blistered with tears, had lost its strained and unnatural expression.

"Now I am going to make you lie down for a time on the sofa, and you must not talk," said Mildred."Never mind about the children.I will see to them.And Jack shall come to you,—yes, I promise that he shall.I want you to keep quiet.Try not even to think a great deal.Try to feel that you are in the hands of One Who loves you."

"I'll try.My head don't seem as if it could think," Mrs. Groates murmured.

And Mildred hoped that it might be so for a while.

The Vicar had in some respects a harder task than that of Mildred.He went a good distance along the sea-road before descrying Jack.And then he had plenty of time to note Jack's vigorous walk before the two drew near together.Jack was perhaps absorbed in his own thoughts, for he did not see the Vicar until they were only about twenty yards apart.Jack's honest cheerful face lighted up with a hearty smile, and he quickened his pace, but was surprised to have no smile in reply.

"Had he done anything to vex the Vicar?"This idea came to Jack first."And if so, what could it have been?"

"I have come to meet you, Jack.On purpose to meet you.We will walk back together."Mr. Gilbert hoped that Jack would inquire why he had done so; but Jack made no such inquiry.

"That is kind of you, sir.My mother said she'd been telling you about what I wanted to do.I've been wishing to see you.If there was any chance that you could help me, sir,—"

"Yes, we must think about that—another day.Not to-day.I have, just at this moment, something else to say."

"Nothing I have done wrong, I hope, sir.There's nothing I know of,—there really isn't."

"There is nothing wrong whatever, Jack, of that kind."The Vicar laid a little stress upon the word "that."

He hoped Jack might ask a leading question, by saying, "What kind?"but again Jack failed to carry out his expectations.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, sir, for I did feel afraid, when I saw you so grave.Nor nothing to do with Jessie, I hope?"

"No, not Jessie."

"That's righter still.If one of us was to vex you, I'd sooner it should be me than Jessie.She's a good girl, though, isn't she, sir?And she'll make a good wife.To see her working away now at those dresses,—and doing it all as clever as can be.Why, she's making quite a pretty penny; and that's enough to make me all the more impatient to get away and be doing for myself.You see, father doesn't really need me at home.Mother and Mimy can give him all the help he wants.It isn't as if he was an old man.He's in hale middle age still, and he may live another twenty years, for all we know.I hope he will, too.But it wouldn't do for me to stay on in Old Maxham all that time.I've got to make a home for Jessie and me."

The Vicar almost groaned aloud."Jack, don't go on so."

"Did I say anything wrong, sir?"Jack's tone showed surprise."I thought you'd be one to approve.You have said many a time that you wished men would look forward, and prepare a little, and not marry all in a hurry."

"Jack—I've something to say to you."

"Yes, sir.I'd be glad to have any sort of advice.Mother said she hoped you would advise me."

"It's not advice.It's something else."

"Well, sir,—anything you like to say,—I'm sure I'll listen attentive, and I'll try to do it."Jack seemed proof against alarm.

"It's not what you have to do.It is—that something very sad has happened.And I have to tell it to you."

Jack seemed at last a little concerned."Dear me, I'm sorry for that.Nothing very bad, I hope, sir."

"Yes,—very bad, as we men count things to be bad.Not bad, really, for it is God's will; and what He sends is good—even when we cannot see it to be so.It is a great and unlooked-for sorrow."

"Yes, sir;" and Jack waited expectantly.

"There has been an accident."

"Not my mother?Not Jessie?"

"No, neither.But—your father—"

"Something happened to my father!"Jack drew a quick breath."An accident, you say, sir.He has been hurt then?"

"Yes.Very much."

"Any broken bones, sir?"Jack was trying not to show how much he was moved.

"Worse.He was run down by a butcher's cart, dashing round a corner.Your father had no time to get out of the way.He was thrown down, and the cart passed over him."

"Has the doctor seen him?"

"Mr. Bateson was going by at the moment,—and I was there too.It was a sad sight."

"And he's been taken home, of course.Poor mother!That's soon for another accident."Jack's words bore evident reference to his own broken leg in the previous spring."And what does the doctor say, sir?Does he think father will soon be up and about again?"

"No, Jack!"The words, and still more the manner, startled Jack.

"So bad as that!"

"I have not told you the worst.Not only did the cart go over him, but also—his head struck the curb-stone, as he fell.And—"

A long pause followed, which the Vicar would not break.They walked steadily, side by side; Jack's face turned away.The Vicar wondered how far he yet understood.

"If anything could have been done, it would have been done,—with Mr. Bateson there, on the spot.But,—nothing could."

"Yes, sir; I see!"

Another long pause.

"Your mother is a brave woman.You will have to be her stay and comfort now."

"Yes, sir," Jack replied mechanically.The thought arose unbidden,—How about Jessie?And how about his plans for getting away, and for laying by?This would make a great change in his life.How much of a change he could not yet measure or realize; but he would now be the one to whom his mother would look, upon whom she would lean, who would have to take his father's place.How about Jessie?

"Poor fellow!"the Vicar said voicelessly, more than once, noting the young man's absorbed face.

CHAPTER XXII

DIFFICULTIES

THE death of Groates was, of course, accidental; and no other verdict could well be returned by the coroner's jury; but the butcher boy came in for severe reprimand for his reckless driving, despite his excuse that he could not hold in the horse; and Stobbs himself was blamed also.

Steps were about to be taken to enforce, if possible, the payment of some amount of damages to the widow; but Stobbs was a sensible wan, and in view of perhaps finding himself liable for a good deal more, he voluntarily offered, by way of compensation, a sum which it was thought advisable to accept.Mrs. Groates did not move in this matter; and she seemed to shrink from the notion of "compensation," as if the loss which she had sustained could in any manner be "compensated for" by money.When told, however, that it was right for her children's sake, she submitted.

Everybody agreed that it was a melancholy affair altogether, and much sympathy was expressed, which no doubt was a comfort to Mrs. Groates.She needed comfort, for trouble was pressing hard upon her and Jack.Groates had been a singularly reserved man as to his business matters,—very much "shut up," his friends were wont to say; and no one, not, even his wife, knew the precise condition of those affairs.They only knew that money had seemed to be very short, and that the business had not of late increased; and the true state of things broke upon them gradually.

For years past, it seemed, Groates had been getting into deeper and deeper difficulties, had been running further and further into debt.It came as an absolutely new sensation to Jack, when he found that they had been actually living upon borrowed money; money borrowed, of course, at a heavy loss.

The first thing to be done was, if it might be, to clear off liabilities, to settle unpaid bills, and to meet the heritage of debt and confusion which the unhappy man had left to his family.It was extraordinary how he had managed to hide the state of matters from them so long; but no doubt he had buoyed himself up with hopes of improving business; hopes never realized.Had he lived, things might only have grown worse.

They were bad enough already.It soon became evident that one course alone lay before them.The business would have to be sold, and whatever sum they might obtain by that means would have to go in liquidation of Groates' debts; after which Jack would have to begin life anew with a family dependent on him.Will indeed was at sea, pretty well provided for; and Mimy might go out to work in some direction or other; but of the three next boys and the younger girl, only one boy was nearing an age to leave school and begin to "do something" for his livelihood.

All this had to be faced, and Jack did face it bravely.But one thought rose again and again in the midst of other perplexities,—

What about Jessie?

At first he tried to put the question aside.His father's affairs had to be thoroughly looked into; bills had to be examined; plans had to be formed—and the consideration of Jack's own future had to wait, dependent as it was upon the future of others.

Yet in the midst of all that had to be done, this thought would push itself anew to the front, refusing to be silenced,—

What about Jessie?

True, they had had no idea of marrying yet awhile.Jack and Jessie had both meant to work steadily, and to lay by a nice sum each, before they should become husband and wife.Jack had not been willing to condemn his wife in the future to such a bare and squalid existence as too often results from a hasty marriage, upon barely enough for daily food and lodging.He meant Jessie to know comfort in her home; he meant to provide beforehand for probabilities; he meant to have somewhat to fall back upon when the inevitable "rainy day" should occur.

All this had now become impossible.Jessie might work as she willed for the needs of by-and-by; but he was no longer free to do so.The utmost that he could hope to earn, perhaps for many a year, would do no more than keep his mother and the children afloat.

Could he ask Jessie to wait, in the hope that some day he might be free?That "some day" might lie far ahead.What if it should mean eight years, ten years, twelve years of waiting?Would Jessie be willing?

True, there was another mode of action which some young men in his position might have adopted.He might simply please himself in the matter.He might put his engagement to Jessie first and the claims of the widow and orphan second.

But the widow was his mother, and she had been the best and most loving of mothers to him.Jack's heart was set upon Jessie; but he loved that mother dearly, and he was also under the sway of a strong sense of duty.He knew well in what direction lay his plain duty for the present; and even apart from duty, he could not have neglected his mother.Jack would not have been Jack if such a thing had been possible to him.If Jessie did not wish to wait so long as might be necessary, he could set her free.Nothing could set aside the claims upon his strong young arm of his widowed mother.

In the midst of those cogitations Mokes came forward with an offer.He had talked much of "bad times" of late, and had, as we know, professed himself to be unable to give more than five shillings, to the lifeboat fund.It now appeared that he had a little more money somewhere within easy reach.He offered to buy up the whole contents of "Groates' Store," and even to take the house off the widow's hands, if she wished to move quickly into a less expensive domicile.He would pay down, for house and contents and custom, a certain round sum which, if not too liberal, might yet be looked upon as fair under the circumstances.At all events, it was more than would have been expected from Mokes.

Nobody who knew Mr. Mokes was deluded into supposing this to be an act of pure generosity.It might be granted that Mokes was sorry for the sudden death of his rival, and was concerned for the widow.

But, on the other hand, if Mokes himself neglected to purchase the goods and the custom and the remainder of the lease, somebody else might be expected to do so, and this would mean a continuance of opposition to Mokes' shop.Nay, it might mean a much more successful opposition if the shop should chance to fall into the hands of a better business man than Groates had proved to be.So Mokes was killing two birds with one stone when he made his offer.

"Seems to me it's the best thing we can do," Jack said to the Vicar, who had been throughout a kind adviser."That'll help us to clear off a lot of things, and we'll be able to start freer.And Mr. Ward has offered to take me on, with better pay than I'd hoped to be able to get."

"Ward, the grocer, at New Maxham?"

"Yes, sir.He's got the biggest business for twenty miles round, and everybody trusts him.Mother's very pleased.She says she'd sooner have me with him than with anybody, and they say he's offered it me for mother's sake."

"Well, you'll make it worth his while to have done so, Jack.If he is taking you now for your mother's sake, he will keep you by-and-by for your own.And we shall have you with us still.Only a mile off."

"Some ways I'd sooner have been farther off than New Maxham."

"You would?What, you want to see more of the world?"

"No, sir; it ain't that.Though mother did say a while ago that perhaps I'd ought.But I think I'd sooner have begun afresh in a new place.Mother wants to have a cottage here, and me to walk into New Maxham every day.She says she'll feel it more home-like."

"I dare say she will.And the walk is nothing for a hale young fellow like you.Do you good."

"Only, sir, there's Jessie."

"True, there is Jessie.What of her?"

"I shouldn't be right to let Jessie think I'd be free to marry her as soon as we'd thought of—and maybe—"

"Maybe she won't want to wait.Is that it?I don't think commonly that it is the woman who won't wait, do you?Try her, Jack."

"I couldn't leave mother with no one to take care of her.She's been a good mother to me, and I couldn't do it.Not for Jessie's sake even."

"I should have a very poor opinion of you if you could!Your mother ought to be your first consideration.The young folks will be able soon to fight their own way in life; but your mother will be getting older, and she will need your care.But what then?If you and Jessie have to wait longer than you had intended where is the harm?Just tell Jessie frankly how things are, and see what she will say.That is my advice.What does your mother think?"

"I haven't bothered her much, sir.She's been but poorly, and she's left things mostly to me.I'll have to tell her all soon.She knows we've got to part with the shop and live in a smaller house, and she knows about Mr. Mokes' offer and Mr. Ward's.She seems to cling-like to the thought of Old Maxham, and not to want to go away.But if things are to be up between me and Jessie, I'd sooner be a good way off."

"Have a talk with Jessie first, and see what she will say.I fancy you will see ahead more clearly then.After that you can go into things with your mother.But don't hurry on arrangements too fast.She has had a heavy blow, and you must give her time.People who are very brave at the first often suffer more afterwards."

"Yes, I think that's mother's way, sir.She seems sort of dazed, as if she couldn't take it all in."

"Don't force her yet.Mokes will not hurry you out of the house I am sure.No—so I thought.He really is kind-hearted at the bottom.Jack, I am going to give you back the sovereign that was your father's donation to the lifeboat fund.We can do without it now, and I think your mother's needs are greater.You needn't say anything about it to her, unless you wish.Since that gift of ninety pounds came in, it has all gone swimmingly, and I hope to have no further difficulties.The boat is to be sent as soon as it can be ready.So you need have no scruples."

Jack's hand went behind him.

"I couldn't, please, sir; I couldn't do it.Don't ask me.I know father liked to give that sovereign, and I shouldn't be happy to take it back.Please let it be."

"Well, if you choose.I must not insist.But if you change your mind in the course of a week or two, mind you tell me."

"And you've no notion who it was as gave the ninety pounds, sir?"

"I have had a good many notions, but no certainty.Nothing beyond conjecture, and conjecture isn't worth much.Besides, it really isn't our business if the good man wishes to keep his secret."

CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT JESSIE WOULD SAY

JACK felt that matters were coming to a crisis.He would do as the Vicar had advised.He would see Jessie, and would put before her the state of affairs, and would ask her to decide.

If she were willing to wait until he should be free to marry her, so much the better.Jack felt that he could wait any number of years, with a prospect of Jessie as his wife at the end.If she were not willing, then he would have to give her up.He could not in either case fail towards his mother.She was and had to be the first claim upon him.

It was not quite easy to get hold of Jessie alone.She was busy over her dressmaking, and he was busy over plans and accounts; and by a kind of tacit agreement, they had put off confabulations upon their own affairs until other people's affairs should be settled.But Jack now felt that a quiet talk with Jessie must come off before those affairs of other people could be entirely settled.The question of the future home of his mother and of himself might hang upon that quiet talk.

When once a person sets himself to have a thing done, it is usually not long in being brought about.Despite business and other difficulties, Jack found himself only two days later walking with Jessie outside Old Maxham, through a muddy field under a grey sky.

Jessie was unusually silent, seeming more disposed to listen than to talk, and Jack was desperately puzzled how to begin.He had conned over so often beforehand what he had to say that it had grown to look quite easy; and now he could remember nothing of it.So he and Jessie marched along together in solemn silence.

"I thought you wanted particular to speak to me," Jessie at length said.

"I thought you'd talk to me," Jack answered, cowardly still as to what he had to say.

"Me talk!Yes, of course, if you like."Then she started off full swing, and chattered on every variety of subject.She allowed Jack no loophole for his say, and this was worse than her previous silence.For some minutes Jessie rattled on about the lifeboat, and the anonymous gift, and who could have been the donor; and then she slid off to her own work, and said how nice it was, and how well she was paid, and how kind Mildred was in teaching her.Next she was skipping off to some fresh subject; but she had afforded Jack an opportunity, and Jack at last had the courage to avail himself of it.

"That's just what I'm thinking about."

"What, my dressmaking?"

"Yes, about what you've been saying.Things aren't the same now as they have been, and I want you to see it."

"I don't see the good," pouted Jessie."Look!Is that a chaffinch?"

"You've got to listen to me, Jessie, and I've got to say it.Don't you see, you can go on making money now and laying it by, and I can't.I shan't be able for ever so long.Every penny that I earn will have to go to keeping my mother in comfort, and the children.They'll just all depend on me."

"Well?"Jessie said.She hung her head so that he could not see her face, and the tone sounded cold.

"I can't tell how long it may be.And it don't seem to me—I should be right—to let you go on—not knowing—nor—"

Jack's faltering suggestions were nipped.Jessie raised her head, looked him in the face, and said tersely: "So you want to break it off?Very well."

"Jessie!"Jack had not expected this, and he was dumbfounded.He knew now how certain he had felt in his heart of what her answer might be, and the disappointment was great.A black cloud seemed to have settled down upon him.

Jessie said no more, and they walked on side by side.Jack's shoulders were rounded, and he dragged his feet like an old man.Jessie hung her head once more, and a keen observer, glancing under her hat-brim, might have detected a small smile quivering at the corners of her mouth.

"Well, you haven't said all you meant to say," she presently remarked.

"I told you—" Jack's voice was too husky to proceed.

"And I suppose you thought I'd want you to leave your mother to manage for herself, while you just went on working for me?A nice thing to think!"

Jessie's tone was full of scorn.This was not what Jack had expected her to say, either.He ventured to look in her direction, and saw two bright eyes sparkling with tears.

"Jessie—"

"Jack, you're a donkey; that's what you are!I wouldn't have thought you could have been so stupid!"Jessie stamped her foot upon the grass."I wouldn't!You ought to have more sense."

"I've got mother and the children to see to," Jack said helplessly.

"As if I didn't know that!And as if I'd ever look at you again, if you could go and leave your mother to get on as she could, while you were only thinking of yourself—well, and of me, if you like!That 'ud mean the same thing.If you could, I should despise you, Jack."

"Then you think I'm doing what's right?"

"You couldn't do anything else.I only wish I had a mother to work for.But I have—almost," she added, under her breath.

"Only, you know, it may mean putting off our being married for ever so long.I can't tell how long."

"There's no need to tell.Let it be put off.So much the better," declared Jessie."I'm in no hurry to get married.Why should I be?Girls like a bit of freedom first.And I'm comfortable as I am.As for your mother—if you and me ever do get married, why then she'll be my mother as well as yours, and I shall have a right to work for her too.And if we have a home, that home will be hers as well as yours and mine.So there!"

Jack was not to be at once pulled up out of despondency."And you're quite sure, Jessie—you don't think—you wouldn't rather give me up and take somebody else?"

"Yes, of course I would!That's just what I should like, most particularly," declared Jessie, with tartness."Get rid of you and take up with the first man I can find instead!It wouldn't matter who—not one bit!O no, anybody would do.I'm not difficult to please, am I?"Jessie broke into a queer laugh with a sound of tears in it."O dear, you men are funny!As if that was my way!"

"I don't want you to give me up.I'd wait any time for you.Only, it may be years and years."

"It won't be, though.I'm going to make lots of money, and I shall work all the harder now, thinking about your mother.Why, Jack, don't you know I'm pretty near as fond of her as you are, and I'd like nothing better in all the world than to give her a home and to make her happy.I've never had a mother of my own—anyhow, I can't remember her—and to be always with your mother would be lovely.She's the dearest thing, and she never grumbles.She isn't a scrap like aunt Barbara.The only thing is that you might get jealous.I'm not sure, but I almost think I love her more than I love you; and I don't mind telling you so, either.And as for giving you up,—if you are tired of me, I'll give you up this minute, and I'll say good-bye, and I'll tell you not to cross my path again in a hurry.And if you're not tired of me—why—then—things can go on as they have gone on.And if you can't lay by yet for me, I can lay by for your mother, and we can wait a while longer and make the best of it.So you needn't be a donkey again, Jock—that's all."

Jack's answer to these various "ifs," though wordless, was unmistakable.

He told his mother about his talk with Jessie.Jack had not meant to do so at first, only he was used to telling her everything that touched him closely.He tried not to let her know that the question of her support had played a prominent part; but her womanly penetration was a great deal too much for Jack's duller wits.A few adroit questions drew the whole from him, including Jessie's hot little speeches and loving words about herself.A curious light came into Mrs. Groates' face, and her eyes, which had of late been dimmed with tear-shedding, shone again with almost their old look.

"And you think I'm going to sit with my hands before me, Jack, and you do all the work?"

"Why, no; you'll keep things going in the house, and there 'll be the children to see to.You'll find plenty to do,—no fear!"

"I shall take a share of earning money too.I can tell you that.I don't mean to be a useless burden on anybody.Not even on you."

"You'd never be useless, come what might.And it isn't only me that's going to work.Miss Pattison has offered to teach Mimy dressmaking, so that by-and-by she can get work in some of the New Maxham shops.We didn't mean to bother you about it for a day or two, but Mimy likes the notion, and I don't think you'll have anything against it.Just like Miss Pattison, isn't it?And Ted will be through his schooling in less than three months, and then we'll have to find something for him to do too.He's a handy little chap, you know.But you and the three little ones are going to be my charge,—till they can begin to work for themselves too, which won't be yet awhile.And you will be my charge always, mother,—mine and Jessie's too, in time, for she says so."

"Bless you both for meaning it!All the same, I'm going to take my share."

"I'll not have you go out charing.Nothing of that sort.You're not fit for rough work."

"There's things enough to be done.I'm used to turn my hand to most things.I'm good at fine needlework; and I can cook first-rate; and I shouldn't mind a spell at nursing now and then.You won't keep me in idleness, Jack; thank you all the same.And I'll try to get some needlework."

Jack protested in vain; and as days went by, he became convinced that his mother would really be the happier for having a certain amount of employment.The children would be away a great part of the day, except in holiday time, and the tiny cottage which was to be their home would scarcely afford scope enough for so active a little person in mind and body as Mrs. Groates.

It was quite true, as she had told Jack, that she was not only a very good needle-woman, but also an efficient cook, and a reliable nurse—not trained up to full modern requirements, but experienced in divers illnesses.These gifts might in coming months be turned to good account.

Meanwhile, the move out of the old home into a new one had to be done.A small cottage, on the outside border of Old Maxham, had been found for a moderate rent; and enough furniture to make it habitable was taken thither from "Groates' Store," the rest being parted with to Mr. Mokes, together with the stores of grocery and aught else that the shop held.

The act of removal, and settling in, helped to rouse Mrs. Groates, and to give her new interests in life.It was a pretty little cottage, with small but not inconvenient rooms, and a tiny garden behind, which Jack proposed to cultivate in leisure hours.

Since Jessie had not taken him at his word, and had not wished to break off the engagement, he was glad still to make his home in Old Maxham.He was by nature very much of a "home-boy," and he did not love change or novelty.To be within easy reach of Jessie was cheering; and the daily walk in and out of New Maxham would do him no harm.As Mr. Gilbert had foretold, Jack gave great satisfaction at the grocer's where his work now lay; and very soon, from having been taken on for his Mother's sake, he was highly valued for his own.

"The fact is, I can always trust Groates," Ward was heard to say to a friend."There's no shilly-shally about him.He don't pretend to be out of the way clever; but give him a thing to do, and you may be sure that thing 'll be done, without any more bother.And the time that's due to me, he don't spend in amusing himself.I'd trust Jack Groates with a five-hundred-pound note, and not a doubt in my mind.Yes, it was a good thing for myself that I ever got him here, and I don't mind saying so, though it wasn't for my sake, nor for his, that I did get him."

Somebody took the trouble to repeat the main part of this speech to Mrs. Groates; and any mother will know how pleased she was to find Jack so well understood.

Jessie heard the same tale, and Jessie took it rather differently, as girls will.She tossed her head, with disdain."Anybody might know that of Jack.He is honest enough, dear old fellow.But he is awfully stupid sometimes, and there's no denying it."

Jessie was thinking about a certain walk in muddy fields, one dull afternoon, not far back; and she quite forgot that if Jack had followed a different tack, and had shown himself too confident, she herself would have been the first to blame him for conceit.

CHAPTER XXIV

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

"SUCH a little while since I came, and yet Old Maxham feels quite a home to me now!I suppose we are like creeping plants, putting out tendrils wherever they chance to be, and clinging fast.Only a few months ago I felt so alone and friendless in the world, and now it's all different,—isn't it, Hero?"

Mildred paused to pat the dog's head, as he followed close behind her."Less than a year, and so much to have happened."

She looked down at her black dress, not yet discarded.Close upon eleven months had passed since the death of her brother and his child; and the earlier months of those eleven had dragged by very slowly while the later months, being full of work and interest, had fled three times as fast.It was difficult to believe that one year ago she had never heard of Old Maxham, or of Jessie, or of Miss Perkins.

The afternoon was keen and cold, but very still.Old Maxham had been a good deal excited during the last few days; for the long-wished-for lifeboat had at last arrived, and was now installed in the boat-house, built beforehand in readiness to receive it.

Some time might elapse before a storm should arise, and longer still, it was to be hoped, before a wreck should call out the boat; but here it now was, ready for need, a possible ark of refuge for drowning sailors or passengers, no longer to be vainly cried for in a last despair.

Already a full crew had been enrolled, double the number actually needed to man the boat; and more than one practice had taken place, by way of getting their hands in.Old Adams had been appointed coxswain, with a fixed salary of eight pounds a year, with Robins for bowman at a salary of thirty shillings.There would also be regular additional payments; four shillings usually to each man of the crew, when they went afloat for exercise; ten shillings to each by day, and one pound to each by night, when going to save life, whether or no they were successful in the effort; and these sums would be increased by one-half during the winter months, from the beginning of October to the end of March.

Such and other expenses would be undertaken by the National Lifeboat Institution, out of its regular funds; but collections were to be made annually in the neighbourhood, managed by a small local committee, to do what might be possible in the way of helping to support their own lifeboat.All Maxham was delighted with this new possession, and certainly not least so the Vicar, who had had so much to do with getting it.

Mildred had lately been very hard at work, with her two helpers, Jessie and Mimy.She seemed always to have her hands more than full; and, indeed, she might easily have kept two or three more assistants employed.But this would have meant a change of abode, as no room in Periwinkle Cottage was large enough for more than three workers, spending many hours of the day together.

A fourth might sit with them occasionally, but not as a regular thing: and Mildred was not anxious to make a big concern of her dressmaking business.She preferred to undertake no more than she could herself cut out and properly overlook; and she did not at all wish to quit Miss Perkins' little house, which had become a home to her.

This afternoon she meant to treat herself to a lonely ramble; lonely, except for the companionship of Hero—and she never went for a walk without taking him.Hero had saved her life; and he was the one link which bound her present to her past life.

Everything and everybody else was new; dating not so far back as the shipwreck which had swept away her belongings.Hero alone had been in her former life.Much as Mildred cared for Jessie, and for other Old Maxham friends, not one of them could be to her what faithful Hero was; and she loved now and then to get away with him into the country, there to indulge in dreams of the past, which were not all sad, because they were mingled with dreams of the future.

Solitary as she might be in a sense, that solitariness was not for ever.Those who were gone she had not lost.They had only passed before her into the fairer Land.By-and-by she would join them there; and all her best hopes were anchored on that reunion.It helped her sometimes to pass out of reach of other people's chit-chat, and to lose herself in thought of the future.

"Come, Hero, we'll go through the fields," she said, speaking to the dog as to a friend of her own standing.

Hero always seemed to understand.

The ground was dry, because frozen; and a slight fall of snow had taken place.Each tiny twig bore its little clothing on the upper side, of delicate whiteness; and the ground sparkled, as if strewn with diamonds, in the sunshine.A good many clouds were scattered over the sky, one and another passing from time to time over the face of the sun; but each brief shadow was followed by renewed brightness.

"Not a bad day," Mildred decided."And winter cannot last much longer now.A few weeks will see us well into spring."

She walked on, musing after her favourite fashion, keeping up a good pace, and covering a greater distance than she quite realized.

Hero walked close at her heels, after his usual fashion; and with him she never minded where she went, for no man would ever have dared to molest her while Hero was at hand.Gentle as the dog looked and was, he would have made short work of anybody who should have threatened harm to his mistress.He would let a little child tug his hair and poke its fingers into his eyes, with unlimited patience; but his grip could be deadly, if occasion called for it.This was understood in the country round, since one day when Hero found that a man in a lonely lane had evil intent towards Mildred.That man had a narrow escape of his life.

Mildred suddenly woke up to the fact of how fast and how far she had walked.The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the air had begun to gain an extra sharpness, suggestive of approaching night.

"I must be going back," Mildred said aloud; but she felt rather tired, and paused, to lean against the low parapet of a bridge, where the road passed over a stream.

She determined to give herself three minutes' rest, and then to return as fast as she had come.

Hero laid himself down at her feet, to await her pleasure.

It was singularly still.Hardly a breath of air stirred; hardly a twig of any bush moved.The brightness of sunlight, causing snow-sparkles all around, had now vanished, and the whole landscape lay under a grey shadow, which momentarily deepened.She would scarcely get back to the village before dark; but with Hero at her side, this did not matter; and Mildred enjoyed keen cold.It braced her up, she said.

The water of the sluggish little stream below ran quietly, with barely power to make itself heard.It was not a singing brook, though the water moved.Such frost as there was had not been able to bind it into stillness; but a little harder frost would succeed with so slow a brook.

Somebody was coming along the road, from that direction towards which she had been walking; that is to say he was on the way to Old Maxham.Not a tramp or a beggar.Mildred knew this at once, while he was still distant.She knew it from the quick step, the purposeful onward motion, which spoke of another class of man, though what class she could not yet conjecture.

In general outline the figure did not recall any one with whom she was acquainted in the neighbourhood; yet there was about it a curious suggestion of familiarity, as if she had known the person once upon a time, she could not recall when.She watched with a dreamy interest the gradual approach of the figure, as it came onward steadily, never swerving, nor hastening, nor slackening, but gradually increasing in apparent size as it filled a larger and larger space in her eye.

Then she began to see that it was an elderly man, or at least that he looked elderly, and that he had longish loose grey hair, curling, and falling almost to his shoulders.The kind benevolent face under his hat brought back in a flash a certain day, when she had been in the Churchyard, alone and lonely and well-nigh hopeless, and a stranger had spoken to her words of comfort.

"I thought I should see him again some day," she said to herself, and she went a step or two forward to meet him.

"How do you do?"she said, putting out her hand, with no hesitation."We have met before, you know."

"Yes, I know," he replied pleasantly."I remember you well,—very well indeed."

"We have only met once.It was one day in the Churchyard.You told me some truths, and made me feel how wrong I was.It did me a great deal of good.I am glad to be able to thank you for it now."

He smiled, as if recalling what had passed.

"You are Miss Pattison, who was saved last year from the shipwreck.When the Vicar behaved so gallantly, and all the other good fellows too.And your brave dog, not least of them all.Yes, yes, of course I heard all about that.The place was very full of the story when I came.And when I was here last, you were all trying hard to get enough money for a lifeboat."

"Have you been here a second time?I did not see you."

"No, I ran down for a week only.In fact, I only stayed three or four days.I had to hurry back to London.So I promised your good doctor to come again, and to stay a little longer.He and I are firm friends.Now, do you think you are wise to stay here in the cold?"This question came in a half-coaxing tone of remonstrance, as to a child.

"No, perhaps not; but I wanted a minute or two of rest, before starting for home."

"Then we are both going the same way.You will let me see you safely to the village.You are excuse me—hardly old enough to wander alone in these lonely roads."

"I feel very old!And I have no fear, with Hero.No one dares to touch me when he is here.He does not seem to mind you."

"I have spoken to Hero several times,—meeting him in the village.He is a fine fellow."

"I owe my life to him.But for Hero, I could not have escaped from the wreck."

"So I was told.And you are of course very grateful to him.You could not be otherwise."

Mildred walked silently for some seconds."Yes," she said at length, "I am grateful now.I see that life is worth keeping, that it must be worth keeping, no matter how lonely or how sad one may be,—because there is always something to be done for somebody, and because it is God's gift to us, and meant to be valued.But that day, when you found me in the Churchyard, I was not grateful at all.It seemed to me that it would have been so very much happier, if only I had been taken too, with my brother and the little one.I had no one left, and life seemed to have no object."

"I remember.That was what you felt; one could see it.I wished that I could make you see how close a tie there really is between all brother men, and—" with a slight break,—"'specially those who are of the Household of Faith.'"

"You did help me to see it.I began to understand from that hour.You did not say much, but what you did say took hold of me."

"Come, that's cheering," and he smiled."One likes to be made use of sometimes, in a stray sort of way.I am very much alone in the world, too, after a fashion: that is to say, I have no one belonging to me in the way of near relations.But I have been used to comfort myself with thinking that everybody belonged to me, and that I might always be doing something for somebody or other."

The speaker paused, and began afresh,—"I wonder whether you remember a certain sermon or address of your good Vicar, when he said something about Nobody's Business being commonly Everybody's Business.That struck me, just because it was a favourite thought of my own.Odd, how much one is impressed by what a man says in the pulpit, if one has happened to have that very same idea in one's own mind before.Why should one think better of it, merely because it has been one's own notion?However, so things are; and I had often said to myself,—

"'Now, John Willoughby, you haven't got much business of your own to attend to, so the best you can do is to look about and see whatever happens to be "nobody's business," and then just take that up and make it "your business."'

"And when I heard your Vicar say pretty much the same thing, I was delighted.No reason for being so, but I was, and I suppose most people would have been in my place.Man's an odd being, you know.But here am I chattering on, and letting you have no time to put in a single word."

"No; I like to hear you.Please go on," Mildred answered quietly."Tell me how you carry out that plan."

"Not much difficulty.There's always something wanting to be done, or somebody needing to be helped.And though I haven't kith or kin, I have no lack of money.So the question is—how to use my money to the best advantage.Not always in the regular channels, you know, but in doing things that perhaps nobody else is quite able or quite willing to do.No end of things turn up, one way and another."

Then another pause.

"I had a very good business in the second-hand book trade for years; and when health showed signs of failing, I disposed of that, and money came to me unexpectedly from another quarter.So, of course, the question arose, what to do with myself and my money, to the best advantage?I'm no advocate for reckless giving to anybody that asks,—just pauperising those who ought to work for themselves.But very often one may help those who are down to get up again, or those who are in difficulties to get out of them.I can't go in for regular hard work, but I can see to that sort of thing."

A sudden thought had come to Mildred, making her eyes brighten.She looked round at him, and said, "And perhaps, sometimes, if you find a collection being made for something that is very much wanted, you give a check to help it on."

"Sometimes, yes,—if that seems to be the right thing to do."

He showed no particular signs of consciousness, and Mildred added,—

"You say you were here once, since that time that I saw you.And that must have been when Mr. Gilbert was preaching for the new lifeboat.That was the time, I think, when he said so much about Nobody's Business.Mr. Gilbert was in great difficulties about getting all the money he wanted.And some one generously gave ninety pounds towards it."Mildred forgot that she had once condemned any attempt to find out the donor.People are not always consistent.

"Ah!"Mr. Willoughby answered gravely."That was quite right of somebody."Then, as he met Mildred's smile, "You are a little too keen in putting two and two together.I ought to have kept clear of these subjects,—but—the fact is, I had a wish to know you better, after the curious beginning of our acquaintanceship.So it seemed natural to tell you frankly a little about myself.But if I do not deny what you suggest, I shall ask you to keep my secret."

"May I some day tell the Vicar?He would be so much interested.It almost seems as if he ought to know."

"I don't see the need; but I won't make a fuss and tie you down too closely.If you have no especial reason for telling him, please say nothing.If you have, then ask him to let it go no farther.There is too much in this day of making everything public that one does.And, after all, what was it worth?I did not want the money for myself.I had enough besides for every need of my own."

CHAPTER XXV

THE NEW LIFEBOAT

NOTHING at this time gave greater pleasure to the Vicar than to get hold of some outsider, not yet up in the subject of lifeboats, and to display to him, or at least to pour out to him all particulars connected with the now possession of Old Maxham.A school-boy with a new bat is not more eager over that bat, than was Mr. Gilbert over the new boat; only, his was joy on behalf of others, while the schoolboy's delight is on behalf of himself.

One afternoon, two or three days after Mildred's encounter with Mr. Willoughby, the Vicar had paused in a road just outside the village, for a few words with the doctor; and as they talked, a figure could be descried coming along the road at some distance.

"There comes one of my friends," Mr. Bateson naturally remarked."Mr. Willoughby."

"I saw him in Church on Sunday.A rather striking-looking man.One of your patients?"

"Well, not precisely.Hardly a patient, in the proper sense.He runs down here for rest and change, once in a while, and I prescribe for him if needful.A thoroughly nice fellow.Rich, too, if a man may be accounted rich because he has more money than he wants for himself.He is one of the best men that I ever came across; simple and true-hearted as a child; not an atom of nonsense about him.I've known him for years,—used to be a London bookseller in a large way.He rose to that from small beginnings; and I should think there never was a time when he wasn't one of 'Nature's gentlemen.'He'd be that if he were driving a plough."

"In business now?"

"No; he gave up, on account of certain symptoms of head-weakness.He had been working too hard, and was suffering from it; and he was able to retire on a small competency.Then he came in unexpectedly for a fortune from a distant cousin,—what, at least, was a fortune for him, with his simple tastes.So he took to spending time and money in philanthropic directions, and is one of the busiest people I know.Gets done up once in a way, and comes down here."

"Generous, I suppose?"

"After his own fashion.Odd, rather, in his way of doing good.If you beg him for some pet object, ten to one he'll refuse to give a penny; and then, perhaps, for a thing you don't count half so important he'll hand over twenty pounds.I tried to interest him in your lifeboat scheme last time he was here, and he showed no more concern than if I had been speaking about a pop-gun."

"When was that?"

"He has been twice before.First time he stayed a week; last time only three or four days.That was just about when we had that severe storm, and the two bodies were washed up.Yes,—just then.This time he means to stay longer; told me yesterday, he thought of taking a month off work.I don't know why, for he seems well; but I am glad, for he is pleasant in the house."

The Vicar was deep in thought, "Time of that Storm," he murmured."Ah!When somebody gave the ninety pounds."

The doctor's lips took a queer set, and the Vicar laughed slightly.

"Well, as I say, I tried to interest him in the subject, and he apparently wouldn't be interested.Possibly, afterwards, on thinking it over—"

"And you have never given me a hint till this moment?"

"It wasn't my business," Mr. Bateson answered."And it isn't my business now.Of course, I drew my own deductions; and you are at liberty to draw yours.That's all.I don't say he did it."

"No, of course.I understand.But—well, here he comes.I've never spoken to him yet."

"You were ill the first time, and last time he was here no time worth mentioning."

Mr. Bateson waited till Mr. Willoughby drew near, and then named him to the Vicar, who raised his hat.The doctor went off, and in three minutes Mr. Gilbert was in eager converse with Mr. Willoughby.

He had been speaking to the doctor about the lifeboat, newly received.Had Mr. Willoughby seen it yet?And did Mr. Willoughby feel any interest in lifeboats generally?

Mr. Willoughby confessed to an interest in everything that benefited his fellow-men.

This set the Vicar off afresh.Was Mr. Willoughby engaged elsewhere?If not, would he like to come and see the lifeboat there and then?Mr. Gilbert would be delighted to escort him, and they could call on their way for the key.The distance was not great.

Mr. Willoughby demurred, and suggested that another day might do as well.He had walked rather far already, and he was not disposed to do quite so much in addition; moreover, the Vicar's time was doubtless valuable.He would turn and go with the Vicar for a short distance, and so hear about the boat instead of immediately seeing it.Mr. Willoughby studiously abstained from showing any special interest in the matter.

He asked rather carelessly, Was it not the Vicar who had set the affair going in the first instance?He could recall hearing a mention of the boat as wanted, in the Vicar's address at the funeral of the two sailors.And, by-the-bye, was not Miss Pattison the sole survivor of the wreck which had first, perhaps, put it into the mind of the Vicar that a lifeboat ought to be had?

So composed and indifferent was the speaker's manner, that the Vicar began to question the truth of his own late surmise.He fell in, of course, with Mr. Willoughby's mood, and refrained from the faintest hint that he had ever supposed Mr. Willoughby to be the donor of the ninety pounds.

Yes, certainly, he said, he was glad to say that he had had a hand in first starting the motion—not that the people of Old Maxham had not in earlier years felt the need of a lifeboat, but only that they had failed to come to a point in the matter.Perhaps he had helped to bring them to a point.But once aroused, the people of the place had responded nobly to his appeal.

They were dear people, the Vicar said warmly, with a touch of boyish enthusiasm, at which the older man smiled with pleasure.The Vicar went on to say that he was proud of his people.And—yes, it was Miss Pattison who had had so remarkable an escape from drowning, and whose escape had partly made him think about a lifeboat.

Then, just as Mr. Willoughby was hoping to hear more about Mildred Pattison, the Vicar swerved off again to the subject of the lifeboat itself, and dashed into an eager explanation of its make and its merits.

He described the wonderful self-righting power of a lifeboat; the air-cases to which it owes its buoyancy; the tubes through which may escape any water shipped by the boat; the life-lines hanging outside, in readiness to be caught and clung to by any man overboard.

Then he congratulated himself and his Parish on the transporting carriage which had also been provided, by means of which the lifeboat could be quickly conveyed to the water's edge, and launched in heavy surf.

He had much also to say as to lesser equipments,—anchors, cables life-buoys, grapnels, rockets; and, above all, the cork lifebelts to be worn by the crew, the buoyant and flexible make of which had greatly delighted him.

"With one of those belts on, a man wearing heavy clothing may not only float safely, but may keep another person afloat also," he said."It's a marvellous invention.One wonders how the world managed to get on before all these things were found out."

"Not quite such an amount of shipping in earlier times," suggested Mr. Willoughby.

"That's true.But no doubt many a poor fellow lost his life in those days, who in these days might be rescued.Why, only think, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution has in charge over three hundred lifeboats on our coasts.It's a splendid work,—grand!And they are grand men who carry it on.Not many of us realise what some of those noble fellows have to go through, tossing about for hours on a bitter winter night, drenched with rain and spray, half-drowned and half-frozen, yet never giving in, so long as they have a hope of saving a life.It's magnificent!"

Mr. Willoughby assented warmly, and he would have assented a great deal more warmly if he had not feared, by a show of too much sympathy, to betray the generous part which he had himself taken in procuring this very lifeboat.

He did not suppose the Vicar's suspicions to have been already aroused, and he had no wish to arouse them.After listening a little longer, he made an attempt to turn the talk into another channel.

"The shipwreck of last year seems to have done good to Old Maxham in more ways than one."

"By bringing about the presence of a lifeboat?Yes, indeed."

"Not that only.I said, 'in more ways than one.'I was thinking that it had also brought about the presence of Miss Pattison in the place.That must be a gain."

"You are quite right.It is a gain.I have the greatest esteem for Miss Pattison.I believe she does good wherever she goes."

"I have not, of course, seen very much of her yet," remarked Mr. Willoughby, drawing the point of his walking-stick through the dust."But the little that I have seen,—I confess she seems to me to be a woman among a thousand.We are perhaps better off than King Solomon was.He didn't manage to find one woman among a thousand.I am inclined to think that I—have!"

The Vicar stopped short, and looked full at Mr. Willoughby.

"I am inclined to think that I have," repeated Mr. Willoughby, with deliberation."I may be mistaken; but I think not."

"You mean—" began the Vicar.

"Yes.I've never been married yet; but there is no especial reason why I shouldn't marry.I am not quite so old as I look, perhaps.How old should you guess me to be?'Sixty?'Some would have guessed sixty-five.No; I am just over fifty-four—not old at all for a man.And she is over thirty.Nothing out of joint as to age, you see.I have enough money to keep a wife in comfort, and still to be able to give away.Moreover, I am much alone in the world, and she is the same.Why should we not—?"

Mr. Willoughby came to a pause, and the Vicar said heartily, "Why not, indeed?"

"That is the question.It is only an idea in my mind at present; and I can't tell if she could ever care for me.But I want to see more of her, and it is not easy to manage.So I thought I would ask your help.If in the end she isn't willing,—why, I'm no worse off than I have been before."

"Well, I wish you good success; and if there is any way in which I can help matters on, you only have to command me.I wish my sister were here just now, but she isn't.Your best plan really is to interest Mrs. Bateson.She could help you, I don't doubt.I mean, as to arranging for you and Miss Pattison to meet."

"That's an idea worth consideration," Mr. Willoughby remarked.

CHAPTER XXVI

MR. WILLOUGHBY'S AFFAIR

"IF I might offer a word of advice, it would be—not to make too much haste," were the parting words of Mr. Gilbert."Best not to be in a hurry, you know."

Mr. Willoughby resolved to follow this counsel, and on no account to give in to a spirit of impatience.

Nor did he; if the degree of haste were to be measured by the degree of desire on his part.It was astonishing how that desire grew, when once the notion of marrying Mildred Pattison was fully admitted to his own mind.

The first time that they had met, Mildred had made a strong impression on him; the second time that he had visited Old Maxham, though he did not exchange a word with her, that impression had been deepened by various facts casually told him about Mildred.And the next interview that he had with her convinced him that, if time and opportunity could be found, she might become to him what no other woman had yet been.The time he resolved to take; the opportunities he determined to make.

Mildred sometimes wondered over the length of his stay in Old Maxham.Weeks passed by, and, still he remained at the doctor's, as a "paying guest," but certainly not as a patient, for he made no pretence to be an invalid, or in need of sea-air.None the less, he stayed on.

She began also to wonder how it was that she so often met him, and why it was that he should seem always so pleased to see her.He managed to ingratiate himself with Miss Perkins, so that Miss Perkins actually asked him to come in now and then to tea.Mildred always had her meals with Miss Perkins and Jessie, therefore by this means, he saw her often.

Mildred felt some astonishment at so unusual a step on the part of Miss Perkins, not knowing aught as to certain invisible wires set in motion by the doctor's wife; and she felt yet greater astonishment at the readiness and frequency with which Mr. Willoughby availed himself of the invitation.

Soon a third wonder arose in the mind of Mildred.She was puzzled as to the warmth of her own liking for Mr. Willoughby,—puzzled that his presence should be so agreeable to her, puzzled to find out that if for two or three days she saw nothing of him she felt dull.

"It really is ridiculous," she said one day to herself."I have known him such a little while, and very soon he will be going back to London, and then none of us will see anything more of him.At least, not for months.Perhaps some day he may come again to Old Maxham.I hope he will; he is a nice men.One can't know him and not like him.But it is rather absurd to care too much, when he is a mere bird of passage,—isn't it, Hero?"Mildred patted her dog and smiled as she spoke.

Not long after this she was one day going off for another afternoon ramble alone with Hero, when Mr. Willoughby happened to come up just before she started.He was always "happening" to meet her wherever she might chance to go; and it never occurred to Mildred that the "happening" might sometimes be due to a private hint bestowed upon Mr. Willoughby by Miss Perkins or Jessie.

Time had been when Miss Perkins would have set herself in opposition to anything so far from advantageous to herself as the possible marriage of Mildred Pattison.But Miss Perkins had had some lessons in self-forgetfulness during the last year; and now that the danger of having to part with her permanent lodger loomed upon her, she was able, amid regrets, to think of what would be for Mildred's good, and to endeavour to further that good, even though it should mean loss to herself.Jessie, too, though not without a struggle, took the same view of matters.

A late equinoctial gale seemed to be setting, but Mildred did not mind a struggle with the wind, now that she was again in good health and spirits.She had put on an old dress, and had tied a gauze veil tightly over her hat, so that it was in no danger of being carried away.And at the moment when she was starting, Mr. Willoughby made his appearance.

"Are you going for a walk?May I come part of the way with you?"he asked."There are one or two things that I—well, that I rather wish to say.This might be a good opportunity.And really—" as a gust twisted her half round,—"it is rather a boisterous day for you to go alone."

"I'm not afraid of the wind, thank you; and I am used to taking care of myself."Mildred felt shy, which was not usual.

He had walked with her before, and she had not been shy in the least; but she was now quite glad of a thick veil, behind which she could blush comfortably.

"But you do not mind my coming, for at least part of the way?"

"O no; not at all."

Then they set off, and Mr. Willoughby talked on everyday subjects, and Mildred had little to say in reply.Most of her attention seemed to be given to the effect of the wind upon her dress, which certainly was discomposing.

Once or twice she spoke to Hero, and when necessary she answered briefly some question or remark of Mr. Willoughby; but for the first time conversation flagged between them.Generally he and she had any amount to say one to the other; and Mildred had often thought how pleasant a man he was to talk with, because he always understood at once what she meant.Some people were so dense, she used to say to herself, comparing them with him.

It began to dawn upon her, as they trudged along, that although Mr. Willoughby talked, he too was embarrassed, no less than she was.Yet he was not given to shyness, any more than was she.

She tried to think of something to say, which should put them at ease, and tried in vain.Nothing seemed to be exactly the right thing for that moment; and the feeling of constraint lasted till they were outside the village.

Then Mr. Willoughby asked, "Which way were you going?"

"I had not made up my mind."

"Don't you think we had better keep to this lane?We shall not have so much wind.Unless you wish for a good blow."

"No.I like the lane."

"Pretty, is it not?How fast the hedges are budding!We don't see that in London.I sometimes think, as years go on, that I should like to have a little cottage in a place like Old Maxham, and run down to it often for change.What do you think?"

"I should think it would be very nice for you."

"I have been looking at one or two.It wouldn't be a bad plan.My main work lies in London, and part of the year I must be there; but it isn't needful all the year round.And I think I get more fond of the country.Are you the same?"

"Very fond."

"Too fond ever to live in London?"

"I don't know," whispered Mildred.She happened to glance up, and met his eyes fixed upon her with so earnest a gaze that she was disconcerted.

"I'm not asking that question for nothing," observed Mr. Willoughby."I have an object.There was something particular that I wanted to say to you, was there not?I told you that there was."

"Yes; you told me so."

"The only doubt on my mind is whether perhaps I may be saying it too soon.That's the doubt.But I don't want to wait longer.I want you to understand.But, remember, if I speak out now, I don't press for a hurried answer.If you cannot at once reply as I wish, I am willing to wait.I will give you any length of time to think it over—to get used to the idea.Perhaps it may be a now idea to you—and yet I have some hopes.You have been very kind to me lately."

"I think it is you who have been kind to me," Mildred said unsteadily, glad once more of her veil.

"My wish is to be kind to you, not now only, but always—through life.I should like to have it in my power to make yours a very happy life, so far as one has power over another's happiness.This is not a new thought with me.Even that first time that we met, when you were so sad, and I tried to comfort you, I found—not at the moment but afterward—that I could not shake off the recollection of your face.When I came down here again last autumn, I made no effort to see you, though once or twice I had a glimpse without trying.But every one spoke of you.It was singular, in those three days, how often your name came up, and how many warm words were said.Then, this time we met by accident—at least, with no effort on your part or mine—and that one walk decided me.I have known ever since how things might be with me.I made up my mind then to stay on here for several weeks, and to see as much of you as possible.And—I have done so."

"It has been very good of you," Mildred said in a low tone.

"I don't know about the goodness.I have pleased myself in doing it.But the question has arisen now—shall I stay longer, or shall I go back at once to London?"

Mildred was silent.

"And I am going to ask you to settle that question for me.I should like to stay—if you have not seen too much of me.Will you let me?Or would you rather that I should go?If I stay, I shall want to see a good deal of you—as much as can be managed.Do you think you would miss me at all, if I were to go, Mildred?"

He had never before called her by her name.She caught her breath slightly, and then said, "Yes, I think I should."

"That gives me hope.And if I stay, it will be for a purpose.I want to win you to be my wife.Perhaps you cannot yet promise.You may want to see a little more of me first.When you know me better—"

Mildred made no answer.

"You would rather wait for that, perhaps.You would rather not give an answer just yet.I shall leave you free as long as you wish."

They walked in silence for some distance.Mr. Willoughby would not break it.He saw that Mildred was deep in thought, and one or two side-glances showed him that her colour came and went fitfully behind the veil.

Presently she said,—

"May I have just a few hours?"

"Days, if you wish."

"No; a few hours.I think I should like that.I think that will be enough.I think—" in a softer voice—"I am very nearly sure—already."

"I hope I know what that means," he said as softly.

She gave him one glance.

"You don't know what a difference it would make in my life—if it might be.I am alone in the world now, just as you are.Then, we should neither of us be alone any longer."

A faint smile stirred her lips."You told me once that I ought to be content with—other relationships.With mankind in general."

"I suppose I did say something of that sort.The thought has often been a comfort to me in hours of loneliness.But the nearer tie is not wrong.If that can be, I at least shall not be lonely any more, or in need of comfort."

"And I too—"

The three little words slipped out involuntarily and were checked.Mr. Willoughby waited in vain for more.

Again they walked in silence, reaching a piece of open common, where the wind was so strong as to make walking difficult, and speech almost impossible.Getting beyond it, they were again in a sheltered lane, with high banks, and Mr. Willoughby said, "Would you rather be alone, or may I walk with you still?"

"If you like," she said shyly.

"Then I like to stay.Perhaps I ought to tell you something else, and that is that I am well off as to money.I have a comfortable house in Bloomsbury, and if you like it we will set up a little cottage in the country—here or elsewhere.You should see your old friends as often as you wished.Of course there would be no more dressmaking—except for your own amusement."

"I am fond of dressmaking.I should like to teach others how to do it, to help them on—perhaps some poor girls in London," Mildred said dreamily, unaware how much the words would mean to him.It was almost an admission of what her answer would be."And Jessie—I have undertaken to teach Jessie.I cannot leave that half done."

"There would be no need.She should learn still—either from you or from some one else.Whatever you wanted done, in the way of giving help to others, I would try to manage for you."

Mildred stood still."I think I should like to go home now," she said, and they turned.

She was silent again, lost in thought.

The common had to be once more crossed, which meant another struggle with the wind.Mr. Willoughby would not interrupt her thoughts.They reached the long lane, and traversed half of it, with few words.

Then, suddenly, Mildred stood still.She put up her veil, and turned her face towards her companion.

"Mr. Willoughby—"

"Yes."

A bright colour came into her cheeks.

"I think—I hardly think it is right to keep you longer in uncertainty.I mean—it is not needful.I find that I shall not need to wait—that I do not need more time.I think I know now."

The flushing cheeks, the brightening eyes, filled him with gladness.No one was within sight, and he took her hand in his.

"Will you be my wife, Mildred?"

"If you think I can make you happy—yes," she answered.

CHAPTER XXVII

ANOTHER GALE

THAT night a terrific gale blew; and, from the howling of the blast and the thunder of waves upon the shore, few of the inhabitants of Old Maxham could get much sleep.

Many lay wide awake, picturing to themselves the dismal state of sailors on their heaving craft; some sat up, refusing to undress; and a few spent the night upon the shore, watching the distant white gleam, which told of the line of breakers foaming on the reef.

With the coming of early dawn a water-logged ship could be seen in the offing, drifting towards the reef.Her masts were gone, and several men might be detected, holding on as best they might.Nothing could check the steady drift of that disabled vessel towards the rocks; and to be once on them in such a sea would mean a speedy end.All then would be up with the crew.

There was an instant rush for lifebelts on the part of the lifeboat crew, which consisted of double the number required.Not a man among them had any thought of holding back.Not one among them but would gladly have gone to the work of rescue.

As quickly as might be the boat was down at the water's edge, and then the launching had to take place—no light matter in such a surf.The storm from which Mildred had been saved, almost as by a miracle, had not been so heavy as this gale.

No time was lost, for indeed there was none to lose.Everything depended on speed and promptitude.The crew, ready for action with their lifebelts on, hauled with all their might and main at a strong rope which was attached to an anchor buoyed some little way from shore.And while they thus pulled, dozens of men on the beach pushed hard with a long spar at the stern of the boat.Among them might be soon the Vicar, as eager as any, and regardless of possible injury to his weakened arm.Jack too was there, of course.

A great wave came towering on, and instantly the lifeboat was full of water; but like a living creature, the gallant craft shook herself clear and rode bravely out amidst the breakers.

Now it became a race for life between the lifeboat and the drifting vessel.If the ship reached the rocks before the lifeboat could get to her, small hope remained for any one on board.Had it not been for the presence of the lifeboat, nothing could have been done.No ordinary boat could have lived, could even have been launched, in such a sea as this.

Mildred stood upon the shore, where most of the people of Old Maxham had already gathered, and Mr. Willoughby stood by her side.

For herself life had gained, within the last twelve hours, new hope and new happiness; but how could she think of herself, while those poor sailors were drifting to death, while those other gallant fellows were out on the stormy waters, risking their own lives that they might save men in direst need?

The very consciousness of impending happiness for herself was almost repellent at such a time.Even with John Willoughby by her side, she seemed to herself to be on that drifting vessel, awaiting rescue or death; so intense was her sympathy with the men who were there.

For she had gone through the same.She too had stood upon a heaving deck; she too had seen the line of wild white breakers drawing nearer and nearer.She too had watched a boat struggling through the rough water, vainly trying to get near in time.She too knew what it was to look drowning in the face, with small hope of being saved.

All this was vividly present to her imagination, and she felt as she knew that the men must feel on yonder dismasted vessel.Only this time the struggle might not be in vain; for the gallant lifeboat rose splendidly again and again from breaking waves and sheets of spray, and still the rescuers pressed onward.

Nearer and nearer the helpless vessel drew to the rocks; nearer and nearer the lifeboat drew to the vessel.It was fearful work to stand on the beach, helpless except that all might pray,—to stand in safety, hoping and fearing what each moment might bring.

By this time all the village was down on the shore, watching their lifeboat, bought partly with the fruits of their own little self-denials.Everybody realized that, had the boat not been procured, they could only have stood to look upon a terrible tragedy, powerless to give any help.Not even the sanguine young Vicar would have proposed taking out a common boat into such a sea as they looked upon this morning.The thing would have been simply an impossibility.

At length it was seen that the lifeboat was winning—would win—had won, the race.Before the vessel was yet on the rocks, the lifeboat drew near; and then, one by one, slowly and with difficulty, the crew of the vessel were taken off.

Some who had glasses could watch the perilous work being done; and cheer after cheer broke from those on shore, as one sailor after another was reported to be safe on board the lifeboat.This work accomplished, the dismantled vessel was left to drift to its fate; and the laden lifeboat turned to struggle landwards, again and again to vanish momentarily under rush after rush of breaking waves, yet again and again to rise, like a bird shaking itself free, gallantly riding the watery hills.

"It's a wonderful thing to see!Thank God that we have that boat!"murmured the Vicar.

To land at the same spot whence they had started proved to be impossible; but the crowd on shore followed the boat, and when it at length came in, friends were at hand to give a hearty welcome.

A rush was made, and strong arms helped to haul it in.The pale foreigners, snatched from the very jaws of death, were eagerly taken care of, fed and warmed and guarded.And old Adams, the coxswain, vigorous as any young man, despite his years, received such an ovation as he had never known yet.He deserved it well.

"And oh, John, if you had not given that money, the lifeboat might not be here yet!"Mildred said, her face glowing as she turned to speak to him.

Then she found the Vicar to be a listener also.

"Some of us have suspected this," Mr. Gilbert said, warmly grasping Mr. Willoughby's hand."Forgive me for hearing; I did not intend to hear what was not meant for me.But I am glad to know it; very glad.And you may well be thankful to have helped in bringing this about.I'll say no more as to that, if you would rather not."

"I am thankful," John Willoughby said quietly."And I am thankful for something else too.A great happiness has come into my life.You may congratulate me upon that, if you wish."

"Eh!What is that?"asked the Vicar.For the moment he forgot what had passed between himself and Mr. Willoughby as to Mildred.Then he remembered, and a smile crept into his face."Ah!"he said."Yes; I think I understand."

"This dear woman has promised to be my wife."

"Then I do congratulate you most heartily; and I am only sorry to think that we shall lose her from our midst."

"But perhaps it will not be losing, sir," Mildred said softly.

"Not if I can get a little cottage here, and if we spend part of the year always in Old Maxham," added Mr. Willoughby.

"Is that to be it?Why, I know the very cottage for you," exclaimed the Vicar.

Mildred's first intention was not to be married in a hurry.She saw no need for it, she said, and she wanted to turn out Jessie an accomplished dressmaker, which might not be so easy when she had a husband claiming her attention.

Mr. Willoughby, however, demurred as to this.It was not as if he were a very young man, or had to make his way.He was over fifty years old, and he had abundance of money.

Moreover, if Mildred was in no hurry, the same could not be said of himself.He was in a very great hurry; and his impatience waxed stronger every day.Jessie should learn her business from somebody, at his expense but he did not quite see why Jessie's dressmaking was to keep him longer without a wife, now that he had found a wife exactly to his mind.

A good deal of urging was needed to make Mildred see things as he did; but she became slowly convinced, and even at last confessed that she had really no wish for delay, except for the sake of Jessie's dressmaking and Miss Perkins' convenience.When it was decided that Jessie should go to London for six months' good instruction, and when another lodger was found for Miss Perkins, and when Mr. Willoughby undertook that she should be in no sense a loser by Mildred's departure or by Jessie's absence, Mildred had no longer any real difficulties to propose.

The wedding took place in June, from Miss Perkins' house; and Old Maxham came together to see it.Everybody was invited afterwards to a tea on the Vicarage lawn, where Miss Gilbert dispensed tea and coffee and cakes; and the Vicar managed to have a few words with each individual present; and many kind things were said both to Mr. Willoughby and his wife.

Mr. Willoughby, in consideration of its being his wedding day, had cut his hair—or had had it cut—a good deal shorter; and if the effect was less picturesque, it was also less aged.People ventured to hope that his new wife would insist on making this improvement permanent, as it was not necessary that he should as yet look patriarchal.Mildred herself, in a soft grey dress and grey bonnet with white flowers, looked very nice and happy.No two opinions were heard as to this.

They went into Devonshire for their honeymoon, and afterwards spent much time in London, with a month now and then in Mr. Willoughby's little cottage at Old Maxham.Mildred had always thought that she would dislike London; but she soon became so deeply interested in the various benevolent works taken up by her husband, that it was easier to win him away than to persuade her to go.

Jessie and Jack had to wait much longer for their marriage, which was only reasonable, since they were so very much younger.

Between four and five years passed, Jack making a home for his mother and the children, while Jessie lived with Miss Perkins, did dressmaking, and laid by a nice sum of money.

By that time the Groates children were getting old enough to begin to work for themselves; Jack himself was in a good enough position under Mr. Ward to have been for two years laying something by out of his earnings; and Mrs. Groates was known far and wide as one of the most useful of little women in any kind of emergency, as to work or cooking or health, so that really she was seldom at home for a month at a time.

Under these circumstances it was thought reasonable that Jack and Jessie should become man and wife.Mrs. Groates wanted to live apart, but neither Jack nor Jessie would hear of this.

A larger cottage was taken, and Mrs. Groates and her youngest girl had their home in it; Mrs. Groates still going out often to work in homes round about.The elder children also had a general welcome, coming and going as need arose; so that Jack's house became a kind of family home to them all; and Jessie turned out, not only a first-rate dressmaker, but also a notable housekeeper, and a loving daughter to her husband's mother.

And neither of them was any the worse for a few years of patient waiting, before having exactly what he or she wanted.

THE END