"And you did n.o.bly and wisely yourself, my dear boy," said the squire.

"I believe you have given that wretched scoundrel his quietus so far as we are concerned.--And what of your poor sister? Are we to expect her soon?"

"That's what I've got to write to Amos about," replied his son. "As soon as you are ready to receive her she will be only too thankful to come."

"Let her come at once--write by this night's post," cried his father in an agitated voice. "Poor dear child, I long to welcome her back again; and I think, if I am not mistaken, that your aunt has been making some quiet preparations, so that it will not be inconvenient to you, Kate, for her to come at once, will it?"

"Not in the least," replied his sister; "I have been earnestly hoping and praying for this."

"And what about the children?" said her brother; "we must make room for them too, poor things. We can't keep the mother and her children separate."

"Of course not, dear Walter," replied Miss Huntingdon; "we shall be quite prepared to receive them also, though they are at present not with their mother, but under Amos's charge."

"Ah, I remember," said her brother; "well, we can send for them too, when the poor child herself has got here."

"Am I to write all that?" asked Walter.

"Oh, certainly," was the reply.

"Then hip, hip, hurrah forty-four thousand times! And now I will write the letter; and then I'll have a fine bit of fun with Harry." So the letter was written and duly posted that evening; and Walter, after he had finished it, betook himself to the butler's pantry.

"Harry," he said to the worthy old servant, who, wash-leather in hand, was burnishing the plate with all the solemnity of one engaged in some very serious and responsible undertaking, "what do you think?"

"Well, Master Walter, I think a good many things."

"I daresay you do. But what do you think _now_?"

"Why, pretty much what I've been thinking of for the last half-hour; and that ain't much to the purpose to any one but myself."

"Just so, Harry; well, I'm not going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I'm sure you would give a good many pence for mine.

However, I'll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell you out at once--Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn't that stunning?"

It certainly looked so in Harry's case, for the old man dropped a large silver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wide open, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement.

"All, I thought so," said Walter. "Well, Harry, it's true. Isn't that good news?"

Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant's heart. One big tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a low voice, "The Lord be praised! I've prayed as it might come to this some day; and so it has at last. And you're sure of it, Master Walter; you're not a-cramming of me?"

"Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn't have the heart to do it. No, it is perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a great bonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say to that?"

"I don't know, Master Walter, I don't know. Somehow or other it don't seem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. You see, it isn't as if she'd been and married a creditable person, or were coming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There's been faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we'd better do our rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in our hearts, and then we shan't give offence to n.o.body."

"Harry, I believe you're right," said Walter. "You're a regular old brick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice."

When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutes to her own room, she received a visit from Walter. "Auntie," he said, "I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a little encouragement. Now, you know all the circ.u.mstances of our grand scene with that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who is your special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on that occasion."

"Yes, I can do that, my dear boy," replied his aunt; "but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero--my dear nephew Walter."

"Nay, aunt," he replied, "I don't think there was much moral courage about it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos's life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been as tall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant."

"True, dear boy, that was natural courage princ.i.p.ally; but there was moral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steady perseverance with which you went to be your brother's protector, come what might and at all hazards."

"Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve.

And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos."

"My hero this time," said Miss Huntingdon, "is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. One day this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediately advance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct.

The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. In the evening, pa.s.sing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call on him, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been to him, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it from his nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after some remarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, 'It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and in honesty I cannot return it without my brother's knowledge and approbation.' The young man's pistol was immediately at his uncle's breast. 'My life,' said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, 'is secure in the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be the forfeit of my integrity and your rashness.'--This firmness staggered his nephew, who exclaimed, 'Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, was more afraid of death than you are.'--'Afraid of death!' cried Mr Fletcher. 'Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is for _you_ to fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed upon us; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for ever punish your soul in h.e.l.l.'--The unhappy man turned pale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He still threatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave no alarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with his miserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But he would not return his brother's draft. However, he gave him some help himself, and having prayed with him, let him go."

"Ay, dear aunt," exclaimed Walter, "that was a hero indeed."

"Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage is the bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from 'pluck,'

as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberately resolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may cost us shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was Mr Fletcher's courage. A sense of duty and the fear of G.o.d upheld him against all fear of man."

"True, auntie," acquiesced her nephew; "and so it was with Amos."

"Yes, just so, Walter. You tell me that when your unhappy brother-in- law pointed the pistol at Amos, your brother said with perfect calmness that he was in G.o.d's hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thus acting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own life rather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, like Mr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage."

"Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted to help my hero out of his trouble."

On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcome news from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her old home, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven years had elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behind her in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious but profligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she was returning to a home which had for a long time been closed against her.

Oh, with what a wild throbbing of heart did she gaze at the familiar sights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amos drove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, up the drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The next moment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and found herself clasped in her father's arms.

"My poor, poor child! welcome home again," he murmured, with choking tears.

"O father! father!" she cried, "it is too much happiness." She could say no more.

Then she received the warm embrace of her aunt, who was saddened to mark the lines of care on that young face, which was all brightness the last time she had seen it. And then, as she raised herself up, and disengaged herself from those loving arms, her eyes fell on the old butler, who was twisting a large red pocket-handkerchief into a rope, in his vain efforts to restrain his emotions, which at last found vent in a long cadence of mingled sobs and exclamations. For a moment Julia Vivian hesitated, and then flung her arms round the neck of the old man, who made the hall ring with a shout of thanksgiving. Then, calming down, he said, half out loud, and half confidentially to himself, "You know it was to be so, and so it is. We've got Miss Julia as was back among us again; and we don't mean to part with her never again no more."

Oh, what a day of gladness was that to Amos Huntingdon! One half of the great purpose to which he had devoted his life was now accomplished.

The banished sister had been welcomed back by his father to her earthly home. And yet, how much still remained to be done! But, as he had worked on in faith and trust before, so he would continue trusting, watching, working, committing all to the wise guiding and overruling of that loving Father whose leading hand he had hitherto sought to follow, but never to outrun.

How bright were the faces which gathered round the dinner-table that evening!--though even then the cloud rested in a measure on every heart; for that poor worn face, and those wistful pitiful eyes, told of a deep and hidden sorrow, and of an abiding humiliation, which not even the pure love that now beamed on her from all sides could remove from the burdened spirit of the restored wanderer. Down in the kitchen, however, the rejoicing was unclouded, except that Harry mourned over his young mistress's faded beauty and sad looks, and occupied a considerable portion of his leisure time in punching an imaginary head, held firm under his left arm, and supposed by his fellow-servants to belong to Miss Julia's brute of a husband.

Dinner had been over rather more than an hour, when Walter, who had been absent for a short time from the drawing-room, returned, beckoned to Amos, and then, gently laying hold of his sister's hand, drew her towards the door. "Come here, just for one minute," he said, with a merry smile twinkling in his eyes. "Father will spare you just for a minute;" and he conducted her out of the room. Oh, what a flood of joy came into her heart with that smile of Walter's. Years had pa.s.sed since she had rejoiced in its light. What would she have given could the frightful interval between this smile and the last she had seen before it have been wiped clean out! To her that interval had been one prolonged and gloomy frown. But now the three, Amos, Walter, and their sister, made their way downstairs. Oh, it was so like a bit of childish fun in days gone by! And now they arrived at the butler's pantry, the door of which was fast closed. Walter knocked. "Come in," said the old man. They entered; and all exclaimed at the sight which presented itself. On every available projection there was placed a portion of a candle, making in all some thirty or forty lights, which made the little room one brilliant blaze. On the wall opposite the door were the words, "Welcome home again," in large red and blue letters; and on another wall the words, "Hip, hip, hooray!" in golden characters.

"O dear Harry!" cried his young mistress, her face glowing with such a smile as no one had seen on it yet since her return, "how good and kind of you--just like your dear old self! how came you to think of it?"

"Well, Miss Julia," was his reply, "it's this way,--Master Walter and me talked about having a bonfire on the hill; but when we came to think it over, we decided as it wouldn't p'r'aps be altogether the right thing, for reasons as needn't be named on this here occasion. So I've been and got up a little bit of an illumination all of my own self. But don't you go for to suppose as these candles belongs to master. I'm not the man to use his goods this way without leave. It's a pound of the best composite as I bought out of my own wages, and you're heartily welcome to every one on 'em."

"Thank you, dear Harry," she said, holding out her hand to him; "it is the sweetest of welcomes. I feel that it has done me good already; there is true love in every light."

"Just so, miss," said the old man, his face br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with happiness. "And now, before we part, we must have a bit of toffee all round, as you was used to in old times." So saying, he opened an old drawer, which seemed abundantly furnished with sundry kinds of sweets, and produced the toffee, which he pressed upon each of his three visitors. "There," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction, "that's just as it should be; and now, Miss Julia," he added, "when you want any more, you know where to come for it."

Few happier hearts were laid on a bed that night in England than the heart of old Harry the butler.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TRUE SHAME VERSUS FALSE SHAME.