But then something went "crack,"--or else it was Kate's fancy--for she started as if it had been a cannon-ball; and though she sat with her book in her lap by the fire in Mary's room, all the dear old furniture and pictures round her, her head was weaving an unheard-of imagination, about robbers coming in rifling everything--coming up the stairs--creak, creak, was that their step?--she held her breath, and her eyes dilated--seizing her for the sake of her watch! What article there would be in the paper--"Melancholy disappearance of the youthful Countess of Caergwent." Then Aunt Barbara would be sorry she had treated her so cruelly; then Mary would know she ought not to have abandoned the child who had thrown herself on her protection.

That was the way Lady Caergwent spent her hour. She had been kidnapped and murdered a good many times before; there was a buzz in the street, her senses came back, and she sprang out on the stairs to meet her cousins, calling herself quite well again. And then they had a very peaceful, pleasant time; she was one of them again, when, as of old, Mr. Wardour came into the drawing-room, and she stood up with Charles, Sylvia, and little Lily, who was now old enough for the Catechism, and then the Collect, and a hymn. Yes, she had Collect and hymn ready too, and some of the Gospel; Aunt Barbara always heard her say them on Sunday, besides some very difficult questions, not at all like what Mr. Wardour asked out of his own head.

Kate was a little afraid he would make his teaching turn on submitting to rulers; it was an Epistle that would have given him a good opportunity, for it was the Fourth Epiphany Sunday, brought in at the end of the Sundays after Trinity. If he made his teaching personal, something within her wondered if she could bear it, and was ready to turn angry and defiant. But no such thing; what he talked to them about was the gentle Presence that hushed the waves and winds in outward nature, and calmed the wild spiritual torments of the possessed; and how all fears and terrors, all foolish fancies and pa.s.sionate tempers, will be softened into peace when the thought of Him rises in the heart.

Kate wondered if she should be able to think of that next time she was going to work herself into an agony.

But at present all was like a precious dream, to be enjoyed as slowly as the moments could be persuaded to pa.s.s. Out came the dear old Dutch Bible History, with pictures of everything--pictures that they had looked at every Sunday since they could walk, and could have described with their eyes shut; and now Kate was to feast her eyes once again upon them, and hear how many little Lily knew; and a pretty sight it was, that tiny child, with her fat hands clasped behind her so as not to be tempted to put a finger on the print, going so happily and thoroughly through all the creatures that came to Adam to be named, and showing the whole procession into the Ark, and, her favourite of all, the Angels coming down to Jacob.

Then came tea; and then Kate was p.r.o.nounced, to her great delight, well enough for Evening Service. The Evening Service she always thought a treat, with the lighted church, and the choicest singing-- the only singing that had ever taken hold of Kate's tuneless ear, and that seemed to come home to her. At least, to-night it came home as it had never done before; it seemed to touch some tender spot in her heart, and when she thought how dear it was, and how little she had cared about it, and how glad she had been to go away, she found the candles dancing in a green mist, and great drops came down upon the Prayer-book in her hand.

Then it could not be true that she had no feeling. She was crying-- the first time she had ever known herself cry except for pain or at reproof; and she was really so far pleased, that she made no attempt to stop the great tears that came trickling down at each familiar note, at each thought how long it had been since she had heard them.

She cried all church time; for whenever she tried to attend to the prayers, the very sound of the voice she loved so well set her off again; and Sylvia, tenderly laying a hand on her by way of sympathy, made her weep the more, though still so softly and gently that it was like a strange sort of happiness--almost better than joy and merriment. And then the sermon--upon the text, "Peace, be still,"-- was on the same thought on which her uncle had talked to the children: not that she followed it much; the very words "peace" and "be still," seemed to be enough to touch, soften, and dissolve her into those sweet comfortable tears.

Perhaps they partly came from the weakening of the morning's indisposition; at any rate, when she moved, after the Blessing, holding the pitying Sylvia's hand, she found that she was very much tired, her eyelids were swollen and aching, and in fact she was fit for nothing but bed, where Mary and Sylvia laid her; and she slept, and slept in dreamless soundness, till she was waked by Mary's getting up in the morning, and found herself perfectly well.

"And now, Sylvia," she said, as they went downstairs hand-in-hand, "let us put it all out of our heads, and try and think all day that it is just one of our old times, and that I am your old Kate. Let me do my lessons and go into school, and have some fun, and quite forget all that is horrid."

But there was something to come before this happy return to old times. As soon as breakfast was over Mr Wardour said, "Now, Kate, I want you." And then she knew what was coming; and somehow, she did not feel exactly the same about her exploit and its causes by broad daylight, now that she was cool. Perhaps she would have been glad to hang back; yet on the whole, she had a great deal to say to "Papa,"

and it was a relief, though rather terrific, to find herself alone with him in the study.

"Now, Kate," said he again, with his arm round her, as she stood by him, "will you tell me what led you to this very sad and strange proceeding?"

Kate hung her head, and ran her fingers along the mouldings of his chair.

"Why was it, my dear?" asked Mr. Wardour.

"It was--" and she grew bolder at the sound of her own voice, and more confident in the goodness of her cause--"it was because Aunt Barbara said I must write what was not true, and--and I'll never tell a falsehood--never, for no one!" and her eyes flashed.

"Gently, Kate," he said, laying his hand upon hers; "I don't want to know what you never WILL do, only what you have done. What was this falsehood?"

"Why, Papa, the other Sylvia--Sylvia Joanna, you know--has her birthday to-day, and we settled at Bournemouth that I should spend the day with her; and on Sat.u.r.day, when Aunt Barbara heard of it, she said she did not want me to be intimate there, and that I must not go, and told me to write a note to say she had made a previous engagement for me."

"And do you know that she had not done so?"

"O Papa! she could not; for when I said I would not write a lie, she never said it was true."

"Was that what you said to your aunt?"

"Yes,"--and Kate hung her head--"I was in a pa.s.sion."

"Then, Kate, I do not wonder that Lady Barbara insisted on obedience, instead of condescending to argue with a child who could be so insolent."

"But, Papa," said Kate, abashed for a moment, then getting eager, "she does tell fashionable falsehoods; she says she is not at home when she is, and--"

"Stay, Kate; it is not for you to judge of grown people's doings.

Neither I nor Mary would like to use that form of denying ourselves; but it is usually understood to mean only not ready to receive visitors. In the same way, this previous engagement was evidently meant to make the refusal less discourteous, and you were not even certain it did not exist."

"My Italian mistress did want to come on Monday," faltered Kate, "but it was not 'previous.'"

"Then, Kate, who was it that went beside the mark in letting us believe that Lady Barbara locked you up to make you tell falsehoods?"

"Indeed, Papa, I did not say locked--Charlie and Sylvia said that."

"But did you correct them?"

"O Papa, I did not mean it! But I am naughty now! I always am naughty, so much worse than I used to be at home. Indeed I am, and I never do get into a good vein now. O Papa, Papa, can't you get me out of it all? If you could only take me home again! I don't think my aunts want to keep me--they say I am so bad and horrid, and that I make Aunt Jane ill. Oh, take me back, Papa!"

He did take her on his knee, and held her close to him. "I wish I could, my dear," he said; "I should like to have you again! but it cannot be. It is a different state of life that has been appointed for you; and you would not be allowed to make your home with me, with no older a person than Mary to manage for you. If your aunt had not been taken from us, then--" and Kate ventured to put her arm round his neck--"then this would have been your natural home; but as things are with us, I could not make my house such as would suit the requirements of those who arrange for you. And, my poor child, I fear we let the very faults spring up that are your sorrow now."

"Oh no, no, Papa, you helped me! Aunt Barbara only makes me--oh! may I say?--hate her! for indeed there is no helping it! I can't be good there."

"What is it? What do you mean, my dear? What is your difficulty?

And I will try to help you."

Poor Kate found it not at all easy to explain when she came to particulars. "Always cross," was the clearest idea in her mind; "never pleased with her, never liking anything she did--not punishing, but much worse." She had not made out her case, she knew; but she could only murmur again, "It all went wrong, and I was very unhappy."

Mr. Wardour sighed from the bottom of his heart; he was very sorrowful, too, for the child that was as his own. And then he went back and thought of his early college friend, and of his own wife who had so fondled the little orphan--all that was left of her sister.

It was grievous to him to put that child away from him when she came clinging to him, and saying she was unhappy, and led into faults.

"It will be better when your uncle comes home," he began.

"Oh no, Papa, indeed it will not. Uncle Giles is more stern than Aunt Barbara. Aunt Jane says it used to make her quite unhappy to see how sharp he was with poor Giles and Frank."

"I never saw him in his own family," said Mr. Wardour thoughtfully; "but this I know, Kate, that your father looked up to him, young as he then was, more than to anyone; that he was the only person among them all who ever concerned himself about you or your mother; and that on the two occasions when I saw him, I thought him very like your father."

"I had rather he was like you, Papa," sighed Kate. "Oh, if I was but your child!" she added, led on by a little involuntary pressure of his encircling arm.

"Don't let us talk of what is not, but of what is," said Mr. Wardour; "let us try to look on things in their right light. It has been the will of Heaven to call you, my little girl, to a station where you will, if you live, have many people's welfare depending on you, and your example will be of weight with many. You must go through training for it, and strict training may be the best for you.

Indeed, it must be the best, or it would not have been permitted to befall you."

"But it does not make me good, it makes me naughty."

"No, Kate; nothing, n.o.body can make you naughty; nothing is strong enough to do that."

Kate knew what he meant, and hung her head.

"My dear, I do believe that you feel forlorn and dreary, and miss the affection you have had among us; but have you ever thought of the Friend who is closest of all to us, and who is especially kind to a fatherless child?"

"I can't--I can't feel it--Papa, I can't. And then, why was it made so that I must go away from you and all?"

"You will see some day, though you cannot see now, my dear. If you use it rightly, you will feel the benefit. Meantime, you must take it on trust, just as you do my love for you, though I am going to carry you back."

"Yes; but I can feel you loving me."

"My dear child, it only depends on yourself to feel your Heavenly Father loving you. If you will set yourself to pray with your heart, and think of His goodness to you, and ask Him for help and solace in all your present vexatious and difficulties, never mind how small, you WILL become conscious of his tender pity and love to you."

"Ah! but I am not good!"