The sunbeams of an April morning aroused her at an early hour next morning. She sprung out of bed and drew back the window-curtains. What a charming prospect met her view! Close beneath her lay stretched a large and well-kept garden, old-fashioned paths bordered with box, and flower-beds of various geometrical shapes, in which crocus and snowdrop, wallflower, and polyanthus spread themselves in picturesque confusion.

Nearer the house the lilac buds were just bursting into flower, and around her windows the monthly roses mingled their delicate pink leaves with the dark green ivy that covered the wall.

Beyond stretched field and meadow in early spring verdure. In the furrows of an adjacent field men were already busily employed in sowing seeds, and from a distance could be heard the lowing of cattle, the clucking of hens as they led their chirping broods, the quacking of ducks and geese, the peculiar note of the guinea-fowl, and above them all Chanticleer's shrill but familiar crow. Mary turned from the window with a hasty determination to obtain a closer inspection of these pleasant rural sights and sounds. Dressing herself quickly she descended the stairs, and found every one in the house up and busy except her father and grandfather, although it was not yet half-past six o'clock.

Mrs. John Armstrong came forward with surprise to greet the London lady, who could leave her room at such an early hour.

"What, up already, Mary?" she said, "I did not expect to see you till nine o'clock."

"I rise early at home always," she replied; "papa often leaves for London at half-past eight, and I breakfast with him."

"Ah, yes, I forgot that you live at some distance from London now, and therefore our country manners and ways are not quite new to you."

"It is very pleasant country where we live, but not so rural as this,"

said Mary; and then, as she observed her cousin take some barley from a bin in the outer kitchen, she exclaimed, "Oh, cousin Sarah, if you are going to feed the chickens, do let me go with you, I am longing to see the farmyard, and I can carry something for you."

"Of course you shall go, my dear; I shall be glad to have you. Ned and Jack are away at school now in Southampton, and I miss their help very much."

Mary was soon loaded with a basket containing provision for the farmyard pensioners, and while they walked she asked many questions about her cousins John and Edward, boys of eleven and fifteen, cousin Sarah's only surviving children. But the strange farmyard scenes soon occupied all Mary's attention. Never in her life had she seen so many geese, ducks, chickens, and pigeons, and until they were all fed and satisfied nothing else could be attempted.

At length Mary was at liberty to look round her. The farmyard was surrounded by barns, stables for horses and cattle, waggon-sheds, hen and pigeon-houses, rabbit-hutches, and a pond in the centre, by no means small, for the ducks and geese, near which stood their comfortable nests.

"The man is going to feed the pigs, Mary," said her cousin; "their sties are at the back of the stables, opening into a field."

She led the way from the farmyard as she spoke, and as they drew near the spot Mary heard a most unmelodious sound, half-grunting, half-squeaking, with which the little hungry animals greeted their keeper. There appeared about a hundred little pigs in a portion of the field adjoining the sties, and railed in from the other part by wooden palings and hurdles. At intervals, close to the fence, stood troughs, and the moment their keeper appeared in sight there arose such a perfect yell and growl of grunting and squealing that Mary could not attempt to speak.

The little animals, who varied in age from six weeks to three months, were beautifully clean and white, and when Mary saw them looking through holes in the palings, and many of them standing on their hind-legs to put their noses over, she could scarcely speak for laughing.

"I thought pigs were such heavy, stupid things," she said at last, "but these are lively enough."

"They be lively enough when they be'es hungry," said the man, as he entered the enclosure and drove them back into their houses while he and his helper filled their troughs.

"You can come and see them fed another morning," said cousin Sarah, "but I must go in and prepare breakfast now. Will you amuse yourself in the garden till you hear the bell ring, and gather some flowers for the table?"

"Yes, I should like it of all things;" and Mrs. John Armstrong led Mary to the garden gate and left her.

Mary wandered down the dew moistened paths, now and then gathering flowers as she pa.s.sed. In her mind, while looking at the ungainly little beasts in the field, had arisen a memory of words in the parable she had heard read the evening before--"and he sent him into the fields to feed swine." Her knowledge of Oriental customs enabled her to understand the deep degradation of such employment, not only to the Jew, but to the natives of other Eastern countries. And yet, after all, the prodigal's father received him again with open arms.

She was walking still in deep thought when her father's step aroused her.

"What is the subject of my daughter's thoughts?" he said as he placed his arm round her.

Mary avoided a direct reply. Not even to her father could she open her heart on the real subject of her thoughts. But she described with so much vivacity the scenes she had lately visited, not forgetting the greedy pigs, that her father was quite amused.

The eight o'clock bell summoned the whole household to prayers, and when Mary entered the farm kitchen she found the screen drawn back and about twenty farm-servants, male and female, waiting to join in the morning devotions.

Her grandfather was absent, but her father conducted the service as on the previous evening. And when she seated herself at the breakfast-table the glow of health on her cheek was not brighter than the glow of pleasure in her heart as she thought of a whole family kneeling and asking G.o.d to guide and keep them through the day from danger and sin.

Mr. Edward Armstrong was obliged to return to London on the day after his arrival, and finding his father so much better than he expected he did so with less regret. "You can leave your daughter for a few days longer, Edward," said his father; "I have hardly had time to renew my acquaintance with her, and it is not possible that I shall ever see her again in this world."

"Would you like to stay for a week, Mary?" asked her father.

"Yes, papa, very much, if dear mamma can spare me for so long."

"There is no doubt of that, my dear," he replied, "especially if she thinks your stay will be agreeable to your grandfather."

And so Mary Armstrong remained at Meadow Farm for a week, a period which in after-life was never forgotten. The loving affection of the kind old man was returned by her in attention to his every wish. So much, indeed, had this visit cheered and revived him, that on fine afternoons, when persuaded by Mary, he would lean on her strong young arm, and walk about the garden and fields of the farm.

On the Sunday he even ventured to the village church; and when congratulated by friends who wondered at the elegant graceful girl on whose arm he leaned, he would say with affectionate pride, "This is my granddaughter, Edward's eldest child."

In these walks the young girl opened her heart to the aged Christian, who had had a long life's experience in the "ways of wisdom," and had found her paths "paths of peace."

From him Mary Armstrong learnt those truths which were to be her comfort and guide in after days of sorrow and trial.

When her father came for her at the end of the week she felt the parting from her grandfather and cousins only softened by the thought that she was returning to her mother so dearly loved. At parting the good old gentleman gave her a Bible with marginal references, and a concordance, which she received with many tears, for she felt that never again on earth should she hear the loving voice that had first said to her, "This is the way, walk ye in it."

CHAPTER XV.

A VISIT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

During the evening at Mr. Drummond's there had been very little opportunity for Mr. Armstrong to discover that the gentleman with white hair was the head of the school at which his little Freddy attended as a pupil. He had been greatly pleased with the gentle and refined manners of Dr. Halford and his son, and felt at once that they were both men of superior education. He had greatly appreciated their remarks on both literary and scientific subjects after the ladies had left the dinner-table; but, unfortunately, one of Mr. Armstrong's narrow-minded prejudices made him judge schoolmasters and clergymen with anything but Christian charity. Added to this they were proverbially poor, and poverty in his eyes was becoming almost a crime.

"What business," he would say, "has a man to educate his son to be a clergyman if he has not independent means, or a living ready for him? or even to be a schoolmaster, with fine notions about education, and not a penny in his pocket? Better by far make him a carpenter or a shoemaker, to work for his living without having to endure the torture of keeping up a genteel appearance upon poverty."

Mr. Armstrong had been unfortunate in his experience respecting schoolmasters and curates; and with the unbending obstinacy of his nature adhered to the opinion he had formed. The bare idea that Dr.

Halford could be a schoolmaster, or that his son was studying at Oxford to become a curate, never occurred to him. His wife, who knew his prejudiced opinions too well, would not enlighten him on the subject, while speaking next morning of the great pleasure he had found in their society, although she wondered that the name had not reminded him of Freddy's school.

Mrs. Armstrong congratulated herself, as she remembered that Mary's father had been too much occupied at the dinner-table to notice the gentleman who sat by her side. "If any unpleasantness should arise from the attentions of that young man to my daughter," she said to herself, "I shall have to remove my little Freddy from school, and he is so happy there."

One afternoon, after the Easter holidays, Freddy brought home a little note, fortunately addressed to herself, containing the quarter's account. The sum was comparatively trifling, and she sent it herself the next day by Freddy. It had been made out to Mr. Armstrong; but she feared to show him the bill on which the name of Halford stood so conspicuously written.

Mrs. Armstrong was giving herself unnecessary anxiety. Henry Halford was already at Oxford absorbed in his books, and more than ever determined to ignore even the existence of a certain young lady with large grey eyes and bright brown hair, who had for a time dazzled his senses.

And Mary, did a thought of that pleasant dinner-party ever pa.s.s over her mind? Yes; for true to her promise she had read Milton's works with greater interest than ever; she had made notes of the explanations Mr.

Henry Halford had given her so far as she could remember them, and perhaps a little feeling of disappointment arose in her heart that he had not sent the copy of "Paradise Lost," which he had offered to lend her, and which contained notes in the margin. Mary Armstrong owned to herself that she liked Mr. Henry Halford, both in manners and appearance; and, above all, for being so evidently clever and well-informed; but she was not likely to be easily won. The thought of marriage, as a possible event at some future time, would sometimes occur to her; but _falling_ in love implied a weakness, and the citadel of Mary Armstrong's heart was so well guarded by constant and active employment, a love of acquiring knowledge, and a mind well informed on the best subjects, that it would need a strong siege to make the citadel surrender. At present, therefore, Mary was free; and the spring months pa.s.sed away; and June, with its roses, its blue skies and balmy air, arrived to gladden the earth.

The health of Mrs. Armstrong had greatly improved since her residence at Lime Grove. Freddy was also looking well and rosy; and letters from Edward and Arthur were full of the antic.i.p.ation of the happiness in store for them during the Midsummer holidays.

One morning early in June a carriage drove up to the gate of Lime Grove, and to Mrs. Armstrong's great satisfaction she saw her sister, Mrs.

Herbert, preparing to alight. The colonel and his wife had been abroad during the winter; and the sisters met in the hall with affectionate pleasure.

"Why, Mary," said her aunt, as her niece came forward to welcome her, "you are grown quite a woman; and you and your mother look so well, I am sure this place must agree with you."

"Yes, indeed it does, aunt," replied Mary, leading her to a chair; "but has it not made a change in mamma?"