But before Mrs. Estcourt moved, she said in a very low voice, and as if she did not think any one else heard her--

"There is not always a bright side to look at." For she was thinking that all the brightness had been taken away from her life's story. Would not Arthur's mother have said, "If there is none anywhere else, look to where the Lord Jesus waits to bless you, saying, 'Your heart shall rejoice;' and then the light of His love would make the shadiest life shine with a summer gleaming?"

Arthur's appet.i.te seemed really gone this morning, and his aunt's attention was too much occupied with anxiety about his father's comfort for the journey, to notice that he was eating hardly anything; and in the midst of his trouble the thought came across Arthur's mind that it was a very good thing he was not hungry, as he felt a great deal too shy to help himself.

Presently there was the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside.

"Now," said Mrs. Estcourt, starting up, "there is the carriage, Ronald; I knew it would be here before you were ready."

"Well," said Mr. Vivyan quietly, "you know one of us would have to be ready first, and I would rather the carriage waited for me than I for it.

Besides, I am quite ready. Now, my dear sister, expend your energies in seeing if my luggage is all right."

Then Arthur and his father were left alone.

"Now, my darling boy," Mr. Vivyan said, "come here. I want to speak to you, and to say good-bye."

So Arthur came closer to his chair, and his father put his arms around him, and took his hand in his.

"Arthur," he said, "perhaps you don't know how much I love you, and how deeply anxious I am about you, that you should grow up to be a man that your mother need not be ashamed of. You know, Arthur, I cannot talk to you as she does; but I pray for you every day, and now especially that I am leaving you. But we shall have another home on earth some day, I trust; and, better than that, you know about the home where the Lord Jesus is waiting for those who are washed in His blood. You are going to that home, my precious boy?"

"Yes, father," said Arthur in a low voice.

"Well, then, you know you always have that to think about; and now I will give you this text to keep from me while I am away, 'Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.' And won't it be nice to get a letter from India!"

"Yes, oh yes, father," said Arthur, bursting into a flood of tears; "but it would be so much nicer to be going."

"Hush, hush," said Mr. Vivyan kindly; "you know there are some things that G.o.d has forbidden, and it is wrong to think of how nice they would be. I suppose you cannot think of how pleasant a great many things you have are just now, but by and by you will find it out."

This was just what Arthur was thinking. It was very strange to him to hear his father talking in this way to him; he had never done so before; and it made him love him as he did not know he ever could. It was quite true that everything was looking black and gloomy, and that to try and see brightness in his life at Myrtle Hill seemed to make the dreary feeling more intense at his heart. But still he could lie down at the feet of the Master who is so kind, and rest there while earthly things were so dark, and trust Him, waiting while the violence of the storm was pa.s.sing. Arthur had answered the Shepherd's call--"Follow thou me," and the one who has said that "He gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom."

"And now, my boy," said Mr. Vivyan, "G.o.d bless you and keep you; good-bye, my own dear little boy." Then he put his arm around Arthur's neck, and kissed him. A minute after, Arthur was standing by himself before the drawing-room fire; and when presently he heard the carriage roll away, and the sounds became gradually fainter and fainter in the distance, he felt that he was all alone.

Indeed, he hardy knew what he felt. There seemed to be a sudden quiet hush within him, and as he looked outside the window where the carriage had just stood, and the bustle of going away had just ceased, the quiet of every thing seemed very still and deep. Only the little birds were just the same, singing gaily as if nothing had happened, and the morning breeze was brushing the myrtle trees as they did every spring morning when the sun was making the country look glad.

Presently he heard steps outside the door, and as they came nearer and nearer, Arthur felt as if he would like to run away; for he was afraid his aunt might talk about his father and mother, and he felt as if he could not talk of anything just then. But he need not have been afraid, Mrs.

Estcourt was wiser than that, and she only said kindly--

"Would you like to go out and look about you a little, Arthur dear? It will not rain just yet, I think; and you may go where you like; at least, that is, if you are accustomed to go by yourself."

"I should think I am, indeed," said Arthur; "why I have done that ever since I was eight."

"You won't lose your way?" asked his aunt anxiously.

"If I do, I shall have to find it again, you know, aunt," said Arthur.

"You are a funny little fellow," said Mrs. Estcourt. "Well, if you get hungry before luncheon-time, you must come and tell me."

Arthur thought of Hector, and how pleasant it would be if his old friend would come bounding in answer to his whistle; then he looked at the sleepy white-haired creature lying on the hearth-rug.

"Aunt Daisy," he said, "would you like me to take out that white fellow?"

"What, dear?" said Mrs. Estcourt. "Oh, I don't know, Arthur; I think, perhaps, not just yet; not until you are more accustomed to it."

"Very well," said Arthur, as he went away; and he said to himself, "I would quite as soon not."

Arthur felt, as he stood outside the hall door, as if all the world was before him, to choose where he would go. He thought he would first examine the garden, which encircled the house on all sides. A gap in the myrtle bushes led him down a narrow path into a large s.p.a.ce, which the fruit trees and vegetables showed was the kitchen garden. He walked round, and noticed how neatly the beds were kept, and that the walks even here were stripped of weeds. Two boys who were working there, rather older than himself, eyed him curiously. Arthur wondered whether they knew who he was; but he felt inclined to be where there was no one else just then. So he left the garden, and pa.s.sing out through the iron gate, he found himself on the high road, turning to walk down in the direction which they had come the night before. Presently a sign-post stood before him, one hand pointing to Stratton, and the other to Harford. Arthur followed the last name along a green, flowery lane, where the wild roses were mantling their green, and here and there an early bud was making its appearance. He walked on for some distance, until the high road was hidden by a bend in the lane, and the green trees began to arch overhead; and on each side, the road was bordered with gra.s.s and green, velvety moss; the birds were warbling soft songs in the branches, and from the wood hard by the sweet cooing of the pigeons could be heard. It was a very pleasant spot, so much so, that when Arthur threw himself down on the gra.s.s to rest, he said with a deep sigh, "Well, it might be worse; and Aunt Daisy is certainly very kind."

"Yes, it might be worse," he continued to himself; "and it is nice to think of by and by, when they come back. Suppose they were dead!" He shuddered at the thought. "I can quite fancy what mother will look like when she sees me again. No; I don't believe I can, though. How will she feel, and how shall I feel? I suppose very different from what I do now; for I shall be really a man then. Oh, dear! I had better not think of that time yet. I must try and think about all the things G.o.d gives. Father said something like that. Father was very kind to me to-day. I did not know he could be so kind."

Arthur did not know then much about the true, deep, persistent tenderness of a father's love; but we know that when G.o.d spoke a word that expresses His heart to His people, He called Himself His children's Father.

"Let me see!" continued Arthur. "Five years, and in every year three hundred and sixty-five days. If I multiply three hundred and sixty-five by five, I shall know how many days I have to wait, and then I could mark off one every day; but, oh, dear! that makes a great, great many."

So he sprang up from the gra.s.s, and walked briskly on the shady road, where the sunlight was falling softly; for Arthur meant never to cry, unless he could not possibly help it, and certainly not out of doors. He wandered over a good distance--for it was pleasant exploring in the new country--until he suddenly remembered his aunt at home, and that she would be thinking he had lost his way. "And I must not begin by frightening her," said Arthur to himself.

Up till this time Arthur's first day had pa.s.sed more brightly than he had expected. It would be hard for him to be very unhappy on that spring day, with everything rejoicing around him, and the free country breathing in soft breezes. But it was different when he came in. The house seemed very dark and gloomy after the cheerful sunlight, and it seemed to him as if there was no sound of any sort indoors, except now and then a faint noise from the servants' regions far away; for even the canary-birds were silent, and the fat dog was sleeping its life away upon the hearth-rug.

Indeed, Arthur thought he could almost imagine, that the hairy creature and the soft hearth-rug were one and the same. There seemed to be nothing at all to do within doors, and he could not be out always. Besides, the bright morning was fast changing, and grey, gloomy clouds were gathering over the country. The myrtle trees were beginning to shake with a rainy wind, and he could see that the fine weather was gone for that day.

Altogether, Arthur felt very dismal as he stood at the drawing-room window, near to where his aunt was sitting at her writing-table.

"Have you had a nice walk?" she asked presently.

"Yes, aunt," said Arthur, tapping very forcibly on the window.

"And what did you see?"

"Oh, nothing particular!" said Arthur.

Mrs. Estcourt saw that she must try some other subject to talk about.

"Have you anything you would like to do, dear, until dinner-time?"

"No, I don't think so, aunt."

"What do you generally do at home when you are not walking?"

"I don't know, really aunt," Arthur answered. "I suppose I do lessons."

"Oh, but I don't want you to begin lessons just yet. Well, then, what do you do when it is neither lessons nor walking?"

"Sometimes I go for messages, and sometimes I make things with my tools."

"Make things! How do you mean, dear?"

"Oh, I make boats and things! and I used to make wedges for a window in mamma's room that rattled with the wind. Have you any windows that don't shut quite tightly, aunt?" asked Arthur. "I could make you some by and by, if you have."

Mrs. Estcourt smiled; but she was not able to remember any window that needed Arthur's arrangements. So he was left to himself and the rain again; for the drops were falling thickly against the window now. At first he employed himself in tracing their course down the gla.s.s, but very soon he was tired of that, and presently Mrs. Estcourt heard a heavy sigh.

"That was a very deep sigh," she said cheerily. "What did it mean?"