sakes as well as for my own? If Ted and Nora had not their "dear Carr"

to teach them about G.o.d, they might question mother, and find out how little her knowledge is on the subject. You have another mission here, Catherine, for the enlightenment of ignorance.'

'And "mother" knows where to seek knowledge, whereas babies do not.

Thank you again and again, dear, for making me welcome.'

Mrs. Arderne turned the conversation into a more shallow channel by laughingly reminding her young friend:

'We shall probably get on together famously for the future, because your plan and my plan for you are identical. We are both bent upon the reconciliation of your uncles.'

CHAPTER VI

A Sunday's Experiences

Catherine Carmichael was up and dressed next day fully two hours before any one else was stirring in Woodley Villa. Then she said her prayers, and read her Bible, and still had plenty of time left for the writing of her letter.

Softly opening the bedroom window, which was in the front of the house, she placed her desk on a small table, and sat down where she could feel the fresh wind and look out occasionally over the country scene.

A September sunrise, and an open window! Mrs. Arderne would have been horrified at Catherine's imprudence, but to this girl an open-air life had been natural in all weathers, and for early hours she had a strong preference.

'Before breakfast' was always her thinking-time. She was of opinion that men and women need leisure in which to reflect upon their lives, and to remember both the high purpose and the unimportance of earthly existence. Beginning the day thus, with happy realization of the creature's indebtedness to the Creator, she found daily crosses and perplexities much easier to bear with serenity, while joys and innocent pleasures acquired double powers of satisfaction, by being hallowed with foreseeing grat.i.tude.

The country was very quiet at this early hour of the Sabbath; no agricultural workers were abroad, and smoke had scarcely begun to issue from the picturesquely irregular chimneys of the village. In front of the villa were fields, pasture land upon which grazed some venerable horses, and across which a path wound away to a distant wood. Over the trees hung a pearl-tinted mist, which the sunshine was beginning to dispel. When, presently, the sun contrived to peep between two barriers of cloud, the wood gleamed golden and gorgeous, as the light struck upon its copper beeches.

Catherine unconsciously smiled at the loveliness spread out before her eyes, and remembered the words of a poet:

'What sweeter aid my matins could befall Than this fair glory from the East hath made?

What holy sleights hath G.o.d, the Lord of All, To bid us feel and see! We are not free To say we see not, for the glory comes, Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea.'

Then she took up her pen and began to write to Brian.

This was no hard task, for she knew that he liked her letters to be rambling and unstudied, consisting of sentences from her heart, just as she loved best to make them. All her pure girl's fancies and imaginings about the higher life, all her tender anxieties--on the subject of himself usually--her fears for his health, and longings for his complete understanding of G.o.d, all her merry discoveries in her daily life, all the kindnesses she received, all her hopes for the future, these were written down simply for his interest. Fortunately, Brian North could be trusted to appreciate and reverence Catherine's sincerity. The letter, when written, was a precious revelation of a good woman's very soul.

Probably the 'good woman' herself would never guess how large an effect her letters wrought upon Brian's heart and intellect, how he was learning to accept her ideas, see G.o.d through her eyes, and exchange his worldly ambitions for her lofty content with aspirations infinitely n.o.bler.

She was quite unconsciously setting him a lovable model of a Christian life, as all G.o.d-serving girls should be able to do for those who are dear to them.

Her pen flew over the several sheets of paper, until she felt satisfied that her lover had been given a really accurate description of her new experiences at Beverbridge. She had honestly tried not to allow her great affection for Uncle Jack to prejudice her in writing of Uncle Ross, yet she wanted Brian to be prepared to be devoted to the former.

Mrs. Arderne's suggestion that Brian would not approve of his betrothed's acceptance of Redan Cottage as 'home' scarcely occurred to Catherine this morning. She had not the least doubt that she had acted in the best way in regard to Uncle Jack's offer, and so, loyally, she felt certain that Brian must agree with her when he considered the subject.

The letter, though of even unusual length, was finished some time before the hour for breakfast, so Catherine began to write another to her cousin George in Melbourne, the cousin who had been in the same regiment with poor Loring Carmichael.

After sending messages to George's relatives, and giving him a spirited account of her experiences in London, describing the sights she had seen, she continued as follows:

'Do you remember that you used to call me "the most meddlesome of girls"?--that year when I tried to reconcile my stepfather and his men.

Well, I am going to be meddlesome again, for I want, if G.o.d will let me, to make peace between our two English uncles. Would you believe that they are living in different houses in the same neighbourhood, and are still estranged because of Loring's choice of a profession? Yet I can see that they both desire to be friends again, if once their pride could be overcome. Now that Loring is dead, Uncle Jack must partly regret having persuaded him to be a soldier, and Uncle Ross should be able to forgive the choice, especially as he has been chiefly to blame for the strength to which this foolish family feud has attained. If you can tell me anything, George, about Loring's death, since you, his friend, were with him when he fell, I might be fortunate enough to effect a reconciliation through their mutual interest in the news. Did Loring send no messages to either uncle? Please let me know all you know, for I, being on the spot, can perhaps make good use of the knowledge.'

This letter was also finished, and the envelope addressed and stamped, before the breakfast bell sounded.

Catherine ran downstairs, to find Ted and Toddie awaiting her in the dining-room, two solemn-faced little people, wearing their best frocks, and standing side by side, hand in hand, on the hearth-rug.

'We've been _vewwy_ good, an' we're so tired wiv it,' announced Toddie, with emphasis.

'We didn't fink muvver was ever comin', nor you, nor bweakfast,'

explained Ted. 'Bweakfast comed first though, an' we didn't peep one bit under the cover, did we, Toddie?'

'No, but it's sausages, I fink, 'cause it smells like it.'

'Then you comed next, dearie Carr, an' we won't have to be good no longer.'

Ted's face was roguish again, and he scrambled on to Catherine's knee as she sat down in the arm-chair, while Toddie, regardless of her Sunday dress, sank down in a happy heap on the rug at her feet.

'Not good any more! Oh, Ted, you know I always want you to be good!' she exclaimed, trying to preserve discipline.

'Oh yes, of course!' cried the culprit, 'only the nurse says "Be vewwy good children," when she just wants us not to cwumple our clothes. _You_ don't do that. _You_ don't like us best when we're _stiff_, does you, Carr?'

'You mustn't spoil your nice clothes on purpose, Ted and Toddie, but you--you needn't keep on remembering them. Why, they are sensibly-chosen clothes, they will not easily take harm. Some poor little children are always dressed in silks and satins, so grand that they are expected to take great care of them, but your kind mamma likes you to be happy and able to romp about.'

'_Silks an' satins!_' repeated Toddie. 'Gwacious!--_wouldn't_ we cwumple them all up!'

Mrs. Arderne came into the room, and found the usual picture awaiting her vision--Catherine and the babies laughing together, clinging together, perfectly happy in their merriment.

'Ah, chickies, plaguing "Carr" again. Catherine, dear, in a weak moment yesterday I promised those infants that they should spend Sunday with us, and come to church.'

'We'll be _vewwy_ good.'

'We'll twy dreffully hard not to laugh.'

Catherine kissed them both as she lifted them comfortably on to their chairs close to the table.

'You must promise faithfully not to talk in church, children, not even if there is a funny-looking old lady in front of you, or any naughty little boys try to make you laugh at them.'

'Not if there's anover lady who can't find her pocket, Carr?'

'Or an old, old man wiv a spider cweeping up his back?'

'Not for any reason at all. You must promise to try to remember all the time that you are in church to please G.o.d, not to amuse yourselves.'

'But we mustn't speak pwayers out loud.'

'Muvver, you don't always 'member, _does_ you?'

'I'se _sure_ muvver doesn't, 'cause once she laughed an' spoke to Carr something about bonnets,' cried Toddie delightedly.

'Now you are beginning to talk too much, and about matters you do not properly understand,' said Miss Carmichael quickly. 'Say grace, and eat your breakfasts, dears.'