"Tasks, in hours of insight willed, May be in hours of gloom fulfilled."

For Miss Harley, after that involuntary betrayal of her feelings, relapsed into her own hard, irritable ways, and often made her niece's life a very uncomfortable one.

Patiently and tenderly Edith nursed her aunt through the lingering illness that went on from months to years; very rarely she found time for a brief visit to the home where the little ones were fast growing taller and wiser, the home which Jessie had now exchanged for one of her own, and where careful Maude was still her mother's right hand.

Often it seemed to the girl that her lot in life had been rather harshly determined, and she still found it a struggle to be patient and cheerful through all.

And yet through this patient waiting there came to Edith the great joy and blessing of her life.

Mr. Finch, the elderly medical man who had attended Miss Harley throughout her illness, grew feeble and failing in health himself. He engaged a partner to help him in his heavy, extensive practice, and this young man, Edward Hallett by name, had not been many times to Ivy House before he became keenly alive to the fact that Miss Harley's niece was not only a pretty, but a good and very charming girl. It was strange how soon the young doctor's visits began to make a brightness in Edith's rather dreary days, how soon they both grew to look forward to the two or three minutes together which they might hope to spend every alternate morning.

Before very long, Edith, with the full approval of her parents and her aunt, became Edward Hallett's promised wife.

They would have to wait a long while, for the young doctor was a poor man, and Dr. Harley could not, even now, afford to give his daughter a marriage portion.

But, while they waited, Edith's long trial came to a sudden, unexpected end.

Poor Miss Harley was found one morning, when Stimson, who had been sleeping more heavily than usual, arose from the bed she occupied in her mistress's room, lying very calmly and quietly, as though asleep, with her hands tightly clasped over a folded paper, which she must have taken, after her maid had left her for the night, from the box which always stood at her bedside. The sleep proved to be that last long slumber which knows no waking on earth, and the paper, when the dead fingers were gently unclasped, was found to contain the poor lady's last will and testament, dated a year previously, and duly signed and witnessed.

[Sidenote: Miss Harley's Will]

In it she left the Ivy House and the whole of her, property to her "dear niece, Edith Harley, who," said the grateful testatrix, "has borne with me, a lonely and difficult old woman; has lived my narrow life for my sake, and, as I have reason to believe, at a great sacrifice of her own inclinations and without a thought of gain, and who richly deserves the reward herein bequeathed to her."

There could be no happier home found than that of Edith Hallett and her husband in the Ivy House at Silchester. Nor did they forget how that happiness came about.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AS HE KISSED THEIR FIRSTBORN UNDER THE MISTLETOE."]

"We owe all to your patience," said Dr. Hallett to Edith, as he kissed their firstborn under the mistletoe at the second Christmastide of their wedded life.

[Sidenote: A story, founded on fact, of true love, of changed lives, and of loving service.]

The Tasmanian Sisters

BY

E. B. MOORE

The evening shadows were settling down over Mount Wellington in Tasmania. The distant city was already bathed in the rosy after-glow.

It was near one of the many lakes which abound amongst the mountains round Hobart that our short tale begins.

It was in the middle of January--midsummer in Tasmania. It had been a hot day, but the heat was of a dry sort, and therefore bearable, and of course to those born and bred in that favoured land, it was in no way trying.

On the verandah of a pretty wooden house of the chalet description, stood a lady, shading her eyes from the setting sun, a tall, graceful woman; but as the sun's rays fell on her hair, it revealed silver threads, and the sweet, rather worn face, with a few lines on the forehead, was that of a woman of over forty; and yet she was a woman to whom life's romance had only just come.

She was gazing round her with a lingering, loving glance; the gaze of one who looks on a loved scene for the last time. On the morrow Eva Chadleigh, for so she was called, was leaving her childhood's home, where she had lived all her life, and going to cross the water to the old--though to her new--country.

Sprinkled all down the mountain sides were fair white villas, or wooden chalet-like houses, with their terraces and gardens, and most of them surrounded by trees, of which the eucalyptus was the most common. The soft breezes played round her, and at her feet the little wavelets of the lake rippled in a soft cadence. Sounds of happy voices came wafted out on the evening air, intermingled with music and the tones of a rich tenor voice.

That voice, or rather the owner of it, had made a havoc in that quiet home. Till its owner had appeared on the scene, Eva and her sister had lived quietly together, never dreaming of change. They had been born, and had lived all their lives in the peaceful chalet, seeing no one, going nowhere.

[Sidenote: A Belated Traveller]

One night, about a year previously, a belated traveller knocked at the door, was given admittance, and, in return for the hospitality shown him, had the audacity to fall in love with Blanche Chadleigh, Eva's twin sister. Then, indeed, a change came into Eva's life. Hitherto the two sisters had sufficed to each other; now she had to take a secondary position.

The intruder proved to be a wealthy settler, a Mr. Wells, a man of good family, though alone in the world. In due course the two were married, but Blanche was loath to leave her childhood's home. So it resulted in their remaining there while his own pretty villa, a little higher up the mountain, was being built.

And now Eva too had found her fate. A church "synod" had been held; clergymen of all denominations and from all parts of the earth being present. The sisters had been asked to accommodate one or two clergymen; one of these was an old Scotch minister with snowy locks, and keen dark eyes.

How it came about Eva Chadleigh never knew; she often said he never formally proposed to her, but somehow, without a word on either side, it came to be understood that she should marry him.

"Now you're just coming home with me, la.s.sie," said the old man to the woman of forty-five, who appeared to him as a girl. "I'll make ye as happy as a queen; see here, child, two is company, and three is trumpery, as the saying goes. It isn't that your sister loves ye less,"

seeing a pained look cross her face, "but she has her husband, don't ye see?" And Eva did see. She fell in love, was drawn irresistibly to her old minister, and it is his voice, with its pleasant Scotch accent, that is now rousing her from her reverie at the time our tale begins.

"Come away--come away, child. The night dews are falling; they're all wearying for ye indoors; come now, no more looking around ye, or I'll never get ye away to-morrow."

"But you promise to bring me back some day, Mr. Cameron, before very long."

"Ay, ay, we'll come back sure enough, don't fret yourself; but first ye must see the old country, and learn to know my friends."

Amongst their neighbours at this time was a young man, apparently about thirty years old; he had travelled to Hobart in the same ship as Mr.

Cameron, for whom he had conceived a warm feeling of friendship. Captain Wylie had lately come in for some property in Tasmania, and as he was on furlough and had nothing to keep him at home, he had come out to see his belongings, and since his arrival at Hobart had been a frequent visitor at the chalet.

Though a settled melancholy seemed to rest upon him, his history explained it, for Captain Wylie was married, and yet it was years since he had seen his wife. They had both met at a ball at Gibraltar many years ago. She had been governess in an officer's family on the "Rock"

while his regiment had been stationed there. She was nineteen, very pretty, and alone in the world. They had married after five or six weeks' acquaintance, and parted by mutual consent after as many months.

She had been self-willed and extravagant, he had nothing but his pay at that time, and she nearly ruined him.

[Sidenote: Captain Wylie]

It ended in recriminations. He had a violent temper, and she was proud and sarcastic. They had parted in deep anger and resentment, she to return to her governessing, for she was too proud to accept anything from him, he to remove to another regiment and go to India.

At first he had tried to forget all this short interlude of love and happiness, and flung himself into a gay, wild life: but it would not do.

He had deeply loved her with the first strong, untried love of a young impetuous man, and her image was always coming before him. An intense hunger to see her again had swept away every feeling of resentment.

Lately he had heard of her as governess to a family in Gibraltar, and a great longing had come over him just to see her once more, and to find out if she still cared for him.

He and Mr. Cameron had travelled out together on a sailing ship, and during the voyage he had been led to confide in the kindly, simple old gentleman; but so sacred did the latter consider his confidence that even to his affianced bride he had never recalled it.

All these thoughts crowded into the young officer's mind as he paced up and down in the stillness of the night, disinclined to turn in. He was startled from his reverie by a voice beside him.

"So you have really decided to come with us to-morrow?" It was Mr.

Cameron who spoke. "Ye know, lad, the steamer is not one of the fine new liners. I doubt she's rather antiquated, and as I told ye yesterday, she is a sort of ambulance ship, as one may say. She is bringing home a good many invalided officials and officers left at the hospital here by other ships. It seems a queer place to spend our honeymoon in, and I offered my bride to wait for the next steamer, which won't be for another fortnight or three weeks, and what do you think she said? 'Let us go; we may be of use to those poor things!' That's the sort she is."

"She looks like that," said Captain Wylie, heartily. "I should like to go with you," continued the young man. "Since I have decided on the step I told you of, I cannot remain away a day longer. I saw the mate of the _Minerva_ yesterday, and secured my cabin. He says they have more invalids than they know what to do with. I believe there are no nurses, only one stewardess and some cabin boys to wait on us all."