"Oh, it's not that," he exclaimed. "Mummy is displeased with me, and is sending me away."

"Jack," said Nanna, putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to look into his eyes, "do you mean to say you are going to desert your mother just at one of the darkest moments of her life?"

"I don't want to go--she sent me away," freeing himself from her detaining hands.

Arriving at his aunt's he was obliged to tell her the whole of the story. She felt inclined to share the boy's anger and resentment in the first moment of excitement, but, afterwards viewing the matter from the mother's standpoint, her words were very similar to Nanna's.

"No doubt you are disappointed, but didn't it strike you your mother must be disappointed, too? I think you've done wrong, Jack, not to stand by her and make things as easy as you could for her."

Poor little Jack! Everybody seemed against him!

"What did Mrs. Colston say to you?" the aunt continued.

"Just what you do," he answered, and then sighed deeply.

"Ah! I thought she would. Your mother must be as disappointed in you as you are in your father, and I'm sure Mrs. Colston would say we disappointed G.o.d as much as we disappoint one another."

In less than an hour love for his mother had overcome all pride, disappointment and anger, and he was back home again.

Nanna met him with a smile. "Well done, Jack; you've scored a victory, I can tell it by your face. Mummy will be delighted! Jack, dear, it will do your heart good to see her loving patience. She makes me think of G.o.d. Her patience and love are just like what His must be--only, of course, His are bigger. I tell you what you must do when you go upstairs. Don't make any note of your father's funny ways; take notice only of how your mother's trying to win him----"

"Should I go upstairs now?"

"No, your father's dozing. Sit down and have some breakfast. I don't suppose you ate much while your burden was on you. Jack, have you ever heard of St. Bernard's Hospice?"

"Yes, I've seen a picture of it."

"The monks go out with their dogs in the winter to see if they can come across anybody perishing in the snow. They are love-missionaries. I think this house is a hospice just now. Your mummy's found a poor perishing soul, and she's brought it home to get it ready for heaven."

"Is father going to die?"

"Yes; I'm afraid he's not long for this world--the doctor says about a week; so you and I have got to do all we can to help mummy."

"What can I do?"

"A lot. Do what mummy does; show all the love you can."

It was not until Ralph had finished his breakfast that he asked: "And how are the children?"

"There's only one left down here."

"Which one?"

"The boy."

"Well, it's a comfort it's the boy. I expect Washington is a fine lad by now!"

"Washington!"--the name slipped out involuntarily, it sounded so strange.

"Yes, Washington; that's the lad's name, and the one I mean to call him by. You can fetch me up the books now."

Going downstairs she caught sight of Jack.

"Mummy," exclaimed the lad, rushing towards her, "I'm so sorry I disappointed you! I couldn't stop away from you. I'll do what you want me to do, and I'll stand by you through thick and thin, that I will.

You'll see if I won't," and the bargain was sealed with a hug and a kiss.

He was received back without one word of reproach. "Jack, if your father calls you by your other name you must not express any surprise. I can get along fine now you are with me."

This little rift in the home-music had puzzled as well as troubled Phebe, but all at once it struck her that G.o.d perhaps meant her to see a parable in it, and that was how it was to work good for her. "Perhaps Ralph got away from G.o.d as Jack went away from me, because things weren't as he wanted them. But he'll get back again to G.o.d, as Jack has got back to me." And the parable comforted her, and inspired her. For G.o.d can take even the wayward doings of a petted child to teach His lessons and do His work.

Jack made his way upstairs at once. "Good-morning, father," he said in his cheeriest tone, "it must be nice for you to be home again."

"Yes, nicer for me than you, I suppose"--the words were snappish, but Ralph looked at the boy with a kind of look which plainly said: "You will do."

The business books were brought, but he was far too weak to master them: "I'll attend to them when I'm stronger," he said.

But each new day found him weaker.

If ever a man lived in an atmosphere of love Ralph Waring did. How much of the old love had revived it would be difficult to say, if even any had. But it was a love which was willing to forego self to the utmost, and what love could be richer, more Christlike, than that?

It was a true testing-time to Phebe. It was not easy to relinquish every thread of work in which she had been so deeply interested, and it was harder still, after being her own mistress so long, to submit patiently to that dictatorial voice! It was as though the Great Gardener had taken His cherished plant on to a bleak moorland to see how its blossoms would thrive where the winds blew all around it.

All the town soon knew of Ralph Waring's return, and many were the comments on it. Some said it was "mighty good of Phebe to take the rascal back again," and showed how loving her heart was. Others said it showed that Ralph still loved her in spite of her having driven him from home, and that he could not die in peace away from her.

It was not till the last day came that there was any proof that love had conquered. The doctor's prophecy had not come true, for he had lingered week after week, and even on this last day there seemed no change, except in manner and voice.

"Phebe," the tone was even stronger than usual, but quite startling in its tenderness, "my life has been a failure. I see it all so plainly now."

"This part may have been so, dear; but you must remember this is not all." She had a great longing to soothe and comfort him, but the moments were too precious and solemn to allow her to cover up the truth, however much she might be tempted.

"Yes, but the future must be a good deal according to what the past has been."

"Yes, maybe; but I love to think that out of all our tangles G.o.d can produce a beautiful design if we turn to Him with all our hearts."

Ralph sighed heavily. "It has been self all along with me. It was a good thing G.o.d did not let me succeed. How I have fought against my failure, what it has cost me to be here receiving all your kindness, knowing all about your success, you can never tell--never!" and for the first time in all her life Phebe saw tears rolling down his face.

"Poor Ralph! I am grieved for you, dear!"

"I know you are," taking hold of her hand and kissing it. "It has cost me a struggle to acknowledge that G.o.d has led me right. If I had been other than a bankrupt soul He could not have had mercy on me. He was obliged to bring me low. But I thank Him for it. You do forgive me the wrong I did you?" and he looked so wistfully at her.

"Of course I do, a hundred times over," and she stooped to kiss him, her hot tears mingling with his.

"Dear Phebe----" But strength had gone. With one hand clasping Phebe, and the other his boy, and with Nanna gently wiping the cold sweat from his brow, he pa.s.sed to the other land. His last words were: "Phebe, come with--me!" But he had started on a journey he was obliged this time to take without her.

CHAPTER XXVIII