Involuntarily she took his hand and pressed it to her lips, and he caught her in his arms and clasped her to his heart, his tears falling over her like rain.

"My dear child, my only friend, G.o.d bless you for your kind sympathy. Is there any hope for a sinner like me?"

"My lord," she whispered, "there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance. Receive this great truth into your heart, and you will find the peace you need." She spoke with such earnestness, that a gleam of hope shot into the sad eyes of the Earl.

"Dorothy, I will think over your words."

"Pray over them, my lord; we must not only will, but do the thing that is right."

"Will you pray for me, Dorothy?"

"I have always done so, my lord, since the first hour we met, and you expressed such a kind interest in a poor friendless orphan girl."

"Look upon me always as a friend--a father, Dorothy; you know not the strong tie that unites my destiny with yours. Perhaps you will know one day, and pity and forgive me for the injury you have received at my hands."

"My lord, you did your best to serve me. How could you imagine that Gilbert could act as he has done? The blame, if there is any, rests entirely with him. It cannot cancel the vast debt of grat.i.tude I owe to you."

"You owe me nothing, Dorothy. My earnest desire is to see you good and happy."

A look of wondering curiosity stole over the young girl's face. He spoke to her in riddles, but she knew the difference in their respective stations to ask him questions.

He evidently read her thoughts, and suddenly turning the conversation, spoke to her in more cheerful tones. He inquired about her studies, and what progress she had made in them. How she liked the books he had provided for her instruction, and what sort of reading she preferred.

She answered with enthusiasm:

"That the books had but one fault, they made the labours of the house and field less agreeable, for she would like to be reading them all day."

"I expected as much," said the Earl, with his usual sweet smile. "I wish to give you the means of earning your living in a more refined and useful manner. There are plenty of hands to work in the world that belong to people who have little or no brains in their heads, and such people make the most profitable farm servants. Nature has bestowed upon you a quick intellect, and to labour in the fields is to bury the talents entrusted to your care, in the dust. By the way," he continued, "Mrs. Martin tells me that you have a fine ear for music, and a powerful melodious voice. It would gratify me highly to hear you sing."

"Oh, my lord," said Dorothy, blushing rosy red, "what pleasure could such a voice as mine give a gentleman like you? I only sing to amuse the children, and wile away the time when I am at work."

"You must leave me to be the best judge of that. If you feel timid, which is but natural, just sit down on this sloping green bank, and consider me a child, while you sing some little simple air."

Dorothy felt all in a tremor, but he looked so kind that she did not like to refuse, so she did as she was bid, and sat down on the gra.s.s at his feet, and with her eyes fixed intently upon the daisies, sang a little ballad very popular in those days, commencing with "Over the mountains and over the moor."

Her voice, at first tremulous with emotion, soon gained strength, and she sang with a sweetness and pathos that would have drawn down tremendous applause from a public audience. The Earl listened with rapt attention.

"Excellent!" he cried. "Mrs. Martin was right. Here is an admirable talent that must be cultivated. Should you like to learn to play upon the piano?"

Dorothy's eyes literally shone with delight. "Oh, my lord, it would make me so happy."

"That is enough. I will order a good instrument from London. It will be your property. Mrs. Martin will give it a place in her house, and when you gain any proficiency, you can repay her kindness by teaching her children. A good pianist can always command a comfortable independence."

"And who will instruct me?" asked Dorothy.

"That matter is easily settled. You know old Piper, who plays the organ in the church. He has but one idea, and that is music, which absorbs his whole intellect. A fool in almost everything else, he is yet a splendid musician. He will rejoice in such a promising pupil."

"He is a strange, odd creature," said Dorothy. "If he is to be my master, it will be hard to keep from laughing. He came one day to Mr.

Rushmere, to get him to buy tickets for a concert. Father was making a riddle to separate some large peas from a different sort that were much smaller, that had got accidentally mixed in the granary, and spoiled the sample of both. The old man stood and looked at him for some time, then said so innocently,

"'Now, sir, can't you make that 'ere machine to let out all the large peas, and keep the little 'uns behind?'

"How father laughed, and told him that his idea was so clever, that he advised him to take out a patent for his invention. He took the joke as a great compliment, and went away rubbing his hands, highly delighted with his mechanical skill."

"You must try to listen to his wise speeches, Dorothy, with a grave face. Odd as he is, the old man is a great favourite of mine, for he taught me, when I was a lad, to play on the violin, and put up with all my wild tricks with the greatest good humour. One day he requested me to pay more attention to time, as I was apt to trust too much to my ear.

"'What is time?' I demanded very pertly, and purposely to quiz him.

"'Time,' said he, repeating my words with a look of bewildered astonishment, as if he doubted my sanity. 'Why, Master Edward, time is time. When a person has played a piece in time, he feels so neat, so clean, and so satisfied with himself.' I did not attempt to keep my gravity, but ran laughing out of the room.

"Time has not changed the queer old man a bit. The other day I sent him a fine hare: two hours after, I was riding with another n.o.bleman through s...o...b.., when, who should turn the corner of Market Street but old Piper, bearing in his hands a great red earthenware dish, covered in with paste. When he saw me, he stopped just before our horses, and, making me a profound bow, tapped the dish with his hand, calling out in a jocular voice:

"'Thank you, my lord, for p.u.s.s.ie! she is safe here, under _cover_, and I am now going to dine like a prince.'

"The bystanders laughed. How could they help it; my friend fairly roared, and I felt rather mortified at the old man making such a public demonstration of his grat.i.tude for such a small gift."

Dorothy enjoyed the anecdote, and laughed too. "I have no doubt we shall get on famously together, for I will set my whole heart to the work."

The Earl shook her heartily by the hand, and rode off in good spirits.

The little episode of the music, and the eccentricities of Dorothy's future master, had won him from his melancholy. A week had scarcely elapsed before Mrs. Martin brought Dorothy the joyful intelligence that the piano had arrived; that Mr. Piper was tuning it, and had p.r.o.nounced it a first rate instrument, and the children were all wild with delight.

This was a new epoch in Dorothy's life. She employed every spare moment in mastering the difficulties of the science, and enchanted old Piper with the attention she gave to his prosaical instructions. "Her face,"

he said, "might make a fortune, but her voice was sure to do it. He was no great judge of beauty, had never courted a woman in his life, and was too old to think of it now. But he was a judge of music, and he was pretty sure that she could not fail in that."

Mr. Rushmere did not approve of this new encroachment on what he considered his natural right in Dorothy; though for some months he was kept in profound ignorance of the turn her studies had taken, and even when he at last made the discovery, he was not aware that Lord Wilton was the delinquent that had robbed him of her time. Lord Wilton had furnished Dorothy with money to pay for the hire of a girl, to take charge of the coa.r.s.er domestic drudgery; still Lawrence Rushmere grumbled and was not satisfied. He wondered where and how the girl obtained her funds, and whether she came honestly by them. Mrs.

Rushmere, who was in the secret--for Dorothy kept nothing from her--told him "that it was part of the salary paid by the Earl to Dorothy for teaching in the Sunday school." This was the truth; "and that he ought, instead of constantly finding fault with the poor girl, to rejoice in her good fortune. Dorothy was growing more like a lady every day, and was so good and clever that he should consider her a credit to the house."

"I thought a deal more on her," quoth the old man, "when she was dressed in homespun and was not above her business. Those silly people are making a fule o' the girl, turning her head with vanity and conceit.

Wife, you can't make a purse out o' a sow's ear, or a real lady out o'

one not born a lady. They are spoiling the girl an' quite unfitting her for an honest labourer's wife."

At this moment the object under dispute came tripping into the room, dressed in a simple muslin gown with a neat coa.r.s.e straw bonnet tied closely under her soft round chin. Mrs. Rushmere glanced up at the lovely smiling girl, so graceful in all her movements, so artless and winning in her unaffected simplicity, and quite realized her husband's idea, that she was not fit for a ploughman's help-mate.

"Well, Doll, la.s.s, what's up at the parsonage?" cried the farmer. "Your face is all of a glow and brimful of summat."

"Our old vicar is dead, father; Mr. Martin has just got the news."

"Bless my soul, Mr. Conyers gone? Why he be a young man to me," and he pushed his hands through his gray locks. "What did a' die of, la.s.s?"

"Apoplexy--it was quite sudden. He had just eaten a hearty dinner, when he fell down in a fit, and never spoke again."

"Ah, them parsons generally die o' that. They be great yeaters, and the stomach, they do say, affects the head. It seems like putting the cart afore the horse, don't it, dame?"

"I ran up to tell you," continued Dorothy, "that Mrs. Martin sends her best compliments to you, father, and would esteem it a great favour if you would allow me to stay all day at the parsonage, to help her prepare rooms for the use of the new vicar, who is going to board with her, and is expected down to-night."

"Whew," cried Rushmere, snapping his fingers. "I think Mrs. Martin had better keep you altogether. She's a clever woman to make use of other people's servants. I have a great mind to send you back to tell her that I won't let you go."

Dorothy was silent. Experience had taught her that it was the best policy never to answer her father in these moods. Left to himself his better nature generally prevailed.

"And who be the new vicar, Dolly?" asked her mother, who seldom failed in getting her adopted child out of these sc.r.a.pes, by diverting her husband's attention to another object.