There was a large dinner-party of seventeen at Barley Wood after the meeting, and this was a novelty to the two girls, who had never before sat down with so many at a table. Charlotte was in good spirits, having captured a pale-faced young clergyman, to whom she talked in her sentimental fashion, and who seemed almost as much fascinated by her, as she intended he should be.

Joyce, on the contrary, had no time to think of herself. She was intently listening to all that was said, and the conversation of those refined and educated gentlemen charmed her. It was impossible not to be struck with her beautiful face, glowing with interest and, though silent herself, showing that she was drinking in all that was said around her.

It was the same afterwards in Mrs. More's sitting-room, where all the guests gathered to sip fragrant tea and coffee, and talk over the burning questions of the day.

The good Bishop of Ohio, who had laboured long in the field abroad, as Hannah More had laboured at home, knew well how rough was the road, which those who desire the highest good of others, must ever tread.

Hannah More was speaking of the deep anxiety that the condition of the Mendip miners caused her, and how, of all her work, that seemed to be bringing forth the least fruit.

"An ear here and there is gathered," she said; "but the harvest is scant indeed."

Joyce, who had been listening earnestly, said:

"Susan Priday is an 'ear,' I am sure. She seemed to try to do all she could, and--"

The Bishop turned quickly. Joyce almost thought she ought not to have spoken, and that the Bishop and Mrs. More would think her forward, but the good old man said:

"That is right, my dear young lady. It is well to remind our dear friend that the grains she has scattered are not all in vain. Some will fall on the good ground, and by G.o.d's blessing spring up and bear fruit. Who is Susan Priday?"

"Come nearer the Bishop, Joyce," Mrs. More said, kindly, "and tell him your experience of Mendip miners, and of Susan also."

Joyce did as she was told, and soon forgot her nervousness at being called upon to talk to so great a person as a Bishop, as she narrated with sweet simplicity, and yet with dramatic power, the story which we already know.

By degrees the voices of people in other parts of the room ceased, and Joyce found herself the centre of interest as she told her story.

"Who is she?" Sir Thomas Acland asked, as Joyce finished her story, and answered a summons from Miss Frowde at the further end of the room.

Failing a little in the good manners, on which Miss Falconer put so high a value, Charlotte answered a question _not_ addressed to her.

"She is my cousin, sir--Joyce Falconer. She has led a very retired life at Fair Acres."

"There are many flowers that bloom unseen, and she is one of the fairest I ever saw. If a retired life produces such good effect, it strikes me, Mrs. More, we had all better go into retirement. But--"

He stopped, for Joyce, with a white face from which every vestige of colour had vanished, came back to her position by Mrs. More's chair. Her hands were clasped tightly together, her whole att.i.tude one of repressed emotion.

"If you please, Mrs. More, I must beg you to excuse me. I am sent for to go home, for my father--Oh! my father!--is dying."

Miss Frowde was close behind Joyce.

"You must not agitate dear Mrs. More," she said. "I will take care of Miss Falconer," she added. "The gig is waiting."

"Do you know any particulars?"

Miss Frowde shook her head, and was leading Joyce away, when she suddenly turned back.

"Dear madam, dear Mrs. More, please pray for me;" and, unable to resist the impulse, she threw her arms round the old lady's neck.

"Miss Falconer, indeed you must restrain your emotion; you will agitate dear Mrs. More."

But Hannah More held the trembling form of the poor stricken child close.

"My dear," she whispered, "many are the sorrows through which I have pa.s.sed, and He whom I trust has never forsaken me. Trust in Him, and to His loving kindness I commend you."

Joyce raised herself from the old lady's arms, and the Bishop, deeply moved, laid his hand upon her head.

"The Lord bless you and keep you, my child, now and evermore."

Joyce did not weep or make any outward sign of great distress. She left all tears and cries to Charlotte, who, sincerely grieved, took care that every one should know it.

"Shall I come? Shall I come with you? Oh, Joyce--my darling Joyce! Oh dear! Oh dear!"

"No, Charlotte; don't come; don't come. Help me to fasten my cloak. I--I can't find the clasp."

Miss Frowde thrust Charlotte aside, and fastening Joyce's cloak, seemed only anxious to get her off as speedily as possible. It was a very inconvenient episode; and if Mrs. More were the worse for the excitement it would be very disastrous. Secretly Miss Frowde wished she could get rid of Charlotte too, but as she only wept and moaned, and made no attempt to put her things together, Miss Frowde refrained from urging her to do so. Miss Frowde was not unkind or unfeeling, she was simply and absolutely devoted to Mrs. More; and, indeed, it was well that she was always at hand to perform the hundred and one kindly offices, which the spoiled and pampered domestics neglected.

Joyce was soon ready, Charlotte clinging to her to the last, and following her to the hall, with sobs and tears.

Nevertheless, as the gig drove off, and the wheels crunched the gravel on the drive, Charlotte returned to her room to bathe her eyes and smooth her hair, and soon returned with a woe-begone face to the sitting-room, and received, with some complacency, the condolences of the pale-faced curate in the corner, sharing his hymn-book when the family service of praise and prayer began, with which all gatherings closed at Barley Wood.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER IX.

A DARK CLOUD OVER FAIR ACRES.

"How did it happen, Thomas? _Tell_ me, Thomas?"

"It's them Mendip fellows," he said. "The master rode to Chewton yesterday, and somewhere about nine o'clock Mavis come home with no one on his back. We knew summat was amiss, and we set out with lant'uns, the mistress and I----"

"Mother went!"

"Yes; we couldn't keep her back. We was wandering about most of the night. About eight o'clock this morning a cart comed along, and there was the master brought home more dead than alive by one of farmer Scott's carters."

"He is alive, then; oh! he is alive?"

"Well, yes; he was when I comed off," Thomas said, doubtfully.

"And why did not you come for me before? Oh! you should have sent before. Oh, Thomas! Thomas!"

"Well," said Thomas, "we've had so much running about for doctors; and Mavis ain't much good. We was short of hands and horses."

"Had he had a fall?" Joyce asked, "a fall from Mavis?"

"Aye, I dare say; but he was knocked off by a blow of a stone or summat.

There's a hole in his temple, just cut clean by a stone so they say."