His sister, however, had no answering smile on her lips, and her voice shook slightly as she replied, "d.i.c.k, please prepare yourself to hear bad news. You ought to have been told before, but we kept the evil day as far off as possible. Dear little--" Then she stopped short, terrified at the expression on her brother's face.

"Don't beat about the bush, Edith," he cried in a voice hoa.r.s.e with emotion; "I can bear anything better than suspense. Tell me, is Winnie dead? But no,"--glancing at his sister's shining garments--"it cannot be that, thank G.o.d;" and he drew a long sigh of relief at this point.

"No, d.i.c.k," responded Edith, giving him a glance of warm sympathy, "but--" and very simply and tenderly she broke the sad tidings to the agitated boy.

Then there tell on the silence and stillness of the room the sound of a strong heart's sobs, as d.i.c.k, in spite of all his manliness, laid his head on the table and wept like a little child.

Oh, how often, often in his lonely night-watches had he pictured this home-coming--dwelling on and gloating over each little detail as a miser does over his gold, till the whole dream-picture became beautiful with a golden glory. He saw the tiny, fairy figure flying to meet him, the quaint gipsy face glowing its joyous welcome, and the great dark eyes shining their wondrous gladness. He felt the clasp of two soft arms round his neck, the touch of warm kisses on his lips, and heard the bright, merry voice melting into sweetest tones, as words of love and tenderness were poured into his hungering ear. And this was the end of it all--his dream-picture shattered, and a young life blasted through a haughty girl's thirst for revenge.

d.i.c.k's heart was full of rage and hatred. "If Ada Irvine were within my reach just now," he muttered, "she would live to regret this day."

Then raising his head, he looked, and found Edith had slipped away and left him alone with his grief.

The boy rose, sighing heavily. "I am hardly myself yet," he said, dashing his rough, sun-burnt hand across his eyes, and moving slowly towards the door. "What a fool I am, giving way like this! But these things unman a fellow, and I need not be ashamed of my tears. Where did they say she was? In the oak parlour. Well, here goes;" and off strode d.i.c.k, swinging along the lighted hall and up the broad stairs at what he afterwards described as the rate of knots.

CHAPTER XVII.

"I SHALL LEARN TO BE GOOD NOW."

"d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k! is it really you? O my dear boy, I can hardly believe it!" and Winnie clasped her feeble arms tighter round the young sailor's neck, as if fearful of waking and finding it all a dream.

"Yes, it's the same old fellow turned up again, Win," was the reply, given half chokingly. "Nip me, and you will find I am neither ghost nor spirit, but real flesh and blood." And the boy, kneeling by the invalid's couch, felt his eyes growing dim and misty again at the sound of the weak young voice lingering so lovingly over his name.

"I am so glad," said the child, lying back amongst her soft cushions, and looking at the big stalwart form before her. "I have been longing and longing to see you, d.i.c.k, through each weary day and night; yearning for the touch of your hand and sound of your voice: and now, to think you are really, truly here, alive and well! G.o.d is very good, dear," and the low voice uttered the last words solemnly and reverently.

The boy looked at his little sister wonderingly. "Have you learned to say that from the heart, Win?" he asked with greater earnestness in his tones. "Looking at your life as it is now, as it is likely to be all through the future years, can you still repeat the words, 'G.o.d is very good'!"

The child's lips drooped, and a sad look brooded over the pale white face; but the meek voice continued, perhaps somewhat tremulously, "Not always, d.i.c.k; but that is in the wicked hours, when I am full of sinful, rebellious thoughts. Some days like just now, however, his goodness seems to stand out in a bright, clear light, and a great hush of peace falling on me, I find myself whispering over and over again, 'G.o.d is very good.' Aunt Judith says it may be a long time, but sooner or later I shall be able to repeat those words, not only now and then, but every day of my life, even in the darkest hours; and that will be splendid. You must not be too sorry for me, dear old boy. Do you remember asking me before you went away to try to live as I ought to live, and do my duty n.o.bly and well? I could not keep my promise, d.i.c.k. When I was able to go about in the bright, beautiful world, I did wicked, wrong things whenever I felt inclined. I enjoyed every pleasure to the very full, no matter who suffered; but now--I shall learn to be good now."

d.i.c.k was almost overcome again. "Win," he said huskily, "you're an angel! When you speak like that you cause all my sins and shortcomings to rise up before me, and I feel as if I were not worthy of your love and tenderness. Ah, little sister, it is little pure souls like yours that help to keep men right in this world, and guard them in the hours of temptation and danger. G.o.d bless you, Winnie darling. I thank him for giving me such a precious sister."

And this was the boy laughed at and mocked by the other members of the family; spoken of as a dunce and scapegrace, and who would never make his mark in the world. Ah, well! what did it matter? The true, honest life now beginning to declare itself would soon tell its own tale, and prove that there are more Sir Galahads walking on the earth than people dream of, whose "strength is the strength of ten, because their hearts are pure."

For a long time the two, brother and sister, sat talking together--talking over past, present, and future, and feeling that the long separation had only served to deepen and intensify the love they bore each other. And now a new link was knitting the twain more firmly together,--the link of pain and helplessness on the one side, and strong protecting strength on the other.

After that the days fled all too rapidly. Sailor d.i.c.k made a great difference in the house. It was something new to hear the fresh, hearty voice trolling out wild sea-songs, and to listen to yarn after yarn told with infinite gravity, and yet brimful of the ridiculous and impossible. The rough, hardy sea-faring life had improved the boy wondrously, bringing out the n.o.blest traits in his character, making him less sensitive and more self-reliant. Captain Inglis, who had called on Mr. Blake, and was now a welcome visitor at the house in Victoria Square, stated his thorough satisfaction at d.i.c.k's conduct during the whole voyage, and spoke of him in the most praise-worthy terms. Altogether there was great cause for commendation; and the boy awoke to the delightful knowledge that he was no longer being down-trodden and treated with disrespect, and that some day Winnie's prophecy might be verified of his father being proud of him yet.

"Blessings on the skipper's head," he said one afternoon to Winnie, when she told of Captain Inglis's genuine satisfaction. "He's a thoroughly good old chap, and not one of the crew could say a word against him. But I say, Win, what makes him come poking about here so often? Why should he not give his old mother the benefit of his spare time? Poor body! it's rather hard lines being left so much alone."

"She's coming to see me," put in Winnie laughingly. "Captain Inglis had been telling her about the cross invalid sister you possessed, and she asked if she might be allowed to call some day."

d.i.c.k whistled.

"So that's the way the wind is blowing?" he muttered under his breath.

"Well, this is a truly wonderful world in which we live." Then aloud to Winnie: "You'll like her, Win; she's a first-rate old lady, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with kindness. Shouldn't wonder if she invites you to stay with her later on; and, my eye! if she does, just you go. She'll pet and molly-coddle you till you won't know whether you're standing on your head or feet; and I'll bet you'll be as snug as a bird in its nest."

Winnie looked interested. "Has she a nice house?"

"Tip-top, and n.o.body in it save herself and the servants. The skipper has plenty of money, and goes to sea from choice, not necessity.--Why, I declare, Win, here he is again, coming along the street. He gave me a half-holiday, but I did not think he was going to take one himself as well. If this kind of thing continues much longer, you may congratulate yourself on having another brother soon;" and d.i.c.k winked knowingly.

"What do you mean?" asked Winnie, staring open-eyed; but the mischievous boy had vanished and left her alone in her bewilderment.

All good things come to an end, and every day has its close. The _Maid of Astolat_ was ready to set sail again, and once more the time drew near to say good-bye.

"Farewell, Win, my little angel sister," whispered d.i.c.k, kissing the sweet face with dimmed, misty eyes. "G.o.d keep you for ever and ever, and bring me safe home to you again." Then followed a long, lingering embrace; and Winnie was left to wait and hope till the long months and days would pa.s.s and her sailor boy return once more.

"Yes, I miss him sorely, Aunt Judith," she said one evening to Miss Latimer about a fortnight after the ship had sailed; "but I have so much to be thankful for, that I feel as it I dared not grumble. You have no idea how greatly he is improved, and how much more highly he is thought of now by every one in the house. I wish you had been able to see him, Aunt Judith."

"So do I, Winnie; but I was too ill the day he called, and this is only my second walk out of doors."

"Were you very unwell?" questioned Winnie, again scrutinizing her friend's face anxiously. "Aunt Judith, I don't believe you are nearly better. There are great hollows round your eyes, and your face looks haggard and worn."

"Nonsense, dear," answered the kind voice, and Miss Latimer's smile was very bright. "Remember I am an old woman, and pain leaves traces on an aged face.--What about yourself, Winnie? is the darkness brightening yet?"

"I think so, Aunt Judith; and d.i.c.k helped me so much. Perhaps the beautiful life is within my reach after all."

"There's no 'perhaps' in the matter, dear," said Miss Latimer softly; "but my little Winnie must be patient, for the grand, sweet song of life has its beginning, and the opening chords may be tremulous and low. Child," she continued pa.s.sionately, "the grandest songs--the songs that echo and re-echo through eternity's limitless bounds--are wrung from hearts crushed and bleeding with anguish, and the infinite peace and calm come only after long strife and pain. Darling, my earnest prayer for you is that G.o.d would perfect in you his own image, and that you may come forth from the furnace of affliction with Christ's own brightness shining in your face."

That was the last talk Miss Latimer ever had with Winnie. She had been far from well lately, and after reaching home that night complained of feeling very tired.

"Go to bed, auntie," pleaded Nellie; "I am sure you are fit for no work to-night;" and Aunt Debby seconded the words. But Miss Latimer shook her head with a slow, sweet smile.

"My last chapter must be finished this evening, child," she said, gently yet firmly; "after that I shall please you all by taking a long, long rest."

Persuasion seemed useless; and the midnight hour found Aunt Judith busy at her desk, filling up page after page with those wonderful thoughts of hers.

Aunt Debby could not rest that night. Something in Miss Latimer's manner and appearance had awed and frightened her, driving the sleep from her little bright eyes and chilling her heart with a vague, undefined sense of fear. At length, in the middle of the night, she rose, unable to quell the uneasy thoughts which haunted her, and stealing softly downstairs, opened the door of her sister's sanctum and looked in. The lamp had burned low in the socket, and was casting a sickly gleam over all; the fire had died out, and the gray-white ashes gave a dreary, deserted appearance to the room. A great hush brooded around; and yet not so awful was that intense stillness as the solemn calm which seemed to infold the quiet figure sitting so silently in the midst.

Aunt Judith sat before her desk, her head bent slightly forward on her hands. There was nothing unnatural or alarming in the position, but an awful dread stole into Miss Deborah's heart and caused it to beat with a wild fear.

"Judith!" she called tremblingly; but the quiet figure never stirred, and no response came from the pallid lips. Aunt Debby flashed the light of her candle full on Miss Latimer, and then started back with an exceeding bitter cry, for the face on which the light shone so clearly was white and rigid in death. The eyes, wide-open, were fixed on the sheets of ma.n.u.script before her, as if she had been earnestly studying the closing words; and the face, though white with the pallor of the dead, still retained its own sweet expression. Looking down at the written sheets, Aunt Debby noticed the last chapter was finished, and knew Aunt Judith's life-work had ended with it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The eyes, wide open, were fixed on the sheets of ma.n.u.script before her.]

"My last chapter must be written to-night, child; after that I shall please you all by taking a long, long rest." How those words rung in Miss Deborah's ears as she stood gazing on that silent figure, sitting so quietly in that awful death-hush! Not the quiver of an eyelid; not a tremble of the lip; only that great, solemn calm. It was all over now. The pain and weariness; the constant striving after the true and beautiful; the daily self-renunciation; the life so completely devoted to the service of others; and the last lingering notes of the grand, sweet song had been sung in silence and alone. "Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life," she had remarked to Aunt Debby not so long ago, "and, thank G.o.d, even in the darkest night I have never failed to find a star brightening through the gloom." Now the earthly shadows were done with for ever; the bleeding feet had trod the last steps of the th.o.r.n.y way, and entered by the gate into the holy Jerusalem, where "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which G.o.d hath prepared for them that love him."

CHAPTER XVIII.

CONCLUSION.

Six summers has the green gra.s.s waved and sweet flowers bloomed over Aunt Judith's grave; six long, long years have come and gone since Miss Deborah entered that silent room and found the death-angel casting his dread shadow there. And what have the seasons brought? Ease to the sorrowing heart and laughter to the weeping eyes. "Time heals all wounds; one cannot mourn for ever," say the wise people, and in nine cases out of ten their words hold good, though I think there are some sorrows which no lapse of time can cure--sorrows which deepen and intensify as the years roll on; only the wound, bleeding inwardly, is hid with a sacred reverence from the gaze of the outside world, and is known to the sore-stricken heart alone.

Be that as it may, however, Miss Latimer's friends could afford to laugh and smile now, and joy as she had done in G.o.d's beautiful sunshine. The earth is still as fair, the skies as blue as they were in the bygone days when her quiet voice drew the thoughts of those around her to the nature-world with all its wondrous beauty, and each can say with glad accord,--