and before she could rise to her feet--a flump upon the floor--poor Mary had absolutely fainted dead away.

Ethel was much terrified, and very angry with herself; Mary was no light weight, but Mrs. Elwood coming at their cry, helped Ethel to drag her into the outer room, where she soon began to recover, and to be excessively puzzled as to what had happened to her. She said the sea was roaring, and where was Harry? and then she looked much surprised to find herself lying on Mrs. Elwood's damp flags--a circumstance extremely distressing to Mrs. Elwood, who wanted to carry her upstairs into Cherry's room, very clean and very white, but with such a sun shining full into it!

Ethel lavished all care, and reproached herself greatly, though to be sure nothing had ever been supposed capable of hurting Mary, and Mary herself protested that nothing at all had ailed her till the children's voices began to sound funny, and turned into the waves of the sea, and therewith poor Mary burst into a great flood of tears, and asked whether Harry would ever come back. The tears did her a great deal of good, though not so much as the being petted by Ethel, and she soon declared herself perfectly well; but Ethel could not think of letting her walk home, and sent off a boy--who she trusted would not faint--with a note to Margaret, desiring her to send the gig, which fortunately was at home to-day.

Mary had partaken of some of Mrs. Elwood's tea, which, though extremely bitter, seemed a great cordial, and was sitting, quite revived, in the arbour at the door, when the gig stopped, and Dr. Spencer walked in.

"Well, and how are you?"

"Quite well now, thank you. Was Margaret frightened? Why did you come?"

"I thought it would make her happier, as your father was not at home.

Here, let me feel your pulse. Do you think no one is a doctor but your papa? There's not much the matter with you, however. Where is Ethel?"

"In the school," and Mary opened the door. Dr. Spencer looked in, as Ethel came out, and his face put her in mind of Norman's look.

"No wonder!" was all he said.

Ethel was soon satisfied that he did not think Mary ill. In fact, he said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the circumstances. "How many human creatures do you keep there?" he asked.

"Forty-seven to-day," said Mary proudly.

"I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!"

"It was very wrong of me," said Ethel. "I should have thought of poor Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains."

"Oh, never mind," said Mary, "it did not hurt."

"I'm not thinking of Mary," said Dr. Spencer, "but of the wretched beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be there."

"We cannot help it," said Mary. "We cannot get the ground."

And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee; while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on Harry's account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it was necessary to quit the subject.

"Ethel, dearest," said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, "is there anything the matter?"

"No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me," said Ethel, resolutely.

"I am very cross and selfish!"

"It will be better by-and-by," said Margaret, "if only you are sure you have nothing to make you unhappy."

"Nothing," said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had spoiled her.

"If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!" she sighed, presently, "with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle."

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to death.

Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily details of life.

CHAPTER XI.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had been Churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces.

MERCHANT OF VENICE.

"Dick," said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary's swoon, "you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters."

"It does not hurt them," said Dr. May carelessly.

"Pretty well, after the specimen of to-day."

"That was chance."

"If you like it, I have no more to say; but I should like to make you sit for two hours in such a temperature. If they were mine--"

"Very fine talking, but I would not take the responsibility of hindering the only pains that have ever been taken with that unlucky place. You don't know that girl Ethel. She began at fifteen, entirely of her own accord, and has never faltered. If any of the children there are saved from perdition, it is owing to her, and I am not going to be the man to stop her. They are strong, healthy girls, and I cannot see that it does them any harm--rather good."

"Have you any special predilection for a room eight feet by nine?"

"Can't be helped. What would you have said if you had seen the last?"

"What is this about one hundred and fifty pounds in hand?"

"The ladies here chose to have a fancy fair, the only result of which, hitherto, has been the taking away my Flora. There is the money, but the land can't be had."

"Why not?"

"Tied up between the Drydale Estate and ---- College, and in the hands of the quarry master, Nicolson. There was an application made to the College, but they did not begin at the right end."

"Upon my word, Dick, you take it easy!" cried his friend, rather indignantly.

"I own I have not stirred in the matter," said Dr. May. "I knew nothing would come to good under the pack of silly women that our schools are ridden with--" and, as he heard a sound a little like "pish!" he continued, "and that old Ramsden, it is absolutely useless to work with such a head--or no head. There's nothing for it but to wait for better times, instead of setting up independent, insubordinate action."

"You are the man to leave venerable abuses undisturbed!"

"The cure is worse than the disease!"

"There spoke the Corporation!"

"Ah! it was not the way you set to work in Poonshedagore."

"Why, really, when the venerable abuses consisted of Hindoos praying to their own three-legged stools, and keeping sacred monkeys in honour of the ape Hanyuman, it was a question whether one could be a Christian oneself, and suffer it undisturbed. It was coming it too strong, when I was requested to lend my own step-ladder for the convenience of an exhibition of a devotee swinging on hooks in his sides."

Dr. Spencer had, in fact, never rested till he had established a mission in his former remote station; and his brown godson, once a Brahmin, now an exemplary clergyman, traced his conversion to the friendship and example of the English physician.