"But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him."

"Tom will not stand in your place," said Ethel.

"He will be more equable and more to be depended upon," said Norman.

"None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession."

"I am more than ever amazed!" cried Ethel. "I thought you detested it. I thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve."

"He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me," said Norman.

"With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his duty."

"How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would be so glorious!"

"Glory is not for me," said Norman. "Understand, Ethel, the choice is New Zealand, or going at once--at once, mind--to study at Edinburgh or Paris."

"New Zealand at once?" said Ethel.

"I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must be avowed," said Norman hastily. "And now, will you sound my father? I cannot."

"I can't sound," said Ethel. "I can only do things point-blank."

"Do then," said Norman, "any way you can! Only let me know which is best for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready one," he added kindly. "I believe you are the one who would be shoved in front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk."

The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how much she was to repeat of their conversation.

"Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not think it fine in me."

Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from doing that.

It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the drawing-room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once into the matter, she said, "Papa, there is something that Norman cannot bear to say to you himself."

"Humming-birds to wit?" said Dr. May.

"No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you think of--of--there are two things; one is--going out as a missionary--"

"Humming-birds in another shape," said the doctor, startled, but smiling, so as to pique her.

"You mean to treat it as a boy's fancy!" said she.

"It is rather suspicious," he said. "Well, what is the other of his two things?"

"The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you."

"Heyday!" cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, "does he think me so very ancient and superannuated?"

What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental to-night?

Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the conversation, and answered, "No, but he thinks it hard that none of your sons should be willing to relieve you."

"It won't be Norman," said Dr. May. "He is not made of the stuff. If he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon be an end of him!"

"He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty."

"This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. What is the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it is what I was afraid of!"

"It is far deeper," said Ethel; and she related great part of what she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father listen--his line was to be positively indignant, rather than compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor Norman. "Foolish boy, what business had he to meddle with those accursed books, when he knew what they were made of--it was tasting poison, it was running into temptation! He had no right to expect to come out safe--" and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel's hands, and, as if the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her, with dilated eye and trembling voice, whether she were sure that he was safe, and held the faith.

Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face with his hands in thanksgiving.

After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror, only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan into the fire, to take refuge at Paris--a recurrence to the notion of Norman's medical studies, that showed him rather enticed by the proposal.

He sent Ethel to bed, saying he should talk to Norman and find out what was the meaning of it, and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having so ill served her brother, as almost to have made him ridiculous.

Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding, and after they had had a long drive into the country together, Dr May told Ethel that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate, and if he should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as to hold him from a blessed work.

From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father's kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New Zealand, and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission; and in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his other studies, he was to add a course of medical lectures, which, as Dr. May said, would do him no harm, would occupy his mind, and might turn to use wherever he was.

Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared from assisting his father as a physician, he would give himself up to the mission in New Zealand. Why should he tell any one so unsympathetic as Flora, who would think him wasted in either case?

CHAPTER XVII.

Do not fear: Heaven is as near, By water, as by land.--LONGFELLOW.

The fifth of May was poor Harry's eighteenth birthday, and, as usual, was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory more likely to be respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, than if they were left in idleness; but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been omitted, and a leisure day was never unwelcome.

Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and Ethel found Mary at her great resort--Harry's cupboard--dusting and arranging his books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, even to-day, she had not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel entreated her to come down, and Mary promised, and presently appeared, looking so melancholy, that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for some one at Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Margaret should be dressed, to resign her morning to the others, invite Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and read aloud.

Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to Adams at his work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that overflow of mirth, that seemed always bubbling up within her.

She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full blossom, her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater safety from the temptation, when, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned, expecting to see her papa, but was frightened at the sight of two strangers, and began to run off at full speed.

"Stop! Blanche! Blanche, don't you know me?" The voice was that tone of her brother's, and she stood and looked, but it came from a tall, ruddy youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by a grizzled old seaman.

She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run.

"What's the matter! Blanche, it is I! Why, don't you know me--Harry?"

"Poor brother Harry is drowned," she answered; and, with one bound, he was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses.

"Put me down--put me down, please," was all she could say.

"It is not Blanche! What? the little Daisy, I do believe!"

"Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go;" and, at the same time, Adams hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but his aspect changed at the glad cry, "Ha! Adams' how are you? Are they all well?"