LITMIR.BIZ

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wrongly, in sending her niece across the water. She was afraid lest she should be blamed by the parson, and lest her conduct should be commented on by the parish.

      She reasoned with herself, without being able thoroughly to still the qualms of her conscience. What cause had she to suppose that the train would not arrive punctually? How could she have foreseen that it would come in so late that it made it impossible for Kate to cross in the then condition of the tide? Had Jan Pooke arrived but ten minutes earlier than he did, then, unquestionably, the boat would have come over, if not at Coombe Cellars, yet somewhat lower down the river. She was not gifted with the prophetic faculty. She had so many things to occupy her mind that she could not provide for every contingency. Should the child die, no blame--no reasonable blame--could attach to her. The fault lay with Mr. Brunel, who had laid down the atmospheric railway; with the engineer at the Teignmouth exhausting-pump, who had not done his duty properly; with the guard of the train, who had not seen that the rollers for opening and closing the valves did their work properly; with John Pooke, for delaying over his hat that he had let fall; with Jason Quarm, for not offering to ferry the boat in the place of his daughter, instead of staying over the fire with her husband, filling his head with mischievous nonsense about making money out of mud and sinking capital which would never come to the surface again. Finally, the fault lay with Providence, that blind and inconsiderate power, which had robbed her of Wilmot, and now had not retarded the ebb by ten minutes, which might easily have been effected by shifting the direction of the wind to the south-west.

      The feeble light flickered in the window, and almost in the same manner did the life of the girl flicker, burning itself away as the candle guttered in the overmuch and irregular heat, now quivering under the in-rush of draught, hissing blue and faint, and ready to expire, then flaring up in exaggerated incandescence. The cheeks flushed, the eyes burned with unnatural light, and the pulse ebbed and flowed.

      “Where do the stars go by day?” asked Kate in delirium; “and why does the Plough turn in heaven? Is God’s hand on it?”

      “My child,” said the parson, “God’s plough in the earth is the frost, that cuts deep and turns and crumbles the clods ready for the seed; and God’s plough on human hearts is great sorrow and sharp disappointment--to make the necessary furrow into which to drop the seeds of faith, and love, and patience.”

      “She is not speaking to you, sir,” said Mrs. Pepperill. “She’s talking rambling like. But she’s terrible at questions--always.”

      The clergyman held his hands folded behind his back, and looked intently at the fevered face. The eyes were bright, but not with intelligence. Kate neither recognised him, nor understood what he said.

      “I wonder now where the doctor is?” said Zerah. “I reckon he has gone to some patient who can pay a guinea where we pay seven shillings and sixpence. Doctor Mant will be with such twice a day--as we are poor, he will come to us only now and then.”

      “You judge harshly. You have but just sent for him.”

      “I did not think Kate was bad enough to need a doctor.”

      “God is the Great Physician. Put your trust in Him.”

      “That is what you said when Wilmot was ill. I lost her all the same.”

      “It was the will of Heaven. God’s plough, maybe, was needed.”

      “In what way did I deserve to be so treated? My beautiful child! my own, very very own child.” Zerah’s eyes filled, but her lips contracted, making crow-feet at the corners. “I have had left to me instead this cold-hearted creature, my niece, who can in no way make up to me for what I have lost. I’ve had a sovereign taken from me and a ha’penny left in my hand.”

      “God has given you this child to love and care for. For His own wise purposes He took away Wilmot, whom you were spoiling with over-much affection and blind admiration. Now He would have you love and cherish the treasure He has left in your hands.”

      “Treasure?”

      “Ay, treasure. Love her.”

      “Of course I love her! I do my duty by her.”

      “You have done your duty--of that I have no doubt. But how have you done it? Do you know, Mrs. Pepperill, there are two ways in which everything may be done--as a duty to God, in the spirit of bondage or in the spirit of love? So with regard to the image of God in this innocent and suffering child. You may do your duty perfunctorily or in charity.”

      “I do it in charity. Her father has not paid a penny for her keep.”

      “That is not what I mean; charity is the spirit of love. There are two minds in which man may stand before God, to everything, to everyone--there is the servant mind and the filial mind, the duty mind, and the mind of love. And with what mind have you treated this child?” The parson put his hand to Kate’s brow and drew back from it the dark hair, sweeping the locks aside with his trembling fingers.

      “Look,” said he. “What a forehead she has got--what a brow! full, full, full of thought. This is no common head--there is no vulgar brain in this poor little skull.”

      “Wilmot had a head and brains,” said Mrs. Pepperill, “and her forehead was higher and whiter.”

      Zerah’s conscience was stinging her. What the rector said was true, and the consciousness that it was true made her angry.

      Would she have sent Wilmot across the water insufficiently protected against the east wind? would she have done this without weighing the chances of the atmospheric railway breaking down? If death were to snatch this child from her, she would ever feel that some responsibility had weighed on her. However much she might shift the blame, some of it must adhere to her.

      She had not been kind to the motherless girl. It was true she had not been unkind to her; but then Kate had a right to a share of her heart. She had valued her niece chiefly as a foil to her daughter; and when the latter died, her feelings toward Kate had been dipped in wormwood.

      Zerah was not a bad woman, but she was a disappointed woman. She was disappointed in her husband, disappointed in her child. Her heart was not congealed, nor was her conscience dead, but both were in a torpid condition.

      Now, as by the glimmer of the swaling candle she looked on the suffering girl, the ice about her heart cracked--a warm gush of pity, an ache of remorse, came upon her; she bowed and kissed the arched brow of her niece.

      The rector knelt and prayed in silence. He loved the intelligent child in his Sunday school--the nightingale in his church choir. Zerah obeyed his example.

      Then both heard the stair creak, and a heavy tread sounded on the boards.

      Mrs. Pepperill looked round, but the irregular tread would have told her who had entered the attic chamber without the testimony of her eyes. She stood up and signed to Jason Quarm to be less noisy in his movements.

      “Pshaw!” said he; “it is nothing. Kitty will get over it. You, Zerah, are tough. I am tough. Leather toughness is the characteristic of us Quarms. When she is better, send her to me--to the moor. That will set her up.”

      The rector rose.

      Jason went to the head of the bed and laid his large hand on the sick girl’s brow. The coolness of his palm seemed to do her good.

      “You see--it comforts the little toad,” said her father. “There is nothing to alarm you in the case. Children are like corks. They go under water and are up again--mostly up. Dipping under is temporary--temporary and soon over. Parson, do you want to speculate? I am buying oak dirt cheap--to sell at a tremendous profit. Ten per cent. at the least. What do you say?”

      The rector shook his head.

      “Well, I shouldn’t go away from Coombe with Kitty ill but that I expect to make my fortune and hers. She’ll have a dower some day out of the Brimpts oaks.”

      Then the man stumped out of the room and down the steep stairs.

      Jason Quarm was always sanguine.

      “Do

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