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CHAPTER XIII

In all his after-life Timothy never forgot that night he spent with Teddy. It left upon him an abiding impression for good, and if in his manhood he stepped out of his way to do a kindness, he would sometimes think that he was urged to it by the spirit of his dear friend.

Teddy was more than glad to see him; he said it was the one thing he had been wishing for before he-, and then he stopped, and looked at his friend with a half-wistful, half-whimsical expression on his face.

"Before you what, Teddy?" asked Timothy, a great lump rising in his throat.

"Before I go to another place," replied Teddy.

"Where?"

"Ah! now you ask a question, Tim." He paused awhile, and added: "But somewhere. You've been talking to mother, haven't you?"

"Yes-and I met your father as I was coming here."

"He was cut up, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Speaking of me?"

"Yes. He could hardly get his words out."

"He has been a good father-I couldn't have had a better; no boy could. My dear, good mother, too, she will feel it. They told you I was dying, didn't they?"

The mournful look in Timothy's eyes was an eloquent answer.

"It's true, Tim; I knew it before they did, before even the doctor did. Long ago I knew I should never live to be a man. I don't know whether I'm sorry or glad. There's Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott-I say, isn't 'Ivanhoe' splendid?"

"I don't know, Teddy. I never read it. But what about Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott?"

"They're dead, aren't they?"

"Of course they are."

"There it is, you see. It comes to the same thing. The only difference is in being born earlier or later."

"I say, Teddy, where did you get all this from?"

"All what, Tim?"

"This way of talking."

"Wasn't I always so?"

"Not quite so; it's new, a lot of it-at least to me."

"Comes from reading, I suppose, and thinking a bit, like a parrot."

His mother here entered the room, with a tumbler of wine in which Timothy's new-laid egg was beaten up.

"Timothy brought the egg, my love," she said; "it is new-laid."

"Did he, now? Lift me up, Tim, please."

Timothy raised the dying lad, and supported him in his arms, and Teddy drank the wine and egg slowly.

"It's nice," he said; "it seems to make me strong."

"The doctor said it would, my dear," said his mother; "it will help to make you well."

Teddy looked tenderly at her.

"Kiss me, mother."

She took him from Timothy's arms, and for a little while the mother and son lay in a close embrace. When she was gone Teddy said:

"Did you bring the new-laid egg for me, Tim?"

"I must have done," replied Timothy, more cheerfully, hailing with hope the delusive sign of renewed strength in his friend, "because you've eaten it."

"But intentionally?"

"No Teddy, not intentionally."

"It's funny you should have had one, though, just when the doctor ordered it for me. Perhaps you're in the egg business now?"

This caused Timothy to laugh and Teddy to smile.

"I'm not in the egg business yet," said Timothy. "How I got it is part of a story."

"Your story, I can guess. You've been away a long time. Tell me everything about yourself, and everything that has happened-everything!"

"It will take so long, Teddy."

"All the more reason," said Teddy, with a grave smile, "why you should begin soon. Fire away, Tim. It will be a pleasure for me to lie and listen."

It is not so uncommon as may be supposed to chance upon a lad in Teddy's station in life able to express himself so well. Looking round upon the familiar faces in the gallery of art and literature, and recognizing in this one and that one portraits of earnest workers, the fruit of whose labors have imparted intellectual pleasure to hundreds of thousands of men and women, one cannot fail to be struck by the fact that it is not from the ranks of the rich and powerful that the majority of these bright stars have emerged. It may be that the rich have not that incentive to succeed-the spur of necessity forming part of it-which the poor have, but the fact remains. Thus it is not surprising to find a lad of Teddy's stamp in the squalid East, and his weak physical frame may be set down to his intellectual advantage.

He lay and listened to Timothy's story. Timothy spoke softly and slowly, and when, at the expiration of fifteen or sixteen minutes, he saw Teddy's eyes close, and judged that he had fallen into slumber, he stopped till Teddy, after the lapse of another few minutes, opened his eyes, and said:

"Yes, Tim, and then-"

Then Timothy resumed his story, pausing again when Teddy closed his eyes again, and continuing when the dying lad was sensible once more of what was going on around him. Now and then the mother would enter the room, very softly, and, in obedience to Timothy's finger at his lips, would close the door behind her and step to the bedside so quietly and noiselessly that she might have been a pitying spirit of air instead of a suffering mother whose heart was filled with woe. Then would she bend over the bed, sometimes with a terrible fear that her son had passed away; but she would raise her head and look at Timothy with tears in her eyes, and whisper:

"Thank God, he only sleeps!"

Ah! in these vigils of love, kept through day and night in the homes of the rich and poor, drawing the sick ones together until they stand upon the eternal platform of equality, there is much to be thankful for. If the lessons they teach were more enduring the world would be more human than it is, and justice-not that kind of justice we seek in wig and gown-would be dispensed more equally.

At length the story was finished, and Teddy, awake, but growing weaker and weaker, lay and thought over it. His voice now sometimes wandered away, and the sense of his words was blurred by the approaching change, but for the most part he held himself in control, and spoke intelligently, with a full consciousness of what he was saying.

"It was a lucky thing you got into that school, Tim."

"Yes, Teddy, it was."

"I always knew you were clever, and only wanted teaching. You must read 'Ivanhoe.'"

"I will, Teddy."

"And 'The Old Curiosity Shop,' and 'The Cricket on the Hearth.' Oh, how I've laughed and cried over them. Is Miss Emily pretty?"

"Very pretty, Ted."

"That's nice. I like pretty things-faces, flowers, and pictures. I can shut my eyes and see them-oh, such crowds of them, disappearing and coming up again. I am sorry for poor Dr. Porter. Perhaps you will see Miss Emily again."

"I hope so."

"There was little Alice Goldsmid; she was my sweetheart" – he was wandering now-"and she died a long, long time ago. I shall see her. She wore a white dress and a blue necklace. Is that you, father?"

"Yes, my boy," replied Mr. Meadows, who, with his wife, had just entered the room; "do you feel better?"

"Much better; oh, so much better! Give me your hand, father." He took it and held it to his lips. "Did you hear about Timothy and his new-laid egg?"

"Mother has told me about it, my boy."

"Is mother here?"

"Yes, my dearest."

A sudden strength animated Teddy's frame. "I could almost sit up alone," he said; and he strove to rise.

"You had better lie and rest, my boy," said his father.

"But I have something to do," he said, "that mightn't be thought of afterwards. Though if you did think of it I am sure you would do it, because it would give me pleasure."

"We would do anything to give you pleasure, my boy."

"I know you would, father, and thank you for all your goodness to me. It shall never be forgotten-never. Please help me up."

They humored him, and propped him up with pillows. Timothy was now sitting at the foot of the bed, and the dying lad's parents one on each side at the head. Their hands were clasped at his back, forming a frame for their dear one, in which he found support.

"Mother and father," he said, "I am going to make my will."

As he said this Timothy saw in his face the same half-wistful, half-whimsical expression he had observed upon his first entrance into the sick-room. The tears which welled into the mother's eyes at mention of a will-a strange fancy to enter the brain of one so young-almost blinded her. Mr. Meadows's eyes were tearless, but he suffered none the less.

"First, though, I must say good-bye to Harry and Joe and Nelly."

These were Teddy's brothers and sisters, all younger than he. "Good-bye!" murmured the mother. "Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!"

"It is right," said Teddy; "it is, isn't it, father? I shall see them again; but after to-night they won't see me, perhaps, for a long, long time. No, don't take your arm away, father; I like it where it is, and mother's." He turned to each of them, and received their loving kiss. "Tim will go and bring them up. And, Tim, don't say anything to them about my dying; it might frighten them, and they wouldn't understand. Tell them that Teddy wants to kiss them good-night. Not good-bye, Tim, good-night."

Timothy went down-stairs and brought the youngsters up, telling them to be very quiet, as brother Teddy's head ached badly.

"Lift them up, Tim," said Teddy. "Good-night, Harry."

"Good-night, Teddy," said Harry. "Won't you get well soon, and have larks?"

"You shall have plenty of fun, Harry. Say God bless you, Teddy."

"God bless you, Teddy."

"And God bless you, Harry, and mind you must be a good boy."

"I will, I will," said the little fellow.

And so with Joe and Nelly, who kissed and bade their brother good-night, and gave him God's blessing.

"Would you mind, mother," whispered Teddy, "if they said their prayers now before going to bed?"

In obedience to their mother's directions, the children knelt at the bedside and said their prayers aloud, Timothy, the sorrowing parents, and Teddy himself mutely joining in the simple supplication. Mr. and Mrs. Meadows's heads were bowed upon their breasts, but Timothy's eyes were fixed upon Teddy's face, and a great tremor ran through him as he noticed the dying lad's lips form the words, "Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep." The solemnity of the occasion sank deep into Timothy's heart. "He says that prayer," he thought, "for the last time, for the last time. Poor Teddy!"

The prayers being over, the children were taken quietly from the room. Teddy's eyes followed their figures until the door closed upon them. Then his lids dropped, and no one spoke until he himself broke the silence. His voice was weaker now, and he often paused, as if to gather strength for the words he wished to utter.

"Harry will be just like you, father, when he is a man. He is proud of it when I have told him. 'I want to be like father,' he has said many times."

"I hope he will be a better man," said the father.

"He couldn't very well be that, eh, mother? And Nelly will be like you, mother, but not so pretty, I think."

Mrs. Meadows sighed. She was a buxom woman; but her best-looking days were gone. She knew that quite well, and had always wondered at Teddy's praises of her prettiness.

"And now, father, about my will. You won't mind, will you?"

"No, my boy, we will do everything you wish."

"Thank you, father. But first, though, about what I've got a right to do."

"You've the right to do anything, Teddy. Only say what it is."

"Are my books mine, father?" asked Teddy. "Yes, my boy."

"I know exactly how many I've got-forty-seven, some of them nicely bound. I should like Timothy to have five."

"He shall have them, Teddy, the best there are."

"He won't pick out the best, father; he knows they are only as a remembrance, and I want him to have something else. Father, you must have my desk."

"I will keep it and cherish it, my boy."

"There is something in it for mother-a little ivory brooch I bought for her birthday before I was taken ill. Your birthday comes exactly four weeks to-day, mother. I sha'n't be here; but think I give it to you then."

Mrs. Meadows could not speak. She lowered her face to the wasted hand she held in hers and kissed it, and held her head down.

"My other books I should like divided between Harry, Joe, and Nelly. That will be fourteen each. You will know which to choose for them. Father, are my clothes mine?"

"Surely they are, my dear lad."

"To do whatever I like with?"

"Whatever you like, my boy."

"I am glad of that, because there is something I very much wish to do. Timothy is just my height, father."

"Yes, my boy, he is."

Timothy held his breath, divining the idea bred by the thoughtful love of his friend.

"Has he told you that he can get a good situation if he has a decent suit of clothes to go in?"

"No, Teddy; but I am glad to hear it."

"He'll tell you all about it another time-not now, because my breath is going. Would you believe that the only thing in the world he can call his own is a fowl? Such a wonderful layer! That is how it was he was able to bring the new-laid egg to me. I should like Timothy to have my best trousers, my best coat and waistcoat, my best shirt-no, two shirts-and my best boots."

"He shall have them, Teddy."

"Thank you, father. He isn't to wait for them, you know, because it is now he wants them. It would do me a great deal of good if I could see Timothy in them with my own eyes."

Mrs. Meadows rose, and, selecting the clothes mentioned by Teddy, told Timothy to go into her room and put them on. "If the dear Lord in his mercy should spare us this blow," she thought, "my darling boy can have new ones. How thankful, how grateful I shall be if this blessing is granted me!"

Timothy was absent from the sick-room for a much longer time than was necessary for him to throw off his ragged garments and get into Teddy's clothes. It was not out of vanity, but of delicacy, he did this, for he did not have the heart to look at himself in his better raiment. His young life had been already full of adventures, and many of them sorrowful ones, but this was the most mournful of them all. Ideas with respect to Teddy's clothes were stirring in his brain as well as in that of the mother sitting by the bedside of her dying son. "If Teddy takes a turn for the better, I can easily get into my rags again." He consoled himself with this idea, and he did up his tattered garments into a tidy bundle ready for the better emergency. He prayed that his dear friend might live. There would be little hope then of his obtaining the situation which was offered to him, but shrewd and clever as he was he was void of that kind of selfishness the gratification of which entails misfortunes upon others. "If I can't get into Mr. Loveday's shop," he thought, "I shall get something else to do, I dare say. I shall manage to rub along somehow." He would dearly love to obtain service with Mr. Loveday, but not at the expense of the life of the best friend he ever had. He remained from the sickroom so long that Mrs. Meadows had to come and beg him to return to it.

"Teddy is asking for you," she said. "Oh, my dear, he is sinking fast, I am afraid!"

"I hope you don't think it wrong of me to do this," said Timothy, looking down upon Teddy's clothes.

"Wrong, my dear? No, indeed not. It is to please our dear boy-and you shall keep them even if he does get well. But I fear-I fear- Oh, my dear, he is the sweetest lad that ever drew breath! Never an angry word from his lips, never, never-and I have spoken cross to him often and often. He never answered me, never once. And now I am punished for it, now I am punished for it!"

It was painful to witness her anguish.

"You must not, you should not speak in that way, Mrs. Meadows," said Timothy, to whom came at this juncture an impressiveness of manner which spoke well for a true manliness of spirit in the future when he should have arrived at manhood's estate; "if Teddy knew it he would be very grieved-it would hurt him badly. You have nothing to vex yourself about, I know, who never had a mother to love" – and here Timothy's voice shook. He was aware of the strange mystery attached to his being thrust, a stranger, upon the care of strangers, and at this solemn time it forced itself upon him with a new significance.

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Meadows, "I am sorry for you."

"I know," continued Timothy, "from Teddy's own dear lips how good and loving you have been to him-"

"Has he told you so-has my dear boy told you so?"

"Over and over again; and he has said that he could never repay you and his father for your goodness to him."

"That came out of his own kind heart, always thinking of others, never of himself."

"It is true, Mrs. Meadows. He said once to me, 'I wish you had a home like mine, and a mother and father like mine.'"

"The dear lad-the dear, dear lad! It makes it all the harder to lose him, all the harder."

"It is hard-but let us go in now. He will be restless."

"Yes, yes, let us go in. You are a good lad, Timothy, and we shall always be glad to see you here. Remember that, my dear."

"I will, Mrs. Meadows, and thank you."

The mother wiped the tears from her eyes, but as fast as she wiped them away they flowed afresh.

The moment he entered the room Timothy saw the change that had come over Teddy. But Teddy could still speak in a faint, weak voice, and his eyes brightened as they rested on Timothy.

"How nice you look!" he murmured. "Do they fit you?" Timothy nodded. "Bend down, Timothy. That's right." He kissed Timothy. "If you get along, as you're sure to do, you must pay me for them."

"How can I do that, Teddy dear?" asked Timothy, in wonder.

"By helping some poor boy, and trying to get him out of his trouble."

"As you have got me out of mine. I promise, Teddy, faithfully."

"I think," said Teddy, suddenly raising himself up in bed, and speaking in a thin, clear voice, "that everything is very beautiful. Good-night. I am very happy. God bless you, Tim!"

"God bless you, Teddy!"

"Mother, father, put your arms round me."

Close, close beat the loving hearts, one growing fainter, fainter, until, though still it fluttered, they could neither see nor hear its pulsation. Teddy lay still for hours, for the most part with his eyes closed; but at long intervals the lids were slightly raised for a few moments at a time. Whether he saw anything before him they did not know, but they knew by an occasional slight movement of his fingers, which feebly strove to clasp the hands in which they were enfolded, that the tide of life had not quite run out. In the midst of their deep trouble it consoled them that he was in peace, and that it was mercifully ordained that he should pass away without suffering; for all through these memorable hours, which formed for them a sad and loving memory till they themselves received the summons to eternity, a smile rested on his lips. It was there when a linnet in a cage down-stairs began to chirp and twitter in the early morning. Teddy did not hear the sweet sounds; he had answered the call, and his soul was with God and the angels.

"So you've got the clothes, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday on the following day.

"Yes, sir," said Timothy; and he told the bookseller about Teddy.

"Ah," said Mr. Loveday, "so goes on forever and a day the mystery of life and death, never for one moment ceasing its work. Timothy, your fowl has laid another egg. Shall we value it at five farthings?"

"Keep it, sir, and welcome," said Timothy.

"No, my lad. Justice is justice, and I get it cheap. I engage you, Timothy, as my assistant, at eighteen pence a week and board and lodging. Satisfaction given, a rise of sixpence a week at the end of six months; satisfaction still given, and all going along comfortably, a rise of another sixpence at the end of twelve months. What do you say?"

"I am very thankful to you, sir," replied Timothy.

"You will want to go to the funeral, Timothy?"

"If you can spare me, sir."

"Of course I can spare you. Friends are not so plentiful, dead or alive."

CHAPTER XIV

We return to Nansie and Kingsley. They were still in Godalming. Nansie's father was buried, a quiet funeral, with only Nansie and Kingsley as mourners; the horse and caravan were sold, and the loving couple who were now to commence the battle of life in real, right-down earnest, had taken humble lodgings for a week or two, pending the serious question as to what they should do. Until after the funeral Nansie had no heart to write to her uncle in London. She had thought of acquainting him with the death of his brother, and asking him whether he would wish to attend the funeral, but the knowledge of the estrangement of the brothers during her father's lifetime, and a feeling of loyalty towards her father, who, in this estrangement, had been, in her belief, harshly treated, caused her to postpone the writing of her letter till the last sad offices were fulfilled. There was another reason. She feared that her uncle was a man of hard disposition, and that his resentment against his brother might find an outlet over the grave of the dear father she loved so well. This fear also sustained her. An inharmonious note springing from an unkind nature, during her days of fresh sorrow, an inharmonious note which might have been detected even when the dear remains were consigned to their last resting-place, would have been too painful to her to bear, and would, besides, have been a desecration. Therefore it was that many days passed by before Nansie communicated to her uncle the news of his brother's death.

Meanwhile Kingsley was busy thinking about the settling of his affairs. He had some belongings and a little money, and it was necessary that his debts should be paid.

"We will commence quite free, Nansie," he said, "then we shall know where we are, and how we stand."

"It will be best, Kingsley," said Nansie.

"We will wipe out the past, my dear," said Kingsley, "and commence with a new slate. That will cost nothing, being in a sense metaphorical."

She did not ask him if he felt regret that he had married her; she knew that he did not, but she would have been scarcely human had the thought not obtruded itself. Certainly nothing in Kingsley's manner denoted regret. He was cheerful, hopeful, confident, and, having sufficient for the present day, felt no fears for the future. That was probably because he had not had experience. His life hitherto had been pleasant and luxurious, with no troubles of money to harass him. A good education, a liberal allowance, having but to ask and receive-these easy ways were not a good education for adversity.

"There is a song I have often sung, Nansie, my dear," he said, lightly, "and the burden of it is, 'never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' That is the plan we will follow."

"Yes, Kingsley," said Nansie, with a bright look; "it does not mean that we should not be prepared."

"Prepared!" he exclaimed, putting his arm round her waist and kissing her. "Of course we will be prepared. Leave everything to me; and don't have any fear that I shall miss anything."

"Are you sure, dear?"

"Am I sure? Well, upon my word! There is only one thing in the world I should miss, and that is you-with a thousand apologies for calling you a thing. So long as you are with me, with your bright eyes and sweet face, and that pretty bit of ribbon about your neck-I love to see you dressed like a lady; of course that will always be-so long as we are together as we are now, it isn't possible for me to miss anything, because my bonnie Annie Laurie is all the world to me. Then, you know, there is a charm in change, a positive charm in coming down a bit. There's pheasant now, and partridge and grouse, and pâté de foie gras-why, I've run away from them for a cut of rump steak. As for champagne, which I could have swam in-really, Nansie, swam in-why, I would rather have a bottle of Bass any day. There were some of the long walks I used to take with a chum or two. Well, we walk a dozen miles and pull up at quite a common little inn, and call for bitter-in the pewter, Nansie-and bread and cheese. Was there ever anything like it? Never. The best meal I ever sat down to was nothing in comparison. I would look at my chums, and my chums would look at me, and we would all agree that we never ate and drank anything with such a relish. It was true. We'll take long walks together, Nansie, you and I, and you will say the same. I must leave you to-morrow morning, you know, my dear, for a couple of days to settle up all my old debts. There's the stable bill-I shall have to sell my horse-and the jeweller's bill."

"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, interrupting him.

"Yes, Nansie."

"This watch and chain was bought of the jeweller, was it not?"

She pointed to a pretty watch and chain she was wearing, which, with a locket, he had given to her on the morning they had disclosed to Nansie's father the secret of their marriage.

"Yes, my dear," he said, gayly.

"And was not paid for when you gave it to me?"

"And was not paid for," he repeated, in the same gay tone, "when I gave it to you. But," he added, "it will be before I return."

"Don't you think, Kingsley, dear, that it would be best for you to ask the jeweller to take it back? It will make your account lighter."

"What?" he cried. "Rob you of my own gift! Not likely, Nansie. Well, that is an idea to get into your head! And you call yourself practical!"

"I think it would be right, my dear, and I can do very well without it."

"And I think it would be wrong, and I am certain you could not do very well without it. And the locket, too-why, Nansie, it has my portrait in it!"

"I should like to keep the locket," said Nansie, opening it and gazing fondly at the handsome, smiling face of her lover and husband.

"I should think you would, indeed. Let me look at it. Upon my word, Nansie, it flatters me."

"It does not," said Nansie, energetically. "You are a great deal better-looking than the picture."

He laughed.

"Now it is you who are flattering; and, of course, you are only joking when you ask me to take the watch and chain back. Don't mention it again, there's a good girl. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling. Every lady has her watch and chain, and I should feel that mean if I saw you without one-well, there! don't let us talk about it. I shall be able to pay the jeweller. You don't know half the things I've got in my bachelor rooms; and just look at this diamond ring he wheedled me into buying for myself. Down in the bill for sixty pounds. To think I have never given you a ring!"

"Yes, you have, dear," said Nansie, kissing her wedding-ring.

"Of course, that," said Kingsley, taking her hand and kissing it, and keeping it clasped in his; "but I mean diamonds."

"I don't want diamonds, dear."

"Because you are the sweetest, most unselfish little wife that a fellow was ever blessed with. But confess, Nansie, now, you do like diamonds, don't you? No subterfuges, you know. I am your husband, and you mustn't deceive me. You do like them?"

"Yes, Kingsley; all women do, I think."

"And lace?"

"Yes, and lace."

"That's where it is," he said, in a tone of vexation, running his fingers through his hair. "I had my eye on a lovely ring, and such a brooch! I asked the jeweller to put them by for me."

"You will not get them now, Kingsley?" said Nansie, anxiously.

"No, I can't very well, and that is what vexes me. I look upon them as really yours, and as if I'd behaved meanly in not buying them for you. It is really a loss, for, you see, if I had bought them when I took a fancy to them, you would have had them, and I shouldn't have cause to reproach myself."

"Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, holding up a reproving forefinger, "you are, as my dear father used to say, illogical."

"Your dear father may have said it to you, my unreasonable darling, because logic is not by any means a feminine quality; but he would never have said it to me, because we men see deeper into things than you. I could prove to you incontestably, Nansie, that it is a positive loss that I did not buy that ring and brooch for you; but I don't want to make your head ache." He kissed her eyes and forehead and lips, as if these marks of affection were as powerful as any logic he could bring to bear upon the point in dispute. "However, what is done is done, and what we have to consider is not yesterday, but tomorrow."

"Yes, dear," said Nansie, hailing this more sensible turn, "that is what we have to consider."

"And we will consider it, dearest, in a practical, logical manner." Nansie, despite her anxiety, could not help smiling at this. "I am sure I am thinking of it all the night long."

(If this were so it must have been in his dreams, for he was an exceptionally sound sleeper, as Nansie well knew, by reason of her own mind being really disturbed by thoughts of the future.)

"What will have to be decided is what I am fit for and what I can do, and the thing then is," and Kingsley looked pleasantly around, as though he were addressing an audience, "to go and do it. Yes," he repeated, "to go and do it. You cannot deny, Nansie, my darling, that that is the practical way to go about it."

"Yes, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, with fond admiration, "that is the practical way."

"To buy another caravan," pursued Kingsley, "and a horse, and to fit it up comfortably with chairs and tables and beds, an easy-chair for you, my dear, and one for me; and a little library of books, and a piano-because there is nothing so pleasant on a beautiful evening in the woods, when the birds have settled in their nests and all nature is hushed and still, preparing by needful repose for the joyous life of to-morrow; there is nothing, I say, so pleasant as to sit by the side of a dear little wife while she plays the airs one loves best-but I am afraid there would not be room for a piano."

"I am afraid not, dear," said Nansie, humoring him.

"It is a pity. If it were too warm-being summer, my dear Nansie-to sit inside the caravan, we might move the piano into the open, where you could charm the birds from their nests. They could not resist the temptation of coming out to listen to the concert, and perhaps join in. Now, that would form a pretty picture. A gifted fellow could almost write verses on it. But it is not to be thought of, Nansie, is it? – I mean the piano, not the verses."

"I am afraid not, Kingsley, dear," said Nansie, into whose heart was stealing a kind of pity-pity which had no terrors in it, but rather nerved her to courage, and was the germ of a new teaching in her gentle nature.