"Do you remember, when we were little children together, A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 401 Mary, when we slept in the great sloping attic that looked out on the apple trees, and how I, the younger and weaker little sister, would never go to sleep till you had put your arm round me and said, 'Good -night, God bless you, Belle'? Do you remember it, Mary V "Remember it, darling! too well, too well; but why do you ask?" sobbed Mary, melted by this tender recollection. " Because I was thinking — don't cry, Mary ; I can't bear to see you cry — I was thinking how, when that comes, I should like you to put your arm round me and say that over again. It would make it feel less terrible, and more like going to sleep if you will only say 'Good-night, God bless you, Belle!' as you did then." And drawing Mary's face down on the pillow, she told her not to fret ; for she did not mean to make her unhappy, for if God heard her prayers she would surely come back, if only to lay her head once more on that faithful breast. A more beautiful morning had rarely dawned than that on which Belle took her sorrowful departure from Blackscar. Robert was to go with her to the station, and Guy had also pleaded to be allowed to accompany his uncle; but the rest of the boys and Austin and Mary came no farther than the Vicarage gate. Mary had hardly slept all night, and her red and swollen eyes bore wit- ness to the tears she had shed. It went to the Vicar's heart to see how the sisters clung to each other at the last moment. "Good-bye, Mary; one more Idss, Mary. Good-bye — good- bye, my darling sister." " Dear Mary, let her go. Robert is waiting to lift her into the carriage." " You hear what Austin says, Belle, darling ; you must go now. Good-bye, my precious, and God Almighty bless you." And Robert, gently disengaging Belle from her sister's arms, lifted her into the carriage and placed her by Rotha's side. But even then, while Austin was giving her his brotherly fare- well and blessing, Belle leant across him and held out her arms again to her weeping sister. " One more kiss, Mary darling— one more kiss, my own Mary," and hung about her neck till Austin gently, but firmly, put his arm round his wife and drew her away. She scarcely spoke a word after that till Robert took leave of her in the railway carriage ; but she was as white as death and trembling all over when he took her in his arms. "It is not good-bye, Belle, you know. I am coming very soon." " Yes, yes ; the sooner the better, Bertie ; but it will be good- 26 402 ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. bye then." And, as he stooped over and kissed her with some emotion, she only looked at him with strange wistful eyes. "It will be good-bye then, Bertie, will it noH" It was a long desolate journey, and scarcely less so to Rotha than Belle, and a heavy responsibility to the young nurse ; and it was a greater relief than she could have imagined to see Meg's friendly face awaiting them at the station : it seemed to give a home -look to the strange surroundings, and even Belle, though sadly exhausted, smiled faintly when she saw Mrs. Carruthers, and held out her hand with a feeble welcome. Rotha wrote a tolerable account to Mary the next day ; she said, of course Belle was suffering from the reaction of excitement and unusual exertion, but that in other ways she seemed much the same ; and a few days after that she was able to give even a better report. Belle had recovered from the fatigue of her journey and was able to sit up and look about her a little. They liked what they could see of Torquay, though of course Belle had not yet gone out; but they had very pleasant apartments, in the house of a widow lady. The rooms were all on the first floor, and opened into each other, and Belle's sitting-room was especially pleasant, as it looked over a lovely old garden, with a patch of sunny road beyond, planted with rows of trees. Rotha said the place where their house was situated was called " Torquay within the Hills," and she described the air as perfectly delicious. Mary had been guided in her choice by the advice of Dr. Vivian, who had recommended this locality as singularly adapted to all pulmonary complaints. Dr. Vivian had been to call on Belle once or twice, and Rotha told Mary that he seemed to understand Belle's complaint thor- oughly; he had spoken most cheerfully to his patient, and had recommended them a great many pleasant walks and drives. Belle was to see Bishopstowe, and Babbicombe Bay, and Warren Hill, and Daddy Hole Common. She was to go out every fine morning and see all the objects of interest in Torquay. Rotha wrote amus- ing accounts of the trawling with long nets in Torbay, the walks they had in the Torwood Road, and their visit to the quaint little fishing-town of Brixham. Belle had a little pony-carriage, Rotha added, and was greatly interested by the novelty of everything around her. Mary used to read those letters to the Vicar with tears in her eyes. " Do you think she will get better, Austin 1 I have heard of people living for years and years with only one lung; and perhaps the other is not so much diseased as Mr. Greenock thought.7' But the Vicar only shook his head ; he noticed how Rotha's letters were filled with descriptions of scenery, and how little she said A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 403 about Belle herself. The doctor's visits were touched on very lightly ; she always spoke of Belle as being happier or brighter, but never once said that she was really better. One day the Vicar shut himself up in his study and wrote a long letter to Rotha, which she answered by return of post. But he never showed either the letter or the answer to Mary ; but for a long time afterwards he was very grave, and went about as though he had something heavy in his thoughts. Robert was in London just then on business connected with his firm, and it so happened that something very strange befell him there, of which Rotha was to hear shortly. One day, when they had been about three weeks at Torquay, and Rotha, in spite of the doctor's prognostications, was beginning to cheat herself into the belief that Belle was better, she was sitting in her own room, while Belle was having her noonday rest, when a large official-looking document in Robert's handwriting and the postmark London was put into her hands. She had not an idea what it contained, and was opening it listlessly enough, when she caught sight of a never-to-be-forgotten cramped handwriting, and a moment afterwards something lay sparkling at her feet. With a low cry she snatched it from the ground, and sank back half fainting into her seat. What is it that she devours with such hungry tears and kisses — which she presses alternately to jier bosom and her lips ? There is the ring that she placed on Garton's ringer, with the diamond cross that he kissed so reverentially, and the words " In hoc spero " traced round on the blue enamel ; and there on her lap lies the "message from the sea." Not for a long time — not until she has read it over and over through her blinding tears, not until she has found Robert's note and mastered its contents, is the bewildering mystery cleared up ; not until Meg has come to her aid and read it slowly and patiently again and again can she understand how it has come to her — out of the very shadow and blackness of death. And yet how clearly Robert explained it all ! "I am sending you something very precious," he wrote. " Heaven grant you may receive it safely. I am sending the very letter he was writing to you just before the terrible concussion took place — the very ink was wet, you can see, as he thrust it hurriedly into his bosom ; you can tell that by the half-obliterated words at the end. " How he gave the ring and letter with his last dying love, you must read in another man's words ; I have taken it down myself from his lips, just as he told it me, and remember he was the very 404 ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. man who saw our Gar die. Another time, when we meet, perhaps I will tell you by what strange chance I lighted on him in this great city ; and how, in a lonely coffee-house under the shadow of the mighty dome of St. Paul's, I heard word for word, as you have it here, how our poor Gar perished like the hero he was." Will she ever weary of the sweet perusal? She spreads the crumpled paper out again — blotted, half defaced with ink, and in some parts scarcely legible. She reads once and yet once again her " message from the sea." " My darling Rotha," it began, " I am sitting down in my cabin to write to you by the light of a very smoky lamp ; the rest of the passengers are just thinking of retiring to rest, and only the watch is on deck. Just now I went up to see what chance there was of our beating down the Channel to-morrow — for you will be surprised to hear that, though it is Sunday, we are only now anchored off Dungeness — but the pilot tells me that the wind is still ahead. We have had ill luck enough already to begin with : to think we are still here on anchorage, and it is Sunday evening. " But I have not sat down to complain, but just to let you know how things are going. I told you once that I was a bad hand at a letter, and I am afraid you will agree with me, for I do not think I have made much of a beginning, though I mean to send a little more than a message to Rube. " It is not more than five days since I said good-bye, but I feel as heavy-hearted as though it were five months. I know now what people mean by home-sickness, for I am just sickening for the sight of one dear face that is all the world to me. It is not always easy for a man to express what he feels. I have tried over and over again to tell you how much I loved you, but I never could ; and now I think that I shall die before you know what you are to me. " That is a strange sentence, and I do not know why I have written it; but it is Sunday evening, and my heart is just as heavy as lead. I cannot help feeling as though some great gulf lies between us. It may be because I have never been far away from home before that I am so low and miserable. " I have been thinking of you so much, my darling. I do not think you are ever out of my mind for a single minute. You do not know what a man's love is when he gives it all to one woman, as I have given it to you. I have often said to myself, ' She will never understand it, but if God grant that I ever make her my wife I think she will feel it then.' " Do you remember, sweet heart, my telling you that I was not clever, and how indignantly you assured me that such a thing A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 405 should never be mentioned in connection with you and me? I have blessed you for those words over and over again ; and yet, all the same, I am rejoiced to think that you are cleverer and better and wiser than I. Do you think I would have it otherwise 1 Only put your little hand in mine, E-otha — the little soft hand whose touch I remember still — and I think I can follow those dear feet wherever they climb. "Do you remember, too, my telling you that your love was not to be compared to mine, and that perhaps some day you might give me all you have in you to give ? Not for worlds would I have even that otherwise ; how could you misunderstand me so 1 The very thought of the treasures that yet are unwon only nerves me to yet stronger efforts. How could you, being what you are, Rotha, give all at once to such a one as I ? No ; dearly as you love me, you could not give me all. One day you shall tell me your thoughts, and I will try and understand them, and then per- haps I shall be able to tell you what I mean. " There is a little deaf-and-dumb boy on board, Rotha, that somehow reminds me of you. I suppose the eyes of most mutes are eloquent, but I have never seen any like this boy's. They are brown and soft, and have strange appealing looks in them, like a dumb animal's in pain. " You know my fancy for boys. This one has taken my fancy strongly. He is such an afflicted little creature, and without parents, and he and his mulatto nurse are bound like myself for Buenos Ayres ; on such a long journey we are sure to become well acquainted " (Ah, Gar ! on such a long journey ; ay, along the Valley of the Shadow of Death). "He takes to me already. You must tell Rube not to be jealous. Dear old Rube ! he must not have a boyish rival in my heart. To-day he sat beside me on the poop for hours, holding the lapel of my coat, and looking quite contented. Tell Rube his name is David ; but he will not be like the first David to me — who was, as one may say, the captive of my own bow and spear, for I suppose, humanly speaking, I saved his life. Dear lad ! he has rewarded me for it over and over again. " And tell him, with my love, that I hope he has forgiven me for not bidding him good-bye, and tell him to remember me in his prayers every night. There's a word, too, I might say to my torments, Guy and Rufus, but it is getting late, and I suppose I must turn in. " I shall finish this to-morrow ; but now God bless you, my own dear love — and — Then came some blurred unintelligible words, and then Death wrote Finis. 406 ROBERT OR&S ATONEMENT. Oh, how the girl wept and smiled over her treasure, and then, hiding it in her bosom, read in Robert's handwriting, traced boldly on the thin foreign paper, the sad particulars of Garton's death ! And this is what it said, taken down from the lips of the sailor, Richard Martin : — " I was seaman on that unfortunate Phoenix, sir, and have served under Captain Murray for, I should say, nigh upon five years, and, though I say it, a finer captain never commanded a finer vessel. " Well, the vessel that we left off Dungeness, with nothing but the masts standing up out of the water, left the London Docks about nine o'clock on Wednesday morning, bound for Buenos Ayres, and with, I should say, about three hundred souls on board, some of them belonging to a gang of navvies that were going out to work some contract, the rest of them saloon passengers and the crew. "But you don't want to put down a lot of sailor's yarn ; but just to tell that lady about the unfortunate man who put the letter and the ring in my hands when we had climbed up upon the pile of boats and were holding on together for dear life. Yes, sir, I quite understand you , and I hope you'll cut me short if I spin it out ; for, as sure as my name's Richard Martin, I'll tell that poor young lady all I know. " I recollect his coming on board with you, sir, for I was just hauling that coil of rope when he stepped across the gangway — a tall dark sort of a chap, with the cut of a parson about him, but a fine figure of a man too. " He was a civil sort of person — none of your fine gentlemen, who won't give a word to a rough seaman. He used always to say ' Good morning, mate,' and sometimes he would stop and have a bit of chat with me ; it seemed to cheer him up, for at other times he looked so down-hearted that I often said to myself * that young man has left his sweetheart,' for I kind of know how a man will carry on when he leaves a woman behind him. " I remember, too, that I got it into my head that he was going to be a parson. I thought so when he reproved two of my chums for swearing. I recollect him sitting down and talking to them in a simple hearty sort of way, and how when Joe Greene — he who had a widowed mother — slunk away fairly ashamed of himself he followed him and shook hands with him, and told him that he would be a fine fellow if he would break himself of that evil habit. That's Joe Greene, sir, that you saw alongside of me in the bar, and a more sobered chap I never set eyes on; as he should be, when he was saved out of all those poor drowning wretches. " There was a deaf-and-dumb child on board, under charge of A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 407 a mulatto nurse, going out to some relations who lived in Buenos Ayres ; and it was odd what a curious fancy that afflicted little creature seemed to take to that young gentleman. Joe Greene was pointing them both out to me that same day — it was Sunday, I remember — ' That's a simple sort of chap, Martin,' he says, ' to let that child sit alongside of him for hours like that.' I remem- ber his saying that now, though I made no sort of observation at the time. " But I am taking up your time, you will say, and I have not told you how it came about that we were lying at anchor so snugly on Sunday evening, when we had left the London Docks early on Wednesday morning. " Well, we ran down to Gravesend all right ; and then we found the wind dead against us, and had to lay by till Friday. On Friday we had middling weather, but the wind was still rising, so we towed down the Channel ; but the pilot passing word, we cast anchor off Dungeness. " Here we were snug enough, and, the watch being set, the rest of us turned in to our hammocks, and I for one was soon fast asleep. " Well, sir, all at once I was wakened by an awful crash, just as though it were the Day of Judgment, and every rock that was on the earth was rent to pieces ; and immediately afterwards I heard the captain sing out, ' All hands to the boats.' " Well, sir, I heard it afterwards from one of my mates, who saw it all from first to last, a great lubberly steamer had cut the Phoenix asunder amidships, and there was a big hole in the ship's quarter, which was letting in the English Channel on us. " It is all in the papers, and you don't want me to go over it again ; but I wish to say that nothing that the papers can say will give you an idea of the horrors of the scene. When I rushed up on deck it wasn't only the women who came swarming up the ladders shrieking fit to tear your heart to pieces, it was the men too, half-maddened by mortal terror, who crowded round the boats fighting for their very lives. "Well, sir, you've read it all; you know how that vessel sheered off regardless of our cries ; how the cannon would not go off, and we sent up rockets for no manner of good; and you know how our captain stood by the boats and tried to save the women. " Bless your life, sir, I did what I could, but it was like fight- ing with savages, and in the dark too : the wrong people got into the boats and could not be made to leave them; the men, the navvies especially, were like mad, and wouldn't obey orders. I 408 ROBERT ORD^S ATONEMENT. could see we were doomed, and the captain, he says to me, ' Martin, save yourself — you've got a wife and seven children ashore, but my place is here.' I wish the papers had said a little more about the captain, for if any one ever died at his post our captain did. " Well, Joe Greene and I were struggling at the boats between the main and mizzen masts, but bless your heart it was no manner of use, for we couldn't move them, and up comes that young gentleman you say was your brother, sir. ' The ship's going down very fast,' says he, and, seeing nothing for it, we three jumped on to the pile of boats. " Joe Greene, he splutters out, 'I wish some one would tell my poor old mother I was thinking of her now ;' and the gentleman, he says, holding out his hand, ' Martin,' he says, ' if you live to get on shore, and I hope with all my heart that you will, will you send this letter and this ring to the young lady % You'll see the direc- tion written inside;' but lor, sir, there was no direction at all. ' And tell her/ says he, with a sort of sob, ' that the thought of her is making me strong to die, and that even at this minute I am thinking of her and bidding God bless her with my latest breath.' " And I said, ' All right, mate, but hold on if you're a man, and we may be picked up after all ;' for he was a plucky sort of chap, and did not seem to be holding on at all. " Well, sir, he might have been saved like the rest of us, and that's the hardest part I am coming to, but that negro woman I told you of began howling and screaming, as indeed most of the other poor creatures were, and begging us to save the child. So the gentleman, he says, 'I can't stand this, Martin; give me a hand, my good fellow, I must go and fetch the child ;' and I said, * Not for worlds, mate. Don't leave these ere boats.' But he did not hear me, and just swung himself down, and I saw him lift the boy in his arms and try to get back to us. " You'll excuse me a moment, sir, but it makes even a rough seaman feel soft to think of a brave man caught in the net like that. ' Joe Greene,' he screamed out, and then I saw the sea rise to the level of the poop, and then the white foam seemed to sweep him away, with the child still clinging round his neck ; and I can't help thinking, sir, that somehow that little child will just lead him by the hand into the kingdom of heaven. " You don't want to know any more ; or how Joe Greene and I got hold of some rigging, and how we were picked off it by the lugger Betsy Jane ; or how I got up to London and saw you, sir, in this same coffee-house. But I hope you'll tell that young lady A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA. 409 that I've done my best by her, as sure as my name is Richard Martin." A postscript by Robert added, " I have seen Joe Greene, and he has confirmed Martin's account ; but I think it needs no com- ment on my part, save to say that to our brave Gar the words may surely be applied, * Inasmuch as ye did it even unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' And once more, c And a little child shall lead them.' " CHAPTER XXXVII. ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS " For me, my heart that erst did go, Most like a tired child at a show That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on his love repose Who giveth His beloved sleep. <( And friends, dear friends, when it shall be, That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, ' Not a tear o'er her must fall, He giveth His beloved sleep.'" E. B. BROWNING THREE weeks passed very quietly and smoothly with Botha and her charge. Belle had grown more reconciled to her banishment, and seemed to take interest in her new surroundings. The deli- cious balmy air, the pleasant drives, could not fail to soothe the poor invalid after her long and tedious confinement to the four walls of the Vicarage. There she had been afraid to pass even from one room to the other ; but here the sunshine and soft air tempted her to many a short stroll on Botha's supporting arm, while the very sight of the wild flowers, which even at this season of the year nestled in sheltered hollows, the long green lanes, the enchanting views, were sources of enjoyment to the weary eyes from which they had been so long debarred. True, her spirits were still variable, and there were times when the old sullen depression seemed to return with tenfold power, but these moods were rare. In general she was very patient, deeply grateful for any little attentions on Botha's part, and touched sometimes almost to emotion with the unfailing kindness with which Meg and she nursed her. But as it is with the flame of a candle as it gutters to its close before the feeble spark is extinguished, so was it with the treach- ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 411 erous disease to which Belle was slowly succumbing. From the first Dr. Vivian had held out no definite hopes of recovery, though he had once declared that Belle's youth and constitution were in her favour ; but since his second visit he had never repeated this. He had spoken very cheerfully to his patient, and even to Rotha, but it had struck the latter that his cheerfulness was forced, and that he kept his real opinion to himself; and very soon she was strengthened in this conviction, when she was sure that he looked upon Belle's case as entirely hopeless, and that his skill was merely directed to soothe and alleviate the few short weeks or months that still remained to her. It was very difficult to realise this sometimes when she looked at Belle. Never had Belle looked more lovely than now, when her cheeks were glowing with diseased colour, and her eyes brilliant with the fever that was wasting her so imperceptibly. But this condition of things could not last. On the day after Rotha had received her precious letter a sud- den and alarming change was apparent in the sick girl. All at once there was a decay of the vital powers ; the deep tight cough returned with increased violence, and emaciation set in ; exertion became impossible ; every moment brought on the laboured breath, the rapid pant ; a fainting-fit of long duration added to her nurse's anxiety. In a day or two Meg was obliged to lift her in her strong arms from her bed to her couch in the adjoining room ; at night her restlessness and suffering were so great that one or other remained in close attendance by Her side. After three or foui days of suspense and watching, Dr. Vivian told Rotha that every symptom of the most rapid decline had set in, and that it was impossible to say how long or how short a time she might linger. Under these circumstances Rotha wrote off to the Vicar and implored him to send Mary at once to her dying sister, and to communicate the bitter tidings to Robert ; but great was her con- sternation at receiving the Vicar's reply. In it he told her — and with what grief she might imagine for herself — that his dear wife was ill with an attack of pleurisy. She had caught cold one bitter day in going about her district, and had neglected to take proper precautions, and fretting about her sister had retarded her recovery. She had been confined to her bed some days when he wrote, but they had neither of them let Rotha know for fear of adding to her anxiety. Under these circumstances he had decided in keeping from Mary the knowledge of her sister's dangerous condition, at least for the present. He told Rotha, to her further grief, that Robert had been despatched to Glasgow on important business, which would detain him for the next four or five days, and that unless there were any immediate danger it would be extremely 412 ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. difficult to recall him ; but he charged Rotha to telegraph if any alarming change should take place. " It seems as though in becoming one of us," he concluded, "you have come into a larger share of trouble than of joy ; we are walking among the shadows now, Rotha, or it may be in the very fire of the furnace, and that seven times heated. Ah, well for us, my child, if amid its exceeding fierceness we may discern the form of One who walked before us in the fiery way, and know it as the form of the Son of God." The Vicar's letters, always so wise and tender, were Rotha's great comforts, and just now she needed something especially bracing to nerve her to the bitter duty that lay before her — that of acquainting Belle with her hopeless condition. She was only waiting for an opportunity, but it came soon. " Does Dr. Vivian say I am better, Rotha ?" asked Belle one day when the doctor had just been paying his morning visit. "Why do you ask, dear Belle?" returned Rotha, quickly averting her face from the invalid. " Because I think I feel so," replied the sick girl. " I have not coughed half so much this morning, and the pain has left me. You do not answer, Rotha ; you do not look at me. Does he — does he think me worse?" And Belle raised herself on her elbow and looked at Rotha anxiously. "He does not think you better," returned Rotha in a low voice. "Not better! — that means worse, of course. Come here, Rotha. Has Dr. Vivian said anything — anything that I ought to know 1 Oh, Rotha," with a sort of despair as she saw her face, "it is not that — it is not dying, is it T' And, as Rotha knelt down and folded her silently in her arms, she repeated in a frightened voice, " Do not tell me — I cannot bear it — that I have got to die yet." "Dear Belle, try and say 'His will be done;' it is the only thing that can make it easy." " I cannot," repeated Belle in a choked voice, " I cannot — it would be a falsehood to say it. What have I done that it should all be made so hard for me ? Just as I was beginning to hope too that I was getting better, and it was only those dreadful winds that were killing me." "I thought you knew it," returned Rotha gently. "You seemed as though you did when you said good-bye to them all." " Knew it ! Of course I always knew it. Did I not always say I was doomed ? But it does not make it easier when it comes. I wanted a little longer time to get used to the idea — to — Oh, ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 413 Rotha, it is not the knowing of it — that was long ago ; it is the terror, the awfulness of approaching dissolution — the — the — oh, I cannot talk of it." And, overwhelmed by her emotion, the un- happy girl clasped her wasted arms round Rotha and held her fast. " Oh, Belle, this is dreadful ! Heavenly Father, what am I to say to her? Help me to comfort her," prayed Rotha, with streaming eyes. Then aloud, " Oh, if the Vicar were only here — if you would see a clergyman !" But Belle shook her head. " It would be no use, Rotha j it is not that. I suppose I have gone to church oftener than most people. You forget I have Jived in a clergyman's house many years, and that Austin has often talked to me, but I never would open my heart to any of them, it is not in me. You may send any one you choose, but you must not ask me to confide in a stranger." And Rotha, knowing her strange wayward nature, dared not press the point. " If Robert were only here," began Belle presently, in calmer tones, " I think he would do me good. No clergyman could be better than Robert ; you have no idea how beautifully he talks. Oh, Rotha, there it is — the sin and the stumbling-block. I have made Robert my idol, and now God is punishing me for it." " ' Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,' " returned Rotha, using unconsciously the Vicar's words. " Whom He leveth, yes ; but is it not idolatry all through the Bible that He condemns 1 Listen £o me, Rotha. You shall hear what I have never told any one before — not even him. For six years — it is nearly six, is it not, since he first saw me at the Vicarage ? — all that time I have never had a thought apart from him — never once — never once." " Dear Belle, you could not help it, I suppose." " No, I could not help it ; you would have said so if you had seen him then. You can hardly judge now, he is so different, and he has shown you nothing but his faults. But if you had seen him as I have, admired, beloved, sunny-hearted and radiant with happiness, I think you would not recognise my Bertie in the care- worn Robert you know." "I can believe it ; there are traces of it still. I think you will bear me witness that I have always done justice to his nobler qualities." "Ah, he was always noble, but he is not what he was — poor Robert ! — when he gave it all up for me — for me " — and for a moment a mournful smile passed over the sunken face — " when he told me he would rather have me than all his aunt's riches. But my beauty faded, Rotha, and he grew warped and weary, and then 414 ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT. he began to misunderstand me and doubt my love ; and at last it was all doubt and wretchedness." " My poor girl ! But hush, this is doing you harm." For the hard heavy pants interrupted her every word. But Belle per- sisted. "Let me, I cannot often talk, and anything is better than thinking — even this," as the distressing cough rung its hollow knell. " I sometimes think I am not so much to blame after all ; for if he had let me do what I wished — earn my own living, I mean — I should not have lived all those years dwelling on one idea, and growing morbid over my very love ; and then I began to be afraid I should tire him." "Belle, dear, it is all over now." " Ah, it was all over for me a long time ago — what I have gone through since I knew first that I should never be his wife, never make him happy — that I was doomed — doomed " And Belle covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly. It was a terrible trial to Rotha, and one which the girl with her lifelong habits of submission and her simple faith could hardly understand. " Oh, Belle ! it is not like that — it is like going home," she said presently, when Belle, exhausted but unconvinced, had required comparative calmness ; " when the Master calls, Belle, it is hard the children are not ready." " I am not ready," returned Belle, with a shiver. " From a child I have dreaded death — and I dread it now. Oh, Rotha, what can you say to comfort me when you know you would not be in my place for worlds 1 " It was the first time that she had seen Rotha break down, but she broke down utterly now. " Oh, would I not ? Gar ! would I not 1 Oh, the pain and trouble of life," she moaned ; "the pain, and the loss, and the trouble." And for a little while she could only hide her face in Belle's pillow. This was the beginning of many a sad hour, and many a terrible conflict, before the tormenting spirit had been cast out, and Belle lay upon her bed, white and weary, worn to a shadow, but peaceful as a little child ; and it came to her in this wise. One night when she was unusually restless, and her few words only testified to the sore disquietude of her mind, Rotha sat down by her side and read to her the last two chapters of Revelations, thinking the glowing descriptions of the city with its golden streets and gates of pearl might soothe the tortured imagination of the poor sufferer ; but Belle only listened with contracted brow, and, when Rotha had finished, she said : " It does me no good — it makes me worse. All the time you ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS. 415 have been reading I have been thinking of the shining streets, and the white-robed multitude that no man can number walking up and down them. But I don't see myself there, Rotha." She paused, and then, impeded by her broken breath, went on : " That is all glory, but unattainable glory, it seems to me. There are the river and the dark mountains to pass first — and oh," panted the dying girl, " why have the greatest saints prayed so earnestly for the gift of final perseverance if there be no conflict, no terrible struggle at the last ? " " Oh, Belle," cried Rotha, with a pity that amounted almost to agony, "what is the meaning of faith if we cannot trust Him then ? " For it seemed to her as though Belle's stern and mystical religion had become strongly imbued with the gloomy notions of the Calvinists. "These doubts and terrors are infirmities, not sins; nay, did not even He, the Sinless One, in His human nature, shrink from the mysterious hour of His dissolution?" And then, turning to another page, she read the story of Geth- semane, and how, under the gray olive trees, the God-Man wrestled in the bloody sweat of His most bitter passion ; how He drank even to the dregs all the concentrated pain and terror that humanity could feel. " The cup that my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ? " Then she closed the sacred volume and laid it aside. But long after Belle had fallen, into an uneasy slumber did Rotha, on her bended knees, pray that the dark hour might cease, and the weary heart find its true rest. Never had she prayed so passionately, so urgently; and, when she rose at last from her knees, it was with the peaceful assurance that she would be heard and answered. Belle slept at intervals through the night, but nothing passed between them till the following afternoon. Belle was very quiet, and unusually silent, but every now and then her eyes rested on Rotha with a strange wistful expression, and when Meg left them together once she beckoned her to come close. "Closer, dear Rotha. I am very weak to-day, and I think the end is not so very far off. Rotha, I want to ask you something. Were you praying for me last night ? " Rotha pressed her hand, but did not answer. "I knew you were, dear — I felt it. Ah, Rotha, it is all gone." " What is gone, dear Belle 1 " " The fear of death, the trouble and the misery. I can see clearly — oh, so clearly ! — and I know now that He is good. It came to me in a dream — nay, a vision rather. You do not mind 416 ROBERT OR&S ATONEMENT. 