Part 13

Elsa, who had caught a word or two now and then, as she sat silently supporting her sleeping sister, flashed a radiant look at Monica, which was acknowledged by a loving little smile; and the young girl's heart was almost overwhelmed with joy at this fresh answer to prayer.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*"I EXPECT IT WILL BE RATHER SLOW AND--POKEY!"*

Olive, whose nervous system had received a severe shock, did not regain her usual strength for some days, and in accordance with the doctor's advice (for Mrs. Beauchamp had hastily sent for a medical man) was compelled to take things very quietly during the remainder of their stay at Sandyshore.

It was quite a new experience for the high-spirited, romping girl to be cut off from the pursuits that they had all been accustomed to, and a not altogether pleasant one. But at first she felt totally unable to join Monica and Elsa at their bathing or tennis, and was only too glad to lie in a deck chair on the sands, and watch the others engaged in active exercise which she seemed to have lost the courage to enter into.

It was a very quiet Olive who was Mrs. Beauchamp's companion during those days, and but for the doctor's assurance that she would soon recover her usual robust health, both the old lady and Mrs. Drury would have been very anxious about her. As it was, they all strove to cheer and amuse her, as much as possible, and Monica and Elsa were untiring in their devotion. They never alluded to the episode on Gullane Cliffs in her hearing, as any reference to it seemed to revive the old, nervous fear which had seized her at the time; but they often found her looking with a sort of fascinated, and yet awestruck intentness, at the white cliffs in the distance, which closely resembled those beyond the lighthouse.

One day Olive broke through the reserve herself. Monica, who had been bathing, was sitting beside her, her hair hanging dank and loose about her shoulders, in order that the sun might dry it.

"Monica," she said, "you none of you ever say a word about _that day_, but I am always thinking of it.

"Then I should begin to forget it at once," was the brusque reply. "It is all over and done with, and there is no need for _you_ to remember 'that day,' as you call it, any more. As for me, I do not wish ever to forget it." And a happy smile overspread Monica's sunburnt face.

"Oh, I know," interposed Olive hastily, who was afraid her friend would open up the subject which she dreaded. "But even when I sleep, I always seem to feel myself slipping down, down, down; and I only stop when I wake. Oh, it is an awful feeling!" And the girl shuddered convulsively.

"I am sure you could forget it if you made an effort to," was Monica's apparently unfeeling reply. But she had overheard the doctor saying something similar, and, to her strong-minded nature, Olive's fancy seemed ridiculous. "You will never be well until you do."

Whether Monica's sensible advice had any effect upon Olive, or whether she really was on the mend already, it would be difficult to say, but, at any rate, it was noticeable that from about that time the improvement in her was very marked indeed, and by the time their return to Osmington drew near, she had become practically herself again. Mrs. Beauchamp was extremely glad, as she would have been very sorry for either of her charges to have gone home the worse, rather than the better, for the holiday.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Amethyst dolefully, as the quartette ensconced themselves for the last time in one of their favourite nooks, on a grassy slope overlooking the bay--"oh, dear! I _am_ sorry to be going home."

"So am I!" echoed the others, and Elsa added, "Except that it will be just lovely to see mamma again."

"If it weren't for all of them at home," put in Olive, "I should like to stay until school begins."

"We should find it rather dull," said Monica; "there would be no one left but us, for the Drurys would be gone. I miss the Herschels already, although they only went yesterday."

"You got so awfully friendly with them after the picnic," retorted Olive.

"We all liked them," interposed Elsa, for she saw a little flush upon Monica's cheek. "I think Miss Herschel was a dear; but, of course, she would naturally be most friendly with Monica, because she is the eldest of us!"

A grateful little squeeze told Elsa that Monica was pleased with her for championing her cause, as she said softly, with far-seeing eyes, "I shall always be thankful that I have known the Herschels, even if I never see them again. They have helped me a great deal."

Olive, fearful lest the conversation should drift in a direction she would fain shun, interrupted the silence that had fallen upon them, by saying hurriedly, and with apparent enthusiasm: "I say, girls, what about that missionary meeting we are invited to? When is it?"

"To-morrow afternoon."

"Shall we go? I expect it will be rather slow and--pokey."

"Why should it?" queried Monica, who was continually finding herself differing from her friend, now-a-days.

"Oh, I don't know why, I'm sure; but missionary meetings are always dull affairs. They read long reports, you know, and tell silly little tales about goody-goody children, who would a hundred times rather put the one, and only, penny they possess in a missionary box, than spend it on themselves." And the girl laughed satirically.

"Oh, Olive!" expostulated Elsa, while Amethyst opened her eyes to their widest proportions.

"Well, _I_ am going, anyhow," said Monica decisively, for whom, since she had been influenced by Leslie Herschel, every thing of a missionary nature had great attractions. "It will be my first experience of a missionary meeting, so I am going to find out what it's like."

"So am I," echoed Elsa and Amethyst, and Olive was obliged to fall in with the general opinion, as she did not care about being left out.

The meeting, to which the quartette, as well as many other girls among the visitors, had been invited a few days previously, had been kindly arranged by a lady living in Sandyshore, and was to be held on her beautiful lawn the next afternoon. Only girls, of all ages, had received invitations, and no grown-up people were expected to be present.

When the appointed time came, the hostess, a dear old lady of seventy or more, whose heart, home, and purse were devoted to the cause of spreading the gospel news, welcomed her young guests as they arrived, and three, at any rate, of our party felt their hearts go out to her as her kindly smile and gentle words greeted them. Olive, who felt belligerent, prided herself on not being so easily won.

They found quite a number of girls, most of whom they knew well by sight, from continual meetings on the sands or tennis-courts, already seated on the chairs which had been carefully placed in a shady portion of the lawn, and slipping into some empty places, they waited for further developments.

Two ladies, standing under a pretty rose-covered verandah, were engaged in conversation near a little table strewn with various books and pamphlets; another had just taken her seat before a small harmonium, while yet a fourth was handing round hymn-sheets.

"Which do you suppose is the speaker?" whispered Monica to Elsa, who was next to her, "the lady in the nurse's uniform, or the one in black?"

"I can't tell, they both look so nice. The tall, dark one in mourning looks clever; but I almost hope it will be the other, she looks so sweetly pretty." And both girls looked admiringly at the fair, healthy, girlish face framed in its dark blue bonnet.

Soon a hymn was given out, in which the twenty-five or thirty girls joined somewhat shyly at first; this sort of meeting was an unusual experience for the majority of them. But the easily caught-up tune, sung so heartily by the lady helpers, inspired them, and by the time the last verse was reached quite a volume of sound rose from the youthful audience.

After a short, informal prayer, by the elder of the two ladies, which was a revelation to Monica, who had never heard a woman's voice uplifted in extempore prayer before, the girls sang another hymn; and then, after a few explanatory words from the same lady, who they discovered was a daughter of their hostess, the nurse stepped forward, and began to speak in clear, ringing tones, which could be heard all over the lawn, and which secured the attention of all.

"I was so very pleased," she began, "when Mrs. Murray asked me if I would have a little 'talk' with some girl-friends of hers one afternoon while I was staying with her for a few days in this delightful place. And I will tell you why. First, because I love English girls; second, because I love Chinese girls; and third, because I long to get the former to become interested in their sisters with a pig-tail, in that far-off land, behind the Great Wall.

"So now, while we are all here together, I want you to listen while I tell you something of my work for the last five years in China, and then I will try to show you what you can do, _if you will_, to help make the lives of Chinese girls brighter and happier. First and foremost, I must start by saying that girls are thought little or nothing of in China; they are _not wanted_. And, although it is not really allowed, in one way or another nearly one-half of all the baby girls who are born in China are either drowned, or murdered, or what is even worse, buried alive directly they are born! And when I tell you that out of every three people in the whole world one is born in China, you can guess something of how many there are. It made my heart ache, often and often, to be in the midst of such dreadful cruelty; and yet we must not altogether blame the Chinese, for they do not know that our Heavenly Father values girls just as much as He does boys, and is grieved when they are ill-treated.

"But though it is sad to think of the little babies dying, they are really better off than many of the little girls who are left to grow up. For there is a cruel custom in China of squeezing the feet of little girls up tight, by means of a bandage--so"--and Hope Daverel picked up a strip of calico, and deftly bound up her left hand to illustrate her words--"until it hurts most dreadfully. Of course, the little girl cries with the pain, but no one pities her, and in a few days it is unbound, and done up tighter still. Sometimes a mother will take a big stick to bed with her, in order to beat the child if she screams with the awful pain. I wonder how _you_ would like that?"

The young missionary paused a moment, and looked down enquiringly into the young faces before her, which expressed horror at the recital of China's woes.

"Well, the poor feet have to go on being squeezed smaller and smaller, until after about two years they are considered small enough to be pretty! Oh! girls, you who love pretty things, think of it an ugly lump, without any shape, tiny enough to totter about in shoes like this," and Miss Daverel held up a wee Chinese shoe. "This is a full-sized shoe for a lady, and it only measures two inches and a half! This pair has been actually worn by a woman belonging to one of my classes, and she gave them to me on purpose to bring home and show to you. A girl's chances of getting married depend entirely upon the smallness of her feet: they do not trouble at all about whether she is clever, or handsome or good. And she is married, often, as young as six months old! and is taken away from her own mother, to go and live with the mother of the little boy, or lad, who is her husband. It is difficult for you English girls to imagine such a state of affairs; but unless you know _something_ about them, you cannot do much towards helping your Chinese sisters. Once they are married, the poor girls have a very, very dull life, if they are fortunate enough to escape ill-treatment from their husbands. One of the first questions asked by the Chinese ladies whom I go to visit, in their dim, cheerless rooms at the back of the house, is 'Does your husband beat you?' and when I shake my head and say I am not married, they look astounded, and say: '_So_ old, and no husband!'

"But sad as their lives are, their fear of what comes after death is far more sad. The women are taught that there is no heaven for them, and all that the very best of them can look forward to is that, after numbers of future lives spent in torment, they _may_ be born again into this world as a little boy! And they are so afraid of evil spirits, who they think are constantly on the look-out to do them untold harm: they even call the boys by girls' names, so that they may not be thought _worth_ harming! and when the poor creatures die, as the funeral procession goes along the road, imitation money made in paper like this" (and the speaker held up samples) "is scattered about, to propitiate any evil spirits that may be near; while clothes, money, and various other things, all made in paper, are burned at the grave side, in order that the dead person may have them to use in the other world. And that sort of thing is continually being done before what they call ancestral tablets, or at the graves of relations who have died, lest the spirits of the departed should come back to earth and trouble those that are living. Millions of pounds are spent every year, in that way alone.

"Is it not all terribly sad? I am sure that you agree with me that it is, and are wishing that you knew of some way to help. Well, I will tell you; there are many things you might do. I suppose that most of you elder girls go to school; when you meet your school-friends again, you can pass on to them what I have told you this afternoon; and perhaps you could gather some of them together to dress dolls, or make little presents such as we missionaries love to be able to give to the children and girls who attend our schools, or come to us for medicine. A little gift from England is _such_ a treasure; it would repay you for any self-denial it may cost, if you could only see the delight on the poor, little, dull faces, when they catch sight of the doll, or the pair of bright knitted cuffs, or the little cotton-box, that the _guniong_, as they call us, is going to give them. And besides that, you can give some of your pocket-money: those pence and shillings which it is _so_ easy to fritter away on mere nothings, and things which do not last. Oh! girls, which do you think you will value _most_ in the great day of reckoning which is coming, the sweets you have eaten, the grand collection of picture post-cards you were so eager to get, or the Master's 'Well done!' which will surely be spoken to those who have denied themselves for His sake?

"But working and giving are not everything--there is praying. And if, as I do hope, there are some here who have found a precious Friend in Jesus for themselves, will you not pray that your Chinese sisters may find Him too? There are millions of them who have never heard His name, even _once_, yet; and they are dying _so_ fast, without God, and without hope. So I am praying that He will touch some of the girls' hearts here this afternoon, and fill them with an intense longing to go and bear His message, in the years to come, to the women and girls in far-off China.

"Now shall we sing a hymn, so simple that even the smallest can understand it, and will you try to mean every word?" And soon, girlish voices were singing, with real earnestness,

The fields are all white, And the reapers are few; We children are willing, But what can we do To work for our Lord in His harvest?

Our hands are so small, And our words are so weak, We cannot teach others; How then shall we seek To work for our Lord in His harvest?

We'll work by our prayers, By the gifts we can bring, By small self-denials; The least little thing May work for our Lord in His harvest.

Until, by-and-by, As the years pass, at length We, too, may be reapers, And go forth in strength To work for our Lord in His harvest.

Just a few solemn words of prayer followed, in which Miss Daverel asked that her young hearers might realise the need of the heathen, and with God's help seek to do their part towards satisfying it; and then the meeting ended.

While tea was being handed round by Mrs. Murray's maids, Miss Daverel, who had noted Monica's rapt attention, drew her aside, and after a few whispered words, she and a little maiden of not much over six accompanied the missionary indoors, to reappear in a few minutes in Chinese costume.

"Oh!" cried the girls, as first one and then another discovered what appeared to be a Chinese lady and her little girl coming across the lawn towards them, and they all crowded round, while Hope Daverel showed them the beautifully embroidered red satin coat and kilted skirt, such as the wife of a mandarin or high official would wear, and which Monica's tall figure showed off to advantage. They all laughed merrily at the quaint little object in mauve and yellow jacket and _trousers_, who, they were told, looked just like a little Chinese girl, with the exception of her hair and feet.

Tea over, all the girls were given magazines or little booklets about missionary work, and Miss Daverel showed them samples of all sorts of nice easy things that are valued so much as gifts, not only in China, but in all parts of the mission field; and she gladly promised to send all particulars (and a missionary box!) to any or every girl who would write to her, and tell her that she had found some others to help her, and they wanted to start working.

"I say, girls, we'll make some things, won't we, when we get back?" said Monica, as the quartette wended their way homewards.

"Oh, yes!" cried Amethyst and Elsa, simultaneously; and if Olive said nothing, her voice was not missed. "And we'll get a lot of the High School girls to join us."

"I wish Miss Daverel lived at Osmington," said Elsa wistfully; "she would show us just what to do."

"Oh, she is wanted in China," was Monica's decisive reply; "she can't possibly be spared from there. I daresay we shall be able to make the things by her directions, and we'll send them to her to give away."

"Mother will help, I'm sure," said Amethyst.

"And Lois, too," added Elsa; "she cuts out splendidly, and makes the stuff go ever so far, because she fits everything in so well."

"It is evident we must begin to save up our pocket-money," said Monica, "because there will be a lot of things to buy, and we want to give it all ourselves, don't we, girls?"

And again, in the eager assent that Monica's words called forth, if one voice was silent, it passed unnoticed.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*"YOU TELL THEM, LOIS; I COULDN'T."*

"There is not likely to be any letter for us, this morning, as we are going home to-morrow," said Elsa, the next morning, as the girls stood in the bay window, watching the postman delivering his missives at practically every house in the steep road which led up to Rocklands. They usually filled up the few minutes before breakfast, while waiting for Mrs. Beauchamp's appearance, in this way.

"I hardly expect there will be one for any of us," said Monica, "unless there should be one from dad forwarded on."

"He's coming in our gate," said Olive; and a few seconds later a maid entered, with one solitary letter on a salver.

"For Mrs. Beauchamp, miss."

"Very well, Ada;" and the girl withdrew, as Mrs. Beauchamp entered.

"Only one letter for you, grannie." Somehow, Monica had slipped into the way of calling her grandmother thus, lately, and the shortened form was by no means unpleasant to Mrs. Beauchamp.

"Just cut it open for me, Elsa, my dear," said the old lady to her "little right hand," as she called her; "while I pour out the coffee."

And Elsa, preparing to do as she was asked, picked up the letter. But as she did so, she observed the writing, and with wonder in her tones, she exclaimed: "I think it must be from Lois!" and she cut it open hastily, a nameless fear taking possession of her.

"Thank you, my dear, I will see what it says," said Mrs. Beauchamp, as she adjusted her pince-nez; "possibly it is some arrangement about your return home." She spoke quietly, but she felt otherwise, for she, too, had a presentiment of impending trouble. With eyes which seemed ready to devour her, Elsa watched Mrs. Beauchamp's face, while she hastily scanned the short letter, and something in its expression made her heart beat with great thumps.

"Mamma!" she faltered, with trembling lips, and even Olive and Monica held their breath while they waited for Mrs. Beauchamp's answer.

"Don't be frightened, dear," she said kindly; "it certainly is about your mother, who is not quite so well. But your father thinks there is nothing to be alarmed at, and hopes she will be as well as usual by the time you reach home to-morrow."

"Are you sure that is quite all?" Elsa whispered, in a voice hoarse with emotion; she loved her mother so intensely that she could not bear the thought of her being worse than her usual invalid condition.

"Quite, my dear; you may read it, both of you," and the twins found nothing different in the few sentences the letter contained.

"I wish we were going home to-day," murmured Elsa wistfully, while tears trembled on her long, dark lashes.

"Nonsense, Elsa!" said Olive, a touch of impatience in her voice; really a sign that she was troubled, too. "I don't suppose that mamma is very much worse than usual, only Lois croaks so."

But Elsa, although she said no more, did not feel comforted; and Mrs. Beauchamp and Monica stole furtive glances at the sad, downcast face of the gentle, loving girl, who had endeared herself to both of them.

Breakfast was a quiet meal, and all were glad when it was ended, although the bright sunshine seemed suddenly clouded over, and the girls' interest in the various amusements they had planned for their last day at Sandyshore had vanished.

They were in their bedrooms, getting ready for a morning on the sands, when a double knock was heard upon the open front door, and poor Elsa grew white as death.

"Oh, Olive, perhaps it's a telegram!" she gasped.

"What a grizzler you are, Elsa!" said Olive, not really unkindly, for she was very fond of her mother, too, though in a totally different fashion from Elsa; "probably it's only the butcher or greengrocer."

But Barnes, with alarm on her face, came to summon the twins, and Elsa knew that her foreboding was true, even before she saw the fateful pink paper in Mrs. Beauchamp's trembling fingers.

"Oh, don't say she's--dead!" wailed Elsa, as she crossed the room; and Olive shuddered convulsively.

"No, no, my dears," said the old lady; "no, no, not that; only very ill, and your father wants you home at once."

"Oh, my dear mamma, my darling mamma!" sobbed Elsa pitifully, as she clung to Mrs. Beauchamp; while Olive, with horror-stricken face and dry eyes, read the few words of the telegram, which ran thus--

"Mother very ill: girls to come home with all possible speed."

"Oh, I wish I'd never left her! I don't believe I'll ever see her again," wailed Elsa, in such heart-broken, pitiful tones, that Monica begged her to try not to cry so, and whispered words of comfort.

"How soon could we go, Mrs. Beauchamp?" Olive said, in a strained, unnatural voice.

"There is a train at eleven," said Monica, who had been studying the time-table, "a very quick one, which arrives at Osmington by one-thirty. The Drurys go home to-day," she added, "but not until the three-fifteen train."