Part 17

"I am afraid there is no fear of that, grannie!" and Monica laughed merrily. "I am far too big a dunce. Little Thistle will do the best of us all, I expect, but Elsa and Olive have to work hard, because they must earn their living when they leave school. Olive wants to go in for art, she says; and she is so clever at drawing I expect she will get on."

"H'm! it's a pity she hasn't a fancy for cooking or washing," said the old lady bluntly; "either of those occupations would be more likely to provide her with food and clothing than dabbling about with messy paints. I expect my little Elsa is far more sensible, and means to be a home-bird."

"No, grannie, she will have to do something; for Miss Franklyn can manage all the housekeeping. I _think_ Elsa hopes some day that she might be a nurse in a children's hospital, but she has not said anything about it lately."

"Sensible girl. Now get the book, Monica, and we will have some reading."

It was not until the twins' birthday that Monica realised what all her grandmother's questions were aiming at, and then she understood!

"What time do the girls come, Monica," asked Mrs. Beauchamp, as they sat longer than usual over their breakfast, there being no need to hurry, for Saturday was a whole holiday.

Monica looked up in surprise, for it had been all arranged before that the Franklyns should come at eleven, and remain the whole day at Carson Rise, in order that their birthday might not be spent among surroundings which would remind them continually of their loss. Amethyst Drury had been invited, too.

"At eleven, granny."

"Oh, yes, of course. How are you going to amuse yourselves, Monica?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, grannie; we might get a game of croquet-golf, or tennis, if the grass is dry enough." And Monica looked critically out upon the beautiful lawn, which was the pride of the gardener's heart.

"I have secured a new 'amusement' for you," said Mrs. Beauchamp, her eyes twinkling with fun. "I was going to say 'game,' but it is hardly that."

"What can it be? Not badminton?" queried Monica, all excitement.

"No, not badminton," repeated her grandmother, with a smile. "I hardly think you will guess, so as soon as you have finished breakfast we will go and see it."

"I finished ages ago," said Monica, as she pushed back her chair with alacrity; "I am curious, grannie." And she slipped her arm through the old lady's (a favourite habit nowadays), and they went together to a large summer-house where the croquet and tennis sets were kept.

"Is it a small game, or whatever you call it, grannie?"

"Not very small," was the amused reply, "but here we are, and you can judge for yourself."

She fitted a key in the lock, and opened the door, and Monica gazed in utter astonishment at what she saw; for, resting on its own stand in the middle of the quaint, octagonal summer-house, was a beautiful, perfectly new bicycle!

"Oh, grannie!" Only an exclamation, but who can describe all that was contained in those two words? and Monica almost squeezed the breath out of the old lady's body with the energy with which she hugged her.

"There, there, that will do, Monica; don't quite strangle me," protested Mrs. Beauchamp; but all the same, she keenly enjoyed her grandchild's unqualified delight. "Do you like it?" she added, as Monica examined and admired the bicycle to her heart's content.

"I can't _think_ why you have given it to me, grannie!" was the answer, if answer it could be called.

And Mrs. Beauchamp said she would find the reason inside the little basket fastened to the handle-bars.

The old lady turned away, and pretended to look out of one of the little coloured glass windows, while Monica read the few words on a tiny card which she found:--

"For an unselfish girl, from her loving GRANNIE."

A lump rose in Monica's throat as she stepped across the little summer-house and bent down and kissed the face which only a few short months ago she had thought so stern and unlovable. _How_ different everything was nowadays!

"I didn't do it for a reward, grannie dear," she whispered. "I never dreamt of such a thing. I _quite_ gave up all thought of the bicycle when I chose the five pounds."

"I know you did, my child," replied the old lady, while she furtively wiped her eyes, which were suspiciously moist, although she was smiling now; "but you see, _I_ didn't! And as I knew nothing about these things, I took Mr. Bertram into my confidence, and told him to choose just the right kind and size; and I should think he has done his work very well. Now you will have something to amuse your friends with, to-day."

"We shall have to take great care not to knock it about," said Monica.

"Ah! that reminds me: Mr. Bertram advised your learning to ride on an old one first, so I have ordered Brown's to send a man over with one from Osmington this morning, and if you like to spend a little time in having a lesson, he can stay. I daresay the girls would find it amusing."

"To see me tumble off, grannie?" cried Monica merrily.

"Well, don't hurt your ankle again, or anything else," cautioned her grandmother; "I should prefer to hand you over whole to your father when he comes."

The next hour passed quickly, and then the Franklyns and Amethyst arrived.

Monica, all excitement, took them straight to the summer-house, not noticing, in her eagerness, that her friends seemed quite as excited as herself. But they no sooner saw the bicycle than Olive, who could contain herself no longer, exclaimed: "It's _exactly_ the same!" and then it was Monica's turn to look puzzled.

However, the mystery was soon cleared up, as she learnt that there had been a great surprise at the doctor's that morning, too; a bicycle, the exact counterpart of Monica's, having been delivered there addressed to, "The Misses Elsa and Olive Franklyn"; and a little note attached to it stated that it was a birthday gift to the twins, with love and best wishes from Mrs. Beauchamp.

"How splendid of grannie!" cried Monica enthusiastically; "now we shall have some lovely rides together."

"Won't it be jolly?" said Olive, who was beside herself with pleasure, and Elsa's quietly happy face was good to see.

"Poor Thistle, you are the only one left out! Never mind, you shall use mine sometimes," Monica said, suddenly remembering that this new departure would make Amethyst feel rather out of it.

She was delighted when Amethyst replied with glee: "But I am going to have one of my own very soon. Father promised me he would get me one this autumn, and he said the other day he had seen one which was just what he liked, only a little too big for me, so he has ordered a smaller-sized one. I meant to have given you _such_ a surprise."

"I think it's all surprises nowadays," said Monica; "how little any of us dreamt last half-term holiday that we should all be riding our own bicycles before the next one arrived!"

"We wanted to bring ours up to show you," put in Elsa, "but Mrs. Beauchamp, in her note, asked us not to. We were dreadfully afraid that perhaps she didn't want you to know, Monica. But that isn't like her, and it wouldn't have been any pleasure if we couldn't tell you."

"I should think not! Dear old grannie, I can guess why she said that. A man from Osmington is coming up this morning to give us some lessons on an old one. Why, there he is, and grannie too!"

All four girls crossed the lawn, and while the twins were trying in vain to express to Mrs. Beauchamp the delight that her handsome present had given them, Monica and Amethyst spoke to the man, and inspected the bicycle he had brought, and which Jack was sniffing suspiciously.

The greater part of the day, first with the teacher, and afterwards with only each other to hold the machine up, was spent on the wide, straight drive, which was a charming place to practise upon. And if the quartette were _all_ quite tired out as they bade each other "good-bye," they were all agreed that it was well worth it, to be able to balance themselves and even go a few yards without assistance!

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*"I THINK MY MONICA DESERVES THE V.C."*

The autumn term sped swiftly away. In addition to the school work, which required a great deal of persevering effort to do as well as the quartette aimed at doing theirs that term, Elsa had her music, and Olive attended a school of art for extra lessons in drawing and sepia.

Amethyst, who, as yet, evinced no great talent for any accomplishments, so-called, had a little more spare time than the others, and was therefore able to go occasionally with her mother to visit some of her poor old, or invalid, folk. These visits were a great interest to Amethyst, who had a kind and pitying little heart for sorrow and suffering, and Mrs. Drury wisely encouraged her little daughter to sing, or repeat a few comforting texts to the sad, or lonely, or suffering, as the case might be. Poor old Mrs. Robbins had long since gone to the "City bright" of which Amethyst had sung to her; but in the crowded and squalid streets of the poorer part of St. Paul's parish there were many more who needed temporal as well as spiritual help.

Once, Mrs. Drury took her with her to see Mrs. Hodges, whose cottage was on the Disbrowe estate, and as Amethyst entered the little garden gate, the only occasion on which she had ever been there before recurred vividly to her mind.

"I wonder whether that little old woman is still here, mumsie," she said.

"Hardly likely, dear, but you will soon hear."

It transpired that Granny Wood was there, circumstances having caused her to make her home with her daughter, and the dear old soul, now quite a prisoner through rheumatism to her chair by the fireside, was delighted to see one of the "little missies," of whom, as her daughter explained, she was never tired of talking.

"They was angels without wings to me, that day, ma'am," the old granny asserted; "little missy here, and her friend. But them other two--well, there, I won't say all I thinks! My darter says I ain't no business to bear malice, an' me a Christian body, but I owes this last illness o' mine to that there bouncin' h'animal." And the wrinkled old face looked as nearly cross as it was possible for her apple-cheeks and faded blue eyes to manage.

Amethyst looked subdued, and Mrs. Drury hastened to explain that she was sure the girls had not meant to be really unkind, and that both of them had learnt since what suffering meant, and she went on to tell of the death of Olive's mother.

"Dear, dear; poor lamb!" ejaculated Granny Wood, commiseratingly, all her animosity gone; "to think o' that now, and me a-grumblin' at 'er an' all."

"And Monica Beauchamp, the other one, you know," put in Amethyst, "she is quite different now. She tries to be kind to everybody, because Jesus was always kind."

"Praise the Lord, missy," cried the old woman, in quavering tones; "then I'll never say aught agin' either of 'em again; but I'll just keep on asking the Almighty to bless every one of you, and make you all blessings every day of your lives."

Amethyst and her mother walked home rather silently, until they reached the spot where the bicycle accident had happened that memorable afternoon.

"It must have been just here," said the little girl, as they passed the place. "I remember Olive saying the motor was pulled up by that tree. It was a good thing Mr. Howell went by just then, wasn't it, mumsie?"

"Yes, dear," agreed Mrs. Drury.

"_Such_ a lot has happened since then," continued Amethyst, who was in a retrospective mood. "Everything seemed to begin with that half-term holiday."

"What do you mean, girlie?"

"Why, mumsie, Mrs. Beauchamp used to be so cross, and now she's the nicest old dear possible; and Monica was nasty and uppish, you know, at first. I didn't think I ever _could_ like her, and now I think she's almost too good to live, sometimes! And Olive is nicer too, although I shall always like my darling Elsa best." Here Amethyst paused, from sheer want of breath, for her tongue always ran twice as quickly as other people's.

"Is that all, girlie?" put in Mrs. Drury, who was much amused at the comparisons, but felt they were truthfully if somewhat quaintly made.

"Oh, no! There's Lily Howell, just _think_ how she's altered. I don't believe any one would know her nowadays who knew her then; she's so well behaved, and speaks quietly, and seldom gets into trouble at school. I'm so glad Mrs. Howell buys plain hats and things for her now," Amethyst ran on. "I don't believe she could help being vulgar when she wore such hideously gaudy hats and dresses."

"What has Lily's clothing to do with the bicycle accident? You have wandered a long way from that," remarked her mother, with a smile.

"Oh, mumsie, I haven't! It's just because Lily wants to copy everything Monica does now, that she is so much more lady-like. I think she nearly worships Monica."

"Hush, Amethyst! Don't speak like that, dear," reproved her mother; "I can quite understand that Lily feels she owes a good deal to her. I hope that she will one day be a star in Monica's crown. I am so glad that they have begun to attend St. Paul's."

"Mrs. Howell and Lily were both at church twice last Sunday, mumsie, and Mr. Howell was there in the evening. I remember noticing him, because I did think father must have chosen his text on purpose for him, only of course he didn't, because he couldn't possibly have known he would be there."

And Mrs. Drury, who had vivid recollections of the intense earnestness with which her husband had preached from Mark viii. 36, on the subject of Eternal Profit and Loss, said, softly, as they turned in at the Vicarage gates: "Father always asks God to give him the right text to preach from, girlie, and _He_ knew just who would be hearing the sermon."

Shrewd little Amethyst had been fairly correct in her rough-and-ready epitome of the happenings of the last six months, which had certainly left their mark on all concerned, and, in every case, for the better, to a greater or smaller degree.

The missionary working-party prospered and increased, and, by the time Christmas drew near, the number of members had risen to fourteen; quite a large drawer full of "gifts" had been already neatly and carefully made, and the Expenses Fund was almost exhausted! The committee began to consider how it was to be replenished, and hazy ideas of "collecting" (which they dreaded) or else having a little sale of work during the Christmas holidays, formed in their enthusiastic minds.

But they were still only ideas, when, one Saturday afternoon, Lily Howell, who, upon one pretext or another, had waited until all but the quartette had gone, slipped a sealed envelope into Monica's hand, and merely whispering: "Pa told me to give it to you," was gone before the astonished girl could say a word.

The excitement of the committee when they found that the envelope contained a cheque for L10, "To be used for your Chinese folks, and ask for more when you want it," was tremendous.

"How splendid! Now we sha'n't have either to beg, borrow, or steal," cried Olive. "It is a good thing we let Lily come, after all."

And Monica, who remembered the opposition which she had met with upon proposing Lily's name, could not refrain from smiling.

Those were happy days for Monica: her school life was most interesting, and now that she bicycled into Osmington, instead of being dependent upon the pony-trap, she enjoyed the ride to and fro immensely, especially as either one or two of her friends accompanied her most of the way to Carson Rise, on the days that she remained at school until the afternoon, for music or some other extra.

Then the missionary work was a source of great pleasure to her, and her enthusiasm was kept very keen by long letters from Robina Herschel, and an occasional one from Miss Daverel.

Sometimes, when Monica was poring over a missionary magazine, or exercising her ingenuity in making something fresh for the girls to copy at the working-party, her grandmother would tease her by saying she was "missionary mad." But Monica would only look up and smile, knowing that in her heart of hearts the old lady was well-content that her grandchild should seek to help forward, even in the simplest way, the spread of the "good news," which had brought light at eventide to her own dark heart.

And every day was bringing Colonel Beauchamp nearer. Several letters had come from him, but in none of them had he been able, definitely, to say when he would reach England; he hoped, as he had said at first, to spend Christmas Day at home, but it was uncertain. Monica was counting the days, in true school-girl fashion, by marking off on a little calendar each day at its close; and the number had steadily decreased until very few remained to be crossed off now.

She stood before the little calendar on the bedroom wall one night, pencil in hand, and crossed off the twenty-first of December. "Only four more days to Christmas now, and by then, my darling dad will be here. Oh, how I am longing to see him, and tell him everything! I have tried to explain in my letters, but it is so difficult to write just what one feels, and I _do_ want to feel his hand on my head once more, just as he used to do, and hear his dear voice saying, 'God bless my darling child.'"

Here Monica's feelings overcame her, and her eyes brimmed with tears for a moment. But they were soon chased away, and a happy smile played about her lips, as she began to undress, and put the various articles of her attire neatly away. "I do hope he will think I have improved, and that I am growing up a little bit like he wanted me to. If I am, it is all owing to the Herschels," and Monica took up the frame containing the pictured faces of her seaside friends, and gazed thoughtfully at them. "Dear Robina, and--and Leslie, too; what sort of girl should I have been by now, if God had not sent you into my life? I can never, never thank Him enough for all His goodness to me, and so the only thing I can do is to seek to 'walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing,' as my motto says, and do what I can to get others to follow Him, too."

Monica never crossed off December the twenty-second on her little calendar; indeed, she forgot all about it, for a telegram the next afternoon informed them that the colonel had already left London, and in less than a couple of hours Monica was in her father's arms.

"My darling child!"

"Dearest dad!"

What else they said was unintelligible for the next few moments, and then Colonel Beauchamp held his daughter at arm's length, and critically examined her.

"Shall I pass muster, daddy dear?" she asked, merrily; but there was more behind the words than appeared on the surface.

And the proud father, noting the purposeful face, so full of expression, and reading true nobility of character therein, held out his arms, and Monica slipped confidingly into them, while he bent his soldierly head and pressed a long, long kiss upon her broad white brow, murmuring, as he did so, in tones so low as only to reach his daughter's ears: "I think my Monica deserves the V.C., for it is evident she has fought successfully against heavy odds, under fire of the enemy, and won a brilliant victory."

"Oh, dad, I don't think I have," whispered the happy girl, her head on his shoulder; "but whatever good there is about me, is all owing to my having enlisted under the banner of Jesus Christ."

"His arm hath gotten him the victory," repeated the colonel reverently, and Monica knew that her father understood.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*"THE CHILD HAS CHOSEN WELL."*

Our story is done. With the retirement of her son from the army, and his return to England, and subsequent settling down at Carson Rise, Mrs. Beauchamp's responsibility over her once troublesome granddaughter ceased. But to those readers who have been interested in the quartette, during a few months of their school life, a glimpse at them all, seven years after the events recorded, will not come amiss.

Olive Franklyn, having excelled in various drawing examinations, was fortunate in securing an exhibition which admitted her, at a nominal fee, as student at a much-sought-after School of Art for a couple of years upon leaving the High School. From thence, she went over to Paris, in order to perfect herself in her particular branch of art, and so talented are her sketches that already there seems a brilliant future stretching out before her. She has made many friends among her fellow students, for Olive Franklyn is not only a clever artist, but a congenial companion as well. But in her inmost heart, she feels that no one will ever take Monica's place. They are friends still, although for several years they have only met occasionally; but they have very little in common, for Olive has not yet surrendered to the King of kings, although Monica and Elsa have faith enough to believe that she will do so, sooner or later. She says she never intends to marry, for she is wedded already to her art, and that suffices her.

Elsa has been able to carry out her girlish ambition, and for the last two years has been a nurse in the children's ward of a large London hospital. Her heart, brimming over with love for the pitiful specimens of humanity entrusted to her care, has found an outlet in tending the little ones, for as each newcomer arrives she seems to hear the Divine commission, "Take this child, and nurse it _for Me_." She is beloved by all the staff for her gentle, helpful ways, and her influence over the little inmates of the cots in her ward is marvellous. Seldom indeed does a child remain refractory after Nurse Franklyn has spoken a few words to it, in her soft girlish tones; and the Sister persists in saying that even the tiniest baby knows when it is in her arms, and leaves off crying instantly! But it was not merely for the sake of helping to alleviate pain that Elsa made choice of hospital nursing as a profession. That is a noble work; but it is a nobler still when the sad and suffering hearts of even little children are pointed to the tender Shepherd who said: "Suffer the little children to come unto Me." And that was Elsa's aim in all her work, and many were the young lives won for her Master in that large children's ward. She is hoping, some day, to become Sister of her ward if all goes well, and not one of her fellow-nurses would grudge her the honour; but the Rev. Marcus Drury, senior curate of Monkrigg, has other views for her, and, possibly, when he obtains a living, Nurse Franklyn will be persuaded to say "good-bye" to her bairnies; and if so, there will be much wailing and many regrets.

Amethyst Drury has not developed into a "platform woman" yet; but one cannot tell what the future has in store for her, as she has only lately celebrated her twenty-first birthday. She has improved wonderfully since her school-days, and is her mother's right hand in the parish, while Miss Drury's Bible Class for girls just too old for Sunday School, but not yet "young women," is remarkably well-attended. She has a very pretty, clear soprano voice, and is much in request at various choral classes and concerts, and in that way has commenced platform work. And as Amethyst long ago, in the words of Miss Havergal's hymn had said,

Take my voice, and let me sing Always, only, for my King,

her mother and father feel that she is speaking for Him, in words of sacred song, just as clearly, and sometimes far more tellingly, than she could ever hope to do as a lecturer.