CHAPTER I.

“It is no good, we can never manage it,” cried Cecilly, half crying, throwing on the floor, as she spoke, the book she had been studying for the last half hour.

“Well, Cecilly, it is no good spoiling the book. That won’t help us,” I said, picking it up and smoothing its ruffled pages.

“It is just as silly as the others,” Cecilly continued, starting up and walking quickly up and down the room. “These people did not put a majolica sink in their dining-room, or embroider their dish-cloths, but they spent fifty pounds in having water laid on to every bedroom, bought a new cooking-stove, and every other contrivance advertised for saving labour. If we had fifty pounds to spend to save ourselves trouble, we need not do without the servants. I see we shall have to give up the idea after all. Jack is right; we can never manage.”

“Don’t say that,” I cried, for Cecilly had been the originator of the idea, and last evening had fought most hopefully every objection the boys had raised against our carrying out our plan of doing without servants.

It was only six months ago that the first shadow had fallen on our bright happy home. Our dear father had been suddenly struck down by illness, an illness which had seemed but slight at first, but which, as the weeks went by, grew graver day by day, till there came a long, long night when we waited in silent grief for the summons to bid him our last farewell. But God in His mercy heard our broken-hearted prayers, and gave him back to us and life.

His recovery was fearfully low and tedious, and no one was surprised to learn that the only hope for his recovery was for him to pass the winter abroad. It had been very difficult to find the means to take him away, but they were found. At first the change did wonders, but the improvement did not last, and in every letter we could read the anxiety mother was trying to hide from us.

The day before the one of which I write the first bright report had reached us.

“Father is really better,” mother wrote, but even as we gave our shout of joy, Jack read these words: “but the improvement comes too late—our funds are nearly exhausted, and we must soon turn our faces homewards. The doctors say if only he could stay on for another few months, they are certain of his recovery. But that cannot be, and God knows what is best for us always.” Again and again we asked ourselves what it was possible for us to do to keep him in Cannes, but there seemed no way. Cecilly had found a few pupils for music when dear father had first been ill, and she had left no stone unturned in trying to get more, but in vain. I too had sought for employment, but beyond going to read to an old lady two afternoons in each week, I had been unable to find any. Jack was in a solicitor’s office, and already was filling up every spare hour with extra work, while Bob and Phil were still at school. Everything of value our home possessed had already been parted with for the journey, so that it was no wonder we cried out in despair.

“Can’t we give up meat?” Bob asked at dinner that evening. “Kitty is always moaning over the butcher’s bill.”

“Is it likely you can give up meat,” Jack answered crossly, and I said—

“We might, but the servants would not.”

Then it was that Cecilly had cried out, “Send the servants away. I am sure we could manage without them.”

Jack was as indignant with Cecilly as with Bob, but she would not be quieted.

“Listen to me and hear reason,” she cried. “We must have money somehow, and here is a way of getting it, or saving it, which is the same thing. Cook’s wages are £20 a year, Ann’s are £16. So in three months we should save £9. Nine hard sovereigns—not counting their keep. Oh, Kitty, what is their keep?”

“Quite ten shillings a week each, not counting their washing,” I answered.

“And we should save the kitchen fire, except when we are cooking,” said Cecilly.

“And the gas,” said Phil. “They flare it away at every burner. I turned it out myself in the scullery last night.”

“We should be able to live much more economically, of course,” I said. “One dinner instead of the two we always have to cook now, must be a saving in every way. Oh, Cecilly, what a splendid idea yours is.”

“It is all rubbish,” said Jack. “Is it likely mother and father would allow you girls to turn into slaves?”

But Cecilly would not be silenced, and if she had her will would have rushed off into the kitchen and dismissed the servants there and then. She was up quite early and off to the stores to buy two or three books she had seen advertised on the subject of “How to manage without servants.” But, as I have said before, the authors had all been able to spend the servants’ wages for a year in labour-saving contrivances. Poor Cecilly had been so excited and hopeful the evening before that she could not endure facing all the difficulties the morning laid before her.

“Jack is right. We cannot manage,” she cried again, and then burst into a flood of tears.

I was vainly trying to cheer her when the door opened and our dear old friend Mrs. Travers, whom we all call Aunt Jane, entered.

“Oh, my dears,” she cried, in dismay, “you have bad news from your mother!”

I hastened to reassure her, while Cecilly cried out—

“Yes, the news is bad, Aunt Jane. He will never be well again, and we can’t help him.”

Then I told her mother’s words, and all about our idea that had come to nothing.

“Why should your idea come to nothing?” she asked, and when we both asked her at once if she really thought we could manage, and she answered, “If you can face plenty of hard work, of course you can,” Cecilly rushed at her to hug her in her joy. “Sit down, you scatter-brain,” said the dear old lady, “and we will then talk seriously. There can be no doubt that you will save considerably if you do send away the servants, but the necessary work you will find very hard, far harder than you can yet imagine, especially at first. I speak from experience, my dears, for my early married days were spent in Canada, and there I learnt to use my hands. I have known many girls and women as gentle and refined as any English lady, doing the entire work not only of a house, but helping husband, brother or father with poultry or dairy as well. And if our sisters in the Colonies can do without hired help, why can’t we here? There is nothing so healthy as housework. Have your windows open while you work, and there will be no need for any more bicycle rides. The question is, Are you really prepared for hard work? Can you face the early rising, the spoiling of pretty white hands, a good many backaches, and a great many irksome duties?”

“Of course we can!” we cried at once. “If only we can give father this chance, we will face anything!”

“Then, my dears, the first thing is to give the servants notice.”

“Luckily, Aunt Jane, Ann is going; she is only staying on till we knew when mother would be back.”

“And I know of a place that would suit cook beautifully,” said Cecilly.

“That’s well,” said Aunt Jane, “they are easily disposed of. When they are gone, you must find a little girl.”

“No, no!” we both called out. “We will do everything ourselves.”

“Hear me out, my dears,” said Aunt Jane quietly, “and then raise your objections. I say you must have a girl just for one hour in the morning to clean the boots.”

“Oh, I had forgotten the boots!” sighed Cecilly.

“I would have said a boot-boy, but a girl can clean your doorsteps, for you must not do that.”

“Why not?” asked Cecilly. “I see nothing to be ashamed of in any work.”

“Neither do I, my dear; but your mother would object to that, I am sure, and as you must have someone for the boys’ boots, the someone may as well clean your steps.”

“Why can’t the boys clean their own boots?” Cecilly began, but I stopped her, for I saw Aunt Jane was looking vexed at her interruptions, and I knew mother would not like the boys to do such work while they were going to school among other boys.

“Next,” continued Aunt Jane, “I should advise you to do away with your kitchen range and have a gas stove.”

“No, dear Aunt Jane,” I pleaded. “We must not spend anything to save ourselves.”

“I am not asking you to spend anything, my dear, excepting a few shillings. The gas company will let out on hire any stove for a small sum, I believe about one shilling and eightpence a quarter. There will be the cost of setting it, but that will soon be paid for by the saving in coals. A gas stove can be turned off as soon as you no longer require it, so is economical in every way. I know I must not add that it will save you much work, both in cleaning and lighting, though that is the truth.” We laughed as we told her we were quite lazy enough to be saved any labour, and she continued, “I will tell you another plan to lighten your work. Take up all the heavy carpets possible, especially in the bedrooms. A stained floor with rugs you can shake is far easier to keep clean as well as being more healthy.”

“But we should have to have the floors stained,” said Cecilly. “And every shilling will be wanted for father.”

“I think you must spare one or two of them to buy a bottle or so of stains,” replied Aunt Jane, smiling. “Stain them, and then polish them by degrees with beeswax and turpentine. I had an oak staircase once that I treated in that way, and it looked beautiful. Of course, if you have mats and rugs, so much the better, but strips of carpet with the ends fringed out do very nicely. What you will find most irksome is the continual washing up. Take my advice and leave your evening dinner things till the next morning. I know it is far nicer to get them washed up overnight, but you must remember that your first duty is to make home bright for the boys. When dinner is over, put away all domestic duties and make the evenings as bright with music and suchlike as you do now. Now I must be going, and will only add this piece of advice. When you speak to cook and Ann, tell them the reason you are parting with them. They are both kind-hearted girls and will, I am sure, help you in getting ready to do without them, and doubtless will be able to give you good advice too.”

“I hope Jack won’t be very vexed,” sighed Cecilly.

“Never mind Jack,” said Aunt Jane. “He is too sensible to be really vexed.”

“Poor Jack,” I said. “You know, Aunt Jane, how very friendly and kind Mr. Marriott has always been to him. Now, although he has been goodness itself in finding him extra work after office hours, we can all see he does not approve of the friendship between Jack and Cynthia. Cynthia comes to us in the daytime as much as ever, but very rarely in the evening when Jack is home.”

“Mr. Marriott is quite right, my love. The way they are bringing up their daughters makes marriage with any but a rich man out of the question.”

“Oh, Aunt Jane, Cynthia is the sweetest girl,” we both cried, while Aunt Jane answered—

“The sweetest of girls can make the worst of wives.”

After bidding our kind old friend good-bye, we went at once to the kitchen to tell our tale to cook and Ann. As Aunt Jane had predicted, they received our news with the greatest kindness, and immediately offered to help us in every way.

“You had better come into the kitchen every day while I am here, and let me teach you the young gentlemen’s favourite dishes, Miss Kitty,” cook said, and Ann, who was leaving because she had been so rude to Cecilly, sat down and cried because she could not bear to think of us having to “so bemean” ourselves.

(_To be continued._)

THE FIRE OF LOVE.

BY MARY BRADFORD WHITING.

“Come here, Lion.”

It was not a dog that obeyed the summons, but a child, a sweet-faced, curly-headed child, with big, pathetic eyes, and soft smiling mouth.

Treading on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the sleeping figure on the sofa, Lion made his way across the room and crept up to his father’s chair.

“What were you crying for?” asked Mr. Beresford, as he lifted the little fellow to his knee.

“Oh, daddy, how much, much too sharp your eyes are! I hid myself all up with my ship book, so as you shouldn’t see.”

“No ship book that was ever made would hide your tears from me!” said Mr. Beresford, in a tone that was evidently more for himself than for the child. “But never mind that now. I did see, and now you must tell me all about it. What were you crying for?”

“I don’t want you to go away,” said Lion, in a trembling voice. “Why must you go, daddy, and leave me alone with——”

The loyal little fellow caught himself up without finishing the sentence, but Mr. Beresford knew only too well what the concluding word would have been, and he sighed heavily.

A wealthy man, with congenial work to occupy him, with a lovely wife and a sweet little son, there were plenty of people who envied him with all their hearts; but Paul Beresford, like many of those who seem the most prosperous, had a secret sorrow that embittered his whole life. He had married young, believing that he had found the embodiment of grace and goodness in the beautiful girl to whom he had given his heart, only to discover too late that she was utterly selfish and cold-hearted. It was a terrible awakening for him, and many a man in his place would have made shipwreck altogether; but Paul Beresford only clung the closer to the hidden faith that sustained him, and solaced himself with the oft-quoted lines—

“My own hope is a sun will pierce The darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”

That hope seemed to him to be fulfilled when his baby son was first put into his arms and he felt the touch of the tiny fingers, and kissed the soft roseleaf face. Surely no woman could resist such a darling mite as this, and he looked forward confidently to the dawn of better days. But as time went on, the terrible truth was borne in upon him that the child had only widened the breach between his wife and himself. Little as she had cared for his love in the past, she was jealous when she saw it bestowed upon another, and far from lavishing any tenderness on the little Lionel herself, she treated him with an indifference that made her husband’s blood boil.

The child had never been strong, but no one but his father gave him much attention, for the nurse who had brought him through his babyhood was obliged to leave when he was five years old, and his mother’s maid, who was supposed to have the charge of him, was as selfish as her mistress. But there was a courage and pluck in his slender frame that would have done honour to a boy of twice his age, and which well deserved his father’s name of “Lion.” He had early seen that it distressed his beloved “daddy” if he told him of the troubles he had to undergo, and the result was that he tried to keep them to himself with a self-control that was marvellous in so young a child.

But now a terrible trial had come for Lion. They had no sooner settled down in the little Cornish village that had been selected for their summer holiday, than a summons had come for Mr. Beresford to go out to his West Indian property on imperative business, and he was obliged to start as early as possible on the very next day. Somewhat to his surprise, his wife had made no objection to his sudden departure; he had expected a storm of tears and reproaches, but beyond the one cold remark that he seemed to be glad of any excuse for leaving her, she had said nothing, and he had felt thankful at being let off so easily.

If he could have read her thoughts, he might, however, have felt differently. She had given him no reason for her sudden desire to settle down in a quiet seaside village, and he had been too glad of the suggestion for the boy’s sake to ask any explanations. But now it seemed to her that his departure was arranged as conveniently as everything else had been; she had known very well when she chose their holiday resort that Lord Barfield’s yacht would be anchored in the neighbouring bay, and on board the yacht were people for whose society she cared far more than she did for that of her husband or child, people whom he distrusted, and had forbidden her to visit.

Mr. Beresford was ignorant of all this, however, and he tried to comfort his little son with parting injunctions; it was useless, alas, to hope that his mother would take any care of him, but perhaps it might console his loneliness to tell him to take care of her.

“But mother won’t let me take care of her,” said Lion piteously.

“That must only make you try all the more,” said his father, speaking out of the depths of his own bitter experience. “You must be very careful not to worry her, because you know that sometimes you talk too loud when she has a headache, or even slam the doors. Will you promise me that you will be very good while I am away?”

“Yes, I will, I truthfully will!” said Lion, drying his eyes with a brave attempt at a smile.

“I shall soon come back,” said Mr. Beresford, “and I shall write you long letters while I am away, and tell you all about the shells and the snakes and the little black boys.”

“And you’ll write it like print, won’t you?” said Lion, “so as I needn’t bother mamma to read it, because that’s just one of the things that vexes her so, when I ask her to read your letters.”

He spoke innocently, little knowing the wounding power that his words contained, but Mr. Beresford was well used to hiding his feelings, and he made the required promise in an unshaken voice.

“That’s all right, then,” said Lion joyfully. “But oh, daddy dear, you won’t have me to curl your moustache for you, and you don’t look a bit nice when it hangs all down like that,” and throwing himself against his father, he proceeded to curl the offending moustache with his small fingers, while Mr. Beresford laughed at the sight of his earnest frown.

“I wish you would not let that child make so much noise,” said a querulous voice at this moment, and leaving their play with a start, both father and son were hushed in a moment. Lion slipped down to the floor and took up his book, and Mr. Beresford went across to the sofa and tried to soften his wife’s displeasure with his attentions.

The morning came all too soon, and Lion had hard work to keep a bright face through their hurried breakfast. Greatly to his relief Mrs. Beresford had chosen to remain upstairs, so that he had his father all to himself and could hang lovingly about him until the carriage came to take him to the station.

“Don’t forget your promise,” said Mr. Beresford as he drove away.

He spoke cheerfully, but his eyes were moist as he looked back at the lonely figure of the little six-year-old boy at the gate. If only his mother’s arm had been round him, he could have far better borne to leave him; but it was useless to indulge in such thoughts, and taking out his pocket-book he was soon deep in calculations.

Lion, for his part, tried quite as practical a cure for his grief.

“I’ll pick some flowers for mamma,” he said to himself manfully, and having rubbed the tears out of his eyes, he set off round the flower-beds of their hired house, picking a rose here, and a geranium here, until he had as large a bunch as he could hold.

“Mamma, I’ve brought you some flowers,” he said, as he ran into her bedroom and laid the straggling nosegay on her lap.

Mrs. Beresford was lying on the couch, a novel in her hand and a breakfast tray on the table by her side.

“Oh, you bad boy!” she exclaimed, brushing the flowers hastily on to the floor, “how dare you put those dirty things on my new white wrapper. And there’s an earwig running over me! Go away this minute, I tell you! Lettice, Lettice, come here!”

Her screams brought the maid, who succeeded in catching the earwig; but Lion had not waited to see the end of his escapade; a sudden sharp pain had stabbed his baby breast, pain, not so much at his mother’s anger, as at the thought that he had already disobeyed his father’s command.

“Oh, daddy, daddy, I didn’t mean to be naughty!” he cried, and throwing himself down on the grass, he sobbed as if his heart would break.

“I am going out this afternoon,” said Mrs. Beresford at lunch-time, “so you must amuse yourself in the garden.”

“Mayn’t I come with you,” said Lion timidly. “Daddy said I was to take care of you while he was away.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Beresford sharply, as though the words stung her. “Do you think I can have you always after me? You must stay at home, and see that you don’t get into any more mischief.”

It was very lonely for Lion that afternoon. Lettice slipped out as soon as her mistress had disappeared, and the servants of the house did not consider it part of their business to look after other people’s children. By-and-by it began to rain, and the little boy stood sadly counting the falling drops until a sudden thought seized him. His mother’s cloak was hanging in the hall; how wet she would get unless he took it to her! To trot out into the hall and put on his hat was the work of a moment, and seizing the cloak, he sallied forth.

Far and wide the poor little fellow wandered, while the driving rain soaked him through and through; but no trace of his mother could he see, and at last he turned back to the house. Just as he reached the gate a carriage drove up, however, and he saw his mother alight, and heard her parting words, “On Thursday, then; I will be sure not to fail.”

“You naughty boy, what have you been doing?” were her next words, as she espied the dripping child at the gate. “Look at my cloak, all messed and spoilt. Go upstairs at once; didn’t I tell you not to get into mischief?”

Weary and heart-broken, Lion attempted no explanation, but creeping sadly up to his room, cried himself to sleep on the floor.

At breakfast-time next morning Lettice rushed into her mistress’s room exclaiming, “Oh, ma’am, Master Lionel’s dying!”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Beresford. “I daresay he has eaten something that has disagreed with him; but you can send for the doctor.”

She had forgotten all about it in five minutes, but when the doctor came he insisted upon seeing her.

“Your child has acute inflammation,” he said, “and his life will depend upon the nursing.”

“Then you must send for a nurse,” she said coolly, though she felt an inward qualm at the thought of her husband.

“I shall do so, of course, but she cannot be here until to-morrow morning, and in the meantime you must be responsible; your maid is perfectly useless.”

Mrs. Beresford assented resignedly. She was glad now that they could not take her on the yacht till Thursday. The nurse would have come by then, and she could leave without trouble, and with this consoling prospect in view she even agreed to sit up with Lion that night.

Some people would have been touched by the child’s piteous cries for his father, and by the way in which he constantly checked himself with the reminder, “Daddy’s gone away; I must take care of mamma now.” But Mrs. Beresford only found it wearisome, and tried to bury herself in her book.

She knew, however, that it would not do to forget the nourishment that the doctor had ordered, and rousing herself at last she tried to light the spirit-lamp. The most simple things of everyday life were mysteries to her, and as she bent over it, candle in hand, there was a flare and a scream, and Lettice rushed into the room to find her mistress’s hair in flames.

Help was summoned, and the doctor sent for, but he made short work of her complaints.

“There’s not much harm done,” he said bluntly. “I daresay your hair will grow; your skin will never look the same again, but, after all, that doesn’t matter.”

And this to one whose chief joy in life had been the beauty of her complexion! Mrs. Beresford hid her bandaged face in the pillows and gave herself up to despair. No hope of going on the yacht now. They would sail away and forget all about her, or, worse still, make ill-natured remarks about her misfortune. At any rate, no one should see her altered appearance, and she had the blinds pulled down, and admitted no one but Lettice into her room.

But the day came when the hospital nurse forced an entrance into the forbidden precincts. She and the doctor had held many an indignant conclave over their little patient, and when his perpetual inquiries for his mother could be silenced in no other way, she made up her mind to fetch her.

Her words were few, but they made an impression that Mrs. Beresford could not resist, for however indifferent she might appear, she knew that she should not dare to face her husband if the child should die without her seeing him.

Her resolution almost failed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that had once reflected such a lovely vision, but it was too late to turn back now, and she crossed the passage and entered the sick-room. There on the bed lay Lion, his curls gone, his face hollow and deathlike, but when he saw her he held out his hands with a cry, “Oh, please say forgive!”

“What does he mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said the nurse, “he has been saying it ever since I came. You had better speak to him.”

“What do you want, Lion?” she said, repressing a shudder as she went up to the bedside.

“Oh, mamma, I did promise daddy to be good, and you said I was so naughty, and then you got your face burnt, and it was all my fault. Oh, please say forgive!”

Forgive? If anyone needed forgiveness it was not Lion, and as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from her eyes, Mrs. Beresford saw herself in the true light at last, worldly-minded, selfish-hearted, far, far different from the pure and loving nature before her!

“Oh, my child, my little child!” she said, bending down to take him in her arms.

There was silence for a few moments, while Lion lay wonderingly in the embrace that had never enfolded him before, then raising his hand to her bandaged face he whispered—

“Poor mamma, you’re much worser than I am; but you’ll tell daddy I was sorry, won’t you?”

“No, no; you shall tell him yourself,” she exclaimed with sudden vehemence; “you are going to get well, you must, you shall!”

The nurse looked at her warningly, and she was silent again while Lion’s excitement subsided into a drowsy state which lasted till the doctor came.

He looked in amazement at the strange figure by the bed, but for once in her life Mrs. Beresford had no thoughts for herself.

“He is better, is he not?” she said eagerly, but the doctor shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I shall telegraph for your husband to-night.”

The days passed on, and one evening a carriage dashed up to the door and springing out almost before it had stopped, Paul Beresford seized upon the doctor, who came forward to greet him.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Better,” was the answer, and waiting to hear no more he dashed upstairs and opened the door of his boy’s room.

“How are you, my darling?” he said eagerly.

His wife turned away with a sudden pang. It was not likely that he would recognise her for she had sent him no news of her accident, but for the first time she felt that he was dearer to her than the friends for whom she had once sacrificed his happiness.

But Lion did not forget her.

“Daddy,” he said, “mamma has forgiven me, but you must forgive me too; it was all my fault, you know, that she was burnt.”

“Lena!” cried Paul in astonishment, as he gazed at the white-capped figure by the window.

“You told me to take care of her,” said Lion mournfully; “but she has had to take care of me all the time!”

Lena had hidden her face in her hands, but in a moment she felt her husband’s arms round her and knew that a new life had begun for them both.

“Are you so very sorry that mamma was burnt?” asked Lion wistfully, as he saw the tears in his father’s eyes.

“No, dear, he is glad,” said his mother softly, “because there is a fire in my heart that will, I hope, burn up all the selfishness.”

“What fire comes in people’s hearts?” asked Lion in wonder, and with a look that made her scarred face more beautiful than it had been in all the perfection of its bloom, his mother answered—

“The fire of love!”

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.