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CHAPTER XIV.

IDEAL.

My ideal of a woman is of one whose mind is open and liberal as the day, yet anchored fast on a life of pure observances. One who has done a mother's work, yet not a mother; one who grows toward all great thoughts that ever were, and to whom Art comes as to its own place; one whose humility marks her out for all noble things—who is as much her best self in a hospital, or in the cottages of the poor, as when she is at her Plato, and who brings from such places the heart of all kindness and gentle courtesy-to be known by eyes that are not blind; one who can be vehement without loss of calmness, and calm without being cold.”—Old Writer.

IN one of the populous cemeteries of the great city, Louis Trouville was buried. Faithful to the last, Rachel roused herself to follow him to his grave.

"His wife, poor soul !" the sexton remarked to a bystander, as she passed them on her way to the carriage waiting at the gates.

"Ah! I dare say. He was but young-only twentyeight-and a foreign sort of a name on the coffin. I wonder who the gentlemen were."

Why, one was a surgeon at St. George's—I have seen him before, scores of times-and the other was Mr. Cresswell, the parson from St. George's. I had a niece laid up there for near six months with a bad leg, and so I knew them; but not the tall gentleman that walked with the widow. I don't seem to fancy it was her father.

He seemed very much cut up, though, and looked at her all the time, as if he could see nothing else."

"She was a handsome one, she was," said his companion. "When she put up her veil and threw the flowers down into the grave, I never see anything more like a carved statue."

"Lor! Well, it is a curious life for a man to lead here amongst the graves; and how little we think of them when once the earth is shovelled in! We sextons ought to be ready when our turn comes," said the man, moralizing, and turning off to superintend the filling in of poor Louis's grave, and to look after two or three more which were being prepared for other occupants.

At last the long, weary drive was over, and the high, unsightly coach stopped at the door in Chapel Street.

Mr. Buchanan led Rachel upstairs, and left her at the door of her room. Only a pressure of the hand showed his sympathy, and not one word was spoken. But as he was turning away, she said

"You have been very good to me; but I want now to see Winifred. May she come to me?"

Her lips quivered, and he hoped she was going to give way; but the momentary agitation passed, and her face became as rigid as before.

"You shall see her if possible. I pray you to lie down now and rest. I will send some one to you with refreshment."

He returned to the drawing-room, where Aunt Dorothy was anxiously expecting him.

"Well, my dear Maurice ?"

Only for a moment he covered his face with his hands.

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Any new trouble? Any news of our boy?"

Mr. Buchanan shook his head.

"No; but, Tantina, I think Miss Fremantle must have Winifred with her. How to manage it in the best way I know not. She is so exhausted, and so worn out; and Winifred's state is such that Dr. Howson forbids all exThere was a slight return of hemorrhage

citement. to-day."

"Yes; and I almost think, Maurice, that dear Rachel had better hear it all. She would go at once to Winifred, and nursing her and comforting her would be her own best comfort. Linda and I both think so."

"Nursing!" exclaimed Mr. Buchanan. "If you ask me what I think, it is that Miss Fremantle is trembling on the brink of an illness herself. You can hardly conceive"

Mr. Buchanan broke off abruptly.

"Let me ask dear Rachel what she thinks is best to do. She must be told of Winifred's increased illness, and its cause. Oh, Maurice! where can Chrystie be? What has happened ?"

The sight of Aunt Dorothy's face upturned to him strengthened him at once.

"I am still hopeful about Chrystie, Tantina; but this mysterious absence has brought more trouble and sorrow than he, I daresay, ever contemplated. If that child dies, bitter indeed will be his punishment.'

"Mrs. Pennington said this morning, that since that first cry of distress, when the hemorrhage set in, she has not referred to Chrystie; but every time the door opens, she fixes her eyes on it with the most painful eagerness."

Well, go and see Miss Fremantle now; and if she desires it, I will get a carriage at once, and take her to Chorley Square."

There was not much time for deliberation. No sooner

did Aunt Dorothy let Rachel know what Winifred's state was, and that no tidings had been heard of Chrystie for a week, than she sat erect in the bed on which she had fallen, and said

"Let me go at once to her, dear Miss Buchanan. Nothing will do me so much good as to nurse and comfort her. My darling Winifred! Why did you not tell me sooner ?"

"My dear, you have been so greatly tried, and look so much in need of rest, we thought it better to let this day pass before we told you of our own troubles."

"Dear," Rachel said tenderly, "I don't wish to forget your sorrow because mine is heavy. When did you

tell Winifred of Chrystie's absence ?"

"I did not know it, my dear, till Maurice returned on Monday morning. Then he told me of his anxiety, and how he had been telegraphed for on the previous Thursday to Halchester. But it seems that he had let dear Winifred know that he should send for Chrystie, and that she was in a state of feverish excitement about his coming. On Monday afternoon, when he went to Chorley Square, he was met by Mrs. Pennington, who said Winifred had been very much more unwell, and that Dr. Howson had seen her. She then said she hoped Maurice understood that she was willing to withdraw her opposition, and that she would gladly welcome Chrystie. Of course, dear Maurice had then been obliged to tell her Chrystie was absent, that he did not know his present address, but that he hoped soon to do so."

"I understand," said Rachel; "and when Winifred was told this

"Poor Mrs. Pennington reproaches herself now with being too sudden in her communication to the dear child. However that was, she seemed instantly to think that

Chrystie had ceased to love her. 'Do not ask him to come any more,' she said, and then she had a long and terrible fit of hysterical weeping, which ended in a slight hemorrhage."

"May I go now?" Rachel said. "Will you let me stay with her, please ?"

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My dear, you shall do what you think best; only, are you not over-rating your strength."

"No, no." She stood upright, and walked towards the door. "I am sorry," she said with a sweet, sad smile, "that I have been so little use to you and dear Linda, but perhaps I may be able to make up for it some day."

"My dear, you have been of the greatest comfort and help ever since I knew you. We all love you. You must always think of Clarefield as a home."

Rachel involuntarily shook her head; and then she went to Linda, who was in her accustomed place in the back drawing-room. Here she found tea waiting for her, and Linda anxiously expecting her.

"Uncle Maurice ordered the tea; he said he knew you would not take any wine. Do, please, drink a cup and eat one of my dear little thin biscuits."

"Thanks, darling," Rachel said, making a great effort to do as she was told. "I am sorry to leave you again, but you would not wish me to desert Winifred."

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Oh, no, no; but, Rachel," Linda said, "I know you feel very ill. Do please take care of yourself—we all love you so!" the child added, kissing her hand passionately, "and we are so sorry for your trouble."

The tearless eyes turned upon Linda a grateful look of answering love, but her unnatural calmness continued.

Mr. Buchanan took Rachel to Chorley Square, and Mrs. Pennington received her with outstretched arms.