DR. COULTHURST. "The angels sit beside me!-am I already in heaven? O mother! are you here? I have so longed for you." He nated by the lovely marble face. | gets excited. Has she been talking? Presently a fit of coughing roused her; Ah, I thought as much; about Mr. she opened her glorious eyes, and l'Estrange, I'll warrant. I wish she looked vaguely at her visitor. had never seen the man "-she was saying angrily, when a knock at the door interrupted her; it was followed by the entrance of Dr. Coulthurst. expressed surprise at the sight of Geraldine, whom he knew intimately; and whom he had often attended professionally; and advised her to return home as soon as possible, as it was getting late and cold. He paid a short visit to his patient; said there was no change since the morning; and then insisted on escorting Geraldine to her carriage. Tears came to Geraldine's eyes, but she was afraid to move. She resumed the soft stroking of the hand which lay so listlessly in hers; the wandering eyes closed again, and she had begun to talk to herself. "I love him! oh, I love him! and it will be hard to go, and never see him more; never hear the kind voice, never look upon the good face, never, oh, never more! He is gone away, gone to study, he said, for his paintings, and I am sure he knew enough. I should be a wicked girl now but for him. He first taught me not to care so much for dress, and admiration; he was always kind and respectful to me, even when I was but a child. He lent me books to read—and talked to me about them-never about my looks, like the other artists. Ah me! to think I sha'n't see him again!" Tears rolled down her cheeks, and Mrs. Friars took a grateful leave of her, and obtained a promise that she would come again next day. Our heroine was glad of this op portunity of some conversation with Dr. Coulthurst, as she was anxious to ascertain in what way she could help the poor woman, and what his real opinion was of his patient. CHAPTER XVII. "Such is woman: her tears are with God, her she talked so quick and fast, that Ger- smiles with man: the heart may break, and who aldine could hardly catch what she said. "I am glad to die, glad, glad since I shall never see him more. I am coming, mother, and so glad." She opened her arms as if to clasp something, sat up wildly in bed, and fell back in a swoon. Her visitor, much alarmed, rushed into the adjoining room to tell Mrs. Friars, who hurried in, but did not seem surprised. "It always ends like this if she shall know it?" It is a real April day-sharp showers and gleams of glorious sunshine. Mr. l'Estrange and his mother are on their way to the station. "You have seen her," he is saying eagerly, "and what do you think?” "I think she will recover, Arthur. I trust so, under God's providence." "Ill! has she been ill? I had no idea it had been so bad as that." "She has been at death's door, my dear boy. Even Coulthurst told me one day there was no hope. There was not only the disease to contend with, but such sad, such hopeless depression." "Mrs. Trevelyan, mother! We are at cross-purposes; for pity's sake enlighten me; of whom are you talking?" "And of whom should I be talking, but of Miriam Lisle ?" Mrs. l'Estrange asked with some little indignation. had in this world to love? And, remembering that, though late, she had been allowed to choose for herself in her own marriage, she determined to put no obstacle in her son's way, or to prevent any thing which he thought She would sacrifice a great deal to promote that, and she was very anxious he should marry. She was already an old woman; and Arthur was past “I am very grieved," he said, anx-likely to contribute to his happiness. iously; "I had no idea it had taken the form of acute illness; of course I have seen that she has been out of health for some time." "Out of health! Are you dream- | thirty-quite old enough to know his ing, Arthur? Mrs. Trevelyan herself own mind. Mrs. l'Estrange longed to told me you came to her, six weeks see him with ties of his own; and ago, in a fever of anxiety." then, she softly said to herself, she could die in peace-her work would be done. It was hard, when she had brought herself to this, to find she had been mistaken after all; but it is what all women must expect, all mothers especially. They hardly spoke again during their short journey; a railroadcarriage is not suited to the discussion of private matters, and Arthur had lost himself in one of his reveries. His mother did not sleep as usual; a new light was beginning to break upon her, and she was determined to make the meaning still more clear. That hasty expression of Arthur's had unravelled a good deal that was mysterious. She now saw things clearly that had puzzled and vexed her at the time; she now knew why he had gone abroad, why he had remained so long away, why he had seemed so exceedingly restless, unhinged, and miserable before he started. She had made a journey; for her quite an event, as she rarely moved from home. She particularly disliked London, and had stayed in it six weeks instead of one, to please her son and to nurse Miriam Lisle. She had been struck by the dazzling beauty of the girl, had listened to her sad wanderings, and soon discovered her secret. She was ready to excuse her son's infatuation, though it was a grief to her. She was an aristocrat by birth, and knowing Arthur's exceeding refinement, had at least expected him to marry a lady. She would naturally have preferred a daughter-in-law with some of this world's advantages; but she meant to put all her own feelings aside for his sake. Had he not been the best of sons? Was he not all she That same evening, when the servants had left the room, and they were alone after dinner, she broached the subject; and like all women, young or MOTHER AND SON. old, she began impulsively, and at the wrong end, though she had meant to use both tact and discretion, and had debated in her own mind all the afternoon as to what she should say. "You asked me, Arthur, what I thought of Mrs. Trevelyan, when I imagined you were inquiring after Miriam Lisle-has she been ill too?" "Not very lately, that I know of, mother," answered her son, rousing himself as if by an effort; "but she has been far from strong for years, and mistaking what you said, disease sounded formidable in one so delicate." He endeavored to speak lightly, but did not deceive the practised ear of the woman who loved him. "Shall I tell you frankly, my son, the impression Mrs. Trevelyan has made upon me? I knew her only very slightly all the time you were away, but for the last six weeks I have seen her nearly every day, and under circumstances so peculiar, that I feel now I know her well. She is difficult to know-don't interrupt me-I have arrived at that conclusion too, but at some others which I should like to tell you, if you give me leave to say exactly what I think." "Of course I do, mother; you are physician, lawyer, counsellor-all in one." Mrs. l'Estrange smiled at the soft flattery, but her tone was grave as she went on: "Of her health I can be no judge; she never speaks of it; and, indeed, of herself rarely: but I have not often, thank God, seen a woman so sorely tried as Mrs. Trevelyan. I have never 79 seen one with a conscience so tender, a nature so intensely pure, and in whom the standard of duty and of right is so high and so true. She has, if one may so speak, an almost morbid hatred of sin; yet there is none of the Pharisee about her. She might even prove weak where she loves; and her forgiveness, or rather her heroism, under injury is sublime: but for herself she would suffer agonies of remorse for venial faults of omission; and, alas, she will always carry a self-tormenting cross, as well as the heavy one which it has pleased God to lay upon her. But could actual sin and that woman become familiar, she would die; nothing could save her, and nothing would ever make her forgive herself, or even believe in the forgiveness of our Saviour. We have talked a great deal: she has peculiar opinions and theories, perhaps, but her religion, though vague and unformed, to her is very real. She is extremely unhappy, and turns to God much as a child turns to its mother in trouble-for, despite her great trials, she is still a child in many things-and she finds rest, but not peace; that she is vainly striving for, and God alone can give it to a nature like hers; God alone can bring that wave-tossed soul into His haven. She interests me deeply; her real heartgoodness is most rare and most touching; and all the more so that it has developed in such an ungenial soil. Many women would have hardened into worldliness, or become utterly selfish, under trials like hers: she is strikingly the reverse; and, however much she may mix with the world, she will never be of it. Hers is a nature | teach their struggling fellow-mortals which happiness, according to our human ideas, would have suited best; but suffering has neither dwarfed nor stunted it; and, still more wonderful, it has not embittered her. I should like to see her happy. Although I have known her such a short time, I would give almost any thing to see some sunshine poured into that sweet, holy life, and, by-and-by, God grant that in her children she may find great blessedness! That God has reserved her for a high destiny one cannot doubt; and only by looking at it in that way can we understand why she should be so exceptionally tried. Harsh to herself and tender to others, Geraldine Trevelyan, will ever be; and she is living here the life which our Saviour bids us all live, and which, alas! we too often never even understand. She is humbly conscious of her own shortcomings, always endeavoring to be blind to the sins of others; and, as I said before, she is doing this, not because she has as yet realized all the beauty, all the strength, all the comfort of religion, but because her standard is high, her nature humble and loving and unselfish, and Christ is her model. She sacrifices herself, until her human nature seems daily to become more like the divine one. It is a very uncommon | nature this, and one not likely to be appreciated in this nineteenth century. Do not think, because I have hitherto said little about her, that I am unconscious of her goodness. Your dear father was one of this sort; and I often think that such characters are unfit for earth; that they are lent for a time to how possible it is to live a high life here, even under disadvantageous circumstances; that the Life, the only one which was without blot on this earth, was not lived in vain; that the command, 'Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect,' is not so impossible as it sounds, and that it can be obeyed in a measure by those who seek their strength from God. Faultless we cannot be; but we may make our standard high-the highest, if we please." After this conversation, they often talked of Geraldine. Arthur liked to hear his mother speak of her, and was satisfied to know that she so entirely understood and appreciated her. But Mrs. l'Estrange was wise: she talked also much of another person, who interested her deeply, and that person was Miriam Lisle. It had been arranged that she was to come and spend the summer with Mrs. l'Estrange; and the latter expected her guest as soon as the invalid could be moved with safety. Arthur's mother had been much struck by the great refinement and charm of the girl, as well as by her extreme beauty. She hoped that Mrs. Friars would eventually consent to part with her niece, and that she might never be compelled to return to her uncongenial home. She had already become fond of her protégée. Miriam was loving and grateful; and the mother's heart had been more than half won when she discovered what a reverential and deep attachment this poor girl bore to her If any thing could have strength son. MRS. L'ESTRANGE'S PROTÉGÉE. 81 He found that the girl, although she still looked excessively delicate, had long ceased to be the invalid, and was a most devoted and really clever nurse to his suffering mother. ened that feeling, it would have been | Miriam became alarmed, and sent an the long hours of nursing and of most urgent summons to her son to come to close companionship which followed her. upon her long and trying illness. The doctors, too, still shook their heads over their patient, whose dazzling complexion and lustrous eyes seemed to justify all their fears. They urged pure air, nourishing food, and, above all, cheerful society. Mrs. l'Estrange had only consented to leave her to get rooms ready for the invalid, and was to return to London to fetch her as soon as Miriam was strong enough to travel. And summer came early this year, with a full burst of May-too hot for spring, almost too lovely to last-and with it came Miriam Lisle, looking dazzling and more graceful than ever, but still unmistakably fragile. Mr. l'Estrange made up his mind he need be little at the cottage now his mother had got a companion who suited her so well, and who could be with her so constantly that he would be much less missed than usual. He had many pictures on hand, and he meant to work hard at them. The old yearning wish to be with Geraldine to help and comfort her-took possession of his heart; and he knew from experience that only by work could he conquer that at times almost unbearable longing. But his intentions were not to be carried out. Whether the sudden heat was too much for Mrs. l'Estrange, or that she had over-exerted herself during her protracted stay in London, she certainly became far from well; and one sultry day early in June, when she seemed weaker than usual, Mrs. l'Estrange, from having always been strong, thought herself more ill than she actually was, and believed that her end was not far off. Could she have looked into the future, she might have seen that she was destined to an extreme old age, and that she need not have hurried on the event which it now became the one great wish of her life to accomplish. Arthur, always gentle and courteous to women, could not fail to be touched by the devotion with which the orphan girl tended his mother; and Mrs. l'Estrange was a difficile and fractious patient, as people who have had almost uninterrupted health during a long life are apt to be in illness. He saw the girl under a new and lovely guise a guise under which a true woman is loveliest and shows her very best; and he could not but recognize that she had a sweet, unselfish, warmly grateful nature, unfailing tact, and a bright and ready intelligence, which, during his mother's long and tedious convalescence, was of infinite use and comfort to the invalid. But, as the old life flickered into vitality again, the young one seemed to droop and fade; and Arthur was obliged to urge on the girl all that the doctors had said at the time of her severe illness as to plenty of air and regular exercise. |