Roxburgh; and then she turned away from what might be called the West End of Roxburgh to the neighbourhood of St. Luke's Church. Here there was a substratum of small villas and long, narrow streets, which were a long way from the crescents and terraces of the gay town to which so many people resorted for health and pleasure. The college at Roxburgh stood a little apart from crescents and small streets, and a large number of well-built houses clustered around it, where the families of boys who attended the college mostly lived. In days gone by there had been a mineral spa at Roxburgh, which had proved the starting-point of the large fashionable watering-place of these later times. But "the spa" had declined in popularity, and the old pump-room was in a forlorn state of decay and desolation. It had given Roxburgh its fame; and now, being out of repute, was cast aside and renounced.
The part of the town towards which Aunt Betha directed her efforts lay below the deserted spa, and was nearer the large, smoky town of Harstone, which was scarcely two miles from Roxburgh, where a busy life of trade and commerce went on in the valley, apart from the life of pleasure on the hill above. A cloud of smoke lay in the valley above Harstone, and the river fogs crept up on this side of Roxburgh, laden with the smut and breath of the chimneys, in late autumn and winter; but on this bright August morning, the towers and spires of the Harstone churches looked picturesque in the soft, gray mist which lay over them and the tall masts of the ships in the docks.
Aunt Betha did not, however, turn her eyes to the valley. She was too much intent on scanning the rows of small houses with "Apartments," "Furnished Apartments," printed on boards in the windows.
"Number 3 Lavender Place. That is a nice bow window, and white curtains. I'll try there." Aunt Betha rang the bell, and did not fail to notice "that you might see your face in the brass knob of the handle." A very neat woman came to the door, and in answer to her inquiries said —
"Yes, I have apartments to let, – a drawing-room and four bed-rooms."
Aunt Betha felt quite delighted at what seemed likely to be the speedy end of her labours. Everything was so neat. Drawing-room back and front. Could anything be better? Then came the question of terms.
"Two guineas a week."
"Would you, Mrs. – " Aunt Betha paused.
"Parsons – my name is Parsons," said the landlady.
"Could you, Mrs. Parsons, say less if the rooms were taken for some time?"
"Perhaps I might, ma'am. I might say two pounds."
"Very well. I don't think I shall do better. I will close at once, and send you word as to the day the family will arrive."
"Pray, ma'am," inquired Mrs. Parsons, "how many are there in the family?"
"A widow lady, and, let me see, a servant, – poor thing, she must keep one servant; she has been used to more than you can count on your fingers, – and six children."
"I never take children, ma'am, never," said Mrs. Parsons.
"Oh dear, that is unfortunate; but these are not young children. The little boys are twins, and are – "
"Boys! that quite decides me, ma'am. I don't like other folk's servants about my place; but I might have got over that, had the children been girls. But boys – "
"Then I must wish you good-morning," said Aunt Betha. "Can you tell me of any house where children would not be objected to? I live in a house full of children myself, and I find them, as a rule, a deal pleasanter than grown-up people. But of course you must please yourself."
"I look at my furniture, ma'am, and my peace and comfort. I look to the ruin of carpets and chairs, and – "
But Aunt Betha stayed to hear no more, and trotted off on her arduous errand.
In and out of houses went poor Aunt Betha, with alternate hopes and fears. Some were dirty and slovenly: the landladies of these called the children "little dears," and said "they doted on children." Some rooms were too dear; some too small; and as the sharp-sounding clock of St. Luke's struck twelve, Aunt Betha felt tired out and ready to give up. She was standing hopelessly at the corner of Lavender Place, when a pleasant-looking woman, crossing the road, exclaimed with a smile, "Why, if that's not Miss Cox! Dear me, Miss Cox, how are you, ma'am?"
"I am pretty well, Ruth, thank you; but I am tired out. I am looking for lodgings for poor Mr. Arthur Wilton's family, and I can't find any."
"Mr. Arthur Wilton! Poor gentleman. I saw his death in the paper, and thought it must be the doctor's brother. He has left a long family, hasn't he?"
"Yes; that is, shorter than my niece's; but six are enough to provide for when there is nothing left but debts and difficulties."
Ruth was an old married servant of Dr. Wilton's, one of the innumerable young cooks who had been under Miss Cox, and had basely deserted her as soon as she could cook– send up a dinner fit to be eaten – to dress the dinner of the baker's boy who had served 6 Edinburgh Crescent with bread.
"Dear me! I thought Mr. Wilton was a very rich gentleman. I have heard the young ladies talk of the fine country place. How was it?"
"He had misfortunes and losses, Ruth; and his family are coming here to live in furnished lodgings. But I can meet with none. Can you help me?"
Ruth looked right and left, as if she expected to see some one coming up or down the road with the news of lodgings in their hands, and was silent. At last a light seemed to break over her rosy face. "If they don't mind being next to our shop, I believe I do know the very place. Will you come and see? The house belongs to my mother-in-law, and she has got it nicely furnished. It is not far; will you come, Miss Cox?"
"Is it quite near, Ruth? for I must be back for the children's dinner, and I am so tired."
"You can take a tram from the Three Stars, and that will get you home in no time. It is not far, Miss Cox."
"Well, I will come, Ruth; but I don't feel sure about engaging the lodgings. Your mother-in-law won't mind my looking at them?"
"Oh no, ma'am, not a bit. She was an old servant, you know, of some real gentry at Whitelands, and the old lady died last fall twelvemonth, and left mother – I always calls her mother – a nice little sum and some real valuable furniture."
"Oh! then she won't take children," said Miss Cox despairingly. "She won't take boys?"
"That she will, if you like the apartments; there won't be no difficulties," said Ruth in a reassuring voice. "You see, my Frank's father died when he was an infant, and mother went back to her old place, where she lived till two years ago, when the mistress died. Then she took this little business for Frank, and the house next. It is quite a private house, and was built by a gentleman. She thought she should be near us and help us on a bit, and so she has. And she put the furniture in it, and has added a bit here and there; and she let it all last winter to the curate and his mother; and here we are, Miss Cox. Look straight before you."
Miss Cox looked straight before her as she was told, and there, at the end of the road, stood a neat white house with a pretty good-sized baker's shop on the lower floor, and two windows above. There was a wing with a bake-house, and then a tall elm tree, left of its brethren which had once stood there in a stately group, either by accident or by design, and given their name to the locality – Elm Fields.
"There's my Frank at the door," Ruth said, nodding; "he wonders what I am come back for."
"I remember
