the kitchen, and visit Lucy, while Ethel and Mary each carried a baby upstairs to exhibit to Margaret.
Richard, in the meantime, had a conversation with John Taylor, and learned a good deal about the district, and the number of the people. At tea, he began to rehearse his information, and the doctor listened with interest, which put Ethel in happy agitation, believing that the moment was come, and Richard seemed to be only waiting for the conclusion of a long tirade against those who ought to do something for the place, when behold! Blanche was climbing on her father’s knee, begging for one of his Sunday stories.
Etheldred was cruelly disappointed, and could not at first rejoice to see her father able again to occupy himself with his little girl. The narration, in his low tones, roused her from her mood of vexation. It was the story of David, which he told in language scriptural and poetical, so pretty and tender in its simplicity, that she could not choose but attend. Ever and anon there was a glance towards Harry, as if he were secretly likening his own “yellow-haired laddie” to the “shepherd boy, ruddy, and of a fair countenance.”
“So Tom and Blanche,” he concluded, “can you tell me how we may be like the shepherd-boy, David?”
“There aren’t giants now,” said Tom.
“Wrong is a giant,” said his little sister.
“Right, my white May-flower, and what then?”
“We are to fight,” said Tom.
“Yes, and mind, the giant with all his armour may be some great thing we have to do: but what did David begin with when he was younger?”
“The lion and the bear.”
“Ay, and minding his sheep. Perhaps little things, now you are little children, may be like the lion and the bear—so kill them off—get rid of them—cure yourself of whining or dawdling, or whatever it be, and mind your sheep well,” said he, smiling sweetly in answer to the children’s earnest looks as they caught his meaning, “and if you do, you will not find it near so hard to deal with your great giant struggle when it comes.”
Ah! thought Ethel, it suits me as well as the children. I have a great giant on Cocksmoor, and here I am, not allowed to attack him, because, perhaps, I am not minding my sheep, and letting my lion and my bear run loose about the house.
She was less impatient this week, partly from the sense of being on probation, and partly because she, in common with all the rest, was much engrossed with Harry’s fate. He came home every day at dinner-time with Norman to ask if Alan Ernescliffe’s letter had come; and at length Mary and Tom met them open-mouthed with the news that Margaret had it in her room.
Thither they hastened. Margaret held it out with a smile of congratulation. “Here it is, Harry; papa said you were to have it, and consider it well, and let him know, when you had taken time. You must do it soberly. It is once for all.”
Harry’s impetuosity was checked, and he took the letter quietly. His sister put her hand on his shoulder, “Would you mind my kissing you, dear Harry?” and as he threw his arms round her neck, she whispered, “Pray that you may choose right.”
He went quietly away, and Norman begged to know what had been Alan Ernescliffe’s advice.
“I can scarcely say he gave any direct advice,” said Margaret; “He would not have thought that called for. He said, no doubt there were hardships and temptations, more or less, according to circumstances; but weighing one thing with another, he thought it gave as fair a chance of happiness as other professions, and the discipline and regularity had been very good for himself, as well as for many others he had known. He said, when a man is willing to go wrong there is much to help him, but when he is resolved on doing right, he need not be prevented.”
“That is what you may say of anything,” said Norman.
“Just so; and it answered papa’s question, whether it was exposing Harry to more temptation than he must meet with anywhere. That was the reason it was such a comfort to have anyone to write to, who understands it so well.”
“Yes, and knows Harry’s nature.”
“He said he had been fortunate in his captains, and had led, on the whole, a happy life at sea; and he thought if it was so with him, Harry was likely to enjoy it more, being of a hardy adventurous nature, and a sailor from choice, not from circumstances.”
“Then he advised for it? I did not think he would; you know he will not let Hector be a sailor.”
“He told me he thought only a strong natural bent that way made it desirable, and that he believed Hector only wished it from imitation of him. He said too, long ago, that he thought Harry cut out for a sailor.
“A spirited fellow!” said Norman, with a look of saddened pride and approval, not at all like one so near the same age. “He is up to anything, afraid of nothing, he can lick any boy in the school already. It will be worse than ever without him!”
“Yes, you will miss your constant follower. He has been your shadow ever since he could walk. But there’s the clock, I must not keep you any longer; good-bye, Norman.”
Harry gave his brother the letter as soon as they were outside the house, and, while he read it, took his arm and guided him. “Well,” said Norman as he finished.
“It is all right,” said Harry; and the two brothers said no more; there was something rising up in their throats at the thought that they had very few more walks to take together to Bishop Whichcote’s school; Norman’s heart was very full at the prospect of another vacancy in his home, and Harry’s was swelling between the ardour of enterprise and the thought of bidding good-bye to each familiar object, and, above all, to the brother who had been his model and admiration from babyhood.
“June!” at length he broke out, “I wish you were going too. I should not mind it half so much if you were.”
“Nonsense, Harry! you want to be July after June all your life, do you? You’ll be much more of a man without me.”
That evening Dr. May called Harry into his study to ask him if his mind was made up; he put the subject fairly before him, and told him not to be deterred from choosing what he thought would be for the best by any scruples about changing his mind. “We shall not think a bit the worse of you; better now, than too late.”
There was that in his face and tone that caused Harry to say, in a stifled voice, “I did not think you would care so much, papa; I won’t go, if you do.”
Dr. May put his hand on his shoulder, and was silent. Harry felt a strange mixture of hope and fear, joy and grief, disappointment and relief. “You must not give it up on that account, my dear,” he said at length; “I should not let you see this, if it did not happen at a time when I can’t command myself as I ought. If you were an only son, it might be your duty to stay; being one of many, ‘tis nonsense to make a rout about parting with you. If it is better for you, it is better for all of us; and we shall do very well when you are once fairly gone. Don’t let that influence you for a moment.”
Harry paused, not that he doubted, but he was collecting his energies—“Then, papa, I choose the navy.”
“Then it is done, Harry. You have chosen in a dutiful, unselfish spirit, and I trust it will prosper with you; for I am sure your father’s blessing—aye, and your mother’s too, go with you! Now then,” after a pause, “go and call Richard. I want him to write to Ernescliffe about that naval school. You must take your leave of the Whichcote
