The well was deep, and the water,
From some mysterious spring,
Was ever gushing far below
With a tender murmuring,
And deep under ground a tiny rill
Stole on in the dark to sing.

"HOW lovely it is! Only see, Aunt Charlotte! It is mine, you say? Oh, I wish I were old enough to wear it! The rubies are beautiful; how they sparkle!"

The speaker herself was a pretty sight—a blue-eyed, brown-haired little maiden of about twelve years old, dressed in a bright-coloured print frock, with a jacket to match, finished off at the neck and round the loose sleeves with a pretty crimped frill. She was standing at the moment we write of, at a window in an old-fashioned country mansion in the Highlands of Scotland, carefully poising on her fingers a beautiful diadem, composed of gold and rubies, which latter glistened brightly as the rays of the autumn sun played on them.

The lady she addressed as aunt was engaged in writing, and hardly seemed to notice the child's words; but a bright-looking boy, perhaps a year older than his sister—for such she was—looked up admiringly at the costly ornament.

"Well, it is a beauty, Nora, the gold 'specially. I wish I had it, I know—the gold, I mean, not the diadem." And he laughed as he added, "Fancy me wearing a diadem! But it suits you to perfection."

"Children," said their aunt, who had put aside the letter she had been writing and come towards the couple, "take care what you are about. Put the diadem back into its casket carefully, and then give it to me to lock up in the old escritoire. So you both like it?"

Two voices answered in one breath, "Oh, so much aunt!"

"Nora admires the rubies, but I like the gold," said Eric. "But are not they both beautiful?"

The lady thus appealed to looked down for a moment, thoughtfully, at the rich casket in which Nora had enclosed her treasure.

"Yes," she said; "but when your own dear mamma died, and left the diadem to me for her little daughter, she said she hoped both she and her boys would find out that there was something 'better than gold and above rubies.'"

"Better than gold!" repeated Eric. "Well, I think gold is pretty good; one can do such lots of things with it."

But his words met with no response. Nora's head was bent, and a tear had risen to her eye; for, though dimly, she still retained a remembrance of the mother who had loved her so fondly.

"Above rubies!" And they were so beautiful; yet her mother hoped she would find out something more beautiful than they. "Can there be anything more so, aunt?" she said.

Her aunt smiled. "Yes, darling, much more so, much more valuable; and you can obtain it, my child."

"I! O aunt—"

But just then the door opened, and a pleasant-faced gentleman entered.

"Eric! Nora! Indoors still on such a lovely day? Fie for shame! Put away work and playthings, and off into the glorious sunshine. Look yonder; the trees are glistening to-day as with many-coloured gems. And, mamma," he said, turning to the lady the children termed aunt, "as I passed the nursery door, I heard two little voices asking, 'Where's mamma?' You had better go and see what's wanted. But where's Ronald? Not at his book, I hope, when to-day is a holiday? He studies too much, and you, Master Eric, too little."

"O uncle," said Nora, "Ronald is out-of-doors—I saw him go: but, for all that, he had a book under his arm; he can't live without books," she said with a smile. "And this is his last day here for a long time. Let us go, Eric, and find out where he is—at the Wishing-Well, I believe. Oh, it will be lovely there to-day!" And so saying she ran off, followed by her brother.

"What a sweet-looking girl Nora grows," said her uncle, addressing his wife. "She daily reminds me more and more of her dear mother when she was the same age, and I only some five years her senior. We two were always great companions, although there was a brother between us—Charlie, you know, who died some years ago in Canada. Ah well! I am glad my own loving-hearted wife yielded to my desire to bring up dear Elenora's children when they were left orphans. The charge has not proved too much for you, Charlotte?"

"Oh no," was the ready response; "the three orphans have brought joy, not sorrow, into our home, I think, Ralph; and our own little ones love them dearly. Nora is a sweet girl; but Ronald has the most character of them all. How I shall miss the noble boy when he leaves us! Eric can hardly fill his place to me yet: he is very heedless; he is the only one who causes me a moment's anxiety. He has not the generous nature of the other two, I fear. Still, he is young, and I may prove wrong in my judgment of him. We need much wisdom, Ralph, from God, rightly to train these children and our own."

"Indeed we do; but, you know, we have the command, If any lack wisdom, let him ask of God.'"

Just then the door opened, and a messenger from the nursery called Mrs. Macleod away.

It was, indeed, a happy home in which the three orphan children of whom we are mostly to write had, shortly after their parents' death, found a warm welcome. Benvourd House, the residence of their dead mother's brother, had also been the home of her own young days; and very grateful did she feel when on her death-bed, her favourite brother, with his young wife's full consent, undertook to bring up the little homeless children, whose father had died in India only one year before.

Seven years had elapsed since then, and the children were growing up quickly in their quiet Highland home, in which three little cousins had been born since the death of Elenora Macintosh.

Ronald, the eldest of the three orphans, was now fifteen years old—a clever, thoughtful lad, only prevented from being too much of a book-worm by his love of outdoor sports, which had rendered him bold and manly. And amid the mountain breezes, he had grown-up a strong, hardy lad, with as gentle and loving a heart for the poor and weak ones of earth as his own mother had possessed.

Nora was right. At the time our story begins, Ronald was seated beside the Wishing-Well, book in hand. But the boy was not reading just then; his heart was somewhat full. On the morrow he was to leave his quiet home to go to a large school in England; and from thence, at the age of seventeen, a cousin, who was the head of a mercantile house in London, had offered to give him a situation in it. He hardly liked the idea. He had a soldier's spirit, and would have chosen his father's profession (who met his early death bravely fighting in an Indian war).

But Ronald had others to think of. He must work for his little sister, whom his mother had left to him as his special charge, and Eric as well. He was thinking of these things as he sat beside the Wishing-Well, and he heaved a sigh as he laid down the spirited account of the early Crusades which he had been reading.

"Ah, well!" he said. "The days of the Crusades are gone. I can no longer join the noble band who sought to free the grave of our Lord from the hands of the Infidel, nor boldly bear the banner of the Cross and fight under it. I wish I could."

Was the boy thinking of the old legend of the Wishing-Well? At all events, his amazement was great when a voice spoke:

"Have, then, thy wish. In the name of the King of kings, I invite you to join in the noblest crusade that has ever been made—to rescue the thousands of prisoners held captive in vile bondage by the Prince of Darkness. Will you join?"

The lad rose quickly, a flush on his cheek. He had forgotten that he had spoken his thoughts aloud; and certainly imagined he was alone in this solitary spot, forgetting that an open pathway to the village below ran through the copsewood close behind the well. Turning, he faced the speaker—a young man of tall figure, and a countenance full of intelligence and fire.

"Who are you?" said the boy. "And what do you wish me to do?"

In a powerful yet musical voice the answer came: "I am an ambassador of the Most High God, seeking in his name to get recruits for his service to join the crusade I have spoken of, which is led by the Captain of Salvation, the Lord Jesus. Again, I say, will you, while the dew of your youth is upon you, join the band?"

"How can I?"

"First may I ask, have you taken the Lord as your Master, and given him your heart?"

The lad bent his head, then raised it calmly. "I have," he answered. "By my mother's death-bed, seven years ago, I gave myself to Jesus."

"The Lord be praised!" answered the stranger. "Then, when the Captain calls, you are bound to fight his battles, and display his banner fearlessly."

"But, sir, how can I? To-morrow I leave this for school."

"The very place to begin," was the earnest reply. "Help the weak ones there, like a true Knight of the Cross, and try to set some bond ones free. Carry the Lord's banner there, and see to it you are a true standard-bearer. Now, farewell! My time here is short. In the world's great field of battle we may meet again; if not, let our trysting-place be before the throne on high." Then, saying the words, "Inasmuch as ye do it to the least of these my brethren, ye do it unto me," he strode off through the heather as silently as he came.

For a moment or two Ronald gazed after him; then sank down once more in the moss and ferns beside the Wishing-Well. When he again raised his head, the stranger was out of sight.

Had it all been a dream? No; every word, every look, of the mysterious speaker was too deeply impressed on his mind and eyes for that. One thing was certain: he had promised anew to live to God and for God. He had joined the great army of the Lord of hosts; and bending his head a moment in prayer, he asked strength from above to "endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ."

Just then a loud shout rang on the air.

"Here he is, Eric! I told you we'd find him here;" and with a bound Nora stood beside the Wishing-Well. "Reading again, I declare, Ronald!" said the merry little maiden, catching up her brother's book and tossing it up in the air; taking care, however, to catch it ere it reached the ground. "Do come, and let us have a race."

But ere Ronald could answer, the child's mood had changed again. "No, wait a moment. I forgot, Ronald, this is your last day, and I want a long talk with you; you know it will be an age ere we have a nice one again."

And with the gentle look stealing over her face which so often reminded her brother of their mother, she sat gently down and let Ronald twine his arm round her waist.

For a moment there was silence; Nora was gazing thoughtfully down into the waters of the well. Then she spoke: "Ronald, what is it that is above rubies?"

"Rubies!" he said. "Little sister, what makes you think of them?"

A shadow crossed her face. "Eric and I have been looking at mamma's diadem; and oh, it is so beautiful! I only wish I were old enough to wear it, the rubies sparkle so. But aunt says mamma's wish for me was that I might obtain that which is above rubies, and I thought I would ask you what that is."

Ronald drew his sister very close to his side. "Yes, I know what it is, Nora. It is the wise king who says, 'A virtuous woman is above rubies.'"

"Virtuous!" repeated Nora. "Oh, I know! That means 'good.' I'll try to be that, and begin at once."

Ronald's reply to her remark was cut short by Eric, who had run off after his favourite dog Cherry, and now returned, dashing down his cap in his impetuous way; then, telling Cherry to lie down, he exclaimed, "Come, Aldy—" (his great name for his brother), "as this is your last day here for ever so long, let us all wish for some special thing beside the well. Never mind whether the old legend is true or not. Who knows? Let us try."

"I have wished already, Eric."

"And so have I," said Nora.

"Well, then," replied Eric, "tell out your wishes."

"Ah no, Eric!" said his brother. "Wishes are sacred. I won't tell mine."

"Nor I," put in Nora.

Truth to tell, she had wished she might wear the lovely diadem when she grew up, and was not sure whether her brother would not laugh at her wish.

"What stuff!" said Eric. "What's the use of wishing, if no one knows. I'm not ashamed of mine one bit; so here goes: 'I do wish to get very rich, have lots of money, heaps of gold.' Wait a bit, and see if my wish is not fulfilled."

"Heaps of gold, Eric?" And Ronald laid his hand kindly on his brother's shoulder. "Our mother used to say she hoped we would all find out what is better than gold."

Eric made no reply; the mention of his dead mother had touched his heart.

Only Nora spoke. "Ronald," she said, "I've unwished my first wish, and wished another. Can I?"

Her brother smiled. "I don't know whether it will stand good, pet, or not; I am not in the secret of the well."

"But, at all events, Ronald, my last is my real one. I'm sure the first was just a sort of one; but I'll keep to this one, and see if it comes true."

She had wished that she might obtain what is "above rubies."

[CHAPTER II.]

THE OLD NURSE.

"Not yours, but His by right;
His peculiar treasure now—
Fair and precious in his sight,
Purchased jewel for this brow.
He will keep what thus he sought,
Safely guard the dearly bought;
Cherish that which he did choose;
Always love, and never lose."

ON leaving the well, the children stood for a minute or two looking around them, Ronald especially taking in every feature of the lovely scene before him. And although the other two hardly then realized it would be so, yet in after-years, in far different scenes, the memory of that day, and even many minute details of the landscape around the Wishing-Well, rose distinctly before their minds.

Amid the purple heather the well lay; clear and cool, soft green moss grew close round it; and ferns hung over its sides in graceful beauty—some tiny ones were still green there, whilst all around had caught the autumn colours. From the well northwards, the eye ranged over grand mountains—some clad with trees far up their sides, others purple and brown with heather; whilst in the immediate background the copsewood was glowing in crimson and golden glory, the leaves gently falling with every light gust of wind, and strewing the ground as with gold and rubies.

Eric soon wearied, and ran off to amuse himself with his pet rabbits; but Nora and Ronald chatted on a while, till the nurse and two little cousins came in search of Miss Nora, who was wanted indoors to see a lady who was calling. Then Ronald set off alone to pay a farewell visit far down the glen to an invalid widow who had been his mother's nurse.

After a short walk, he reached one of the most beautiful of Highland passes, on the opposite side of which the cottage for which he was bent was situated. Lovely indeed did the pass look that autumn day. Through it dashed a noisy little river, white here and there with foam gathered as it rolled over the high boulder stones that were deeply embedded in its channel, and which at times almost obstructed its way; while its banks on both sides were richly wooded—and as the boy's eyes rested on them, they literally blazed in scarlet and golden splendour. No wonder that his heart beat with enthusiasm as he gazed at the scene; and he began, with boyish fervour, to repeat the lines,—

"Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?"

And we marvel not that his heart shrank from the thought of leaving it all for other scenes.

He received a warm greeting, chiefly in the Gaelic language, as he entered the hut where old Peggy sat in her arm-chair.

"Come in, my young master, an' bide a wee, an' gledden the auld woman's een wi' a sicht o' her bairn—" for such she always termed the handsome lad.

He seated himself beside her as in olden days; but her keen eyes noticed the tear that now and then moistened for a second the eyes of her favourite, and told of a full heart. Quickly she guessed the cause.

"An' so ye're leavin' us, Maister Ronald, an' gaun yer first voyage intil the wide world? Aweel, aweel! It's little auld Peggy kens aboot that world, she that's been quietly fostered a' her days, as maiden, wife, an' widow, in the Highland glen. But, O laddie!"

And she laid her hand kindly on his shoulder, "The Lord God, the Maker o' a' the world, kens ilka turn in it; he's no ane to leave the lad he's brocht to trust in him to lose his road in a strange land. Ye're no gaun withoot a guid Guide, bairn; and Ane wha never leaves his wark unfinished. 'This God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even unto death.' Ay," she added, "an' thro' the valley also; an' he'll no gie up the wark even on the ither side; he's guidin' your dear mother yonder, Maister Ronald, by the crystal sea an' the livin' fountains o' water. Ye're no feard he'll fail you, my lad?"

"No, nursie," was the quick reply; "I've no fear of God failing to keep his word; but oh, I fear for myself. You'll pray I may never be 'ashamed to own my Lord,' nor ever hide his banner. I've enlisted into his army, nursie, and by his grace, and with his help, have promised to be a faithful soldier and a true knight, to help the weak, and, if possible, set free the oppressed."

The boy's eyes shone as he spoke; the old woman looked at him with emotion.

"The Lord be praised for his work begun in your heart, my bairn; an' may he keep you faithful thro' all temptations, an' at last gie you the golden crown to cast at your Saviour's feet. Your mother left her orphan children to the Lord's care, an' he's no ane to prove faithless to such a charge, even tho' for a while they stray in their blind ignorance afar from him."

She was silent for a minute, then said, "You'll mind Johnnie, my Johnnie, Maister Ronald; my dead daughter's only bairn? Aweel, his mother gi'ed him too into the Lord's hands, and yet—" and here a tear fell on the old cheek—"he wearied o' his quiet hame amid our grand old hills, and left his grannie in her auld age, and wandered off wi' an idle companion into the wide world. And it's three years sin' I heard frae him; an' yet tho' my heart wearies sair to see him, I can trust him to the Lord and believe. He can and will draw him to himself yet, even tho' my een should be closed to earth afore then. Ay, the Lord is a promise-keeping God. The world is wide, Maister Ronald, I ken that; but should you ever fall in wi' Johnnie Robertson, ye'll mind him o' his auld Grannie Cameron, and the Highland glen where he spent his young days? He had a kind heart, the bit laddie that I loved like my ain son; and had he ta'en heed to the command o' the wise king, 'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not,' he'd been here still earnin' his livin', as his faither did afore him, as an honest tiller o' the ground."

Ronald felt for the old widow. Well did he remember the handsome lad, some four years his senior, who had been induced about three years before by an idle cousin to leave his home and try his fortune in London. Only once had he written to the grandmother he had seemed really to love, and since then no word had come from him, and none knew whether he was living or dead; but from the lowly hut in the lovely Highland pass the widow's prayers of faith and trust ever rose for the orphan boy she had reared so fondly.

Ere parting Ronald knelt down and asked the old woman's blessing. She gave it to him in the name of the Father of the fatherless, and once more charged him not to forget his old friend Johnnie.

The lad promised, though he smiled to himself as he thought of the small chance he had of meeting the youth, although his school was in the suburbs of the great metropolis.

Back again through the pass he walked, with his firm, elastic step, drawing in with delight every breath of the free mountain air. Before re-entering the house, he turned aside by a path which led down to the old churchyard, and stood for a moment by his mother's grave. The sunbeams were shining there, glistening on the autumn flowers, which the loving hands of her children had planted. The boy plucked one to be taken to his new home, and as he did so a prayer rose to his lips that the remembrance of his mother, and her loving words and firm trust in God, might never pass from his mind, but nerve him for the battle of life which lay before him.

At the door of the house he was met by his brother and sister and his two little cousins, Minnie and Charlie, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in boyish frolics with them.

On the morrow came the parting. Nora's tears fell fast as the dog-cart bore her brother, accompanied by Mr. Macleod, out of sight. But in her ears rang Ronald's parting words:

"Good-bye, Nora; don't forget brother Ronald; and remember our mother's wish concerning you and the rubies."

She had answered through her tears, "Yes, brother, I will; I have begun already. I am going to be the kind of woman that is above rubies."

Poor Nora! She meant what she said, but as yet she had not even guessed the true meaning of the words, and all her efforts were made in her own strength, the utter weakness of which she had yet to learn in the school of experience.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE DIADEM OF LEAVES.

To the crags all bright, in the golden light,
With floral diadems!
As fresh and fair, as rich and rare,
As any royal gems.

"PATIENCE is a virtue, and perseverance is a virtue, and so is punctuality, and uncle says I possess none of these qualities, and yet I want to be a virtuous woman; so I must try hard to become patient, persevering, and punctual."

So soliloquized little Nora Macintosh the morning after Ronald's departure for school. Just as she had formed these brave resolutions, the prayer-bell rang, and knowing that her habit of coming into the library five minutes late, and so disturbing every one, was one of the causes of her uncle's complaint of her unpunctuality, she at once opened her bed-room door, and for a wonder contrived to join the family group ere they were seated. She was so pleased with this good beginning of carrying out her resolutions that it was some time ere she remembered, with a feeling of dismay, that she had forgotten her quiet morning prayer in her own room.

When she remembered it, she ran upstairs and knelt down, then repeated a form of words without thought, to which we dare not give the name of prayer. It was a bad beginning. Still Nora was now quite content, and confident that she would soon be all her mother had desired.

"Aunt," she said after breakfast was over, "it is such a fine day, mayn't I walk across the moor half-way and meet Miss Stewart? And then we'll come home together."

"Certainly, dear, if you are sure that is the way Miss Stewart will come; only, remember you don't keep her waiting, as you did one day last week."

"Oh no, aunt, I shan't do that; I am never going to keep her waiting again, you'll see;" and so saying she bounded off.

Down the lawn and through the copsewood she tripped, enjoying the crisp morning air, then out upon the moor, the heather of which was turning brown, though patches of purple still lingered here and there.

Miss Stewart, who came for some hours each day to instruct her, was the eldest daughter of a minister who lived at some distance from Benvourd, and in general her shortest way lay across the moor.

Nora, after running through the heather for a minute or two, and startling a covey of grouse, who rose with a whir as she approached, stood still, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked in the direction Miss Stewart should have come; but there was no appearance of her. She lingered a short time, then turned homewards, wondering if her governess could have taken another road. She seldom did, still once or twice she had done so.

Musing thus, she re-entered the copsewood, and stood admiring the gorgeous colours of the low trees. Suddenly a thought struck her—it would be such fun to gather a lot of the bright gold and scarlet leaves, and form them into a diadem at home with ribbon-wire, some of which she had in her work-basket. She knew she could do it, and then she would have a diadem to wear which would look just like gold and rubies. Wouldn't Eric like to see it! Absorbed in the idea, she set to work, and forgot all about Miss Stewart, and the virtue of punctuality. Alas! poor Nora, she was suddenly brought to herself by her uncle's voice—

"Nora, what are you about? Miss Stewart has been waiting for you for half an hour; you really must try to be more punctual—you will get into a habit of being late for everything."

She rose hastily, scattering, as she did so, all her gathered hoard of bright-coloured leaves on the ground. She had not a word to say for herself, and was really grieved at having displeased her kind uncle. She entered the school-room cast down and out of sorts, and quite disposed to feel that it was no use to try to attain the virtue of punctuality.

It was certainly Miss Stewart who required the grace of patience that day, for her little pupil tried her sorely. Lessons repeated with inaccuracy, music played without the least attention, and work done so badly that it had to be taken out and done over again, made up the sum of the morning's occupations; not that the child meant to give trouble, but her thoughts were wandering, now to the beautiful diadem, now to the leaves, then again to Ronald, and from him to her wish at the well, and her morning's resolutions. She became impatient at returned lessons and picked-out work, and gave way to temper more than Miss Stewart ever recollected to have seen her do; and to sum up all, she had to spend the afternoon indoors in disgrace.

It was very humbling, and Nora shed many tears about it—just when she meant to be so very good. How had it all come about? Was there no little voice whispering to her? It was because she was trying to fight a very strong enemy in her own strength. Had she altogether forgotten that it is only through Jesus we can overcome any sin?

If so, she was not long in having a reminder, for after a while a gentle tap came to the school-room door, and her little four-year-old cousin, Minnie (her special pet and plaything) entered. Tears shone in the bright blue eyes.

"No cry, Cousin 'Nona;' Minnie so sorry 'cause you cry. Why do 'ou? Has 'ou been naughty, Cousin 'Nona'?"

The girl stooped to take the child on her lap, saying as she did so, "Yes, Minnie, I am afraid 'Nona' is not good to-day. She can't be, somehow."

The blue eyes were raised in amazement. "But, 'Nona,' Jesus can make 'ou good. Mamma says so. Did 'ou ask him?"

Ere her cousin could answer, the child was called away; but her words lingered, and although Nora did not bend the knee, I think she did ask Jesus to help her; but, like the boy and the runaway knock, she never looked for nor expected an answer. Still her mother's desire and her talks with Ronald were not forgotten, though she made small progress in the heavenward path.

Mrs. Macleod watched her at this time anxiously, and half hoped that she had begun the pilgrimage to the Celestial City, of which she loved so much to read in Bunyan's wonderful allegory; but again she would be disheartened, not at childish failures, but when for days at a time, the girl would seem to give up all battling against her besetting sins, all seeking to walk in the right path.

In all womanly matters Nora received a good training in her Highland home. From her childhood, her aunt showed her many household matters, and instructed her in them; and a very useful little maiden she proved in many ways. It was she who had the knitting and darning of Eric's stockings, the sewing on of buttons to his shirts. She also hemmed both his and her uncle's pocket-handkerchiefs, and was always eager to help her aunt in any work to which she could put her hand.

Unknown to herself, she was learning many of the accomplishments for which the wise king extols the virtuous woman: and in stretching out her hands to the needy, Nora had to make no effort; never did a more loving, tender heart beat in a human breast. No wonder she was loved in the cottages of the poor. It was a sight, to see the bright little child, as she tripped over the hills and through the heather with a flagon full of soup to carry to some poor bedridden old woman.

She was very happy then; and somehow, after Ronald's departure, she seemed to love those messages of mercy more than ever. A thousand welcomes, spoken in the Gaelic tongue, greeted her as she entered the cottages of the poor, and the very look of her large soft eyes cheered their lonely hearts. Her uncle declared she had a God-given gift of nursing: no hand could smooth a pillow so well as Nora's; no one could be more skilful in cooling a burning forehead, and shading the light from aching eyes, than she was; and no foot could tread more gently in a sick-room than hers did; and no voice sounded more sweet than hers as she read aloud a page to the suffering one from God's own Word. No wonder those who knew her best hoped she had become a "ministering child" from love to the One who came to earth not to be "ministered unto, but to minister."

Only the sharp eyes of Widow Cameron read her aright. "Eh, but she's a winsome lassie," she would say to herself; "and wi' as kind a heart as her ain mither had, and weel inclined too. Maybe she's seekin' the right road, but I fear me she hasna got in at the Wicket Gate yet; and for as bonnily as she reads the Book o' Life, she hasna learned in truth to say o' our blessed Lord, 'My God, and my Saviour.'"

These remarks were made to herself, one bright autumn day not long after Ronald's departure, when Nora had hastily entered the cottage to read a bit of Ronald's first letter to the old woman.

Her brown curls were tossed about with the wind, and her cheeks glowing with the exercise of her walk, when she tripped, brimful of life and spirits, into the cottage.

"Good news to-day, nursie!" she said, holding up the letter in her hand. "See, all this from your own laddie, as you call him, and a special bit for yourself, too. Auntie and uncle have a long joint-letter; but this is to me, his baby sister, he writes. Only fancy!" And the long curls were tossed indignantly back as she spoke. "Baby, indeed! And I'll be thirteen in February."

"Is't possible, missie? Dear me, to think o' that. It looks just the ither day sin' we heard o' your birth in the far-awa' land. But now, read to me aboot Maister Ronald, my bonnie lad. How fares he among strange folk?"

"Oh, very well! Here is what he says, after a bit just to myself, you know,—"

"'Tell old nursie I am quite happy here. Dr. Bowles and his wife are very kind (though he is strict too). We have a beautiful play-ground. She can fancy, and you too, the noise fifty boys make there together. Wouldn't Eric enjoy our games? I know nurse will like to hear that I am trying to hold up the banner, and not be ashamed of doing so. Say to her she must pray for me, for I am only a weak school-boy, and do not like to be laughed at; but I know how even an earthly soldier has to endure hardness, and surely Christ's soldiers should not shrink from any reviling they may be called on to endure for his sake. I do hope I may never forget how he wore, for me, the crown of thorns, and how he says to his followers who are faithful to him: "I will give thee a crown of life."'"

"That crown will be better than one of gold and rubies, Nora, will it not?"

The child's voice became silent, a light cloud crossing the fair face.

But the old woman spoke—"The good Lord keep the lad frae a' evil, an' gie him grace to steadily fight under, an' hold up the gospel banner; and one day grant he may wear the golden crown."

Then suddenly she laid her hand kindly on the girl's head, and smoothed back the tangled hair, gently pushing back the straw hat. With a mother's tenderness, she looked into the deep blue eyes, and noted the large fair forehead, but she spoke not.

Nora glanced up amazed. "What is it, nursie?" she said.

"I was wonderin', my lambie, what kind o' crown is to sit on your bonnie brow. Is it to be the crown o' a vain world's folly, or the everlasting ane your mother prayed so earnestly might rest there? Ye canna hae baith, I'm thinkin'. Missie, which is it to be?"

Then Nora raised her head undaunted. "Oh, don't be frightened, nurse; I am going to be all mamma wished me to be. Indeed, indeed I am trying to be that which is 'above rubies.'"

The old woman smiled, but shook her head. "Ay—ay, I'm glad to hear it, missie; but mind you begin at the right end—'God be merciful to me a sinner.' The virtuous woman Solomon alludes to, is the one who has the fear of the Lord in her heart, and whose trust is in him, not in her own power o' doin' right. And the same wise king says, my dear, 'The Lord giveth grace unto the lowly.' Have you sought strength and help frae the Lord Jesus aboot this matter, Miss Nora?"

The girl rose quickly. "Oh, yes," she said; "but I must be going now. The children were to meet me half-way. Good-bye, nurse. Shall I send your love to Ronald when I write?"

"Ay, do, please; and tell him old Peggy'll no forget to pray for her bairn. Fare-ye-weel."

One friendly nod, and Nora was off, down the path through the pass, with as bounding a step as the mountain roe. But through the sound of the autumn wind, she seemed to hear the words:

"Have you sought strength and help from the Lord Jesus in this matter?"

It was almost the same question her little cousin had put to her, expressed in her baby language; and, somehow, Nora felt she did not care to look the question in the face and give it a true answer. So to drown thought, she began to sing, and just then little Minnie ran to meet her, and together they continued their walk.

[CHAPTER IV.]

NEW FRIENDS.

Oh, world unknown! How charming is thy view,
Thy pleasures many, and each pleasure new.
Oh, world experienced! What of thee is told?
How few thy pleasures, and these few how old!

"AN invitation, Nora," said her aunt, soon after the Christmas holidays had come to a close, "and for you."

"For me, aunt! Oh, who is it from? And may I accept it?"

Her aunt smiled. "One question at a time, dear. The invitation is from Mrs. Forbes, asking you and Eric to spend to-morrow at Craiglora, to meet Clara Ross and her brother from Edinburgh, who, it seems, have been spending the holidays with the Forbeses. I believe Clara is just about a year or so older than you, and Alick nearly as old as Ronald. You know, dear, they are related to you by your father's side."

"And may we go?" repeated the child.

Her aunt hesitated, but replied slowly—

"Yes, I suppose so, dear; that is, if your uncle can conveniently send you to-morrow; you know Craiglora is nearly ten miles off."

But Nora's shout of delight drowned any more words.

"Oh, how delightful! A day at the Forbeses, and two new companions! Eric, Eric! do you hear?"

"Yes," he said, bounding, as he spoke, to his aunts side; "it's splendid. I only wonder what sort of a fellow Alick is. Come off, Nora; let's run and tell Minnie."

The children ran off; and Mrs. Macleod stood a few moments lost in thought. The children had mingled so little with companions, and now she felt she would have liked to know a little more about those strange cousins: for she felt that the becoming acquainted with them involved more than Nora knew; for already it had been mooted by the Rosses that, if the cousins liked each other, Nora should be asked to spend some months in Edinburgh with Clara.

"O uncle, how lovely everything looks to-day!" said Nora, as she, accompanied by Eric, sat in the dog-cart beside Mr. Macleod, on their way to Craiglora.

And, indeed, it was a lovely scene which met their eyes as they drove along; fields, woods, and mountains wearing a slight robe of pure white snow, which sparkled under the rays of the winter sun.

"Why, uncle," said Eric, "a few more days of frost and we shall have skating; shall we not? Only fancy how Ronald will envy us when he hears of it."

"The frost will need to be much stronger than this, Eric, ere the loch bears; so, remember, no venturing on the ice to-day on any account.—But see, Nora, yonder is Craiglora in the distance. I will just drive you to the door, then go on to Castle Bellmore, where I am to spend the day, and call for you on my way home. I hope you youngsters will have a pleasant visit."

As they approached the door, Nora became both excited and shy; she had mixed so little with other girls, that pain was mingled with her pleasure. She expected to see her cousin a child like herself, only, perhaps, a little taller; so she, as well as her uncle, was much annoyed when Mrs. Forbes met them at the door, accompanied by a tall, over-dressed, languishing young lady, as Nora thought, whom she introduced to them as Clara Ross. Nora shrank back abashed. Was this the girl with whom she had come to play, as she had thought?

Mr. Macleod was the first to break the silence.

"Why, Miss Clara, how you have grown since I saw you last! My little puss here will be altogether alarmed at your grown-up appearance."

Clara smiled. "Oh, we'll get on nicely, Mr. Macleod," she said in an affected way; "though I hardly thought that Cousin Nora would be such a little girl."

In the meantime, Eric and Alick had introduced themselves, and set off to visit the stables.

Clara Ross was dressed in the height of the then prevailing fashion, and the number of flounces on her dress struck Nora with surprise, and, for the moment, made her ashamed of her own neat though plain plaid frock. The girls soon became friends, Clara chatting away about Edinburgh and all its attractions.

"Do you go to many parties?" she questioned Nora.

The child smiled.

"Parties, Clara? How could we? There are so few people live here, and the distance from one house to another is too great for any but grown-up people to go in the evening. Oh, no, we never go to what you call parties. But we don't miss them a bit. We have plenty of fun at home, and we play all sorts of games; and sometimes in the evening, aunt plays and sings to us; and in summer, we have out-of-door games, and picnics, and drives. Oh, I assure you, we are never dull, never."

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Ah well, you see, you know no other kind of life; but as for me, I would die, if I lived here. Why, Laura and Jane, my elder sisters, say life here is not life at all, only vegetation. The poor people can have no ideas, nothing to take them out of themselves."

"Vegetation!" repeated Nora. "Why, Clara, I'm sure you don't know what you are talking about. If you visited in the cottages, you would see how clever and thoughtful the people are; fond of their country, I grant you, as who would not be?" said the girl with the enthusiasm of a young Highlander. "And fond of their Bibles, too. But they have plenty of interests that carry their thoughts to other places and other lands, as well as their own. I know aunt would tell you so. Why, there's hardly a family in the village near us but some of them are abroad, or, at all events, away in town—some in Perth, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, London, and in America as well. Oh! Life here is not vegetation, I assure you;" and Nora's shyness vanished as she stood up for her people and her country.

"Indeed, Nora, you are right," said Mrs. Forbes, who, unknown to the girls, had entered and heard their conversation. "It is only foolish people who talk that way. Believe me, Clara, that life lived truly in such a place as this, is as full, as noble, as great as that lived elsewhere. Nay, I question if those who speak of such lives as vegetation know anything at all of what real life is, or value it as God's great gift. True, many of our people have not many books; but the few they have are well read and thoroughly understood. And though they know nothing of life as spent in towns, that does not prove that their minds are narrow. The truly narrow minds, Clara, are those which have no resources within themselves which can enable them to spend time profitably and pleasantly, without the constant excitement of society.—But there, now, we must not waste all the day in talking; suppose you join the boys in their game of battledoor and shuttlecock in the library?"

Clara tossed her head a little at the proposal, muttering something about childish; but seeing Nora's delight at the idea, she yielded, and soon the house resounded with the laughter of young voices, in which Clara's was loudest. With none of her foolish companions to laugh at her, the girl was good-natured and childlike; but long ere they parted, Nora got a vivid account of town pleasures, parties, and dress, which certainly gave her a great longing for a peep at them all; and when she told Clara about her beautiful diadem, her companion's interest was much excited.

"A diadem, Nora! How lovely! They are quite the fashion just now. You must come to visit us soon, and learn town ways and manners; and then in a few years, when you are come out, you will wear the diadem at parties. How I wish I had one! Do you know, when I look at you I see you have a head and brow just suited for a crown."

What had she said that brought a cloud across the girl's face? A very momentary one, no doubt, for it soon passed. Yet long after, when Nora was outwardly engaged at a game with her cousins and Eric, she seemed to feel the touch of a hand on her head and brow, and to hear the old nurse's voice as she said:

"I was wonderin', my lambie, what kind o' a crown is to sit on your bonnie brow. Is it to be the crown o' a vain world's folly, or the everlasting ane your mother prayed might rest there? Ye canna hae baith, I'm thinkin', missie."

Why not? She was asking herself, when Eric spoke impatiently:—

"Nora, it is your turn now. What are you dreaming about? I declare you just looked like Ronald in a dreamy fit just now."

Nora started. "All right; I forgot it was my turn."

And then the game went on.

The girls became great friends. Clara was much attracted by her bright young cousin, and determined to ask her parents, on her return home, to invite her to come and live with them for a while. There was much that was amiable and lovable in Clara's nature; but the crust which a worldly upbringing causes to grow over the heart and affections was beginning to grow on hers. An ardent nature, which in her early days sought eagerly for love, for love's own sweet sake, was now seeking rather for admiration, with its deadening influences. No one had spoken to her of that which is "better than gold, and above rubies."

The drive home in the evening light was a quiet one. Even Eric's spirits were subdued by the day's frolic, and Nora was more than usually thoughtful. Clara's words, unwilling as she was to allow it, had done their work: the visions of a town life, and plenty of companions and amusements, were strangely blended in her young mind with thoughts of sparkling rubies and an unfading crown.

At last she broke the silence by the question—

"Uncle, do you and aunt never mean to go to Edinburgh for the winter, even after Minnie and Charlie are old enough for school?"

Mr. Macintosh smiled. "'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' Nora," he said; "and an evil indeed it would seem to me, to be obliged to live even a few months of each year in any town. But as yet we need hardly think on the subject, so far as Minnie and Charlie are concerned; and no doubt, if it be found advisable for us to go when they are old enough, the way will be made plain, and duty must come before pleasure. Would you like to live in Edinburgh, Nora?"

The child flushed up. "No," and "yes, uncle. I would be sorry, of course, to leave Benvourd; but I do think it would be pleasant to live in a town for a while."

"That it would," chimed in Eric. "Alick says they have splendid fun in their house, and parties every week."

Their uncle gave a low whistle. "Ha, ha!" he said. "Is this the effect of the day's pleasure?" Then he added more gravely—"Do you think, children, that your cousins have a happier home than you have?"

Nora's impulsive throw of her arms round his neck at that speech was rather embarrassing, as he was the driver. And her indignant declaration of "No, no! They could not have a happier home than we have!" All but started the horse with its vehemence.

Whilst Eric, too, said indignantly, "That wasn't what we meant; only—"

But what was to follow the "only" was not disclosed; for at that moment, they stopped at the door of their home, and both children ran off eagerly to rehearse to their aunt the story of the day.

That visit, as Mrs. Macleod had anticipated, resulted in an invitation for both children to spend the winter in Edinburgh with their cousins the Rosses, and have the advantage of schools there.

"I have been fearing this," said Mrs. Macleod, as she handed the letter to her husband. "How shall we answer it? There are advantages, we must own; and yet, without being uncharitable, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that the Rosses bring up their children only for this world, and God is shut out from their house."

Mr. Macleod laid his hand gently on his wife's shoulder. "Mary," he said, "the Lord can find his own way into homes from which he is apparently shut out. We must not decide this matter hastily, nor without asking counsel of him. If we could always keep those children guarded from evil, gladly would I do so; but I question if already a spirit of discontent has not arisen in the hearts of both of them, as regards the quiet life we lead here. If we let them go, it may be God's way of showing them in what real happiness consists. Remember, as their father's nearest relations, the Rosses have a right to have them visit them for a while. But we must take time to consider such a proposal."

Three days after that morning, the children were told of the invitation, and of the arrangement that their uncle and aunt had made regarding it.

Eric was to go first, starting almost immediately, and remaining till the end of the school season. Then next year, when Nora was a little older, she should go, God willing, for some months also.

Few words were spoken by either of the children as this announcement was made; though, boylike, Eric was delighted to go, and Nora, for the while disappointed that her turn would be so long deferred. Still, we must own that her loving heart shrank from the thought of leaving those she loved so dearly. There were tears in her eyes on the morning that Eric set off from the home-nest, leaving her the only one of the orphans remaining there; but she only threw herself into Mrs. Macleod's arms, and said quietly—"Oh, I am so glad that I have you and uncle to love me still!"

Many anxious thoughts followed Eric as he left his home. There was no evidence that any thoughts of heavenly things were in his heart; and yet, though his friends failed to realize it, the seed sown was not in vain. The day-by-day power of a good example, the blessed influence of a Christian home, are never wholly without effect; though it was no hand in that happy home that was commissioned from on high to lead Eric to seek what is better than gold.

[CHAPTER V.]

AN ENGLISH HOME.

"I tremble when I think how much
I love him; but I turn away
From thinking of it, just to love him more,—
Indeed, I fear too much."

"ONE, two, three, and over!" called a bright-faced little fellow of some eight years, as he jumped again and again over a low iron fence which separated the shrubbery at one part from the shady lawn of the old English castle of which he was the youthful heir.

A pretty curly Skye-terrier puppy shared his sport, and jumped every time his young master did so. Those two were plainly having "a good time" (as the Americans say), judging by the sparkle in their eyes. They were alone, apparently; and the stately old trees, and even the gray, venerable castle itself, seemed to keep ward over the young creatures in their play.

Not that they were the only young things about just then: for young leaves were quivering on the branches of the old trees, and young birds were chirping in the pretty little nests in the shrubs and hedges; young flowers were peeping up through the tender grass, and the very sweetest of violets and primroses were dotting the banks of the sparkling river that intersected the lawn; and, more than all, young, woolly, curly lambs were frolicking about, enjoying themselves as much as the merry boy, the owner of them all, and his frisky companion.

The old trees had looked down for many years on groups of merry children playing beneath them, children whose shouts echoed all around, but who had long since passed away, their work in life done, and a new generation had taken their place—to pass away, too, in their appointed time. Yet still the old trees grew on.

But there was only one child playing there now. Brothers and sisters he had none. A fatherless child, too, but a merry one withal. The large brown eyes were almost always dancing with fun, save when they rested on the face of his widowed mother. Then there came a look of tenderness and a depth of love into them, which quieted the fun, it may be, but increased the happiness of the young spirit: for what were all the riches to which the boy was heir in comparison with the mother whom he adored?

Bold, reckless, and even disobedient to others, one word from her, one look of her soft gray eyes, brought him in his most rebellious humour a penitent to her knee.

In the midst of his play, in the noontide glory of that spring day, a voice called, "Sir James! Sir James! Come in; a gentleman wishes to see you."

Unheeded fell the servant's voice.

"Come in, indeed!" said the child, addressing the dog beside him. "Go indoors in such a glorious day as this! Not likely, Snap, is it, for all the gentlemen in the world?"

Then, as the call was repeated, and the butler walked up to his young master, the boy turned: "You can say I'm busy, Walter. If the gentleman wishes me, let him come here. It's a shame to be indoors in such a day!"

"It is her ladyship's desire you should come, sir; she said to tell you so," said the butler.

"Mamma wishes me? Oh, then, I must go! Here, Snap, come along! She won't wish to keep us long indoors."

On a sofa in the castle drawing-room lay a gentle-looking lady, dressed as a widow; a tall gentleman, not unlike herself, stood near her. They were engrossed in conversation; the subject a painful one to the lady apparently, for her eyes were full of tears, and her voice trembled as she said—

"So soon, Edward? Must it really be? How can I bear it? And he is so good—and well advanced too; might it not be deferred for another year?"

But the answer came in a firm, manly tone, yet gentle withal: "No, Charlotte, it cannot be put off. James is now eight years old: and though I grant he is obedient to you, still he is under no control to any one else; and, as his uncle and guardian, I must advise, nay, urge his being sent away from home, and allowed to mix with other boys. Think of the property and the riches to which he is heir; and remember, dear sister, what a responsibility will fall on him. With the control of so many and so much, he doubly needs to learn to control himself. I know what a trial it will be to both of you; but in the end, it will be best. The school I have selected is a good one; the master kind, though strict; and his wife a ladylike, motherly person. Be brave, Charlotte, and let him go. You know—" and here he stooped over the sofa, and kissed his sister's brow—"that the 'Father of the fatherless' will not forsake your child."

She looked up—a true woman, with a mother's unselfish heart shining out in her eyes through the tears: "So be it, then, Edward; he shall go, and I will trust and pray."

Just then the door opened, and the beautiful boy bounded in.

"Oh, Uncle Edward, are you the gentleman who wished to see me, and brought me away from such a game of fun with Snap?"

Then, shaking hands with him, he ran to his mother, and stood beside her.

"But, mother dear, it was because Walter said you wished me, that I have come. What is it, mother?"

The question was asked in a troubled tone, for his quick eye had detected the tears that still glistened on the dark lashes.

"What is wrong, mother darling?" And, the boyish wildness all laid aside, he bent, with a gentle look, over her.

"Uncle Edward and I have been talking about you," was the reply, as she gently put back the brown curls off his large open forehead.

"Well, and what then? I've been doing no harm, mother—only jumping with Snap. I could not have sat still to-day. Why, out-of-doors everything seems dancing and jumping—the leaves on the trees, the little river over the stones, and the lambs, mother—oh, if you only saw them! They are just wild with fun. I do believe, if you had been out, you would have run yourself, mother. I could not have stayed shut up in the school-room to-day for even one hour. I met Mr. Dale coming, and told him so, and that he need not go on, for I could not learn a lesson on such a day."

"James," said his uncle, in a stern tone, "are you the proper person to tell your tutor when you are to learn lessons and when not? It is high time such a state of affairs should come to an end." Then, in a kinder tone, he said, "Tell me, James, do you think you are put into this world only to please yourself?"

The brown eyes fell for an instant; but the saucy look shone in them again as he answered, "I suppose not, uncle; but I can't sit still when the sun shines like this, and everything calls me to come out and play."

At these words Lady Dudley looked anxiously at her brother. How could she tell this boy that ere long he must leave his happy country home, and spend, not one, but many hours of each day pent up in a school-room? But the expression in her brother's eyes left her no alternative.

Drawing her son close to her, she said, "James, can you be a brave boy for mother's sake, and help her to be brave too?"

He started up—"Ay, mother, that I can; how can I help you?"

Calmly then she told him all.

At first, he hardly took in all that her words implied.

"Go to school, mother? Leave you, and Winder Castle, and Snap? Oh, mother, uncle, I could not! Don't send me away—oh, please don't! I'll do anything, Uncle Edward—anything I'm bid. I'll send and ask Mr. Dale to come back this very day; and I'll sit hard at lessons for hours, if only I need not go away."

"James—" it was his uncle who spoke—"I thought at least you would try to save your mother pain. Look there!"

For Lady Dudley, who was in delicate health, turned deadly pale, and lay half fainting.

In a moment the boy was himself again, and, with a bottle of aromatic vinegar in his hand, bent over his mother—making her smell it, using all the while every endearing term he could think of; and when she was restored, he said bravely, "Mother, dear mother, don't look like that again, and I'll do whatever is best. I'll go, and show you, and uncle too, that I'm not selfish. I will be brave for your sake; see if I don't. Only, I may come back soon, mayn't I? And you'll not send me far-off; say you'll not send me far!"

"No, my boy, my own darling boy, you will be only a few hours' distance by train. And you will come often home to see us all; mother could not live long without her boy. God bless and keep him!"

No more words passed on the subject, that day in Sir James's presence; but more than one inmate of the castle noticed that the boy played no more, but sat silently under the shade of the old trees, or else at his mother's couch. Poor child! He could not remember his father's death, so this was his first sorrow. But true to his promise, he kept bravely up, and the tears which he shed were shed alone, where no eye but that of his Father in heaven saw them. Not for worlds would he increase the sorrow which he saw his mother was feeling at parting with him.

"By the way, Charlotte," her brother remarked, on the day of his return from leaving his nephew at the much-dreaded school, "Dr. Bowles mentioned to me that he would put James under the special care of one of the steadiest boys in his school—Ronald Macintosh, an orphan lad from Scotland. I wonder if he can be a son of the Elenora Macintosh whose husband fell in the Afghan War, and of whom our brother Willie used to speak as the sweetest Christian lady he ever met. I should not wonder if it is the same; for now I remember Dr. Bowles said his uncle had a property in the north called Benvourd, and I know Willie used to speak of Elenora's home by a name something like that."

Lady Dudley's face brightened for the first time since she had parted from her child. "Oh," she said, "if he be a son of Captain Macintosh, of the 14th Indian Cavalry, he will be well brought up, for both father and mother were Christians; though, to be sure, they have been dead some time. O Edward, will they be kind to my boy, my little son? How will he bear it? And how shall I?"

These last words were to herself. And then she went with her heavy heart to the very best place she could go with it—even to the throne of grace; there to seek again help for her loved child, and strength for herself to bear up bravely for his sake. She did not fail to ask for this child so richly gifted with the world's wealth, that he might learn to use it aright, and to estimate it at its true value; and in the spirit if not the very words of Elenora Macintosh's dying prayer, she asked that her loved boy might have the true riches, even those heavenly ones which are "better than gold."

If any parent thinks that her grief at parting from her boy for so short a time is exaggerated, let such bear in mind all that he had been to her from his birth, and that he was her "only son," and she was "a widow."

[CHAPTER VI.]

SCHOOL LIFE.

Unfurl the Christian standard!
Lift it manfully on high!
And rally where its shining folds
Wave out against the sky!

SATURDAY afternoons were seasons of special delight at Knowlton School, as at many another; for then the boys were free, under certain regulations, to do as they liked, and almost entirely without the supervision of the tutors—Dr. Bowles holding the opinion that boys put on their honour, and really trusted, were less likely to break rules than those who were watched too closely. So no boy was called on to give an account of the manner in which the day was spent after one o'clock, if they were only inside the gates at a specified hour.

One thing, however, was forbidden. Within a walking distance of Knowlton there ran a bright, sparkling river, shaded in many places by trees, which afforded a pleasant shelter in summer days. Whilst the river itself in some parts was known to be well stocked with trout—a temptation of no small kind to the boys. In former years Dr. Bowles had obtained leave for some of his older scholars to fish in it occasionally; but of late the permission to do so had been withdrawn, and so the doctor found he had to make a stringent law on the matter, and every boy knew that transgression of it would meet with summary and severe punishment. Some of the boys still grumbled about it; but really they had not much reason to do so, for what with cricket and games of all sorts, pleasant strolls through the wood not very far distant, or visits to the metropolis itself every now and then with Dr. or Mrs. Bowles, they had plenty of pleasant ways of passing their Saturday afternoons.

It is on a bright June Saturday that we again take a peep at Ronald Macintosh. He is sitting with one of his old dreamy looks, half gazing out of the window, half looking at the clouds as they skim along. He is alone; and though his lips are silent, we take the privilege of putting his thoughts into words:

"'Thou hast given a banner to them that fear Thee, that it may be displayed,'" he was saying in his heart. "'Displayed,'—but surely that does not mean we must tell everything we do? Now, I do want to go and see that old sick woman I found out two or three weeks ago. She said my reading to her comforted her. But then the boys have begun to wonder where I go and what I do. Surely I am not ashamed to tell? Still, it is no business of theirs; and if I did, it would look as if I wanted to boast of doing it. It can't be wrong to be quiet about it. Of course, when they know, there are several will laugh and call me names; and I do not like that. Perhaps it is cowardice keeps me from telling—I don't know. 'Thou bast given a banner to them that fear Thee, that it may be displayed because of truth.' But this has nothing to do with truth; and it is the Captain who has said, 'Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.'"

Here came a pause, followed by the resolution: "No, I will not say a word about it unless Dr. Bowles asks me, which is not a likely thing. And I must try to go to-day, for when I missed a Saturday lately, poor old Susan said she was wearying for my coming all that day; and I'll be back in time enough for a game at cricket afterwards."

So saying, he rose and began to prepare to go out. Ronald had a good name at the school, where he had now been for some months. He was a favourite with the masters, who marked his diligence at lessons and love of books; and was liked also by most of the boys from his obliging disposition and his prowess at all sorts of outdoor sports. True, there were some amongst them who sneered at what they called his religious notions, fit only for priests or women; but even in that respect his frank, truthful, consistent character, silenced in time those who opposed him, and won from them the testimony that at least Macintosh's goodness did not make him stuck up.

Very faithfully, notwithstanding, had Ronald held up the banner; and several of the younger boys, especially little James Dudley, knew that it was by his words and example that they were saved from the bullying of some of the elder ones. Only two boys regarded Ronald with dislike; and these were the very leaders of all mischief—Tom Pritchard and George Dundas. It was they who invented the funny names for him, as they termed them; such as "Peter the Hermit," "Praying Aldy," "John Knox," and many others. At first the others had joined in the laugh which these names elicited; but by degrees the larger number ceased to see fun in tormenting a fellow, as they said, who was ever ready with a kind word and action. If he liked to pray, where was the harm? It would not be a bad plan if some more of them copied his example. And so, on the whole, Ronald's days at school passed pleasantly.

Just as he was starting to go out, on the Saturday we are writing of, Dr. Bowles accosted him: "Macintosh," he said, "Mrs. Bowles and I are going to London, and if you would like to accompany us, you can come also."

Ronald's first impulse was to say, "Thank you, sir; I should like so much to go;" but as the words rose to his lips, the remembrance of the old woman, and her disappointment at his non-appearance on the Saturday he had missed, made him hesitate, and with an air of embarrassment, he said, "Many thanks, sir; but I am afraid I can't go to town this afternoon; I—" Here he hesitated.

Dr. Bowles looked at him wonderingly. "Why Ronald," he said, "it was only the other day you expressed a wish to Mrs. Bowles to go again to town. What has changed you? Some special game at cricket, I suppose. Well, well, take your own choice; you know I never interfere with your Saturday pleasures. But I must go now, or I'll be too late."

And without letting Ronald say another word, he was off. There was a sore sense of disappointment in Ronald's heart as, some minutes afterwards, he set off across the fields to Susan's cottage. He knew he was doing right; but just then it cost him a struggle. Yet, had not the Captain under whose banner he fought, said, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself"? And had he not vowed that, as far as possible, he would try to help the weak and suffering ones of earth as a true Knight of the Cross?

So with a more cheerful heart, he sped on his way, the pleasant summer air and bright sky cheering him. He saw one or two of the boys as he left the play-ground, and shouted to them that he would be back for a game in an hour or two; but he did not stay to talk to them just then, waving back even his own favourite little Sir James Dudley, pointing to him that he was off for a walk.

Susan's cottage lay in the very opposite direction from the river, and it was impossible for even a quick walker to go to both places and return to the school within two hours; so Ronald made up his mind to go straight to the cottage. On his way, he fancied he caught a glimpse of two boys crossing the fields which led to the river, and wondered if they could be any of the school-boys, but the distance was too great to let him distinguish the figures.

He soon reached the cottage, which stood alone, and, to his no small disappointment, found the door locked. As his knocking met with no answer, he concluded that the old woman must be asleep, and her little grandson, who took care of her, out. He lingered about for some minutes, in hopes that the child might be playing near; but seeing no traces of him, he very unwillingly retraced his steps. He went back slower than he had come: he had given up a great pleasure, and yet had been of no use to the old woman. It seemed hard. Still he felt he had done right; and by the time he reached the field where his companions were playing at cricket, he had entirely got over his disappointment.

"Come along, Macintosh," was the greeting he received. "We have been waiting for you; come and help us."

And in a moment the boy was engrossed in his favourite sport.

Dr. Bowles did not return from London till late, and the boys only saw him at evening worship.

Sunday passed in the usual way: the hours after church services, or rather between them, had become doubly pleasant to Ronald since Dudley's arrival, for somehow the little home-sick follow had found out that Macintosh was often alone then, and never ill-natured if a little boy disturbed him; so with fear at first the child had slipped away from some of the rougher boys to try and keep a promise he had given his mother to spend some portion of the Sunday as much in quiet as he could. He had told Ronald this, and from that day the two contrived to be together for a quiet hour, reading a little, talking a little, till, despite the difference in their years, these two became great friends; and in helping the little boy, Ronald rejoiced to feel he was doing the Master's work.

On Monday, more than one of the boys remarked that the face of their usually kind master wore a troubled, stern look. After breakfast, ere lessons began, he spoke:

"I have a question to put, to which I desire a truthful answer. It has come to my knowledge that one or more of the boys from this school, in defiance of my most express commands, were seen at the river fishing on Saturday; and now I request that the boy or boys who were guilty of the act will stand up and say so, in order that the odium of it may at least not fall on the wrong party."

A dead silence fell on all, but no response was made, no boy stood up.

Dr. Bowles looked sorely grieved. He threw a pained glance at each; then he said, "I number amongst my so-called young gentlemen a coward as well as a law-breaker."

Still no word was spoken.

Then the question was put to each, "Were you at the river on Saturday; and if so, were you fishing in it?"

Each boy answered, "No;" some, it might be, less distinctly than others, but all in the negative.

Dr. Bowles fairly groaned, but dismissed the boys without another word.

Presently, to his no small amazement, Ronald Macintosh was requested to go to Dr. Bowles in his study. The look he met as he entered the room was one to be remembered. Mingled with sternness, there was in it so much of heart-felt grief.

"Ronald Macintosh," were the words which greeted him, "had I been asked which of all the boys under my care I believed to be the most truly Christian one, I would have said it was you. Deep, therefore, is my grief when I find that, so far from that being the case, you have proved yourself a breaker of the laws of the school, a coward, and, much as I dislike to use the word, a liar!"

The lad's hot Highland blood was up in a moment, and, without thinking to whom he spoke, he exclaimed passionately, proudly:

The royal banner

THEROYAL BANNER;

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

[CHAPTER V.]

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE
ROYAL BANNER;