"All's Well"; or, Alice's Victory. Emily Sarah Holt

yet again, Master Benden. I covet little to have a wife to look after.”

      Like many men in his day, Mr. Roberts looked upon a wife not as somebody who would look after him, in the sense of making him comfortable, but rather as one whom he would have the trouble of perpetually keeping out of all sorts of ways that were naughty and wrong.

      “But that is not your case,” he continued in the same stern tone. “You set to-night—if you resolve to persevere therein—a ball rolling that may not tarry till it reach the fire. Are you avised thereon?”

      “I am. Do your duty!” was the savage reply.

      “Then do you yours,” said Mr. Roberts coldly, “and bring Mrs. Benden before me next sessions day. There is time to forethink you ere it come.”

      Unconscious of the storm thus lowering over her, Alice Benden was sitting by little Christie’s sofa. There were then few playthings, and no children’s books, and other books were scarce and costly. Fifty volumes was considered a large library, and in few houses even of educated people were there more books than about half-a-dozen. For an invalid confined to bed or sofa, whether child or adult, there was little resource save needlework. Alice had come to bring her little niece a roll of canvas and some bright-coloured silks. Having so much time to spare, and so little variety of occupation, Christie was a more skilful embroideress than many older women. A new pattern was a great pleasure, and there were few pleasures open to the invalid and lonely child. Her sole home company was her father, for their one servant, Nell, was too busy, with the whole work of the house upon her hands, to do more for Christabel than necessity required; and Mr. Hall, who was manager of one of the large factories in Cranbrook, was obliged to be away nearly the whole day. Other company—her Aunt Alice excepted—was rather a trial than a pleasure to Christabel. The young people were rough and noisy, even when they tried not to be so, and the child’s nerves were weak. Aunt Tabitha worried her to “rouse herself, and not be a burden on her poor father”; and how gladly would Christabel have done it! Uncle Thomas was also a harassing visitor, though in another way. He never knew what to say, when he had once asked how the invalid felt: he only sat and gazed at her and the window alternately, now and then, as though by a mental jerk, bringing out a few words.

      “He causes me to feel so naughty, Aunt,” said Christie dolefully, “and I do want to be good. He sits and looks on me till I feel—I feel—Aunt Alice, I can’t find the words: as if all my brains would come out of my finger-ends, if he went on. And now and then he says a word or two—such as ‘Rain afore night, likely,’ or ‘Bought a drove of pigs yesterday,’ and I can only say, ‘Yes, uncle.’ I think ’tis hard for both of us, Aunt Alice, for we don’t know what to say one to the other. I can’t talk to him, and he can’t talk to me.”

      Alice laughed, and then the tears almost rose in her eyes, as she softly smoothed Christie’s fair hair. She knew full well the sensation of intense, miserable nerve-strain, for which the little girl strove in vain to find words.

      “ ’Tis hard to be patient, little Christie,” she said tenderly. “But God knoweth it, dear heart; and He is very patient with us.”

      “O Aunt Alice, I know! And I am so sorry afterwards, when I should have been quiet and patient, and I have spoken crossly. People know not how hard it is, and how hard one tries: they only see when one gives way. They see not even how ashamed one is afterwards.”

      “Truth, sweet heart; but the Lord seeth.”

      “Aunt, think you the Lord Jesus ever felt thus?”

      “He never felt sin, Christie; but I reckon He knew as well as any of us what it is to be wearied and troubled, when matters went not to His comfort. ‘The contradiction of sinners’ covereth a great deal.”

      “I wonder,” said Christie plaintively, “if He felt as if it hurt Him when His brethren banged the doors! Friswith alway does when she comes; and it is like as if she struck me on the ears. And she never seems to hear it!”

      “I cannot tell, sweeting, what He felt in the days of His flesh at Nazareth; but I can tell thee a better thing—that He doth feel now, and for thee. ‘I am poor and needy, but the Lord careth for me.’ Keep that in thine heart, little Christie; it shall be like a soft pillow for thy weary head.”

      Alice rose to go home, and tied on her blue hood.

      “O Aunt Alice, must you go? Couldn’t you tarry till Father comes?”

      “I think not, my dear heart. Tell thy father I had need to haste away, but I will come again and see both him and thee to-morrow.”

      To-morrow!

      “Give him my loving commendations. Good-night, my child.” And Alice hurried away.

Chapter Four.

       Table of Contents

      Tabby shows her claws.

      Friswith Hall was returning from Cranbrook in a state of great satisfaction. She had made an excellent bargain; and she was the sort of girl to whose mind a bargain had the flavour of a victory. In the first place, she had squeezed both coif and ribbon out of her money; and in the second, she had—as she fondly believed—purchased an article worth one-and-tenpence for eighteenpence.

      As she came up to the last stile she had to pass, Friswith saw two girls sitting on it—the elder a slender, delicate-looking girl of some fourteen years, the younger a sturdy, little, rosy-faced damsel of seven. They looked up on hearing steps, and the elder quitted her seat to leave Friswith room to pass.

      “Good-morrow, Pen! So you’ve got Patience there?”

      “I haven’t much, I’m afraid,” said Pen, laughing. “I came out here because the lads made such a noise I could scarce hear myself speak; and I wanted to teach Patience her hymn. Charity knows hers; but Patience learns slower.”

      “Are they with you, then—both?”

      “For a few days. Mistress Bradbridge is gone to visit her brother at Chelmsford, so she left her little maids with Mother.”

      “What a company must you be! How can you ever squeeze into the house?”

      “Oh, folks can squeeze into small corners when they choose,” said Penuel Pardue, with a smile. “A very little corner will hold both Charity and Patience.”

      “Then you haven’t much of either,” answered Friswith satirically. “Look you here, Pen!”

      And unrolling her ribbon, she displayed its crimson beauties.

      “What’s that for?”

      “For my hat! You can tell Beatrice, if you like, she won’t be the best-dressed maid at church next Sunday.”

      “I should never suppose she would,” was the quiet reply.

      “Oh, I saw her blue ribbons! But I’ll be as grand as she, you’ll see now. Mother sent me to buy her a coif, and I got this for the money too. Don’t you wish you were me?”

      “No, Friswith, I don’t think I do,” said Penuel gravely.

      “That’s because you think Mother will scold. I’ll stand up to her if she do. She’s always bidding us stand up to folks, and I’ll see how she likes it herself a bit!”

      With which very dutiful speech, Friswith took her departure.

      Penuel looked after her for a moment, and then, with a shake of her head which meant more than words, turned back to Patience and the hymn.

      “Now, little Patience, try to learn the next verse. I will say it over to thee.

      “ ‘And in the presence of my foes

       My table Thou shalt