Clare Avery. Emily Sarah Holt

thee into a den of thieves. Eh me, if the good Master had but lived a while longer! Of a truth, the Lord’s ways be passing strange.”

      Clare had run off again to Margaret, and the last sentence was not spoken to her. But it was answered by somebody.

      “Which of the Lord’s ways, Barbara Polwhele?”

      “Sir?” exclaimed Barbara, looking up surprisedly into the grave, though kindly face of a tall, dark-haired man in clerical garb. “I was but—eh, but yon eyes! ’Tis never Master Robin?”

      Mr. Tremayne’s smile replied sufficiently that it was.

      “And is yonder little Clare Avery?” he asked, with a tender inflection in his voice. “Walter’s child—my brother Walter!”

      “Ay, Master Robin, yon is Mistress Clare; and you being shepherd of this flock hereaway, I do adjure you, look well to this little lamb, for I am sore afeard she is here fallen amongst wolves.”

      “I am not the Shepherd, good friend—only one of the Shepherd’s herd-lads. But I will look to the lamb as He shall speed me. And which of the Lord’s ways is so strange unto thee, Barbara?”

      “Why, to think that our dear, good Master should die but now, and leave the little lamb to be cast in all this peril.”

      “Then—‘Some of the paths of the Lord are mercy and truth’—doth the verse run thus in thy Bible, Barbara?”

      “Nay, not so: but can you understand the same Master Robin?”

      “By no means. Wherefore should I?”

      Barbara made no answer beyond an appealing look.

      “ ‘He knoweth the way that I take.’ If I know not so much as one step thereof, what matter? I shall have light to see the next step ere I must set down my foot. That is enough, Barbara, for ‘such as keep His covenant,’ and I have ever counted thee amongst them.”

      “Eh, Master Robin, but ’twere easier done to walk in darkness one’s self, than to see yon little pet lamb—”

      And Barbara’s voice faltered.

      “Hath somewhat troubled thee specially at this time?”

      In answer, she told him what she had just seen.

      “And I do trust, Master Robin, I have not ill done to say this unto you, but of a truth I am diseased (uneasy, anxious) touching my jewel, lest she fall into the like evil courses, being to dwell here.”

      “Thou hast not ill done, friend; nor will I neglect the warning, trust me.”

      “I thank you much, Master. And how doth good Mistress Thekla? Verily I am but evil-mannered to be thus long ere I ask it.”

      “She is well, and desiring much to see thee.”

      “And your childre, Master Robin—have you not?”

      “I have five childre, Barbara, two sons and three daughters; but of them Christ hath housen four in His garner, and hath left but one in my sight. And that seemed unto us a very strange way; yet was it mercy and truth.”

      “Eh, but I could ne’er repine at a babe’s dying!” said Barbara, shaking her head. “Do but think what they ’scape of this weary world’s troubles, Master Robin.”

      “Ah, Barbara, ’tis plain thou never hadst a child,” said Mr. Tremayne, sighing. “I grant all thou hast said. And yet, when it cometh to the pass, the most I can do is to lift mine head and hold my peace, ‘because God did it.’ God witteth best how to try us all.”

      “Nay, if He would but not try yon little lambkin!”

      “An unhappy prayer, Barbara; for, that granted, she should never come forth as gold.—But I must be on my way to give Jack his Latin lesson. When thou canst find thy way to my dwelling, all we shall be full fain to see thee. Good morrow.”

      When Clare was undergoing her ordeal in the schoolroom, an hour later, Barbara set out on her visit to the parsonage. But she missed her way through the park, and instead of coming out of the great gates, near the foot-bridge, she found herself at a little gate, opening on the road, from which neither church nor village could be seen as landmarks. There was no cottage in sight at which to ask the road to the parsonage. While Barbara stood and looked round her, considering the matter, she perceived a boy of about twelve years old slowly approaching her from the right hand—evidently a gentleman’s son, from his dress, which, though very simple, was of materials indicative of good birth. He had long dark brown hair, which curled over his shoulders, and almost hid his face, bent down over a large book, for he was reading as he walked. Barbara waited until he came up to her.

      “Give you good morrow, Master! I be loth to come betwixt you and your studies, but my need presseth me to pray of you the way unto Master Tremayne’s house the parson?”

      The lad started on hearing a voice, hastily closed his book, and lifted a pair of large, dreamy brown eyes to Barbara’s face. But he seemed quite at a loss to recall what he had been asked to do.

      “You would know?”—he said inquiringly.

      “I would know, young Master,” returned Barbara boldly, “if your name be not Tremayne?”

      “Ay so,” assented the boy, with a rather surprised look. “My name is Arthur Tremayne.” (A fictitious person.)

      “And you be son unto Master Tremayne the parson?”

      “Truly.”

      “Verily I guessed so much, for his eyes be in your head,” said Barbara quaintly. “But your mouth and nose be Mrs. Thekla’s. Eh, dear heart, what changes life bringeth! Why, it seemeth me but yestre’en that your father was no bigger than you. And every whit as much given to his book, I warrant you. Pray you, is my mistress your mother at home?”

      “Ay, you shall find her there now,” said the boy, as he tucked the big book under his arm, and began to walk on in Barbara’s company. “I count you be our old friend, Barbara Polwhele, that is come with little Mistress Clare? My mother will be fain to see you.”

      Barbara was highly gratified to find that Arthur Tremayne had heard of her already. The two trudged onwards together, and in a few minutes reached the ivy-covered parsonage, standing in its pretty flower-garden. Arthur preceded Barbara into the house, laid down his book on the hall window-seat, and opening a door which led to the back part of the house, appealed to an unseen person within.

      “Mother! here is Mistress Barbara Polwhele.”

      “Barbara Polwhele!” said a voice in reply—a voice which Barbara had not heard for nineteen years, yet which time had so little altered that she recognised at once the Thekla Rose of old. And in another moment Mrs. Tremayne stood before her.

      Her aspect was more changed than her voice. The five terrible years of the Marian persecution had swept over her head in early youth, and their bitter anxieties and forebodings left her, at the age of nineteen, a white, wan, slender, delicate girl. But now a like number of years, spent in calm, happy work, had left their traces also, and Mrs. Tremayne looked what she was, a gentle, contented woman of thirty-eight, with more bloom on her cheek than she had ever worn in youth, and the piteous expression of distressed suspense entirely gone from her eyes.

      “Eh, Mistress Thekla!” was Barbara’s greeting.

      “I be cruel glad to see you. Methinks you be gone so many years younger as you must needs be elder.”

      “Nay, truly, for I were then but a babe in the cradle,” was the laughing answer. “Thou art a losenger (flatterer), Barbara.”

      “In very deed,” returned Barbara inconsistently, “I could have known you any whither.”

      “And me also?” demanded another voice, as a little lively old lady trotted out of the room which Mrs.