We Two. Lyall Edna

“Your beggar-child with the scones suddenly transformed into a beneficent rewarder.”

      “Not from you, father?”

      Raeburn laughed.

      “A pretty substantial fairy for you. No, no, I had no hand in it. I can't give you presents while I am in debt, my bairn.”

      “Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!” said Erica, with a fervor which made the three grown-up people laugh.

      “Very jolly,” said Raeburn, giving her a little mute caress.

      “But now, Erica, please to go back and eat something, or I shall have my reporter fainting in the middle of a speech.”

      She obeyed, carrying away the book with her, and enlivening them with extracts from it; once delightedly discovering a most appropriate passage.

      “Why, of course,” she exclaimed, “you and Mr. Osmond, father, are smoking the Peace Pipe.” And with much force and animation she read them bits from the first canto.

      Raeburn left the room before long to get ready for his meeting, but

      Erica still lingered over her new treasure, putting it down at length

      with great reluctance to prepare her notebook and sharpen her pencil.

      “Isn't that a delightful bit where Hiawatha was angry,” she said; “it

      has been running in my head all day—

       “'For his heart was hot within him,

       Like a living coal his heart was.'

      That's what I shall feel like tonight when Mr. Randolph attacks father.”

      She ran upstairs to dress, and, as the door closed upon her, Mrs. Raeburn turned to Charles Osmond with a sort of apology.

      “She finds it very hard not to speak out her thoughts; it will often get her into trouble, I am afraid.”

      “It is too fresh and delightful to be checked, though,” said Charles Osmond; “I assure you she has taught me many a lesson tonight.”

      The mother talked on almost unreservedly about the subject that was evidently nearest her heart—the difficulties of Erica's education, the harshness they so often met with, the harm it so evidently did the child—till the subject of the conversation came down again much too excited and happy to care just then for any unkind treatment. Had she not got a Longfellow of her very own, and did not that unexpected pleasure make up for a thousand privations and discomforts?

      Yet, with all her childishness and impetuosity, Erica was womanly, too, as Charles Osmond saw by the way she waited on her mother, thinking of everything which the invalid could possibly want while they were gone, brightening the whole place with her sunshiny presence. Whatever else was lacking, there was no lack of love in this house. The tender considerateness which softened Erica's impetuosity in her mother's presence, the loving comprehension, between parent and child, was very beautiful to see.

CHAPTER IV. “Supposing it is true!”

       Table of Contents

      A man who strives earnestly and perseveringly to convince

       others, at least convinces us that he is convinced himself.

       Guesses at Truth.

       The rainy afternoon had given place to a fine and starlit

       night. Erica, apparently in high spirits, walked between her

       father and Charles Osmond.

      “Mother won't be anxious about us,” she said. “She has not heard a word about Mr. Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one would speak about it at tea time, and then she would have been in a fright all the evening, and would not have liked my going.”

      “Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscrupulous,” said Raeburn. “But I doubt if even he would set his roughs upon you, little one, unless he has become as blood thirsty as a certain old Scotch psalm we used to sing.”

      “What was that?” questioned Erica.

      “I forget the beginning, but the last verse always had a sort of horrible fascination for us—

      “'How happy should that trooper be Who, riding on a naggie, Should take thy little children up, And dash them 'gin the craggie!'”

      Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heartily.

      “They will only dash you against metaphorical rocks in the nineteenth century,” continued Raeburn. “I remember wondering why the old clerk in my father's church always sung that verse lustily; but you see we have exactly the same spirit now, only in a more civilized form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty, as for instance the way you were treated this afternoon.”

      “Oh, don't talk about that,” said Erica, quickly, “I am going to enjoy my Longfellow and forget the rest.”

      In truth, Charles Osmond was struck with this both in the father and daughter; each had a way of putting back their bitter thoughts, of dwelling whenever it was possible on the brighter side of life. He knew that Raeburn was involved in most harassing litigation, was burdened with debt, was confronted everywhere with bitter and often violent opposition, yet he seemed to live above it all, for there was a wonderful repose about him, an extraordinary serenity in his aspect, which would have seemed better fitted to a hermit than to one who has spent his life in fighting against desperate odds. One thing was quite clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he was suffering for the truth, and was ready to endure anything in what he considered the service of his fellow men. He did not seem particularly anxious as to the evening's proceedings. On the whole, they were rather a merry party as they walked along Gower Street to the station.

      But when they got out again at their destination, and walked through the busy streets to the hall where the lecture was to be given, a sort of seriousness fell upon all three. They were each going to work in their different ways for what they considered the good of humanity, and instinctively a silence grew and deepened.

      Erica was the first to break it as they came in sight of the hall.

      “What a crowd there is!” she exclaimed. “Are these Mr. Randolph's roughs?”

      “We can put up with them outside,” said Raeburn; but Charles Osmond noticed that as he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with a momentary look of trouble in his face, as though he shrunk from taking her through the rabble. Erica, on the other hand, looked interested and perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they forced their way on, hooted and yelled at by the mob, who, however, made no attempt at violence. At length, reaching the shelter of the entrance lobby, Raeburn left them for a moment, pausing to give directions to the door keepers. Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond caught sight of his son standing only a few paces from them. His exclamation of astonishment made Erica look up. Brian came forward eagerly to meet them.

      “You here!” exclaimed his father, with a latent suspicion confirmed into a certainty. “This is my son, Miss Raeburn.”

      Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had waited about curious to see how Raeburn would get on with the mob; it was with a strange pang of rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair little ideal. That she should be in the midst of that hooting mob made his heart throb with indignation, yet there was something so sweet in her grave, steadfast face that he was, nevertheless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Her color was rather heightened, her eyes bright but very quiet, yet as Charles Osmond spoke, and she looked at Brian, her face all at once lighted up, and with an irresistible smile she exclaimed, in the most childlike of voices:

      “Why, it's my umbrella man!” The informality of the exclamation seemed to make them at once something more than ordinary acquaintances. They told Charles Osmond of their encounter in