WRECKED IN PORT.
A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP."

CHAPTER V. WOOLGREAVES.

"You will be better when you have made
the effort, mother," said Marian Ashurst to
the widow, one day, when the beauty of the
summer was at its height, and death and
grief seemed very hard to bear, in the face
of the unsympathising sunshine. "Don't
think I underrate the effort, for indeed I
don't, but you will be better when you have
made it."

"Perhaps so, my dear," said Mrs.
Ashurst, with reluctant submissiveness.
"You are right; I am sure you always are
right: but it is so little use to go to any
place where one can't enjoy oneself, and
where everybody must see that it is impossible;
and you have—you know——" Her
lip trembled, her voice broke. Her little
hands, still soft and pretty, twined themselves
together, with an expression of pain.
Then she said no more.

Marian had been standing by the open
window, looking out, the side of her head
turned to her mother, who was glancing at
her timidly. Now she crossed the room,
with a quick steady step, and knelt down
by Mrs. Ashurst' s chair, clasping her hands
upon the arm.

"Listen to me, dear," she said, with her
clear eyes fixed on her mother's face, and
her voice, though softened to a tone of the
utmost tenderness, firm and decided. "You
must never forget that I know exactly what
and how much you feel, and that I share it
all" (there was a forlornness in the girl's
face which bore ample testimony to the
truth of what she said) "when I tell you,
in my practical way, what we must do.
You remember, once, then, you spoke to me
about the Creswells, and I made light of
them and their importance and influence.
I would not admit it; I did not understand
it. I had not fully thought about it then;
but I admit it now. I understand it now,
and it is my turn to tell you, my dearest
mother, that we must be civil to them; we
must take, or seem to take, their offers of
kindness, of protection, of intimacy, as they
are made. We cannot afford to do otherwise,
and they are just the sort of people to
be offended with us irreparably, if we did
not allow them to extend their hospitality
to us. It is rather officious, rather ostentatious;
it has all the bitterness of making
us remember more keenly what they might
have done for us, but it is hospitality, and
we need it; it is the promise of further
services which we shall require urgently.
You must rouse yourself, mother; this must
be your share of helpfulness to me in the
burthen of our Life. And, after all, what
does it matter? What real difference does
it make? My father is as much present to
you and to me in one place as in another.
Nothing can alter, or modify, or soften;
nothing can deepen or embitter that truth.
Come with me—the effort will repay itself."

Mrs. Ashurst had begun to look more
resolved, before her daughter, who had
spoken with more than her usual earnestness
and decision, had come to an end of
her argument. She put her arm round the
girl's neck, and gave her a timid squeeze,
and then half rose, as though she were
ready to go with her, anywhere she chose,
that very minute. Then Marian, without
asking another word on the subject, busied
herself about her mother's dress, arranging
the widow's heavy sombre drapery with a
deft hand, and talking about the weather,
the pleasantness of their projected walk,
and the daily dole of Helmingham gossip.