"I think," said Mr. Fluke, after a moment's
consideration, "that it may be possible for me to
help you in this matter. I do not speak
positively, mind; but I know that Hannah (Hannah
was Miss Fluke's christian name) is occasionally
applied to, to recommend young persons in that
capacity. I will speak with Hannah. She will do
her best for you, I know, my dear young friend."

Poor Mabel felt her heart sink within her,
and yet at the same moment she reproached
herself for it. She reminded herself that she
desired employment, and ought to be grateful
to any one who would aid her to get it. The
recollection of that Saturday's district visiting
rose up in her mind. But she thanked Mr.
Fluke as cordially as she could; and when the
two gentlemen were gone she set herself to
cheer and support her mother, and to put before
her the bright side, and none of the dark,
of their future life.

"It will be a terrible change, Mabel," moaned
Mrs. Saxelby—"a terrible change. For you, of
course, it will be bad enough; but for me!
Think of me, left in a wretched cottage in the
country with barely food to eat and fire to warm
me, and no one to look after Dooley! I think
it will be the death of me; I do indeed. I
don't suppose I shall live through the winter."

"The cottage is not wretched, dear mamma.
I remember going there once in the summer,
and it was a bright pretty little place. I know
there are some glorious old apple-trees that will
be quite heavy with pink blossom in the spring;
and then it is only two miles and a half by the
footpath from Hammerham. You are able to
walk that distance without fatigue, mamma.
You will see your friends as often, I dare say, as
you do now; and Dooley will grow strong in
the pure country air."

Ah! It's easy to be hopeful and cheerful
at your age, Mabel. You see everything couleur
de rose."

This was somewhat hard on Mabel, who
assuredly was indulging in no roseate visions as
to the fate that awaited herself.

"If you really dread this country life so
much, mamma," she said, after a pause, "why
do you not make up your mind to let the
cottage, and try to find a home here among
the people who know you?"

"Now, Mabel," returned her mother, in a tone
of plaintive remonstrance, "how can you talk
so? You know very well that I must do
as Mr. Fluke and Mr. Charlewood say. No
doubt they settle all for the best. I am sure
they mean very kindly, and I can't decide for
myself. I never could."

"Perhaps," said Mabel, slowly, and as if
speaking to herself: "perhaps if I were allowed
to try that other plan, I might earn money enough
in time to give you a home such as you have
been accustomed to lately."

"For goodness' sake, Mabel," urged Mrs.
Saxelby, rising and putting her hand on her
daughter's lips, "let me hear no more of that!
What would our friends say?"

"That, mamma, appears to me to depend on
the amount of their sense and good feeling.
And I do not know that I am bound to make
what they would say my first consideration."

"Mabel, Mabel, you terrify me. Remember
your promise. You gave me your word."

"Yes, mamma. I do remember. I gave you
my word to try this school plan; and I will try
it fairly."

Then Mabel went to rest, after giving Dooley
a kiss as the child lay sleeping in a little crib
by the side of his mother's bed, and after repeating
to herself with disdainful wonder:

"What they would say! What they would
say! If I tried that other plan!"

   CHAPTER XII. CONSIDER THE ADVANTAGES!

FOR some three weeks after her husband's
funeral, Mrs. Saxelby continued to reside at
Jessamine Cottage. A tenant was found for
it, who would take the lease off her hands,
and purchase the greater part of the furniture
at a valuation. Mrs. Saxelby submitted to
all the arrangements with a mild resignation
that seemed to utter a constant protest:—
against what, or whom, it was impossible to
discover. Yet she was not ungrateful. But
she always supposed that people did not form
an adequate idea of what she had to endure:
of the hardship to her, in all these changes. And
though she was not angry at this fancied want
of appreciation for her sorrows, she cherished
a soft and submissive sense of injury.

Miss Fluke was very busy and stirring in
these days, appearing at all sorts of
unexpected hours in Jessamine Cottage—"Snatching,"
as she said, "an occasional minute from
the heat and burden of the day," to visit the
widow and her children. Miss Fluke's
"occasional minutes," fell out in a strangely erratic
manner. Several times she came to Jessamine
Cottage before Mrs. Saxelby was down in the
morning, and even before the little servant-
maid had opened the shutters. And once she
startled the whole household, just as they were
retiring to rest, by a violent peal at the bell at
about half-past ten o'clock on a very wet night,
when she stalked into the parlour with her
umbrella glistening with rain, and her black
gown tucked up under a waterproof cloak, of
some crackling material that diffused a pungent
odour all over the house.

"I came up part of the way by the 'bus,"
said Miss Fluke, "and shall catch the last one
to take me back to town at eleven."

"Is anything the matter, dear Miss Fluke?"
asked Mrs. Saxelby.

"Thanks be to God, nothing whatsoever,"
returned Miss Fluke, in an impressive manner.
"No; there is nothing the matter. I have
brought Mabel good news. Most excellent
news. Here is a letter I received by the evening
post from a Christian friend of mine to
whom I wrote about Mabel. He has a cure
of souls in Eastfield, and he tells me that he
thinks he can place Miss Earnshaw in a school
there; but here is the letter; you can see it."