CHAPTER X.

COUSIN ISABELLA.

"These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live."

L'Allegro.

THE next morning Mr. Wynne again appeared alone, very much depressed indeed by the cause.

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Really, Barbara, I am sure that in this state your mother ought not to be troubled with visitors-Isabella Kelso, cannot you put her off?"

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'Surely mamma is not worse ?" asked Barbara, eagerly.

"No, she says not," sighed Mr. Wynne, "that she is only exhausted by yesterday's pain-in none now; but she asked me to send you to her as soon as you had made tea."

Barbara went up, a strange dread at her heart, as strange as new, for so accustomed were all to these perpetual attacks, that no one ever realized one day there must come the last.

Mrs. Wynne's cheerful smile and kiss dispersed her daughter's strange fears in a moment.

"Thank you, my love, I knew you were generally down in such good time, that you would have a few minutes to spare; there are one or two things I want to speak to you about. Isabella Kelso-will you see that her room is not only comfortable, but pleasant? I scarcely think I shall get down till the afternoon,— and little Gordon, see that he is prepared for school

all right, papa and Paul will see him safe down the

"Yes, dear mother."

"That is all, I believe-and yet, dear Barbara, it is not all-it is cowardly to shrink from it." Mrs. Wynne paused a moment, her throat swelling with the agitation which she was trying to master; "My child," she said at last, with a sweetness and calmness that made Barbara's heart beat fast, "I have been trying to face the end of this. I must not go on as I have been, struggling against not only woman's weakness-but GOD's Will. I must be content to endure more, to do less, I could not if I would go on as I have done. Do not tell this to the others to trouble them, I must slip quietly into a quieter place, and leave you to take up what I leave undone."

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Oh, mamma, I cannot! I cannot!" cried Barbara, her discretion giving way before her grief, "no one can take your place to any one in this house; yesterday alone would have proved that."

"I do not ask you to do that. My love, I fear 1 have needlessly alarmed you, I am not going to subside into an invalid all of a sudden; no, I hope still to go on much as usual, only, if I am obliged sometimes to retreat from a wife and mother's natural place, I am sure you will try to make the gap imperceptible, by filling it up at once; you are old enough to do so

now.'

"Yes, but not good enough, nor can I ever be,” she almost sobbed.

"I will not say that you can really fill it; but of this I am sure, that you will do your best, and no one can do more. Barbara, we shall soon understand each other better than we have done. I have seemed harsh to you, you harsh to me, but now we must try to be

Barbara returned the kiss, but in a silence which she did not trust herself to break.

"My dear child, I have upset you, when you don't

know how far I have been from meaning to do any such thing. I have often felt worse than to-day, and been about, I have indeed. You must promise me not to let this sadden you one minute. I should not have spoken if your cousin had not been coming. The first and only change I hope to have need to make for a long time, will be to ask my daughter to take the pleasant burdens of hospitality and entertainment off my hands, so I trust Isabella's happiness to you."

'Mamma, I will do my best; but she cannot like

me."

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My dear, we will not argue that; do the first, and I am sure that she will do the second if she have any penetration; and now papa will be wanting breakfast."

Barbara lingered one second. "Mamma," she said, hurriedly, "I seem cold, but I do love-you can't tell how I love you-but I will try to show it by deeds, not words."

"You have been showing it a long time, my love. Two years ago I could scarcely have stayed upstairs, ill as I was, yesterday. I could scarcely have ventured to leave you and all the boys in such perpetual and close proximity all day-now I have learnt that if your justice be great, so is your generosity, and that the very fact of my being away would make you gentle."

"I did try; but oh, mamma, the dreadful difference to all! If you had not been such a mother, I might have tried to take your place."

"Don't talk about had, my love, I hope to be spared to my children for many years yet. And now run down and cheer poor papa, whom I cannot convince that I am not very ill indeed, not but that my daughter is nearly as unreasonable as my husband.”

Barbara hurried out, was turning down stairs, then dashed to her own room for one minute, for one prayer for her mother, one for herself.

It still wanted two minutes to eight, when she went back to the dining room, where were only Mr. Wynne

and Elizabeth, to whom he was detailing all he could detail of her mother's health that morning.

Elizabeth turned round to Barbara anxiously as she entered.

"You are talking of mamma ?" she began, trying to speak both cheerfully and truthfully, "she is not at all worse than she has often felt after these attacks, only she means to begin to take a little more care of herself—I am sure I am very glad."

"Yes, yes, quite right," sighed Mr. Wynne; "but her thinking of doing so all of a sudden shows that something must be wrong; however, now Gordon will be out of the way most of the day, I have some hopes for her."

Just as Mr. Wynne had found this to cheer him, poor Gordon himself peeped in; "Mamma," he began, then, seeing that she was not there, he hurried out again.

Barbara followed him, her heart warm to all around, longing that this chance of being of use might prove a reality.

up

Gordon was standing disconsolate at the hall table. "Mamma will not be down," said Barbara, going to him; "but can I do anything for you ?"

"No, thank you," he answered glumly, as if half afraid.

"Why not? Is it anything for Mr. Brown's ?" "Yes, I've got a button off my wristband, and Hannah says she's no time."

"I'll sew it on the minute after breakfast," interrupted Barbara, gladly, "but now it's just prayertime;" and she and her little brother entered the dining room together, much to Paul's interest, who had wondered, as he passed in, what was the subject of the friendly conference they were holding in the hall.

It struck eight. Barbara rang the bell. Mr. Wynne said the prayers; never had Barbara so prayed those family prayers. Ladies and gentlemen are too apt to

think them intended only for the servants; the servants, perhaps, in their turn, only for their betters.

Directly Mr. Wynne made the move at breakfast, Barbara rushed for needle and thread, and sewed on the needed button, colouring rather high at its being done under Paul's eye. Mr. Wynne looked in for his sons just as she cut off her thread.

"Now, Gordon, you must be ready every morning, and not keep us waiting in that way!"

"I have been keeping him, papa-a button"-but Mr. Wynne and his two sons were already on the flagged pathway, and so Barbara's defence was unheard; but to have defended Gordon, even mentally, was far from cooling her heart towards him.

The other boys were soon off, Elizabeth and Laura settled with Miss Barnard-Barbara left alone. There was Isabella's room to be looked after, and she prepared to do this, glad at finding some useful occupation lying ready to her hand.

Looking after all the tiny niceties which turn a neat room into a tasteful one, a comfortable one into a pleasant one, takes far longer than any one is willing to expect, and it was ten before this business was over. A most distasteful labour it would have been a few days before-not exactly to Barbara's taste now, only that she was so glad to be doing, and just now anything that came as a duty seemed a pleasure. Barbara felt that with her slow self-contained temper this feeling would not last; that sewing on buttons, and preparing for guests, would too soon, again, become a labour to which only duty could incite her for a continuance ; however, she had grown wise enough not to dwell upon this, but to enjoy the spirit of active love while it rested upon her.

Various et ceteras, filling of sugar basins and tea caddies, putting out of preserves and other little things, going upon her knees in the garden for a few snowdrops, crocuses, and sprigs of calecanthus and winter yellow jasmin, to enliven the drawing-room, and