a scholarship and then a fellowship at Oxford; and now, by practising rigid economy, and spending his vacations in tuition, he was enabled to send his sister to a boarding-school.  He had stolen a few days from his pupils on hearing of Fitzjocelyn’s danger, but was forced to return as soon as the improvement became confirmed.  On the previous day, he asked Mary to walk with him to the scene of the accident, and they discussed the cause with more coolness than they really felt, as they shuddered at the depth of the fall, and the size of the stones.

James declared it all the fault of that runaway scamp, young Madison, in whom Louis had always been deceived, and who had never been seen since the night of his apparition in the garden.

‘Poor boy!  I suppose that was the reason he ran away,’ said Mary.

’A very good thing, too.  He would never have been anything but a torment to Louis.  I remember telling him he was setting the stones so as to break the neck of some one!’

’I think it would be of more use to build them up than to settle how they broke down,’ said Mary.  ’Do you think we could manage it safely?’

‘A capital thought!’ cried James, eagerly, and no sooner said than done.  The two cousins set to work—­procured some cement from the bricklayer in the village, and toiled at their masonry with right good-will as long as light and time served them, then made an appointment to meet at half-past six next morning, and finish their work.

When the rendezvous took place, they were rejoicing over Mrs. Frost’s report of an excellent night, and over her own happy looks, from which James prognosticated that all her fatigue and watching had done no harm to her vigorous frame, for which gladness was always the best cordial.  It was a joyous beginning on that spring morning, and seemed to add fresh sparkles to the dazzling dewdrops, and double merriment to the blackbirds and thrushes answering each other far and wide, around, as the sun drew up the grey veil of morning mist.  ‘They all seem holding a feast for his recovery!’ exclaimed Mary, warming for once into poetry, as she trudged along, leaving green footmarks in the silver dew.

‘Well they may,’ said James; ’for who loves them better than he?  I grudge myself this lovely morning, when he is lying there, and my poor Clara is caged up at that place—­the two who would the most enjoy it.’

‘Your going to see her will be as good as the spring morning.’

‘Poor child!  I dread it!’ sighed Jem.

It was his first voluntary mention of his sister.  He had always turned the conversation when Mrs. Ponsonby or Mary had tried to inquire for her, and Mary was glad to lead him on to say more.

’I remember her last when you were teaching her to run alone, and letting none of us touch her, because you said she was your child, and belonged to no one else.’

’I should not be so ungrateful, now that I am come to the sense of my responsibility in teaching her to go alone.’