Michael McAravey’s death made a considerable difference in the position of his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; and though she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right from McAuley, to whose farm the little patch was now united, she yet found herself in very straitened circumstances, especially as she regarded spending her principal as almost a sin. It was a bitter struggle, and, yet by degrees there crept into her heart a degree of peace and contentment such as she had never known before. Both she and Elsie had been deeply affected by the earnest and simple appeals of the Scripture-reader during that last sad night of watching by the bed of death. The more so, in all probability, in that the words were not addressed directly to them, so that there was none of that irritation which often results when one feels himself being “preached at.” Hendrick was now a weekly visitor at Mrs. McAravey’s cottage, and he had at length the gratification of seeing, in this one home at least, the results of his long-continued and faithful labours. At his suggestion, Jim, who, especially after the old man’s death, could be made nothing of at home, was sent to a distant relative in Coleraine, where he had an opportunity of pursuing his studies at the Model School, with a view to entering some sort of business. This was almost the only object for which Mrs. McAravey would permit a portion of her small capital to be touched. For the rest, she and Elsie struggled on almost in poverty, but helped and, as far as possible, kept in work by the kindness of the neighbours. In some mysterious way the substance of McAravey’s confession had become public property, and it was known and suspected by everybody but herself that something had come out to identify the drowned woman as Elsie’s mother. Thus the child found herself, she knew not why, an object of interest to every member of the little community. And the remembrance of the dead woman was really like that of a mother to her. As Mrs. McAravey grew rapidly aged, Elsie acquired the habit of calling her “gran;” while the feelings of tenderness and sympathy that had been first roused in her by the sight of that poor soiled dead face, with the hair and sea-weed dashed across it, were cherished and sanctified by the daily call made on them in consequence of the old woman’s increasing infirmities. The child had even come, strangely enough, to think of and speak to the object of her dreams as “mother.” Was it an accident? Was it an instinct? Was it the result of some overheard expressions which, passing through her consciousness unnoticed, had yet made a lasting impression on the brain of the imaginative child? Or was it a providential suggestion sent by an all-pitying Father to this desolate and wandering lamb?

Thus time slipped by uneventfully, as far as external circumstances were concerned, but not purposelessly. The hard lot of the poor suffering old woman was being lighted, and her spirit trained for that eternity which was now growing large upon her vision, as earthly affairs shrank into a smaller compass. Elsie, too, who had never yet crossed the hill that seemed to meet the sky at the top of the glen, was learning lessons of perseverance and patient endurance, which would not be lost upon her, whatever the future of the child might be. Jim was seldom at home, and, alas! but little of the old childish attachment survived. The boy was ambitious, business-like, and plodding. His heart was in the town, and he seemed to retain no affection for the associations of his childhood: some of them were absolutely abhorrent to him. George Hendrick was profoundly disappointed in the lad. Not that a word could be said against his character. He was steady, diligent, and submissive. And when he was placed in a position where he could earn something, he never failed to send what he could to the old woman who had sacrificed so much to bring him on. But there seemed a total absence of feeling or religious sentiment about the lad. If he was sober and steady, it was merely because he scorned the weakness and waste consequent upon dissipation. He was pushing and ambitious, well spoken of and respected, but his old teacher failed not to see that all his thoughts were “of the earth, earthy.”

When she was nearly fifteen (as far as her ago was known) a new world was opened up for Elsie. The rector’s family were now growing up, and he was blest enough to find in his children, not a hindrance, but the greatest comfort and assistance in his arduous and often cheerless work. Miss Smith and her sister Louisa had recently taken the musical arrangements of the church in hand, and not before it was needed, were now busying themselves to select and train a rustic choir. The fame of Elsie’s vocal abilities had been brought to Rossleigh Rectory by Hendrick, and so one day Mrs. McAravey was surprised by a visit from two bright, fresh young girls. In her reception of them you could not recognise the hard, rude woman who had so sorely repulsed their father on his first visit to the glen.

“Mr. Hendrick has been telling us about you and Elsie,” began Miss Smith, “and we have only been waiting for the moors to be tolerably dry to come over and see you. Now we ’ve once got here, I hope we shall be good friends.”

“Thank ye, miss; thank ye kindly. I shall be glad to see ye, and I hope ye won’t be strangers. It’s not often any one passes this way, and I often think very long when Elsie’s out.”

“We hear Elsie has a very good voice, and we want to know whether she could not manage to come over and sing in the choir, in summer-time at least.”

“Aye, the lass has a good voice enough, and a good heart too, God bless her! She ’ll sing her hymns to me here half the night when I’m kept awake with the pain. But, begging your pardon, young ladies, I don’t care much for these new-fangled hymns; it’s the good old psalms that I like them’s the Lord’s work and not man’s. And, as for Elsie singing in the church, it’s very kind of you to think of her; but it ’a a long road, or rather no road at all. But here ’s the lass, and she ’ll speak for hersel’.”

At this moment Elsie entered the cottage, and was delighted at the invitation, for which, it may be told, George Hendrick had already prepared her. “But how could she leave poor gran?” The old woman thought this could be managed if she was only wanted for the morning. And so it was finally settled that Elsie should, on fine Sundays, walk over to Rossleigh in time for the half-past eleven service, remaining for dinner at the rectory, in order that she might attend the afternoon Sunday-school, and thence return to Tor Bay at about four in the afternoon. To all this Mrs. McAravey assented, though probably the three young girls had no conception of the sacrifice it was to the invalid thus to consent to her being left alone from ten o’clock of a Sunday morning till nearly five.

Elsie soon became a favourite at the rectory. Young and enthusiastic, she thought nothing of the four miles’ walk across the rough moorland; nor did it ever occur either to her or Mrs. McAravey that, in partaking of the rector’s hospitality, she was profiting by the delicate sympathy of the girls for their hard-worked and ill-fed protegee.

Mrs. Cooper Smith was much interested in Elsie, and offered to procure her a situation, or to take her into her own house as maid for the younger children. But Elsie, who thankfully received every other favour, and availed herself of every opportunity for improving herself, steadily declined to leave poor Mrs. McAravey. The family at the rectory could not but approve this resolve, and so for the time nothing further was said on the subject.

The rector had now established a monthly service at Tor Bay, over which he himself presided. This service, as well as the Scripture-reader’s classes, was held in Mrs. McAravey’s cottage, for which accommodation the old woman was almost compelled to accept a consideration that went far towards paying her rent. Elsie, from having been the chief care, had now become the invaluable assistant of the reader. The population of the neighbourhood had been recently augmented by the advent of a number of miners, engaged in opening up the numerous streaks of iron ore that have of recent years begun to be worked in the Antrim glens. Elsie, who had long since overcome her prejudice against the arts of reading and writing, was now quite competent to act as Mr. Hendrick’s assistant, or even as his substitute. For this help, too, she was, after a time, induced to accept a trifling remuneration.

So had the good providence of God opened out a way for this poor parentless child, that at the age of sixteen or seventeen she found herself in a position of usefulness and importance that was pleasing to her. A homely night-school had been established on four evenings of the week, of which Elsie was the recognised and paid mistress. Her old and trusty friend George Hendrick came over as of yore on Wednesdays, and also on Fridays when no school was held, the evening being occupied by the service, and singing practice which followed.

Elsie’s pure and sweet example, and bright and playful manner, were of priceless value among the somewhat rough and careless mining population which had now been settled on the moors about the headlands.

The girl was happy in herself, and therefore failed not to inspire others with something of the innocent sunshine of her own nature. She still was haunted by the dear, dead face of her whom she had learned to love as a sort of angelic mother. But she had learnt a better faith than that of hero-worship, and had come to look to another Presence, that was human and yet divinely glorious, for guidance, sympathy, and direction.