Poor Jim! his pride had indeed met with a fall. The rector’s letter was soothing enough, but the winged messenger which he himself had demanded had arrived full twenty-four hours earlier. Full of the most ridiculous dreams, that he would have been ashamed to put in words even to himself, the young man tore open the brown cover. One glance at the cruelly brief, well-written announcement, and all the top-heavy aerial erection his vanity had heaped up lay shattered around him. Poor boy! shall we not pity him? From very childhood, though so silent and undemonstrative, he had fed himself with extravagant visions and wild speculations. All this had been merely an amusement, though an unhealthy one. The dreamer had scarcely entertained the idea of his dreams possibly proving true. But the train was laid for a future explosion the imagination was diseased, and so when the watchmaker’s letter came, all the shadowy fancies of the past seemed to be suddenly transformed into substantial realities. He fancied ho had always known that which hitherto he had only amused himself by fancying.

The blow was sharp and decisive, and Jim felt he had brought it on himself. Curiously enough, however, the sudden stinging pain acted as a tonic stimulant. The lad summoned up all the latent manliness and force of his character. He looked the thing in the face, and saw clearly that he had played the fool. He knew that he would be laughed at, and resolved to bear it like a man.

Next day came Mr. Smith’s letter, and it was as balm to the wounded spirit. Elsie also wrote a line to say she was glad not to be a lady, and believed that he would get on all the better for not being a lord.

Thus it came to pass that when the Rev. Cooper Smith arrived at Ballymena station, the first person he met was Jim McAravey.

“I do not know how to thank you, sir, for all the trouble you have taken; I at least was not worthy of it. But I trust this piece of folly has been enough for me. I hope I am wiser, but I shall strive not to be sadder.”

Mr. Smith was as much surprised as pleased at this change in the young man’s character, and he the more regretted having to tell the whole of the narrative, which was sure to cause further pain to the lad. However, it had to be done, and Jim, who was no coward, took it all better than might have been expected.

“And so I am only Elsie’s half-brother, at best or shall I say at worst?” said the poor lad, with trembling voice. “I’m afraid, sir, I shall be terribly laughed at here, but I must bear it as best I can. I have brought it on myself.”

Elsie was profoundly thankful for the result of the investigation. As she had said herself, she “did not feel like being a lady,” and was therefore glad to be delivered from what would have been, to her, an unwelcome fate. At the same time it was a pleasure to obtain definite information as to her parentage, and also to find that in Lady Eleanor she had a friend who had known and loved her mother, and who was bound to herself by a sacred tie. That Jim had proved not to be her brother was, if the truth be told, a relief. Elsie had often reproached herself that she did not feel for him that sisterly affection which she believed it her duty to cultivate. In fact she began to like Jim better now, partly because he was decidedly improved by the “taking down” he had received, and partly because affection was no longer a duty to which the girl had to school her heart.

Lady Eleanor’s letter was kind in the extreme. She told Elsie in simple language how they had all loved her mother, and enclosed for her perusal the one or two letters that had been preserved. “Although Elsie could not remember their last meeting, yet they were not strangers, since Lady Eleanor did not forget that she had held her in her arms at the baptismal font.” Elsie was urged most affectionately to go over to England, if it were only for a time; and it was suggested that if she settled there Mrs. McAravey might accompany her. Elsie, however, felt at once that, even could she bear the journey, it would be a cruelty to transplant the aged woman from her native soil to a region where she would find all things alien and strange. Nor would she entertain the idea of deserting the poor old body, though Mrs. McAravey stoically offered to give her up.

“I won’t stand in your way, Elsie, lass, though I can’t bear to think of it; but it’s not long I’ll be here to trouble anyone, and I’d like to know you were well provided.”

But Elsie would not be persuaded, nor could her new friends do otherwise than approve her noble resolve. They were disappointed, but felt that such a girl was worthy of their affection and patronage, and trusted that time would afford them opportunities of benefiting her.

The winter that ensued was a trying one. The snow lay deep on the moors, so that Tor Bay was practically shut off from the rest of the world. The rector was not able to get over, and even George Hendrick’s visits were few and far between. For several weeks Elsie could not go to church, and when she did the fatigue and wet brought on a cold which stuck to her all the winter. Old Mrs. McAravey seemed fast approaching her end; she long had been quite crippled with rheumatism, and now her mind was at times beginning to give way. It was a sad, dreary time for Elsie. Scarcely any children were able to come to school; and as she struggled on day after day at what seemed, in her present low state of health, a barren and uninteresting task, she could not but have visions of the comfortable home she might have acquired with her hitherto unseen friends. Not that she ever regretted her decision; indeed Elsie was scarcely capable of entertaining a selfish thought. Without any apparent effort she lived for others, and habitually thought of them before herself. Yet it was a trying time for the poor young girl gloomy and disheartening days, succeeded by restless and anxious nights, and literally not a soul to speak to.

Jim, too, had a bad time of it that winter. So great had been the ridicule to which he had been subjected in Ballymena, that he was at length forced to abandon his position. Messrs. Moore accepted his resignation somewhat coldly. They regretted the loss of a valuable servant, but Jim had failed to gain the affection of his employers. He had “kept himself to himself” with such reserve that no one took much interest in him, though his good business qualities were fully appreciated. Messrs. Moore gave him a high character for steadiness and capacity, but they did not seem inclined to go out of their way to obtain him employment. Poor Jim was much mortified at the calmness with which his resignation was received. He knew that he had done his duty to his employers faithfully, and therefore he felt hurt when they made no effort to retain him. The poor lad had well-nigh to begin again. He went to Belfast, and there soon obtained employment, but in a far inferior position to that which he had occupied at Messrs. Moore’s. Moreover, he soon found that in the great capital of the linen trade there were numbers of young men as capable, as energetic, and in many cases better educated than himself. It was a harsh and unpleasant experience, but Jim had the strength and courage to bear up under it. He still was full of a laudable confidence in himself, and felt sure that patience and diligence would have their due reward. It was a hard struggle, however. Trade was bad, and after a few months the house in which he was just getting established was compelled to stop payment. For a few weeks Jim was absolutely without employment. After that time he obtained another situation, and thus escaped being reduced to actual poverty; for the first time, however, he was brought face to face with the possibility of privation of being unable (however willing and however anxious) to obtain the means of gaining his daily bread.

Thus the winter and spring wore on. Almost the first gleam of sunshine that came to Elsie with the reviving year was a letter from Lady Eleanor, in which she said that as Elsie would not come to see them, they had almost resolved to go and look for her. The earl, her father, had often spoken of taking them to the Giant’s Causeway, and so they thought of running over before Easter if the weather was fine, which after so severe a winter they hoped it might be. The hope thus held out was destined to be gratified. Easter was late that year, and the weather in March and April beautiful. Jim was astonished one day early in April by receiving a letter from Elsie, directing him to wait upon the Earl and Lady Waterham, who were to arrive from Fleetwood next morning, and would stay a day at the Royal Hotel. Jim blushed as he recalled the vain dreams of six mouths before, and naturally felt some embarrassment at the prospect of meeting such exalted personages. However, he conducted himself so modestly and naturally that he won the approval of the whole party. Even the earl, who, out of dislike to Damer, was much prejudiced against the lad, spoke kindly to him, and expressed a willingness to serve him, if possible, at any time.

Having proceeded to Larne by train, the party posted along the noble coast road, arriving at the Ballycastle Inn in time for a very late dinner. Next day the younger ladies, having procured two stout ponies and a guide, started for Tor Bay, taking the magnificent Fair Head en route. They were determined to find out Elsie for themselves, and to take her by surprise in the midst of her ordinary work. It was one of those glorious spring days that might have belonged to June, were it not for a keenness in the air that surprised you when the sun was for a few seconds over-clouded. There was, too, a clearness in the atmosphere that warm summer days cannot claim, with a suspicion of frost, as you looked towards the sea. And often did the two ladies look in that direction during their ride on the lofty headlands. Rathlin Island lay below them, separated by the few miles of narrow and often impassable sea, but to-day it was but a “silver streak.” Far in the horizon the Scotch coast could be seen all along the line, while the Mull of Cantyre looked but a few miles away, the very houses and boundaries being almost distinguishable. Full in front the sun gleamed on Ailsa Craig, as it rose abrupt and lovely from out of the sea. Elsie, though familiar with it, had not been insensible to all this beauty. She had spent almost the entire night at Mrs. McAravey’s side, nor did the old woman fall off to sleep till it was almost time to open school. It was a weary morning’s work; and when the children went home to dinner the exhausted girl wandered down to the beach (having seen that Mrs. McAravey still slept) in search of fresh air and quiet before resuming her duties. Since the arrival of Lady Eleanor’s last letter she had naturally enough been excited and nervous. She knew that in a few days at latest she should see her mother’s friend, and one who promised to be hers. Would she like her? Would the meeting be a disappointment, or otherwise? What should she say? Where would they meet? How should she dress herself? The first meeting with one to whom we are bound by any ties, whom we have long corresponded with, or are likely in the future to be much associated with, is always looked forward to with embarrassment and nervousness. How much was this the case with a poor, simple orphan girl, who had never been five miles from home, called upon to encounter a titled lady, who actually claimed her as her godchild, and to whom she felt bound by so many tender associations? Filled with thoughts of the approaching interview, Elsie wandered, she knew not whither, on the beach. Suddenly a shadow seemed to pass over her, and she became conscious of the bitterness of the north-east wind that blew upon the shore. Drawing her cloak round her, she looked up and found that she had come under the shade of the great cliff that rose at the extremity of Sandy Creek. She stood still a moment, gazing on the dreary scene, and then a sudden flood of recollection came over her. The tide was low, and she stood on the very spot, as it seemed, where, twelve years before, she had caught sight of the strange black mass that was being tossed on the sand amid the tangled sea-weed. She saw herself a trembling, ragged child, alone by the dead body in the fast gathering twilight. And this was the only time that she had seen her mother. The girl was out of spirits, low in health, and very weary, and so, for the only time almost in her life, she gave way to repining thoughts. All the gracious path by which a kindly Providence had led her was obscured, and she thought of herself merely as the orphan child of this poor dead thing that lay upon the sand. The whole history of the past flooded back upon her. She saw little Jim, so eager to escape from the gruesome sight; then Mike McAravey approaching through the twilight, and herself as she ran up against good George Hendrick; then rose up the horrid bewildering scene at the inquest; and finally she seemed to stand in the bleak wind-blown moorland churchyard, and before her was the nameless head-stone, “In Memory of E. D.” The sense of loneliness was complete as she stood beneath the overhanging cliff exposed to the biting nor’-east wind. With an effort she aroused herself, and looking up with tear-filled eyes to the pale clear blue sky so far away, she resolutely turned back into the warm sunshine that seemed the more dazzling after its temporary withdrawal. It was almost school-time, and on the far hill-side path Elsie’s quick eyes caught sight of two or three tiny little figures, as they trotted down the path towards her cottage-school. In a moment all sadness was banished, and she felt herself again.

“Have we not all one Father?” she murmured; “and have I not One to love me who has said, ’Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me’?”

Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children had stopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up the path.

“They ’ll be late, my little loiterers,” said Elsie, with a smile; “I must scold them well. But what is it?”

An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distract the whole school’s attention. Two discreet ponies were picking their way down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatest wonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully, too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselves slip down the gravelly path.

“It’s early for tourists,” thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on her way.

The travellers and their attendant group of urchins had now passed out of sight behind a screen of the thick foliage, which we have described as adorning the sheltered bottom of the glen. Elsie thought no more of the tourists. Their pleasure-seeking was a thing she had absolutely no experience of, and the sight of her scholars had banished all other thoughts but practical ones as to the conduct of the afternoon lesson.

A sudden turn brought the young mistress in front of her school. It was a humble enough affair a mere shed in fact, built on to the end of Mrs. McAravey’s cottage, and adorned over the door with a plainly printed sign-board, “Tor Glen National School.” But the place did not look uncared for. The school indeed was bare enough, and surrounded by a brown wilderness, in which the children used to play, but the adjoining dwelling-house was made green and warm with ivy and fuschia, while the little garden was neat, and for April almost gay.

To her surprise, Elsie’s ear caught no sweet clamour of children at play; there was indeed a sound of voices, and as she turned the corner some dozen eager voices cried together, “Here she is; here’s mistress.”

Elsie stepped hastily forward, fearing some mischief, and then paused as she saw the two strange ladies standing in the midst of an admiring and wondering group of children, while the guide stood by, a pony bridle in each hand.

In a moment one of the ladies had pushed through the little circle and seized the girl’s hand.

“Elsie Damer! I ’m your godmother, Eleanor More. I ’m so glad.”

Poor Elsie knew not where she was, or what it meant, and could find no better thing to say than “Your ladyship!”

“There, don’t talk like that,” was the quick reply; “I’m so glad we’ve met at length. What a sweet little nest this is, hidden away from the world by these great cliffs. We were fortunate, too, to find you out so soon,” continued Lady Eleanor, who, perceiving that Elsie had not recovered the sudden shock and embarrassment, considerately gave rein to her power of speech, which was by no means limited.

“We met a nice little fellow on the top of the hill, and I asked him whether he knew where Elsie Damer lived. I stupidly forgot about the name, so he answered ‘Now.’ Then I remembered, and asked about Mrs. McAravey. ’It’s teacher she ‘s askin’ for,’ said a little girl who had come up. Then I saw it was all right, and so we all came tumbling down the hill together.”

“I saw you,” said Elsie, “in the distance, but of course I had no idea who it was. How very kind you have been to me!” and again the tears were trembling in the nervous eyes of the poor, overwrought girl.

Lady Constance had now joined them, and the children stood around, all eyes and ears.

“Kate, take them in,” said the mistress to a tiny monitress, when she became conscious of the inquiring glances. All were seated demurely as Elsie and the two ladies entered.

“Now,” said Lady Constance, “do you not think you might give these little ones a holiday this fine afternoon, so that you and my sister may have a good chat?”

“Perhaps I had better,” replied Elsie; then turning to the eager audience, “Children, these kind ladies have come all this way to see me, and have asked me to give you a holiday; what do you say?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” responded the little chorus.

“Very well,” said the mistress; “mind you don’t get into any mischief. No noise,” she added quickly, as she perceived that Lady Eleanor’s friend was expanding his lungs, and gathering up his little bantam-cock-like figure, preparatory to starting a cheer. “No noise; poor gran is very bad to-day, and would not like it. Go quietly.”

And so they did, under the generalship of tiny Kate, all defiling past in silence, save Master Naw, who, being the hero of the school, thought it necessary to distinguish himself; therefore, being forbidden to cheer, he stepped forward, and touching his forehead with a bow, said

“Thank your ladyships both;” and then, with a rush to the door, “Now, boys, we’ll have a look at the ponies.”

“He is almost past me,” said Elsie, laying her hand on the boy’s shoulder as he darted through the door.

“You have them in very good order, I think,” said Lady Constance; “but I was sorry to hear you say the old lady was so poorly. Let us go and see her.”

Elsie led the way, and as she lifted the latch they caught Mrs. McAraveys plaintive voice

“I ’ve been thinking long for you, Elsie, lass, for I heard the children say as the ladies had come. You won’t take her from a poor old creature, will you, miss?” she added, as the visitors came in view; “I won’t have long to trouble you.”

“O no,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly; “we ’ve only come to pay you and Elsie a visit. She is just like her mother, Mrs. McAravey; and now that you are so weak and low you ought to be glad she has found some of her mother’s friends. We will always take care of her.”

“The Lord be thanked!” murmured the old woman, lying back with closed eyes; “and I bless His name He has brought me to see the day. Elsie’s a good lass none better, ladies.”

Almost immediately she fell off into a broken and uneasy sleep, while Elsie and her friends whispered together at the door.

“We shall gee you again the day after to-morrow, Sunday,” said Lady Eleanor, as they prepared to start. “We are going to Ashleigh Church, and will lunch at Mr. Smith’s he says you always stay for Sunday-school.”

“Yes,” said Elsie, “that is very nice, and I’ll be sure to be out unless gran is too bad,” she added, anxiously glancing towards the bed.

Sunday came, and there was quite an excitement at Ashleigh Church when the clumsy hired carriage from Ballycastle drove up, and the two ladies appeared.

The Rev. Cooper Smith, who had been popping his head out of the vestry door off and on for the last ten minutes, was in readiness to receive his guests, and then retired to have as much time as possible for a last look at the specially prepared sermon. Mrs. Cooper Smith was too anxious about the lunch to go to church, but all the rest of the family were assembled in full force. Elsie, however, did not put in an appearance, and the absence of her fine voice left a sad gap in the somewhat too elaborate service that had been, got up for the occasion.

After service was over the clergyman took his guests to see poor Elsie Damer’s grave. Lady Eleanor suggested that something should be added to the inscription, setting forth the way in which the name had been discovered. How this should be done was the subject of conversation during the walk to the rectory. There they found Elsie just arrived. Mrs. McAravey had been much worse all Saturday, and Elsie could not get away in time for church. She had only come now because the dying woman had expressed a wish to see Mr. Smith. This news cast a shadow over the party. Elsie remained for luncheon, on Mr. Smith’s promising to be ready to start immediately after, when the returning carriage could bring them a considerable distance on the way, dropping them at a point not more than two miles from Tor Bay.

“I must say good-bye now,” said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside as they left the dining-room; “I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It is too bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; but we shall meet again soon.”

“I do not know about that,” replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down.

“My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again! And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise to come over to us when I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey? she cannot live long, poor old body.”

“Oh, you are too kind!” cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, and hiding her face on her new friend’s shoulder “you are too kind; but how can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here.”

Eleanor More was a true woman, and so though surprised at this sudden outbreak she lifted the girl’s head between her hands, and kissing her forehead, said, “There, Elsie, child, don’t fret, I will not press you now. God will show you your duty, and make your way plain before you. They are coming now, and the carriage is at the door.”