CHAPTER XLIX.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 192, 19 February 1887, Page 6

CHAPTER XLIX.

FALLEN BY THE WAYSIDE. Violet was looking at a young girl of plain but sympathetic face. The stranger I had on a blue check gown, and a straw bonnet j u oven by her own hands. She waa slender and neat in appearance, and while evidently cottager, like many on the Leigh estates, had the air of one used to the ways of the tO\\Q ' ' Were you looking for a lodging ?" she a^ked gently. "Yes," said Violet, hurriedly. "I was looking for a friend. I have missed her and lost my way, and I am so tired I can hardly move. lam frightened too, for lam not used to— being by myself." " I can give you a lodging," said the girl. "I am alone in my cottage— it is just near — there are only two of us left, and father ia night hand this month. Our place is little, but it ia clean and safe." tv Oh, thank you, thank you!" said Violet. " I would pay '' " I don't do it for pay — but — because you are youn^, and seem in trouble, and I like to do what I can. I had a sister once ; ahe died : it i 3 for her sake." Then, seeing Violet was faint and trembling, ahe took her little bag from her, and drawing her hand through her arm, led her to a tiny cottage, very old, and covered with hop vines. The cottage was one larga room below, with two "press beds" built in either side. A large firoplace was in the middle, and a white deal table, a few chairs, and a cupboard, with a email assortment of dnhe? and tins, made up all the furniture. The humble little place waa clean and well aired, and a great bouquet of lilacs, ia a pit j rher on the table, gave an air of refinement to tha simple home. j Tne young girl placed Violet in a chintzcushioned rocking-chair. "It waa my mother's," ehe said, "tk'd lather aits in it Sundays." She took off Violet's heat, loosened her dre'3, brought water, and bathed her feet, doing; ail simply and quietly. She looked a little surprised at Violet's ooatly silk hese and Sne French boots, but eaid nothing until she had undressed her exhausted guest, and put upon her the nght-dress which Violet took from the embroidered bag. Th 9 richness of the cambric garment cvi G3ntly puzzled the young hostess, but flhe was still silent, and opening one of the her' j, ?aid as she shook up the clean, white pillow, and turned over the enowy sheet : "It ia as sweet as ever can be, miss ; you n°.<?d rot fear," "Indeed, indeed, I am very grateful," said Violet. '' Once you are easy in bed, I will make you a cup of tea and a bit of toaat," said the siri, but bafore she did this she shook out, du«ted, and folded all Viclet's clothes. Tben *he made a fire, and prepared toa and toast for \ iolet, and porridge for herself, chaUiot: freely of her own affairs, as cottage maidens will, but showing a singular delicacy about asking questions of Violot." " I work in a factory in town," she said. " I'm the laat one of our family father has left. Father workß at the station, We were six once, but now only two. I'm keeping company with a young man, and we mean to be married as soon as we have saved enough to furnish us a little house where father can live with us, and when Joe gets advanced in the factory. Mary Miller, 1 am, at the box factory in Derby. In the morning lam off by five, but jou needn't rise till you are rested. I'll leave you some breakfast, and you must sleep till you are done. You have only to shut the door when you go out ; no one ever meddles here — we've naught to lose." Then the tea was brought to Violet's bed, almost as nicely as Kate could have done it, and surrounded by this Arcadian simplicity, Violet fell into a troubled, aching sleep. 1 Her slumber deepened toward morning, When ahe finally woke the aun waa high, and Mary Miller was gone. Violet sat up in bed and looked about. Evidently she must leave this quiet shelter, but Avbere should Bhe go, what should she do? The sleep, the silence, gave her strength for reflection. She saw that she was behaving most recklessly in wandering about in this wild way. She had plenty of money, she could have home and friends ; what madness had seized ber? She had behaved like a reckless child, and was no more fit to take care of herself than a child.

She would go to the nearest village or town, seek board or lodging?, a <1 as soon as &he could secure a room to sit down in, and material for writing, she would write at once for Kate— good, kind, sensible Kate, her life-long friend— Kate would tell her what to do, and Kate would Cake care of her. Poor Vwlet felt so weak that she could hardly do up her own luxuriant Milken brown hail 4 , She rose and dressed ; her well-brushed clothes and clean silk stockings felt cool and refreshing. Mary Miller hod left a Rla»s of rich new milk and a slice of brown bread on the table for her. Violet drank tho milk, and then pinned a sovereign inside Mnry'a pillow- caee, where no stray caller would bo likely to find ie, but Mary surely would. She looked with filling eyea at the tidy, humble home, whore she had found such Christian treat ment, she remembered how it was written, " 1 was a stranger and ye took me in," and she felt that the " bloesing of one ready to periah," would come home to the gracious factory maiden. "I will help her," she said, "as soon as I am once more safe and settled, I will send a hundred pounds to Mary, and she shall marry the man phe loves." With the thoughtof making another happy she went out once more with better courage. She did not like to retrace her steps to Derby ; that had seemed a hot, dusty, clattering town. Bhe wanted stillness, solitude. She made sure if she fol lowed up the Derwent, she would come to some village before long, where by advance payment she could secure lodgings, aud where she could summon her faithful Kate. The morning was fresh, dewy, lovely ; the day promised heat, and all was fair and sparkling ; a dainty breeze stirred Violet's stray rings of air, and dried alike the tears on her cheeks, and tha dew on the wild-roses and white meadow queen, while all the leafy coverts shook with the summer birds. For a little hope sustained her in her way, hope of shelter, of soon summoning Kate who could " take care of her —and, oh, how she needed care, how ill and worn she felt ! She expected each minute to see some church spire piercing a sea of green, or the smoke of the village chimneys rising iv trembling spirals against the still blue sky. Not a voice, not a house, not a tower greeted her. Here and there, at a little distance from the path, fat cows fed, and Violet was terribly afraid of cows, and quickened her pace when one of the mild animals lifted her placid head. Her pain and exhaustion returned fiercely, and louder and yet louder spoke in her soul the voices of conscience and common-sense against her mad course. In the light of her bitter experiences, how wicked it all seemed, how safe and desiring seemed even her loveless Belgravian home, how kind and helpful the remembered faces. What cause for anger aod reproach had she not given her husband by thia desperate step ? What would Kenneth, and Edna, and Lady Burton think of her ? How she had shamed the ivlontreesors ! Henceforth until she died, ehe must be an object of suspicion, and pcoro, because she had been weak and foolish, and easily beguiled, instead of strong and womanly to bear in heroic patience the bitterness of her heart. The sun climbed apace to the zenith, the breeze died away ; Violet's tottering limbs and blistered feet could hardly carry her. She had not gone so very far, though it seemed miles and miles, Her head reeled, sharp, fierce pains shot through her arms and back and finally, with a low cry, she threw up her hands, and groping blindly, tell, in blessed unconsciousness of her misery. The spot where she fell was a little copse of hazel bushes r md ferna ; the great verdant brake and the tender hazel leaves leaned over her and sheltered her ; bees hummed her a slumber-song ; butterflies swayed above her on the warm, golden air ; she came a little from her swoon, was enough to realise herself, and her mind not full of the Lincolnshire woods, the cool, deep retreats about the old grange, and she saw again the face of Kenneth, her lover, and she heard his voice murmuring sweet words thaf she had a right to hear, and bis hand touchei hers, and she was sheltered, and happy and at rest. She knew not these were drifting fevered dreame, and that her pillow was but green brake, not Kenneth's heart, and that it was a truant butterfly that lightly touched her band, and she was lost and alone, fallen wounded by the rough wayside of life.