HOW IT WAS FOLLOWED.

THINKING over what Mrs. Anstruther had said, Hannah came to the conclusion that she ought to begin to teach Ellen to be useful at once. But she disliked the idea very much. She loved the child, so that to work for her was a pleasure; moreover, Ellen was so awkward and timid, so certain that she would do everything badly and make mistakes, that Hannah rather dreaded making her less happy and contented than she had been hitherto. Besides, it would be dreadful if Ellen took it into her head that she had been adopted as a future servant or assistant, instead of loving Hannah for her kindness as she did now.

And Mrs. Collins, whose quarrel had completely disappeared in a couple of days—indeed, she came to tea again, "just to show that there was no ill-will"—would certainly give the child that idea, whether intentionally or not.

These considerations vexed Hannah a good deal, and made her put off beginning to instruct Ellen. And she might have put it off longer still, and had a scolding from Mrs. Anstruther, but that, to her great surprise and relief, Ellen herself asked to be taught.

"Mrs. Rule, dear, I've been thinking of what you said to me the other day, and I won't be selfish if I can help it. But if I wanted to help you ever so much, how could I, when I don't know how to do a single thing? I'm very stupid, too, and I'm afraid you'll find it very hard to teach me, but if you only try, I'll work very hard to learn."

Hannah's pleasant face fairly beamed with pleasure.

"Ellen, child, you don't know what a weight you've taken off my mind. I've been thinking you ought to begin, and was afraid you'd hate it. What will you begin with? Shall I teach you to wash lace, and—"

"No, no; let me begin with common things. I'm not clever like you. Maybe I never could learn to mend and wash lace as you do, but Mrs. Cartwright says any one can learn house work."

"And you've seen me do it so often that you must know a great deal. I'll tell you how we'll manage. You go now and brush and dust Mr. Holcroft's rooms, while I finish this piece of mending, and I'll come up when you're done and see if it is all right."

This pleased Ellen, who trotted off to the kitchen, where she tied on an apron of Hannah's, collected her implements—carpet-whisk, blacklead brushes, and duster—and carried them up to the first floor, whence the sound of diligent sweeping was soon heard.

When Hannah presently came up, she found the brushing and dusting well done, but the grate presented a curiously streaked and mottled appearance, and it is not too much to say that everything that could be crooked was as crooked as it could be. The worst of this was that Hannah, having naturally an eye for straightness, placed things straight by instinct, and found it very hard to give poor little Ellen any rules to help her to do the same.

For many a day did Ellen carry a long tape in her pocket, with various cabalistical ink-marks, which no one save herself could understand, but by the help of which she contrived to lay a table-cloth evenly, and to place the few chimney ornaments at even distances—which was Hannah's idea of the proper arrangement, but which is not every one's idea. Hannah never saw the litter and confusion of pretty things on Mrs. Anstruther's tables without longing to set them straight; yet, had she done it, Mrs. Anstruther would have been miserable until she had restored them to their first condition. However, to learn to set things straight was no doubt very good for Ellen, who took great pains to do so, and succeeded at last.

Then came a happy time. Ellen began to learn cooking, and proved to have a great taste for it.

"Now," said Hannah, "I'm easy in my mind. No matter what happens, you'll have a good business at your fingers' ends, Ellen. A woman that can cook as I'll teach you to cook, need never want while her health lasts, nor even after she gets beyond her work, if she'll just have a bit of sense while she's strong and active."

It was a proud day for Ellen when she was taken to the house of one of Hannah's employers, and introduced as "my apprentice, ma'am, who will help me, as it's a big dinner." That day, however, did not come for a year or two, for at first Ellen was timid and somewhat awkward, and I should be sorry to say how often she cut and burned her fingers before she learned to manage a knife or a frying-pan.

She also became a good laundress, but the lace-mending had to be left to Hannah, who, I suspect, had no idea how much her skill in that line owed to some lessons in lace-making on a cushion, given her when she was a child by an old woman who had begun life in a lace-making village.

Ellen grew to a fair height, and quite lost the odd look she had had. Time passed very happily with Hannah and her child; they worked hard, and Mrs. Collins often told herself that they must be "fairly coining money." Mrs. Collins grew quite respectful to Ellen, as the heiress of Hannah's savings; and no doubt Hannah did still save, but not as much as Mrs. Collins fancied.

Mrs. Collins, you see, seldom left her own house except to go to church or prayer-meetings, and to drink tea at No. 3. As to going about visiting neighbours less well off than herself, helping them both by the work of her hands, and by a loan or gift of small sums of money when needed, Mrs. Collins would have laughed at the notion, and had no idea that Hannah and Ellen did such things, though no one profited more by their kindness than she did. Such doings, she thought, were all very well for ladies who had more money than they knew what to do with. As to a hardworking woman like Hannah Rule, just a neighbourly bit of help to a respectable old woman like herself, who always paid back every penny she borrowed—and Hannah always took it, too!—this was as much as any one could expect of her.

As to the girl, it was all very well to talk; but even if Mrs. Anstruther did not pay for her keep, the girl did good work now, and Hannah Rule knew what she was about as well as any one, and didn't lose by Ellen, you may be sure. All that talk about wanting to be kind because it was right had come to an end long ago, and Hannah Rule, decent woman, wasn't a bit better than her neighbours!

But there were sick people, and helpless old people, within a short distance of Wellington Row, who could have told Mrs. Collins a different story. Hannah had indeed ceased to discuss these things with the poor old woman, partly because she was so very unsympathizing, and always seemed annoyed when any woes but her own were mentioned, but partly, also, because to do good and kind actions had ceased to be new to Hannah, but were part of her daily life. And there was nothing that she was more anxious to impress upon Ellen than the duty and privilege of doing good.

"You see, Ellen, if we that have to work hard don't keep our hearts open, we get as hard and selfish as—as possible."

"You were going to say as Mrs. Collins," put in Ellen.

"Then I was to blame, for I can find a better example of it nearer home. I was such myself for many a day, until I got that little book that 'you' turn up your nose at, Ellen."

"No, I don't, Mrs. Rule dear; I only say I like the Bible better."

"Well, so do I; but I'm very thankful to 'Questions' for all that. They waked 'me' up, I know. And, as I was going to say, talk is easy, but you've no way of proving that you belong to the Saviour but by trying in our poor way to be like Him. It is not 'very' like we shall ever be in this world. If I could keep my tongue in order, I'd have a better chance; but this very morning I told Mrs. Collins her steps are a disgrace, with milk stains all over them. She was very angry too."

"She'll have to come in to tea, just to make up," said Ellen, gravely. "But, Mrs. Rule dear, when you said 'chance' just now, what did you mean?"

"Chance of growing like Him, of course. I'm sure He never said useless, sharp things like that."

"Oh, I see! I thought you meant chance of going to heaven."

"No, no, child. If one's sorry and asks pardon, it's promised, you know. As to going to heaven, it is not anything we could do that would take us there. It was all done hundreds of years ago."

"That's well for poor stupid ones like me," said Ellen.

"Don't be a little humbug, honey. You're not a bit stupid now. You're as well able for most things as any girl of your age. What you've got to do is to hold fast by Him and put yourself to one side, acting as His servant, and not to please yourself. Though there's a pleasure in doing His work, too. I sometimes think—Well, Ellen, as sure as you're there, you were right about Mrs. Collins! Here she comes, in a clean cap and her face washed. She's just a caution. Let her in, dear."

"Good evening," began Mrs. Collins, as soon as the door was opened; "I just looked in because you'd been a bit sharpish with me, just waspy, you know, and I wanted to make sure that we were friends, as neighbours should be. And, just to please you, I washed the steps, using a bath-brick to them, though for the life of me I can't see why stone steps that you never touch but with the sole of your shoe must be as clean as a deal table."

"As 'whose' deal table?" said Hannah. Then hastily added, "Never mind whose. I know what you mean. Maybe you'll stay to tea? I have pancakes made, just ready for the pan; come with us to the kitchen and we'll soon have them fried."

And Mrs. Collins had a good tea. Poor Hannah's inability to govern her tongue was worth many "good teas" to Mrs. Collins.

In the course of the evening, when Mrs. Collins was in the happy, genial state which a good tea produced in her—Ellen once said that she expected her to purr like kit, poor kit, who had long ago disappeared, as London cats so often do—the postman knocked at the door and left a letter, which Hannah pronounced to be from Mrs. Anstruther.

"Come to me to-morrow at about six in the evening. I have not been well, and am going abroad, but should like to see you before I go."

"Not well," said Hannah, thinking aloud; "that's something new for Miss Geraldine. She must be poorly indeed before she speaks of it. It's lucky I have no engagement for to-morrow."

"Is it Mrs. Anstruther that is poorly?" asked Ellen. "She always looks so bright that one would think she could not be ill if she tried."

"Yes, but Miss Phyllis died of consumption," Hannah said uneasily.

"And it is a fact," said Mrs. Collins, comfortably, "that if one of a family dies of consumption, the rest follow sooner or later. Is it the lady that brought Ellen here four or five years ago? She'll be a loss to you, Mrs. Rule. Do you think she'll secure your payments to you from her heirs, or give you a sum of money and be done with it?"

"Payments for what? She does not owe me anything."

"Payment for Ellen's keep," said Mrs. Collins, boldly, determined "to know the truth if a plain word would cause it to be revealed."

"I've told you often enough there is no question of payment in that matter. Is there any use in saying it again?"

Mrs. Collins ought to have been warned by the tone of Hannah's voice that she was annoyed; moreover, being frightened about Mrs. Anstruther, she was the more easily put out. But the stupid old body was so left to herself as to reply, with a look of great sagacity and a sidelong nod—

"It 'is' rather hard to believe, Mrs. Rule. But there—of course you must stand to it before Ellen."

Hannah's face crimsoned. "Then you think I'd tell a lie, either before Ellen or behind her? Oh, go home, Mrs. Collins, before I give you a piece of my mind! You can't be very truthful yourself when you're so ready to suspect others of telling lies."

Mrs. Collins stood up, full of wrath. "Many a time have you insulted me, Hannah Rule," said she, in trembling accents, "and I've always forgiven you. But this goes beyond me! After those words, ma'am, you and I are friends no more. I would not speak to you with a pair of tongs!"

At this extraordinary version of a well-known saying, both Hannah and Ellen began to laugh. This did not tend to soothe Mrs. Collins, who was not aware of her mistake, and, with her nose in the air, she let herself out of the house and marched home.

"Ellen, did you ever hear the like? It was not very civil of us to laugh, but I know I couldn't help it, and no more, I'm sure, could you."

"I wonder how soon she'll forgive us," said Ellen, still laughing. "It will have to be mutton pie this time, Mrs. Rule dear! Less than that won't make it up altogether."

"Never mind her, poor old soul, but a person that's always suspecting you is very hard to put up with. I must go to Mrs. Anstruther to-morrow, Ellen, and you'll have to go to see poor Mrs. Cantrell alone. There's a drop of nice soup for her; not that all the soup in the world could do her much good. You warm it up for her, dear, and sit a bit with her."

"She likes me to read to her—I'll take my hymnbook," answered Ellen.

There were other visits for Ellen to pay, and lastly she was to go to Mrs. Cartwright's to inquire how she was, and to see if she could be of any use. For poor Mrs. Cartwright was very ill, and had been forced to close her school.

"I'm thinking Mrs. Cartwright must find it very hard to get along now the school is shut up," Hannah said; "and, you see, 'we' can't do anything more than help Miss Mildred with the work. I don't think the poor lady will last long, and what's to become of Miss Mildred? I'm going to mention them to Mrs. Anstruther. Ellen, I'm frightened about Mrs. Anstruther. I don't know how it is, her letter frightens me."

There was a good deal of washing to be got through before Hannah could leave home next day, and the consequence was that she was later than she had intended. Both she and Ellen got ready and left the house at the same time.

"You'll be home before me, Ellen, so here's the key. We'll be very late at tea; if Mrs. Collins should come in, I'd rather she didn't stay this evening."

"I'll tell her we're not ready to be forgiven yet," said Ellen, laughing. "Indeed, I doubt if she's ready to forgive us. Mrs. Rule dear, don't look so anxious; you'll find her better than you think."

"Oh, I hope so; give me a kiss, Ellen, before we go out, just for luck. Take care of yourself, dear, and don't be too late; it gets dark now pretty early."

When Hannah reached her destination, she was taken upstairs at once to Mrs. Anstruther's dressing-room. She found her lying on a low couch, and, though it had been quite a warm day, there was a bright fire burning in the grate, and she was covered with a warm shawl. But she rose quickly, with all her usual eagerness of manner—she looked very lovely, yet Hannah's heart sank when she saw her.

"Oh, Hannah! My good old Hannah! I was really anxious to see you. Sit down; I think you look tired."

"I walked a good part of the way, ma'am," said Hannah. But it was not fatigue that had taken the wholesome red from her cheeks.

"Did you know that I was in London, Hannah?"

"No, ma'am; generally you go to Scotland or to France, or some such place, in September."

"Yes; I was in Scotland—I had the house full of people, too. But I have not been well all the summer, and I felt much worse there; and, as I have no faith in any doctor but my own old friend who has known me all my life, I left my sister-in-law to take my place, and came up."

"You did wisely, ma'am."

"So you won't ask me what the doctor says, Hannah? I know why, too. Yes; he has always been warning me that I was doing too much—working too hard."

Here she paused and laughed, but there was no mirth in her laugh.

"Worked too hard, you know, Hannah, at committees, and boards, and societies for this, that, and the other charitable object. 'Mrs. Anstruther is so charitable!'" And again she laughed.

"Miss Geraldine my dear, I don't understand you at all."

"No, Hannah? And yet I think it was you who made me begin to understand myself. For, you know, Hannah, there has been very little charity in my doings."

"Oh, now, Mrs. Anstruther, I don't see how you can say that?"

"Hannah, the day—more than five years ago now—that you came here to mend the lace 'portière' over that door, and told me that you wanted something to love, for that book I had given you said that charity meant love—do you remember? You said you had been trying to be charitable by helping people, but you did not feel sure that this was what was meant, and that you wanted to try to bear with a little trouble for some one whom you could love. I was rather struck by it—but I have lived in such a whirl. I liked to live so. It was to please myself."

"Now, I don't believe that, Miss Geraldine," said Hannah, quickly. "Before you were left a widow, you were used to a very different life. It was hard to get a word with you in those days, with balls and garden-parties, and going here and there. And 'twasn't as if you'd got tired of them, nor as if you wouldn't have been admired as much as ever. And you give it all up, and go helping to manage all these ways of helping people. The many times I heard of you, ma'am, as helping this and that, and giving—"

"All quite true, Hannah. But I liked the activity and the influence and the fuss—and the admiration. I really enjoyed it more than the old days of gaiety, when I was a girl and a young wife."

"Because you have a kind heart, ma'am."

"Because I like getting my own way, Hannah, as you have sometimes told me. Well, I am done with it all now! For, if I live, it can only be to take care of myself. I must spend this winter abroad, and only come home to lead a quiet life. Indeed, I suspect—But now, to tell you why I sent for you, Hannah. Not to say all this—though when I saw your kind, familiar face, I began to talk—but to ask you a question or two. How does your child turn out? She must be fifteen now. Is she a good girl?"

"She is, ma'am; she has got on right well. She'll be as good a cook as I am myself. And a sensible girl!—Plenty of good sense she has. And 'twould do your heart good to hear her laugh. She and I are as happy together as possible."

"And are you quite happy about her future life? You have no fear that she may come to want, if outlives you? But you say she has good sense—you know I once thought she was rather deficient."

"There was nothing wrong with her, ma'am; but, being timid and gentle, she needed kindness, and didn't get it. She has as much sense as most, if not more; and yet, in some ways, she's a simpleminded creature—but she'll do very well. Most likely I'll live to see her grown up—and I've made my will, leaving her all my savings, and she'll be better able to do for herself than most. Maybe, I may see her married yet, though I don't fare to feel able to wish that."

"How much have you saved, Hannah?"

Hannah named the sum, with great pride and satisfaction.

"Only that!" said Mrs. Anstruther.

And Hannah opened her eyes wide.

"Why, it's a 'lot' of money, Mrs. Anstruther! Few girls begin life with as much as that. I mean, few girls like what I was, or Ellen is."

"I see," said Mrs. Anstruther; "and I know it is a good deal for you to have saved. Well, the other question I wish to ask you is—you'll be surprised at it, Hannah, I'm afraid, but I am ashamed to show myself such a coward to any one but you, who knew me when I was a very naughty, troublesome child—Hannah, I am afraid. When you think of dying, are you afraid?"

Hannah looked distressed for a minute. Then she said slowly—

"Miss Geraldine, to tell the truth, I don't think about it. Nor I don't see much use in it—in thinking about it, I mean. What seems to me best, is this. We don't know for certain anything about it. But we 'do' know for certain that it is all in God's hands for us; and just to go on doing what seems right at the present moment, and leaving all the rest to Him, is the best. He'll take care of us all through. Ellen's very fond of hymns, and she read me one the other day. It began—

"'While others ask for grace to die, O Lord, I ask for grace to live.'

"And it went on to say 'tis harder to live than to die—and I do think it is, too."

"The uncertainty!" said Mrs. Anstruther.

"But 'tis only 'us' that's uncertain," said Hannah. "You don't think, child, that it takes Him by surprise? He knows, and His time is the best for us."

"But, if you knew that you 'must' die?"

"We all know that, and none of us know a bit more than that. My dear, I'm an ignorant woman, and you're a lady with learning and education, but there's just the same comfort and help for both of us. The dear Lord died for us. That's enough. You know it better than I do."

"That 'really' comforts you?"

"That makes me able to do the best I can see, and leave the rest to Him. Sometimes, indeed, I can't help thinking of all the time I wasted, never remembering Him. But then I think of His mercy that made Him wake me up at last."

"Hannah, you have done me good. It is getting dark. I suppose you ought to go home."

"Yes, ma'am, I must be going; but I want to tell you about Mrs. Cartwright—that's the lady Ellen was taught by. I mentioned her to you before. I'm afraid she's dying. Her school had to be closed three months ago. And, you see, she's a lady; the little help that I could give won't do, and I could hardly take such a liberty. So I thought I would tell you, ma'am; for I truly fear they're in actual want."

"I will see to it, Hannah. Write her address for me. Is she still in the house she had her school in, or did she move into lodgings?"

"She is too ill to be moved, ma'am. But Miss Mildred is the only creature with her, except for what Ellen and I and that kind body, Mrs. Green, can do for them. Such a pretty, nice young lady and she'll be left without a penny, I'm afraid."

"How old is she?"

"Seventeen, ma'am."

"Do you know, I want a young girl to sit with me, and read to me, and prevent me from feeling lonely. I get so low, Hannah—you did not think I was such a fool, did you? Would she do, I wonder? Of course, not while her poor mother lives."

"Ma'am, she's as nice a girl as ever I knew, a real little lady. Suppose you'd go and see her? You've no idea how you'd cheer Mrs. Cartwright by promising to be a friend to Miss Mildred."

"I am not allowed out just now, except for a drive in the middle of the day. But I will write at once. You have no idea what a trouble that seems, but for once in my life I will take trouble, 'not' because it pleases me. Come and see me again before I leave home. I will write and tell you when I am to go. Good-bye, Hannah. I shall not forget Mrs. Cartwright."

"May I mention it to her, ma'am? You see, she has Miss Mildred always on her mind."

"You may tell her that I will surely do what I can for her. I will, indeed; even if she does not suit me. Good-bye, again, Hannah."

As it was rather late, Hannah took her place in the first omnibus that was going her way, and was soon on her homeward road.

It is now time to see what Ellen had been about all this time. Hannah little knew what a surprise her adopted child had in store for her!