THE DESOLATE HOME.

A WEEK had elapsed since a melancholy funeral procession had yielded the last token of respect to the late owners of Laurel Lodge.

Externally, the handsome house remained unchanged; the great dog dozed in the vestibule as usual, and only a few scattered leaves in the walks yet betrayed the absence of the gardener's usual care. There was, however, a silence about the premises, and within doors, accounted for by the fact that the principal servants had, on the previous evening, departed.

There remained only a housemaid, a cross-tempered kitchenmaid, and Mrs. Dinah the nurse, who waited the promised return of Mr. Haynes, brother to their late master, who was to settle affairs, and make any further arrangements which might be necessary.

In the room usually designated "the study," quiet and yet restless, longing for renewal of activity, yet subdued by the recent shock and a sense of weary desolation, were five children between the ages of fourteen and four. Two men were going from room to room taking inventories; and the children had gathered together out of their way, hoping they should not be disturbed in their own special haunt.

"Oh, how miserable it is!" cried Harry, the elder boy. "I wish uncle would come and tell us what we are to do. Florrie, what do you think it will be?" And his restless fingers went on cutting up a quill which he had been trying to transform into a pen.

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Florence, pushing back her hair, and looking at her brother with tears in her large dark eyes. "I am afraid he doesn't know himself, and that is the reason he keeps away, perhaps."

"I wish we had all been drowned with papa and mamma and Helen," said the younger boy. "It is of no use to let us live without them."

"All very fine to say that, sitting comfortably there in your rocking-chair, but if you were floundering about in the water, kicking out for your life, you would think differently," said Harry. "I know I thought of nothing but living if I could, and I minded nobody but myself till they hauled me out, and my senses came back. And when I asked for—for the others, they were all gone;" and Harry covered his face and stifled his sobs.

"Oh, Harry, I wonder how you can speak of it," said Margaret. "I feel as if I had cried till I can't cry any more, and yet—"

"Crying will do no good," said Florence; "dear Helen would say, 'Get something to do,' you know."

"I know what I shall do, and pretty soon, too, if nobody comes to settle it for me," said Harry.

"I know," cried Leonard; "you will go to sea and be a sailor, and get drowned again."

"That's just it, little one; and there's nobody to hinder me now. I wonder if those horrid men have done yet? I am awfully tired of being shut up here." And he yawned and stretched himself for another minute or two.

"I wish I had my work," said Margaret, "but I left it upstairs, and I am afraid to go because of those men."

"Who's afraid?" cried Harry, starting up. "I'll get it; I should like to face them." And away he rushed, the others holding the door, and peeping after him.

Harry mounted the stairs and found the two men on the landing, surveying some beautiful cabinets there.

"Those are pretty things, they'll fetch something," said the younger man admiringly.

"Ah yes, if the right people see them," replied the other; "but you see they are not everybody's money. I shouldn't wonder if they go cheap, pretty as they are. They are not solid and useful, you know, good for all times. See that picture over there. It is said to be a real old master, I forget who, but—"

"He is an ugly old chap, any way," interrupted the younger, laughing; "I wouldn't give him house-room."

"That's your ignorance, you see."

And they laughed together, while Harry proceeded slowly on his errand.

"That's a fine little fellow," said the auctioneer's clerk, in a low voice.

And then they went on with their work.

Harry resolved not to be afraid; and, roused by the remarks he had heard, he walked up to the elder man of business, and said,—

"Please will you tell me what is going to happen?"

"Happen, happen, young gentleman?" said Mr. Jennings, glancing uneasily at his companion. "What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean about our things. What is going to be done? Did my uncle tell you to come and see our furniture?"

"Is there nobody here to make you understand what's what, my dear?" asked Mr. Jennings kindly, and thinking of the six children at home for whom he was working with hearty good-will.

"No," said Harry, colouring, "not yet, but we expect my uncle back again every day. Only I want to know what you are doing."

"Well, I don't wonder; that's all right, for, young as you are, maybe it's proper you should know. It's just this, you see, sir. Your father,—mind, I daresay it would have been all right if he had lived, but it happened that he died insolvent, and his creditors claim everything he has left, and a deal more if they could get it."

"He was not my father," said Harry hastily; "my name is Sherwood."

"Ah, I remember; he was executor to your father, too, I believe, and married your mother. Well, it is a pity there was not some provision for you, but everything has to be sold to pay up; and that's what's going to be done, my dear. It is the law, and nobody can help it now."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, darting down the banister rail at one slide; and rushing into the study, he banged the door behind him.

"Florrie," he cried; "get the dictionary, and look what 'insolvent' means. I wouldn't ask the man, because I am sure it is something nasty."

"Insolvent," murmured Florence, tracing with her finger down the column; "here it is! Oh, Harry!"

"What is it? Let me see," cried the boy impatiently. "Yes, there it was,—

"'Unable to pay.' 'Insolvency, inability to pay debts.'"

"Horrid! I was sure it was something hateful. I am glad my name isn't—"

"Hush, Harry!" whispered Florence, seeing Margaret with angry eyes fixed upon them, and even Leonard looked as if he understood.

"Papa would have paid everybody if he had not been drowned," exclaimed Margaret passionately; "how dare you speak so, Harry?"

"I dare, and I will!" shouted Harry. "I'll take care never to have anything that I can't pay for. Why, there isn't a thing in all the house that we can call our own."

"We must give them everything, Harry dear," said Florence; "your pony, and the little chaise, and everything, even our beautiful baby-house."

"I know; I'll tell them," said Harry resolutely, the more so because Leonard began to cry, and declared that no one should take away his rocking-horse.

He went upstairs again at once.

"Sir," said he to Mr. Jennings, "if you please, we don't want to keep you out of our study; there are plenty of nice handsome books there, and I'll show you our playroom with my tool-chest, and my sister's baby-house, and Leonard's rocking-horse, and they all cost a great deal of money, I believe."

"You are a fine little fellow," said Mr. Jennings; "I wish we were all such boys in notions of honour, and that the world could never rub them out when we come to be men."

"It shan't rub them out of me," said Harry proudly.

"Well, I hope it may not, but, my dear, if it is to be so, excuse me for what I am saying, you must get hold of a principle that will stand fire; there is nothing holds out against man's wrong ways but God's good ways. Go by what He says in your Bible, and then you'll do to others as you wish them to do to you. That is the way to be honest and true, you see." And Mr. Jennings ended his little homily with a very short but potent text,—

"'Thou shalt not covet.'

"That's the bottom of it all, I believe."

And he came into the study respectfully, and took his inventory, the children retreating together.

"Come along, and let us walk round the garden," said Harry; "I can't breathe in the house, and I want to talk to you, Florrie."

"Harry," said Florence, coming close to him, "do you think we shall have to go to the workhouse?"

"The workhouse! What in the world made you think of such a thing?" cried Harry, with a face of fire.

"Only this. I heard cook, before she went away, tell Janet that she was sorry for us, for there was no place but the workhouse for us to go to."

"What a shame! How dared she? Let them mind their own business. You cheer up, girls; I shall work by-and-by for us all. We'll have such a nice little house; and you shall make my shirts and mend the stockings, and I'll do the gardening, and grow everything we want."

"You can't grow milk and tea, and sponge cakes and tarts," said Leonard scornfully.

"But we can buy milk and tea and all that; and Florrie will make the cakes and tarts, you know. Won't you and I give her three cheers for doing them? I say, look there, Florrie, some lady is coming to see us. I don't want to see any lady. Come away; you run into the study by the glass door, and I'll hide."

All agreeing that no strangers were welcome, the children disappeared.

And when the visitor reached the door, the great dog rose up and growled.

"Ah, Milo, good dog; I've heard of you; we must be friends, Milo," said a soft sweet voice.

Milo seemed at once to come to the same conclusion, for he looked up into the pleasant face, and put his nose into the caressing hand, and wagged his great tail with evident satisfaction. He growled no more, but quietly looked after the lady as she stepped from the vestibule into the hall, finding no reply to a knock and ring.

Passing the handsome reception-rooms, she proceeded to the study, whence came the sound of voices in low, murmuring tones, which ceased as she opened the door after a gentle knock.

Margaret had taken up her work; Leonard was making figures on a slate; a fair little creature lay on the floor playing with her doll. All stared with surprise as the young lady came towards them. She was dressed in deep mourning, and looked anxious, and, going up to Margaret, gave her a warm, loving kiss.

"You are Margaret," she said,—"and you are Leonard," as the boy drew back from her hand; by which time the fairy on the floor had sprung up into her arms, delighted to be once more the object of caresses she had missed, and gazing wonderingly into the fair, pleasant face.

"Don't you know me, darlings?" said Myra, the tears forcing themselves into her eyes.

"I don't," said the little one, "but if you have come to be Helen, I'll love you."

"We will agree to that in dear Helen's name," said Myra, clasping the child, whose arms were round her neck. "I am Myra, your sister. Will you not own me too, dear Margaret and Leonard?"

"You are Harry's and Florrie's sister, but not ours," said the boy sulkily.

"And you are only half-sister to them," said the ungracious Margaret.

"Well, we will not talk about it now," said Myra. "May I take off my travelling things? And can any one go to the station about my luggage?"

"I don't know; you had better ask nurse," replied Margaret awkwardly.

"Beg pardon, miss," said Mr. Jennings, putting his head in at the door. "We won't be many minutes, but we have just got to measure this carpet that we forgot."

Myra was utterly bewildered; what could they be going to do?

"I am come to take care of the children if I may be allowed," said she. "Is there any need for a change in the house at present?"

"I am right glad to hear you say that, miss," replied Mr. Jennings; "for there is need, more's the pity: not five shillings in the pound; and the creditors have taken possession."

Myra began to comprehend. But, feeling at once that they were all intruders now, she was at a loss what to do, when Mr. Jennings informed her that he thought leave had been given for the children to stay until their uncle's return, when doubtless he would remove them wherever he thought proper.

Finding that the lady visitor did not depart as they had hoped, Harry and Florence came to reconnoitre; and, peeping in at the glass door, they saw the young lady sitting with little Elsie on her knee.

"Hurrah! I know who she is," cried Harry, bouncing in. "Come on, Florrie; it's Myra, I declare."

Myra at the same moment put down the child, and rose to meet them, opening her arms to the children of the same father, but not the same mother. Their greeting was half shy, half doubtful, but Florence remained in the embrace of the willing arm, and felt as if a friend had dropped from heaven to help them.

"We never thought of your coming," said Harry; "we thought you were in Italy."

"So I was when the news reached us," said Myra, "but I came away at once to see if I could be of any use to you all."

No one replied, but Myra felt a soft pressure from Florence's hand. Notwithstanding that slight encouragement, her heart was chilled. Had she resigned so much love and sympathy and tenderness, to intrude upon those who did not care for her? Yet it was not their fault that they did not love her, nor hers. Time and God's goodness would undo mistakes, and teach them the truth about her.

"Do good, . . . hoping for nothing again,—"

her dear Lord had said. And she had been hoping for something at once. She felt she deserved the disappointment.

"What in all the world has brought her here?" exclaimed Mrs. Dinah, when she heard the news. She was in an extremely ill humour, having been detected by the sheriff's officer at the door of the room in which the plate had been placed, and to which it appeared there were more keys than one. So Mrs. Dinah had to find another errand. And while Myra was away with Florence, she went to inflict herself on the children in the study.

"Miss Maggie, haven't you done that tucker yet? I want it for your frock that looks so gloomy, with nothing white to 'liven it up."

"Do it yourself if you want it; I'm sure I don't care for it," answered Margaret, throwing down the muslin.

"Oh, fie, Miss Maggie! Where do you expect to get tuckers nowadays? It isn't as it used to be, and you'll be pretty glad to do them yourself, and wait upon yourself too, I can tell you. You little know what the folks are saying all round us."

"I don't want to know; I wish you wouldn't talk to me," said Margaret peevishly.

"But it's my duty to talk to you, and make you bring down your pride before it's done for you, as it soon will be, when you see the house empty, and nowhere but the workhouse to put your head in."

"For shame, nurse! It is a wicked story," said Margaret, in a rage.

"Hush, darling!" said Myra, who had just returned to the room, overhearing the lesson on humility. And, going up to Margaret, she drew the head of the sobbing girl to her bosom. "It will gratify you, I daresay, nurse, and those around you who are so much interested in our affairs, to hear that we shall not need to see the empty house, nor trouble the parish at present. You will kindly pack up all the clothes, and have them ready for a journey at any time we may decide on."

"Very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Dinah, drawing herself up; "I suppose it isn't to be thought out of my place to ask where we are going to."

"We shall require no attendance excepting such as I shall provide, thank you, Mrs. Dinah," said Myra calmly.

Whereupon, Dinah looked unutterable things, and decided "to give the upstart young lady a piece of her mind" on the spot, declaring that she would not be separated from her precious children, and that it would bring her dear mistress out of her grave to think of any one doing for them but her own faithful Dinah.

Myra made no reply, the children looked uncomfortable, and Dinah, having exhausted herself for the time, withdrew in high indignation.

"How cool she do take it!" exclaimed she to Janet, as if the "come down" for those children was nothing at all. "They'll find the difference, though, before long between her and me."

"Very likely," thought Janet sagaciously.