Rhoda tried hard to conceal her loss. Now that the treasure was gone, she double-locked the casket. No one, she resolved, should know how poor she was. So well did she play her part, that those around thought her sterner and harder—that was all.

Her manner to Ralph changed visibly. She began to avoid his company; their familiar conversations were at an end. Her whole energy was now devoted to one endeavour—to keep him in ignorance of that which he had won. If she were poor, he should be none the richer. And thus, poor soul, she went about her daily duties, putting on a hard face to hide her weakness. Even Nelly found that Rhoda was not so pleasant as she used to be, and the child turned[92] more and more to Mr. Channell. Was he gaining her too?

“I am losing everything, and he is getting everything,” said Rhoda, to herself. “Perhaps this is God’s way of showing me how small my strength is. Haven’t I lost the very thing that I thought myself best able to keep?”

It will always be so with those whom the Lord teaches. In one way or another the humbling process must be gone through. Sometimes it is seen of all men; sometimes it is known to Him alone. But as certainly as He loves us “shall the nail that is fastened in the sure place be removed, and be cut down and fall; and the burden that was upon it shall be cut off, for the Lord hath spoken it.” In the soul that He makes his own He will not leave a single peg to hang self-confidence upon. And when our chamber walls are bare, and the tawdry rags of self-esteem are swept out, He will enter and fill the room with sweetness.

[93]

One afternoon, in the golden harvest-time, Rhoda and Nelly sauntered up into the wheat-fields. The reapers were resting under the hedges; in the largest field nearly all the corn had been gathered into sheaves. Rhoda tired quickly now; for when the heart is heavy, the limbs are apt to be weary. She stopped in the middle of the field and dropped down to rest, leaning her back against a great russet shock. A few stray ears nodded overhead, and Nelly nestled under their shadow.

She had always been an impulsive child, one of those children who will ask any question that comes into their heads, and a good many come. She had no notion of restraining her curiosity. If anything puzzled her, she must always have it explained.

“Rhoda,” she said, suddenly, in her clear little voice, “what has Mr. Channell done to offend you? Don’t you like him?”

The words struck Rhoda like a sharp unexpected blow. Without a moment’s pause she cried out harshly and bitterly—

[94]

“I wish he’d never come here, Nelly; I wish you and I had never seen him!”

Nelly was so startled by the passionate tone that she jumped up from her seat. As she moved, somebody on the other side of the shock moved also. It was Mr. Channell. Rhoda turned her head in time to see him walking away. In an instant she realized that he had heard all, but she dared not think of the construction that would be put upon her outburst. Perhaps she had mortally offended her father’s best friend; perhaps he would go away from them all for ever.

“Oh, what a wretched woman I am!” she groaned, aloud. And then she saw that Nelly had run off after Ralph Channell.

She rose slowly, and wandered back again to the cottage. The doors and windows were set wide open. Her mother sat peacefully knitting in the parlour, but Rhoda went straight upstairs to her own room. Nobody could do her any good just then. She wanted to be alone and get her senses together. Her[95] head ached, and she had a dazed, helpless feeling of having cut herself off from everything comforting. So she sat down for a few minutes by the bedside, then got up, and fell suddenly on her knees.

In her prayer she did not get much beyond telling God that she was miserable. It was rather an outpouring of sorrow than a plea for help. But it was her first heartfelt confession of utter weakness, and perhaps that was the best way of asking for strength. The stray sheep that falls helpless at the Shepherd’s feet is sure to be folded in His arms and carried in His bosom.

She could not go down and sit at the tea-table as usual, and no one came to disturb her in her solitude. But at last, when the shadows were lengthening over the fields, and the distant church-clock struck six, she heard a footstep on the stairs. The door opened softly, and her mother’s face looked in.

“May I come to you, Rhoda?” she asked, gently.

[96]

“Yes, mother,” Rhoda answered. “I know how shocked and hurt you must be,” she added. “But, indeed, I couldn’t help it.”

“O Rhoda,” said Mrs. Farren, “we’ve all thought you seemed stern and strange lately, but we didn’t know until to-day that you had found out our secret. He says that it has been all wrong from the beginning; he thinks you ought to have heard the truth at once.”

“The truth, mother?” echoed Rhoda. “What is it that you mean?”

“He says, dear Rhoda, that he ought to have told you who he was,” Mrs. Farren replied. “He sees now that it was wrong to come here under a new name.”

“A new name!” her daughter repeated. “For pity’s sake, mother, speak plainly. Who is he, if he is not Ralph Channell?”

“We all thought you must have found out,” said Mrs. Farren, in a perplexed tone. “He is poor Helen’s husband—Robert Clarris.”

It was not until some minutes had passed away that Rhoda was calm enough to hear[97] her mother’s story. The two sat hand in hand, nearer to each other in heart than they had ever been before. Perhaps Mrs. Farren had always been a little afraid of her daughter; but now that she had got a glimpse into Rhoda’s inner self the reserve vanished.

“We had always felt sure that Robert was no practised sinner,” she began; “but we did not know what it was that had driven him to a crime—we only guessed something like the truth. O Rhoda, it’s an awful thing when vanity gets the upper hand with a woman! Poor Helen made a sad confession to me when she lay dying in this very room. It’s hard to speak of the faults of the dead; but there’s justice to be done to the living.”

“Whatever her faults may have been, they were no worse than mine,” Rhoda said, humbly; “and she has done with sinning now, while I shall be going on—perhaps for years longer.”

“Helen got deeply into debt,” Mrs. Farren continued; [98]“and she used, I am afraid, to go to balls and theatres without her husband’s knowledge. He was sent away sometimes on business by Mr. Elton. But don’t think her worse than she was, Rhoda—she loved gaiety and admiration passionately, but she wasn’t a bad woman at heart—he always knew and believed that; yet she got him into terrible difficulties, poor child! And at last, when her debts had amounted to three hundred pounds, she flung herself at his feet and confessed the truth.”

Both the women were crying. It was indeed hard to expose the faults and follies of the dead. They felt as if they had been tearing the soft turf and sweet flowers from Helen’s grave; and yet it had to be done.

“Robert was not a converted man at that time,” went on Mrs. Farren. [99]“The blow knocked him down, and utterly bewildered him. He saw no means at all of paying the debts, and he knew they must be paid immediately. Helen hadn’t confessed till her creditors had driven her to extremities; and he went into the city in a state of despair, for there was ‘no help for him in his God.’ Perhaps he would have asked aid from his employer if Mr. Elton had been the owner of the business. But old Mrs. Elton was a close woman, and her son did nothing without her consent.”

Rhoda could almost guess what was coming. She could see now that man’s extremity is often the devil’s opportunity. If a soul does not seek help from God, the prince of darkness steps in.

&............