The day of rest came round in due course. A day of rest it is in truth to those who have learnt to make it such; a pleasant time of peace; a privileged season of commune with God; a loving day of social happiness for home and home ties. And yet, strange to say, it is, to some, the most hurried, uncomfortable, disagreeable day of all the seven.

Mrs. Channing’s breakfast hour was nine o’clock on ordinary days, made thus late for the sake of convenience. On Sundays it was half-past eight. Discipline and training had rendered it easy to observe rules at Mr. Channing’s; or, it may be better to say, it had rendered them difficult to be disobeyed. At half-past eight all were in the breakfast-room, dressed for the day. When the hour for divine service arrived, they had only to put on their hats and bonnets to be ready for it. Even old Judy was grand on a Sunday morning. Her mob-cap was of spotted, instead of plain net, and her check apron was replaced by a white one.

With great personal inconvenience, and some pain—for he was always worse in the morning—Mr. Channing would on that day rise to breakfast. It had been his invariable custom to take the reading himself on Sunday—the little time he devoted to religion—and he was unwilling to break through it. Breakfast over, it was immediately entered upon, and would be finished by ten o’clock. He did not preach a sermon; he did not give them much reading; it was only a little homely preparation for the day and the services they were about to enter upon. Very unwise had it been of Mr. Channing, to tire his children with a private service before the public service began.

Breakfast, on these mornings, was always a longer meal than usual. There was no necessity to hurry over it, in order to hasten to the various occupations of every-day life. It was taken leisurely, amidst much pleasant, social converse.

As they were assembling for breakfast on this morning, Arthur came in. It was so unusual for them to leave the house early on a Sunday, that Mr. Channing looked at him with surprise.

“I have been to see Jenkins, sir,” he explained. “In coming home last night, I met Mr. Hurst, who told me he feared Jenkins was getting worse. I would not go to see him then; it might have been late to disturb him, so I have been now.”

“And how is he?” inquired Mr. Channing.

“A great deal better,” replied Arthur. “So much better that Mr. Hurst says he may come to the office to-morrow should there be no relapse. He enjoins strict quiet for to-day. And Mrs. Jenkins is determined that he shall have quiet; therefore I am sure, he will,” Arthur added, laughing. “She says he appeared ill last night only from the number of visitors he had seen. They were coming in all day long; and on Friday besides.”

“Why should people flock to see Jenkins?” exclaimed Tom. “He is nobody.”

“That is just what Mrs. Jenkins said this morning,” returned Arthur. “I believe they go out of curiosity to hear the truth of the locking-up in the cloisters. The bishop’s having been one of the sufferers has aroused the interest of Helstonleigh.”

“I am very glad that Jenkins is better,” observed Mr. Channing.

“So am I,” emphatically answered Arthur. He was pretty sure Tom had had no share in the exploit; but he did not know about Charley.

“The dean preaches to-day,” suddenly called out Tom.

“How do you know?” demanded Annabel.

“Because I do,” oracularly spoke Tom.

“Will you condescend to inform me how you know it, Tom, if you will not inform Annabel?” asked Mr. Channing.

Tom laughed. “The dean began his close residence yesterday, papa. Therefore we know he will preach to-day.”

Mr. Channing sighed. He was debarred from attending the services, and he felt the deprivation keenly when he found that any particularly eminent man was to fill the cathedral pulpit. The dean of Helstonleigh was an admirable preacher.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, in the uncontrollable impulse of the moment, “if I could only regain health and strength!”

“It will come, James; God willing,” said Mrs. Channing, looking up hopefully from the cups she was filling. “What I have heard of Dr. Lamb’s restoration has put new confidence into me.”

“I think Mr. Yorke intends to bring Dr. Lamb to see you this afternoon, papa,” said Constance.

“I shall be glad to see him; I shall be glad to hear the particulars of his case and its cure,” exclaimed Mr. Channing, with all conscious eagerness. “Did Mr. Yorke tell you he should bring him to-day, Constance?”

“Yes, papa. Dr. Lamb intends to be at the cathedral for afternoon service, and Mr. Yorke said he would bring him here afterwards.”

“You must get him to take tea with us, Mary.”

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Channing. “In six months from this, James, you may be as well and active as ever.”

Mr. Channing raised his hands, as if warding off the words. Not of the words was he afraid, but of the hopes they whispered. “I think too much about it, already, Mary. It is not as though I were sure of getting to the medicinal baths.”

“We will take care that you do that, sir,” said Hamish, with his sunny smile.

“You cannot help in it, you know, Hamish,” interposed saucy Annabel. “It will be Arthur and Constance who will help—not you. I heard you say so!”

“But I have changed my mind, and intend to help,” returned Hamish. “And, if you will allow me the remark, young lady, I think it would better become a certain little girl, not to chatter quite so much!”

Was Hamish speaking in jest, or earnest, with regard to the helping point of the affair? A peculiar tone in his voice, in spite of its lightness, had struck both Constance and Arthur, each being in the secret of his more than want of funds.

The second bell was beginning to chime as the Channings entered the cloister gates. Tom and Charles had gone on before. Panting, breathless, almost knocking down Annabel, came Tod Yorke, terribly afraid of being marked late.

“Take care, Tod!” exclaimed Hamish. “Are you running for a wager?”

“Don’t keep me, Mr. Hamish Channing! Those incapable servants of ours never called us till the bell began. I have had no breakfast, and Gerald couldn’t find his shirt. He has had to come off in his dirty one, with his waistcoat buttoned up. Won’t my lady be in a rage when she sees him?”

Getting up and breakfasting were generally bustling affairs at Lady Augusta’s; but the confusion of every day was as nothing compared with that of Sunday. Master Tod was wrong when he complained that he had not been called. The servants had called both him and Gerald, who shared the same room, but the young gentlemen had gone to sleep again. The breakfast hour was the same as other mornings, nine o’clock; but, for all the observance it obtained, it might as well have been nine at night. To give the servants their due, breakfast, on this morning, was on the table at nine—that is, the cloth, the cups and saucers: and there it remained until ten. The maids meanwhile enjoyed their own leisurely breakfast in the kitchen, regaling themselves with hot coffee, poached eggs, buttered toast, and a dish of gossip. At ten, Lady Augusta, who made a merit of always rising to breakfast on a Sunday, entered the breakfast-room in a dirty morning wrapper, and rang the bell.

“Is nobody down?” cried she, sharply.

“I think not, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “I have not heard them. I have been three times in the young ladies’ room, but they would not get up.”

This was not quite true. Martha had been in once, and had been scolded for her pains. “None of them ever will get up on a Sunday morning,” added Martha; “they say, ‘where’s the good?’”

“Bring in breakfast,” crossly responded Lady Augusta. “And then go to the young ladies, and see whether the rest are getting up. What has the cook been at with this coffee?” Lady Augusta added, when she began to pour it out. “It is cold. Her coffee is always cold.”

“It has been made half an hour, I know, my lady.”

The first to appear was the youngest child of all, little Frank; the next his brother, a year older; they wore dirty collars, and their hair was uncombed. Then came the girls—Caroline without a frock, a shawl thrown on, instead, and Fanny in curl papers. Lady Augusta scolded them for their late appearance, forgetting, possibly, that she herself set the example.

“It is not much past ten,” said Caroline. “We shall be in time for college.”

“It is nearly upon half-past,” replied Lady Augusta. “Why do you come down in a petticoat, Caroline?”

“That stupid dressmaker has put no tape to my dress,” fretfully responded Caroline. “Martha is sewing it on.”

Roland lounged in, not more presentable than the rest. Why had Lady Augusta not brought them up to better habits? Why should they come down on a Sunday morning more untidy than on other mornings? They would have told you, had you asked the question, that on other mornings they must be ready to hasten to their daily occupations. Had Sunday no occupation, then? Did it deserve no marked deference? Had I been Lady Augusta Yorke, I should have said to Roland that morning, when I saw his slip-shod slippers and his collarless neck, “If you can show no respect for me, show it for the day.”

Half-past ten struck, and Lady Augusta started up to fly to her own room. She had still much to do, ere she could be presentable for college. Caroline followed. Fanny wondered what Gerald and Tod would do. Not yet down!

“Those boys will get a tanning, to-morrow, from old Pye!” exclaimed Roland, remembering the time when “tannings” had been his portion for the same fault. “Go and see what th............