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CHAPTER XI.

THE END OF A QUIET LIFE.

OBERT SINCLAIR'S report of his home news had been perfectly correct.

His mother, in writing to him, had touched but lightly on his father's indisposition -had even spoken of it, as it seemed to him, rather in the past than in the present tense. And what he had said was also quite true, that she was more prone to exaggerate than to slight any evil or danger which seemed to approach those she loved. But it did not seem to occur to him that, in the forecast of such a spirit as hers, any word of the father's suffering reaching the son while he was among strangers, and while he must perforce remain far from his home, would seem to mean for him such unutterable anxiety and agony that she would be almost morbidly scrupulous in her manner of conveying it. She had been through all that anguish herself, banished in her island exile,

while her home-ties dropped away. And others had not been so careful and tender over her feelings. She had been repeatedly made to suffer as much over false alarms and doubtful hints as she did at last over the reality of death. And her one thought was always how to spare others what she herself had suffered.

There were, too, at first, some grounds for Robert's idea that the worst, whether it had been little or much, was already over. But the surprise and shock of Mr. Sinclair's sudden attack of illness had really only given way to the knowledge that such attacks must be expected in the future, and that the one poor chance of his ever regaining enough health to continue his duties in Quodda School lay in the successful result of a difficult and delicate surgical operation, which could scarcely be done with any hope of benefit, except under the special skill and adapted surroundings of a capital city, involving, therefore, all the expense and delay of a sea-journey.

There were anxious days and nights in Quodda Schoolhouse. The schoolmaster himself tried to make light of his own suffering and danger, but even he could not make light of the possibility of his death leaving his wife and

Olive alone in the world,—' such a cold world,' the poor wife had sobbed once,—just once,— and then had secretly taken herself severely to task for not being able to put a cheerful face on whatever prospect might lie before them, and so to help to reconcile him to leaving them, if he had to die. I always did pray to be taken first,' she said once to Olive; ‘but it was not altogether that I did not see it was almost as hard to have to go away safely one's self, and not to know what is to happen to those we love, as it is to be left-harder sometimes, perhaps. Only I felt as if I was such a weak creature I could not bear to be left, while your father has such a strong, bright faith that staying behind would have been different for him. I daresay it was pure selfishness on my part, and has got to come out of me. You can't think how constantly it has been in my mind, Olive. You know the old superstition about giving "a wish" when one sees a piebald horse. Of course it is all nonsense,-wicked nonsense, perhaps; but ever since I was first married I have always kept that wish ready for such occasions: "May I die before my husband." I ought to be ashamed of myself. There oughtn't to be a wish about such things, except "God's will be done."'

ir's mind and nature were fast the keenly vital atmosphere of in. She was the confidant of Her father's one shrinking from the parting from her and her it was only the parting he d no fear for them or their

will be kind to you,' he said. anybody could help being kind , and they'll be kind to you too you are one of the sort who are to help themselves.' (People to Olive, and she never made rotest; but a watchful observer en that a shadow always fell when she heard those words.) ure of things that people should ws and orphans, even on what fish grounds, at least on grounds the highest. In every widow ry man sees what his own wife be, if he is taken; and so he he would like his own to be you see how reasonable that is,

reasonable, father,' said Olive. so sure that many people are

reasonable. Why does the Bible have so many injunctions concerning widows and orphans, if it is in the nature of things that people should be kind to them? The Bible seems to speak as if they were too often the victims of extortion and injustice. Perhaps it is different in these days,' she added hastily, fearing lest she might be adding a new distress to the invalid. 'And, at any rate, daddy dear, mother and I will do very well indeed if we get from others the kindness you have always given to widows and orphans.' Olive had not been without little private resentments against sundry widows whose grief seemed to be a particular obstacle to their industry, and against certain orphans who had seemed ready to take everything except counsel. But she was glad now, for her father's sake, that if he had erred at all it had been on the softer side. 'And mother and I are not going to be widow and orphan yet,' the girl added gravely, with a deadly sinking of her heart.

'No, you will certainly not be a widow and an orphan in the sad sense,' rejoined the schoolmaster, 'for you will have Robert to look after you. Robert is certainly on the highway to fortune, though he may have a steep hill before him. If anything happens to me, I daresay he