CHAPTER XXIV.

NO LONGER AN EDITOR.

Ir was the spring again, and West Copley, after a long and dreary winter, was putting on its verdant garments and wearing its own sunshiny smile again. Some changes had passed over town and country since the eventful night of the election riots in the Butter-market. Christopher Gray had lain for long between life and death; the injuries to his head had been of an alarming character, his back was seriously hurt, and his right arm was broken. On one of his delicate organisation and nervous temperament all this told severely, and when at last he rose from his bed and began to mingle with ordinary life once more, he was the mere wreck of that he had been before that fatal evening in November. There were those who said that mind as well as body had suffered, that his faculties were impaired, that he would never again be the man he had been, and that his literary career was at an end. One thing was certain—he was no longer the editor of the Copley Chronicle, and another paper, theshire Guardian, was started in the town, and in these showery April days was struggling hard for bare existence.

The proprietors of the Chronicle had been courteous and generous, and immediately after the election they had forwarded to Mr. Gray a year's stipend, at the same time begging him to consider himself at liberty to form, as speedily as his health permitted it, a fresh engagement. But Christopher was too ill, when this communication reached Town Head House, to be troubled with any kind of business. It was Mrs. Gray who replied to the letter, and in her son's name accepted the terms proposed. Christopher himself had little concern about his work, for his mind was confused, his recollections misty; he had lain for several weeks in a half-unconscious state, and he had no

idea how long a time had elapsed during which he and his well-beloved Chronicle had been separated.

Gradually the real state of things began to dawn upon him; he knew that it was the spring, for the days had lengthened visibly; the buds were swelling on the trees, and the rooks were building in the great elms he could see from his chamber window; and slowly he tried to recall that last day in the High street, till at length he remembered it was in November, now four months ago; for it was on a bracing, blowing March day that his senses first seemed to return to him perfectly, and he remembered all that had transpired on the day of Mr. Constantine's funeral. As memory came back, he lay silently on his couch and pondered many things. What had become of his work all this while? Who had edited the Chronicle? Had Mrs. Miles been compensated for the injury done to her stock-in-trade? Was the office repaired for when the mob had dragged him from it it was a perfect wreck and scene of desolation. Who was it that had snatched him from death at the hands of an infuriated mob? And last, not least, where was Dicky Dance?

All these questions were mooted by Christopher as he lay apparently half dozing on the sofa, and Maude, who was eager to tell him some things, wondered that he kept silence so long. She knew perfectly that his mind was clear again, and that he must be trying to understand his present position with reference to the past. Christopher had always been reticent on points which concerned himself alone; but there seemed something unnatural in the avoidance of so many subjects which touched him so very deeply. She was beginning to lose all patience, as she privately informed Ethel; but then Miss Maude Gray, a little spoiled, perhaps, by her elders, was not remarkable for patience under any circumstances.

At length she was relieved, and Christopher spoke out, and asked her many questions; and she answered them, as she believed, with marvellous discretion. She had been warned that he was not to be excited, or to be permitted to

talk about the riot, and she had fully prepared herself with rejoinders and remarks suitable to the occasion.

Nevertheless, her heart beat violently when, one April afternoon, while the sparrows were twittering among the eaves, and the sunshine was streaming athwart the golden green of the budding limes and the early-leafing sycamores, she heard Christopher say,

"Maude! come here; I want to speak with you."

She sat down by him, laying her work aside, and taking his wasted hand fondly in her own, while she tried to say quietly, "Now what is it, dear old Criff?”

"I am tired of being idle, Maude; and I really think it would do me good if I had a little-just a little work to occupy my leisure. I can read for a short time without hurting my head, therefore I could, if I had them, correct proofs. It would really cheer me up to see some printer's slips again, Maudie."

He

Mrs. Gray and Ambrose were out, so Maude had it all to herself. To say the truth, now the opportunity had really arrived, she shrank from the responsibility of acquainting her brother with so much that might be painful to him. was very weak, and Dr. Wreford had strenuously warned them to be on their guard against a relapse, which must necessarily prove fatal. She could not tell how much he guessed of the truth, but she knew that he had rare intuition for a man, and that he probably divined far more than any one had fancied. But how could she say to him that he had done with proofs-for the present, certainly?

"I will tell mamma," she said, prudently. "We will hear what she will say."

"I think the very sight of a Chronicle proof would do me good."

"There are some from Longman's.'

"Ah! those are sheets; those must wait awhile. They need a closer scrutiny than I could bestow upon them now. It is a Chronicle proof that my soul is yearning after, Maudie. Tell me, is Harrison doing the paper all this time?"

"No! I forget-I really do not know who is acting as editor at present."

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Maude, you look embarrassed! What is it, my child ?” Maude was ready to beat herself for not governing her countenance better. Why had she been so senseless as to sit facing the light? Her answer, when it came, was not satisfactory to her brother.

"Oh, nothing!—that is, nothing particular, Criff, dear. Don't you think you ought to have some jelly?"

"I think I should like to know what it is that is upon your mind-upon mamma's. Maude, do not be afraid; speak out are the Chronicle and I to be forthwith divorced?” "Yes," said Maude, tremulously.

She saw that it would not do to trifle with him; she must run the risk of giving him a shock rather than keep him in suspense. But the effort of speaking plainly blanched her cheek, and made her hands tremble.

"It is no more than I expected," he returned, gently. "Maude, my pet, don't be distressed."

"It was ungenerous of them!" cried Maude, hotly. “I begin to hate Great Copley. I feel that I should like to go away and live somewhere else-in London, for instance. People have not such narrow notions in great cities."

"My dear, I was warned. I had strong reasons to suspect that if I gave my vote and my influence to Lewiston I should be requested to resign the editorship of the paper. I persisted, and I must reap the consequences."

You

"But you did not give your vote to Mr. Lewiston. lay, as we all thought, dying, on the day of the election." "But everybody knew how I should have voted; and I gave my influence, as far as it went."

"Yes; and to some purpose, after all. It is said by those who know something of public opinion, that the tide actually turned that night; that people began to think and to reason; and, in fact, Mr. Bevan triumphed by a far less majority than either side had anticipated."

"And the Chronicle and I have no more to do with each

other! Tell me all you know about the business, Maude. I shall not be easy till I am in possession of all the circumstances."

And Maude told him all, without reservation. Her discrimination revealed to her that it was best.

He heard her very quietly, saying only when she had ended,

"There is nothing to be complained of, dear. My services were paid for, and they had a right to dispense with them if they chose; and they have been far from ungenerous. It is all right, Maude-all for the best."

"How can it be for the best when it grieves you so? And it does grieve you. I see it in your face."

"Yes, it grieves me, for the Chronicle was my child-my eldest child. I can never have another that will be quite so dear to me, I think. Still, it has come to pass- this severance that pains me so-and it must be for the best."

She

"You believe it was 'ordered'? Mamma does too. even believes that all this long trial of your illness, all that has taken place, has been sent to do us good."

"I have not a doubt of it."

"Oh, Christopher, what must it be to have so much faith?"

"To have faith, Maude, is to be simply and abidingly happy, relying on God's promises. He has said to each one of His children, 'I will never leave thee, I will never forsake thee.' We may trust His word, for never since the world began has He failed one whose hope and strength was in Him." "Yet some have been hardly tried."

"Even so; but trial is not punishment-it is discipline, and, Maude dear, we need discipline. All these months I have been as it were in the border-lands, and when I could think at all clearly, which was oftener than any of you imagined, I seemed to view the things of this life in a very different light from that of past days. This life seemed to be a dream; that which is to come a reality. Eternity seemed all, and time nothing-no more than the outer porch, in