go--Good bye, ma'am!--" and she staid for no more, but ran out and down the stairs. She paused as she passed the open parlour door, paused on the stairs, and then went on and took the trouble to go a few steps back through the hall to get the interior view more perfectly. The grate was heaped full of coals in a state of vivid glow, the red warm reflections came from, crimson carpet and polished rosewood and gilding of curtain ornaments. Antoinette's piano gave back the shimmer, and the thick rug before the hearth looked like a nest of comfort. So did the whole room. A feeling of the security and blessedness of a home came over Rotha. This was home to Antoinette. It was not home to herself, nor was any other place in all the earth. Not Mrs. Mowbray's kind house; it was kind, but it was not _home;_ and a keen wish crept into the girl's heart. To have a home somewhere! Would the time ever be? Must she perhaps, as her aunt foretold, be a houseless wanderer, teaching in other people's homes, and having none? Rotha looked and ran away; and as her feet went painfully clumping along the streets in Antoinette's big boots, some tears of forlornness dropped on the pavement. They were hot and bitter.
But I am a servant of Christ--thought Rotha,--I _am_ a servant of Christ; I have been fighting to obey him this afternoon, and he has helped me. He will be with me, at any rate; and he can take care of my home and give it me, if he pleases. I needn't worry. I'll just let him take care.
So with that the tears dried again, and Rotha entered Mrs. Mowbray's house more light-hearted than she had left it. She took off her wrappings, and sought Mrs. Mowbray out.
"Madame," she said, looking at her feet, "I wanted you to know, that if I do not look nice as I should, it is not my fault."
Mrs. Mowbray's eyes likewise went to the boots, and staid there. She had a little struggle with herself, not to speak what she felt.
"What is the matter, Rotha?"
"You see, Mrs. Mowbray. My boots would not go on over the thick stockings; so I have had to put on a pair of Antoinette's boots. So if I walk queerly, I want you to know I cannot help it."
"You have more stockings than that pair, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am; enough to last a good while."
"Let me see them."
Mrs. Mowbray examined the thick web.
"Did you and your aunt have a fight over these?"
"No, madame," said Rotha softly.
"How was it then? You put them on quietly, and without remonstrance?"
"Not exactly without remonstrance. But I didn't say much. I did not trust myself to say much. I knew I should say too much."
"What made you fear that?"
"I was so angry, ma'am."
There came some tears again, dropping from Rotha's eyes. Mrs. Mowbray drew her down with a sudden movement, into her arms, and kissed her over and over again.
"My dear," she said with a merry change of tone, "thick stockings are not the worst things in the world!"
"No, ma'am."
"You don't think so."
"No, ma'am."
"It will be a good check to your vanity, eh?"
"Am I vain, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I don't know! most people are. Isn't it vanity, that makes you dislike to see your feet in shoes too large for them?"
"Is it?" said Rotha. "But it is right to like to look nice, Mrs. Mowbray, is it not?"
"It is right to like to see everything look nice, therefore of course oneself included."
"Then that is not vanity."
"No,--but vanity is near. It all depends on what you want to look nice for."
Rotha looked an inquiry.
"What _do_ you want to look nice for?" Mrs. Mowbray asked smiling.
"I suppose," Rotha said slowly, "one likes to have people like one."
"And you think the question of dress has to do with that?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do."
"Well, so do I. But then--_why_ do you want people to like you? What for?"
"One cannot help it," said Rotha, her eyes opening a little at these self-evident questions.
"Perhaps that is true. However, Rotha, there are two reasons for it and lying back of the wish; one is one's own pleasure or advantage simply. The other is--the honour and service of God."
"How, ma'am? I do not see."
"Just using dress like everything else, as--a means of influence. I knew a lady who told me that since she was a child, she had never dressed herself that she did not do it for Christ."
Rotha was silent and pondered. "Mrs. Mowbray, I think that is beautiful," she said then.
"So do I, my dear."
"But that would not make me like these boots any better."
"No," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "Naturally. But I think nevertheless, in the circumstances, it would be better for you to wear them, at least during some of this winter weather, than to discard them and put on others. You shall judge yourself. What would be the effect, if, being known to have plenty of shoes and stockings to cover your feet, you cast them aside, and I procured you others, better looking?"
"O you could not do that!" cried Rotha.
"If I followed my inclinations, I should do it But what would the effect be?"
Rotha considered. "I suppose,--I should be called very proud; and you, madame, very extravagant, and partial."
"Not a desirable effect."
"No, madame. O no! I must wear these things." Rotha sighed.
"Especially as we are both called Christians."
"Yes, madame. There are a good many right things that are hard to do, Mrs. Mowbray!"
"Else there would be no taking up the cross. But we ought to welcome any occasion of honouring our profession, even if it be a cross."
Rotha went away much comforted. Yet the clumsy foot gear remained a constant discomfort to her, every time she put them on and every time she felt the heavy clump they gave to her gait. Happily, she had no leisure to dwell on these things.
The holidays were ended, and the girls came trooping back from their various homes or places of pleasure. They came, as usual, somewhat disorganized by idleness and license. Study went hard, and discipline seemed unbearable; tempers were in an uncertain and irritable state. Rotha hugged herself that she had her own little corner room, in which she could be quite private and removed from all share in the dissensions and murmurings, which she knew abounded elsewhere. It was a very little room; but it held her and her books and her modest wardrobe too; and Rotha bent herself to her studies with great ardour and delight. She knew she was not popular among the girls; the very fact of her having a room to herself would almost have accounted for that; "there was no reason on earth why she should have it," as one of them said; and Mrs. Mowbray was accused of favouritism. Furthermore, Rotha was declared to be "nobody," and known to be poor; there was no advantage to be gained by being her adherent; and the world goes by advantage. Added to all which, she was distancing in her studies all the girls near her own age, and becoming known as the cleverest one in the house. No wonder Rotha had looks askance and frequently the cold shoulder. Her temperament, however, made her half unconscious of this, and when conscious, comfortably independent. She was one of those natures which live a concentrated life; loving deeply and seeking eagerly the good opinion of a few; to all the rest of the world careless and superior. She was polite and pleasant in her manners, which was easy, she was so happy; but she was hardly winning or ingratiating; too independent; and too outspoken.
The rule was that at the ringing of a bell in the morning all the girls should rise; and at the ringing of a second bell everybody should repair to the parlours for prayers and reading the Bible. The interval between the two bells was amply sufficient to allow the most fastidious dresser to make her toilette. But the hour was early; and the rousing bell an object of great detestation; also, it may be said, the half hour given to the Scriptures and prayer was a weariness if not to the flesh to the spirit, of many in the family. So it sometimes happened that one and another was behind time, and came into the parlour while the
reading was going on, or after prayers were over. Mrs. Mowbray remarked upon this once or twice. Then came an outbreak; which allowed Rotha to see a new side of her friend's character, or to see it more plainly than heretofore. It was one morning a week or two after school had begun again; a cold morning in January. The gas was lit in the parlours; Mrs. Mowbray was at the table with her books; the girls seated in long lines around the rooms, each with a Bible.
"Where is Miss Bransome?" Mrs. Mowbray asked, looking along the lines of faces. "And Miss Dunstable?"
Nobody spoke.
"Miss Foster, will you have the