pected the opinion of the
travelled doctor, and he had a courteous clever process of the reduction
to the absurd, which seldom failed to tell, while it never gave offence.
As to the Ladies' Committee, though there had been expressions of
dismay, when the tidings of the appointment first went abroad, not one
of the whole "Aonian choir" liked to dissent from Dr. Spencer, and he
talked them over, individually, into a most conformable state, merely by
taking their compliance for granted, and showing that he deemed it
only the natural state of things, that the vicar should reign over the
charities of the place.

The committee was not dissolved--that would have been an act of
violence--but it was henceforth subject to Mr. Wilmot, and he and his
curates undertook the religious instruction in the week, and chose the
books--a state of affairs brought about with so much quietness, that
Ethel knew not whether Flora, Dr. Spencer, or Mr. Wilmot had been the
chief mover.

Mrs. Ledwich was made treasurer of a new coal club, and Miss Rich keeper
of the lending-library, occupations which delighted them greatly; and
Ethel was surprised to find how much unity of action was springing up,
now that the period was over, of each "doing right in her own eyes."

"In fact," said Dr. Spencer, "when women have enough to do, they are
perfectly tractable."

The Cocksmoor accounts were Ethel's chief anxiety. It seemed as if now
there might be a school-house, but with little income to depend upon,
since poor Alan Ernescliffe's annual ten pounds was at an end. However,
Dr. May leaned over her as she was puzzling over her pounds, shillings,
and pence, and laid a cheque upon her desk. She looked up in his face.
"We must make Cocksmoor Harry's heir," he said.

By and by it appeared that Cocksmoor was not out of Hector Ernescliffe's
mind. The boy's letters to Margaret had been brief, matter-of-fact, and
discouraging, as long as the half-year lasted, and there was not much to
be gathered about him from Tom, on his return for the Easter holidays,
but soon poor Hector wrote a long dismal letter to Margaret.

Captain Gordon had taken him to Maplewood, where the recollection of his
brother, and the happy hopes with which they had taken possession, came
thronging upon him. The house was forlorn, and the corner that had been
unpacked for their reception, was as dreary a contrast to the bright
home at Stoneborough, as was the dry, stern captain, to the father