"Papa and mamma think it is the right sort of life for my sisters and me, so why not for you? Though you are different from us, too; I suppose it is your bringing up that has made the difference."
And Clara was right; the blessed influence of her Christian upbringing had told on Nora, and although this was now the third winter she had spent in the Rosses' house, she remained quite different from them: she had developed into a truly beautiful character. Not in vain had the example of her aunt and uncle's daily life proved; not in vain had the seed of good been planted in her heart. From everything mean and unwomanly Nora shrank; with all her cheerfulness, there was never levity in thought or word; from senseless frivolity her heart recoiled; and many noticed that the light joke or malicious remark ceased when Nora drew near. The charm of true, noble womanhood was around her; and even her young admirers checked the idle compliment or flattering words, with which they were wont to greet other girls, when they spoke to her.
Yet her winning manners attracted all who saw her, and her influence was always exercised for good: she was still the gentle, helpful hand in a sick-room she had been in her childish days; her voice had become even sweeter in reading and singing than of yore; and in all household matters she was an expert, as even Mrs. Ross testified. But the one thing needful was wanting still: man had done his part—the Christian training had been given, the wood was piled on the altar; only, the fire from Heaven, the breath of the Holy Spirit, was still awanting to set it aglow.
The girls were dressed at last, and ready to go downstairs; yet Nora still lingered, she scarcely knew why. Was it that in her heart she shrank from the knowledge that this evening was a sort of crisis in her life? Hitherto she had been regarded only in the light of a school-girl; now, when her seventeenth birthday was fairly passed, she was acknowledged in that character no longer; and Mr. Ross had openly declared that the ball that evening was in honour of little Nora's début.
From henceforth she knew that invitations to dances and parties of all sorts would pour in and have to be accepted; and something within her whispered that ere long the crown of this world's folly would get so firmly set on her head that it would be difficult to detach it.
"How was it," she asked herself impatiently, that even as she descended the stairs, "the Wishing-Well, with all its surroundings, rose so clearly in memory's eye?" Was the life she was about to enter on the best preparation for becoming what she had wished for that day, of seeking what her mother had desired she might possess—the "wisdom which is above rubies"?
Just then the postman's bell rang, and before she entered the ball-room, a servant, silver salver in hand, gave her a letter.
"From uncle," she said to Clara. "I'll not read it till the party is over;" but even as she spoke, her eyes rested on the words, "In haste."
A feeling of deadly faintness came over her, and, seizing Mr. Ross's arm, who had come out of the room to look for Clara, she said, "Oh, please take me to the library for a moment; I fear there is something wrong at Benvourd."
And so it proved. In a few words Mr. Macleod told that Minnie, the only girl and pet of the house, lay at the gates of death.