CONTENTS.
| CHAPTER | PAGE | |
|---|---|---|
| I.— | Old England for Ever | [1] |
| II.— | A Sunday in the Country | [8] |
| III.— | A Sunday in London | [16] |
| IV.— | Cousin Tom | [25] |
| V.— | The Duty that is Nearest | [33] |
| VI.— | Arthur Knight’s Inheritance | [45] |
| VII.— | Mary Wythburn’s Wedding | [53] |
| VIII.— | Some Signs of the Times | [63] |
| IX.— | In the Autumn | [72] |
| X.— | In Paradise | [84] |
| XI.— | Our Parish | [95] |
| XII.— | A New Order | [106] |
| XIII.— | The Course of True Love | [117] |
| XIV.— | Defeat, or Victory? | [127] |
| XV.— | A New Emigration | [137] |
| XVI.— | Christmas Day | [147] |
| XVII.— | A Report of Progress | [156] |
| XVIII.— | Discovered | [166] |
| XIX.— | A New Minister | [175] |
| XX.— | A Tri-Coloured Crusader | [179] |
| XXI.— | A Happy Exodus | [186] |
| XXII.— | “Get On, Get Honour, Get Honest” | [199] |
| XXIII.— | A City of Homes | [207] |
| XXIV.— | A Church in Conference | [216] |
| XXV.— | Thistles or Grapes? | [221] |
| XXVI.— | His Own Way | [229] |
| XXVII.— | A Visit of Inquiry | [237] |
| XXVIII.— | “For Christ and the People!” | [244] |
| XXIX.— | Young England | [252] |
| XXX.— | Peace! | [259] |
| XXXI.— | From Darentdale to High Seathorpe | [266] |
| XXXII.— | A Letter | [276] |
| XXXIII.— | All’s Well that Ends Well | [283] |
| XXXIV.— | Was it a Dream? | [292] |
| XXXV.— | Was it Expedient? | [300] |
| XXXVI.— | For Ever After? | [307] |
Nineteen Hundred?
A FORECAST AND A STORY.
CHAPTER I.
OLD ENGLAND FOR EVER.
The good ship Kenwick Castle lay off Madeira. Few of her passengers cared to land, for they were homeward bound, and desired nothing so much as to get away speedily. Neither were they as much impressed as on the outward journey, by the soft brilliancy of the atmosphere and the picturesque loveliness of the crimped coast of the island. The towering peaks, the rainbow-spanned gorges and ravines, the dense foliage of the forests, the vineyards and the plantations—made up a picture worthy of admiration; but the eyes that looked across the waters to the white houses of Funchal were wearying for the quiet beauty of English meadows.
The scene between the ship and the shore was a lively one. Boats flashed in the sun, and a clamorous company of Portuguese, Moorish, and negro salesmen offered fruits, baskets, chairs, and ornaments of all sorts, so that those who had forgotten to bring presents for their friends might easily purchase them now. Swimming boys—black-skinned and coffee-coloured—were shouting for money to be thrown into the sea to test their diving powers, and boatmen were eager for customers. But the captain and the crew looked only for fresh passengers, and did but wait with dogged patience until they should arrive.
Two young men were leaning over the side of the vessel, and watching the boats and the shore.
“There are passengers coming,” said one. “It would indeed be strange if Miss Wentworth were among them.”
“Too strange to be true, I imagine. She is probably in England.”