that he could not climb trees and
tear his clothes, or get into the stream by Wookey and ruin his boots
and socks, or make her anxious by carrying a gun behind his father, in
the time of rabbit and rook shooting.

Mrs. Falconer never betrayed what was indeed the truth, that the sound
of Piers' crutches as they tapped across the old stone pavement of the
hall, sent a thrill of sorrow through her breast, and that when Piers
was laid up, as was not unfrequently the case, with an attack of pain in
the hip which had been so severely injured, she avoided being much with
him, and left him to Joyce, because the sight of his suffering brought
back the memory of that morning when she saw him clinging with a
frightened face to Rioter's back, and heard her husband say, "Don't make
a coward of the boy: his brothers rode long before his age."

She knew too well how bitter had been her husband's self-reproaches,
and she dreaded adding to them by any impulsive, unguarded word of her
own.

Thus it was that Joyce was sister, mother, and friend to her lame
brother. Their lives were bound up together, and the bond strengthened
as time went on.

It was sufficient reward for Joyce to know that, however irritable when
in pain, or depressed sometimes by a sudden reminder of his helplessness
when contrasted with his brother's independence and vigour, she could
always be sufficient to charm away the cloud by her own sunny
brightness, and that by making his interests hers, she never let him
think she did anything for him, which was not a real pleasure to
herself.

The secret of heart service lies in this, that those who are served
never know it to its full extent, and that any effort that may be made,
or any trouble that may be taken, is so hidden under the mantle of
all-pervading love that it is often wholly unsuspected. When the giver
is as happy as the receiver, the gift, in whatever form, is sweetened
and enhanced a hundred fold.

CHAPTER VI.

AMONGST THE HEATHER.

Gilbert Arundel's visit to Fair Acres extended far beyond the limit of a
week. He felt every day more absorbed by the simple, happy life, in
which, as Joyce had said, Melville was the only cloud.

He was an universal favourite. A man who has been accustomed to yield
respect and courtesy to his own mother, seldom fails in yielding it to
the mothers of his friends.

If anyone in the household at Fair Acres was dissatisfied it was
Melville himself, who found that