"Oh!" Ferdy exclaimed, "that is splendid!"
"For you see," Chrissie continued, counting up on her pretty fingers as she spoke, "what a lot of different kinds of work we've got to now.
Wood-carving to begin with--we must always count it first!"
"No," said Ferdy, laughing, "strictly speaking, moss baskets came first."
"Wood-carving," repeated Chrissie, not condescending to notice the interruption. "Then the modelling, and pottery classes, basket work, brass hammering, and the iron work, not to speak of the girls'
embroidery and lace work. Yes," with a deep sigh of satisfaction, "it _is_ time for a little college of our own."
"A great, great deal of it," said Ferdy, "is owing to Miss Lilly--I always forget to call her Mrs. Mayhew. If only she hadn't gone and got married we might have called it the 'Lily College,' after her."
"If she hadn't gone and got married, as you elegantly express it, Mr.
Mayhew would never, probably, have been the vicar of Draymoor," said Chrissie. "For it was through his being such a great friend of Dr.
Lilly's that he got to know the old squire, who gave him the living. And just think of all he has done--Mr. Mayhew I mean--for Draymoor."
Ferdy did not at once reply. He gazed up into the blue sky and listened to the sweet bird-chatter overhead, with a look of great content on his face.
"Yes," he said, "things do turn out so--quite rightly sometimes. Just when you'd have thought they'd go wrong! There was that row of Jesse's to begin with, when he thought all he had tried to do was spoilt, and then there were all the difficulties about the evening classes, while I was still ill, and it almost seemed as if we would have to give them up.
And then--and then--why! when it was fixed for me to go away two years ago, I could scarcely believe they'd go on, even though Mr. Mayhew had come by that time. Yes, it's rather wonderful! I say, Chrissie," with a sudden change of tone, "doesn't it really sound as if the swallows were rather excited about my coming home!"
Christine looked up at the oriel window with a smile.
"I wonder," she said, "if _possibly_ any of them can be the same ones, or if they are telling over the story that has been handed down from their great-grandparents--the story of the little white boy that used to lie on the couch in the window?"
This is not a completed story, dear children, as you will have seen. It is only the story of the beginning of a life, and of the beginning of a work, which in many and many a place, besides gloomy Draymoor, started in the humblest and smallest way. If ever, or wherever any of you come across this endeavour to brighten and refine dull, ungraceful, and ungracious homes, you will do your best to help it on, I feel sure, will you not?
THE END