THE FOLD AND THE SHEPHERD

‘So to-morrow, Alice,’ said Dr. Madden, as he walked with his eldest daughter on the coast-downs by Clevedon, ’I shall take steps for insuring my life for a thousand pounds.’

It was the outcome of a long and intimate conversation.  Alice Madden, aged nineteen, a plain, shy, gentle-mannered girl, short of stature, and in movement something less than graceful, wore a pleased look as she glanced at her father’s face and then turned her eyes across the blue channel to the Welsh hills.  She was flattered by the confidence reposed in her, for Dr. Madden, reticent by nature, had never been known to speak in the domestic circle about his pecuniary affairs.  He seemed to be the kind of man who would inspire his children with affection:  grave but benign, amiably diffident, with a hint of lurking mirthfulness about his eyes and lips.  And to-day he was in the best of humours; professional prospects, as he had just explained to Alice, were more encouraging than hitherto; for twenty years he had practised medicine at Clevedon, but with such trifling emolument that the needs of his large family left him scarce a margin over expenditure; now, at the age of forty-nine—­it was 1872—­he looked forward with a larger hope.  Might he not reasonably count on ten or fifteen more years of activity?  Clevedon was growing in repute as a seaside resort; new houses were rising; assuredly his practice would continue to extend.

‘I don’t think girls ought to be troubled about this kind of thing,’ he added apologetically.  ’Let men grapple with the world; for, as the old hymn says, “’tis their nature to.”  I should grieve indeed if I thought my girls would ever have to distress themselves about money matters.  But I find I have got into the habit, Alice, of talking to you very much as I should talk with your dear mother if she were with us.’

Mrs. Madden, having given birth to six daughters, had fulfilled her function in this wonderful world; for two years she had been resting in the old churchyard that looks upon the Severn sea.  Father and daughter sighed as they recalled her memory.  A sweet, calm, unpretending woman; admirable in the domesticities; in speech and thought distinguished by a native refinement, which in the most fastidious eyes would have established her claim to the title of lady.  She had known but little repose, and secret anxieties told upon her countenance long before the final collapse of health.

‘And yet,’ pursued the doctor—­doctor only by courtesy—­when he had stooped to pluck and examine a flower, ’I made a point of never discussing these matters with her.  As no doubt you guess, life has been rather an uphill journey with us.  But the home must be guarded against sordid cares to the last possible moment; nothing upsets me more than the sight of those poor homes where wife and children are obliged to talk from morning to night of how the sorry earnings shall be laid out.  No, no; women, old or young, should never have to think about money.