Miss Con, by Agnes Giberne—A Project Gutenberg eBook (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73389 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

I sat long by the lesser hole. Frontispiece.

BY

AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "BERYL AND PEARL,"
"ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY EDGAR GIBERNE

NINTH THOUSAND

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED

22 BERNERS STREET, W.

PREFACE.

I DO not think I need apologise for sending out another tale aboutgirls and for girls—a tale of everyday life, such as numerous everydaygirls in this Nineteenth Century have to live. There may be already alegion of books belonging, more or less, to the same class; but theomnivorous appetite of modern girlhood is not yet satisfied.

Nor, perhaps, need I apologise for its being in some measure a storyabout and for young Authoresses, incipient or developed. So many girlsnow crowd the lower rungs of literary ladders, that a few general hintsfor their guidance can hardly fail to be useful in one quarter oranother.

It must not, however, be supposed that "All Those Girls" were would-beAuthoresses!

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS

II. AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S

III. HOW DIAMONDS FLASH

IV. RAILWAY IMAGININGS

V. A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED

VI. A MOTHER'S SWANS

VII. THYRZA'S SANCTUM

VIII. "MILLIE"

IX. THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS

X. PLENTY OF "ER"

XI. JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP

XII. AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS

XIII. LETTERS—VARIOUS

XIV. SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE

XV. THAT PUBLISHER!!

XVI. WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?

XVII. GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES

XVIII. SERIOUS NEWS

XIX. A MOUNTAIN STATION

XX. AND A YORKSHIRE DALE

XXI. THROUGH A STORM

XXII. MYSTERIOUS HOLES

XXIII. "INDEED!"

XXIV. UNPALATABLE ADVICE

XXV. ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL

XXVI. AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?

XXVII. ELFIE'S CONFESSION

XXVIII. NON-RAPTURES

XXIX. AND YET!

XXX. A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK

XXXI. CROOKED AND STRAIGHT

XXXII. VERY UNEXPECTED

XXXIII. CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE

XXXIV. DIFFERENCES OF VIEW

XXXV. ENTIRELY VANISHED

XXXVI. AND HE!

MISS CON.

CHAPTER I.

CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

February 20.

"THE very thing for you, Constance. Most satisfactory. Really, if wehad—a—if we had hunted all England over, we could not—ahem—could nothave hoped to find anything more suitable. Positively, it is, if I mayso say—if I may venture to use a somewhat time-worn illustration—thefitting of a round man into a round hole,—a round woman, I shouldrather say,—ha, ha! Nothing better could be desired."

So Craven declared, about ten days ago, with that oily satisfactionwhich people are sometimes apt to show about a convenient arrangementfor somebody else. If I decided to go to the Romillys, it would beparticularly convenient for Craven. I had been a full month in hishouse, and he was beginning to favour me with plain hints that a monthwas enough. Albinia never ventures to oppose him.

"Just the very thing," he repeated, rubbing his big flabby handstogether. He might be a handsome man, this brother-in-law of mine, ifless ponderously rotund, and boasting a smaller allowance of cheek andchin. I could not help thinking that afternoon, as he lounged back inhis study-chair, what a huge individual he is for his fifty years.Anybody might take him for sixty.

I have not written in my journal for many months. Time enough now tomake a fresh start. The only way is to go straight ahead, letting alonearrears and explanations.

"Precisely the opening for you," he went on. "Really, your course is,if I may so say, plain as daylight. As I say, plain as daylight. I ammost happy to have been the means of affording you—ahem—a shelter,until this—a temporary shelter, I should say,—until this opening shouldappear."

Craven, like many other speech-makers, indulges in broken sentences andneedless repetitions.

"Not merely an opening, but a duty,—a positive call to duty. I havealways held the opinion—always, I may say,—that you were by naturefitted—peculiarly fitted—for the work of teaching. In fact—a—that youwere a first-rate instructress of youth thrown away,—pardon me! Andreally, after the monotony of your existence—a—with the worthy old ladywho has been—ahem—has been so lately removed from our midst,—after themonotony of your existence, as I say, hitherto,—you will find—ahem—willfind positive excitement, positive dissipation—a—in the surroundings ofyour new life with the Romilly circle."

Craven ought to have felt exhausted by this time. If he did not, I did.

"Supposing I go," I answered perversely. Craven always rouses theperverse element in me.

"I was not aware that—ahem—that any other opening had—a—had presenteditself, my dear Constance."

"I don't wish to decide in a hurry," I replied, though I knew aswell as did Craven, that the matter was already practically settled."Besides," I added, "it is not generally supposed that a governess'life means too much dissipation. Too much work is more likely."

For I did and do think that Craven might be a little less willing tolet me enter on a life of possible or probable drudgery. Not that Iwant pity, or that I believe in the need for real drudgery in anybody'slife. Plenty to do is my delight, and the question of drudgery dependson the spirit in which one does things. Moreover, I have never expectedCraven to offer me a home; and if he made the offer, I would not acceptit.

Still one does like a man to act a consistent part. Craven has in hisown person so ardent a love for ease and non-exertion, that from hisstandpoint, he ought justly to spare me some grains of pity. My protestonly set him off afresh, however.

"There can be no question, my dear Constance,—ahem—that your post willbe a light one. At the same time, it will afford you—a—will offerprecisely such a sphere for your talents as you—ahem—will offer, infact, an appropriate sphere for your talents. For I see no harm inadmitting—a—no harm in admitting that you are possessed of certaintalents. Here, for the first time in your life,—as I say, for thefirst time in your life,—here is a field for their exercise. Not inmere lesson-giving, but in the exercise of—a—the exercise of—ahem—theexercise of a mild and beneficent and improving influence on all aroundyou."

"Am I to begin by improving Mr. Romilly?" I asked.

The laboured and monotonous utterances sounded so exactly like athird-rate platform speech, that my gravity was upset. I had to saysomething which might serve as an excuse for a laugh.

Craven did not smile. He lifted one broad hand silencingly.

"In the shaping—ahem—the moulding—ahem—the general improvement, asI say, of those young people who will be in your charge. A moredelightful occupation could—a—could scarcely be found. There can beno hesitation whatever—I say, there can be no hesitation whatever inpronouncing that you, my dear little sister, are by nature—a—singularlyadapted for the post." Craven always calls me "little" when he wants togive me a set-down, though really I am almost as tall as himself. To besure, I am not so broad!

"That is the question," I said. "If I could be sure that I really amfitted—But the responsibilities will be immense. If I were a woman offorty, instead of a girl not twenty-three—"

"With the appearance of—a—of thirty at least," asserted Craven.

There might be some truth in this. Twice in the month before, I hadbeen taken for Albinia's twin. But also I had been twice taken for onlyeighteen years old. So much depends on the mood one is in.

"If I could be sure that I am fitted," I said again, rather rashlyinviting a further flow of speech.

"Adapted undoubtedly, I should say," Craven answered. He drummedhis right hand solemnly on the chair-arm, by way of emphasis."Unquestionably! For you have gifts, my dear sister,—I may say thatyou have gifts. You are clever,—ahem—intellectual,—ahem—and youhave cultivated your intellect. You are well-read. You draw andpaint,—really quite tolerably. Yes, I may say—a—quite tolerably. Yourmusic is, on the whole—on the whole, above the average."

Craven's knowledge of music is rather less than that of his favouritepuppy, but this only makes it the easier for him to pass judgment.

"You have—" he went on—"you have your faults also: who has not? Acertain impetuosity; somewhat too good an opinion of yourself; anover-readiness to oppose your views to those of others; these defectshave—ahem—have to be subdued. But again there are faults which inyour new position—which, I may say, in your new position will be—a—transformed into virtues! For instance! A certain faculty for spyingout others' weaknesses—ahem—a somewhat unenviable readiness to setothers to rights—pardon the suggestion, my dear little sister! Butthe adaptability of things is remarkable—is really, I may say, mostremarkable. For henceforth the business of your life will be—theleading aim of your existence will be—a—the setting of others to rightsa—the correction of others' faults. Thus, as I may say, as in fact Ihave already observed—a—thus at least one faulty tendency glides into apositive virtue."

My impetuosity came, I suppose, into play here. I felt all at once thatI had endured as much as could reasonably be expected.

"Have you done, Craven?" I asked, standing up.

Craven was astonished. Probably he had not done; but my sudden movementdisturbed the beautiful orderliness of his ideas, and put the remainderof his speech to flight.

"Because I think our discussion has lasted long enough," I said. "Iwill write to Mrs. Romilly by this evening's post, and promise to be atGlynde House in a fortnight."

Craven rose slowly and examined the framed almanack. We were togetherin the library, whither he had summoned me on my return from anafternoon stroll in the park.

"Nothing keeps Con indoors," Albinia is wont to declare, and certainlythat day's fog had not sufficed to do so.

"A fortnight from to-day," he said dubiously. "That brings us to—thetwenty-fifth. Yes; if I am not mistaken—the twenty-fifth."

"Mrs. Romilly names the twenty-fifth," I said. "I cannot offer to gosooner. It is unfortunate; but she does not leave England for anotherweek; and she wishes me to arrive a week later. I am afraid you willhave to put up with me so long."

Without waiting for an answer, I passed out of the luxurious libraryinto the spacious hall.

CHAPTER II.

AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S.

THE SAME—continued.

February 21.

ALBINIA has a comfortable home,—so far as carpets and curtains areconcerned. If only that mountain of human pomposity were not appended!But then she need never have accepted him unless she wished. Albiniawent in for the man, with the carpets and curtains, of her ownfree-will.

Of course it is pleasant to be comfortable. I should be the last todeny that fact. Velvet-piled carpets, into which the foot sinks as intomoss, are superior to bare boards; and tapestry at twelve or fifteenshillings the yard is very much nicer than a cheap cretonne at twelveor fifteen pence. Still a good deal depends on how much may be involvedin the possession of mossy carpets and rich tapestry.

Sometimes I find myself wondering whether, if ten years ago couldcome over again, Albinia would say "Yes" a second time. She was onlytwenty then, and he was by no means so portly as now. But Craven Smythwas Craven Smyth always. He never could be anything else. He managedinvariably to excite naughty feelings in me, though I was a child undertwelve. Albinia could not understand why. She used to say he was "sonice!"—That delightfully indefinite term which does quite as well for aman as for a cretonne. And her one hesitation seemed to be on the scoreof his surname. "To think of becoming Mrs. Smyth!" she remarked often.

After leaving the library, I lingered in the hall, thinking. ShouldI write my letter first, or speak to Albinia first? Time enough forboth before I needed to dress for dinner. The latter seemed right,so I passed on into the drawing-room, with its costly furniture andsuperabundant gilding.

Not four days had gone by since I first heard of this "desirableopening" in the Romilly household. I had answered the earliest appealby return of post, asking further particulars, and expressing strongdoubts as to my own capacity. A letter had now arrived from Mrs.Romilly herself, urging, nay, imploring me to accept the position.

Had the request come from any one else except Mrs. Romilly, I musthave unhesitatingly declined. For whatever Craven may say, I am notfitted for the post. I, a girl of twenty-two, unused to teaching,inexperienced in family life,—I to undertake so anomalous and difficulta task! The very idea seems to me wild, even foolish. Humanly speaking,I court only failure by consenting to go!

And yet—what if it is indeed the right thing for me? For all along ithas appeared as if that were the one open path; as if all other pathswere hedged up and shut. Any one else except Mrs. Romilly! Yes; thatwould make all the difference. But then, it is Mrs. Romilly! And she isill, depressed, troubled, in difficulties, and she implores my help.How can I hesitate or think of self?

I have no other friend in the world like Mrs. Romilly. Not that wehave been so very much together; but I think I fell in love with herat first sight, and the love has gone on growing ever since, steadily.Three times, at intervals, she has spent a month with an aged relativein Bath,—an acquaintance of Aunt Lavinia's and mine,—and each time wemet as often as possible. We walked and drove together; read and sangtogether; went often to the Abbey Church together. I can talk freelyto her, as I have never talked with any other human being; and she isno less free with me. She has often said that I helped her; and thisseemed strange, because she has so often helped me.

Sweet Gertrude Romilly! I have never met with any one else quite likeher; and I doubt if I ever shall. She is twenty years my senior; yet Ido not think we have found disparity of age any bar to friendship. Itwould be unreasonable to suppose that I am as much to her as she is tome. She is so lovely, so beloved; and she has so many who are very nearand dear to her, while I have but few. But, indeed, I find the lovethat she gives to me very full and satisfying.

I suppose her spirits in girlhood must have been wonderfully high. Shehas gone through much trouble, and has suffered under it most acutely;and notwithstanding all, she seems often to be just rippling over withhappiness and fun. I never quite know whether to count her more winningin her gay or in her pensive moods.

During the three years since our acquaintance first began, Mrs. Romillyand I have corresponded regularly; and she has pressed me often to payher a visit at Glynde House. But I have never felt that I could rightlyleave poor Aunt Lavinia, since she grew so very infirm.

Now that my dear old aunt has been taken from me, things are changed.It did seem strange for a while that no word of sympathy came fromGlynde House. The response has always been so quick, if I were in anytrouble. But a few lines from the eldest daughter, Nellie, with adictated message from my friend, soon let me know the cause.

I cannot now understand precisely what is wrong. Mrs. Romilly hasbroken down in health, though to what extent I do not know. A suddenattack on her chest has revealed a condition of things there,unsuspected before; and she is ordered off in haste to the south ofEurope before March winds begin. That is not all, however. Nelliealludes to "the state of her nerves;" and it seems to be expected thatshe may have to remain many months away,—perhaps a great part of thesummer. Nellie goes in charge of the invalid, and Mr. Romilly remainsbehind.

In the midst of these anxieties, another blow has fallen. Thegoverness, Miss Jackson, who for fifteen years has lived with theRomillys, was summoned home to the bedside of a dying mother justbefore Mrs. Romilly's illness. After weeks of absence she wrote,unexpectedly, to plead the claims of a widowed father, begging to be ifpossible at once released. The claim could hardly be disallowed, and nodifficulties have been made. But then it was that Mrs. Romilly turnedto the thought of me. She knew of my plans for self-support. Would I,she asked, step into the vacant post, and be—not merely governess, butcompanion, caretaker, elder sister, guide, and friend to her darlinggirls?

The first letter on this topic was dictated, but the second was inher own hand,—so changed and feeble a hand, that it grieved my veryheart,—pleading earnestly. Would I—could I—refuse to set her mind atrest?

No, I could not; and were the moment of decision to come over again, Ifeel that my reply would be the same. I could not refuse; even thoughthe sense of incapacity weighed then and weighs still most heavily. Iam not old enough or experienced enough for the position. Yet it didseem to me then, and it seems so still, that I have no choice.

CHAPTER III.

HOW DIAMONDS FLASH!

THE SAME.

February 24.

I MUST take up the thread where I left off three days ago. The lastevening in Albinia's house has come, and to-morrow I make my plungeinto a new life. It is late, and I have been busy; but there is much tothink about, and sleep looks impossible at present. As well sit up andwrite, as toss to and fro in the dark.

Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, readinga little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doinga little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working,for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.

Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display ofjewellery,—perhaps as an advertisem*nt of his wealth. She is apt to bea little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladenwith gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to herhusband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anythingis better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia becameCraven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.

"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.

"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"

I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and wasforgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up byhalf-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, andset me cogitating.

Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior,she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedlyold for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake asto twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as Isaw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, longsupple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes,dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would applyequally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression ofeither.

For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that weshould be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hairmay be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences oftemperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpideasiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the preciseconverse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will.Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; butthose who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance atall,—which is curious.

I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but undercertain circ*mstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; andif this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more thanI do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia,but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of aface when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at allattractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I donot know why I should write all this.

The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked,that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre ofher splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jetbrooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the goodold aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!

"Well," Albinia said at length.

"I beg your pardon, Albinia. I went into the park first; and since thenI have been in the library, talking,—or rather listening."

"Talking about your plans?"

"I shall go to Glynde House in a fortnight."

A glittering flash of the diamonds showed me that Albinia had stirredsuddenly.

"Then you have quite decided?"

"Quite. The Romillys want me, and Craven does not."

"We are expecting visitors soon," she said, rather faintly.

Poor Albinia! It was not her fault. I would not suggest that the housecontained eight spare bedrooms.

"Of course I would rather have kept you for a few weeks longer," shewent on. "But still—" and a pause. "If Craven—" another break. "Andperhaps Mrs. Romilly wants you there before she leaves."

"No; not before. It would be her wish, but the doctors forbidexcitement. She starts in a week from to-day; and she wishes me to go aweek later,—just allowing the household time to recover a little fromthe parting. That seems wise, perhaps, as I am not to see her."

"You would have liked to see her."

"One cannot think of one's own wishes in such a matter," I said.

"And you only know Mrs. Romilly,—not the husband or daughters?"

"Except that I have heard so much about them all from Mrs. Romilly,—Ican hardly feel myself a stranger."

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Romilly rich?" was the next question.

"Yes,—very comfortably off. And I suppose still more so since the deathof a great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's last autumn. An estate in Yorkshirecame to them then. Mrs. Romilly spoke in a letter of their intention togo there every summer: though Glynde House will still be their home forthe greater part of the year."

"And you will have the entire education of several girls! Housekeepingtoo?"

"I really don't know, Albinia. My notions as to what I shall have to doare hazy in the extreme. That is the worst of not seeing Mrs. Romilly.No, not the entire education. There are masters for accomplishments,I believe; and there is a nursery governess for the two youngest.Besides, Maggie must be pretty well out of the schoolroom."

"Oh, then of course she will be housekeeper."

"Craven predicts more need for the exercise of a 'beneficent influence'on my part than of actual teaching."

Albinia opened her eyes non-comprehendingly.

"He expects me to improve the household as a whole,—beginning, as Itell him, with Mr. Romilly. My own fear is that I shall be too much ofa girl among girls,—with too little authority."

"It all depends on yourself. You must take a proper stand from thefirst. I dare say things will fit in well enough."

So easy for her to say and think. Hardly anything is more easy thanto be philosophical for somebody else. I do not count that my ownfeeling in the matter is cowardice. I have never feared work or shrunkfrom responsibility. But from early childhood, I have been under thedominion of a strong sense of duty; and to half perform a duty has beenalways a misery to me. And I do feel myself so unfitted, so terriblyinadequate, for the duties to which I seem called.

"Called." Yes; there it is. If indeed "called" to them, I shall findhelp sufficient. God does not place His children in positions ofdifficulty, to leave them alone afterward. My prayer has been—"If ThyPresence go not with me, carry me not up hence." And if His Presencedoes go with me, then nothing else can matter very much.

"I never expected you to have to take to governessing," Albinia saidsuddenly.

"Did you not?" I asked.

"No. Two years ago I had not a doubt that you would be married beforethis." She looked at me with questioning eyes. "What were you about,Con?"

"About my own business, I hope," I said. "Nearly time to dress fordinner. I must be quick."

"You can just as well write a line afterwards."

"No; I would rather catch an earlier post. I must set Mrs. Romilly'smind at rest, and I want to have the thing settled."

"You can write here," said Albinia.

I acquiesced, going to a davenport, though solitude would have beenpreferable. The letter seemed to need careful wording. Between mydesire to bring repose to Mrs. Romilly, and my conscientious dread ofpromising more than I might be able to perform, I scarcely knew what tosay. And I leant back in my chair, thinking.

"Do you know what o'clock it is, Con?"

Albinia's words roused me from a dream. She was crossing the room, andbefore me lay a black-edged sheet, with the date written—nothing more.While, fading from the foreground of my mind, was a vivid picture of ascene in a certain small Bath dining-room—a scene nearly two years old,called up by Albinia's utterances—a scene unknown to any living person,except myself and one other. I had forgotten Mrs. Romilly, forgotten myletter, forgotten the need for haste.

For recollections of that scene are apt to involve me in a train ofquestionings. They come up afresh now as I write.

Had I then known how soon the dear old aunt was to be taken away, howshort a time she would claim my care, I think I should have come to adifferent decision. But I did not know. There seemed no reason why shemight not live another ten or twenty years, always ill and helpless,always dependent on me.

What I did, I did for the best, and under a compelling sense of duty.At the moment I had no doubts, no feeling of hesitation. My path seemedclear as daylight. He thought me fearfully cold, and he was wounded andangry. Yet it was for his sake—because I would not bind him to years ofwaiting.

Was it quite needful—even as things then stood? Should I have beenwrong to let him see that my "No" was a "No" of sheer duty, not ofchoice? Was there not at least the fault of too impulsive action, toorapid decision,—of not delaying to ask and wait for guidance?

"He that believeth shall not make haste." Those words come to mesometimes with a sharp sense of pain. I did believe, but did I actpractically upon that belief? If I had not made quite so much haste, Imight at least have worded my answer a little differently. And—I cannotbe sure, but sometimes I do wonder if he had not almost a right to knowthat I was not so indifferent as I seemed.

After-regrets are worse than useless. They only unnerve one fordaily life. I feel that, yet I cannot always hold these questioningsin leash. They gain the mastery over me once in a while, though tono purpose,—worse than none. For he is gone out of reach. He willnever know how things really were. Communication between us is at anend,—utterly! He said that he would take very good care never again totrouble me with his unwelcome presence, and I—I let him think it wasunwelcome. I said nothing; and he went.

It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me tothe consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across theroom, and had paused behind my chair.

"No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please."

And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,—

The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking.

Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer afterto-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doingwhat I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of myhistory, and conning it anew.

I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past inthe light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things whichmight have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from theblunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future.

God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—andcared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance,which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out forHis hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together inthe end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even theirvery blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps ofher most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—didnot—forget me.

Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles tocling more to the mother's hand? I think so.

Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last nightof shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried andnew world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close,knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say.People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and whenthey tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they wouldonly count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be alwayssensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has mein its grip this evening.

Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lordcomes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, notin Him—never in Him!

Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of ahome shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?

CHAPTER IV.

RAILWAY IMAGININGS.

THE SAME.

February 25. Evening.

"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to yournew sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you ourbest wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."

N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my newhome, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on firstattention.

"Thanks," I replied. "It is quite a case of speeding the parting guest."

Now this was unkind to Albinia. She never can withstand her husband,but the gratification which beamed from his rotund face was notreflected in hers. I thought her even a little depressed in herapathetic way.

Craven showed no signs of being affected by my sharp utterance, butdrawled out his next inquiry, "I believe you—a—start some time thismorning—a—my dear Constance."

"The twelve o'clock train. Different lines don't fit in theirtime-tables well," I said. "It is unkind to passengers. I shall havetwo changes, and scant time for either."

"No doubt—a—if one train is missed, another runs later," said Craven.

"No doubt," I answered. "But I don't particularly want three or fourhours' delay."

"I believe you—a—change trains at—a—at Hurst," said Craven.

"That is my first change," I replied. "The second is at GlyndeJunction." But Craven was talking, not listening, so I stopped.

"At Hurst,—yes. Just so,—yes. To be sure,—yes. No doubt you willobtain lunch there,—yes, a very good plan. You will write and informAlbinia soon—inform Albinia as to your welfare—ahem. I may say that—a—Ibelieve—a—that I feel no doubt whatever you will do well—ahem—will doexcellently well in your new sphere. Yes, I may say—excellently. Youhave acted hitherto an exemplary part in the care of—a—your worthyrelative,—looking for no return."

This was quite true. Aunt Lavinia cared for me in childish days, andI have cared for her in later years. It was a matter of course thatI should do so. She has depended upon me entirely. But I have had nothought of reward. I always knew that the greater part of her incomeconsisted of a life annuity. And it was my friends, not I, who weredisappointed when, after her death, it became known that with theexception of one hundred pounds everything at her disposal was left toAlbinia, not to me.

"Looking for no return," repeated Craven, with an unctuous littlesmack of approval peculiar to himself. "Yes, I may say—looking for noreturn. One reward you have doubtless, my dear little sister,—namely,the satisfactory mandate of your own conscience, and ahem—and a veryrespectable nest-egg of one hundred pounds, which you will do wellto allow to accumulate at—a—at compound interest. The world now liesopen to you, and an opportunity has at last arrived—a—has, I may say,at last arrived—for the exercise of your intellectual gifts. As I wasabout to remark, you—a—you undoubtedly possess—"

"I seem to have heard all this before, Craven," I said, glancing at theclock, which pointed to more than half-past ten. Breakfast in the Smythhousehold is not inordinately early.

"In a governess, my dear Constance," Craven said slowly, helpinghimself to fish for the fourth time, "in a governess—a—this fish isvery much overboiled, Albinia, very much indeed—a—in a governess, mydear Constance, such impetuosity as yours is, I may say,—"

"Really! I thought I was particularly well adapted for being agoverness," I exclaimed.

"Is, I may say,—" pursued the imperturbable Craven, "likely—a—to leadyou into serious difficulties—ahem. Remember, my dear sister,—youshould—a—remember that your office now is to guide—a—to instruct—a—theyoung. More than this, you depend—ahem—entirely upon your ownexertions; and if—a—if, in a temporary fit of impetuosity, you are ledto throw up your situation, you—a—you find yourself homeless—absolutelyhomeless, my dear Constance."

"I understand," I said. "I shall not come to you for shelter, Craven,"and I stood up. "Will you kindly excuse me, Albinia? It is gettinglate, and I have not done my packing."

Albinia assented, not reluctantly; and I vanished. But I felt veryvexed with myself. After many resolutions to keep calm and smoothto the end, here was I giving vent to irritability, like a pettishschool-girl. Apart from the wrong-doing, what was the use? Craven wouldnot understand.

As I turned the key of my travelling bag, Albinia glided into the room.

"The cab has come," she said. "It is rather early, and I meant to sendyou in the carriage; but—"

"No need for excuses," I said. "You can't help things, Albinia. I amonly amazed that I could stoop to be angry with him."

Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. Shesaid only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."

"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is notquite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."

"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observedAlbinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."

Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-classcarriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupiedhours lying ahead.

The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yetno one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome.Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter ofmy future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but Icould not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train whichalways inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.

It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people orthings, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.

I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through mymind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did notjot them down while fresh.

There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs.Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, justnineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none couldfail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capableNellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," thatI have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentleMaggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thussuddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need allthe help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie'ssake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a giftedmanager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on hermother and elder sister.

Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"thatdear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to winThyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in thereserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a returnas in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was alittle prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken ofher with a sigh.

The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "Mybright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them.I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, withsuch clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliantmerry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, eitherof them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes;Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.

And the two small children, Popsie and Pet; and their young nurserygoverness, Miss Millington,—I had to be friends with all. There wasalso the fifteen year old boy, Denham, "my handsome son," Mrs. Romillyhas styled him. I thought he must be dearer to her than the elder son,Eustace, which seemed curious. A mother usually clings most to herfirstborn. But I had heard little of Eustace Romilly.

In addition to all these, there was Nellie Romilly's great friend,Gladys Hepburn, living "just round the corner," and closely interwovenwith life in Glynde House, beside many others with names more or lessfamiliar. But among all these figures, it was that of Margaret Romilly,"sweet Maggie," which stood out with the most inviting distinctness,forming the centre of my expectations. A purely imaginary figure, ofcourse. I pictured Maggie as a girlish reproduction of my friend,—tall,slender, graceful, with liquid loving brown eyes, and pensive winningsmile. Mrs. Romilly had shown me few photographs of her people. Shealways said they were such failures.

The background in my mind to all these moving figures was a finecountry mansion, with extensive gardens and something of park land. Ican hardly tell how this idea grew into existence; except that Mrs.Romilly has a way of writing and speaking about "our place," which hasperhaps misled me. I am sure she does it with the utmost simplicity. Itis habit she has fallen into unconsciously.

Mr. Romilly overshadowed the whole. I had formed a vivid idea of him. Iknew him to be many years older than Mrs. Romilly, and she has spokenof him always with true wifely enthusiasm. My mental sketch of him wasdrawn from recollections of things she has said. There could hardly besuch another man in the world. His face, his features, his manners, hisself-forgetfulness, his kindness, his indulgence, his generosity,—allthese have been painted before me, till I could only feel that he mustbe a very prince among men, and that to live under the same roof withMr. Romilly must be a priceless privilege. The only marvel to my mindwas that he had not gone abroad with his wife. But doubtless a spiritof self-denial restrained him, and he remained in England for the sakeof his girls.

I found myself wondering next what manner of Church and of clergymanI should find. Mrs. Romilly may have described them to me, but Icould recall no particulars. In my quiet Bath life, I used to attendmany week-day Services in addition to those of Sunday. I found thema help—nay, a positive necessity. But things would be different atGlynde. That which had been a duty as well as a privilege in Bath—aduty because I had the leisure to go, and no prior home-claims tohinder me—might at Glynde cease to be a duty, because of such otherclaims.

CHAPTER V.

A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED.

THE SAME—continued.

February 26. Early Morning.

AFTER all, I might have procured my luncheon at Hurst withoutdifficulty: for I missed my train, and had a long waiting time.

It passed, as such intervals do, and I found myself in a crowdedcompartment on the way to Glynde Junction. This second stage of myjourney was a good deal occupied in observation of fellow-passengers.None of them was in any sense remarkable, but all human beings are moreor less worth studying.

After a while the compartment began to empty, and I at the same timebegan to be aware that the train had lagged a good fifteen minutesbehind time. No pleasant discovery this, since it probably meant theloss of the next train at Glynde Junction, and another long delay.

One old lady remained alone at the farther end of the carriage, noddingsleepily over a novel. A gentleman had stepped in at the last station,and had taken the corner opposite to me. While busily comparing watchand time-table, I had not noticed him; but a little while beforereaching the Junction, I happened to glance up and met his eyes.

Evidently he had been examining me: no doubt from the same generalinterest in human beings to which I have confessed. He did not snatchaway his eyes in the alarmed fashion of some people caught in theact, but met mine frankly. He might be, I supposed, under thirty: agentleman every inch of him: in manner quiet, steadfast, entirely athis ease, and free from the least suspicion of self-consciousness.Mouth and chin were hidden by the brown moustache and beard, and moreof the same soft brown hair receded in waves from the wide forehead.The eyes were singular, large and gentle as a woman's, pale brown inhue, with soft shading lashes, and set in hollowed-out caves, which,together with the delicately outlined temples and the slightness of theungloved right hand, gave an impression of not very robust health.

I read at once in his look the unspoken question—"Is anything thematter?"

And my answer came involuntarily—

"I was wondering if there is any chance of my catching the train toGlynde."

"At the Junction? Yes; a chance, but a poor one."

"That train does not wait for this?"

"It is not supposed to do so."

"Glynde is new ground to me," I observed. "A pretty place, is it not?"

"There are a few pretty spots in the neighbourhood," he answered; andhe mentioned one or two by name, describing briefly.

It is singular that I should have been drawn on to chat with him. As arule, I am very shy of railway acquaintances. A woman, and especiallya young woman, travelling alone, can scarcely act with too muchreticence. Somehow I was disposed during those few minutes to make anexception in favour of this particular fellow-traveller, recognisinginstinctively a man whom one might trust. Not that such instincts maybe safely depended on.

Some remark made by him led to the question on my part—

"Can you tell me anything about the Church?"

He asked, "Which Church?"

"The nearest to Glynde House," I answered; and a slight flash orlighting up of his face showed me that he was acquainted with theRomillys.

"The Parish Church is a mile and a half distant," he said. "There is asmall Church or Chapel-of-ease not far from Glynde House."

"What kind of Church Services?" I asked next, speaking perhaps with atouch of wistfulness. I did not know it, till I saw the reflection inhis face. But indeed the burden of the future and of my own incapacitywas weighing on me heavily.

He answered again by a question, "What kind would you wish?"

"I should like—something helpful," I said.

A curious smile came into his face. "Is not the 'something helpful'always there?"

"Always!" I moved my head dissentingly.

"It ought to be."

"But things are so different in different Churches," I urged. "Onecannot find the same amount of help, for instance, when the Servicesare dull and spiritless."

"Perhaps not the same amount," he said slowly. "But sufficient forour need—always that!" After a moment's thought, he went on—"We heara good deal in our day about Church privileges; and none can valuesuch privileges more highly than I do. Still, one ought not to forgetthat the greater a man's privileges are, the greater must be hisresponsibility."

"I suppose so," I said.

"Necessarily. It is an invariable rule—the more given, the morerequired. If our spiritual advance does not keep pace with the amountof our Church privileges, so much the worse for us."

"Yet there cannot be advance without—" I began, and stopped. For I knewI did not mean that.

"I must differ from you," he said courteously. "Some of God's greatestsaints on earth have been by no means the most favoured with outwardhelps to devotion."

"But still—" I said.

"Still one craves such help. True; and the craving in itself may notbe wrong—is not wrong, I should rather say. Though here, too, as withbodily needs, I believe one ought to be content either to 'abound' orto 'suffer need,' as God may appoint for us. Besides," he added, "thatwhich is the greatest help to one, is not always helpful to another. Weare differently constituted, and our needs differ. It is a perplexingquestion sometimes. Our Church Services are meant for the many. I amafraid some among us are, perhaps, a little too much disposed to insiston providing for the many that which only suits the needs of the few."

"And suppose," I said, "that the many insist on having what is no helpat all to the few, but only a hindrance?"

"It should not be a hindrance."

"But if it is—"

"It need not be. The question as to a man's spiritual advance doesnot hinge there. Wine of heaven may be as freely given in a cup ofearthenware as in a cup of porcelain, if only one is willing."

I repeated to myself, "If one is willing!"

"The gist of the matter lies there," he said.

The old lady at the other end woke up, looked round, and moved promptlydown the seat to our vicinity, putting out a hand and a rubbed kidglove.

"How do you do, Sir Keith—how do you do?" she said, in brisk cordialtones. "Quite well, I hope; and Lady Denham too? Are you going home toher? No? I can't quite hear what you say—the train does make such anoise, and I'm getting just a little deaf."

There was no difficulty whatever in hearing the lady's own utterances,as she shouted in shrill tones at Sir Keith's left ear.

"Not going home till later! Oh, that's it, is it? Ah, you're sucha busy man, I know—always hard at work about something or other.Well,—and so poor Mrs. Romilly is really off. Very sad about her, isn'tit? I was sure you'd feel it, knowing them so well! And all those girlsleft behind,—really, it's a thousand pities. Just when they need amother most! Nice girls too!"

She scanned him with quick inquisitive glances, as he listened, calmlyattentive. "I wonder which is your favourite, now! I like Nelliebest—not that I know them intimately. The Romillys are difficultpeople to get hold of. But I always do say they are nice ladylikelooking girls, if only they weren't quite so much wrapped up in oneanother, and in their own concerns. A very attached family, I'm sure,and it's quite pretty to see them all so devoted to their father, dearman! Oh, Mr. Romilly is an immense favourite of mine. But as for Mrs.Romilly,—why, there's no doubt she does keep people at a distance, andholds herself as if she was a duch*ess. So very exclusive and all that!I hate exclusiveness, and I can't endure airs and graces. Still, Mrs.Romilly is nice enough in her own way, when one gets used—Are you goingto get out here?"

It was a marvel to me that the old lady could keep on so long, withher twinkling black eyes fixed on that face of grave disapproval. Ihad begun to wonder whether I ought to announce myself openly as thenew Glynde House governess, for fear something might be said beforeme which I had no business to hear. But as I hesitated, the trainslackened speed, and Sir Keith stood up to lift down my roll of shawls.

"It is just possible that you may be in time," he said. "Ha! There isa man who will do his best." He threw open the door, handed my shawlsto the porter answering his summons, then stepped out himself to assistme. Plainly all this came as a matter of course.

"Glynde train off yet?" he asked.

"No, sir." The porter had touched his cap, with evident recognition andas evident pleasure. "Just going, sir."

"See this lady in, if you please. The luggage will be behind. No timeto get a ticket, I fear."

"Thank you very much," I said, and he lifted his hat before returningto his seat. Then followed a rush along the platform, a frantic haulingout of my trunks, a breathless scamper upstairs, over the bridge, downthe other side, and I found myself in a first-class compartment withtwo gentlemen. There had been no leisure to choose. My trunks wereflung in, unlabelled; and we were off.

Recovering from the flurry of my chase, I became aware of a gentlelittle piping masculine voice opposite—

"No, I—I could not possibly hesitate,—such very apparent need—er. Poorthing! It is a great gratification to be able to help those in need—er.My dear boy, it is very cold—very chilly—er. I am quite distressed tothink of the girls driving to the station—er—in the open chaise. Ireally wish I had given different directions—er."

I could not help thinking of Craven; though this speaker, withsomething of the same cautious hesitation in bringing out his words,and even more of a tendency to linger on concluding syllables, hadnothing whatever of Craven's grandiloquent pomposity. He was short, andof narrow small-boned make, with sunken cheeks, and delicate girlishhands. Grey hair, in the prettiest silken curls, peeped from under hismost dainty travelling cap, partly hiding the defects of a narrow andunintellectual forehead; and a pair of deep-blue eyes, full of anxiousappeal, wandered to and fro beseechingly. The mouth was anxious too—areally beautiful mouth in its classic curves, only so tremulouslynervous and troubled.

Side by side with this little elderly personage was a young man, not atall resembling him. For the young man was tall, broad-shouldered, andpowerfully made, with no pretensions to good looks. It seemed to me agood sensible face, however—that plain sunburnt face of his—though nothandsome; and I admired the deferential kindness of his manner towardsthe older gentleman. Could they be father and son?

"If I had guessed—er—that it would be so chilly—er—I think it wouldhave been advisable to procure hot-water cans for the journey—er. Myfeet are so very cold—er—quite suffering. I hope you do not feel thecold—er—very much, my dear boy."

He feel the cold! I could have laughed at the question. But the youngman answered, without a smile, "Not at all, thanks. I wish I hadthought of the hot-water tin for you, though."

"No consequence, my dear boy,—not of the very least consequence—er. Andwe shall be there directly, so it really does not—er—does not matter.But I am very chilly. I almost think—er—if you could get out a shawlfor me, I should like it over my shoulders—er. Thanks—no, not that one.The Scotch tartan. Not there, do you say? Very strange, very strangeindeed—er. I must speak to Phipps, I must speak to him quite seriously.He knows so well—er—I always use that shawl in travelling—er—quiteinvariably. No, nothing else, my dear boy,—nothing else will do. If thetartan shawl is not here, I must endure the chill."

Poor gentleman,—he shivered and looked quite blue. But the young manmade no attempt to persuade him, only rolling up submissively therejected wraps.

"Very cold indeed for the girls," went on the elder gentleman. "I am soafraid they will suffer—er. If only I had desired them to have a closedcab, instead of driving in the open chaise—er—it would have been safer.But perhaps they may think of it. Perhaps when we arrive, we couldarrange—er—don't you think, my dear boy?"

"Yes, father," said the young man. He spoke very gravely, with norelaxing in the set of his strong plain face. Was he always so serious?It struck me as singular; for I should not have guessed him to be morethan three or four and twenty at the most.

"I think we might arrange—er—if it should be very cold indeed at thestation—er—perhaps—but I really do not know. It is very distressing tohave had to send away the brougham just now. I shall ask you to seeabout that, my dear boy,—to get matters pushed forward—er. I have beenreally too shaken myself to attend—er—to attend to anything."

"Yes, father."

"I should hardly have ventured—er—on this little trip to-day,—if I hadnot hoped to meet you. It was very thoughtful of you to arrange thingsso,—very thoughtful. And I am sure that poor lady was most grateful—er.One is glad to be able to do a kindness, even at the cost of personaldiscomfort."

He shivered dolorously again. I leant forward, and asked, "Would youlike me to put up this window?"

An immediate bow was the response. Plainly this little sickly elderlyperson was a thorough gentleman,—quite as much so, after his ownfashion, as my former fellow-traveller, though a very different stampof man.

"Thanks—er—I am very much obliged. But pray, do not inconvenienceyourself—er. It is a chilly day!—" another shudder, accompanied by asuffering smile. "Very chilly, and I—er—am not robust. But pray donot,—unless you prefer it."

I did not prefer it, being a devoted lover of fresh air; nevertheless,I would have pulled up the glass promptly, if the younger man had notstarted forward to forestall me. I congratulated myself that it was notto be a case of prolonged suffocation. Five minutes more would bring usto Glynde.

The two fast-shut windows thickened rapidly with breath-mist; butthe elderly gentleman seemed more at his ease, and shivered in leasdeplorable style.

"Glynde at last," he said, as a whistle sounded. "Eustace, my dearboy, pray collect the parcels. And I think we should have the windowopen—er. Thanks. Ah, there are the girls. Maggie has not thought ofa fly. Only the open carriage,—and such a cold afternoon. Thyrza notthere—how strange! Pray secure a porter at once, my dear boy, to carrythese parcels—er. And I think, as soon as we are out,—I think youshould inquire whether Miss Conway has arrived—er—or whether she isexpected now."

The train stood still. I had not at once noted the name "Eustace," butthe more familiar "Maggie" and "Thyrza" could not be passed by, andwhat followed settled the business. I turned to the speaker, and said—

"I beg your pardon! I am Constance Conway!"

But could that be Mr. Romilly?

CHAPTER VI.

A MOTHER'S SWANS.

THE SAME.

February 26. Thursday.

I AM writing at odd times to-day, as I find leisure. A hot fit ofjournalism is on me just now; perhaps as a relief to certain namelessfeelings; and I have a fancy to note down early impressions fully. Thefirst two or three days amid new surroundings are often the future lifethere in miniature. Lessons do not begin till Monday; and the girlsseem very busy in various ways, leaving me more to myself than I shouldhave expected. Also I had a good spell of writing before breakfast.But—to continue!

I found myself on the platform, in the midst of a family gathering. Afew other passengers alighted and vanished. There seemed small chanceof our speedily vanishing likewise. My trunks were tossed out of theluggage-van, and the train passed on.

We were near the door of the general waiting-room, with a projectingroof over our heads. The roof ended a few paces farther on, and a whitepaling bounded the uncovered portion of the platform. I could see anopen chaise beyond, with a fat brown pony hanging its sleepy head, anda boy lounging on the small box where was only room for one.

Mr. Romilly formed the centre of an eager group; and I, standingslightly apart, had leisure for a few observations. The grave youngman, Eustace, stood also apart, and the immobility of his face struckme anew. I could not understand his receiving so moderate a welcomefrom his sisters. All eyes were bent upon Mr. Romilly, and the girlshovered about their father, with the devotion of satellites round a sun.

Vainly I looked for the "sweet Maggie" of my expectations, vainlyalso for the Nona and Elfleda of Mrs. Romilly's painting. Thyrza Iknew had not appeared, and the boy in charge of the pony I guessed tobe Denham. But Maggie, Nona, Elfie, the two little ones, the nurserygoverness,—enough were present to stand for all these. The two littleones I could of course distinguish. The rest at first sight I could not.

All the voices talked together. Broken scraps reached me, in tones notloud but excited.

"O father! We've had the jolliest day! We went such a walk!"

"And Millie was so tired!"

"And Gladys went with us."

"Oh, and father, only think—"

"Father, I'm going to have a canary-bird,—Pet and me, I mean."

"Yes, father, isn't it lovely? Mrs. Hepburn is going to give a canaryto Popsie and me for our very own."

"Isn't Mrs. Hepburn a dear, father?"

"And it's a green canary."

"I thought canaries were yellow."

"So they are, Pops! But, father, only think, Gladys has heard—"

"O Nona! You might let me tell father that! Gladys has heard—"

"About her book—"

"Her story that she wrote—"

"From the Society where she sent it, father, and he says—"

"Nonsense, Nona: a society is it, not he."

"Well, it says, father, that they'll bring it out—"

"Because she's made the little girl that died get well again instead—"

"Yes, because there are such lots of cripples in stories, you know,father."

"And of course Gladys didn't mind doing that, and now it's really takenand going to be printed."

"And Maggie means to write stories too, father, like Gladys. Won't thatbe awfully nice?"

"My dears, I really don't—er—quite understand."

"Of course you don't, father, when Nona and Elfie tell you in such aridiculous way."

"Oh, you don't understand, of course, father, because nobody has knowna single word about it till to-day."

"Except Mrs. Hepburn and all of them."

"Anybody out of their house, I mean. At least Nellie might, but Maggiedidn't."

"I knew Gladys wrote stories, Nona."

"Yes; but not about her trying to get them printed."

"Father, did you see that poor lady, and give her a lot of money?"

"And Thyrza not here, my dears-er! I don't understand Thyrza's absence."

"Oh, she meant to come in time, father,—if she could."

"Father, who is to walk and who is to drive? Millie thought—"

"Nonsense, Nona. I don't wish to be quoted on all occasions."

"But, Millie dear, I was only going to say—"

"Now, children—er—I think we have talked long enough. Miss Conway iswaiting all this time—er—quite neglected. Pray do excuse us, MissConway. I fear you will think the children sadly uncivilised. My dears,this is Miss Conway—your beloved mother's dear friend—er—and you willgive her a very warm welcome. This is Maggie, Miss Conway, our eldestnow at home,—and this is Nona, and this Elfleda. Thyrza, I regretto say, is not here. Our little ones—er—Popsie and Pet—and—er—MissMillington. My second boy, Denham, is with the pony."

One after another came forward to shake hands, showing more or less ofshyness, and no particular warmth.

My first view of Margaret Romilly brought disappointment. For sheproved to be in no wise a reproduction of Mrs. Romilly. She is shortinstead of tall, plump instead of slender; and the only prettiness ofwhich her round innocent face could at that moment boast, lay in thepossession of a peach-bloom complexion, and a pair of dark-grey eyeswith long curved black lashes. Neither figure nor carriage is good,and the rosy childish hand put into mine might have been years youngerthan the long fingers of the tall Nona, her more than two years'junior,—both having pulled off their gloves.

Where were Nona's "clouds of auburn hair?" I saw only a knotted coilof decided "carrots" under the brown hat which sheltered Nona's face.A bright face enough, with ordinary features, and with a reallytransparent skin, which however is a good deal marred by the browncloudiness resulting from abundant summer freckles.

Elfleda, my friend's "lovely gipsy," I might have recognised earlier,despite the fact that to my critical eyes the loveliness was lacking.I saw only a slim creature, very small in make for sixteen yearsand a half, with sharp tiny features, elfishly old and quaint, apair of dusky orbs which neither flashed nor sparkled, a pale sallowcomplexion, and minute brown hands. Apparently the elf had less to saythan anybody. Her little shut-up button of a mouth opened rarely duringthose few minutes of general talk.

The two youngest girls, Popsie and Pet, or more correctly Mary andJean, aged eight and seven years old, struck me as rather pretty. Theystood hand in hand, under the guardianship of Miss Millington, a younglady perhaps one or two years older than Maggie, and scarcely overMaggie in height, but with greater confidence of bearing, a compactfigure, and a neat "puss*-cat" face, by no means intellectual.

A sudden silence fell upon the party with my introduction. MissMillington's eyes travelled over me from head to foot, taking aninventory of my dress. I made some remark upon the journey, and Mr.Romilly chimed in nervously, repeating my words and enlarging on them.

Then we moved towards the pony-carriage, and the boy in chargedescended to greet us. His manner towards me was both more frank andmore indifferent than that of the girls. Like Elfleda, he is small inmake; and his delicate sharp features are his father's over again, butthe slim figure is well-knit, and the blue eyes contain possibilitiesof unbounded mischief. The silky grey curls of the father are silkenbrown curls in the son, dropping over a forehead neither high norbroad, but white as alabaster. I have heard much about the singularbeauty of this boy, and for the first time I could recall my friend'sdescription with no sense of disparagement.

Mr. Romilly was talking, talking, in his little thin slow voice, aboutthe weather, and about the danger of a chill, and about the need fora closed fly, and most of all about Thyrza's non-appearance. He wasfretted and worried, and nothing could be arranged quite to his liking.Eustace offered to go for a fly, but Mr. Romilly could not possiblywait. Denham suggested a hunt for the missing Thyrza, but Mr. Romillycould not think of it. "If Thyrza did not care to come—er!" &c.

Then the question rose anew, who should drive and who should walk.My luggage was to be sent, and it was taken for granted that I mustdrive, a decision against which I protested vainly. Nobody so much aslistened. Maggie stepped in after me, as a matter of course; and Mr.Romilly dallied long, with one little patent-leather boot on the step.He wanted Popsie and Pet with him; and he thought it unkind to permitMiss Millington to walk; and he was quite sure dear Elfie must beoverdone; and he was so very sorry not to feel equal to the exertionhimself. And everybody waited to know his decision, with, I am afraid,much more patience than I could feel.

Suddenly a girlish figure came swiftly round the corner of thestation,—taller than Maggie, taller even than Nona, and thinner thaneither, with a grave set face, troubled, as it seemed to me, in a vexedfashion. I knew in a moment that this was Thyrza, even before hername was uttered by one after another of the group in varying accentsof reproach. She walked straight up to us, bent her head to kiss thefather who was shorter than herself, lifted it in like matter-of-factwise to kiss the tall elder brother, and stood still.

I could hardly have told then what there was in this "dear difficultThyrza" which interested me at first sight more than all the others. Itwas not beauty though my own immediate impression was that Thyrza wouldone day be the best-looking of the sisters. It was not attractivenessof manner, for she made no effort to seem agreeable. I think it mustrather have been a certain indefinable something which spoke thepresence of character—of that which even more than power of intellect,and far more than mere beauty of form or feature, stamps an individualas standing apart from the throng of his or her fellow-men.

Whatever Thyrza's faults might be, I knew at once that in her I shouldat least not meet with inanity or weakness. There might be misdirectedforce, but force there was. While these impressions swept through mymind, others were speaking.

"Thyrza, you never came after all, and father was so disappointed,"complained Maggie.

"And you promised," put in Nona.

"Oh, Thyrza's promises are pie-crust," said Denham.

"Made to be broken," added Nona.

Thyrza had said nothing thus far. She stood near Eustace, her slenderupright figure shown well by a closely-fitting cloth jacket. Unlikethe rest, she has her mother's figure, though not her mother's grace.There was something a little rigid in her attitude, and the two armshung flat, with no suspicion of a curve. Neither has she Mrs. Romilly'sface. The straight thin features, the heavy thick black hair, thedark serious eyes, are Thyrza's own. I could see no resemblance inthem to any other member of the family. So, too, are the resolute andbeautifully-moulded lips: for if in outline they are Mr. Romilly's, incharacter they belong exclusively to herself.

Those closed lips parted suddenly. "I did not promise, Nona. I said Iwould come if I could."

"Oh yes, we quite understand," retorted Nona, with a touch ofgood-humoured pertness.

"Thyrza, my dear, this is Miss Conway," Mr. Romilly said, in a fretteddistressed tone, as if he were restraining serious displeasure. Icould not see, for my part, what there was so very heinous in hernon-appearance to welcome a father who had been absent only one night.Eustace was evidently left out of the question.

Thyrza stepped forward, and gave me her hand abruptly. I do not knowwhether she read in my face anything of what I thought. Our eyesmet, and some look in mine must have touched her—how, I do not know.Her face did not relax, but a sudden softness came into the blackeyes; and as she was in the very act of snatching her hand away, thefingers closed round mine in a sharp awkward fashion, as if from anafterthought.

"Now—er—I think we should decide—er," hesitated Mr. Romilly. He seemsto me always at a loss what words to employ next. "So very chilly here.I really think—if anybody has no objection to the walk—er—"

He looked round helplessly, and Thyrza responded—

"Why can't Nona and Elfie and I walk with Eustace? Maggie likes drivingbest, and Miss Millington says she is tired. There's room enough forthe children too, if nobody minds crowding."

She had hit the mark, though no precise explanation of the state ofaffairs had been tendered for her benefit. I noted a slight stress onthe "says," and a slight toss of Miss Millington's head, which revealedto me a condition of something like chronic war in one direction. Ithought, too, that I could detect more signs of real fatigue in thelittle thin face of Elfie than on the "puss*-cat" features of MissMillington. The timely suggestions were followed, however. Neither Nonanor Elfie objected. The four pedestrians started off briskly, and thewell-laden pony-carriage soon followed at a moderate pace, suited tothe inclinations of the fat and drowsy pony.

I was rather astonished to find that all this delay and discussion hadbeen with reference to a fifteen minutes' walk. The drive proved tooccupy quite as long a time, since we had to take a considerable tourin place of a short-cut, and the ground sloped upwards continuously.

Most of our way lay along a dull road, with a hedge on one side and awall on the other: an occasional house in a garden alternating withsmall fields.

Mr. Romilly kept up a diminutive flow of talk with Popsie and Pet,addressing a remark now and then to me; but conversation generally waslimited in extent. Miss Millington studied me persistently, with eyeswhich noted every fold and button in my dress, and had power to seevery little beyond the folds and buttons. Maggie's pretty eyes studiedme too at intervals, in a girlish and interested though not penetrativefashion. I could not feel sure whether or no Maggie were disposed tolike me, but I could be very sure that Miss Millington was not.

Reaching Glynde House, my visions of a possible park died a suddendeath. For it was evidently just a good-sized "family mansion," soan agent would term it, roomy and comfortable, and standing in agood-sized garden; nothing more and nothing less. Thyrza stood at thefront door to welcome us; if her silent reception could be called awelcome. The three others had vanished. She took possession of my bagand shawl, and held them resolutely, while Mr. Romilly insisted onleading me from room to room on the ground-floor, that I might at onceknow my whereabouts.

So we walked into the large drawing-room, through a kind ofante-chamber or small drawing-room; then into the capaciousdining-room; then into the study, the morning-room, and the schoolroom.I was glad to find the latter nicely furnished, with two windows andplenty of book-shelves.

"The morning sun comes in this side," remarked Maggie, whoaccompanied us, while Thyrza waited at each door in turn. "It wouldbe very cold with only that north-east window. Millie—I mean, MissMillington—teaches the little ones in the nursery," she added. "Exceptthat she has to give them their music on this piano, because there isno piano upstairs. And, of course, she sits here a good deal. At leastshe always has. Jackie—I mean, Miss Jackson—was so fond of Millie, andnever minded. And they all three come to schoolroom tea and supperhere. It saves trouble for the servants."

"This is, of course—er—your special property, Miss Conway," explainedMr. Romilly. "But I hope—er—I trust you will not confine yourself tothe schoolroom. My dear wife is counting on your companionship forour dear girls—er—for Maggie especially,—apart from the teaching.Pray consider yourself as our guest—er—as here in every respect asour friend—er—and pray remember that the more we see of you in thedrawing-room—er—I am sure you understand."

I did quite, and I wished people would not make speeches, though ofcourse he meant it most kindly. Maggie's expression struck me as alittle curious. I could not make it out, for the simple reason, Isuspect, that she did not herself know exactly what to think. Maggie'sposition is almost as new to her as mine to me. She glanced at usboth in a kind of puzzled fashion; and when he went on to talk ofher inexperience as a housekeeper, and to suggest the benefits of myadvice, a look of dissent came.

Some people in my place would have taken her hand affectionately, andsaid a few words of just the right sort about the mother whom we bothloved, and about my readiness to help if asked. But I never am ableto manage these little gushes of appropriate feeling at the correctmoment. I have often wished that I could. One loses so much time,waiting for others to take the initiative.

I ventured soon to ask after Mrs. Romilly; and her husband entered intoa long and sighing dissertation on her state of health, saying muchbut telling little, and presently diverging to his own condition. Sucha comfort it was that they had such a dear girl as their dear Nellie,to undertake the charge of the beloved invalid, he hardly knew whatthey could have done but for Nellie. He was really so feeble himself,and travelling always affected him so painfully. But dear Nellie wasquite invaluable; and everything had been arranged for the comfort ofhis precious wife. Such a mercy, too, that this very chilly weatherhad not set in just before they started. And everybody had been sokind, the amount of sympathy from friends under these exceptionallytrying circ*mstances had been really past his power to describe. Andthen the unutterable consolation to himself and his dear Gertrude,that her chosen friend should be able to come and take her place withthe dear girls,—to act, in short, a mother's part to them,—he feltthat he might almost lay aside the burden of responsibility, otherwiseso heavy in her absence. He had indeed very much to be thankful for,notwithstanding the deep trial of such a prolonged separation.

All this and much more, uttered in a dolefully pathetic minor keyhardly expressive of thankfulness, I heard with less of inward than ofoutward patience. My stock of patience is not, I fear, very large. Andthe idea of my "acting a mother's part" to these girls struck me as alittle too ludicrous. Why, I am but a girl myself, not four years olderthan Maggie! But perhaps on first arrival I had my thirty-years-oldlook, which I must certainly endeavour to cultivate.

At length I was taken to my room, and Thyrza offered to help me in theunpacking of my trunks. Maggie lingered about, coming in and going out,with a certain embarrassed persistency, as if unable to decide on herproper line of action. Then she took me downstairs to afternoon teain the drawing-room; and different members of the family appeared anddisappeared, all seeming more or less constrained because of me. I amafraid I have not the gift of putting people at their ease.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed slowly. We all dinedtogether at seven, even Miss Millington and the little ones, whichseems to be regarded as an unusual occurrence. In the drawing-room,later, I was treated as a visitor. The girls played or sang, as theycould, and Mr. Romilly kept the talk going laboriously.

I do not yet know what will be the ordinary course of household events.Information is not readily tendered, and I have a dislike to askingmany questions. Maggie, being so young a manager, seems to expectthings to take a straight course, without effort on her part.

All the evening I had a feeling of perplexity as to my own realposition here. It seems to me an anomalous one,—half guest, halfgoverness. Can that work well?

I thought it over late at night, feeling harassed and lonely. Nodistinct light on the actual perplexity came, but only one shortsentence, running through and through my head, as I lay awake:—

"Be of good cheer: IT IS I!"

No more than this; and what more could I need? Whatever comes or maycome in my life—still, IT IS JESUS! Harassing perplexities, loneliness,difficulties, uncertainties, what are they all but the pressure of HisHand, drawing me nearer to Himself?

The restlessness and the craving for human comfort died away into awonderful peace,—such a sense of my Master's loving sympathy, such areadiness to have all exactly as God my Father should will, such afeeling of being upheld and guarded by the Divine Spirit, as I havenever in my life known before. And I fell asleep, quite satisfied.

CHAPTER VII.

THYRZA'S SANCTUM.

THE SAME.

February 27. Friday.

THE country round Glynde seems to be tolerably pretty, of the Englishsemi-rural description, with fields and hedges, farmsteads andcottages, and enough undulating ground to obviate flatness.

Glynde itself is a sleepy country town, of ordinary type, possessingits two Churches, its clergy, its doctors, its lawyers, its necessaryarray of second-hand shops, its town-hall and markets, its occasionalsmall concerts and other entertainments, its local business on alimited scale, and its local gossip on a scale unlimited. So much Igather already, from observation and passing remarks.

I have always said that I should detest above all things life in aretired country town,—Bath being a city of too much character andhistory to come under that appellation. Having declared which, it isnot surprising that I find myself now stranded on just such a spot.

For if one is so rash as to assert positively that one will not do acertain thing in life, one is pretty sure to be called on some day todo that thing.

The geography of Glynde House is not difficult to learn. In shape thebuilding is a square substantial block, with a large conservatoryjutting out on one side, and kitchen offices protruding behind.

On the ground-floor a broad passage or hall runs from the front doorto the storeroom and lavatory, beyond which lie kitchen-premises. Tothe right of the hall, as one enters, is first, the ante-chamber orsmall drawing-room, the large drawing-room and the conservatory; next,a small passage and side-door into the garden; and behind these, theschoolroom. To the left of the hall are the dining-room, the study, andthe morning-room.

On the first-floor, a broad corridor traverses the house from frontto back, ending in a bath-room. To the right are, first, Mr. andMrs. Romilly's very large bedroom and dressing-room; then a smallroom occupied by the twins; and lastly, a two-windowed room over theschoolroom, apportioned to me. On the other side, over the dining-room,is the spare-room with its dressing-room; behind that a spacious roombelonging to Nellie and Maggie; behind that a room for Eustace andDenham.

On the second floor the left half is entirely set apart for theservants, being divided off by a wall running the whole length of thecorridor, which thus becomes two separate passages. To the right are,first, and in front, a big low-roofed nursery, transformed of lateinto a secondary schoolroom; behind that a locked-up room containinghousehold linen; then a bedroom for Popsie and Pet, and opening intothat another for Miss Millington. Behind Miss Millington's again is anarrow strip of a room, appropriated by Thyrza.

It is Thyrza's own choice to sleep there, and she told me so frankly.At one time she shared the elder girls' really luxurious quarters; butabout a year ago she entreated that the little box-room might be fittedup for her exclusive use; and the request was granted.

"Anything to have a corner to myself!" she said yesterday afternoon,when explaining this. I was a long time alone in the morning, thegirls having promised to walk some distance with friends. They askeddubiously whether I would not like to go also, but I begged off, withthanks. I had unpacking to do, I said, and letters to write. After all,the unpacking and letters resolved themselves into journalising.

Luncheon over, Maggie proposed to drive me out in the pony-carriage,"to see the place;" and the twins accompanied us. Conversation did notflow very easily, I am afraid; and I could not feel that I was makinggreat way as yet. Nona chattered a good deal about nothing; and Elfiescarcely spoke at all. Her little brown impassive face puzzles me. Isshe always like this? Maggie seemed to like talking about the Hepburns;and I was interested in what she said, though it did not amount to much.

"This is Glynde Park," Maggie said, as we passed through iron gates."It belongs to a great friend of ours—Sir Keith Denham."

"There was a gentleman in the train with me yesterday," I said."Somebody called him 'Sir Keith,' and asked after 'Lady Denham.'"

"Oh, that was the same, of course. How funny!" Maggie said, in herhalf-childish style. "Lady Denham is his mother. We don't like her somuch as we like him, she is so odd. Everybody likes Sir Keith."

She blushed up in her quick way. I could not tell whether it meantanything. Some girls blush at everything, just as others never blush atall.

Nona chimed in, "Oh, everybody! He's the very nicest man that ever was.Eustace is going to dine at the Park to-night. He and Sir Keith areimmense friends, aren't they, Maggie?"

I did not admire the little giggle which followed this speech. Itsounded foolish, though all else seemed simple and natural enough.

Drizzling rain came on, and our drive was cut short. As I went upstairsI met Thyrza, and she said, "You haven't seen my room yet?"

"No," I answered. "Will you show it to me now?"

Thyrza followed me into my own room, where I removed bonnet and jacket.Then it was that she explained the sleeping arrangements of the family,ending with the ejacul*tion, "Anything to have a corner to myself!"

"I can understand your wish," I said.

"Can you? Nobody else does. Mother gave way; but she doesn't like mywanting it."

"You have a cosy corner, at all events!" I said, as we entered,glancing round upon the variety of odd knick-knacks and curiositieswhich adorned the walls of the narrow chamber, or were crowded uponshelves and brackets. Framed photographs and unframed paintingsalternated with porcelain figures, china plates, and Japanese fans;and every available space seemed to be filled up with an assortmentof quaint cups and teapots, stuffed birds, nursery toys, geologicspecimens, everlasting flowers, dried grasses, bulrushes, strings ofbeads, draped scarves, Swiss sabots, German carvings, and what not!Such a heterogeneous collection in so small a space I had never comeacross before. The little iron bed was at one end, the fireplace at theother, the window on one side between, looking towards the north-east.

One corner, near the fireplace, seemed to be given up to sacredsubjects. Two framed illuminated texts flanked an exquisite engravingof Holman Hunt's "Light of the World;" around the simple Oxford frameof which was entwined a spray of ivy. Beneath the engraving stood asmall table; and on the table lay a Bible, a Church Service, a handsomecopy of "The Christian Year," Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation," and two orthree other volumes.

"Do you like the room?" asked Thyrza.

"I like anything characteristic," I answered. "Some day you must let meinto all the secrets of your curiosity-shop."

"Would you care? That will be nice."

The first three words came with quite a flash of pleasure. After apause, she added, in her abrupt style, "Nobody else likes it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Except Eustace, I mean, and he only because it pleases me. Oh, I don'tknow why. Tastes differ, I suppose. Father thinks it all nonsense. Andmother says that corner is so incongruous with the rest."

We were near the small table already mentioned, and I turned to lookupon the kingly Figure depicted above,—the Figure of One waiting withDivine patience at a barred and moss-grown door, and with a wondrouslight of loving pity in His glorious Eyes. A hush crept over me as Igazed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" murmured Thyrza. "If only I could see theoriginal painting!"

"I have seen it," I said.

"And you enjoy this—after that?"

"The more, for having seen that."

"It is so beautiful," she said again.

"More than beautiful," I answered. "One seems to gain a fresh insightinto His character from studying that Face. There is such a mingling ofmajesty and tenderness."

I did not expect a sudden little clutch of my hand, and a quick, "Oh,I am so glad you feel that. It's just what I feel, and can't put intowords."

"Of course," I added, "it is only a human conception of what He is; andone knows that every human conception of Him must fall infinitely shortof the reality."

Thyrza's dark eyes were fixed on me intently. "And you don't think thiscorner of my room incongruous with the rest," she asked. "I do so liketo have all my pet things about me; and I have nowhere to put themexcept on the walls. Is there any harm?"

"I can understand your mother's feeling," I said cautiously. "And ifthere were any touch of the really comic, frankly, I should not likethat, side by side with the sacred. But the room does not strike me ascomic. It is only singular and natural, a putting forth of your mindand tastes. To me, it seems rather to mean the coming of religion intothe common little things of everyday life. If our religion doesn't dothat, it is not worth much. Perhaps a good deal depends on how onelooks upon a question."

CHAPTER VIII.

"MILLIE."

THE SAME—continued.

February 27. Friday Evening.

"THANK you," Thyrza said earnestly.

She led me to the tiny mantelpiece, over which hung numerousphotographs. Brothers and sisters grouped round the parents were easilyrecognisable; most of them having been recently taken.

Somewhat apart from the central family collection, I noted two ofcabinet size, placed close together. One was the likeness of aremarkably handsome youth, almost a young man, standing in an attitudeof careless and smiling ease. The other represented a lad, perhapstwo or three years younger, plain-featured, but brimming over with soirresistible a look of fun and merriment, that I fairly laughed aloud,as I looked into the mischievous eyes.

"Who are those?" I asked, smiling still, and turning to Thyrza.

No answering smile met mine. "Keith and Eustace," she said.

I looked again. "Not your brother Eustace, of course. You have a cousinof the same name, perhaps," I suggested. For the one was far toohandsome; and there seemed no possible connection between that otherradiantly merry face and the grave young man downstairs.

"Yes, my brothers, Keith and Eustace." She spoke in a curt, evenhard tone. "The photos were taken six years ago, just before it allhappened. Nobody else can bear to see them together like this. But Ithink—"

Thyrza stopped abruptly.

"I did not know you had had another brother," I said. There had beenthe loss of one little girl, I was aware, between the twins and Popsie;but of any older son than Eustace I had not heard.

"Then mother never told you. I wonder at that. She can't speak of Keithgenerally; but you are her friend!"

"I cannot recall any mention of him," I said.

"And you don't know how it all happened?"

"No." Thyrza was silent, and I repeated the name "Keith! That is thesame as your friend at the Park."

"Yes; he was named after his godfather, the old Sir Keith."

I looked at the photograph and asked, "What was his age then?"

"Eighteen, and Eustace was sixteen."

"And you were quite a child."

"Yes, not twelve." She gazed fixedly on the ground, as if thinking."Everybody knows," she said at length; "and you must too. I wouldrather you should not say that I told you; but of course you will haveto know. It was just before Christmas, and they had come home for theholidays. And the ice on the pond was not safe. Eustace persisted inskating, against orders. Only Keith and I were there, and we begged himnot, but it was of no use. He was always so high-spirited, and he likedhis own way; and father being so nervous about everything, Eustacethought it nonsense. And he went on; and the ice broke; and Keithplunged in to help him."

"And was Keith drowned?" I asked, in a low voice.

"No; not drowned. But the ice kept breaking, and they couldn't get out,and I ran to call some men to bring a rope. Eustace was saved first,and then Keith sank before he could be reached, and he was insensiblefor hours after, much worse than Eustace. It was a dreadful time.Eustace soon came all right again; but Keith had never been reallystrong. He caught a very bad chill, and inflammation of the lungs setin. He died in a fortnight."

"How terrible!" I said.

"Yes. Oh, and if you had known him, such a dear fellow. I can't tellyou what he was to us all. Everybody thought so much of Keith, andhe never seemed the least conceited. They call Denham like him; andI suppose he is in a way. Father and mother think so, and that iswhy they can't bear to deny Denham anything he wants. But he is sodifferent. Keith was tall, not little like Denham, and so much moreclever and hard-working, and so really good! And he and Eustace were sofond of one another. Don't you think it was worst of all for Eustace,much worse than for anybody else?"

Thyrza's dark eyes looked again earnestly into mine, deepening anddilating with the strength of her own feelings. "Keith did so beg andbeseech, before he died, that no difference might be made to Eustace.He said we were never to think of it as Eustace's doing. But—thereis a difference. Nobody ever forgets; and nobody ever seems quite toforgive—except—"

"Six years!" I said involuntarily, as she paused.

"Six years and a few weeks! It is a long long while to keep the feelingup. And Eustace meant no harm, Miss Conway. He was just a recklessboy,—in wild spirits. Of course he was wrong to disobey,—very wrong.But still, it wasn't worse that time than fifty other times, I suppose.It does seem such a dreadful punishment to have come upon him."

"I suppose one ought rather to put it the opposite way," I said; "thatthe fifty other times were really no better than that time."

"Yes—perhaps—but such, a punishment to follow upon that once!" sherepeated.

"Hardly upon that once alone," I said. "If he had not disobeyed fiftytimes before, more or less, he would not have disobeyed then. Don'tthink me hard upon your brother, Thyrza, for indeed I do feel for him.But I believe we are all a little apt to forget how every single stepin life is part of a steady working onward towards some good or someterrible goal. No one deed can be weighed by itself, detached fromothers."

She gave me a startled glance, and said, "Every single step!"

"It must be," I said. "Everything that we do strengthens either thegood or the evil in us; and no one thing done can ever be undone."

Thyrza drew a long breath. "Ah, that is the worst!" she said. Aftera moment's hesitation she went on, "Eustace has never been thesame since. He never speaks of Keith, or of that time. Some don'tunderstand, and think him unfeeling. I have heard him called 'callous.'As if people could not see for themselves!"

"I should have thought it would be enough to compare that photographwith his face now," I said.

"Then you understand," responded Thyrza abruptly.

"And your mother so bright still," I said, with surprised recollection.

"Mother! Oh yes, she is bright by fits and starts. I don't think shecan help having a bright manner with strangers, it is her way. But sheperfectly worshipped Keith. They thought mother wouldn't have livedthrough it, when he died."

We did not carry on the conversation farther. I had more unpackingto do, and I went to my room, inviting Thyrza to accompany me. Sheacquiesced with evident pleasure. Five minutes later there came a tapat the door, and Rouse, the upper housemaid, entered, glancing at myhalf-empty trunks. She is very staid and superior in look, with thepleasant noiseless manner of a really good servant. "Would you like anyhelp this afternoon, Miss?" she asked.

"Oh no, Rouse, I am going to unpack for Miss Conway," said Thyrza.

Rouse's face showed some lurking amusem*nt. I thanked her, and shewithdrew, begging me to ring if I wanted anything.

"What a nice person she seems!" I said.

"Rouse has been with us seven years, and always thinks of everything.Fortunate that she does, for Maggie remembers nothing, and she won't bereminded," said Thyrza.

"People cannot learn housekeeping in a day," I observed; and as Ilifted out a dress, Thyrza standing by in a rather helpless attitudeof would-be helpfulness, I inquired about the daily arrangements as tomeals.

"Breakfast is always at eight, like this morning," she answered."Father isn't often down till half-past, as you saw to-day, and Prayersare always at half-past, and he breakfasts alone after. And luncheonis at one, always the same, only it is sometimes more of a dinner,and sometimes less. The schoolroom tea is at five, and it is open toanybody. Miss Jackson always made tea, and of course you will now, butMillie is pretty sure to try and oust you, if you don't look out. Shedearly likes to put herself first. Mother and Nellie sometimes come tothe schoolroom tea; but as a rule they have tea in the drawing-room.Maggie is bent on keeping up the drawing-room tea, though really it isabsurd, except just when callers come rather late. Father and Eustacenever take tea, and Maggie is only just out of the schoolroom."

"Then she is out of it," I said.

"Yes; and mother wanted me to be out too, so as to be a companion toMaggie. But of course I could not. Why, I am not eighteen for anothertwo months, and Maggie has gone on till her nineteenth birthday isover. Father always promised that I should do the same. I am to paycalls sometimes with Maggie, while mother and Nellie are away. That isbad enough, for I hate calls. Don't you?"

"Not if they come in the way of my duty," I said.

"Are calls ever a duty?" asked Thyrza. "It always seems to me such asham, going and hoping to find everybody out."

"Is that always a necessary state of things?"

"I don't know," she said. "Not with everybody, but with me. Then thereis late dinner at seven, and schoolroom supper at half-past seven.When we are quite alone, all we elder ones down to Denham dine withfather, and so will you, because mother settled it so. Miss Jacksonnever would. She said late dinners disagreed with her. I believe shereally was afraid of Millie; for it was only since Millie came that shesaid so. But you are mother's friend, and differences are to be made.Millie—Miss Millington, I mean,—is awfully jealous of you, because shealways has her supper in the schoolroom with the children."

"Thyrza, you must not try to set me against Miss Millington," I saidgravely.

"There's no need. You will see for yourself. Besides—" after apause,—"it is only I who dislike Millie. The others are no end devotedto her, and so was Jackie,—Miss Jackson, I mean. We always called herJackie. I am afraid it was rude, but she didn't mind. She never mindedanything, so long as nobody was cross."

"I should like the schoolroom supper quite as much as the late dinner,"I said.

"I like it much best of the two! But mother made a great fuss aboutthat, and it will never do for you to say you don't wish it. Fatherwould be desperately vexed—hurt, I mean! I advise you just to takeeverything as a matter of course. You will soon learn all the ins andouts of the house."

"One thing is quite certain," I said. "I am your mother's friend, but Iam also your governess; and I will not have the last fact forgotten inthe first."

Thyrza gave me a wide-eyed glance of wonder and approval.

"You'd better not say that in Millie's hearing."

"Why?" I asked imprudently.

"Oh, nothing offends her more than the word 'governess.' And 'nurserygoverness' finishes her off altogether."

I could hardly help smiling. "To my mind 'governess' is an honourableterm," I said.

Then for a little while I kept Thyrza hard at work, and conversationflagged. By-and-by tapping outside the door sounded, and Nona's brightface appeared.

"Maggie wants me to ask you, Miss Conway—Is Thyrza here?"

"Why not?" asked Thyrza, suddenly on the defensive.

"Father has just been saying that he has seen nothing of you all day,and he wanted to know where you were."

A slight sound of impatience escaped the elder girl. "What were yougoing to say about Maggie?" she demanded in a brusque tone, whichcontrasted not quite agreeably with Nona's good-humoured and sprightlymanlier.

"Maggie thinks, Miss Conway, that perhaps you are tired to-day, andperhaps you would like Millie to pour out tea in the schoolroom,—as shehas done lately."

"Millie all over!" Thyrza muttered.

"I think that had better be as Maggie likes," I answered. "Please tellher so, Nona. If she wishes Miss Millington to pour out the tea thisafternoon, I have no objection. But I am not at all tired; and am quiteready to step into my duties without delay."

Nona vanished, wearing a puzzled face.

Thyrza exclaimed, "I shall see about it!" and vanished too.

I do not know exactly what passed among the girls during the next fewminutes. When I reached the schoolroom, I found Thyrza mounting guardover the teapot like a young dragoness, and Miss Millington posing as amartyr at the other end of the table, surrounded by a little group ofsympathisers. Maggie and Denham were not present.

"Never mind, Millie darling! We'll tell mother!"

"Poor Millie! When she only meant to be kind, and to save Miss Conwaytrouble!"

"Thyrza is always so cross about everything to do with Millie."

"I think Millie ought to pour out the tea always."

"So do I. Why, Millie has been here ever so much the longest."

"And I'm sure she's nearly as old as that Miss Conway!"

"Oh, I do wish dear sweet old Jackie had never gone away."

"Poor Millie Never mind, darling Millie. We'll always like you best."

These sentences greeted my ears in a rapid rush, as I gained thehalf-open schoolroom door, spoken eagerly and in raised tones. For amoment I faltered, and could have fled. The difficulties of my newposition came over me keenly.

But the next instant, I rallied and opened wide the door, taking careto make myself heard. The small chorus of utterances died a suddendeath, and my chief comfort was that nobody could know me to have heardaught.

"This is your seat, Miss Conway," said Thyrza.

I went half-way thither, and paused. "Maggie proposed that MissMillington should make tea this afternoon."

"Nonsense, Miss Conway,—I mean, that is all nonsense of Maggie's," saidThyrza. "It is your place."

"Millie thought you would be tired," two or three voices cried.

"I don't think I am exactly tired," I said deliberately. "Buteverything is strange to me, and I am strange to all of you. So itreally will be a kindness if Miss Millington does not mind pouring outthe tea, just this once. To-morrow I mean to be quite fresh, and readyfor all my duties. May I sit at the side of the table and be lazy thisafternoon? I shall not ask it a second time."

I saw glances exchanged, and I knew that Miss Millington felt herselfin a manner checkmated. It is a misfortune that I have had to do sosoon anything which savours of checkmating. She rose without a word andwent to the head of the table, Popsie and Pet hanging on to either arm,and Thyrza yielding to her somewhat sullenly.

I must confess to a feeling of relief, when seven o'clock came, at theabsence of Miss Millington from dinner. The presence of that littleperson acts already as an incubus on my spirits.

The evening has been very much a repetition of yesterday evening.To-morrow may be different, for Mrs. Hepburn and her daughter, Gladys,are expected to dine with us. I am curious to see the young embryoauthoress. One gets rather tired of embryo authoresses in these days,when everybody is trying to rush into print, with or without anythingto say; still, Gladys Hepburn may possibly belong to the more limitedclass of those who really have something to say.

Maggie is evidently fired by example. I see her scribbling away atside-tables, the other girls peeping over her shoulder and offeringsuggestions. Apparently she does not dislike a little fuss made aboutthe matter.

The Hepburns have lived for two or three years past in Glynde Cottage,a small house round the next corner. Gladys, Nellie Romilly's friend,is an only daughter, eighteen years old. Mrs. Hepburn is a widow,and seems to be universally esteemed. A brother of hers—bachelor orwidower—lives with them; also a lanky lame youth, rather younger thanGladys, and two little girls, about the same age as Popsie and Pet.These three are Gladys' first cousins, and were left orphans not verylong ago, I believe.

CHAPTER IX.

THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS.

THE SAME.

February 28. Saturday Evening.

SCHOOLROOM tea was nearly over to-day, when Denham dashed in and tookhis place. There had been no further question as to patronage of theteapot, which fell to me naturally, though I caught a glowering glancenow and then from the two youngest, as they clung to Miss Millingtonwith vehement demonstrations of affection, interlarding their talk with"sweets" and "lovies" innumerable.

"Where have you been all this time?" Nona asked.

"Oh, only round to the Cottage," Denham answered. "No, notbread-and-butter. Cake, please,—and a jolly big piece, for I'mravenous. There's a note from Nellie to Gladys, inside father's, andhe thought she'd want it directly. Gladys said she would tell us thisevening if there was any news."

"Has father heard from mother?" cried the chorus.

Denham nodded, his mouth being full.

"And Maggie?"

The boy shook his head.

"Nobody else except father?"

"Only a note to Gladys. Maggie is to hear next."

Elfie's face had struck me already as looking strangely tired and pale,with a complete absence of brightness in the black eyes. I saw her nowlooking at Denham in a hungry pitiful fashion, which quite touched me,and the muscles of her throat were working painfully. She asked noquestions, and I felt sure that she could not trust her voice. One ortwo more remarks passed about the foreign letters; and the next momentshe had slid her chair back, and had rushed from the room.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Denham.

"She's only in a hurry to ask what father has heard," said Nona.

Tea lasted as long as Denham's appetite, which is saying a good deal.It came to an end in time, however, like everything else; and we hadjust risen from table, when I heard Pet's voice saying—

"What are we to call Miss Conway?"

"Miss Conway, of course," Miss Millington answered.

"What would you like to call me, Pet?" I asked.

Pet's eyes grew round. "I don't see what we can," she answered."Because we always call Miss Jackson 'Jackie,' and Miss Millington'Millie.' But we couldn't call you 'Connie!'"

"For shame, Pet! How can you be so ridiculous," cried Thyrza.

Pet turned crimson at the rebuke, and fled to the shelter of MissMillington's arms.

"I don't see anything ridiculous in the idea," I said. "But I supposethere is one little difficulty in the way. You see, Pet, my name isConstance Conway, so 'Connie' is my Christian name."

Pet was covered with confusion, and had nothing more to say. I thoughtMiss Millington's protecting embrace unnecessary and affected.

"I say, why not 'Miss Con'?" asked Denham.

Two or three voices repeated "Miss Con!" in doubtful tones; and Denhamdefended the abbreviation as being "less of a jaw-breaker" than myfull cognomen. I should not have thought the absence of one syllableso highly important, but when appealed to, I acquiesced, and Denhamclenched the matter by an immediate, "I say, Miss Con; just give mehalf-a-cup more tea, please."

So that I suppose is to be my new title.

In very good time for dinner, I donned my one handsome black silk,which not only fits well and looks well, but also gives me anappearance of being a good deal older than my real age, no smalladvantage under present circ*mstances. It is trimmed with jet beads,and I wore jet ornaments to correspond.

Nearly twenty minutes before seven, finding myself ready, I wentdownstairs. As I reached the lowest step, Maggie came out of the study,followed by two ladies, one middle-aged, the other young. They werewell-cloaked, and evidently had just come in from out-of-doors. None ofthe three happened to be looking in my direction.

"I dare say we shall like her pretty well," Maggie was saying aloud."One can't tell yet, of course. But nobody can be the same as dear oldJackie to us. And she does seem so stiff and cold, after—"

This would never do. "Maggie, I don't think you know that I am here!" Isaid hastily.

The next instant I wished that I had made Maggie aware of my presence,without seeming to suppose that her words bore reference to myself.But the regret came too late. Maggie started, and her peach-bloom grewbrilliant.

"Oh! It is Miss Conway, Mrs. Hepburn!" she said.

Maggie was much too confused to attempt any introduction, but Mrs.Hepburn came forward at once, offering her hand. I suppose she is aboutforty-five in age, ladylike and sweet, with bright dark eyes whichlooked straight into mine, full of friendliness.

"I am very glad to see you, Miss Conway," she said. "You seem alreadywell-known to us all. We hardly need introductions, do we?"

Maggie started anew, with an awkward, "Oh, I forgot!"

As Mrs. Hepburn continued, "But I must introduce my child, Gladys, toyou,—Nellie's friend."

Gladys shook hands in the same cordial fashion as her mother, thoughwith only a shy look of pleasure and no words. She seemed to me avery simple straightforward girl, rather squarely-built, with a freshcomplexion, brown hair, and big blue eyes. I should hardly have guessedher at first sight to be particularly clever, though the shady hatcertainly sheltered a head of good breadth.

"I have heard of Miss Hepburn before," I said.

"You are in danger now of hearing about us too often," the mother said,smiling. "We live very near. I hope you will come in to see us, thefirst day that you are able. Now, Maggie dear, I think we ought to takeoff our wraps, or we shall not be ready when the gong sounds."

Maggie, who was looking most uncomfortable, gladly led them upstairs. Itried to banish from my mind the words I had overheard, and went to thedrawing-room.

There I stood still, just within the door, unobserved as yet, but in nodanger of overhearing aught not meant for my ears. Nona was playing alively tune on the piano, and two small couples were spinning round theroom.

Popsie and Pet I recognised at once. They were in white frocks, andtheir fair locks intermingled, tossing to and fro. But about the littlelight figure clinging to Denham I did hesitate.

At the first moment, when my glance fell on a slender girl in creamcashmere, with deeper cream ribbons, and on a small though by no meanschildish face, brilliant with exercise, the jet eyes shining, the lipsand cheeks carnation-hued, I had not a doubt that I was looking on astranger—somebody come in to spend the evening with us. But the nextmoment I noted that her dress was an exact counterpart of Nona's, andas the two went past, there was a flash of recognition from thoseglancing eyes.

"Is that Elfie?" I exclaimed aloud; and the mother's descriptionrecurred to me again.

Nobody heard or answered. I went nearer the piano, and Nona, perceivingme, stopped suddenly. As a matter of course, the four little dancersstopped too.

"I say! What's that for?" demanded the boy.

"Nona, do go on! It's such fun," cried Popsie.

"I can't," Nona said, rising. "And Elfie looks warm now, so it doesn'tmatter. Besides, here comes father."

Mr. Romilly's entrance was the signal for a general move in hisdirection. Elfleda alone hung back, leaning against the piano. Alreadythe sparkle was fading out of her eyes, and the extreme prettinesswhich had taken me by surprise was vanishing. A pinched careworn lookcame into her face, better suited to thirty than to sixteen. As Iwatched her, I saw suddenly a violent though suppressed start, and herlittle hand went with a hasty motion to her ear and cheek.

"Is anything the matter, Elfie?" I asked.

Maggie was just ushering in the Hepburns, with shyly-dropped eyes andstill heightened colour. I was struck with her attractiveness, and Ibegan to think I had perhaps too hastily concluded all a mother's swansto be—well, not geese exactly, but at most only ducks.

"No," Elfie answered. Amid the buzz of voices, my question was unheardby others.

"You are sure?" I asked gravely; for the carnation-tints had faded, andthe little brown lustreless face of an hour earlier had come back.

"No, it's nothing. Only neuralgia. I often have that, and nobody thinksanything of it. Please don't say a word to the others."

"Poor child!" I responded pityingly: and the sombre eyes glanced upinto mine with so singular an expression, that I said, "Elfie, are youreally only sixteen?"

"Sixteen and a half," she answered sedately. "But everybody says I'mmuch the oldest of any of them,—except Thyrza."

There was another sharp movement.

"My dear, I am sure you are in bad pain," I could not help saying.

"Oh no, not all the time. It's only just when a sort of stab comes, Ican't keep quite still then. But I promised I wouldn't give way. Pleasedon't say anything."

A sudden flush of tears had filled her eyes, and she swept her littlehand across them, giving me a grateful look as she moved aside intothe throng of Mr. Romilly's satellites. A few minutes later the gongsounded, and we all went to the dining-room.

CHAPTER X.

PLENTY OF "ER."

THE SAME.

March 2. Monday.

I MUST carry on to-day my story of Saturday evening. It was impossibleto finish before going to bed.

Maggie could not at all get over the little contretemps in thehall. I could see all dinner-time that she was under a weight ofshy uneasiness, even talking and laughing with Gladys; and everyremark addressed to me was accompanied by a renewed bloom. The littlehesitancy of manner, the bright colouring, and the droop of her longcurved lashes over the grey eyes, quite changed her from the Maggie ofthe last three days. I had not guessed before that Maggie could look sosweet. Few people gain in attractiveness from an uncomfortable mood,but just a very few do, and Maggie seems to be one of those few.

The Hepburns not being strictly counted "company," Denham and the twinswere present. Talk flowed without difficulty. I found Mrs. Hepburn acharming g person, well-read and well-informed. Gladys Hepburn's simplestyle of girlish chat with the other girls made me wonder again at herreputed authorship; though now and then a passing flash of something,a little out of the common way, showed possibilities of more below thesurface than appeared outside.

Eustace had an engagement at the Park, and Thyrza was unsociablysilent—one might almost say, gloomy. But Nona and Denham's tonguesseldom ceased to be heard, and I saw Elfie exerting herself in cheerfulwise.

Two or three times the subject of news from abroad came up; and eachtime Elfie eagerly turned the conversation to some other topic. I hadnoted before this shrinking on her part from speech about the absentmother and sister. It was more marked on Saturday evening, just becausethe matter was brought forward more often.

Three times Elfie's efforts were successful; but the fourth time, theyfailed. We were then having dessert, and the two little ones werepresent. Mr. Romilly, as he cracked nuts for Popsie and Pet, launchedinto a series of remarks about his wife, addressed to Mrs. Hepburn andmyself. He enlarged on the enormous relief to his mind of knowing thathis beloved Gertrude had borne the journey so well, so very well, somuch better than might have been expected—er!

"At this time of the year," he repeated in his thin small voice, "therisk so great—really we cannot be thankful enough—er! I am sure we mayhope in a very short time, Miss Conway, to hear that our dear invalidis truly benefiting by the change—er, and is growing stronger—"

"Father, have you asked Gladys all about her book yet?" broke in Elfie,speaking very fast.

Gladys looked by no means grateful for the suggestion, and Mr. Romillypursued, unheeding it—

"As I was saying—er—I hope that in a very short time our dear invalidwill so benefit from the soft air of Italy—er—"

"It's going to be published very soon, isn't it, Gladys? You know,father, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear, I have heard some mention of it certainly,—er," saidMr. Romilly, with a polite glance at Gladys, and a troubled air at theinterruption. "But I was just saying to Miss Conway—er—that I hope wemay expect before long to hear—er—"

"It's not to be a big book. Gladys doesn't exactly know yet how big.Perhaps a shilling or two," continued Elfie, running the words oneinto another, while I could see every muscle in her face to be on thequiver. "And she wouldn't tell us, till—"

"Elfie, we know all that," said Nona. "Gladys has told us herself."

"And you keep on interrupting father," added Maggie. "He wants to saysomething."

"Elfie isn't well," interposed Thyrza bluntly, making an originalremark for the first time. "Can't you see? If mother were here—"

The rest of Thyrza's sentence was lost. Elfie became in a moment thecentre of attention. But for this, she might perhaps have foughtthrough to the end of dinner successfully, long and slow as GlyndeHouse dinners are. We had sat down at a few minutes after seven, andnow it was a quarter-past eight.

Thyrza's words may have given the finishing touch: I cannot be sure.But Elfie grew white to the lips and started up, gazing round withgreat despairing eyes.

"May I go? Oh, may I go?" she gasped.

"Nonsense, Elfie. Sit down and be quiet," said Maggie. "You promisedmother not to give way to this sort of thing."

"She really can't help it," I heard Thyrza mutter.

There I laid her on a sofa.

What others would have done, if I had kept my seat, I do not know. Butthe look in Elfie's face was too much for me. I forgot all about beinga stranger, and I forgot Maggie's last words. Before another remarkcould be made, I was by Elfie's side.

"Come, dear, come into another room with me," I said impulsively.

I had no time to see what others thought of my sudden move. Elfieliterally flung herself into my arms, and lay there, a dead weight,rigid and voiceless. The wide-open fixed eyes alarmed me. Others werestarting up from the table, with a medley of exclamations.

"It's about the letter from mother! Poor little Elf!"

"Why couldn't you all have sense to keep clear of that?"

"Denham, for shame! It was father who spoke!"

"Call Millie, somebody! Millie will know best what to do."

"Yes, Millie knows how to manage. Call Millie."

"Mother never likes a fuss made about Elfie, Miss Conway!"

I paid no attention to any of them, but dipped my hand into a tumbler,and dashed water into Elfie's face. Then I carried her resolutelythrough the throng, past Miss Millington as she entered in response toa summons, and into the study. There I laid her on a sofa, kneelingbeside her. The rigidity and the fixed stare passed into a burst of themost passionate weeping. Miss Millington drew close, talking and tryingto take possession of the sobbing girl; but Elfie turned from her, andclung wildly to me.

"Elfie is very wrong. She ought not to give way like this," Maggie'svoice said.

"She would not, but for being petted," observed Miss Millington.

Maggie took her cue from the suggestion. "It will never do to pet Elfiewhen she is hysterical, Miss Conway. Mother never allows anything ofthe sort."

I looked up, and said, "Maggie, there are too many of us here. Elfiewill leave off, if she is quiet. You and I are quite enough."

Maggie looked rather astonished, and said nothing. Miss Millingtonwhispered to her, and withdrew, followed by Thyrza and Nona. Mrs.Hepburn and Gladys had wisely not added to the crowd, thereby keepingMr. Romilly, Denham and the little ones, also away.

"Now, Elfie!" I said.

"Petting never does for her, Miss Conway," persisted Maggie.

Whereupon I stood up, with difficulty releasing myself from Elfie'sclutch, and said, "Will you undertake her, Maggie, or would you ratherleave her to me? Pulling two ways is quite useless."

"Oh, I never can manage Elfie in these states. Mother always says it isbest to leave her alone. She will cry and scream about everything, ifshe is allowed." Maggie walked off as she spoke, with an offended air,shutting the door.

"Now, Elfie!" I said once more.

She buried her face on my shoulder, fighting hard to obey. I strokedher black hair once or twice with my hand, and the slender arms held mein a tight clasp.

"Poor little woman! It seems a long time, doesn't it?" I saidcheerfully, after a while. "But the weeks go very fast. You will beastonished soon to find how they have flown. And I dare say you willfeel better for having had a cry."

"I did try so hard, and I could not help it," she sighed. Actualweeping had pretty well ceased, though breath came brokenly still.

"I am sure you tried," I said. "But nobody can be surprised at yourfeeling her absence, Elfie. She is such a dear mother, isn't she?"

"Yes. Oh, I do love her so! But nobody else cries, and they all say Imustn't. And it almost seems as if nobody else cared, and I can't bearthem not to care. And I don't know how to bear her being away—such adreadfully long time! If only they wouldn't say things—wouldn't speak—"

"Hush, Elfie! You have cried enough," I said gravely.

She laid her face on my shoulder, resolutely suppressing every sound.

"That is brave," I whispered. "And you have to be brave, haven't you?Your mother would be so grieved to hear that any of you were unhappy."

"Yes, oh, I know. If only I needn't think of her! If only nobody wouldspeak—"

"But you would not quite like that really," I said. "It is so naturalfor you all to speak and think of the dear mother."

And then I tried saying a few words about the need for patience and forsubmission to God's will. I told her that she must ask for strength tofight on bravely, must ask to be kept from adding to others' troubles.I spoke also about God's loving care of our absent ones; and I remindedElfie how she might pray very often for the dear mother, and how shemight always think of her as safe in a Father's hands, guarded andprotected.

"That is the best comfort, Elfie," I said, "the only real comfort!For He is just as much with her out there in Italy as with us here inEngland."

I was surprised at the sudden calmness which came in response to myfew and simple words. Elfie's tears stopped, and the hard long breathsgrew easy. She sat up on the sofa, put her arms round me once more, andsaid, "I am so sorry to have given all this trouble."

"No trouble at all," I said. "But I should like to see you happy, dearElfie."

"I know I ought to be happy," she said quietly.

Then I noticed again a shrinking gesture, and I found her to besuffering from a fit of acute neuralgia.

"It didn't matter," she said gently. She "supposed it had been comingon all day, and crying always made the pain worse. So that was all herown fault, and nobody would think anything of it."

I could not see any "fault" under the circ*mstances; for Elfie'sdistress really seemed to me natural, if perhaps a little excessive.

I made her talk more about her mother, thinking anything better thanthe smothering down all feeling, and I was glad to find that she couldrespond calmly. One or two facts dropped from her, with which I wasnot yet acquainted. Mrs. Romilly has evidently been in a state ofgreat nervousness and over-strain for months past. Sometimes for daystogether she could scarcely endure a voice or a footfall. Nobody hasknown what was the matter with her. I could not help suspecting fromone or two of Elfie's expressions that she has also shown constantirritation.

"It was so difficult to get on," Elfie observed. "And you know I amalways the one that teases mother so, not like Maggie."

The pain grew worse, and Elfie seemed hardly able to bear it. She didnot complain, and there were no signs of an inclination to cry; butshe walked up and down the room, and could not be still an instant.I persuaded her to go to bed, and accompanied her upstairs. Nonapresently appeared, and we tried two or three remedies without muchsuccess.

"Nothing would do any good, except going to sleep," Nona averred.

I had to endure one of Mr. Romilly's little speeches, later in theevening, when only Maggie was present, beside our two selves; theHepburns having departed.

"A sensitive girl, Elfie!" he said. "But it is not our way—er—to makemuch stir about Elfie's little crying fits, Miss Conway. I think—if youwill excuse my making the suggestion—er—that it might perhaps be wiseon the whole, another time to consult—er—Maggie, or—er—Miss Millington.My dear wife is very particular—er—very particular indeed—about Elfie'shysterical tendencies receiving—er—no encouragement."

"It is necessary of course that she should learn to control herself," Imanaged to edge in.

"You see—er—Miss Conway,—it is not that Elfie has more heart than theothers—but—er—less command—and very nervous. Her dear mother alwayssays—er—that dear Elfie requires much bracing. The dear girls areall so unlike one another. You will find—er—very different modes oftreatment required. Elfie has always been something of a trouble to herdear mother. So unlike dear Maggie and Nona, and our dear Nellie—er.Thyrza again—but indeed Thyrza is a difficult girl to comprehend. InElfie there is no want of feeling—" a slight stress on "Elfie" seemedto imply the want in Thyrza,—"but—er—not a happy temperament, I fear.My dear wife made Elfie promise—er—promise faithfully not to give wayin her absence to these hysterical tendencies. I am quite grieved thatdear Elfie's resolution—er—should so soon have failed."

"I think Elfie fought well, before giving way," I said. "She is notwell this evening."

Mr. Romilly shook his head, demurred, and sighed. Maggie took no partin the dialogue, and her good-night to me was markedly frigid.

I could not but muse much, in the course of going to bed, on thingsas they were compared with things as I had expected to find them.And never in my life before have I prayed so earnestly for wisdom ineveryday life. One false step now might bring on a most unpleasantstate of things, and permanently alienate Maggie from me.

Thyrza I have in some measure won already; and Elfie's manner sinceSaturday evening has been affectionate. But I have no hold on Nona;Maggie does not like me; and Miss Millington is already my distinctantagonist.

"If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, . . . and it shall begiven him." Clear enough that. "But let him ask in faith, nothingwavering."

I do lack; and I think I am asking, with full belief in the promise.But the wisdom one asks may not be given precisely as and how one wouldchoose. I must be content to wait.

Late as I sat up, Saturday night, others overhead were later still. Aprolonged murmur of voices went on long. Not till I was in bed did itcease, and then I heard footsteps come softly downstairs, and pass into"the girls'" room, where Maggie now sleeps alone.

Could that be Maggie? I thought. And next morning I overheard Denhamsay—

"What were you after, Maggie, not coming to bed till such unearthlyhours last night?"

"I know," Nona answered for Maggie. "She was up with Millie, talking.That's all."

I begin to think my journalising is in danger of running to excess.I must curb myself. Lessons have begun to-day, and my leisure willdecrease.

CHAPTER XI.

JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP.

DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.

July 1 (preceding).

MY eighteenth birthday. Mother gave me a beautiful edition ofShakespeare. She really ought not to spend so much on me, though I dodearly like to have this. Then I have a gold pencil-case from UncleTom; and Ramsay's present is a painting of his own, framed. I like theframe better than the painting, but I shall hang it up in my room. I amso glad I was not cross with him yesterday evening.

I do wonder whether I shall have a book out before my next birthday. Itseems dreadfully conceited to think of such a thing.

Just two years and three months since we came to Glynde. I am so gladwe came. To be sure it was nice being near London, and living alonewith Mother and Uncle. But, after all, the children keep us bright,dear little things; and Ramsay can be pleasant sometimes, if he isprovoking. Then I have Nellie here. Two years ago I did not dream whatfriends the Romillys and we would become; though, to be sure, Nellieand I took an immense fancy to each other at first sight. And the moreI see of her, the more I love her.

I used not to care at all for Mr. Romilly. He has such a way of goingon talk, talk, talk, and expecting everybody to listen meekly without aword in answer. Well, I am afraid I don't care for him much even now,for the matter of that; though of course I ought, because he is sogood. I wonder if people ever are loved only for their goodness, andfor nothing else.

Mother says she never knew a more truly good and generous man thanMr. Romilly. If only he had not such funny little ways, and werenot so desperately careful of himself! I like a dashing soldierlyman, who will dare anybody and face any danger, and who can bear anysort of discomfort without grumbling—a man who will do just whateverlies before him to be done, without thinking for a moment whetherhe may find it a trouble or suffer for it after. And Mr. Romilly isnot dashing at all. He is afraid of everything, and the very leastuncomfortableness makes him doleful. It always seems to me that heought to be tied up in cotton-wool, and put away in a drawer for safety.

Besides, I do like clever people, and I can't look up to a man whohasn't mind. And nobody could call Mr. Romilly clever. I don't believehe ever reads a book through by any chance. The most he does is to pecka little at the cover.

Oh no, Mr. Romilly is good and kind, but not the smallest atom clever,or dashing, or soldierly, or self-forgetful. I suppose he can't helpit, poor man; but he would be very much nicer if he were different.

Then Mrs. Romilly, how shy she always makes me feel, even to this day.I never know what to say, when she is present. She is so tall, and shedresses so beautifully, and she seems so certain that everybody mustadmire her. And when she walks, she has a sort of undulating movement,exactly like the waves that go over a corn-field or the squirms thatrun down a snake's back.

What would Nellie say to all this? But it is only my dear privatejournal, and I may write what I like. One can say things to one'sprivate journal that one could not say to anybody else—not even Motheror Nellie.

Altogether Mrs. Romilly doesn't suit me, though of course she is a mostdelightful person, and the most beautiful woman in Glynde—so uncle Tomsays. Uncle Tom prefers Mrs. Romilly to Mr. Romilly, and Ramsay can'tendure either. Ramsay declares that Mrs. Romilly worships her husband,and expects to be worshipped herself by all the rest of the world.But then Ramsay says hard things all round about almost everybody. Heprides himself on liking very few people, which always seems to me soshallow.

Mrs. Romilly doesn't make many friends, I fancy. People talk of herlooks, and call her "interesting" and "charming;" but they do not speakas if they loved her. She has one friend, quite a girl, living in Bath,hardly older than Nellie. So odd!

Nellie and I are great friends. She is three years older than I am, andthe dearest girl I ever knew. Mother often says that Nellie's placeas eldest daughter in that house must be very difficult to fill; butNellie manages wonderfully. I suppose she is not so pretty as Maggie—atleast some would say not. I like Maggie very well; only she has sucha droll blundering way of doing things. I never can imagine why Mrs.Romilly is so much more fond of Maggie than of Nellie; but everybodysees it, though one could not say a word to Nellie.

The three eldest girls have spent the evening here, and we have hadgames and plenty of fun. To be sure I would rather have had Nelliealone, but Mother says that won't do always. Only I did wish thatdarling little Elfie might have come instead of Thyrza. Elfie is aperfect little witch; and I never can get on with Thyrza. She is sotall and stiff and cold; she freezes me quite up. And she never seemsto think it worth her while to talk to me. Perhaps if I were not proudtoo, Thyrza's proud manner wouldn't make any difference, but I don'tlike her, certainly. Maggie is the nicest after Nellie,—if not Elfie.And Nona is a kind good-natured girl too; only there never seems to beanything in her. Mother once said that all Nona's growth had gone intoher body, and all Elfie's into her mind.

Mrs. Romilly thinks Maggie most wonderfully clever. But somehow Motherand I don't. Nobody calls Nellie clever; only she is always good andunselfish and helpful, doing everything for everybody, and neverthinking about her own wants.

July 20.—It is so seldom that I write in my journal, I really ought toput very long entries.

Some months ago Mother made me very happy by saying one day that shealmost thought I might, before long, write a little book for children,and try to get it published. She had been reading my last tale, andseemed pleased with it. And she went on to say, "Why not try now?"

Of course I have been writing for years past; so this was not a newidea to me; and I have had some practice. Mother has always seen mystories when she liked, and sometimes she has thought one good enoughto read to uncle Tom.

When Mother spoke, I was just going out for a walk; and directly I cameback, I started the fresh story. It took me about three months; for Iwanted to do my very best; and I wrote the whole out three times, oncein pencil and twice in ink. Uncle Tom advised me to try one of theReligious Societies which publish little books, and he sent it up forme to the Secretary. Of course we did not talk about this to anybodyout of the house. I never could make up my mind to tell even Nellie.

After waiting more than a month such a kind letter came from theSecretary, giving me real praise and encouragement. We quite thought itmeant that the story would be taken, and I did feel happy all day. Butnext morning the MS. came back, for it was found "not quite up to themark."

I can see that well enough even now, when I look at it, suchblunders, in spite of all my care. But at the time, I was dreadfullydisappointed, and Mother even more so. Only we had the comfort of thatnice letter, telling me I should most likely succeed by-and-by.

I did not send the MS. anywhere else. It seemed so much better to beginat once upon a fresh tale, and try to make that more "up to the mark."For another three months I have been very busy. The book will only be asmall one, if it ever comes out; but then I have copied and corrected agreat deal. And last Tuesday we sent it off to a fresh Society; for itis wise perhaps not to go so soon again to where I have been refused.

Now I have to wait for an answer; and I do think waiting patiently isalmost the hardest thing one ever has to do.

Some ideas for a fresh tale are coming up; and I am going to set towork soon; but Mother wants me to make a short break.

August 30.—No news yet of my MS., except just a printed acknowledgmentthat it arrived. I am trying very hard to feel that it will be for thebest either way, whatever answer comes. But I do pray and long forsuccess, very very much.

I have said nothing to Nellie yet. Somehow I can't, till I have a scrapof success to tell. Is that pride?

Another short tale is going on pretty steadily. Mother likes me tokeep up my practising directly after breakfast every morning; and thenI help her for an hour with the children. After that, I can generallyget one or two hours for writing; and also there are the evenings. Thechildren go to bed early, and then Mother works, and Uncle Tom andRamsay read. The Romillys always have to work and talk and play in theevening. It sounds cheerful; but our plan is better for my stories.We do talk, off and on; only not a very great deal; and I get on withwriting between whiles.

CHAPTER XII.

AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS.

GLADYS HEPBURN'S JOURNAL—continued.

October 18.

I MET the girls to-day, and they were quite full of the thought of thisYorkshire estate, which has come to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly.

The place is named "Beckdale," and it is far-away in a lonely partof the West Riding. It has belonged to an old great-uncle of Mrs.Romilly's, who stayed there all the year round, and never asked anybodyto visit him; or scarcely ever. Once, about ten years ago, the twoeldest boys, Keith and Eustace, spent about a fortnight of their summerholidays with the old gentleman; and that is all. So of course hisdeath can't make his relations very unhappy; and naturally the girls dolike the idea of spending their summers in such a lovely place.

For it must be really very lovely, quite hilly and mountainous, withbeautiful dales, and wild passes, and queer underground caves, andtorrents and waterfalls. Eustace was walking with the girls; and thoughhe did not say very much—he never does when they are there—what he didsay sounded more like Switzerland than England. But I shall miss Nelliedreadfully, if she is to be away so long every year.

No answer yet about my little book. Every time the postman knocks Ihope and hope, but the letter does not come. It is a long while to wait.

Something seems to be wrong with Mrs. Romilly—we don't know what. Shehas grown terribly thin, and she is weak and low and hysterical. Ithink Elfie takes after her mother in being so hysterical; only it istreated as a crime in Elfie. Everybody in the house is expected to bealways happy and cheerful, for the sake of Mrs. Romilly, and for fearof upsetting her. The least thing upsets her now. She burst into tearsin Church on Sunday, and had to be taken out. It did look so funny tosee her little bit of a husband trying to support her; and I was angrywith myself for feeling it funny, when they all looked so troubled—andyet I could hardly keep down a smile.

I am quite sure life is not very smooth just now in Glynde House.Nellie does not say much; but Elfie looks wretched; and Elfie is a sortof family-barometer, Mother says. One can tell the state of the homeatmosphere from her face. Maggie and Nona are not easily disturbed; andThyrza seems always apart from the rest.

November 22.—A really hopeful answer has come about my little book.If I am willing to make certain alterations, it is most likely to beaccepted. Of course I should not think of refusing. They want the storyto be more cheerful, and not to have a sad ending.

I sent off lately another small story-book to a publisher; but somehowI am not hopeful about that. Now I shall set to work upon thesealterations.

Poor Mrs. Romilly is very ill, with a sharp attack on the chest. Adoctor has been down from London for a consultation; and he says shehas been frightfully delicate for a long while, and has been under agreat strain, trying to keep up. The lungs are affected, he says, butI believe not dangerously; and her nerves are much worse. She can seenobody except Nellie and her maid,—not even Mr. Romilly; and she won'thear of a trained nurse, and they don't know what to do with her. Ihardly get a glimpse of Nellie.

December 22.—Poor Mrs. Romilly is a shade better,—not so fearfullyweak and excitable, but still she can't leave her room, or bear to bespoken to above a whisper. A step on the landing sends her into a sortof agony. I wonder if she could not possibly help some of this, if shereally tried. She makes such a fuss always about Elfie controllingherself. But then Mrs. Romilly is ill, and Elfie is not. That of coursemakes some difference. I do think it is terribly trying for thosegirls, though—not to speak of Denham. The house has to be kept as stillas if a funeral were going on.

February 20.—Those poor Romillys! Oh, I do feel sorry for them—and formyself!

There has been another consultation about Mrs. Romilly; and the doctorssay she must go abroad as soon as possible, and stay away nobody knowshow long. Nellie and Benson are to travel with her.

The cold March winds are talked about as the chief reason; but ofcourse that is not all, for she is to stay on the continent six monthsat least. March winds will be over long enough before then.

Their chief difficulties have been about the home party. Mr. Romillystays at Glynde House, to be sure; but he is of no use, and Maggie istoo young to manage the others. Miss Jackson not being able to comeback makes such a difference.

They are writing to ask Mrs. Romilly's Bath friend to be governess.Miss Conway has lost her aunt, and wants now to support herself bygoing out. But she is only a girl—and there are all those girls to lookafter. And Mr. Romilly being so fidgety and odd—and Thyrza so set onher own way—and Elfie so easily upset—why, it ought to be a woman offorty or fifty, to know what to do. However, Mrs. Romilly is quite seton having nobody but Miss Conway, and the others daren't contradict her.

February 24.—It is all settled. Miss Conway comes a week after Mrs.Romilly goes. I cannot help pitying her. Uncle Tom says, "No doubt itwill all be for the best." But is everything always for the best,—evenunwise arrangements of our own? If they were, I should think one wouldnot mind making blunders.

February 25. Wednesday.—This morning at last came the answer fromthe Society, which we have waited for so long. My book is taken. Thealterations are found to be all right. It will be published at once,as a one-and-sixpenny volume, and I am to have fifteen pounds for thecopyright.

Uncle Tom says "selling the copyright" of a book means getting rid ofit altogether. I shall never have any more right over the tale. He saysthat is the simplest and best sort of arrangement for a beginner. I amvery glad and very thankful; and I do feel that this is a real answerto prayer.

About a month ago I told Nellie what I had done; and she was sointerested. But till this morning, the other girls have only known thatI was fond of scribbling tales for my own amusem*nt. They had arrangedto call after breakfast, and take me for a long walk; and when theycame Ramsay told them about my book.

Elfie's eyes grew very big; and Thyrza as usual said nothing. She onlyseemed rather astonished. Nona said "How nice!" And Maggie began totalk at once about doing the same. She said she should begin a storyto-morrow; and I think she thought it the easiest thing in the world.

Is it really easy? Or can it be? I have been wondering. Of course musicis easy in one way to a man who has a musical genius,—and painting toa man who has a gift for painting. But in another way it is not easy,for it must always mean hard work, and hard thinking, and perseverance.Not just tossing off a thing anyhow, and expecting to succeed without agrain of trouble.

It doesn't seem to me that writing books is a thing which anybody cando, just in imitation of somebody else. One must have a sort of naturalbent or gift—God's gift,—and then one has to use that gift, and to makethe most of it by hard work.

I did not say all this to Maggie, however. For she might have such abent, and yet not have found it out. And at all events she may as welltry.

February 28. Saturday Evening.—Mother and I have been to dinner atGlynde House, and had our first view of Miss Conway. It would have beenan earlier view, if we had not both been away from home for two nights,a thing which hardly over happens.

I like Miss Conway: and I am sure we shall like her more stillby-and-by, as we know her better.

She is rather uncommon in look, almost as tall and slight as Mrs.Romilly, and quietly graceful, without any of those squirmingundulations when she walks. I should never guess her to be so youngas they say. She has a pale face, oval-shaped and rather thin, withregular features and a firm mouth and dark hair. And her grey eyes lookyou straight in the face, with a kind of grave questioning expression,as if she wanted to make out what you are, and whether you mean to befriends. She says she is strong, and fond of long walks. And she isvery fond of reading.

Maggie made such a blunder, talking about Miss Conway out in the hall,never looking to see who might be near. And Miss Conway was quiteclose. She spoke out at once, and Maggie was very much ashamed, for shehad been saying that Miss Conway was stiff and she did not like her.

Mother and I both thought Miss Conway behaved so well, in such aladylike manner. She made no fuss, and kept quite calm, and nobodycould have guessed afterwards from her look what had happened.

There was quite a scene with Elfie at dinner-time. Mr. Romillypersisted in talking about his wife, and everybody seemed bent onsaying just the wrong thing, till Elfie had a sort of hystericalattack, like once before, and could not speak. And Miss Conwayseemed to know exactly what to do. Mother says she will be "quite anacquisition." But I am afraid that little prim Miss Millington doesn'tthink so; and she manages to make the girls so oddly fond of her. Ionly hope she will not set them against Miss Conway.

March 10.—My second little book has come back from the publisher,declined. I do not think I am surprised. It seemed to me rather poor,when finished. Perhaps I shall make one more try with it; and if itfails a second time, I shall feel sure that it is not worth publishing.

I have another tale in hand now, which I really do like. It is to belarger than the others, perhaps as big as a three-and-sixpenny book, oreven a five-shilling one, but this I don't whisper to anybody. To writea five-shilling book has been my dream for years; only of course it maynot come to pass yet.

I shall call the tale "Tom and Mary" for the present. I am writing eachchapter in pencil first, and then in ink before going on to the next;and a great many parts will perhaps need copying again, after the wholeis done.

Miss Conway has fitted quietly into her work. They all say she is aninteresting teacher,—even Nona, who hates lessons. Mother thinks itquite wonderful, the way in which she has taken things into her ownhands, and the tact she shows, for after all she is such a thoroughgirl, and there has been nothing in her training to prepare her forthis sort of life.

Things may be going less smoothly than we know; and it is difficult totell from Miss Conway's face whether she is quite happy. She comes into see Mother and me, but says little about the girls. And in a gravesteady sort of fashion she is always cheerful; but, as Mother says, onecan't tell if that manner is natural to her. I should like to see herreally excited and pleased. I think she would become almost beautiful.

Thyrza certainly likes Miss Conway, but Maggie does not. I fancy Elfiegives her the most affection, and perhaps she would give more, if Nonadid not laugh at her.

March 15.—Maggie has actually finished a story, and is sending it offto a publisher. The other girls have helped her to write, and have putin little pieces. I cannot understand anybody being able to do any realwork in such a way; but of course people are different.

Yesterday Maggie asked me to go in to tea, and she read aloud the storyto all of us in the schoolroom. I thought her very brave to do such athing. She asked, too, if Mother would like to see it, but decided notto have delays. Curious—that though Maggie is shy about some things,she is not in the least shy about her writing.

The reading aloud did not take long. I believe Maggie thought she hadwritten quite a good-sized volume; and when I calculated for her, andfound that it would not be more than a tiny twopenny or threepennybook, she was almost vexed, and would not believe me.

Then Maggie wanted to know how we all liked the story; and the girlspraised it immensely. I was puzzled to know what to say; for it readexactly like a rough copy, and the verbs were mixed up so oddly, andthere were whole pages without a single full stop. And I could not makeout any particular plot. The people in it come and go and talk and dothings, without any object; and what one person says would do just aswell for all the rest to say.

I could not, of course, be so unkind as to say all this to Maggie,especially just now, when I have had a little success! And, after all,how do I know that others won't say the very same of my story?

When Maggie would have an opinion, I said, "What does Miss Conwaythink?"

"I think it wants cohesion," Miss Conway said at once.

Maggie repeated the word, "Cohesion;" and looked puzzled.

Then she turned to me again; and I said the story was pretty, I havebeen wondering since if that was quite honest; only really one mightcall almost anything "pretty." And then I said that perhaps, if I wereMaggie, I would try writing it out once more, so as to improve andpolish a little. But Maggie said, "Oh, that would be a bother! It willdo well enough as it is."

I am afraid I don't understand Maggie. For I should think one neverought to be content with doing a thing just "well enough." It ought tobe always one's very best and very utmost. Isn't that meant when we aretold in the Bible to do "with our might" whatever we have to do?

One could hardly look for success, except with one's best. Of coursesuccess is not the chief tag in life; and sometimes I am afraid that Iwish for it too much. The chief thing is doing all that God gives us todo for Him. One may think too eagerly about success, but never too muchabout doing His will. And that only makes the struggling after our verybest and utmost still more needful. For if it were only for oneself,it wouldn't matter so much how one worked; but if it is all for Him, Idon't see how one can be content with any sort of hurried or carelesswork.

CHAPTER XIII.

LETTERS—VARIOUS.

FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.

April 15.

Private half-sheet, enclosed in, the above:—

FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.

April 22.

FROM NELLIE TO MAGGIE.

April 29.

FROM MISS CONWAY TO MRS. ROMILLY.

May 1.

FROM MRS. ROMILLY TO MISS CONWAY.

May 7.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

May 12. Tuesday.

IF ever anybody managed to write a harmless and non-exciting letter, Ishould have said that mine to Mrs. Romilly came under that description.Her answer fell upon me like a small thunder-clap.

Of course I showed Mrs. Romilly's letter to nobody: though, equally ofcourse, I was expected to pass the sheet round the breakfast-table.That very bad habit prevails in this house to an unfortunate extent.Mr. Romilly labours under a ludicrous belief that anything writtenby any near relative of his own must be intended for his eyes: andnobody is supposed ever to receive a letter or note which cannot beregarded as common property. Hence arises an occasional necessity forobjectionable little private slips and secret postscripts, as theonly possible mode of saying what must be said, and avoiding betrayedconfidences.

All eyes were on me as I read, and when I put the letter into my pocketglances of meaning were exchanged. Mr. Romilly, who had just appeared,sighed in an audible and appealing fashion, while Maggie remarked that"Mother could write so seldom and only to one at once, and tell all thenews."

"Mrs. Romilly tells me really no news," I said.

"And no messages to any of us!" exclaimed Nona,—pertly, I thought.

"None," I replied. "Perhaps she was tired with writing, for she endsabruptly."

"Jackie always showed her letters from mother!" These words in asubdued whisper reached my ears. Of course I paid no regard to thesound.

Mr. Romilly sighed afresh, and observed that his dear wife was reallynot in a state to write at all—er, just before a journey—er. He hoped,however, that she must be feeling a little stronger—er, as she venturedon the exertion—er.

"I am afraid it was not very prudent of Mrs. Romilly," I said.

Then the Prayer-bell rang, and the subject had to be dropped.

My thoughts have dwelt a good deal on that letter to-day, as is perhapsnatural. Mrs. Romilly has never before said or done anything to makeme really uncomfortable, and to be made uncomfortable by friend is atrial. One must allow for the weakened fancies of illness. But whatcould induce her to suppose that I objected to Nona's high spirits? Iwould not, if I could, lower them by a single half-inch. Certainly Ishould be glad to find something in Nona besides the love of fun.

I am wondering, too, what more I can do with respect to Maggie. Trueit is, no doubt, that I have not yet succeeded in winning her love. Isthis my fault? Everybody cannot suit everybody else: and the winningof another's affection must surely depend in some degree on naturalcompatibility of temper and of tastes. I hope in time to possessMaggie's trust and esteem. But suppose I never succeeded in gaining herlove,—should I be necessarily to blame? Surely I need not count myselfso lovable a person, that all with whom I come in contact must needscare for me!

Again, what about Mrs. Romilly's estimate of Maggie? Are there reallysuch hidden depths beneath that childish manner? It might, of course,be so: yet somehow I cannot help thinking with a smile of the famousChicken's soliloquy, as he views the empty egg-shell whence his littlebody has just emerged—

One might almost as soon credit a newly-hatched chicken with "sublimeimaginings" as Maggie Romilly with hidden depths of profound affectionand acute suffering.

Maggie grieving terribly over the parting! Maggie hiding intensesorrow under an appearance of cheerfulness! I could laugh as I writethe words, remembering the high glee with which two or three hours agoshe and Nona were racing round the schoolroom, trying to catch thelittle ones. Quite right too. I am only glad to see them so happy. Butcertainly I detect no symptoms in Maggie of severe self-control, ofconcealed depression, of overmastering anxiety. And with one so quickto betray each passing mood, pain and sorrow could scarcely be heldunder continuously.

It seems to me that Maggie is rather gratified than otherwise withher present position in the house; and is very much preoccupied without-of-door engagements, especially tennis. She likes an unbrokencourse of such amusem*nts as Glynde can afford, and is rather apt atpresent to let duty wait upon pleasure. Care has not fed yet upon herdamask cheek. She looks well, is plump and rosy, and at times shestrikes me as quite pretty. Indeed, I should say that she and all thegirls, except Elfie, are unconsciously rejoicing under the suddencessation of the strain which always comes upon a household with longillness.

Now and then I see Maggie to be greatly put out with me, when I have totake some decisive step in opposition to Miss Millington.

One odd phase of affairs is Maggie's devotion to Miss Millington. Itis odd, because in some respects Maggie is proud. She will not brook ahint or suggestion from any one as to the management of things and shehas an extremely good notion, transparently shown, of her own reflectedhonours as the daughter of Mr. Romilly, owner of a big house in thesouth and a fine estate in the north. But pride does not come betweenher and "Millie."

Certainly I will allow that Miss Millington is quite ladylike, aswell as almost pretty. Still, it is a little droll and out of placeto see Maggie, the eldest daughter at home and present head of theestablishment, running perpetually after the little nursery governess,fondling her, making much of her, holding long consultations with herlate at night, behaving, in short, as if Miss Millington were hermost intimate personal friend and most trusted adviser. I am wrong tosay that Maggie will take hints from nobody; for she will receive anynumber from Miss Millington.

The most singular part of this devotion is its novelty. I supposeMaggie has been fond of Miss Millington before, but by no means to thesame extent. "Maggie always allowed Millie to call her by her name,"Thyrza observed a day or two ago, "so of course she has done the sameto me. I know Nellie didn't think it a good plan. But they were verylittle together. Maggie was always dangling after mother and Nellie,—itdidn't matter which: and she was the same to Jackie as to Millie.But now Jackie is gone, and mother and Nellie are away, there's onlyMillie; and Maggie always must have somebody!"

Does the clue lie in those words,—that Maggie "always must havesomebody!" Woodbine must cling to something. If one prop be removed, itwill find a second.

What to write to Mrs. Romilly, I do not know. For I must comfort her:and yet I cannot say what is not true. Something vaguely kind andcheering will be best. I shall tell her how pretty Maggie's eyes are,and how fond she seems of her sisters—not mentioning poor Thyrza. ThenI might perhaps generalise a little—abstractedly—about the deepestnatures not being always the most quickly won. Not that I believe inthat theory, but it will do as well as anything else just now for mypoor friend: and it is safe enough to assert that a thing is "notalways" this or the other. But I shall have to be very careful. She isso quick to read "between the lines."

May 14. Thursday.—My letter to Mrs. Romilly has gone off. I feel rather"quaky" as to results.

Maggie will scarcely speak to me to-day. She is looking her prettiest,not sulky and disagreeable, like most people when they are vexed, butpensively grave, with just a little heightening of colour, and a shyserious droop in her grey eyes which suits them to perfection. Nona,taking her cue from Maggie, is blunt, almost pert: and Elfie lookspinched and miserable.

Of course I know the reason. Yesterday afternoon I refused permissionfor Popsie to practise in the schoolroom, while I was giving a lessonon Grecian history to the twins and Thyrza. Miss Millington had kepther upstairs during the usual time for her scale-playing, and desiredthat she might do it later instead. I sent a kind message, saying I wassorry that it could not be. A small thunder-cloud has brooded in theair ever since. "Millie" was doleful at tea, and she and Maggie sharedgrievances till twelve o'clock at night, in Miss Millington's room.

But for Miss Millington, I do think my difficulties here would soonlessen. I do not wish to make too much of her conduct. She is what somepeople wrongly call "sensitive;" that is, she has a susceptible temper,and is always imagining slights. I believe she had delicate health inchildhood, which too often means a more or less spoiling preparationfor after-life. Whether or no that is the chief cause, I do find hera difficult little person to get on with comfortably. The friction isincessant.

One cannot expect to go through life without some rubs; and no doubtthere are faults on both sides. Very likely I am a trouble to her,as well as she to me. I do not exactly see how I could follow anydifferent line of conduct: but perhaps nothing is harder than to weighdispassionately one's own conduct, above all one's own bearing, towardsanother, in such a case as this. We are each in a somewhat ticklishposition: and then, is not compatibility of temper to smooth mattersdown.

It often strikes me as remarkable how almost everybody has to do withsomebody else who is incompatible, somebody more or less trying,vexing, worrying; not, of course, always with only one. And I oftenwonder whether this ought to be viewed at all as an accidentalcirc*mstance; still less as a subject for regret and complaint.

Trial must be trial, in whatever shape it comes; and I do feel thatone is always free to pray for its removal, if God so wills. But thisis our time of probation and battling. It is far more essential for usto learn patience and forbearance than to glide smoothly through life.And I cannot at all see how, if there were nothing to try our tempers,we ever could become patient or forbearing. Untried good-humour is notpatience: any more than the stillness of ocean on a breezeless day isrigidity. And the very word "forbearance" implies the existence ofsomething which must be borne.

May it not be that our Father does deliberately so place us one withanother, side by side—those who are not suited, not compatible—for thisvery reason, that we may have the opportunity to conquer ourselves,to vanquish our hasty and impatient tempers, as we never could if Heallowed us to be only among those who can become so intensely dear tous, that yielding to them must become a pleasure, not a pain at all?

I don't know whether this sentence would be quite clear to anybody elsereading my journal: but it is very clear to myself what I mean. Thereare such different kinds and degrees of love. So often we love or tryto love another, merely because of circ*mstances, because we ought,because we are thrown together, because we are related. So seldom welove soother with pure and heart-whole devotion, entirely because ofwhat he or she is.

If things be thus, "Millie" is certainly my foremost opportunity forpatience in life just now, and very likely I am hers.

Looking upon the matter in such a light ought, I think, to make agreat difference to one. For, instead of feeling annoyed and worriedat everything she says and does, I shall understand that my Father issetting me a lesson in patience and quietness of spirit, which has tobe learnt.

Then, too, I must think how my Master, Christ, had the same trial toendure, only to such an overwhelming extent. For what is the utmostincompatibility of character and temper between us and those around us,compared with the infinite incompatibility between His pure and holySpirit, and the dull grovelling thoughts of His disciples? Only—Hislove for them was so great! But for that, He never could have borne itall those years. And I am sure a more loving spirit is what I need.If I cannot love Miss Millington for what she is in herself, or forwhat she is to me, cannot I love her at least with a kind and pityinglove—and because she is dear to my Lord and Master?

It is not easy, I know. In the learning of this lesson, I have to spellout the words letter by letter, looking up for Heavenly teaching.

For I have to be patient with her, yet not weakly yielding. I have todo my duty, often in direct opposition to her wishes, yet not be angrywhen she shows unjust resentment. No light programme to carry out. But"help sufficient" is promised.

June 1. Monday.—No answer has arrived from Mrs. Romilly, and no noticehas been taken of my letter. I fear she has been hardly so well lately;and evidently there is no idea of her return to England for many months.

Much talk goes on about our projected journey north, in July. I amlooking forward as keenly as anyone to the beautiful surroundings ofBeckdale. Mountains will be a new delight to me. But I have my doubtswhether we shall get away before the beginning of Denham's holidays. Hewould be obliged to board with somebody in Glynde if we left earlier.The same difficulty will not exist another year, for after the summerholidays, he goes to Eton. Time he should too; for of all spoilt boys—!Yet there is something winning about the lad too.

Also we have much discussion at meal-times about the future career ofEustace. Poor Mr. Romilly cannot keep any worry to himself: and everyday we wander with him round and round the same hazy circles. I neverrealised before the wearisomeness of a man who is unable to come toany decision, without somebody to lead him by the hand. A woman ofthat kind is bad enough, but a man is worse. He talks and talks on,in his thin monotonous tones, reviewing all the perplexities of asubject, pulling up first one side and then the other, meekly opposingevery suggestion, mournfully refusing to accept any solution of thepuzzle. And if by dint of some happy hit, you really think he is atlast brought to some more hopeful point—suddenly he slips out of yourfingers, and starts the whole question again from the very commencement.

It seems singular that Eustace Romilly should have reached the age oftwenty-two, and be still in uncertainty as to his course in life.

He has not been home this half-year, except for three nights at thetime of my first arrival, and for one week at Easter. Having finishedhis University career before Christmas, he is now acting temporarily astutor to the son of an old friend. This gives umbrage to his father,and is matter for never-ceasing complaint. It seems that Mr. Romillyis bent upon seeing Eustace enter the Church, and that Eustace is atpresent opposed to the step.

I do not know the ins and outs of the affair, nor am I acquainted withEustace's motives, but certainly I have a very strong feeling againstany man being pressed to take so solemn a charge upon himself, unlessdistinctly called to it.

All the girls except Thyrza unite in blaming their brother, and Thyrzasays nothing.

"So stupid of Eustace! Why can't he do what father wishes?" Maggie saidyesterday, and Thyrza's black eyes flashed with silent indignation.

I am more and more convinced that Thyrza has a very strong affectionfor her eldest brother, though she seldom or never shows it in hermanner when with him; and he is uniformly the same to all his sisters.

CHAPTER XV.

THAT PUBLISHER!!

THE SAME.

June 16. Tuesday.

MAGGIE'S story has been returned, as any one might have foretold. Shehas wondered much over the delay, devising all sorts of extraordinaryreasons for the same, and she has written repeatedly to remonstratewith the publisher. Poor man! No doubt he has cartloads of such rubbishtilted upon his devoted head. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction inhaving never contributed my quota to the load,—though perhaps I couldachieve a passable second-rate story, if I chose.

Maggie's remonstrances having brought no result, she persuaded herfather to write. I believe Mr. Romilly accomplished some six pages, tobe fired by post at the same luckless publisher, after a morning ofdire effort and mighty consultation. And the six pages, whether read orunread, took effect. For within forty-eight hours a tied up manuscriptarrived; and—this being the "most unkindest cut of all,"—no letter ofexplanation accompanied it; not even one half-page.

The publisher's ears ought to have burned that morning, with the thingssaid of him at our breakfast-table. Everybody, trying in affectionatefamily conclave to comfort the crest-fallen Maggie, vied one withanother in hot indignation at his decision. Never was there living manso lacking in taste, so utterly unappreciative. Such a sweet prettystory,—and he not to want to bring it out! Well, then he didn't deserveto have it! Maggie would soon find a more sensible publisher. Of courseit was well-known that all the greatest authors always have the mostdifficulty at the beginning, and all the best books are always refusedby a dozen publishers before one enlightened man consents to bring themout! So being refused meant nothing at all: only he might just have hadthe politeness to write and explain exactly why he didn't want it, andwhat he disliked in the tale. And of course he would have done so, ifthere were anything really to dislike. But never mind, Maggie must justtry somebody else, and she would be sure to succeed, and very likelywould get twenty pounds after all, instead of only fifteen.

I could not help remembering, as I listened in silent amusem*nt to allthis, how Gladys had remarked, a day or two before, "What kind pleasantpeople editors and publishers seemed to be!" But it was not for me toremark on the contrast. Maggie must, find her own level, through thestern realities of failure.

June 17. Wednesday.—At last I have seen again my travelling companion,Sir Keith Denham!

He and his mother, Lady Denham, have been absent from The Park almostentirely since my arrival in Glynde. At one time they were coming home,then suddenly changed their plans and went abroad. Sir Keith has paidone or two flying visits, I believe, lately, but he and I have not met.

I stood still to break off a small spray of may.

Now they will be at The Park for some weeks, and the girls are quiteexcited,—Thyrza excepted, and Maggie especially. But I fancy the chiefsource of their excitement is the prospect of tennis there.

Thyrza and I had a walk alone together this afternoon, the twins goingby invitation to the Hepburns. I always enjoy a ramble with Thyrza:for if no one else is present, she opens out, shakes off the shacklesof reserve, and allows me some glimpses of her true self. It is aninteresting "self" to me, crude and unformed indeed, but thoughtful,earnest, full of vague longings and high aims. If only Mrs. Romillycould see her thus!

Coming homeward after a long round, we passed through a pretty lane,arched over by trees. I stood still to break off a small spray ofmay from the hedge, and Thyrza knelt down on the bank for the bettersecuring of a few violets. She loves flowers almost as much as I do.

Footsteps drew near, and I looked up. Somebody following in our rearhad just overtaken us; and for a moment I was under a puzzled sense offamiliarity with the face and form, though I could not recall who itmight be. Apparently he had not yet become aware of our presence. Hewas walking swiftly, and gazing steadfastly downward.

"Miss Con, just smell these! How sweet they are!" cried Thyrza.

Then two large brown eyes were lifted in a curious slow fashion to meetmine, as if their owner had been very far-away in thought; and at onceI knew. I should not have expected him to recognise me. The instantpause and the raised hat were a surprise.

"Thyrza!" I said, for her back was turned.

She glanced round, and sprang up, freezing into her usualunapproachable stiffness.

"How do you do?" Sir Keith said, giving her his ungloved hand, orrather taking the rigid member which she poked half-way towards him. "Ihope you are all well at home. Pleasant day, is it not?"

He looked towards me again, and Thyrza ungraciously mumbled somethingabout—"Miss Con—at least, Miss Conway!"—which was doubtless intendedfor an introduction.

Sir Keith's hat was lifted afresh, with his air of marked and simplecourtesy,—simple, because so absolutely natural. I have never seen amore thoroughly high-bred manner.

"I must supply Thyrza's omission," he said, smiling. "My name isDenham, and we are near neighbours. We have met before: and the name ofMiss Conway is by no means unknown to me, as Mrs. Romilly's friend."

"And governess," I said. I could not help noticing the flash of hiseyes, curiously soft and gentle eyes for a man. It meant approval,certainly, and something else beyond approval which I could not fathom.One never loses in the end by claiming no more than one's rightfulposition. It is rather absurd of me to care what Sir Keith does or doesnot think about the matter. But I should say that he is a man whosegood opinion one could hardly help valuing.

"I hope you caught your train that day?" he said, after a few remarkshad passed between us.

"Thanks to you, I did," was my answer.

"Are you going home now? My way is identical with yours, so far as theend of the next lane," he said, and we walked side by side, Thyrzamarching solemnly, a yard off, declining to take any share in the talk.

Sir Keith had been ill in Bournemouth, I found, from the effects of achill, caught on the day of our first encounter, "A touch of rheumaticfever," he said carelessly. Since then he and his mother had beenabroad, and he "would have liked to go on to Italy, for a peep at Mrs.Romilly, had that been practicable."

He seemed interested to find that I had never been out of England; andsoon the subject of Beckdale came up, whereupon he spoke with warmth ofYorkshire scenery.

"That part of the West Riding is quite unique in style," he said; "Ihave never seen anything resembling it anywhere else."

"Not in Scotland?" I asked.

"I am not comparing degrees of beauty," he said. "That is anotherquestion. Mountains two thousand feet high cannot vie with mountainsfour thousand feet high: and there are views in Scotland which I don'tthink can be rivalled anywhere. No, not even in Switzerland. The twoare so unlike in kind, one can't compare them. But the Yorkshiredales are peculiar to Yorkshire. English people don't half know theloveliness of their own country. I could envy you the first sight ofsuch surroundings."

He went on to describe briefly the lone heights and passes, the longparallel valleys or "dales," the brawling "tea-coloured" torrents,the extraordinary deep caves and underground waterfalls, the heathercolouring, the frank kind simplicity and honesty of the "northeners."Thyrza drew near, looking interested, and I was quite sorry when we hadto part.

"How is my particular pet, the Elf?" he asked, with a smile, as weshook hands.

"Elfie is all right," Thyrza's brusque tone answered.

Sir Keith vanished, and I said, "He looks delicate."

"I don't think he ever is very strong," said Thyrza, at once naturalagain. "He never makes any fuss about his health; but Lady Denhamfusses for him."

"Is Lady Denham like Sir Keith?"

"No. She is a little plain sort of person, and rather odd, and shethinks nobody in the world is equal to him."

"He seems to be a general favourite," I said.

"Oh yes, of course he is. Everybody sings his praises. And I hategeneral favourites," cried Thyrza, with sudden heat. "I should like himfifty times as much, if—"

"If everybody else disliked him," I suggested, as she came to a stop.

"Yes."

"Is that perversity, my dear?" I asked.

"I don't know. I hate running with the crowd."

"If the crowd is going in a wrong direction—yes. I would never have youfollow a path merely because others follow it."

"If everybody thinks a thing, I am not bound to think the same, Isuppose," she said, hotly still.

"Certainly not. Never think a thing merely because others think it. Butalways to disagree with the majority is quite as illogical as neverto disagree with the majority. And to refuse a particular conclusion,only because many others have reached that same conclusion, savours ofweakness."

She blushed, but did not look annoyed. When alone with Thyrza, I cansay what I like to her.

"You must learn to take everything upon its own merits, and to weigh itwith an independent judgment," I said. "A certain animal which alwaysgoes to the right if its tail be pulled to the left is no more reallyindependent than—"

She interrupted me with a laughing protest.

"But I can't make myself like Sir Keith," she added. "Perhaps I oughtbecause he is Eustace's great friend, and Keith was so fond of him. Ifonly one didn't get so tired of hearing about his virtues. And Maggieputs me out of all patience."

I suppose I looked the inquiry which I would not ask.

"Oh, I can't tell you exactly what I mean, it is nothing particular,only she is so silly. I hate to see a girl make a sort of idol ofa man . . . and not an atom of reason . . . Of course he is verykind and polite; . . . but he looks upon us as a set of schoolgirls.It is so ridiculous of Maggie. I don't mean that she does or saysanything—particular—only she is so absurd! I should like to give her agood shaking. I do wish, girls had a little more common self-respect!"Thyrza concluded fiercely, with burning cheeks.

I listened in silence to this rather enigmatical explanation.

"Sir Keith spoke of Elfie as his 'pet,'" I said, after a break.

"Yes, don't you see what I mean? He just looks on us as hardly morethan children. I suppose he will find out in time that we are gettingolder: but he hasn't yet. And he is just like our elder brother—insome things. Why, when Maggie and I were five and six years old, hewas a great boy of fifteen, and he used to carry us about, one on eachshoulder. That was when father bought Glynde House, and we came to livehere, on purpose to be near the Denhams. And Elfie was always like asort of pet kitten to him from the first. But it's only lately thatMaggie has taken to setting him up as her hero. Somebody put it intoher head, I suppose. I do wish she wouldn't be so ridiculously silly."

I thought it best not to pursue the subject. Thyrza is at all times tooready to pass judgment on those older than herself.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?

THE SAME.

June 22. Monday.

LADY DENHAM has been to call, and her call was avowedly on me as wellas on Maggie. This is very kind. She is, as Thyrza has said, a plainlittle woman, yet a thorough lady and kind in manner. I should thinkone would not know her quickly. She dresses in a rather peculiar style,wears limp black still and a modified widow's cap, though her husbanddied seven or eight years ago, and has a certain quaint way of sayingthings, which strikes one as uncommon. I expect to like her, but she isnot a favourite among the Romilly sisters.

Sir Keith dined here to-night, and I have watched him with a good dealof interest. He is thoroughly at home in the house, and almost onbrother-and-sister terms with the girls, which makes it difficult toguess the real nature of his feelings towards them. Almost; not quite;since he speaks carefully of Nellie as "Miss Romilly;" and though headdresses the younger girls by name, they all call him "Sir Keith."

I cannot resist an impression that somebody here is a good deal to him:but I could not say which. Perhaps the absent Nellie.

Maggie was in a pretty flutter of shy pleasure and blushes and droopedsweet eyes, all the evening, but it was so like a child's innocentenjoyment of a toy! I don't really think she is touched. And Sir Keithseemed no more occupied with her than with the others. He talked indeedchiefly to Mr. Romilly, and to me, as the greatest stranger present.

I see that he likes to draw out Thyrza, and respects her blunttruthfulness. Sometimes she responds; sometimes she grumpily retreatsinto her shell. Elfie he seems very fond of,—as a child, or a kitten.But can that last? Small as she is, she will soon be seventeen, and heis only twenty-eight. It must be difficult for him to realise how fastthey are all growing up. And his manner towards them all, even towardsPopsie and Pet, while brotherly, is also so chivalrously polite andgentlemanlike, that really one could wish nothing changed,—only—onewonders what things may develop into. For, whatever Thyrza may say,there can be no question that he is a singularly attractive man.

June 29. Monday.—A short letter has come at last from Mrs. Romilly, thecoldest briefest epistle I have ever had from her. Does this mean thatshe is seriously vexed or distressed with what I have said—or have notsaid? Well, I can only go straight on, meeting each difficulty as itarises. I will write again soon. But I cannot pretend to believe thatMaggie does really care for me. I know she does not.

Calling to-day at Glynde Cottage, I could not help thinking againabout "incompatibility of temper," and the rubs which must come to onein daily life. I do not often see Ramsay Hepburn. He is a tall lankyyouth, slightly lame, and just invalidish enough to give an excusefor perpetual fuss about his own health. I suppose he has his betterside, and his pleasanter moods; but this afternoon he was by no meansagreeable.

Not that he meant to be disagreeable to me. He is given to showing arather elaborate politeness to people outside his own home-circle, soelaborate, in fact, that he seems to have none remaining for home-use.I overheard him snub Gladys two or three times, when he thought itwould be unnoticed; and he has an objectionable habit of breaking intowhat Mrs. Hepburn or any one else is saying, contradicting, questioningstatements, and getting up absurd little discussions on every possibleunimportant point.

If somebody else remarks that the wind is east, Ramsay declares it tobe west. If somebody else expects a fine day, Ramsay is certain it willrain. If Mrs. Hepburn refers to an event as having happened on the 10thof February, Ramsay contends that it occurred on the 9th. If Gladysobserves that Mr. Smith told a fact to Mr. Brown, Ramsay will have itthat the information came from Mr. Robinson to Mr. Jones.

That sort of individual must be very trying to live with. Mrs. Hepburnis most gentle and forbearing, but I could not help pitying her andGladys, not to speak of "Uncle Tom." And then I remembered that theyall needed opportunities for patience. No doubt Ramsay is one of thefamily "opportunities."

July 2. Thursday.—I could not have thought that I should be so weak,so easily unhinged. I, who always pride myself on my powers ofself-restraint.

I suppose it was the thing coming so suddenly, with no sort ofexpectation on my part.

Yesterday morning an invitation arrived from Lady Denham, for all of usto spend the afternoon at The Park: not only the girls and myself, butalso Miss Millington and the little ones. Nobody else was to be thereexcept ourselves. Denham was asked, but he had a half-holiday cricketengagement. Mr. Romilly was asked too, and he sighed, complained ofhis inability for exertion, wished kind friends would leave him inpeace—er,—settled after all to go, and finally stayed at home.

Tennis was for a while the order of the day; then came tea on the lawn,with a profusion of strawberries and cream. Then tennis again, orrambling about the lovely garden, whichever one preferred,—and I hada very pleasant stroll with Lady Denham, who thawed and became quitefriendly. I was surprised, having heard much of her coldness.

Since coming to Glynde I have not played tennis for I am afraid ofseeming too juvenile. They used to say in Bath that I always lookedyoung over tennis.

A sharp shower, arriving unexpectedly, drove us all indoors, andphotograph albums were put in requisition. Sir Keith brought a bigvolume to Elfie and me, full of foreign views, which he undertook todisplay. Two or three others of the party drew near to look also,including Miss Millington.

About half-way through the book, we came upon a photograph of an oldstreet in Rouen. "It is more than two years since we were there last,"Sir Keith remarked. "I always connect this scene with a poor youngfellow who was in the same hotel with us,—do you remember him, mother?"

Lady Denham looked round rather vaguely from a talk with Thyrza, whichseemed difficult to keep up.

"A poor fellow in a hotel!" she repeated. "No, my dear, I don'trecollect. Where was it? At Rouen? Yes, I do remember that youngofficer who seemed so ill and miserable, and had no friends. If youmean him?"

"Hadn't he anybody with him?" inquired Elfie.

"No, Elf," Sir Keith answered. "Not only that, but he seemed to havefew relatives anywhere."

"And was he very ill?" asked the Elf, her black eyes full of pity.

"Yes, quite ill for some days; and I think still more unhappy."

"What was he unhappy about? Done something wrong?" demanded Nona.

"Not that I am aware of. He did not tell me his trouble; only one couldsee from his face that he felt very sad. Nobody could help being sorryfor him," Sir Keith went on in his kind way, and he added musingly,"What was his name? Linskell—Lemming—no,—Len—"

"Captain Arthur Lenox. My dear, your memory is not so good as mine,"Lady Denham said, with pardonable satisfaction.

Sir Keith laughed and assented. "I am not good at names," he said."Yes, that was it,—Arthur Lenox. A fine soldierly young fellow,—onlyrather too cynical in his way of speaking. But that might mend in time.I wish we had not lost sight of him since. He seemed—"

A sudden pause took place. I knew why. Till the utterance of that name,I had not dreamt of whom they were speaking. Then in a moment the pastcame back, and I was once more in the little old Bath sitting-room,alone with Arthur Lenox. And an added pain had come to me, in a newrealisation of the suffering that I had caused to him. I did not stir,did not lift my eyes from the photograph, but I knew that every drop ofblood had left my face, driven inward, as it were, and for the instantI knew myself to be incapable of steady speech.

That dreadful silence! It did not last, I am persuaded, over threeseconds, if so long. Yet they might have been three hours to me.

Then Sir Keith turned over a page of the album, and began talking againin a quiet even voice, drawing away the attention of the girls. And Iwas able to look up. I saw Elfie's eyes wide-open and startled, whileMiss Millington's were on me in a fixed stare, which perhaps provedmore bracing than anything else. I knew that I must act at once, so Iturned back the last page, as if to look once more at the street ofRouen, and remarked with a smile—

"Those quaint old French towns must be very interesting. I should liketo see them." In a doubtful tone, I added, "Lenox, did you say? I haveknown one or two of that name, but I am not aware of their having beento Rouen."

And I said the words with entire composure.

"Rouen lies very much in the beaten track," said Sir Keith. "Touristsseldom fail to go there, sooner or later. I can show you other viewsof French towns, very similar. But I see that the rain is over. Wouldanybody like to come and take a look at the fernery?"

"I should," I said at once. "Yes, really—" and as his eyes met mine ina swift questioning glance, I laughed quite naturally. "I believe I amrather tired to-day, and I have just been feeling a little—not quitewell, perhaps. And the fresh air will revive me."

"My dear, you fa*g too hard with all these young folks," Lady Denhamsaid, in such a kind manner. "You ought to take a little restsometimes."

And Elfie crept close up to me, slipping her hand into mine with mutesympathy.

I had some difficulty in getting off a quiet half-hour indoors withLady Denham. But I wanted to be on the move, to be able to forgetmyself and the past, and I pleaded anew for fresh air.

Lady Denham yielded at once, with the genuine courtesy which sodistinguishes herself and her son, and she accompanied us into thegrounds. She was quite motherly to me in manner, and Sir Keith lookedgrave and troubled, evidently fearing that he had given pain.

Before we left The Park, I succeeded in doing away with a good deal ofthe impression caused by my sudden change of colour. Miss Millington'sinquisitive eyes kept me up to the mark. I had to submit to beingtreated as a semi-invalid, a thing I particularly dislike; but byresisting, I should have given countenance to that which I most wishedto drive out of people's minds. So when I was told that I looked paleand fatigued, that I must rest in an easy-chair, and must be drivenhome instead of walking, I gave way without a struggle. The plea offatigue was a genuine enough plea for me to use. I do not know when Ihave felt such languor as during some hours, after that little event.Still, in a general way, I would have laughed at any suggestion ofcare-taking, so long as I had two feet to stand upon.

The girls were all kind. Maggie became quite gentle and sympathising inmanner, the moment she thought me unwell. That has been a real comfort.Can it be that she dislikes me less than I have imagined?

Even Miss Millington said, "You really do too much, Miss Conway!" AndNona insisted on carrying my shawl, while Elfie would hardly leaveme for a moment. When saying good-night, she threw her arms round mywaist, and held me as in a vice. I understand fully the dear child'sunspoken sympathy. Of all the girls, I do not think one has crept sofar into my heart as this loving tiny Elf.

I must not think more about what Sir Keith said. It unnerves me. Formyself I can endure, but I cannot bear to picture Arthur Lenox' grief.

And I have to be very calm and cheerful after this, or others willcertainly guess something of the truth.

July 8. Wednesday.—Another short letter from Mrs. Romilly, kinder thanthe last. I think she must have felt, after sending that off, that itwould trouble me. This is more in the old style, only she harps stillincessantly on the one string of "her precious Maggie." I supposenothing in the world would convince her that Maggie is not, all thesemonths, in a broken-hearted condition about her absence.

Yet it is Elfie, not Maggie, whose eyes fill up with tears at anysudden reference to the absent ones. It is Elfie, not Maggie, whocraves for every scrap and item of news about them. It is Elfie, notMaggie, who has distinctly lost flesh and strength with worry andanxiety of mind for the dear mother's condition.

If we had not the prospect of so soon going north, I should certainlypress for medical advice for Elfie. I do not feel satisfied aboutthe child. Her little hands are transparently thin, and her eyeslook bigger than ever in the tiny brown face, while this constantlyrecurring neuralgia shows weakness. "Oh, it is only Elfie," Maggiesays, if I speak to her, and Elfie fights on bravely. I do not like thestate of things, however.

July 9. Thursday.—Mr. Slade Denham has been to dinner here thisevening, an unusual event, for he detests society.

It strikes me that I have written little or nothing in my journalhitherto about the Church we attend. There is always so much to sayabout these girls.

St. John's is only five minutes distant, a graceful little GothicChapel-of-Ease to the Parish Church, built by Sir Keith himself to meetthe growing needs of Glynde. The Rector of Glynde, Mr. Wilmington,is an elderly man, with two curates; one of the two, the Rev. SladeDenham, having sole charge of St. John's. We go there regularly, theParish Church being too far off.

Mr. Denham is a first-cousin of Sir Keith's, and about the sameage, but not in the least like him,—very plain, shy and brusque inmanner, and rather odd in his ways. He is a thorough "study-man," ahard reader, a hater of platforms, and a busy organiser of Parishwork,—characteristics not always found in juxtaposition. He is rarelyto be seen out of his study, except in the cottages of the poor, in thesickrooms of either poor or rich, and in needful Parish gatherings.Tennis is not in his line; and his one recreation takes the shapeof long lonely walks in the country,—hardly sufficient recreation,perhaps, in the case of so severe a brain-toiler. He looks like aburner of midnight oil.

The poor are devoted to Mr. Denham,—and the rich are not. Easilyexplained, for to the poor he is all gentleness, and to the rich heis all shy curtness. It is a pity; since he loses influence thereby.Yet one does not know how to regret the hermitage-loving turn of mindwhich results in such sermons as his,—no strings of platitudes strungtogether in a hurry, and spun out to fill up a stereotyped twentyminutes or half-hour, but real downright teaching, Sunday after Sunday,in a full and systematic course. Surely our Church means us to havesuch systematic teaching, declaring to us throughout the year the"whole counsel of God," and not merely to be fed upon stray scraps ofthat "counsel," gathered up almost at random without plan or method.But I have never had it before.

The services too are full of help and refreshment, bright, hearty,reverent, with a good choir and congregational singing. Everybody seemsto join. There is no lounging or lolling, and scarcely any staringabout. It is wonderful how infectious in a Church is a spirit of deepearnestness and intense reverence.

I often think of Sir Keith's words on any journey here,—of theresponsibility involved in greater privileges. For I do feel that sucha Church as St. John's near at hand is a real privilege, and ought tobe a real and practical help. And that means that I ought to advancemore quickly, that I ought to become more Heavenly-minded, that I oughtto live more nearly such a life as Christ my Master lived, that I oughtto walk more fully as He walked.

Is it so, indeed? The question is a very serious one. For if not—betterfar that greater privileges and means of spiritual advance were notmine, than that having I should fail to use them!

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts,and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the Wayeverlasting."

No better prayer for me than this. Of all dangers, I dread none morethan the perils of self-deception and of spiritual stagnation.

CHAPTER XVII.

GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES.

DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.

April 23. Thursday (preceding).

UNCLE TOM was in London on Tuesday, and he very kindly went to see twoor three publishers for me. Mr. B. spoke a long time about the greatnecessity for careful preparation and revision. And Mr. D. also spokeabout that. He said he had just refused two manuscripts, written by alady, for nothing but because they were so carelessly done. If I likeat any time to send him a very carefully prepared MS., he will look atit. And Mr. F. told Uncle Tom about some other publishers who might bethe right sort.

I begin to understand that it isn't only a question about a story beingpretty good in itself, but also one has to be careful where one sendsit. Some publishers chiefly bring out novels; and some history; andsome religious tales; and so on. And a man might refuse a book justbecause it didn't suit him, while it might be the very book for anotherpublisher over the way.

Mr. F. also said that the better plan was to send my MSS. straight off,instead of writing first to ask leave. Because, naturally, if a manhasn't seen the MS., and can't possibly judge anything about it, he ismore likely to say at once "No" than "Yes."

May 2. Saturday.—My little book is out! It costs one-and-sixpence.Twelve copies have arrived, bound in different colours. The firstpicture is really pretty, and it is nice to see my own ideas embodiedby somebody else.

So at last my wish is granted, and I am very pleased and thankful. Onlyperhaps not so desperately excited in myself as I expected to be,—notnearly so excited as others are about it, I think. For somehow, now ithas come to pass, the thing seems quite natural. And of course I amvery much more interested in the story I am actually writing than inone which was finished so long ago.

May 14. Thursday.—Fifteen pounds came yesterday,—the first money I everearned by my own brains. I have put some into the Savings Bank, andpart of it I mean to spend. I hope I shall never get into spendthriftways.

Several kind letters have reached me about my little book,—and somegive advice. I think I liked best of all Mr. Wilmington saying he hadnearly cried over it. Aunt Anne Hepburn complains that the colour ofher copy is very ugly, and she points out a misprint on the fourthpage. But I don't see how one can choose out the prettiest colours foreverybody.

The little ones from Glynde House have been here this evening, and weall had a good game of play. It was rather fun to feel that, as I had aprinted book out, nobody would count me too childish for my age, and soI could just enjoy myself as much as ever I liked. Was that silly?

I wonder how soon poor Maggie will hear about her MS. She seems gettingrather impatient. I don't wonder, for I have often felt dreadfullyimpatient.

May 16. Saturday.—Mother and I don't think Miss Conway looks quiteso strong and bright as when she first came. I wonder if anything isworrying her.

It is so strange that Maggie does not grow more fond of Miss Con.Mother and I think Miss Con delightful. And Ramsay is growing quiteabsurd. At first he used to say all sorts of hard and contemptuousthings about her, as he does about almost everybody; but now hehas turned right round, and he seems to think the ground scarcelygood enough for her to tread on. But I don't suppose Miss Con hasthe least idea of his state of admiration, for he only gets red andawkward when he sees her. If she had, how she would laugh! She a girlof twenty-three, with the mind of a woman of thirty, as Uncle Tomsays,—and he a backward boy of seventeen.

And yet I don't know whether she really would laugh,—at least it wouldnot be unkindly.

June 17. Wednesday.—Maggie's little MS. has been sent back, as I feltsure it must be, if she wouldn't work it up more carefully. I am verysorry, for she is so disappointed. But the odd thing is, that she seemsquite angry, too, with the publisher. I don't understand that, becauseof course he must be free to take or refuse books. And it always seemsto me that one has just to learn what one can do, by trying. Onetrial doesn't settle the matter; but a good many trials would. And ifone really had not the gift, if God really had not called one to thework,—ought one to be vexed?

Still, if I had failed instead of succeeding, I might not find it soeasy to write like this.

July 7. Tuesday.—My book "Tom and Mary" is finished at last,—wasfinished last week, I mean: and I have been correcting hard ever since.I don't mean the MS. to have one single untidy page. Of course thatmeans more copying, but it is worth while. The greatest difficulty isto think of a good title.

It really does seem to me large enough for a five-shilling volume: butI have not said so to anybody, for fear of being mistaken.

We have pretty well settled what publisher to send it to. But I don'tfeel very hopeful of another success so soon. It seems more than Iought to expect. Not very good accounts of poor Mrs. Romilly. Thereseems no idea of her coming home yet. Even if she did, I should not seeNellie, for the Romillys all go north in about a fortnight,—as soon asDenham's holidays begin. They did talk of going sooner, but Mr. Romillycouldn't make up his mind to it. I'm sure I don't know what he willdo when Denham has gone to school,—only sometimes people bear a thingbetter when it can't be helped than when it can be helped. Lady Denhamis very much taken with Miss Con; and Mother and I are so pleased. LadyDenham says she is "distinguished-looking." I believe Sir Keith admiresher too, only he is so cautious and polite that one never can know whathe does truly think and feel. I can't make out whether he cares foranybody, really,—more than just as a pleasant acquaintance.

It provokes me, rather; and yet of course I like him,—at least, Isuppose so. He is very good, and very handsome, and most people counthim perfect. I don't think I do. And the sort of liking that I havewouldn't make me the least unhappy if he went away to-morrow and nevercame back again. For I should have Mother still—and Nellie,—and mydear writing,—and a great many delightful things besides. And yet SirKeith is a real friend of ours, and he certainly means to be as kind aspossible to everybody all round.

That is just it! I suppose I don't care to be merely one of "everybodyall round." And if I don't, it must be pride.

And yet I shouldn't wish him not to be pleasant and polite. And I knowhe likes Mother,—and I like him for that. And if he didn't always bringon such a shy fit that I can't speak, I might perhaps think him nice totalk to.

There is one other thing that I do like in Sir Keith; and that is,that he doesn't think himself bound to make pretty remarks aboutmy writings, only just to please me. As if I were a child, wantingsugar-plums!

I don't mean that one isn't glad to have an opinion worth having; andhonestly-meant praise is pleasant. But that is different. And it seemsto me that the people whose opinion one cares for the most are veryoften the most backward of all in giving it.

July 9. Thursday.—My MS. has gone off. Oh, I do hope and pray that itmay succeed!

July 11. Saturday.—Such a kind answer has come from the publisher, Mr.Willis, promising "immediate attention."

July 17. Friday.—I do believe this has been the most delightful day Iever had in my life.

First of all there came a long letter from Nellie, just like her dearself all through.

Then at breakfast-time Mother told me that I am to have a quarter ofreally good music lessons, from a master just come to live in Glynde.It is two years since I had any. Won't I work hard!

After breakfast, Maggie came in to ask if the children and I would gofor a long day's ramble, to the woods. Mother said "Yes" at once, andlessons were left. We took our lunch with us, and had all sorts of fun.

Miss Con and I were together a good deal, and I really do begin to loveher dearly. She was so sweet,—thinking about everybody except herself.Maggie kept hanging about Miss Millington, just exactly in the same wayshe used to hang about Nellie. It provoked me then, because I wantedmore of Nellie; and it provokes me now, because I can't endure thatlittle Miss Millington. But anyhow it gave me more of Miss Con.

Thyrza and I got on better than usual; only I can't help seeing thatThyrza does not care for me; and that makes it so difficult to be kindand bright towards her. And the twins were as merry as could be. Sowe enjoyed ourselves immensely, and we didn't get home till past sixo'clock. I haven't had such a holiday for a long while.

But then came the best of all. A letter was waiting for me athome,—from Mr. Willis. And he offers to give me £25 for the copyrightof "Tom and Mary," which he thinks will make a 5s. book. And if Iagree, it is to go to the printer's at once.

Oh, I am so glad and thankful! It does seem so kind of God to answerprayer like this. I know quite well I didn't half expect it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

SERIOUS NEWS.

DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN—continued.

July 27. Monday.

THE Romillys leave to-morrow, and I have seen almost if not quite thelast of them to-day. They spend one night in London at a hotel,—atroublesome plan, we think, for such a large party; but it allows theservants to arrive a day sooner, and to get things ready. BeckdaleHouse seems to be smaller than Glynde House, and so not all theservants will go. Rouse and Phipps are to be there of course, and twohousemaids, and what Nona calls "a local cook." The old cook stays herein charge, with one of the housemaids,—and the gardener and his wifewill be here in their cottage too.

I wonder how the "local cook" will answer. Mr. Romilly is so veryparticular about his eating.

Maggie goes flying round to-day, forgetting everything; and Miss Conis just as quiet as usual, forgets nothing. And poor Mr. Romilly is ina dreadful state of fuss and fidget. He always is before a journey. Awhole mountain of luggage went off last week, and another mountain goesto-morrow; but still he is quite sure they won't have everything theywant, and he seems perfectly certain that nobody can be ready in time.It is comical to hear him, for, after all, the most likely person to belate is Mr. Romilly himself. I really don't think he can make haste. Itdoesn't seem to be in him.

I should feel their leaving much more if Nellie were here. But sheisn't; and none of the other girls can be the same to me. I'm not surethat I don't mind most of all saying good-bye to Miss Con. Yesterdayevening, after Church, she came in for a few minutes, and she was sovery affectionate. She said to Mother, "I shall miss you and Gladysextremely." I know we shall miss her.

Just now I am beginning another story, and that is, of course, a greatinterest.

This morning I had my first music-lesson. Mr. Lee is rather odd; andthe lesson was delicious.

He said, "Play the Scale of C in octaves." When I had done it, he said,"Wrong, from first to last."

That made me feel rather small; because I thought I certainly couldplay—well, just a little nicely. I am always asked to play at friends'houses, and once or twice I have even been clapped, and perhaps madeto feel rather conceited. But of course Mr. Lee is a much betterjudge than the common run of people, and it must be such a good thingto find out one's real level in anything one does. I shall have towork hard now, to get on. And the first thing will be to learn the"wrist-action," as he calls it, which he thinks so much of.

His touch is just splendid. He seems to bring something out of thepiano which I never knew before to be in it. All day long I have beenhearing the ring of those wonderful octaves and chords,—almost moreexciting than the thought of my book. It has been very hard to settledown to anything else, and trying to write was a sham.

Wasn't it odd? I was going into the drawing-room to-day, and Ioverheard Mother say—

"Gladys is very much pleased with her new music-master."

"Placidly pleased," Uncle Tom said, and he laughed, while Ramsay added—

"Oh, that's all one must expect. Nothing excites Gladys."

And I turned and ran away. I felt so stupidly hurt, I could have cried.It was stupid, for I shouldn't at all like any one to know just exactlyhow I do feel, and yet one does wish to be understood. It has made methink how very little one person can know of another's inside, merelyfrom his or her outside,—and how easily I may be mistaken in others,just as they are mistaken in me!

By-the-bye, I must be very careful not to say much about the bookbefore Maggie; for it might not seem kind. She has had her MS. sentback by a second publisher. I do wish she would take a little moretrouble to do well, so as to give herself a fair chance.

She has an idea now of writing to some well-known authoress, to ask foradvice about getting a book published, and for an opinion on her story.Miss Millington has put this into Maggie's head. Miss Millington saysyoung authors often do it. I wonder if that is true. I never thoughtof trying such a plan; and I can't fancy that it could make muchdifference in the end. For, after all, one must go, sooner or later, topublishers and editors. Still, perhaps she will get a little advice ofsome sort.

July 28. Tuesday.—The Romillys are off; and I feel a great deal moreflat and dismal than I expected. Glynde House looks so frightfullyempty. I can't bear to walk past it.

We have not had a comfortable day: for Ramsay is in a mood to rubeverybody the wrong way. Because of Miss Con, I suppose. Mother says,"Poor Ramsay!" While I am afraid I feel more like saying, "PoorGladys!" For when he is like this, he makes me cross too.

Mother spoke to me this evening about giving way to temper: and I knowshe is right. Another person's ill-humours are no excuse for me. But itis very difficult. If only people would be reasonable and sensible.

I do want not to grow horrid and conceited, just because I have had alittle success. And that, of course, is a real danger. If I were notthe least proud, I shouldn't mind so much the things he says. And ofcourse I ought to think of his lameness, and of what a trial it mustbe to a boy not to play at cricket and football, or to run races anddo everything like other boys. It wouldn't matter so much for a girl,but for a boy it really is dreadful. Yet when he worries me, I don'tremember that, I only think of defending myself.

Nellie wrote so sweetly in her last letter. She said, "You know,darling Gladys, I am not clever, and I shouldn't like you to think mepreaching, but still I do hope that having this work given you to dofor Jesus will make you keep very close to Him."

And oh, I do hope the same! For it is work for Jesus,—though I amafraid some of it is for myself too, because I do so love writing, andI do so like what it brings. But He does give me the work to do; and Iwant it to be for Him; and I want to honour Him. I must pray to be ableto keep silent when I feel vexed.

July 29. Wednesday.—Such a thing has happened,—and I am very unhappy.And yet I am so thankful that darling Nellie herself is not hurt.

Just before breakfast this morning a telegram came for Mother. It wasfrom Nellie. She and Mrs. Romilly have just reached Cologne, where weknew they were going for a few days on their way farther North. Thetelegram is from a Cologne hotel, and it says—

"Please break news to father, railway accident, Mother much hurt, willEustace come?"

And that is all. Not a word about whether she is in danger or not. Butwe all know that it must mean danger. Nellie would never frighten Mr.Romilly without good reason,—or send for Eustace.

The telegram seems to have been delayed, for Uncle Tom says itcertainly ought to have come sooner, and that is so unfortunate, for itmight just have caught Mr. Romilly.

The question was what to do. Uncle Tom would have gone straight up toLondon, but it was impossible that he should arrive before they hadall left for Yorkshire. So a telegram was sent to Miss Con, repeatingNellie's words, and asking her to break it. Uncle Tom also telegraphedto somebody in the hotel, begging to hear at once whether the othertelegram had arrived in time.

But it did not. The Romillys were off first. So then Uncle Tom sentanother copy of the same telegram to the station where we believed theywould stop for lunch, and a second copy to Beckdale Station, which issome miles off from Beckdale House.

All day long we have been waiting for a reply. It has been impossibleto do much of anything. Of course the children's lessons had to go on:and I took out my writing just as usual, because I am determined not toget into the way of being a slave to moods. But I couldn't get a singlepage done, worth keeping. And every time a bell rang, one of us raninto the passage.

We are afraid now that they will not know what has happened, till theyget to Beckdale Station. If the first telegram had reached them, wemust have heard before this.

It is a comfort to know that Eustace has joined them in London. Butwhat will poor Mr. Romilly do? And to think of Nellie, all thistime alone with Mrs. Romilly among strangers,—Mrs. Romilly perhapsdangerously ill, and only one English maid there to be any help. Itdoes seem very terrible. Only I know how brave darling Nellie is, andhow she forgets herself and always seems to lean upon God, when she isin any difficulty.

July 30. Thursday.—Quite late last night, after we had all gone to bed,a telegram came from Miss Con. Mother slipped into my room, to tell me,if I should be awake: and I was. It was dated from Beckdale Station,and it only said—

"News received, Mr. R. and E. off at once to Cologne, rest of us go toBeckdale."

I shouldn't have expected Mr. Romilly to show so much spirit; but itseems quite right. Uncle Tom has been looking out about trains, and hefinds that Mr. Romilly and Eustace could come south by a return-trainfrom Beckdale Station, not long after they got there. Most likely thatis what they have done.

CHAPTER XIX.

A MOUNTAIN STATION.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

July 30. Thursday.

I SHALL never forget our arrival at Beckdale Station yesterday.

Everybody was in the highest spirits,—that is to say, the highest ofwhich each was capable,—charmed with the glimpses of mountain scenerywhich we had during the last hour or so of our journey. Clouds hungrather low, shutting off the summits; but I don't know that thisdid not make the views only more Impressive. For imagination wasfree to add unknown altitudes, and a touch of mystery always givessublimity,—not alone in landscapes.

Fine rain had begun to fall when we reached Beckdale Station, and thewind was gusty enough to send Nona's hat bowling along the platform. Ofcourse a chase took place, with much laughter. The luggage was bundledout from the van; and we found a waggonette and dog-cart in waiting,besides two carts for the luggage.

Privately I wondered how we were all to pack into these two vehicles,for a drive of five or six miles; but I would not suggest difficulties,and after all the waggonette was a very roomy one. Mr. Romilly seemedgreatly disturbed at the thought of a dog-cart for any of his party:two-wheelers being his pet aversion: and he also showed alarm about thesteep descent before us. For the line of rail by which we had come,since our latest change, had gradually ascended to quite a respectableheight on the mountain-sides, and a particularly rugged road leddownward from the station into the valley,—Beckdale Station being atthe head or upper end of the long valley or dale wherein our "summerresidence" is situated.

Poor Mr. Romilly! He fidgeted up and down the platform, counting hispackages, bemoaning the deploring his choice of this route, dolefullywondering how we should ever reach Beckdale House. I am afraid I mustconfess to a sense of amusem*nt. Naturally I have not much sympathywith the state of mind which insists on manufacturing troubles out ofnothing. Yet I hardly know whether any weakness is more deserving ofpity than this,—just because it is so distinctly a character-weaknessas to be seldom recognised as such by its possessor, and thereforeseldom really cured.

For two or three minutes I listened; and then I forgot all aboutMr. Romilly, standing outside the station-shelter. The rain droveagainst me in fine sheets, like spray; but what did that matter? I wasrevelling in my first view of mountains. Bath hills I know well, butaught like this I have never seen before.

Beyond the valley, on either side, there rose wild grey heights, cappedby stormy grey clouds which seemed to drop long trains or fringes intoevery gorge and cleft. I think it was the wildness, the greyness, thelonely and solemn unworldliness of the scene, which told upon me most.The stately march of those cloud-battalions over the mountain-tops wasgrandly indescribable. I seemed to be gaining a glimpse of somethinghigh and pure, far removed from the littlenesses of everyday life.This small station and our tiny selves were a mere accessory—almost amistake.

Then all at once everyday life came back to me. For somebody steppedup, and put a telegram-envelope into my hand.

I thought of Albinia instantly—Albinia as ill, or perhaps suddenlywidowed. She would want me in London. Could I go, or was I tied to myduties at Beckdale? These questions flashed past while I opened theenvelope. Elfie was close to my side,—I had not seen her before,—andher dusky eyes grew large with ready sympathy, as she murmured, "PoorMiss Con! I hope it isn't anything the matter with anybody."

Anybody belonging to me, she meant. But at once I saw.

"Elfie dear, I must speak to your father," I said quietly. "You andNona had better put on your waterproofs meantime, for it is raining."

I have not the least idea how I managed to evade inquiries, and to getinto the waiting-room, alone with Mr. Romilly and his eldest son. Thatcame about somehow,—Elfie assisting, under the evident impression thatI had some trouble of my own to communicate. And then I broke the news.

Telegrams tell so cruelly little,—I have always felt this, yet neverso keenly as when I stood in the little bare waiting-room, with theslip of paper in my hand, and those two faces looking anxiouslyfor more—more! A railway accident,—of what kind we do not know;Mrs. Romilly "much hurt,"—how much we cannot guess; Eustace wantedthere,—for what purpose we are not informed. Cologne so far-away too.The telegram went first to the Hepburns, and Mr. Hepburn has forwardedthe sad news to me.

Eustace heard with his usual gravity; and somehow the shock to Mr.Romilly seemed less than I had expected. He did not lose his presenceof mind, and there was not half so much fretting over this realcalamity as over the minor worries of the journey. He said sighingly,"Poor dear Gertrude!" And then—"But I think—er—our duty is quite plain.Pray inquire about trains, my dear boy. I think—er—you and I shouldbe off with—er—as little delay as possible. Yes, at once—er,—no needto go on to Beckdale. I could never forgive myself, if—er—if anythinghappened, and I had remained here. And Miss Con will undertake—er—theentire management—er—"

He came to a helpless pause.

"Yes, father," assented Eustace.

"I think—er—Phipps must accompany us,—yes, certainly—er—I cannotmanage without Phipps." He sighed again dolefully. "It is a severestrain—er—in my health. But the call is urgent—er—undoubtedly urgent.Your dear mother is 'much hurt,' Nellie says,—and whatever that maymean—er—my duty is, I think—plain."

The thought flashed across me, quite wickedly, that poor little Mr.Romilly was by no means sorry to escape "that frightful descent," ashe termed the road from the station. I cannot, of course, calmly letmyself suppose that he thought of this at all: but the idea did intrude.

"Perhaps—" he went on,—"perhaps it would be best, Miss Conway—er,—ifyou could be so very kind as to call the girls—I think it might be aswell to explain—"

I obeyed with no delay, and Eustace disappeared also, doubtless to makeother arrangements. Denham was outside, and he rushed off at my requestto collect his sisters.

"Your father has heard from abroad," I said in an undertone. "Yes,—notquite good news; but don't frighten any one. Only ask them all to cometo the waiting-room."

I saw a general move at once in the right direction, and went backmyself to Mr. Romilly.

Maggie entered first, rosy and laughing, her arm through MissMillington's,—then the twins and the little ones, followed by Thyrzaand Denham.

"My dears—er—something very sad has happened—er—very sad indeed," Mr.Romilly began, his delicate lips trembling like those of a distressedchild. He launched into a long and hesitating speech, which I wouldfain have cut short, had it been in my power. "Your beloved mother,"and "our dear Nellie," alternated with unhappy conjectures anddismally-expressed hopes. He read the telegram aloud, and enlarged uponit piecemeal. Then he explained that he and Eustace, with Phipps, wouldstart immediately—at once—that very evening—for London; going thenceas fast as possible to Cologne, where he hoped—er—trusted—er—to findtheir precious invalid on a fair road to recovery-er. Meanwhile—er—theywere all to be dear good girls—er—and to do exactly what their mother'sfriend, Miss Conway, desired—er. He was sure he could depend upon MissConway to undertake—er—all responsibility.

Eustace bent lower at this point, and said something to him in a lowvoice. I had not till then noticed the return of Eustace, and I couldnot hear what he said; but Mr. Romilly nodded.

"Yes, you are right, my dear boy. It is necessary—that one should beat the head,—in case—er—my absence should be at all prolonged. Maggieis—er—unfortunately too young. You understand, my dear children—allof you—" he looked at Miss Millington among the rest,—"that duringmy absence I leave—er—Miss Conway entirely responsible—and with fullauthority. Yes,—with full authority—er. I wish—er—everything to bereferred to Miss Conway,—and I expect—er—implicit obedience to her."His eyes ran over the group. "Thyrza—you understand? If difficultiesoccur, the decision will—er—will rest with Miss Conway. You understandme, Thyrza?" He seemed to count Thyrza the only one likely to resist myauthority, whereas I knew her to be the one who would most steadfastlyuphold it.

"Yes, father," she answered. "Then I suppose Miss Conway will have thehousekeeping too."

Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged looks. Mr. Romilly's face fellinto a helpless set.

"I really—er—hardly know," he said feebly. "That is—er—I think—er—amatter which I must leave you to—er—settle among yourselves."

"It is unimportant—" I began; but Eustace interrupted me—

"I beg your pardon, Miss Conway. I think Thyrza is right. There oughtto be no possibility of a mistake. While my father is away you are, byhis appointment, distinctly and unequivocally head of the household.This includes housekeeping. A divided authority cannot work well.For the time, Maggie must be content to count herself one of thegirls,—subject to you. Do you not agree with me, father?"

Maggie made no protest. She only looked prettily downcast and pensive.Mr. Romilly sighed at being appealed to, and endorsed his son's words,though not very emphatically. Then he went back to the telegram, anddiscussed anew its meaning, with divers conjectures as to the nature ofthe accident.

I do not know whether all this slow speechifying stupefied the girlsas it stupefied me. They listened for the most part in submissivesilence. Maggie's cheeks had not lost their bloom: and though she grewserious, I am not sure that the question of household authority did notform the leading topic in her mind. Thyrza's face settled into a rigidunhappiness, and Nona's eyes filled repeatedly with tears. Elfie wasthe one I had feared for most; and, strange to say, Elfie seemed theslowest of all to take alarm. Gradually, however, a pinched misery cameover her, and the large eyes wandered about despairingly.

Eustace made use of the first pause to speak about trains: and then Ifound Elfie by my side. She clutched one of my hands, and muttered,"Can't we go? Don't let anybody say any more."

"We will get off as soon as possible," I whispered. "Try to be brave,Elfie. You know we may hope for brighter news to-morrow."

"Oh, I don't know,—only don't talk,—don't let anybody speak.Please!—please!" And she wrung her hands.

I sent her out on the platform, and had a few words with Eustace,obtaining his help. My aim was, if I could, to keep Elfie away fromthe chatterers. After some discussion, she and I were allowed to mountthe front of the dog-cart, with only Thyrza and packages occupying theback-seat. The remainder of our Beckdale party were packed into thewaggonette.

Once in the course of these arrangements, I found Eustace by my side,saying something which he evidently meant to be unheard by others.

"My father has asked me to give you these for immediate use," heobserved first: and I found bank-notes and gold in my hand. "We willwrite, authorising you to draw, if needful, on the bank for more,—ifour stay should be of any length." Then came a grateful—"It is verygood of you! We are asking you to undertake a great deal!"

"I am most glad to do all in my power," I said. "Yes, theresponsibility is heavy; I wish I had had more experience."

"It always seems that you must have had so much. But I want to say oneword. I think the girls will behave well, and not give trouble;—still,if any difficulty should arise, there is always Lady Denham. You couldnot do harm by appealing to her. And pray write freely to Nellie. Shenever makes mischief."

"Thank you very much," I said, and his warm hand-shake was a surprise.Generally he is so undemonstrative.

It is well that these few words passed between us, for certainly Ishould not have thought of Lady Denham in the event of any difficulty.My impulse would rather have been to appeal to Mrs. Hepburn. Butevidently such an idea never occurred to Eustace: and of course theDenhams are much older friends.

"We shall send you news as soon as possible," Eustace said, whiletucking the wrapper well in round Elfie and me. "Don't fret, dear;" andhe kissed her cold cheek.

I was struck with his unusual freedom and almost cheerfulness ofmanner. I fancy it arose from a certain gratification in findinghimself for once necessary to his father, and useful to all of us.

"Don't fret," he repeated. "Nellie was right to send for me: but yousee, she did not mention my father, and she would have been pretty sureto do that, if there were any real cause for anxiety. Don't you thinkso?"

Elfie tried to smile, and to say, "Yes."

CHAPTER XX.

AND A YORKSHIRE DALE.

THE SAME—continued.

OUR dog-cart took the lead, descending first the steep and rugged roadwhich led from the station, our driver walking at the horse's head.I found that the waggonette was Mr. Romilly's property, but that thedog-cart was hired,—said driver being its owner, a kind and fatherlyold farmer, living near Beckdale House. He and his will be our nearestneighbours here, I imagine.

Rain still fell, though not heavily; and it soon ceased, for which Iwas not sorry. We could not hold up umbrellas. The wind came in blasts.

Elfie would in a general way have been nervous to the last degree aboutso abrupt a descent; but she scarcely seemed to notice it. Her wholemind was with her mother. The horse planted his feet slowly and withcaution, his great haunches going down in successive jerks. I couldhear little cries and exclamations of half-simulated half-real alarmfrom the waggonette: yet no sound came from Elfie.

It was getting very dusky, for we had been long at the station. I wasable, however, to see distinctly the small sharp face leaning againstme, whitey-brown in hue, with wide-open terror-stricken eyes fixed onvacancy; and the chill of Elfie's clasping fingers came through hergloves and mine. I did not speak to her, however. I knew she wouldrather be let alone.

The very steep hillside safely over, our drivers mounted, and we bowledalong a good road, still indeed descending, but often so gently thatone scarcely perceived the fact.

Dusky hills or perhaps mountains rose high on either side of the longnarrow dale through which our way led us: and to our left a brawlingstream rushed downward from the dale-head. My attention was riveted,as the road brought us near. I have never before seen a genuinemountain-torrent. The seeing was indeed partial; but the swirl of whitefoam gleamed weirdly through semi-darkness, and the roar of smallwaterfalls over opposing boulders came to my ears like grand chords ofNature's music.

I looked to discover if Elfie were able to enjoy all this; but no,she had not stirred, and the fixed eyes were blank, as of one whosethoughts are turned entirely inward.

Then I glanced back, to catch a glimpse of Thyrza's straightcharacteristic profile—she has the best profile of any one in thefamily—and she turned, as if from a simultaneous impulse, to glance atme, her lips parted, her eyes shining, her whole face softened into arare new beauty. I was so glad that enough light remained for me togain a clear view of her at that moment. It was a fresh glimpse ofThyrza's real self.

"You like this?" I breathed, leaning back to speak, and she said—

"Oh, it is splendid!"

I do not think any more passed between us. One cannot always talk whenone feels the most.

Now and then the farmer, Mr. Stockmoor, and I exchanged a few wordsacross the silent Elfie. I found his Yorkshire dialect less difficultto understand than I should have expected; but doubtless many speak farmore broadly. He told me that there has been heavy rain lately, so theriver is unusually full. Also I learnt that the Dale is somewhere aboutten miles long; and that Beckdale House occupies a position over sixmiles from the Head, and between three and four from the farther andlower end, where is situated the small town of Beckbergh. We might havegone to Beckbergh Station, had it been so willed, but an extra changeof trains would have been involved thereby, and Mr. Romilly has amortal aversion to changes. I suspect, however, that he will prefer toendure any number in future, rather than commit himself to the horrorsof "that frightful descent."

The six miles seemed short to me, and I think to Thyrza also, with suchsurroundings to study. July twilight, especially in the north, is notvery profound, or very quick to deepen into darkness.

I could hardly believe that the drive was ended, when we foundourselves entering a garden-gate and immediately stopping before ahouse,—"t' hoose" our new friend called it,—grown thickly over withcreepers. It stood very close to the road, and was a less imposingedifice than I had perhaps expected.

Rouse opened the door; and I explained to her at once, briefly, howthings were. Though I did not exactly state my new position in thehousehold, she seemed in a measure to understand, appealing to me aswell as to Maggie in respect of sleeping arrangements. After GlyndeHouse, the rooms appeared limited both in number and size. Rouse hadsettled matters to the best of her ability, and I thought wisely: butMaggie at once proposed a bouleversem*nt of the whole. She objected tothe room set apart for her use and Thyrza's, declined to fall in withmy suggestion that she should for the present occupy the best bedroom,complained that Miss Millington's was "horridly uncomfortable," roameddiscontentedly up and down stairs, contradicted everybody, kept thehungry and tired children waiting for their supper, and showed herselffor once unequivocally out of temper. Of course I knew too well thecause; and I augured badly for the future from her mood.

It was my earnest wish to avoid needless struggles, so I onlycounselled patience to the younger girls, and then did the best I couldto smooth matters by offering to share my own bedroom with Thyrza for afew days. Maggie at first flatly refused the offer, but gradually cameround to it; and as a next move, she requested Miss Millington to shareher bedroom—the same which she had just before denounced as "not bigenough" for two sisters.

"Instead of that poky little hole you have now, Millie dear," she said,with a defiant glance at me from her pretty grey eyes.

"Millie" demurred, but agreed. I made no objections, though I couldnot approve of the plan. I did not believe that Mr. or Mrs. Romillywould like her to sleep so far-away from the children in her charge.This difficulty, however, was removed to some extent by Thyrza'simmediate—"Then I shall sleep in that room, and leave Miss Con inpeace."

She said to me later, "I know it is better for you: and of course thelittle ones can't be left with no one near. Such a shame of those two!"

I said little in answer, except to thank her for helping me. Thecomfort of a room to myself still is not small,—though indeed I wouldrather have Thyrza for a companion than any one else.

To-day the girls and Miss Millington have been chiefly occupied inunpacking and arranging. I have seen little of any of them, for Elfiehas been so ill with neuralgia, that I could neither let her comedownstairs, nor leave her alone for any length of time.

We have had drenching rain, without a break, from early morning. Iwonder if this is usual in July. Denham has been out, of course,regardless of soaking. Thyrza and Nona ventured a short distance, butthey were soon driven back, and had to change everything.

Just opposite our house, on the other side of the Dale, is a finewaterfall,—unusually full and fine just now, from the heavy rain. Itbegins, not far from the top of the hill, as a straight thread ofsilver. Then comes a break, where I suppose the stream flows over aslope. Then a great tumbling leap down a rocky descent, followed by asecond break, and by a final spreading burst of water to lower levels,where it is hidden by trees. I could stand and watch for hours.

The river, flowing among meadows in the bottom of the valley, is notvisible from our windows. We have glimpses of the other road, beyondthe river, running parallel with this road; and beyond the road rises agreat beautiful mountainous mass, extending far to left and right. I donot know its name yet, but everybody seems to call it "The Fell." Thewaterfall leaps down its sides near; and far-away to the left we cansee upon it "The Scaur," a mass of precipitous bare rock, in a greenframe.

The hills on this side of the Dale, behind our house, are more smoothand round, and less lofty. Higher up the Dale, some miles off, we haveglimpses of mountains, which I am told are over two thousand feet inheight. Their summits are swathed in cloud at present.

July 31. Friday Afternoon.—No news yet from Germany. I cannot make upmy mind how soon we ought to hear. Surely a second telegram might havebeen sent; or a letter written by Nellie just after the accident mightarrive.

Elfie was awake all night, and to-day she is shaken and hysterical,tears springing at the least word. I would not let her come downstairstill after lunch. Now she is on the drawing-room sofa, sound asleep,and I am journalising at a side-table. I feel safe in so doing, foronce. We have had another wet morning; and the sun having come outsince lunch, our whole party started ten minutes ago for a ramble. Theywill not be back for at least two hours, if rain keeps off. So I may aswell utilise the time.

Thyrza alone helps me in taking care of Elfie. Maggie, Nona, the littleones, and "Millie" keep studiously aloof. I cannot but see that this isintentional, and that the ill-feeling towards me is fostered by MissMillington. Nona has her rude manner. The little ones pout when I comenear, and are gushing towards their "sweetest darling duckie Millie!"If I glance at Miss Millington, she bridles and tosses her head. Maggiehas scarcely spoken to me to-day, except to oppose whatever I wish orsuggest. There has been as yet no actual resistance of my authority,and I hope that there may not be,—also that this state of things maynot last. It is very foolish: and Maggie's ill-humour has an oddchildishness about it.

A letter unexpectedly reached me this morning from Lady Denham,—short,but very kind. She has had a note from Eustace, written in London; andshe writes, plainly with a clear understanding of things generally, toassure me that I must not hesitate to appeal to her, if need shouldarise.

Of course I have shown and read the letter to no one,—though thepostmark was commented on by Maggie and Nona in what I cannot but countan unladylike because interfering style.

If nothing else prevented me, one sentence would. Lady Denham says,near the end—

"Is it not singular? We have just come across that young officeragain,—Captain A. Lenox, whom we saw at Rouen. You will remember my sonmentioning him in connection with a photograph. I think you said youhad known some member of the same family. He was at the same hotel withus in Bath, three days ago. I was glad to see him quite well."

That is all. I do not understand her object in making the remark. Shemay have written the words quite innocently,—or she may have some dimsuspicion of the truth.

Either way, what difference can it make? For I can do nothing. Womanlyreserve and self-respect forbid the slightest step on my part. If heknew—But if he did, he might not care! How can I tell? He is "quitewell," that may mean "quite recovered" in more ways than one. I think awoman clings longer to a hopeless memory than a man does. And he toldme plainly that he would never place himself in my path again.

What can have taken him to Bath I cannot—

*******

Something so terribly unpleasant has happened. I cannot write morenow. My hand is shaking, and I feel altogether upset. I will neverjournalise in the drawing-room again.

CHAPTER XXI.

THROUGH A STORM.

THE SAME.

August 1. Saturday Evening.

YESTERDAY afternoon, when I had written those two words, "I cannot—"Nona darted into the room, and seized my dress, with a scared whisper—

"Come! quick! quick! A telegram for you! We are so frightened."

I could see that she was. She looked quite pale and out of breath.I found later that they had met on the road the messenger from thetelegraph-office, had guessed his errand, questioned him, and racedback in a body, at full speed, to find out what I should have to tellthem.

Elfie showed no signs of waking. In my anxiety to relieve the poorgirls' suspense, I rose at once, just closing my journal volume upon asheet of blotting-paper, but not fastening the spring-lock accordingto my invariable habit hitherto. Indeed it was not only for the girls'sake that I made all possible haste. A terrible fear crept over me thatmy dear and loving friend might be no more.

Miss Millington stood in the passage outside. I think I said somethingto her in passing, but I do not know what; and I remarked with a vaguesurprise that she did not follow us. Then I forgot her existence.

Maggie, Thyrza, and Denham, with the little ones, were on thegravel-path outside the front porch, waiting for us. Nona hurried methither,—not faster than I would have gone without her hurrying. Inoticed that Popsie and Pet were half crying; that Thyrza was rigidand sad; that Maggie seemed bewildered, yet kept her usual colour.Denham held out the envelope, saying, "We thought you wouldn't likeElfie startled." Afterwards I learnt that they would all have dashed intogether, but for Thyrza's remonstrances.

I tore open the thin paper, and read aloud—

"Mother no worse, doctors give hope!"

Dead silence followed, lasting several seconds. Then, to myastonishment, Maggie remarked in a cheerful tone—

"Oh, well, it isn't so bad! She is getting better!"

"Maggie!!" half-smothered, came from behind, and I turned to see Thyrzaon the verge of tears, fighting to control herself.

"'No worse,' Maggie—Hardly 'better' yet," I said gravely.

"I can't think why Nellie didn't send the telegram to me," said Maggie.

"She wished, of course, to avoid startling you," I said.

The children were asking—"Is mother nearly well?" And as Maggie choseto give a particularly hopeful response, I did not interfere.

"I would rather have nothing said to Elfie," I observed, when a fewremarks had passed.

"Don't you mean to tell her what we have heard?" demanded Nona.

"I am not sure," I said. "Perhaps, by-and-by; but it must depend on howElfie is."

"Mother never likes Elfie to be coddled," asserted Maggie withpromptitude. She has that notion at her fingers' ends.

"I have not the least intention of coddling Elfie," I answered. "Thereis such a thing as necessary caution; and neither you nor I wishto have Elfie ill. I must request you all to say nothing about thetelegram to her without my leave."

Maggie turned and walked a few paces, remarking, "Well, I suppose wemay as well go on now. Where's Millie?"

Did she really not care—or not understand? Or was this only assumedindifference?

"She went indoors," Nona said.

"I will find Miss Millington, and ask her to join you out here," Isaid. "Elfie is asleep, and I would rather not have her roused."

"Millie can catch us up. Come along, girls," Denham said, with an airof forced cheerfulness. I could not but be glad to see how forced hischeerfulness was,—also how pale and serious Nona and the little oneslooked. Thyrza held back and when asked to accompany them, she said,"No!" then vanished round the side of the house. Maggie alone showed nosigns of being deeply stirred. And when I remember how that poor motherclings to Maggie—But if she were here, she would believe in Maggiestill!

I returned then to the drawing-room. As I opened the door and entered,Miss Millington came hurrying across the room. I was struck with herflushed face and flurried manner. She did not look at me, and wouldhave gone straight past, but I whispered—

"They are expecting you in the garden." She made no answer, anddisappeared.

A glance revealed to me Elfie sleeping soundly still. I was thankfulfor that,—poor child. She had stirred and changed her position, but thecoming and going had not roused her.

I sat down again at the side-table; and in one moment I knew that mypapers had been meddled with. The consciousness came over me like aclap of thunder.

It is my habit to be very orderly in arrangements when writing.Hurriedly as I had been called away, I could have told exactly howeach sheet and envelope lay,—placed in readiness for letter-writing,after journalising. The order of them was changed now. Note-sheets,envelopes and post-cards, had been thrust into a heap. That might meannothing,—merely a hasty movement of somebody's hand, in going to thedrawer. But that was not all. I opened my journal, and I knew at oncethat it had been opened in my absence. The piece of blotting-paper,which I had left between the leaves, had fallen half out; and theleaves themselves were rumpled, as if by too hurried turning over andtoo hasty closure.

If further proof were needed, I had it. For straight before myeyes, close to the name of "Arthur Lenox," lay one small yellowishrose-petal, pink-edged. I was well aware from what rose that petalcame. Only half-an-hour earlier I had seen Maggie fasten it in MissMillington's dress, with an apology for its too full-grown condition.The petal must have fluttered down, unseen, at the last moment, as sheshut the book, startled by my quick return.

My first feeling was as if I had been stunned by a blow. I could notunderstand what had happened,—could not let myself face it. How longI sat, gazing in stupefaction at the last unfinished sentence of myjournal, I do not know. It must have been quite mechanically that Iat last added a few words, found further writing impossible, shut andlocked the book, and glanced at Elfie.

Asleep still! I could not see her face in the new position she hadassumed,—a crumpled-up attitude peculiar to herself; but her extremestillness convinced me that there was no fear of an awakening atpresent. She might be left for a short time.

I took the journal, and went upstairs to my own room.

There the storm broke,—not outwardly, much of it. But all at once Irealised what this deed was which Miss Millington had done to me. Shehad covertly possessed herself of my heart's secret,—had stolen fromme my most guarded possession. The agony of having the thing known atall—worst of all known by her!—came upon me fiercely; and then thecontemptibleness of her conduct! The miserable paltry curiosity! Theshameless lack of honour!—Then again my own helplessness! I could donothing. How much or how little she had read or understood, I mightnever know.

I could not even prove that she had really looked: and if I could, whatuse? Nothing could undo that which she had done. I would never stoopto accuse her of it,—would never put myself further in her power, byletting her know that I had discovered her act. I would only despiseand hate her thenceforward, as a creature utterly base and low, beneathcontempt, outside the pale of common respect. Forgive her! Love her!Never!

I have always known that I "had a temper," as the saying is,—a tempercapable of being roused on occasions, though not susceptible to verysmall daily worries. But never till yesterday have I felt myselfpowerless in its grasp, carried away like a leaf in the gale.

The half-hour that I spent alone in my room might have been hours,judged by what I went through in the course of it.

I was unable to sit still, unable to kneel, unable to pray. Theovermastering anguish of hate and scorn gradually subdued all othersensations. Pain itself went down for the time before that storm ofwithering contempt. For I have always had such a horror of anything notstrictly and perfectly honourable! I have always been so scrupulousin dealing with others! To look at a thing secretly, not meant forone's eyes, has seemed to me, not merely so wrong, but so absolutelyimpossible! And now—to be subjected to this!

Half an hour and no more I gave myself. At its close, the battle wasnot fought out,—was scarcely indeed begun. I had not fought at all. Ihad only been swept along by a tornado of passion. And I think that theone thing which kept me from losing my balance, which restrained mefrom resolving on some wild or rash step of reprisal or escape, in thathalf-hour of fearful resentment, was the consciousness of my Father'spity,—the knowledge that He was looking down all the while tenderly onHis poor racked child, and that He would help me, so soon as I couldand would glance up to Him for help.

I thought He would not help me—yet! I thought I could not glancetowards Him—yet! But I do think now that my very sense of His lovingpity was even then a wordless prayer,—and that even then His Hand washolding me back.

For somehow at the half-hour's end, I could be outwardly calm. I washedmy face, smoothed my hair, and noted curiously in the glass my unusualdegree of pallor, and the strange expression in my eyes. I wondered ifothers would remark the latter; for I felt that I could not control it.Then I went downstairs to the drawing-room.

Elfie was awake. She showed no surprise at my absence, but seemedpoorly and fretful, and would not talk. I saw signs of tears, and whenI tried to comfort her, she turned fractiously away, hiding her face inthe cushion. So I left her quiet, and sat down with work, resolving tomake no mention at present of the telegram.

The walking-party returned earlier than I expected. I was determinedthat Miss Millington should see no change in my manner. Pride demandedthis of me. But whether I was successful, I do not know. When she firstcame into the room, I had a sensation of being turned to ice. She maynot have noted any difference, since, to my knowledge, she never lookedat me once during the hour that we were all together. The resolutemanner in which her eyes shunned mine was remarkable; for generallythey seem to be everywhere. The walking-party had much to say abouttheir ramble,—not to me, but one to another. I would not be left out ofthe conversation, and talked as much as anybody; but by the time teawas over, the strain had become almost more than I knew how to endure.

Thyrza, who had been very silent, found an opportunity to say to me,unheard by the rest—

"Are you tired, Miss Con?"

"Rather," I answered. "Would you mind sitting with Elfie for an hour,while I have a walk?"

"No, of course I will. I meant to ask if you wouldn't like some freshair. But you will not go alone?"

"Quite alone," I said. The words sounded hard, and I tried to smile.

"Couldn't Millie or somebody else take care of Elfie? I should so liketo be with you."

"Not this evening," I answered. She looked at me with such puzzledeyes, that I became conscious of something peculiar in my manner,and to soften the words, I added, "Better not ask it. They talked ofanother ramble before supper."

We have given up late dinner for the present, while Mr. Romilly is away.

"Isn't Elfie so well? Are you worried about her?"

"I don't think she is actually ill," I said. "She needs care."

"And you have told her about the telegram?"

"No. Why?"

"Oh, I thought—I didn't know, of course,—only, she was crying so, justbefore tea."

"I have said nothing. I hope the children have not let it out," I said.

"They wouldn't dare! If Maggie—" Thyrza paused. "But Elfie alwaysfrets, when she is poorly, and her faceache is so bad to-day. I daresay it is only that. I'll go to her now. Do get a walk. I am sure youhave been too long indoors."

Thyrza's solicitude was my one touch of outside comfort. I could seethat she thought me distressed about her mother, as indeed I was andam. But that pain grows small beside the other.

A few minutes later I was off. The sun had gone in, and it was a greyyet clear evening, some blue sky visible towards Beckbergh, and heavymasses of dark cloud brooding over the upper extremity of the Dale,while mountain-outlines near at hand stood out distinctly against apale background, dun-tinted. On quitting the garden, I turned to theright, aware that other walkers from our house would turn to the left.I did not yet allow myself to think. I wanted first to work off byrapid exercise some small part of the stony misery.

The road slanted downward, gradually nearing the river. By-and-by Igained glimpses of a broad bridge crossing it, far ahead. One pathwayleading up the hillside, on my right hand, attracted me; but I resolvedfirst to have a look at the bridge, then to return and try this path.

As the main road descended, it grew more and more muddy,—not surprisingafter such heavy rain. I had to choose my steps with some care. Therewere cows loitering along, a few at a time in charge of a man and adog, on their way back from afternoon milking. I exchanged a kind"Good-evening" with the man. Old-fashioned greetings from strangersseem the fashion here, why not elsewhere? I pondered this questionmechanically, patting the rough side of a cow as I went by. Andthen I noted one or two distant whitewashed farms: and the prettysilken-coated sheep on the hillsides, so different from our southernsheep, took my fancy. But still I kept at bay the lowering black cloudwithin.

The bridge was reached at last, by a road which turned down to itfrom the main road. I leant upon the stone-parapet, and gazed, asin a dream, upon the curdling stream, chocolate-brown in hue, swiftand steadfast in its rush. It was hard to believe that the brawlingmountain-torrent of a few miles higher up could have already grown tothis powerful river.

Somehow I was unable to remain on the bridge. The spot did not satisfymy need. There was a cottage near, and I wanted to be away fromanything human. Soon I retraced my steps for some distance along themain road, and struck up by the side-path which I had before noticed.

This path, like the road beneath, led towards the lower Dale-extremity:but it wandered up the steep hillside, instead of keeping near thebottom of the valley, serving evidently as a shorter cut to Beckbergh,over a rocky ridge. It is probably a good deal frequented; yet no oneovertook or passed me yesterday. The complete solitude was what I hadcraved for. I went on, till a distant glimpse of the town, Beckbergh,beyond and beneath, became visible.

I did not wish to get there,—though I might have had time, theevenings now are so long. I only wanted to find a spot, secure frominterruption, where I might dare to indulge thought.

I had reached the highest point of the pathway, after which it beginsto descend towards Beckbergh. It crosses there a wild green common-likeslope, broken by out-standing rocks and big boulders.

So I left the path, and went upwards, regardless of the wet grass, andpresently I found a seat upon one flat rock, another rising a littlebelow in just such a position as to hide me effectually from anybodywho should pass along the path.

Then at last I knew that I might allow myself to think,—and I meant tobegin, and have the matter out. But before I could set to work, my eyesfell on a beautiful plant of real Parsley fern, growing a few pacesoff, under the shelter of an overhanging boulder.

How delighted Thyrza would be! I would get it for her, of course. Sheis an ardent fern-collector, and I knew she was hoping to find manyspecimens while here. Maggie follows suit, as a matter of course, andcollects fitfully, under "Millie's" superintendence, neither knowingmuch about the matter. There had been talk at tea-time about theabundant supplies of Polypody and Adiantum Nigrum, already noted.Maggie had expressed hopes of "Oak" and "Beech," and Thyrza hadadded—"Perhaps even Parsley!"—almost her sole remark. And here theParsley was!

My trouble had to wait a while longer. Digging a Parsley fern out ofa rocky bed, not having even the help of a knife, is no easy matter.I pulled off my gloves, and knelt down, setting to work with care anddetermination. The business took some time, but I did it thoroughly,keeping the roots almost intact. My "find" at length was freed, and Iwent back to the seat I had chosen.

And then I sat silently, looking around, willing to face my grief, yetsomehow composed. The storm of rage and contempt did not return. I hadfelt so sure that it must; and I was mistaken.

I had a good view of the Dale, with its high hill-ranges on eitherside. "The Fell" lay opposite, extending far up the valley: a greatmountainous mass, with curved clear outlines, hummocked and dimpledsides; the frowning Scaur in the distance contrasting with soft greensurroundings; masses of bracken varying the grass-tints; slenderwinding rivulets streaking its sides like silver snakes; and the lightsand shades of evening lending a wonderful beauty to the whole. I couldsee the river below, and near the Dale-Head loftier mountains rearedtheir summits into the grey clouds which clustered there; but my eyesreturned persistently to the changeful loveliness of The Fell. For thatenchained me.

I almost think that at first there was a sense of disappointment atmy own quietness. I hardly wished to be quiet yet. For I had been sogrievously wronged. My wrath had been a righteous wrath,—so I toldmyself, not seeing how far it had passed the righteous boundary. Isuppose no anger that has the mastery over one can ever be a purelyjust anger. The contempt too, I told myself, had been no more than MissMillington deserved. I despised still, and I must despise. There couldbe no excuse for her. And a voice seemed to whisper—"No! None! Andyet—!"

I hardly know how to tell what followed. I do not wish to lose therecollection, so I must try. But it was not words. It was only—the helpI needed.

I must have looked up to Him unknowingly. I did believe that He wouldhelp me, sooner or later. And it was sooner, instead of later. PerhapsHe sometimes—often—comes, unasked, to the rescue of His own, in peril.

Though passionate anger was lulled, pain was not. It grew keener,deeper, as I sat there. The consciousness of what she had done cameover me afresh, and with it a fresh agony at having my secret known.Would she make use of her discovery?—Tell it to others? Surely not! Andyet I could believe her capable of even this. I had no fear that she orany one would dare to speak a word to me on the subject. But to knowthat others know!—This I felt to be enough, more than enough, more thanI might endure!

The pain was none the less for being a calm pain. Passion had helped meearlier. Now the very calmness rendered me better able to feel, betterfitted to measure the cause which existed for pain. And in a littlewhile, I could not face the sweet scene around—I could only drop myhead on my knees, shivering in the cold grasp of a bitter distress, adull longing to be out of it all and away from everybody—for ever.

My own helplessness was terrible, helplessness to undo the evil,helplessness to meet it, helplessness to guard myself, helplessness toforgive. I seemed to be hedged round on every side.

"Forgive her! Oh never!" I found myself murmuring.

And suddenly I seemed to see that sad Denial-Scene, when one whom theMaster loved turned against Him, in cowardly wise abjuring His Name.And I saw in response, no anger, no bitterness, no contempt; only onegentle Look from those wonderful loving Eyes, so grave and sweet,pleading and true, reproachful yet pitying, humanly sorrowful, Royallycalm.

What has she done to me, compared with that which the craven discipledid to Him that day? More!—In what has she wronged me, compared withall the wronging of my coldness, heartlessness, ingratitude, towardsHim—my Master and King? For I have not loved her,—I have not trustedher,—I have not given up aught for her sake! And what has not He doneand endured for me?

The debt of one hundred pence indeed, beside the debt of ten thousandpounds! If He resented my ill-doings as I have resented hers, whereshould I be?

I think the look which softened St. Peter came to me too, in that houron the lonely hillside. Perhaps there was the touch as well,—His Handremoving the bitterness, the wrath, the angry contempt; not takingaway the pain, but rather laying it upon me anew, as something to bepatiently endured for Him; and with it giving His peace.

Had I not only that morning pleaded to have His will worked in me,avowing myself submissive? And if this were His will?

It was not—is not—for me to choose. Just because this trouble sofiercely racks my pride, it may be the very burden I most need.

And, after all, I might have misjudged her. This thought came next.She might not have meant to look,—might have gone to the drawer forsomething, have moved my papers accidentally, have even thrown the bookopen by some awkward movement and have shut the page, unread.

If she did read,—then, dishonourable, base, contemptible, are not termstoo strong for the deed. But yet I have not to judge her. To her ownMaster she standeth or falleth. Have I always acted towards my lovingLord with perfect honour, perfect courtesy, perfect thoughtfulness,perfect delicacy? And has He not forgiven me? Oh, times without number!

Besides, she may have been ill-trained. She may have by nature a bluntsense of honour, a defective understanding. There can be no excuse; butthere may be considerations inducing pity.

That command followed. I knew from Whom it came: and I could only feelthat I was willing,—if my God would make me able.

*******

It was later than I had intended, when I reached home. Thyrza came tomeet me at the garden-gate. She gave one long look, kissed me gravely,and said, "The walk has done you good. I am so glad."

I showed her the Parsley fern, and said, "I meant this for you. Butwhat do you think? Shall I give it to Maggie?"

She flushed up and exclaimed at the sight of what I had brought, withgenuine enthusiasm. Then I saw a moment's struggle.

"Yes,—please do," she said. "Maggie says you always put me first."

"Maggie would have no reason for saying so in this instance," Ianswered. "You are our chief fern-collector: so I count that you havethe prime right."

"But Maggie has the fancy just now. Poor little fern! She will only letyou die," sighed Thyrza. Yet there came again a decisive—"Yes, give itto her."

I did so: and Maggie received my gift awkwardly, glancing between herthanks at "Millie," to discover whether she were being betrayed intoover-warmth.

CHAPTER XXII.

MYSTERIOUS HOLES.

August 5. Wednesday.

I CANNOT quite understand the condition of things. From Thyrza aloneI have steady affection and support. All the rest are in unequivocalopposition.

Even Elfie—my little clinging Elfie—has changed. I do not know why.Though not so poorly as last week, and able to be about again, sheseems fractious and peevish, and nervous fancies are regaining theirold sway over her. The fusses about what she can and cannot do, willand will not eat, are endless.

Now, too, she distinctly turns from me and turns to Miss Millington. IfI say a word about not giving way to fancies, she bursts out crying,and "Millie" ostentatiously comforts her, assisted by Maggie, who hasall at once left off remarks anent "coddling."

Miss Millington's influence over the girls is to me more and moreextraordinary. There seems absolutely nothing in her, which mightaccount for it. I can only suppose that having, through the force ofcirc*mstances, gained a certain power over Maggie's weakness, shecontrols the younger girls through Maggie, one following in another'swake. With the exception of Thyrza—and, it may be, of Nellie,—thesisters have a droll fashion of running in the same groove.

Last Saturday looks often to me like a dream,—only not a dream, forthe pain remains. But I would rather not write about it. We go on muchas usual. Sometimes I almost think I must have been mistaken. The onething about which I can feel no possible doubt is Miss Millington'sintense and growing dislike to me.

Maggie has had a long letter from Nellie. But for Thyrza, I shouldhave been kept in complete ignorance of its contents. This is, Isuppose, poor Maggie's small revenge on me, for not having shown herMrs. Romilly's letters,—only it seems almost too small to be credible!"Millie" of course hears everything, and takes care to make me aware ofthe fact.

From Thyrza I learn that the collision was not a severe one, the onlypassenger injured being my poor friend. The broken collar-bone seems tobe a minor injury. I imagine that the present illness is chiefly oneof brain and nerves, consequent upon the shock. When Nellie wrote shecould scarcely be called quite out of danger; but undoubtedly there wassome improvement.

This is enough for Maggie, who has been in wild spirits ever sincethe letter arrived. We had rain a great part of yesterday and the daybefore, and she has taken vehemently to her writing again. The notionof consulting some well-known authoress, as to "the best way of gettinginto print," has also been revived,—probably by Miss Millington, whoboasts some manner of acquaintance with two literary ladies. If Maggieshould receive wholesome advice from either, so much the better.Whether they can help her "to get into print,"—that acmé of Maggie'sdesires,—is another question.

We discuss the matter at meal-times, Maggie being entirely unreservedrespecting her own would-be authorship.

August 6. Thursday.—This afternoon several of us went to see theStockmoors, in the quaint old whitewashed farm-house, where they live,and where Mr. Stockmoor's parents and grandparents lived before him.It stands in a small garden, close to the road, about fifteen minutes'walk up the Dale. The farm seems to include little besides pasturefor cows and sheep. Mrs. Stockmoor makes butter, but not on any largescale. Mr. Stockmoor is Churchwarden, and evidently is a man muchrespected.

A kind welcome was accorded, and they took us over the house, pointingout some old and interesting articles of furniture. The Stockmoorshave three or four comfortable rooms, which they let to lodgers inthe summer. Nobody is here now: but, to my surprise, I suddenly hearda mention of the name "Denham;" and an inquiry brought out the fact,unknown to me before, that Lady Denham and Sir Keith have twice spent amonth in these very lodgings.

We were all together in the quaint good-sized sitting-room. It has bigceiling-beams, two small lattice-windows, huge fireplace, old-fashionedchairs, and whitewashed porch opening on the garden, with a lovely viewall up the Dale to the massive terminating mountain heights. Yes,—verybeautiful and most attractive, I thought, but somehow I could notquite picture Sir Keith and his mother there, fresh from the statelyplenishings of Glynde Park. I tried to imagine Lady Denham rockingherself to and fro in the rocking-chair of indefinite age, just thengiving amusem*nt to Popsie and Pet; and I found myself in danger oflaughter. Then I heard an exclamation from Maggie:

"Only think! Millie, do you hear? Mrs. Stockmoor says Lady Denham meansto come very soon; and she has written to take the rooms."

"Sir Keith too?" somebody asked, and Maggie's cheeks gained a vividhue. She and "Millie" exchanged glances, whereupon Maggie's eyesdrooped.

"Not very likely that Lady Denham would come all this way north withouthim," Thyrza remarked, with a curt and vexed air, as if she dislikedthe notion.

Mrs. Stockmoor could not say. She hoped so,—such a very nice gentlemanas he was. And if the gentleman that was coming first, perhaps, wasto—but there she stopped abruptly, twisting her apron round herfingers. I had caught a warning look telegraphed from one of thedaughters to the mother. No one else seemed to have perceived this, andNona asked—

"Is Sir Keith coming first? What!—And leave Lady Denham to manage thejourney all alone?"

Mrs. Stockmoor maintained a discreet silence, till further pressed,when she twisted her apron anew and said, "I cannot not tell!" with anemphatic double-negative, which I had already once or twice heard fromher.

Then Mr. Stockmoor advanced to his wife's rescue, volunteeringinformation about the surrounding neighbourhood. Had we been yet to seea certain spot, not three miles off; called Gurglepool? It seems fromhis description to be an odd and mysterious hole in the earth, and Icannot recall hearing the name before, though the girls have evidentlybeen aware of Its existence.

"There are two holes," Nona said, "one big and one little. Eustace toldus about them."

I suggested an excursion to the place to-morrow, and Thyrza seconded me.

Maggie immediately protested. She said that "she and the rest" hadsettled to drive up the Dale in the waggonette. They wanted to see theroad to the station by daylight.

"Very well," I replied. "One day is as good as another for Gurglepool."

I noted a gleam of quiet intelligence in Mr. Stockmoor's eyes, and fiveminutes later, as we were departing, he offered to bring "t' trap" onthe morrow to "t' hoose," that I and one or two others might stillcarry out my project.

As the waggonette could not contain all our party, and I should, ofcourse, be the one left out, I felt no scruple about accepting theoffer, with thanks.

But are the Denhams really proposing to stay near us? And if so, isit on our account or on their own? Thyrza thinks their coming veryprobable.

"And I don't care, for my part, whether they do or don't," she added."I get so tired of the talk about Sir Keith's virtues. Only I do wishsomebody could keep Maggie from behaving like an utter goose! It is allMillie's fault. If you knew the nonsense she talks to Maggie!"

"Better, perhaps, that I should not know, since I cannot check it," Isaid gravely. "And, my dear, I don't think you have to judge Maggie."

She looked up at me, with tears in her eyes.

"If only they would not treat you so!" she said. "I shouldn't mindanything else so much."

Her sympathy does comfort me. I cannot help feeling that.

August 8. Saturday.—We had our drive in the dog-cart yesterday, Thyrzaand I,—not only to Gurglepool and back, but quite a long round,through the wildest country, all dales and mountains, tea-colouredgolden-bedded torrents, trees, grass and rocks, blue sky and sunshine,with nothing to mar the complete enjoyment, except recollections whichcould not be utterly put aside.

No one but Thyrza would come with me. I think Denham wished it, and hadnot resolution to stand out against the conclave of sisters.

Elfie looked unhappy all the morning, and shunned me persistently. Ihardly like to allow to myself how keenly I am pained by this changeof manner. I begged Maggie and Nona to take care that she was notoverdone, and this was all that I could do, for they were bent ontaking her, and I knew that the waggonette would be full without Thyrzaand myself.

The next Dale, running parallel with Beckdale, quite different incharacter, hardly so lovely, I thought, yet with its own distinctivebeauty. The hills are lower, more bare and bleak, and the inevitableriver which drains it flows often underground, entirely disappearingfor a while beneath the dry and stony bed which marks its course, andlater on reappearing. In times of flood, the dry bed is filled with arushing stream.

Far up the Dale we entered a pretty and picturesque little side-valley,branching off at right angles, and well filled with trees. By-the-bye,when I spoke of Gurglepool as about three miles off, I did notunderstand that that was only the short-cut walking distance. It is along drive.

At the entrance of this small valley, Mr. Stockmoor bade us dismount,and gave us full leave to remain as long as we liked. He had to stay incharge of the horse, while we explored; but we were not to be in anyhaste. If the directions given by himself failed to be sufficient, awoman from a cottage at the upper end would act as our guide.

"Don't let us have a guide. Much better fun to hunt out things forourselves," Thyrza said, and we plunged into the wooded ravine.

There was a lesser hole, as well as the greater Gurglepool, Mr.Stockmoor said, his description therein agreeing with Nona's. We cameupon this lesser hole first,—a mysterious cleft in the earth, slantingdownward to unknown black regions, paved with loose stones whichdoubtless act often as the bed of a watercourse. They looked only dampyesterday. Rocks rose high around the sloping mouth, and shrubs grewthickly thereupon. Thyrza and I climbed to a good position for kneelingon the edge and peering over. The sight was altogether weird. I flung astone down, and it rattled onward in a slow descent, quite two or threeseconds after disappearing from sight. Whether it then reached thebottom, or whether sound merely ceased because deadened by distance, wecould not tell.

"Looks like a pathway that might lead to the centre of the earth,"Thyrza said. "Or like the entrance to some underground giant castle.Miss Con, haven't you had enough? Come and see if Gurglepool itself isdifferent."

I had not had enough, but Mr. Stockmoor was waiting. So we went onthrough the wild little valley, presently mounting one of its grassysides, till we reached Gurglepool.

Neither of us said anything at first. We only stood still near theedge, gazing. Thyrza slipped one arm through mine, and I felt her givea shudder.

Gurglepool is really a circular hole,—of what diameter I do not know,but I should guess it to be about thirty feet across: and I am toldthat it is sixty or seventy feet in depth, not counting the dark stillpool of water at the bottom, usually some twenty-five feet deep. Anunderground stream flows in and out of that pool, not visibly stirringits surface. So, of all awful places to fall into—! I could not helpthis thought arising, as I looked.

The sides of the hole are rocky, and precipitously steep, except on oneside, where a path descends sharply to the margin of earth beside thepool: not a very inviting path, albeit rendered fairly safe by a roughwooden hand-rail, reaching from above to below.

The woman from the cottage, spoken of by Mr. Stockmoor, came up, andtold us more about the strange place. Sheep wandering round have oftenfallen in and been drowned. She spoke of it with dread for her ownchildren, living so near. There has been talk of putting a wall orfence round the opening. This would, I suppose, somewhat spoil thegeneral appearance, but it would be safer. I thought of Denham and thegirls, and wished the precaution had been taken.

In very wet weather the water in the pool rises higher and higher,rushing often round and round, like liquid in a pot stirred by a spoon,and sometimes boiling over, so to speak, upon the surrounding grass.It must be a strange sight then. But when the girls come, I shall cometoo. That I am determined on.

It is no place for a number of giddy young people, under no authority.

The woman made nothing of going down the path to the water's edge; andafter some hesitation, I followed her. Thyrza did not seem inclined todo the same. She said she would wait till another time.

We did not like to keep kind Mr. Stockmoor too long, and soon we weredriving homeward, full of new interest in this extraordinary corner ofquiet old England.

The waggonette party had not returned when we reached Beckdale House.Too long a trip for Elfie, of course, but how could I help it? Needlessstruggles must be as far as possible avoided. I have to reserve all myauthority for real emergencies.

Thyrza and I sat down in the garden, she with a book, I with my work.Presently I saw her to be deep in thought,—not reading or pretendingto read. At first I fancied her to be thinking of Gurglepool,—then ofthe waterfall across the valley, already much attenuated by two finedays. But no,—something more serious gave the very intent look to herdark eyes. She sat perfectly still, as is her wont at such times, inan upright posture, half-rigid, half-careless, and quite unconscious.I love to study Thyrza's face, when she is trying to unravel someperplexity, or has gained a glimpse of some new idea.

"What is it all about?" I asked, after a while.

She turned to me, with an unwonted quickness of response.

"I am thinking—" she said. "Miss Con, don't you very often wish youcould be sure of things?"

Though she gave no clue to the previous train of ideas, I understoodenough to answer—"I am quite sure of some things."

"But you know what I mean? People think and explain so differently,—andI suppose it isn't always one's own people that must be in the right."

"Not necessarily, Thyrza. That would bring one into an awkwardpredicament as to 'the right' in different houses."

"Yes, I mean that, exactly." A pause followed, and she knitted herbrows. "Father doesn't always put things exactly as you do, Miss Con.And I know Sir Keith doesn't agree with Mr. Hepburn in a great many ofhis opinions,—or with father."

"Possibly. But you need not feel sure that the different ways of'putting' a doctrine or belief must always mean error on the one sideor the other."

"Mustn't it?"

"Not always. Very often of course both are wrong and very often perhapsboth are right. Mr. Hepburn may be looking only on the silver side ofthe shield, and Sir Keith only on the golden."

"I should think Sir Keith would look on both sides," she said hastily,as if defending him.

I was amused, remembering her many professions of dislike.

"Yes, to the best of his power: but human powers are limited. If youand I were describing The Fell, we could only describe this side thatwe have seen. Somebody else, living beyond, might give so different aversion of its look, that a listener would not recognise the mountainto be the same. That would be no reason why you and I should declarethe other's account to be untrue,—merely because we had not had thesame view."

"No. I see," Thyrza answered. "I suppose the right thing would be toget round to the other side, if one could." Then she reverted to herfirst thought. "Still, it does seem as if one could be sure of solittle," she went on. "There are so many questions that no two peoplethink exactly the same about."

"Rather an extreme manner of expressing it, my dear," I said. "You maybe sure of much, though not of everything."

She looked at me questioningly.

"For instance,—I am quite sure, at this moment, of the blue skyoverhead, of the sunshine, of the mountains, of the singing birds. I amquite sure of the river flowing down below, though I can't see it. ButI don't feel sure about the exact height of each separate mountain; andI should not like to declare which particular geological theory, as tothe manner of their formation, is most correct. Nor do I know all aboutthe precise nature of sunshine, though science has a good deal to sayon that matter. And for some minutes past, I have been puzzling myselfabout those white spots on the hillside, far up the Dale."

"Those stones?"

"Are they stones? I had just come to the conclusion that they weresheep. Somebody else might take them for clothes hung out to dry. Onewould be the right explanation, and the others would be wrong. Butthe question would hardly be worth a quarrel. Better for all threeobservers to allow the fact of limited eyesight, and to leave it inabeyance. We can all agree about the blue sky and the sunshine."

Thyrza's face was brightening. "Agree about the nature of sunshine!"she asked.

"Yes,—in so far that it is warmth-giving, light-giving, health-giving,and that we could not live without it. Not about all theories as to thenature of light-waves."

She pondered seriously.

"Think of our first drive here from the station," I said. "It wasgetting dark, and we were in a strange part of the country. Idon't know whether you were struck, as I was, by the bewilderinguncertainties of the landscape."

She said, "Yes,"—quickly.

"I found myself mistaking mountains for clouds, and clouds formountains. Trees seemed to rear themselves up like giants, comingto meet us; and a big dog gave me quite a start, he loomed out sosuddenly, like a wild beast. Then the white foam of the waterfalls wasvery weird,—one might have conjured up any amount of imaginations asto threatening dangers. You and I could have argued all the way, ifwe had chosen, about our differing 'views' of this or that object. Ofcourse we knew that full daylight a few hours later would clear awayall perplexities: and we could afford to wait. But we know the same nowin things spiritual; yet few of us realise that we can afford to wait."

"To wait in uncertainty!" she said. "Not making up one's mind."

"In uncertainty on many lesser points. There was plenty that we couldbe quite sure about. For instance,—we were sure of being on the rightroad, because we were sure of our guide; and we were sure of the hometo which we were going."

Thyrza's eyes shone.

"And we are sure now of—?" she said in a questioning tone.

"Of our Father's love. Of Christ, our Crucified and Risen Lord. Of theHoly Spirit, promised to us. Of the Home which Christ is preparing.Of the Guide who leads us. Of the Pathway He points out. Of the Meansof Grace provided . . . My dear, think for yourself of all that we door may know with a certain knowledge. Don't be distressed to find ahundred lesser questions about which we cannot be sure, and about whichthe best men must differ, because we have not, any of us, full daylightin which to make out all details."

"But if Christ is our Light—" she said.

"He is our Light; but the dawn comes to each one gradually,—sometimesvery slowly indeed. I suppose the Light vouchsafed is often sodim because we don't really care to have it more fully. And thereis the question too of our own defective eyesight. That has to becured—gradually."

Thyrza pondered again.

"About the Means of Grace,—" she said. "Can one be sure there? Peopledo think so differently."

"People think very differently about the scientific nature ofsunshine," I said, "yet we all agree on the need that man should useit. The make of sunshine is practically a lesser question to us."

She only looked at me, as if waiting for more.

"It is one thing to use any medium of help provided,—and quite anotherthing to be able to define very exactly its nature," I said. "I dothink that if the Means of Grace were more ardently used, and lessfeverishly discussed, we might make better advance in the spirituallife."

"I was thinking about the highest,—about Holy Communion," she said in alow voice. "People differ so—"

"Yes,—I saw you were. But, my dear, you have not to settle otherpeople's differences. The less of definition the better sometimes. Ialways think that the Evil One has no more subtle method of fighting,than by setting Christians to wrangle over their definitions ofspiritual things."

"Then one need not understand exactly?" she said.

"You must understand that God is offering you, through a certainchannel, help, food, sustenance,—that you have to use the channel,and to accept what He gives. But more is not needed. Many a poor mandrinks from the river below, without the least idea of what the wateris composed of, or how it came there. And a little child doesn't refusethe food his mother gives him, until he shall have analysed its nature,and tested the make of the vessels which hold it. He doesn't thinkabout that at all, but trusts his mother's love and wisdom,—eats anddrinks,—is satisfied and thankful."

Thyrza drew a long breath. "Yes,—I see," she said.

"It seems to me so melancholy," I added, "that when God says, 'Openthy mouth wide, and I will fill it,' we turn away from Him, to wranglewith one another about the kind of food He means to give, and the wayin which He will give it. Better do simply as our Church bids us,—'Takeand eat this . . . with thanksgiving!' 'Drink this . . . and bethankful.' And then we may be sure that Christ will do the rest."

Little more passed between us, for the waggonette party returned. ButI do hope I may have helped that dear girl just a little. I have avery strong feeling of sympathy for thoughtful girls like her, in thisdifficult age, when every statement of every truth is subjected aliketo careless handling and to microscopic inspection. The microscopicinspection, if honest and impartial, works no harm. The carelesshandling does do harm,—not to Truth, but to those who indulge in it.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"INDEED!"

GLADYS HEPBURN'S JOURNAL.

August 12. Wednesday.

SCARCELY more than a fortnight since the Romillys went away: and I amsure it seems an age.

Poor Mrs. Romilly has been so dreadfully ill. Nobody seems exactlyto understand how she was hurt, except about the collar-bone, whichdoesn't explain her being so very ill. Mother believes that it was "abad jar to her nervous system;" and I shouldn't wonder, for she and herlittle husband in their different ways seem to be made up of nothingbut nerves,—as if all the bones and muscles had been left out. Thewonder is that all the girls are not mere packets of nerves too! But Idon't think they are,—except Elfie!

Mr. Romilly is out there still with Eustace, and there isn't the leasttalk of their coming back to England. Mrs. Romilly is better and out ofdanger. But now that Mr. Romilly has actually reached Cologne, he issettling down quite comfortably. Uncle Tom declares he "won't budge"for six months at least. And Ramsay says—"Sixteen."

Miss Con is at Beckdale, in charge of all those girls. Mother and I dopity her. She has written once to me,—a kind cheerful letter, all aboutthe scenery of Yorkshire.

Proofs of my book are coming in fast. Correcting them is mostdelightful. A story looks so much nicer in proof than in MS. I wonderwhy.

August 14. Friday.—Mother and I went to afternoon tea at The Parkto-day, to meet a few people. There was somebody whom I have never seenbefore, though I have heard of him,—a Captain Lenox. The Denhams methim lately at Bath, and asked him here for two or three nights.

He looks younger than Sir Keith, and he is very upright and slight andsoldierly. I do like soldierly men. He reminds me just a little of thepicture of my Father when he was young, the one hanging over Mother'sbedroom mantelpiece. I don't generally admire fair men, and CaptainLenox is rather fair, but it isn't a hay-coloured wishy-washy fairness.He has deep-blue eyes, and light-brown hair, and a tanned complexion.And he looks as if he had an immense amount of character and firmness.

Besides, he is so polite. He was talking to Annie Wilmington and quiteenjoying himself, one could see, and all at once that queer little oldMiss Pursey came poking about, looking for a seat. And he was up like ashot, offering her his, though he lost the rest of his talk with Annie,and though Miss Pursey isn't the sort of person that some young mentake pains to be polite to. Of course they ought, but they don't.

I should not trouble myself to write all this about a stranger, ifhe were a mere stranger. But he isn't. I do feel a very particularinterest in this Captain Arthur Lenox,—for Miss Con's sake.

He must, I suppose, be the same that Sir Keith met at Rouen: and Maggieis sure that he and Miss Con have been friends some time or other, andthat she—I don't quite know how to say it—that perhaps she has—well,has liked him a good deal. If Maggie had only said so much, I shouldn'thave minded, I dare say. One person must like another, sometimes. Imean—things do begin in that way.

But when Maggie told Mother and me about Captain Lenox' name comingup, and about Miss Con turning pale, she actually laughed, and said,"Millie declares that Miss Con is desperately in love with him. And Iwas so angry, I could have given Maggie a good shaking. I am sure Ishould have said something I ought not: but Mother took it up, onlysaying a few words, and those exactly the right ones, about its beingno business of Miss Millington's, and about Miss Millington being verywrong to speak so about Miss Con to Maggie or any of them."

"It is exceedingly bad taste," Mother said. "I hope you will take carethat it does not go farther, Maggie dear."

Maggie did turn so red, and she said nothing.

But I cannot, of course, forget all this, and I am very glad to findthe sort of man that Captain Lenox is,—not empty-headed, and able onlyto talk nonsense, but sensible and pleasant. He was rather silent partof the afternoon, but watchful and polite all the while, and whenanything interested him, he brightened up and looked quite handsome.Lady Denham told Mother that he seemed to be a man of such very highprinciple, and that he is immensely respected in his regiment. AndMother thinks him really and truly a good man. She had such a pleasantlittle talk with him.

So I do believe he might be good enough for even dear Miss Conway,—ifthat should ever come to anything. But very likely it was only a fancyof Maggie's, and of that tiresome absurd Miss Millington.

I am afraid I was wrong in one thing that I did. Lady Denham put himby me for a talk, and I got on with him much better than I do with SirKeith. He didn't make me half so shy.

Something made me speak of the Romillys. I said where they were gone,and we talked about Yorkshire, and all at once it came into my head tomention Miss Conway, and to notice how he looked. And I did it, withoutstopping to think. That is the worst of me! I am always saying thingswithout thinking, and having to be sorry afterwards. I do wish I couldget over it.

He made no answer, but listened. I quoted something she had said aboutYorkshire dales, and then I said how delightful she was, and that Ididn't think I had ever seen anybody like her anywhere else. Therewould have been no harm, if I had said it all quite naturally, and withno thought behind of how he was feeling,—but I had the thought behind,so I could not depend on myself to be perfectly natural.

He heard me, exactly as if I had been speaking of a stranger, and asif he didn't care the very least. When I stopped, he said, "Indeed!"as coldly as possible: and I was so disappointed, I felt myself turncrimson. He gave me a glance, and I grew hotter still, and he turnedhis eyes away, and made some careless remark about the weather. Thensomebody on his other side began to talk to him: and I was veryuncomfortable. I couldn't think what he must have thought.

I have told Mother all this, and she says it is far wiser to leavethings alone, and not to interfere. One is so apt to blunder. So Ishall take very great care in the future, and never speak of anythingof that sort, unless somebody else begins it.

Mother is not so sure as I was at first that his looking cold andgrave, when he heard her name, proves him not to care at all. She sayswe can't possibly judge, as we don't in the least know the real factsof the case.

August 15. Saturday.—Only think!—We had quite a long call from CaptainLenox this afternoon. I felt shy at seeing him again, but he seemed tohave for all about my awkwardness. So I hope it didn't look so bad asit felt.

He said he had found that Mother once knew an uncle of his, so hethought he might call. But I don't believe that was his real reason.For the uncle was not talked about at all, after the first moment. Heis staying at The Park till Monday, and then he goes north for the restof his furlough,—into Yorkshire. I don't know what part. It seems thatLady Denham and Sir Keith may go there soon, and they have actuallysecured some lodgings, and are paying for them. And Captain Lenox is touse these lodgings for as long as he likes.

Mother and I wonder where the lodgings are, for he did not tell us.But we asked no questions, and, as Mother says, we must not askthe Denhams. For it is not our business; and as they said nothingyesterday, they most likely don't wish us to know.

I had made up my mind not to say one word about Miss Conway; and then,just out of sheer nervousness and shyness, I found myself letting slipsomething about her, at least three times. I was so provoked; andMother says I really must learn to have myself better in hand. Not thatany harm was done; but one never ought to be drawn into saying a thingwhich one has resolved not to say.

I noticed that each time I said "Miss Conway," Captain Lenox turnedhalf towards me, and then looked at Mother in a quiet polite way, asif he were asking about her. But nobody could have guessed from hismanner whether he felt anything more than just a passing interest in astranger. And he scarcely said a word himself, when her name came up.He only seemed to expect Mother to say something.

Mother managed beautifully,—so much better than I could. She didn'tblush or look conscious, but she spoke of Miss Conway as a friend ofMrs. Romilly's and of ours too. We found that he had once seen Mrs.Romilly for five minutes,—he didn't say where or when,—and that hethought her "a beautiful woman." I am sure I don't think her so. Butthen Miss Conway does; and to my surprise Mother said so. And I hadto slide my chair back, for fear Captain Lenox should see what I wasthinking.

He didn't look the least conscious, but asked if we had a photographof Mrs. Romilly. Mother opened my book, which was on the little tableclose at hand, and showed him all the likenesses of the Romillys that Ihave. And presently I heard Mother say—

"That is Miss Conway, whom we mentioned just now."

He certainly did look at that photo longer than at any of the rest; andhe made one remark—

"Rather a fine face."

"Very good-looking," Mother said; and I could not help exclaiming—

"Oh, Miss Conway is much more really beautiful than Mrs. Romilly!"

Captain Lenox said, "Ah!" and gave a little pull to each side of hismoustache, as if it wanted arranging.

"That may be a matter of opinion," Mother said, and I saw him makingbelieve to examine the photo of Nellie on the opposite page, and givinglittle glances at Miss Con every other moment.

"Taken recently, I suppose," he said, as if it didn't signify at all,only he had to say something.

"Not Nellie Romilly," Mother answered. "I believe Miss Conway was takensome months ago,—before she came to Glynde."

Captain Lenox shut the album, and put it aside. Then he and Mothertalked about all sorts of things for half-an-hour. I do think he mustbe a really and truly good man,—if only one could be quite sure that hehas treated Miss Conway rightly. But that is the puzzle!

August 18. Tuesday.—A letter from Maggie to-day. She says they findthat Lady Denham and Sir Keith have taken rooms in a farm-house, quitenear Beckdale House.

Then that must be where Captain Lenox is going!

Does Captain Lenox know? And does Miss Con know? And would either ofthem care?

Maggie doesn't write a word about Captain Lenox. She only speaks of theDenhams: and she seems to be in such a state of excitement about SirKeith and his mother going. How odd Maggie is!

Miss Pursey said last week to me that everybody in Glynde expected SirKeith to marry Nellie some day. And she seemed to think that he onlyhad to ask Nellie, and Nellie would be sure to say "Yes." That vexedme; and besides I don't believe there is the least chance of such athing.

Of course if it were for Nellie's happiness, I should be veryglad,—only not for my own sake. For if she had a husband, I could notwrite to her comfortably about everything, as I do now. I should alwaysfancy him peeping over her shoulder at my letters while she read them.Still I would not be so selfish as to think of that: only I don'tbelieve Nellie admires Sir Keith particularly.

Mother says we must be very careful not to make mischief about CaptainLenox going to Yorkshire. So we do not mean to whisper one word aboutit to anybody, least of all to any of the Romillys.

Part of Maggie's letter is filled up with particulars of a newstory she has in hand. She says she has "written to two well-knownauthoresses," asking them how she is to get it into print.

I don't quite see what the authoresses are to do. If the story is worthprinting, some publisher would be almost sure to take it: and if not,the authoresses can't make it so. But perhaps they might give her someuseful hints.

CHAPTER XXIV.

UNPALATABLE ADVICE.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

August 15. Saturday.

WE glide on from day to day, hardly aware, perhaps, how time isflitting. Better accounts of Mrs. Romilly reach us, but no word isspoken of Mr. Romilly's return to England.

The holidays once over, I think life may become easier. At presentit is not easy. Often when I get up in the morning the weight of thehours ahead seems almost more than I can bear. Perhaps the strain ofresponsibility has somewhat told upon me lately.

I do not think I am fanciful, or disposed to the foolish magnifying ofsmall affronts. But one cannot entirely shut one's eyes to what liesjust ahead.

The constant and fretting opposition has increased steadily. WhateverI suggest, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once resist.Whatever I arrange, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at onceturn into a grievance.

So far as possible, I appeal to Maggie for her wishes before decidingon any plan: and Maggie of course appeals to "Millie." By this means,I have managed so far to avoid any serious struggles. Yet I sometimeswonder if I am acting quite wisely,—if I am not tacitly yielding toMiss Millington a power which she ought not to possess, and which shemay sooner or later misuse.

If Lady Denham were not probably coming soon to Beckdale, I think Ishould appeal to her for advice. Yet it would be very difficult to putmy perplexities into writing; and I am anxious not to take any hastystep.

The girls are talking of a walk to Gurglepool early next week. It hasbeen chilly, with frequent rain for some days, and Maggie has had acold: otherwise they would have gone sooner. I have fully determinedthat when they go, I go too. I have a certain dread of the place forthem: probably a nervous and unnecessary dread; and of course they wishto see it.

Elfie has been poorly again: and I am still mystified at the changein her. She looks wretched,—pale, peaked, plain; all prettiness andanimation gone: her moods being variable, but almost always fretful,and her fancies quite unmanageable. She persistently turns from me to"Millie." Thyrza is my one comfort.

By-the-bye, I have not mentioned our Church, which is between two andthree miles off. The services are forlorn and sleepy: just in the styleof sixty years ago: and the sermons wind lengthily round and roundin hazy circles. When I go, I cannot help thinking of Sir Keith'swords, the first time I saw him, about the needed help being "alwaysthere," if one is willing. Yes: I am sure he is right. But I do feelvery thankful for the different spiritual food provided for us inGlynde,—even though the heavier responsibility is involved.

August 17. Monday.—This morning, when the post came in, Maggie cried,"Oh! Two letters from strangers. I do believe it is both of them atonce!"

There was a small burst of excitement and wonder the girls crowdinground Maggie. She read aloud the first brief epistle, with an animationwhich paled visibly towards the close. Thyrza and I kept our seats, butnobody else did.

The letter was so tersely expressed, that it has remained word for wordon my mind.

"How stupid! She can't be at all a nice old lady," said Nona. "And afriend of yours, Millie!!" The reproachful intonation is not to bedescribed.

Millie hastened to disavow the friendship. She had met Mrs. Smithonce, she said, and had thought her a kind old lady, only peculiar ofcourse,—all authoresses being peculiar. This, with a side-glance at me;for "Millie" does not like Gladys Hepburn, and she knows that I do. Imust honestly confess that Gladys does not like Miss Millington, andshows the same unequivocally in her manner.

"Yes, she must be peculiar," asserted Maggie, catching at the offeredstraw. "It is such a very odd letter,—really almost rude. I shall neverwrite to ask her advice again."

Then, the second envelope being opened, Maggie read aloud again. Theletter was longer, and I cannot recall it precisely: but it was verynearly as follows:

Maggie did not quite know what to make of this. She read it alouda second time, commenting on each sentence, and evidently agreeingwith Denham in his estimate of successful authoresses as "very oddcustomers!" But on the whole gratification won the day. For Miss Grahamhad not seen Maggie's last half-finished story. That was a consolingthought. When she had, it would of course make all the difference. Sheonly wrote now to Maggie as she might write to—anybody!

"Do you mean to stop writing, if Miss Graham tells you?" demandedThyrza.

Maggie looked astonished. "No. Why should I?" she asked.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem much use to ask for advice, unless youmean to follow it."

"I didn't ask her if I ought to write. I asked her what was the bestway of getting into print."

If more were needed, Nona's remark supplied it:

"And of course, if she is a nice person, she'll tell you how, Maggiedear."

August 18. Tuesday.—This evening, after supper, I found that anexcursion to Gurglepool was planned for to-morrow. Thyrza alluded toit, in evident unconsciousness that the matter had been concealedfrom me; and Maggie then explained. The party would walk, not drive,starting directly after lunch. Elfie, not being well enough for thefatigue, would of course stay behind under my guardianship: and Thyrza,having been before, could act as guide to the rest. Mr. Stockmoor hadexplained to Denham all about the short-cut over the hills.

I wished that I had told Thyrza my intentions about Gurglepool. Had sheknown them, she would have refused to join in any such scheme, withoutreference to me first.

For a moment the temptation to yield was strong. I knew that anyinterference with the plans of Maggie and Millie would be a diregrievance. Yet I could not shirk my own responsibilities.

"I am very sorry, Maggie," I said, when she had done; "but thingscannot, I am afraid, be exactly as you wish. If you go to Gurglepoolto-morrow, I must go too."

"Why?" was asked all round, in astonished accents.

"Because I do not think it is a very safe place; and I wish to be withyou—at all events, the first time."

Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged glances. "Elfie can't walk sofar," Nona burst out.

"No," I said. "I must ask Thyrza to stay behind in my stead: or elsethe excursion must be deferred."

"What nonsense!" I heard this distinctly in Miss Millington's murmur.

"Yes,—of course I will," assented Thyrza at once, though she could notquite suppress a look of disappointment.

"But we want Thyrza with us," said Maggie. "And Millie will be there.You don't suppose Millie can't take proper care of the children, MissCon!" Her pretty grey eyes sparkled and met mine defiantly, and thepeach-bloom deepened.

"No, Maggie," I said. "I am not questioning Miss Millington's powers.It is for my own satisfaction that I must go. I am answerable to yourfather."

"Not more than Millie is."

Maggie tossed her head as she spoke. The childishness of the utterancestruck me oddly.

"Yea, certainly more," I replied. "Miss Millington has noresponsibility about you older girls. You cannot have forgotten yourfather's words at the station, Maggie. I don't question the fact thatyou might all walk to Gurglepool a dozen times, and come home safely.But I have made up my mind that, as a matter of duty, I must the firsttime be one of the party. It is not for my own pleasure, and I am mostsorry to disappoint Thyrza: still I have to do what I believe to beright."

Thyrza warmly assured me that she did not mind at all: she and Elfiewould be perfectly happy together. The other girls drew in a knot roundMiss Millington whispering. I have noted lately the growth of thisschoolgirlish habit, and also I have seen Miss Millington encouragingit.

I could not hear what was said, and I did not try. Occasional bursts oflaughter sounded, with more whispers between. Thyrza looked annoyed andquitted the room. I saw glances now and then levelled in my direction,and presently there was a distinct utterance—

"Captain Lenox!"

I paid no regard to the sound, working steadily. Indignation had towait. Every faculty was bent to the task of keeping myself cool andunembarrassed.

The words came again more clearly:

"Captain Lenox!"

Still my needle went in and out; and Nona said aloud, pertly—

"Millie says you know him, Miss Con."

"Whom?" I asked.

"Captain Lenox."

"I have known a Captain Lenox," I said, looking up. "It may or may notbe the same."

Another whisper, and—"Don't tell!" reached me.

"Captain Lenox who used to be at Bath," Miss Millington said, her eyesfixed upon me.

"That would probably be my acquaintance," I answered. "Have you heardanything of him?"

"Yes,—something," she said pointedly enough; and Maggie giggled.

I put down my work, and threaded my needle with a steadyhand,—wondering at myself. It flashed across me in that moment howlittle my dear Mrs. Romilly, if she knew what Miss Millington reallyis, would approve of such a companionship for her girls.

"Millie knows somebody in Bath too," Nona remarked. "And she haswritten to Millie about Captain Lenox."

"Very likely," I answered. "Bath is a large place."

Whispers again. I thought I heard—"Carries it off well! But you knowhow she looked at—"

This was in Miss Millington's voice. Nona's followed; and I saidgravely—

"Nona, I don't know what you and Maggie think, but I am very sure thatyour mother would not approve of such conduct. Whispering before othersis a most unladylike trick. If you have secrets to discuss, you shouldeither go into the dining-room, or ask me to leave you alone."

"Is that meant for me, Miss Conway?" demanded Miss Millington, with afurious flare-up. "Come, girls! We will go!"

And I was left alone, feeling strangely bruised and stunned. Was Iright to speak so to Nona just then? Was it wise or unwise? I cannotjudge yet. I am writing to-night, because sleep seems impossible: andnow I am too tired to write more. How I could love those girls, if theywould let me! But they will not. And "Millie" is the hindrance.

Things cannot go on so much longer. Sometimes I feel as if I must writefully to Nellie. Ought I to speak first to Miss Millington? Would shehear me? And what if I was betrayed into saying what I should afterwardregret?

August 19. Wednesday.—The excursion to Gurglepool has been put off tillto-morrow. We actually made the start to-day, and were turned back byrain.

I saw almost nothing of the girls all the morning,—except Thyrza, whois really distressed at Maggie's manner to me, though she does not knowwhat passed yesterday evening, after she left the drawing-room.

Lunch over, I had to be quick if I would not be left behind. I foresawsmall pleasantness in my self-imposed trip. Miss Millington was barelycivil, and Maggie would scarcely answer when I spoke. Nona and thelittle ones, of course, followed suit.

So we started,—I, left to walk apart;—Denham rushing hither andthither; Maggie and Nona each hanging affectionately to one of"Millie's" arms, and the little ones keeping close to them, decliningto approach me.

The first part of our way lay along the main road, going up the valley.I noted the gathering clouds, and made up my mind privately that wewere in for heavy rain. But I said nothing. Others would see forthemselves in time.

As we neared the Stockmoors' farm-house, I was somewhat in advance ofthe rest. Denham had climbed a bank for a flower, and the five stoppedshort,—perhaps to watch him, perhaps to note something else.

For I glanced back, and saw them gazing towards the whitewashedfarm-house which lay close ahead. Involuntarily I looked in the samedirection.

A young man was coming through the garden-gate; —a small gate, leadingfrom the tiny flower-garden.

What first struck me was a certain familiarity in his figure andattitude,—the slight lithe figure, the soldierly bearing, the grace,ease, and promptitude with which he swung open the gate and stepped outupon the road.

In a moment I was face to face with Arthur Lenox!

If it had been anywhere else—if I had been behind the others instead ofbefore,—if I had not been conscious of one dozen curious eyes close athand,—most of all, if I could have had the least assurance that Arthurcares for me still,—I think I must have given some little word or lookof welcome, which might perhaps have led to more!

But as things were, it was impossible! How could I, knowing that MissMillington stood there? How could I, knowing what Miss Millington hasseen of my secret thoughts?—If she did see it, which I can never reallydoubt. How could I, feeling all the while that Arthur Lenox may haveutterly changed, may have given up even the wish to meet me again? No;I knew then, and I know still, that I had no choice.

His eyes met mine, and he lifted his hat. He did not change colour orseem startled: and that looks as if he had indeed got over it. And I—Ithought for the moment that my heart must die within me, yet I did noteven turn pale. The need to keep up was too desperate. And I know thatI managed well: perhaps, alas! Too well, if he could care still. Fornow indeed he must count the matter hopeless.

I bowed coldly,—not in too icy a fashion, which might have been takenfor restrained feeling, but with a quiet indifference, as to the mostordinary acquaintance.

Then I felt that, in the natural course of events, acquaintancesmeeting on such a spot, would certainly exchange a few words. I did notoffer my hand, but I paused, and said something about "not expecting tomeet Captain Lenox so far out of the world!"

"Odd encounters do take place sometimes," he answered in a mannerfreezingly polite. "I hope you are well."

"Thanks, quite," I replied. "Are you staying long at the farm?"

"A day or two, perhaps. No, not long. I came here to escape fromcrowds."

"Then we must not break in on your solitude," I said, slightlysmiling. And I would have turned away with another bow, when, to myastonishment, up marched Maggie.

"Miss Con, is it Captain Lenox? Millie heard from her friend that hewas coming. And she would like to be introduced."

This very unconventional and schoolgirlish address must have surprisedArthur Lenox even more than it surprised me. But he turned instantlyto Maggie, lifting his hat again,—and I could not but see that he wasstruck. I know his face so well: and the momentary gleam of admirationgave me a keen pain. Yet I could not wonder at it. Maggie was lookingher best;—the fresh roseate bloom heightened by walking; the grey eyessweet and sparkling, half disposed to droop shyly under the curvedblack lashes.

"Captain Lenox,—Miss Romilly," I said coldly: and as Miss Millingtonapproached, I named her also. Then, as Maggie fell back a pace, and"Millie" seemed disposed to get into a talk about the Bath friend, Iadded, "We are delaying Captain Lenox: and I do not think we have anytime to lose."

Arthur Lenox made at once a responsive movement, not sorry, I thought,to escape from Miss Millington, though his eyes went again towardsMaggie with evident interest. I gave him my hand as we said good-bye,distantly enough: and Maggie, with a cordial air, followed suit,actually inviting him to "afternoon tea at Beckdale House any day whilehe was at the farm." He thanked her, half excused himself, and went offat a rapid pace in the opposite direction to ourselves.

"That was hardly needful, Maggie," I said.

"Why? The Denhams know him. And he is your friend," said Maggie.

"The question for you is what your mother would wish," I said coldly."My acquaintances are not necessarily always yours. If Mr. Romilly werehere it would, of course, be different."

"Well,—I only know he is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life,"declared Maggie.

I thought it best to let the matter drop. We went on pretty steadilyuntil heavy rain turned us back, enforcing postponement of theGurglepool excursion.

To-night, I am terribly weary and overstrained with to-day's encounter:and so hopeless. For this has indeed been destroying the bridge behindme.

CHAPTER XXV.

ALONE IN GURGLEPOOL.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

Written at intervals.

THE excursion to Gurglepool took place on Thursday, August 20. I havemuch to say which I must jot down gradually.

We had bright sunshine. I think I should have been glad of rain to keepus at home. For the whole morning I was haunted by the thought thatArthur Lenox might after all respond to Maggie's invitation, and lookin at tea-time. Though not likely, it was not impossible. And I shouldbe absent!

Yet my duty remained the same. If going was an "ought" the day before,it had not changed. I did feel sorely tempted to wish that I hadnot arranged to be of the party, or that some excuse were even yetpossible. But conscience would not consent; neither would pride. Icannot tell which was the stronger.

Till lunch I stayed indoors, having a good deal to do. At lunch Maggieremarked—

"We've seen Captain Lenox again!"

"Have you?" asked Thyrza, who for some reason had not accompaniedMaggie and Miss Millington. I think she and Nona had enjoyed anindependent scramble with Denham.

"Yes,—we met him. And he and Millie had quite a talk together,—quiteconfidential, wasn't it, Millie dear?" Both laughed. "He could havecome in to tea to-day, only we shan't be at home, so it would be nouse. He means to go away to-morrow morning,—no, I think he said heshould start this evening. But next time he visits the Denhams, hehopes to make father's acquaintance."

"Yes; I thought him rather smitten," murmured Miss Millington, whereatMaggie blushed.

The folly of this! As if girls of Maggie's type had not nonsense enoughin their heads, without its being helped on. Hardly anything could havebeen in worse taste. If Mrs. Romilly knew!—with her refined delicacy offeeling!

But what could I do? Too well I divined at whom the shaft was levelled;and too keenly I realised what mischief Miss Millington's tongue mighthave done to me in one short interview. But I was defenceless. I coulddo nothing: and while my heart cried out bitterly against her, I wasoutwardly calm.

Luncheon over, we started, though not without a good deal of delay. Itwas a lovely ramble. How I could have enjoyed the fair surroundings ofdale and mountain, under different circ*mstances!

The walk proved longer than we expected: quite four miles I shouldjudge. Probably Denham missed the shortest route. We were all glad, onreaching the wild little valley, to throw ourselves down for a goodrest; and most of our party were hungry enough to do good justice tothe substantial Yorkshire tea-cakes which we had brought with us, to beeaten as buns.

Things had gone more smoothly thus far than I had feared. Part of theway thither Denham had walked beside me, chatting; and Maggie seemedgood-humoured. I hoped that the extreme offence at my line of actionwas lessening.

When scrambling explorations began, after our rest, I submitted to beleft in the rear. It would not do to seem suspicious or distrustful:and I could not, of course, keep my eyes upon all of them the wholetime. Miss Millington was not likely to neglect the little ones; andthe elder girls knew me to be at hand, if any difficulty arose. I wasfain to be content with so much: and when they all rushed gaily off, Imade no attempt to follow.

Thereafter I had time enough for quiet thought,—more time perhaps thanwas good for me. Shouts of laughter sounded faintly at intervals,from one direction or another; and sometimes I caught a glimpse of aflitting figure among the trees.

"Millie" was one of the merry party, but I was left alone. The feelingof being shunned by those whom one loves, or could and would love, isvery painful.

I sat long near the lesser hole, disinclined for needless exertion: andthen strayed slowly towards Gurglepool. Whatever spot I chose to be inwas studiously avoided by the rest.

Some two hours must have passed in this fashion, and I knew that weought soon to start for home. Our walk and subsequent rest had occupiedlong time, and days late in August are shorter than at midsummer.

With a good deal of difficulty I contrived to waylay Popsie, as shewas rushing down a path. She sprang aside, as if to escape, the momenther eyes caught sight of me: but she obeyed my command to "stop;" andI said, "Tell Maggie I want to speak to her, Popsie. We ought soon toleave."

Popsie said "Yes," and flew away.

A long interval followed: and Maggie did not come. It was evident to methat some preconcerted plan for making me repent my presence there wasbeing acted out. I blamed myself for being sure that Miss Millingtonwas to blame for this; yet I was sure. I sat waiting, alone and lonely.It would never do for me to go in chase of Maggie: but I made up mymind to speak to her seriously next day.

To my relief Denham dashed up. "Can't find Nona!" he said. I could notmake out from his face whether he were in fun or in earnest.

"When did you see her last?" I inquired.

"Oh, lots of time since. We're having a game of hide-and-seek, andshe's tucked herself away somewhere."

"You had better find her quickly, for it is time to start for home," Isaid.

He dashed off again, and I heard his voice shouting, "Nona! Nona!No—na!" all through the valley. I followed, and presently came uponhim, with Maggie, the children, and Miss Millington, seeming to hold aconsultation.

"Have you not found Nona yet?" I asked.

"No!" came in chorus.

"I sent a message by Popsie that I wished to speak to you, Maggie,about going home," I observed. "But of course, we cannot leave tillNona is found."

"Of course!" echoed the chorus.

I saw a disposition to laugh on Pet's face.

"And none of you knows where she is?" I put the question gravely,looking at each in quick succession.

Maggie reddened, and a glance passed between her and Miss Millington.All, however, joined in one emphatic and half-angry denial.

"Then there is nothing to be done but to search again," I said. "Nonais very wrong to remain away so long. Where did any one see her last?"

Accounts agreed here. She had been observed standing near the lesserhole. Denham further declared that he didn't see how she could have gotaway from the trees in its neighbourhood, unnoticed: and I saw that heeither imagined, or wished me to imagine, the possibility that she hadfallen in. I did not believe he would view the idea so quietly, if hereally believed it; and I counted Nona too competent a climber as wellas too sensible a girl to do anything so foolish.

However, we all trooped thither, and peered over the edge into theblackness below. Denham shouted Nona's name vigorously: and I wasconscious of an odd sense of unreality, almost inclining me to laugh.

"If she slipped over at all, she'd roll miles!" Denham declared.

"Hardly," I said. "But really, Denham, this is rather absurd."

"Why, that's the very thing you were afraid we should do!" cried Maggie.

"I don't think we must wait to discuss that now," I said. "If we do notstart at once, it will be dark before we reach home."

"Well, then, I say we'd better have another jolly good hunt," exclaimedDenham. "And we'll all go off in different directions,—except thatMaggie can take Pet, and Millie can take Popsie. Mind you all scour theplace well. If that doesn't do, we shall just have to get a man and arope, and somebody must go down the hole."

They scattered again, and once more I was alone. I felt anxious, thoughmore than half believing that Nona had played us some trick, and thatthe others either knew or suspected the same. The sky had cloudedover, and the little wood began to look somewhat dull and shady. As Iwandered about, searching and calling, a dread came over me,—supposesomething had happened to Nona! How terrible it would be!

The others did not return. I was struck with the cessation of theirvoices. Denham's shouts had died away in the distance. I hoped none ofthe searchers would manage to lose themselves.

I stood still to listen, and the absolute silence was oppressive.Scarcely a leaf fluttered.

Could they have found Nona, and gone home without me?

This question did just occur to my mind, but I dismissed it at once. Iwould not for a moment suspect Maggie or even Miss Millington of suchconduct, knowing as I knew they must know what my suspense would be.

Then I thought that nobody had been for a good while to Gurglepool; andI remembered the woman in the cottage at the end of the little valley.Why not appeal to her? She was acquainted with the place, and mightgive us advice.

I went quickly first to Gurglepool, and stood on the edge of the hugecircular hole. The bottom, sixty or seventy feet below, was almost lostin evening gloom. At first I could see nothing; but gradually outlinesgrew a little more distinct.

Something lying on the steep pathway, half-a-dozen yards beneath whereI stood, drew my attention. I could not make it out: and the descentwas scarcely a tempting one, in lessening light and loneliness. I laida hand on the rail, however, and went a few steps carefully, till Icould pick up the thing.

It was Nona's silk scarf.

Somehow I had not thought of Gurglepool, so much as of the lesserhole with its mysterious black depths. Gurglepool lay more open toobservation. If she had chosen to descend the path, she would have hadno means of hiding herself below, while daylight lasted.

Here seemed to be evidence that she had descended it, however, andrecently too. For if the scarf had been there not much more thanhalf-an-hour earlier, I must surely have seen it.

Could she be below still?

I spoke her name, called it, and had no answer. Gazing fixedly,till my eyes ached, I fancied I could detect something close to thepool-edge,—something like a human body lying prone. I believe one maylook and imagine in dim light, till one can see almost anything. Ithought at last that I could detect the very attitude, the pose of thehelpless limbs, the white face upturned.

Nothing of course remained to me but to go straight down. The othersmight wonder where I was; but I could not delay.

The path was slimy and slippery from the heavy rain of the day before,much worse than on my former visit. I meant to descend cautiously. Isuppose I was tired out, unnerved, overstrained, and the thought ofNona lying there made my limbs tremble.

About three-quarters of the way to the bottom, when I had just loosenedmy grasp of the hand-rail to pull up my skirt,—I slipped, and could notrecover myself.

It was a long moment's horror,—a helpless sliding quick descent, fasterand faster. I thought I should shoot into the dark deep pool, andsink,—sucked downward into the underground river coursing through. Andin that instant, I wondered if Arthur Lenox would care.

Then I had arrived at the bottom,—not in the water, but on its muddymargin, just where I had supposed Nona to be. No figure was there, onlya large whitish stone which had dropped from the rocky wall. I camedown kneeling upon this stone, my whole weight thrown almost entirelyupon the right knee; and with the impetus of my descent I reboundednearly a yard, rolling over on my side.

I have a distinct recollection of so much. Then I think I musthave lain stunned for half-a-minute. My first clear thought was ofthankfulness at having escaped the black deep water, so awfully close.

"Not yet death!" flashed through my mind; and I said aloud, "Howfoolish I have been!"

Next I had a sense that I was very much hurt somewhere; but I thought Iwould get up; and when I tried to move an inch, the pain in my knee wasso fearful, that I was obliged to desist at once.

I do not fancy I made any sound, for screaming is not at all in myline; but I did feel dismayed. The position was not an enviable one. Ihoped that the pain might lessen soon; but it did not.

Then I recollected that I must try to make known where I was: andI called repeatedly—"Maggie!" "Denham!" "Help!" But there was noresponse. Indeed, I scarcely expected any. Even if the rest of my partyhad not already gone home without me,—and I began to feel sure thatthis must be the true state of the case,—they would content themselveseasily with the conjecture that I might have started first alone, andwould not search far. The woman in the cottage had very likely retiredwith her family for the night. Unless a passer-by came near the edgeof Gurglepool, my voice from the depth would be unheard; and straypassers-by, on such a spot and at such an hour, were in the highestdegree improbable.

I tried again to rise: but in vain. I tried to drag myself, crawling,to the path, only a yard or two off, but I could not. The least motiongave intolerable agony.

Darkness seemed to be coming all at once, in a rush. OutsideGurglepool, no doubt, it was pleasant twilight still; but I lay inblack shadow; the straight rocky sides rising steeply for sixty feetor more, all around, in a circle broken only by the path. Small bushessprouted out here and there from some tiny ledge; and overhead was acircular grey sky. That was all I could see. Dim light above, under thegrey sky-roof; no light below. I could just make out the surface of thestill water, near to my side. No sound or stir of life was to be heard.

It was strangely solemn to be there, all alone; fir from any humanbeing; clear and calm in mind; but unable to stir.

While I kept absolutely still, the pain was so far bearable, that Icould think. But the more I thought, the more I saw that I could donothing, except endure passively until help should come. To climb thepath was physically impossible.

Help of course would come in time:—but when?

It was strangely solemn to be there all alone.

That was the question. If the rest of the party had started withoutme, they would not expect me to arrive till perhaps an hour afterthemselves: and then they would wait before doing anything practical. Iknew how indignant and grieved Thyrza would be, at the mere thought ofmy having been left behind alone. Perhaps she would see Mr. Stockmoor:or send some one to meet me. By that time, however, I scarcely saw whatshe or anybody could do. The walk over the hills in darkness would beno easy matter: and how could they guess where I might be found?

I saw all this very plainly, and it did seem that I should almostcertainly have to remain where I was until the morning. The marvelto me now is that I could view the prospect so quietly. I do notthink it was stupefaction. I only felt that Christ my Master was withme—absolutely and actually present—whatever might happen: that He wouldnever forsake His own. And four little simple lines kept running in myhead:

It seemed at last a certainty that the trick, of which I had not likedto suspect the others, had really been planned. Otherwise I must surelyhave heard their voices calling my name, when they returned from thesearch.

"Poor children! How silly of them!" I thought. For I knew that inpunishing me, they would—as is so often the case—have punishedthemselves. And then I reverted to Thyrza, and I did grieve to pictureher trouble.

Suppose she went to the Farm, and told Mr. Stockmoor! Andsuppose—suppose Arthur Lenox were there still! Would he come in searchof the missing governess? I felt that anything I might have to endurewould be worth such a consummation.

The sound of a slow drop—drop—drop on the pool-surface was followedby big splashes upon my face. Rain came fast; no soft shower, but apelting sheet of water, hissing down the muddy pathway. Ascent wouldbe worse than ever after this. I should have been thankful for mywaterproof cloak, lying far above on the edge. In five minutes myclothes were soaked.

Blacker and blacker grew the sky, heavier and heavier the rain. Itwas one of Nature's shower-baths. I was soon thoroughly chilled andshivering, less able to bear up. I remember the thought occurring,"Even if I live till daylight, this may mean fatal illness,—may meanthe worst!" And then the question, "Would it be 'the worst' to me?"And a murmured, "Even so, my Father,—if so it should seem good in Thysight."

How long a time passed thus I cannot tell, for I could not see the faceof my watch. Every two or three minutes I still called forlornly foraid, though I felt the effort to be almost useless.

After what must have been a considerable while, I tried to change myposition. In so doing, I put out one hand, perhaps a foot off,—not onthe bank, as I expected, for it splashed into water.

Then—the pool was rising!

At once I understood. The woman had explained to me how these watersdid rise in heavy rain, slowly mounting up and up, towards the mouth ofthe hole, curdling fiercely round like water in a saucepan vehementlystirred, and finally "boiling" over on the grass outside.

I think I must have been getting at last a little stupefied with painand cold; for I kept picturing this to myself, in a dreamy fashion,wondering if the waters would carry me up as they rose, and would whirlme round in eddying circles, till finally I was cast out upon thegrassy slope.

Or I might instead be sucked downwards, drawn into the quiet riverbelow, carried through dark underground passages, and perhaps, a mileor two farther on, be washed out through holes into light of day, justwhere the hidden river bubbles up once more upon its stony bed, as Ihad seen it when driving past in the dog-cart.

Maggie would be the one to be pitied,—poor Maggie! I felt such intensecompassion for her. I thought of Eustace, and of Keith's death. It didseem strange, if something akin to that were to happen again in thefamily. Not the same, yet so far alike that Maggie would certainly beblamed for my death. People would say, "How terrible for Maggie! Sucha result from one little bout of girlish temper and silliness!" Butwould that be true? Was it not rather the end of a long downsliding onMaggie's part: a persistent yielding to ill temper and perversity?

I think I wanted to live most of all for Maggie's sake. It seemed to methat my death just then would throw such a shadow over her life.

Of Miss Millington I thought little, and this now seems to me singular.Maggie's face haunted me. I kept seeing the rounded peach-bloom cheeks,and the sweet half-shy grey eyes, just as I had seen them when shestepped forward to speak to Arthur Lenox. And, strange to say, the facegrew more dear, just because he had looked upon it admiringly.

Until those lonely hours in Gurglepool hollow, I never dreamt how Iloved Maggie, despite all her coldness. I can recall saying, with quitea gleam of joy, "If I get through this, I shall be able now to write tomy friend as she wishes, about her darling."

The downpour continued, and the pool still rose. I could feel the watercreeping, creeping, like a snake of ice about my feet.

I found myself wondering what the process of drowning would be like.Should I just fade away into a peaceful unconsciousness, or wouldthere be struggling and oppression? Two or three descriptions which Ihad read came to me, written by some who had gone through the actualexperience, so far as all loss of sense. "Not worse in any case thanwhat many have to bear in their own beds," I thought.

And—"When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee!" was asif whispered to my mind.

"Why, I am passing through them now," I said aloud.

Yet how far I realised danger, I do not know. For in the midst of allthis, I tried to reckon how many hours must pass before I could hope tobe rescued. Then I wondered again whether—perhaps—Arthur Lenox mightcome. And I seemed to see him and Maggie wandering together, out of myreach.

Consciousness must have been a little vague at times. Somehow it didnot occur to me to try again to move. I had quite ceased to call forhelp, and the very wish to be saved faded gradually away. I hardly evenobserved that by-and-bye the rain came to an end, and the pool was nolonger rising. All this must have taken much time: how much I cannottell.

There were cries at last,—shouts,—and I saw lanterns above, gleamingthrough the darkness. I tried to call, but could not, for my voiceseemed gone; and I thought, "It does not matter; they will find mycloak;" which indeed came to pass.

Then I knew that somebody was descending the path, followed by somebodyelse. I have been told since that I was lying half in water, and myremembrance of the exclamations around confirms this.

Some one drew me back gently,—so gently, that I believed it must beArthur. I did not say his name, but I managed to look up, and I saw—notCaptain Lenox, but Sir Keith Denham.

For a moment, I could hardly believe that it was Sir Keith,—his facewas so stern and grieved and pale. I felt no surprise at seeing him.There was one sharp stab of disappointment; and then all other thoughtswere lost in the pain of being moved.

I shall never forget the ascent of that path; though indeed it wasmanaged beautifully. Two other men helped Sir Keith and Mr. Stockmoor;and sometimes one or another slipped. They could not help it; but theleast jar was terrible to me; and I did not lose sense for a moment.

Then followed the long long drive in the waggonette, with its ceaselessjolting. Thyrza was there, and she held me in her dear arms all thewhile, tears often running down her cheeks. I cannot remember my firstsight of Thyrza. They say that she was on the edge of Gurglepool, andthat almost the only words I spoke were just these, "I am so sorry forpoor Maggie." The remark would be natural enough; but I can rememberlittle of anything, beyond the pain, and Thyrza's distress, and SirKeith's stern gentleness.

We reached home at last, and faces and voices came round. The sound ofMaggie's sobbing went to my heart, and I believe I burst into tearsthen for the first time. They kept her away from me.

In the early morning, a doctor from Beckbergh arrived. I had thoughtthe pain in my knee all night as much as I could possibly endure: butI had to bear worse from his hands. It was not a case of broken bones,but of severe dislocation, with terrible bruises and swelling. At firsthe feared permanent injury to the bone. That fear, I am thankful tosay, is now going off. He told me everything depended on absolute restand stillness for the limb; and indeed I have done my best to be quiet,though it was not easy.

For three weeks, only Lady Denham and Thyrza and Rouse were allowedin my room. During some days I had a sharp touch of rheumatic fever,from lying so long in wet clothes. Things are much better now, andI have permission to amuse myself by writing a little at times: sowhen alone with Thyrza, I ask for my journal. The knee has still tobe kept motionless. But my doctor speaks of the improvement in it asastonishingly rapid.

"Thanks, partly, to your being so good a patient," he says.

It was strange that Lady Denham and Sir Keith should have unexpectedlyarrived at the Farm that very afternoon. Captain Lenox had left onlyone hour earlier, walking off with his carpet-bag, and telling nobodywhere he meant to go. Sometimes I do long to know what passed betweenhim and Miss Millington,—but of course I shall never hear.

Friday. September 18.—Having written the above, piecemeal, up to thisday, I hope to resume my more regular journalising.

It is now over four weeks since the accident. Maggie and the twins comein daily to see me: but they are all three more or less constrained anduncomfortable. Nona chatters. Elfie looks pinched and forlorn. Maggieseems at a loss what to say or do. I have seen none of them alone, andscarcely an allusion has been made to the real cause of my illness. Ithink it best to wait; not to try to force any expressions of regret.There is unhappily an adverse influence.

Miss Millington has not been near me yet. I am told that she says, "Itis kinder not to crowd the room."

CHAPTER XXVI.

AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?

FROM MISS GRAHAM TO MAGGIE.

Tuesday. September 15.

FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.

Friday. September 18.

FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.

PRIVATE September 19.

CHAPTER XXVII.

ELFIE'S CONFESSION.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

Tuesday. September 22.

MY Elfie has come back to me again. It is strangely a comfort to knowthat her loving heart has been true throughout, only—But I had betterbe consecutive.

The others have gone on an excursion to a certain cave. Elfie was tohave been one of the party: but at the last moment she begged off,pleading faceache and a wish to be with me. Lady Denham yielded, butdid not fall in with Maggie's suggestion that "Millie" should goinstead. I heard her say in the passage—"Certainly not. I will nothave the children left to Miss Conway. They are in Miss Millington'scharge." So Maggie came in to say good-bye, with a pout of her rosylips.

I had intended making an effort to see something of Miss Millington, inthe absence of the rest. Hitherto she has kept resolutely aloof: and Icannot go after her. Others perhaps are not aware that I have scarcelyspoken to her since my accident. It does not seem quite a right stateof things; yet I do not like to make a stir.

So soon as the waggonette went off, Elfie glided into my room. Untilto-day she has always appeared with one of her sisters, always lookingimpassive and dull. But to-day I noted a change of manner. She seatedherself close beside the couch, rested her head on my shoulder, andsighed deeply two or three times.

"Something wrong, Elfie?" I asked.

Silence answered me, lasting I should think for nearly five minutes.Then suddenly she turned, clutched my hand between her own hands, andgasped rather than said—

"I must tell you! I must! I can't go on so any longer!"

"Tell me what, Elfie?"

Another break. "About—" she said, breathing hard. "About—. But you mustpromise first not to tell."

"I will do nothing hasty. Cannot you trust me?"

"Oh, I couldn't have you tell Mother! Millie would never forgive me.And it is only about you—yourself—not anybody else."

"If it is a matter which only concerns myself, I may safely promise tolet it go no farther, without your consent," I said, feeling sure thatshe had some little revelation to make about the day at Gurglepool.

"And you won't—you won't—hate me?"

"I should find it difficult to do that," I said, kissing her. "Come,Elfie, don't be afraid?"

"Oh, I am not afraid. It isn't that. Only, everything is so horrid. AndI ought to have spoken out,—and I didn't. And I don't know how to tellyou—and I must."

"Shall I guess, Elfie? Was it that you knew beforehand, from Nona,about the trick that was to be played on me? I dare say you wantedto speak out, and were afraid. But I am quite sure you did not likethe trick, even though you could not guess how things would turn out.Another time you will be braver."

She listened to me, with her head now lifted, and astonishment in thelarge dusky eyes.

"Oh no! You couldn't think that of me! Oh no,—I would never have letthem do it without telling you. But indeed they didn't think of such athing, till they got there, and Millie proposed it. She said it was allso slow, and she wanted some fun. I don't call that fun. Lady Denhamsays it was so unladylike: and Nona is sorry now, only she doesn't knowhow to tell you."

"If it wasn't that, what was it, Elfie? I am at a loss," I said.

Elfie dropped her face, hiding it from sight.

"It was—when we first came," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I was inthe drawing-room,—on the sofa—and—you were writing—you know—at theside-table."

One instant brought the scene before me; the sleeping figure of Elfie:the journal volume: the sudden interruption: the telegram from abroad:the bitter distress following.

Had I been mistaken? Could Elfie, not Miss Millington, have meddledwith my papers? But the thought only occurred to be put aside. I knewElfie better.

"Yes," I said, and my own voice sounded far-away to myself. "Yes. Iremember quite well. You had gone to sleep: and I was called away."

"I didn't hear you go," she whispered, and I could feel the quickfluttering of her heart, as she pressed against me. "At least I thinknot,—not quite. Only there were voices. And somebody came in. I justpeeped sideways. I was only half awake,—and I saw Millie. She wasstanding by your table,—the table where you had been writing, I mean.And she was reading in the big book, with a lock-clasp. I could see herdoing it quite plainly. She turned back a leaf, and leant down a littleto read. And I was so frightened. It seemed to make me hot all over,and then like ice. I knew I ought to speak out, and I didn't dare. Iknew she would be so angry, and would make me promise not to tell. AndI shut my eyes and kept quiet; and I know she turned round to see if Iwas still asleep, for I could feel her eyes on me. And then I heard youin the passage, and Millie went off in a hurry. And I didn't let youknow directly that I was awake,—not till you had been upstairs and camedown again. But oh, I did feel so miserable,—knowing I ought to tell,and not daring. Don't you think I was wrong not to speak out? It seemedlike deceiving you,—and like joining with Millie in what she had done."

"And so you turned cold to me, Elfie," I said.

"Did I? It was only that I felt so ashamed. And sometimes I was almostsure that Millie guessed what I had seen. It gave her a sort of holdupon me. Oh, I do wish I wasn't such a coward! When you hurt yourselfso, I made up my mind that I wouldn't go on with it any longer: butI had to wait till you were better, and I couldn't have a quiet timealone with you till to-day."

"Elfie, have you told me everything now?" I asked, holding her facebetween my hands, and looking into it.

She blushed slowly. "Yes,—no,—not all. Millie used to laugh and jokeabout you. Must I tell that? She said you were—were—" a pause and alittle sob. "I can't think why Millie dislikes you so,—when you are sodear and good, and Mother's own friend. But she does. She is alwaystrying to set Maggie and Nona and the little ones against you. Andthen—you know—she said she had a friend in Bath,—and she knew whenCaptain Lenox was coming, and she wouldn't let us tell you, though hewas a friend of yours. And she said—things—"

"Yes?" I said gravely.

Elfie sobbed again. "I knew Mother would be so vexed,—Mother can't bearthat sort of talk and nonsense. But Millie would,—and she wanted us tothink that she knew about—about you—from her friend in Bath. But I feltperfectly sure that she had read something of yours that she had nobusiness to read,—and it made me feel so miserable. But you won't hateme,—darling Miss Con, will you?—and you won't tell Mother?"

"I will do neither, Elfie," I said, drawing her into my arms. "Perhapssome day it may be right for you to tell your Mother; but I am not theperson to do so. Miss Millington has wronged me, and I cannot take anystep that might look like revenge. Still—if she is capable of such anaction, she is hardly fit to train your little sisters."

Elfie's tearful eyes looked up wonderingly.

"Don't you feel angry with her?"

"I have felt so. This is an old trouble, Elfie. I knew at the time whatMiss Millington had done."

"And you didn't speak?"

"It would have been useless. I could not prove what I believed."

After a little hesitation, I added, "You are not a child, Elfie,—notso much a child as many girls of seventeen,—and I do not mind tellingyou that Captain Lenox did at one time wish to marry me, and I refusedhim. When Sir Keith once spoke of seeing him at Rouen, it made me veryunhappy to think what pain I had given. So now you understand somethingof the matter. But, for Captain Lenox' sake, this must go no farther."

She kissed my hand, with a strangely wistful and comprehending look,even while saying simply, "It was so bad of Millie."

We did not discuss the subject farther. Elfie seemed relieved, pastexpression, at having told me of the burden so long resting on hermind. She would hardly leave my side all the morning, and her oldaffection is completely restored,—or rather the open expression of it,for I am sure she has loved me throughout. Dear little Elfie!

Now I have sent her for a walk with Miss Millington and the children. Iwanted time for thought and journalising.

The past keen pain at Miss Millington's conduct has revived, but notthe past passion of anger. That battle has not to be fought again. OnlyI do feel more than ever that all is over between Arthur Lenox and me,that where sunshine might have been, I must now be content with lifeunder a grey-toned sky.

Gladys said to me one day, in a puzzled tone, before we came north,"Uncle Tom always says everything is sure to be for the best; but Idon't see how it can,—or else people needn't mind making blunders anddoing stupid things."

But—as I said to her in answer,—"We know that all things work togetherfor good to them that love God." Enough for me to know that it is so,without fathoming the "how."

Blunders must bring their natural results; and wrong-doing must befollowed by its train of bitter consequences, to oneself and others.And yet—yet—a Father's Hand can turn even those natural results andbitter consequences into pure and lasting good to those who love Him.But the good may not be always apparent in this life.

Wednesday, September 23.—I never saw Thyrza look so handsome as whenshe came in yesterday afternoon. She holds herself well always; andshe had on a particularly becoming grey dress, with grey feathers inher hat. The fresh air had given her an unusual colour; and the darkeyes, often too grave, were actually sparkling. The fine lips, too,were parted with a wistful expression, which I don't remember seeingthere before. I said to myself, "A new development—" and then a thoughtstruck me. She has left off speaking against Sir Keith lately.

I was alone, and she sat down by my side, pouring out what had passed.

"It was a splendid drive, Miss Con, some hours both ways. I don'tknow how long. One doesn't count time when one is perfectly happy. Ionly wanted you there, to make everything complete. But still—" and afar-away look. "Yes, I did enjoy it. And Sir Keith is so kind. The nextbest to having you, was hearing him talk about you. We quite agree onthat point,—" with a smile, and a squeeze of my hand. "I sat by him allthe way, and Maggie opposite with Lady Denham. I think it is ratherpleasant to be drawn out by a person who understands how, and to haveto say what one really thinks. Sir Keith knows how, when he will takethe trouble."

"Very pleasant indeed," I assented.

"And then Sir Keith—" I found this expression recurring perpetually."And then Sir Keith" did this; "and then Sir Keith" said that.

"How about the cave?" I asked when she paused.

"Oh, well worth seeing. I do wish you could have been there. It isalmost like a sort of underground cathedral, a growth of nature,—quitedark. The candles only cast glimmers,—even a queer concern, holding adozen candles all lighted together, could not make one see far. It wasrather a muddy floor; and a stream of water runs in one part. We hadto get over by stepping-stones, and Sir Keith gave me his hand across.Lady Denham and Maggie wouldn't go farther: and the guide looked afterNona. In one place there is a sort of stalactite imitation of a pulpit,jutting out from the wall: and another stalactite formation is likea great Westminster Abbey monument. At least I thought so. Sir Keithonly laughed, and said I must read up about stalactites and stalagmiteswith you. I didn't much like the sliminess farther in, and when it cameto stepping up on a board to look through a big opening into anothercavern beyond, I said I wouldn't. But Sir Keith had got up, and heheld out his hand, and said, 'Yes, you must!' So I went, and it waslike a round belfry sort of place, underground, you know. And therewas a waterfall in the belfry, about thirty feet high, tumbling fromblack depths overhead to black depths below, and keeping up a roar. Ibelieve they call that inside cavern 'the chapter-house.' It is a mostextraordinary place."

"Worth seeing indeed!" I observed.

"Yes, I do like uncommon sights. And Lady Denham and Sir Keith havebeen so good to me. He likes you, Miss Con."

"I dare say he does, my dear," I said. "And I like him. We are on mostagreeable terms of polite friendship."

"Oh, but not only—" and she stopped.

"Anything more would be equally impossible for him and for me."

She looked at me with serious eyes before saying, "But he is so—nice!"

Whereupon I thought of Craven and cretonnes.

"Not quite so disagreeable as you once counted him, Thyrza?"

"Did I? Oh, that was only because Maggie behaved so absurdly. I hope Ishall never be so absurd. Only, really and truly, there is nothing weboth like so much to talk about as about you."

"I am sorry you should both be content with so unprofitable a subject,"I answered: and then we were interrupted.

But I fancy it is not difficult to foresee what may be coming.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

NON-RAPTURES.

THE SAME.

October 7. Wednesday.

A WEEK ago to-day Lady Denham and Sir Keith left us, returning home.Some business recalled him suddenly, and she would not stay behind. Iwas glad to see the very marked warmth of her good-bye to Thyrza.

By-the-bye, I do not think I have noted in my journal the fact ofDenham having gone to Eton. Sir Keith kindly saw to minor arrangements,by Mr. Romilly's wish. The boy went off in high spirits, not withoutan apology to me for his conduct at Gurglepool, which, whether or nosuggested by Sir Keith, did him credit.

Thyrza and the twins have been for some weeks working irregularly atlessons, with such superintendence as I was able and permitted to givethem. The last few days, since I have become once more responsiblehead, their work has grown regular. But I cannot induce Maggie to applyherself to anything. She seems to be in a dissipated state of mind,gapes over books, and says she "hates practising." I had a wave littletalk with her yesterday, about the evil of yielding oneself victim to afrivolous and self-indulgent course of life. Maggie listened, and evenlooked impressed; but ten minutes later, I saw her giggling in a cornerwith Miss Millington.

In the face of such an adverse influence, always pulling in theopposite direction, what can I do with poor Maggie? It seems to me atpresent,—nothing,—except pray and wait. The harm that one unprincipledgirl can do to other girls is terribly great. I do not suppose MissMillington realises how distinctly she is fighting the battle of wrongagainst right. She only pleases herself, by giving the rein to herpersonal dislike of me, her inclination to oppose whatever I do. Yetsurely the "not realising" is no excuse. She ought to see, ought torealise. One thing is plain; Maggie has sadly deteriorated under hercompanionship.

The improvement in my knee of late has been astonishing. I am able, notonly to get up and down stairs without severe pain, but to take a turnalong the road, with the help of a stick or of somebody's arm. Much ofthis quick recovery is due, I am assured, to my resolution in keepingthe limb perfectly still the first two or three weeks.

I cannot say much as to physical strength. Long confinement, followingupon long worry, have told upon me. It is difficult to keep up attimes. Everything is a trouble, even journalising, and often I am sohaunted by recollections of the past, that I long to rush away frommyself and from memory. I cannot turn from these recollections, do whatI will!

Has Miss Millington with one cruel touch blighted my life's happiness?Consciously or unconsciously, she may have so done. I do not know. Icannot be sure whether Arthur cares for me still,—whether she did ordid not say any word to him, which might have hastened his departure.I am all in the dark as to the true state of things. Only, there arepossibilities; and there is nothing in her which could make thosepossibilities an impossibility.

I thought I had forgiven her, up in the peaceful quiet of my own room.But now, out in the whirl of family life, I find a difference. I knowit, by my instinctive shrinking from her presence, by the feeling attimes that I can scarcely endure to look at her, or to meet thoseshallow inquisitorial eyes.

She has never spoken a word of apology for all I have had to gothrough, though it was partly her doing. But that I do not mind: that Ican bear. What stirs me to the depths, is the knowledge that her eyeshave seen what no human being was meant to see of my heart,—and thather hand may have given the parting stroke severing me from ArthurLenox for ever!

Only—"may have." I must fight against any assumption that she hasactually done it, without full proof.

But without this, I have much to forgive. And it seems to me thatforgiveness of injury is not so much a stated action as a continuousstate of mind. I thought I had fought the battle and was conqueror.Now I find that the battle has to be fought over and over again, if Iwould remain conqueror. It is not enough to say one hour, "I forgive!"And the next hour to be under the dominion of fresh annoyance. I haveto aim at a continuous state of loving calm and pity, acknowledging thefact of wrong-doing on her part, yet not exasperated by it,—rather,looking away from her, and taking all pain straight from my Master'sHand.

Is it not so that He looks upon us,—with ceaseless compassionate love?Sometimes we are apt to clothe Him in thought with our own fitfulness.But He does not vary. He is always the same. His forgiveness of usis a constant condition of mind, if one may so reverently speak,not a sensation coming and going, as when man pardons man. We arealways grieving Him: He is always forgiving us. And what He is to Hischildren, He would have them be in their little way one to another.

But though I see what I ought to be, I am far enough from attainment.I can but plead to be taken in hand by my Master, taught, trained,moulded, into that which will please Him. Meantime bodily weakness nodoubt makes the fight harder. Manner can be controlled, and I hope Ido control it; but inwardly a jarred and tired irritation is upon me:I am hourly tempted to feel that nothing is worth doing, nothing worthliving for.

Thyrza and Elfie are a comfort. Thyrza, however, is a good dealpreoccupied just now: and Elfie keeps loving words for when we arealone, evidently not venturing to show her real feelings before MissMillington.

After all, I find nothing so helpful as to get away from everybody intosome quiet nook, near at hand; and there to find myself alone withNature,—alone with God. For Nature never hinders intercourse with God.Man is the great hindrance. Nature speaks to us of God, and speaks inclear tones too, though in a language not so easily "understanded ofthe people" as the voice of Revelation. It does seem sad that man, asthe highest part of Nature, should not always speak to men of God; buttoo often he does not. So one naturally turns from human discord to themore true if lower music of things inanimate.

I love to lie upon the grass of a certain favourite bank, and thereto lose myself in quiet studying of the mountain-outlines, the longwinding of the Dale, the patches of autumn-red bracken on The Fell, thelittle streamlets coursing each hillside, the peaceful cloudland of skyabove. At such times the bitter thought of what might have been and isnot ceases to haunt me; and every whisper of the wind among the treesand every ripple of the nearest brook comes like a murmur from theunseen world. At such times, I can see things in a truer perspective:and the Life Beyond looks grand and restful, whatever this little lifemay be.

October 8. Thursday.—Startling news to-day! They are coming home!

We were all together in the schoolroom, when Nona entered with a rush,crying, "Two letters, and both for Miss Con! One from Mother, and onefrom Lady Denham!"

All eyes were levelled at me, as I opened and read Mrs. Romilly's,skimming the contents rapidly.

Maggie's raptures! Where were they?

I found myself telling the news, quickly and briefly. There was adeepening glow of pleasure in Thyrza's face: while Nona caught the twolittle ones, whirling round the room with them: and Elfie flung herselfon me, with a smothered cry which was half a sob, and a tremulousclutch of delight.

But Maggie only sat still, and said, "Mother really coming! How nice!"Then her eyes went to Miss Millington, and travelled round to me. "Hownice!" she repeated, as if considering the question. "We must take herto Gurglepool."

"And show her the scene of my disaster," I said.

I met Miss Millington's glance. Maggie spoke hastily: "Oh, I didn'tmean that. I only meant that Mother would, of course, want to seeeverything. I suppose we shall all have a holiday that week. It will bemost awfully nice, won't it, Nona?"

But somehow the real ring of joy seemed wanting: and as I listened, myheart ached for Gertrude Romilly. Will she when she comes find any lackof response in this child, so passionately beloved? I think it wouldalmost kill her, if she did.

Elfie is radiant with happiness: Thyrza has a look of dreamy content:Nona and the little ones are in mad spirits. Miss Millington seems farfrom cheerful, however, and she and Maggie are going about arm-in-arm,with divers whispers and expressive looks. Is "Millie" trying tocement her power over Maggie? If so, will she succeed? Am I wrong toconjecture this of her?

O life and its perplexities—how weary one grows of the whole sometimes!Yet is that right? For God our Father has bidden us live,—and live untoHim!

So much for the one letter which reached me to-day. The other was fromLady Denham.

I opened it then, when we were all together, but I did not read it. Myeyes fell upon a familiar name, and a sudden chill and trembling warnedme to desist. I am not so strong as before my accident, not so wellable to master emotion. I put the letter away, and nobody rememberedthat I had received it.

An hour later, in the quiet of my own room, I read and re-read the fourpages. They are full of kind friendliness. Lady Denham seldom favoursher correspondents so far. She is noted for brevity of expression:therefore I value this the more.

One sentence above the rest touches me. It may mean so much or solittle.

And that is all. She writes easily, not as if she in the leastsuspected the true state of affairs. I do not suppose that she doessuspect. Sometimes I have felt that I could almost tell her all,—onlynever quite. For she has never sought or invited my confidence in thismatter: and I cannot give confidence unasked.

Next Wednesday, for a week's furlough! That means—if we go to Glynde onTuesday the 20th, he will be at The Park one night after our arrival.

But our journey may be delayed; or his going away may be hastened. Andeven if we do reach Glynde on the day named, and he is there, is itlikely that we shall meet?

Hardly,—unless he wishes it.

I dread the next fortnight of suspense. But I must hold myself stronglyin. No one must see what I feel. To Lady Denham I can only intimate inmost general terms a polite hope or willingness to see him again. Somein my place might perhaps say more, confidentially, but I cannot.

How do I know that Arthur Lenox would go to Glynde at all just now, butfor the fact that he expects my absence?

CHAPTER XXIX.

AND YET—!

THE SAME.

October 13. Tuesday Night.

THEY have come! I may as well write, for I am in no mood for sleep.

I suppose reunions after long partings seldom pass off exactly asone expects beforehand. Imagination sees only the poetry and delightof meeting. But the reality includes a good deal that is by no meanspoetical, or perhaps delightful.

When the travellers arrived, at the close of long waiting on our part,there was, of course, a general rushing of everybody into everybody'sarms,—exclusive of Miss Millington and myself. Maggie was foremost inthe rush: her face beaming.

Everybody said how well everybody else was looking; and then Mrs.Romilly grew a little hysterical, and a glass of water had to befetched; and talk came spasmodically, as if no one knew exactly whatsubject to venture on next. Mr. Romilly, as usual, appeared upon thescene with a continuous murmur of small complaining tones: "Such a longjourney—er; and the luggage not arrived yet—er; and the dear girls allso blooming; he only wished he could say as much for himself—er: andthe dear boy absent—er; such a trial—er; but after all so much to bethankful for—er!—" in the dolefully unthankful tone which good men dosometimes adopt when talking of their "mercies."

Mrs. Romilly has lost her young looks. She might be ten years olderthan when I saw her last, and she is worn, thin, faded, though stillgraceful, for nothing can do away with the charm of her bearing. Nellieis not precisely what I expected, not at all pretty or graceful,but perfectly ladylike, with a kind good sensible face. I like hermuch. There is such a charm in her absolute naturalness, her completeforgetfulness of self.

It was very curious to watch Maggie. At first I almost thought herextreme delight must be a little put on. But no: as the evening passed,I became convinced that it was entirely genuine, that in fact, thisis the true Maggie. She has evidently reverted at once, and almostinstantaneously, from her later to her earlier love. "Millie" has fora time filled the gap in her life: but no gap now exists to be filled.Millie has dropped from the position of necessary prop; Mrs. Romillyand Nellie being at once installed side by side in their old position.

I do not suppose Maggie means to be fickle or unkind. But it is veryplain that "Millie" has ceased to be of any importance to Maggie.

For there were no wandering looks after Miss Millington, as Maggie saton a stool by her mother's side, clasping one of Mrs. Romilly's hands,and gazing up in her face with eyes of sweetest content. It was a lookwhich I have not seen in Maggie's face all these months. Can it bethat in her own fashion, she really has suffered far more than I havebelieved, and has flown to perpetual engagements, tennis and "Millie,"as a distraction from loneliness?

I could not but be sorry for Miss Millington, forsaken by her especialally, and left outside the charmed circle, a forlorn nobody. Thechildren had no eyes for any one but Nellie, and Maggie seemed glued toher Mother. There was in Mrs. Romilly's manner, when she spoke to MissMillington, a certain slight air of distance and dissatisfaction, whichI could not but notice: and Miss Millington plainly felt unhappy underit.

That gave me no pleasure. I am glad to be able to say so honestly. Ihave not sunk so low as to rejoice in another's pain, even though this"other" has been in a sense my enemy.

Towards me, Mrs. Romilly was all sweetness and affection. She broughtme forward, held me lovingly, thanked me again and again for all I haddone, bade her husband and Nellie unite their expressions of gratitude,told the girls how dear I was to her. And I—well, I could not but feelher kindness, even while oppressed by it. I had such a stupid longingto slip away from the flow of words, and to be let alone.

Nobody would imagine this evening that Maggie does not like me. Shehas dropped in the most easy and marvellous manner into her Mother'stone. Instead of glowering or averted glances, I meet softly smilinggrey eyes. Instead of rushing off to Millie, she slides her arm quietlythrough mine, as she stands by her Mother.

Is it genuine?—Or is it assumed? Has she been all these months underan unnatural strain, and in bondage to "Millie," and is this the realMaggie, set free from trammels? Or is she so utterly weak and pliablea character, as to be heart and soul under the dominion of any onepresent for whom she most cares?

I cannot solve the riddle? I only know that it is shallowness, notdepth, which usually results in such a riddle. Lake waters aretransparent, while a little pond will be muddy; and nothing is moredifficult to see through than mud. But in this mood, Maggie is solovable, that I can hardly wonder at her Mother's devotion.

At all events, Gertrude Romilly is satisfied. "My Maggie is sweeterthan ever," she said, when bidding me good-night; and for her sake, Iwas pleased that she saw no farther below the surface. I cannot see tothe bottom of the pond myself; but, alas! I know there is mud.

"And the other dear girls, so improved," she went on. "Thyrza and Elfieespecially. Your doing, dearest Constance!"

I ought to be gratified, but I can hardly say that I am. Everything isa burden just now. I only feel thankful that the long evening has cometo an end.

Friday. October 16.—Plans are unchanged. We go south next Tuesday,starting early, and arriving before night. Nellie had a letter fromGladys to-day, in which she writes with delight of her friend's return,and mentions in passing that Arthur Lenox will be at The Park,—"tillWednesday evening." Nothing more.

Nellie read aloud a few sentences from the letter; and when CaptainLenox' name was mentioned, Miss Millington's eyes came straight to myface. I did not look up, but I was keenly conscious of her fixed stare.I felt myself turning slowly cold and pale; and I knew that she mustsee it. No remarks were made at the time; only somewhat later, Mrs.Romilly said affectionately, "Constance, my dear, I don't like to seeyou so worn-out. I shall have to send you soon to your sister for aholiday." But I made nothing of it.

Then all at once she spoke to me about Miss Millington, expressing agrave sense of doubt, and begging to hear confidentially my honestopinion. Was Miss Millington, or was she not, a desirable companion forthe girls, and a fit person to train the children?

I do not know how much or how little my friend has heard. Nellie, beingeverybody's confidante, is generally well acquainted with everything,and doubtless she has used her own discretion in passing on facts toher Mother.

I declined to give any advice in the matter. This was the only lineopen to me; and I said so. I had not succeeded in winning the affectionof Miss Millington: and I did not think I ought to count myself a fairjudge.

Mrs. Romilly looked at me in questioning silence. Then she said, "Thatis enough. You would never fail to say what you conscientiously couldin favour of anybody."

This may be true: I hope it is. But I would rather have no hand orvoice—even tacitly—in the dismissal of Miss Millington: and I cannotbut expect that to be the consummation.

Saturday. October 17.—About an hour after lunch to-day, I was in theback-garden, half-reading, half-dreaming. The girls had all startedtogether for a long ramble, from Nellie down to Pet.

A footstep made me look up: and I saw Miss Millington hurrying alongthe path, her face aflame, her eyes glazed with tears. Finding me therealone, she stopped short in front of me, and burst out—

"It is your doing!"

"What is?" I asked, though indeed I could guess.

She tossed her head, and bit her lips, glaring at me.

"Oh, you needn't pretend! You know very well! It's what you've beenscheming for ever since you came! I know well enough. But I'll be evenwith you yet. I'll have my revenge."

"It would be idle to pretend that I cannot guess what you may mean,"I said seriously. "But you are mistaken, Miss Millington. I have notmoved in the matter."

"Oh, I dare say! When your very words show it! You knew she was goingto get rid of me! And you persuaded her."

"I did not know it," I answered. "I knew only that Mrs. Romilly did notseem satisfied: and I could guess that she might have spoken to you.That is all."

"Oh, of course! It's all very fine When you can twist Mrs. Romilly anyway you please! And everybody knows it!" she said, jerking out shortsentences With gasps of passion between. "I understand! You've gone andtold her! That stupid cooked-up tale about your accident! Such a fussabout nothing! And it's all untrue! A downright lie! And she has toldme I'm to go! Doesn't like my influence! I know what that means! ButI'll be even with you yet!"

"You are wronging me," I said, and I found it difficult to controlmyself. "I have told Mrs. Romilly nothing. She questioned me, and Ideclined to answer."

"Oh, I dare say! With a virtuous air, just showing what you meant! AndI'll have my revenge!"

"Is that Christian, Miss Millington?" I asked. It was grievous tosee her look. "I cannot pretend to think that you have acted rightlytowards me, or with the girls. But I have done my best to keep frominfluencing Mrs. Romilly. If you go, it is not my doing."

"But I say it is," she retorted violently. "And I'll neverforget,—never! I've got you in my power too, though you mayn't thinkit, and I'll make you feel my power. I tell you I will."

"How am I in your power?" I asked.

A kind of chill ran through me at the words. I thought of her stealthypeep at my journal. But I could not tax her with that; I had promisednot to compromise Elfie.

She burst into angry sobs. "It doesn't matter how. You've nothingto do with what I mean. I know, and that's enough. I'll neverforget,—never!—what I owe to you. I'm to leave, and I'm not to berecommended, and it is all your doing. If my mother and sister come towant, that's all your doing too! And I'll be revenged! Sneaking andtelling lies like that! But I declare I'll have my revenge! I'll beeven with you!"

"Miss Millington!" an astonished voice said close behind her, and Mrs.Romilly appeared, passing round the clump of bushes which shut off thehouse. "Is this Miss Millington speaking? I can hardly believe my ownears."

The girl looked down sullenly, crimson and sobbing.

"Miss Millington is under a mistake," I said. "She believes that I haveinfluenced you, Mrs. Romilly, in deciding to part with her."

"And if you had!—What then? You are my friend. When I asked youradvice, you declined to give it: but I had a right to ask."

A short silence followed. I did not say another word. Miss Millingtonstirred as if to escape.

"Stay! One moment, if you please," Mrs. Romilly said coldly, and shereined up her head in her graceful way. I do not think I should admirethe gesture in anybody else; it is so seldom graceful: but it suitsMrs. Romilly.

"Stay!" she repeated. "This settles the matter, Miss Millington.One who can speak in such a manner to my friend is no fit companionfor my children. You will go to your own home on Monday, instead ofaccompanying us to Glynde. Of course you will receive three months'salary in full, from to-day: and I will also undertake your travellingexpenses to London. I hope you will take warning, and learn a differentspirit for the future. And remember,—I am able to recommend you ascompanion to a lady, but not as a governess."

One scowl of positive hate was cast sidelong at me, and Miss Millingtonfled. I do not think Mrs. Romilly saw that parting glance. She sat downby my side, and I found her to be trembling.

"Anything agitating tries me," she said. "But it must be so. My husbandwill agree with me, fully." And when I would have pleaded for someslight relaxation of the sentence, she refused to listen. "No, no, notanother word, Constance! I cannot sacrifice my darlings' good to herfeelings. She has done harm enough already. Have you not seen?"

"I have feared," I said.

"My Maggie used to be so scrupulously true," she said in a low voice ofpositive anguish.

I could not deny the change, but I spoke comfortingly, foretelling thatunder her influence and Nellie's, there would soon be a difference."Maggie loves you devotedly," I added.

"Yes: but is that all?" she asked, her lips quivering. "I thought myMaggie was the one of them all who had most truly given herself to theservice of Christ. And now—Yes, I see it in Thyrza and in Elfie,—thefight going on. But Maggie—my Maggie—could I have been mistaken in herbefore?"

She broke down, and cried bitterly. I did my best to comfort her. Nodoubt she is seeing daily more and more those faults and weaknesseswhich have most markedly developed in Maggie during the last fewmonths. I would not suggest that her whole past estimate of Maggie'scharacter has been a mistaken estimate. If her eyes must be opened, Iwould rather leave them to open naturally.

Tuesday Evening. October 20.—Only time for a few words. It is verylate. The journey has been long, and we did not reach Glynde House tillpast seven. Since arrival, all of us have been hard at work, unpackingfor the night.

Miss Millington left us in London. Her good-byes were hurried and cold.She looked no one in the face, and she would not shake hands with me.

Shall we ever meet again? Our intercourse has been far from happy.Yet I cannot but feel a kindly interest in one with whom I have livedfor so many months,—the more so, as I fear she will bring sorrow onherself, wherever she may be.

Maggie has not seemed troubled at losing Miss Millington, beingentirely absorbed in her mother—or, if her mother is not present,in Nellie. It is very curious to watch Maggie now, and to contrastthe state of things only ten days ago. Then she and "Millie" wereinseparable; if "Millie" was pleased, Maggie was pleased; if "Millie"was out of temper, Maggie was out of temper. Now all is changed.

I suppose Maggie cannot stand alone. She must be supported by—must beunder the dominion of—somebody else. When Millie was her prop, Maggiethought, felt, acted, in unison with Millie. Mrs. Romilly being now herprop, Maggie thinks, feels, acts, in unison with Mrs. Romilly. This isthe real love; that was only a spurious attachment. But the characterwhich can undergo such phases is scarcely to be admired.

Maggie's affectionate manner to myself is amazing. It seems to be quitenatural, not assumed; and no doubt she does at the moment honestly feelwhat she expresses. At all events, it gives Mrs. Romilly pleasure. So Iaccept the warmth, and I make no remarks; only the affection of Thyrzaand Elfie is worth more to me.

I hardly know why I write all this. My mind is full of other matters.

A note from Lady Denham to Mrs. Romilly mentions Sir Keith's intentionof calling to-morrow morning, "with their guest, Captain Lenox."

Somehow I feel very calm; not shaken or tremulous. Things will be well,however they turn out. I love the thought that all my life is in aFather's keeping.

I think I can say these words from my heart to-night.

Wednesday Evening. October 21.—I can still say the same. I would notchoose for myself. But the disappointment has fallen heavily.

Sir Keith called alone, not long after twelve. He said that CaptainLenox had suddenly found it needful to go off by an early train,instead of waiting till this evening. A letter by post had caused thechange of plan.

"A singular fellow—Lenox!" Sir Keith said musingly. "One never knowswhat he will do next. Curiously reserved too."

That was all, or nearly all, said about the matter. Nobody seemed tocount Captain Lenox' defection a thing of any moment. I of course madeno remark: and Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes were absent: whileSir Keith, usually very observant, was absorbed in Thyrza.

I will not allow myself to think who may have written that letter. Whatuse? I cannot know, and I must not run the risk of suspecting unjustly.Better to take the pain straight from my God. Nothing comes, notpermitted by Him.

But will life ever again seem worth the trouble of living?

CHAPTER XXX.

A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK!

GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.

October 6. Tuesday.

THE first copy of my book arrived by this evening's post. Eleven morecopies are to follow by rail. We have been looking out for it veryanxiously.

October 7. Wednesday.—I think my book looks very nice; so prettilybound: and Mother is so pleased. It seems strange to have written atlast a real five-shilling tale,—my childish dream come true. What along while I have been looking forward to this! I don't know exactlywhen I first began to expect to publish, though I can remember writinglittle stories at nine years old,—others say, at seven. But atfourteen, I had quite made up my mind to bring out a five-shilling booksome day,—if I could, I mean. And now I am nineteen!

After all, such things don't really affect one's happiness. I am veryglad and thankful, but I feel quiet about it,—not as I should haveexpected.

October 10. Saturday.—Such delightful news! The Romillys are cominghome!

Eustace goes to a clergyman in the country, for study; and Mr. and Mrs.Romilly and Nellie travel to Beckdale for just one week, and then thewhole party comes south.

Delicious!

Mrs. Romilly seems really stronger, they say,—almost as if the accidentand illness had done her good in the end, instead of harm. I supposetroubles often do that. The doctors think she may safely spend thewinter at home.

A few words from Nellie tell me this. I am so happy at the thought ofseeing Nellie again.

People seem pleased with my book, on the whole. A great many kindthings are being said about it,—some of course only out of politeness,but others I fancy are real. Aunt Anne complains that my two storiesare exactly alike, because, she says, there are three boys in each, andshe is afraid I am "in danger of the usual fault of repetition, commonto all young authors." But I don't know what she means, or how shecounts, for there really are five boys in one, and six in the other.Ramsay declares that aunt Anne only thinks a little dose of criticismwholesome for me. I don't call that real criticism though; if it were,I should like it, because I do want to be shown real faults in mywriting.

October 15. Thursday.—Not a week now before I expect to see Nellieagain! I am counting the hours. And that dear Miss Con too! I hopeshe has quite got over her accident. I am working at a little storyfor children, which I think of calling "Winnie." When it is done Imean to offer it to the same Society that accepted my first book: andafterwards I shall most likely write another tale for Mr. Willis.

Captain Lenox is actually at The Park again. I do wonder if it meansanything. He is to stay till next Wednesday, so he and Miss Con mightmeet. He called to-day with Sir Keith, but not a word was said aboutMiss Con. I took very good care not to bring her name forward thistime, I was so afraid of making mischief. Mother says I was right. Italmost seems to me, from something he said, that he doesn't know yetabout the Romillys and Miss Con coming before he leaves.

October 21. Wednesday.—Mother would not let me go to Glynde House thismorning. She was sure the Romillys would be too busy: and of courseshe is right; only I did not know how to keep to my thinking of Nelliebeing so near. But still I stuck to work; for it does not do to bemastered.

After lunch, in came Lady Denham, for a long talk. She always seems sopleased to see Mother. A good deal was said first about the Romillys:and then she told us that Captain Lenox had left by an early train,directly after breakfast. I felt very disappointed, thinking of MissCon. Lady Denham laughed a little, and said, "He is a curious man,particularly agreeable, but erratic."

Mother asked, "Would he have objected to meet the Romillys?"

"Why, no, I think not," Lady Denham said. "My son proposed last nightthat they should call together on Mrs. Romilly to-day, and he seemed tofall in with the proposal; but a letter by this morning's post alteredhis plans."

Mother said, to my surprise, only I know she and Lady Denham don't mindwhat each says to the other—"I have sometimes fancied there might besomething between him and Miss Conway."

"So I imagined at one time," Lady Denham answered. "But I think it is amistake. Miss Conway speaks of him with complete indifference; and henever mentions her."

Lady Denham hesitated, and looked at me, before going on—"Gladys issafe, is she not? Between ourselves, the letter this morning was in alady's hand. He left the envelope on the table, close to my plate, so Icould not help seeing it. I know he has no near relatives. One has nobusiness to build on so slight a foundation, but he looked very strangeover it,—so strange that I asked if he had had any bad news. He gavean odd short laugh, and said—'Nothing of consequence: only he found itneedful to leave by an early train.'"

Lady Denham must feel very friendly towards Mother, to say so much. Itis not her way to speak out generally. But I don't think Mother is sosure as she is that we are mistaken about Miss Con and Captain Lenox.

As soon as she was gone, I hurried off to Glynde House. The firstperson I saw was Mr. Romilly. He was in the hall; and he gave me sucha kind welcome, that really I felt ashamed of not liking him more. Hesmiled at me, and took my hand in his, and he seemed such a prettylittle bit of dainty old china! Only I do wish he could be kept under aglass shade, for he is fit for nothing else.

And then I saw Mrs. Romilly. She looks years and years older thanbefore her illness: but she reared up her head and squirmed herselfabout, just as she always does; and she made me turn so fearfully shy,I had not a single word to say, till Nellie came. And then I forgotMrs. Romilly's existence, and I was all right.

One very good piece of news I heard the first thing: and that is thatMiss Millington has gone home, and is not to return. I don't understandexactly how or why. We shall hear more later. What a relief that shehas vanished!

Nellie looks so well: and she is just the same as always, the darling!She has enjoyed being abroad, and now she enjoys coming home. SomehowNellie always enjoys everything. Mother says it is because she has thatrare gift—"a mind at leisure from itself." And I do think Mother isright.

Maggie is exactly what she was before she went away: always flyinground after Mrs. Romilly; or if Mrs. Romilly is not within reach,always hanging on to Nellie. Mother says she has grown prettier: but Ido not see it. I never cared very much for Maggie.

Thyrza is changed. I never supposed she could grow so handsome! Thefirst moment I saw her, I felt quite startled. Her eyes used to lookat every one in a kind of grim way, as if she wanted to fight: and nowthey are beautifully soft. And when she kissed me, instead of stoopingstiffly, like a young fir-tree trying to bend, and giving a poke like abird's peck, she was gentle and almost affectionate. I always used tothink she could not endure me, but perhaps it was shyness and not beinghappy. I am sure Miss Con has made a great difference in Thyrza's life.

I did not see Miss Con, as I had hoped. Thyrza said she was tired, andhad gone to her room to rest. That looks as if she were not strong yet.

October 22. Thursday.—The first notice of my book came this morning: ashort one, but good; all praise and no blame.

I have just finished "Winnie." I hope to get it off to-morrow; and tostart a new tale next day.

Miss Con came in before lunch, and oh, she is so altered! It has mademe really unhappy. She is much thinner, but that is not the worst. Itis the look in her eyes that I mind most,—such a sad sweet look, as ifshe had been through a great stretch of trouble and pain, and were notout of it all yet. And her cheeriness of manner is gone. Mother toldher she looked tired, and put her into an easy-chair; and though MissCon laughed, she did not resist, but sat listening, hardly speaking atfirst, only giving a little smile, if her eyes met ours.

Presently Mother asked her how she was; and Miss Con smiled again, andsaid, "Lazy, rather! Beckdale has used up my reserve-powers."

"You will have to get away for a holiday," Mother said.

"At Christmas, perhaps," she answered. "Lessons must go on regularlyfor a while first."

Then she asked about my writing, and was so kind; not merely polite,but full of real interest. It was the only time she brightened up.

When she was gone, Mother said, "If they do not take care, she willbreak down altogether. Too much has been put upon her."

I believe Miss Millington has been Miss Con's greatest bother.

Well,—she will not have that bother any longer. A Miss James is comingin Miss Millington's stead; and we have been wondering whether thegirls will call her "Jamie." Ramsay declares they will. Miss Conwaywanted to undertake the little ones herself, but Mrs. Romilly would notconsent,—very right too!

Thyrza means to work hard this winter. She intends to go through acourse of Geology, and a course of Political Economy, with Miss Con;and she seems able to talk of nothing else.

When I said something about this at tea-time, Ramsay burst outlaughing, and said, "What bosh!" But Ramsay calls everything bosh,except what he does himself.

I must confess that Mother laughed too, and said, "We shall see!" Idon't see why. Thyrza is so really fond of study,—not like Maggie.

December 15. Tuesday.—I sent my story "Winnie" to the Society lastweek; but I expect it will be a good while before I have an answer. Twoor three Readers have to go through the MS. first, and then, if theyapprove, it has to be put in type for others to read. However, I do notfeel much afraid about it.

In a few days I hope to begin another, with a heroine named "Selina;"and that will most likely be a five-shilling tale. Just now I am doinga small story of a few chapters, to offer to a child's magazine.

Thyrza and I had a curious talk yesterday with Miss Con; at least theytalked, and I listened. Mother had been telling me, only an hour ortwo before, that I really must try to be less blunt, and to bow morepleasantly to people that I don't like, when I meet them. Of course Ipromised to try, for one does not wish to be disagreeable; only it isvery difficult, when one doesn't care particularly for a person, and,when one is thinking of something else.

I was with Miss Con and Thyrza in Glynde House garden. Nellie and thetwins were out, and Maggie had gone for a drive with Mr. and Mrs.Romilly. Thyrza was talking away pleasantly, and looking so bright,when all at once Miss Pursey appeared. She isn't, to be sure, a greatfavourite with any of us; and Thyrza froze up into an icicle, in onemoment. After she had chatted some time, and left a message for Mrs.Romilly and was gone, Miss Con said to Thyrza—

"What made you so curt?"

"Was I curt?" Thyrza asked. "Oh, I don't know. I don't care for MissPursey."

"But if you do not, why put the poor lady to pain?" Miss Con inquired.

"You don't suppose she minds!" Thyrza said.

"Yes, I do. All people mind a splash of cold water," said Miss Con.

"Did I administer one? I suppose it is my way," said Thyrza.

"I don't think that excuse will serve," Miss Con said quietly. "It isone person's 'way' to shirk trouble; and another person's 'way' to beidle or untruthful; and another person's 'way' to be a victim to weakfancies. But—"

Miss Con stopped, and Thyrza coloured up, for she was finding faultonly the day before, with those very faults in Maggie and Nona andElfie.

"Of course if one's 'way' is a wrong way, one ought to fight it, MissCon. Only I can't see that one's manner signifies," Thyrza said."People in general might like me better, if I put on a softer manner.But if I don't care about being liked except by the few whom I like—?"

"It is no mere question of being liked," Miss Con said. "That wouldbe a base motive. It is a question of right and wrong,—of doing one'sduty,—of pleasing God,—of being Christ-like."

Thyrza exclaimed "Oh!"

But Miss Con went on:

"It is a question of giving pain or pleasure; of losing or gaininginfluence; of helping or repelling others. Of course there areinstances in which one has to be cold judicially, to check undueforwardness; and I am not at all advising 'gush' or even universalcordiality. I only advise the cultivation of courtesy, kindness, andgentleness,—not to some only, but to all."

"But one must be natural; one must be true," cried Thyrza. "I can't puton what I don't feel."

"No. There you strike at the root of the matter," Miss Con saidseriously.

"But I should not like to be commonplace," Thyrza broke out.

How Miss Con laughed!

"My dear, don't be absurd," she said: and I really expected to seeThyrza offended, only she never seems offended with anything Miss Consays.

"But I don't see any right or wrong in it," persisted Thyrza. "If Ican't like people—"

"You are curt to some for whom you do care," Miss Con answered. "Butthat is not the point. The real question is,—How far are you and I freeto indulge in repellent ways to those around us? And this questionresolves itself into a second,—How ought we to feel towards thosearound us?"

Thyrza just looked down and said nothing.

"'Be pitiful, be courteous,' means more, I think, than love andpoliteness to our particular friends," Miss Con said. "And if we lookat Christ, our Example,—that soon settles the matter. I don't thinkwe can picture to ourselves as the barest possibility that He evesindulged in curtness of manner,—that He ever acted bluntly, or put on arepellent air. Stern and displeased He could be,—but not coldly stiff."

I do not know how Thyrza felt, but I know how I did.

"For of course it is self-indulgence,—the indulgence of a mood orhumour," Miss Con added. "If we had more of our Master's spirit of lovetowards all men, I suppose we should not have even the inclination totreat them curtly. Love does not wish to repel."

And then she told us how often she was tempted in this way herself,and how she had to struggle against the tendency. I never should havesupposed anything of the kind with Miss Con, but she says so, and I amalmost glad, because it makes me hope that perhaps in time I may growmore like her.

It is wonderful how, if any doubtful point comes up, Miss Con seemsalways to look straight at the Life of our Lord for an answer. And itis still more wonderful how other people don't do so.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CROOKED AND STRAIGHT.

GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.

February 20. Saturday.

No answer has come yet from the Society about my MS. "Winnie." I didnot think I should have to wait so long: but I sent it at a busy time,so delay is not surprising.

I am working hard at a tale which I mean to call "Selina's Wish."

Miss Con has not been away yet. A holiday at Christmas was talked offor her, but I fancy she has nowhere to go. She said one day that "herbig brother-in-law had not pressed his hospitality on her." It seemsstrange, for one would expect any one to be glad to have Miss Con. Hemust be a very queer sort of man.

Everybody at Glynde House is so fond now of Miss Con,—even Maggie andNona! Things are quite altered since Miss Millington left. Mrs. Romillyconsults her about everything, and Nellie says she never saw her equal,and Maggie always thinks the same as Mrs. Romilly and Nellie,—at leastwhen she is with them.

Miss James is a harmless little person, with no particular ideas ofher own; but I like her because she is pleasant to Miss Con. The girlsactually have begun to call her "Jamie," as Ramsay foretold.

I am rather disappointed with Thyrza, for instead of working hard thiswinter, as she meant to do, at Geology and Political Economy, she seemsto be doing hardly anything. She has grown so oddly absent and dreamytoo. I really thought there was more stuff in Thyrza.

Miss Con doesn't look well. She is very thin; and though she workshard, and has her cheerful manner again, I often fancy it is all put on.

April 1. Thursday.—Cold weather still, but signs of a change. I hardlyknow how to wish for spring warmth, much as I love summer. For theRomillys are already talking about Beckdale, and I am afraid they willgo north early this year. Mrs. Romilly is said to need the change. I amsure Miss Con does. But I can't bear to think of losing Nellie againfor months.

Yesterday evening I finished my story, "Selina's Wish." It is 690 pagesof MS., each page having, I believe, about 130 or more words. I hope toget it off in three or four days.

April 14. Wednesday.—My little book "Winnie" has come back from theSociety, declined.

Of course I do not let anybody see how disappointed I am. I always liketo seem quite philosophical; as if it were only what one might expect.But somehow I didn't expect failure this time. I thought it was almostsure to be taken.

It is politely refused; still it is refused. The Editor says that theReaders objected to such a very faulty mother in a book written forchildren. I dare say I was wrong to make her so: and it is good of himto explain. Uncle Tom says that one learns as much from failure as fromsuccess, and that of course it is all for the best. I suppose that istrue; but still, I do feel flat.

Mother and all of them are so kind. They don't go on bothering aboutit, as some people would.

Well, I just have to try afresh. And after all there is "Selina'sWish." That is the really important one. This is quite a small affair.

April 22. Thursday.—I am waiting anxiously for an answer about my"Selina." And I am trying hard to believe that all will be for thebest, either way.

However, I don't think the real difficulty lies there. For of courseGod knows what is best. He knows everything, and He must know that.And I never feel the least doubt that He loves us, and that He willdo what is most for our happiness. The real difficulty with me is tobe willing that He should choose for me, not I for myself. I do longso terribly to have my own way; and when I want a thing, I want it sodesperately,—I don't seem to care to wait for what is best in the end,but only to have my wish now! That must be impatience; and it is wrongto wish for one's own will at any cost; but I am afraid I often do. Andthen I ought to be thankful if God does not take me at my word, andgive me what I wish; because that would be very dreadful.

April 23. Friday.—Mrs. Romilly was talking to-day in a worried mannerabout Miss Con looking so thin, and taking no rest. And Mother askedif she would not come to us for a week. It was a sudden thought ofMother's; and Mrs. Romilly was quite pleased. She said any break wouldbe a good thing. So Miss Con has been spoken to, and she will come nextThursday,—for she will not consent to stop lessons sooner. We hope tomake the week grow into a fortnight.

Same day. Evening.—The last post has brought back my MS. "Selina'sWish" from Mr. Willis,—declined.

April 27. Tuesday.—I could not write more on Friday about my story: andI have had no heart to do so since,—until now.

I won't say that I was not disappointed, for I was,—intenselydisappointed. Of course nobody knew how much. I woke up next morningfeeling perfectly wretched, not the least able to rise above it,and really believing I had come to the end of any hopes of futureauthorship. And the only comfort was in saying over and overagain,—"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thineown understanding." For of course I can't possibly know what is reallybest for myself or for any of us. And somehow, even before I left myroom, things did look a little brighter, and I felt sure I should behelped.

At breakfast-time Mother asked what I meant to do, and after somelittle talk we settled that I had better write and ask frankly for thereason why the tale is refused,—which I did.

The answer came this morning,—a kind and pleasant answer. We are surefrom it that the publisher doesn't at all mean that he will nevertake a book of mine again; and that is a great comfort. Mr. Willissays that "the character of Selina is too naughty and disagreeable.People would say in reference to several chapters at the beginning—Whatis the use of it all? Too much of her naughtiness and impertinenceare given in detail. The books that are most popular are those withpleasant characters in them. He could understand the interest of theMS. carrying a reader to the end, but the impression left would beunpleasant, and it would not be taken up a second time. Also he thinksthe main incident of the book too melancholy. People like cheerfulbooks."

I don't think I like cheerful books so much as sad ones: but no doubtMr. Willis is the best judge about people in general: and even beforeI heard from him, I was making up my mind to try after pleasantercharacters in my next.

I do not think I will try to get either "Selina" or "Winnie" taken byany one else, at present. The faults in both seem to be much the same.Better to start something fresh, in a different style.

There has been a strange mixture of humiliation and encouragementin all this,—of disappointment now, and hope for by-and-by. I beginalready to think that some day I may be thankful not to have had"Selina's Wish" published.

April 30. Friday.—Yesterday morning Miss Con came to us. She was sograteful to Mother for asking her: and she seemed to find it a rest tobe able to be quiet, and not to feel it her duty to work.

This afternoon, when we had had tea, she was sitting in one of thewindows, reading. Mother was gone out, and I had begun to mend someholes in my gloves. For I do not mean to grow into an untidy authoress,if I can help it. Untidiness is so unwomanly.

I thought Miss Con must be glad of a little real stillness, and I lefther alone, and did not talk. And for a moment I felt almost vexed, whenMaggie and the twins came rushing in. They were full of fun, and Elfiewas in wild spirits, as she generally is now Mrs. Romilly has come back.

Nona declared they wanted a sight of Miss Con,—she had been away "suchages." Maggie hugged her, and plumped down into an arm-chair; and thetwins rattled about all sorts of things.

"Oh, I say,—only think," Nona cried all at once. "Maggie has a letterfrom Millie,—the first she has ever condescended to write. We met thepostman outside just now, and he gave it to us."

"Oh, I'm forgetting!" Maggie exclaimed, and she pulled out theenvelope, looking round in a half-saucy way at Miss Con, andasking—"Wouldn't you like to hear Millie's news?"

"I should like to know if she is well and happy," Miss Con said.

"I'll read it out. That will be fun," Maggie said.

Then she began, and we all listened,—not that there was anything worthhearing. Miss Millington's letters are as inane as she is herself. Thesentences jog on, one after another, in a sort of aimless fashion, allabout nothing.

"She doesn't tell us much," Nona said when Maggie reached the end. "Noteven why she is at her home now. I thought she had gone to live with anold lady."

"Here is a crossed corner. I didn't see it before," Maggie said,turning the sheet round. "'Have you—' what is the word?—Oh, 'have youseen much of the Denhams lately? They will have told you of CaptainLenox' engagement. A very good thing for him. Quite recent.'"

Elfie was fondling the kitten on the rug, and Nona stood over her. Ibelieve the twins were only half listening to what Maggie read. Maggieherself could not see Miss Con's face without turning round; but Ithink she was going to turn. She made a movement like it, as she said,"No, I don't think they have told us. I don't remember."

I would not look at Miss Con, and it just flashed across me to call offthe girls, and leave her quiet. I am so glad,—oh, so glad I did.

There was no time to think. I said, "You haven't looked at Mother's newplants in the dining-room,—come, Maggie,—before Uncle Tom goes there."And I caught her wrist, and we all four went off, Elfie prancing aboutlike a kitten, with my kitten on her shoulder. Maggie said at first,"What for?" But she did not hang back, and I let her have no time toask it again.

As soon as they had seen the plants, I took all three into the garden,and kept them there. Elfie once spoke of seeing Miss Con again, but Iwould not hear; and soon Maggie said they had to be at home before six.

When I went back into the drawing-room, Miss Con was in the same placeas before. She had not stirred a finger. She was sitting on a ratherlow chair, leaning back, with a book open on her knee, and her handslying carelessly on the book. And her face was calm; only deathly pale.If her eyes had not been open, I should have thought she had fainted.She looked up at me, as I came near, and said gently, "Have they gonehome?"

"Yes, Miss Con," I said.

I don't know what made me go close, and kneel down by her side, andtake hold of her hands. They were frightfully cold, and they felt quitelimp, as if all strength had gone out of them. I did not want to showthat I understood anything; but I could not leave her alone like that.

"Dear Gladys!" she said, in a worn-out voice. "You are all so good tome."

I was trembling by this time, wishing Mother would come in, and yetknowing that Miss Con would not want anybody else to see her just then.And oh, I did long to comfort her.

"Miss Con, are you faint?" I asked, and my voice was half choked.

"No, my dear," she said, in a quiet considering tone. "No,—not faint.I only feel a little—tired, I think, and weak. I wanted to go upstairsand rest,—but somehow—I had to wait."

Her eyes looked straight into mine, and I don't think I ever saw suchpain and sorrow in any eyes before. I didn't know how to bear it.

She must have seen, perhaps, more than I meant her to see. She musthave felt that I did a little understand,—and that she could trust me.For suddenly there was a kind of break-up in the quiet of her face.She did not go into a fit of violent crying, like so many people, andshe sat upright, with her hands together in mine. But her lips growwhiter, and every muscle in her face and throat worked and quivered, asif a wave of agony were passing over her, and then her eyes reddenedand filled slowly, and great burning drops came splash, splash, on mywrist. It was impossible for me to help crying too.

Nobody came near us: and I do not think she went on long, though itfelt long to me. Before I could speak, I heard her saying softly—

"Poor Gladys! I am sorry to have troubled you, my dear."

"O Miss Con, don't!" I whispered; and she stroked my hair, and pettedme, as if it had been she who had to do the comforting, and not I. WhenI was able to see her face, it had grown calm again. But somehow thatwas worse than the other; and I threw my arms round her, and held herfast, with such a longing to be any help. And then I could feel herstruggles not to give way, and the tears came splashing again, thoughthere was not the slightest sound.

"Gladys, my dear, no one must know of this," she said at last, when shehad conquered. She put me from her gently, and looked me in the facewith such sweet sad eyes. "Not even your dear Mother."

"Oh no,—no,—" I said.

"You will not tell—I can trust you," she said. "You and I are friends,after to-day. I shall not behave so a second time. Now I am going to myroom for an hour: and you will see me myself again at dinner."

She smiled as she spoke, and stood up, slipping her arm into mine, so Iwent with her to the spare-room.

"I can't do anything more for you?" I asked when we reached the door.

"Nothing, dear, thank you," she said, in her natural tone. "I shouldlike a little while alone. But you have been a comfort, Gladys,—" andshe kissed me. "And now I know you will ask no questions, and will tryto forget this little scene."

I said I would "try," though of course forgetting is out of thequestion, and I was turning away, when she put her hand on mine.

"One word," she said very low. "My dear,—you have not to blame him.Remember that. He did once ask me, and I refused him. He was perfectlyfree. I did not know till later how much I cared,—and he has neverknown."

Then she moved away, and I shut the door. But oh,—what a pity! Ifhe had but known in time! I wonder if it could not have been helpedsomehow,—if only anybody could have put things straight!

And yet perhaps they are really straight, and just what they ought tobe. I wonder if we shall look back by-and-by, and see that all ourworries and disappointments were the best and happiest things for us,and the very things we would have chosen, if we could have seen fartherahead!

Only last Sunday Miss Con and I had a little talk about this. I wasthinking about my disappointment, which she does not know of. When Isaid something like what I have just written, she said—

"Yes,—except in those cases where we have brought our troubles onourselves."

"And never then?" I asked. "Ought we not to say then that they areGod's will?"

"In a sense—yes," she answered. "All things that happen are permittedby God. It certainly is His will that we should suffer in this life thenatural results of our own wrong-doing or folly. But that is not thewhole of the matter. On the one hand, we must never say that He willsany one to act wrongly.

"On the other hand, we must never forget that He makes 'all things' towork together for our good, if we love Him. Those very 'results' whichwe find most trying may in His Hand work great good to us in the end.Whether we are conscious of the good at the time is another question."

I must not write more now. Except that Miss Con seemed quite composedand natural at dinner. She looked very ill, I thought, and I know myeyes were red. Mother asked no questions; and this makes me pretty surethat she suspects something. For I believe she saw the girls, and it islikely enough that Maggie may have shown her Millie's letter.

Happily Ramsay was too much absorbed in Miss Con to look at me.

May 1. Saturday.—At breakfast to-day there was a letter for Miss Con,from her sister, Mrs. Smyth. The husband,—that very fat brother-in-lawwho will not invite Miss Con to the house,—is dangerously ill; and hiswife begs and implores Miss Con to go and help in the nursing.

Mother and I think Miss Con looks more like being nursed herself, thanlike nursing somebody else. But of course she has gone. Mrs. Romillyconsented directly, and in two hours, Miss Con was off.

I should be dreadfully sorry; only, we think the change of scene may doher good just now. She promises to come to us some other time instead.

One does wonder why it is that sometimes the very best people have thevery most sorrow. But perhaps if they had not the most, they wouldnot be the best. And, after all, I don't see why we should expect tounderstand everything.

Of course I have not said a word to Miss Con about her distressyesterday; nor has she to me. Only her manner is so affectionate, thatI feel sure she did not mind my having seen what I did.

Next week I hope to start another tale; and to work very hard and verycarefully. I think I have some good ideas for it.

I do believe I have been growing over-confident,—fancying I was sure tosucceed, and counting almost anything good enough, written in ever somuch of a hurry. So I dare say these two checks have been exactly whatI needed. At all events, there shall be no hurried or careless work inmy next.

And then at least, if I fail, it will not be my fault. If it is notGod's will that I should succeed any more, I must not be too much bentupon it.

I think I do begin to understand that the only safe and happy state ofmind is one of entire dependence upon God,—entire acquiescence in Hiswill,—just "making known" one's requests to Him, and leaving utterly inHis Hands the time and kind of answer. And then, whatever else He givesor doesn't give, the peace of Christ is promised.

A sentence in a book I was reading to-day struck me very much,—"thedread responsibility of choosing our own way!" I am sure I need to prayto be kept from that.

CHAPTER XXXII.

VERY UNEXPECTED.

CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.

June 15. Tuesday.

STILL in Town. I little expected six weeks of absence, when I leftGlynde.

Craven's attack, though sharp, was short. In less than a week he wasout of danger, and on a fair road to recovery. And then I, in my turn,broke down.

Hardly surprising, I suppose. I have gone through much, mentally, thelast few months, one way and another. Long continued strain will tellin time.

The letter from Miss Millington was perhaps the finishing stroke. Ithink the sudden call here, with full occupation for mind and body atfirst, was sent mercifully,—and then the wonderful holy calm of thosethree weeks in my own room, alone, and yet not alone!

Albinia could scarcely ever leave her husband: and the maids only cameand went. I was not so severely ill as to need constant attendance. Thedoctor ordered little beyond rest and stillness. Now I have been aboutagain for nearly a fortnight, regaining strength: but the sweetness ofthat "quiet time" overshadows me yet.

For I think our Lord Himself led me aside into one of His own greenpastures, that He might comfort me. And He did it there, as none but Hecan do,—with Voice and Touch and Smile, with Divine healing and mostHuman sympathy.

How can any question the good of pain and sorrow in this life?

For no joy could ever have shown me what He is, like these past weeks.And only the extremest stress of need and weariness will ever drive usso to abandon our whole weight upon Him, as to learn fully the rest ofHis upholding Arms.

June 16. Wednesday.—Plans seem now arranged. I do not return to Glynde,but remain here till early next week. The Romillys propose travellingup to Town on Monday: and on Tuesday we all proceed to Beckdale.

Mrs. Romilly writes that Lady Denham and Sir Keith will be at the Farm.I cannot help expecting something to come about soon.

June 19. Saturday.—This afternoon I went for a stroll in The Park,avoiding as far as possible the crowded parts, and getting into acomparatively neglected side-path. It was pleasantly sunny, with afresh breeze. One might escape in some measure from the stream of humanbeings, but there was no escaping from the stream of human sound. Icaught myself smiling at the thought of those lovely Yorkshire dales,so soon to surround me! No roar of voices and vehicles there, but onlythe rustle of leaves, and the rush of torrents. And then I think Iwandered off to Thyrza, walking slowly with downward-bent eyes, perhapsspeculating on her future.

Something made me glance up. I found myself in a sheltered spot,divided by shrubs from the nearest groups of people. One seat was quitenear, and on this seat was one young girl.

My first impression was of the utter misery in her look and attitude.She sat leaning forward, with bent head, rounded shoulders,tightly-clasped hands, and wide-open fixed eyes. There were no tears,only a hard gaze of extreme wretchedness, which was even more stronglyexpressed in the droop of her lower lip.

Involuntarily I came to a standstill, and stood for one moment,watching. Not more than a moment. My gaze seemed to wake her up froma kind of stupefaction. She lifted her head, and looked at me, in alistless indifferent fashion.

But listlessness and indifference vanished. I knew her then, and sheknew me. Strange that I had not recognised her before. In a momentthe face changed, the cheeks reddened, the eyes were averted, and shesprang half up.

"Miss Millington!" I said. She would not offer her hand, and I took it,only to have it snatched away.

"What makes you come? As if I wanted to see you! Why can't you leave mealone?" she asked, with bitter scorn, her lips shaking in agitation.

"The Park is free to all," I said gravely. "I did not expect to findyou here."

"No, I dare say not! You thought you had got me out of your way, at anyrate!" she retorted.

"You do me wrong," I answered. "Miss Millington, I should like a fewwords with you. Will you sit down here?"

"No, thanks. I'm going home."

"Where is your home?"

She made no response.

"I have, of course, no right to interfere," I said. "But I think youare in trouble; and I would gladly help you if I could. Will you notsit down with me, for five minutes?"

"No! Why should I? If I am in trouble, it is your doing," she broke outpassionately.

"You are mistaken. It is not my doing," I said; and after a moment'sthought I laid one hand on her arm, adding, "Sit down."

She yielded sullenly, and I placed myself beside her.

"One word of explanation first," I said, speaking gently. "I shouldlike you to understand that I had not, practically, to do with yourgoing. Mrs. Romilly appealed to me for a confidential opinion, and Ideclined to give any. There were things which she had heard, and whichshe disapproved: but she did not hear them from me."

Miss Millington shook her head, in evident disbelief.

"There was much that tried and grieved me," I said in a lower voice."No need to go into particulars. You know well enough to what I allude.I would have been a friend to you, if you had allowed it."

She gave me a strange look; then said, "Thanks!" very scornfully.

"And you are in trouble now?" I said once more.

"That is my business; not yours," came in sharp answer.

"It is only mine, in so far as I might be able to help you," I said.

"Nonsense! As if you cared!"

"I do care!" I said, and I spoke truth.

She looked at me again, broke into a mirthless laugh, and said—

"Not enough to lend me fifty pounds,—or fifty shillings, for the matterof that! I know what people mean by caring. There, that's enough! I amgoing home."

But my hand was on her arm, and she did not rise. A sudden thought cameto me. Was this at last—at last!—the opportunity to "overcome evil withgood?"

My little legacy of one hundred pounds is lying still at the Bank,—notyet invested, as Craven advised. I had to indent upon it largely, formourning and other expenses, after my aunt's death. This year, by careand economy, I have made up the amount to something over one hundredpounds laid by; and the question of investment has recurred.

Fifty pounds out of it would be a large proportion,—to be, not lent,but given! For this was the "good" which occurred to me, as that bywhich I might overcome long-standing evil.

I cannot say the thought was—or is—welcome. I have none but myself todepend upon. A long lonely life may lie before me. Health and strengthmay at any time fail. Craven will never offer a home. I must save forthe future, while working for the present.

And she has so wronged me! It came over me in a rush, as I sat theresilently by my silent companion,—how she has resisted and scornedmy best efforts, opposed my will, fought against my authority,—nay,far worse, if things are as I verily believe, has ruined my life'shappiness, separating me from Arthur Lenox for ever!

Once more I seemed to see her bending over my open journal,dishonourably scanning the lines never meant for her eyes, and meanlyafterward making use of the information thus gained.

A great wave of the old passionate wrath and hate surged up within me,and almost broke. I—to forgive her! I—to despoil myself of half thelittle I possessed, for her sake!

Did she deserve it! No! A thousand times, No!

But—do I deserve the benefits which God has showered upon me?—The loveof Christ my Lord? A million times,—No!

And He, in His forgiving pity, has said,—"Be not overcome of evil, butovercome evil with good!"

The rising storm was checked, and at the Voice of my Master—"Peace, bestill!" There was a great calm.

I cannot say if she saw or knew aught of this. I only know that weboth sat in silence,—perhaps for some seconds only, perhaps for fiveminutes. Then I found myself answering her last utterance, "You needfifty pounds,—for what?"

"To save my mother's life."

Miss Millington's self-command broke down, and she hid her face,sobbing.

I let her cry for a while, before saying, "Tell me a little more."

"What is the use? It is no good," she cried petulantly.

"No,—but I should like to hear," I answered.

A measure still of resistance was followed by yielding. Once started, Ithink she found the "telling" a relief to herself.

Mrs. Millington is a widow, with only one other and younger daughter.She must have been a good and true mother: and the best side of MissMillington came out in speaking of this mother.

For many years the three have been in very straitened circ*mstances,especially of late, depending partly on the eldest daughter's earnings.Since last summer Miss Millington has been in only one situation, whichshe failed to keep. Under the consequent long pressure of anxiety andmoney-difficulties, Mrs. Millington became very ill: and the knowledgeof her liabilities has so pressed upon her mind, that the doctor to-dayforetells a fatal termination, unless the burden can be in some waylightened.

"And of course I can do nothing,—how can I?" the girl said,half-bitterly, half-sullenly. "We've got behindhand with everything. Itisn't the doctor,—he is an old friend, and he charges nothing, thoughhe is poor himself. But there's the chemist, and the rent,—and otherthings,—about fifty pounds altogether. I don't mean to say we werestraight last summer, only we were trying to get so. If I had stayed onwith the Romillys, it would have come right in time,—and now, insteadof that, everything has been getting worse. And I don't see what is tobe done. I can't expect to have so much from anybody else as I had fromMrs. Romilly. Besides, I hate being a companion and Mrs. Romilly won'trecommend me as a governess. So mother will die—" a sob and a gulp camehere,—"and that will be the end of everything. It is all hopeless,—andwhen the doctor said what he did, I Just set off and walked miles,—andthey don't know at home where I am. I ought to be there now. I shallhave to go back in a 'bus: though I'm sure we can't afford it."

The same undisciplined nature which had caused me so much trouble. Icould not but note this.

"And I don't know why I should say it all to you,—you, of all people,"she muttered. "Absurd of me!"

"Not quite," I said. "At least I can feel for you."

She turned away with an impatient movement, standing up.

"I must go," she said.

"I intend to drive home in a hansom. I will take you to your doorfirst."

She protested. "Nonsense; it would be ridiculous. Our house is milesout of your way."

But I held to my point. If I had simply asked the address, I could notbe secure of having a true answer. It was not my intention to go intothe house to-day; for I wanted time to consider what I ought to do. Iwas only resolved to learn her whereabouts.

Yet when we reached the shabby little house, and a sickly young girlcame out on the doorstep, saying reproachfully—"Oh how could you leaveus so long?"—I did go in.

Not to stay. I knew that I must hasten back, to be in time for dinner.I spoke a few words to the sister; and I had one glimpse of the sickmother, unseen by herself. That face touched me deeply. I said only toMiss Millington, "You shall hear from me again."

June 21. Monday.—This morning, soon after breakfast, I drove to theBank, with a cheque for fifty pounds, which I there had cashed,—fortypounds in bank-notes, the rest in gold.

I said nothing beforehand to Craven or Albinia. They would count myaction utterly foolish; and it is my own concern only. After a dayand two nights for quiet thought, I hesitated no longer. It did mostdistinctly seem that this was the right thing for me to do.

As for my future, what need to disquiet myself? Yesterday, when doubtsarose, I could but think of the answer of the prophet to Amaziah,—"TheLord is able to give thee much more than this."

And is He not my Father? A child can surely trust her Father to providefor her!

Of course I may be making a mistake. The fact that this particular stepseems the right one for me to take, does not absolutely prove that itis the right one. Of one thing, however, I am sure,—whether or no Imistake His will, He knows that my hearts longing is to do His will.And the root of the matter lies there,—far more in the heart's longingthan in the actual doing.

So I went to the Millingtons', arriving about midday. I saw the youngersister, Jeannie, first. She welcomed me warmly, spoke of her mother'sstate as not improved, then vanished, to send her sister.

Miss Millington entered with a cold and depressed air,—almost with theold look of aversion. Her eyes said plainly—"What brings you here?"

I paid no regard to her manner, but said, "I am sorry to hear that yourmother is not better."

"Not likely to be," she answered shortly.

"I have brought a little present, which I hope may be the remedy sheneeds."

Miss Millington repeated the word, "Remedy!" in a vague tone,adding—"We have our own doctor."

"But this is the medicine he prescribes," I replied, and I put into herhand the purse I held. "You will not be too proud to accept it fromme,—for your mother's sake."

Few people know how to receive a gift gracefully, even under favourablecirc*mstances; and the circ*mstances were hardly favourable to MissMillington. She stared at first; opened the purse slowly; grewdistressingly scarlet and gasped, when she caught sight of bank-notesand gold.

"There are fifty pounds," I said, "the amount you need."

"But—but—you mean—as a loan—" she stammered.

"Not a loan, but a gift," I said distinctly. "You need not hesitate.It is only part of a little legacy which I had, not long ago. I shouldlike it to be a real help to you all, as a loan could not be."

She seemed choked, hardly able to speak. A smothered "Thanks!" escapedher lips. I could see a struggle going on below; but no words came,such as I had half hoped to hear. A misery of embarrassment overpoweredher.

I hardly knew what to say. In my then position I could not withdelicacy assume the office of adviser,—otherwise, a few words of advicefor her future did seem sorely called for. But I could only observe ina low voice—

"You will not doubt me now."

She hung her burning face speechlessly. I went a step nearer.

"There have been some sorrowful passages between us," I said. "But atleast by my will I have not offended against you. If I have wronged youunknowingly, I can only ask your forgiveness. And—the things that youhave done against me—" I found my voice failing, and I was only able toadd—"This will show that you are forgiven, when you care to know it."

Then I went out to the front door, where a hansom waited. MissMillington followed me, looking crushed. I could not feel that the giftwhich might restore her mother had brought relief to herself. She didnot refuse it, did not spurn the offered help. She only seemed to bebowed beneath the weight of that little purse.

"I must not stay now," I said. "I have a great deal to do: andto-morrow we go to Beckdale. But you will write perhaps some day, andtell me how your mother is getting on. Good-bye."

Her damp fingers closed limply round mine, and the dropped eyes werenot raised. I saw her lips tremble, and I caught one sound, half-word,half-sob, which might have been "Sorry!" No more followed. She shrankinto herself and from me, with a kind of shudder. I had to leave herthus, and to drive away.

To-night, I can only pray for her, and thank God.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE.

THE SAME.

June 23. Wednesday.

HERE we are again in the dear old Dale, far-away from London's busyroar.

The mountainous heights stand all around, as they have stood forages past; and the torrent-river brawls over its rocky bed from theDale-Head, a golden stream fast widening. The streamlets streakingthe side of our beautiful Fell are slender lines of silver this dryweather. And oh, the clear sweetness of the air, after Metropolitanmurkiness!

I do not undervalue our mighty City, with its wonders of intellect andthought, its heroes and sages alive and dead, its grand historicalpast, and I hope grander historical future, its "wealth of soul thatis there." And I know well that God is as near in the most crowdedCity street, as in this lonely wilderness. But I think it is sometimeseasier to realise His Presence here than there.

My seven weeks in Town might be seven months,—I have gone through somuch in them. Now I am striving hard to live just by the day; lettinga "dead past bury its dead;" not looking forward at all, except tothe great Beyond; only willing hour by hour to accept what my Mastergives me. Life at present does and must wear a grey hue. That I have toexpect. But there are many to love and be loved by me. The more I canthrow myself into others' interests, the better.

The affection of all these dear girls is very comforting. Yes;—evensweet changeable Maggie, though I cannot trust her love, as I trustThyrza's love,—even Maggie I like to have clinging about me, with hergrey eyes looking up and her soft lips pressing mine. For I am sureshe means it all, just at the moment. And one must not expect to findlake-depths in a tea-cup.

How different things might have been last year: but for "Millie!"

The contrast between Millie and Nellie is extraordinary. For Milliescents to go through life, making difficulties; Nellie goes throughlife, smoothing difficulties away. Millie is never happy unless shefinds herself a centre of attention: Nellie is never so happy as in thebackground.

July 1. Thursday.—A few lines of shy and warm gratitude from JeannieMillington have reached me. She says, "I can't persuade my sister towrite, so I must, though of course she ought. We do really hope ourdear Mother is better."

Millie will write yet—some day. I cannot but feel that she will.

July 19. Monday.—Why on earth a man does not speak out, when he hasmade up his mind, is a mystery to me. Here are Sir Keith and hismother, still at the Farm, staying on week after week. It is perfectlyevident that Sir Keith has only one idea in life just now; that ideabeing Thyrza. It is almost equally evident that Thyrza, though she doesher best womanfully to veil her feelings under a surpassing interest inPolitical Economy, has also only one idea in life, that idea being SirKeith. Yet nothing definite comes of it all.

I thought he must surely have spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly; but Mrs.Romilly says he has not. "Oh no, he will do nothing in a hurry," shesaid yesterday, when I at last questioned her. "He is a very cautiousman. I don't suppose he has the least doubt about our consent, but hewill not speak to Thyrza until he is perfectly certain of no rebuff."

Pride, no doubt. Well, caution is admirable enough at times, where itdoes not degenerate into faintheartedness. But I think I like betterthe impetuous outspokenness of—I mean, which does not calculate inquite a style its certainties or uncertainties.

Still, he is a delightful man. I have not a word to say against him.

July 21. Wednesday.—Nellie, Maggie, and Thyrza having a tennis partyengagement at Beckbergh to-day,—not for the afternoon only, but for thegreater part of the day,—Sir Keith kindly arranged to take the twinsand me for a long drive in t' trap. Sir Keith of course ousted the dearold farmer, undertaking himself to drive.

It did not occur to me, when this plan was proposed, that he had anyparticular object in it, beyond giving us pleasure.

When Thyrza heard what was to take place, she said brightly, "Wise man!He knows the delight that it is to get Miss Con all to oneself!"

"My dear," I said, "you don't call it exactly 'all to oneself,' withthe twins there as well."

"Oh yes, I do! I understand," she retorted, laughing. But of course shedid not understand, any more than I did myself.

We started early, and went through one dale after another, eachdiffering from the rest. The twins, sitting behind, back to back withSir Keith and me, chattered incessantly; but Sir Keith was unwontedlysilent. He tried to get up talk from time to time, without muchsuccess. I wished nothing better than to be let alone, that eye andmind might feast on the scenery undisturbed. Still I had to respond tohis efforts.

After nearly two hours of quick driving we entered a singular valley,unlike most of the dales in our neighbourhood. It was wide, wild, andbare, with extraordinary terraced cliffs on either side, rising tierabove tier in perpendicular stone or rather rock walls, each dividedfrom the next by a narrow sloping band of grass. As seen from the roadbelow, the general appearance was like some mighty old Roman fortress.Countless boulders, large and small, lay scattered on the flatvalley-bottom. Shrubs grew here or there, but few trees were to be seen.

"If Thyrza were but with us!" I said involuntarily, and Sir Keithturned his head quickly to me.

"She must come too another day," he said, "if—" and a long pausefollowed. I waited in vain for more. He seemed to relapse into troubledthought.

Near the upper end of the dale we turned into a side-valley, and theredismounted. A certain famous cave had to be inspected. This part ofthe world seems to abound in caves. There were awkward steps inside,Sir Keith said,—would I allow him to take the twins down first, andto escort me afterwards? I did not see the need for such excessivecaution, but his desire was so very evident that I gave way at once,and remained outside, chatting with the old man who has charge of theplace, and with him keeping guard over our tethered steed.

The twins presently reappeared in a state of high delight, and I,following Sir Keith's guidance, found myself in a singular spot.

A sharp descent led to the actual entrance of the cave, and then manysteep wet rocky steps conducted to the lower depths of a huge hollow.Enormous masses of rock were piled by Nature's hand, beneath, around,and overhead. Some of those overhead seemed suspended in readiness tofall. The steps themselves were roughly shaped out of the natural rock.

At the farther end was a fine waterfall,—a whole river, suddenlyappearing, after a mile or so of underground coursing, to take onegrand leap of seventy or eighty feet into a dull black pool, with crashand roar and perpetual splash of foam, thence vanishing undergroundonce more for at least another mile. A gleam of light seemed to comedown from above the fall, obviating entire darkness.

Sir Keith guided me carefully down the lower rocky steps, till wereached a platform near the fall,—not quite the nearest possible. Therewe stood in silence. It was very solemn, very impressive. The air wasfull of reeking moisture from the incessant rebound of spray; and thesteady roar never faltered. The dim light too, and the whiteness of therushing water, in contrast with the piled-up massive dark rocks around,were not to be soon forgotten.

I heard Sir Keith say suddenly—

"Yes,—Thyrza ought to see this."

"She would appreciate it," I replied.

"She has learnt to appreciate—from you," he said; and before I couldanswer, he added—"She owes much to you. Thyrza herself says so."

"Thyrza is a dear girl," I said, rather absently, I am afraid. Myattention was riveted on the fall.

"Miss Conway, will you give me your advice?" came next in distincttones.

"You, Sir Keith!" I glanced at him involuntarily.

"Yes, I—myself," he answered; and to my astonishment I saw that thefalling foam was scarcely whiter than his face. "I can never get a wordalone with you for three minutes."

"So you have made this opportunity," I said, hardly able to helpsmiling; and yet it was no place to smile in. Weird grandeur does notmake one lighthearted.

"Can you guess what I wish to ask?" he inquired.

I said at once, "Perhaps—yes."

"About—" and he faltered.

"About Thyrza," I said. I could listen, but I could not look at him.The continuous heavy flood in its underground leap enchained my eyes.

"About Thyrza," he echoed. "Then you have seen—"

"It did not need a magnifying-glass," I answered. "So far as you areconcerned, Sir Keith."

I knew how his face fell, though I was not looking in his direction.

"Yes,—yes,—but as to Thyrza," he said hurriedly.

"Thyrza must speak for herself," I replied.

"And you will not even give me a word of advice! You understand her sowell,—better than any of her own people. Shall I risk all by speakingnow? Or shall I wait? Is it too soon? I am depending on what you say."

Half-a-minute's thought I allowed myself, then asked, "Have you spokento Mr. and Mrs. Romilly?"

"No. I have come to you first. But I have no fear in that direction.Mr. Romilly has more than once intimated his willingness to have me fora son-in-law." This sounded very like Mr. Romilly.

"Then—" I said, "perhaps—the sooner you speak to Thyrza, the better. Ionly say perhaps.'"

"You do not think I am in too much haste?"

I heard my own laugh ring softly through the cave, mingling with theperpetual roar. Sir Keith smiled, and grasped my hand.

"Thanks—thanks," he said. "I knew I might venture to put the question.You are her best and truest friend."

And he allowed me three minutes' undisturbed enjoyment of the fall.Strange—how the face of Arthur Lenox seemed to rise and mingle with thespray. I cannot always banish it yet.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

DIFFERENCES OF VIEW.

THE SAME.

Written some days later.

THURSDAY, the 22nd of July,—next after my visit to the cave with SirKeith,—proved an eventful day.

The first thing in the morning I heard that Sir Keith had an engagementat Beckbergh. What the engagement might be, I was not told; onlyit appeared to interest Thyrza. Some suppressed fun gleamed in herface; fun of a happy kind. It did not seem to me to be happiness inconnection with herself. She did not seem to be thinking of herself.

She told me then that she had set her heart on a long ramble withme, through a certain mountain-pass, leading from Beckdale into aneighbouring dale. Thyrza and Denham went that particular walk lastyear, while I was laid aside, and she has often since wished me to seethe same. Would I, she asked, give up a good part of the day to goingalone with her, taking some slight provisions with us?

I made no objections. Beckdale has greatly restored my walking-powers;and lessons did not stand in the way. Mrs. Romilly has insisted on afull month of holidays, despite all the broken time before. Moreover,it is always a pleasure to have Thyrza to myself for a little while.

Mrs. Romilly protested against the distance, and settled that we shouldat least drive the first two or three miles in the waggonette. Thyrzaconsented to so much, adding with a laugh, "And if we do collapse,and don't get home, you can but send Sir Keith in the dog-cart to ourrescue." She looked so merry and handsome that I could not help beingstruck. Nellie answered, "Very well; I wont forget."

Just at the moment of our starting, a letter was brought to me. SomehowI had been out of the way when the post came in, and it was afterwardsforgotten. I noted the black edge, and, not recognising the handwritingin a rather careless glance, supposed the writer to be a former Bathacquaintance, with whom I corresponded occasionally. I knew her to bein mourning. "From Ellen Smyth," I said, and I dropped the unopenedletter into my pocket. "That will keep."

The other girls were going for an hour's drive, after setting us downnearly three miles from home. We waved good-byes, and Thyrza and I setoff briskly.

A stony steep path, or narrow road, led upwards, after a while througha little scattered village on the hillside, then into a wild high pass,skirting one side of the mountainous mass which we know as The Fell. Ifancy that side possesses a distinct name; certainly it is loftier, andhas a different aspect.

We must have ascended some twelve or thirteen hundred feet. The highersummits of the mountains to right and left of the pass are, I am told,close upon two thousand feet in height, if not more.

The road went gradually upward to a central ridge, on this side ofwhich all streams run towards Beckdale, gathering quickly into a smallriver. Beyond the ridge, the watershed is all the other way.

After the first rapid rise from Beckdale we had some three or fourmiles of comparatively slight ascent and descent. This was the actualpass; a desolate and wildly beautiful region. To our left, as wewent, were broken hills, with mountain heights beyond: to our rightwas one grand continuous sweep of steep slopes, like a broad flowingmountain-skirt, extending for miles unbroken, the summit throughoutthose miles seeming to keep always one even height.

Short grass covered these grand slopes, varied by patches of heatherand abundant bracken; and long walls ran down at intervals from topto bottom. The excessive steepness of the higher parts was—or oughtto have been—apparent to us, from the fact that no actual walls couldthere be built, flat layers of stones taking their place.

About half-way through we sat down by the roadside, to enjoy ourwell-earned lunch.

Till then, when we were ourselves quiet, I had not fully realised theabsolute stillness of the scene. As we sat together, gazing and nottalking, the absence of sound and of life seemed oppressive. No treesgrew near. No birds were visible. I did not notice any insects. One oldhorse browsed in lonely content, by the roadside. One cart, containinga man and woman, had gone by ten minutes earlier. Some sheep dotted thelofty slopes. The trickle of a stream was faintly audible: and now andthen a distant low bleat could be heard. That was all.

"Would you care to live here, Miss Con?" Thyrza asked.

"Hardly," I said. "One would at least wish for a few human beingswithin reach, to be kind to."

"That is like you," she made answer quickly. And presently sheasked, "Miss Con, do you remember speaking of The Fell as a pictureof Truth,—different people seeing different sides from differentstandpoints?"

"It is a favourite idea of mine," I said.

"I thought of that, last Sunday evening, when father and Sir Keithwere talking. They do look upon some things so differently, you know.Only Sir Keith is such a thorough gentleman, he never gets angry inargument, or tries to thrust his opinions down other people's throats,and he always lets other people have their say too. But still, ofcourse one could see that they didn't think just alike. If father werenot so fond of Sir Keith, he would mind it more. He doesn't like peoplenot to think exactly the same as he does, generally."

"Perhaps none of us do—by nature," I said. "A strong belief in one'sown wisdom is particularly human."

"But I think you have taught me to believe that I may be mistakensometimes," she said wistfully, even humbly. "I used to be so horridlydogged and determined about everything."

"You were—rather," I replied, smiling. "And the more unimportant thequestion, the more dogged you were in asserting your own convictions."

"Yes,—I know. Am I quite so bad now, Miss Con?"

"No; I see a marked difference," I said.

"I'm so glad. I will try harder."

"Don't go to the opposite extreme, my dear, of thinking that you are tohave no opinions at all, but must always agree with everybody."

She laughed, and asked, "Am I in danger of that?"

"Not at present, I think. But it is a weakness of human nature tobe disposed to rebound from one extreme to another. Truth lies moregenerally in the fair road between,—though it does sometimes include ameasure of one or both extremes."

Thyrza looked up, and said, "I suppose any one living here woulddescribe the mountain as stern and frowning. And we at Beckdale woulddescribe it as all soft beauty,—except just at The Scaur. And bothwould be true."

"Yes," I said; "but no man would have a fair conception of the mountainas a whole, unless he had gained at least a glimpse of both sides,—notto speak of other sides also which we have not seen yet."

Then we rose and continued our walk. Thyrza seemed thoughtful still.She observed, after a while, as if carrying on our talk—

"Don't you think that sometimes people seem to see only one side of—"she hesitated, lowering her voice reverently,—"of Christ? I mean, eventhose who do really love and obey Him?"

"My dear, ninety-nine hundredths of the errors into which most of usfall, spring from one-sided views of Him," I said. "For He is THETRUTH. One-sided views of Him are one-sided views of Truth: and aone-sided view is always a defective view."

"And isn't there any help—any cure?" she asked.

"Only in Him. He gives us clearer eyesight, and then He shows Himselfmore clearly,—if we are willing," I said. "But a great many people areso well content with what they already see, as really to care littlefor seeing farther."

"Sir Keith often says that very much depends on our willingness,"Thyrza observed gravely.

I could not but remember the first time I had seen Sir Keith. He hadput the thought into my head.

We went on to the end of the Pass, the last part of our way being asharp descent, till we reached the pretty river which begins as astreamlet on the central ridge or highest point of the Pass. There fora while we rested, and there, to Thyrza's joy, she discovered a fineplant of Parsley fern, growing half under a sheltering rock. My "find"of last summer died long ago, as Thyrza then predicted. "But I shallkeep this for my own," she said.

Plenty of time remained yet, when we had passed the central ridgeon our return. Thyrza seemed in no hurry to reach home. She was inhigh spirits, no longer disposed to sit still and meditate. She hadrepeatedly expressed a wish to climb the steep hillside lying now toour left: and as we advanced, the desire came over her more strongly.

"I really do think I must," she said at length. "It is quite tootempting. And I am as fresh as a lark still. You shall just sit here,and wait for me."

"Why should I not go too?" I asked.

"Oh, because you are not so robust as I am: and there is always thechance of your hurting your knee again. No: you must sit perfectlystill, and be lazy. I know you enjoy being alone in such a place asthis. I dare say I shall not be long. When I come down, we'll finishoff the cake, before going on."

CHAPTER XXXV.

ENTIRELY VANISHED!

THE SAME—continued.

I WATCHED Thyrza, as she crossed actively the broken but on the wholelevel space, between the road and the steep mountain-sides: and I sawher begin to climb with easy speed.

It was a temptation to me to join her, even then. I am a good climberby nature: and an ascent has always a fascination for me. But I knewthat without any such additional exertion, I should have taxed mypowers pretty severely by the time we reached home. So I followedThyrza's advice, and remained quiet, seated on a rock by the roadside,with my face toward the flowing green slopes.

The deep stillness of the scene impressed me again, more forcibly thanever. For now I had not a companion. I was entirely alone. Not even thetrickling of water was to be heard. One solitary dream-like "ba-a-a"sounded, to be answered by a second. Then silence again. No human beingwas in sight, except the figure of Thyrza, growing momentarily smaller,as she went upward.

Her ascent seemed very slow, as I gazed. I began to realise how muchsteeper and loftier those heights were than we two had imagined.

But Thyrza went on, sometimes pausing, sometimes turning to right orleft, as if choosing her steps. At present she showed no inclination tocome back.

I observed her movements steadily, wondering how much farther she wouldgo. Her last words had been—"Perhaps I shall have had enough of ithalf-way up." She appeared now to be more than half-way up, but therewere no signs that she had had enough of it. Hardly probable that sheshould. If the enthusiasm of climbing had possession of her, she wouldscarcely rest content short of the summit.

The little black figure still rose,—more and more like a big antclinging to the wall of a house; or I thought so.

All at once she came to a pause. I judged that she had mountedsomewhere about three-quarters of the height from my level: but it isvery difficult to judge truly, looking upward. For some minutes sheremained perfectly still. I supposed her to be resting: yet it seemed acurious spot to choose for a rest.

I was growing rather nervous at her prolonged fixity in one position,when I distinctly saw her move. She seemed to crawl a few paces to theright, and there to pause afresh. At all events, she could start again,when she chose. That set my mind at ease. It seemed likely that she sawthe last piece to be too much for her powers: and that after a briefrepose she would come down.

"Time enough too," I said aloud; and my voice sounded strange in thesolitude. "This takes longer than I calculated on. We ought to begetting homeward."

Then, curiously, it flashed into my mind that I had an unread letterwith me. Why not wile away some minutes by reading it, as I sat there?

I pulled out the black-edged envelope, which was a good deal crumpled;and noticed the London postmark. "Not Bath!" I said, with momentarysurprise. And one look at the agitated uneven handwriting showed methat it was not Ellen Smyth's,—but—Miss Millington's! Strange that Ihad not recognised it at first sight; only hers, as I had known itpreviously, was neither agitated nor uneven, but neat and precise to afault.

Within were two sheets, blotted, blurred, and closely filled.

Then that which I expected had come at last!—And I knew it!

I am ashamed to say that I forgot all about Thyrza. I think I evenforgot where I was. Noises were sounding in my ears, like the distantroar of a great city; and a dread of what I might find in that letterhad possession of me.

For I could see it to be some manner of outpouring; and I couldconjecture what the outpouring might include. I quailed before theprospect. Suspicion was one thing; certainty would be another. Ibelieved that I had fully forgiven Miss Millington. Would the battlehave now to be fought all over again?

With a voiceless prayer, and with a resolute effort, I took up thesheets, not reading yet, but glancing rapidly at a sentence here orthere. When I reached the end thus, one short assertion only remainedon my mind—

"I was not really sure."

I must have sunk into a dream upon those five words, and their possiblemeaning. Then I woke up to the fact that the letter contained muchbesides, especially the sad news of Mrs. Millington's death.

I began again at the beginning, and read the whole through carefully.It was a sorrowful composition,—bitter, self-reproachful, miserable intone. I cannot copy the whole, and I will not keep the original. A fewsentences will be enough.

No need to copy out these details. Only—I have not judged her falsely.

For the Gurglepool trick was hers: and she did set herself to oppose myauthority in every possible way. She endeavoured systematically to turnthe girls against me. She used the opportunity to look into my privatejournal, and she employed afterwards the information so gained, makingit a subject of jesting with the girls, and untruthfully professing tohave learnt it through a friend of hers who lives in Bath.

Worse even than all this,—not morally worse, for that could hardly be,but worse in its actual results upon my happiness,—when Arthur came toBeckdale, to learn if he had any hope of winning me; which she seemsto have divined as his object; she set herself deliberately, falsely,to quash his hopes. In a certain brief interview, she gave him tounderstand, not by assertion, but by insinuation no whit less untrue,that I had shown a marked dislike to him.

More still,—when she received her dismissal from Mrs. Romilly, she tooka further step. She sent a brief note to Arthur to reach him at ThePark, briefly warning him as a friend—a friend!!—that if he wished toconsult his own interests and peace of mind, he would keep out of my way.

And at the moment my heart cried out assent to the impossibility.

For he had come indeed to seek me once: and a second time we might havemet; and twice she had driven him away.

Then at length I reached the mention of her more recent letter toMaggie, in which was contained the news of his engagement.

I had not noticed before those words following the others,—fearing itwas, after all, true.

It did seem to me too much—too great a wrong! I must have sat long,half unconscious of my own position, clasping the letter tightlybetween both hands. For a while I could not think,—I could only feel.The knowledge that a year ago he had still cared, touched me verykeenly, with a mingling, of sweet and bitter. But the "might havebeen," and the "was not,"—and the sense of the great life-loss, theloneliness, the sadness to come,—all through her! How could I forgive?

The stony hardness broke up at last, and tears fell in a shower. I havenot wept so freely for years, I think. And when that came to an end,the bitterness seemed gone. I could once more say,—"His will—not mine."

*******

But Thyrza!

It came over me in a flash, vivid as lightning, how long I had beenthere. Thyrza ought by this time, surely, to have reached the lowerslopes.

I looked up, running my eyes swiftly over the broad mountain face,searching from below to above, from right to left. In vain. No Thyrzawas to be seen. I scanned the frowning beauty of the level summit, andtravelled downward again to the spot where I had noted her last. ButThyrza had vanished.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

AND HE—!

THE SAME—continued.

I HAD not looked at my watch when Thyrza left me. A glance at it nowshowed the afternoon to be far advanced; indeed, this I already knewfrom the slant of the sun's rays.

Blaming myself much for the absorption in my own affairs, to which Ihad weakly yielded, I stood up and again eagerly scanned the greenslopes; without result.

Had Thyrza reached the top, and there been taken ill fromover-exertion? Such a thing might happen. Or had she lost her footing,and rolled downward?

If the latter, I should find her without difficulty lying below, hiddenfrom where I stood, but not far off. The very idea brought a coldshiver. That I disregarded, however. Action of some kind was necessary.Feeling had to wait.

It was not, of course, impossible that Thyrza should have reached thesummit, tempted onward by the excitement of climbing, and there shouldhave vanished for a short time before descending. But the fact whichstartled me was the length of the time she had been absent. A briefdisappearance would not have been surprising. I could not understandher remaining away. Thyrza is so thoughtful; unlike Maggie and Nona;and especially thoughtful about me. I had said to her laughingly beforeshe went, "Mind, if anything goes wrong, I shall come after you." Shewould remember this; and I knew she did not wish me to attempt theascent.

The search below was soon over. I explored every spot where she mightlie hidden, had she slipped and fallen. She was not there; neither wasshe on the slopes. I could see the broad green expanse, as I stoodbeneath looking upwards,—in parts frightfully near the perpendicular. Ibegan to think I had done foolishly in consenting to let her go up.

If she did not very soon appear, nothing remained for me but to followin her wake. I determined to wait a quarter of an hour; then, if shehad not appeared, to start without more delay.

The fifteen minutes dragged past slowly. I had made my way to a lowwall, and there I sat, waiting, watch in hand, in the soundlesssolitude. Nobody passed along the road. No human being was visible onthe heights. It seemed to me that they grew steeper and loftier thelonger I gazed.

"Time up! I must go!" I said aloud.

I suppose I moved too hastily, stepping down from my seat on the wall.I had gone there for a clear view. The wall was formed of large jaggedstones, piled loosely together. One of these stones gave way under myfoot, and I came to the ground with a sharp jar,—standing, but a gooddeal shaken,—and when I took a step away from the spot, I was instantlyconscious of a crick in my weaker knee,—it might be a strain or twist.

For a minute I kept perfectly still, hoping that it would prove to benothing. But the first movement showed me conclusively that my climbwas at an end. I might as well have tried to reach the moon as thesummit of the mountain.

It was a severe disappointment. If Thyrza had hurt herself, and wereill or disabled above, she would be needing me sorely.

Still, it was out of the question that I should go: and the thought nowoccurred that I ought at once to return to my seat on the road. If thedog-cart came to meet us, as it might do later, I had no business to beout of its direct path. Besides, Thyrza would know where to find me, orto send a messenger, if she had found it needful to go round some otherway, rather than attempt the descent.

So very cautiously, and not without a good deal of pain in the knee, Ilimped back to my old position.

The hour following seemed very long, very dreary. I do not know thatI have ever felt more weighed down and altogether sorrowful. I wasanxious about Thyrza: and my own future seemed so grey and wearisome.The letter from Miss Millington pressed upon me like lead. Could I inheart and soul forgive her the wrong she had wilfully done to me?

At the end of an hour, or something like an hour, I looked up,—I hadbeen gazing on the ground,—and the sunbeams were shining like reddishgold all along the broad mountain brow, with wonderful beauty. Itseemed to me the gleam of a smile from heaven. The mountain's frown waslost in that smile.

"I shall find brightness enough in another world, if not in this," Ifound myself saying aloud. "One only has to wait a little while."

The deadly stillness of the Pass was so strange: no answer coming. Andthen a soft voice seemed to say, "Miss Millington?"—as if asking aquestion.

"Yes!" I said; and there was a sudden radiance of joy in my heart,resembling the outside glow. "Yes, I do forgive! I will write and tellher so."

The shining radiance deepened, without and within. I had anextraordinary sense of rest,—of willingness to receive whatever mightbe sent me. No thought of fear mingled with the willingness, though Iwhispered instinctively, "Does this mean some fresh great trouble?" Ifit did, I was willing still. The Presence of my Master would make allthings light.

I almost expected another utterance of the soft voice, speaking to myheart from without or within—which, I do not know. I waited—listening.

And no voice spoke. But my eyes fell upon a figure, descending thegreat green slope, exactly in front.

"Thyrza!" I cried.

It was not Thyrza. It was a man. I saw him distinctly in the fullsunlight. Had he come to tell me ill news of Thyrza?

I cannot think now why I was not more afraid. I did not feel afraid,sitting there with clasped hands, gazing upward. I could follow everymovement of the descending figure. He seemed to be a good climber. Thatwas speedily apparent. Down and down he came, steadily. Once he leapeda wall, perhaps to find an easier slope on the other side.

When more than half-way down, he stood still, and seemed to be lookingat something or for somebody. I waved my handkerchief, and he at oncewaved his. So I knew he was coming to me,—though I did not know yet thefull meaning of "he!" Joys, like sorrows, often dawn upon us step bystep.

The lower portion of the slope was very rapidly got over; so rapidlythat I was afraid he would slip. He took it at a run, and I saw himspring over some obstacle at the bottom. After which he marchedstraightly and swiftly towards where I sat.

Till then no thought of the truth had come into my mind. But somethingin the upright bearing, the slender frame, the soldierly walk, broughtrecollections thronging and made my heart beat fast.

"Absurd," I murmured. "Ridiculous of me to think—But it is like! Isuppose he must be in the army too, whoever he is."

I do not know how long I fought against the reality,—how soon Idared to let myself believe it. I only know that I stood up slowly,and that he came nearer and nearer,—came fast, with his face turnedfixedly towards mine. And the sunshine outside seemed to be filling myheart again; only this time it was a more earthly tremulous sunshine,flickering with every stride he took.

And I forgot all about Miss Millington, all about the news of Arthur'sengagement.

For he was standing close in front of me, his hand clasping mine, and Iwas looking up into his face with a smile of welcome, such as I had notdared to give him that other time when we met. The lonely Pass seemedall at once full of life; and every touch of greyness had gone out ofmy future.

For the moment that our eyes met, I think each understood the other;though I only said, "Where is Thyrza?"

"Gone home with Sir Keith," he answered.

"Then you have seen her?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, and he explained briefly. Thyrza had climbed two-thirdsof the height; then, pausing to look below, she had been seized withterror and giddiness, for the first time in her life, and had verynearly fallen down the mountain side. By dint of remaining still, andlooking resolutely upward, she had so far recovered herself as tocontinue the ascent, reaching the top with great difficulty.

To descend again, however, had proved out of the question. Every timeshe approached the edge, dizziness and dread overpowered her anew. Shehad waved her handkerchief and made various signs to me, hoping that Ishould understand. Being short-sighted, she could not know whether Iresponded, which of course I did not, as I was then wrapped up in myletter.

Thereafter Thyrza had started off to find another way round. Her firstintention was to go to The Scaur, and to descend the narrow path whichruns down beside the bare rock: but happily she hit upon a shorter cutto the road by which we had approached the Pass.

Thyrza knew that Sir Keith had gone to Beckbergh to meet Arthur: andshe knew that the two might possibly drive to meet us, if our returnwere at all delayed. I believe she had rather liked the prospect, andhad been not indisposed to bring it about by delay: though later, whenhurrying alone down the hills, she little expected to be so fortunateas to meet them at the moment she reached the road.

However, this really occurred. They pulled up and sprang down,astonished to see her alone. Thyrza must have been a good deal shakenby her touch of "vertigo," for she burst into tears when tryingto explain matters,—a most astonishing event. Thyrza never criesin public, under any consideration, as a rule. Sir Keith was muchtroubled, and very sympathising; and Arthur promptly proposed to go insearch of me, while Sir Keith drove Thyrza home.

Thyrza at first resisted, but she had to yield to Sir Keith'sdetermination. The general impression was that I should certainlyendeavour to climb the height in search of Thyrza, when she failedto return,—a well-founded theory, as proved by circ*mstances. Arthurresolved, therefore, to go by the same way that Thyrza had come. He hadalready explored these mountains, when staying last year at the Farm:besides, he is one of those men who are never at a loss in the wildestcountry.

So Sir Keith drove off with Thyrza, promising to bring or send thedog-cart with all speed to meet Arthur and me: and he made good use ofhis opportunity, following the advice I had given.

Arthur meanwhile found his way with all speed to the brow of themountain, walking along it till he saw a little figure seated far belowin the road. And as he came down, he stopped now and again to wave hishandkerchief. Twice in vain: the third time I saw him, and waved mine.

Some of this Arthur told me briefly; much more I have heard since.

Then, to his concern, he learnt that I had hurt my knee: and he saidhow foolish he had been to let the dog-cart go home first, instead ofdriving straight to the Pass. And I said—"Oh no,—I am so glad you did!"For how could I wish anything to be different? How could I mind waiting?

Then he said something, speaking a little brokenly, about having almostmade up his mind to leave England for ever. He had thought of it formonths. And he had been to Glynde again for a night,—he hardly knewwhy. He had seen Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys. And something—somethingGladys said or did not say,—something in her look of reproach, when shespoke of me,—had made him resolve to try once more.

And in a husky altered voice, he asked—

"Constance, is it true?—Have I been under a great mistake? Could you bemine now,—after all?"

I have no idea what I said in answer. It matters little what wordsone uses at such a moment, or whether one uses any words at all. Heunderstood me, and I understood him. It was such wonderful unexpectedhappiness. All clouds seemed to have been suddenly swept away from mywhole horizon, leaving only sunshine and a blue sky.

But I think my first impulse was to look up,—to feel that this joy wasindeed my Father's gift to me, and to Arthur.

Life was so changed to both of us, in that one short hour. Changed, andyet the same. For the same Presence is with us still, the same Willdirecting us, the same Love surrounding us, the same Light beckoning usonward.

Only now we hope to live a life of service to Christ together,—notapart. And that means earthly as well as Heavenly sunshine.

When we reached home, we found that Sir Keith and Thyrza were engaged,to the great satisfaction of everybody. Thyrza appeared to have quiterecovered from her severe climb. And I wrote at once a few lines ofcomfort to Miss Millington, telling her of my new happiness, and of theHelp which might be hers, if only she herself were willing.

GLADYS HEPBURN'S DIARY.

July 27. Tuesday.—Good news! Good news!

I was dreadfully afraid last week that I might have blundered. It is sofearfully difficult to know always what is just the wisest thing to sayand do.

Major Lenox made his appearance suddenly. He was spending a night atthe Inn, and he asked if he might come in to afternoon tea. And whenhe was here, instead of keeping off from the subject of Miss Con, heseemed to do nothing but bring her name up.

Well,—I really thought I ought to say something. I could not askMother's advice; because, of course, I have never felt free to tell heror any one about Miss Con's distress that day. It would be a betrayalof confidence.

An opportunity came up in the garden, when nobody was near for a minuteor two. He said something about Yorkshire, and I spoke of the Romillys;and he answered me; and I asked him if he knew Miss Millington. He said"Hardly," in a considering tone; and I said, "Oh, she wrote us word ofyour engagement."

I was afraid he would think me blunt and interfering, but I really didit only for dear Miss Con's sake. He turned sharp round, and said, "Howcould she have heard that ridiculous tale?"

I believe I said, "Was it a tale?"

"Certainly," he said. "No foundation whatever!" And he looked quitefierce, and tugged at his moustaches.

And I said—not knowing what meant to come next—

"One never can depend on anything from Miss Millington. She toldMaggie—and Maggie told me—and Miss Conway."

"Miss Conway heard it?" Major Lenox asked.

I said, "Yes!" and I looked straight at him for a moment. I did notdare to say any more, but I know what I wanted to say. And somehow italmost seemed to me that he read my thoughts. Such a curious softenedexpression came into his eyes: and his manner was different after thatmoment.

Nothing more was said by either of us: only next morning he walked into say good-bye, and in a casual sort of way he spoke about "goingnorth."

The very next thing we heard was that he had seen Miss Con, and thatthey are engaged. And he has given up all idea of exchanging into aregiment abroad. Oh it is so good!

Thyrza is engaged too,—actually on the same day, and to Sir Keith, ofall people.

Mother seems not at all surprised, but it is a great surprise to me. Ilike Thyrza much better than I used: because she is more affectionateand less stiff; but I should not count her the kind of girl to befallen in love with easily. And I should never have guessed Sir Keithto be the kind of man either.

However, of course tastes differ, and they ought to know their ownminds. I am glad it is not Nellie.

July 29. Thursday.—Just ten days since I sent my last MS. to Mr. Willis.

After so many months of disappointment, one thing after anotherfailing, I could hardly be hopeful. I could only pray and wait,—feelingthat most likely I was not to have a book out at all this year. But Ihave worked hard with this tale, and I did do my very best.

Now the answer has come. Mr. Willis offers me thirty pounds for thefirst edition of 2000 copies: the copyright after that remaining in myhands. He says the story seems "interesting and well written," and he"hopes it may have a fairly good circulation."

At all events, the heroine is not too disagreeable this time!

I have written to accept the offer: and I do feel very happy about it.

It has been desperately hot weather lately: and I wanted so much to getit done, that I have been copying at the rate of forty to seventy MS.pages a day. But it was worth while. And I am only just in time for theautumn.

But I can see the good of failures,—even coming one after another. Ayear ago I was getting too confident, and perhaps careless. I think Ihave learnt a lesson for life.

August 15. Wednesday.—Plans seem settling into shape. About the middleof September the Romillys all come south; and early in October thedouble wedding will, it is hoped, take place. How droll to think ofThyrza as "Lady Denham!"

Miss Con is to be married from Glynde House; and perhaps her sister maybe present. Not Mr. Smyth, for he never goes anywhere. He is too fat.

And I am to be one of Miss Con's bridesmaids!

Miss Con writes so brightly. She seems full of happiness. Her knee isalmost well again, which is a great comfort.

She has been very busy lately, finding a situation for Miss Millington,as companion to an old lady in Bath, and also making arrangements abouta home for the younger sister.

So like Miss Con!

THE END.

_______________________

THE DALRYMPLES. With Illustrations. Cheap Edition. 1s. 6d. "An interesting tale, exhibiting some striking situations."—Church Bells."LEAST SAID, SOONEST MENDED." Cheap Edition. 1s. 6d. "To say that it is by Miss Giberne is at once to recommend the story highly to girls."—Quiver.NUMBER THREE WINIFRED PLACE. Cheap Edition. 1s. 6d. "A delightful story, and, we need hardly add—being Miss Giberne's—is full of the highest and most profitable religious teaching."—Record. "Miss Giberne's book is for gentler readers. It appeals very delicately to their softer sympathies, and introduces them to one young girl at least who may serve as a model or ideal to them. It is written in a pleasing sympathetic style."—Scotsman.MISS CON; or, All Those Girls. 2s. 6d. "Constance Conway is a charming heroine. Her diary is an admirable collection of character sketches."—Athenæum.ENID'S SILVER BOND. 2s. 6d. "Enid's nature is essentially heroic . . . The other characters are cleverly sketched."—Times.ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE; or, Mr. Berkeley and his Nieces. 2s. 6d. "A very good example of the author's well-known style. It is carefully written, and is in all respects a conscientious performance."—Academy.

AGNES GIBERNE'S WORKS—continued.

BERYL AND PEARL. Illustrated. 2s. 6d. "One of Miss Giberne's most delightful tales."—Record.KATHLEEN. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. "A fascinating tale."—Record.SWEETBRIAR. Illustrated. 1s. 6d.AIMÉE: A Tale of the Days of James the Second. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.DECIMA'S PROMISE. 2s. 6d. "One of the best and soundest books we have seen."—Public Opinion.READY, AYE READY! 1s. 6d. "A charming story, which displays all this well-known writer's knowledge of girls and their habits of mind."—Scotsman.DAISY OF OLD MEADOW. 1s. "There are few boys or girls to whom this story will not prove interesting reading."—Court Circular.OLD UMBRELLAS; or, Clarrie and her Mother. 1s. "This book is bright and lively, and will be read with pleasure and profit."—Christian.MILES MURCHISON. Illustrated. Small crown 8vo. 1s.

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