Aunt Patty's paying guests
Date: 2023-09-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Love stories; Domestic fiction; Christian fiction; Young women -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Country life -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Romance fiction

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Title: Aunt Patty's paying guests

Author: Eglanton Thorne

Illustrator: W. Rainey

Release date: September 29, 2023 [eBook #71761]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1907

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71761

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT PATTY'S PAYING GUESTS ***

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

PAULINA THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BESIDE ME.

Frontispiece.

AUNT PATTY'S

PAYING GUESTS

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of "Her Own Way," "The Blessedness of Irene Farquhar,"

"My Brother's Friend," etc.

WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. AN UNWELCOME DECREE

II. MY EQUIPMENT

III. "GAY BOWERS"

IV. LAYING OUR PLANS

V. A RESPONSE TO THE ADVERTISEMENT

VI. THE FIRST ARRIVAL

VII. THE AMERICANS

VIII. A PRINCELY GIFT

IX. MISS COTTRELL'S ALIAS

X. COUSIN AGNETA'S LOVE STORY

XI. THE UNFORESEEN BEFALLS

XII. AT HOBBES'S COTTAGE

XIII. OLIVE'S HAPPINESS

XIV. A PICNIC

XV. AN ACT OF INDISCRETION

XVI. MISJUDGED

XVII. A GALA DAY AT GREENTREE

XVIII. AN ELOPEMENT

XIX. MISS COTTRELL'S ELATION

XX. A PROPOSAL

XXI. THE RETURN OF THE AMERICANS

XXII. CALAMITY

XXIII. TWILIGHT TALKS

XXIV. WEDDING BELLS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAULINA THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BESIDE ME. Frontispiece

"YOU SHOULD SEND HER INTO THE COUNTRY AND GIVE HER A BICYCLE."

AUNT MET PROFESSOR FAULKNER IN THE HALL.

"OH, I WRENCHED MY SHOULDER A BIT," HE SAID.

JOSIAH DICKS AND MISS COTTRELL PACING ARM IN ARM.

AUNT PATTY'S PAYING GUESTS

CHAPTER I

AN UNWELCOME DECREE

"NO books for twelve months at least," said Dr. Algar, our family physician. "This overworked little brain needs repose. So remember, Nan—no books."

"No books?" I repeated in utter dismay. "But that is impossible—quite impossible, Dr. Algar!"

"Oh, I do not mean that you may not read a storybook now and then, or amuse yourself with the magazines," he said calmly, "but anything like study I absolutely forbid."

His words fell on my ears like a sentence of doom. How could I give up my studies? My intellectual work was more to me than anything else, though of late it had become a burden, and I could not bear to renounce the hopes and ambitions on which my heart was set. For months I had been working my hardest in preparation for Matriculation. I wanted to take honours, for I thought that distinction would help me to obtain a good post as teacher in a school. I worked under disadvantages, for I had a daily engagement as governess which occupied the best part of each day. My pupils were very young, and their instruction did not involve for me any mental strain; but they were tiresome, spoiled children, and I often returned home from teaching them feeling irritated. Tea generally revived me, and I devoted the evening to study.

As the time fixed for the examination drew nearer, I sometimes rose at six, and did an hour's work before breakfast. It was not easy to leave my bed in the raw cold of the early morning and dress by gaslight. In spite of the little oil-stove which I used to kindle in my room, the cold seemed to benumb all my faculties. After a while I decided that it was better to work late at night, and I would sit up wrestling with some mathematical problem long after the other members of the household were wrapped in slumber. Soon I began to be conscious of a sick, dizzy sensation when I rose; severe headaches often interrupted my studies; it became increasingly difficult for me to concentrate my thoughts.

"How cross Nan is!" I used to hear my younger sisters whisper to each other, and my conscience told me that the words were true, and reproached me also for the way in which I lost patience with my little pupils.

At last there came an hour when everything faded from me as I sat at my desk. My spirit seemed to go away to the very bounds of existence. As from a great distance I came back to consciousness, with a singing in my ears and a feeling of deadly sickness, and beheld the faces of mother, Olive, and our maid-of-all-work looking down on me.

"What is the matter? What is it all about?" I asked vaguely.

"You fainted, darling—just an ordinary fainting-fit, nothing more," mother said.

It was such an unusual thing for mother to use terms of endearment that I knew when she called me "darling" that I must have alarmed her very much, and I almost fainted again from the shock of finding myself such a centre of anxious interest. Mother gave me a strong dose of sal-volatile, which soon brought me round. I was put to bed, but for the rest of the evening, some one kept watch beside me. My swoon had lasted a long time, and, since even ordinary fainting fits do not occur without a cause, Dr. Algar was on the morrow called in to examine me, with the result recorded above.

"I hate story-books," I said crossly. "Cannot you give me a tonic that will pick me up?"

He shook his head as he smiled on me with a very kindly look in his eyes.

"The tonic you need, my dear, is rest and play, or at least the change of work which is said to be as good as play. She wants to go out to grass, and kick up her heels like a young pony, Mrs. Darracott. You should send her into the country, and give her a bicycle, or let her go where there are golf links, and learn to play. In fact, she needs to live an open-air life as far as that is possible in our climate."

I looked at mother and tried to smile, but merely succeeded, I believe, in making a dismal grimace. How unreasonable the old doctor was! He might as well have ordered champagne and oysters for a dweller in the slums. How could my parents afford to send me into the country for an indefinite period? Mother's face wore a troubled expression as she said gently:

"I understand, doctor. I will talk it over with her father, and we will see what we can do. I blame myself for not seeing that Annie was doing too much; but she takes such delight in her studies that I fancied they would not overtax her strength. You will not, then, give her medicine?"

"Yes," he said, "I will write a prescription for her that will steady her nerves and help her to sleep. You have not been sleeping well of late, my dear."

I looked at him, wondering how he knew this, for it was true. I had not been actually wakeful, but my work had followed me into the land of dreams, and I had been adding up never-ending columns of figures or struggling with incomprehensible problems in a state of semi-consciousness. Tears sprang to my eyes as I admitted that he was right.

"Never mind, my dear," said the old doctor as he patted me on the shoulder, and looked down on me with eyes full of sympathy. "You feel badly now, I know, but you'll soon be better. Do as I tell you, and in twelve or fifteen months' time you will be able to take up your work again."

Twelve or fifteen months! Had he the least idea how long a period that seems to a girl of nineteen? And I had so counted on the result of my examination. The aerial edifice I had reared on this foundation tumbled in ruins about me and I was in despair.

He must have discerned my state of mind, for he said quickly, "Now mind, you must not brood over your troubles, or you will retard your recovery. Find some light employment that will occupy your thoughts. Do you care for gardening?"

"I hate it," I said pettishly, as I recalled certain tiresome half-hours I had spent in pottering round his garden with Uncle George and undertaking irksome tasks at his request.

"Well, well," said the doctor soothingly, "you can't know much about it here in London. Are you fond of needlework?"

I shook my head with a sense of disgust, and mother laughed a low, mirthless laugh. She knew how I detested needlework.

Dr. Algar refrained from further suggestions, and presently took his departure. When he had gone mother and I looked at each other for a moment, and then I fell to sobbing. All my strength seemed to have departed from me when I fainted, and I felt in a state of utter collapse. Dr. Algar spoke of it as "nervous prostration."

"Come, come, Nan, this won't do," said my mother severely; "you must be brave and face your trouble like a woman. It's a great disappointment, I know, but crying won't help matters, and it might be so much worse."

"I can't see how it could be worse," I cried perversely.

"Can't you?" said mother, with a quaver in her voice. "I can very clearly."

Then, as I continued to sob, she fetched me a glass of hot milk and a biscuit, for the doctor had advised my taking as much light nourishment as possible. Certainly I felt better when I had taken it, though the prospect of the future did not brighten.

"Mother," I said, "what nonsense Dr. Algar talks! How could you send me away into the country? And I am sure I do not want to go. I should be miserable away from you all."

"That would depend on where you went," said my mother. "I wish I could ask your Aunt Patty to take you; but with her husband so sadly she will not want another invalid on her hands."

"Oh, mother, don't call me an invalid!" I exclaimed impatiently.

She smiled and went on as if I had not spoken.

"No, if your uncle were well, it would be different; but as things are, I cannot send you. I do not see what is to be done; but I must talk it over with your father."

Then she went away to attend to her domestic duties, and I lay back on my pillows, feeling utterly limp and wretched. Mother had bidden me be brave, but I was far from brave at that hour. My mood was one of flat rebellion against the doctor's decree. A whole year without study! How could I bear it? It was preposterous. He need not think I was going to obey him. It would mean that I should be earning nothing all that time, a burden on my parents' straitened means, an additional care to my mother, whose anxieties were so numerous.

I was the second in a family of five girls and one small pickle of a boy. We lived in a long, uninteresting road, which, being treeless, was called an avenue, running between Wandsworth Road and Clapham Common. Ours was a refined but by no means a luxurious home. My father was a man of science and the curator of a learned society. His position was an honourable one, and brought him into connection with many eminent and interesting persons, but, unfortunately for his wife and children, the salary attached to the office was small. So it was that in our home there was a never-ending struggle to make ends meet. Sometimes the ends gaped hopelessly wide apart, and strain as we would, it was impossible to bring them together. Then it became a question of what we could do without.

It is wonderful how many things with which we cumber our lives are really unnecessary and can be dispensed with if we choose. I remember that once we did without a servant for twelve months. It was a question of doing so, or of taking me from school a year sooner than my parents had intended, and there was no doubt in my mother's mind as to which was the more important, the progress of my education or the smoother running of the domestic machinery. She and Olive did the work of the house with the help of a rough girl who came in for a few hours every morning. Olive had been attending a cookery class, and she hailed this opportunity of showing her skill. So dainty were the dishes she set before us that we children rather liked the change of administration.

It was a happy circumstance that we were all fairly gifted with a sense of humour. As charity covereth a multitude of sins, so this gift, said to be rare in womankind, enables one to combat successfully with a host of petty annoyances. We laughed together over the pinchings of our poverty, and we took pride in the contrivances by which we presented a brave front to the world. Thus it was that our pecuniary straits made us neither sordid nor sour. There are many worse experiences than that of being poor. As I look back on those old days, I am often moved to thank God that we had not an easy, luxurious upbringing. The difficulties that marked our home life were unheroic, but they drew us closely together and taught us many useful lessons we might not otherwise have learned.

Olive, the eldest of the family, was mother's right hand. She was not only, as I have said, a clever cook; her skill in needlework surpassed her culinary accomplishments. I have rarely seen finer sewing and stitching than Olive could put into her daintiest work. Moreover, she could boast a valuable attainment in a household of girls, the art of dressmaking. It was wonderful how cleverly she would remodel old garments and make them look like new ones. What we owed to this gift of hers I cannot tell. Between us all we kept her needle busy.

Happily Olive had an engagement to act as reader and amanuensis for an old lady, which took her from home every afternoon and thus prevented her becoming a slave of the needle. Mrs. Smythe, who lived in a large house overlooking the Common, was a cultured woman, with a fine literary taste, so Olive learned much in her society, and was saved from the narrowness and barrenness of mind which is too often the fate of the domestic drudge.

Not that Olive was exactly one's idea of a drudge. She was a tall, well-set-up girl, with fine, dark eyes, and an abundance of brown hair which was always beautifully dressed. The last statement might be made of Olive herself. Her clothes were never costly, unless the cost had been defrayed by some one else, but they were always smart. She knew how to wear them, as people say. Sewing or cooking, whatever Olive was about, her appearance was sure to be neat and trim, her dress adapted to the occasion and eminently becoming.

Dear old Olive! What a blessing she was to us all! Old she was not at this time, though, for she had not yet passed her twenty-first birthday. She and I were great chums. I think she understood even better than mother what this disappointment was to me. I read it in her eyes when presently she brought her work—a frock she was finishing for Ethel, the youngest of the five—and seated herself beside my bed, for the doctor had advised my lying still all that day. But Olive did not say much by way of sympathy. Like mother she bade me be brave. Mother herself was the bravest of women, and we had all been trained to despise cowardice, physical or moral.

"After all, Nan, you won't need pity if you go into the country early in the year," she said. "It's not very nice in London just now. You will escape the dreadful March we get in town, and be able to watch the gradual on-coming of the spring in the woods and lanes. I wish you could go to 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Yes," I said drearily; "it would be more endurable if I were with Aunt Patty."

She was our father's only sister, and our favourite aunt. We were less fond of her husband, some twenty years her senior, and now getting old and infirm. He was a great sufferer from gout, an affliction that is not conducive to serenity and amiability of mind. I had always admired the patience with which my aunt bore with his outbursts of temper.

"Poor Aunt Patty!" said Olive. "I guess she is having a rough time of it now. She said in her last letter, which came the day before yesterday, that uncle was worse than she had ever seen him."

"Then she certainly does not want me there as I am now," I sighed. "Oh, Olive, I feel like a washed-out handkerchief! It is awful to be utterly useless, only a burden on father and mother, when I had hoped soon to be earning a good salary and able to support myself entirely."

"It seems hard, no doubt," said Olive; "but what you've got to do now, Nan, is just to trust. This must be one of the 'all things' that are going to work for your good. Now is the time to show that your faith in God is real and not a mere profession."

I looked at Olive in surprise. Such words had never fallen from her lips before. Frank and free of speech as she appeared, she was not one to say much of the things she held most sacred. But I did not need words to assure me of the reality of my sister's religion.

Just then mother's voice was heard from below calling urgently for Olive. She ran off to obey the summons, and I lay still with closed eyes, wondering whether I had any true faith in God. I had long believed, as I thought, in the love of God, but to what extent had that faith been a living influence in my life? Was it now weighed in the balance and found wanting? The opening of the door made me look up. There stood Olive wearing her hat and coat, and an expression which told me something had happened.

"What is the matter, Olive?" I asked hastily.

"Where are you going?"

"To the museum to take father this telegram, which has just come from 'Gay Bowers,'" she said. "It brings sad news, Nan. Uncle George is dead."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, inexpressibly shocked, "and we were just talking of him. How dreadful for Aunt Patty!"

"Yes; we think the end must have come suddenly," Olive said. "But I cannot stay to talk now."

And she was gone.

"YOU SHOULD SEND HER INTO THE COUNTRY,

AND GIVE HER A BICYCLE."

I saw nothing more of mother or Olive for some hours. Father came home early, and they were busy speeding his departure to catch a train at Liverpool Street, for he wanted to go to his sister in her trouble without delay. The children, Dora, Ethel, and Fred, came to visit me when they returned from their walk, and lingered in the room longer than I desired their company. It seemed to gratify them to see me lying in bed at that unusual hour. I do not think they believed much in my illness.

They were disposed to discuss Uncle George's death from every point of view. Fred particularly wanted to know whether uncle had made a will, and if I knew who would have his horses and cattle and the dogs, of which my young brother was particularly fond. He leaned his whole weight on the footboard of my bed, and swung to and fro as he asked those questions, thus inflicting the utmost torture on my shattered nerves. I was summoning what little firmness I yet retained in order to insist on their leaving me at once, when, to my relief, father appeared and sent them away.

It was like father that in the bustle of departure, he found leisure to come and sit beside me for a few minutes and express his tender sympathy.

"I am very sorry for you, Nan," he said, "but you must not fret. It is a comfort to me to know that the doctor says you have no organic disease. It is just a question of taking it easy for a while, and, at your age, you can spare the time."

"Oh, can I?" was my reply. "I don't think so, father."

"Perhaps not," he said, with a melancholy smile, "but when you are my age you will know what a blessed thing it is to be young. All things are possible to the young in the present age, it seems to me. Think of your poor Aunt Patty now. What a sorrow to lose the one who has shared her life for thirty years!"

"I am very sorry for her, father. Will you give her my love and tell her so?"

He nodded gravely.

"She has been a good wife to George Lucas, and he was good to her, though a bit grumpy at times," he said. "Poor fellow! I believe he suffered more than we knew. And he had a good deal to worry him. I don't know what your aunt will do. I am afraid she will be poorly off, for farming has been so bad of late, and your uncle, owing to his ill-health and growing infirmities, has let his affairs get into a sad muddle. I should not wonder if she has to leave 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Oh, I hope not, father," I said. "Could she not stay on there and take 'paying guests,' as Mary Dakin's mother does?"

"'Paying guests,'" repeated my father impatiently. "What an absurd expression that is! If a man pays for his board and lodging, how can he be a guest? When will people learn to use words with some respect for their meaning? The word boarder is good enough for me. I like to call a spade a spade."

"But it is much more elegant to call it an 'implement of husbandry,'" I returned, with a smile.

Father laughed, kissed me, bade me be careful to follow the doctor's instructions and was gone. It never entered my head that the suggestion I had so carelessly made could be of the least value, and I was far from dreaming how it would affect my own life.

CHAPTER II

MY EQUIPMENT

FATHER was away nearly a week, for he could not leave Aunt Patty until after the funeral.

Meanwhile the day on which I had expected to go up for my examination arrived and found me in a most dismal and unhappy frame of mind. My health as yet showed no signs of improvement, and I could not face my misfortune philosophically. Having no longer any stimulus to exertion, I sank into a state of apathy and became a mere bundle of irritated nerves. Mother would not let me stay in bed; but it was torture to me to join the family circle. The children's high voices and Fred's tiresome ways almost drove me distracted. They thought me a dreadful fidget, and even Olive, I believe, would have liked to scold me; but mother seemed to understand. She had more patience with me than I had with myself, for though I really could hardly help getting cross or crying at the least thing, I was dreadfully vexed to be such a baby.

When mother saw how weak I was, she had a fire lighted early in the day in my own room, so that I could keep away from the others as much as I liked, with the result that I spent the greater part of each day there. Yet I fretted at the thought that I was thus adding to the household expenses and proving but a care to mother. The weather was very bad at this time, so no one urged me to the unwelcome exertion of taking a walk. Perhaps I should have been better if I had gone out; but I fancied I could not walk even so far as the Common.

It was late in the afternoon, and I was sitting alone by the fire in my bedroom, when I became aware from the bustle below that father had come home. I had been crying a good deal that day and felt that a very little would upset me again, so, though I longed to see father and to hear for myself what he had to say, I could not persuade myself to go downstairs. But father had not been many minutes in the house ere he found his way to my room. Tears sprang to my eyes as he kissed me and asked how I was in his grave, kindly fashion. I said as little about myself as I could, for there was nothing pleasant to say.

"How is Aunt Patty?" was my first question.

"Oh, she is bearing up bravely," he said; "but it was a terrible shock for her. Your uncle's end came so unexpectedly. The gout attacked his heart and he was gone in half-an-hour."

"Oh, poor auntie! How dreadful for her!" I replied.

"Ay; I did not like leaving her this morning. I fear she grieved sorely when I was gone. I wanted her to come with me and stay here awhile; but she said the going back to a desolate home would be too painful."

"I wish she had come," I said with all sincerity, for Aunt Patty was one whose presence I knew would not jar on my weakened nerves, and, besides, I was truly sorry for her. But my father's next words startled me considerably.

"I had a little talk with your aunt about the future yesterday, Nan, and she seems disposed to follow your advice."

"My advice, father?" I repeated in amazement. "I have never given her any advice."

"Have you forgotten what you said about her taking paying guests?" he asked.

"Oh, just that word!" I exclaimed. "Does she really think of doing so?"

"She does indeed, for she is very loath to leave 'Gay Bowers,' and that seems the only way in which she can remain there," said my father. "I doubt myself if many persons would care to visit such an out-of-the-world place; but she says a fair number of artists go to Greentree every summer, and she thinks she might make a connection. In that case she would sell or let a good part of her land, and would probably find it easy to do so, since Squire Canfield has long set covetous eyes on the meadows that adjoin his park. In short, Nan, she is inclined to make the experiment, if you will help her."

"I, father? How can I help her?" I said.

"By going to 'Gay Bowers,' of course," he replied, "and becoming her assistant in the enterprise."

"But I-Oh, father, it is impossible!" I cried. "I am not that sort of girl at all. I could not help her. Olive would be the one."

"Olive will not be the one," said my father emphatically. "Your mother could not spare her, and no doctor has ordered her off to the country. You must be the one to go, my dear Nan. It is the very thing for you."

"Oh, how can you say so?" I protested. "I am not a bit domesticated. I can't cook, and I am not fond of sewing."

"Then it is quite time you learned how to cook and look after a house," was my father's dictum. "You could not have a better teacher than your Aunt Patty. Did not Dr. Algar say you were to have some light employment that would occupy your thoughts without taxing your brain? Here it is, then. You will not be always hard at work. Your aunt will need some one to amuse her guests, to take them for walks, teach them to play croquet, and the like."

"But that is worse still!" I cried in dismay. "You don't know how stupid I am in company. Olive is the one to make herself agreeable to strangers, not I. I can never think of anything to say, unless it is the wrong thing. I am clever at saying that."

"Then you really must begin to acquire the art of being agreeable," said my father with a laugh. "It's all right, Nan, I have promised your aunt you shall go to her as soon as your mother thinks you are fit for the journey."

When father spoke in that tone I knew it was of no use to protest. He went away, leaving me to ponder this wholly unexpected solution of the problem of the future. The more I thought of it the less I liked it. I was a bookish girl, somewhat dull and absent-minded in general society, and inclined to despise people whose tastes were not intellectual. But, since books were now forbidden me, and country air was what I needed, I really had no excuse for objecting to the arrangement father had made. Mother and Olive were just as sure as he that it was the very thing for me. And when a sweet letter came from Aunt Patty, saying how sorry she was to learn from father of my ill-health, and consequent disappointment, and what a comfort it would be to her, if I would make "Gay Bowers" my home for twelve months, I felt bound to go.

A girl can seldom go anywhere without the subject of clothes demanding consideration. It did not seem that I should require an extensive wardrobe in such a quiet country house; but, while she declared she could not afford to put all her girls into black, mother feared that my aunt might be hurt if I did not make my appearance attired in mourning. The idea gave me an agreeable, though transient, sense of importance, for to have new clothes was an event in the lives of us girls.

I was rather dismayed when mother said she could only give me one new frock, but Olive came to my relief by deciding that my everyday dress of dark blue could be dyed and "done up" to look as good as new. Fortunately my winter coat was black, and I had a black felt hat in good condition. Olive said I need not wear mourning more than three months, and she promised to overhaul my summer clothes, and send me a change of raiment in the spring. Finally, she produced an elderly black chip hat of her own, which she placed on my head, and pronounced the right shape for me, and then proceeded to brush over with a black decoction, the exact nature of which I cannot pretend to explain, though I can testify that it had a remarkably renovating effect on the chip. She had set the hat to dry in front of my fire, and was turning over a box of odds and ends in the hope of finding some trimming for it, when Peggy burst into the room with the air of one who brings tidings.

I have said nothing yet of this sister. We sometimes spoke of her as the "happy medium," since she was the middle one of our band of five sisters, and "happy" was an adjective which suited her excellently. Her name had given rise to some controversy in our family circle. When she was born father wished to name her Martha, after his only sister; but mother had protested that the name was too old-fashioned. No one would call her Martha, she declared, and we did not want two Pattys in the family. So father allowed her to choose the infant's name. She bestowed on her the queenly name of Margaret, and now we all persisted in calling her "Peggy," much to mother's disgust.

Peggy was sweet seventeen. She had a round, merry face, with laughing blue eyes, and her nose tilted upwards in a way that gave a charming piquancy to her expression. She had left school a year before, and was working hard at a school of art, for she aimed at becoming a clever artist in black and white. She was rather short, and it was a trial to her that people often took her to be younger than she was.

"Oh, what do you think?" she cried as soon as she was within the room. "Aunt Clara has sent us another box of fig-leaves!"

This was our poetic way of describing the consignments of cast-off clothes Aunt Clara sent us out of her affluence from time to time. She was mother's only sister, who had married money, while mother had merely married brains. It was curious that each congratulated herself on having made the better match. Mother would speak of Mr. Redmayne somewhat contemptuously as the "Manchester man" or the "Cotton spinner." She never forgot that he was a self-made man, though she was wont to say that this fact was to his credit.

Aunt Clara and her husband occasionally came to town; but they always stayed at the Grand Hotel and seldom bestowed much of their time on us. She did not resemble mother in the least. Large and stout, and magnificently attired, she seemed to fill our small drawing-room when she condescended to pay us a visit, and to make our stairs and passages shrink as she passed along them. She would assume a pitiful air, which was very irritating, ask innumerable questions, and show clearly her belief that she could have managed in every way better than our mother did. But what excited within us the most indignation was her betrayal that she held our father in light esteem as a man whose talents were wasted because he had not made money by them.

So Mrs. Redmayne's visits were distinct trials, and we were thankful they did not occur often. She had five children, three of whom were girls, but we knew almost nothing about our cousins except what could be gathered from an inspection of their abandoned finery, parcels of which frequently arrived for our use. Mother had too much good sense to refuse what was really a help; but I think it galled her pride to see how extravagantly our cousins were attired, though we all decided that their style of dress showed a sad lack of taste.

"Hurrah!" cried Olive as she heard Peggy's announcement. "What could be more opportune! Now we shall be able to set you up, Nan."

I shook my head.

"Not in black," I said, "if red or yellow were considered mourning in this country we might find something useful. Have you forgotten the riddle you once propounded, Olive—why is Aunt Clara like the virtuous woman of the Book of Proverbs?"

"I never heard that riddle!" cried Peggy. "What is the answer?"

"Because all her household are clothed with scarlet," I replied.

Peggy laughed and clapped her hands, but Olive said:

"That is a slight exaggeration. I don't despair of finding something that may be useful for you, Nan. Run and bring the box up here, there's a dear, Peggy. You don't mind, Nan?"

"Not at all," I replied, sitting up quite alert. Already I was feeling better. In spite of my fears for the future, the immediate prospect of a change had raised my spirits.

Peggy ran off eagerly and soon reappeared, hot and breathless, bearing, with Fred's assistance, a fair-sized dress-box into the room. We knew the box well, it went to and fro between London and Manchester pretty frequently.

Fred was as eager to see the contents of the box as any of us; but I was for turning him out of the room before we opened it.

Peggy, however, suggested that it would be a kindness to mother, who was trying to write letters below, if we let him remain, so on condition that he kept as still as he possibly could, and tried nothing on, we allowed him to share our diversion.

Funnily enough, the first things that came to light were a scarlet silk blouse and a coat of the same hue. But below was a handsome black silk gown which Aunt Clara must have worn herself, and a black cloth coat trimmed with astrachan. Evidently it had occurred to our aunt that mother would need to put on mourning.

"That will make mother a beautiful dress," said Olive, with pleasure in her voice. "It's yards too big, of course, but I can alter that. And she wants a new coat badly too. This scarlet coat will do nicely for Ethel, and this blouse I think I will do up for myself, since I am the only one of the 'grown-ups' that looks well in scarlet. Ah! look at this odious brown and yellow check Who can wear that?"

"I shall, I expect," said Peggy plaintively. "I generally have to take what nobody else likes. Oh dear! I do wish my cousins would let me choose their clothes, since I have to wear them afterwards."

I laughed at this absurd suggestion, then said:

"You see I was right, Olive; there is nothing that will do for me."

"Don't you be so sure," said Olive, diving again into the box. "I have not got to the bottom yet. Ah, what is this? A black silk sash! The very thing to trim that hat."

"That is fortunate," I said, regarding it with satisfaction; then a cry from Peggy made me turn my eyes again upon the box.

"Oh, look," she said, "at this gorgeous frock—pink satin and tulle and sequins! What a show!"

It was an evening gown of a colour far too vivid for my taste. The skirt was trampled and soiled. It had evidently done duty at several parties.

"I believe something might be made of this, Nan," said Olive, examining it with a critical air. "Veiled with black grenadine or something diaphanous, it would make you a charming evening gown. You will need one, you know, when the guests come. It is a fortunate thing that your hair is such a pretty colour and your complexion so clear that you look your best in black. And pink suits you too. See, this colour is not at all startling subdued by black."

"Oh, thank you, Olive," I said. "It is not often you are so complimentary. You generally find something wrong with my appearance."

"Because you are so careless of it," she said as she closely examined the pink bodice. "This must have been Cousin Agneta's. Aunt said she was the slightest of the three, and this waist is barely twenty inches. I hope she does not tight-lace. Ah, what are these spots on the front? I declare it looks as if she were crying bitterly when she last wore this. Poor girl!"

"Rich girl, you mean," said Peggy. "I don't believe she was crying. What can she have to cry about?"

"A good many things, I dare say, if we only knew," replied Olive. "Surely, Peggy, you are not so idiotic as to think that money is all people want to make them happy!"

"Well, rather not," said Peggy with a grimace, "seeing that we manage to be very happy without it."

"I guess one girl's heart is very much like another's," said Olive rather incoherently, "even if she does wear purple and fine linen and fare sumptuously every day. But now I must get on with this hat. Put the things back in the box and take it away, there's a dear, Peggy."

"Oh, yes; I'm always a dear when you want me to do anything," Peggy replied; but she packed them up all the same, for she was nothing if not good-tempered.

Dear old Olive put in a good many stitches for me during the next few days, and so did mother. Between them they got me ready in a week.

I felt very miserable when the hour of departure came. It was a raw, cold day, and the very thought of the journey made me feel faint and sick. I behaved like a baby at the last and Olive had to be very stern and resolute with me. She drove with me to Liverpool Street, where father met us and saw me into the express for Chelmsford. It was due there in fifty minutes, so the journey was nothing to mind if I had not been so exceedingly weak. I soon began to revive, however, and my spirits rose as the train bore me farther and farther from the gloom of London out into the heart of the clear, cold country.

CHAPTER III

"GAY BOWERS"

THE old country house known as "Gay Bowers," which had been my aunt's home ever since she married, was situated some five miles from Chelmsford and no nearer to the railway. It was still early in the afternoon when I reached that station, but the air struck me as rather more than fresh as I stepped out of the train. I shivered as I buttoned my coat more tightly about me and looked round, hoping to discern a friendly face amid the bustling crowd on the platform, for I felt sure that my aunt would send some one to meet me.

"Nan!" said a voice beside me, and I turned to see a tall, well-set-up young fellow looking down on me with bright merry eyes. For a moment I was bewildered, then I recognised the face, which was still boyish in spite of the carefully cultivated moustache and the height from which he gazed on me. This was Jack Upsher, son of the Vicar of Greentree, the parish to which "Gay Bowers" belonged. He had been my playfellow when, as a child, I spent my summer holidays at "Gay Bowers"; but of late years he had been absent from the vicarage whenever I happened to visit aunt. So we had not met since we were both grown-up, and it was rather audacious of him to address me in that familiar way, but I did not resent it, especially as he hastened to add:

"I beg your pardon; I should have said 'Miss Darracott,' but you have altered so little from the 'Nan' I used to know, that the name sprang of itself to my lips."

"Indeed I hoped I had altered a good deal," was my reply. "But you are just the same, Jack, except that you have grown so immensely."

He laughed heartily as he shook my hand.

"That's right, Nan; call me 'Jack,' and snub me as you always did, and we shall feel quite at home together. How like you to tell me that I've grown, just as if I were a schoolboy home for the holidays!"

"It is perfectly true," I said.

"Exactly," he returned, "and I always had the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth from you. To be accurate, I stand precisely six feet in my socks."

"Then you have attained your highest ambition?" I said.

"Not quite," he replied; "but now you mention it, I remember that as a kid I always aspired to be six feet high. What have you in the way of luggage, for Mrs. Lucas has kindly granted me permission to drive you home, and the trap is waiting outside?"

I quickly found my trunk, and he directed a porter to carry it to the conveyance. Well did I know the high, old-fashioned phaeton which stood outside the station; but the horse which drew it was a recent acquisition and a more mettlesome creature than the Vicar usually drove. She would hardly stand while the porter strapped my trunk to the back of the vehicle and Jack helped me up and saw to my comfort.

"I am told that you require the greatest care," he said gravely, as he shook out a big, fur-lined cloak auntie had given him, and proceeded to envelop me in it, drawing the huge collar so high above my chin that little could be seen of me save my eyes and the tip of my nose. Then he placed a hot stone jar beneath my feet, drew a thick rug well over my knees and tucked it carefully in.

"How does that do?" he asked, surveying me with some satisfaction.

"First-rate," I said. "I feel ready for a journey to the North Pole."

"That's all right," he said as he sprang up beside me and signed to the groom to stand back. The man scrambled up behind us and we were off at a smart pace.

"What a splendid horse, and how it goes!" I said, in rather a shaky voice. It had never been my way to indulge in nervous qualms, indeed I had been contemptuous of girls who were easily frightened; but one effect of illness is to humble pride, and to my shame I now realised that I was sick with fear as Jack guided his high-stepping, swift bay mare through the market-traffic of the narrow streets of Chelmsford. For a few moments I heartily wished that Aunt Patty had engaged one of the slow, rumbling old station flys to bring me to her house.

"Yes, Bess is a beauty," said Jack proudly. "It was I who persuaded father to buy her. He was half afraid of her at first, indeed I rather think he is so still; but I hate to drive a horse that is as tame as a donkey."

He glanced at me as he spoke and added quickly, with a sudden change of manner, "You are not afraid, Nan, are you?"

"Of course not," I said hurriedly, jeopardising the character for speaking the truth with which he had credited me. I rallied my courage with the recollection of how in my childhood I had never been afraid of anything when Jack led the way, and as I saw the skill with which he drove, my fears soon vanished. We were leaving the town behind, and I began to enjoy the drive. Thanks to my aunt's thoughtfulness I was so wrapped up as to be scarce conscious of the cold. I only felt that the air was deliciously fresh and clear, a delightful contrast to the dull, foggy atmosphere of London.

Many persons regard Essex as a flat and uninteresting county, but I had always found beauty in the woods and lanes. Even on this January day as we drove along muddy roads with brown hedges on either side, where sapless twigs and leafless roots waited for the touch of spring, the country did not lack charm for me. I marked with pleasure the beauty of "wintry boughs against a wintry sky," and the emerald freshness of pasture-lands thrown into relief by the rich brown of the upturned earth across which strong, shaggy horses were drawing the plough. We passed woods in which the ivy—surely a well-meaning if harmful parasite—was doing its utmost to clothe the bare trunks and limbs of trees with a garment of vivid green. And every now and then we caught a broad view of the open country and saw the woods and meadows melt into the exquisite blue haze of distance.

I should have been content to gaze and enjoy in silence, but Jack Upsher had always an abundant supply of small talk, and as we drove along, he told me in the most amusing fashion the news of the countryside.

"But how is it you are here now?" I asked. "I expected to hear that you were at Woolwich."

Jack's colour rose, and he shrugged his shoulders rather awkwardly.

"That's where I ought to be," he said, with a rueful air; "but unluckily I got ploughed in my exam. The governor was awfully mad with me; but it was not my fault that I could not answer the idiotic questions. Brains were never my strong point."

It was true that no one would credit Jack with scholarly tastes, but he was by no means stupid in his own line of life. I imagined that he had fair abilities, and it surprised me to hear of his failure, for I had always understood that the entrance examination for Woolwich was not an unduly stiff one.

"But how was it?" I asked. "Of course you worked hard."

"But I did not," he said; "that's the honest truth, Nan, so I suppose you will say it was my fault, after all. You see I was sent to a coach in town. Father thought I should work better there than at home, but it did not answer. I found it awfully jolly to be free to do as I liked in town after vegetating in sleepy little Greentree. There were the circuses and shows, and no end to see and do. With lots of lively fellows in the house I enjoyed myself immensely, but did not get much work in. Ah, Nan! I see you want to scold me."

"Indeed I do," I said severely. "I don't know what you mean by saying you were free to do as you liked, when your father sent you to London to study."

"Oh, well, I meant that we were free to arrange our hours as we liked," replied Jack. "Our tutor did not treat us as schoolboys. We were supposed to be in by eleven at night, but we could always get leave for an extra hour if we liked to ask for it, and, if not, we could contrive to get into the house without knocking at the front door. But I did work, Nan, quite hard sometimes, after old Rooke had given me a lecture. He warned me that I should not pass, but I quite hoped I should scrape through somehow."

I was silent, marvelling at the difference in the feelings with which Jack and I had contemplated our respective examinations. He would have been content to scrape through, while I aspired to win honours! I am afraid my thoughts at that moment had a tinge of pharisaism, for I certainly congratulated myself that, had I gone in for Matriculation and failed, I should have had the satisfaction of knowing that I had done my best, and no self-reproach would have embittered my disappointment.

It may be that Jack guessed what was passing in my mind, for, after a few moments, he said:

"By the by, Mrs. Lucas told me that you had been working for an exam—overworking, I believe she said, and have reduced yourself to a condition that only country air and rural repose can mend. That was not wise, Nan. You would do well to follow my example, for I can confidently affirm that I have never been guilty of that folly!"

"I can well believe it," I responded with a laugh, "but you can't think what a dreadful disappointment it has been to me to give up my exam."

"No, I can't!" he said decidedly. "I don't think girls should go in for exams. I know I would not if I were a girl."

"You think it one of the difficult undertakings we should leave to the superior sex, who so easily beat us in all high achievements, mental or physical?" I said.

He coloured, but laughed good-naturedly at my sarcasm.

"That's right, Nan, don't spare me! I know I deserve it. Smite hard, just as the little Nan used to do. She always got the better of me in every encounter of wits. All the same, I don't see why girls should bother themselves over exams."

"Don't you?" I said. "Then it shows a sad lack of discernment on your part. You forget that a great many women have to earn their own livelihood, and the test of an examination furnishes them with a credential which is of the utmost importance to them."

"I hold it a shame that any woman should have to work for herself!" he said hotly, and I returned with equal heat:

"And I call it a shame for man or woman not to work, and a positive sin if they waste their opportunities—"

"Ah, you have me there!" he broke in. "The cap fits, and I put it on. But, indeed, I mean to work better in the future."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, somewhat abashed by the readiness with which he took my words home.

"Oh, I have yet another chance of getting into the Artillery," he said. "I can go up again in six months' time. Meanwhile, I am working at home under the governor's supervision. There's a man at Chelmsford who is coaching me, and I go up to town for extra lessons."

We were driving rapidly across a breezy common, and, as he spoke, the wind caught my cloak and blew it across my face. He leaned forward to pull it down, and to tuck the rug more closely about me, and I caught an unusually serious look from his dark eyes as he said:

"I mean to be good now, Nan. I have promised Mrs. Lucas. She was talking to me only yesterday. She is an angel—a veritable angel, and so sad and lonely now at 'Gay Bowers.' I am glad you have come to be with her. You will cheer her."

"I should like to cheer her," I said, and then fell silent, for we were almost at "Gay Bowers," and I was beginning to dread the meeting with my aunt. Like many another young girl, I felt a morbid shrinking from any one on whom a heavy stroke of bereavement had fallen. I felt incapable of giving true sympathy, and was nervous lest I should do or say the wrong thing.

It was a story told against me at home that once, some years before, when mother sent me to carry a parcel to a poor woman who had just lost her husband, and she said to me, "Oh, miss, it's a terrible thing to be left a widow with four children—" all I could say by way of consolation was, "Yes, but you know it might have been worse—you might have been left with eight!" Certainly my suggestion had the desired effect, for she responded briskly, "You're quite right, miss, so I might!" Yet my matter-of-fact condolence long furnished Olive with a joke at my expense.

We had left the common and were descending a long, narrow lane with trees on either side. The mud was rather slippery, and Jack had to give all his attention to his horse. Then we mounted a shorter hill, and the white gate came in sight. It had been set open in anticipation of our arrival, and we drove at once up the short drive to the door of the long, low, red-bricked house, a very ordinary-looking abode with five straight windows piercing the upper part, and below two on each side of the white porch, yet not without a certain individuality of its own. In summer, green creepers and climbing roses beautified the front of the house, but now their branches showed bare and brown as they clung to it.

I need not have dreaded the meeting with my aunt. She came smiling to the door as Jack helped me down from the phaeton. Her face looked pale and thin, but there was the sweet, loving look in her eyes I had always seen there, and every sign of sorrow was resolutely held in check. Always slight in appearance, she looked slimmer than ever in her plain, black gown. It was strange to see her wearing the little gauzy cap with its long, white streamers, but it did not take me long to decide that it was eminently becoming to my aunt's winsome face, at once so gentle and so strong.

"I am very glad to see you, dearest Nan," she said. "It is so good of you to come to me."

"Good of me to come" when it had been "Hobson's choice" as far as I was concerned! But it was like Aunt Patty to put it in that way.

Jack did not stay a minute after he had seen my luggage carried into the house. He drove off, saying that he would be sure to see me again before long.

With her arm about me, aunt led me across the wide hall. The little room to the left of the entrance had been uncle's peculiar sanctum, and Sweep, his favourite dog, a black retriever, lay on the mat outside it. She viewed my arrival with indifference, and only faintly wagged her tail when I bent to pat her. With her forepaws extended and her muzzle resting on them she crouched in an attitude of profound dejection.

"You must be dreadfully tired, dear Nan," aunt said. "A cosy tea will be ready in a few moments. Perhaps you had better not go upstairs till afterwards."

But I was too excited just then to know how tired I was, and I elected to go to my room. The house had the pure, sweet aroma I always associate with country houses, but it seemed strangely quiet and bare as we went upstairs. I saw that uncle's coats and hats had disappeared from the spot where they used to hang, though his guns and sticks still kept their places in the hall. A feeling of awe came to me with the sense of missing him.

Several rooms opened on to the spacious landing at the head of the stairs. I was pleased to find that aunt had given me the one above the porch, adjoining her own. It was a fair-sized room, but not so large as most of the bedrooms in the house. The window opened on to the top of the porch, which formed a little balcony on which it was possible to sit. The fact that this had been forbidden ground in my childhood probably accounted for the attraction the room had for me.

With a bright fire glowing on the hearth, and thick, soft-hued curtains draping the window, the room looked delightfully cosy at this hour. I detected various little improvements which auntie had made with a view to my comfort. A bunch of snowdrops adorned the dressing-table, and a tiny bookcase to the right of the bedstead presented a charming array of volumes. Remembering the doctor's prohibition, I was thankful that Aunt Patty had not thought it necessary to banish these.

"Oh, auntie, what a sweet room!" I cried. "It all seems so restful and quiet after London. Oh, you don't know how I have longed for rest and quiet!"

"I can well imagine that there is little quiet in your home during the children's holidays," she said. "Well, you will find it quiet enough here, dear, and can rest as much as you please."

"But I want to help you too, auntie," I said quickly.

"So you shall, dear," she replied; "we will help one another."

Her voice was a trifle tremulous, and I saw there were tears in her eyes. But the next minute she was smiling as she helped me off with my coat.

CHAPTER IV

LAYING OUR PLANS

THE journey and the excitement of my arrival had exhausted me more than I imagined. I woke the next morning with a terrible headache and was unable to leave my bed all day. Nor could I quit my room on the following day, but when it was over, I enjoyed such a long, restful night as I had not known for months.

On the following morning I felt like a new creature, and by mid-day I was seated by the fire in the dining-room, enjoying a glass of delicious milk and such sponge cake as was never bought in London, for aunt's cook had made it specially for me.

The windows of the dining-room looked on to the large garden at the back of the house. With its fruit trees, strawberry bed, and wealth of flowers it was a delightful place in summer, but when presently I moved to the window and stood looking out for a few minutes, I found that in winter it did not lack charm. The early morning had been grey, but now the sun was breaking through the clouds, and each leaf and blade of grass, gemmed by hoar-frost, glittered gloriously beneath its rays. Aunt Patty never failed to spread crumbs for the birds on cold mornings, and I was amused to watch the movements of the thrushes, blackbirds and starlings which came in search of these, and occasionally quarrelled over her bounty.

A long stretch of lawn ran through the garden, and a few years before, not without some grumbling from Uncle George, aunt had instituted lawn-tennis for the benefit of her young friends. There was room, too, for croquet and bowls, so Aunt Patty's guests need not lack outdoor diversion in fine weather.

As I turned from the window I heard the house door open, and the next moment auntie came into the room wearing her bonnet and cloak. I had not seen her since I came downstairs. The servant who brought me the milk told me that her mistress had gone to the village. Aunt was looking pale and tired, but she smiled brightly on me as she said:

"I am glad to find you downstairs, Nan, and, really, you look better already. Our bracing air will soon work wonders for you, I can see."

"It seems very cold air," I said with a shiver, as I bent nearer to the fire.

"It is certainly keener than London," she replied; "but you will soon get used to that, and begin to feel the good of it. I have enjoyed my brisk walk."

Then she told me she had been to the village to see a poor woman whose husband had died suddenly.

"Oh, auntie," I said, feeling shocked, "that was very sad for you."

"Oh, no," she responded. "I felt that I must go to her, because, you see, I can understand. It helped her to feel that I had known the same shock of trouble and was enduring the same loss."

Certainly, if ever woman had "a heart at leisure from itself," auntie had. She would make even her sorrows helpful to others. It was with wonder that I realised how deeply she had loved Uncle George and how truly she mourned him. To us younger people he had always seemed a disagreeable old man, and most persons, I fancy, found it difficult to get on with him. But Aunt Patty's was the love which "taketh no account of evil," but wraps the one beloved in a mantle of goodness and grace which others judge misplaced, though it may fit better than they think. I often marvelled at her capacity for love, and the conclusion to which it invariably led me was that I could never love any one in that way.

Later aunt discussed with me her plans for the future. She told me she had decided to sell all the land with the exception of the pastures immediately adjoining the house, and all her cattle except two cows, which would supply her house with milk and butter. She would keep one horse to draw the wagonette, which would be needed to take people to and from Chelmsford, and a pony for the little chaise. One man-servant would be necessary to drive and look after the stable, and the old gardener also would be retained.

"The garden must not be neglected," said Aunt Patty, "for I shall rely on that to supply us with fruit and vegetables for the table. People have a right to expect good rural fare when they come to sojourn in the country, and I mean that my guests shall have it. I have little fear that cook will not consent to remain with me, for she has often lamented that this place gave her so little opportunity of displaying her talents. She is really clever at made dishes and sweets, but, as you know, your uncle's health obliged him to be very careful in his diet, and I never cared to have anything on the table that might tempt him to break the restrictions imposed by his doctor. But now, if I were so fortunate as to get my house full of 'paying guests,' I should wish her to make plenty of dainty dishes to set before them."

"How many guests could you take, auntie?" I asked.

"Let me see," she said; "there are seven bedrooms besides the servants'. Taking away yours and mine, five are left for the guests; but they are such good-sized rooms that two beds could be placed in most of them. I must hope to have visits from friends and relatives who will be willing to share a room. I could easily accommodate ten persons in that way, and that, I think, would be as many as I should desire to have. I don't know what Jenny would say to waiting upon so many, but, of course, I should help her as much as I could."

"And I would, too," I said, as in duty bound, though in truth I felt very reluctant to take up domestic tasks, and disliked the idea of "Gay Bowers" being invaded by ten strangers. But I had sense enough to know that if I hated the thought of "all sorts and conditions" of people—within certain limits—being free to make their home in the dear old house, it must be inexpressibly more painful to Aunt Patty herself. But I could see that she fought against the feeling and was resolved to face the inevitable bravely. It was the only way in which she could remain in the home she loved, and it was not clear what she could do if she gave it up.

"I have come to think that this is God's will for me," she said quietly. "I have put my future into His hands and asked Him to show me the path He would have me tread. You know I believe that He will give us His guidance, if we seek it, even in the smallest details of our life. Perhaps it is the door into new service for Him. I should like to welcome some of His worn and weary ones to rest here."

The smallest details of our life the objects of God's care! That was a strange thought to me. I could hardly receive it, yet I felt then, and know assuredly now, that it is an uplifting and ennobling conception of life, and one that makes the whole of it sacred and grand. Could it be that there was a divine purpose in the ill-health which had frustrated my hopes and brought me to this quiet, out-of-the-world, country place to share my aunt's changed lot? I felt awed as I contemplated the possibility, and my heart put up a prayer that it might be for good that I had come here. There was in my heart a vague longing to know more of God. Absorbed in my intellectual work, I had neglected the study of God's Word and suffered my prayers to become merely formal. Even on Sundays, I had often read for my examination, and both body and spirit had suffered in consequence. I knew now what a mistake I had made.

In the afternoon Aunt Patty's solicitor drove out from Chelmsford and kept her occupied with business matters for more than an hour. I was not dull however, for Jack Upsher came to see how I was. He persuaded me to put on over-shoes and one of auntie's thickest wraps, and go round the garden with him. Together we revisited all the old nooks which had been the delightful haunts of our childhood, and I had great fun in recalling some of our most foolish adventures, and the plights into which they brought us. Then we went into the house and chatted by the fireside till aunt brought in Mr. Crowther to have tea. When he had gone, Jack still lingered, till Aunt Patty rather pointedly reminded him of his studies, upon which he reluctantly took his departure.

"I was grinding away for three hours this morning," he grumbled, "and now I deserve a little relaxation."

"Which you have had," aunt said promptly. "So you will be ready for another three when you reach home."

"Why, I declare you are as bad a slave-driver as the governor," retorted Jack, "and with this fearful example—" indicating me—"of the dangers of over-work before your eyes."

Aunt Patty gave a little laugh.

"Oh, Jack, there is no such danger in your case!" she said, shaking her head. "I almost wish there were."

"What!" he exclaimed. "You would like to see me with a pale, lank visage and reduced to a long-drawn-out shadow! Who would have believed you were so heartless?"

"I have no fear of seeing you 'sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,'" she replied, "and I do want you to work so steadily as to make a second failure impossible."

"I will indeed. I have promised it, and I mean to keep my promise," he said resolutely, and was gone.

Aunt Patty smiled and then sighed as she looked after him.

"Poor dear fellow!" she said. "I wish he were not so idle, for there is much that is good in him. If only his father understood him better!"

"Don't they get on well together?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"They never could. You must remember how severe the Vicar was with him when he was a boy."

"I know he liked always to be here," I said, "and never seemed to care to go home."

"Just so; the poor lad never knew a mother's love, nor what it is to have a happy home," said my aunt. "Mr. Upsher's housekeeper is a very worthy woman, but not in the least fit to look after a young fellow like Jack. The Vicar cares only for his books. He likes to shut himself up in his study, and is almost a stranger to his son, except that he has a keen perception of his faults. And yet he is a good man, and, I am sure, loves Jack in his way."

"Jack is very fond of you, auntie," I said. "You have been almost a mother to him."

"I have always felt a great longing to 'mother' him," she said. "People talk against step-mothers, but it might have been a happy thing for Jack if he had had a step-mother."

"Does the Vicar still preach such dry sermons?" I asked.

"I cannot say that they have improved, Nan," replied my aunt with a smile.

"Humph," I said, "then we cannot offer the 'paying guests' the attraction of good preaching, though they will be able to worship in a beautiful old church."

Upon which we reverted to the subject we were destined to discuss again and again during the ensuing weeks.

Aunt decided to lose as little time as possible in preparing for the reception of her guests. She hoped that she might be able to secure some for Easter, which fell early this year.

As she had prophesied, the strong, fresh country air proved an excellent tonic for me. My nerves regained tone; I slept and ate well, and soon felt so strong that I was inclined to think slightingly of Dr. Algar's diagnosis of my case. I enjoyed the spell of sharp, clear weather we had in February. Jack and I had some delightful skating on the river. I was rather out of practice, for I had not skated for years, and I was very timid at first, but with his help I soon conquered my fears, and enjoyed immensely the excitement of skimming over the silvery ice with my arm linked in his.

Aunt and I were very busy as Easter drew near. We had to re-arrange and re-furbish the rooms. Many a shopping expedition took us to Chelmsford. Of course, it was necessary to advertise for our boarders, and the drawing-up of the advertisement cost us much thought, while it evoked many absurd suggestions from Jack. We were anxious to make the most of our attractions, yet there was danger in being too explicit, since what would attract one person might induce another to stay away. It is curious how many ways there are of putting things, and how various were the forms I drew up for aunt's consideration. I made my head ache with the effort to put a great deal in a few words. At last we were satisfied with something like this:

"Paying guests received in old country house in pleasant rural neighbourhood. Fine air, excellent farm produce, and all home comforts. Large garden with tennis and croquet lawns. Good fishing. Desirable residence for any needing quiet and rest."

It seems simple enough as I write it now, but, oh, the deliberation with which we weighed each word! Aunt Patty was for describing her home as "desirable for invalids," but I was certain that would frighten away every healthy person under sixty, and I did want some young people to come.

I made several copies of this advertisement, and sent them to such of the London newspapers as we judged best suited for our purpose. Aunt also wrote to many of her friends and acquaintances, telling them of the attempt she was making, and asking their kind assistance. Then we waited, I eagerly, she anxiously, for the result. She hoped to hear from gentle widows, worn-out governesses and the like. I hardly knew what to expect. But our first response when it came was a surprise to us both.

CHAPTER V

A RESPONSE TO THE ADVERTISEMENT

"I BEGIN to think that the money I have spent on advertisements is just money thrown away," said Aunt Patty, rather ruefully one morning as we sat in the breakfast-room at the close of our early meal.

I looked up from the letter which had absorbed my attention. It was a lively and lengthy epistle from Peggy, giving me all the home news, and I had been so delighted to get it that I failed to observe that the post had brought my aunt nothing. It was very disappointing. During the whole of the past week, the advertisement to which we had given so much thought had appealed to people from the columns of London newspapers, and not a single person had been moved to respond to it. To be sure, the weather had not been such as to make the idea of visiting the country attractive. The March winds had been sharp and boisterous, and sudden squalls were often accompanied by sleet.

"People are waiting till the weather becomes more spring-like," I said. "It is a pity that it continues so cold, and Easter falling next week."

"Yes," said Aunt Patty with a sigh. "I am afraid I have been in too great a hurry. It would have been better to have waited a few weeks before advertising."

The past week had been a trying time for Aunt Patty. Certain business transactions had taken place. The greater part of the land which had belonged to Uncle George, and his father before him, was now the property of Squire Canfield. He had also purchased a good deal of the farm stock, and the rest had been sold by auction at Chelmsford. I hardly realised all that this meant to Aunt Patty. It did not seem to me to make much difference to her, since the house and garden and the grounds immediately adjoining still belonged to her. But I knew she had felt it deeply, and now, as I saw her troubled air, I tried to comfort her.

"It seems rather warmer this morning," I said. "I believe the weather is going to change. We shall have some applications soon, auntie, I feel sure. Would you like me to go into Chelmsford this afternoon, and inquire at the post-office?"

We had only one postal delivery a day at "Gay Bowers," so if we went into town we never failed to visit the post-office, that we might obtain any letters that might have arrived by a later post.

"I am afraid it would only be another disappointment," said Aunt Patty, "and it is hardly worth while to have the horse and trap out for that."

"How I wish I had a bicycle!" I said. "Now that the winds have dried the roads, I could spin into Chelmsford and back in no time."

"Then you can ride?" aunt said.

"Oh, yes; Olive taught me, and she often lends me her bicycle—she is very good-natured about it. You know Mrs. Smythe gave her one because she thought she did not take sufficient exercise."

"I wish I could give you one, my dear," said Aunt Patty gently.

"Oh, auntie, don't say that!" I replied. "I don't care so much about it, only I thought it would be convenient just now if I had one."

"I tell you what you could do if you liked, dear," said my aunt, "not that I think it will make any difference as far as the advertisement is concerned, but there is a business letter I am anxious to receive which may come in by the second post. You might step over to the Vicarage, and ask Jack to call at the post-office for us as he comes back from Chelmsford."

"That I will," I said as I rose from the table, "and I must go at once or Jack will have started. He has to be at his tutor's by ten."

I put on my hat and coat, and went out. The breeze which met me and blew out my skirts was fresh and strong, but its keen edge had gone. The sun was breaking through the ragged grey clouds that were scudding across the sky. Its rays glorified a bed of crocuses, and by the gate, sheltered by the high garden wall, I found the first daffodil. I had been watching for days the green, swelling buds, but not till now had I seen the gleam of gold. Stooping to lift the drooping head, I gazed at it with exquisite delight. How different it was in its dainty freshness from any daffodil I had ever bought in London!

"I shall learn to love gardening if I stay here long enough!" I said to myself as I went on my way.

Turning to the right and following the winding of the lane, I came in a few minutes to Greentree Church, a picturesque, red-bricked building with a pointed steeple. A peaceful churchyard lay about it, with many old tombstones, grey and defaced by age, some bearing curiously worded epitaphs. A little beyond the church was the Vicarage, a beautiful old house, built of red brick, which had long taken on the rich, mellow hue of age. A magnificent cedar adorned the lawn, and an almond tree, breaking into blossom, overhung the gate. The trees and shrubs which grew within were rather too luxuriant, a sign of bad gardening, for flowers could not flourish beneath their heavy shade, and the garden had rather a neglected appearance. The Vicar cared nothing for flowers, nor did Jack concern himself about their culture, though he always evinced what I believed to be an unfeigned interest in Aunt Patty's garden.

The phaeton stood before the door of the house as I approached. Jack's dogs ran barking to meet me, and he came quickly from the house to see why they were making such a commotion.

"Oh, Nan, you are an early visitor—but only just in time!" he exclaimed, looking as pleased as if he had not seen me for a year, whereas he had been at "Gay Bowers" on the previous day. Jack was the most friendly and sociable of beings. It was a striking instance of the irony of fate that such a one should share this quiet home with a father who was always immersed in his books. Aunt Patty's guests, when they came, would have a welcome from Jack.

"Oh, are you going to drive?" I said. "I thought you would cycle to Chelmsford this morning."

"What—with this wind in my teeth all the way?" he replied. "That would be rather too much for me. I might have ridden Bess, only, you see, the pater is going up to town to-day, so I shall drive him to the station before going to Medley's."

As he spoke, the Vicar came out of the house. He was an elderly man, tall, with bowed shoulders, which bore witness to the habits of a scholar. He greeted me kindly, but in an absent-minded fashion. He rarely seemed to give his whole mind to the person he addressed, an unfortunate defect in a clergyman. He did, however, so far recognise my individuality as to inquire for Aunt Patty. It was Jack who asked whether we had had any response to the advertisement.

"Any bites?" was his concise way of putting it.

I shook my head, then hastened to make my request that he would call for us at the post-office on his way home.

"Of course I will," he said promptly, "and I will bring you good luck, too, in the face of an offer from a most desirable 'paying guest.'"

"That is more than you possibly can promise," I replied.

"Oh, you don't know. I have a presentiment that I shall find something good for you at the post-office," he returned. "Come and meet me, Nan, and see if I am not right. I shall walk back, for the trap will have to remain in Chelmsford for father. Meet me half-way."

"I dare say," I said, "that would mean a walk of five miles. I should have thought nothing of it a year ago, but now—although I am ever so much stronger than when I came down—"

"Of course! How thoughtless of me!" he broke in. "Come as far as the Wood End Oaks then; but no farther by the road, for I shall take the short cut."

"Perhaps," I said, "I do not promise," but I meant to go all the same.

Meanwhile the Vicar had climbed into the phaeton.

"The air is milder to-day," he said as he arranged his muffler about his throat.

"Oh, it is spring at last," I said joyfully; "I have found a daffodil in bloom."

"Ah!" he said vacantly, and I saw that a golden daffodil was no more to him than a yellow primrose was to Peter Bell.

I bade them good-morning and turned homeward, for I could see that the Vicar was in a fidget to be off. As I went up the lane the phaeton overtook me. Jack lifted his cap and cried rashly, "I'll bring you one, I promise you, Nan."

Jack usually lunched in town and got home some time in the afternoon. When I started about half-past three for the rendezvous, auntie told me to be sure to bring him in to take tea with us.

"There will be no one looking for him at home," she said.

Not till then did it strike me that Jack was perhaps walking back on purpose to gratify us, and that, if I had not asked him to call for our letters, he would have awaited in Chelmsford his father's return by the six o'clock train. It was just like Jack to give himself that trouble on our behalf, for he was the most good-natured fellow in the world; but I was vexed that I had not thought to tell him that the letters were of no consequence, and that very likely there would be none. When I remarked this to aunt, all she said was:

"Oh, the walk will do him good, and you too, Nan, if you do not go too far."

It was a lovely afternoon for a walk. The fresh breeze was most exhilarating, though it blew almost too strongly for me as I crossed the common. A little beyond this the road dipped suddenly, and to the left a wood bordered it for about a hundred yards. The old, gnarled trees which overhung the road were known as the "Wood End Oaks." A stile gave access to the wood, and a path running through it and across two meadows beyond was a short cut, which for pedestrians considerably shortened the way from Chelmsford.

I was not ill-pleased to find that I had reached the stile before Jack, for I was glad to seat myself upon it. I had not sat there many minutes when I saw Jack coming towards me through the wood. He gave a shout as he caught sight of me, and waved on high a letter.

"I was right, Nan," he cried, coming up. "I told you I should be sure to find a reply, and here it is! There can be no mistake about this." And he laid on my knee a letter directed in a small but clear hand to the "Proprietress, Gay Bowers, Greentree, near Chelmsford."

"Oh, yes, this is one at last," I said eagerly. "No ordinary correspondent would address auntie in that way; but of course the advertisement does not give her name. The handwriting looks like a man's."

"Oh, I don't know," said Jack; "many girls affect that style of writing."

"This is not a girl's writing," I said. "I like it. It is strong and original, and betokens intellectual tastes."

"Nonsense, Nan," said Jack; "you surely don't believe in telling people's characters by their handwriting and all that rubbish."

"It is not rubbish," I replied calmly. "I have often judged unknown persons by their handwriting, and I have seldom found myself mistaken in my conclusions."

"It is all pure imagination," said Jack, who had seated himself beside me on the stile in order to examine the envelope at his ease. "I may not be a genius—I rather think I am not—but at any rate I can make better G's and B's than that fellow, if it is a fellow. Where are you off to in such a hurry, Nan?"

"Why, home, of course," I said, as I sprang down, "to take Aunt Patty this letter and hear what it says."

"Ah! I guessed curiosity was moving you," he said.

"You have none, of course," I retorted. "If you had, it might soon be gratified, for auntie told me to invite you to take tea with us."

"I shall be most happy," said Jack, and he looked so pleased that I felt sure he was as curious concerning the contents of that envelope as I was.

We found Aunt Patty in the drawing-room. Our eager faces told her we brought news ere I gave her the letter.

It was not long, and she quickly scanned it; then said as she handed it to me:

"A nice letter, but not at all the kind of application I expected. The writer is a gentleman."

"I knew it," I said with a glance at Jack, and proceeded to read the following:

"Dear Madam,—I have recently returned from India, ill-health having compelled me to resign the professorship in an Anglo-Indian college which I have held for nearly five years. I am still somewhat of an invalid and find London life far too exhausting for my nerves. My physician advises me to live in the country for some months. Your advertisement seems to offer me the kind of home I desire, where I could pursue my studies in quiet and enjoy the advantages of a country life while keeping in touch with London. Will you kindly let me know whether you can give me a large and airy bedroom which I could also use to some extent as a study? Please state exactly on what terms you could offer it. A reply at your earliest convenience will greatly oblige."

"Yours faithfully,"
"ALAN FAULKNER."

"Oh, auntie!" I exclaimed as I put down the letter. "To think of our having a professor here! It seems to me rather alarming."

"I should not have thought you would have found it so," said Jack. "I expect he is quite harmless."

"I dare say he will be absorbed in his studies and won't expect much from us in the way of entertainment," said Aunt Patty. "He is human, if he is a professor, and I believe I can make him comfortable. The room above this is large and airy enough, I should think. We could easily screen off the bed and make it look like a sitting-room."

"You thought of putting two beds there," I said. "Yes, but I may have no application for a double-bedded room," she replied, "and he ought to have a large room if he is going to spend so much of his time in it. He will be a man to suit your father, Jack. I dare say they will draw together."

"I do hope for your sakes that he may not be so absent-minded as my dear progenitor," said Jack. "I am anxious as to what escapade he may commit when he is out of my sight. Did I ever tell you, Nan, how he once appeared wearing a girl's hat?"

"Jack, what can you mean?" I cried.

"It is a fact," he said. "It happened two years ago last summer. He had been taking a little holiday and visiting a cousin in Wales. I came up from school and met him at Paddington, that we might go home together. Imagine my astonishment when I saw him step out of the train wearing a round straw hat with long ribbon streamers at the back! How the people did stare!" "'Why, dad,' I said, 'whatever have you on your head? Is that the latest style for clerics?'"

"If you'll believe me, till I spoke, he had no idea there was anything wrong. He had donned a straw hat with his holiday garb. The day being hot, he took off his hat in the train, and a young girl seated in the same compartment also removed hers. He had to change trains rather hurriedly at a certain junction, and in his haste put on her hat in mistake for his own. I was thankful none of the school chaps were with me. You may be sure I hustled him into a cab pretty quickly."

"Oh, how ridiculous!" I cried, laughing heartily; "but, oh, that poor girl! What must have been her state of mind when she discovered what had happened, and found herself in possession of your father's hat?"

"Oh, that did not matter," said Jack. "Girls can wear anything."

Aunt was laughing too, although she had heard the story before.

"Well," she said merrily, "if Professor Faulkner is as absent-minded as that we shall not lack amusement."

We discussed the unknown Professor pretty thoroughly as we took our tea. I have often smiled since to think how wide of the mark were most of our conjectures. Aunt Patty lost no time in replying to his letter. The result was satisfactory. He wrote again giving excellent references and asking to be allowed to spend Easter with us. He would then be able to judge whether the place would suit him for a longer sojourn.

"A canny Scotsman," was aunt's comment, as she read this. "He is not going to commit himself to the unknown. Well, I do not blame him for that."

With considerable excitement and some perturbation, we looked forward to the stranger's arrival. On the very day we expected him, we had our second "bite," to use Jack's expressive metaphor.

CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST ARRIVAL

WHEN Thursday came I could see that Aunt Patty looked forward with some nervousness to the arrival of her guest. Everything was in readiness. The Professor would be hard to please if he did not like the pleasant room, to which aunt had added a bookcase and a writing-table, and contrived to give quite the appearance of a sitting-room.

"Will he care for any flowers, do you think, Nan?" aunt asked, as we put the finishing touches to its arrangement.

"Not if he is like the Vicar," I replied.

"He may surely have scholarly habits without being exactly like Mr. Upsher," aunt said with a smile. "I should put a few if I were you. A room looks so bare and unhomelike without them."

So I went into the garden and picked half-a-dozen of the lovely daffodils, which by this time had opened more freely, and put them, with some of their lance-like leaves, in a tall, slender vase which I placed on the Professor's writing-table.

I had been in the woods that morning and had brought home some of the first primroses, smelling so freshly of their mother Earth. Pleased with the effect of the daffodils, I brought a little bowl which I had filled with primroses resting amid tiny sprays of ivy, and stood it on the top of the low bookcase.

"The room does look nice," I said to myself then, "almost too nice for a dry old professor." I gave the fire a stir and went away to change my dress, for we did not expect our visitor till close upon dinner-time. He was coming by the six o'clock train, and Jack had volunteered to meet him and bring him to "Gay Bowers."

I made my toilet carefully enough to satisfy even Olive. The pretty evening blouse I wore, with transparent yoke and sleeves, was her handiwork, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that I looked well in it. My chestnut-brown hair, which Olive thought pretty, was deftly coiled, and I observed with some pleasure how well it contrasted with my black dress, yet I am certain that no idea of pleasing Professor Faulkner's eye ever crossed my mind. I never imagined that his mighty intellect could bend to observe the details of a girl's dress.

When I went downstairs I found Aunt Patty reading a letter, from which she looked up with an eager, excited countenance.

"The Vicar has been in," she said; "he came from Chelmsford and brought me this letter. When he was at the post-office on his own account, he thought he might as well ask if there were any letters for 'Gay Bowers.'"

"You don't mean it!" I exclaimed. "Really I should never have expected him to be so thoughtful."

"You are too hard on Mr. Upsher, Nan," said Aunt Patty. "I know he is often dreamy and absent-minded; but when there is a strong necessity for action, or real trouble anywhere, no one can be more kind and helpful."

"I am glad to hear it," I said. "But, auntie, the letter? It is surely not another application?"

"It is," she said, smiling, "and from an American gentleman! His name is Josiah Dicks, and he wants to know if I can accommodate him and his daughter, or rather, he calmly announces that they are coming here on Saturday, hoping to find that I can take them in. If not, he supposes they can put up at the village inn!"

"The village inn!" I exclaimed with a laugh. "That is hardly the place to suit a rich American; but, of course, there is a good hotel at Chelmsford. Is he rich, though?"

"I should imagine so," said my aunt, "since he says that he and his daughter have been 'all over Europe,' and now want to see a little of English rural life. It seems too that he is somewhat of an invalid and country air has been prescribed for him."

"How strange!" I exclaimed. "'Gay Bowers' seems about to be turned into a convalescent home. But I suppose the daughter is not an invalid. I shall be glad to have a girl here, if she is nice."

"The ways of American girls do not, I believe, always accord with English notions of what is becoming," said my aunt; "but I cannot speak from personal experience."

"Nor can I," was my reply. "I have never known an American girl intimately. Well, I hope they may prove desirable, for Mr. Josiah Dicks and his daughter would be a set-off to the Professor."

"You seem to be making rather a bugbear of that Professor, Nan," said my aunt.

"Not at all," I replied. "I expect him to be an amiable but rather melancholy individual with a yellow parchment-like skin and a chronic liver complaint."

I had hardly said the words when I heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. Aunt went quickly out and met Professor Faulkner in the hall. The rich deep tones in which he responded to her greeting came agreeably to my ears. Sweep had sprung forward barking angrily, as she did at every intruder, but was almost instantly quelled. I heard the stranger speak to her in tones that seemed to accompany a caress, and Sweep's bark was changed to a whine of pleasure. This was wonderful, for since uncle's death Sweep had shown herself antagonistic to all mankind. I began to feel curious, and I went forward, meaning to have a word with Jack ere he went away.

I could have laughed to think how different from my pre-conception of him was the individual my aunt now introduced to me. I saw a man rather above the middle height, upright, of energetic bearing, and looking little more than thirty years of age. His features were strong and regular; his eyes, of a deep sea-blue, had a very direct and searching gaze; his complexion was pale, but devoid of any tinge of yellow. He had fair hair, which he wore rather long. But detailed description must fail to portray the vivid, powerful personality with which I then made acquaintance. I thought later that he reminded me of an old picture of a Viking king which I had seen somewhere. He looked daring and resolute enough to be a leader of men. A scholar he certainly was; but no mere book-worm or dreamy idealist.

AUNT MET PROFESSOR FAULKNER IN THE HALL.

His appearance so took me by surprise that I hardly knew what to say, and blushed and stammered as I tried to welcome him, while his eyes searched my face as if they could read all that was passing in my mind. The evening had set in wet, but he did not seem to mind the rain in the least.

"A little water will not hurt me," he said, as Jack helped him off with his overcoat, "but I must confess I am rather sensitive to cold. That is the effect of a residence in India; but I shall soon get over it."

"And you are not afraid of the rigours of country life?" aunt said.

"Oh, no; I was brought up in the country, and I love it!" he answered heartily.

Then aunt took him upstairs to his room, and I was left alone with Jack, who looked rather out of humour.

"How different from the dry-as-dust old professor we expected!" I said to him. "He looks quite young."

"He says he is thirty-two," replied Jack. "I don't call that exactly juvenile."

"It may not seem so to eighteen," I responded loftily.

"I shall be nineteen in July," said Jack hastily, "and you are only a few months older, so there, Nan."

"I am aware of the fact," I said calmly, "and I consider myself quite old enough. We were not discussing my age but Professor Faulkner's."

"He does not like to be called Professor Faulkner," said Jack. "He told me so."

"Did he?" I said. "That is rather sensible of him. He seems very nice."

"Oh, of course, you'll think him so," said Jack impatiently. "Girls are always taken with a fellow who gives himself airs like that."

"Airs like what?" I asked, but Jack vouchsafed no reply, and aunt coming downstairs the next moment, he at once said that he must be off. She detained him while she told him about the Americans, a piece of news which seemed to cheer him somewhat. Then she reminded him that he and his father were to dine with us on the following evening, and he departed.

"Oh, auntie, how different from what we expected!" I said, as soon as we were alone in the drawing-room. "He is not in the least like the Vicar."

"Very different from what you expected," she retorted. "He is so pleased with his room, Nan. He says he feels that he has come to a haven of rest."

"How nice of him!" I said. "You like him, do you not, Auntie?"

"Yes," she said decidedly. "I feel sure that we shall find him easy to get on with, and I am not often mistaken in first impressions."

Our guest did not join us till the dinner-gong sounded. When he entered the dining-room I was glad that I had taken pains with my toilet, for he was carefully dressed, and a little cluster of my primroses adorned his dinner-jacket. He saw my eyes rest on them, and said with a smile:

"You cannot think how pleased I was to find some primroses in my room. It is years since I plucked an English primrose."

"You will be able to do so here," said my aunt; "they are coming out in our woods, and will be plentiful in a week or two."

"I am so glad to hear it," he said simply. "They will be a delight to me."

"Then you are not like the immortal Peter Bell?" I said, speaking my thought almost involuntarily.

"By no means," he said, smiling, "since all the joys of my childhood seem to live again for me when I see a primrose."

We got on marvellously well together on that first evening. Aunt and I found him such an interesting companion that we almost forgot how recent our acquaintance was. He talked a good deal about his life in India, and it was evident that he had relinquished his work there with great reluctance. He had met with sundry adventures there, too, of which he spoke in the simplest fashion, but which showed me he was a man of fine courage and a good sportsman. I thought that Jack would like him better when he came to know more about him.

He made very light of the health failure which had brought him home. It was the result of the warm, moist climate of the place of his sojourn. He had got the better of the feverish attacks which had prostrated him. What he lacked now was nervous strength, and that he believed the fresh air and repose of the country would soon restore.

When he said this, Aunt Patty explained that I too was suffering from nervous exhaustion, and, rather to my vexation, told the story of my disappointment. But as I met his look of perfect comprehension and sympathy, I felt that I did not mind in the least.

"Ah, Miss Nan, don't I know what that meant for you!" he said. It was strange how from the first he fell into the way of addressing me as "Miss Nan," just as if he had known me all my life. And stranger still it was that, though I was rather wont to stand on my dignity, I felt no inclination to resent his thus dispensing with ceremony.

"It did seem hard at first," I murmured, "but now I don't mind."

"I know," he said. "It went sorely against the grain with me when I found that I must resign my post at the college, and go back to England. My students were very dear to me, and I hoped that I was impressing some of them for good. But there was no alternative—if I would go on living. So you and I have the same duty before us at present—to lay up a fresh store of energy."

"I have found it an easy duty so far," I said cheerfully.

"Indeed, in this fair home, with the spring unfolding about us, and all the lovely summer to come, it promises to be a delightful one," was his ready response.

So a bond of mutual comprehension was at once established between me and Alan Faulkner.

Aunt Patty got on with him equally well, and I could see by the way in which he listened to her and deferred to her that he felt the attraction of her unaffected goodness and kindness.

Nor was the Vicar less pleased when he made the acquaintance of our guest on the following evening. He found an affinity with the Professor at once, and showed a desire to monopolise his attention; but whenever, as we sat at the table, their talk threatened to become too abstruse, Mr. Faulkner would seek, by some explanatory word, to draw me and aunt into it, or would try to divert it into a more ordinary channel. How deep they plunged, or how far back in human history they went after we left them to themselves, I cannot say. Their conversation soon wearied Jack, for within five minutes, he joined us in the drawing-room.

Jack was in rather a perverse mood.

"I suppose that is the sort of chap the governor would like me to be," he growled, "able to jaw on learned subjects in that conceited fashion."

"Then I am afraid he will be disappointed," I said severely; "for even if you succeed in passing your exam, you will never be in the least like Mr. Faulkner."

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it!" he said with a disagreeable laugh.

It was so odd of Jack to take such a dislike to the Professor. I never saw the least trace of conceit in his bearing, and he showed the utmost consideration for Jack. I was vexed with the boy for being so unreasonable; but it was of no use my saying anything—he only grew worse.

For my part the more I saw of Alan Faulkner, the better I liked him. I was glad we had time to get well acquainted with him before any other guests arrived. For aunt's sake I was, of course, glad, but otherwise I could have regretted that the Americans were coming on the morrow.

CHAPTER VII

THE AMERICANS

MR. JOSIAH DICKS and his daughter arrived on the following day, just as we were about to sit down to luncheon. They drove in a fly from Chelmsford and brought with them a goodly array of trunks and valises, though they presently explained that this represented but a fraction of their luggage.

He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man, and had the yellow, parchment-like complexion with which I had credited Professor Faulkner; but his restless movements and keen, alert glances showed him to be very much alive. His forehead was bald, save for a wisp of hair which stood up on it in such a manner as to give him somewhat the appearance of a cockatoo. His daughter was a tall, slight, smart-looking girl. Her face was rather pasty in its colouring; but the sharp, piquant features were not devoid of charm. She wore a most remarkable hat, with so many wings sticking out of it that one shuddered to think how many small birds had been slaughtered for the gratification of her vanity. I could not admire it, yet it was of a style that suited her. She was a striking figure as she entered the house wearing a long, drab travelling coat with gilt buttons, and a magnificent boa of Russian sable, with a muff of the same fur, depending from her neck by a gold chain.

"So this is 'Gay Bowers!'" she said in a high, thin voice with the unmistakable enunciation of an American as she looked about her, frankly observant, "and really it is as pretty as its name. I call this old hall perfectly lovely."

"It's real antique, this," said her father, speaking with a still more striking accent, "that staircase now—"

But here my aunt's advance cut short his words.

"Mr. Dicks, I believe?" she said.

"Right you are, ma'am," he replied; "you see Josiah Dicks of Indianapolis, and this is my daughter, Pollie—or, as she prefers to be called, Paulina. We've come, as I wrote you we should, and I hope you can take us in."

"I have some vacant rooms which I shall be happy to show you," said Aunt Patty, "but we were just going to lunch; will you not sit down with us, and we can discuss business matters later."

"I guess that will suit us excellently, eh! What say you, Pollie?" was his response. "The fact is, we left our hotel soon after ten, and the fresh country air on the way hither has given a decided edge to our appetites."

I took Miss Dicks to my room to refresh herself after the journey. She sniffed with her pretty little nose as we went up the staircase, and said, "How deliciously fresh it smells here! I hate the smell of London, don't you? Are there many people staying in the house?"

"Why, no," I said, rather embarrassed by the question. "You see it is a new thing for us to have boarders at 'Gay Bowers,' and at present there are only ourselves and Mr. Faulkner."

She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, to be sure, and I thought there would be twenty at least! I looked forward to music and dancing in the evening!"

I felt inclined to laugh too, but I answered gravely, "Then I am afraid our home will hardly suit you, for it is small, as you see, and we could never accommodate more than half the number you name."

"I see," she said with a little pout. "Well, I must make the best of it now, I suppose. I like the look of the lady, Mrs.—what is her name?"

"Mrs. Lucas," I said; "she is my aunt."

"Oh!" Thereupon she turned and looked at me from head to foot with a thoroughness which let slip no detail of my appearance. My colour rose, yet I gave her credit for intending no insolence by her cool survey.

A moment later, as she removed her hat with her eyes on the mirror, I took the opportunity to observe her more closely. Her hair was a pale brown and fairly plentiful. It presented an arrangement of poufs and combs, and tortoiseshell ornaments, which was quite novel to me. I found it more extraordinary than beautiful, though when I got used to the style I saw that it suited her.

The travellers had acquired the art of quickly making themselves at home. As we took our luncheon they spoke and acted as if "Gay Bowers" belonged to them. More than once I saw Aunt Patty flush with resentment at what she evidently considered an impertinence. But she had the good sense to hide her annoyance.

Cook, knowing that strangers were expected, had risen to the occasion and sent up some very dainty dishes. Josiah Dicks did ample justice to her excellent pastry, although he assured us he was a martyr to dyspepsia.

When luncheon was over, aunt offered to show our visitors the rooms she could give them. As they followed her from the room, Miss Dicks turned and said to me in a very audible undertone, "How very good-looking he is!" She jerked her head towards the window where Alan Faulkner stood playing with Sweep. It was extraordinary how that dog had taken to him. Ever since my arrival I had sought in vain to coax her into accompanying me on my walks. She had always preferred to wander alone about uncle's favourite haunts, or to crouch disconsolately on the mat outside his former sanctum; but now she was ready to follow Mr. Faulkner anywhere.

"Oh, hush!" I responded in a whisper to Miss Dicks's remark. "He may hear you."

"Would it matter if he did?" she returned coolly. "Men like to be told that they are good-looking."

"That may be," I replied; "but it is a taste I should not care to gratify."

She laughed.

"Pollie Dicks," called her father from the staircase, "are you coming to choose your room?"

"He means to stay," she said to me with a sagacious nod, "and I've no objection."

When she came downstairs a little later, Aunt Patty told me that Miss Dicks had chosen the room on the left of mine. It was a large room, commanding the front of the house. Her father had had to content himself with a smaller room at the back.

"He seems much pleased with the place," said my aunt, "but his daughter is evidently afraid of finding it dull."

"Do you like them, auntie?" I asked.

An odd smile crossed her face.

"They are mortals," she said. "I don't quite know what to make of them, but I mean to like them, Nan. I cannot afford to quarrel with my bread and butter."

"Still, I do think that they might have behaved a little more like 'guests' at luncheon," I said. "Mr. Dicks asked for 'crackers' just as if he were in an hotel."

"I must confess that I felt rather riled for a moment," said my aunt; "but I am sure he did not mean to annoy me. They are evidently used to hotel life, and they cannot guess, nor do I wish that they should, how it feels to me to receive strangers thus into my home. My common-sense tells me that I must not allow myself to be over-sensitive. I only hope Mr. Faulkner will like them."

"He seems to like them," I said.

Indeed I had been astonished to see the friendly interest in the newcomers which he displayed, and the readiness with which he talked to them.

The following day was Easter Sunday, and for once the weather was all that one could wish it to be upon that day. It was not exactly warm, but the sun shone brightly, and there was a delicious, indescribable feeling of spring in the air. The trees were budding, and the hedges breaking into leaf. Every day now showed some fresh sign of spring's advance.

We all went to church in the morning. Mr. Dicks was struck with the venerable beauty of our church, but he was severe in his criticism of the service and the sermon. He had no patience with the defects of our choir, and certainly their singing was very rural. He was anxious to impress us with the superior order of things to be found in America.

Jack joined us after the service, and we all, with the exception of my aunt, took a short walk before luncheon. Mr. Dicks explained that he was not fond of walking, but that his doctor had advised him to walk several miles every day. His daughter frankly said that she hated it, and certainly the smart pointed shoes she wore appeared ill adapted to our country roads. I saw Mr. Faulkner looking at them, and wondered whether he were admiring, or merely struck, as I was, with their unsuitability.

"Pollie is fond of cycling," said Mr. Dicks, looking at me. "Do you cycle?"

"I can," I said, "but unfortunately I have no bicycle of my own. I use my sister's sometimes when I am at home."

"That is a pity," he said. "Pollie's machine will be sent down to-morrow. It would be nice if you could ride with her."

"Do you cycle?" asked Miss Dicks, turning to Mr. Faulkner.

"I have not ridden since I came back from India," he said.

"Did you ride there?" she asked.

"Yes; I often rode with my students," he said. "In the province where I was living the roads were as smooth and level as a billiard-table, so that riding was delightful."

"Then I don't wonder that you have not ridden since," Jack said.

"Are the roads very bad about here?" she asked, glancing at him. "You ride, of course?"

"They are not so bad," he replied, "but I don't say they would compare favourably with a billiard-table."

"You will ride with me, won't you?" she said to him with a fascinating smile.

"With pleasure," he responded, adding loyally, "and we'll hire a machine at Chelmsford, so that Miss Nan can accompany us."

"And you will come, too, will you not?" she said, turning towards Professor Faulkner.

I did not hear his reply, for at that moment Mr. Dicks addressed a question to me; but it struck me that she was rather a forward young woman.

Two days later a consignment of trunks arrived for Miss Dicks. She had already displayed such a variety of pretty and fashionable changes of attire that I wondered how many more clothes she had. Judging by the size of her trunks she might have had a different gown for each day of the year.

She appeared delighted to receive her luggage, and spent the greater part of the next day in her room, engaged in unpacking the boxes. Late in the afternoon I was going upstairs when I heard a voice calling, "Nan, Nan!" Glancing upwards, I saw Miss Dicks standing at the door of her room. I had not given her permission to address me by my Christian name, and it would not have occurred to me to call her "Pollie." But this was only another instance of the inimitable coolness with which she made herself at home with us all. I could only conclude that her free and easy bearing was typically American, and endeavour to reconcile myself to it with as good a grace as possible.

"Do come here, Nan, and look at my things," she cried as she saw me.

As I entered her room I exclaimed at the sight it presented. Bed, sofa, table, chairs, and even the floor were littered with all kinds of choice and pretty things, making the place look like a bazaar. There were mosaics and marbles from Italy, Roman lamps, conchas, cameos, exquisite bits of Venetian glass, corals and tortoise-shells from Naples, silk blankets from Como, and olive-wood boxes from Bellagio. But it is vain to attempt to name all the things that met my eyes. I think there were specimens of the arts and manufactures of every place which she and her father had visited.

"Oh, how lovely!" I exclaimed. "But what will you do with all these things? Are you going to open a shop?"

"Not exactly," she said with a laugh. "I am going to take them back to America with me. Some are for myself, and some for my friends. Father wanted me not to unpack them till we got them home, but I felt that I must look and see if they were all safe."

For the next half-hour I had nothing to do but admire. There were little boxes packed with small and rare ornaments, which she opened one by one to show me the contents. I felt sure now that Josiah Dicks must be a millionaire. It was a delight to me to see so many pretty things, and their possessor seemed to enjoy my appreciation of them.

"Aunt Maria begged me to buy everything I wanted. She said, 'Now don't come home and say "I wish I had bought this, that, or the other." Get all that pleases you while you are there,'" Miss Dicks explained.

"You seem to have obeyed her most thoroughly," I remarked. "Does your aunt live with you at home?"

"Yes, I have no mother, you know," she said. "She died when I was a child. She nursed my little brother through scarlet fever. He died, and then she took it and died."

She told me this in the most matter-of-fact way; but somehow I felt differently towards her after she said that. I was feeling rather envious of the girl who had carte blanche to spend money so lavishly, and wondering what Olive and Peggy would say when they heard of it, but now I felt that, though we girls had so few of the things that money could buy, yet, as long as we had father and mother and one another, we were richer than Paulina Dicks.

When I had looked at everything, she startled me by saying:

"Now I want you to choose something for yourself."

My colour rose as I replied by saying hurriedly:

"Oh, no, I cannot do that!"

"Why not?" she asked, surveying me with frank surprise. "When you see that I have such heaps of things? I can never make use of them all myself." But I still decidedly declined.

"Take this coral necklace," she said. "You were admiring it, and it would look pretty on the black frock you wear of an evening. Why, what is the matter with you? Are you proud? I believe you are, for you never call me by my name, although I call you 'Nan.'"

"I will call you whatever you please," I said, "but I cannot accept any of your pretty things, for you did not buy them for me."

"No, because I did not know you when I bought them; but I meant to give a good many away. Oh, very well, Miss Darracott, I see you do not mean to be friendly with Paulina Dicks!"

So in the end I had to yield, and accepted a little brooch of Florentine mosaic, which I have to this day. And I promised that I would call her Paulina.

"Paulina Adelaide is my name," she said. "No one calls me Pollie except my father. And one other person," she added, as an afterthought.

Presently she asked me if I thought Mrs. Lucas would like to see her collection of pretty things. I said I was sure that she would, and ran to call my aunt. When aunt came, Paulina exhibited everything afresh, and described in an amusing fashion how she had made some of her purchases. The dressing-bell rang ere aunt had seen everything. Then their owner plaintively observed that she did not know how she should get them all into their boxes again. Unpacking was much easier than packing, she feared. Thereupon aunt and I pledged ourselves to help her after dinner, with the result that we were busy in her room till nearly midnight.

Paulina came to the dinner-table wearing a set of quaint cameo ornaments, which excited Mr. Faulkner's attention. It appeared that he knew something of cameos. He had passed through Italy on his way home from India, and he and the Americans were soon comparing their experiences of Vesuvius, Sorrento, and Capri, or discussing the sights of Rome.

I listened in silence, feeling out of it all and rather discontented as I compared Paulina's exquisitely-made Parisian frock with my own homely white blouse. I must have looked bored when suddenly I became aware that Alan Faulkner was observing me with a keen, penetrating glance that seemed to read my very thoughts.

"We are wearying Miss Nan with our traveller's talk," he said. "She has yet to learn the fascination of Italy. But the time will come, Miss Nan."

"Never!" I said almost bitterly. "I see not the least chance of such good fortune for me, and therefore I will not let my mind dwell on the delights of travel!"

The look of wonder and regret with which Alan Faulkner regarded me made me instantly ashamed of the morose manner in which I had responded to his kindly remark. I heartily wished that I could recall my words, or remove the impression they had created.

"Whatever he may think of Pollie Dicks," I said to myself as we rose from the table, "he cannot help seeing that she is more good-natured than I am."

CHAPTER VIII

A PRINCELY GIFT

"IS Miss Nan here?" asked Mr. Dicks, opening the door of the drawing-room, where I had been pouring out tea for Aunt Patty and such of her guests as liked the fragrant beverage. Josiah Dicks never drank tea; his daughter took it with a slice of lemon in Russian fashion.

"Yes, I am here," I responded. "What can I do for you, Mr. Dicks?"

"Just come this way, young lady, that is all," he said. "I have something to show you."

As I rose and went towards him, I saw a look of amusement on Alan Faulkner's face. Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other as I passed him. He and I got a little quiet fun sometimes out of the Americans. I could not help thinking that he wanted to come too and see whatever Mr. Dicks had to show me.

It was a lovely day towards the end of April, the first really warm day we had had. The hall door was open. Signing to me to follow him, Josiah Dicks led the way to the back of the house, where was the tool-house in which Pollie's bicycle was kept. She had already taken one or two rides with Jack Upsher, but there had been some little difficulty in hiring a bicycle for me, and I had not yet had a ride with her.

As I approached the tool-house I saw Paulina within, flushed with sundry exertions. She had just removed the last wrapping from a brand-new machine.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Another bicycle! What can you want with two?" Her beautiful machine had already moved me to admiration, if not to envy, and here she was with another first-class one!

"Pollie does not want two, but I guess you can do with one," said Mr. Dicks. "This is yours, Miss Nan."

I think I was never so taken aback in my life. I did not know what to say. It seemed impossible that I could accept so valuable a gift from one who was almost a stranger; yet I could see that both Josiah Dicks and his daughter would be dreadfully hurt if I refused it. I knew too that he did not like the idea of Paulina's riding about the country alone, and that this was his way of securing a companion for her. I tried to say that I would regard it as a loan; but that would not do. I had to accept it. I had heard mother say that it sometimes takes more grace to receive a gift than to bestow one, and I felt the truth of the words now. I fear I expressed my thanks very awkwardly, yet I was truly grateful in spite of my overwhelming sense of obligation.

"You must try it," cried Paulina eagerly. "Let us take it round to the front of the house, and I'll mount you."

In a few minutes I was riding up and down the short drive before the house. Mr. Faulkner caught sight of me from the drawing-room window, and he and aunt came out to see what it meant. Aunt Patty was as much astonished as I was by Josiah Dicks's munificence; but she had more presence of mind and thanked him very warmly for his kindness to me.

"That's all right," he said; "you've no need to thank me. It's just as it should be. I like to see young people enjoy themselves. They'll never be young but once."

Meanwhile Mr. Faulkner had been quietly examining my machine, and he told me, in an aside, that it had all the latest improvements, and was one of the best he had ever seen.

Certainly I found it an easy one to ride, and after a little practice I began to feel as if it were part of myself. It was too late for us to do much that day; but Paulina got out her machine, and we rode as far as the village. As we passed the Vicarage we caught sight of Jack in the garden. He shouted as he saw me spinning by, and I had to halt and show him my delightful gift. He seemed almost as pleased as I was. We arranged forthwith to ride with him on the following afternoon. After dinner, I managed to get away by myself for a time, and wrote a long letter to mother, for I felt that I must tell her about my present.

It would not be easy to say how much enjoyment I derived from Mr. Dicks's gift. As long as the weather continued fair, Paulina and I rode every day. Jack accompanied us as often as he could, and was sorely tempted to curtail the time he devoted to his studies. Then one morning, Mr. Faulkner went to London by an early train, and when he came back in the evening he brought a bicycle with him. After that he too was often our companion. If we rode out a party of four, Jack always elected to ride beside me, while Paulina seemed equally bent on securing Mr. Faulkner as her escort, so that I had little opportunity of talking with him. This vexed me somewhat, for Alan Faulkner had generally interesting things to tell one, whereas Jack's never-ceasing flow of small talk was apt to become a trifle wearisome. We had some delightful rides and visited most of the picturesque villages or fine old churches within twenty miles of "Gay Bowers." But after Miss Cottrell came to stay with us, I was less free to scour the country.

Colonel Hyde and Miss Cottrell arrived about the same time, when spring was merging into summer, and we fondly hoped that cold winds were over. There was no other connection between these two individuals. The Colonel was an old friend of Mr. Upsher's. He was Jack's godfather, and being a widower and childless, the chief attraction "Gay Bowers" had for him was that it was so near Greentree Vicarage.

Miss Cottrell might have been fifty. She informed Aunt Patty that she was thirty-nine, and my aunt charitably believed her, though she certainly looked much older. She was fond of the country, and her coming was simply the result of seeing our advertisement. She furnished aunt with references to persons of good social standing, yet somehow she always struck us as not being exactly a gentlewoman. She said she had been a governess for many years, a fact which perhaps accounted for her worn and faded appearance, but had taught only in the "best families." As she occasionally let fall an "h" or made a slip in grammar, we came to the conclusion that the "best families" known to her had not a high standard of education. She was fond of talking of a certain Lady Mowbray, with whom she had lived in closest intimacy for many years. "Dear Lady Mowbray" was quoted on every possible occasion, till we grew rather weary of her name, and longed to suggest that she should be left to rest in her grave in peace. We knew she was dead, for Miss Cottrell had spoken of the "handsome legacy" which this friend had left her. This sum of money, together with some property she had inherited from an uncle, had rendered it unnecessary for her longer to "take a situation," a consummation for which she seemed devoutly thankful.

Yet Miss Cottrell was by no means of an indolent nature. She prided herself on her active habits, and was especially fond of gardening. Her love for this pursuit brought her into collision with old Hobbes, our gardener. He could not forgive her for presuming to instruct him on certain points, and when she offered to help him, he well-nigh resigned his post. In order to secure peace between them, aunt had to make over to her a tiny plot of ground, where she could grow what she liked, and make what experiments she pleased, Hobbes being strictly forbidden to interfere with it. The scorn with which he regarded her attempts at horticulture was sublime.

Unfortunately, though fond of exercise, Miss Cottrell did not care for solitary walks, and I often felt it incumbent on me to be her companion. Her society was far from agreeable to me. It was wonderful how little we had in common. Although she had been a governess, she seemed absolutely without literary tastes, and even devoid of all ideas that were not petty and trivial. Every attempt to hold an intelligent conversation with her brought me face to face with a dead wall.

All she cared for was to dwell on personal details of her own life or the lives of others. She had an insatiable curiosity, and was for ever asking me questions concerning my aunt or her guests, or my own home life, which I could not or would not answer. Her love of gossip led her to visit daily the one small shop the village could boast, and marvellous were the tales she brought us from thence. She was ready to talk to any one and every one whom she might encounter. She was fond of visiting the cottagers, and they appreciated her visits, for she listened attentively to the most garrulous, and told them what to do for their rheumatism or cramp, and how to treat the ailments of their children. I must say she was very kind-hearted; her good nature and her love of flowers were her redeeming qualities.

She professed to admire the Vicar's preaching, and she often found cause to visit the Vicarage. She paid both the Vicar and his friend the Colonel more attention than they could appreciate. And the worst of it was that she was slower to take a hint than any one I had ever known. How Aunt Patty bore with her irritating ways I cannot tell. Miss Cottrell certainly put a severe strain upon the politeness and forbearance of her hostess. She was not a bad sort of woman, but only insufferably vulgar, tactless and ill-bred.

Paulina made fun of her, yet neither she nor her father seemed to object to Miss Cottrell's cross-questioning, or to shun her society; but Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner would make their escape from the drawing-room whenever it was possible, if that lady entered it. Aunt confessed to me that she longed to dismiss this unwelcome guest, but had no sufficient excuse.

She had not been with us very long when Josiah Dicks had an attack of illness. Miss Cottrell, having wrung from me the statement that I believed him to be a millionaire, evinced the utmost interest in the American. She annoyed me very much by saying that she could see that Professor Faulkner was looking after his money by courting Paulina. Nothing could be farther from the truth. It was, of course, possible that Alan Faulkner might be attracted by Paulina, but he was not the man to woo her for the sake of her father's wealth. But it was absurd of me to mind what such a one as Miss Cottrell said.

Though he was very far from well, Mr. Dicks would not stay in his room, but hung about the house looking the colour of one of the sovereigns he spent so lavishly. Miss Cottrell was full of sympathy for him. She suggested various remedies, which he tried one after another, while he rejected Aunt Patty's sensible advice that he should send for a medical man from Chelmsford.

Miss Cottrell's solicitude contrasted oddly with Paulina's apparent indifference. When she came downstairs the next morning she was wearing a hat, and carried a coat over her arm, and she said quite calmly as she took her place at the breakfast-table:

"Poppa says he is worse. He has been in awful pain all night, and has not slept a wink. He thinks he is dying."

"My dear," ejaculated Aunt Patty, "I am distressed to hear it. And are you going for the doctor?"

"Oh, no," said Paulina, opening her eyes widely. "He isn't dying, you know. I am going to London."

"On his account—to get him medicine perhaps?" suggested my aunt anxiously.

Paulina glanced across the table with amusement in her eyes.

"I am going to London to have a new gown fitted," she said, "and to do some shopping."

"But, my dear Miss Dicks, what will your father do without you? Is it well that you should leave him alone all day when he is suffering so?"

My aunt looked amazed as she put these queries.

"Oh, he says now that he will see a doctor," Paulina replied. "I can call and tell him to come if he lives near the station. I should do Poppa no good by staying at home. He has had these attacks before, and they will take their course. I knew he would be ill when I saw him eating that salmon."

"But would you not like to see the doctor yourself?" aunt said. "Cannot you put off going to London for a day or two?"

"That would inconvenience Madame Hortense," Paulina said gravely. "No, I had better keep my appointment. I know you will look after Poppa, Mrs. Lucas, and you will help her, will you not, Miss Cottrell?"

"Indeed, I shall be happy to do anything I can for him," said that spinster with indubitable sincerity. "I have had to do with sick people before now."

Having thus easily rid herself of responsibility, Paulina was soon off on her bicycle for Chelmsford. She found time to call at the doctor's, for he arrived at "Gay Bowers" a little later. He did not think seriously of his patient, but said he needed care. Aunt and Miss Cottrell were busy for some time carrying out the doctor's instructions. Aunt Patty told me afterwards that Miss Cottrell was most useful in a sickroom. All her little vanities and affectations vanished in the presence of a need which she could relieve, and she showed herself a sensible, capable, helpful woman.

When Paulina got back in the evening she found her father no longer in pain, and sound asleep.

"Say, didn't I tell you he would soon be better? He always thinks he is going to die when he gets these attacks."

"I must say that when I saw him this morning, I felt very uneasy," replied my aunt.

"Ah, you do not know him as well as I do," was her rejoinder. "I never let these attacks alarm me. See now, I called at the post-office, and found this letter for you."

The letter proved to be from my Aunt Clara, and interested me considerably. She wrote to ask if aunt could find room in her house for my cousin Agneta. Manchester did not suit her. She was out of health, suffering from general depression, and needed a thorough change. "I thought it would be nice for her to stay in your house while Annie is there," she wrote; "they are about the same age, and will enjoy being together."

I received this proposal with mingled emotions. I hardly knew my cousin, and was by no means sure that I should enjoy having her at "Gay Bowers." Her upbringing had been so different from mine, that I fancied we should have little in common. Aunt Clara had never before shown any desire that her children should become acquainted with her sister's family. I wondered that she should now deem it "nice" that I and Agneta should meet.

"There is one thing to be said about it, Nan," remarked my aunt. "I have no room to give her; if she comes she must share yours."

As soon as I heard that, I was certain that I did not wish Agneta to come. I hated the idea of having to share my pleasant room with another girl, and the fact that the girl in question was my cousin did not reconcile me to it. It seemed essential to my happiness that I should have some place, however small, for my very own, to which I could retreat when I wanted to possess my soul in peace.

"Oh, auntie," I said, "could you not tell Miss Cottrell that you will not longer have room for her?"

"Impossible, Nan; I could not treat her so unhandsomely, especially since she has been so kind and helpful with poor Mr. Dicks. Never mind, dear; you shall not share your room with your cousin if you would rather not."

"Oh, I do not mind if there is no other way," I felt constrained to say; but I did mind very much, and when Aunt Patty said that she would write to Mrs. Redmayne, and explain that this was the only arrangement she could make, I devoutly hoped that Aunt Clara would object to Agneta's sharing a room with me.

CHAPTER IX

MISS COTTRELL'S ALIAS

MY hopes were doomed to disappointment. Aunt Clara wrote that Agneta would be only too pleased to share my room, as she had a nervous dread of sleeping alone in a strange place. So I had to resign myself to the inevitable, and I tried to do it with as good a grace as possible. Aunt Clara said that she would like Agneta to join us in the following week; thus my room had soon to be prepared for another occupant. There was ample space in it for two bedsteads, and aunt had everything arranged very comfortably, but for me, its charm had gone when it was no longer my own sanctum.

"It may not be for long, Nan," my aunt said, reading my thoughts, as together we inspected the new arrangements. "I cannot tell how long these guests will remain with me. I naturally hope they will stay all the summer, but I shall be exceptionally fortunate if they do. When there is another room vacant Agneta shall have it."

"You forget that she does not like to sleep alone," I said. "Oh, it will be all right, auntie. I dare say we shall get on nicely together, and it will be better for you, for then you can let the vacant room to some one else."

"If any one else wants it," said Aunt Patty smiling. "I am really very thankful to have all my rooms occupied. It makes things much easier, and it might have been so different."

That day I received a box from home. It struck me as a curious coincidence, when I perceived that it contained the evening gown that had belonged to my cousin, but was now to be worn by me. I had asked Olive to send it as soon as possible, for I felt altogether too dowdy of an evening in contrast with Paulina's splendour, to say nothing of Miss Cottrell's tasteless efforts at display. Veiled with black grenadine, and finished with dainty frills and furbelows by Olive's clever fingers, the pink gown was so transformed, that I doubted if even its former wearer would recognise it. As I examined it, I remembered the spots we had seen on the bodice, which Olive had declared to be tears. Surely she was mistaken!

Then I saw that Olive had pinned a little note to the sleeve.

"Dearest Nan," she wrote, "I do hope you will like this frock. I really feel that I have succeeded beyond my hopes. Last night I tried it on, and even mother said it was very pretty, while Peggy grew green with envy, and declares she shall ask Aunt Patty to have her another year. Is it not funny to think that you will wear it before the eyes of its former owner? I hardly think, though, that she will know it again. We were so surprised to hear of Aunt Clara's plan, and only think, Agneta is to break her journey in London, and will stay a night here, so we shall all see her! Aunt Clara gives a poor account of her though, says she is nervous, depressed, excitable, and difficult to manage at home, and hints that it is all owing to a 'foolish fancy' for a man who is a 'sad detrimental.' Poor little cousin to have lost her heart so soon, and to one of whom her parents disapprove! Peggy says that it makes her as interesting as the heroine of a penny novelette. We all look forward to seeing her, and mother is going to write and ask her to stay a few days with us. Do write soon and say how you like the frock and tell us the latest about Pollie Dicks."

"Your loving sister,"
"OLIVE."

"So those were tears!" I said to myself, as I folded up Olive's letter. "Poor Agneta! I wonder what the 'sad detrimental' is like. She is to be sent down here to be well out of his way. Probably it is not so much that Manchester does not suit her, as that it does not suit Aunt Clara to keep her in Manchester just now. I wonder how she likes being banished to this rural solitude." And I, as well as my sisters, began to look forward with some curiosity to making our cousin's acquaintance.

We expected Agneta about the middle of the week, but mother succeeded in keeping her for a day or two, and sent us word that she would come on Saturday. An early train was named, and Aunt Patty asked me to drive into Chelmsford in the "sociable" and meet my cousin at the station. It was a lovely day, and I ran cheerfully to get ready. I was so glad that Agneta should arrive on a day when "Gay Bowers" was looking its best. Already there were roses opening their pink petals against the wall of the house, and the flower-beds were bright with scarlet geraniums and verbenas. Through the staircase window I caught sight of Miss Cottrell's garden hat away in the corner to which she devoted her energies, and was glad to think that she was engaged in gardening. Paulina, I knew, was busy with letters, which she meant to "mail" later, so I hoped to get off by myself on this occasion.

But I congratulated myself too soon. When I came downstairs the carriage was not yet at the door, but Miss Cottrell came hurrying in from the garden.

"Are you going to Chelmsford to meet your cousin?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, putting on my gloves with an air of haste.

"Can I go with you?" she asked. "I want to change my book at the railway stall."

"You had better let me do that for you," I said. "I must be off in three minutes."

"Oh, but I can be ready in that time," she said, "and there are other things I want to do in town."

"Very well, if you will not make me late for the train," I said coldly.

I felt sure that nothing short of telling her I did not want her would deliver me from her company.

She was back again almost as soon as the conveyance drove up. She had changed her hat and added a gauzy ruffle, which was rather incongruous, to the morning blouse which so ill-became her heavy thick-set figure. She looked an odd individual, and I could not help wondering what Agneta would think of her.

The fresh air and the sweet scent of the hedges, on which the may blossom still lingered, soon soothed my ruffled feelings, and I tried to respond amiably to Miss Cottrell's remarks.

"Now where do you wish to be put down?" I asked as we drove into the town. "If you are coming back with us, you must not be very long, or we shall all be late for luncheon."

"Oh, I will go straight to the station," she replied. "I like to be there when the train comes in. One sees life at a railway station, as dear Lady Mowbray used to say."

So it seemed that her business was a mere pretext for assisting at the meeting between me and the cousin of whom, as she had already discovered, I knew so little! I felt both cross and contemptuous; but my vexation vanished when the train came in, for a delightful surprise awaited me. One of the first persons to step on to the platform was my father!

"Oh, father, it is never you!" I cried, feeling ready to hug him. "How nice of you to come!"

"Nice for myself you mean," he said. "I felt it high time I came and saw how my Nan was getting on—to say nothing of your Aunt Patty and her 'paying guests'—so I thought I would bring your cousin down and have a peep at you all."

So saying he turned and gave his hand to a fair, slender girl, who stepped lightly from the carriage. I saw at a glance that she was very pretty, but her face was colourless, and, though she shook hands with me pleasantly enough, her manner showed a strange lack of animation. She wore a grey travelling gown, and a red hat which made me think of Olive's riddle.

"I am so glad you have such a nice day," I said. "It is really warm at last. I hope you like the country."

"Oh, yes, I like it well enough," she said indifferently. "It seems rather pretty about here."

"How well you look, Nan!" said my father. "You are not like the same girl whom I saw off from Liverpool Street four months ago. I hope 'Gay Bowers' will do as much for your cousin; she needs some roses badly. Why, Miss Smith, who would have thought of seeing you here? How are you?"

To my amazement I saw that it was Miss Cottrell whom he thus addressed. She shrank back, her face crimson.

"You are mistaken," she stammered, "my name is not Smith."

"Then you have changed it since I last saw you; you are married, I suppose," he said pleasantly; "for we certainly called you Miss Smith at the 'Havelock Arms.'"

"The ''Avelock Arms!'" she stammered. Her h's always dropped when she was agitated.

"Why, father, this is Miss Cottrell," I said, pitying her embarrassment as she grew redder and redder.

"Then she has changed her name," said my father, looking at her in astonishment, "for it was as Miss Smith I knew her in Devonshire. I used to stay sometimes at her uncle's inn, a very pleasant place of sojourn on the border of Dartmoor, where I went for the sake of fishing. But it must be nearly twenty years since I was last there. I heard only the other day that John Smith and his wife were both dead and the inn had changed hands. That is true, I suppose?"

He looked keenly at her as he spoke, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. She was crimson. Her face was the picture of misery and shame. But it was clear that my father had not the least doubt of her identity with Miss Smith, and she dared not deny it.

"Yes, my uncle and aunt have passed away," she said awkwardly. "I do not remember that I ever saw you at their house. There are so many Smiths in the world that I thought I should like another name and took that of Cottrell, which was my mother's. I hope there is no harm in that?"

"Not at all; this is a free country, and it is not an unheard-of thing for people to change their names," said my father, anxious now to relieve the embarrassment which he had innocently caused. "I must see about your luggage, Agneta. Is there a conveyance outside, Nan?"

"John and the wagonette are there," I said. "Come, Agneta, we may as well take our seats."

Father was about to shake hands with Miss Cottrell when I said hurriedly:

"Miss Cottrell is coming with us, father; she is staying at 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Oh, that is right," he said quickly, but I saw a gleam of amusement leap into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

Poor Miss Cottrell looked utterly bewildered and crestfallen as she followed us to the wagonette. She hardly said a word as we drove homewards. Father and I had a great deal to say to one another. I wanted to hear all the home news, but I tried to draw Agneta into the talk. As I observed her, it struck me that she was more like my mother than her own. I could trace no resemblance in her features to Aunt Clara, but something in her face reminded me of mother.

For some time Miss Cottrell's tongue was absolutely still, a thing I could hardly have believed possible, until father said:

"By the way, Miss Smith—Cottrell, I mean—I remember that it was only in the summer that you were at the 'Havelock Arms.' You lived with a lady—all, I have forgotten her name—who had an afflicted daughter whose nurse you were."

"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Cottrell angrily, "I was her companion."

"That would be the same thing under the circumstances, would it not?" he asked gently.

Miss Cottrell vouchsafed no reply, but her eyes flashed fire. I pitied the uncomfortable position into which false pride had led her, and hastily drew father's attention to the beauty of the common across which we were driving.

"So you have Professor Faulkner at 'Gay Bowers,'" father said presently. "I am looking forward to making his acquaintance."

I started and felt my colour rise.

"Why, what do you know of him?" I asked eagerly.

"No more than all the world may know," he said. "That he is a very brilliant young scholar and has written a scientific criticism of Shakespeare's plays which promises to become a standard work."

"Oh, father, you fairly frighten me!" I said; yet somehow I was very glad. "I know he writes and studies a great deal. He spends all the mornings in his room at work, yet he is so simple and human in his ways that auntie and I had almost forgotten that he is a learned professor."

"Don't you know yet, Nan, that greatness and simplicity are generally combined?" my father asked, with a smile. "It is your shallow-pated man who gives himself airs."

Aunt Patty was delighted to welcome father, for she had no more expected to see him than I had. We seemed a large party at luncheon, and there was plenty of talk, although Miss Cottrell was unusually silent. I was terribly afraid that father would call her "Miss Smith," but happily, he never addressed a remark to her, being much absorbed in talk with Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner. He seemed to get on exceedingly well with the latter, and I longed to hear what they were saying, but with Agneta beside me demanding my attention and Paulina chattering to me across the table, I could never catch more than a word or two. Paulina made various attempts to draw out Agneta, but with only partial success.

"Say," she said to me aside, after luncheon, "what is the matter with that cousin of yours? Is she shy, or sick, or what?"

"I don't think she is shy," I said, "but she has not been well lately and is rather depressed."

"I believe you," said Paulina; "but, do you know, it strikes me that she is not so meek as she looks and has a will of her own."

"Very likely," I said, reflecting that the curves of Agneta's mouth and chin were similar to mother's, and mother had never shown any lack of spirit and determination.

I was rather sorry to see Mr. Faulkner go off on his bicycle soon after luncheon, for I wanted father to know more of him. The rest of us spent the afternoon in the garden. Paulina and her father, Colonel Hyde and Agneta had a game of croquet, while Aunt Patty, father and I sat and chatted in the summer-house at the end of the lawn.

"Oh, father, do tell auntie about Miss Cottrell!" I said, after first looking cautiously round to be sure that the spinster was not within earshot, but for once she had taken herself out of the way.

"Alias Miss Smith," he said.

"Was it really an inn in which you used to see her?" I asked.

"Yes, a good old country inn, much frequented by fishermen in the season. I went there several summers in succession, till the cares of a family shackled my movements. John Smith and his wife were homely, honest folk who made us very comfortable in rustic fashion. They did not call the 'Havelock Arms' an hotel, nor speak of their boarders as 'paying guests,'" said my father with a mischievous glance at Aunt Patty.

"Their niece would have done so, if she had ever alluded to the business," I remarked. "I imagine John Smith was the uncle whose money she inherited."

"She told me he was in the tea trade," said my aunt.

Father laughed.

"Why, so he was," he said. "A good many tourists and picnic-parties used to come to the inn for tea. I believe he sold as much tea as beer."

"And was she really a nurse?" I asked.

"Well, yes, in a way, but not like a modern trained nurse," he replied. "Lady—let me see—"

"Mowbray," I suggested.

"Mowbray! that's the name," he said. "Well, Lady Mowbray had a daughter who was sadly afflicted—I believe she was almost an idiot—and Miss Smith used to take care of her—was her 'companion' as you heard her say. I suppose she thinks that word is more genteel than nurse. Lady Mowbray lived somewhere near Bath."

"And had also a house in Bryanston Street," I said.

"Ah, I see you know all about it," said my father.

"With a difference," I rejoined. "Lady Mowbray was Miss Cottrell's dearest friend and could not bear to be separated from her."

"Really! Well, I believe she was very grateful for Miss Smith's devotion to her child. Miss Smith was generally with them except that she came to the 'Havelock Arms' for a month or so in the summer, and then used to help her aunt look after her customers. So she has been posing here as a fine lady! How droll!"

And father quietly laughed with an air of the utmost amusement.

"She has tried to do so," said my aunt dryly.

"I am afraid she is sorely mortified to think that you have revealed so much to us," I said.

"We will not talk of it," said my aunt quickly. "Her vanity is foolish and paltry, but we will spare her feelings. I must ask Agneta not to mention it. Oh, dear, how white that girl looks!"

So my cousin became the topic of conversation, and father told Aunt Patty that Mrs. Redmayne begged that she would not allow Agneta to go up to London, on any pretext whatever, unless she or I could accompany her. I could see that aunt did not like the injunction.

"My guests are free to do as they like," she said. "This is not a boarding school."

CHAPTER X

COUSIN AGNETA'S LOVE STORY

WE sat down to dinner rather earlier than usual that evening because father had to catch a train which left Chelmsford a little before nine. Mr. Faulkner's place at the table was vacant. I kept expecting that he would drop in, but he did not appear. It vexed me that father should go away without having another word with him, for although we were comparatively near London, I knew it might be a very long time ere father came again. He was a busy man and rarely gave himself a holiday.

I got ready to drive with father to the station, and no one offered to accompany us. Miss Cottrell was not visible when he took his departure. It struck me that she must have slipped away to avoid saying good-bye to him, fearing that he might address her as Miss Smith in the hearing of the others.

"It's a pretty place," said father, looking back at "Gay Bowers," as we drove away in the fair, sweet dusk of the evening, "and I am glad that your aunt can stay there, if she is happy at least. How does it answer, Nan? Do the 'paying guests' bother her much?"

"I think not, father," I answered. "Miss Cottrell was rather a worry; but we are beginning not to mind her peculiarities."

Father laughed.

"Poor thing!" he said. "What a pity she should try to pass herself off as other than she is! It is an attempt fore-doomed to failure. Do you know Emerson's words? 'Don't say things. What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.' She does herself an injury, for she is really an excellent woman in many respects."

"Aunt says she is a capital nurse," I replied. "She was very helpful when Mr. Dicks was ill."

"What a man he is!" said father; "but a genuine one, I think. I wish I could have had a longer talk with Professor Faulkner. He is a fine man. Do you read much now, Nan?"

"You forget that books are forbidden me," I said, "though I must confess I do not pay much heed to Dr. Algar's prohibition when something good comes in my way. The difficulty is to get time for reading."

"If Dr. Algar could see you, I don't think he would be afraid of your reading," said my father. "Do you get any headaches now?"

"I have almost forgotten what a headache is like," I replied joyfully. "Even after I had worked out a mathematical problem which Jack Upsher could not master, my head did not ache."

"What, you presumed to beat Jack?" said father, smiling. "How did he stand that assumption of feminine superiority?"

"He was very grateful to me for helping him," I said. "Jack is not in the least ashamed of his feeble scholarship."

"Do you think he will get through his exam?" he asked.

"I hope so," I said. "He is working harder than he has ever worked before."

"I wish he might," said father. "I should like to see him in the Artillery, for I believe there is in him the making of a good soldier."

"He is tempted to spend too much of his time at 'Gay Bowers,'" I said laughingly; "but aunt is very severe with him. He flirts with Paulina, or rather, I believe, it would be more correct to say that she flirts with him."

Father laughed.

"That is harmless enough," he said, "since she must be several years older than he. Well, Nan, I am glad the experiment has answered so well as far as you are concerned. Your mother will be delighted to hear how much better you are. You must run up to town and see us all one of these days. You deserve a little change, for your aunt says you are the greatest comfort to her, and she does not know what she would do without you."

"Oh, father!" I exclaimed. "Why, I do nothing!"

Yet I knew that the nothings I did—cycling into Chelmsford to give orders, answering letters, seeing to the entertainment of the guests, and the like—filled up my days and were not exactly what I should have chosen to do had I been free to choose.

I saw father off in the train and started homeward, sitting alone in the wagonette. We were getting clear of the houses when John suddenly pulled up, and I saw Mr. Faulkner standing on the path.

"Will you take me home with you, please?" he asked smilingly.

"Why, of course," I said. "But what have you done with your bicycle?"

"It has come to grief," he said. "I had a spill—oh, don't be alarmed, it was nothing serious! I was coming down a hill near Maldon; there was a sharp bend, and rounding it incautiously, I came into collision with a wagon which was right across the road."

"Oh, how dangerous!" I exclaimed. "Are you sure you were not hurt?"

"Oh, I wrenched my shoulder a bit and got a few bruises," he said; "but I jumped off, you see, and the machine got the brunt of it. Of course, I could not ride it afterwards, so I had to get back to Chelmsford in a roundabout way by rail, and I have now left my machine to be repaired."

"How fortunate that I can give you a lift!" I said. "I have just been seeing father off."

"I am sorry Mr. Darracott has gone," he said. "I like your father, Miss Nan."

"And he likes you," was on the tip of my tongue, but I did not say it. His remark, however, so set me at ease that I began to talk to him about my home and my people as I had never done before.

"Oh, you can't think," I said with a sudden burst of confidence, "how I long to see them all again. Father says I must go up one day soon."

"I wonder you have not been before," said Alan Faulkner; "it is so easy to run up to town from here. And your sisters—why do they not come and spend the day sometimes?"

"OH, I WRENCHED MY SHOULDER A BIT," HE SAID.

"It is because we are all so busy," was my reply, "and moreover have little superfluous cash. We can afford neither the time nor the money for such pleasant little trips."

Then I felt the blood mount to my forehead, and was thankful that in the twilight, he could not see how I blushed for my outspokenness. Why do people find it harder to avow poverty than to confess to grave faults? Few, except those who are really comfortably off, can talk with ease of being poor. I was not to blame, nor were they, that my parents' income was so limited, yet I felt ashamed of the fact that the small sum required for the railway fare to and from London was of importance to us.

"I understand," said Alan Faulkner quietly. "Indeed, I have had to practise that kind of self-denial a good deal myself, and know well how irksome is the effort to keep one's expenditure within narrow limits, yet it is good for one to learn how easily one may do without many of the things that seem desirable."

With that he began to tell me about his early life. His father had died when he was a little boy. When he was twelve years old, his mother married again. Up to that time they had been everything to each other, and he could by no means welcome this change in their life. But his stepfather was good to him, and he became very fond of the little sisters who were born later. Before they were grown-up, their father died, and Alan found himself the sole guardian of his mother and his sisters. Very simply, he told the story, saying little of the part he had played. Not till long afterwards did I know that the self-denial of which he had spoken had been voluntarily practised in order that he might secure for his sisters a first-class education.

"So," I said, "the sister who has lately left school and gone to Paris to perfect her French is your half-sister merely."

"But a very real and dear sister all the same," he said.

"And your other sister, where is she?"

"She is a governess in a school in Yorkshire," he replied. "I hope that you and my sisters may know each other some day, Miss Nan."

"Oh, I should like so much to know them!" I said earnestly, while I wondered how it could come about. There was another thing I wanted to know, but I did not like to question him. Perhaps he divined my thoughts, for after a few moments' silence he said in a low tone:

"There are only the three of us now. The saddest thing about my return to England was that there was no mother to welcome me."

"Oh, I am very sorry!" was all I could find to say.

The words came from my very heart, for I did not need to be told all that this meant for him.

Hardly another word passed between us then, for we had reached the gate of "Gay Bowers." I ran into the house, feeling that the past day had been a golden one for me. Each hour had been full of quiet pleasure, and not least should I prize the memory of the confidential talk with Alan Faulkner, which seemed to have made us true friends.

Aunt told me that Agneta had complained of being tired, and had gone to bed. I soon followed her example, though I was far from feeling sleepy.

When I entered our room, Agneta was already in bed. She lay with her head almost hidden by the bed-clothes, and when I wished her "Good-night," she responded in a muffled tone. She did not raise her face for me to kiss, and I could divine the reason. Her face was wet with tears.

I felt very sorry for my cousin as I lay down and gave myself up, not to sleep, but to the delight of recalling every word that had passed between me and Alan Faulkner. I thought I knew how full of pain her heart was, and I longed to assure her of my sympathy, but did not like to open the subject.

On the following Wednesday some friends of the Colonel's, who were staying at Chelmsford, were expected to dine with us, so I arrayed myself in my new evening frock. I saw Agneta looking at me as I put it on, and when the last hook was fastened, she said admiringly:

"What a sweet frock, Nan!"

"I am glad you like it," I said as I turned slowly round before the mirror. "It is Olive's contrivance. Don't you think she is very clever?"

"Indeed I do. She has quite a genius for dressmaking. The girls showed me some of her masterpieces when I was at your home."

"And do you mean to say that you do not recognise this gown?" I asked.

"No, how should I?" She came nearer, and looked closely at it. Then her face changed. "Why, it is—never! Yes, it is my pink ball-dress! Oh, Nan, I wish you had not told me! Why did you remind me of that night?"

She threw up her hands with a tragic, despairful gesture, and I saw she was struggling with strong emotion.

"Oh, Agneta, what about it? What is it that makes you so unhappy? Tell me about that night."

"Indeed, I am unhappy—never anything but unhappy now," said Agneta with tears, and the whole story came out.

It seemed that she had last worn this frock at a ball, where she met Ralph Marshman, and said farewell to him. He was a junior clerk in a bank, and Mr. Redmayne had been indignant at his presumption in thinking to wed his daughter. He had forbidden him to address Agneta again, and, in order to make obedience easy, had used his influence to get the young man removed from the Manchester bank to a branch bank at Newcastle.

In spite of every precaution, however, the two had managed to secure a few minutes' quiet talk at this ball on the night prior to Marshman's departure for Newcastle. They had vowed to be faithful to one another, and to meet, in spite of Mr. Redmayne's prohibition, whenever opportunity offered. They had even arranged to carry on a secret correspondence; but, through the treachery, as Agneta described it, of a servant whom she had bribed to secrete her letters, one of them had fallen into her mother's hands. A painful scene ensued, and her mother, after extorting from her a promise that she would not write to Marshman again, had finally arranged to send her to "Gay Bowers." And now, at a distance from her lover, and fearful, in spite of her protestations that she would never give him up, lest her parents should succeed in finally separating her from him, Agneta was in a miserable frame of mind.

I pitied her greatly as she opened her heart to me, and yet I listened with a sense of revulsion. There seemed to me something ignoble and degrading in the way this courtship had been conducted. It hurt me to think that my cousin could stoop to practise such dissimulation, and I found it hard to believe that the man could be worthy of a woman's love who wooed her in this clandestine fashion. The beautiful crown of love was tarnished and defiled by being thus dragged in the dust.

I was shocked, too, by the way Agneta spoke of her parents. She seemed to regard them as her natural enemies. It was clear to me that the atmosphere of her home must be very different from that of ours. We girls had no secrets from our mother. Our parents were not afraid to trust us, nor we to trust them.

"Mother cares for nothing but money," Agneta said, and I was afraid there might be some truth in this statement. "Because Ralph is poor, she cannot say a good word for him. If he were rich, she would not mind what his past had been."

"His past!" I said. "What about that?"

"Oh, nothing," she returned; "only mother listens to gossip. He is so clever, Nan; he has written a play! Of course, his salary at the bank is small; we should be poor, but I should not mind poverty with the man I loved."

I was silent, reflecting that Agneta's ideas of poverty were probably very vague.

"I mean to marry him, whatever mother may say," Agneta said presently. "I shall soon be of age, and then I will do as I like. She shall not spoil my life."

"Oh, Agneta, don't talk like that! It frightens me," I said. "You might spoil your life just by taking your own way."

"What do you mean, Nan?" she asked.

"Only that we are so blind and ignorant that we cannot know what is good for us unless we are sure that God is guiding our steps," I said timidly. "I did not at all like having to give up my studies and come down here; but it was God's will for me, and I know now that it is for my good. If only you would be patient, Agneta, and leave your life in God's hands, He would bring it about in His own good time if—"

Here my cousin, who had turned upon me an astonished and impatient glance, rudely exclaimed:

"Oh, don't preach to me, Nan, if you please. I cannot stand that. I see I have shocked you, but I cannot help it. You won't say anything to your aunt, will you?"

"Of course I shall not repeat what you have told me in confidence," was my hasty reply.

But I was very uncomfortable as I pondered what Agneta had told me. And in spite of all she said in praise of the man who had fascinated her, I could not feel that he was worthy of her love. I felt more uneasy as the days went on, for Agneta was constantly receiving letters which she slipped quickly out of sight, and I knew that she wrote letters which she was careful to post herself. Then something occurred which for a while drove from my mind all thought of my cousin Agneta and her doubtful proceedings.

CHAPTER XI

THE UNFORESEEN BEFALLS

IN spite of the fears she had exhibited on her arrival, Paulina Dicks was apparently content with her life at "Gay Bowers." As she appeared cheerful, and was never one to disguise her feelings, we could safely conclude that she was not dull. Of a highly nervous, energetic temperament, she was for ever planning new enterprises, and whatever she took in hand she accomplished most thoroughly.

When she wearied of cycling, she took to driving about the country roads in Aunt Patty's little old-fashioned chaise. Sometimes her father and sometimes Miss Cottrell accompanied her. Aunt was much afraid that she overdrove the fat little pony, that had grown accustomed to an easy life; but Paulina declared that he was far too fat, and she was doing him good by rousing him from the silly jog-trot which was the pace he preferred.

She played croquet occasionally, under protest, to please her father; but she was indefatigable at tennis until she heard Alan Faulkner say that the common was just the place for golf, and drew from him an admission that he was extremely fond of this game. Then nothing would do but she must learn golf. It was in vain that any one raised objections. She made light of every difficulty suggested, and would not rest till she had coaxed Mr. Faulkner into helping her to arrange a course and get the requisites for the game.

"What Pollie Dicks wants, she'll have," said her father admiringly, and he showed himself willing to meet all the expense which her scheme involved.

But his words did not prove true in this instance, for Paulina had to put up with something she did not at all desire and was far from foreseeing as she made her plans, and with a business-like air wrote a list of the things she would order when next she went to London. Not a week passed without her going to town, and sometimes she would go two or three times in the week. Her father seldom accompanied her. He found the Chelmsford shops good enough for him, and if he wanted anything special his daughter could get it. The bustle and stir of London, so dear to Paulina, no longer attracted him. He was taking kindly to a country life, and found himself the better for it.

One morning when Paulina came down prepared to start for London, as she had informed us on the previous evening was her intention, I noticed that she was pale and heavy-eyed and took little breakfast.

"You don't seem quite the thing, Paulina," I remarked in an undertone. "Have you a headache?"

She nodded.

"Then why go to town to-day?" I said. "London is hardly the place to cure a headache."

"Oh, it is nothing; I must go," she said impatiently. "I hate putting things off. I want to start the golf while this fine weather lasts."

It was a lovely June morning. When I had seen Paulina off, I went round the garden with basket and scissors, gathering fresh flowers for the vases. I came to the corner where was Miss Cottrell's tiny domain, and found her exhibiting its beauties to Alan Faulkner. She had certainly done wonders in the short time she had had it in her care. The little parterre was gay with flowers. She was especially proud of a cluster of fine carnations of the striped variety which I believe is commonly known as "strawberries and cream."

"They are splendid," said Mr. Faulkner, as he bent to inhale their perfume; "I am so fond of carnations."

"I will give you a buttonhole," said Miss Cottrell eagerly. "Your scissors, please, Miss Darracott."

In vain he protested that it would be a pity to gather them. Miss Cottrell cut two of the finest blooms and presented them to him.

"Oh, I cannot be so greedy as to take two," he said. "Miss Nan must have one. Yes, indeed, Miss Nan." And he insisted on giving me one.

"Here is a pin," said Miss Cottrell, as I tried to fasten the carnation beneath my brooch. I adjusted it carefully, but no sooner had I done so than Mr. Faulkner declared that the other was a finer one, and asked me to change flowers with him.

"They are both fine," said Miss Cottrell. "What does it matter?"

But I had already discovered that in spite of his quiet manner Alan Faulkner had a very strong will. Even in trifles I generally found myself gently constrained to yield to him. So the flowers were exchanged, and, to make sure that he would not give it away, Miss Cottrell herself secured the Professor's at his buttonhole. Then he and I took a stroll round the garden. I asked him about an article which had recently appeared in one of the reviews. He said he had the review in question, and would lend it to me if I cared to see it. He went into the house to fetch the periodical, and while I sauntered near the door, Miss Cottrell came up.

"I am glad he gave you that carnation," she said, looking fondly at it, "but I am afraid Miss Pollie will get the other. She made him give her the rose he was wearing last night."

"Really!" I said stiffly.

"I am awfully amused at all I see," she went on. "Professor Faulkner is pretty deep. What a smart dodge it is his teaching her to play golf!"

"I don't know what you mean," I said coldly.

"Don't you?" she returned with a laugh. "Well, I must say, Miss Darracott, although you can talk so cleverly, you are stupid over some things. It is plain enough to me that the Professor means to win the millionaire's daughter."

I cannot describe the aversion I felt towards Miss Cottrell when she said that. Before she could add another word Mr. Faulkner appeared with the review. When I came to look into it, I found that it contained an article from his pen. I read this first, for it interested me far more than the one of which I had spoken to him. It was the first thing of his which I had read, and it struck me as very clever.

Paulina came home that evening looking flushed and weary. I happened to be in the hall talking to Mr. Dicks, when she entered, and I could see that she was not well, but he, deceived by her colour, exclaimed:

"Well, Pollie Dicks, you look as if going to town agreed with you!"

"Of course it does," she responded.

But when I asked her in an undertone as we went upstairs how her head was, she answered, "Simply raging!"

I tried to persuade her to lie down, but she insisted on preparing for dinner as usual. But, though she sat down with the rest, she could eat nothing, and was soon obliged to leave the table.

Aunt Patty went to her a little later, saw her to bed, and did what she could for her. Mr. Dicks was sorely perturbed by the indisposition of his darling. He hung over her, suggesting all kinds of possible and impossible remedies, till Paulina peremptorily ordered him to go away, and leave her in peace, whereupon he retired and despatched a note to the doctor, who had attended him when he was ill begging him to come to "Gay Bowers" as soon as possible on the following day. After a while Paulina seemed inclined to sleep, and aunt and I went to bed, hoping that her ailment would prove only temporary. Her father wished that some one should sit up with her, but she would not hear of it, and, as usual, obtained her own way.

I don't know what it was that made me awake about two hours later, but in the stillness of the night I was aware of movements in the adjoining room. Fearing that Paulina was worse, I rose, slipped on my dressing gown, and went into the next room. A night-light was burning there, and by its dim rays I saw Paulina standing by the washstand, bathing her head with cold water. She said the pain she had in it was terrible. I touched her forehead; it was burning hot, and so were her hands, yet every now and then she shivered. I knew enough of illness to be sure that this meant fever of some kind or other.

"If only I had some ice!" she moaned.

With some difficulty I persuaded her to lie down again. I placed wet bandages on her forehead, and kept changing them as they grew warm.

"Oh, Nan, I feel so ill—don't leave me!" she said more than once, and I promised that I would stay with her. When, after a while, she grew drowsy, I stole into my room and brought away my blankets, in which I rolled myself up on Paulina's sofa, for the night was growing chill, as it generally does towards dawn. But I did not lie there long, for Paulina was soon tossing to and fro and moaning again.

As the grey light of early morning was creeping into the room she suddenly sat up in bed, her fevered face looking haggard and distraught, and exclaimed in a tone of desperate conviction:

"Oh, Nan, I know what this means. I guess I've got smallpox."

"Oh, no, Paulina!" I exclaimed, shocked by the suggestion. "What can make you think of such a thing?"

"I guess I'm right," she said gloomily. "You know how bad it has been in London."

"Yes; but it is better now," I said. "The epidemic is over. There were only ten cases last week."

"I don't care," she persisted. "I guess I'm one of the next ten. You know it was very bad when first we came to London and father wanted me to be vaccinated, and I would not. I thought I would trust to my luck."

"I feel perfectly sure that you are mistaken," I said, "so pray dismiss that idea from your mind."

"I can't," she said. "It is such a horrible disease to have, and spoils one's appearance so. I don't know what Charlie would do."

"Charlie?" I repeated.

"Oh, my cousin, I mean," she repeated impatiently. "You must have heard me speak of him."

But I never had.

How long it seemed ere there was any sound of movement in the household! When at last I heard a step on the stairs I opened the door and looked out. Miss Cottrell was descending, clad in the short rough skirt and jersey which she donned for hard work in the garden. She loved to toil there for an hour before any one else was astir. She saw me and turned back to ask how Paulina was. She came into the room, looked critically at the sick girl and drew my attention to a rash which was beginning to appear on her face and neck. When she had shaken up the pillows and made the bed more comfortable, which she did in the deft manner of one accustomed to such a task, speaking cheerily to Paulina the while, Miss Cottrell beckoned to me to follow her from the room.

"This is scarlet fever," she said, before she had properly closed the door.

A thrill went through me as she spoke. In an instant I seemed to see all the trouble, anxiety and loss that this outbreak of illness might involve in such a household as ours.

"Are you sure?" I gasped.

"I don't think I am mistaken," said Miss Cottrell. "I have seen it before, indeed, I've had it myself. I need not tell you to be brave, Miss Darracott. We must keep our heads in this emergency or there will be a panic in the household."

"Yes, yes," I said. "Mr. Dicks has written to ask Dr. Poole to call, but something might be done to hasten his arrival."

"Certainly; a messenger must be sent for him," said Miss Cottrell. "I'll go and break the news to Mrs. Lucas. You had better go back into the room for the present, for you must not go near your cousin. Have you ever had scarlet fever, by the by?"

I shook my head but smiled. I was determined not to be nervous on my own account.

"Then I will soon come and relieve you," she said. "There is not great danger of infection yet, but we must take every precaution."

When I re-entered the room I found Paulina in tears and knew that she must have overheard Miss Cottrell's diagnosis.

"Oh, Nan, if it is scarlet fever, I shall die as my mother did. There is nothing I dread so much," she sobbed, forgetting that a few minutes before she had been in terror of quite another malady.

"Oh, come, you must not meet trouble half-way," I said. "I am not yet absolutely sure that it is scarlet fever; but if Miss Cottrell is right, you know that numbers of people have that fever who do not die of it."

"But I shall," she persisted. "My mother died of it and my little brother, so I do not suppose I shall escape. But, oh, I do not want to die! I am so frightened, Nan."

Never shall I forget the look on her face, nor the sound of her voice as she said these words. Face to face with the "shadow feared of man", she felt herself utterly helpless. But a Helper there was. I knew the strength of my own faith as I saw her need. I had to speak, though the words were weak and poor in which I tried to give her comfort.

"Do not be afraid, Paulina; you will not be alone. You know the Bible says that neither life nor death can separate us from the love of Christ. Your life is in His hands, the hands that for your sake were nailed to the cross. Is it not a comfort to remember that?"

But Paulina shook her head.

"It means nothing to me," she said drearily. "You know that I have never been particularly religious. I cannot grasp what you say."

"That does not matter, dear, if only you will give yourself into the keeping of the Lord Jesus," I said. "Our safety consists not in our taking hold of Christ, but in His taking hold of us. The grasp of our faith is too often weak and wavering, but neither life nor death can draw us from the embrace of His love. Ask Him to take you into His tender keeping, and bring you safely through all trouble."

"I cannot—I don't know how!" she whispered. "You ask Him, Nan."

I don't know how I did it—I had never prayed audibly in any one's presence—but I knelt beside Paulina then, and asked the Lord to hold her ever in His loving care, and to bring her safely through this illness.

I had not long risen from my knees when Miss Cottrell entered the room. She brought a cup of tea for Paulina, and she said brightly as she set down the tray:

"There's one for you in my room, Miss Darracott. You will also find a bath prepared for you, and clothes for you to put on. Your aunt gave them to me, since you cannot go to your own room at present."

"That means that you are in quarantine, Nan," said Paulina. "You seem pretty certain about the matter," she added, turning to Miss Cottrell.

"I know a few things," said that spinster with a smile, "but we shall soon know whether I am right, for Mr. Jack Upsher has ridden into Chelmsford to fetch the doctor. Now say 'Good-bye' to Miss Darracott, for I have constituted myself your nurse for the present."

Tears sprang anew to Paulina's eyes. She stretched out her arms appealingly to me, but Miss Cottrell interposed her person, and gently pushed me towards the door.

"Good-bye," said Paulina with a sob, and I promised that if I might not see her, she would be constantly in my thoughts.

"Stay in my room till I come to you," was Miss Cottrell's last mandate.

Thus strangely did the new day begin. How little we know what is before us!

CHAPTER XII

AT HOBBES'S COTTAGE

WHEN Dr. Poole arrived, he confirmed Miss Cottrell's verdict. Happily the doctor was an eminently practical man, and, being an old friend of aunt's, he was disposed to regard the matter as much from her point of view as from that of Josiah Dicks. So he decided that the best thing possible in the circumstances was to remove the patient to a house in the village. He assured her father that the removal could be accomplished without risk of harm to her; but he had considerable difficulty with Mr. Dicks before he could persuade him to consent to this arrangement.

Aunt Patty and I have often said since that we do not know what we should have done without Miss Cottrell at this juncture. She rose to the occasion in the most wonderful way, and showed herself so thoughtful and expeditious that we could quite understand how the Lady Mowbray, of whom we had heard so much, had found her invaluable. She it was who suggested the house to which Paulina was conveyed, a modern "villa" belonging to a widow who was glad to let her best apartments, and was willing to receive an infectious case on the handsome terms offered by Mr. Dicks.

Miss Cottrell won his consent to the plan by proposing to accompany Paulina to this house, and remain with her there till she was convalescent. He gladly closed with the offer, and she earned his lasting gratitude. I must, however, in justice to Miss Cottrell, admit that, in spite of the esteem for wealth and position which she so openly displayed, I do not think that her action on this occasion was prompted by the fact that the patient was a rich man's daughter. I believe that she would have done as much for any one of us, for she dearly loved managing people, and, although she had not received a hospital training, she was in her element in a sickroom. She wore a happy face whenever she entered the room where I remained an unwilling prisoner. Hurriedly she would tell me how things were proceeding, and then disappear.

Everything was done with the greatest possible celerity. Colonel Hyde had been induced to take Agneta for a long drive almost immediately after breakfast. The widow's rooms were in excellent order, so it did not take long to prepare them for the reception of the patient and her guardian. The doctor sent out an ambulance and a trained nurse from Chelmsford, and by mid-day Paulina's removal was effected. Then the business of disinfection was begun, and presently aunt came to me.

"Well, Nan," she said with a smile as she opened the door, "is your patience pretty well exhausted?"

"I am afraid it has come to an end, auntie," I replied, marvelling to see her so calm, though her face looked pale and tired.

"Poor child! It is no wonder," she said. "Now come into the garden with me. We will talk in the fresh air."

I was glad enough to get outside. As we walked up and down the lawn aunt told me that Dr. Poole had decided that it would be wise to separate me from the others for a while.

"You must not let it frighten you," Aunt Patty said. "The doctor quite hopes that you have escaped infection, but for the sake of my guests it is right to guard against the possibility of a second case in the house. I cannot bear to send you away, but Mrs. Hobbes has a nice little room which she lets sometimes, and if you would not mind sleeping there just for a week till we see how things turn out."

"Of course I shall not mind," I replied. "Fancy staying at Hobbes's cottage—that will be truly rural."

And I smiled at the idea of sojourning for a week in the pretty thatched cottage which was our gardener's home. It stood in a lane running off the common, and was so picturesque that artists often painted it.

"Of course we can come to see you," said my aunt, "and you need not avoid us as long as you keep well. It is chiefly for Agneta's sake that I take this precaution. I do not think the gentlemen are in any danger, but I want to assure Mrs. Redmayne that I am taking all possible care of her child."

"And if I should develop the fever, I suppose you will commit me to Miss Cottrell's care at 'Ivy House,'" I said.

"Oh, there is little fear of that," said my aunt hastily. "I am glad that Paulina likes Miss Cottrell better than you do."

"Ah, but she has gone up immensely in my estimation during the last few hours!" was my reply.

"There is no doubt she has excellent qualities," said my aunt warmly, "if only she were content to be her simple, honest self, and not attempt to seem something different, which is such a fatal mistake."

Presently I took my way to the gardener's cottage. It was the kind of abode which would be called "idyllic" nowadays. Mrs. Hobbes, a dear old woman, who had been cook at Squire Canfield's before her marriage, was delighted to welcome me. She was very proud of the small garden in which her husband managed to grow specimens of almost every variety of flower. She showed me, too, her bees, and boasted of the amount of honey they produced. I thought it no wonder when I saw the wealth of flowers from which they could cull nectar, to say nothing of the glorious common, golden with gorse, lying beyond.

I listened with pleasure to Mrs. Hobbes as she talked of her bees, but found her conversation less interesting when she began to describe all the cases of scarlet fever which had come within her knowledge. Her memory had treasured up every harrowing detail of the cases which had proved fatal, and she spared me none of them.

"Ah, it's a terrible complaint!" she was saying. "If it hasn't killed them outright, I've known it make people deaf or lame for the rest of their lives. I do hope you may not have taken it, miss, for there's no saying what it will leave behind—" when to my relief I saw John coming down the lane with the small trunk aunt had promised to pack for me.

His arrival created a welcome diversion. I hastened to arrange my belongings. My bedroom was scrupulously clean, but so small and low that it became a puzzle how to make my toilette to the best advantage. But its lattice windows were open to the fresh sweet air and framed a lovely view of the common and the woods beyond. I tried to persuade, myself that this unexpected change of place was rather a happy thing for me, but with Mrs. Hobbes's dismal forebodings lingering in my mind, I could not quite succeed.

That was surely the longest day I had ever known in my life. I was not more than half-a-mile from "Gay Bowers," yet I seemed quite cut off from all the pleasant life there. No one came to see how I was settling in. Aunt Patty, I knew, had far too much depending on her. Mr. Faulkner had gone up to town in the morning, and I could not be sure that he had heard of the calamity which had befallen us. Colonel Hyde was doubtless still entertaining Agneta. Jack, whose examination was now close at hand, was working with desperate energy. I had no right to feel myself neglected, yet a sore, forlorn sense of being forsaken crept over me.

I can smile at my folly now, but as I sat on the windowsill of my room and watched the sun sink out of sight behind the fir-wood, a feeling of deep melancholy took possession of me. I believed it to be a presentiment of early death. By this time I was utterly tired out and my head ached. I forgot that I had had but two hours' sound sleep on the past night and took these symptoms to be the precursors of the fever. Then on my heart, too, fell the chill of fear. I felt anxiously for my faith, and asked myself if it had been indeed true comfort I had tried to give Paulina. God be thanked that I found it was! Even while one part of my nature shrank with dread from the thought of sickness and suffering, a voice within my soul cried confidently, "I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."

Suddenly I was roused from my serious meditations by the sound of a familiar voice below speaking to Mrs. Hobbes. I sprang up, my headache forgotten, hastily straightened my blouse and gave a touch to my hair, ere I ran downstairs. But I was too late to see my friend, except that presently I caught a distant glimpse of a bicycle and rider speeding across the common. On the round table in Mrs. Hobbes's "best parlour" lay a pile of papers and magazines. They were the latest issues and represented the spoil Alan Faulkner had brought from town. He knew how I should enjoy seeing them, and he had hastened to bring them to me as soon as he heard of my temporary exile. I did not need Mrs. Hobbes's assurance that the gentleman had said he could not stay a minute. It was already the dinner-hour at "Gay Bowers," and Mr. Faulkner as a rule practised the minor virtue of punctuality.

That kindly act of his made a vast difference to my solitary evening. I was able to enjoy the simple supper Mrs. Hobbes set before me. I did not read a great deal, but I turned over the leaves with delight and sampled the contents by skimming a few lines here and there while an agreeable undercurrent of thought, wholly untinged by melancholy, ran through my mind. At nine o'clock I went to bed and slept soundly till the sun awoke me shining warm and bright into my room. I rose and dressed, feeling as well as possible.

Mrs. Hobbes had set my breakfast on a little table in the garden beneath the old pear-tree which grew beside the cottage. There was a beautifully baked loaf of her home-made bread and some of the golden honey from her hives, with one of the brown eggs that I always think taste so much better than white ones. No one would have judged my health precarious who saw how I enjoyed that meal. I felt so cheerful that I was ashamed of myself and tried to subdue my spirits by thinking pitifully of poor Paulina and of her father's suspense and anxiety.

I had hardly finished breakfast when I saw Mr. Faulkner spinning down the lane on his bicycle. I went to the gate to meet him and could have laughed at the seriousness with which he inquired how I was. My colour rose beneath his earnest gaze.

"You need not be afraid; there is no rash yet," I said.

"Afraid!" he repeated. "Of what should I be afraid? But I hope you will not stay here long. We missed you so much last evening. It seemed so strange to see nothing of you all day."

"I had a pleasant proof that I was not forgotten," I said. "Thank you so much for bringing me those papers. I will get them for you."

"Pray do not trouble unless you wish to be rid of them," he said. "I do not want them, and you can hardly have read them all yet."

"Indeed, I read very little last night; I felt too tired and unsettled," I said. "But I liked having them."

His steady eyes met mine with that look which seemed to read my very soul. I had a strange feeling that he knew all the nervous, foolish ideas that had passed through my mind.

"Do you know how Paulina is this morning?" I asked hurriedly. "Has aunt heard?"

"Yes, Mr. Dicks went down to 'Ivy House' at a very early hour and brought back word that his daughter had passed a restless night," he replied. "Still, I do not think there is any cause for anxiety; the fever must take its course."

"Poor Paulina!" I said. "It is hard to imagine her anything but restless under the circumstances."

"She is not exactly reposeful at any time, is she?" he responded with a smile. "I feel very much for her father. He seems terribly upset by this wholly unlooked-for development of affairs."

"He is not allowed to see her, is he?" I asked.

"No, I believe he does not even enter the house. Miss Cottrell gives her report from a window. This is her opportunity."

I could not help laughing, though I felt it was mean when the spinster was acting so bravely.

"Whatever will he do without Paulina?" I said.

"Well, you know, he has not always had a great deal of her company," Mr. Faulkner replied; "but Mrs. Lucas is puzzled to think how she can best divert his thoughts. By the by, I was to say that he is coming to take you for a drive presently. He has forestalled me, for I was going to ask you to cycle with me this afternoon."

"I shall be delighted to do so another day," I replied, pleased to think that my isolation was to be thus alleviated. Then my eyes fell on his buttonhole, which was adorned by a fine striped carnation. "So," I exclaimed, "Miss Cottrell has given you another of her carnations."

"How could she?" he asked with a smile. "Miss Cottrell is not at 'Gay Bowers.' This is the one you gave me."

"What do you mean?" I said. "I never gave you a carnation."

"Did you not?" he asked. "At least you gave me back one after you had worn it a few seconds, thus giving it a new and rare value."

Who would have thought that a learned man like Professor Faulkner could have said a thing like that? It was the sort of compliment Jack Upsher might have paid me, and I should have thought it silly from his lips; but somehow I was not impressed with its silliness at this moment. I should have been annoyed with Jack for saying it, but I was not annoyed with Alan Faulkner. I recalled the words many times in the course of that day and ever with a joyous thrill of the heart. What little things make up the sum of life! To this day I can never see what is called a "strawberry and cream" carnation without recalling that hour and the sweetness of the strange new hope that then awoke to life.

But at the moment Alan Faulkner's words struck me dumb. My eyes fell beneath his gaze, and to my vexation I felt the colour mounting to my forehead. The awkward pause which ensued seemed long to my consciousness, but it could have been but a second or two ere I lifted my head and said stiffly:

"Oh, that was a mere exchange."

Ere Alan Faulkner could make any rejoinder, there was the sound of another bicycle rushing down the lane and Jack Upsher came in sight. He had turned aside on his way to Chelmsford in order to assure himself that I had not yet developed scarlet fever.

CHAPTER XIII

OLIVE'S HAPPINESS

JACK seemed rather annoyed to find that I was not alone, though Alan Faulkner immediately decided that it was time he went to his morning's work and rode off. Jack wanted me to ride with him later in the day, and was vexed when he learned that Mr. Dicks was going to take me for a drive. His ill-humour increased when I told him that I had promised to ride with Mr. Faulkner on the following day.

"It is too bad!" he said morosely. "You might have kept the last day for me!"

"The last day?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "you know I go up for my exam on Monday."

I had forgotten that the day was so near. I felt almost frightened as I realised it.

"Oh, Jack, I do hope you will do well!" I said. "Do you feel fairly ready?"

"I don't feel in the least fit," he said. "I believe I shall make a horrid mess of it again, and then you will have nothing more to say to me, I suppose. In that case I shall just enlist as a Tommy."

"Don't talk nonsense!" I said severely. "You will not fail this time; you cannot, and must not. You really have worked, you know."

"Thanks for giving me so much credit," he said, "but that has really little to do with it. I am unlucky at these things. The old fogeys who prepare the papers are sure to hit upon questions that will bowl me out."

"Rubbish!" I said. "Make up your mind to succeed, and you will come out all right."

"You might have let me have a last ride with you," he said reproachfully.

"It won't be the last, I hope, but there is nothing to hinder you from joining us to-morrow," I said, feeling, however, rather blank as I made the suggestion.

"Thank you very much," he said sarcastically; "but I have not the least desire to make an unwelcome third."

"Make a welcome fourth, then," I said. "I dare say Agneta will be pleased to come too."

But this did not do either. He was in a very perverse mood that morning. It was a relief to me when he had departed, having lingered till it was necessary for him to ride at break-neck speed into Chelmsford if he would arrive punctually at his tutor's. I felt very anxious that he should do well in his examination, and gave him every wise admonition that my own experience could suggest. For his own sake, and for his father's, it would be a thousand pities if he failed again. Foolish boy as Jack often showed himself to be, I knew that he was brave and manly, and I believed, with my father, that he would make a fine soldier.

Hobbes had graciously given me permission to gather any flowers I pleased from his garden, so when Jack had gone I busied myself in making a nosegay, which I carried to the village and left at the door of the house which had been converted into a sanatorium for Paulina's benefit. On the way I encountered Mr. Dicks wandering aimlessly along. He was so changed that I hardly knew him. His air of almost aggressive self-complacency, as if he were for ever exulting in the thought of his own smartness, had vanished, and he looked profoundly melancholy. When he lifted his hat I saw that even the wisp of hair on his forehead, usually erect, lay flat and limp. His appearance inspired me with the fear that some alarming change in Paulina's condition had occurred, but it was not so. He was merely brooding on the idea that since, through scarlet fever, he had lost his wife and little son, it would probably rob him of his daughter also.

He seemed pleased to meet me, and turned back with me.

"I am looking for Poole," he said. "He ought to be here by now. If he sees the least cause for fear, I shall telegraph at once for one of the first physicians from London."

When we reached the gate of "Ivy House," he pointed out to me the windows of the room in which Paulina lay. Just then Miss Cottrell's head appeared above one of the muslin blinds. She smiled and nodded briskly as she saw us.

"She looks cheerful," I remarked. "I don't think she can be very uneasy about her patient."

"I hope not," he said, brightening. "She is a good woman, an excellent woman. I know she will watch over Pollie like a mother."

The words struck me as significant, and I could not help thinking that Miss Cottrell would have liked to hear them. As I turned from the house Dr. Poole's carriage came in sight driving rapidly towards it, so I had no more of Mr. Dicks's company at that time.

The morrow brought me a delightful letter from mother. She had been very sorry, she wrote, to learn of the outbreak of illness at "Gay Bowers." She had much sympathy for aunt and Mr. Dicks, and still more for the sufferer herself. It was perhaps wise of aunt to turn me out of the house for a while, but she was convinced that I had run little risk of taking the malady, and I was not to allow myself to think of such a thing. So sure was mother of my immunity from danger, that she told me I might come up to town on Monday and spend a couple of days at home, thus completing my week of quarantine.

"We all want to see you badly," she said, "and we have surprising news for you. I cannot do justice to it in a letter, and besides, I believe that Olive would like to tell you all about it herself."

I was delighted at the thought of going home, and mother's mysterious hint filled me with the liveliest curiosity. What could this surprising news be? Evidently it was something in which Olive was greatly interested; but although I made many surmises, I did not hit upon the truth. But when I spoke of it to Aunt Patty, she said quietly:

"I expect it means that Olive is engaged."

"Oh, auntie," I exclaimed, and the colour flew into my face, "what can make you say so? That is a most unlikely thing."

"Is it?" aunt asked with a smile. "You are paying Olive a nice compliment. It seems to me likely enough."

"But Olive!" I gasped. "Olive! Oh, I don't think it can be that!"

The idea was more startling than agreeable. How could we do without Olive? She seemed as truly a pillar of the house as either father or mother. Certainly I had never supposed that she would remain single all her days, but that within the near future she would marry and leave us was a prospect which appalled me, and I tried to persuade myself that it could not be as Aunt Patty imagined.

I could see that my aunt thought it rather rash of mother to have me home at this time, but I troubled little about that. When Jack heard that I was going up to town on Monday, he insisted that we must travel together; so it was under his escort that I arrived at Liverpool Street that afternoon, and found Peggy awaiting me on the platform.

Peggy looked lively as ever. She never was shy—art students seldom are, I think—and she was soon chattering away to Jack. She appeared shorter than usual as she stood looking up at him, and she complained to me afterwards that conversing with him had given her a pain at the back of her neck. He was in no hurry to reach his destination, and insisted on accompanying us to Moorgate Street, and seeing us into the train for Clapham.

All this while I was longing to put a certain question to Peggy, but not till we had reached Clapham and were walking home from the station was I able to do so.

"Peggy," I said as we reached the edge of the common, and stepped within the welcome shade of trees, "Olive is not engaged to be married, is she?"

Peggy glanced quickly at me.

"Why, who told you, Nan?" she asked in surprise. "I mean what made you think of such a thing?"

"Then it is true?" I groaned. "Tell me who he is, Peggy?"

"I was told not to say a word about it," Peggy replied. "Olive was going to tell you herself, but since you know so much already—"

"Yes, yes," I broke in impatiently, "you must tell me about him. I can hear Olive's story later. Is he good enough for her?"

"She thinks so," said Peggy significantly. "She puts him on so high a pedestal that I tell her he must topple off some day. His name is Percival Smythe."

"What!" I exclaimed. "Mrs. Smythe's nephew! Olive wrote me that he had come back from India, and was staying there. She said they had been cycling together, but I never thought— He must be a great deal older than she is."

"And why, pray?" Peggy asked with a smile.

"Oh, I see," she added. "Olive probably omitted to explain that he was Mrs. Smythe's grand-nephew. The old lady always speaks of him as her nephew. As a matter-of-fact, he is twenty-nine."

"Oh!" I said disconsolately. "And is Olive very fond of him?"

Peggy laughed.

"I shall leave you to find that out for yourself," she said. "You won't have much difficulty."

"Do you like him, Peggy?" I asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, we all like him," she said cheerfully, "and not least Master Fred. He has been making a good deal of Fred. He proposed taking him to the Zoo on Saturday week, and then with serpentine cunning suggested that Olive and I should go too. I fell into the snare, like the dear little innocent I am. Soon after entering the gardens, Mr. Smythe provided Fred with a big bag of buns, and led us to the bears' den. Fred was soon engaged in exciting endeavours to induce the big bear to climb his pole, and I was watching lest he should precipitate himself into the pit, when I became aware that the other two had vanished. If you will believe it, we saw nothing more of them till it was almost time to go home, and I had all of taking Fred from house to house, and helping him to spend the half-crown Mr. Smythe had given him, in rides on every animal that could possibly be mounted."

"Poor Peggy! They did treat you badly!" I said, unable to keep from laughing, though I did not feel exactly merry. "I hope they duly apologised."

"They told me they were sorry, but they certainly disguised their feelings well," she said, with twinkling eyes, "for I never saw two mortals look so supremely happy. The hours in which I had been growing hot and weary had passed like a blissful dream with them, and they could not believe it was so late. Of course, I guessed what it meant, and the next day he came to see father, and the thing was settled."

The news did not please me at all. It was selfish of me; but I could not welcome the shadow of approaching change. I should have liked to find everything at home going on as usual. Before I could question Peggy further we were in the old familiar road, and in another minute mother was giving me her cheery greeting.

Olive had not yet returned from Mrs. Smythe's, so I had a little quiet chat with mother first. She told me that she and father were satisfied that Olive would have a good husband and were glad that this happiness had come to her. But though she spoke so bravely, I could see that mother shrank sorely from the thought of parting with her eldest child. While we talked Olive came in, accompanied by her fiancé. I had made up my mind to dislike Percival Smythe; but his appearance disarmed my prejudice. I saw at once he was a gentleman, and I soon knew that Olive had not given her heart to one unworthy of the gift.

As I looked at my sister I marvelled at the change I saw in her. Always bright and winsome, her face was now radiant with happiness. Olive had always been remarkable for her unselfishness, and now she loved with the strong, pure, whole-souled devotion which forgets self in loving.

I shared her room, and we had a long, long talk ere we slept that night.

As I listened to the glowing words in which she described the man she loved, I found it hard to believe that he was quite the heroic being she painted him; but I felt that he was a happy man to have won such love and trust, and that he must be the better for it. I tried to be glad for Olive's sake, but I am afraid that I still cherished a grudge against him.

"Of course you will not be married for some time yet," I said.

"Not till next year," she said softly, "he has to return to India in the spring."

"To India!" I cried sharply. "Oh, Olive, you don't mean to say that he is going to take you to India?"

"Why, naturally," she said with a smile, "since he has a post there and is only home on furlough. What are you thinking of, Nan?"

"I had not thought of that," I said. "Oh, Olive, I cannot bear to think of your going right away to India."

"Oh, nonsense, Nan," she said smilingly. "India is not such a very great way off; at any rate people can easily get back."

How lightly she said it! It struck me as strange that Olive, who had always seemed to be so fond of mother and home and all of us, should now be so willing to leave us and go to the other side of the world with a man of whom she had known nothing when I left home.

"So, Olive," I said in a tone of mournful conviction, "he is more to you than any of us?"

A grave, sweet look came to Olive's face.

"Why, yes, he certainly is," she made reply, "but you must not suppose, dear old Nan, that I care less for any one because of this new and precious love. It is quite otherwise. My heart goes out to every one of you, as it never did before, just because I am so glad—so glad and so thankful to God for this rich gift of love."

"Yet you are ready to go away with him to the ends of the earth!" I said.

"Yes," she said quietly, and I cannot describe her expression as she said it, "I am ready to go with him wherever he goes. We belong to each other henceforth. Ah, Nan, you cannot understand it now; but you will some day."

But it seemed to me that I was beginning to understand it already.

CHAPTER XIV

A PICNIC

"NAN, who do you think I saw in Regent Street?" exclaimed my sister Dora, more eagerly than grammatically as she came into the little back garden—a typical London "garden"—consisting of a hawthorn, a rockery, and a grass-plot hardly bigger than a tablecloth, where mother, Peggy, and I were sitting to enjoy the cool of the evening. Dora had been with a party of her school-fellows under the care of their form-mistress to visit a certain interesting exhibition at the West End.

"I am sure I do not know, and I am not going to guess," I responded lazily, "so you may as well tell me at once."

"Well, then, it was Cousin Agneta," Dora said.

"You don't mean it?" I said, sitting up with sudden briskness.

"But I do," said Dora. "I tell you I saw her!"

"Was she alone?" I asked.

"No, she was walking with a gentleman—and such a masher too."

"Dora," mother broke in, "I wish you would not use those horrid slang expressions!"

"Oh, mother, what harm is there in masher? Would you rather I said swell?"

"No, I do not like either word," mother replied. "Cannot you simply say that he was a smart-looking man! Did you speak to your cousin?"

"No, I was going to; but she took hold of the man's arm and made him turn sharp round with her into one of the side streets. Yet I feel sure that she saw me," Dora said.

"Are you sure that you saw her?" Peggy asked. "I mean, did you not mistake some one else for Cousin Agneta?"

"As if I should!" Dora said with an injured air. "Surely I may be supposed to know my own cousin, when she was staying here only a few weeks ago."

"How was she dressed?" I asked.

"I don't know what her dress was like," Dora replied, "but she had on a grey hat with pink roses under the brim."

"Agneta does not possess a grey hat," I said, with a sense of relief, "so you must have made a mistake."

"If you had said a red hat, now!" suggested Peggy.

"I don't care what you like to say," Dora protested, "I know it was Cousin Agneta. She may have bought a new hat."

"Since yesterday?" I said.

"Why not?" demanded Dora.

"There I that will do," said mother decisively. "It is not in the least likely that your cousin would come up to town without letting us know, or that she would be walking in Regent Street with a gentleman."

"All the same, it was Agneta," Dora muttered perversely under her breath.

I heard her with some uneasiness. More than once I had longed to speak to mother about Agneta's unhappy love affair; but I had promised her that I would say nothing about it, unless she gave me permission, and I felt bound to keep silence.

On the following day I returned to "Gay Bowers," having much enjoyed my brief sojourn at home. I was touched by the welcome I received from every one. They said so much about how they had missed me that I was in danger of fancying myself a very important person. With much satisfaction I learned that Paulina was going on as well as possible, and was already considered to have passed the worst stage of her illness. Mr. Dicks appeared to have recovered his usual equanimity. The least happy looking of the party was Agneta. It struck me that she had a worn and restless air which marred her prettiness. When I mentioned it to aunt, she said:

"Agneta is tired; she had a fatiguing day in town yesterday."

"In town!" I exclaimed in surprise. "We saw nothing of her."

"No, she thought she would not have time to get to Clapham," Aunt Patty said. "She meant to come back by an early train; but she missed it after all. I did not like her going alone after what Mrs. Redmayne said; but she wanted to get a new hat to wear at the Canfields' garden party, and she said she was going to meet an old school-fellow. Really, I did not know what to do, for I could not go with her myself."

"And she got a new hat?" I said.

"Two new hats, the extravagant girl!" said aunt. "She wore one home, leaving the old one to be sent back by post."

"Then she appeared in a grey hat with pink roses," I said.

"You are right," said aunt; "but how do you know that?"

Then I told her how Dora had declared that she had seen Agneta in Regent Street and how we had all tried in vain to convince her that she was mistaken; but I said not a word about the man Dora had described to us. I was anxious to avoid the least risk of breaking my word to Agneta, yet I wished that I had not pledged myself so impulsively, for my discovery of the dissimulation Agneta was practising made me profoundly uncomfortable.

Agneta had welcomed me with professions of delight which I afterwards judged to be insincere, since she seemed desirous to avoid being alone with me. She gave me no opportunity of having a quiet word with her till we went upstairs for the night, and then she hurried into bed, declaring that she was very sleepy. But I made her listen to me before she slept. She could not deny that Dora had seen her in Regent Street.

"Don't be hard on me, Nan," she said. "When Ralph wrote that he would be in London on Tuesday, and asked me to meet him, I felt that I must go. I had not seen him for so long, and you know all things are fair in love."

"I don't know it," I said. "It seems to me that all things should be beautiful and honourable that have to do with love. If this man truly loved you, he would not tempt you to act in a way that is beneath your dignity. He must know that your parents have forbidden you to meet him, or even write to him."

"Why, of course he knows," Agneta said impatiently.

"Surely you would not have me submit to such tyranny!"

"I think your parents have a right to some consideration, Agneta," I replied. "You are their child; you owe everything to them. I know it is very trying for you, but if you will only wait—"

"Wait, wait! I hate that word!" broke in Agneta, angrily. "I will not wait, so there!"

"But what can you do?" I asked.

"Do?" said Agneta, with a toss of the head. "Oh, we know what to do! Mother will find that I have a will of my own, and am not the weak creature she imagines."

"Oh, Agneta!" I exclaimed, startled by her words. "You would not think of getting married without your parents' consent?"

Her face flushed.

"Oh, no, of course not," she said hurriedly. "I did not mean that."

But her manner did not convince me of the truth of her words. I knew instinctively that some such idea was in her mind.

"It would be a most foolish act, and would bring certain misery," I said. "Don't listen to him, Agneta, if he tries to persuade you to do anything so wrong."

"Of course I shall not," she returned. "But, oh, how you talk, Nan! It is clear that you know nothing whatever about love."

I was silent, but I said to myself that I could never have loved Ralph Marshman, or any man who tried to lead me into crooked ways. The man must be nobler and wiser and better than myself into whose keeping I gave my life.

I began to talk to Agneta about Olive and her great happiness, but she showed little interest in the subject. Thoroughly absorbed in herself, she had no sympathy to spare for another's joy. Paulina would have listened to the story with lively interest, and Miss Cottrell would have been ready to discuss it from every possible point of view; but Agneta heard me with a bored air which quickly reduced me to silence.

The next morning dawned beautifully bright, and when I came downstairs the hall door was wide open, and Alan Faulkner stood sunning himself on the step with Sweep beside him.

"Good-morning, Miss Nan," he said cheerily. "Is not this ever so much better than Clapham Common?"

I could not but admit that it was, for the garden was now in the perfection of its beauty. The breeze, which ruffled my hair as I advanced to the door, was sweet with the breath of flowers. The rose-tree trained against the wall of the house was full of blossoms, and bees were buzzing noisily as they flitted from rose to rose. A fine hydrangea growing by the door was a marvel of changeful colour, and close by a cluster of tall, graceful Madonna lilies, of purest whiteness, attracted the bees by their heavy perfume. It was a morning to make one sing for joy. I was feeling happy enough at that moment, and I was therefore astonished when Mr. Faulkner said, after observing me for a moment:

"What is the trouble, Miss Nan?"

"The trouble!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"There was a shadow on your face last evening, and I fancy that I can still detect its influence," he said. "You found nothing wrong at home, I trust?"

"Oh, no! They were all well, and things were going happily," I replied. "There was nothing there to worry me."

"But something did worry you," he said. "Can't you tell me what it is? I might be able to set it right."

"Oh, no!" I answered, colouring hotly in my confusion and surprise. "You could not help, and I could not tell you indeed."

His eyes studied me for a moment with a questioning air; then he said quietly:

"Excuse me, Miss Nan, I must seem to you a curious, meddlesome fellow."

"Not at all," I faltered. "It was kind of you to ask; but I cannot tell you about it."

A moment's silence followed; then he said:

"Do you know that Miss Cottrell was working in this garden at seven o'clock?"

"Was she really?" I said. "I cannot see her part of the garden from my window. How very energetic of her!"

"Was it not? But, of course, she needs fresh air and exercise. I suppose she does not have to do a great deal of nursing."

"Why, no! There is a trained nurse who takes charge of Paulina at night, and who is available also for part of the day," I explained. "I was thinking that Miss Cottrell would feel anxious about her flowers. You did not speak to her, I suppose?"

"No; I only saw her from my window," he replied. "She was applying the hoe with much vigour. She is one to do very thoroughly whatever she undertakes."

"That is true," I said. "It is splendid the way she has devoted herself to Paulina. Mr. Dicks has good cause to feel grateful to her."

The breakfast gong sounded, and we obeyed its summons. Mr. Dicks had already taken his place at the table, and was talking eagerly to Aunt Patty when we entered the room.

"Come, Miss Nan," he cried as he saw me, "what do you say to our celebrating your return, by having a picnic?"

"A splendid idea!" I cried. "By all means let us have it."

"And so say I," said Mr. Faulkner.

"Can you spare the time?" I asked.

"I will spare the time," was his reply.

"We should not go till after luncheon," said my aunt. "Mr. Dicks proposes taking us all to have tea at the Warren—in proper gipsy fashion, of course. We will take a kettle and all the necessary paraphernalia, and make a fire on the common to boil the kettle. We can get milk and water at the farm."

It sounded charming to me. The Warren was a beautiful, high common, about seven miles away, the haunt of innumerable rabbits, and yielding a rich harvest of blackberries in their season. Olive and I had loved going there as children, for its wild, broken ground and clumps of Scotch firs had made a delightful playground. A full, deep stream ran on one side of it, and, descending to the valley below, turned the wheel of a picturesque mill which stood there, and was the delight of artists.

Colonel Hyde had expressed his willingness to join the excursion, and Alan Faulkner and I had just decided that we would go on our bicycles, when Agneta entered the room. She apologised for her lateness as she listlessly took her seat. Mr. Dicks made haste to tell her of his grand project, but her face evinced no pleasure as she heard of it.

"I will ask you to excuse me," she said, "I am not fond of picnics."

"Oh, but you must go," said Mr. Dicks. "We cannot leave you at home by yourself. You shall have Paulina's bicycle if you would like to ride."

"Thank you, but I would rather not," she said. "I do not feel at all inclined to ride in this heat."

"Then you can drive with us elderly people in the sociable—there will be plenty of room," he said.

"You are very kind," she said coldly; "but I would rather stay at home."

"You shall not go unless you like, Agneta," Aunt Patty said kindly. "If you stay at home, I will stay too. It will be better for me—I hardly know how to spare the time."

But Mr. Dicks, the Colonel, and Alan Faulkner protested against this. They knew that Aunt Patty seldom allowed herself any recreation, and they had set their hearts on having her company to-day.

Agneta's face flushed as she heard them, and she said in an injured tone:

"There is not the least need for you to remain at home because I do, Mrs. Lucas. I am not a baby; I think you may trust me to take care of myself."

"Of course you can, dear—I do not doubt it for a moment," aunt said soothingly. "Still, I should not like to leave you quite alone."

In the end Agneta consented to accompany us, but she did it with a bad grace, and rather spoiled the enjoyment of some of us by her obstinate determination not to appear to be enjoying herself. She was cross with me because, by simple accident, I appeared in a frock remarkably like her own. My suit of shepherd's plaid had seen two summers' wear, and I wore it simply because it was light and cool, and so short in the skirt as to be suitable for cycling and rambling over the common. Hers was a smart, tailor-made costume, which I should have considered too good for such a day's outing. The material showed a rather larger check than mine, but they were sufficiently alike to appear similar at a little distance. If either of us had cause to feel annoyance it was I, since her dress made mine look poor. I was considerably annoyed by the disagreeable remarks she choose to make about the resemblance.

Still, I must confess that I enjoyed that picnic very much, though it was marked by no adventures, nor any particular excitement. Alan Faulkner and I on our bicycles reached the Warren long before the party who came in the wagonette. Resting on the slope of a knoll planted with firs, we awaited the arrival of the others without impatience. I found myself telling him about my sister Olive's engagement. He listened with interest, and I learned that he knew the part of India in which Percival Smythe was stationed, and could tell me much that I wanted to hear.

When the others arrived I was astonished to see that Miss Cottrell was one of the party. It was Mr. Dicks's kind thought that the fresh air on the common would be very good for her. He had consulted the doctor, who had assured him that if Miss Cottrell observed certain precautions there would not be the least fear of her conveying infection to any of us. She seemed delighted to be with us once more, and talked more than ever.

When the time came for us to return home, Alan Faulkner and I soon distanced aunt's sober horse. It was growing late as we approached "Gay Bowers." We were spinning down the road at the back of the house, when a man suddenly dropped from the boundary wall of the kitchen garden into the lane just in front of my machine, and startled me so that I almost fell off. Trees overhung the road at that point, and the light was so dim that I could perceive only that the man wore a white straw hat ere he disappeared, running rapidly beneath the trees.

"Whoever is he?" I asked, turning to Mr. Faulkner. "What can it mean?"

"That I will soon find out," he said. "You will not mind my leaving you, Miss Nan, as we are just at home."

And, scarce waiting for my permission, he was off at such speed that there was little doubt of his overtaking the stranger, however fast he might run.

When the wagonette party drove up they found me standing alone within the garden.

"Only think, auntie," I said. "We saw a man jump down from your garden wall, and run off in the most suspicious way. Mr. Faulkner is chasing him under the idea that he was there for no lawful purpose. Do you think he can be a burglar?"

"A burglar in this peaceful countryside! Impossible, Miss Nan!" exclaimed the Colonel; "but I hope Mr. Faulkner will catch him, for, depend on it, he was up to no good."

"Most likely he was after my fruit," said aunt.

As she spoke my eyes fell on Agneta, and I was startled to see how pale and fearful she looked. Aunt's eyes had followed the direction of mine, and she was equally struck by Agneta's look.

"Don't talk so lightly of burglars, Nan," she said. "You have quite frightened your cousin. Do not be alarmed, dear; you need fear no such visitation at 'Gay Bowers.'"

"I am not in the least afraid of burglars," she said almost pettishly, but I could see that her hands were trembling as they toyed with her parasol. I knew that she spoke the truth, for instinctively I guessed who the man was.

"Here comes Mr. Faulkner!" cried Miss Cottrell eagerly. "Now we shall hear all about it."

But Alan Faulkner's brief statement hardly sufficed to satisfy her curiosity.

"Oh, no, he is not a burglar," he said. "I believe he considers himself a gentleman, but he certainly took a most unwarrantable liberty."

I had never heard Alan Faulkner speak in such an angry, scornful tone, nor seen such a fire in his eyes. What did it all mean? I felt sick of these mysterious, underhand ways, and quite angry with my cousin, who disappeared as soon as she had heard what Alan had to say.

CHAPTER XV

AN ACT OF INDISCRETION

WHEN we all met at breakfast the next morning there was a good deal of laughing and joking about the burglar, as we congratulated each other that he had not disturbed our rest. Agneta took no part in it. She feigned not to hear what was going on as she studied the envelopes of the letters which lay beside her plate; but I saw that her colour had risen, and felt sure that she was not so indifferent as she appeared.

There was another person at the table who took no part in the talk. Alan Faulkner was unusually grave that morning. Suddenly glancing up, I became aware that his eyes were upon me, studying me with an earnest, questioning glance I could not understand. My eyes fell beneath it and my colour rose. I fancied there was something reproachful in his look; but, as I had done nothing to deserve this, I tried to persuade myself that my imagination was wholly at fault. Yet the mere fancy had a lowering effect upon my spirits. It was with a sense of flatness and depression that I set about my daily duties.

Ere long Agneta claimed my attention. She had risen with a headache, which increased in violence as the day wore on. In vain she struggled against it with all the power of her strong will; she had to succumb at last, and spent the afternoon lying on her bed, while I kept applying cold bandages to her forehead. At last she said that she was better and felt inclined to sleep, so I darkened the room and left her.

When I went downstairs there was no one about. I passed into the garden and found that, too, deserted. As I walked round to the back of the house I wondered where the others were. Aunt Patty, I knew, had driven into Chelmsford to do some shopping, and I believed that Mr. Dicks had accompanied her. The Colonel probably was at the Vicarage. "Gay Bowers" wore the quiet, drowsy appearance that had marked it in the days when paying guests were unknown there.

Somewhat discontentedly I wandered down the long lawns, past the tennis nets and the croquet hoops, till I reached the part of the garden devoted to vegetables and fruit. To the right lay the strawberry bed, and, seeing some ripe berries, I paused to regale myself with them. I was wearing the check skirt I had worn on the previous day. It was foolish of me, but I liked it the better because Alan Faulkner had said a word in approval of It. It seemed that he was particularly fond of that admixture of black and white.

I lingered for some minutes by the strawberry bed, and was still hunting amid the green leaves when I saw a lad, who sometimes assisted Hobbes in the garden, coming towards me. Touching his cap awkwardly, he handed me a folded slip of paper, and as he did so I saw that a shilling lay in the palm of his hand.

"The gentleman told me to give you this, miss," he said.

"What gentleman?" I asked.

"Don't know," said the boy; "none of them as is here, miss."

I looked at the paper. It appeared to be a leaf torn from a pocket-book and folded with a corner turned down. There was no address on it. Turning from the boy's curious gaze, I strolled on, opening the missive as I went. I was amazed as I read the following words:

"My Darling, I have been waiting so impatiently in the wood and wondering what had kept you, till at last I was daring enough to approach the house, and from the one place where it is possible to look over the garden wall caught a glimpse of your frock, flitting to and fro amid the bushes. Dearest, why do you waste the time, when we might be together? I have got our plans laid now, and I must tell you about them. Let me assure you that the way is clear. There in not another soul about the place. Your puritanical cousin seems to have kindly taken herself off. I am tempted to scale the wall and join you where you are; but I dare not risk being caught again, as I was last night. I will tell you about it when we meet, so make haste and join me in the wood beyond the common."

"Your devoted"
"RALPH."

I read this extraordinary note in utter bewilderment until I came to the allusion to the "puritanical cousin," when the truth suddenly flashed on me. Why such an epithet was applied to myself I could not quite see, but I took it home, and leaped to the conclusion that the writer was Agneta's unworthy lover, who had mistaken me for her, owing to the fact of our dresses being similar. How he came to be in the neighbourhood I could not tell, but the idea that the supposed "burglar" was none other than he had struck me on the previous evening. I smiled to think how annoyed he would be, if he knew how his note had miscarried. Then I made a sudden resolve. He should know what had happened. I would go to the wood and confront him. I would tell him what I thought of his conduct, and warn him that if he continued to haunt the place I would let my aunt know of the discovery I had made. I was self-confident enough to believe that I could reason with him and persuade him to abandon a course of action which was so unworthy a true lover and gentleman.

I acted far too impulsively, as I learned to my sorrow. Waiting only to snatch my sailor hat from the peg in the back lobby where it hung, I hastened off to the common, and found my way into the wood at the nearest point to "Gay Bowers." It was the same wood, which ran down to the Wood End Oaks.

Scarcely had I reached the shadow of the trees ere I perceived the young man I came to meet. He was standing with his back to me, looking down the green glade which led to the road by which apparently he expected Agneta to come. No sooner did I see him than I experienced a sense of shame at my temerity. I might have abandoned my purpose and turned back, but the cracking of the twigs beneath my feet as I scrambled through the hedge had reached his ears. He swung round in a moment, and at the first glimpse of me a cry of delight escaped him; but the expression of his face changed almost instantly. Had I been less nervous I could have laughed at the unflattering look of annoyance which darkened his face when he perceived that I was not the one he expected.

"You did not expect to see me, Mr. Marshman," I said hastily in my embarrassment.

He lifted his hat with a grace that was Continental. I learned later that he had passed some years in a German school. He was of tall, lithe form, and bore himself with grace. His features were so handsome that I did not wonder at Agneta's infatuation, yet there was something in his face that repelled me.

"I beg your pardon," he said suavely in response to my greeting—"you have the advantage of me."

"I think not," I said. "I am Agneta's cousin—" it was with difficulty that I kept back the word "puritanical" which trembled on my tongue—"and I have come instead of her."

"Oh, really! Miss Darracott then, I presume." He lifted his hat again as he spoke. "May I ask why you have come?"

"I came to give you this," I said, holding out the slip of paper, "which I am sure you did not intend for me. You mistook my identity, I suppose."

He looked bewildered for a moment, then flushed as he took the paper.

"That being the case, you, of course, refrained from reading it, Miss Darracott?" he said in cool, quiet tones that had an edge of irony.

"Excuse me," I said, "you forget that your note bore no address. Your messenger told me that a gentleman had instructed him to give it to me. Not till I had read it could I know that it was meant for my cousin."

"Ah," he said, kicking savagely at a clump of nettles, "what an imbecile I was! But at least you must have known that there was a mistake."

"Oh, certainly," I stammered, growing scarlet as I remembered the tender epithet with which the note had begun.

"Then may I ask," he continued, "why you did not give it to your cousin when you found it was intended for her?"

"Because I prefer to return it to you," I said boldly, "and to ask you not to send such notes to Agneta, nor try to see her, when you know it is her parents' wish that you should not meet, and no good can come of such underhand ways."

"Agneta did not tell you to say that to me," he replied defiantly.

"She did not," I answered. "Agneta is far from well this afternoon, and she is lying down in her room at the present moment. She was quite otherwise occupied, as it happened, but this I could not know. I do not know how you come to be here," I added, "but I should advise you to leave this neighbourhood, and be content to wait till you can see Agneta with her parents' consent."

As I spoke I attempted to pass him, and go on my way; but, with an ironical laugh, he turned on his heel and walked beside me.

"Excuse my laughing, Miss Darracott; your words struck me as deliciously naive!" he said. "Don't you know that I might wait till doomsday before I should win that consent, since I have the misfortune to be poor, and the Redmaynes love money above all things—a characteristic that by no means renders them singular."

"You cannot be sure that their minds would not change," I said, "and I am sure it must be right for you to wait at present. It seems to me that you are bound in honour to seek no pledge from Agneta until she comes of age. You forget how young she is."

"Are you so much older, Miss Darracott?" he asked with a disagreeable smile, as he bent towards me, his dark eyes seeking mine with insolent raillery in their glance. "'Oh, wise young judge! How much more elder art thou than thy looks!'"

The blood rushed into my face. The sense of shame and humiliation which I experienced well-nigh brought the tears to my eyes. I saw how foolish it was of me to imagine that I could influence such a man as this.

He glanced away for a moment, then drew nearer to me with something so familiar and repulsive in his air that instinctively I shrank as far from him as the narrow path would permit. Without heeding the way I took, I had passed into the track that led to the stile giving access to the road. As I hastily moved away from Ralph Marshman, I was aware that Alan Faulkner stood on the other side of the stile, and was looking towards us with an indescribable expression on his face. I only saw him, and he was gone. Like a blow there fell on me the conviction that he had utterly misunderstood the state of affairs.

What could he think, indeed, on seeing me wandering along a secluded woodland path with this man beside me? How could I have been so mad as to place myself in such a position! For a moment I did not hear the words which Ralph Marshman was saying. Then he laughed in a way which made me turn my eyes on him. He was regarding me with a bold, amused glance that was in itself an insult. It seemed to me that he could read my thoughts, and knew the pain I was enduring.

"That is the learned and exemplary Professor Faulkner," he said in a mocking tone. "Do you think he was shocked to see us wandering in this wood alone? But if he is human at all he would understand—at least the apparent meaning of it, eh, Miss Darracott? He might not guess how recent is our acquaintance."

"Don't speak so, if you please!" I responded angrily. "You know I only came here to protest against the way in which you are acting! I warn you that I shall tell my aunt all that I know!"

"You don't mean that," he said with an impudent laugh. "You say it because you are angry. Well, I forgive your wrath since it is so becoming. But let me warn you that if you tell tales I can tell them too. I could tell a pretty story of how you opened another person's letter, and how you came uninvited to meet me in the wood. I advise you to keep your own counsel, Miss Darracott. Will you convey my regrets to Agneta, and tell her that, but for the pleasure of making your acquaintance, I should have been inconsolable when I heard of her indisposition? I fear we shall not meet again for a while, Miss Darracott, as I am about to leave this neighbourhood."

I made no reply as I hurried along the path and climbed the stile. I could feel that he watched me for a few moments, but when I looked back from the road I saw that he had turned in the opposite direction, and was pursuing the path that led towards Chelmsford. I hurried homewards, my cheeks burning, my pulses throbbing. I could hardly have felt much worse had I been guilty of the indiscretion which I believed Alan Faulkner had imputed to me.

"Gay Bowers" was close at hand when round a bend of the road I came suddenly upon Agneta. The colour flew into her face as she saw me. It was clear that her professed desire to sleep was merely a ruse to get rid of me, and she was now hurrying to keep her appointment with Ralph Marshman.

"It is too late, Agneta!" I said. "He is gone."

"What do you mean?" she asked nervously, and the flush faded from her face as quickly as it had risen, till she looked ready to drop. "Where have you been?"

"In the wood talking with Mr. Ralph Marshman," I replied. "And I wish enough I had never gone near him. He is a horrid man, Agneta!"

A scene ensued which was to the credit of neither of us. In my sore mortification I lost control of my temper, and said words that were better unsaid. I reproached my cousin with deceitful and even unmaidenly conduct. I told her that the man for whose sake she seemed ready to risk the priceless pearl of her good name was no gentleman, and that he was not worthy of a girl's respect, still less her love. I told her that although I had promised to say nothing to Aunt Patty about the love story she had confided to me, things had now come to such a pass that I felt I had a right to claim release from that promise. A higher obligation compelled me to inform aunt of what was going on, and I gave her warning that I meant to lay the whole matter before Aunt Patty at the earliest opportunity.

Agneta did not receive my rebukes with meekness. She reproached me in her turn with considerable bitterness. Very hard were the words she hurled at me. I was a prude, a mischief-maker, a Pharisee, and a sneak. The last epithet made me wince. I did so hate all meanness in word or deed, that the injustice of this last judgment stung me. But I held my ground in spite of it. The issue was too grave for me lightly to give way. I felt it as incumbent on me to save Agneta from herself as if I had seen her in a fit of madness about to throw herself over a precipice. When at last she saw that I would not yield, Agneta, wholly exhausted by her passionate outburst, sank on a bank by the roadside and began to cry. I felt very uneasy as I watched her. My attempts to soothe her met with little success.

"You are so unkind, Nan," she sobbed. "You want to make me miserable, and it is so horrid of you, just when I was looking forward to the garden party to-morrow. You might wait till that is over before you tell Mrs. Lucas. You will upset her as well as me, and spoil everything."

I was amazed to hear Agneta speak so. What a child she was, to be sure! How could I take her love trouble seriously, when I found her in the midst of her distress giving a thought to this garden party, to which we were all invited for the morrow? I knew that Aunt Patty was looking forward to going to the Canfields' entertainment accompanied by most of her paying guests; but I had no idea that Agneta was counting on it so much, although I knew she had bought a new hat for the occasion. While I mused on it, Agneta spoke again.

"Oh, do, Nan!" she said pleadingly, looking up at me with tears in her blue eyes. "Do promise me that you will say nothing to Mrs. Lucas till the party is over!"

For a moment I hesitated. Surely the delay could do no harm, since I believed that Ralph Marshman was leaving Chelmsford this evening. The sound of wheels on the quiet road decided me. I did not wish that any one should see my cousin crying there by the wayside.

"Very well," I said; "I promise on condition that you stop crying at once, and walk on like a reasonable being."

Agneta's face brightened instantly. She rose, and, slipping her hand within my arm, as though she felt the need of support, began to walk at a pace which soon brought us within the gate of "Gay Bowers."

CHAPTER XVI

MISJUDGED

WE gained the house without encountering anybody. Agneta went upstairs at once, while I hastened to get her a cup of tea. Entering the dining-room, I found Alan Faulkner seated there taking tea in solitude. I started at seeing him, and a hot tide of colour rose in my face. I would have given anything not to have blushed at that moment. The belief that my access of colour would be interpreted as a symptom of inward shame heightened my confusion till I felt that I was crimson to the roots of my hair.

"Oh," I said stupidly, "are you having tea alone?"

"Yes," he said. "Jenny insisted on bringing me some. She said all the others were out."

"I hope she made it properly," I said.

"It is very nice," he replied. "Let me give you some?"

"No, thank you, I will not have any just now," I responded awkwardly; "but I will take a cup for Agneta. She has a headache."

I began to prepare a little tray to carry upstairs, and he helped me deftly. It had been a surprise to me to discover that such a learned man could be so handy and practical in everyday matters.

I went upstairs and remained with Agneta until she had taken her tea. I expected that Mr. Faulkner would have quitted the dining-room ere my return, but when I came back with the tray, he was still there, doing nothing more profitable than playing with Sweep.

"I poured out a cup for you, Miss Nan," he said as I entered. "I know you do not like strong tea, but now I am afraid you will find it cold. Let me ring for some fresh tea?"

"This will do nicely, thank you," I said constrainedly as I seated myself at the table.

He had moved to the window, and sat there in such a position that I only caught a side view of him. Sweep's forepaws were on his knee, and he was stroking the dog's ears with a regular, even movement, which appeared to be equally agreeable to them both.

"Why could he not go away and leave me to take my tea in peace?" I thought, as I waited nervously for him to speak. I tried hard to appear at my ease as I sipped my tea, but I was far from being so. I longed to break into careless talk, but somehow I could think of nothing to say.

Gradually I became aware that he was scarcely less embarrassed than I was. Once or twice, he shot a grave, inquiring glance at me, and seemed about to speak, but nothing came of it. When at last he spoke, his words gave me a shock.

"That was Mr. Ralph Marshman whom I saw with you in the wood, Miss Nan."

"It was," was all I could say, while, to my vexation, I felt myself flushing again.

"He was at Cambridge with me," he said.

"You know him then?" was my reply.

"My acquaintance with him was of the slightest description," he replied emphatically. "He was in his first year, and I had finished my college course."

I was silent, for I felt myself in a dilemma. For Agneta's sake I should have liked to question him concerning Mr. Ralph Marshman; but if I did so he would imagine that I took a personal interest in the young man. Indeed, I much feared that already that idea had possession of his mind. I longed to explain the true state of affairs, but I could not betray Agneta's secret. I was bound to keep silence, but I realised with a sinking heart that my promise was likely to cost me dear.

An awkward silence had lasted for some minutes, when Alan Faulkner said in a low, deep voice, that seemed to vibrate with some subtle emotion:

"I wonder, Miss Nan, if I dare take the privilege of a friend, and venture to give you a warning."

"Of course, I shall be happy for you to speak to me as a friend," I said, as he waited for me to reply; "but you are mistaken in supposing that I need a warning."

"Ah, you do not know," he said quickly; "you are young, Miss Nan, and may be easily deceived by a specious manner and good appearance. I hate to speak against people. It seems mean to rake up the errors of a man's past. If I thought he had reformed, I would not say a word; but as it is, I think you ought to know that while I was at the University Ralph Marshman made himself notorious by a course of conduct which resulted in his being sent down. I—I hardly know how to tell you, but it was something more than a mad escapade, the outcome of youthful riot; he acted in a way that showed him to be utterly unprincipled and dishonourable to a degree. Forgive me if I give you pain."

Of course, he said it with the kindest intention; but his thus taking it for granted that I was so deeply interested in Ralph Marshman made me unreasonably angry. His words certainly caused my heart to quiver with pain; but in a way that he could not understand. At the same time they kindled within me such a fire of passionate indignation as led me to exclaim, in a voice unlike my own: "Pain! How can you give me pain, Mr. Faulkner? I can assure you that is beyond your power; but it amazes me that you should thus misjudge another."

I paused, for my voice had grown husky. I found myself on the point of bursting into tears. Alan Faulkner had turned on the window seat, and was looking at me with eyes full of pain, and with something of reproach in them too, it seemed to me. The next moment there was the sound of wheels on the gravel outside, and the wagonette drove up to the door containing Aunt Patty, Mr. Dicks, and innumerable parcels.

Instantly I sprang up, welcoming the diversion. Choking down my emotion, I ran out. As I busied myself in helping aunt out and collecting the parcels, I assumed an animation at which I secretly marvelled. Was I too becoming an adept at dissimulation? As I chattered away to Mr. Dicks, or questioned aunt as to what she had done, my heart was like lead, yet it seemed to me that I played my part well. I did not deceive Aunt Patty, however. She looked at me more than once with an intentness that made me uncomfortable, and at last she said:

"What is the matter with you, Nan? You don't seem yourself somehow. Have you been ministering to Agneta, till you have got a headache from force of sympathy?"

"Not exactly," I replied, thankful that Mr. Faulkner had taken himself off ere aunt made this remark: "but the weather is trying, don't you think? It seems so hot and oppressive this afternoon."

"I have not found it so," said Aunt Patty; "there was a nice breeze driving."

"If you'd lived in New York, Miss Nan, I guess you wouldn't call this a hot day," said Josiah Dicks; "I wonder what Pollie would say to it. Do you know that she is sitting up to-day? I saw her, bless her heart! And she waved her hand to her old dad from the window."

"Yes, I know. Auntie told me. I am so glad," I said, trying hard to seem glad, while I secretly felt as if gladness and I had parted company for ever. Then I went away. My bedroom, unfortunately, was no longer a place of refuge for me, so I turned into Paulina's deserted room, which had been thoroughly disinfected after she quitted it. I sat down, and tried to review the situation calmly; but my thoughts were like goads, and soon drove me to pacing the floor in a restless anguish which sought relief in movement. I was angry with Alan Faulkner and angry with myself. What right had he to leap to the conclusion that I was attracted by Ralph Marshman? It was intolerable that he should imagine him to be my lover. My face burned with shame as I thought of it, and I reproached myself bitterly for the ill-considered action which had placed me in such a false position. That he should think it necessary to warn me that the man was unworthy!

My mind found no relief as I recalled all that had passed between us. I had said not a word that could remove the impression which he had received. Now that it was too late, I thought of many a neatly-turned, significant phrase which might have convinced him of his mistake without revealing my cousin's folly. Why had I dumbly submitted to the imputation? Why had the few words I had uttered been so passionately incoherent? Ah! I knew but too well how it was. The discovery that he had so misunderstood me dealt me a blow which deprived me of the power to defend myself. No one's good opinion would I less willingly lose than that of Alan Faulkner. And I had lost it—lost it, as I feared, for ever, through my own blind folly!

The sound of the dressing-bell roused me from my bitter musings. Wearily, heavily I went to prepare for dinner. It is no exaggeration to say that I felt at that hour as if I could never know happiness, or even comfort, again.

Agneta was already dressed when I entered our room. Her face was flushed. She looked pretty and excited. Her mood too had changed. She persisted in discussing all kinds of trifles with me as I made my toilette, till in my irritation I could hardly refrain from bidding her hold her tongue. And this was the girl who had seemed broken-hearted a little while before! I reflected that she could have no depth of character. Her tears had arisen from mere surface emotion. She could not really care greatly for Ralph Marshman. And it was for the sake of such a one that I was stung with sharpest self-reproach and suffered such a cruel sense of loss. I was far from loving my cousin as I followed her downstairs that evening.

My head ached, and I had little appetite as I seated myself at the table. I saw aunt glance at me and then at Agneta, who had quite regained her spirits, and was chatting with Colonel Hyde. When I ventured to turn my eyes on Alan Faulkner it struck me that he looked grave and stern. Beyond making a few remarks to Aunt Patty in a subdued tone, he contributed little to the conversation. Once I caught a searching glance from him, beneath which my eyes sank involuntarily.

The next moment an indignant sense of the injustice of his judgment rallied my spirit. Why should I be ashamed, when I had no true cause for shame? If I had acted unwisely in meeting Ralph Marshman in the wood, my intention had been good. I had done nothing that I should fear to confess to mother. Oh, how I longed for the time when I could tell her all about it!

With that I lifted my head, and, making a desperate effort to appear lighthearted, I began to talk with Mr. Dicks. A strange mood took possession of me, and I laughed and talked with a flippancy of which I was afterwards heartily ashamed. My liveliness outran Agneta's. I said such foolish things that aunt looked at me in astonishment. I believe she thought I had caught Paulina's fever. I could not have acted more foolishly. I was taking the best means of confirming the ill opinion of me I believed Alan Faulkner had formed. The cloud on his brow darkened. He appeared to pay little heed to what was passing about him, yet instinct told me that he heard every word I uttered. When dessert was placed on the table, he asked Aunt Patty to excuse him, as he had some work he wanted to finish. He went away, and the burden of despondency settled again upon my spirit, more intense than before.

I had never been so wretched as I was that night. I was entangled in a mesh of adverse circumstances from which I was powerless to extricate myself. I lay down feeling sure that there could be little sleep for me. Throughout the hours of the night the same poignant thoughts tortured me. Yet I was not without hope. Surely the morrow must bring relief. I determined to make an effort to right myself in Alan Faulkner's estimation. He had, I knew, accepted Mrs. Canfield's invitation to her garden party. During the hours we should spend in those beautiful grounds, I could hope to find an opportunity of saying a few quiet words to Alan Faulkner, which, without compromising Agneta would convince him that Ralph Marshman was no friend of mine.

Round this idea my thoughts finally gathered as the weary night passed away. Agneta's restless movements made me doubt if she were sleeping much more than I, but I never addressed a word to her. I found it hard to forgive her for the mischief she had wrought.

Day was dawning ere the first gleam of true comfort visited my soul. It came with a memory of Holy Writ. "If our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things." My heart did condemn me for folly and mistake, but not for the moral ugliness and dissimulation which I believed were imputed to me. And God knew all things! However others might misjudge me, there was perfect comprehension, perfect justice for me with Him. Why had I not carried my sense of wrong to Him, instead of resenting my injury with weapons of pride and indignation which had only recoiled against myself? I had longed for the comfort of mother's sympathy, and all the while there was a stronger, mightier Love, a Love which knew those hidden recesses of my heart that I could hardly have laid bare even to her, and the arms of that love were outstretched to draw me near! Weak, helpless, crying like a child, I crept into the embrace of that love, and found rest. As the birds began to chirp beneath the eaves I fell asleep.

When I came into the breakfast-room the next morning, rather later than usual, Mr. Dicks cheerily congratulated me on its being such a fine day for the garden party.

"It is just the kind of weather you young ladies like," he said; "fine and warm enough for you to wear your muslins and laces without a fear. How my Pollie would have enjoyed it! However, she will enjoy going to the seaside before long, if all goes well. The doctor says he will soon give us permission to shift our quarters."

I hardly know how I replied to him, for at the same moment there fell on my ears the voice of Alan Faulkner saying to Aunt Patty in clear, incisive tones:

"I must write a note to Mrs. Canfield, and beg her to excuse me this afternoon. I am obliged to go to town to-day on important business."

"Oh, what a pity!" Aunt Patty exclaimed, with genuine regret in her tones. "Mrs. Canfield will be so disappointed."

"I think not," he said with a shake of the head. "Out of a hundred guests she can surely spare one."

"That may be, but not such a one," was aunt's reply. "I know that both she and the Squire were looking forward to seeing you."

Alan Faulkner smiled incredulously. For a learned professor, he was wonderfully deficient in a sense of his own importance.

"Is there no help for it?" aunt asked.

"None," he replied. "I must go, and by the first train, too."

My heart sank within me as I realised that the hope to which I had clung during the wakeful hours of the night was doomed to disappointment. Not yet was I to be reinstated in the estimation of my friend. Unconsciously I had cherished many pleasurable anticipations of the day's festivity. Now I shrank from the thought of it, but I little foresaw how different from my preconceptions everything would be.

CHAPTER XVII

A GALA DAY AT GREENTREE

GREENTREE HALL, the residence of Squire Canfield, as the countryfolk called him, was situated not more than a quarter of a mile from "Gay Bowers," measuring the distance as the crow flies. The entrance gates and pretty thatched lodge stood midway between the Vicarage and the village green. A fine avenue of elms led up to the Hall, which had been the home of Canfields for many generations. The present owner of the property, a man verging on old age, was a worthy descendant of the good old family.

John Canfield was justly proud of his venerable house and beautiful grounds. He employed several gardeners, and could boast the best-kept gardens in the neighbourhood. His head gardener was wont to win the chief prizes at most of the local flower shows. The extensive conservatories belonging to Greentree Hall were well worth seeing, and when they were in the perfection of their beauty the Squire would invite all his friends and acquaintances for many miles round to come and see them. The garden party, for which Mrs. Canfield issued invitations every June, was a festivity much appreciated in the locality, and by no means despised by town folk, for a good many visitors came from London by the mid-day express to assist at it. Mrs. Canfield was generally fortunate in having good weather for her entertainment. Never could she have had a more brilliant day than this promised to be.

Aunt Patty needed my help in various ways that morning, and I was glad to be well occupied. I saw hardly anything of Agneta before luncheon. She kept upstairs, and I fancied she was engaged in arranging some details of her dress for the afternoon. Mrs. Canfield, with whom Aunt Patty was on the most neighbourly terms, had begged her to bring her young people early, as she wanted our assistance in starting the games.

Her own daughters were both married; one, the wife of an Essex M.P., was coming from town with her husband for the day. Aunt Patty had promised that we would be there by three o'clock, for which hour the guests were invited.

My toilette was quickly made—a short, light skirt and a pretty blouse, specially designed by Olive for the occasion, gave me an agreeable sense of being suitably attired.

"You look as nice as possible, Nan," Agneta said, casting a careless glance at me as she fastened her shoe-string. "One cannot be very smart when one is expected to play tennis."

"Nevertheless you seem to have achieved it," I said as I looked at her. She was dressed as I had not seen her before—in a short skirt and smart little coat of white serge, with gold buttons and gold braiding on collar and cuffs. Her vest was of pale blue silk, daintily finished with lace, and her simple white hat completed a costume which was in remarkably good taste for my cousin. "I never saw you more becomingly dressed."

She laughed, and her face flushed with pleasure. "Thank you," she said. "I am glad you approve; it is something to win a compliment from you."

Her trouble of yesterday seemed entirely to have vanished, unless her excessive nervousness were a trace of it. It must be weakness that made her lips twitch so strangely as she talked, and the fingers with which she was tying her shoe strings tremble so much that she was very slow in securing them.

As I observed her I heard Aunt Patty's voice from below, crying:

"Come, girls, are you ready? It is time we went."

"You are ready, are you not, Agneta?" I said.

"Oh, yes—only—I must find another handkerchief," she replied. "Don't wait for me, Nan—I'll overtake you. I know the way through the fields."

I ran downstairs, and told Aunt Patty that Agneta would be there in a minute. Apparently the handkerchief was hard to find, for though we waited several minutes she did not come. At last we passed into the garden. We had no intention of walking by the road. We had only to go through the orchard and across two fields beyond, and we were in Greentree Park. So aunt and I strolled slowly on. Colonel Hyde and Mr. Dicks would follow later, but we knew that Mrs. Canfield would like us to be there when her guests began to arrive.

"What can be keeping Agneta?" I said when we reached the end of the first field. We waited, looking impatiently towards "Gay Bowers," but she did not appear. "I must run back and hurry her," I said at last. "She has not been to the Hall before, so I cannot leave her to follow alone. Don't wait for us, auntie."

"I suppose you had better go back," said aunt reluctantly, "but don't make yourself hot by running. I will walk on slowly."

In spite of aunt's warning, I retraced my steps pretty quickly. Nothing was to be seen of Agneta. I called to her as I entered the house, but received no reply. I hurried upstairs to our room; it was unoccupied. Hastening downstairs again, I encountered Jenny, our housemaid.

"Miss Redmayne has gone, miss," she said. "I saw her go out of the gate a few minutes ago."

"Out of the gate," I repeated. "Do you mean that she went by the road? Whatever made her do that? It is much farther."

"So I thought, miss," replied Jenny. "I wondered she should take that way, with all the dust there'll be from the vehicles coming along presently. She had her dust-cloak on her arm, though."

"Her dust-cloak!" I exclaimed. "You must be mistaken, Jenny. My cousin would not be likely to carry a dust-cloak to the Hall."

"I was surprised myself, miss, to see Miss Redmayne with it, but she certainly did take it," Jenny persisted.

"How very strange!" I said, amazed that Agneta should exhibit such unusual and, to my mind, absurd carefulness on this occasion. "Well, it is no good my following her along the road. If I go across the fields I shall be there almost as soon as she is."

As I spoke a carriage full of ladies drove past our gate, and I could hear another vehicle following it. People were coming early, determined to have a long and pleasant afternoon. I turned back, feeling annoyed with my cousin, and was by no means cool when I reached the Park. I saw Aunt Patty in the midst of a group on the lawn, but Agneta was not with her. Before I could look about for my cousin, Mrs. Canfield met me, greeted me kindly, and asked me to go and see if the croquet hoops were properly set. They were not quite at the right distances, and I was hurriedly altering them when a strong hand took the last one from my grasp, and fixed it for me. With pleasure I perceived that Jack Upsher had come to my assistance.

"You here, Jack!" I exclaimed. "Then the exam is over?"

"Rather!" he said. "But I could not get away till twelve o'clock to-day. I have hardly been home half-an-hour, but I was not going to miss this social function if I could help it."

"Really," I said, "You astonish me! This is something new. It seems only the other day that you were saying how stupid you found this festivity last year."

"And so I did," he coolly replied. "You were not here last year, Nan. That fact makes all the difference."

"Oh, I dare say!" I responded with a laugh. "You don't think my vanity is equal to swallowing that? By the by, did you see anything of Agneta as you came through the grounds?"

"No," he said. "Why? Have you lost your cousin?"

"Hardly that," I said with a smile; "but I have missed her somehow, and I am afraid she may be feeling lonely as she knows hardly any one here. We will go and look for her. But now tell me how you got on in your exam."

"Oh, don't ask me, Nan!" he groaned. "You may expect to hear that I am ploughed again."

"Nonsense I shall expect nothing of the kind," was my reply. "You might tell me how you think you have done."

"Oh, badly," he said, "though I am not without a faint hope that I may squeeze through. I sincerely hope it may be so, for the governor's sake. I say, where's that crank of a professor?"

As he spoke we had come round to the front of the Hall, and saw before us a party on the lawn. The number of the guests had increased considerably, but I looked in vain for Agneta.

"I don't know what you mean," I said stiffly. Then I saw Aunt Patty coming towards me with the evident intention of addressing me.

"Nan," she said as she came up, "what about Agneta?"

"What about her?" I repeated stupidly, as I glanced around. "She is not here?"

"Of course not," said Aunt Patty quickly, "but you saw her—how is she?"

"I did not see her," was my reply; "Jenny said she had started."

"Then what is the meaning of this, which a servant has just brought me?" aunt asked, holding out an envelope as she spoke. Within, hastily pencilled on a slip of paper, were the words:

"Dear Mrs. Lucas,—I am sorry to say that I cannot come. My head
is bad. Please express my regret to Mrs. Canfield."

"AGNETA."

I was amazed. Agneta had made no complaint of headache to me, nor had she seemed to be suffering in any way. One wild conjecture after another presented itself to my mind with lightning speed, and I suppose my expression betrayed something of what was passing within, for Aunt Patty exclaimed hastily:

"What is it, Nan? Of what are you thinking? Why do you look like that?"

"Oh, nothing," I replied hurriedly, "but I must go; I must find out what is wrong with Agneta."

"Yes, do," said my aunt; "walking in the sun may have upset her and obliged her to turn back. Go quickly, dear, and, if she should seem really ill, be sure to send word to me."

"I will come with you," said Jack.

"You will do nothing of the kind," I replied. "You will stay and start some games of tennis and croquet, and help Mrs. Canfield, as I promised to do, until I come back."

"Oh, I say—" he began; but I waved him away, and was off for the nearest exit from the Park. I needed no urging to haste. Once within the fields, I ran at my utmost speed, for a painful suspicion had taken possession of my mind. Had I fallen into a snare when I agreed to say nothing to Aunt Patty about Ralph Marshman till this day was over?

I reached the house and tore upstairs to our bedroom. Agneta was not there. Everything belonging to her was left in perfect order. A hasty glance round convinced me that she had been gathering her things together and arranging them with a certain method and purpose.

I had now no fear that my cousin was ill. A very different explanation forced itself upon my mind. So strong was this conviction that I did not wait to search the house. After one futile call, unheard even by the servants, who had betaken themselves to the garden, and were watching from behind the trees the unusual traffic along the quiet country road, I got out my bicycle, mounted it, and rode at full speed for Chelmsford.

I felt desperate as I sped along the road. For the first time in my career as a cyclist I was guilty of "scorching." Agneta must have had fully half-an-hour's start of me. How she had gone I could not tell; probably she had availed herself of one of the conveyances returning from Greentree Hall. I knew that a train left Chelmsford for London some time between three and four o'clock, and by this I imagined that she would travel, for I had made up my mind that she was bent on elopement. If only I could get to the station before that train started! It hardly seemed possible that I could be in time.

I had never ridden so hard before, and I certainly never felt so ashamed of myself. I kept meeting carriages carrying guests to the garden party. With many of the people I was doubtless acquainted, but I looked neither to the right nor left as I rode on, mechanically steering my way as directly as possible. How thankful I was that my machine was such a splendid runner! I got over the ground at a record pace. I dimly wondered, as I passed each conveyance, whether the people it carried would think me mad, or imagine that sudden illness or accident was the cause of my thus rushing into town. Those who recognised me would assuredly think it very strange that I should be going from Greentree in such haste on that afternoon.

But now I was coming into the town, and it behoved me to ride more circumspectly, if I would not get into trouble. I heard a church clock strike the half-hour, and felt sure that I should miss the train unless it were behind time, which might possibly happen, as it came up from Ipswich, and I believed it was market day there. The way to the station seemed to have mysteriously lengthened out; but I turned the corner at last, and saw the booking-office before me.

The train was just coming in as I sprang from my bicycle and gave it into the care of a porter. I got my ticket and rushed on to the platform. My eyes fell on Agneta, wrapped in her long grey dust-cloak, just as she was stepping into a carriage. A porter was closing the door. By an imperious sign, I bade him hold it open, and, running up, sprang breathless into the compartment just as the train began to move. As I sank panting on to a seat opposite to my cousin, she uttered a cry of surprise and dismay.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN ELOPEMENT

THERE were several other persons in the carriage with Agneta, and they observed me curiously as I slowly recovered from the effects of the rush I had made.

"Nan," said Agneta, leaning forward and speaking in an angry whisper, "what is the meaning of this? Why are you here?"

"It is I who should put such questions," was my reply. "Why are you, Agneta, running away thus? How could you dare to send such a false excuse to Aunt Patty?"

"It is true enough!" she said defiantly. "My head does ache; and I could not go to the Hall because I had promised to go to London."

"To meet Ralph Marshman, I suppose?" I said, carefully subduing my voice.

She nodded.

"Of course; but it is all right, Nan. He has procured a special licence, and we shall be married almost as soon as I reach London."

"Oh, will you?" I said to myself. "Not if I can prevent it!"

"It is perfectly mad of you to come away thus," she went on, "and you will do no good. How could you be so foolish as to leave the garden party? What will Mrs. Canfield say?"

"I do not care," I said doggedly; but it was hardly true. I did care. The thought of Aunt Patty's anxiety and Mrs. Canfield's astonishment made me uneasy. It was not pleasant to think of the remarks people were probably making about me at that moment; but I believed I was doing right. Better that I should be misunderstood and misjudged than that Agneta, on the threshold of womanhood, should bring upon herself a lifelong misery. I might not succeed in thwarting her purpose; but it should not be my fault if she threw herself away upon a bad man.

"How you managed to get here so quickly I cannot think," Agneta continued. "You could not have done it if the train had not been late, I know, for I made a calculation. To think it should be late to-day of all days! Not that it will make any difference. You need not think that you are going to stop me! My mind is quite made up! I mean to marry him!"

"You shall not marry him in this wrong and secret manner if I can help it!" was my reply. "I tell you that frankly!"

Then aware that our fellow travellers were watching us, and doubtless wondering what caused the altercation we were carrying on in undertones, I became silent, and Agneta, after a few indignant and cutting comments on my behaviour, to which I made no reply, also ceased to speak.

I felt far from comfortable as the train bore us rapidly towards London. I dreaded the thought of another encounter with Ralph Marshman. I had but the vaguest ideas of what action I ought to take in the strange situation into which I was thus thrust. I could only resolve that I would not quit my cousin. I would witness her marriage if I could not hinder it; but I believed that no clergyman would perform the ceremony if I told him that Agneta was under age, and about to marry in defiance of her parents' will.

At the last station before we reached Liverpool Street most of the people in our compartment got out. Agneta seized the opportunity to make another attempt to shake my resolution.

"It is of no use, Nan," she said. "You had better take the next train back to Chelmsford. You will only make yourself ridiculous. You cannot prevent us from doing as we please."

"I am not so sure of that," I said. "Anyhow, I mean to try."

"I never knew such folly!" she said so passionately that I felt sure she was not so confident of carrying out her plans as she wished to appear.

"The folly is yours, Agneta!" I replied. "You are worse than foolish! You are a wicked, ungrateful girl, and if you get your own way in this you will be a miserable woman!"

That she responded with angry and offensive words was no sign that she did not feel my words to be true. Her face grew very white as the train began to slow into the terminus. I expect I was pale too. I know I felt faint, and trembled all over as I rose and grasped Agneta's arm, determined that she should not slip away. As we glided past an array of porters, I caught sight of Ralph Marshman peering eagerly into each compartment. The next moment he saw Agneta, and, darting forward, opened the door and helped her out almost before the train stopped. He looked amazed as I sprang after her and clung to her side.

"You here!" he faltered, and his brow grew dark. "What is the meaning of this?"

"It means that I have come to look after my cousin!" I said boldly.

"It is very kind of you," he said sarcastically; "but she needs your care no longer. I will take care of her now."

"Where she goes I go too," was all I said as I tightened my grasp of her arm, in spite of her efforts to shake me off.

"But this is absurd!" he said, and went on to make angry and rude remarks, which had no more effect on me than if I had been deaf, so firmly strong was my resolve. He even laid his hand on my arm and tried by force to separate me from my cousin, but I was able to resist the attempt, and he could not do more without making a scene amid the crowd of passengers now upon the platform.

We moved toward the exit, I clinging to Agneta's left arm, and Marshman walking on the other side of her. Suddenly she uttered a low cry of dismay and drew away from him.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

Why I looked towards him I do not know, but as I did so I saw that Alan Faulkner stood just behind him, and was gazing at me with astonished eyes. It was only for a moment that I saw him. A mist passed before my eyes and my head grew dizzy. When I looked again he had vanished in the crowd, and so had Ralph Marshman.

But it was not the sight of Alan Faulkner that had startled Agneta. Some one else was claiming her attention. An elderly gentleman, spare and trim in appearance and of dignified demeanour, had laid his hand on her shoulder and was gazing at her with wrath and indignation in his eyes.

"Agneta, what are you doing here? Was it you that rascal came to meet?"

Agneta was dumbfounded. When she tried to speak utterance failed her. Her lips quivered helplessly and she burst into tears. The speaker looked at her with more exasperation than compassion in his glance. His eyes fell on me, and he said with an air of extreme irritation:

"Perhaps you will kindly explain what brings my daughter to town at this hour. You seem to be her companion."

I had not seen my uncle since I was a child, and till he spoke thus I failed to recognise him. He was the last person I expected to meet just then. Deliverance had come from the most unexpected quarter; but thankful I was that it had come.

"I am her cousin, Annie Darracott," I said simply.

"Oh, really! And you think it right to assist her to meet that scoundrel," he said huskily. "So this is how Mrs. Lucas discharges her responsibility! I see I made a mistake in committing my daughter to her care."

"You make a very great mistake now," I replied; "my aunt knows nothing of our being here."

"The more shame to you," he responded severely; "but now, please take my daughter into the waiting-room while I look after that scoundrel."

I was only too glad to obey, for Agneta had lost all control of herself and was sobbing hysterically, and I felt like crying myself, though I was determined I would not give way.

Ralph Marshman had not waited to be interviewed by an indignant parent. Mr. Redmayne came back after a futile search for him. By that time I had procured a glass of water for Agneta and she was a little calmer.

"I shall take charge of you now," he said grimly; "you will both come with me to my hotel."

A moment's reflection convinced me that nothing would be gained by my taking the next train for Chelmsford. The garden party would be over before I could get to Greentree.

"I must send a telegram at once to Aunt Patty," I said. "She does not know what has become of us and will be very uneasy."

"Oh, I am glad you have some consideration for her," he said bitterly. "Really the lawlessness of young people nowadays is appalling! Running off by yourselves to London in this way! I never heard of such disgraceful conduct on the part of well-brought-up girls."

"You should not speak so to Nan, father," Agneta said. "It is not her fault that we are here. She only came because I did."

"I beg her pardon if I am unjust," he said, "but the whole affair is incomprehensible to me. I will go and telegraph to Mrs. Lucas, and then I will take you away."

"Oh, if only you would take me home to mother!" I said involuntarily.

"What! To Clapham? You would like to go there?"

"Why, of course!" I said almost impatiently.

He looked at me in some surprise.

"I could take you, certainly," he said. "Perhaps—I wonder if—However, we can talk of that presently." And he went off to despatch the telegram.

"Oh, Nan, don't leave me!" Agneta said when he had gone. "Father is awful when he is angry! He won't be quite so bad if you are with me."

"And yet you were ready to dare his utmost anger," I said.

"Oh, I should not have minded so much if Ralph were with me!" she said. "And he always said that father would be sure to forgive us when he found it impossible to part us, but I was afraid."

"It seems that Mr. Marshman is afraid too, now," I could not help saying. "At any rate, he has found it convenient to slip away and leave you to bear the brunt of your father's displeasure."

When Uncle Redmayne came back to us, his bearing was somewhat less severe. He said he had been thinking things over, and had come to the conclusion that it would be well to take me home at once and explain to my parents what had happened. Perhaps my mother would be willing to take Agneta in for the night. He had business that would occupy him for some hours on the following day, but he could take her back to Manchester with him in the evening. He would write and explain to Mrs. Lucas his reasons for not allowing her to return.

Agneta looked miserable enough when she heard this, but she said not a word. Her father's manner towards her had lost none of its harshness. I could not but feel sorry for her as I heard the cutting words he addressed to her every now and then.

Before we started for Clapham, he took us to the refreshment room to have some tea. He pressed me to try various sweet cakes, but neither I nor Agneta could eat anything. The tea refreshed us, however, and still more sustaining to me was the thought that I was going home. I had no fear of meeting my parents. I knew that they would not condemn me unheard.

It hardly seemed real to me when presently I found myself driving in a cab along the side of Clapham Common. How little I had thought when I rose that morning that the evening would find me here!

Mother's astonishment when she saw us drive up to the door was beyond words to express. She looked absolutely frightened, till I assured her that we were both well, and that no fresh outbreak of illness had occurred. She told me afterwards that I could have no idea how we had alarmed her, for both Agneta and I looked as if something terrible had happened.

By this time, indeed, my cousin's strength was about gone, while her headache had become almost unbearable. When we went upstairs she broke down utterly, and, feeling sure that she could endure nothing more in the way of rebuke or reproach, I persuaded her to go to bed.

Olive and Peggy bustled about and rearranged the rooms, aching with curiosity to know what was the meaning of our sudden, unexpected arrival. I, too, was longing to tell them, but nothing could be said till poor Agneta's aching head lay on a cool pillow, and we could leave her to the quiet she so sorely craved, though inward tranquillity it was beyond our power to give her.

A little later I was telling Mr. Redmayne in the presence of my father and mother what I knew of Ralph Marshman's meetings with Agneta, and all that had happened that day. When I had done, he expressed his regret that he had blamed me ere he knew the truth of the matter.

"I see now that you were my headstrong girl's true friend," he said. "You tried to save her from herself." Then, turning to father and mother, he added, "You are more fortunate in your children than I am. I don't know how it is. I have done everything for my children that I could do. They have had every advantage, and all kinds of indulgences, yet when I look for a little comfort from them, they reward me by the basest ingratitude."

There was a moment's silence, and then mother said gently:

"Agneta will surely be wiser after this. She has learned a lesson, I trust."

"If she has not, I will see that she does," he replied angrily. "She will find that I will stand no more nonsense of this kind. That man thought that, if he succeeded in marrying her, I should be fool enough to forgive her, and let her have the portion I can give to my daughters, or, at any rate, leave it to her when I die. I should have done nothing of the kind. If Agneta had married in defiance of my wishes I would never have forgiven her. She might have starved before I would have given her a shilling!"

"Oh, don't say that!" mother cried with a shiver, but there was no relenting in his countenance. He looked quite capable of so acting at that moment, and I am sure that he meant what he said.

Then he went on to explain how he had learned that Marshman had been dismissed from his post in the bank at Newcastle, certain doubtful practices of his having come to the knowledge of the firm. Thinking it probable that the young man had gone to London and might make an attempt to see Agneta, Mr. Redmayne decided to take an early opportunity of going to town himself. While there, he would go down to "Gay Bowers," see Agneta, and put Aunt Patty on her guard in case the detrimental should present himself.

He had not long arrived in town, and was on his way to Liverpool Street with the idea of going down that very evening to Chelmsford, if there was a train that would serve his purpose, when he perceived Ralph Marshman entering the station in advance of him. Instantly, he resolved to watch the young man's proceedings. He followed him to the platform where the train from Chelmsford would come in, and, carefully avoiding his observation, waited a wearisome time till at last the overdue train arrived. The result that rewarded his pains I have already narrated. I was interested in hearing uncle's description of what had occurred, till suddenly mother's eyes fell on me, and she exclaimed:

"Nan, you look worn-out. Go to bed at once."

And to bed I thankfully went, but did not sleep till I had told Olive the whole story, and a good deal more.

CHAPTER XIX

MISS COTTRELL'S ELATION

UNCLE REDMAYNE adhered to his resolve, and took Agneta back to Manchester on the following afternoon. Mother would gladly have kept her for a few days; but he seemed to feel that she was safe only in his custody. She looked very miserable as she bade us good-bye. I could not help feeling sorry for her although she had caused me to suffer so much. My heart grew cold and heavy within me whenever I thought of the look I had seen on Alan Faulkner's face as he glanced at me across the platform at Liverpool Street. It is hard to be misunderstood, and to lose, through no fault of your own, the good opinion of one on whose friendship you set a high value.

Mother had discovered that I was not looking so well as when I was last at home, and she insisted on my remaining with her for a week.

"I am sure that your Aunt Patty will not mind," she said; "I have written to explain it all to her, and she will hear too from your uncle. You need not be afraid that she will misjudge you, Nan."

"Oh, I am not afraid of Aunt Patty," I said. "She will understand. It is what Mrs. Canfield and other people will think that makes me uneasy."

"Oh, your aunt will be able to explain the matter to Mrs. Canfield, and to make it right with other people too, I dare say," mother said soothingly; "and, if not, what does it matter? You acted for the best; you did nothing wrong. Your uncle said he was very grateful to you for what you had done."

"But I did nothing," was my reply. "After all, I might as well have stayed at the garden party, for uncle was on the platform when the train came in. He would have stopped Agneta without my being there."

I spoke with some bitterness, for it seemed to me that I had made a fruitless sacrifice of what was very precious. I could not believe that aunt would be able to make everything right, nor could I persuade myself that it did not matter.

"I am sure that your uncle was glad that you were with her," mother said. "Don't worry about it, Nan. It is cowardly to mind what people may say about us, if our conscience tells us we have done right. I would not have a girl reckless as to the opinion others may form of her, but it is a mistake to let ourselves be unduly influenced by a fear of misjudgment."

I knew that mother's words were true, but it was not of "people" that I was thinking. It was good to be with mother again. I enjoyed the days at home, yet my mind dwelt much at "Gay Bowers," and I found myself looking forward to my return with mingled longing and dread.

To my great satisfaction it was arranged that father should take me back and stay over Sunday at "Gay Bowers." Aunt could give him Mr. Dicks's room, as that gentleman had gone with his daughter to the seaside for a fortnight. At the expiration of that time Paulina hoped once more to take up her abode at "Gay Bowers."

In spite of all misgivings, I felt wonderfully lighthearted when father and I reached Chelmsford late in the afternoon. His presence was a great support to me. If Alan Faulkner doubted me, he could not fail to see that father and I were on the best of terms. I knew that he liked father, and I looked forward to hearing them talk together.

As the train entered the station I caught sight of the wagonette waiting outside. Had any one come to meet us? As I stepped on to the platform I looked about me at once eagerly and timidly. Some one had come to meet us. It was Miss Cottrell. My heart sank as I caught sight of her. I could have dispensed with her society.

Miss Cottrell was looking wonderfully well. Was it the new hat and the pink blouse she wore which made her appear younger? I could not believe that it was simply my return which gave her face such a radiant expression. Yet she greeted me very warmly. It was evident that she was in the best of spirits. Even father noticed how well she looked.

"I hope you are as well as you look, Miss Cottrell," he said. "You seem to have quite recovered from the fatigue of nursing. Yet you must have had a very trying time."

"Oh, no, indeed!" she said briskly. "Paulina's was not a bad case, and she has been convalescent for the past week. I really had not much to do."

"I expected to hear that you had gone with her to the seaside," I said.

"Oh, I could not do that," she said, bridling in a way I thought curious, "and Paulina did not need me as Mr. Dicks proposed taking the nurse, though her post is now a sinecure."

"He must feel very grateful to you for your devotion to his daughter," father said.

"Oh, not at all; I was very glad to be of service," she said, and then, to my amusement, she blushed like a girl and looked so oddly self-conscious that I could have laughed.

But the next moment I did not feel at all like laughing, for she went on to say:

"We were all so glad to hear that you were coming, Mr. Darracott, for we are such a small party now. Colonel Hyde will be obliged to you for keeping him in countenance, for he is our only gentleman."

"Really! Why, what has become of Professor Faulkner?" asked my father, while my heart gave a sudden bound and then seemed to stand still.

"He has gone to Edinburgh on business—something to do with a post at a college there, I believe," said Miss Cottrell.

I seemed to turn both hot and cold as she spoke. In that brief moment of suspense I felt that I could not possibly bear it, if he had taken his final departure from "Gay Bowers" without saying good-bye to me.

"Then he is coming back again," father said quietly.

"Oh, yes, he is coming back some time," Miss Cottrell replied; "he has not taken his books and things with him."

I breathed freely again; but my heart was like lead. All the pleasure of my return was gone. I felt sick at the thought of having to wait for days, possibly for weeks, ere I could be assured that Alan Faulkner was not hopelessly estranged from me. I fell silent and let Miss Cottrell do all the talking as we drove through the sweet-scented lanes on that lovely summer evening. How differently things were turning out from what I had anticipated! At last a shrewd, observant glance from Miss Cottrell warned me of her terrible skill in putting two and two together, and I roused myself and made an effort to appear happier than I was.

"Gay Bowers" looked much as usual as we drove up to the door; the roses had come out more plentifully about the porch. Sweep had a disconsolate air as he lay on the mat; he missed some one. I could hardly believe that it was only a week since I rode away from the house in such desperate haste. It might have happened a year ago, it seemed so far away. I felt like the ghost of my old self as I forced myself to smile and talk and appear as pleased to be there as if nothing had changed for me. What a blessing it was that Miss Cottrell was so cheerful and her flow of small talk never ceased!

"It is good to have you back, Nan," Aunt Patty said, coming into my room when she had shown father his. "You must not run away from me again."

"I wish I had not run away," I said ruefully; "the people who met me tearing into Chelmsford must have thought me mad. What did Mrs. Canfield say?"

"Oh, when you did not come back we thought something must be very wrong. I went home to see what was the matter, and when I could find neither you nor Agneta I was uneasy enough until I got the telegram," said my aunt. "Afterwards I thought it best to tell Mrs. Canfield, in confidence, the whole truth, and I am afraid I did not spare Agneta. What a foolish girl! I pity her parents! She came near ruining their happiness and her own!"

"She is greatly to be pitied, too, auntie," I said; "poor Agneta is very unhappy."

"Well, I won't be so hard-hearted as to say that she deserved to suffer," replied Aunt Patty. "You will miss her, Nan."

I smiled at the sly significance of my aunt's words as I glanced round my pretty room. She knew how pleased I was to see it restored to its old order and to have it for my own sanctum once more. Yet I was very sorry that Agneta had departed in such a way.

"Auntie," I said, after a minute, "what has come to Miss Cottrell? She seems overjoyed to be at 'Gay Bowers' again!"

Aunt Patty laughed. "You may well ask what has happened to her," she said. "It is not just her return to this house which is making her so joyous. I wonder she has not told you. Miss Cottrell is engaged to be married!"

"Oh, auntie!" I exclaimed. "You don't mean it! Not to Mr. Dicks?"

"To no less a person than Josiah Dicks," replied Aunt Patty with twinkling eyes.

I was not altogether surprised, and yet the news was sufficiently exciting. So this was how the American would evince his gratitude for Miss Cottrell's devotion to his daughter!

"Well, I never!" I exclaimed. "But they always got on well together. Of course she is delighted, for he has so much money and she thinks a great deal of wealth."

"Come, come, don't be too hard on Miss Cottrell!" my aunt replied. "Give her credit for better feelings. In spite of her faults—and they are not very serious ones, after all—she has a large heart, and I believe she really loves Mr. Dicks."

"Auntie! Is it possible?" I cried. "But poor Paulina! How does she like it? It must be a trial to her."

"On the contrary, Miss Cottrell assures me that she is quite pleased," my aunt said.

But that statement I took with a grain of salt. I remembered Miss Cottrell's talent for embroidering facts, and classed the pleasure she ascribed to Paulina with her glowing descriptions of dear Lady Mowbray's' attachment to herself.

"When will they be back?" I asked.

"The Dickses? On Wednesday week," aunt replied.

She might have known that I wanted to hear when Mr. Faulkner was expected to return; but she never mentioned him, and something withheld me from making a direct inquiry.

Then aunt went away, and I began to make myself tidy, feeling that the house seemed strangely quiet and empty after the cheerful bustle of home, and oppressed by the thought of the days before me. I had now been at 'Gay Bowers' for about six months, and the time had passed swiftly enough, but I looked forward with some dread to the remainder of my sojourn there.

Yet how lovely the dear old garden was looking as the sun declined! I stepped from my window on to the top of the porch. The boxes which bordered it were planted with mignonette, amid which some fuchsias and geraniums in pots made a brilliant show. There was just room for me to sit in a little low chair in the space thus enclosed, and in the warm days I often sat there to read or sew. Alan Faulkner used to call this spot my "observatory," since from it I could survey the front garden and see all that passed the house on the road that descended from the common to the village. I had not stood there many moments when I perceived Jack Upsher spinning down the hill on his bicycle. He took off his cap and waved it gleefully as he caught sight of me. At the gate, he alighted, and there was nothing for it but I must go down and talk to him.

"Oh, Nan, it is jolly to see you again!" he cried as I ran out. "I am glad you've come back, and isn't it nice that most of the others have taken themselves off? It will seem like the good old times before the 'paying guests' came."

"Aunt Patty would hardly consider it nice if all her guests departed," I said. "However, Miss Cottrell is with us again, and father has come down with me to-day, so we are not quite without society."

"I know. The governor and I are coming in to see him this evening," he said; "so then we'll have some tennis, Nan, and you shall tell me all you have been doing since you departed in such imprudent haste without any luggage. I heard how you rode into town on that occasion. You will please not to say anything to me in the future on the subject of 'scorching.'"

What a boy he was! We had a sharp war of words for a few minutes, and then he rode off, convinced that he had got the better of me. Though he did not dare to say so, I could see that Mr. Faulkner's absence afforded him gratification. It was very strange. I never could understand what made him dislike the Professor so much.

I took an early opportunity of congratulating Miss Cottrell on her engagement, and received in response such an outburst of confidence from her as was almost overpowering. With the utmost pride she exhibited her betrothal ring, on which shone a magnificent diamond, almost as big as a pea.

"It frightens me to think what it must have cost," she said, "yet you see he has so much money that he hardly knows what to do with it, for he is naturally a man of simple tastes and habits."

"So I imagine," I said, "or he would hardly have been happy so long here with us. Paulina helps him to spend his money. He must be glad to have found some one else on whom he may lavish gifts."

"He is very thankful that he came to 'Gay Bowers,'" she said solemnly, "and you can't think how glad I am that we both chanced to see your aunt's advertisement."

"It has indeed proved a happy circumstance," I said, "but I hope this will not lead to your cutting short your stay, Miss Cottrell."

"I don't know," she said, blushing like a girl; "He wants me to—name a day in the autumn, and then he will take me abroad. I have so often longed to go on the Continent, and it will be so delightful to travel with him to take care of me, you know. And of course we shall do everything in the first style, for the expense will be nothing to him. Am I not a fortunate woman?"

"I can quite understand that you feel that," I said. "And how about Paulina—what will she do?"

"Oh, Paulina is so good and sweet!" she said ecstatically. "Her father would like her to go with us, but she says she would rather stay here with Mrs. Lucas till we come back. You know I think she is rather interested in the Professor."

"Oh!" I said. "But he has gone away!"

"Only for a few weeks," said Miss Cottrell carelessly.

She went on talking, but for some moments I lost all sense of what she was saying. A question recalled my mind to the present. Miss Cottrell was asking me if I had ever seen a buggy.

"No," I said dreamily; "it is a kind of carriage, I believe."

"Of course," said Miss Cottrell, "that is what I told you. He says he will take me for drives in a buggy when we go to New York. I thought you might know what it is like. It does not sound very nice somehow."

CHAPTER XX

A PROPOSAL

"THE Dickses will be here to-morrow, Nan," Aunt Patty said to me one morning more than a week later.

"Oh, I am glad!" I said involuntarily.

"So you have found our diminished household dull," said Aunt Patty, smiling.

"Oh, no, auntie, it is not that," I said quickly; "but I have grown very tired of hearing Miss Cottrell talk about Mr. Dicks and dilate upon the glories and delights that await her in the future."

Aunt Patty laughed.

"Poor Miss Cottrell!" she said. "It is rather absurd the way she plumes herself on the prize she has won, yet I am glad she is so happy. I fancy she led a lonely life before she came here."

"After 'dear Lady Mowbray' died," I said. "Well, I am sure I do not grudge her her happiness, though I should like to be sure that it will not lessen Paulina's."

"I think you will find that Paulina takes it philosophically," aunt said; "she is never one to fret or worry. I shall be glad to welcome her back. Do you know she has been away from us for more than a month? It hardly seems so long."

"It seems a long time to me," I said, and had hardly uttered the words ere I longed to recall them, for I did not want aunt to discover why it was that the time had seemed so long to me. It was more than a fortnight since I had seen Alan Faulkner, and our last talk together, when he had tried to warn me of the unworthiness of Ralph Marshman, was a constant burden on my memory. While the hope of arriving at a better understanding with him had to be deferred indefinitely, the days dragged heavily. The entrance of Miss Cottrell, evidently in the best of spirits, prevented Aunt Patty from making any comment on my words.

There was a pleasant bustle in the house that day as we prepared for the return of our Americans. As I helped to set Paulina's room in order, I thought of the miserable night when I had watched beside her and she had suffered so much and shrunk in such dread from the prospect of illness. How dark had seemed the cloud of trouble that loomed ahead of her then! But it had passed and the blessing of health was Paulina's once more. What had the experience meant for Paulina? Would she be just the same as she had been before it befell?

I could hardly keep from laughing when Miss Cottrell brought some of her choicest carnations to adorn Mr. Dicks's room. It seemed so impossible that any woman could cherish a romantic attachment to Josiah Dicks, and he was so prosaic a being that I feared the flowers would be lost on him. I am afraid middle-aged courtship will always appear ridiculous in the eyes of a girl of nineteen.

I was putting the finishing touches to Paulina's room when I became aware of a shrill whistle from the garden. I looked out of the window. Jack stood on the gravel below.

"Come down, Nan, please," he shouted. "I have news—such news for you!"

He was looking so elate that I had no fear of the news being other than good. Full of wonder, I ran downstairs.

"No, I am not coming in," he said as we shook hands; "I am going to tell you all by yourself. You know I went up to London this morning?"

"I know nothing about it," was my reply. "You generally tell me when you are going to town, but you did not on this occasion."

"Oh, well," he said smiling, "there was a reason for that."

"You have not been to my home?" I asked eagerly. "The news has nothing to do with my people, has it?"

"I cannot say that it has," he answered rather blankly. "Is there no one else in whom you can take a little interest?"

"Why, of course! Now I know, Jack!" I cried, enlightened by his manner. "You have passed for Woolwich! That is your news."

"You are right," he said, with shining eyes; "aren't you amazed?"

"Not in the least," I replied. "It is only what I expected; but I am very glad."

"I thought that the result might be known in London this morning, so I went up to find out," Jack explained. "I could not wait for the post to bring me the news. Besides, I felt I'd like to be alone when I learned how it was with me. I can tell you I trembled like a leaf when I saw the list, and when I looked for my name, there seemed to be something wrong with my eyesight. But I found it at last—'John Upsher'—sure enough."

"Of course I knew it would be there," I said. "Let us go and tell Aunt Patty."

"Not yet," he said, slipping his hand within my arm and drawing me away from the house. "We'll tell her by and by; but I want to have a little talk with you first. Do you know, I really believe that if my name had not been there I should never have found courage to come back to Greentree."

"Don't talk nonsense, there's a good boy," I said; "as you have passed there is no need to consider what you would have done if you had not succeeded."

"What a horrid snub!" he exclaimed. "And I wish you would not call me a boy. They do not admit boys to Woolwich Academy."

"No, really?" I said, trying hard not to laugh.

"You are a most unsympathetic person, Nan," said Jack, with an aggrieved air.

I glanced at him, and saw that he was more than half in earnest. I was really delighted to hear of his success; but I was feeling a little impatient with him for taking me down the garden just then, for I wanted to finish the task I had in hand before the afternoon was over. I prided myself on my methodical habits, though I got little credit for these at home, where the others constantly prevented my practising them. But my heart smote me when I heard Jack call me unsympathetic. I remembered that he had neither mother nor sister with whom he could discuss the things that most keenly interested him, so I resolved to listen cheerfully to all he had to say.

"Am I, Jack?" I said meekly. "Well, I can only say that if I am deficient in sympathy, it is my misfortune rather than my fault; but such as I have is all yours. You don't know how pleased I am that you have passed."

His face brightened instantly.

"I expect it's a bit of a fluke," he said.

"It's nothing of the kind," I returned. "You have been working hard and you have done what you hoped to do. You need not talk as if you were utterly incapable."

"Then you don't think me altogether good for nothing, Nan?" he said, bending his tall person to look into my face.

"Why should I, Jack?" was my response. "I wish you would not ask such foolish questions."

"I don't see that it is foolish," he said. "I know I am altogether inferior to you, but I did want to please you. I longed to pass for your sake."

"For my sake!" I repeated, growing suddenly hot as I realised that Jack was not speaking in his usual light strain. "For your father's sake, you surely mean."

"No, for your sake," he repeated. "Oh, Nan, you must know that I would rather please you than any one else in the world!"

"Oh, Jack," I exclaimed in dismay, "do please stop talking in that absurd way!"

"Absurd!" he repeated in a tone which made me know I had hurt him. "Is it absurd to love you, Nan? Oh, you must know how I love you! I could not speak of it before; but, now that I am all right for the Army, I want you to promise that you will be my wife—some time. I know it can't be yet."

I could have laughed at the audacity with which he made the proposal, had I not seen that it was no laughing matter with him. He seemed to think I was already won, and to expect me to pledge myself to him forthwith. And all the while, eager and anxious as he was, he looked such a boy!

"It can never be," I said decisively. "You must never speak of this again, Jack. It is quite impossible. What can have made you think of such a thing?"

"Why, I have always thought of it," he said, "at least that is, since you came to stay at 'Gay Bowers.'"

"That is only six months ago," I remarked. "So now you must please banish the idea from your mind. It could never be."

"Why not, Nan?" he asked wistfully. "Do you dislike me so much?"

"Jack, how silly you are! What will you ask next? Have we not been good chums? But our marrying is quite out of the question. It vexes me that you should speak of it. For one thing you are younger than I am, and altogether too young to know your mind on this subject."

"Thank you, Nan," he retorted; "I assure you I know my own mind perfectly. I am only six months younger than you, and you seem to have no doubt of the soundness of your opinion. It is not such a great difference I don't see that it matters in the least."

"I dare say it would not if we were both about thirty years of age," I replied; "but, as it is, I feel ever so much older than you. Mother says that girls grow old faster than boys."

"That's all rubbish," he said impatiently. "I beg your mother's pardon, but it is. Anyhow, by your own showing, it will not matter in ten years' time, and I am willing to wait as long as that if need be. So, Nan, give me a little hope, there's a darling. You say you don't dislike me, so you can surely promise that we will always be chums."

I shook my head. I hated the position in which I was placed, but I had no doubt as to my own feelings. "I can give no promise," I said firmly.

"Nan, you are unkind," he said. "You don't understand what this means to me. If only you would consent to wait for me, how I would work! It would be something to live for. You should be proud of me some day, Nan."

"You have your father and your profession and your king and country to live for," I said. "They ought to be enough."

"They are not for me!" he cried. "I don't profess to be a heroic being, but you might make anything of me. It was the hope of winning your love that brought me through my exam. I knew you would not look at me if I failed."

"Oh, Jack, as if that would make the least difference if I cared for you in that way!" I cried impulsively, and the next moment was covered with confusion as I realised how I had given myself away. I grew crimson as Jack halted and stood looking at me with sudden, painful comprehension in his eyes.

"I see," he said slowly; "you know you care in that way for some one else. I can guess who it is—that—"

"Stop, Jack!" I cried, so imperiously that the words died on his lips. "Remember that you are a gentleman, and do not say what you will afterwards be sorry for. You have no right to speak to me so, and I will not listen to you. Never open this subject again. My answer is final!"

To make it hard for him to disobey me, I started at a run for the house. He did not attempt to follow me. At the end of the lawn I halted for a moment and looked back. Jack stood motionless where I had left him. He had so dejected an air that my anger was lost in regret. I could not bear to give pain to my old playfellow. I went on more slowly towards the house. As I entered I glanced back again. Jack was just swinging his long limbs over the wall. He often preferred vaulting it to making his exit by the gate. It seemed so odd an ending to our romantic interview that I burst out laughing as I went indoors. Colonel Hyde, who sat smoking just within the porch, looked at me in astonishment, and I found some difficulty in replying to his query as to the cause of my merriment. I could only say that I laughed at the way Jack jumped over the wall. Then I made haste to tell him of Jack's success. He was delighted, for, as the Vicar's old friend, he took a great interest in Jack.

"But why could not the young scamp come in and give me an opportunity of congratulating him?" he asked.

I murmured that I believed Jack was in a hurry to get home, and went quickly upstairs. By the time I reached the room my merriment had vanished. I sank into a chair, and began to sob. I was vexed and unhappy about Jack, but my regret for his suffering was mingled with a strange, overwhelming emotion which I could not well have explained. My tears were not soon checked, and when I ceased to cry I looked such an object that I could not go down when the gong announced that tea was ready below.

After a while Aunt Patty came to discover what was the matter with me. I both laughed and cried as I told her what had happened. Aunt Patty laughed too. It struck her as inexpressibly droll that Jack should be in love.

"I am really very sorry," she said, suddenly growing serious. "I might have known—I ought to have seen; but I thought Jack had more sense—no offence intended, Nan. I don't know that I could have done any good, though, if I had foreseen it. Poor old boy. He is a silly fellow; but I am sorry for him. He will suffer acutely, I dare say, for a day or two."

"A day or two!" I repeated.

"Why, yes; you don't think you have broken his heart, do you, Nan? I assure you, calf-love is soon cured. If this were the hunting season a day's hunt might do it. As it is, I dare say your rejection will rankle in his mind till he meets with another girl who strikes his fancy; but it will have ceased to trouble him much long before he gets to Woolwich."

"You don't give him credit for much constancy;" I said, a trifle nettled by her remarks, which were hardly flattering to my vanity.

"At his age there is none," said Aunt Patty. "What are you thinking of, Nan? You don't want poor Jack to be miserable, do you?"

"Oh, dear, no!" I said, and then I laughed. "I am quite glad you think he will get over it easily, for he seemed so hurt that it made me 'feel bad,' as Paulina would say. I can't understand how it is that some girls think it grand and desirable to have offers of marriage. I am sure I hope that I shall never have another."

"Do you?" asked my aunt, with a mischievous glance. "You mean till the right one comes-eh, Nan?"

"That will be never," I said decidedly; "I am quite sure that I shall never marry. I shall be the old maid of the family."

"There are no 'old maids' nowadays," said Aunt Patty cheerfully; "the term is quite out of date. So many careers are open to women that a single life may be a most useful and honourable one. When you are at the head of a college, Nan, you won't want to change places with any toiling mistress of a house like myself."

"I am afraid not," I said, with a laugh that was not very mirthful. "I should certainly never choose to do domestic work for its own sake."

"Ah, well, dear, you will soon be able to take to your books again," said Aunt Patty, kissing me ere she went away.

She meant to cheer me by so speaking; but somehow her words had quite the opposite effect. My tastes had not changed, yet something within me rebelled against the thought of going home and taking up a severe course of study again.

CHAPTER XXI

THE RETURN OF THE AMERICANS

"IT is a restless age," observed Colonel Hyde the next morning, as with the utmost precision and deliberation, he opened his egg. "My godson was in London yesterday, yet he must be off to town again by the first train this morning. Then he talks of joining a party of friends who are going to Norway next week for some fishing."

Aunt Patty and I glanced at each other. Fishing might effect a cure as well as hunting.

"He needs and deserves a holiday after working so well," my aunt said. "He has been at home a great deal of late."

"His father has not had much of his company," remarked the colonel. "Jack has been going up to London continually, and whatever leisure he had he spent here."

"Does the vicar complain that he has too little of his son's society?" inquired Aunt Patty. "It always seems to me that he prefers the company of his books, since Jack and he have so little in common. But he must be very pleased that Jack has passed his exam."

"Has he passed?" exclaimed Miss Cottrell eagerly. "When did you hear? Why did no one tell me?"

It was not quite easy to answer the latter question. I trembled lest Miss Cottrell with her talent for investigation should discover why Jack had become suddenly desirous of change of scene. Happily she was just then too absorbed in anticipating the return of her fiancé to devote much attention to the affairs of others.

They were expected to arrive in time for afternoon tea. I watched Miss Cottrell drive off, radiant with satisfaction, to meet them at the station, then I took a book and seated myself amid the flowers in my favourite nook on the top of the porch. It was a warm afternoon, no breeze reached me where I sat, and the air was heavy with the perfume of the roses and jasmine that grew about the porch. Bees were buzzing about me, and now and then a white butterfly would flit past my book. It was a book on Goethe which Alan Faulkner had advised me to read and which father had procured for me from a London library. I was truly interested in it, yet I found it hard to fix my attention on its pages this afternoon. The sweet summer atmosphere and the stillness, broken only by the hum of insect life, made me drowsy. My book dropped, my head sank sideways, and I passed into a pleasant dream.

I was wandering through a wood with Alan Faulkner beside me when the stir and bustle of arrival below roused me to consciousness of my actual surroundings. How long I had been sleeping I could not tell, but the wagonette stood before the house, and as I sprang up and rubbed my eyes, I heard Paulina's high, thin American tones calling for "Nan." I ran down and we met at the foot of the stairs.

"Nan—you dear old Nan! Why weren't you on the doorstep to welcome me?" cried Paulina as she threw her arms round me. "Come, you need not be afraid to kiss me! I am warranted perfectly harmless."

"That's more than I'd warrant you, Pollie Dicks," came as an aside from her father.

"Indeed, I am not afraid," I responded, a little surprised at the fervour of her embrace, "and I'm very glad you've come back."

"That's right. I can't tell you how good it feels to be at 'Gay Bowers' again!" cried Paulina gleefully. "But say, Nan, what's the matter with you? I declare you've been sleeping! You lazy thing! It's time I came back to wake you up."

"She'll rouse you all—you may trust Pollie Dicks for that!" cried her father, rubbing his hands, while Miss Cottrell hovered near him, looking absurdly self-conscious. "Say, doesn't she look as if scarlet fever agreed with her?"

She certainly did. I had expected to see her looking thin and pale and languid, but it was not so. She had put on flesh in her convalescence, and the sea air had given her a more ruddy hue than I had yet seen her wear. She appeared to be in robust health, and was undoubtedly in excellent spirits. I need not have been anxious on the score of her happiness.

"If you mention scarlet fever again, I'll fine you a thousand pounds!" she cried, turning on her father. "I don't want to hear the name again, do you understand? All the same, Nan," she added, turning to me, "it is not half bad having a fever. It is good for the complexion. It rejuvenates you altogether, I guess. You'll be sorry one of these days that you haven't had it. Anyway, I've had a jolly time for the last fortnight, with nothing to do save eat and drink and take mine ease."

"You have changed if you have grown fond of repose," I said, as we went upstairs.

"Ah, Nan! Sharp-tongued as ever!" she replied. "I know you thought me a terrible gadabout, and I certainly never went to sleep in the middle of the day like some one I know. But you must have been deadly dull without me, and your cousin gone too, and the Professor. What a miserable little party you must have been here!"

"We have managed to bear up somehow," I said, smiling; "but it is good to have you here again, Paulina."

I spoke in all sincerity. I had not taken readily to Paulina Dicks. Her odd, American ways had jarred on me when first she came. I had not realised how much I liked her, or how I missed her, till now that her eager, vivid personality once more made a pleasant stir in the house. I think I laughed more in the first half-hour after her arrival than I had laughed during the whole of her absence. A cheerful disposition wields a potent charm.

Yet I had seen Paulina other than cheerful. What a different Paulina she was from the girl who had gone away in sore anxiety and dread! She made no allusion to the manner of her departure, yet I knew it was in her mind as she opened the door of her room. I had suggested to aunt that we should make a little alteration in the arrangement of Paulina's room. So the bedstead now stood in another position, and the aspect of the room did not inevitably recall the long, weary night in which she had suffered so much. I saw that she noted the change with satisfaction. All she said was, "Nan, you are a darling!" It was not Pollie Dicks's way to indulge in sentiment or make a parade of emotion.

Yet ere we slept that night she opened her heart to me as she had not done save on that night when she looked death in the face and was afraid.

Dinner had been over about half-an-hour. I chanced to be alone in the drawing-room. It was growing dusk, but the lamps were not yet lighted, when I heard Paulina's voice at the open window.

"Do come out, Nan," she cried. "I want to show you something."

I ran out willingly enough. It was lovely in the garden at that hour. After the heat of the day the air seemed deliciously cool and sweet. The moon was slowly rising above the tree-tops. A soft breeze whispered through the leaves. The flowers were giving forth their sweetest perfumes.

"Oh, how lovely!" I exclaimed as I drew a deep breath.

"Hush," said Paulina, with a warning gesture, "not a word! I want to show you something."

She led me noiselessly along the grass till we reached the tall thick hedge at the end of the lawn. Then she signed to me to peer stealthily over it. I did so, and perceived Josiah Dicks and Miss Cottrell pacing arm in arm the narrow path between the apple trees. As a precaution against chill, for the dew was falling, his long neck and lean shoulders were enveloped in a Scotch plaid. She wore her huge garden hat, and had wrapped herself in a red shawl. They were certainly an odd-looking couple.

"Romeo and Juliet," whispered Paulina, and I nearly exploded.

JOSIAH DICKS AND MISS COTTRELL PACING ARM IN ARM.

"You naughty girl!" I said as we withdrew to a safe distance. "But I am glad you can laugh. I feared it might be a trouble to you."

"What—the betrothal of my youthful papa?" she said, laughing. "Well, I'll own up that it did vex me for about fifteen minutes."

"Not longer?" I asked.

"No," she said naïvely, "for I was convinced upon reflection that it was a blessing in disguise. You see, I knew she could not take my place in his heart. He will always love me best."

"Oh!" I said.

"Do you doubt it," she asked with some warmth, "when I am his child—his own Pollie? How can a woman whom he has known but a few weeks, be more to him than me? Why, he did not propose until I gave him permission."

"He asked your permission?" I repeated in amazement.

"Certainly. We talked it over together, and I came to the conclusion that it would be a convenience to both me and poppa. You see, he is not very strong; the fact is, he is getting old, and he wants some one to fuss over him continually, and look after his little comforts. Miss Cottrell loves doing that sort of thing, and I don't. Besides, you know, I am a good deal younger than he is."

"Naturally," I said.

"And our tastes are different," she went on quite seriously, "so I want to live my own life; but it will be a comfort to me to know when I am not with poppa that he is being well looked after and made happy in his own way. And I like Kate Cottrell. I have no fear that she will plague me as a step-mother."

"I should certainly advise her not to interfere with you," I said, laughing. "And so you graciously permitted your father to woo her?"

"Yes; and when he was getting a ring for her, he got me one, too, to mark the occasion," said Paulina, stretching forth a finger for my inspection. "Isn't it a beauty? Poppa is always giving me jewels, though he threatens that a day may come when he will no longer be able to do so. He talks sometimes as if he were afraid of suddenly losing his money; but I don't think that is likely, though all sorts of things happen in business. I should not like him to lose his money. It's nice to have plenty to spend, isn't it?"

"I am sure you find it so," I replied; "for myself, I have never had the experience."

"How dryly you say it!" laughed Paulina. "But now, Nan, tell me—why has the Professor taken himself off, and Jack Upsher? What is the meaning of it? Have you been breaking hearts here during my absence?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said, thankful for the veil of twilight. "Professor Faulkner has gone to the assistance of a friend who is ill. He is taking classes as a locum tenens in some Scotch college."

"Oh, I know—Miss Cottrell told me that," she replied impatiently; "but I guess I can see as far through a brick wall as most people, and I know there's something behind. You can't throw dust in my eyes."

"I have no wish to do so," I said coolly; "there is no occasion that I know of."

"You are an obstinate little mortal, Nan," said Paulina severely; "I hoped you were going to be my friend. I meant to tell you, you might call me 'Pollie.' No one has done so yet except poppa and one other person, though I presume Miss Cottrell thinks she has a right to do so now; indeed she tried it on yesterday."

I nudged Paulina to make her aware that her father and his companion had emerged from the sheltered path and were taking their way to the house. Paulina responded by throwing her arm round my waist and drawing me quickly behind a bush.

"What a couple of old dears they look!" she said irreverently. "I don't want them to see us, for I do not mean to go in yet. It is too lovely."

I assented eagerly. The moon was now visible far beyond the trees and shed its radiance full upon the lawn. The shadow of each tree and bush was sharply defined upon the grass. Bats were beginning to flit on heavy wing across the garden. The light breeze which was sweeping through the trees was not too cool for us. Paulina linked her arm in mine, and we turned towards the path between the apple trees.

The beauty and mystery of the night laid its spell upon us, making:

"Deep silence in the heart,
For thought to do her part."

For some minutes neither of us spoke. Then Paulina began to speak in a low, soft voice, very unlike her usual high-pitched tones.

"Nan, do you remember that night before I went away?"

"I remember it well," I said.

"How frightened I was when I knew that I had scarlet fever—how I thought I should die as mamma did?"

"Yes," I murmured. As if I could forget!

"I shall never forget what you said that night and how you prayed with me," she went on. "You don't know how you helped me. I learned to pray that night, Nan."

"Oh, Pollie, dear Pollie," I said, drawing her closer to me, "I am so glad!"

She bent and kissed me ere she spoke again. "I thought of your words when I felt lonely and frightened in the days that followed. I tried to believe that the Lord Jesus was with me, and I asked Him to take me into His keeping. I was too weak and ill to think or pray much; but I rested on the thought that I was in His loving grasp. And presently all my fear went, and I was calm and peaceful as—as a girl would be who had her mother beside her."

"Oh, I am so glad!" I said once more. It seemed almost too wonderful to be true, that God should thus have used me to bring Paulina to Himself. Never had I felt more poor and mean and unworthy, yet never was I more truly thankful.

"And now I want to be a different sort of girl," continued Paulina. "I mean to try to be good for all I am worth, and you must help me, Nan. I am afraid I shall never be a real Christian, though."

"You are surely not going to be a sham one," I said. "You cannot be if Christ has you in His keeping."

"That is true," said Paulina. "Oh, Nan, life seems so much more to me now! I have such new hopes and plans and I am so happy!"

"And I am happy too," I cried.

Indeed I felt as if I could never be troubled again. I could only wonder that I had ever allowed myself to be ruffled by trifles. The things which had so lately disturbed my peace seemed now of slight importance, since there came to me a blessed conviction that my life, and the lives of those I loved, were in the keeping of a God of Love, who would make all things work for our good. What a difference it makes whether one regards one's life as ruled by a hard, blind, inexorable Fate, or as guided by the Hands of Love! My mood at that hour might have found expression in Mrs. Browning's well-known lines:

"And I smiled to think God's greatness
Flowed around our incompleteness,
Round our restlessness, His rest."

Paulina and I did not utter many words as we paced the path together. Our hearts were too full of deep emotion. That sacred confidence cemented between us a lasting friendship. We lost all sense of time as we wandered to and fro, now in the clear moonlight and now in the shade of the trees, till at last Aunt Patty's voice was heard from the farther end of the lawn.

"Girls—girls I Where are you? It is time to close the house. Do you mean to spend the night in the garden? Nan, you forget that Paulina is an invalid."

"That I am not!" cried Paulina stoutly, and, laughing, we ran indoors.

CHAPTER XXII

CALAMITY

"WHEN will Professor Faulkner be here, Mrs. Lucas?" Paulina asked the next morning at breakfast. "I am longing to see him again," she added calmly.

"I am sorry I cannot tell you," Aunt Patty replied. "He would be flattered if he knew how his presence was desired."

"Don't tell him then," said Paulina. "I would not for the world flatter him or any man. Masculine self-conceit never needs any bolstering up."

"There are exceptions, dear," said Miss Cottrell, with a soft glance at the self-complacent visage of her Josiah.

"If you mean my poppa," said Miss Dicks unflinchingly, "he's about the best example I know of a perfectly self-satisfied man."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the individual in question. "Not bad, that! She hits straight, does Pollie. But why shouldn't I be pleased with myself? I've done well in my time. I began with a dollar and now I'm worth—"

He checked himself suddenly. His eyes were on the post-bag Jenny was bringing into the room. I saw a dull, red flush rise suddenly to his forehead and then recede as quickly, leaving his countenance of a more unhealthy pallor than usual, while he watched Aunt Patty, who was unlocking the bag preparatory to distributing the letters.

Two letters were handed to Mr. Dicks. Over one, in a business-like blue envelope, I saw his hand close tightly for a moment. Then he thrust it into his coat-pocket and tried to go on with his breakfast. But his interest in it was gone. Hastily swallowing his coffee, he asked Aunt Patty to excuse him, and went out, followed by the anxious glance of his fiancé.

"Nan," said Paulina, the next moment, "don't you wish that Professor Faulkner would come back?"

"I! Oh, I don't know," I faltered, growing red and devoutly wishing that Paulina had not such an unruly tongue. It struck me afterwards that she had perhaps said the first thing that occurred to her in order to prevent Miss Cottrell's remarking on her father's sudden departure from the table. If so, she succeeded in creating a diversion, for in my confusion I turned to help myself to salt so awkwardly that I upset the tiny salt-cellar and brought upon myself an indignant expostulation from Miss Cottrell.

"How could you be so careless? Don't you know it is most unlucky to spill salt?"

"But I don't believe in ill-luck," I said. "I am not at all afraid of the consequences of this action. See, nothing is broken; I put back the salt and it is as it was before."

"It is all very well to say that," returned Miss Cottrell, "but you may have brought ill-luck on the rest of us."

"Nan, Nan," cried Paulina, assuming a tragic air, "if we are all burned in our beds to-night, I will never forgive you!"

Then we entered upon a general discussion of local superstitions, and I hoped that my maladroitness was forgotten.

Nothing ever escaped Paulina's observation. As we rose from the table she drew me towards the garden, mischief in her eyes; but the sight of the chaise standing before the hall door arrested her attention.

"Who is going off by the early train?" she asked.

"I am, Pollie," said her father, coming quickly down the stairs. "I have to go up to town on a little matter of business which cannot be delayed."

"What—the first morning!" cried Paulina. "You need not talk of my rushing about. But, if you must go, I'll drive you. Where's a hat?"

"Here," I said. "And you had better put on this—" bringing forward a dust-coat.

"All right," said Paulina; "now some gloves."

She was ready and had taken the reins almost before Miss Cottrell awoke to the fact that her beloved was departing.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked reproachfully.

"I could have gone to the station too; now there is not time, I suppose?"

"No," he said decisively. "I shall only catch the train by the skin of my teeth. Good-bye."

"When will you be back?" she asked, as he stepped into the chaise.

"Oh, in time for dinner," he answered, and off they drove, while Miss Cottrell stood looking blankly after them.

I proposed to her that we should presently walk towards Chelmsford to meet Paulina and return with her in the chaise, but the suggestion was not agreeable to her. She would rather, she said, spend the morning in working on her garden plot. She moved away with so sombre a face that I much feared that she would water her flowers with her tears. The "labour she delighted in" afforded her consolation, for she appeared serene as usual when we met at luncheon and spoke cheerfully of driving into Chelmsford to meet Mr. Dicks.

Meanwhile Paulina had come back, having much enjoyed her drive into town. She invaded my room, apparently bent on teasing me.

"Now, Nan," she said, laying rude hands on my work, "drop that needle, if you please, and take the stool of repentance. You've got to make a confession. What have you been about while I've been away?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," I said calmly. "I spent some days at Hobbes's cottage, and I've been home, you know."

"Of course I know you've been home; but I want to know why you went home the second time in so sudden a fashion, to say nothing of your Cousin Agneta's unannounced departure. Do you suppose no one has told me how you escaped from the garden party and 'scorched' into town to catch a train, to the astonishment of all our respectable neighbours! Evidently your conduct so appalled Professor Faulkner that he had to go off to a distance to recover from the shock."

"Oh, Pollie!" I cried, unable to help laughing, though her words touched a sore spot in my consciousness. "How you do talk! Who has been telling you all this? Miss Cottrell, I suppose."

"Never mind who told me. It is for you to tell me the truth, so don't prevaricate," said Paulina solemnly. "You've an honest soul naturally, Nan; don't sin against it. If I am your friend you will tell me all. You need not be afraid to trust me. Although I am such a chatterbox, I never betray the confidence of my friends."

That I could well believe. I had already discovered that, frank and outspoken as Paulina was, her character did not lack an element of reserve. She could keep her own counsel when she chose.

So I yielded to her persuasions, and told her—if not exactly all—yet as much as I could tell any one. I hardly meant to confess so completely, but Pollie's intuitions were wonderful. She understood by half a word. It was as if she could read my heart. Before I realised that I had told her, she knew all. And she was very kind—so kind and yet so amusing! Her banter did not hurt me in the least, because I was so sure of her sympathy. Let me say at once that I never had the least cause to regret giving her my confidence.

"It is wonderful how stupid learned men can be," she remarked, "but if Professor Faulkner can believe our Nan to be a light and foolish girl, he breaks the record. But I can't help giving him credit for some sense. So be of good cheer, Nancy; this will all come right."

Her words cheered me marvellously, though there seemed small chance of any immediate change in the aspect of affairs. Aunt Patty had heard nothing from Mr. Faulkner since my return. He seemed to have forgotten the very existence of "Gay Bowers." We did not forget him. I aired and dusted his room every day. If he came back at any hour he would find all in order there.

In the afternoon Aunt Patty asked me to walk with her to a farmhouse about a couple of miles away. The farmer and his wife were rejoicing over the advent of a son and heir, and my aunt, ever ready to sympathise with either joy or sorrow, was anxious to pay due honour to the little stranger. Paulina declined to accompany us. She said she was not fond of babies. She knew the parents would expect her to hold it, and she was terribly afraid of dropping it or breaking it somehow. Miss Cottrell it was vain to ask, as she would need to start in the wagonette for Chelmsford to meet the train by which Mr. Dicks was expected to return, before the hour at which we should probably get back.

I was not sorry to take a quiet walk with Aunt Patty. The demands which the guests made on us prevented our having much time alone together. Our way lay through fields, and, although the sun shone brightly, we were not oppressed by its heat. We talked of Mr. Dicks and his daughter as we went, and aunt reminded me how much I had disliked these Americans when first they appeared at "Gay Bowers." She said it amused her to see what friends Paulina and I had become. It was strange to recall my first impressions. The Pollie Dicks I now knew seemed so different from the cool, pert, self-sufficient girl, whose American freedom of bearing had excited within me a sense of antagonism.

Our visit passed off pleasantly. We duly admired the baby, who was really a fine specimen of a six weeks' child. We had tea with the happy parents, and spent some time in surveying their garden and homestead ere we turned our steps homewards.

The latter part of our way took us across the fields, often traversed as a short cut by persons walking from Chelmsford.

"We shall not be home long before Mr. Dicks may be expected. He will probably come by the six o'clock train," aunt had just remarked, when, to my astonishment, I perceived Josiah Dicks a little in front of us. He stood leaning against the stile which a turn of the path we were following just brought into view. He was unaware of our approach, and his attitude was so dejected, so suggestive of weakness and suffering, that my first thought was that he had been seized with sudden illness.

"That is never Mr. Dicks!" exclaimed my aunt in surprise. "Why, whatever can have happened?"

Her tones were not loud, but they reached his ear. He drew himself up and turned towards us. His face was so wan and haggard, so utterly changed since the morning, that we both experienced a painful shock.

"Mr. Dicks," said aunt, hastening towards him, "what is the matter? I fear you are ill."

"No, no, not ill," he said vaguely.

"But something has happened," said Aunt Patty.

"How is it you are here alone? Miss Cottrell has driven to the station to meet you."

"I came by the early train," he said; "it was no good staying in town. There was nothing to be done. I guess I've been wandering about these fields for some time." He lifted his hat from his brow with a weary air as he spoke in a voice that was dull and faint.

"Now do tell me what ails you, Mr. Dicks," said my aunt in her most soothing manner; "for that something is wrong I can plainly see."

"Oh, I ail nothing," he said, with a pathetic attempt to recall his usual jaunty air; "it is only that I am a ruined man!"

"Mr. Dicks," exclaimed Aunt Patty, "what can you mean?"

"Just that—I am a ruined man," he repeated in biting accents. "Things have been going wrong in Wall Street for some time. There was bad news yesterday. I had information this morning which made me profoundly uneasy. I went up to town only to find my worst fears confirmed. There is almost a panic on the Stock Exchange, and for me this crash spells ruin."

"Are you sure?" asked Aunt Patty tremulously. "It may not be so bad as you think. There is room for hope."

"As sure as I stand here, madam, I know that I have lost all," was his reply. "Josiah Dicks must begin the world again, and that is not a cheering prospect when one is sixty years of age."

"Indeed, it is not," said Aunt Patty.

Then we stood silent for some moments, thinking many things. It is not easy to offer consolation for such a catastrophe, and my aunt was too wise to attempt it. Mr. Dicks broke the silence, speaking in high dry tones:

"You need not fear, madam, that you will be a loser through my misfortune. I have money enough in hand to pay all my debts and to take me and my daughter back to America."

A quiver ran through Aunt Patty's slight form. It came with a flash of passionate indignation that he should so misjudge her as to deem it necessary to make such a remark.

"You don't surely think so meanly of me as to imagine I care about that!" she exclaimed quickly. "It is for you and Paulina that I am troubled."

"Ah, Paulina!" he groaned. "It is for her sake I feel it. I can't bear to think that my girl will be penniless. I don't mind being poor myself—I've been poor before and I'm used to it; but Pollie has been accustomed to every luxury. I haven't the courage to tell her, and that's the fact."

"Ah! But I think you wrong her by that feeling," said my aunt gently. "Paulina is a brave, good girl. I think you may trust her to bear this trouble bravely. But come now, Mr. Dicks, let us get home. You look thoroughly exhausted. I dare say you've had nothing to eat since you left us this morning."

"I'll allow you're right," he said; "I'd no heart for victuals."

"Then your immediate need is rest and food," said aunt soothingly; "don't try to tell Paulina till after dinner. If she asks questions just tell her you've had a worrying day and there leave it. It will be better for both of you. Indeed I'd let her have her night's rest before I told her the ill news, if I were you."

"Well, there's something in that," he admitted, as he walked by aunt's side, evidently relieved by having made known to her his trouble. I followed, marvelling that he appeared to have forgotten another person to whom his calamity would certainly be of vital interest. His thoughts seemed all of Paulina and what the loss of wealth would mean for her, but, while I felt truly sorry for her, my mind also turned with profound pity to Miss Cottrell. How would she bear the shock of ill news, which would send tumbling into chaos all the splendid aerial palaces she had reared?

We took the nearest way home across the little wood, where I had had that unpleasant interview with Ralph Marshman. As we approached the garden a sight met my eyes which thrilled me like an electric shock, and for a while made me oblivious of the troubles of others. Walking by Paulina's side along the gravel drive in front of the house, and talking earnestly to her, was none other than Alan Faulkner!

CHAPTER XXIII

TWILIGHT TALKS

AUNT PATTY was as much astonished as I was to see Professor Faulkner calmly walking in the garden as if he had never been away. But before she had time to express her amazement Paulina caught sight of us and shouted gaily:

"Ah, Mrs. Lucas, here is a surprise for you! The truant professor has turned up at last!"

As she and her companion came smilingly to meet us, Paulina looked little prepared to meet misfortune. She was in the brightest mood, and began at once to rally her father on arriving before he was expected and disappointing Miss Cottrell, who had driven into Chelmsford to meet the train by which he usually returned. But I was only vaguely conscious of what Pollie was saying and had no thought at that moment for Mr. Dicks's painful position. The sight of Alan Faulkner threw me into a state of nervous tremor which made me feel positively ill. My heart throbbed painfully, my limbs trembled beneath me, and I felt an absurd longing to run away and hide somewhere.

"You will forgive me for presenting myself in this unexpected fashion?" Alan Faulkner was saying as he shook hands with my aunt. "I found myself free to travel south sooner than I had hoped, and, though I did write, my letter must have missed the post; at any rate, I have arrived before it."

"It is doubtless lying in the Chelmsford post-office," said Aunt Patty; "no one has been there to get letters this afternoon; but it does not matter in the least, Mr. Faulkner—I am only too glad to see you. Your room is quite ready for you, is it not, Nan?"

"Oh, yes," I responded in a high, clear voice, that surprised myself. "'Aye ready' is our motto at 'Gay Bowers.' How are you, Mr. Faulkner?"

I purposely made my greeting as cool and careless as possible; but he shook hands with me very heartily, and there was a look in his eyes that arrested mine and held them fascinated for a long moment. That look assured me that all his old friendliness had revived, and I read more in it—something that I could not well define. My gaze dropped beneath his and I turned quickly away; but my heaviness of heart was gone.

"You look very tired, poppa," I heard Paulina say. "That wretched business has given you a headache, I know. Why would you go to town to-day? I don't believe your going made a bit of difference to the business after all."

"You are right, Pollie," her father replied in a melancholy tone; "it certainly did not."

"Ah! I knew it!" said Paulina triumphantly. "I told you so, if you remember, but you would not listen to me."

"However mistaken your father has been, my dear, you must not scold him now," interposed Aunt Patty, "he is too tired. The City of London is not a desirable place on a broiling summer day. Let him rest in peace till he has had his dinner—it should be ready in less than half-an-hour. You will be glad of it, too, Mr. Faulkner."

"Oh, as for that," he replied, "I came up from Scotland by the night train, and so had time for a comfortable luncheon ere I left town. Moreover, Miss Dicks has refreshed me since my arrival with a cup of tea, of which I was very glad after walking from the station."

I looked at Paulina. Her eyes were smiling with mischief as she glanced at me.

"By the by," continued Alan Faulkner, turning to Mr. Dicks, "you must have come by the same train as I. Where did you get to that I saw nothing of you?"

Mr. Dicks's colour rose as he answered with some confusion that he "guessed" he was in the back of the train, and he had loitered in the fields on the way home. The next moment a diversion was created by the arrival of the wagonette, with Miss Cottrell sitting within, forlorn and agitated. Her surprise and excitement when she perceived that her betrothed had arrived before her was ludicrous. Descending hastily from the vehicle, she overwhelmed him with more questions than he could possibly answer.

I saw Alan Faulkner's eyes gleam with amusement as he watched them, and I felt sure that Paulina had told him of the relationship into which these two had entered. Poor Miss Cottrell! How would she bear the disappointment which fate had in store for her? I tried to feel as sorry for her as I should, but my heart was dancing with joy as I ran upstairs. What selfish wretches we are! How little we feel the sorrows of others when our own happiness seems secure!

"Nan," cried Paulina, thrusting her head just inside my door and looking the incarnation of mischief, "I had such a nice talk with the Professor before you came home. Only think of my having to entertain him for more than an hour! But we neither of us found the time long, I can assure you."

I laughed and said I thought it a pity we had not stayed away a little longer. I knew Paulina too well by this time for her attempt at teasing me to have the least effect. I tried to sober myself by thinking of the bad news Paulina must soon learn and how hard it would be for her to face poverty; but I could not feel sad as I arranged my hair in the most becoming way I knew and put on my prettiest blouse. Verily girls are callous mortals.

No one watching the party that gathered round the table a little later could have suspected that there was trouble in the air. Mr. Dicks was certainly more quiet than usual, but his daughter and his fiancé talked so much that his silence was not remarked. Miss Cottrell had recovered from her perturbation, and she made us laugh by a vivid and droll description of her various misgivings and emotions when she discovered that the train had not brought Josiah Dicks.

Alan Faulkner did not say a great deal, but all that he said was worth hearing, and he evinced such genuine satisfaction at being amongst us once more—"at home," as he once expressed it to Aunt Patty's great delight—that we all felt complimented.

When we rose from the table we all with one consent strolled into the garden. It was not yet dusk, but the days were already shortening and there was not sufficient light to make it worth while to begin a game. Mr. Dicks, with his head thrust back and his hands in the pockets of his coat, stalked off gloomily alone towards the apple trees. Miss Cottrell, evidently surprised that she had received no invitation to join him, stood hesitating on the edge of the lawn. After glancing with a timid air, first to the right and then to the left, to see if any one were observing her, she presently strolled after him.

"I am going for a walk," said Paulina, opening the side gate which led into the meadow across which lay the field path to Greentree Park. "Come, Nan. Oh, do you want to come too, Professor Faulkner?"

"If I may be permitted!" he said.

"Oh, well, we'll try to put up with you," was her rejoinder.

And we walked slowly along the narrow path beside the hedge. The grass was long and damp and the path was barely wide enough for two, so Mr. Faulkner had to walk behind us. But we only proceeded thus to the end of the field, for there Paulina suddenly remembered that she had forgotten something that she must say to Mrs. Lucas without more delay.

"It won't take me long to run back," she said; "if you two walk on slowly, I dare say I shall overtake you by and by."

I proposed that we should turn back too; but it appeared that Mr. Faulkner wanted to take a look into the park. He had not seen it since the garden party was in contemplation, he said; and the reference brought the blood into my cheeks.

So we strolled on along the quiet path, and he began telling me about his future prospects. He had been summoned to Edinburgh to fill the place of a friend, a college professor who was laid aside by illness. He had remained there till the term ended. Meanwhile the former professor had resigned his chair, finding that his health would not permit him to continue to perform its duties, and Alan Faulkner had learned on good authority that the post would probably be offered to himself.

"Will you take it?" I asked.

"I think so—indeed, I should be thankful to accept it," he said. "The work is just what I love. It would be a grand opportunity for me. And in Edinburgh, too! Ah, Miss Nan, you do not know what the very name of Edinburgh means to a Scotsman."

"I can imagine that it is very dear," I said, conscious as I spoke of a curious, heartsick sensation of being left out in the cold. He had seemed so happy with us at "Gay Bowers." Had he all the while been yearning for Scotland?

"You will soon be leaving us then, I suppose?" was my next remark.

"Not until the autumn," he said. "You may be sure I shall be in no hurry to quit 'Gay Bowers.' I have been so happy there. It has been more of a home to me than any place since I lost my mother."

"But you like Edinburgh better?"

He laughed as he replied:

"Indeed, I do not. Edinburgh is dear to me for its beauty and its associations; but I never had a home there. I studied there for a while before I went to Cambridge."

After that we walked on for some moments in silence. There were so many things I had wanted to say to Alan Faulkner, yet, now I had the opportunity, I felt tongue-tied. I stole a glance at him, and he looked so grave that I began to wonder what he could be thinking about. Then I conceived the idea that I was boring him, and almost wished that Paulina would come back. But presently, he startled me by saying:

"Miss Nan, I have a confession to make, and I want to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness?" I repeated.

"Yes, for I wronged you grievously in my thoughts that day when I presumed to warn you, forsooth, against the fascinations of Ralph Marshman."

"Ah, yes, you did!" I cried eagerly. "It hurt me not a little that you should think he was anything to me."

"I can't forgive myself for being so foolish," he said. "Now that Miss Dicks has enlightened me a little, I see what a stupid blunderer I was. No wonder you were angry with me."

"Oh, Paulina!" I said inwardly. "So this is the result of your long and interesting talk!"

Aloud I said, "It was unreasonable of me to be angry. No doubt it was easy for you to make such a mistake."

"Well, there is some excuse for me," he said, "for when I overtook Marshman that night, after he scrambled over the wall in front of us, and demanded an explanation of his extraordinary conduct, he confessed to me jestingly that he was smitten with Mrs. Lucas's pretty niece, and had committed the trespass with the hope of getting a private talk with her."

"How could he say that? Agneta is not Aunt Patty's niece," I exclaimed, forgetting how much I was revealing.

"Just so," he said with a smile. "Now you see how I was misled; and when you reproached me so indignantly with misjudging another, I never doubted that he had completely beguiled you."

"Oh, but you could not have thought that I blamed you for misjudging him," I protested. "Of course, I was indignant at your deeming me likely to be attracted by such a man."

"But I did think that," he said. "I confess to the most crass stupidity, and I humbly beg your forgiveness. It may soften your just resentment to know that I have not gone unpunished. I have suffered intensely from that mistake. It threw a shadow over all my life."

"And when you saw me on the platform at Liverpool Street on that afternoon when I ought to have been at the garden party—what did you think then?" I demanded. "Some dreadful thing, of course."

"Don't ask me! I imagined that you had come to meet Marshman. I had seen him there—I was watching him, indeed. To tell you the truth, I went up to town that day on purpose to get information concerning him, for I meant to save you from deception if it were possible."

"How could you imagine such things!" I cried. "Oh, I don't think I can forgive you."

Then we both laughed; but the next moment he was holding both my hands in his and speaking with great seriousness. I cannot write what he said, though the words are for ever engraved on my heart. They were to the effect that he had suffered so much in thinking me foolish and deluded, because I had become so dear to him, and he had set me in his heart far above every other woman he had ever known.

The memory of that evening will ever be sacred to me. I cannot dwell upon it here. I will only say that when at last we walked back to "Gay Bowers" we were two of the happiest people upon earth. The mists of doubt that had gathered between us were for ever gone, and in their place had come the most perfect understanding. I had promised Alan Faulkner that some day, if my parents gave their consent, I would be his wife.

For the present we guarded the secret of our happiness; but I think Paulina guessed what had come about. She fairly hugged me when we said "good-night," and her manner was so gleeful that it was plain she knew nothing yet of the cloud that overhung her future.

Alone in my room, I did not feel in the least inclined to sleep. Aunt Patty had hurried us upstairs under the impression that every one was very tired. I stepped into my favourite nook on the top of the porch, and, sitting down, gave myself up to the delight of recalling all that had passed between me and Alan. It was pleasant to sit there, for the air was deliciously cool, and sweet with the perfume of flowers. Below, the garden lay fair in the moonlight. At some distance, moving to and fro on the path that ran beneath the boundary wall, were two figures which I knew to be those of Alan and Colonel Hyde, enjoying a smoke before they retired to rest. All was quiet about me when, presently, I was aware of voices coming from the shelter of the porch, above which I sat.

"So, Kate," said the high, nasal accents of Josiah Dicks, "you don't mean to give me up because I've lost my money? I fear you're deciding too hastily, my dear. You must take time to consider what it means. It's not easy being poor."

"I know it will be hard for you and Paulina; but I'm not afraid for myself, and I need no time to make up my mind," said the voice of Miss Cottrell. "I've got enough to live on, and it's all invested on good security. It will be a tight fit for three, but we'll make it do somehow till better times come."

"No, no, Kate," protested Mr. Dicks, "I really can't consent to that. What's yours is your own. I ain't going to sponge on you, if I know it. I meant to give you a happy, comfortable life by making you my wife. I wouldn't have minded spending any money on you; but now I can't give you the kind of home you'd like, and you had best let me go. Josiah Dicks is no catch for any woman now."

"That's how you look at it, but I think differently, and I mean to hold you to your promise to marry me," replied Miss Cottrell. "Now, listen to me, Josiah. I'll own that the thought of your wealth was agreeable to me. I have always made too much of money and position. I liked the idea of having a smart house and smart clothes, and driving in a smart buggy, and all the rest of the things you described; but I did not agree to be your wife just for that. I have been a lonely woman for some years now, and I liked the idea of having a good man for my husband. I wanted some one to love and care for, and I meant to be a good wife to you, and as much of a mother to Paulina as she would let me be. It is a small thing to mention, but I love you, Josiah. I am yours, and all I have is yours, if only you will take it."

"Kate, Kate, you must not talk like that!" exclaimed Mr. Dicks in tones that seemed tremulous with emotion. "You make me ashamed of myself, you do indeed. The truth is, I don't deserve to be loved like that. I'm not a good man. There's been ugly bits in my history I would not choose for you to know. I am puzzled what you can see to care for in me. I'll allow I thought 'twas my money drew you. Well, if anything can make a man good it is to be loved by such a woman as you, and, if you will stick to me, I'll try my hardest to make it worth your while. Josiah Dicks is ready to begin the world again, and, please God, he'll win his way up yet!"

But I heard no more. I sprang from my seat and hastened inside my room, ashamed of myself for having even for so short a time played the part of an eavesdropper. Miss Cottrell's natural eloquence was too enthralling, and my heart at that hour was quick to sympathise with the feeling that moved her. But I should never have believed it of her! How easy it Is to misjudge others! Miss Cottrell's faults were on the surface; beneath were sterling qualities of heart and mind. I found myself wondering whether it was not worth while for Josiah Dicks to lose his wealth in order to discover the treasure he possessed in this woman's love.

CHAPTER XXIV

WEDDING BELLS

I SUPPOSE a girl is never so humble as when she knows that she has won the love of a noble-minded man, far above herself in every way. Certainly I felt very conscious of my own unworthiness on the morning that followed Alan Faulkner's return. Yet I was strangely proud too, but it was of another.

Alan found an early opportunity of saying a few words to Aunt Patty, after which she called me aside and, kissing me tenderly, said how glad she was and how she hoped I should be as happy as she had been with her dear husband. I privately hoped that I should be a great deal happier. It seemed strange to me that she should think for a moment of comparing Alan to Uncle George, with his fidgets and gout and uncertainty of temper. I forgot that he was the husband of her youth, and, presumably, had not suffered from gout when she married him.

When we had talked a little, Aunt Patty asked me if I had seen Paulina since breakfast, and I was shocked to realise that I had hardly given a thought since I rose to the trouble that overhung my friend.

"I saw her father taking her off for a walk," said Aunt Patty, "so I suppose he was going to tell her the bad news. I am glad he kept it to himself last night."

I watched anxiously for Paulina's return. Alan was busy in his room; he was going up to town in the afternoon in order to see father and mother. I turned hot and cold whenever I thought of what mother would think or say when she learned the object of his visit. Of one thing I felt certain: she could not fail to like Alan Faulkner.

I had accomplished most of my morning tasks and was watering my plants on the top of the porch, when I saw Paulina and her father enter the garden. Josiah Dicks looked a much happier man than he had appeared on the previous evening. He had lost, perhaps for ever, his air of elation and self-complacency; but apparently a load had been lifted from his heart since I last saw him. Paulina had a sober air, yet did not appear so cast down as I had expected she would be. She nodded and smiled when she caught sight of me in my observatory, and a few minutes later she was up there beside me.

"Well, Nan," she said, dropping into my chair, "poppa says you know that we have lost all our money and become paupers."

"Not quite that, I think," was my reply, and I could not help smiling at her desperate way of putting it.

"You should not smile, Nan," she said gravely; "it's an awful thing to be poor, isn't it? Every one seems to think so. Still, I suppose it might be worse. Anyway, we have money enough to keep us here till the end of the month, and then take us back to America. And we need not travel as steerage passengers, either."

"Dear Pollie, I am glad you can take it so bravely," I said: "but I knew you would."

"Well, I guess I've had a good time while the money lasted, so I won't grumble now it's gone," she remarked philosophically. "And I'll allow there may be compensations. Poppa can't expect to marry me to a prince now, anyway."

"A prince!" I repeated.

"Well, a duke, then, or some very exalted person," she said calmly. "You must know that poppa is ambitious, and as his wealth increased, so did his ideas of what would be his daughter's fitting destiny."

"And your ideas were different," I suggested, beginning to see a possible explanation of the equanimity with which Paulina was facing their misfortune.

"Just so," she replied: "with your usual sagacity you have hit the point exactly. Poppa and I could never agree with regard to my settlement in life. There were rather serious ructions before we started for Europe. As I say, he wanted me to marry a duke or some one only a few degrees lower in the social scale, and I desired no one but Charlie, and would have been content in a cottage with him."

"Charlie!" I cried. "You mentioned him once before, Pollie, and I guessed you took a deep interest in him. Do tell me who he is!"

"Charlie is my first cousin once removed," said Paulina, "and he occupies no higher position than that of clerk in the stores of a linen company at Indianapolis. But I don't care what he is—he is just Charlie."

"Oh, I understand," I said.

"Of course you do, Nan; you can't help understanding," said Paulina. "And you can easily see how this ill wind may blow me good, for now my dowry has taken to itself wings, no duke will want to make me a duchess. Charles becomes eligible, therefore my cloud has a silver lining."

"Then your father has no dislike to him personally," I said.

"He cannot have, really, though he's been rather ugly in trying to find fault with him," she replied. "Charlie's only fault is that he has poor relations. Poppa is fond of boasting that he began life with a dollar, but he has no very kindly feeling for those who began in a similar way and have not made much of the dollar. But we're all poor relations now, so I hope he will be more sensible. What are you smiling at, Nan?"

I was amused to think how this secret attachment to 'Charlie' had lain behind the open, unblushing flirtations which had startled me till I discovered how harmless they were.

"What a fraud you have been, Paulina!" I remarked. "Do you know that Miss Cottrell credited you with being attracted by Mr. Faulkner."

"No, really! What a joke! Me and the Professor! What an ill-matched couple we should have been!" And Paulina leaned back in her chair and laughed heartily.

"But you know," she continued after a moment, "in spite of her love of research, Miss Cottrell is not gifted with keen penetration. But she is a good creature, and I really believe—"

She stopped, her words arrested by the appearance of a telegraph-boy riding up to the gate on a bicycle.

"Oh, look, Nan—a telegram! For whom, I wonder!"

She leaned over the side of the porch and caught the name of "Dicks" as the boy handed in the telegram. She turned and ran downstairs. A moment later I saw her tearing across the garden in search of her father. I wondered what the message might be, but presently I forgot all about it as my thoughts gathered again around the thrilling interest of my own life.

There was so much to dream about—what father would think, what mother would feel, Olive's sympathetic interest, and the comments Peggy was likely to make—that an hour slipped by without my knowing it. I had taken up some needlework, but I had accomplished very little when I was roused from my reverie by a tap at the door. Almost before I could bid her enter, Paulina burst into the room. Her face was radiant. She threw herself on her knees beside me, hugging me as she said:

"Oh, Nan, Nan, you will never believe what has happened!"

"Ah! The telegram brought good news!" I exclaimed. "Is it all right with the money after all?"

"Oh, nothing to do with the money!" she cried, impatient with the suggestion. "It was a cablegram, Nan—a cablegram from Charlie! He has heard of poppa's loss, and he cables that there is a home for me—and for poppa, too, of course-with him, and he will meet us at New York. And poppa thought—or pretended to think—that Charlie only wanted me because of the money!"

"Then it is a proposal by cablegram," I said. "What a novel idea!"

"Yes, it was clever of Charlie to think of it," Paulina said with sparkling eyes. "Rather extravagant, perhaps, but it did not take many words to make us understand. Oh, Nan, can't you guess how happy I am!"

"Then your father consents?" I said eagerly.

"Rather!" said Paulina. "And he has the grace to own up that he's ashamed of himself, and has never done Charlie justice. We are going to drive into Chelmsford with the Professor after luncheon in order to send a reply to Charlie. Now, Nan, don't imagine that I am so wooden-headed that I can't guess why he is going up to London to-day when he only arrived here yesterday."

"Indeed, Pollie, I am far from thinking you that," I replied in some confusion. "I know that I owe a good deal to your keenness of perception, and you have shown yourself one of the best and truest of friends. I can't tell you how glad I am that this happiness has come to you."

"And I am just as glad that you are going to be happy," she said. "Isn't it wonderful how things come round? I calculate that the next happening will be a wedding at 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Pollie, what do you mean?"

"Just that. I guess there will be a wedding here before the end of the month. Miss Cottrell is a brick, Nan. She has made up her mind that she will never desert Mr. Micawber—in other words, she is just as ready to share poppa's poverty as she was to share his wealth, so I presume we'll travel to America as a family party, and Mr. Upsher will tie the knot in Greentree church before we leave."

Here was news indeed! Life at "Gay Bowers" was no longer monotonous. Its current had begun to move swiftly, and was destined to flow still more rapidly ere the summer was over.

Father and mother did not withhold their consent to my engagement. The following day brought them both to "Gay Bowers," to my great delight. I was not surprised, but it afforded me complete satisfaction to see that Alan had won mother's heart. She said she felt it hard that she must part with both her grown-up girls; but, as father had stipulated that I should not be married till I was twenty-one, she would not lose me for some time yet.

After this, our engagement was made public, and seemed to give every one pleasure. People said such kind things of me that I was quite ashamed to think how little they knew me.

Paulina's prediction came true, and we were soon busy preparing for her father's marriage with Miss Cottrell. It took place in our beautiful old church on the thirty-first of July. The happy pair spent a week at Felixstowe and then came back to "Gay Bowers" to fetch Pollie. It was with genuine regret that Aunt Patty and I watched Mr. and Mrs. Dicks and Paulina take their departure. How different were our feelings now from those with which we had received the Americans and Miss Cottrell! The paying guests had become our friends.

"Au revoir!" cried Pollie as they drove away. "We are coming back some day. And, Mr. Faulkner, please don't forget that you are going to bring Nan to Indianapolis some time."

We watched them pass out of our sight with the sadness most partings inevitably bring, for who could say whether we should all meet again?

Two days later, Alan's sisters came to spend their holidays at "Gay Bowers." They were such nice, bright girls that I had no difficulty in making friends of them, and I am thankful to say they seemed to take to me at once. The brother, who was their guardian, was so great a hero in their eyes, that I wonder they thought me good enough for him. It must have been, because they thought he could not make a wrong choice.

Peggy joined us ere August was far advanced, and we became a very lively party. By this time Jack had returned to the vicarage. I had the satisfaction of seeing that Aunt Patty had rightly gauged the depth of his wound. If the news of my engagement to Alan Faulkner hurt him, the blow was one from which he quickly recovered. He and Peggy became good comrades; she wanted to practise sketching during her stay in the country and he helped her to find suitable "bits," and was her attendant squire on many of her expeditions.

I had heard nothing from Agneta since her return to Manchester, but the news of my engagement brought me a kind though rather sad letter from her. She said she thought that I and Professor Faulkner were exactly suited to each other and she was glad I was going to be happy, for I deserved happiness and she supposed she never had. She knew now that she had been utterly deluded when she imagined that Ralph Marshman would make her happy. She wanted me to know that she was convinced of his worthless character and of what an escape she had had. She thanked me for the efforts I had made to save her from her own folly, and she begged me to forgive her for being so ungrateful at the time. She said she was sick of her life at home. She wanted her parents to let her adopt a career of her own and live a more useful life, but her mother refused to entertain the idea for a moment.

"I am trying to be patient," Agneta wrote; "You know you were always preaching patience to me, Nan; and I mean to do some 'solid' reading every day. Do send me a list of books you think I ought to read. I know, although you never said so, that you thought me very ignorant when I was with you. I don't forget either how you once said that I never should be happy as long as I made myself the centre of my life. So I try to be unselfish and to think of other people, but there is really very little I can do for others in the life I lead here. I almost envy girls who have to work for themselves."

I felt very sorry for Agneta as I read her letter, and yet I should have been glad, for, if her words were sincere, they augured for her happier days than she had yet known. For what hope of happiness is there for any one who is shut up in the prison-house of self? It was good for Agneta, as it had been for me and for Paulina, to suffer, if her trouble had led her into a larger, fuller, and more blessed life.

But the story of Aunt Patty's guests, as far as I have known them intimately, must be brought to a close. After all, I did not stay quite twelve months at "Gay Bowers." I went home for Christmas and I did not return. There was no longer any thought of my going up for Matriculation. Even now I regret that I never did so, but mother was bent upon my entering on a course of domestic economy, and the value of that study I am daily proving.

Early in the New Year, Olive was married. It was a very pretty wedding and everything went off charmingly; but her departure for India six weeks later left us all with very sore hearts. Alan was duly appointed to the professorship at Edinburgh, and now my home is in that beautiful old city, for in the following year, at the beginning of the summer vacation, we were married.

I should like to write about that wedding, but Alan thinks I had better not begin. My three sisters, Alan's two, and Cousin Agneta were my bridesmaids. Mr. Upsher assisted at the ceremony, and Jack, such a handsome young soldier, was one of the guests. He still showed himself devoted to Peggy, but I hope he is not seriously attracted by her, for Peggy declares that she is wedded to her art and is quite angry if any one suggests that she may marry. She is now working hard in Paris and promises to develop into a first-rate artist in "black and white."

Agneta made a very pretty bridesmaid and looked as happy as one could wish. I say this on mother's authority, for really I cannot remember how any one looked except Alan. The sun must have been in my eyes all the time, for my recollection of everything is so vague and hazy. So it was wise of Alan to advise me not to attempt to describe our wedding. Soon afterwards we heard of Agneta's engagement, with her parents' approval, to a young medical man, so I dare say she did look happy.

Alan and I always agree that "Gay Bowers" is the most delightful old country house we have ever known. Apparently many are of the same opinion, for aunt seldom has a room to spare in it.

THE END

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay.

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Table of Contents

- PAULINA THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BESIDE ME. Frontispiece.

- AUNT PATTY'S PAYING GUESTS

- Author of "Her Own Way," "The Blessedness of Irene Farquhar," "My Brother's Friend," etc.

- WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I.

- LONDON THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY 4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.

- CONTENTS

- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

- AUNT PATTY'S PAYING GUESTS

- CHAPTER I

- AN UNWELCOME DECREE

- "YOU SHOULD SEND HER INTO THE COUNTRY, AND GIVE HER A BICYCLE."

- CHAPTER II

- MY EQUIPMENT

- CHAPTER III

- "GAY BOWERS"

- CHAPTER IV

- LAYING OUR PLANS

- CHAPTER V

- A RESPONSE TO THE ADVERTISEMENT

- CHAPTER VI

- THE FIRST ARRIVAL

- AUNT MET PROFESSOR FAULKNER IN THE HALL.

- CHAPTER VII

- THE AMERICANS

- CHAPTER VIII

- A PRINCELY GIFT

- CHAPTER IX

- MISS COTTRELL'S ALIAS

- CHAPTER X

- COUSIN AGNETA'S LOVE STORY

- "OH, I WRENCHED MY SHOULDER A BIT," HE SAID.

- CHAPTER XI

- THE UNFORESEEN BEFALLS

- CHAPTER XII

- AT HOBBES'S COTTAGE

- CHAPTER XIII

- OLIVE'S HAPPINESS

- CHAPTER XIV

- A PICNIC

- CHAPTER XV

- AN ACT OF INDISCRETION

- CHAPTER XVI

- MISJUDGED

- CHAPTER XVII

- A GALA DAY AT GREENTREE

- CHAPTER XVIII

- AN ELOPEMENT

- CHAPTER XIX

- MISS COTTRELL'S ELATION

- CHAPTER XX

- A PROPOSAL

- CHAPTER XXI

- THE RETURN OF THE AMERICANS

- JOSIAH DICKS AND MISS COTTRELL PACING ARM IN ARM.

- CHAPTER XXII

- CALAMITY

- CHAPTER XXIII

- TWILIGHT TALKS

- CHAPTER XXIV

- WEDDING BELLS

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE