Aunt Patty's paying guests

By Eglanton Thorne

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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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT PATTY'S PAYING GUESTS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: PAULINA THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BESIDE ME.]



                          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.

[Illustration: "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.

[Illustration: 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?"

[Illustration: "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.

[Illustration: 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



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