"It is indeed," she cried, looking up with a joyful and exultant expression of countenance. "Katherine writes that she has signed a deed settling twenty thousand on Cis and Charlie, the income of which is to be paid to me until they attain the age of twenty-one, for their maintenance, education, and so forth; after which any sum necessary for their establishment in life can be raised or taken from their capital, the whole coming into their own hands at the age of twenty-five. Dear me! I hope they will make me a handsome allowance when they are twenty-five. I really think Katherine might have remembered me." She handed the letter to her husband.

"Well, little woman, you have your innings now, and you must save a pot of money," he returned, in high glee. "What a trump that girl is! and, by Jove! what lucky little beggars your boys are! I can tell you I was desperately uneasy for fear she might marry some fellow before she fulfilled her promise to you. Then you might have whistled for any provision for your boys; no man would agree to give up such a slice of his wife's fortune as this. I know I would not. Women never have any real sense of the value of money; they are either stingy or extravagant. I am deuced glad I haven't to pay all your milliner's bills, my dear. I am exceedingly glad Katherine has been so generous, but I'll be hanged if it is the act of a sensible woman."

"Never mind; there is quite a load off my heart. I think I'll have a new habit from Woolmerhausen now."

"Why, I gave you one only two years ago."

"Two years ago! Why, that is an age. And you need not pay for this one."

"I see she says she will pay us a visit if convenient. Of course it is convenient. I'll run up to town on Sunday, and escort her down next day. The meet is for Tuesday. And mind you make things pleasant and comfortable for her, Ada. She would be an important addition to our family. A handsome, spirited girl with a good fortune to dispose of would be a feather in one's cap, I can tell you."

"You'll find her awfully fallen off, Ormonde, and her spirits seem quite gone. Still I shall be very glad to have her here. But I do not see why you should go fetch her. You know Lady Alice Mordaunt is coming on Saturday."

"What does that matter? I shall only be away one evening; and between you and me, though Lady Alice is everything that is nice and correct, she is enough to put the liveliest fellow on earth to sleep in half an hour."

"How strange men are!" exclaimed Mrs. Ormonde, gathering up her letters and putting them into the pocket of her dainty lace and muslin apron. "Nice, gentle, good women never attract you; you only care for bold——"

"Vivacious, coquettish, attractive little widows, like one I once knew," said the Colonel, laughing, as he carefully wiped his gray moustache.

"You are really too absurd!" she exclaimed, sharply. "Do you mean to say I was ever bold?"

"No; I only mean to say you are an angel, and a deuced lucky angel in every sense into the bargain! Now, have you any commissions? I am going to Monckton this morning, and I fancy the dog-cart will be at the door. Where's the boy? I'll take him and nurse down to the gate with me if they'll wrap up. The little fellow is so fond of a drive."

"My dear 'Duke!—such a morning as this! Do you think I would let the precious child out?"

"Nonsense! Do not make a molly-coddle of him. He is as strong as a horse. Send for him anyway. I haven't seen him this morning. And be sure you write a proper letter to Katherine Liddell; you had better let me see it before it goes."

"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you think I never wrote a letter in my life before I knew you?"

"Oh, go your own way," retorted the Colonel, beating a retreat to save a total rout.

In due course Katherine received an effusive letter of thanks, and a pressing invitation to come down to Castleford on the following Monday, and saying that as the hunting season was almost over, they would be very quiet till after Easter, when Mrs. Ormonde was going to town for a couple of months, ending with an assurance that the dear boys were dying to see her, and that Colonel Ormonde was going to London for the express purpose of escorting her on her journey.

"It is certainly not necessary," observed Katherine, with a smile, "considering how accustomed I am to take care of myself. Still it is kindly meant, and I shall accept the offer." This to Miss Payne, as they rose from luncheon where Katherine had told her the contents of her letter.

"Ahem! No doubt they are anxious to show you every attention. Would you like to take Turner with you? I could spare her very well." Turner was the maid expressly engaged to wait upon Miss Liddell.

"Oh no, thank you, I want so little waiting on. Lady Alice Mordaunt will be with Mrs. Ormonde, and will be sure to have a maid, so another might be inconvenient."

"My dear Miss Liddell, if you will excuse me for thrusting advice upon you, I would say that 'considering' people is the very best way to prevent their showing you consideration."

"Do you really think so? Well, it is really no great matter."

"Then you shall not want Turner? Then I shall give her a holiday. Her mother or her brother is ill, and she wants to go home. Servants' relations always seem to be ill. It must cost them a good deal."

"No doubt. Will you come out with me? I have some shopping to do, and your advice is always valuable."

"I shall be very pleased, and I will say I shall miss you when you leave—miss you very much."

"Thank you," said Katherine, gently. "I believe you will as you say so."

Without fully believing Ada's rather exaggerated expressions of gratitude and affection, Katherine was soothed and pleased by them. She was so truthful herself that she was disposed to trust others, and the hearty welcome offered her took off from the sense of loneliness which had long oppressed her. Hers was too healthy a nature to encourage morbid grief. To the last day of her life she remembered her mother with tender, loving-regret; but the consolation of knowing that her later days had been so happy, that she had passed away so peacefully, did much toward healing the wounds which were still bleeding.

On the appointed Monday Colonel Ormonde made his appearance in the early afternoon, and found Katherine quite ready to start. He was stouter, louder, bluffer, than ever. When Miss Payne was introduced to him he honored her with an almost imperceptible bow and a very perceptible stare. Turning at once to Katherine, he exclaimed:

"What! in complete marching order already? I protest I never knew a woman punctual before. But I always saw you were a sensible girl. No nonsense about you. Why, my wife told me you were looking ill. I don't see it. At any rate Castleford air will soon bring back your roses."

"I am feeling and looking better than when I came over, and Miss Payne has taken such good care of me," said Katherine, who did not like to see the lady of the house so completely over-looked.

"Ah! that's well. You know you are too precious a piece of goods to be tampered with. I believe Bertie Payne is a nephew of yours," he added, addressing Miss Payne—"a young fellow who was in my regiment three or four years ago, the Twenty-first Dragoon Guards?"

"He is my brother," returned Miss Payne, stiffly.

"Ah! Hope he is all right. Have scarcely seen him since he has gone, not to the dogs, but to the saints, which is much the same thing. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Indeed it is not, Colonel Ormonde!" cried Katherine. "If every one was as good as Mr. Payne, the world would be a different and a better place."

"Hey! Have you constituted yourself his champion? Lucky dog! Come, my dear girl, we must be going. Are you well wrapped up? It is deuced cold, and we have nearly three miles to drive from the station."

He himself looked liked a mountain in a huge fur-lined coat.

"Good-by, then, dear Miss Payne. I suppose I shall not see you again for a fortnight or three weeks."

"By George! we sha'n't let you off with so short a visit as that! Say three years. Come, march; we haven't too much time." Throwing a brief "good-morning" at the "old maid" of uncertain position, the Colonel walked heavily downstairs in the wake of his admired young guest.

Monckton was scarcely four hours from London, but when the drive to Castleford was accomplished there was not too much time left to dress for dinner.

Mrs. Ormonde was awaiting Katherine in the hall, which was bright with lamps and fire-light; behind her were her two boys.

When Katherine had been duly welcomed. Mrs. Ormonde stood aside, and the children hesitated a moment. Cecil was so much grown, Katherine hardly knew him. He came forward with his natural assurance, and said, confidently: "How d'ye do, auntie? You have been a long time coming."

Charlie was more like what he had been, and less grown. He hesitated a moment, then darted to Katherine, and throwing his arms round her neck, clung to her lovingly. She was infinitely touched and delighted. How vividly the past came back to her!—the little dusty house at Bayswater, the homely establishment kept afloat by her dear mother's industry, the small study, and the dear weary face associated with it. How ardently she held the child to her heart! How thankfully she recognized that here was something to cherish and to live for!

"They may come with me to my room?" she said to her hostess.

"Oh, certainly!—only if you begin that sort of thing you will never be able to get rid of them."

"I will risk it," said Katherine, as she followed Mrs. Ormonde upstairs to a very comfortable room, where a cheerful fire blazed on the hearth.

"I am afraid you find it rather small, but I was obliged to give the best bedroom to Lady Alice—noblesse oblige, you know. I am sure you will like her, she is so gentle; I think her father was very glad to let her come, as she can see more of her fiance. They are not to be married till the autumn, so—Oh dear! there is the second bell. Cis, run away and tell Madeline to come and help your auntie to dress; and you too, Charlie; you had better go too."

"He may stay and help me to unpack."

"Why did you not bring your maid, dear? It is just like you to leave her behind; but we could have put her up; and you will miss her dreadfully."

"I do not think either of us has been so accustomed to the attentions of a maid as not to be able to do without one," returned Katherine, smiling.

"You know I always had a maid in India," said Mrs. Ormonde, with an air of superiority. "Don't be long over your toilet; Ormonde's cardinal virtue is punctuality."

In spite of the hindrance of her nephew's help, Katherine managed to reach the drawing-room before Lady Alice or the master of the house. Mrs. Ormonde was talking to an elderly gentleman in clerical attire beside the fireplace, and at some distance a tall, dignified-looking man was reading a newspaper. Mrs. Ormonde was most becomingly dressed in black satin, richly trimmed with lace and jet—a brilliant contrast to Katherine, in thick dull silk and crape, her snowy neck looking all the more softly white for its dark setting: the only relief to her general blackness was the glinting light on her glossy, wavy, chestnut brown hair.

"You have been very quick, dear," said the hostess. "I am going to send you in to dinner," she added, in a low tone, "with Mr. Errington, our neighbor. He is the head of the great house of Errington in Calcutta, and the fiance, of Lady Alice; but Colonel Ormonde must take her in. Mr. Errington!" raising her voice. The gentleman thus summoned laid down his paper and came forward. "Let me introduce you to my sister, Miss Liddell." Mr. Errington bowed, rather a stately bow, as he gazed with surprised interest at the large soft eyes suddenly raised to his, then quickly averted, the swift blush which swept over the speaking face turned toward him, the indescribable shrinking of the graceful figure, as if this stranger dreaded and would fain avoid him. It was but for a moment; then she was herself again, and the door opening to admit Lady Alice, Errington hastened to greet her with chivalrous respect, and remained beside her chair until Colonel Ormonde entered with the butler, who announced that dinner was ready.



CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE TOILS.

The drawing and dining rooms at Castleford were at opposite sides of a large square hall, and even in the short transit between them Errington felt instinctively that Miss Liddell shrank from him. The tips merely of her black-gloved fingers rested on his arm, while she kept as far from him as the length of her own permitted. At table her host was on her right, and Lady Alice opposite, next to the rector, who was the only invited guest; Errington was always expected, and had returned from a distant canvassing expedition, for the present member for West Clayshire was believed to be on the point of retiring on account of ill health, and Mr. Errington of Garston Hall, intended to offer himself for election to the free and independent.

He had had a fatiguing day, but scarcely admitted to himself how much more restful a solitary dinner would have been, with a cigar and some keen-edged article or luminous pamphlet in his own comfortable library afterward, than making conversation at Colonel Ormonde's table. However, to slight the lady who had promised to be his wife was impossible, so he exerted himself to be agreeable.

The rector discussed some parish difficulties with his hostess, while Colonel Ormonde, though profoundly occupied with his dinner, managed to throw an observation from time to time to his young neighbors.

"Rode round by Brinkworth Heath in two hours and a half," he was saying to Lady Alice, when Katherine listened. "That was fair going. I did not think you would have got Mrs. Ormonde to start without an escort."

"We had an escort. Lord Francis Carew and Mr. De Burgh came over to luncheon, and they rode with us."

"Ha, Errington! you see the result of leaving this fair lady's side all unguarded! These fellows come and usurp your duties."

"Do you think I should wish Lady Alice to forego any amusement because I am so unlucky as to be prevented from joining her?" returned Errington, in a deep mellow voice.

Katherine looked across the table to see how Lady Alice took the remark, but she was rearranging some geraniums and a spray of fern in her waistband, and did not seem to hear. She was a slight colorless girl of nineteen, with regular features, an unformed though rather graceful figure, and a distinguished air.

Errington caught the expression of his neighbor's face as she glanced at his fiancee, a sympathetic smile parting her lips. It was rarely that a countenance had struck him so much, which was probably due to his odd but strong impression that his new acquaintance, was both startled and displeased at being introduced to him—an impression very strange to Errington, as he was generally welcomed by all sorts and conditions of men, and especially of women.

The silence of Lady Alice did not seem to disturb her lover; he turned to Katherine and asked, "Were you of the riding party to-day!"

"No," she replied, meeting his eyes fully for an instant, and then averting her own, while the color came and went on her cheek; "I only arrived in time for dinner."

"Have I ever met this young lady before?" thought Errington, much puzzled. "Have I ever unconsciously offended or annoyed her? I don't think so; yet her face is not quite strange to me." And he applied himself to his dinner.

"I fancy you have had rather a dull time of it in town?" said Colonel Ormonde, leaning back, while the servants removed the dishes.

"No, I was not dull," replied Katherine, glad to turn to him. "I was very comfortable, and of course not in a mood to see many strangers or to go anywhere. Then I was interested in Mr. Payne's undertakings; they are quite as amusing as amusements."

"Bertie Payne! to be sure; the nephew or brother of your doughty chaperon. He is always up to some benevolent games. Queer fellow."

"He is very, very good," said Katherine, warmly, "and he does so much good; only the amount of evil is overpowering."

"Yes," said Errington; "I am afraid such efforts as Payne's are mere scratching of the surface, and will never touch the root of the evil."

"I suspect he is a prey to impostors of every description," said Colonel Ormonde, with a fat laugh. "He is always worrying for subscriptions and God knows what. But I turn a deaf ear to him."

"I cannot say I do always," remarked Errington. "While we devise schemes of more scientific amelioration, hundreds die of sharp starvation or misery long drawn out. Payne is a good fellow, and enthusiasts have their uses."

"You are so liberal yourself, Mr. Errington," cried Mrs. Ormonde, "I dare say you are often imposed upon in spite of your wisdom."

"My wisdom!" repeated Errington, laughing. "What an original idea, Mrs. Ormonde! Did you ever know I was accused of wisdom?" he added, addressing Lady Alice.

"Papa says you are very sensible," she returned, seriously.

"Of course," cried Mrs. Ormonde. "Why, he has written a pamphlet on 'Our Colonies,' and something wonderful about the state of Europe—didn't he, Mr. Heywood?"

"Yes," returned the rector. "I suspect our future member will be a cabinet minister before the world is many years older."

Lady Alice looked up with more of pleasure and animation than she had yet shown. Errington bent his head.

"Many thanks for your prophecy;" and he immediately turned the conversation to the ever-genial topics of hunting and horses. Then Mrs. Ormonde gave the signal of retreat to the drawing-room.

Here Katherine looked in vain for her nephews.

"I suppose the boys have gone to bed, Ada?"

"To bed! oh yes, of course. Why, it is more than half past eight; it would never do to keep them up so late. Would you like to see baby boy asleep? he looks quite beautiful."

"Yes, I should, very much," returned Katherine, anxious to gratify the mother.

"Come, then," cried Mrs. Ormonde, starting up with alacrity. As the invitation was general, Lady Alice said, in her gentle way.

"Thank you; I saw the baby yesterday."

"She has really very little feeling," observed Mrs. Ormonde, as she went upstairs with her sister-in-law. "She never notices baby."

"I am afraid I should not notice children much if they did not belong to me."

"My dear Katherine, you are quite different. Of course Lady Alice is sweet and elegant, but not clever. Indeed, I cannot see the use of cleverness to women. There is a fine aristocratic air about her. After all, there is nothing like high birth. I assure you it is a high compliment her being allowed to stay here. Her aunt, Lady Mary Vincent, is a very fine lady indeed, and chaperons Lady Alice. But her father, Lord Melford, is a curious, reckless sort of man, always wandering about—yachting and that kind of thing; he is rather in difficulties too. They are glad enough to send her down here to see something of Errington. You know Errington is a very good match; he has bought a great deal of the Melford property, and when old Errington dies he will be immensely rich. The poor old man is in miserable health; he has not been down here all the winter. I believe the wedding is to take place in June; we will be invited, of course; you see Colonel Ormonde is so highly connected that I am in a very different position from what I was accustomed to. And you, dear, you must marry some person of rank; there is nothing like it."

"Yes," said Katherine, with a sigh, "everything is changed."

"Fortunately!" cried the exultant Mrs. Ormonde, opening the door of a luxuriously appointed nursery.

"Here, nurse, I have brought Miss Liddell to see Master Ormonde."

A middle-aged woman, well dressed, and of authoritative aspect, rose from where she sat at needle-work, and came forward.

"I have only just got him to sleep, ma'am," she said, almost in a whisper, "and if he is awoke now, I'll not get him off again before midnight."

"We'll be very careful, nurse. Is he not a fine little fellow, Katherine?" and she softly turned back the bedclothes from the sturdy, chubby child, who had a somewhat bull dog style of countenance and a beautifully fair skin.

"How ridiculously like Colonel Ormonde he is!" whispered Katherine. "I do not see any trace of you."

"No; he is quite an Ormonde. He is twice as big as either Cis or Charlie was at his age."

After a few civil comments Katherine suggested their visiting the other children.

"Perhaps it would be wiser not to go," said the mother; "they will not be so sound asleep as baby, and——"

"You must indulge me this once, Ada. I long to look at them."

"Oh! of course, dear; ring for Eliza, nurse; she will show Miss Liddell the way. I must go back; it would never do to leave Lady Alice so long alone."

"Do not apologize," said Katherine, with a curious jealous pang, as she noted Mrs. Ormonde's indifference to the children of her first poor love-match.

A demure, flat-faced girl answered the bell, and led Katherine down passages and up a crooked stair to another part of the house.

Here she was shown into a room sparsely supplied with old furniture. There was a good fire, and a shaded lamp stood on a large table, where a girl sat writing.

"Here is a lady to see the young gentlemen," said the nurse-maid. The young scribe started up, looking confused.

"If it would not disturb them," said Katherine, gently, "I should like to see my nephews in their sleep."

"Oh, Miss Liddell!" exclaimed the governess, a younger, commoner-looking person than Katherine had chosen before she left England. "This is their bedroom," and she led Katherine through a door opposite the fireplace into an inner room. There in their little beds lay the boys who were all of kith or kin left to Katherine Liddell.

How lovingly she bent over and gazed at them!

Cecil had grown much. He looked sunburnt and healthy. One arm was thrown up behind his head, the other stretched straight and stiff beside him, ending in a closely clinched little brown fist. His lips, slightly apart, emitted the softly drawn regular breath of profound slumber, and the smile which some pleasant thought had conjured up before he closed his eyes still lingered round his mouth. Katherine longed to kiss him, but feared to break his profound and restful slumbers. She passed to Charlie. His attitude was quite different. He had thrown the clothes from his chest, and his pinky white throat was bare; one little hand lay open on the page of a picture-book at which he had been looking when sleep overtook him; the other was under his soft round cheek; his sweet and still baby face was grave if not sad. He looked like a little angel who had brought a message to earth, and was grieved and wearied by the sin and sorrow here below. Katherine's heart swelled with tenderest love as she gazed upon him, and unconsciously she bent closer till her lips touched his brow. Then a little hand stole into hers, and, without moving, as though he had expected her, he opened his eyes and whispered, "Will you come and kiss me every night, as grannie did?"

"I will, my darling, every night."

"Will grannie never come and kiss me again?"

"Never, Charlie! She will never come to either of us in this life." A big tear fell on the boy's forehead.

"Don't cry, auntie; she loves us all the same." And he kissed the fair cheek which now lay against his own as his aunt knelt beside his bed.

"Go to sleep, dear love; to-morrow you shall take me to see your garden and the pony."

"You will be sure to come?"

"Yes, quite sure."

In a few minutes the clasp of the warm little hand relaxed, and Katherine gently disengaged herself.

"The boys are no longer first in their mother's heart," thought Katherine, as she returned to the drawing-room. "Were they ever first? They are—they might become all the world to me. They might fill my life and give it a fresh aspect. The new ties at which Mr. Newton hinted can never exist for me. Could I accept an honorable man and live with a perpetual secret between us? Could I ever confess? No. My most hopeful scheme is to be a mother to these children. And oh! I do want to be happy, to feel the joy in life that used to lift up my spirit in the old days when we were struggling with poverty! I will throw off this load of self-contempt. I have not really injured any one."

In the drawing-room Colonel Ormonde was seated beside Lady Alice, making conversation to the best of his ability. She looked serenely content, and held a piece of crochet, the kind of fancy-work which occupied the young ladies in the "sixties." The rector and Mr. Errington were in deep conversation on the hearth-rug, and Mrs. Ormonde was reading the paper.

"So you have been visiting the nursery?" said the Colonel, rising and offering Katherine a chair. "Your first introduction to our young man, I suppose?"

"Yes. What a great boy he is!—the picture of health!"

"Ay, he is a Trojan," complacently. "The other little fellows are looking well, eh?"

"Very well indeed. Cis is wonderfully grown; but Charlie is much what he was."

"He'll overtake his brother, though, before long," said Colonel Ormonde, encouragingly, as he rang and ordered the card-table to be set.

"You play whist, I suppose? We want a fourth."

"I am quite ignorant of that fascinating game," returned Katherine, "and very sorry to be so useless."

"It is lamentable ignorance! Lady Alice, will you take compassion on us? No?—then we must have Errington."

Errington did not seem at all reluctant, and the two young ladies were left to entertain each other.

Katherine, who had gone to the other end of the room to look at some water-color drawings, came back and sat down beside her. Lady Alice looked amiable, but did not speak, and Katherine felt greatly at a loss what to say.

"What very fine work!" she said at length, watching the small, weak-looking hands so steadily employed.

"Yes, it is a very difficult pattern. My aunt, Lady Mary, never could manage it, and she does a great deal of crochet, and is very clever."

"It seems most complicated. I am sure I could never do it."

"Do you crochet much?"

"Not at all."

"Then," with some appearance of interest, "what do you do?"

"Oh! various things; but I am afraid I am not industrious. I would rather mend my clothes than do fancy work."

"Mend your clothes!" repeated Lady Alice, in unfeigned amazement.

"Yes. I assure you there is great pleasure in a symmetrical patch."

"But does not your maid do that?"

"Now that I have one, she does. However, you must show me how to crochet, if you will be so kind; my only approach to fancy-work is knitting. I can knit stockings. Isn't that an achievement?"

"But is it not tiresome?"

"Oh! I can knit like the Germans, and talk or read."

"Is it possible?" A long pause.

"Mrs. Ormonde says you are very learned and studious," said Lady Alice, languidly.

"How cruel of her to malign me!" returned Katherine, laughing. "Learned I certainly am not; but I am fond of indiscriminate reading, though not studious."

"I like a nice novel, with dreadful people in it, like Miss St. Maur's. Have you read any of hers?"

"I don't think so. I do not know the name."

"The St. Maurs are Devonshire people—a very old country family, I believe. Still, when she writes about the season in London, I don't think it is very like." Another pause.

"You have been in Italy, I think, Lady Alice?" recommenced Katherine.

"Oh yes, often. Papa is always cruising about, you know, and we stop at places. But I have never been in Rome."

"Yachting must be delightful."

"I do not like it; I am always ill. Aunt Mary took me to Florence for a winter."

"Then you enjoyed that, I dare say," said Katherine.

"I got tired of it. I do not care for living abroad; there is nothing to do but to go to picture-galleries and theatres."

"Well, that is a good deal," returned Katherine, smiling. "Where do you like to live, Lady Alice?"

"Oh, in the country. I am almost sorry Mr. Errington has a house in town. I am so fond of a garden, and riding on quiet roads! I am afraid to ride in London. The country is so peaceful! no one is in a hurry."

"What a happy, tranquil life she will lead under the aegis of such a man as Mr. Errington!" thought Katherine.

"Do you play or sing?" asked Lady Alice, for once taking the initiative.

"Yes, in a very amateur fashion."

"Then," with more animation, "perhaps you would play my accompaniments for me; I always like to stand when I sing. Mrs. Ormonde says she forgets her music. Is it not odd?"

"Well, people in India do as little as possible. I shall be very pleased to play for you. Shall we practice to-morrow?"

"Oh yes; immediately after breakfast. There is really nothing to do here."

"Immediately after breakfast I am going out with the boys—Mrs. Ormonde's boys. Have you seen them? But we shall have plenty of time before luncheon."

"Are you fond of children?" slowly, while her busy needle paused and she undid a stitch or two.

"I am fond of these children; I do not know much about any other."

"Beverley's children (my eldest brother's) are very troublesome; they annoy me very much." Silence while she took up her stitches again. "The worst of this pattern is that if you talk you are sure to go wrong."

"Then I will find a book and not disturb you," said Katherine, good-humoredly. She felt kindly and indulgent toward this gentle helpless creature, who seemed so many years younger than herself, though barely two, in fact. That she was Errington's fiancee gave her a curious interest in Katherine's eyes. She would willingly have done him all possible good; she was strangely attracted to the man she had cheated. There was a simple natural dignity about him that pleased her imagination, yet she almost dreaded to speak to him, lest the very tones of her voice, the encounter of their eyes, should betray her.

At last Errington, looking at his watch, declared that as the rubber was over, he must say good-night.

"What, are you not staying here to-night?" said Colonel Ormonde.

"No; I have a good deal of letter-writing to get through to-morrow, so did not accept Mrs. Ormonde's kind invitation."

"You'll have a deuced cold drive. Come over on Thursday, will you? Old Wray, the banker, is to dine here, and one or two Monckton worthies. Stay till Tuesday or Wednesday. The next meets are Friday and Monday, on this side of the county. There will not be many more this season."

"Thank you; I shall be very happy." He crossed to where Lady Alice still sat placidly at work, and made his adieux in a low tone, holding her hand for a moment longer than mere acquaintanceship warranted, and having exchanged good-nights, left the room, followed by his host.

There was a good fire in Katherine's bedroom, and having declined the assistance of Mrs. Ormonde's maid, she put on her dressing-gown and sat down beside it to think. She was still quivering with the nervous excitement she had striven so hard and so successfully to conceal.

When Mrs. Ormonde had given her rapid explanation of who Errington was, and without a pause presented him, Katherine felt as if she must drop at his feet. Indeed, she would have been thankful if a merciful insensibility had made her impervious to his questioning eyes. She well knew who he was.

He was the real owner of the property she now possessed. The will she had suppressed bequeathed all John Liddell's real and personal property to Miles Errington, only son of his old friend Arthur Errington, of Calton Buildings, London, E. C., and Calcutta. She, the robber, stood in the presence of the robbed. Did he know by intuition that she was guilty? How grave and questioning his eyes were! Why did he look at her like that? How he would despise her and forbid his affianced wife to be outraged by her presence if he knew!

He looked like a high-minded gentleman. If he seemed almost sternly grave, his smile was kind and frank, and she had made herself unworthy to associate with such men as he.

But he was rich. He did not need the money she wanted so sorely. What of that? Did his abundance alter the everlasting conditions of right and wrong? Perhaps if she had not attempted to play Providence for the sake of her family, and let things follow their natural course, Mr. Errington might have spared a few crumbs from his rich table—a reasonable dole—to patch up the ragged edges of their frayed fortunes. Then she would not be oppressed with the sense of shame, this weight of riches she shrank from using. She had murdered her own happiness; she had killed her own youth. Never again could she know the joyousness of light-hearted girlhood, while nothing the world might give her could atone for the terrible trespass which had broken the harmony of her moral nature by the perpetual sense of unatoned wrong-doing. How she wished she had never come to Castleford! True, her seeing Mr. Errington did not make her guilt a shade darker, but oh, how much more keenly she felt it under his eyes! And now she could not rush away. She must avoid all eccentricities lest they might possibly arouse suspicion. Suspicion? What was there to suspect? No one would dream of suspicion. Then that will! She would try and nerve herself to destroy it, though it seemed sacrilege to do so. Whatever she did, however, she must think of Cis and Charlie. Having committed such an act, her only course was to bear the consequences, and do her duty by the innocent children, whose fate would be cruel enough should she indulge in any weak repentance or seek relief in confession. She had burdened herself with a disgraceful secret, and she must bear it her life long. It gave her infinite pain to face Miles Errington, yet while at one moment she longed to fly from him, the next she felt an extraordinary desire to hear him speak, to learn the prevailing tone of his mind, to know his opinions. There was an earnestness in his look and manner that appealed to her sympathies. He was a just, upright gentleman. What would he think of the dastardly deed by which she had robbed him?

"I must not think of it. I must try and forget I ever did it, and be as good and true as I can in all else. And the will! I must destroy it. I am sure my poor old uncle meant to do away with it. Perhaps if it were clean gone I might feel more at rest. How strange it is that instead of growing accustomed to the contemplation of my own dishonesty I become more keenly alive to the shame of my act as time rolls on! Perhaps if I am brave and resolute I may conquer the scorpion stings of self-reproach. How dear those two sweet peaceful years have cost me! Would I undo it all to save myself these pangs? No. Then I suppose to bear is to conquer one's fate."



CHAPTER XV.

CROSS PURPOSES.

The first ten days at Castleford would have been dull indeed to Katherine but for the society of Cis and Charlie in the mornings, and the interest she took in watching Errington (who was of course a frequent visitor) in the evenings.

Though she avoided conversing with him as much as possible, he was a constant study to her. He was different from all the men she had previously met. She often wondered if anything could disturb him or hurry him. Had he ever climbed trees and torn his clothes, or thrashed an adversary? Had he any weaknesses, or vivid joys, or passionate longings? Yet he did not seem a prig. His manner, though dignified, was easy and natural; his eyes, though steady and penetrating, were kindly; his bearing had the repose of strength. It was too awful to contemplate what his estimate of herself would be if he knew; but then he must never know!

As it was, he seemed inclined to be friendly and communicative, pleased when he met her strolling in the garden with Lady Alice, and gratified to find that she could accompany his fiancee's songs. Indeed he said he had never heard Lady Alice sing so well as when Miss Liddell played for her.

Apart from the boys and Errington, Katherine found time hang very heavily on her hands. The aimless lingering over useless fancy-work or second-rate novels, the discussion of such gossip as their correspondence supplied, by means of which Mrs. Ormonde and Lady Alice got through the day, were infinitely wearisome to her.

Miles Errington was one of those happy individuals said to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. The only son of a wealthy father, who, though enriched by trade, had come of an old Border race, he had had the best education money could procure. More fortunate still in the endowments of nature, he was well formed, strong, active, and blessed with perfect health; while mentally he was intelligent and reflective, thoughtful rather than brilliant, and by temperament profoundly calm. He had never got into scrapes or committed extravagance. He was the despair of managing mammas and fascinating young married women; yet he was not unpopular with either sex. Men respected his strong, steady character, his high standard, his sound judgment in matters affecting the stable and the race-course; women were attracted by his obligingness and generosity. Still he was the sort of man with whom few became intimate, and none dared take a liberty. Preserved by his fortunate surroundings and strong tranquil nature from difficulties or temptations, he could hardly understand the passionate outbreaks of weaker and more fiery men.

His greatest physical pleasure was an exciting run with the hounds; his deepest interest centred in politics; though never indulging in sentiment, he was an earnest patriot. Whether he could be moved by more personal feelings remained to be proved. At present the sources of tenderer affection, if they existed, lay so deep below the strata of reason and common-sense that only some artesian process could pierce to the imprisoned spring's and set the "water of life" free, perhaps to bound, geyser-like, into the outer air.

Having travelled by sea and land, and looked into the social and political condition of many countries, having mixed much with men and women at home and abroad, Errington thought it time to take his place in the great commonwealth—to marry, and to try for a seat in the House of Commons. He therefore selected Lady Alice Mordaunt. She was rather pretty, graceful, gentle, and quite at his service. He really like her in a sort of fatherly way; he looked forward with quiet pleasure to making her very happy, and did not doubt she would in his hands mature into a sufficient companion, for though Errington was not naturally a selfish man, his life and training disposed him to look on those connected with him as on the whole created for him.

He had been absent for two or three days, having gone up to town to visit his father, who had been somewhat seriously unwell, and as he rode toward Castleford he gave more thought than usual to his young fiancee. In truth, a visit to Colonel Ormonde was a great bore to him. He had nothing in common with the Colonel, whose pig-headed conservatism jarred on Errington's broader views, while his stories and reminiscences were exceedingly uninteresting, and sometimes worse. Mrs. Ormonde's small coquetries, her airs and graces, were equally unattractive to him. Still it was well to have Lady Alice at Castleford, within easy reach, while there was so much to occupy his time and attention in the country. As soon as he was sure of his election he would hasten his marriage, and perhaps get the honey-moon over in time to take his seat while there was still a month or two of the session unexpired.

From Lady Alice it was an easy transition of thought to the new guest at Castleford. Where had he seen her face? and with what was he associated in her mind? Nothing agreeable; of that he was quite sure. The vivid blush and indescribable shrinking he had noticed more than once (and Errington, like most quiet men, was a close observer) seemed unaccountable. Miss Liddell was far from shy; she was well-bred and evidently accustomed to society; her avoidance had therefore made the more impression. His experience of life had hitherto been exceedingly unemotional, and Katherine's unexpected betrayal of feeling puzzled him not a little.

At this point in his reflections he had reached that part of the road where it dipped into a hollow, on one side of which the Melford woods began. A steep bank rose on the right, thickly studded with beech and oak trees, still leafless, but the scanty, yellowish grass which grew beneath them was tufted with primroses and violets.

As Errington came round a bend in the little valley the sound of shrill, childish laughter came pleasantly to his ear, and the next minute brought him in sight of a lady in mourning whom he recognized immediately, and two little boys, who were high up the back, busily engaged filling a basket with sweet spring blossoms.

Errington paused, dismounted, and raising his hat, approached her.

"I did not expect so meet you so far afield," he said. "You are not afraid of a long walk."

"My nephews have led me on from flower to flower," she returned, again coloring brightly, but not shrinking from his eyes. "Now I think it is time to go home."

"It is not late," he returned. "How is every one at Castleford?"

"Quite well. Lady Alice has lost her cold, and regained her voice—she was singing this morning," said Katherine, smiling as if she knew the real drift of his question.

"I am glad to hear it," he returned, soberly.

Errington and Lady Alice did not write to each other every day.

"Auntie," cried Cis, "the basket is quite full. If you open your sunshade and hold it upside-down, I can fill that too."

"No dear; you have quite enough. We must go back now."

"Oh, not yet, please?" The little fellow came tumbling down the bank, followed by Charlie, who immediately caught his aunt's hand and repeated, "Not yet, auntie!"

"These are Mrs. Ormonde's boys, I suppose?" said Errington.

"Yes; have you never seen them before?"

"Never. And have you not had enough climbing?" he added, good-humoredly, to Charlie.

"No, not half enough!" cried Cis. "There's such a bunch of violets just under that biggest beech-tree, nearly up at the top! Do let me gather them—just those; do—do—do!"

"Very well; do not go too fast, or you will break your neck."

Both boys started off, leaving their basket at Katherine's feet.

"I remember now," said Errington, looking at her, "where I saw I saw you before. Is was two—nearly three—years ago, at Hyde Park corner, when that elder boy had a narrow escape from being run over."

"Were you there?" she exclaimed, so evidently surprised that Errington saw the impulse was genuine. "I recollect Mr. Payne and Colonel Ormonde; but I did not see you."

"Then where have you met me?" was at his lips, but he did not utter the words.

"Well, Payne was of real service; I did nothing. The little fellow had a close shave."

"He had indeed," said Katherine, thoughtfully, with downcast eyes; then, suddenly raising them to his, she said, as if to herself, "And you were there too! How strange it all is!"

"I see nothing so strange in it, Miss Liddell," smiling good-humoredly. "Have you any superstition on the subject?"

"No; I am not superstitious; yet it was curious—I mean, to meet by accident on that day just before—" She stopped. "And now I am connected with Colonel Ormonde, living with Mr. Payne's sister and—and talking here with—you."

"These coincidences occur perpetually when people move in the same set," returned Errington, feeling absurdly curious, and yet not knowing how to get at the train of recollection or association which underlay her words—words evidently unstudied and impulsive.

"I suppose so. And, you know—Mr. Payne," Katherine continued, quickly—"how good he is! He lives completely for others."

"Yes, I believe him to be thoroughly, honestly good. How hard he toils, and with what a pitiful result!"

"I wish he would go. Why does he stand there making conversation?" thought Katherine, while she said aloud: "I don't see that. If every one helped two or three poor creatures whom they knew, we should not have all this poverty and suffering which are distracting to think about."

"I doubt it; it would be more likely to pauperize the whole nation."

Here Charlie and Cis, with earth-stained knees and hands—the latter full of violets—reluctantly descended. Adding these to the basket already overflowing, they had a short wrangle as to who should carry it, and then Katherine turned her steps homeward. Errington passed the bridle over his arm, and to her great annoyance, walked beside her.

"Are you, then, disposed to give yourself to faith and to good works?"

"I do not know. I should like to help those who want, but I fear I am too fond of pleasure to sacrifice myself—at least I was and I suppose the love will return. Of course it is easy to give money; it is hard to give one's self."

"You seem very philosophic for so young a lady."

"I am not young," said Katherine, sadly; "I am years older than Lady Alice."

"How many—one or two?" asked Errington, in his kind, fatherly, somewhat superior tone, which rather irritated her.

"The years I mean are not to be measured by the ordinary standard; even you must know that some years last longer—no, that is not the expression—press heavier than others."

"Even I? Do you think I am specially matter-of-fact?"

"I have no right to think you anything, for I do not know you; but you give me that impression."

"I dare say I am; nor do I see why I should object to be so considered."

Here Cecil, who got tired of a conversation from which he could gather nothing, put in his oar: "Are you Mr. Errington?"

"I am. How do you know my name?"

"I saw you going out with the Colonel to the meet—oh, a long while ago! And Miss Richards and nurse were talking about you."

"They said you had a real St. Bernard dog—one that gets the people out of the snow," cried Charlie. "Will you let him come here? I want to see him."

"You had better come and pay him a visit."

"Oh yes, thank you!" exclaimed Cis. "Auntie will take us, perhaps. Auntie will take us to the sea-side, and then we shall bathe, and go in boats, and learn to row."

"Cis, run with me to that big tree at the foot of the hill. Auntie will carry the basket," cried Charlie, and the next moment they were off.

"Fine little fellows," said Errington. "I like children."

"I am going to ask Mrs. Ormonde to lend them to me for a few months, for they are all I have of kith or kin."

"They are not at all like you," returned Errington, letting his quiet, but to her most embarrassing, eyes rest upon her face.

"Yet they are my only brother's children." Here Katherine paused with a sense of relief; they had reached a stile where a footway led across some fields and a piece of common overgrown with bracken and gorse. It was the short-cut to Castleford, by which Cecil had led her to the Melford Woods.

"Oh, do come round by the road, auntie," he exclaimed; "perhaps Mr. Errington will let me ride his horse."

"I do not know if he will, Cis, but I certainly will not. I am tired too, dear, and want to get home the shortest way I can, so bid Mr. Errington good-by, and come with me. No, don't shake hands; yours are much too dirty."

"Never mind; when you are a big boy I'll give you a mount. Good by, Master Charlie—you are Charlie, are you not? Till we meet at dinner, Miss Liddell." He raised his hat, and divining that she wished him to let her get over the stile unassisted, he mounted his horse and rode swiftly away.

"I am sure he would have given me a ride if you had gone by the road, auntie," said Cecil, reproachfully.

"I could not have allowed, you, dear; so do not think about it." Errington meanwhile rode on, unconsciously slackening his pace as he mused. "No, she certainly has never seen me before, yet she knows me. How? She was very glad to get rid of me just now. Why? I am inoffensive enough. There is something uncommon about her; she gives me the idea of having a history, which is anything but desirable for a young woman. What fine eyes she has! She is something like that Sibyl of Guercino's in the Capitol. Why does she object to me? It is rather absurd. I must make her talk, then I shall find out."

Here his horse started, and broke the thread of his reflections. By the time the steed had pranced and curvetted a little, Errington's thoughts had turned into some of their usual graver channels, and Katherine Liddell was—well, not absolutely forgotten.

The object of his reflections reached the house rather late for the boys' tea, and expecting to find her hostess and Lady Alice enjoying the same refreshment, she gave her warm out-door jacket to Cecil, who immediately put it on as the best mode of taking it upstairs, and went into Mrs. Ormonde's morning-room, where afternoon tea was always served. It was a pleasant room in warm summer weather, as its aspect was east, and the afternoons were cool and shady there; but of a chill evening at the end of March it was cold and dim, and needed the glow of a good fire to make it attractive.

Daylight still lingered to the sky, but was fast fading, and the dancing light of a cheerful fire was a pleasant contrast to the gray shadows without. The room was very nondescript; its furniture was of the spidery fashion which ruled when the "first gentleman" held the reins; thin hard sofas and scanty draperies were supplemented by Persian rugs and showy cushions, while various specimens of doubtful china crowded the mantel-piece and consoles. Mrs. Ormonde was quite innocent of original taste, but was a quick, industrious imitator, while of comfortable chairs she was a most competent judge.

Quite sure of finding Mrs. Ormonde, Lady Alice, and Miss Brereton—another visitor—refreshing themselves after their out-door exercise, and intending to announce the pleasant news of Errington's return, Katherine exclaimed, "Lady Alice!" as she crossed the threshold, then seeing no one, stopped.

"Lady Alice is not here," said a strong, harsh voice, and a tall figure in a shooting-coat and gaiters rose from the depths of a large arm-chair, the back of which was toward the door and stood before her.

Katherine was slightly startled, but guessed it was one of two guests expected to arrive that day. She advanced, therefore, and said, "Mrs. Ormonde is unusually late, but I am sure she will soon be here."

"Meantime tea is quite ready. It has stood twice the regulation five minutes; and is there any just cause or impediment why it should not be poured out?"

"Not that I am aware of," returned Katherine, taking off her hat and smoothing back her hair, which showed golden tints in the fitful fire-light.

The low tea-table was set before the fire, she drew a chair beside it and removed the cozy from the teapot.

Recognizing De Burgh from Mrs. Ormonde's description, she felt that he was even more at home at Castleford than herself, and she also came to the conclusion that he knew who she was. She had been prepared by Mrs. Ormonde's evident admiration to dislike De Burgh, having made up her mind that he would prove an empty-headed, insolent grandee, whose pretensions imposed upon her sister-in-law's somewhat slender experience, and whose life was probably given up to physical enjoyment. He had not, however, the aspect of a mere pleasure-seeker. His dark, strong face and bony frame looked as if he could work as well as play.

"Do you take sugar?"

"No, thank you; neither sugar nor cream."

"Neither? That is very self-denying!"

"Not self-denying! Were I foolish enough to do what I did not like, I should take the sugar and cream. They do not happen to please my palate."

"It is well we do not all like the same things."

"It is indeed!" He held his cup untasted for a moment, looking thoughtfully into the fire. "Tea is the best drink you can have in difficult, fatiguing journeys. Even the gold-diggers of Australia know that. They drink hard enough when they are on the spree, but when at work in earnest they stick to the teapot," he said, turning his eyes full upon her with a cool, critical gaze, which half amused, half irritated her. It was curious to sit there talking easily with a total stranger. Perhaps she ought to have left him to himself, but it was not much matter. Looking toward the window to avoid her companion's eyes, she exclaimed:

"It is raining quite fast! I am glad I brought the children home before this shower."

"An avant-courier of April. You were walking with Mrs. Ormonde's boys, then?"

"Yes; I take them out every day."

"An uncommonly good-looking governess," thought De Burgh. "You have not been here long, I think?" he said.

"About three weeks. The boys are quite used to me now, and enjoy their walks, for I take them outside the grounds," said Katherine, feeling sure that De Burgh must guess who she was.

"Indeed! You are a daring innovator. I suppose they were kept on the premises till you came?"

"They were; and it is always tiresome to be kept within bounds."

"I quite agree with you. The sentiment is extremely natural, only young ladies rarely confess it."

"Why?"

"Oh, you ought to know better than I do. You give me the idea of being a plucky woman."

"You must be quick in gathering ideas," said Katherine, dryly.

"Yes; some subjects inspire me," he returned, handing in his cup. "Another, please. I am a bit of a physiognomist. I think I could give a rough sketch of your character." He stirred the fire to a brighter blaze and added, "It is so deuced dark since that shower came on I can hardly see you, but I will tell you my ideas, if you care to hear them."

"Yes, I should," she returned, laughing. "It will be curious to hear the result of an instantaneous estimate. Why, five minutes ago you had never seen me."

"Five minutes? No; ten at least. Well, then, I should say you are a remarkably plucky girl, though perhaps not impervious to panic. And, let me see," fixing his keen, fierce eyes on hers, "gifted with no small power of enjoyment. With a strong dash of the rebel in you, and—well, I could tell you more, but I won't."

Katherine laughed good-humoredly.

"Have I hit it off?" he asked, after waiting for her to speak.

"I cannot tell. Do we ever know ourselves?"

"That's true; but few admit their ignorance. I begin to think that you are dangerous, in addition to your other qualities, as you can refrain from discussing yourself; that is a bait which draws out most women."

"And most men," added Katherine. "We haven't much to reproach each other with on that score."

"No, I must admit that. Self is a fascinating topic."

"Some more tea?" asked Katherine, demurely.

"No, thank you. I am not absolutely insatiable. Tell me," he went on, with a quaint familiarity which was not offensive, "how can a girl with your nature—mind, I have not told half I guess—how can you stand your life here—walking about with those brats, making tea while the others are out amusing themselves, hammering away at the same round day after day? You are made for different things."

"I should not care to live at Castleford all the days of my life," said Katherine, a little surprised by his question, and feeling there was a mistake somewhere; "but I do not intend to stay long."

"Oh, indeed! How do you get on with Mrs. Ormonde? She doesn't worry you about the boys? She is a jolly, pretty little woman; but you are not exactly the sort of young lady I should have fancied would be her choice."

"Why not?" asked Katherine, beginning to see his mistake.

"Because"—began De Burgh, looking full at her, and then paused. "You are too handsome by half!" were the words on his lips, but he did not utter them; he substituted, "You don't seem quite the thing for Mrs. Ormonde."

"She finds I suit her admirably," said Katherine, gravely.

"I don't quite understand"—De Burgh was beginning, when the door opened to admit Mrs. Ormonde.

"Ah, Mr. De Burgh, I did not expect you so early; but I am glad Katherine was here to give you your tea. It is not necessary to introduce you. I was afraid you would have been caught in that shower, Katie."

"We just escaped it. I hope Lady Alice has found shelter, or she will renew her cold."

"You are Miss Liddell, then?" said De Burgh, as he placed a chair for Mrs. Ormonde and took her cloak.

"To be sure. Didn't you guess who she was?"

"Mr. De Burgh guessed a good deal, but he did not guess my identity," said Katherine, handing her a cup of tea.

"What! Were you playing at cross questions and crooked answers?"

"Something of that sort," he returned, and changed the subject by asking if they had heard how Errington's father was.

"Better, I suppose, for Mr. Errington has returned. He met us when we were in Melford Woods."

"I dare say he met Alice and Miss Brereton, then," said Mrs. Ormonde; "they were riding in that direction."

"Lady Alice will be taken care of, then," said Katherine, and taking her hat she went away, seeing that Mrs. Ormonde was quite ready to absorb the conversation.

"So that is Katherine Liddell," said De Burgh, looking after her, regardless of Mrs. Ormonde's declaration that she was going to scold him.

"Yes. Is she not like what you expected?"

"Expected? I did not expect anything; but she isn't a bit like what you described."

"How so? Did I say too much?"

"Yes, a great deal too much, but the wrong way."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you talked as if she was a regular gushing school-girl, ready to swallow any double-barrelled compliment one chose to offer, whereas she is a finely developed woman, by Jove! with brains too, or I am much mistaken. Why, my charming little friend, she is older in some ways than you are."

"Oh, nonsense. You need not flatter me."

"It's not flattery, it's—"

The arrival of the riding party with the addition of Errington prevented him from finishing his sentence.



CHAPTER XVI.

HANDLING THE RIBBONS.

De Burgh was told off to take Katherine in to dinner that day and the next, and bestowed a good deal of his attention on her during the evening. He rather amused her, for he was a new type to her. The men she had met during her sojourn on the Continent were chiefly polished French and Italians, whose softness and respectful manner to women were perhaps exaggerated, and a sprinkling of diplomatic and dilettante Englishmen. De Burgh's style was curiously—almost roughly—frank, yet there was an unmistakable air of distinction about him. He seemed not to think it worth while to take trouble about anything, yet he could talk well when by chance a topic interested him, Katherine would have been very dull had she not perceived that he was attracted by her. She was by no means so exalted a character as to be indifferent to his tribute; nevertheless she was half afraid of the cynical, outspoken, high-born Bohemian, who seemed to have small respect for people or opinions. She showed little of this feeling, however, having held her own with spirit in their various arguments, as, it need scarcely be said, they rarely agreed.

"What is this mysterious piece of work I see constantly in your hands?" asked De Burgh, taking his place beside Katherine when the men came in after dinner a few days after his arrival.

"It is a black silk stocking for Cecil."

"One of the nephews, eh? So you are capable of knitting! It must be a dreary occupation."

"No; it becomes mechanical, and it is better than sitting with folded hands."

"I am not sure it is. I have great faith in natures that can take complete rest—men who can do nothing, absolutely nothing—and so create a reserve fund of fresh energy for the next hour of need. There is no strength in fidgety feverishness."

"There is not much feverishness in knitting," returned Katherine, beginning a new row.

"There is very little feverishness about you, yet you are not placid. I am extending and verifying my original estimate of your character, you see."

"A most interesting occupation," said Katherine, carelessly.

"Yes, most interesting. I wish I had more frequent opportunities of studying it; but one never sees you all day. Where do you hide yourself?"

"I take long rambles with the children, and—" She paused.

"Does it amuse you to play nurse-maid?"

"Yes, at present. Then my nephews and I were playfellows long ago."

"I imagine it is a taste that will not last."

"Perhaps not."

"Miss Brereton and Lady Alice, with Errington and myself, are going to ride over to Melford Abbey to-morrow. You will, I hope, be of the party?"

"Thank you. I do not ride."

"It is rather refreshing to meet a young lady who is not horsy, but it is a loss to yourself not to ride."

"I dare say it is. Yet what one has never known cannot be a loss. I am sorry I was not accustomed to ride in my youth."

"It is not too late to learn, remote as that period must be," said De Burgh, smiling. "You are in the headquarters of horsemen and horsewomen at present. Appoint me your riding-master, and in a couple of months I shall be proud of my pupil."

"I am not particularly brave," she returned, "and the experiment would produce more pain than pleasure."

"Pain! nothing of the kind. I have a capital lady's horse, steady as a rock, splendid pacer, temper of an angel. He is quite at your service. Let me telegraph for him, and begin your lessons the day after to-morrow." De Burgh raised himself from his lounging position, and leaned forward to urge his pleading more earnestly. "Let me persuade you. You will thank me hereafter."

"Thank you," said Katherine, shaking her head. "It is too late. I shall never learn how to ride, but I should like to know how to drive."

"There I can be of use to you too. You will want an instructor. Pray take me!"

The last words, spoken a little louder than the rest, caught Mrs. Ormonde's ear as she was crossing the room, and she paused beside her sister-in-law to ask, "Take him for what?—for better or worse, Katherine?"

"Blundering little idiot!" thought De Burgh; while Katherine answered, with remarkable composure.

"Nothing so formidable; only to be my instructor in the art of driving."

"Well, and do you accept?"

"Yes; I shall be very pleased to learn. I should like to be able to 'conduct' a pair of ponies, as the French would say."

"Ah yes! and cut a dash in the Park," said Mrs. Ormonde, taking the seat De Burgh reluctantly vacated for her. "I don't see why she should not, Mr. De Burgh; do you?"

"Certainly not, provided only Miss Liddell can handle the ribbons."

"Very well, Katherine: you devote yourself to acquire the art here, and then join us in a house in town this spring. I was reading the advertisements in the Times to-day. I always look at the houses to let, and there is one to let in Chester Square which would suit us exactly; that is, if you will join. She ought to have a season in town, ought she not, Mr. De Burgh?"

He looked keenly at Katherine, and smiled. "Yes, Miss Liddell ought to taste the incomparable delights of the season by all means. Life is incomplete without it."

"I should like to experience it certainly, for once, but I shall be more in the mood for such excitements next year—perhaps," returned Katherine, gravely.

"Oh, my dear Katie, never put things off! At all events, be presented. That would be a sort of beginning; and I am to be presented too, so we might go together."

"I do not intend to be presented," said Katherine; "it would be needless trouble. I have not the least ambition to go to court."

"But, Katherine, it is absolutely necessary to take your proper position in society. It is not, Mr. De Burgh?"

"What is your objection?" asked De Burgh, disregarding his hostess. "Are you too radical, or too transcendental, or what?"

"Neither. I simply do not care to go, and do not see the necessity of going."

"You were always the strangest girl!" cried Mrs. Ormonde, a good deal annoyed. "But still, if you were with us, you might see a good deal—"

"You know, Ada, I am fixed for this year, and would not change even if I could."

"Forgive me for interrupting you," said Errington, coming from the next room. "But if you are disengaged, Lady Alice would be greatly obliged by your playing for her."

"Certainly," cried Katherine. She had a sort of pleasure in obliging Errington, and Lady Alice for his sake; and putting her knitting into its little case, she rose and accompanied him to what was called the music-room, because it contained a grand piano and an old, nearly stringless violin.

"I don't think," said De Burgh, looking after her, "that your sister-in-law is quite as much under your influence as you fancy."

"Oh, don't you?" cried Mrs. Ormonde, feeling a flash of dislike to Katherine thrill through her. It was terribly trying to find an admirer, of whom she was so proud, drawn from her by that "tiresome, obstinate girl"; it was also enough to vex a saint to see her turn a deaf ear to her more experienced and highly placed sister's suggestion. "When you know a little more of her you will see how obstinate and headstrong she is."

"Ah! troublesome qualities those, especially in a rich woman, and a handsome one to boot. There is something very taking about that sister-in-law of yours, Mrs. Ormonde. If I were Lady Alice I wouldn't trust Errington with her: she would be a dangerous rival."

"Oh, nonsense! Do you think our Admirable Crichton could go wrong?"

"I don't know. If he ever does, he'll go a tremendous cropper."

"Well, Mr. De Burgh, if you would like to go in and win, you had better make the running now. Once she 'comes out' in town, you will find a host of competitors."

"Ha! I suppose you think a rugged fellow like me would have little or no chance with the curled darlings of May Fair and South Kensington?" Mrs. Ormonde looked down on her fan, but did not speak. De Burgh laughed. "Who is going to bring her out?" he asked.

"I am," with dignity.

De Burgh's reply was short and simple. He said, "Oh!" and the interjection (is there an interjection now?—I am not young enough to know) brought the color to Mrs. Ormonde's cheek and a frown to her fair brow. "The young lady is, on the whole, original," he continued. "She does not care to be presented."

"Do you believe her? I don't. She only said so from love of contradicting."

"Yes, I believe her; she does not care about it now; but she will probably get the court fever after a plunge into London life. Who is singing?—that is something different from the penny whistling Lady Alice gives us."

"Why it must be Katherine! It is the first time she has sung since she came. She is always afraid of breaking down, she says. I don't believe she has sung since the death of her mother." De Burgh's only reply was to walk into the next room. Leaving Mrs. Ormonde in a state of irritation against him, Katherine, and the world in general.

Katherine was singing a gay Neapolitan air. She had a rich, sympathetic voice, and sang with arch expression.

Errington stood beside her, and Lady Alice, the rector's wife and one or two other guests, were grouped round.

"Thank you. That is thoroughly Italian. You must have studied a good deal," said Errington, who rather liked music, and was accustomed to the best.

"Very nice indeed," added Lady Alice. "Very nice" was her highest praise. "I should like to learn the song."

"I do not think it would suit you," observed Errington.

"Why, Katherine, I had no notion you could 'tune up' in this way," cried Colonel Ormonde. "Give us another, like a good girl; something English—'Robin Adair.' There was a fellow in 'ours' used to sing it capitally."

"I cannot sing it, Colonel Ormonde. I am very sorry."

"Oh, Katherine! I have heard you sing it a hundred times," cried Mrs. Ormonde, joining them. "Why, it was a great favorite with poor dear Mrs. Liddell."

"I cannot sing it, Ada," repeated Katherine, quick and low. As she spoke she caught Errington's eyes.

"No one ought to dictate to a songstress," he said, very decidedly. "Give us anything you like, so long as you sing."

Kate bent her head, feeling that he understood her, and her hands wandered over the keys for a minute; then, with a glance at Colonel Ormonde, she began "Jock o' Hazeldean."

Katherine was not the kind of girl to nurse her grief, to dwell upon it with morbid insistence: but she remembered, warmly, lovingly. At times gusts of passionate regret swept over her and shook her self-control, and she dared not attempt her mother's favorite song; the mere request for it called up a cloud of memories. She saw the dear face, the sweet faded blue eyes that used to dwell upon her so tenderly, with such unutterable content. No other eyes would ever look upon her thus; never again could she hope for such perfect sympathy as she had once known.

"Does that make up for 'Robin Adair,' Colonel Ormonde?" she said when the song was ended.

"A very good song and very well sung, but it's not equal to 'Robin Adair.'"

"Lady Alice, will you try that duet of Helmer's?" asked Katherine; and Lady Alice graciously assented.

"I shall miss your accompaniment dreadfully when I leave," she said, when the duet was accomplished. "I feel so sure when you play, and you help me. I hope you will come and see me. Lady Mary, my aunt, would be very pleased; don't you think she would?" to Errington, appealingly.

"Certainly. I hope, Miss Liddell, you will not desert Alice. If you will permit it, Lady Mary Vincent will have the pleasure of calling on you."

"That will be very kind," returned Katherine, softly. If this man were safely married and settled, she thought, she would like to be friends with his wife, and serve him in any way she could. If his eyes did not always confuse and distress her, how much she could like him!

As she rose from the piano, De Burgh, who had been speaking aside with Colonel Ormonde, left him to join her. "I have settled it all with Ormonde," he said. "I am to have the pony-carriage and the dun ponies (not those Mrs. Ormonde generally drives) to-morrow; so, if it does not rain, I'll give you your first lesson; that is, if you will allow me."

"You are very prompt," returned Katherine, "and very good to take so much trouble. If it is fine, then, to-morrow. Pray arm yourself with patience. Are not the dun ponies rather frisky?"

"Spirited, but free from vice. Ormonde had them from my stables. It's no use learning to drive with dull, inanimate brutes. You'll consider yourself engaged?"

"I do, if Mrs. Ormonde does not want me to go anywhere with her."

"She will not," said De Burgh, confidently.

"Good-night," returned Katherine. "Tell Mrs. Ormonde I have stolen away, for I have a slight headache."

"What? going already?" cried De Burgh. "No more songs? The evening, then, is over."

The following day was soft and bright. March had evidently made up his martial mind to go out in a lamb-like fashion, and De Burgh was unusually amiable and communicative. "When shall you be ready to start?" he asked, following Katherine from the breakfast-table.

"To start where?" she asked.

"What! have you forgotten our plans of last night?" was his counter-question. "I am to give you your first lesson in driving this morning. I only wait your orders before going to see the ponies put in. We had better take advantage of the fine morning."

"Ay, that's right, De Burgh; make hay while the sun shines," said Ormonde, with his usual tact and jocularity. "But it would be better to have tried a quieter pair than Dick and Dandie."

"I think you may trust Miss Liddell to me," returned De Burgh, impatiently. "Well, when shall I bring round the trap?"

"Whenever you like. I am afraid you have set yourself a tiresome task."

De Burgh laughed. "If you prove careless or disobedient, why, I'll not repeat the dose. In half an hour, then, I'll have the carriage at the door."

That half-hour was spent by Katherine in explaining to Cis and Charlie that she could not go out with them that day, for the morning was promised to De Burgh, and after luncheon she had undertaken to try over the song which had pleased her with Lady Alice, who was to leave the next day. The little fellows thought themselves very ill-used. But Miss Richards, who had greatly prized her deliverance from long muddy rambles since Katherine's advent, promised to take them to fish in a stream which ran between the Castleford and Melford properties.

"Do you suppose I shall dare to touch the reins of these terrible creatures?" said Katherine when De Burgh dashed up to the door, and held the spirited, impatient animals steady with some difficulty.

"We'll get rid of some of the steam first, and you will get accustomed to their playfulness," he returned. "Here, Ormonde, haven't you a rug for Miss Liddell? It may come on to rain."

"Yes; here you are;" and Colonel Ormonde, who was examining the turn-out, tucked up his fair guest carefully, and warned them to be back in good time, as he wanted De Burgh to ride over with him to see some horses which were for sale a mile or two at the other side of Monckton.

"What a frightful pace;" said Katherine, after they had whirled out of the gates, yet feeling comforted by De Burgh's evident mastery of the ponies.

"You are not frightened? Don't you think I can manage them?"

"I am not comfortable, because I am not accustomed to horses and furious driving."

"Oh, they will settle down presently. Where shall we go—through Garston? It's a fine place. Perhaps you have seen it?"

"I have not, and I should like to see it very much." She was delighted with the suggestion. It would be a help to her, a consolation, to see so visible a token of Errington's wealth.

"Curious fellow, Errington," resumed De Burgh. "I suppose he is about the only man who isn't spoiled by the most unbroken prosperity. Still, a fellow who never did anything wrong in his life is rather uninteresting; don't you think so?"

"Has he never done anything wrong? That seems rather incredible."

"If he has, he has kept it deucedly close. But you are right; it is very incredible."

They drove on for a while in silence. It was a delicious morning—a blue sky flecked with fleecy white clouds, bright sunlight, birds singing, hedges budding, all nature welcoming the first sweet intoxication of renewed youth stirring in her veins. Katherine loved the spring-time, and felt its influence profoundly, but it was the first spring in which she had been alone; this time last year she—they—had been at Bordighera. How heavenly fair it had been! But De Burgh was speaking:

"You did not hear, or rather heed, what I said, Miss Liddell; that's not civil."

"Indeed it is not—forgive me. What did you say?"

"I suppose you like country life best, as you demolished Mrs. Ormonde's scheme respecting a house in town so promptly?"

"I enjoy looking at the country, but I know nothing of country life. I am not sure I should like it."

"What's your objection to drawing-rooms and balls—the season generally?"

"I do not object; but is my deep mourning suited to these gayeties, Mr. De Burgh?"

"Well, no. I beg your pardon. Mrs. Ormonde started it, you know. I fancy it would take double-distilled mourning to keep her out of the swim."

"It is impossible for one nature to judge another which is totally different, fairly."

"Very true and very prudent. I have not got to the bottom of your character yet, but I am pursuing my studies," said De Burgh, with a grim sort of smile. "You see they are settling down to their work now," pointing his whip to the ponies. "I'll give you the reins in a minute or two."

"I think I ought to begin with something quieter," said Katherine, looking at them uneasily.

De Burgh laughed. "There is a nice stretch of level road before us—nothing to interfere with you. Change places with me, if you please. Here, put the reins between your fingers—so; now a turn of the wrist guides them. I'll hold your hand for a bit. You had better not let the whip touch them—so. There you are. I'll show you how to handle the ribbons before you are a fortnight older; that is if you will come out every day with me."

"Would you take that trouble?" exclaimed Katherine.

"I can take a good deal of trouble if I like my work. Now hold them steady, and keep your eye on them. When we come to the trees, on there, turn to the left."

"So far there doesn't seem to be much difficulty; they seem to go all right of their own accord," she said, after a few minutes.

"They are a capital pair; but there is nothing to disturb them."

For the rest of the way to Garston, De Burgh only spoke to give the lesson he had undertaken, and Katherine found herself growing interested and pleased. When they entered the gates, however, she asked him to take the reins. She wanted to look about her, to remark the surroundings of Errington's house.

It was a fine place, somewhat flat, perhaps, but beautiful with splendid trees, and a small lake, through which ran the stream in another part of which Cis and Charlie were going to fish. The house stood well, the grounds were admirably laid out and perfectly kept; evidences of wealth were on all sides.

"I suppose it costs a great deal of money to keep up a place like this," said Katherine, breaking a silence which had lasted some minutes: De Burgh never troubled himself to speak unless he really had something to say.

"I shouldn't care to live here on less than ten thousand a year," he returned, glancing round.

"And has Mr. Errington all that money?"

"His father has a good deal more. He bought this place for him, I believe. Old Errington is very wealthy, and on his last legs, from what I hear."

"Ten thousand a year! What a quantity of money!"

"Hem! I think I could get through it without much trouble."

"Then you have always been rich?"

"Rich! I have been on the verge of bankruptcy all my life. I never knew what it was to have enough money."

"But you seem to have gone everywhere and done everything."

"Yes, by discounting my future at a ruinous rate," he returned, with a sort of reckless candor that amused his hearer. "You scarcely understand me, I suppose."

"I think I do. I know how uncomfortable it is to want money."

"Indeed! Still, it's not so hard on women as on men."

"Why?"

"We want so much more."

"Then you have so many more chances of earning it."

"Earning it! Oh, that is a new view of the case!"

"I should not mind doing it; that is, if I could succeed."

"Do you know, I took you for your nephews' governess. It never crossed my mind you were an heiress. As a rule, heiresses are revolting to the last degree."

"I feel the compliment."

"Remember, I like their money, only I object to its being encumbered."

"You are wonderfully frank, Mr. De Burgh."

"I dare say you said 'brutally frank' in your thoughts, Miss Liddell, and you are right. I am rather a bad lot, and a little too old to mend. But let it be a saving clause in your mind, if I ever recur to it, that the fact of your being nice enough for the governess impelled me to offer driving lessons to the heiress. Will you take the reins? You might hold them forever if you choose."

"Not yet, thank you—when we get out on the road again," returned Katherine, not seeing or seeming to see his covert meaning. "You are surely not a democrat?"

"A democrat? No. I have no particular view as regards politics; but if the devil ever got so completely the upper hand in this world as to leave it without a class to serve and obey us, their natural superiors, I'd decline to stay here any longer, and descend by the help of a bullet to lower regions, where I should have better society."

"More congenial society, I am sure," said Katherine, laughing, though revolted by his tone. She felt it would never do to show she was. "You are quite different from any one I ever met. Do you know, you give me the idea of a wicked Norman Baron in the Middle Ages."

De Burgh laughed, as if he rather enjoyed the observation. "I know," he said; "a regular melodramatic villain, 'away with him to the lowest dungeon beneath the castle moat' sort of fellow, who would draw a Jew's teeth before breakfast and roast a restive burgher after. I wonder, considering you possess the two strongest attractions for men of this description—money and (may I say it?) beauty—that you trust yourself with me."

"Ah! you concealed your vile opinions successfully; so you see I could not know my danger," returned Katherine, laughing. "You are not at all a modern man."

"I accept the compliment."

"Which I did not intend for one. When we get through the gates I will take the reins again."

"Certainly; but the ponies' heads will be turned homeward, and I am afraid they will pull. They have steadied down wonderfully." The rest of the drive was spent in careful instruction, and Katherine was surprised to find how quickly the time had gone when they reached the house.

De Burgh interested her in spite of her dislike of the opinions and sentiments he expressed. There was something picturesque about the man, and she felt that he was attracted to her in a curious and almost alarming manner. Yet she was conscious of an inclination to play with fire. It was some time since she felt so light-hearted. The sight of Errington's luxurious surroundings seemed to take something from the load upon her conscience, and this sense of partial relief gave brilliancy to her eyes, as the fresh balmy air gave her something of her former rich coloring.

"By Jove!" cried Colonel Ormonde, as Katherine took her place at luncheon, "your drive has agreed with you. I've never seen you look so well. You must pursue the treatment. How did she get on, De Burgh?"

"Not so badly. But Miss Liddell is more timid than I expected. She'll get accustomed to the look of the cattle in a little while. Courage is largely made up of a habit. I'll take some of that cold lamb, Ormonde." And De Burgh spoke no more till he had finished his luncheon.

"Do you know, Miss Liddell, that my father was an old friend of your uncle's?" said Errington that evening, as he placed himself beside her on a retired sofa, while Miss Brereton was executing some gymnastics on the piano. "I have just been taking to Ormonde about him. I remember having been sent to call upon him—long ago, when I was at college, I think. He lived in some wild north-land; I remember it was a great way off. Then my father went for a trip to Calcutta, and I fancy lost sight of his old chum."

Katherine grew red and white as he spoke; she could only murmur, "Yes, I was told they had been friends."

"Then you must accept me as a hereditary friend," said Errington, kindly. "I shall tell my father that I have made your acquaintance, though he does not take much interest in anything now, I am sorry to say."

"I am sorry—" faltered Katherine.

"Both Lady Alice and I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in town," continued Errington, having waited in vain for her to finish her sentence. "I am going to see her safely in her aunt's charge to-morrow, and shall not return, I fancy, till you have left."

"You are both very good. I shall be most happy to see you again," returned Katherine, mastering her forces, though she felt ready to fly and hide her guilty head in any corner. Errington felt that she was unusually uneasy and uncomfortable with him, so made way the more readily for De Burgh, who monopolized her for rest of the evening.

The next day was wet, and for a week the weather was unsettled, so that Katherine had only one more lesson in driving before the party broke up, and De Burgh too was obliged to leave.

But Katherine prolonged her stay. Charlie, in ardor for fishing, had slipped into the river and caught a severe, feverish cold.

The way in which he clung to his auntie, the evident comfort he derived from her presence, the delight he had in holding her cool soft hand in his own burning little fingers, made him impossible for her to leave him. By the time he was able to sit up and play with his brother, poor Charlie was a pallid little skeleton, and his auntie bade him a tender adieu, determined to lose no time in finding sea-side quarters for the precious invalid.



CHAPTER XVII.

TAKING COUNSEL.

Miss Payne was busy looking over several cards which lay in a small china dish on her work-table. It was early in the forenoon, and she still wore a simple muslin cap and a morning gown of gray cashmere. Her mouth looked very rigid and her eyes gloomy. To her enters her brother, fresh and bright, a smile on his lips and a flower in his button-hole.

Miss Payne vouchsafed no greeting. Looking at him sternly, she asked, "Well! what do you want?"

"To ask at what hour Miss Liddell arrives, and if I am to meet her at the station."

"She is not coming to-day," snapped Miss Payne; "she is not coming till Saturday."

"Indeed!" In a changed tone, "I hope she is all right?"

"It's hard to answer that. It seems one of the nephews has had a feverish cold, and she did not like to leave him. I do not feel sure there is not some real reason under this, for she adds that she is anxious to see and consult me about some matter she has much at heart. Perhaps there is a man at the bottom of it."

"I hope not," said Bertie, quietly, "unless she has found some former friend at Castleford. I do not think Miss Liddell is the sort of girl to accept a man on five or six weeks' acquaintance, and she has scarcely been at Castleford so long."

"It is impossible to fathom the folly of women when a lover is in the case."

"You are hard, Hannah."

"I do not care whether I am or not. I don't want to lose Miss Liddell before the time agreed for."

"No doubt she is a profitable—"

"It is no question of profit," interrupted Miss Payne, grimly. "Whether she goes or whether she stays she is bound to me financially for twelve months. But I am interested in Katherine, and it will be far better for her to stay on here and feel her way before she launches into the whirl of what they call society. I want to save her for a while from the wild rush of dressing, driving, dining, dancing, that has swept away all my girls sooner or later. Look here: the mothers are flocking round her already." She began to take the cards out of the dish and read the names: "Lady Mary Vincent, 23 Waldegrave Crescent; she is a sister of that Lord Melford who ran such a rig years ago. Her boys are still at Eton. I suppose she comes because her niece and Miss Liddell have struck up a friendship at Castleford. Then here are Mrs. and Miss Alford; we all knew them in Rome; there's a son there; they are respectable people, well off, and fighting their way up judiciously enough. Lady Barrington; she has a nephew, but she will be useful. Mr. and Mrs. Tracey; they were at Florence, and have a couple of daughters; there may be a nephew or a cousin, but I never heard of one; they are pleasant, sensible, artistic people, who just enjoy themselves and don't trouble. Lady Mildred Reptan, Miss Brereton, John de Burgh; I don't know these. All these people evidently think she is in town, or have only just come themselves, but you see the outlook."

"John de Burgh," repeated Bertie, thoughtfully. "I remember something about him; nothing particularly good. I believe he is on the turf. Yes, he is a famous steeple-chase rider, and rather fast—not too desirable a follower for Miss Liddell."

"She met him at Castleford, and I rather think he is related to Colonel Ormonde." Miss Payne put back the cards in the dish as she spoke, and remained silent for some instants.

"You will be glad when Miss Liddell returns," said Bertie.

"So will you," she returned, tartly. "But I hope you won't dip into her purse so freely as you used for your reformed drunkards and ragged orphans. It was too bad."

"Miss Liddell never waits to be asked. She seems on the lookout for cases on which to bestow money. As she has plenty, why should I hesitate to accept it?"

Miss Payne slowly rubbed her nose with the handle of a small hook she used for pulling out the loops of her tatting. "Katherine Liddell is an uncommon sort of girl," she said, "but I like her. I have an idea that she likes me better than any of the others did, yet there are not many things on which we agree. She is a little flighty in some ways, but she has some sense too, some notion of the value of money; she does not lose her dead about dress, nor does she buy costly baubles at the jewellers'. She, certainly wastes a good many pounds on books, when a three-guinea subscription to Mudie's would answer the purpose quite as well. Then she is honestly deeply grieved at the loss of her mother, but she does not parade it, or nurse it either, and I think she has some opinion of my judgment. Still she is a little unsettled, and not quite happy."

"I think she deserves to be happy," observed Bertie, with an air of conviction—"if any erring mortal can deserve anything."

"We seldom get our deserts, either way, here; indeed, this world is so upside down I am inclined to believe there must be another to put it straight."

"We have fortunately better proof than that," returned her brother, gravely.

"I must say I feel very curious to know what Katherine's plan is; I am terrible afraid there is a man in it."

"Nothing more probable;" and Bertie fell into a fit of thought. "You know Mrs. Needham!" he asked suddenly.

"Well, I just know her."

"She is a most earnest, energetic woman, though we are not quite of one mind on all subjects. She wants to secure Miss Liddell's assistance in getting up a bazar for the Stray Children's Home. I shall bring her to call on you."

"Don't!"—very emphatically. "I know more than enough people already, and I don't want any well-dressed beggars added to the number."

"Well, I will not interfere; but that is of little consequence. If Mrs. Needham wants to come, she'll come."

"I hate these fussy subscription-hunting women!" cried Miss Payne.

"She does not hunt for subscriptions, nor does she take any special interest in religious matters, but she approves of this particular charity. She is an immensely busy woman, and writes in I don't know now many newspapers."

"Newspapers! And are our opinions made up for us by rambling hussies of that description?"

Bertie burst out laughing. "If Mrs. Needham heard you!" he exclaimed. "She considers herself 'the glass of fashion and the mould of form,' the most successful and important woman in the world—the English world."

Miss Payne's only reply was a contemptuous upward toss of the head. "If you will be at Euston Square on Saturday to meet the five-fifty train from Monckton," she resumed, "I should be obliged to you—Miss Liddell travels alone—and you can dine with us if you like after, unless you are going to preach the gospel somewhere."

"Thank you. Why do you object to my preaching?"

"Because I like things done decently and in order. You are not ordained, and there are plenty of churches and chapels, God knows, for people to go to, if they would wash their faces and be decent. Now I can't stay here any longer, so good-by for the present." She took up a little basket containing an old pair of gloves, large scissors, and a ball of twine, and walked briskly away to attend to the plants in her diminutive conservatory.