"I'm sorry to hear it; but they look, if you will allow me to say so, considerably better than they did a few hours ago," said Gervase, glancing at the white shoes with an approving smile. "Why don't you sit down, if you are so tired? There is a delightful seat waiting under that tree, and no more work to do, so that I should say the sooner you take possession of it the better!"

"Oh yes, yes. Let's all go!" gushed Agatha, leading the way onward, unconscious of Gervase's look of dismay. "Let's go and rest, and talk it all over! The best part of an entertainment is when the people go, and you can quiz them, and make remarks, and—"

"Eat up the scraps!" concluded Kitty aptly, seizing a plate of cakes from a table as she passed, and illustrating her words with the aid of the daintiest morsel she could select. Christabel ejaculated "Kittay!" in a tone of dignified remonstrance; but the protest was for form's sake merely, for hers were the next pair of hands to rob the dish, and it was neither one macaroon, nor two, which satisfied her appetite.

"I really think it has been a great success," she said, munching away, and using an even greater amount of emphasis than usual in her elation of spirits. "The people behaved splendidly! Miss Shorter's behaviour I consider simply noble! Do you know what she did? Refused to buy anything at all, my deahs, until every one else had chosen, and then went about buying up all the old rubbish which no one would have. It would have made you weep to see her collection of atrocities, and the old dear beamed away as if she were quite delighted. I call it Christian to buy straw spill-boxes and cork frames for the good of your fellow-creatures!"

"But think of the ni-ice little fire they will make when the weather turns chilly!" said Jim wickedly, as he jolted Chrissie's elbow, jerked the plate out of Kitty's hand, and made a snap at Agatha's cake, held temptingly before him. He could never by any chance sit near the girls without teasing them in some such schoolboy fashion; and though they made a great show of indignation, they would in reality have been much disappointed if he had taken them at their word. In the present instance all three girls fell upon him at once, and, having reduced him to a state of submission, continued their song of jubilation.

"We took five pounds at the refreshment stall alone. It would make a scandal in the parish if I divulged how many plates of strawberries the vicar ate. Mrs Bolter bought up all the macaroons. 'Home-made, my dear? X-ellent! I must really beg the recipe.' Mrs Booth asked the price of everything, and sniffed, and walked away. What a woman! Mrs Raleigh seemed quite indignant because I had no eggs. 'Dear me! I quite counted on getting fresh eggs!' Mr Vanburgh had only one cup of tea. I don't call that helping the cause of charity!"

"I was busy in another direction, and if I neglected the tea, I did my duty nobly by the lemonade. I am afraid we did not make very much money, but, considering the low rates, it came to more than I expected. How much did we take altogether, Miss Lilias?"

"Two pounds, one and sixpence; and all pure profit, remember! We had no outlay to deduct," replied Lilias, with the shrewd little air of business which contrasted so strangely with her child-like looks. "Looking at it in that light, I think ours was the most profitable of all the departments."

"And I made nothing! I feel quite guilty among you all, for I took not a single coin the whole afternoon," said Maud the modest; but Jim would not allow his favourite sister to decry herself in his presence, and was up in arms in a moment in her defence.

"And why not, pray? Because you were doing the thankless work, as you always are, and fielding for every one else. That was my task, too; and let me tell these young people that they have to thank us for their success. You tackled the dowagers, and put them into a good temper by asking after their ailments, and I managed the girls. Bless their pretty hearts, they would do anything for me! You should have heard me complimenting 'em, and quoting poetry by the yard, and all the while luring 'em on towards the fancy stall. Then I'd nothing to do but remark, 'See that cosy? I drew the design.' 'Observe that cushion? that's my favourite colour,' and they fairly jostled each other in their eagerness to buy it. It was our gentle influence behind the scene which helped you on, young women; and don't you forget it."

Maud smiled; but the smile flickered out all too quickly, as her smiles had a habit of doing nowadays, and her brother glanced at her sharply. Maud was not herself, and he feared that he knew too well the reason of the change. The news of Ned Talbot's engagement to Lilias had smitten him dumb with surprise; but as none of the home letters breathed a hint of a like feeling, he had tried to persuade himself that he had been mistaken in his earlier surmises. This had been easy to do, for Master Jim was not given to distressing himself unnecessarily; but since his return home his fears had sprung into life again in unwelcome fashion. When Maud returned to the house he rose as if to follow, but, changing his mind, turned back and took possession of Kitty Maitland instead.

"What is the matter with my Maud?" he asked her the moment they had turned a corner and were safely out of hearing. "She hasn't half the life and go in her that she had last time I was home. What have you been doing to her, I should like to know?"

Kitty elevated her eyebrows until they were almost lost to sight beneath her curling hair.

"Personally," she said, "personally I have treated her with every consideration. Maud is Maud, and no one in this neighbourhood would dare to treat her otherwise. Of course if other people—from a distance—choose to make lunatics of themselves, and—and—"

"All right—you need say no more! I thought as much; and as you and I had discussed the situation together last year, I wanted to see if your ideas agreed with mine. I could have sworn we were right, and can't imagine how this muddle has come about. It's a big mistake anyhow, and some one will find it out before long, or my name's not James Rendell. It's not my business, I suppose, but I—I should uncommonly like to kick somebody, just as a small relief to my feelings!"

"Oh, so should I—badly; but I'm afraid I couldn't kick hard enough," said Kitty humbly. "The worst of it is you have to be civil, because to show your suspicions would be the most unkind thing you could do. I know Nan agrees with us, and I think Elsie too, but the others seem quite pleased and satisfied."

"Well, let it be a lesson to you, never to allow yourself to be influenced by looks. 'Appearance is deceitful, and beauty vain,'" quoted Jim sententiously. "That Vanburgh fellow, for instance, is, I suppose, better-looking to the casual glance than I am myself, but I don't need to point out to you the infinite superiority of my character. Whenever, my estimable Katherine, you meet with a man who is popularly styled handsome, take my word for it, he is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and ought to be avoided. People like you and me, with noble hearts and ugly faces,"—but at this point even Kitty's forbearance came to an end, and she stalked off to the house in a fume of indignation. Feminine fourteen does not find the consolation it should in nobility of character at the cost of plainness of feature!

Gervase and Nan, left alone on the garden seat, had meantime turned towards each other with inquiring smiles. It was the first time they had found themselves alone, and each was anxious to question the other concerning the time of absence.

"Well," quoth he, "and how have you been, and what have you been about all this long month?"

"Quite well, thank you; and I'm proud to say, slaving like a nigger for the good of my fellow-creatures. An ignorant man can hardly realise the amount of work it takes to get up a sale like this, but I shall bear the marks to my grave. Look at that!" and she held out towards him a pair of sunburned hands, shapely enough, but disfigured with sundry scars and bruises inflicted by hammer and chisel. Her look of pride in her wounds was comically in contrast to her companion's distress, as his glance wandered from the little hard-worked fingers to his own white hands,— almond-nailed, soft-palmed, taper-fingered, the hands of a man who has lived an idle life, and known little or nothing of the reality of work. Nan's eyes followed his, and she laughed in amused fashion. "Mine look like the man's, and yours like the woman's! The contrast makes mine browner than ever. How do you manage to keep them so white?"

"Don't!" said Gervase shortly. "I am not at all proud of them, Miss Nan. They have been useless enough hitherto, and if they find any work now, it is more your doing than their own. I have tried to turn over a new leaf since I saw you last, and to remember your axiom—"

"And did you find them? Did you help them over? Were many lame, and not able to walk?"

"Crowds! Dozens! Scores! The whole parish seems hobbling; and I foresee that that stile will keep me busy, now that I have begun. It was astonishing how many cripples seemed waiting for my advent, and what a lot of 'helping over' they required. When they had recovered from the shock of discovering that I was showing some interest in their affairs, they were not at all bashful about stating their desires. One man wanted a new roof to his cottage—his wife was rheumatic, and objected to the rain coming through on her bed. I had previously refused the request through my agent, but when I went to inspect the place, I could not deny that repairs were needed. The woman showed me her fingers, too—most unpleasant! I would rebuild the whole cottage rather than look at them again!"

He shrugged his shoulders, with a relapse into his old affectation of manner, which brought Nan's eyes upon him with a flash of indignation; but she refrained from remonstrance, as, after all, he had granted her request; and he continued his story uninterrupted.

"Another man begged for an extra strip of land where an invalid daughter might keep chickens, and so contribute towards the family-purse. Three widows had sons to place, and seemed to think that a word from me would be sufficient to secure positions with handsome salaries; half a dozen women demanded letters to hospitals. The school marm wanted an additional window in her cottage, which is about as gloomy a little hole as I have had the pleasure of entering; and the vicar, hearing reports of my new-found generosity, requested a donation towards a new organ, felt he would be the better for a second curate, and remarked en passant that he had had a lifelong desire to visit the Holy Land. I promised to pay the last hundred pounds for the organ when he had made up the rest of the sum, said that the parish was too small to allow two whole curates and myself to live together in peace and harmony; and congratulated him on his good fortune in not having visited Palestine. I have, and ever since my return have been strenuously striving to forget, and work back to my old dreams. He went away saddened and surprised; but as he is neither poor nor hard-worked, I did not consider that he came within my category. I was beginning to feel a trifle overworked, and was quite relieved to get away for a rest!"

"I think you have done splendidly, and am sure you have enjoyed it, in spite of all you may say. It gives one such a lovely, warm, glowey feeling to help other people! On the rare occasions when I have succeeded in doing it, I have just longed to be a philanthropist, for I felt so deliriously happy and pleased with myself. You can't look me in the face and deny that you have been far happier this last month, and far less bored and cynical?"

Gervase laughed, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Have it your own way! I deny nothing. I am considerably the loser both in time and money by the new arrangement, but perhaps that is wholesome discipline. I don't know that I have experienced much of the 'glow' as yet; which is, I suppose, because I have not your affection for my fellow-creatures; but I hope it is yet to come, for it sounds an attractive sensation."

"Don't laugh at me," said Nan severely. "I said glowey, and I mean glowey! No other word expresses the sensation. You'll understand some day when you have it yourself, and be sorry that you made fun of me. As for liking your people, the more you help them, the more interested you will feel, until in the end you will positively love them as if they were your own relatives."

Gervase looked dubious.

"If only they would refrain from exhibiting their deformities! I do so strongly object to looking at disagreeable objects," he sighed plaintively; then suddenly his face grew grave, and he added in a different voice, "It will be a long time, I fear, before I can reach your standard of loving help. So far it is a duty only, and a distasteful one in to the bargain; but I will persevere, in hope of better things. There is one person in the parish who has been set in the right way through your instrumentality. If the other efforts have failed, this, at least, has been a success, and it was time that some one took him in hand. An idle, loafing rascal who thought of nothing but his own comfort, and was the biggest waster in the village. He has set to work now, and he shall stick to it, or I'll know the reason why! I'll keep a stern hand on him, Nan, for your sake; for it was you, not I, who set this ball a-rolling, and I am only the executor of your orders. It is you who have played the good angel in his life, and he shall have no chance of slipping back."

"But you mustn't be too stern with the poor young man. You must make allowances, and be patient and forbearing. I shall be so interested to know how he goes on. It is nice to have a protege, and feel that one has had some part in his reformation. Tell me his name, so that I may know what to call him."

Gervase looked at her curiously. The eager face was without a suspicion of embarrassment, but it coloured over with a quick flush of surprise as she listened to his reply.

"His name," Gervase said slowly, "you have heard before. His name is Vanburgh!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE BLOW FALLS.

Two days later, Maud was sitting reading in the drawing-room, when the door opened, the servant pronounced a name which thrilled her with surprise, and, looking up, she beheld Ned Talbot standing before her,— Ned Talbot, or the wraith of Ned, for so pale did he appear, so worn and haggard, that it needed no words to tell the nature of his visit.

Maud had heard about the anxieties of the last few months, and had grieved for Ned in her tender heart, feeling an added bitterness in the lot which forbade her the privilege of comforting him; but now it would appear that Fate had led them to each other, and even her modesty could not mistake the relief in voice and manner as his eyes rested upon her.

"Maud," he cried,—"Maud, it is you! Oh, this is good, this is better than I hoped for, to find you here, and alone! I was longing for your help; but you are so much away nowadays that I seldom see you. Well, Maud, it has come—the end has come! I have thrown up my post, and have to face the world again, and the whole weary fight from the beginning. All these years have been wasted; the time has gone, and the money, and the strength, and here I am at the end, stranded and beaten! You may wonder how I have the audacity to show myself among you. If I had any pride left, I should have stayed away—"

He broke off with a hard, unnatural laugh, and Maud laid her hand on his arm with a soothing gesture, her own trouble forgotten in the necessity of soothing his.

"Come and sit down," she said gently. "Sit down, and tell me all about it. We are not fair-weather friends, Ned, and will only care for you the more because you need help. If you have lost this post, I am sure it is from no fault of your own, so you must not be cast down. Tell me about it—Or stay! Shall I call Lilias? She is at the Grange, but I could send for her at once."

She paused, looking inquiringly into Ned's face, and he hesitated painfully, the colour flushing in his thin cheeks, his eyebrows twitching nervously.

"I think—not!" he said slowly at last. "She will hear soon enough, and she is so young and inexperienced that she cannot understand. Let me first talk it over with you, Maud, and then—No! It was no fault of mine, though in the last instance it was I who gave in my resignation. I could not stay on longer, and keep my self-respect. Positions were forced upon me impossible to any man of honour. My post was deliberately made untenable, and to stay on would have been the act of a coward and a scoundrel. They had got what they wanted out of me, and I was of no further use. It only remained to get rid of me as quickly as possible,—and, mark you, by my own doing in the last instance, so that they might preserve some appearance of honour before their neighbours!"

"But can such things be?" Maud wondered incredulously. "Is it really possible that men, calling themselves gentlemen and, I suppose, Christians, can be so absorbed in the idea of growing rich that they can be so low, so base? To go to a young fellow who is fighting against hard odds, to propose a scheme which looks fair and smooth, to suck his brains and steal his business from him, and then—then—to treat him as you say, and send him out on the world alone! Oh, Ned, is it possible? One can hardly believe in such wickedness. Are there many such people in your business world?"

"Not many, thank God! but there are a few who are notorious for absorbing small firms, and treating their owners as I have been treated. They build up huge fortunes, and we are ruined; they succeed, and we fail, and the world goes on as usual, and no one sees any difference, or takes any thought of the poor fellows who have gone to the wall."

"God does!" said Maud softly. "God doesn't think they have failed! In His eyes they have succeeded, and are rich, while the others are ruined and outcast. Don't be cast down, Ned—don't lose hope! God is on your side, and has some good purpose behind this trouble. The clouds are dark to-day, and you cannot see it, but in years to come it will be plain. Keep a brave heart, and don't grieve too much over what is past. You have the future before you, and you are young and strong. You would not allow any one else but yourself to call you beaten, and I will not hear it from your lips."

"Oh, Maud!" cried Ned brokenly, "you always know what to say, you always say the right thing! How can I thank you? If girls only understood what angels they might be to men,—if they would remind us oftener that this world is not all,—what a help it would be! We are out on the battlefield, and it is difficult to remember these things, especially when we are so hard pressed that our thoughts are engrossed with the struggle. I felt hard and bitter when I came into this room, for it's a terrible thing to face ruin,—a girl cannot imagine how terrible, for she is shielded from such trouble,—but you have put fresh life into me by your sweet words."

Maud smiled faintly, her brows drawn together in painful fashion. She was saying to herself that she knew well what it was to see life robbed of its dearest hope, and realising, as many a girl has done before her, that one of the sorest features of her trial was that she could neither ask nor receive sympathy from her friends. The reflection brought her thoughts back to Lilias, and she was once more about to suggest sending a message to the Grange, when the door burst open and Lilias herself danced into the room. What a contrast to the pale and depressed couple seated on the sofa! Just returned from a delightful visit to the Grange, love of admiration gratified by Mr Vanburgh's courtesy and Gervase's elaborate compliments, her hands full of trophies in the shape of flowers and fruit, she looked the impersonation of happiness and prosperity, and singularly out of sympathy with her companions. She was half-way across the room before she recognised Ned, and the sudden change which then passed over her face was far from flattering to his vanity.

"You!" she gasped, in bewilderment. "Is it you? When did you come? I—I never knew. You said nothing in your letter about coming."

"No; I wanted to tell you the news myself!" Ned rose and stood beside her, not attempting any lover-like greetings, but holding her hand tightly in his own. His face was pathetic in its wistfulness, and dread of the pain which he was about to inflict, but it was in the tone of a father speaking to a child that he said gently—

"I have bad news for you, Lilias—the news which I have been dreading. I have sent in my resignation to the heads of the firm, and have practically said 'Goodbye' to the Works. It is a bad business, and very hard on you; but, as Maud has been reminding me, I am young and strong, and we must not be cast down by a first failure. If you will have faith in me, and will wait a few years, all will come right yet."

He paused, and Lilias stared at him with incredulous eyes. Her glance wandered from him to Maud, from Maud around the pretty luxurious room, through the window to the garden beyond, and finally back to his face. Her lips moved, and the words came out in spasmodic snatches.

"You have resigned? You threw it up? You did it of your own accord, in spite of all I could say—of my wishes and entreaties? It is your own doing?"

Ned dropped the hand which he held in his, and straightened his shoulders with a gesture at once proud and determined. His voice took a sharper edge, and the gentleness died out of his face.

"Yes, it is my own doing, Lilias, in this last instance, but you know what has driven me to it. I have told you in what position I was placed. I could not stay on without sacrificing every sense of honour. Surely you can understand and sympathise with me in my misfortune?"

Lilias laughed, a high, hysterical laugh, and threw back her head with a defiant gesture.

"Oh, I understand—yes! I have understood all the time. Your ridiculous quixotic notions have ruined your life, and you don't care if they ruin mine also. You think of your own feelings, your own discomforts, but you never think of met If you really loved me, you would bear a few discomforts for my sake; but no! it must all go, you must throw it all away. I begged, I implored, I did everything that was in my power to prevent it coming to this. You can't deny that I did?"

"No, Lilias, I cannot. I am bitterly grieved to remember that you have systematically urged me to act against my conscience." It was an unexpected answer, almost awful in its unflinching sternness, and Lilias greeted it by a burst of weeping.

"Oh yes, yes, blame me! blame me! It's not enough that you have brought this misery upon me, but now you must begin to abuse me to my face! It is cruel and cowardly to turn against me like this!"

"Hush, Lilias, oh, hush, hush!" Maud stood before her—Maud's fingers gripped her arm in remonstrance.

"Think what you are saying. You are surprised and shocked; but you must not, you shall not talk so wildly! Ned is in trouble, and it is your place to comfort him. He has done what is right, and it is harder for him than for you. He needs your help!" But Lilias only sobbed the louder, making no attempt to give the desired comfort, and Ned said sadly—

"I ask no more from you at present, Lilias, than a fair judgment. Maud has given me her sympathy and encouragement, but that seems too much to hope for from you. Try to believe, if possible, that I was not indifferent to your interests. Maud would not allow me to say I had failed because I must suffer temporarily for conscience' sake; she believes that the day will come when I shall be thankful for this change in my circumstances. Can't you bring yourself to feel the same; to look forward to a future when I may meet with success instead of reverse?"

"No, I can't; how can I? It is contrary to reason. You said yourself that you could never hope to be master again, and situations are so difficult to find. I've heard father talking, and I know. Sometimes men have to wait years and years before they find an opening, and then it's a wretched thing with a salary of two or three hundred a year. And you have less chance than many, because your own Works didn't pay, and you have left these people after such a short time. It will count against you. People will think it is your own fault."

"Lilias!" cried Maud again, and this time her voice trembled with anger, and her eyes sent out such a flash as her sister had never seen before, "how dare you! How dare you be so cruel! If it were true a hundred times over, how could you have the heart to say so to Ned in the midst of his trouble? For pity's sake, think what you are doing!"

"Don't distress your kind heart, Maud. It is better that I should know exactly what Lilias has in her mind. She is right in her surmises. The changes will tell against me in public opinion, and it is quite probable that I may suffer for them. I would not for one moment deny it, so you see there is no injustice in the accusation. You are right, Lilias! My chance of being a rich man is sensibly diminished by this last misfortune, and it may be years before I can earn even a bare competency. I have never deceived you about my position, and I shall not begin now. I knew that my news would be a blow to you, but I could not have believed that you would receive it as you have, without a word of kindness or sympathy. Apart from the question of love, I should have thought any woman would have taken pity on a man in the first sharpness of his misfortune, and have spared him her reproaches. Maud has been an angel of kindness, but you have had no thought of my sufferings."

Lilias gave a gasp of mingled anger and mortification. This was what she had feared, this was what she had determined to avoid; but once again Fate had been too strong for her, and had precipitated the calamity before she had had time to obtain her freedom. Now every one would call her heartless and unwomanly; her parents would look coldly upon her, she would be branded before the neighbourhood as a girl who had forsaken her love when he most needed her devotion. A great wave of anger swept over her, her heart thumped against her side, and her breath came fast. She hardly knew what she was saying, but the words rushed out in a breathless string—

"Oh yes, Maud—Maud! Always Maud! I'm sick of hearing Maud quoted, and held up as a pattern! Maud is always right, and I am wrong. Maud is an angel, and I am an unwomanly wretch! Why didn't you get engaged to Maud, when you liked her so much better than me? If I have made a mistake, so have you, and you have no right to reproach me. I'll go away and leave you, since I make you so unhappy, and you prefer Maud's company to mine."

She was out of the room even as the last word was uttered, and the two who were left stared at each other with horrified eyes. Maud's face was crimson, from the tip of her chin to the roots of her hair, but she was the first to speak and recover some semblance of composure.

"Oh, don't listen to her! Don't listen to her! She does not know what she is saying. She is excited, and has lost her self-control. In a few minutes she will be sorry. Oh yes, I know she will; she will be wretched, and come to beg you to forgive her. Wait, wait, and don't judge her hardly. She is so young, as you said, and she didn't know what she was saying. Try to forget it."

But Ned sank down in a chair and covered his face with his hands.

"But it is true!" he moaned. "It is true, and I can't deny it! Oh, how blind I have been—how blind and foolish! I have ruined my own life as well as hers."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A MILESTONE.

It was all over. Ned had gone away, and the diamond ring no longer shone on Lilias's left hand. In a storm of tears and sobs she had declared to her mother that she neither could nor would keep true to her engagement, and Ned had received the intelligence with grave composure.

"She made a mistake!" he said quietly. "We both made a mistake. I cannot blame her, for I was in fault myself. What we thought was love, was but the attraction of youth and good spirits, which could not stand the strain of adversity. Don't be hard on Lilias, Mrs Rendell. I should be sorry that she should suffer any more on my account. It has been a painful experience for her."

But Mrs Rendell closed her lips in a stern silence, and had no word of pity for her daughter. It shocked her proud heart that one of her girls should have behaved in a manner so unworthy the precept which she had endeavoured to teach, for she knew well that Lilias would have felt no qualms in preparing for her marriage, if Ned's story had been one of success instead of failure.

What Mrs Rendell thought she was accustomed to say, and Lilias came away from the important interview smarting with mortification and wounded vanity. She tried to think that the worst was over; but the bitterest moment was yet to come, when she met her father—the gentlest and most forbearing of men, who was so slow to blame that his children could count the reproofs of a lifetime on the fingers of one hand—and he looked at her with a strange, cold glance, in which was no trace of the old fond admiration.

"What's this I hear about you, Lilias?" he asked sternly. "I'm not proud of you, my dear, not proud at all! I did not think that a daughter of mine could have behaved in such an unwomanly manner. Your affection seems good only for fair weather. Talbot is well rid of such a wife!"

It was not much, and it was the only reference to the broken engagement which she ever heard from his lips, but it pierced the girl's heart as no other reproach could have done. The relationship between a father and a daughter is a very sacred and beautiful one, and the consciousness of his pride in her, his barely concealed satisfaction in the admiration she excited, had been one of her most cherished joys. The thought that her father was ashamed of her made Lilias wince with pain, nor did her sisters' reception of the news help to restore her composure.

Maud's principle in life was to say nothing, if it were impossible to say what was agreeable; but Nan made up for this silence by the candour of her denunciation. The two girls came face to face at the top of the stairs, an hour after the great news had circulated through the house, and mutually stopped to gaze in each other's face.

"W-ell?" queried Lilias timidly. "You've heard! Mother has told you. What do you—what do you think about it?"

Nan closed her eyes, and tilted her chin in the air.

"Sneak!" she said shortly; and the other started back in astonishment.

"Wh-what do you say?"

"Sneak! That's what I called you. It's a mean, sneakish thing to desert a man just when he is in trouble and needs all the help he can—"

"It wasn't just then. I had been thinking of it a long time. If he had stayed away a week longer, I would have spoken to mother all the same. I had made up my mind. You don't understand what you are talking about, and you have no right to call me names. It's vulgar and unladylike."

"I am thankful for that!" cried Nan piously. "If your behaviour is ladylike, I'll be as vulgar as I can. I'd rather not talk, if you please, until I have got over it a little. I'm afraid of what I may say."

She went stalking downstairs, and Lilias turned into the porch-room and sat herself down in despair. Elsie was seated at the table engaged in informing the diary of the latest family event, and she turned a look of such sympathetic sorrow upon the new-comer, that Lilias felt that here, at last, she had found a friend in need.

"My heart is broken, Elsie!" she sobbed tragically. "Every one has turned against me. Father—mother—Nan—they are all cruel to me. Their words cut into my heart! I can never forget them—never feel the same again."

Elsie drew a sigh so long and fluttering that it was almost worthy to be ranked as a groan.

"No—never, never! A blow like this, coming in early youth, will cloud and darken all your life. You can never be a girl again. The remembrance of all you have suffered, and of the life you have wrecked, will haunt your dreams, and make you old before your time. You feel it now, but you'll feel it more and more, like a leaden weight pressing upon you, crushing out all your joy..."

"Dear me, Elsie, how you talk! You might be a penny novel, to prose away like that. You are a fine Job's comforter for a poor girl to come to in her trouble! It's hard enough for me as it is, without trying to make it worse. I shall drown myself, if this sort of thing goes on. Maud sulking, Nan raving, you croaking! What a prospect! And I shall have to endure it all my life too, for I shall never marry—now."

"No," said Elsie judiciously, "I suppose not. Not for love, at least. Perhaps, by and by, after years and years, when you are middle-aged, you may make a marriage de convenance, to some old man who could give you a comfortable home. People often do that in books, I notice, when they have had an unfortunate affair in youth. And look at Mrs Bailey! Her lover was killed in the Crimea, and when she was fifty-two she married that nasty old man with the snuff on his beard, and—"

But the rest of the sentence was spoken to the air, for Lilias had fled. The prospect of the old man with snuff on his beard was too much for her composure, and she rushed into the garden, to see if there, at least, she might find the much-desired solitude.

No, not yet! for the summer-house towards which she sped had already been occupied by the three schoolgirls, and there they sat staring at her with big solemn eyes, as if, forsooth, a girl who had broken off her engagement was a new and extraordinary freak of humanity.

Good-natured Agatha made room for the new-comer by her side, and glanced sympathetically at the tear-stained face, but, as usual, her remarks were not the most tactful in the world.

"Was it really your doing, Lilias?" she inquired, "or was Ned tired of you too? Kitty says he was, and feels sure he will not mind much."

That opened Lilias's eyes with a flash of anger, but Kitty had the courage of her opinions, and said stolidly—

"I never considered from the beginning that he was really in love. I've seen lots of engaged people, and he wasn't a bit like them. He used to ask us to go about with you, and be quite disappointed if we wouldn't, and most couples like to be alone, and make faces at one another when they think you are not looking, to say they wish you would run away. I've had experience, for last summer we stayed two months in a hydropathic."

"Perhaps he really did care for you at first, but was disappointed when he got to know you better!" This from Christabel; while Agatha chimed in with an eager—

"But you are glad, dear, aren't you, to think he is not heart-broken? It makes it easier for you when he doesn't care!"

Plainly there was no comfort forthcoming for Miss Lilias from the members of her own family!

Meanwhile Jim was seeing his friend off at the railway station, and administering such sympathy as was deserved for Ned's business reverses, while eclipsing his sisters in candour on the subject of the broken engagement.

"If you would be a fool, you must be prepared to suffer for it. Never was more surprised in my life than to hear of it, when it first came off. Thought you had gone off your head. When I was at home with you last, there was no sign of such nonsense. Can't think what on earth possessed you!"

"She was so pretty and charming, and seemed so much interested in all I did! Vanity was at the bottom of it, I suppose. I was flattered and interested, just when I was down on my luck, and needed it most. I—I— I must make a clean breast of it, Jim, and tell you the truth! Of course, it was Maud I cared for first; I can see now that I have loved her all through, but she was so reserved with me, and kept me at such a distance, that I thought she wanted to show me that I had no chance. Then Lilias came home, and I was captivated by her lovely face and pretty ways. She seemed to turn to me for advice and sympathy, to be so pleased to see me, so sorry when I left, that—that—ah, well, you know the rest! I was a fool, as I daresay many a man has been before me; and though I was miserable enough, I never discovered why, until Lilias herself pointed it out. She accused me of caring for Maud more than for her—in Maud's presence, too—when we three were alone together!"

Jim's lips met in a significant whistle.

"The little wretch! She ought to be shaken! My poor old Maud, that was rough on her. What did she do or say?"

"Begged me to take no notice, and pleaded for Lilias, like the angel she is. But I was knocked completely over, didn't know what I was doing, and told her straight out that it was true. Perhaps I should not have done it, but I could not help myself, and she gave me one look, just one! Oh, Jim, old man, if this crash has shown me the awful mistake I was making, it will be indeed a blessing in disguise. I will work like ten men, I will laugh at difficulties, I will do anything and everything, if only, only I can win Maud in the end. You will be my friend, won't you? You will help me, and tell her what I hope?"

"Not if I know it!" returned Jim, with masculine candour. "You have done quite enough mischief for the time, old chap, and had better lie low until things have blown over. I've a great deal too much respect for Maud, to suggest that she should adopt you as her lover the moment you are dropped by Lilias. Wait a year or two until you have made your position, and then come down and ask her yourself—"

"A year or two! And meantime she might think I had changed again, and had forgotten all about her—That's too much to expect! I don't ask you to say anything just yet, but in time to come you might drop a hint, or let her see one of my letters, show her in any indirect way you like that I know my own mind at last, and am working towards an end. It isn't much to ask from an old chum—I'd do as much for you if I were in your place."

"Humph!" quoth Jim concisely; but his grey eyes sent out a kindly gleam, and Ned Talbot went away comforted by the knowledge that his friend would be kinder in deed than in word, and that his message would not fail to be delivered.

He had another friend at court to whom he gave less thought, but whose loyalty was at least as strong as that of her brother. Nan had her own dreams of the future, of which she breathed no word to a living soul, but she set herself to work to clear away such difficulties as lay in Ned's path, with her accustomed energy and daring.

"If I were a nice old gentleman with heaps of money and nothing to do, I would give a good situation to a young fellow who was miserable and ill- treated!" she announced to Mr Vanburgh, at the conclusion of the story of the broken engagement; and that gentleman chuckled with enjoyment as he listened.

"Would you, indeed? And in what capacity? I don't quite see what situations I have to offer which would meet Mr Talbot's requirements. There is a good deal of machinery of one sort and another involved in the work of a house like this, but I fear it is hardly the kind which he is accustomed to superintend."

"Don't snub me, please. I'm too reduced. I don't mean in this house, but somewhere else where there are Works like his own. If you would just write to the people and say how clever he is, and what a good manager, and that you are sure they would like him!"

"But how can I be sure? I know nothing about Mr Talbot's business capacities, and should hardly recognise him if I met him in the street!"

"But I tell you! You can trust my word; and every one likes Ned, for he is so good and noble. He didn't want to go into the Works at all, for he is one of those quiet, studenty sort of men, who are never so happy as when they are in the country, alone with their books and their thoughts. He wanted to be a literary man, but his brother died, and there was no one else to help his father, so he gave up his own plans for the sake of the family. That seems to me very hard—to be unselfish and take up uncongenial work, and then to meet with nothing but failure and disappointment! I should expect to be rewarded by making piles of money, but poor old Ned has lost almost all he has. Dear, sweet, kind Mr Vanburgh, find him another opening—do!"

The old man smiled, and laid his worn fingers caressingly over the girl's hand.

"I would do a great deal to please you, Nan, if I could find the way, but my word is not so powerful as you imagine. I am afraid the managers of the great factories would pay very little attention to my recommendation; but if Mr Talbot is not set on continuing a business life, it is possible that something else might be found. I have a good deal of land which will come to Gervase in his turn, and meantime, as he engages my stewards for me and takes in hand most of the arrangements, you had better speak to him on the subject."

"Oh-oh!" cried Nan, and turned towards the young man with hands clasped together in supplication. "Oh! do you—do you? Then one of them is a bad steward, isn't he? I am sure he is! You want a new one; I am sure you do! Ned would make a beauty, for he loves nothing so much as a country life. He is a splendid shot. Jim saw him knock over twelve rocketers running, last time they were out together, and he goes in for all kinds of sport. His father had a beautiful country place when they were rich, and he is always talking of what he used to do. He looks so sweet in gaiters, too! He would make a lovely steward!"

Both men shook with laughter, but Nan's earnestness could not be shaken. She was pleading for Maud's future, for Maud's happiness, and neither ignorance nor bashfulness had power to check her. She insisted on the wickedness of the present steward with such determination, that Gervase was forced to come to his defence.

"Indeed, Nan, he is a most capable and clever fellow. I've not a word to say against him, except that perhaps he is too clever to stay with us much longer. Lord Edgeworth has been advertising for a steward, and I think it more than likely that he will get the post. If he should—"

"He will! He will!" cried Nan excitedly. "I feel a conviction. He will get it, and you will offer Ned his place. It would be defying Providence to do anything else. Oh, how happy I am—how pleased he will be! And is it a pretty house in a garden, big enough for us all to go down and stay with him? How soon will it be settled, so that I can tell them at home?"

So determinedly confident did she appear as to the success of her scheme, that it seemed an ungenerous act to pour cold water on such generous enthusiasm, and each man registered a mental vow to satisfy her, if it were within the bounds of possibility.

As his custom was, Gervase escorted the visitor on a tour of inspection round the garden before she took her departure, and took advantage of the tete-a-tete to express a more ardent sympathy with the home trouble than he had cared to show in his uncle's presence. The broken engagement had been no surprise to him, for he had summed up the character of Miss Lilias too accurately to have any trust in her stability; but it had evidently come as a shock to Nan's unsuspecting mind.

"She says now that she has been thinking of it for some time, and he says he was dissatisfied; yet neither of them spoke a word, but went drifting on and on, waiting upon chance. I suppose they would have married each other if this crash had not come, and regretted it for the rest of their lives. I can't understand such behaviour. If I feel a thing, I can't bottle it up, I simply cannot; out it must come, whatever is the consequence. And when it comes to pretending to love a person when you don't, and to be happy when you are not, that is worse than anything else. It's positively wicked!"

"I agree with you. I have always maintained that absolute honesty should be practised in these affairs between a man and a woman, and that far less trouble would arise if each side spoke out plainly as to what was in their hearts. I go perhaps a little further in my views than most people, but long ago I made myself a promise that when my own hour came I would act up to my convictions, and I am not going to draw back now. Months ago, Nan, you walked into my uncle's room to meet me, and I knew—I think I knew almost as soon as I met your eyes—that here was a new specimen of her kind, a woman who would play a great part in my life. I had never known that feeling before, but it has grown in strength ever since that day, until now it is difficult to imagine my life without it. You have engrossed all my thoughts—all my hopes—"

Nan stood still and stared at him. The colour had left her cheeks, and her eyes were wide and startled. She laid her hand on her throat and gave a little choking gasp.

"Do you mean that you—that you are—in love—with me?"

The amazement in her tone, the incredulity of that "me" was touching in its humility, and Gervase's smile was very tender as he replied—

"I think I am. I am, at least, travelling very fast in that direction. Does that alarm you so very much? Does it distress you? Have you no feeling of friendship to offer me in return?"

"Friendship! Oh yes, but not,"—Nan gulped over the word in wild embarrassment—"the other thing! It's too soon. I have just left the schoolroom—I have just put up my hair. I couldn't think of such a thing for years and years, until I am old, and have got some sense!"

Gervase laughed softly.

"You have more sense now than any girl I know; but don't be frightened, dear, I am not asking for my answer yet. You must have time, but I wanted you to know from the beginning what my feelings were. As you grow older and go into society, and meet other men, I want you to remember that there is one man who has already given his heart to your keeping, and is waiting in the hope that yours may be given to him in return. You are not bound-to me in any way. If you meet some one whom you can care for more than for me, I will wish you God-speed; but until that day comes I will wait in hope. I will not trouble you by referring to the subject again at present; for a year to come I will promise not to allude to it, but by that time you will be twenty, and will have had twelve whole months to think me over. You will not forbid me to speak to you again next July, Nan?"

"N-no!" sighed Nan dubiously, "I suppose not. You are very kind, but I am—frightened. Suppose I said 'Yes,' and then changed my mind like Lilias! That would be dreadful, yet how can one be sure? I like you very much, better than any other man, but still—"

"You must never say 'Yes' unless you have no doubt in your heart. No amount of liking will do. If the day ever comes when you feel that your whole heart goes out to me, as mine does to you, when you would choose poverty with me rather than riches with another man, then come to me, darling, but never till then. You and I are not the sort to be satisfied with a half-and-half happiness, and we will not risk failure. I want to make your life beautiful, not to wreck it!"

The tears rose slowly in Nan's eyes, and her lips trembled.

"You are very good to me; but I feel as if I must be a hypocrite to have deceived you so. I'm not worth it. I'm not, indeed. If you only knew what a wretch I am, you couldn't think of me any more. There are such lots of nice girls. If you would only choose somebody proper and sensible and accomplished and clever—"

"Oh, Nan, I don't want her. Don't force her on me, please. I've met her such scores and scores of times, and she bored me so unutterably. I want just you, and no one else; but don't trouble your head about me for another year. Live your own bright life. I would not for the world shorten your girlhood or make you old before your time. It won't be a very depressing thought, dear, will it, that somewhere a hundred miles away a man is loving you, and trying to live a better life because of his love?"

Nan could not answer, could only shake her head in a mute dissent. No; it was far from depressing—it was beautiful, inspiring—but, oh, what a responsibility! Gervase might say that he would not willingly shorten her girlhood, but, alas! had he not already done so? To feel that another heart leant on her own, another life depended on her for happiness—was this not a reflection to sober the most careless and most light-hearted of natures? Nan knew full well that this short interview was as a milestone in her life, and that at one step she had left behind the careless days of youth.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AFTER TWO YEARS.

Nearly two years had passed by since Lilias had broken off her engagement with Ned Talbot, and Gervase Vanburgh had told Nan of his love, and a stranger passing along the village highroad one bright May day might have discerned an air of unusual excitement and bustle in Thurston House. The housemaids were hanging clean curtains in every window from attic to cellar; the gardener was bedding out plants; message boys besieged the house with trays of provisions, and the Parcel Delivery van seemed to empty its entire contents at the door. Nor did the bustle grow less as one entered the house, for the hall was banked up with plants, and seven girls enveloped in aprons seemed to be chasing one another up and down stairs, so rapid and unceasing were their movements. There would have been no difficulty in recognising our old friends, though the years had not passed without bringing changes in their wake. Maud's sweet face had lost its look of sadness, and blossomed into fresh youth; Lilias was still the professional beauty, whose very apron was donned with an air to effect; while, wonder of wonders! Nan had grown tidy, possessing hair as daintily coiled and hands as carefully kept as Lilias's own. In the old days it had been hazarded as an occasional conjecture that Nan was pretty; but there could be no doubt on that question now, for the plump face had moulded into shape, the complexion toned down to a soft pink and white, and the dark eyes shone with happiness. Happiness, indeed, seemed to radiate from Nan to-day, as she raced up and down the house, as hard-worked as any of her sisters, yet in some indefinable way distinguished from the rest, for she was given the precedence in all that went on, while every time that she and her mother came together, they embraced with fresh unction. For the rest, Elsie had reached her ambition, and the age when she might dress her hair as she chose, and by means of parting it in the middle and plastering it over her ears had given herself an appropriately funereal aspect. Even Agatha boasted a coil at the back of her head, while Christabel and Kitty wore skirts which reached to their ankles.

Advancing years had, however, by no means diminished the girls' powers of conversation; and as they banked up plants in corners of the staircase, and rearranged furniture in the sitting-rooms, the babel of voices was as deafening, and seemingly as inexhaustible, as of yore.

"Children, children, be quiet! Stop talking, for mercy's sake!" pleaded Mrs Rendell piteously. "I try to ask a question, and cannot make myself heard. You will make Nan's head ache if you go on like this. Go up to your room to write your letters, Nan dear. Don't attempt to do it here, but take the chance of half an hour's quiet when you can get it."

Nan rose obediently, and carried her writing materials upstairs; but it was some time before she sat down at her desk, for the dressing-room door stood open, and therein lay something which exercised an irresistible attraction, something which lay stretched on a sofa, swathed in careful wrappings.

Nan drew back the sheet with reverent fingers, and there it lay in all its beauty—a gleaming satin dress, the train folded skilfully in and out, bunches of orange-blossom catching up the lace, which was festooned with as much lavishness as if it had been modest Nottingham, instead of precious Brussels, of that rich mellow tint which comes from age alone. A bride's dress, and a bride's dress fit for a princess, and in the box beside it a veil of the same old lace, and in the safe in the corner a diamond necklace and stars which represented a fortune in themselves!

Could it be, could it really be that all this splendour was for her? And oh! lucky girl, that she was so happy in love given and received, that they counted as nothing, and less than nothing, in her rejoicings! Could it be that to-morrow morning—in twenty-four hours from now—in less than twenty-four hours, she would be transformed from Nan Rendell of the coat and skirt—Nan, the third daughter in a large family, in constant straits for money and anticipation of her dress allowance—into Nan Vanburgh in satin and diamonds, Mrs Gervase Vanburgh, with her country seat, her diamonds, her carriages, her expectations of even greater wealth to come! Oh, wonder of wonders! Oh, fairy tale in real life! Oh, dear and beautiful prince, to work such marvels in a poor girl's life! Nan bent down lower and lower until her lips touched the gleaming folds and her cheek rested lovingly against them, then she drew the sheet forward once more, and went back to her seat. To think, not to write, however—to think over the two years that had just passed, and all the events which they had brought. Had she really loved Gervase from the beginning, even as he had loved her? It seemed as if she had, for after that memorable interview in the garden she had known no doubt nor hesitation. It was right to wait and let time prove the stability of her feelings, but at the bottom of her heart she had felt no uncertainty as to her final answer; and oh, how long had seemed the last three months of the year, with what joy she had hailed July—what a happy; happy time it had been for all concerned! Mrs Rendell and Maud had been the only members of the family who had known of the intention which lay behind Gervase's frequent visits; and if the surprise with which the engagement was greeted was mingled with some envy and disappointment from one of the five sisters, the others more than made up for it by their unaffected delight.

Gervase had long received the sanction of approval; and once assured of Nan's happiness, it was impossible for the most unworldly of relatives to restrain a thrill of satisfaction in the grandeur of the alliance. The schoolroom party was inflated with pride at the thought of "My sister Mrs Vanburgh," and even Maud tilted her head and smiled with a complacent air when congratulated on the engagement. As for the parents, they were naturally delighted at the prospect of so prosperous a marriage for their dear girl, while old Mr Vanburgh shed tears of happiness over the fulfilment of a cherished dream.

"She will be the making of the boy!" he declared. "He has always been a good fellow, but too indifferent and lazy to make the most of his abilities. Nan's energy, Nan's enthusiasm will be his salvation! This is the best news I have heard for many a long, long year. It puts fresh life into me in my old age."

Everybody seemed pleased and approving; and not the least welcome among the many letters of congratulation was one from Ned Talbot, now some months settled as steward of the Vanburgh property, and his earnest, outspoken appreciation of his new employer.

When the subject of the marriage itself was broached, however, Mr Rendell obstinately refused to hear of any date within a year.

"When she is twenty-one—not a moment before," he said firmly. "I have a parent's right to my Mops until she is of age, and not one day of the time will I give up for you or any man living."

"And I've a husband's right to her after that, and not one day longer will I wait, so we'll fix on her birthday, the twentieth of May!" said Gervase, equally obstinate; and so it was settled. And the months had seemed as weeks, so rapidly had they flown past, until here was the day before the wedding, with Nan's new boxes standing in the corner ready packed for that wonderful journey to foreign lands of which she had dreamed all her life long.

When the gong sounded, Nan looked guiltily at the blank sheet of paper; but it was too late to begin letters now—she must go downstairs, and trust to good fortune that the girls would not discover how she had wasted the time! Lunch was a scramble meal to-day, served in the morning-room on three different tables, and in the midst of a medley of boxes and parcels; but that was part of the fun of the occasion, and added to the general hilarity. A formal meal in the dining-room could be had any day, but it needed a convulsion of Nature to induce Mrs Rendell to hold her plate in her lap, and actually—oh, horrors! to help herself to butter with her own individual knife! The girls chuckled with delight at the spectacle, and then turned to greet Nan on her reappearance.

"Well, 'Bride,' finished your notes? Hope you have been a good little honest girl, and said what was true. 'Dear Mrs Webb,—Thank you so much for the dear little pepperettes. It is so kind of you to think of me, and as I have already had seven pairs sent, I feel no anxiety whatever concerning my future happiness.' 'Dear Mr Cross,—Thank you so much for the vases which you have so kindly sent me. They are quite unique, I am sure, as I have never before seen anything like them. I shall put them in my drawing-room whenever I know you are coming, and keep them carefully in a cupboard when you are away.' 'Dear Mrs de Bels,—How kind of you to send me such a sweet little egg-boiler! We never use such a thing, but it will do charmingly to give away to some one else, and—'"

"It's to be hoped no one will send you wedding presents, Kitty, if that's the way you are going to receive them!" said Nan severely; but her reproof was received with bursts of derisive laughter.

"Ho! ho! ho! How innocent we are! how proper all of a sudden! Can you look us in the face and say you have not said as nearly that as you dared—that you have not deliberately disguised your true sentiments?"

"I can! I do! I have not written a single word this morning with which you could find fault!" cried Nan, with a boldness which betrayed her to her sharp-witted adversaries, for the cry was immediately raised—

"She hasn't written at all! She has been sitting dreaming about him instead."

"I think of thee by morn, my love!" chanted Kitty, rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a ridiculous affectation of sentiment; while Agatha and Christabel went through a pantomime of rapturous greeting, at which Nan laughed in unperturbed enjoyment. She had served a long apprenticeship to her sisters' teasing ways, and was too happy in her engagement to keep up any pretence of indifference. Nan, indeed, won universal admiration in the character of an engaged girl, for there was something inexpressibly winsome in her transparent enjoyment of her own happiness. She loved her future husband with all her heart, and saw no reason why she should feign an indifference which she was so far from feeling.

When Gervase arrived in person shortly after lunch, she went flying to meet him, and came back hanging on his arm, her face sparkling with happiness and contentment.

"He has come! He has come! Here he is!" she cried, in tones of triumph; and Gervase was promptly surrounded by his sisters-in-law-to- be, and escorted round the house to see the preparations for to-morrow's ceremony.

He said little, for the solemnity of the occasion had already laid its sobering touch upon him, but his eyes glowed, and every time he looked at Nan there came an expression into his face so sweet, so true, so tender, that Maud could not see it and keep back the tears. She was in a supersensitive mood this afternoon, for not only did the parting with her beloved sister lie ahead, but also a meeting of even more importance. Ned Talbot was to be Gervase's best man, and was even now at the Grange, waiting only to greet his host, before coming to pay his first visit for nearly two years. The winter before he had received an invitation to Thurston House, but it had been refused; and even after that formal intimation that the way was open, he had delayed his coming, modesty and self-distrust alike combining to make him dread that final putting to the test which should "win or lose it all." How much Miss Nan had to do with the choosing of the "best man" is one of those secrets which are best left alone. But presently there he came, walking across the lawn towards the spot where the tea-table was laid, just as he had done on another afternoon years ago; and there sat Maud, once more busying herself with the tea-cups to hide her confusion, though of a different and far happier description.

Not in vain had Jim dropped his words of reminder; not for naught had he handed over letters received from his old friend for his sister's perusal! Maud knew, and had known for many a long day, to whom Ned's heart was given; and Ned knew that she knew, and gathered fresh hope from her sweet, shy smile. For himself, he was looking a new man, and Lilias felt a stab of pain as she looked at him and met his calm, scrutinising glance. She had loved him once, or had come as near loving him as it was in her nature to do, and she was surprised to find how much it hurt to realise his disenchantment. She was as pretty as ever,—prettier, so her mirror told her,—but though admiration was hers in plenty, no one seemed to love her, or to turn to her for sympathy and counsel. Nan, her younger sister, was about to be spirited away to a life of luxury and affluence; Maud would certainly follow suit before long; and she would be left at home with the younger girls, regarded by them as a tiresome elderly person, who refused to move on and make room for her juniors. A pleasant prospect, indeed! yet she could not complain, for if there was little sympathy between her sisters and herself, the fault was her own, and in her heart she confessed that it was so. It is impossible to live a selfish, self-engrossed life without suffering for it in hours of loneliness, and Lilias was beginning to learn this lesson to her cost.

When tea was over, Gervase went back to the Grange to sit with his uncle, while Nan adjourned upstairs to superintend that last trying-on of bridesmaids' dresses which the younger girls declared to be imperative.

"My dear, you don't know what may be wrong! I slipped on my bodice last night, and it was two inches too tight. That doesn't matter—I'll have a slim figure for your wedding, if I die for it; but consider—just consider—how fe-arful it would have been if it had been too loose!" cried Agatha tragically; and after that there was plainly no refusal possible.

Mrs Rendell wished to interview the cook, Jim had a letter to write— every one, it appeared, had some important and pressing matter demanding attention, save only Maud and Ned, who were left to their own devices, and presently wandered off towards that portion of the garden most sheltered from observation. Both knew what was coming, and both were trembling with hardly suppressed agitation; then presently their eyes met, Ned held out his hand, and Maud's went out to meet it without a moment's hesitation.

"Do you forgive me, Maud? Can you believe in me again? Can you give yourself to a man who loves you with all his heart, and can never do enough to show his remorse for his own miserable mistake? I did you a cruel wrong, but I have suffered for it all these years... Could you find enough charity in your heart to forgive me, and give me another chance?"

"I have nothing to forgive!" said Maud simply. Dear thing! and she meant it too; for when she loved, she found it impossible to blame, and Ned had been her hero for so many a long year. "It was quite natural that you should be fascinated by Lilias, for she is so beautiful and charming. I did not blame you, even at the time; but oh, Ned, I was very miserable! I loved you so dearly, I longed so much to help you! There is nothing in the world which could make me so happy as to be your wife!"

Ned's words of love, of gratitude, of almost tearful remorse, are too sacred to be repeated. He had reached his goal at last, and, looking back upon the past, felt that all the troubles which had lain in his path were but a light price to have paid for the treasure he had won!

Upstairs at the window of the girls' bedroom Kitty Maitland peered through her spectacles at the flutter of Maud's dress behind the bushes in the garden, and knitted her brows, in her anxiety to account for the presence of a dark stain around the waist! Presently the bushes parted company for a few yards, and the stain was discovered to be neither more nor less than a coat sleeve belonging to Mr Ned Talbot! Kitty cleared her throat, and chanted in a high, clear tone—

"A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place, between Mr Edward Mortimer Talbot and Maud, eldest daughter of—"

A stampede towards the window interrupted the conclusion of the sentence, and the sisters stared at the unconscious couple with eager scrutiny. They peered to right and left, craned their necks to one side and then the other, rushed to a second window to obtain a better view, and finally turned back and faced each other with expressions of awed conviction.

"It is—for a ducat! Oh dear, what a nuisance!" cried Agatha pitifully. "What shall we do without our Maud? First Nan, and then Maud—the house will be lost without them!"

"Our loss is their gain. We must be resigned. It is what we must expect. One bird after another will fly away, and leave the old nest bare. It is the order of Nature," sighed Elsie sadly.

"Another wedding! Another bridesmaid's dress. How s-implay lovelay!" cried Christabel rapturously; but Nan stood apart with clasped hands, and dark eyes full of tears.

"The only thing," she sighed to herself—"the only thing I had left to wish for. Oh, how thankful I am! What a dear world it is! How good God is to us all!"

THE END.