"I'll never speak of it again. I'll be happy—I won't fret—no, I won't fret at all, and I won't cry even once," said the child, making a valiant effort to bring a smile to her face. "Hilda, will you promise me something very, very solemnly?"

"If it is in my power I certainly will, my pet."

"You have not got my wedding present yet, Hilda; but it is coming. Promise me——"

"What, darling?"

"Promise to take it to church with you to-morrow—I'll give it to you just before church—it will be full of me—my very heart will be in it—take it to church with you, Hilda, and hold it in your hand when you're giving yourself to Jasper—promise—promise."

"How excited you are, my dearest! If it makes you really happy to know that I shall hold something of yours in my hand when I am being married, I will certainly do so."

"Oh, it does make me happy, it does!"



CHAPTER VII.

A WEDDING PRESENT.

But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face: He will say: "O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace!"

—E. BARRETT BROWNING.

There was a holly tree not far from the church with berries so red and leaves so green and shining that it was generally denuded of its beauties to decorate the most important parts of the church.

Judy knew this holly tree well. It had been much crippled in shape and color for the Christmas decorations, but one perfect branch had been left where the berries still grew in full rich clusters—this special branch had not been noticed by the gardener when he was cutting the holly for Christmas, and Judy determined that from it she would pick the crimson berries which were to constitute Hilda's wedding present.

"Barnes," she said to the old gardener the day before, "you mustn't allow anyone to touch my bough of holly."

"Well, Miss Judy, you're a queer child; what bough of holly do you mean?"

"The bough on the round tree near the church. I want it most particular badly; you won't let anyone pick it—will you, Barnes?"

"No, that I won't," said Barnes, good-naturedly; and Judy, quite satisfied and happy in her mind, ran away.

On the wedding morning, just when the day broke, she got softly, very softly out of bed. Babs was having happy dreams at the moment, for smiles were flitting across her face and her lips were moving. Judy, heavy-eyed and pale, rose from her broken slumbers and proceeded to dress herself. She must go out now to fetch her holly bough. She could dress herself nicely; and putting on a warm jacket she ran downstairs and let herself out into the foggy, frosty air. She was warmly clad as to her head and throat, but she had not considered it necessary to put on her out-door boots. The boots took a long time to lace, and as she did not expect to be absent from the house more than ten or twelve minutes, she did not think it worth while to go to this trouble.

She ran swiftly now, her heart beating with a certain pleasurable excitement. It was so nice to be able to make a beautiful, quaint wedding present out of the red berries and the glistening leaves and the little note full of love hiding away in their depths. How delighted Hilda would be by and by to open that note and to read some of Judy's innermost thoughts.

"Even though she has Jasper, she loves me," thought the child. "She will know something of what I think of her, the darling, when she has read my note."

The little letter, written on a tiny pink sheet of paper, was put away all ready in Judy's drawer; she had but to cut the bough of holly and her unique wedding present would be almost ready. She reached the tree, having to go to it through long grass heavy with hoar frost. Her stockings and feet were already very wet, but she thought nothing of this fact in her excitement. She had a small knife in her pocket which she proceeded to take out in order to cut the bough away—it grew low down and she had to pull the grass aside to look for it.

Alack, and alas! where was it, who had taken it? Had wicked, wicked Barnes been faithless? There was a torn gash on the trunk of the tree, and no long bough red with berries was anywhere to be seen.

Poor little Judy could not help uttering a cry of anguish. Hot anger against Barnes swelled up in her heart. Miss Mills was in reality the culprit. Knowing nothing of Judy's desire, she had cut the bough late the night before for some window decoration.

"I won't go back to the house until I get some holly," thought the child. She wiped away her fast-falling tears and set her sharp little wits to work. This was the most scarce time in the whole winter for holly berries, the greater number of them having been used for church and Christmas decorations; but Judy, whose keen eyes noticed Nature in all her aspects, suddenly remembered that on the borders of a lake nearly a mile away grew another holly tree—a small and unremarkable bush which might yet contain sufficient bright berries for her purpose. Without an instant's hesitation she determined to walk that mile and reach that tree. She must go quickly if she would be back before anyone noticed her. She was particularly anxious that her gift should not be seen in advance. Running, racing, and scrambling she effected her purpose, reached the tree, secured some berries and leaves, and returned to the house wet through and very tired.

Babs was rubbing her eyes and stretching her limbs in her snug bed in the nursery when her sister came back.

"Oh, Judy, what have you been doing?" she exclaimed, sitting up and staring in round-eyed astonishment.

"Hush, Babs," said Judy, "don't speak for a moment—don't say a single word until I have locked the door."

"But you oughtn't to lock the door. Miss Mills doesn't wish it."

"I am going to disobey her."

"But you'll be punished."

"I don't care."

The key was turned in the lock, and Judy, going over to Babs' bed, exhibited her spoils.

"See," she said, "here's my wedding present."

"Did you go to fetch those holly berries this morning?" asked Babs.

"Yes, I did, and I had to go a long way for them too; that horrid, wicked old Barnes had cut away my bough, and I had to go all the way to the lake."

"Your feet do look so sloppy and wet."

"So they are, they are soaking; I forgot to put on my boots."

"Oh, won't you catch an awful cold! won't Miss Mills be angry!"

"Never mind; I'll change my stockings and shoes after I have arranged my present."

"It's such a funny wedding present," said Babs. "Do you think Hilda will like it?"

"She'll do more than like it: she'll love it. Don't talk to me any more—I'm too busy to answer you."

Babs fidgeted and mumbled to herself. Judy stood with her back to her. She used her little fingers deftly—her taste as to arrangement and color was perfect. The sharp thorns pricked her poor little fingers, but she was rather glad than otherwise to suffer in Hilda's cause. The wedding present was complete, no sign of the note could be seen in the midst of the green leaves and crimson berries. Judy unlocked the door and tumbled back into bed. Miss Mills knew nothing of her escapade, for Babs was far too stanch to betray her.

Just as Hilda in a cloud of white was stepping into the carriage to go to church that morning, a little figure, also in cloudy white with wide-open greeny-gray eyes, under which heavy dark marks were already visible, rushed up to her and thrust something into her hand.

"Your—your wedding present, Hilda," gasped Judy. The strong colors of the red and green made almost a blot upon Hilda's fairness. Her father, who was accompanying her to church, interposed.

"Stand back, my dear, stand back, Judy," he said. "Hilda, you had better leave those berries in the hall; you're surely not going to take them to church."

"Your promise, Hilda, your faithful promise," said Judy in an imploring voice.

Hilda looked at the child; she remembered her words of the night before, and holding the prickly little bunch firmly, said in a gentle voice:

"I particularly want to take Judy's present to church with me, father."

"As you like, my love, of course; but it is not at all in keeping with that lovely bouquet of hot-house white flowers sent to you by Lady Dellacoeur."

"Then, if so, Lady Dellacoeur's flowers shall stay at home," said Hilda. She tossed the splendid bouquet on the hall table, and with Judy's holly berries in her hand, sprang into the carriage.

"Isn't she a darling?" said Judy, turning with eyes that glowed in their happiness to Miss Mills.

"A goose, I call her," muttered Miss Mills; but Judy neither heard nor heeded her words.

The little church was nearly full of spectators, and one and all did not fail to remark Judy's wedding present. A bride in white from top to toe—a lovely bride in the tenderest bloom of youth, to carry a bouquet of strong dark green and crimson—had anything so incongruous ever been seen before? But Hilda held the flowers tightly, and Judy's hungry heart was satisfied.

"Good-by, my darling," said Hilda to her little sister a couple of hours later; "good-by, Judy; my first letter shall be to you, and I will carefully keep your dear wedding present."

"Hilda, Hilda, there's a little note inside of it, in the heart of it; you'll read it, won't you, and you won't show it to Jasper?"

"If you wish me not, I won't, dearest. How hot your lips are, Judy, and how flushed your face."

"I am just a wee bit shivery," said Judy, "but it's nothing, nothing at all. I'll promise you not to fret, Hilda. Good-by, dear, dear, darling Hilda."

"Good-by, my sweetest little treasure, good-by."

Hilda got into the carriage; her husband took his place by her side. Mildred Anstruther tossed a great shower of rice after them, Miss Mills and Babs hurled slippers down the avenue, Judy was nowhere to be seen.

"Hilda," said Quentyns, as they were driving to the station, "why did you have such a very funny bouquet in church? You showed me Lady Dellacoeur's flowers last night. Why didn't you wear them, darling? Those harsh holly berries and leaves weren't in your usual taste."

"But you're not angry with me for carrying that little bouquet, Jasper, are you?"

"My darling, could I be angry with you for anything?"

"The little bunch of holly was Judy's wedding present," said Hilda, tears dimming her eyes; "I promised her that I would wear them. Sweet little darling, my heart aches at leaving her."

Quentyns took Hilda's hand and held it firmly within his own. He said some sympathetic words, for Hilda's slightest grief was grief to him, but in his heart he could not help murmuring:

"That tiresome, morbid child. Poor darling Hilda, I must show her very gently and gradually how terribly she is spoiling Judy."



CHAPTER VIII.

HONEYMOON.

The night is in her hair And giveth shade for shade, And the pale moonlight on her forehead white Like a spirit's hand is laid; Her lips part with a smile Instead of speakings done: I ween, she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none.

—MRS. BARRETT BROWNING.

A month later Mrs. Quentyns was sitting in one of the largest hotels at Rome waiting for her husband to come in. The day was so balmy and genial that it was almost impossible for Hilda to believe that the time of year was early February. Dressed in dark-green velvet, with a creamy feather boa lying by her side, Hilda sat amidst all her unaccustomed surroundings, her eyes looking straight down the lofty room and her thoughts far away. The bride was thinking of her English home—she was an intensely happy bride—she loved her husband devotedly—she looked forward to a good and blessed life by his side, but still (and to her credit be it spoken) she could not forget old times. In the Rectory gardens now the crocuses and snowdrops were putting out their first dark-green leaves, and showing their tender petals to the faint winter sunshine. Judy and Babs, wrapped in furs from top to toe, were taking their afternoon walk—Babs was looking in vain for insect life in the hedges, and Judy was opening her big eyes wide to see the first green bud that ventured to put out its little tip to be greeted by the winter cold. Aunt Marjorie was learning to make use of her legs, and was glowing with warmth of body and vexation of spirit. The Rector was tranquilly writing a sermon which, notwithstanding its polished diction, should yet show the workings of a new spirit which would move his congregation on Sunday.

Hilda seemed to see the whole picture—but her mind's eye rested longest on the figure of the tall, rather overgrown child, whose eyes always wore too hungry an expression for perfect happiness.

"Little darling," murmured Hilda, "how I wish I had her with me here—she'd appreciate things so wonderfully. It is the greatest treat in the world to take Judy to see a really good picture—how her eyes shine in her dear face when she looks at it. My sweet little Judy, Jasper does not care for me to talk much to you, but I love you with all my heart and soul; it is the one drawback to my perfect happiness that I must be parted from you."

Hilda rose as she spoke, and going over to a table on which her traveling-bag stood, opened it, pressed the spring on a certain lock, and taking out a little crumpled, stained letter, read the words written on it.

"My darling Hilda [wrote the poor little scribe], this is to say that I love you better than anyone else in the world. I'll always go on loving you best of all. Please take a thousand million kisses, and never forget Judy.

"P. S.—I'll pray for you every day and every night. I hope you will be very happy. I won't fret if you don't. This letter is packed with love.

"JUDY."

A step was heard along the passage; Hilda folded up the letter, slipped it back into its hiding place, and ran down the long room to meet her husband.

"Well, my darling," he exclaimed; "the English mail has just come in, and here's a budget for you."

"And a budget for you too, Jasper. What a heap of letters!"

"Yes, and one of them is from Rivers. He rather wants me in London: there's a good case coming on at the Law Courts; he says I shall be counsel for it if I'm in town. What do you say to coming back to London on Saturday, Hilda?"

"You know I shall be only too delighted; I am just pining to be home again. Do you think we could go down to the Rectory? I should so like to spend Sunday there."

"My darling, what are you thinking of? I want to be in London, not in Hampshire. Now that I have got you, sweetheart, I must neglect no chance of work."

Hilda's face turned slightly pale.

"Of course, darling," she said, looking up sweetly at her tall husband; "but where are we to go on Saturday night? You spoke of going home."

"And so we are going home, my love—or rather we are going toward home; but as we have not taken a house yet, we must spend a week with the Malverns when first we get to England. I will send a line to my aunt, and tell her to expect us on Saturday."

Hilda said nothing more. She smothered the ghost of a sigh, and sitting down by the wood fire, which, notwithstanding the genial weather, was acceptable enough in their lofty room, began to open her letters. The Rectory budget was of course first attended to. It contained several inclosures—one from her father, which was short and principally occupied over a review of the last new theological book he had been reading, one from Aunt Marjorie, and one from Miss Mills.

"None from Judy," said Hilda, in a voice of surprise; "she has only written to me once since we were married."

She spoke aloud, and looked up at her husband for sympathy. He was reading a letter of his own, and its contents seemed to amuse him, for he broke into a hearty laugh.

"What is it, Jasper?" asked Hilda. "What is amusing you?"

"Something Rivers has said, my love. I'll tell you presently. Capital fellow he is; if I get this brief I shall be in tremendous luck."

Hilda opened Aunt Marjorie's letter and began to read. The old lady was a somewhat rambling correspondent. Her letters were always closely written and voluminous. Hilda had to strain her young eyes to decipher all the sentences.

"I must say I dislike poverty [wrote Aunt Marjorie]; you are well out of it, Hilda. It is my private conviction that your father has absolutely forgotten that his income has jumped down in a single day from three thousand three hundred and fifty pounds a year to the three hundred and fifty without the odd thousands; he goes on just as he has always done, and is perfectly happy. Dean Sharp sent him his last book a week ago, and he has done nothing but read it and talk of it ever since—his conversation in consequence is most tiresome. I miss you awfully, my love. I never could stand theology, even when I was surrounded by comforts, and now when I have to stint the fires and suffer from cold feet, you may imagine how unpleasant it is to me. My dear Hilda, I am afraid I shall not be able to keep Miss Mills, she seems to get sillier every day; it is my private conviction that she has a love affair on, but she's as mum as possible about it. Poor Sutton cried in a most heartrending way when she left; she said when leaving, 'I'll never get another mistress like you, ma'am, for you never interfere, even to the clearing of the jellies.' I am glad she appreciates me, I didn't think she did while she was living with us. The new cook can't attempt anything in the way of soup, so I have given it up for dinner; but your father never appears to miss it. The garden is looking horrible, so many weeds about. The Anstruthers have all gone up to London—taken a house for the season at an enormous price. How those people do squander money; may they never know what it is for it to take to itself wings!

"By the way, Judy has not been well; she caught cold or something the day of your wedding, and was laid up with a nasty little feverish attack and cough. We had to send for Dr. Harvey, who said she had a chill, and was a good deal run down. She's up again now, but looks like a ghost with her big eyes. She certainly is a most peculiar child—I don't pretend to understand her. She crept into the room a minute ago, and I told her I was writing to you, and asked her if she had any message. She got pink all over just as if she were going to cry, and then said:

"'Tell Hilda that I am not fretting a bit, that I am as happy as possible. Give her my dear love and heaps of kisses' (my dear Hilda, you must take them for granted, for I am not going to put crosses all over the letter).

"Then she ran out of the room as if she had nothing further to say—really a most queer child. Babs is a little treasure and the comfort of my life.

"Your affectionate old Aunt, "MARJORIE."

"Jasper!" said Hilda, in a choked sort of voice. "Jasper!"

"What is it, my darling? Why, how queer you look, your face is quite white!"

"It is about Judy; she's not well!" said Hilda. "I ought to go to her, I ought not to delay. Couldn't we catch the night mail?"

"Good gracious!" said Quentyns, alarmed by Hilda's manner. "What is wrong with the child? If it is anything infectious——"

"No, no, it is nothing of that sort; but in any case, whatever it is, I ought to go to her—I ought not to delay. May I telegraph to say we are starting at once?"

"My darling, how excitable you are! What can be wrong with the child?"

"Oh, Jasper, you don't understand—Aunt Marjorie says——Here, read this bit."

"I can't read that crabbed, crossed writing, Hilda."

"Well, I'll read it aloud to you; see where it begins—'Judy has not been well——'"

Hilda read the whole passage, a lump in her throat almost choking her voice. When she had finished, Quentyns put his arms round her and drew her to his heart.

"Why, you poor little, foolish, nervous creature," he said, "there's nothing wrong with Judy now; she was ill, but she's much better. My darling Hilda—my love, you must really not disturb yourself about a trifling mishap of this sort."

"It isn't a trifle, Jasper. Oh, I know Judy—I know how she looks and what she feels. Oh, do, do let me go back to her, darling."

"You read that letter in such a perturbed sort of voice that I can scarcely follow its meanings," said Quentyns. "Here, give it to me, and let me see for myself what it is all about. Why will old ladies write such villainous hands? Where does the passage begin, Hilda? Sit down, darling, quiet yourself. Now let me see, here it is—'Judy has not been well——'"

Hilda's hands had shaken with nervousness while she read her aunt's letter aloud, but Quentyns held the sheet of thin paper steadily. As the sentences fell from his lips, his full tones seemed to put new meaning into them—the ghostly terrors died out of Hilda's heart. When her husband laid down the sheet of paper, and turned to her with a triumphant smile, she could not help smiling back at him in return.

"There," he said, "did not I tell you there was nothing wrong with Judy now? What a little goose you are!"

"I suppose I am; and if you really, really think—if you are quite sure that she's all right——"

"Of course, I am absolutely certain; doesn't Aunt Marjorie say so? The fact is, Hilda, you make too great a fuss about that little sister of yours—I feel almost jealous of her."



CHAPTER IX.

STARVED.

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me? Shall I never miss Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss?

—E. BARRETT BROWNING.

In the first pleasant spring-time of that same year, Mrs. Anstruther, a very gay and fashionable-looking woman of between forty and fifty years of age, turned on a certain morning to her daughter and made a remark:

"Don't forget that we must pay some calls this afternoon, Mildred."

Mildred was standing by the window of their beautiful drawing room. The window-boxes had just been filled with lovely spring flowers; she was bending over them and with deft fingers arranging the blossoms and making certain small alterations, which had the effect of grouping the different masses of color more artistically than the gardener had done.

"Yes, mother," she said, half turning her handsome head and glancing back at her parent. "We are to make calls. I am quite agreeable."

"I wish you would take an interest, Mildred; it is so unpleasant going about with people who are only just 'quite agreeable.' Now, when I was a young girl——"

"Oh, please, mother, don't! The times have completely changed since you were young; enthusiasm has gone out of fashion. I am nothing if I am not fashionable! Of course, if calls have to be made, I shall make them. I'll put on my most becoming bonnet, and my prettiest costume, and I'll sit in the carriage by your side, and enter the houses of those friends who happen to be at home, and I'll smile and look agreeable, and people will say, 'What an amiable woman Miss Anstruther is!' I'll do the correct thing of course, only I suppose it is not necessary for my heart to go pitter-patter over it. By the way, have you made out a list of the unfortunates who are to be victimized by our presence this afternoon?"

Mrs. Anstruther sighed, and gazed in some discontent at her daughter.

"It is so disagreeable not to understand people," she said. "I don't profess to understand you, Mildred. If you will give me my visiting-book I can soon tell you the places where we ought to go. And oh, by the way, should we not call on Hilda Quentyns? she has taken a house somewhere in West Kensington."

"You don't mean to tell me that the Quentyns are in town?" said Mildred, turning sharply round and gazing at her mother.

"Of course; they have been in London for some time. I met Lady Malvern yesterday, and she gave me Hilda's address. She seems to have gone to live in a very poky place. See, I have entered the name in my address-book—10, Philippa Road, West Kensington."

"Then of course we'll go to her—that will be really nice," said Mildred with enthusiasm. "We might go to Hilda first and spend some little time with her."

"But Mrs. Milward's 'at home' begins quite early. I should not like to miss that."

"Who cares for Mrs. Milward! Look here, mother, suppose you pay the calls and let me go and see Hilda. I have a good deal I want to talk over with her; for one thing, I want to say something about Judy."

"Poor, queer little Judy," said Mrs. Anstruther with a laugh. "What can you possibly have to say about her?"

"I don't think Judy is at all well," said Mildred. "There is such a thing as dying of heart-hunger. If ever a child suffered from that old-fashioned complaint, it is that poor mite at Little Staunton Rectory."

"My dear Mildred, you get more absurd every day. Judy lives in a most comfortable home, for notwithstanding their poverty, old Aunt Marjorie manages to keep everything going in really respectable style. The child has a loving father, a devoted aunt, a dear little sister, and an excellent governess, and you talk of her dying of heart-hunger! It is absurd."

"Nevertheless," said Mildred,—she stopped abruptly, her bright eyes looked across the room and out through the open window,—"nevertheless," she said, giving her foot an impatient tap, "I should like to see Hilda. I should like to have a long talk with her. I have heard nothing about her since her wedding, so by your leave, mother, I'll drive over to West Kensington immediately after lunch and send the victoria back for you."

Mrs. Anstruther, who was always more or less like wax in the hands of her strong-minded daughter, was obliged somewhat unwillingly to submit to this arrangement; and Mildred, charmingly dressed and looking young and lovely, was bowled rapidly away in the direction of Hilda Quentyns' humble home soon after two o'clock.

"It will be pleasant to take the poor old dear by surprise," said Mildred to herself. "There was a time when I felt jealous of her good fortune in having secured Jasper Quentyns, but, thank goodness, I have quite got over the assaults of the green-eyed monster now. Ah, here we are. What a queer little street!—what frightfully new and yet picturesque houses! They look like dove-cotes. I wonder if this pair of turtle-doves coo in their nest all day long."

The footman jumped down and rang the doorbell. In a moment a neatly-dressed but very young looking servant stood in the open doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Quentyns was at home," she said, and Mildred entered Hilda's pretty house.

She went into the drawing room, and stood somewhat impatiently waiting for her hostess to appear. The little room was furnished with an eye to artistic effect, the walls were decorated with good taste. The furniture was new, as well as pretty. One beautiful photogravure from Burne Jones' "Wheel of Fortune" was hung over the mantelpiece. Hilda and Quentyns, faithfully represented by an Italian photographer, stood side by side in a little frame on one of the brackets. Mildred felt herself drawing one or two heavy sighs.

"I don't know what there is about this little room, but I like it," she murmured; "nay, more, I love it. I can fancy good people inhabiting it. I am quite certain that Love has not yet flown out of the window. I am quite sure, too, of another thing, that even if Poverty does come in at this door, Love will remain. Oh, silly Hilda, what have you to do with the 'Wheel of Fortune'? your position is assured; you dwell safely enthroned in the heart of a good man. Oh, happy Hilda!"

The door was opened, and Hilda Quentyns smiling, with roses on her cheeks and words of delighted welcome on her lips, rushed into the room.

"How sweet of you to call, Mildred," she exclaimed. "I was just wondering if you would take any notice of me."

"You dear creature," said Mildred, kissing Hilda and patting her on the shoulder. "Two hours ago I heard for the first time that you were in London. I ate my lunch and ordered the victoria, and put on my prettiest bonnet and drove over to see you as fast as ever the horses would bring me. I could not well pay my respects to Mrs. Quentyns in a shorter time."

"I am very glad to see you," said Hilda.

"How childish you look," replied Mildred, gazing at her in a rather dissatisfied way; "you have no responsibilities at all now, your Jasper takes the weight of everything, and you live in perpetual sunshine. Is the state of bliss as blissful as we have always been led to imagine, Hilda, or are the fairy tales untrue, and does the prince only exist in one's imagination?"

"Oh, no, he is real, quite real," said Hilda. "I am as happy as it is possible for a human being to be. Jasper—but I won't talk of him—you know what I really think of him. Now let me show you my house. Isn't it a sweet little home? Wasn't it good of Jasper to come here? He wanted a flat, but when he saw that my heart was set on a little house, he took this. Don't you like our taste in furniture, Milly? Oh, Milly dear, I am glad to see you. It is nice to look at one of the dear home-faces again."

"Come and show me your house," said Mildred; "I am going to stay a long time—all the afternoon, if possible."

"I am more than glad; you must remain to dinner. I will telegraph to Jasper to come home early."

"I don't mind if I do," said Mildred. "I have no very special engagements for this evening, and even if I had I should be disposed to break them. It is not often one gets the chance of spending an hour in a nest with two turtle-doves."

"Come, come," said Hilda, "that sounds as if you were laughing at us. Now you shall see the house, and then we'll have tea together, and you must tell me all about the old place."

The turtle-doves' nest was a very minute abode. There was only one story, and the bed-rooms in consequence were small and few.

"Aren't we delightfully economical?" said Hilda, throwing open the door of her own room. "Is not this wee chamber the perfection of snugness? and this is Jasper's dressing room, and here is such a dear little bath-room; and this is the spare-room (we have not furnished it yet, but Jasper says we can't afford to have many visitors, so I'm not making any special haste). And this is our servants'-room; I did not think when we lived at Little Staunton that two servants could fit into such a tiny closet, but these London girls seem quite to like it. Now, Mildred, come downstairs. You have looked over this thimbleful of a house, and I hope it has pleased you. Come downstairs and let us talk. I am starving for news."

"Well, my dear, begin catechising to your heart's content," said Mildred. She threw herself back into the easiest of the easy-chairs as she spoke, and toasted her feet before Hilda's cheerful fire. "What do you want to know first, Mrs. Quentyns?"

"How long is it since you left home—when did you see them all?"

"I was at home a fortnight ago, and I spent the greater part of one afternoon at the Rectory."

"Oh, did you? Is it awfully changed?"

"No; the house is in statu quo. It looks just as handsome and stately and unconcerned as of old. Aunt Marjorie says it is full of dust, but I did not notice any. Aunt Marjorie has got quite a new wrinkle between her brows, and she complains a great deal of the young cook, but my private opinion is that that unfortunate cook is your aunt's salvation, for she gives her something else to think of besides the one perpetual grievance."

"Oh, yes, yes," said Hilda, a little impatiently, "poor dear Aunt Maggie; and what about the others? How is my father?"

"He looks thin, and his hair is decidedly silvered; but his eyes just beamed at me with kindness. He never spoke once about the change in his circumstances, and on Sunday he preached a sermon which set me crying."

"Dear Mildred, I think father's sermons were always beautiful. How I should like to hear him once again!"

"So you will, of course, very soon; they're all expecting you down. Why don't you go?"

The faintest shadow of a cloud flitted across Hilda's face.

"Jasper is so busy," she said.

"Well, go without him. I am quite convinced you would do them a sight of good."

"Jasper does not like me to leave him," said Hilda; "we both intend to run down to the Rectory for a flying visit soon, but he is so busy just at present that he cannot fix a day. Go on, Milly, tell me about the others. What of Babs?"

"I saw her squatting down on the middle of the floor with a blind kitten just three days old in her lap. The kitten squalled frightfully, and Babs kept on calling it 'poor, pretty darling.' I thought badly of the kitten's future prospects, but well of its nurse's; she looked particularly flourishing."

"And Judy?" said Hilda, "she wasn't well a little time ago, but Aunt Marjorie has said nothing about her health lately. Has she quite, quite recovered? Did she look ill? Did you see much of her?"

"She was sitting in the ingle-nook, reading a book."

"Reading a book!" said Hilda; "but Judy does not like reading. Was the day wet when you called at the Rectory?"

"No; the sun was shining all the time."

"Why wasn't she out scampering and running all the time, and hunting for grubs?"

"She had a cough, not much, just a little hack, and Aunt Marjorie thought she had better stay indoors."

"Then she is not quite well!"

"Aunt Marjorie says she is, and that the hack is nothing at all. By the way, Hilda, if your husband won't spare you to go down to the Rectory, why don't you have that child here on a visit? Nothing in the world would do her so much good as a sight of your face."

"Oh, I know, I know; my little Judy, my treasure! But the spare-room is not ready, and Jasper is so prudent, he won't go in debt for even a shilling's-worth. He has spent all his available money on the house furnishing, and says the spare-room must wait for a month or so. As soon as ever it is furnished, Judy is to be the first guest."

"Can't you hire a little bedstead of some sort?" said Mildred, "and put it up in that room, and send for the child. What does Judy care about furnished rooms!"

"You think she looks really ill, do you, Mildred?"

"I will be candid with you, Hilda. I did not like her look—she suffers. It is sad to read suffering in a child's eyes. When I got a peep into Judy's eyes I could see that her soul was drooping for want of nourishment. She is without that particular thing which is essential to her."

"And what is that?"

"Your love. Do send for her, Hilda. Never mind whether the spare-room is furnished or not."

Hilda sat and fidgeted with her gold chain. Her face, which had been full of smiles and dimples, was now pale with emotion, her eyes were full of trouble.

"Why are you so irresolute?" asked Mildred impatiently.

"Oh, I—I don't know. I am not quite my own mistress. I—I must think."

The servant entered the room with a letter on a little salver. Hilda took it up.

"Why, this is from Judy," she exclaimed. "Perhaps she's much better already. Do you mind my reading it, Mildred?"

"Read it, certainly. I shall like to know how the dear queer mite is getting on."

Hilda opened her letter, and, taking out a tiny pink sheet, read a few words written on it.

"MY DEAR HILDA:

"I am writing you a little letter. I hope you are quite well. I don't fret, and I hope you don't. I think of you and never forget you. I give you a kiss for now and for to-night, and for every other night, and a million, thousand kisses for always.

"Your loving "JUDY."

"Here are my kisses."

A whole lot of crosses and round o's followed.

"Here is my tex for us both. 'The Lord wach between me and thee.'

"JUDY."

Hilda's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"There is something else in the envelope," she exclaimed. "I think a scrawl from Aunt Marjorie. I had a volume from her yesterday. I wonder what she wants to write about again."

"MY DARLING HILDA:

"Now don't be frightened, my dear, but I have something to tell you which I think you ought to know. Our dear little Judy fainted in a rather alarming way in church yesterday. Of course we sent for the doctor, and he says she is very weak, and must stay in bed for a day or two. He says we need not be alarmed, but that her strength is a good deal run down, and that she must have been fretting about something. It just shows how little doctors know, for I never saw the child sweeter, or more gentle, or more easily amused. You know what a troublesome little creature she used to be, always flashing about and upsetting things, and bringing all kinds of obnoxious insects into the house; but she has been just like a lamb since your wedding, sitting contentedly by my side, looking over her fairy story-books, and assuring me she wasn't fretting in the least about you, and that she was perfectly happy. Babs did say that she heard her crying now and then at night, but I fancy the child must have been mistaken, for Judy certainly would not conceal any trouble from me. I will write to you again about her to-morrow. She directed this envelope to you herself yesterday morning before church, so I am slipping my letter into it. Don't be frightened, dear, we are taking all possible care of her.

"Your affectionate "AUNT MARJORIE."

"There," said Hilda, looking up with a queer, terrified expression in her eyes, "I knew how it would be. I married Jasper to please myself, and I have killed Judy. Judy's heart is broken. Oh, what shall I do, Milly, what shall I do?"

"Let me read Aunt Marjorie's letter," said Mildred.

Her quick, practical eyes glanced rapidly over the old lady's illegible writing.

"I don't think you have killed her, Hilda," said Miss Anstruther then, "but she is simply fading away for want of the love which was her life. Go back to her; go back at once, and she will revive. Come, there is not a moment to be lost. I'll run out and send a telegram to Little Staunton. I'll tell them to expect you this evening. Where's an A B C? Have you got one?"

"I think there is one on the wagon in the dining room. I'll fetch it."

Hilda ran out of the room; she brought back the time-table in a moment. Her face was white; her hands shook so that she could scarcely turn the leaves.

"Let me find the place," said Mildred. "There, let me see. Oh, what a pity, you have lost the four o'clock train, and there isn't another until seven. Never mind, say you will take that one. You'll arrive at Bickley at twenty minutes to ten, and soon after ten you'll be at the Rectory. I'll run at once and send off the telegram, for the sooner Judy's heart is relieved the better."

Mildred rushed to the davenport, filled in a telegraph-form, and brought it to Hilda to read.

"There, is that right?" she exclaimed. "Put your name to it if you are satisfied."

Hilda dashed the tears, which were still blinding her eyes, away.

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed, "that will do. Take it at once, this moment, before—before I have time to change my mind."

Mildred had written, "Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night." Hilda added her name, and Mildred prepared to leave the room.

"Good-by, Hilda," she said. "I won't come back, for you will need all your time to pack, and to leave things in order for your Jasper. Good-by, dear. Of course, you could not think of changing your mind, it would be wicked, cruel; yes, it would be terribly cruel. Good-by, Hilda, good-by."

Mildred seated herself in the victoria and desired her coachman to drive to the nearest telegraph-office.

"I have made a discovery," she said, under her breath. "Jasper Quentyns was not the prince; no, my prince has not yet shown his shining face above the horizon. Doubtless he will never come; but better that than to think he has arrived and wake to find him common clay. Hilda is absolutely afraid of her husband. No, Hilda, I would not be in your shoes for a good deal."



CHAPTER X.

WAITING.

The days are clear, Day after day, When April's here, That leads to May, And June Must follow soon. Stay, June, stay! If only we could stop the moon And June!

It was an April day, but the weather was still cold at Little Staunton, and Aunt Marjorie thought it well to have a nice bright fire burning in Judy's bedroom.

Judy was sitting up in bed, her hair was combed back from her face, she wore a pink dressing-gown, the black shadows under her eyes were not so marked as yesterday, her firm little lips had an expression of extreme and touching patience. Judy's movements were somewhat languid, and her voice when she spoke had lost its high, glad pitch.

Aunt Marjorie kept coming in and out of the room. Miss Mills fussed with the fire, went to the window to look out over the landscape and to make the same remark many times.

"How late the spring is this year," said the governess, in her dreary monotone.

Babs stood with her back to Judy, sorting a cabinet full of curiosities. There was no shadow of any sorrow on Babs' serene face—her full contented voice prattled on interminably.

A drawing-board lay on Judy's bed, a sheet of drawing-paper, two or three pencils, and a thick piece of india-rubber lay by her side. For over an hour she had been drawing industriously. A pink color came into her cheeks as she worked, and Aunt Marjorie said to herself:

"The child is all right—she just needed a little rest—she'll soon be as well as possible. I'll go downstairs now, and write to Hilda about her."

Miss Mills also thought that Judy looked better. Miss Mills was still guilty of keeping up a somewhat one-sided correspondence with the person whom she so cordially hated—she had not heard from him for nearly a month, and thought that the present would be a good opportunity to write another letter to remind him of her existence. So, glancing at Judy as she went, she also left the room.

The door was shut carefully, and the two little sisters were alone. When this happened, Judy threw down her pencils and gave utterance to a faint, quickly-smothered sigh.

"Why do you do it so softly?" said Babs, not troubling herself to turn her face, but still keeping her stout back to her sister.

"Do what so softly?" asked Judy.

"Those groans to yourself. Aunt Marjorie won't believe that you ever groan, and I know you do. She said you was as happy as the day is long, and I said you wasn't. You know you do sob at night, or you have she-cups or something."

"Look here," said Judy, "it's very, very, very unkind of you, Babs, to tell Aunt Marjorie what I do at night. I didn't think you'd be so awfully mean. I am ill now, and Aunt Maggie would do anything for me, and I'll ask her to put you to sleep in Miss Mills' room, if ever you tell what I do at night again."

"I'll never tell if you don't wish me to," said Babs, in her easy tones. "You may sob so that you may be heard down in the drawing room and I won't tell. Look here, Judy, I have found your old knife."

"What old knife?"

"The one you saved that animal with last autumn, don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes, yes—the dear little earwig. Do let me see the knife, Babs; I thought I had lost it."

"No, it was in the back of your cabinet, just under all the peacock's feathers. Wasn't the earwig glad when you saved her?"

"Yes," said Judy, smiling, "didn't she run home fast to her family? She was sticking in the wood and couldn't get out, poor darling, but my dear little knife cut the wood away and then she ran home. Oh, didn't she go fast!"

"Yes, didn't she?" said Babs, laughing. "I think earwigs are such sweet little animals, don't you, Judy?"

"Insects, you mean," said Judy. "Oh, yes, I love them special because most people hate the poor dears."

"What are you drawing, Judy? What a queer, queer picture!"

"I'm going to call it 'Where the nasty fairies live,'" said Judy, "but I haven't finished it. Babs, how long is it since Hilda went away?"

"Weeks, and weeks, and weeks," replied Babs. "I has almost forgotten how long."

"Years and years, you mean," said Judy.

The little pink flush of excitement faded out of her cheeks, her eyes looked hollow, the shadow under them grew darker than ever.

There came a rush along the passage, and Aunt Marjorie, puffing with the haste she had used, but trying to walk slowly and to speak calmly, entered the room.

"Judy, my darling," she said, "I have very good news for you."

"For me," said Judy, flushing and paling almost in the same moment.

"Yes, my dear little pet, very nice news. Your darling Hilda is coming."

"Aunt Maggie!"

"Yes, here's a telegram from her. She says in it, 'Tell Judy to expect me at ten to-night.' Why, my darling, how white you are! Babs, run and fetch me those smelling-salts. Now, Judy, just one whiff. Ah, now you're better."

"Yes, auntie, much, much, much better. I am only awfully happy."

Judy smiled, and the tears rushed to her eyes; her little thin hand trembled, she tried to push her drawing materials away.

"Please may I have the telegram?" she asked.

"Of course you may, my darling. Oh, and here comes kind Miss Mills with your chicken-broth. Just the thing to set you up. Drink it off, dear. Miss Mills, our sweet Hilda is coming to-night. I have just had a telegram, she'll be here about ten."

"Who's to meet her?" asked Miss Mills. "You forget that there are no horses in the stables now, and no carriage in the coach-house."

"I did forget," said Aunt Marjorie. "I must send a message to Stephens to take a fly to the station."

"I'll go and tell him as soon as ever tea is over," answered Miss Mills. "Ah, Judy! You'll soon be well now, Judy, won't you?"

"I am well already," said Judy. "What delicious chicken-broth! Auntie dear, stoop down, I want to whisper something to you."

"Yes, my dearie, what is it?"

"I needn't be asleep when Hilda comes, need I? You will let me sit up in bed, won't you? I'll promise to be so quiet, I won't make a sound to disturb Babs, but I should love to be awake and waiting for darling Hilda. Please, please, auntie, say I may."

"My darling—until ten o'clock! so awfully late. Judy dear, you're getting quite feverish—you must calm yourself, my pet. Well, then, well, anything to soothe you. We'll see how you keep, dearie. If you don't get at all excited, I—I'll see what I shall do. Now I must leave you, darling, to go and get Hilda's room ready. I wonder if Jasper is coming with her, she doesn't say anything about him."

Aunt Marjorie trotted out of the room, Miss Mills started on her walk to the village, and Judy began to speak eagerly to Babs.

"I am quite well," she said; "you'll never hear me sob again at night. I am quite the happiest girl in the world. Oh, think of kissing Hilda again; and I didn't fret, no, I didn't—not really. Babs, don't you think you might make the room look pretty? You might get out all the animals and put them on the chimney-piece."

"I'll be very glad to do that," replied Babs. "I often wanted to look at the darlings, but it was no fun when you didn't wish to play with them." She opened a little box as she spoke, and taking out china dogs, cats, cocks and hens, ducks, giraffes, elephants, monkeys, and many other varieties of the animal world, bestowed them with what taste she could manage on the mantelpiece. "Don't they look sweet!" she exclaimed. "I suppose you're not strong enough to have a game, Judy? If you could bray like the donkey, I'd be the roaring bull."

"To-morrow, perhaps, I can," said Judy, in a weak voice; "but the room is not half ready yet. I want you to pin some of my drawings and some of my texes on the wall. You'll find them in my own box if you open it."

"Yes, yes," said Babs in delight. "I do like making the room pretty for Hilda, and you ordering me. You may purtend if you like that I am your little servant."

"Very well; you're putting that picture upside down, Babs."

"Oh, how funny! Is that right?"

"No, it's awfully crooked."

For the next half-hour Babs labored hard, and Judy superintended, giving sharp criticisms and ordering the arrangements of the chamber with much peremptoriness.

"Now we must have flowers," she exclaimed. "You must go out to the garden, and pick all the violets you can get."

"But it's very late to go out," said Babs, "and Miss Mills will be angry."

"As if that mattered! Who cares who is angry when Hilda is coming? The worst Miss Mills can do is to punish you, and you won't mind that when you think about Hilda. I know where there are violets, white and blue, on that south bank after you pass the shrubbery; you know the bank where the bees burrow, and where we catch ladybirds in the summer; run, Babs, do run at once and pick all you can find."

Judy's room was decorated to perfection. Judy herself lay in her white bed, with pink roses on her cheeks, and eyes like two faintly shining stars, and smiles coming and going on her lips, and eager words dropping now and then from her impatient little tongue.

"What is the hour now, Aunt Marjorie? Is it really only half-past nine?"

"It is five-and-twenty to ten, Judy, and Miss Mills has gone in the fly to the station, and your Hilda will be back, if the train is punctual, by ten o'clock. How wonderfully well you look, my darling. I did right after all to let you sit up in bed to wait for your dear sister."

"Yes, I am quite well, only—I hope Jasper won't come too."

"Oh, fie! my pet. You know you ought not to say that treasonable sort of thing—Jasper is Jasper, one of the family, and we must welcome him as such—but between ourselves, just for no one else to hear in all the wide world, I do hope also that our dear little Hilda will come here by herself."

Judy threw her thin arms round Aunt Marjorie's neck and gave her a silent hug.

"I'll never breathe what you said," she whispered back in her emphatic voice.

Babs slept peacefully in her cot at the other end of the room. The white and blue violets lay in a tiny bowl on the little table by Judy's bed. The rumble of wheels was heard in the avenue. Aunt Marjorie started to her feet, and the color flew from Judy's face.

"It cannot be Hilda yet," exclaimed the aunt. "No, of course, it is the doctor. He will say that you are better to-night, Judy."

The medical man entered the room, felt the pulse of his little patient, looked into her eyes, and gave utterance to a few cheerful words.

"The child is much better, isn't she?" asked Aunt Marjorie, following him out of the room.

"Hum! I am not so sure; her pulse is weak and quick, and for some reason she is extremely excited. What is she sitting up in bed for? she ought to have been in the land of dreams a long time ago."

"Don't you know, Dr. Harvey; didn't we tell you, my niece, Mrs. Quentyns, is expected to-night? and Judy is sitting up to see her."

"Suspense is very bad for my little patient. What time is Mrs. Quentyns expected to arrive?"

"About ten. Judy is especially attached to her sister, and if I had insisted on her trying to go to sleep, she would have tossed about and worked herself into a fever."

"She is very nearly in one now, and I don't particularly like the look of excitement in her eyes. I hope Mrs. Quentyns will be punctual. As soon as ever she comes, the child must settle to sleep. Give her a dose of that bromide mixture immediately after. I'll come and see her the first thing in the morning."



CHAPTER XI.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

But she is far away Now; nor the hours of night, grown hoar, Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray, And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day, When we shall meet once more.

—D. G. ROSSETTI.

Hilda Quentyns, Judy's idol, was not the strongest of characters. She was very sweet and amiable, intensely true and affectionate to those to whom she gave her heart, but she was somewhat timorous and somewhat easily led.

Long ago, when Babs was a baby, Hilda's mother had died. Since then Judy had been her special care.

Now with trembling hands she packed her portmanteau, gave the young cook and parlor-maid directions what to do in her absence, and then sitting down before her davenport, prepared to write an explanatory letter to her husband.

She thought it quite probable that Jasper would be angry with her for rushing off like this, but for once she intended to brave his displeasure.

In her heart of hearts she knew exactly the state Judy was in. The ardent soul was wearing out the delicate little frame. That suffering which Judy would not speak of, which she was too brave to show sign or whisper of, was making her body ill. If Hilda went to her darling, the suffering would cease. Love would shine all round Judy's starved heart, and she would soon be well and strong again.

"Yes, it is my manifest duty to go to her," whispered the wife to herself. "I will go to Little Staunton and nurse her for a few days, and when she is better she must come to London and live with me. Jasper won't like it—I know he won't like it, but he has really nothing to complain of, for I told him from the very first what Judy was to me. Yes, I must go, but I wish—I do wish that the train for Little Staunton left Waterloo at six instead of seven. I should be well on my journey before Jasper came back. Oh, Jasper, my darling, why do I say words of this sort, as if I were—as if I could be—afraid of you!"

Hilda dipped her pen into the ink and wrote the first words of her letter.

"MY DEAREST HUSBAND:

"When you read this you will be surprised—"

A rather crooked dash of her pen finished this sentence—she was startled by a quick double knock at the front door. A moment later Susan, the neat maidservant, brought in a telegram on a salver.

"The boy is waiting to know if there is any answer," she said.

Hilda tore open the yellow envelope; her eyes rested on the following words:

"Rivers will dine with us. Have everything nice, and expect me home at 6.30.

"JASPER."

Mrs. Quentyns' first sensation was one of relief.

"It is all right," she exclaimed, looking up at the servant, who was startled at her mistress's pale cheeks. "I thought my little sister, Miss Judy, was worse, but the telegram is from your master, Susan. Tell the boy there is no answer, and send cook to me without a moment's delay."

Susan left the room, and Hilda slipped the telegram into her pocket. She still felt only a sense of relief, and the first faint qualms as to what Jasper would think of her sudden departure had not begun to visit her. A knock was heard at the drawing-room door.

"Come in, come in," said the young mistress. "Oh, cook," exclaimed Hilda, "I have just had a telegram from your master. He is bringing a gentleman home to dine. A rather particular gentleman, and we want a specially nice dinner. I—I forget what I ordered this morning."

The fat cook bestowed a pitying glance upon Hilda.

"The boiled chicken was to be fricasseed, mum," she said, "and you ordered me to open one of the tins of oxtail soup; there were to be apple fritters afterward, and a cheese savory—that is all."

"Yes, yes," said Hilda, putting her hand to her head, "that dinner would have done very well for Mr. Quentyns and me, but we must make some alterations now. You had better run round to the fishmonger's, cook, and go to the butcher's, and order——"

Hilda rushed to her davenport, scribbled some hasty directions on a piece of paper, and handed them to the servant.

"You must go this moment," she said, "it is six o'clock now; and please call at the green-grocer's on your way back, and get a pound of bananas and some Tangerine oranges. I will see that the wine is all right, and speak to Susan about the table while you are out. Run, cook, run, at once—things must look their very best, and be served in the best possible manner for dinner to-night."

The cook muttered something unintelligible, and by no means too well pleased with her errand, departed.

Hilda called Susan, and going into the dining room helped her to decorate the table; then after impressing upon the neat little parlor-maid the necessity of doing what she could to help cook in this sudden emergency, she ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and jacket, for the time had almost arrived when she must start on her journey. She had just come downstairs when the click of the latch-key was heard, and Jasper, in excellent spirits, entered the house.

"Well, my love," he said, going up to his wife and kissing her; "oh, you have been out!—did you get my telegram? I told Rivers we should not dine until half-past seven, in order to give you plenty of time to prepare. Perhaps you have been ordering some things for dinner, Hilda; that is right, and just what I should have expected of you. I am particularly anxious that Rivers should see that I have got the sweetest, prettiest, and best little wife and housekeeper in the world."

For some reason which she could not explain, even to herself, Hilda felt her tongue tied. She returned her husband's kiss, and when he entered the tiny dining room she followed him.

"Very nice, very nice," he exclaimed, looking with approval at the dinner-table, which was charmingly decorated with pink Liberty silk and white flowers. "But what is this?" he added suddenly, "there are only two places laid. One for you and one for me. We must ring for Susan at once—I think Rivers would rather sit at the side, away from the fire."

"I—Jasper, I want to tell you something."

"What is it? how pale you are, darling!"

"I want to tell you something," repeated Hilda; "I—I am not going to dine with you to-night."

"What do you mean, my dear girl—are you ill? what can be the matter?"

"I am not ill, but Judy is—I am going down to Little Staunton. I have telegraphed to them to expect me by the train due at 9.40, and it is time for me to go. Is that you, Susan? Please would you order a hansom at once?"

Susan instantly left the room, closing the door behind her.

For nearly half a minute Quentyns was silent, a great wave of color had rushed over his face, and it was with difficulty he could keep back some annoyed and some sarcastic words. He was a man who prided himself on having great self-control, and before he uttered his first sentence he felt that he had recovered it.

"You're trembling, dear," he said gently, "and you—you absolutely look as if you were afraid of me. Come into the drawing room, love, and tell me what is wrong with Judy. My bete noire, Judy! what has been her last transgression?"

"Jasper, don't, don't," said Hilda, in a voice of pain. "Judy is really ill this time—she fainted in church on Sunday; she is in bed now, and the doctor says she is very weak."

"I suppose so, or she would not have fainted. I used constantly to faint when I was a child—the slightest thing sent me off. I was not kept in bed afterward, for children were not cockered up and fussed over when I was young. My faint was generally traced to over-eating. If you must go down to see Judy, I don't wish to prevent you, Hilda, but why go to-night?"

"Oh, Jasper, I must—I must run away this instant too, for I hear the cab—I telegraphed to say I would go."

Jasper put on a new stubborn look which Hilda had never seen before.

"I don't wish to coerce you," he said, in a cold voice, "you're perfectly free to act as you think right in the matter. I can go down with you by an early train in the morning, or you can go by yourself now, and put me to extreme inconvenience. You're at liberty to choose."

"Don't speak like that, Jasper, you pain me so dreadfully."

"I fail to see how I am paining you, I am giving you a free choice. You can be with Judy before noon to-morrow, or you can go immediately."

"I sent a telegram to her to expect me; it is so bad for sick children to be kept waiting."

"So it seems. Yes, Susan, tell the cab to wait."

Susan left the room, and heavy tears gathered in Hilda's eyes.

"Can I send another telegram?" she asked weakly.

"I don't believe you can, the telegraph office will be closed at Little Staunton. Never mind, Hilda, you had better go; I am disappointed, annoyed, of course, but what of that? What is a husband to a sick sister? Go, my dear, or you will miss your train!"

"No, I won't go," said Hilda; "you have made it impossible for me to go. I'll stay and entertain your guest, and Judy will suffer. Yes; don't kiss me just now, Jasper; I think you are cruel, but I'll stay."

Hilda went over to the bell and rang it.

Susan answered the summons.

"Give the cabman this shilling," said Mrs. Quentyns, "and tell him that he is not required."

"You have done quite right, my love," said Quentyns, "and when you have got over your first little feeling of annoyance you will see the matter in the same light that I do. I'll telegraph to Little Staunton early in the morning to tell them to expect us by the 11.35 train. Of course Judy would have been asleep hours before you reached her to-night, so it does not really matter in the least. Now come upstairs and put on your very prettiest dress, that soft pink chiffon, in which you look as like a rosebud as a living woman can. I have capital news for you, Hilda, my love; Rivers certainly is a brick; he has got me to act as counsel in——"

Quentyns talked on in his satisfied, joyous tones. He had won the victory, and could afford to be very gracious and generous. Hilda felt as if a band of iron had closed round her heart. She was too gentle and sweet in her nature to be long angry with her husband. Her face was a little paler than usual, however, and her eyes had a weary look in them.

Rivers, who was a very keen observer of human nature, noticed the silent depression which hung over her, but Hilda's husband failed to observe it.

"I can easily manage her," he muttered to himself; "it would have been beyond all reason to have had her absent from our first little dinner just because a child had fainted. Pshaw!—I can see that Hilda is going to be painfully fanciful; it all comes from having lived so long in the wilds of the country. Well, I'll take her down to Little Staunton to-morrow, and be specially good to her, but she must get over these absurdities about Judy, or life will not be worth living."

The dinner was a success, and Hilda looked lovely. A certain dreamy and far-away expression in her eyes added the final touch to her beauty. When the men sat together over their wine, Rivers spoke of her in tones of rapture.

"You're the luckiest fellow in Christendom, Jasper," he said; and Jasper Quentyns, who looked up to Tom Rivers as the first of men, felt almost unduly elated.

"The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places," so he muttered, and he forgot all about a sick and troublesome child, who at this very instant was counting the moments as they flew by, in her tired and weary eagerness to clasp her arms round Hilda's neck. Hilda, too, in the drawing room, was shedding silent tears, but what did that matter? for Jasper knew nothing about them.

Jasper and Hilda were both musical, and Tom Rivers liked nothing better than to listen to their voices as they sang duet after duet together. The songs they sung were full of noble sentiment. Their voices mingled until they almost sounded like one rich and perfect note, as they sang of love which is undying and self-sacrifice which is ennobling. Quentyns felt a glow of elation filling his breast as his eyes rested on his lovely wife, and the tormentings of Hilda's conscience were soothed, and she too partly forgot Judy.

Breakfast was served at an early hour next morning at Philippa Terrace, and Quentyns and his wife started for Little Staunton in time to catch the early train.

They arrived at the small way-side station not more than twenty minutes beyond the appointed time, and were met by Miss Mills, who was driving the village pony cart herself.

The governess addressed Hilda in a calm voice, but her inward excitement was very manifest. Jasper had talked cheerfully all the way down to Little Staunton, but Hilda had been almost silent. She felt oppressed—she dreaded she knew not what. Now, when she looked into Miss Mills' face, she felt her own turn pale.

"No, don't speak," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "I know you have bad news, but don't tell me now, not until we get home."

"Get in," said Miss Mills, "I won't be long driving you to the Rectory. It is rather important for you to be there, and as the trap only holds two, perhaps Mr. Quentyns won't mind walking."

"Not at all," said Jasper, in his pleasant, calm voice. "Can you make room for our portmanteau at your feet, Miss Mills? Ah, yes, that will do nicely. By the way, how are you all? has Judy quite recovered from her faint?"

When Quentyns asked this question Miss Mills bent suddenly forward under the pretense of trying to arrange the portmanteau.

"We won't be any time getting to the Rectory," she said, turning to Hilda; she touched the pony with her whip as she spoke and they started forward.

"It was such a pity you didn't come last night," said the governess, as they entered the Rectory gates.

"I—I could not help it," murmured poor Hilda. With one hand she was tightly grasping the edge of the little basket-carriage.

"Stop, there is father," she exclaimed suddenly. "Let me go to him. I—I can bear him to tell me if there is anything wrong."

In an instant she reached the Rector's side. Her arms were round his neck, her head on his shoulder, and she was sobbing her heart out on his breast.

"My dearest Hilda, my darling!" exclaimed her father. "What is the meaning of all this? Why are you so dreadfully unhappy, my child?"

"Tell me, father, I can bear it from you. Is she—is she dead?"

"Is who dead?"

"Ju—Judy."

"No; what has put that into your head? But your little sister is very ill, Hilda. I am not so much alarmed about her as your Aunt Marjorie is, but I confess her state puzzles me. I saw Dr. Harvey to-day, and I don't think he is satisfied either. It seems that for some reason the child was over-excited last night—there was difficulty in getting her off to sleep, and she cried in a very distressing and painful way. I was obliged to sit with her myself. I held her hand, poor little darling, and had a prayer with her, and—toward morning she dropped off into a sleep."

"And," continued Hilda, "she was better when she awoke, wasn't she? Do say she was, father. You showed her Jasper's telegram the very instant she awoke, and of course she got much better immediately."

"My dear Hilda, the strange thing about Judy has yet to be told; she has not awakened—she is still asleep, and this prolonged and unnatural sleep disturbs Dr. Harvey a good deal."

"I had better go to her at once, father. I think the doctor must be mistaken in thinking sleep bad. When Judy sees me sitting by her bedside she will soon cheer up and get like her old self. I'll run to her now, father: I don't feel half so much alarmed since you tell me that she is only asleep."

The Rector gave vent to a troubled sigh; Hilda put wings to her feet, and with the lightness and grace of a bird sped toward the house.

"Hilda, Hilda!" called her husband. He had taken a short cut across some fields, and was now entering the Rectory domain. He thought it would be quite the correct thing for his wife to wait for him. Surely she would like to enter her family circle with him by her side. "Hilda, stop!" he cried, and he hurried his own footsteps.

But if Hilda heard she did not heed. She rushed on, and soon disappeared from view inside the deep portico of the old house.

Two or three moments later she was sitting without her hat and jacket, and with a pair of noiseless house-slippers on her feet, by Judy's bedside.

All the preparations which had been made with such care and pains by Babs the night before were still making the nursery look pretty. The little china animals sat in many funny groups on the mantelpiece. The white and blue violets lay in a large bowl on a table by Judy's side. One of the little sleeper's hands was thrown outside the counterpane. Hilda touched it, and found that it burned with a queer, uncomfortable dry heat.

"But how quietly she is sleeping," said Mrs. Quentyns, looking up with tears in her eyes at Aunt Marjorie; "why are you so solemn and sad?—surely this sleep must be good for her."

"My dear, Dr. Harvey calls Judy's state more stupor than sleep. He says the most extraordinary things about the child ... that she has been over-excited and subjected to a severe mental strain, and he fears mischief to the brain. But surely he must be wrong, for nothing could exceed the quiet of our life at the Rectory since the money has gone and you have left us, and no one could have been less excited in her ways than Judy has been since your marriage. I can't make out what Dr. Harvey means."

"I think I partly understand," said Hilda; her voice had a choking sound. "Don't talk so loud, Aunt Marjorie," she said impatiently; "you will wake her—you will disturb her."

"But that is what we wish," interrupted the old lady. "The doctor says we must do everything in our power to rouse her. Ah, and here he comes; he will speak for himself."

"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Quentyns," said Dr. Harvey. "Your not coming last night when the child expected you was a grave mistake, but better late than never."

He stopped speaking then, and bent over the little sleeper.

"Draw up the blind," he said to Aunt Marjorie, "let us have all the light we can. Now don't be frightened, Mrs. Quentyns—I am not going to hurt the child, but I must examine her eyes."

Hilda felt as if she could scarcely restrain a stifled scream as the doctor lifted first one lid and then the other, and looked into the dark depths of the sweet eyes.

"The child has got a shock," he said then. "I feared it when I called early this morning. I don't say for a moment that she will not get better, but her state is very precarious. I should like you to nurse her altogether, Mrs. Quentyns; much depends on her seeing you by her side when she wakes."

"I shall never leave her again," said Hilda, in a stifled tone.

The doctor's practiced ear caught the suppressed hysteria in her voice.

"Come, come," he said cheerily, "you have nothing to blame yourself for. The little one has evidently felt your absence in a remarkable manner."

"Really, doctor, you are quite mistaken," began Aunt Marjorie. "What I principally noticed about Judy was her great quietness and docility since Hilda left. She scarcely spoke of her sister, and seemed content to sit by my side and read fairy stories. She used to be such a very excitable, troublesome sort of child. If you ask me frankly, I think Hilda's absence did her good."

The doctor looked from the old lady to the young.

"I must adhere to my first opinion," he said. "The child has missed her sister. Now that you have come, Mrs. Quentyns, we will hope for the best."

He went out of the room as he spoke, and Aunt Marjorie followed him.

Hilda dropped on her knees by Judy's cot.

"Oh, my God, forgive me," she cried, in a broken anguished prayer. "I did wrong to leave my little Judy. Oh, God, only spare her life, and I will vow to you that whatever happens she shall never leave me in the time to come. Whatever happens," repeated Hilda, in a choking voice of great agony. Then she rose and took her place beside the child's bed.

A couple of hours passed by. The door was softly opened, and Quentyns stole into the room. He had been very much shocked by the doctor's account of the child, and his face and tone expressed real sympathy as he came up to Hilda.

"Poor little Judy!" he said, bending over her. "What a queer excitable little mite it is."

Hilda beat her foot impatiently.

"Well, my darling," continued Quentyns, not noticing his wife's suppressed agitation, "she will soon be all right now you have come. Lunch is ready, Hilda, and you must be weak for want of food. Come, dearest, let me take you down to the dining room."

"Oh, no, Jasper! I can't leave Judy; and please, please don't talk so loud."

"The doctor does not wish her to be kept too quiet, Hilda; and surely, my dear, you are not going to starve yourself!"

"Aunt Marjorie will send me something to the dressing room; I can't be away from Judy even for one minute. There is no saying when she will awake, and I must be with her when she does."

Quentyns smothered an impatient exclamation. After a pause he said gently:

"As you please, dear; I will bring something up myself to the dressing room for you," and he stole on tip-toe out of the room.

Nothing could be more patient than his manner, and Hilda reproached herself for the feeling of irritation which his presence gave her.

There came a sigh from the bed—the faintest of sounds; Mrs. Quentyns turned her head quickly, and saw to her rapture that Judy's big greeny-gray eyes were wide open and fixed earnestly on her face. There was no surprise in the pretty eyes, nor any additional color in the pale little face.

"Hilda," said Judy, "I thought it was only a bad dream—you never went away, did you?"

"I am never going to leave you again, Judy," replied her sister; "never, never, as long as we both live. I vow—I promise—nothing shall part us, nothing except death."

Hilda flung herself on her knees by the child's bed, and burst into hysterical sobs.



CHAPTER XII.

HILDA'S ENGAGEMENT RING.

My heart is heavy for scorn, Mine eyes with impatient tears, But heaven looks blue through the cherry-blooms, And preaches away my fears.

—EMILY PFEIFFER.

Contrary to the doctor's fears, and in accordance with Hilda's hopes, Judy grew better. A weight had been lifted from her heart—her starved affections were nourished and soothed once more. Hilda scarcely ever left her room, and Hilda's presence was perpetual sunshine to the child.

No one could possibly have behaved better than Quentyns did during this trying time. A certain feeling of compunction had visited him when he discovered how real Judy's illness was. He was assailed by a momentary pricking of his conscience, but as the little girl quickly grew better, and was soon pronounced by the doctor to be quite out of danger, it was but natural that an active man of the world like Quentyns should wish to return to town, should find the quiet Rectory simply unendurable, and also that he should wish to take his young wife with him.

The Quentyns arrived at Staunton Rectory on a certain Wednesday, and on the following Sunday evening Quentyns thought the time had arrived for him to speak to Hilda about their return to town. He had not seen much of her during the days which had intervened, and he was obliged now to send Babs with a message to Judy's room to ask his wife to come to him.

Hilda was reading aloud to Judy when Babs entered the room, and said in her important, calm way:

"Jasper wants you, Hilda, and you are to go to him this minute."

Hilda could read beautifully, and Judy had lain in a dream of rapture, listening to the beloved voice as it told the old story of Christian and his pilgrimage. Now the wistful, distressed look crept back into her face.

"Never mind, dear," said Hilda, bending forward and kissing the child. "I shall not be long away."

Quentyns was waiting for his wife in the large conservatory which opened into the drawing room. It was nearly empty of flowers and plants now, but was still a pleasant place to lounge about in.

"Well, my love," he said in his pleasant tone. "Why, how pale you look, Hilda. I am not going to scold you, darling—oh, no, not for the world; but I haven't got too much of your society during these last few days. I don't blame you, and I am not jealous; but if you could spare me half an hour now, there are one or two things I want to talk over with you."

"Of course I can spare you half an hour, Jasper, or an hour for that matter, if you want it," replied Hilda cheerfully. "Judy is much, much better to-night, and I am feeling quite happy about her."

Hilda slipped her hand through her husband's arm as she spoke; he gave the little hand an affectionate squeeze and drew his wife close to his side.

"I am glad Judy is better," he said. "What I have to propose will be quite convenient then, Hilda. I want to go back to town by the first train in the morning. I have heard from Rivers, and——What is it, my love? You really do look very pale. You are overdoing yourself, and I cannot allow it. Now that Judy is better you must rest. I shall get Dr. Pettifer to look you up and give you a tonic when we get back to town."

"Stop, Jasper," said Hilda suddenly. "I am not tired nor worn out in any way. I look pale now because my heart beats—because——Jasper, I cannot go to town with you to-morrow. I know you must go; of course, I quite understand that; but I am not going—not until Judy is well enough to be moved."

Quentyns did not reply for several seconds, then he said in a gentle tone, which did not betray an atom of his true feeling:

"I half expected you to say something of this sort, Hilda; I cannot pretend that I am not sorry. The fine weather is coming on; the London season will soon be at its height. I do not mean for a moment to imply that we can avail ourselves of what is termed a season in town, but for a poor and struggling man it is essential that he should leave no stone unturned to introduce himself to those persons who can and will help him. The influential sort of people who can materially assist me in my career are now in London, Hilda. You, my darling, are an excuse for many valuable introductions. You see, therefore, that not alone from an affectionate point of view you ought now to be with me. But," continued Jasper, looking straight ahead of him, and fixing his fine, intelligent eyes on the distant landscape, "I waive all that. I understand that you do not wish to leave Judy until she is fit to be moved to the seaside. If she maintains the progress she is now making, Dr. Harvey will probably allow Aunt Marjorie to take her away at the end of the week. I shall have you home on Saturday at the latest, Hilda."

"Yes," said Hilda. "I hope so, but—but, Jasper, you still fail to understand me. When Judy goes away, she is not going to the seaside—she is coming with me to London—to Philippa Terrace. It is a promise, and I—I won't—I can't go back from it. I stand or fall by my promise, Jasper—I wish to say so now once for all."

"You stand or fall by your promise!" repeated Quentyns. "What an extraordinary remark. One would suppose, my darling, that I was an ogre or the worst sort of tyrant. I always told you that Judy should come to stay with us for a few weeks when we had a room to receive her in. If matters progress as satisfactorily as I hope, we shall have a snug, prettily furnished, little spare room by the end of the present season. I promise you, Hilda, that Judy shall be its first tenant."

Hilda laid her hand with a sort of trembling, nervous impatience, on her husband's arm.

"I have made a mistake—I have been a coward," she said. "Even now, Jasper, you don't a bit understand me. Long ago, when mother died, she left Judy in my charge. I ought never to have married and left her. Judy is not an ordinary child, and she suffered. When I went away her heart was starved. She could not live with a starved heart. In my absence, my little Judy nearly died. She is better now—she is recovering because I am with her. I am never going to leave her again while she lives."

"Hilda, what nonsense you talk," said Quentyns, with temper in his tone. "If Judy lives to grow up, she will marry like other girls—and will leave you of her own accord."

"If she does," replied Hilda, "that alters the case, but until she leaves me by her own wish or marries, she is in my charge. I will not be parted from her, Jasper. I shall not return to Philippa Terrace until I can bring her with me."

"Is that really your final decision?" said Quentyns—he turned round now and looked at his wife; his face was very cold, its expression carefully veiled. He was intensely anxious not to show even a trace of ill-temper. His words were guarded. "Is that your final decision, Hilda?" he said, and there was a fine withering sort of sarcasm in his voice. "Do you mean seriously to desert the husband you married not three months ago for the sake of a child's whim? Is that the way you keep your marriage vow?"

"No, no, Jasper! I want to be true to you both. I made two vows, and I want to keep them both. Help me, Jasper; I am not a bit a strong-minded girl, I am just very loving. My heart is full of love to you and to Judy. Help me to do this—help me to love you both, to serve you both. Go back to town to-morrow and furnish the spare room, and I will bring Judy back with me on Friday or Saturday."

"I said I should not run in debt. I have no more money to spend on furniture at present. You don't really care for me, Hilda, or you would never speak as you do. But, once for all, I will not be drawn into a path which simply means ruin for the sake of any woman, and for the ridiculous fancies of any child. I will buy no furniture until I can pay for it. That ends the matter, my dear. If you are determined to stay at the Rectory for the summer, they will all, I am sure, be charmed to have you, and I will try and run down as often as I can. I need not say that I think you are making a most grave mistake, but a willful woman must e'en have her way, I suppose. Ah, and here comes the Rector, he has just returned from evening service."

Quentyns went toward the door of the conservatory, which he flung open. Mr. Merton was just entering his drawing room.

"One moment, Jasper—one moment," said Hilda; she rushed after her husband, her face was like death, her eyes were blazing with passion.

"Your cruel words make anything possible," she said. "I made two vows before God, and I will keep them both. There, this was costly, I presume. You spent money on it—sell it again, and buy the furniture that you will not go in debt for."

She thrust her engagement ring into Quentyns' hand and rushed away.



CHAPTER XIII.

JUDY'S ROOM.

An ear that waits to catch A hand upon the latch.

—DORA GREENWELL.

"Here is a letter from Jasper, Hilda darling," said Aunt Marjorie, coming into Judy's bedroom two or three days after the events mentioned in the last chapter. "I know the hand-writing, dear. How strong and manly it looks. I do love a manly hand, don't you?"

Hilda did not reply. She rose from her seat by Judy's side, and taking her husband's letter, walked to the window, and, standing with her back to the light, opened it eagerly. Her face was a little pale and worn, and her eyes had tired lines under them. No one had noticed any change in her, however. Judy was fast recovering—each day her spirits rose, her appetite improved, her strength grew greater. She was to be taken into Hilda's old boudoir to-day, and Babs was importantly moving the beloved china animals, arranging flowers, and getting the room ready for the great event.

Aunt Marjorie, after her usual fashion, fussed over Judy while Hilda read her letter. It was brief, but somehow it gave the young wife unexpected hope and pleasure:

"MY DEAREST WIFE:

"Pray forgive me for not writing sooner, but I have been exceedingly busy since I returned to town, and have dined each night with Rivers at his club. I send a hasty line now to say that you can bring Judy back to Philippa Terrace whenever she is strong enough to be moved, as I have given Shoolbred full directions with regard to furnishing the spare room, and have just had a letter from him to say the goods will be delivered to-day.

"Pray don't tire yourself more than is necessary. And believe me,

"Your affectionate husband, "JASPER QUENTYNS."

"Judy," said Hilda—she turned eagerly, the old lovely color mantling her cheeks, and the brightness of hope filling her eyes. "Isn't Jasper good, Judy? I have just heard from him—he says the furniture is coming in for your room to-day. We can go back to town as soon as ever Dr. Harvey thinks you strong enough to be moved, my pet."

"Which won't be this week," interrupted Aunt Marjorie. "It would be the sheerest madness. Has Jasper proposed such a thing, Hilda? If so, I can only say how like a man. In about a fortnight, this dear child may be the better for change of air.... I have no doubt too that Dr. Harvey will be pleased to have a London opinion about her. There may be a weakness of the heart's action. I never am easy about people who faint off suddenly. Now, Judy, why do you flush up? you know you oughtn't to listen when Auntie talks to Hilda about you. Go on reading your pretty story book, my love. Yes, Hilda, I should like the child to see a first-class physician. You know your mother's heart was not strong. He will doubtless order cod-liver oil, but for my part I prefer cream."

"I know something better than cream for Judy—don't I, my pet?" said Hilda, turning to her little sister with her bright smile.

"And so do I," replied Judy. "Oh, Hilda, to think of living with you in your own little house! Oh, Hilda, I'm too happy—I am so happy that my heart aches. It aches with pleasure."

Judy's thin arms were flung round her sister's neck. Her lips pressed Hilda's soft young cheek, her eyes looked into Hilda's. It seemed to them both at that moment that soul answered to soul.

"Now what nonsense this is," said Aunt Marjorie in her fussy tones. "Judy, I hope Hilda is not going to encourage you in silly sentimental talk of that kind. You say your heart aches with pleasure. Really, my dear, I have no patience to listen to you. I should like to know what a child like you knows about heart-aches—you, who have been brought up in what I may call the very lap of luxury. For, Hilda, I have made it the object of my life ever since poverty came to us, to prevent even the slightest shadow of its wings touching the children. They have had their excellent governess, and their warm schoolroom and snug bedroom. I cut down one of my own fur cloaks to give them really nice winter jackets, and I took special care that the schoolroom table should be as liberal as ever. It is impossible, therefore, for me to understand Judy's silly words about her heart aching."

Aunt Marjorie left the room, and Judy still softly rubbed her cheek against Hilda's.

"But my heart did ache," she said after a pause—"it aches with joy now, and it did ache—oh, it kept crying, it felt starved without you, Hilda."

"I understand—yes, I understand," replied Hilda.

"You don't mind what Aunt Marjorie says then?"

"Not about you, my own little love."

"Hilda, I did really try very, very hard not to fret."

"The effort was too much for you, my Judy; but never mind, the pain and the parting are all over now. Isn't it kind of your new brother—isn't it kind of dear, dear Jasper—to get the nice little room furnished and ready for you, darling?"

"Yes, Hilda. Has he gone in debt for the furniture? You told me long ago that the room would have been furnished and that I should have come to you, but there was no money left, and Jasper would not go in debt. Has he really gone in debt now, just to please me?"

"No, my love, no—we have managed. You must not ask inquisitive questions. All is right now, and we shall be very happy together."

Dr. Harvey was highly pleased, when he heard that his little patient was going to London with her sister. He was a man with plenty of observation, and he could read between the lines much better than poor obtuse old Aunt Marjorie.

"You are the right physician for your little sister, Mrs. Quentyns," he said. "I prophesy that Miss Judy will become perfectly strong and well in a short time under your care. Yes, there will be nothing to prevent her traveling to town on Saturday next, if you really wish it. The weather is extraordinarily mild for the time of year, and a change will do Judy more good than anything else."

Hilda wrote a joyful letter to her husband that day.

"You are to expect us both on Saturday," she said. "Oh, Jasper, how happy your letter has made me. How good—how really good you are. Please forgive me if I was a little hasty with you the other evening. I know you will never regret, darling husband, helping me to keep both my vows—the vow I made to you, and the vow I made mother. No one ever had a more loving wife than I shall prove to you, and no one ever had a dearer little sister than you will find my Judy when you really know her."

"Her Judy, indeed!" murmured Quentyns, when he read his wife's letter at his breakfast-table on the following morning. "Tiresome little piece—she'll never be my Judy, however much she may be Hilda's. Well, I suppose I must make the best of a bad job, but if I had known beforehand that that wretched sentimental child was to be tacked on to us, I'd have thought twice.... No, I wouldn't though, I love Hilda well enough to bear some inconvenience for her sake; but if she thinks this step will really add to our happiness, she'll soon find her mistake. Fancy her asking me to sell her engagement ring! I can never get over that. Things can't be quite the same again—it's impossible. Well, well, more than one friend has told me I'd wake from my dream of bliss some day. I have, with a vengeance—it has been something of a shock too. Heigho! I am not going to look like defeat, anyhow. Of course, too, I'll be just the same to Hilda outwardly. Ah, there's Susan—I'd better speak to her and get her to tell cook. This is Thursday—they'll be here in two days."

"Susan," as the neat parlor-maid entered the room, "I have had a letter from your mistress. She is coming home on Saturday, and will bring little Miss Merton with her. Have the things come from Shoolbred's yet?"

"The furniture, sir, for the spare room? Yes, it arrived yesterday, and the man is coming to lay down the carpet and put up the curtains this morning."