"My darling! For me? That is indeed a magnificent present. Where did it come from, dear? Has someone joined with you to give a present to mother?"

Before now it had happened that a friend of the family had consulted the children as to their mother's wishes in the matter of Christmas presents, and it seemed the most likely solution of the mystery that this had occurred once again, Pam contributing in the same proportion as she had done to her father's rug. But no! Pam proudly denied the insinuation, and repeated—

"It's my very own present I bought it myself."

"But, my sweetheart—" began Mrs Trevor anxiously, and then checked herself at the thought of another possible explanation. "Did someone give you some money, dear, that I knew nothing about?"

"Oh no! I haven't had any money, only General Digby's to-day."

"Then how— I am very pleased and delighted to have the palm, but I can't enjoy it properly until I know a little more about how it came into your possession. It is such a very big present for a little girl. How did you get all the money, dear?"

Pam smiled with an air of innocent pride.

"It wasn't—all—money!" she said, smiling.

"Not all money? What do you mean? If it was not all money, what was the rest?"

"Clothes!"

"Clothes!" cried Mrs Trevor vaguely.

"Clothes!" echoed her husband.

"Clothes!" shrieked Betty in a shrill treble.

"Cl-othes!" repeated the boys curiously. Only Jill's face lit up with comprehension, mingled with a spice of resentment.

"I know—I know! Old clothes, she means! She has been selling old clothes—our old clothes, if you please—to 'All a-growing all a- blowing' in exchange for the palm! He likes them better than money. I heard him say so one day when Pam was seeing me off at the door. That's where dad's old coat has gone to, that's where your blouse is, Betty, not to mention some of the boys' ties, and gloves, and my umbrella. Oh, you wretched child! The hours I've spent searching for it! That's where everything has gone that we have been searching for for the last month. She has been gathering them together for the palm!"

Mrs Trevor's face was a study of complex emotion as she looked at her baby, but Pam's triumphant satisfaction did not waver for a moment. She nodded her head, and cried cheerfully—

"Oh, lots more things than that! He wanted so much, because palms is most expensive of all before Christmas, and I bought it when you were all out, and cook hid it, and we sprayed its leaves to make them bright. In her last place Miss Bella did them every week with milk-and-water to make them shine!"

She had not the least idea that there was anything to be ashamed of in her action; on the contrary, she was full of pride in her own cleverness. But it was impossible to allow such an occasion to pass, even on Christmas evening, when discipline is necessarily relaxed. Mrs Trevor's face was an eloquent mingling of tenderness and distress as she said—

"But did it never strike you, Pam dear, that these things were not your own to sell? That you had no right to sell them?"

"They were no use. You said to father, 'That coat is too disgraceful to be worn,' and Betty said the blouse mortified her pride, and Jill made fun of her umbrella because it was three and eleven-pence, and the wires bulged out. She said, 'I can't think why it is that I always lose silk ones, and I can't get rid of this wretched thing, do what I will!' I thought,"—Pam's voice sounded a tremulous note of disappointment—"I thought you would all be pleased with me for clearing them away."

"It would have been different, dear, if you had asked our permission, though we all have to put up with shabby things sometimes. As it was, it was both wrong and dishonest to take things which belonged to other people, and sell them without permission."

"But I sold my own too! My blue coat and hat, because you said yourself they didn't suit me, and you couldn't bear to see them on. I heard you speaking to Betty, and saying those very words. I thought you'd be pleased if you never did see them again!"

Mrs Trevor gasped in consternation.

"Oh, Pam, Pam, what am I to say to you? This is worse than I imagined! Your blue coat—and it was quite good still! I can't possibly accept a present obtained in such a way!"

She cast an appealing glance at her husband, who had been sitting covering his mouth with his hand, and trying in vain to subdue the twinkle in his eyes as he listened to Pam's extraordinary confession. Now he looked at the child's frightened, shrinking face, and said kindly—

"I think Pam and I will have a quiet talk together while you adjourn to the drawing-room. She did not mean to do wrong, and I am sure she will never offend again in the same way when she understands things in their right light."

So Mrs Trevor and the elder children went to the drawing-room, and, ten minutes later, a subdued little Pam crept up to her mother's side, holding out a bright crown-piece on her palm.

"Father says General Digby would like me best to pay my debts. Will you please give some to the others to pay for the things I took?"

"Thank you, Pam. I shall be very pleased to do so," said Mrs Trevor quietly. Her heart ached at being obliged to take the child's fortune from her, but she knew it was the right thing to do, and would not allow herself to hesitate. "And now, darling, I shall be delighted to have the palm. It is indeed the very thing I wanted."

Pam tried to smile, but her lips quivered. A whole crown-piece, and a new one into the bargain! A Vanderbilt deprived of his millions could not have felt his poverty more bitterly than she did at that moment!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE CONCERT.

Next afternoon Betty left Jill engaged in filling up the blanks in her Christmas letters, and Pam lovingly dressing up Pamela junior in her various costumes, and, accompanied by her father and Miles, called for Cynthia and set out to walk across the Park to the Albert Hall, where Miss Beveridge and a friend had arranged to meet them in the box.

Cynthia looked delightfully graceful and pretty in a blue costume and hat, which had already caused Betty many pangs of envy, and perhaps it was a remembrance of his own youth which made Dr Trevor pass his hand through Betty's arm and lead her ahead, so that his son should have the pleasure of a talk with this very charming little lady. Miles was the best of good fellows, all solid goodness and worth, but he was still in the boorish stage, and it would do him good to be drawn out of himself, and forced to play the gallant.

Miles himself was by no means sure that he approved of the arrangement. He would have preferred to walk behind Cynthia, and admire her pretty hair, her tiny feet, and the general air of daintiness which was to him the greatest charm of all, but he had not the slightest idea what to say, and thought of the long walk before him with something approaching consternation. Fortunately for him Cynthia was not in the least shy, and had so seldom an opportunity of talking to anyone of her own age, that she could have chattered away the whole afternoon without the slightest difficulty.

"It isn't often you have a holiday, is it?" she said, smiling at him in her bright, friendly manner. "Once when I was up very early I saw you going out before six o'clock, and now if I'm awake I hear the door slam—you do slam it very loudly, you know!—and know it is you going out to your work. It makes me feel so lazy, because I am supposed to do half an hour's practising before nine o'clock breakfast, and I do feel it such a penance."

Miles laughed shortly.

"Did you ever see me coming back?" he inquired, and when Cynthia nodded, with a twinkle in her eye—"Betty was afraid you would believe I was a real workman," he told her. "She thought you would put us down as quite impossible people, having a workman living in the house!"

"Betty is a goose," said Betty's new friend cheerily, "but she is a nice goose. I like her. I guessed you were learning to be an engineer, because I have a cousin who did the same. I like a man to do manly work. I suppose you are dreadfully interested in all those noisy engines and things. Tell me about them."

It was rather a large order, and Miles would have answered shortly enough if an ordinary acquaintance had put such a question, but there was a magnetism about Cynthia which broke down reserve, and to his own astonishment he found himself answering quite easily and naturally.

"I am not studying for railway engineering—I am going in for mines. It's a different course altogether, and in some ways much more difficult. There seems nothing that a mining engineer ought not to know—assaying, and surveying, and everything to do with minerals, and, of course, a thorough understanding of pumps, and all the machinery employed. Then he ought to know something about doctoring, and even cooking, if he wants to be an all-round success, for ten to one he will be sent to some out-of-the-way wilderness where there is no one else to look after the comfort of his men—"

"Is that what you intend to do? Go and bury yourself at the end of the world?"

"I expect so—any time after the next six months. I shall have finished my course by that time, and be on the look-out for the first opening that comes!"

"What will Betty do without you?"

Betty's brother shrugged his shoulders with the unconcern with which, it is to be feared, most lads regard their sisters' feelings.

"Oh, she'll get used to it! It's no use sticking at home if one wants to get on in the world. I should never be content to jog along in a secondary position all my life, as some fellows do. I don't care how hard I work, but I mean to get to the very top of the tree!"

"Wish I'd been born a boy! It must be delicious to rough it in the wilds," sighed Cynthia, stepping daintily over a puddle, and looking down with concern to see if perchance there was a splash on her boots. "Boys have much the best of it; they have a chance of doing something great in the world, while girls have to stay at home and—darn their socks! All the great things are done by men—in war, in science, in discovery, even in art and literature, though a few women may equal them there. All the great things are made by men, too, the wonderful cathedrals and buildings, and the great bridges and battleships—all the big things. There's so little left for us."

Miles looked at her beneath drawn brows, his rugged face softening with the smile that Betty loved to see.

"And who makes the men?" he asked simply, and Cynthia peered at him in startled, eager fashion, and cried—

"You mean—we do? Women, mothers and sisters and wives? Is that what you mean? Oh, I do think you say nice things!" (Shy, silent old Miles being accused of saying "nice things" to a member of the opposite sex! Wonders will never cease!) "I shall remember that, next time I see a lucky boy pass by rattling the railings, and looking as if the world belonged to him, while I must stand behind the curtains, because it's not 'lady-like' to stare out of the windows! I do ramp and rage sometimes!"

Miles' laugh rang out so merrily that Betty turned to stare in amazement. The idea of Cynthia doing anything so violent as "ramp and rage" seemed impossible to realise, as one looked at her dainty figure and sweet pink-and-white face. All the same it was a pleasure to find that she did not belong to the wax-doll type of girl, but had a will and a temper of her own.

"Yes, you may laugh," she cried, laughing herself, "but it's quite true. Or perhaps it would be more 'lady-like' to say that I feel like 'a caged bird,' as people do in books. In future I shall console myself with the thought that I may be the lever which supplies the force. Is that simile right, or ridiculously wrong? It's rash of me to use engineering terms before you. I mean that I'll try to be a good influence to some man, and so inspire work, if I can't do it myself. The worst is, I know so few men! Father is abroad, all our relations are far away, and until I come out I seem to meet nothing but girls, old and young. Of course, if I got to know you better, I might influence you!"

She turned her laughing face upon him, the face of a frank, innocent child, for, though she was nearly seventeen years old, Cynthia was absolutely innocent of the flirtatious instinct which is strong in some little girls in the coral and pinafore stage. She offered her friendship to Betty's brother as composedly as she had done to Betty herself; it was Miles who blushed, and stared at the pavement, and his voice sounded hoarse and difficult as he mumbled his reply—

"I wish you—I'm sure I should—awfully good thing for me if you did!"

"Very well; but you will have to do great things, remember! I shan't be satisfied with anything less. It will be good for me too, for I shall have to be very stern with myself, if I am to influence someone else. What are your chief faults? I ought to know, oughtn't I, so as to be able to set to work the right way?"

She was so deliciously naive and outspoken, that once again Miles' rare laugh rang out, and once again Betty marvelled, and felt a thrill of envy.

By the time that the Albert Hall was reached, the two young people had progressed so far towards intimacy that Miles had forgotten his shyness, and confided to his new mentor some of the trials and grievances which beset him in his work, the which he had never before confided in a human being. The attraction of one sex to another is a natural and beautiful thing. God designed it as one of the great forces in His universe, and an almost omnipotent power it is, either for good or evil. Do the girls who jest and frivol with the young men with whom they are brought in contact, realise their responsibility in all they say and do? Do they ever reflect that the beauty and charm which they possess are weapons with which God has endowed them,—weapons which may have more power in the battle of life than a two-edged sword? Laugh and be merry—enjoy the sunshine of your youth; it is a sin to see a young thing sad; but never, never, as you value your womanhood, speak a slighting or irreverent word against God's great laws of righteousness, nor allow such a word to pass unreproved in your presence. Remember in the midst of your merry-making to preserve your dignity as women, knowing that by so doing you will not lose, but trebly strengthen your hold on any man worthy of the name. Say to yourself, dear girls—"With God's help I will be a good angel to this man, who has to meet trials and temptations from which I am exempt. So far as in me lies I will make him respect all women, and help, not hinder him in his work." It isn't necessary to be prim and proper—don't think that! The Misses Prunes and Prisms, who are always preaching, weary rather than help, but when the bright, sweet-natured girl, who loves a joke, and can be the whole-hearted companion of a summer day, speaks a word of reproof, or draws back from a proposed enterprise, her action carries with it a treble weight of influence.

When the whole party were seated in the box—Miss Beveridge and Betty in the front row, Cynthia and governess number two in the second, and the two "men" at the back—Miles had little attention to spare for the music, so absorbed was he in gazing at Cynthia's delicately-cut profile, and in weaving about her the halo of a young man's first romance. There was no romance in the two girls; they were absorbed in admiration of the wonderful building itself, in enjoyment of the music, and in anxiety to do their duty to dear Mrs Vanburgh's "Govies," as they irreverently termed Miss Beveridge and her companion. Even when on pleasure bent, the former could not be called "responsive." When asked, "Do you like music?" she replied curtly, "No! I teach it!" which reduced the questioner to stupid silence, though her thoughts were active enough.

"Oh, indeed! That's one for me, as I am a pupil still! It's the stupidity of pupils which has made her dislike music, but then—why does she come to a concert? Why couldn't she have had the decency to refuse, and let someone else have the ticket? Oh, I do dislike you—you cold,— cutting, disagreeable, ungrateful, snappy old thing!"

Betty sat back in her chair and let her eyes rest on Miss Beveridge's profile, as that lady in her turn stared fixedly at the orchestra. She was wearing quite "a decent little toque," and had taken pains with the arrangement of her hair. Betty was at the stage when she imagined that it was impossible that life could retain any interest after the age of thirty, but it dawned upon her now that, at some far-off, prehistoric period, Miss Beveridge had been handsome—even very handsome, which made her present condition all the more pitiable. Suppose, just suppose for a moment, that one became old and lonely, and poor and plain and snappy, oneself! It was too horrible a prospect to be believed; much more satisfactory to take refuge in the usual rose-coloured dreams!

The Royal Box was close at hand—empty, unfortunately, of interesting occupants. How would it feel to be a princess, and loll back in one's chair, conscious of being the cynosure of every eye? Betty lolled, and tried to project herself into the position, pleasingly conscious of a new blouse, quite immaculate suede gloves, and Cynthia's buckle showing its dull blues and reds at the front of her belt. She turned her head slowly from side to side, and cultivated a charming smile.—"Princess Elizabeth appeared in the Royal Box, looking as fascinating as ever in a costume of her favourite grey.—"

The musical programme was interesting and varied, but during the second half of the concert the cheerfulness of the scene was sadly marred by the ever-increasing fog which crept in from without, filling the vast interior with a gloom against which the many lights seemed powerless to contend. Dr Trevor began to feel a little nervous about the safety of his party, and suggested making a move before the end of the concert, but Miss Beveridge insisted that she and her friend needed no escort home.

"It would have to be a very bad fog to frighten us. We are accustomed to going about town in all weathers," she declared, and this was so obviously the case that it seemed affectation to protest. The doctor therefore explained that as he was in charge of Cynthia he wished to allay her mother's natural anxiety as soon as possible, and the young people bade farewell to their guests of the afternoon and hurried downstairs.

Early though it was, hundreds of people seemed to have been inspired by the same fears, for the stairway was thronged and the passages downstairs were becoming momentarily blocked. Dr Trevor tucked Cynthia's hand through his arm.

"Look after your sister, Miles," he cried, turning a quick glance over his shoulder. "I'm afraid it's very thick. Keep close behind me if you can. In any case make the best of your way home."

A moment later they passed through the doorway into a world of black gloom, in which phantom shapes at one moment pressed against one, and at the next vanished utterly from sight.

Betty gave a little cry of dismay, for, London-bred as she was, never before had she been out of doors in such an impenetrable fog. She put out her hand towards the spot where Miles had stood a moment before, but her fingers gripped nothing more substantial than air. She gave a quick leap forward, and clutching at a shadowy coat-sleeve shook it violently, calling out in accents half-frightened, half-angry—

"Miles, how horrid of you! You must not stalk on ahead like that! I shall be lost, and then what will become of me? For pity's sake keep hold of my arm!"

She had walked a few paces forward as she spoke, but now she stopped short, in response to a determined movement of the arm to which she clung. Betty glanced upwards in surprise; she could not see the face so near to her arm, but the blood chilled in her veins as a strange voice answered slowly—

"But—I'm sorry, but I do not happen to be Miles!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

LOST IN THE FOG.

The feeling of despair, of helplessness, of desolation, which overcame Betty at that moment, remained with her as a poignant memory to the end of her life. She was lost, as hopelessly lost as if she had been in the midst of a solitary waste, though close at hand, perhaps only a few yards away, were her own father and brother, the latter no doubt desperately searching for her. Dr Trevor would make the best of his way home with Cynthia, knowing his son to be as good a guide as himself. Poor old Miles! He would have a bad time of it when he arrived home alone;—yet he had not been to blame, for she herself had refused to take his arm before leaving the Hall. "It looked so silly!" She had intended to take it the moment they were in the street, but even that one moment had been too long. As she heard the stranger's voice she turned in a panic of fear, and tried to drag her hand from his arm, but he held her tightly, saying, with an odd mixture of weariness and impatience—

"Don't be foolish! You can do no good by running away. You can never find your friends again in this blackness. Tell me where you want to go, and I'll try to help you."

Betty trembled helplessly.

"But I must—I must try! It's a long way off—across the Park. Father is here, and my brother, and some friends. I'll go back to the Hall— they may go there to look for me."

"Look round!" said the strange voice, and Betty turned her head and stared in amazement, for the great building had vanished as completely as had Miles himself, and nothing was to be seen but a wall of darkness. On every side she heard the movement of invisible forms, but their very unreality added to the sense of desolation which possessed her. It was terrible even to think of venturing alone through the ghost-like ranks.

Instinctively she clung more closely to her companion's arm, and, as if recognising her feelings, his voice took a gentler, more reassuring tone.

"Don't be afraid. I had a sister of my own once. You can trust me to see you safely home. I am afraid it is no earthly use trying to find your friends among all the thousands who are leaving the Hall. Better tell me where you live, so that we can get there as soon as the rest of your party, and save them needless alarm. Across the Park, you said? The gates will be closed, of course, and in any case that would be the last route to take. Tell me your exact address."

"Brompton Square—we turn off at Stanhope Terrace, just past the Lancaster Gate Station. It is one of those squares lying between the Park and Edgware Road."

"I know, I know. Its a long walk, but perhaps it will get lighter as we go on. These dense fogs are often very local. Keep tight hold of my arm, please. If we are once separated, it might not be easy to meet again."

"No, indeed! I could not have believed it was so easy to get lost. My brother was beside me one instant, the next—it was your coat-sleeve! I hope I did not shake it too violently! I was so nervous and frightened I did not think what I was doing."

She laughed as she spoke, her youthful spirits beginning to assert themselves again, as her confidence was assured. The face of her companion was unknown, but the tone of that quite, "Don't be afraid, I had a sister of my own," had put an end to her fears. Here was an adventure indeed—a full-fledged adventure! In anticipation she felt the joys of relating her experiences to a breathless audience in the schoolroom, and thrilled with importance. The stranger did not echo her laugh, however, but merely murmured a few words of conventional disclaimer and relapsed into silence. Betty could hear him sigh now and then as they made their way onward—slowly feeling the way from point to point through the eerie, all-enveloping gloom. Sometimes a brief question to a link-boy would assure them that they were still on the right road; sometimes they wandered off the pavement and were suddenly aware of the champing of horses dangerously near at hand; sometimes for a minute or two they stood still, waiting to find a clue to their position; but through all the strange man preserved an unbroken silence, until Betty's nerve gave way again, and she cried in plaintive, child- like fashion—

"Oh, please would you mind talking a little bit! I'm frightened. It's like a dreadful nightmare, feeling one's way through this darkness—and when you are so silent, I feel as if you were a ghost like all the rest, instead of a real live man."

"I wish I were!" returned the stranger bitterly. Then recovering himself with an effort, "I beg your pardon," he said. "I am afraid I have been very remiss. To tell the truth, I was lost in my own thoughts when you came to me a few minutes ago, and I am afraid I had gone back to them, and forgotten that I had a companion!"

Forgotten! Forgotten her very existence! A young man rescues a beauteous maid—really and truly she had looked unusually well in all her smart Christmas farings—from a position of deadly peril, and straightway forgets her very existence! This part of the story, at least, must be omitted from the home recital. Betty pursed her lips in offended dignity, but in the end curiosity got the better of her annoyance, and she said tentatively—

"They must have been very nice thoughts!"

"Nice!"

The foolish girl's word was repeated in a tone of bitterest satire.

"Interesting, then?"

"In so far as the last of anything is interesting, be the beginning what it may!"

"The last!" It was Betty's turn to play the part of echo, as she stared in amazement at the shadowy form by her side. "How could they be your last thoughts? You seem quite well and strong. It isn't possible to go on living and not to think."

"No, it is not, and therefore when thoughts become unbearable—"

He stopped short, and Betty felt a thrill of foreboding. The strange silence, followed by the hopeless bitterness in the stranger's voice, seemed to bespeak some trouble of overwhelming magnitude, and, viewed in that light, his last words admitted of only one conclusion. Life had become unbearable, and therefore he had decided to end it. Hitherto Betty had carelessly classed all suicides as mad; but this man was not mad; he was, on the contrary, remarkably sane and quiet in manner! He was only so hopelessly, helplessly miserable that it did not seem possible to endure another day's existence. Betty thrilled with a strange new feeling of awe and responsibility. The hidden strength of her nature, which had come to her as the result of being brought up to womanhood in a household dedicated to God and His Christ, broke through the veneer of youthful folly, and came triumphantly to the surface.

Her nervous fear dropped from her like a mantle, and she was possessed by a burning longing to comfort and save. In the midst of the fog and darkness God had sent to her a great opportunity. She rose to it with a dignity which seemed to set the restless, self-centred Betty of an hour ago years behind. Her fingers tightened on the stranger's arm; she spoke in firm, quiet tones.

"I can guess what you mean! Forgive me for teasing you with my silly questions when you are in such trouble. Do you think you could tell me what it is? It seems a strange thing to ask, but I am no real person to-night. I am just a shadow that has come out of the fog. I have not even a face or a name. You might speak to me as safely as to the air itself, and it might be a relief to put it into words. It is so sometimes when one is in trouble."

There was a moment's silence, then—

"Thank you," he said in a softened voice. "It's kind of you to think of it. You might have condemned me at once, as not fit to speak to a girl like you. You are only a girl, aren't you? Your voice sounds very young."

"Yes, only eighteen—nearly eighteen. But my father is a doctor, so I am always being brought near to sad things, and sometimes I feel quite old. I think I could understand if you told me your trouble."

"Suppose it was not so much sorrow as sin? What then? What can you at eighteen—'nearly eighteen'—know of that? You could not understand if I did speak."

"Oh yes, I could. I sin myself—often!" cried Betty, with a swift remembrance of all those little things done or left undone which made the failure of her home life. "A girl living at home, with a father and a mother to look after her, has no temptation to any big thing, but it's just as bad, if she is idle and selfish and ungrateful, and I am all three together many times over. I'd be too proud to say that to you if I saw your face and knew your name; but, as I said before, we are only shadows in a dream to-night. It doesn't matter what we say. Tell me your trouble, and let me try to understand. It isn't because I am curious—it isn't really! Do you believe that?"

"Yes," he said instantly, "I do! Poor child, you want to help; but I am past that. I have ruined my own life and the life of the man who has been my best friend. I have had my chance—a better chance than is given to most men—and I have made an utter failure of it. If I—went on, it would mean starting again from the very beginning, with the stigma of failure to hinder me at every turn—a hopeless fight."

"But,"—Betty's voice faltered nervously—"isn't it cowardly to run away just when the fight is hardest? A soldier would be called a traitor if he did that. And what would come afterwards? Do you believe that you have a right to take your own life?"

"You mean from a religious point of view. I'm afraid that's out of my line. I have lost what little faith I had in these last few years. You believe in it all, of course—it's natural for a girl—but to me the idea of a personal God is as unreal as a fairy tale. It does not touch my position."

"But just suppose for a moment that it were true. Suppose He does exist, and has been longing to help you all this time—what then?" cried Betty earnestly, and her companion gave a short, derisive laugh.

"It would have been easy enough for Him to have prevented all this trouble! I can see no help in the story of the last few years. Everything has gone against me. In the beginning I borrowed some money—of course, it's a case of money—to help a friend who was in a tight fix. That was innocent enough. But when the time came round I could not repay the debt, and in my position it was fatally easy to help myself to what I needed. I called it just another loan. I was sure of repaying it before anything was discovered, but again it was impossible, for there were calls upon me which I had not expected. If I had been short in my accounts I should have lost my situation, and it was a handsome one for a man of my age. You won't understand the details, but I began to speculate, to put off the evil hour, always hoping for a coup which would put everything right; but it never came. I was not helped, you see! Things went from bad to worse, until I could go on no longer. Then in despair I confessed the whole story to my friend—he is a near relation also, but that is by the way. He would not allow the family name to be disgraced; he paid up all that was due, and saved me the shame of prosecution, but even he could do no more. I am sent about my business—a felon in deed, though not in name. Incidentally, too, he is ruined. He must give up his house, remove his children to cheap schools, live in poverty instead of ease. Naturally enough he will have no more to do with me. There is not a soul on earth who would regret me if I passed out of being to-night."

There was a long silence while the strangely-matched couple wended their way slowly along the bisecting roads which lead from Kensington High Street to Bayswater Road. The fog had slightly lessened by this time, but it was still too dense to show anything but a dim outline of passers-by, and the face of the stranger was but a blur against the darkness to Betty's searching eyes. Her heart was beating rapidly; she was praying with a whole-hearted earnestness unknown to her usual morning and evening supplications—praying to be guided to say the right thing to save this man's soul from despair. At last—

"You say you were not helped," she began timidly; "but if your speculations had succeeded as you hoped, it might not have been really good for you. It would have been easier, of course, but if all had gone smoothly you might have been tempted to do the same thing another time. Perhaps God knew that, and that there was no way of bringing you back to Himself except through trouble."

The stranger laughed again—his hard, mirthless little laugh.

"I am afraid I can hardly believe in that theory. I can see no reason for believing that my doings are the slightest interest to Him, or that He cares in the least what becomes of me."

"Can't you!" cried Betty eagerly. "Oh, I can! Just think more carefully, and you will remember many, many things which you have not stopped to notice at the time. To-night, for instance! Do you think it chance that I missed my brother, and came to you out of all the hundreds of people who were around? I don't! I believe God sent me to you because you would not speak to anyone you knew; because you needed help so badly—and I need it, too—and we could help each other."

The shadowy head bent nearer to hers, and the arm pressed against her hand.

"Thank you," said the voice in a softened key; "that is a kind thought! It is quite true that I could not have spoken as I have done under ordinary circumstances. When I met you I was going straight for the nearest water. There are many places where an accident might easily occur on a night like this. I do not wish to make any scandal, only to disappear."

Betty drew in her breath sharply. The sound of that one word "water" gave a definite touch to the situation, and thereby trebly increased its tragedy, but the gentleness of the voice gave her increased hope, and she cried eagerly—

"Disappear, yes! I can understand it would be difficult to stay among the old surroundings, but why not disappear to come back another day, when you can redeem the past? Suppose you went away to a strange place, and worked hard, oh, very hard, and denied yourself every possible thing, so as to save up money. Suppose you succeeded—when people are terribly in earnest about a thing, they generally do succeed—and in some years' time could pay off what you owe! That would be braver than killing yourself, wouldn't it? That would be worth living for. Or if it took too long to pay it back in your friend's lifetime, he has children, and you could help them as their father has helped you. That would be paying back the debt in the way he would like best. Think of it! They would imagine you dead, or perhaps worse than dead, but they wouldn't be angry with you any more; people don't go on being angry for years and years, especially if they are good and kind, as your friends must be. But some day it might happen that they were in trouble, or getting old and tired, and feeling it was hard to go on working, and a letter would come in— from you—and inside that letter there would be a cheque, and they would be so happy, and so thankful, and so helped! And they would send for you to come back, and the old trouble would be wiped away, and they would honour you for your brave fight. Oh, you will—you will! You must do it! Promise, promise that you will!"

Her voice broke into a sob, and something like a faint echo of the sound came to her ears through the darkness. It seemed the most promising answer she could have had, in its contrast from the biting self- possession of a few minutes before. Her heart beat high with hope.

"Is there any place to which you could go? Have you enough money left to take you there?" she questioned, as if the matter were already settled, and, consciously or unconsciously, the stranger replied in the same vein.

"I have an old friend in America; he would help me to a start. I have a good many possessions left; they would bring in enough to pay the passage if—"

"No, there is no 'if'! Don't let yourself say it! Sell the things to- morrow, and begin again in a new world, in a new way. Believe that God does care, and that it is a chance that He has given you, and every night and every morning, oh, and so often through the day, I shall remember you, and pray that you may be helped! Sometimes when you feel lonely you may be glad to know that one person in the Old Country knows all about you, and is waiting to see the reward of your work. You must let me know when the success comes. I shall always be waiting; and remember, this talk is going to do me good too! I have made troubles for myself because I did not know how well off I was, but now that I have come so close to the real thing I shall be ashamed to grizzle over trifles. It is settled, isn't it? You are going on fighting?"

There was a long silence. She could feel rather than see the struggle in the man's face, but the pressure tightened on her hand, foretelling that the decision would be what she wished.

"Yes," he said slowly at last. "I promise! An hour ago it seemed as if there was not a soul in the world who cared whether I lived or died, but as you say you came to me—in the darkness! You think you were sent. My old mother would have thought the same. I don't know, I can't tell, but it may be so, and that gives me courage to try again."

He paused for a moment or two, then suddenly—

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Betty!"

"Betty!" His voice lingered over the pretty, girlish name. "Thank you, Betty!"

"And yours?"

"Ralph."

"Thank you, Ralph! You have given me something real to think of in life—something to look forward to."

"Ah!" He drew a long, stabbing breath. "But at the best it will be a long waiting. You will be far from eighteen—'nearly eighteen'—before I can hope for success. The years will seem very long."

"But they will pass!" cried Betty. "I can wait!"

She was in a state of exaltation when no trial of patience seemed too great to face, and difficulties presented themselves only as glorious opportunities; but the man, who had experienced the heat and burden of the day, sighed, and was silent.

By this time they had made their way past the great houses standing back from the road, and were close on the Lancaster Gate Station of the Central London Railway. A faint light streamed into the gloom from the glass fanlight, and for the first time Betty began to feel that she trod on familiar ground.

"Ah, here we are; if we go round this corner I shall be home in five minutes. Perhaps we shall arrive before the others, after all. You have brought me so quickly that there is no time for them to have been anxious, unless Miles went in alone."

The stranger did not answer. They turned round the corner of Stanhope Terrace and walked along for twenty or thirty yards, then suddenly he stood still, and dropped her arm.

"I may never meet you again," he said slowly; "in all probability we never shall meet, but before we part, let me see your face, Betty!"

There was a sound of a match being struck against the side of a box, then a tiny flame flickered up in the darkness. Betty gazed upwards into a face still young, but haggard and drawn with suffering, a long thin face with deep-set eyes and a well-cut chin.

"Now, now, now," she was saying breathlessly to herself. "I must notice! I must remember! I shall have to remember for so many years—"

The flame quivered and faded away.

"Thank you," said the stranger quietly. "I shall remember!" Evidently his thoughts and hers had followed the same course.

They walked along slowly side by side, but no longer arm in arm, for that momentary exchange of glances had brought a touch of personal embarrassment into the situation which had been unfelt before. Betty was anxiously pondering what to say in farewell, feeling at the same time that further words would be more likely to mar than to aid the impression already made, when suddenly a form loomed through the darkness, and a well-known "Coo-ee" sounded in her ears.

"Miles—oh, Miles! I'm here! Oh, Miles, I am so glad! I was so frightened, but this gentleman has been so kind. He has brought me all the way home."

Miles grunted discourteously; he disapproved of stray acquaintances for his sister, and now that anxiety for her safety was assuaged, began to feel aggrieved at having been frightened for nothing.

"What on earth did you mean by rushing off by yourself? Might have been lost all night. I've been hanging about for an age, not daring to go into the house and scare the mater. Never go out with you again in a fog!"

Betty laughed merrily.

"I can return that compliment. It seems to me that you ran away from me." She turned to hold out her hand to the stranger. "Now that my brother is here I need not trouble you any more. Good-bye! Thank you very much!"

"Thank you!" he said earnestly. "Good-bye until—a brighter day."

"What does that bounder mean by talking of another day? Cheek!" grunted Miles, leading the way onward, but Betty only pressed his arm and replied irrelevantly—

"Don't say anything about our having missed each other when we first go in, Miles. I'll tell mother quietly. I'd rather, if you don't mind."

Miles did not mind a bit—in fact, he was thankful to be spared questioning and reproach, so he made his way upstairs to his room, while Betty entered the study, where Dr and Mrs Trevor were seated.

"Here we are, safe and sound! It has been adventurous, but all's well that ends well. Have you been anxious, mother dear? I do hope not."

She bent to kiss her mother with an unwonted tenderness, which brought a flush of pleasure into the thin cheek.

"How sweet that child looks to-night! Did you notice?" she said to her husband when they were once more alone. "And she was so gentle and considerate. It's such a pleasure to see her like that, for she is sometimes so difficult."

Dr Trevor smiled.

"She is mellowing, dear, she is mellowing! I told you it would come. The child is turning into a woman—and a bonnie woman she will be too. Dear little Betty!"

And in the shelter of her attic bedroom the child woman was holding a lighted candle before the looking-glass, and staring half abashed into an oval face with dilated eyes, and dark hair twisted by the damp into a cloud of tiny ringlets.

"Did he—did he think me—nice?" she was asking of herself.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE SISTERS.

Upon the first quiet opportunity Betty confided the history of her walk to her mother, who listened with the deepest interest and sympathy.

"It was a great opportunity, dear, and you made the most of it. I am proud of my daughter," she said. "I will join with you in praying that the poor fellow may be kept true to his pledge. It's not the first step which costs in these struggles, whatever the proverb may say; the hardest part of the fight comes later on, when the first excitement is over, and progress seems so pitifully slow. So don't let yourself grow weary in well-doing, dear Betty. Your poor friend will need your prayers more and more, not less and less."

"Oh no, I shall never grow tired," said Betty confidently. Then her face clouded, and she sighed. "Mother, do you suppose I shall ever—see him again?"

"It is very unlikely, dear. He is going so far away, and will have no money to spare for visits home. It must be a large sum which he has to repay, if the loss of it necessitated such a change in his friend's household. With everything in his favour it would take a long time to earn."

"How long, mother?"

"Dear child, what a question! It is impossible to say. It would be extraordinary, I should think, if he managed it in less than a dozen years."

"A dozen years! I should be thirty! I shall be hideous at thirty," thought Betty ruefully, recalling the vision of the sweet, flushed face which had looked at her from the mirror the day before. Could it be possible that a dozen years—twelve whole years—could pass by without bringing her any tidings of "Ralph"? In the state of exaltation which had possessed her last night she had felt raised above the need of words, but already reaction had set in, and with it a strange sense of depression at the thought of the future.

It was good to know that there was Cynthia to talk to—Cynthia, who might not be able to advise and strengthen as wisely as mother did, but who was a girl, and knew how girls felt—"up and down, and in and out, and—oh, and so topsy-turvy upside down!" thought poor Betty to herself.

A breathless, "I want to speak to you; I have something dreadfully interesting to tell!" whispered in a chance encounter in the street, brought an immediate invitation to tea 'in my own room, where we shan't be bothered'; and under these happy auspices the adventure was once more related, while Cynthia's grey eyes grew wide with excitement.

"Dear Betty, how glorious for you!" she cried ecstatically. "What a wonderful thing to remember! You can never be blue again, and say that you are no use in the world. To have saved a man's life, and started him on the right road—at eighteen—not eighteen! You are the most fortunate girl in the whole world! It's so strange that this chance should have come to you on that particular day, because your brother and I had been talking about the different work of men and women as we walked over the Park to the Albert Hall, and he said that if it was men's province to make the greatest things in the world, it was women's work to make the men; and that was what you did, Betty dear. You helped God to make a man!"

Betty raised her brows in a surprise which was not altogether agreeable.

"Miles—Miles said so! How extraordinary! He never talks like that to me, and he hardly knew you at all. However did you come to discuss such a subject?"

"I asked him about his work, and envied him for being able to do something real. He is a nice boy. I like him very much," said Cynthia placidly.

Imagine being favoured with confidences from Miles, and remaining quite cool and unconcerned! For a good two moments Betty forgot all about her own affairs in sheer wonder at such an astonishing state of mind. Then remembrance came back, and she asked eagerly—

"Cynthia, do you think I shall ever hear anything more about him? Mother says it will take years and years to save so much money. Do you think I shall ever know?"

"Yes!" said Cynthia confidently. "Of course you will know. He will find some way of telling you. You told him your address, so it was the easiest thing in the world to find out your name. You will get something from him every year—perhaps on Christmas Day, perhaps in summer, perhaps on the anniversary of the night. It may be only a newspaper, it may be a letter, it may be just a flower—like the man in The Prisoner of Zenda sent to the princess, but it will be something! He mayn't sign his name or give his address, but he will want you to know—he will feel you ought to know that he is alive and remembering."

Oh, the beauty of a girl confidante! How truly she understands the art of comfort!

"And shall I ever see him again?"

"Yes—if you both live. He will want to see you again more than anything in the world, except paying off his debt. When that is done, he will rush straight off to you and say, 'Here I am. I have worked hard and kept my promise. To-day I can look the whole world in the face, for I owe not any man. I have regained my friend and my position, and it is your doing. You saved me! All these years the thought of you has been my inspiration. I have lived in the thought of seeing your face again—'"

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Betty, gasping. "And I shall be hideous, Cynthia, hideous! Fancy, I may be thirty! What will he think, when he sees me so changed?"

"He won't mind a bit—they never do. He will say, 'Though worn and haggard, you are still in my eyes the most beautiful woman in the world!'" cried Cynthia.

And then, being only eighteen—nearly eighteen—each girl suddenly descended from her high horse, and went off into peal after peal of laughter, merry, heart-whole laughter, which floated to Mrs Alliot's ears as she lay on her couch in the drawing-room, and brought a smile to her pale face. This new friendship was doing great things for her lonely girl!

Towards the end of the Christmas holidays the great news circulated that Mrs Vanburgh was coming home, and bringing her two younger sisters for a few weeks' shopping in town. Agatha and Christabel had just returned from two years' sojourn abroad, and were presumably "finished" young ladies. Cynthia and Betty wondered how much finished, and whether finished enough to look down with contempt upon unfinished damsels still undergoing the thraldom of "classes!"

It was a thrilling occasion when they were bidden to tea "to meet my sisters," and Betty felt she would hardly have had courage to face the ordeal but for the fact of a new blouse and that fascinating buckle on her belt. She had a sensation of being all arms and legs—a horrible, almost forgotten remnant of schoolroom days—as she crossed Mrs Vanburgh's drawing-room to be introduced to the two strange figures on the sofa.

One was dark and one was fair; both possessed a wonderful wealth of beautiful glossy hair, gold in the one case, in the other brown, rolling back from the brow in upstanding pompadours, which were, however, more picturesque than stiff, and rolled into coil after coil at the back of the neck. Done-up hair—that was very "finished" indeed! Both were distinctly good-looking, and the younger, though the smaller of the two, possessed a personality which at once seemed to constitute her mistress of the ceremonies. Both were perfectly at ease, and so full of conversation that they talked both at the same time, emphasising every second or third word after a quaint fashion of their own which Betty found very amusing.

They were fear-fully pleased to see her. They had heard such reams about her from Nan. It was so charming for Nan to have girl friends. Nan was devoted to girls. It was such sport to be staying with Nan. They had been simply dying to live in town. My dear, they had not a rag to wear! Nobody wore decent clothes in Germany. Frumps, my dear, per-fect frumps! They were on their own allowance. Was Betty on her own allowance? Lucky girl! It was simply agonising to have to buy everything you needed on a quarter's allowance. They had lain awake for hours considering the problem. They were in despair! Nan had given them each a dress for Christmas. Nan was an angel! They wanted Nan to give a dance for them while they were in town.

Betty's heart leapt, but Mrs Vanburgh shook her head, and said—

"Sorry, but Nan can't! Mother wouldn't like it, as you have only just left school, and are not properly out yet."

"Well, I shall leak out, then! I am not going to wait another year, if I know it. There's a dance coming on at home in February, and I'm going to it, or my name is not Christabel Rendell. I'm going to buy a dress and all the et-ceteras, and then mother won't have the heart to say No. Nan, if you won't give us a dance, what are you going to do? You can't be so mean as to provide no evening jollification!"

"My dear, remembah! You were a girl yourself!" echoed Agatha, in deep- toned remonstrance, and then they began rattling out a list of suggestions.

"Tableaux—"

"Progressive games—"

"Dinner-party. No old fogies! We will choose the guests."

"Music and conversation. You do the music, and we'll converse."

"General frolic, and supper to finish up. If it develops into a dance, so much the better! It's not coming out to dance on a carpet."

"Really, Nan, it's piteous to think how stodgy you have grown! Married sisters are a delusion. We used to imagine coming to stay, and doing whatever we liked, and eating all sorts of indigestible things that we mayn't have at home. But now Maud can think of nothing but that baby, and you are so prim—too fearfully prim for words."

"Prim!" shouted Mrs Vanburgh. There is really no other word to express the outraged indignation of her tone. To hear her, one might have supposed it the greatest insult in the world to be accused of primness of demeanour. "You dare to sit there and call me names in my own house! If I am prim, you had better go home and leave me. I wouldn't stay any longer, if I'm prim. I'm sorry I asked you, if I'm prim. If I'm prim, I wonder why you ever wanted to come. Prim, indeed! If it's prim to know what is correct and what is not, it's a pity you are not prim too! If I'm prim, I won't give any party at all. You had better sit round the fire and knit stockings, and I'll read aloud The Old Helmet, as I'm so prim."

Christabel raised her hands to her ears in affected distraction.

"Stop her, somebody—stop her for pity's sake! When she is once wound up like this she will go on for hours! My dear, I crawl, I grovel before you! You are not prim! Nothing is further removed from your character. You are going to give us as many parties as we like."

"Humph!" said Mrs Vanburgh shortly. She was by no means appeased, and during the meal which followed ejaculations of "Prim—prim, indeed!" fell from her lips at intervals like so many minute-guns of indignation, while Christabel ate cakes and scones with undiminished zest, and smiled upon her with patronising indulgence.

In relating the history of the afternoon to Jill, later on, Betty declared that she herself had not spoken a single sentence the whole afternoon. She had exclaimed, "Really!" "Fancy!" "Goodness!" "How killing!" each about a hundred times over, had laughed and smiled, nodded her head and said "Yes" to a dozen propositions, had been unceasingly amused and interested, but had never been allowed a breathing space in which to air her own opinions.

It had been finally decided that "a general frolic" should be held on the following Thursday evening, Christabel proposing, seconding, and triumphantly carrying the resolution that each guest should come prepared to entertain the company for a period of at least five minutes on end. The protesting groans and denials of her companions beat in vain against the rock of her decision. She smiled graciously upon them, and cried—

"Rubbish! Of course you can! Sing, play, dance, recite, read aloud, tell a story, show some new tricks; there's no end to the things to choose from, my deah! If you begin by protesting and excusing as you are doing now, there will be no time left. It will be too lovelay for words! A sit-down supper, Nan,—no light refreshments, please!—and, as a matter of precaution, as much furniture as possible moved out of the drawing-room. I can't think why you did not have a parquet floor! People grow so selfish and inconsiderate when they are married. Piteous, I call it!"

"Anything else?" queried Nan loftily. "Selfish, and inconsiderate, and prim, am I? Prim, indeed! I'll tell Gervase the moment he comes in what a wretched wife he has married! He'd never find it out for himself."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE PARTY.

"She may request as much as she likes; I'm not going! I wouldn't go if I were paid for it!" was Miles' ungallant comment upon receipt of Mrs Vanburgh's invitation; but before he had time to pen his refusal, Cynthia, in her new character of mentor, issued her regal decree that it should be turned into an acceptance. In vain he grumbled and protested; the silken chains never relaxed their hold.

"Hate parties! Senseless waste of time."

"It would be kind of you to help to make it more profitable."

"I've no parlour tricks—and don't see the fun of making a performing bear of myself among a lot of strangers."

"It would be bearish to refuse, and allow your sisters to go alone! I've always longed for a brother to take me about. A nice man is always considerate to girls."

Miles grunted.

"If I did go, they wouldn't speak to me all the evening! I never know what to say to strangers. I should have to sit in a corner by myself. There'll be a crowd of girls—you, and Betty, and Mrs Vanburgh's sisters, and who knows how many more?"

Cynthia bowed her head in stately salute.

"You would not be ungallant enough to insinuate that there could be too many! It will be your proud privilege to introduce a masculine element into the assembly."

"Humph!"

"It likewise appears probable to me that Mrs Vanburgh may know a few nice men besides yourself."

Betty would have said "boys," Cynthia knew better, and reaped her reward in Miles' wavering air.

"Couldn't entertain a party for one minute, let alone ten."

"We will go into partnership then, and do it together! Ten minutes instead of five. We'll be confederates, and show them tricks. I know a lovely one about telling the time from the position of a poker—no! How silly I am, I always give away the secret! You tell a card, not the hour. It's quite easy. You have an imaginary clock face on the hearthrug; twelve o'clock is the fire, and you lay the poker on the rug with the point on the number you want—one, two, three and so on, up to queen. For king, you simply hold it in your hand, which puzzles them more than ever."

"What about the suits?"

"Oh, that's quite easy. When the person outside comes in, he must notice first of all how his confederate is looking; to the left means hearts; to the right, diamonds; upwards, clubs; downward, spades. It's really a lovely trick. We'll rehearse it, and I'm sure you must know many more."

"I know some balancing tips,—Georgia Magnet business. You might be the Magnetic Lady, and I'd be the showman."

"Oh, lovely, lovely! Could you teach me really? Could I lift up a table with two or three men sitting on it, like you see in the advertisements?" cried Cynthia fervently, and though Miles replied, "Rather not!" he condescended to state one or two less strenuous feats which she might safely accomplish, and even to put her through a preliminary drilling on the spot.

The battle was won! For the next week Mrs Vanburgh's party was the one subject of discussion with the Trevor sisters. Betty was agitated on the subject of her dress, and being denied a new sash, subsided into gloom for the space of ten minutes, when with a sudden turn of the wheel a mental picture was presented of a ship ploughing across the seas, bearing a lonely emigrant to his difficult task, when it became, all of a sudden, contemptible beyond words to fret oneself about—a ribbon! As she herself had said, having once come face to face with tragedy, her eyes were opened to the petty nature of her own trials. She ironed and pressed, and viewing the shabby bows and insufficient ends, said bravely: "Who cares? It will be all the same in a hundred years!"

Jill wished to know exactly how late the party would be kept up, and if there was to be a sit-down supper. "I loathe 'light refreshments' like we have at breaks up. Bitter lemonade and sangwidges—who wants sangwidges? I like to sit down, and have courses, and stay as long as you like, and crackers, with things in them." When asked how she proposed to amuse the company when her turn came round, she shrugged her shoulders, and replied, "Haven't the faintest idea! Shall think of something, I suppose," in true Jill-like, happy-go-lucky fashion.

Pam sat glued to the window, and kept an unerring record of everything which entered the Vanburgh house for two days before the fray. Baskets from the fruiterer's, trays from the confectioner's; mysterious paper boxes from the Stores; flowers from the florist's; they were all registered in her accurate little brain, and described at length to her sisters.

"Couldn't you bring me back somefing nice?" she pleaded wistfully. "Sweets—or a cracker—or a very pretty cake with icing on it?"—and though Betty proved adamant, Jill succumbed.

"What are pouches for if you can't carry things in them?" she demanded. "My party body has a huge pouch. I'll bring you samples, Pam, and if there are enough, we'll share them together!"

When the great night arrived, Miles was decidedly short as to temper, but he looked so tall and imposing in his dress suit, that Cynthia's designation of "man" seemed nothing but his due. Like all male beings, he seemed to regard the behaviour of his tie and shirt front as the only things of importance in the universe, and so completely engrossed was he thereby that he had only an absent, "Oh, all right!" to return to Betty's anxious inquiries as to her own appearance.

They crossed the road together, three ungainly-looking figures in ulsters and snow-shoes, and were admitted to the Vanburgh hall, which was instinct with the air of festivity. Flowers everywhere, plants banked up in the background, attentive servants to wave you forward; more servants to greet you at the head of the staircase, to help you to unwrap in the bedroom, and make you feel ashamed that your tweed coat was not an opera mantle, like the charming specimens displayed on the bed!

In the drawing-room quite a number of guests were assembled, and Miles was relieved to discover that he was by no means the only member of his sex. Betty's first shyness died away as Christabel smiled at her across the room, and patted the empty seat by her side with an inviting gesture. She looked very charming and imposing in her evening dress, but when Betty ventured to admire it she was informed that it was "A rag, my dear—a prehistoric rag!" and warned that at any moment the worn-out fabric might be expected to fly asunder, when "As you love me, fling yourself upon me, and hurl me from the room! My entertainment comes on last of all. I arranged it so for a special reason," Christabel explained, with the grande dame air which was one of her chief characteristics. "We are to draw lots for the rest, so that there shall be no favouritism."

Presently the lots were drawn, and who should draw number one but Jill, the casual and unprepared! Betty blushed for her, and felt a wild longing to creep beneath the grand piano, but Jill herself laughed, and went forward to seat herself on a chair facing the whole assembly with undisturbed composure.

Everyone stared at her, and she stared back, dropping her head on one side, and screwing up her saucy nose with a transparent pretence of embarrassment, which aroused the first laugh of the evening. Everybody was amused and interested, and ready to be pleased, so that the announcement, "I'm going to ask riddles!" instead of falling flat, as might have been expected, was received with quite a burst of applause. And there she sat asking riddles—venerable old chestnuts for the most part, and the marvel of it was that it was a most lively performance, for the orthodox answers were mischievously replaced by newer and more amusing editions, and one person after another would cry, "That reminds me—do you know what is the difference," etcetera, etcetera, so that presently everyone was asking riddles and catches, and really good ones into the bargain, and it was only after fifteen minutes had elapsed that Jill retired from her post beneath a hurricane of applause. Happy Jill, it was her birthright to charm! It seemed impossible that she should ever do the wrong thing.

When it came to Betty's turn she played conscientiously through the Sonata Pathetique, with which she had been wrestling for two hours a day for the last month. That very morning she had played it over without a single fault, and really and truly the runs had sounded quite professional; but when your head throbs, and your cheeks burn, and your heart pounds, and your feet grow cold, and your fingers are hot, and stick together, and refuse to do what they are told, it is wonderful how differently things sound! Poor Sonata! It really was rather pathetic, and it is to be feared that the audience was almost as much relieved as was Betty herself, when it came to an end.

The Magnetic Lady performance was a great success, Miles as showman being an agreeable surprise to his relations, for if he were not discursive, he was at least perfectly composed and business-like, and the poker trick and balancing feats were alike marvellous and perplexing.

Agatha recounted a story of a haunted castle, and of a ghost which was not a ghost at all, but simply a gentleman's bath-gown hung on a nail. The plot was decidedly thin, but the audience found amusement in the quaint and truly Rendell-like phraseology in which it was presented, and in the lavish use of italics. Poor crushed Betty congratulated Agatha on her success, and Agatha rolled her eyes, and cried tragically—

"My dear—I nearly expired with embarrassment! I was purple with agitation. As a candid friend, tell me truly—has it spread to my nose?"

Somebody recited; someone sang a song; somebody introduced a new game; somebody showed card tricks; a budding artist took lightning portraits of host and hostess and a few of the leading guests, and presently supper was announced before Christabel had had time for her turn.

"Never mind! It will be even better afterwards! I intended it to be afterwards," she said, smiling mysteriously, as she was led down to supper by the oldest and most important man in the room. Miles eagerly appropriated Cynthia, and Betty's partner was one Mr Ned Rendell, the only brother of the houseful of girls, a somewhat lofty and self- satisfied gentleman, who let her see that he considered her a mere child more plainly than was altogether polite. Not being possessed of Jill's youthful love of good things to eat, she was thankful when it was time to return to the drawing-room, where Christabel was already awaiting her turn, with an eagerness which had been lacking in any other performer.

"Put your chairs against the wall, please—quite against the wall! I need all the room I can get," she directed, waving her hands to right and left in masterful fashion. "That's better! Move that table, please. I don't want to knock it down. I shall want someone to help me. Mr Ross, will you be so kind? We must have a musical accompaniment, too. A little slow music—Agatha knows what I mean. Begin at once, please!"

A meaning glance passed between the sisters as Agatha obediently seated herself on the piano-stool and struck up—a waltz tune! When, presto! Christabel and her partner were whirling round the room, while she laughed a merry defiance at Nan, and nodded to the assembled guests to follow her example.

In a trice the floor was covered with dancers, and for the rest of the evening no other amusement had a chance. Christabel had her way after all! It was safe to predict that Christabel generally would get her own way.

It was in the middle of the final Sir Roger, just as she was curtseying in the centre of the two long lines, that Jill's pouch played her false, and a meringue, a sausage roll, and a couple of crackers fell on the ground in a sticky heap. Betty wished that the ground would open and swallow her up, and even Jill had the grace to blush, but Mrs Vanburgh came to the rescue with truly delightful understanding.

"Oh—oh, what a pity! You were taking them home for the children—I always did!" she cried sympathetically. "Bring a shovel, Gervase, please, and take away the crumbs. You should have smuggled them into the bedroom, Jill—that's how I managed. Now then, partner!" and off she went, dancing down the line, and setting everybody else going, so that it was impossible to dwell any longer on the tragic discovery.

Never since the creation of the world, Jill decided, had there lived anyone more deliciously suitable to play the part of hostess to an assembly of young people!



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A STRANGE MEETING.

Time passes rapidly to the young and light-hearted, and winter fogs had given place to blue skies and flowering trees before—as Jill expressed it—one could say "Jack Robinson."

Miles was finishing his course of study, and had so distinguished himself above his fellows that there was little doubt that a good opening would be offered to him ere long. Dr Trevor was very proud of his clever son, but the mother's face took on a wistful expression as she looked round the table at her assembled family, and realised that the time was close at hand for the stirring up of the nest. She was unusually indulgent during those spring months, as if she could not find it in her heart to deny any possible pleasure.

"We shall not long be together. Miles will be going away, and after then—who knows?" she told herself sadly. "Once children begin to grow up and go out into the world, one can never be sure of meeting again as a complete family circle. Let them be happy while they may!"

So those spring months saw an unusual succession of gaieties in the doctor's shabby house, in the shape of merry, informal gatherings, which went far to cement newly-made friendships. Agatha and Christabel Rendell returned home, only to be succeeded by the remaining three sisters of the family, who proved quite as interesting in their various ways. Dear good Maud was as sweet and placid as her own fat baby, while Elsie was an intense young person, quite different from anyone else whom Betty and Cynthia had ever encountered. Her hair was parted in the middle and brushed smoothly over her ears; she wore quaintly unfashionable garments, and—thrilling item of interest!—was engaged to be married to a sub-editor of a magazine, who was reported to be even more intense than herself. Elsie disdained the ordinary sign of betrothal; a ring, she explained to the astonished girls, was a badge of servitude to which no self-respecting woman should submit, and she wore in its place a gold locket, bearing strange cabalistic signs, the meaning of which the beholders vainly yearned to discover.

With regard to the future, Elsie and her editor announced their intention of living "the higher life"—a high-sounding phrase which was not a little impressive, until one heard the details thereof, which scarcely appealed to the ordinary imagination. They were going to subsist on a diet of bread and nuts, a regime which did away at one fell swoop with the need of such superfluities as cook and kitchen; they would have no curtains nor draperies, as woollens harbour microbes; no wall-papers, as papers exude poisons; no ornaments, since it was a sin to waste the precious hours in dusting what was of no use. What they were going to have, soon became the question in the minds of the anxious hearers, while "Poor old Elsie!" cried Nan Vanburgh, laughing. "I give her a month before I am taken for a day's hard shopping at Maple's! She rides her hobbies so violently that they collapse of sheer exhaustion before she has time to put them into practice!"

In the matter of conversation, Elsie swayed between the high-flown and the natural, sometimes chatting away in ordinary commonplace fashion, at other times confounding her hearers by weird and mysterious utterances.

"Have you ever felt the intense meaning in colour?" she demanded one day, at the end of a silence during which she had been gazing into the heart of the fire. Betty stared aghast, but Cynthia, with finer humour, smiled demurely, and replied—

"Of blues—yes! I feel it horribly at times," whereupon, being a Rendell, Elsie descended promptly from her high horse, and chuckled with enjoyment.

After Elsie appeared Lilias—a vision of beauty and elegance, but far too grown-up and superior to care for the society of chits in the schoolroom. Her visit was a round of gaiety, for she did not care for quiet home evenings, but she never seemed really satisfied nor pleased, and there was always a "but" or an "if" at the end of her description of the last day's doings.

Nan looked at her with troubled eyes, and her "Poor Lilias!" had a very different ring from the "Poor old Elsie!" which was after all only a pretence at pity.

Cynthia's prophecy had been fulfilled, for at the end of January Betty had received from America a copy of the New York Herald, with the significant letter "R" printed on a corner of the wrapper. Her friend of the fog had evidently possessed himself of her full name and address before leaving town, and now wished her to know that he had safely reached the scene of his future labours. How carefully that wrapper was preserved! How diligently it was searched for further messages, long after it had been definitely concluded that no such message could exist! Betty considered the handwriting the most manly and distinctive that she had ever beheld; and Cynthia, without going so far, was still prepared to read in it all the desired meanings.

"The letters are joined together; that means sequence of thought and mental ability. The line rises at the end; that shows proper ambition. There are power and success written in every stroke!"

"Dear Cynthia!" sighed Betty ardently. "How clever you are! You are always right."

As for Jack, he was working, absolutely working hard, instead of playing with his tasks. The redoubtable Johnson was constrained to take a second place in the class as a permanency nowadays, and hopes of the scholarship grew apace in the parental heart. Jack did not appreciate home references to his newly-developed industry, and, so strange and unaccountable a thing is schoolboy nature, that when Betty injudiciously remarked on his "goodness," he "slacked it" of intent for a whole week, just to have the satisfaction of telling her of his descent in the class. Not for all the riches in the world would he have explained the real reason for the change, but those three words, "the Captain's orders!" rang in his ears like a battle-cry, and the voice within gave him no peace if he did less than his best. Poor General Digby! It seemed hard that he should be denied the exquisite satisfaction of knowing what good he had been the means of working; but, though Jack's lips were sealed on this point, he showed an appreciation of that gentleman's company and an affectionate forethought for his comfort which were very comforting to a lonely bachelor. It became a habit to drop in at the flat for a cup of tea and half an hour's chat on the way home from school, and to accompany the General for a walk on Sunday afternoons. Dr and Mrs Trevor were pleased that the boy should be brought so much in contact with a man for whom their admiration and respect increased more and more with better acquaintance, for the General's faults were all on the surface, and behind the loud voice and irascible mien were hidden a child-like faith and purity of heart.

And then one day an extraordinary thing happened! Talk of story-books, as Betty said,—talk of three volume novels,—talk of a whole circulating library at once, and never, no never, could you think of anything more exciting or romantic!

Mrs Trevor had invited Miss Beveridge to spend Sunday at Number 1, in response to a plaintive appeal from her eldest daughter.

"She weighs on my mind like a lump of lead, for I know Mrs Vanburgh thinks I'm mean never to have asked her here, but I really can't contend with her alone, she is so frightfully snubbing and superior. If you would let her come some Sunday when everyone is at home, and you are not busy all the time, we could take turns at entertaining her. I'd love you for ever and ever if you only would!"

"Well—it's a big bribe!" said Mrs Trevor, laughing. "Yes, by all means ask her to come. I shall be very glad to welcome her any Sunday, if she seems to enjoy coming."

"Oh, she won't do that. She hasn't any enjoying power left. It's all taught out of her. I don't believe she could feel anything if she tried," quoth Miss Betty in her wisdom, and was fated to see the folly of her words.

Mrs Trevor was pouring out tea in the drawing-room at a little table set almost beneath the shadow of Pam's branching palm. Miss Beveridge was sitting bolt upright in an easy-chair, looking as if she were accustomed to be uncomfortable, and uncomfortable she was determined to be, in spite of all conspiracies to the contrary. She wore a severe black dress, and her iron-grey hair was brushed back from her face with almost painful neatness. Betty looked from one to the other as she handed round cakes and scones, and wondered if her mother was really years and years younger than Miss Beveridge, or if she only looked it because she was pretty and dainty, and happy at heart. Miss Beveridge had beautiful features, but the listless gloom of her expression spoiled what beauty she might still have possessed. Nan's persistent efforts had to some extent thawed the icy barrier of reserve, but in a strange atmosphere it seemed to have frozen even harder than before, so that Mrs Trevor was devoutly thankful for the arrival of the tea-tray, and wondered no more at Betty's unwillingness to tackle this silent visitor.

And then the door opened, and Jack's cheery voice was heard.

"Hallo, mother, here's a friend come to tea!" he announced, and the next moment the whole atmosphere of the room was changed, as the General's big form hobbled forward, the big red face smiled its big kind smile, and the big voice boomed out a thunderous greeting.

"Afternoon, madam! Afternoon, Lady Betty! This boy tempted me, and I fell. What's this I hear about hot muffins and apricot jam? When I was a nipper there was no boy in the length of Ireland that could beat Terence Digby at a muffin struggle. Where's my friend Jill? Plain Jill! Eh, what? No, my dear—I said to her—that, at least, you never can be. That's taken out of your power! Where's Miss Pussy Pam? I can't see you all in this half light. Very picturesque for young eyes, madam, but when you get old like me you'll be thankful for electricity. Eh! Who's this?"

He had caught a glimpse of the figure in the easy-chair, and, wheeling suddenly round, stared full at it. Stared, and grew silent. And Miss Beveridge stared back, and her eyes looked big, big, and oh! So dark and deep. And her lips worked as if she were going to speak, and a red spot came out on each cheek, and she was not Miss Beveridge any longer, but someone whom the onlookers had never seen before.

The General's figure seemed to stiffen, his bent shoulders straightened and broadened out. He stretched out his right hand.

"Alice!" he said, and his voice was soft and breathless. One could hardly imagine it could be General Digby's voice. "Alice! Is that you?"

She put her hand in his, and nodded dumbly. Mrs Trevor rattled her teacups, questioned Jack volubly as to his walk—frowning at Betty to second her efforts, and so leave the two old friends undisturbed; but it was beyond girl nature to resist sly peeps, and if one's ears were made sharp by nature, how could one help hearing odd scraps of conversation?

"And you have been living in London for years? You are not—" a glance at the ringless hand—"not married then? I always thought you would marry. ... You will give me your address. I must not lose sight of you again.—A Governesses' Home. Oh, Alice!" ...

General Digby had no appetite for muffins and apricot jam that afternoon. His fierce old face worked strangely as he sat with the untasted tea in his hands, his glassy eyes were for once moist and tender. As for Miss Beveridge, the flush died away from her cheeks, leaving her looking even more worn and grey than before, and Betty, looking at her, was conscious of a sudden tender outgoing of the heart, a longing to help and comfort, such as had inspired Nan Vanburgh months before, but after which she herself had striven in vain. This was evidently a meeting of old lovers parted by some untoward fate. Ah, poor soul, and it had come too late! Youth and health, and joy and beauty, had all paid toll to the long years as they passed. How shocked and pained the General must be, to meet his love in such a sadly different guise! It was not possible he could care for her any more. Better not to have met, and to have preserved the old illusion.

"I'll be nice to her! I thought she had been born old, but she has been young after all. I will be nice to her. I'll try to make up!" said Betty pitifully to herself.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A TETE-A-TETE.

Half an hour later, when Betty escorted the General to the door, he paused in the hall to lay his hand on her arm, and inquire in a voice unusually tremulous—

"You have often spoken to me about your 'Govies,' as you call them. Was—was She one of the number?"

Betty murmured an assent, guiltily conscious of the criticisms which had accompanied the references. Was he about to take her to task for all the scathing remarks she had made on the subject of his old love? But no—the grip tightened on her arm, and he said gently—

"God bless you, my dear, for all your kindness! May it be meted out to you a hundred times over in your hour of need. A Governesses' Home— Alice Beveridge! And Terence Digby living in the lap of luxury! Well, well! Twenty years, my dear, since we last met—I was over forty, but she was a mere girl. A beautiful girl,—I never saw her equal, and the years have not touched her. I should have known her anywhere. She is marvellously unchanged!"

Betty gazed at him dumbly, and there came to her at that moment, for the first time in her life, a realisation of the deep, abiding love which sees beneath the surface, and knows neither change nor time. She had no inclination to laugh at the old man's blindness; rather she felt towards him reverence and admiration. Happy Miss Beveridge! To one loyal heart at least she would remain always young, always beautiful. Happy Terence Digby, who had kept his ideal untouched!

When Betty retraced her steps to the drawing-room a few minutes later, another surprise was in waiting, for behold, Miss Beveridge sobbing, with her hands over her face, while Mrs Trevor patted her tenderly on the shoulder. She looked across the room and shook her head at her young daughter.

"Go away, Betty dear, please! Leave us alone," she said gently, and Betty tottered across the hall and collapsed in a heap on the nearest chair, positively faint with excitement. The first real romance with which she had come in contact,—and behold! The leading characters were General Digby and Miss Beveridge! Wonders would never cease!

The next afternoon the General appeared once more, and had a long tete- a-tete with Mrs Trevor.

"I am sorry to be such a trouble to you, madam, but you have no one to blame but yourself, for you have been so patient and forbearing with me during the last six months, that I feel as if there were no limits to your kindness. I went to that Governesses' Home to-day—for that matter I passed it half a dozen times, but I could not screw up my courage to do any more. The look of the place daunted me, to begin with. To think of Alice Beveridge shut up there! Besides, I'm a soldier; my life has been spent among men; I haven't the pluck to face a houseful of women. Be a good angel, and let us meet here once more! I was too much overcome yesterday to know what I was saying, but something must be done, and done quickly. I can't go on living as I am, and think of her working for her living. Of course, you know what it all means. You are a woman, and women are quick enough at guessing these things. I never cared for another woman. I was a middle-aged man when we met, and it went very hard with me when she said Number 1 was not a boy, to forget at the sight of the next pretty face. I have tried to make the best of things, but it's been lonely work. I went abroad immediately after she refused me, and heard no more about her. She was visiting a common friend when we met. I knew nothing of her family, so we simply passed out of each other's lives. I always thought of her as happily married years ago; it never dawned upon me that there could have been any misunderstanding, but yesterday when we met there was something in her face, her manner— She seemed almost as much agitated as I was myself. I may be a conceited old idiot, but it seemed to me as if she had cared after all,—as if there had been some mistake! Women talk to each other more openly than we do. If she told you anything about it, I think you ought to let me know. I have waited a long time!"

There was a pathos in the sound of those last few words which went straight to Mrs Trevor's heart, and she answered as frankly as he had spoken.

"Yes, indeed, it has been a hard time for you both. Miss Beveridge quite broke down after you left last night, and I gathered from what she said that at the time of your proposal she was taken by surprise, and felt nervous and uncertain of herself, as girls often do. It was only after you had sailed, and she was at home again, that she realised what a blank your absence made, and knew that she had loved you all the time. She hoped you might write, or see her on your return."

"But she had not the courage to write herself, and acknowledge her mistake? Well, well! Women have their own code of honour, I suppose, but it would have been a gracious act. I remembered her always, but it did not seem to me the straight thing to force myself on a girl half my age, who had already refused me once, and so we have gone on misunderstanding all these years. Then I suppose trouble began? Her people were not rich, but she had a comfortable home, so far as I knew."

"The parents died, and she was obliged to earn her own living. She has been teaching music in London for the last fifteen years."

The General groaned.

"I know! I know! Dragging about in all weathers, to earn a few shillings for hearing wretched brats strumming five-finger exercises. Beg pardon, ma'am—I should not have said that to you! You have children of your own."

"But I do not in the least envy their music-mistress!" cried Mrs Trevor, smiling. "It is a hard, hard life, especially when it is a case of going back to an Institution instead of a home. It is young Mrs Vanburgh, Betty's friend, to whom you are really indebted for this meeting. It was her idea to welcome lonely gentlewomen to her home, and Miss Beveridge happened to be her first visitor."

"God bless her!" said the General reverently. He sat in silence for some minutes, gazing dreamily before him, a puzzled look on the red face. At last—"Now there's the question of the future to consider!" he said anxiously. "I'm getting old—sixty-four next birthday, precious near the allotted span of life, but she is twenty years younger—she may have a long life before her still. It would break my heart to let her go on working, but she'd be too proud to take money from me, unless— unless— Mrs Trevor, you are a sensible woman! I can trust you to give me a candid answer. Would you consider me a madman if I asked the girl a second time to marry me, old as I am, gouty as I am? Is it too late, or can you imagine it possible that she might still care to take me in hand?"

He looked across the room as he spoke with a pathetic eagerness in his glance, and Mrs Trevor's answering smile was full of tenderness.

"Indeed I can! I should not think you a madman at all, General, for I am old enough to know that the heart does not age with the body, and that the happiness which comes late in life is sometimes the sweetest of all. You are a hale man still, in spite of your gout, and with a wife to care for you, you might renew your youth. I hope and believe that all will go well this time, but let me advise you not to be in too great a hurry. Twenty years is a long time, and you and Miss Beveridge have led such very different lives that you may find that there is little sympathy left between you. It is only a 'may,' but I do think you would do well to see more of each other before speaking of anything so serious as marriage. You shall have plenty of opportunity of seeing each other, I promise you that! I will invite Miss Beveridge to spend as much of her time with us as is possible, and you shall be left alone to renew your acquaintance, and learn to know each other afresh. That will be the wisest plan, will it not?"

"Um—um!" grunted the General vaguely. He frowned and looked crestfallen, for he retained enough of his youthful impetuosity to make anything like delay distinctly a trial. "Perhaps you are right, though I cannot believe that any number of years could change my feelings. Alice is—Alice! The one woman in the world I ever loved. That's the beginning and the end of the matter, but perhaps for her sake I should not be hasty. Mustn't frighten her again, poor girl! That's arranged, then, ma'am—you let us meet in your house, and if we live, we'll try to pay you back for your goodness, and I'll wait—two or three weeks. You wouldn't wish me to wait longer than two or three weeks?" He put up his hand and raked his grey locks into a fierce, upstanding crest, while a curious embarrassment flashed across his face. "A married man? Terence Digby married! There's only one thing I'm afraid of—Johnson! What will Johnson say to a woman in possession?"

Mrs Trevor laughed, but could give no reply, and presently the General took himself off, and left her to write an invitation for the next week- end to his old love, which was accepted in a grateful little note by return of post.

For three nights running did the General dine at Dr Trevor's table, while Miss Beveridge sat beside him, with pathetic little bows of lace pinned in the front of her shabby black silk, which somehow looked shabbier than ever for the attempt at decoration. At the beginning of the meal she was just Miss Beveridge, stiff, silent, colourless; but as time passed by and she talked to the General, and the General talked to her, attending to her little wants as if they were of all things in the world the most important, fussing about a draught that might possibly distress her, and violently kicking his opposite neighbour in his endeavours to provide her with a footstool, gradually, gradually the Miss Beveridge of the music-lessons and the Governesses' Home disappeared from sight, and there appeared in her place an absolutely different woman, with a sweet smiling face, out of which the lines seemed to have been miraculously smoothed away, while a delicate colour in her cheeks gave to the once grey face something of the fragile beauty of an old pastel.