"Oh, yes, Arbuthnot; he was bitterly cut up. He is a judge now, and has a good wife, but I doubt if he has ever forgotten Olive. She was no beauty, but she had a way with her. Stay—I will show you her picture."

"Poor man! No wonder he looks melancholy," thought Olivia, as he slowly hobbled away on his crutches. "How strange that I should remind him of her, and that she should be Olive too!" but when Mr. Gaythorne returned and placed a beautiful miniature before her, she could see no resemblance to herself in the dark sweet face of Olive Gaythorne.

No, she was not beautiful, but there was something wonderfully attractive and winning in her expression; the eyes, deep-set like her father's, had a frank soft look.

"Your only child—and you lost her," murmured Olivia, sympathetically.

"My only daughter," corrected Mr. Gaythorne, in a tone so peculiar, that Olivia raised her eyes, and then she felt a little frightened. There was a curious pallor on Mr. Gaythorne's face, which made it look like old ivory, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn closely together.

"It is a sweet face—a dear face," returned Olivia, hurriedly. She was a little nervous over her mistake. "It is kind of you to show me this, and I like to think her name was Olive." And then she closed the case reverently and put it back in his hands. "I must go now," she said; "it has been such a lovely time, and you have taught me so much. Will you send for me again when you want to see me? I think that is best; it would be such a pity for me to disturb you when you felt tired or disinclined for visitors."

"You are my only visitor," returned Mr. Gaythorne, in his old grim manner. "The Vicar's wife—what is the woman's name?—forced her way in one day, but I do not think her reception pleased her. The Vicar himself is an honest man. I have given him a hint that he will be welcome if he comes alone, but no bustling prying vicaress for me."

"Oh, poor Mrs. Tolman; well, she is a little officious, as Marcus calls her, and I know she often sets Aunt Madge's nerves on edge."

"Oh, by the way, I intend to send Mrs. Broderick some more flowers; will it be a trouble to you to take them, or shall one of the lasses carry them straight to her house?"

"Oh, no; please let me have the pleasure of taking them. If you had only seen Aunt Madge's delight——"

"She wrote me a pretty sort of note," returned Mr. Gaythorne; "but tell her not to do that again, gratitude is for favours to come; you may remind her of that. Does she always sign her name in that fashion—Margaret Broderick, widow——?"

"Yes, always; it is one of Aunt Madge's whimsies; but you will never get her to alter."

"It does not sound badly, but it is certainly unique. How would it answer if one were to follow her example. John Alwyn Gaythorne, widower," and here Mr. Gaythorne gave a short sardonic laugh.

"Marcus! oh, Marcus!" exclaimed Olivia, coming into the room in her breezy fashion. "I have so much to tell you. Mr. Gaythorne is a widower—and he has lost his only daughter, and her name was Olivia, and that is why he has taken to me, because I remind him of her; but"—checking herself as she caught sight of her husband's face—"you have something to tell me too."

"Only that they sent for me from Fairfax Lodge, that is that ivy-covered house next to Galvaston House. A child taken suddenly with croup. I have been there most of the afternoon."

Then Olivia clapped her hands with a little exclamation of delight. Marcus's tone had been quite cool and matter-of-fact, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The tide had turned at last.



CHAPTER VII.

BLOWING BUBBLES.

"How pleasant it is to be acquainted with new and clever things."—Aristophanes.

Marcus certainly carried his head a little higher than usual that evening; as for Olivia, she trod on air. As she sat at her needlework later on, waiting until Marcus returned from his second visit to Galvaston House, her thoughts were busy about the future.

Marcus would soon have a large practice; it was all very well for Aunt Madge to be sententious, and say that one swallow does not make a spring; but already the second harbinger of good luck had put in an appearance.

There was no fear of parting with Martha now; before long Olivia was building magnificent castles. The house next door to Galvaston House was to let, it had a garden and a small conservatory, and Marcus had once remarked that it was just the house for a medical man; the reception-rooms were good and there was a capital stable.

"Supposing we were ever rich enough to take Kempton Lodge," she said to herself.

Marcus threw back his head and indulged in a hearty laugh, when he heard where his wife's imagination had landed her.

"Kempton Lodge—my dear child—why do you not suggest Prince's Gate, or Belgravia? My own thoughts had not gone further than a new greatcoat this winter. I am afraid my old one is getting a little seedy." And at this remark, Olivia's airily constructed fabric dissolved into nothingness.

To blow bubbles is an enchanting pastime even with grown-up children. The big bright-coloured bubbles soar into the air and look so beautiful before they burst. One is gone, but another takes its place, just as rainbow-tinted, and gorgeous. There are people who blow endless bubbles until their life's end, who cannot be induced to discontinue the harmless pursuit.

"Life is so hard and dreary," they say. "The wheels of drudgery are for ever turning and grinding; let us sit in the sun a little and float our fairy balls. What if they are dreams and never come to anything; the dreams and the sunlight have made us happy; there is plenty of time in which to do our work."

Marcus laughed at his wife's fancies; but he never crushed them ruthlessly. "Poor little Livy," he thought, "why should she not build her air castles if they make her happy, and perhaps, after all, who knows——" but Marcus did not finish his sentence even to himself.

But the next day when he went to Maybrick Villas to fetch his wife home, he had a good deal to say about his new patients.

"I am in luck," he said, as he stood warming himself before the fire, while the two women watched him. "I thought of course when they sent for me that it was because I was the nearest doctor, and that perhaps their own medical man was engaged—in an imminent case like that it is impossible to wait—but no, it was nothing of the kind. Mrs. Stanwell told me herself—she is such a nice little person, Livy—that they have only been a few months at Fairfax Lodge, and that before that they had lived in Yorkshire.

"Being strangers in the place they were sadly perplexed on the subject of doctors, until the nurse told her mistress that she had seen me going in and out of Galvaston House. And this decided Mrs. Stanwell to send for me. As I was able to do the child good, they are ridiculously grateful. I am likely to have another patient there; Mrs. Stanwell has an aunt living with her, and she is ailing. I have only taken a hasty diagnosis of the case, but I am going again to-morrow. I am half afraid the poor old lady is in a bad way."

"It is a long lane that has no turning, Marcus," observed Aunt Madge. "There, you must take Olive away, she has been wearying the past half-hour to get back to Dot!" but as they left her alone in the firelight she said to herself:

"Dear things, how happy they look! at their age life is so dreadfully exciting. I believe myself Marcus will get on; he is really clever, and never spares himself, but I doubt if Livy or I will ever be so interested in anyone as we are in Marcus's first patient."

Olivia would have indorsed this sentiment readily; before long Mr. Gaythorne became an important factor in her daily life, the friendship between them ripened rapidly.

Olivia kept to her resolution of never going to Galvaston House unless she were specially invited; but every three or four days a message from the old man reached her.

Olivia, whose only dissipation had been a weekly tea with Aunt Madge, and a biannual call at the Vicarage, with or without tea, according to Mrs. Tolman's mood, found these afternoons at Galvaston House very stimulating.

At first she was sorry when Mr. Gaythorne gave up sitting in the winter garden, and ensconced himself in the library, but she soon changed her opinion when he began to show her his curiosities and rare prints. He had so much to tell her about the birds and butterflies in the museum as he called the inner room, that the hours flew past as she listened to him, and it was always with real regret that she took her leave when the time came for her to go home.

"Aunt Madge and Marcus find me so much more interesting ever since you have taken me in hand," she said once. "I try and repeat all you tell me, but, of course, I forget half. Very often Marcus helps me to remember—he has read so much on these subjects, you see."

Perhaps it was this artless speech that led to Mr. Gaythorne showing Marcus a case of curious insects, and Dr. Luttrell had been so fascinated, so utterly engrossed, that the old man, much flattered, had cordially invited him into the museum. Marcus, who had still much time on his hands, often spent a pleasant hour or two with his patient. Mr. Gaythorne lent him books, and gave him choice brands of cigars.

Olivia was highly delighted at these evident marks of favour, but it troubled her that Mr. Gaythorne never liked them to come together. Olivia was always invited pointedly when Marcus's visit had been paid, and now and then he would ask Dr. Luttrell to have a chat with him after dinner. Once when Olivia had ventured to hint her disapproval of this he had answered with unwonted irritability.

"I like to take my pleasures singly, Mrs. Luttrell. I am sorry if I keep you from your husband. I am a selfish old misanthrope, I am afraid;" but Olivia, alarmed by this decided acerbity, hastened to assure him that her remark had meant nothing.

"It is so natural of me to want Marcus to share my pleasure," she said so sweetly that Mr. Gaythorne was mollified.

Even Marcus noticed a decided improvement in his patient's manner. He was less irritable and contradictory, and was evidently grateful for the relief he had derived from his doctor's treatment. The bare civility with which he had at first tolerated Marcus soon changed into greater cordiality. Dr. Luttrell's intelligence could appreciate Mr. Gaythorne's culture and learning. Before long they were on the best of terms, but it was Olivia who was the prime favourite.

When Olivia's face appeared on the threshold Mr. Gaythorne's eyes brightened under their rugged brows, and his voice insensibly softened. To her, and her only, he showed his real self.

"He has a strange complex nature," she said once to her husband. "He is very reserved, there are some things of which he never speaks. He has not once mentioned his son. I should not have known he had one, only I saw the name of Alwyn Gaythorne in a book. 'I thought your first name was John?' I said rather heedlessly.

"'So it is, John Alwyn,' he returned; 'that book belonged to my son,' but his voice was so constrained that I did not venture to say more. Depend upon it there is a mystery there, Marcus."

"'Perhaps Alwyn the younger is a Nihilist," returned Marcus, in a teasing voice. "Probably he is at Portland at the present moment, undergoing his sentence. No wonder poor Mr. Gaythorne is such a recluse;" but Olivia refused to be entertained by this badinage.

"I am quite in earnest," she returned, with a grave air. "So you need not trouble yourself to be ridiculous, Marcus. Why should he talk so much of his daughter and never mention his only son?"

"According to you he is almost as silent on the subject of his wife."

"Oh, that is different," she answered, hastily. "He once said to me that he could never bear even to hear her name mentioned, that it upset him so. 'I was a happy man as long as she lived,' he said, so sadly, 'but it was all up with me when I lost her. She was a peacemaker, she always kept things smooth; her name was Olivia too.'"

"Poor old boy," was Marcus's irrelevant remark at this.

"Yes, he is a strange mixture," went on Olivia, thoughtfully. "He has an affectionate nature, but he is hard too; he could be terribly hard, I am sure of that. And then see how good he is to those poor Traverses and to Aunt Madge. Could anyone be more generous. And yet he is not liberal by nature. That very day that he sent Mrs. Crampton to the Models with all those good things—jellies and beef-tea and chicken and actually two bottles of port wine—he was as angry as possible with Phoebe, because she had broken his medicine glass. Mrs. Crampton had orders to deduct the price of the glass from her wages. 'I always do that,' he said to me, 'it teaches them to be careful,' but poor Phoebe cried about it afterwards.

"'I call it real mean of master,' Phoebe had said; 'it is the first thing that ever I broke in this house, and it was all through Eros getting between my feet. It is not the few pence I mind, for we have good wages paid down on the day, but I call it shabby of master to be down on a poor servant-girl like that.'

"His servants don't seem to love him," went on Olivia. "They serve him well, because it is their interest to do so, but even Mrs. Crampton, who has been with him twenty years, does not dare to contradict him."

"Anyhow, he is liberal to us," returned Marcus, patting his waistcoat pocket, for he had that morning received his first cheque.

Marcus's first act had been to go to the coal merchant and order in a ton of excellent coal, then he had gone home and told his wife in a peremptory tone to put on her hat and jacket.

"I am going to take you to Harvey and Phelps to get a new dress and jacket," he said, severely. "I am not going to put up with that rusty old serge any longer," and Olivia had remonstrated in vain against such extravagance.

It was all very well to blow bubbles and furnish Kempton Lodge from garret to basement, but when it came to spending Marcus's first cheque——!

"Marcus, dear," she said, imploringly, "my old dress is quite tidy. I put new braid round it yesterday, and I would so much rather you got a new great-coat. Even Aunt Madge noticed that your present one was dreadfully shabby."

"Of course I shall get a new coat too," returned Dr. Luttrell, coolly. Then at the thought of this lavishness Olivia was stricken dumb.

Marcus made his purchases with great discretion; the grey tweed and warm jacket to match suited Olivia's tall supple figure perfectly—he had a momentary debate with himself before he ventured on a modest black straw hat with velvet trimmings, but in the end the order was given.

"Oh, Marcus, how could you!" exclaimed Olivia, who was at fever point by this time.

"Hold your tongue, Livy!" returned Marcus, good-humouredly. "I mean my wife to be well-dressed for once in her life. Now I must go to the tailor's for that great-coat. There won't be much of Mr. Gaythorne's cheque left by the time I get home. We shall want the balance for Christmas groceries."

Olivia groaned in spirit over Marcus's recklessness, but she could not bear to damp his enjoyment. She unburdened her mind to Mrs. Broderick the next day.

"Don't you think it would have been wiser to have put it by for a rainy day?" she said, anxiously. But Aunt Madge did not seem quite to share this opinion.

"My dear," she said, shrewdly, "I think Marcus knows what he is about; it would never do for him to go to those good houses in a shabby greatcoat. A little outlay is sometimes a good investment."

"Oh, yes, but I was thinking of the dress and jacket and that hat, Aunt Madge——"

"Ah, well, we must forgive Marcus that extravagance! It hurt his pride to see you calling at Galvaston House in that old serge dress. He is not really improvident, Livy. You have enough in hand for present necessities, and there will be something coming in next month."

"Oh, dear, yes; and do you know, Aunt Madge, they have sent for Marcus to attend the lodger at number seventeen. He is a music-teacher and very respectable, and can afford to pay his doctor, so that is swallow number three."

"Then I am sure you can wear your new dress with an easy conscience," and then Olivia's last scruples vanished.

Olivia looked so distinguished in her grey tweed that Marcus made her blush by telling her that she had never looked so handsome.

Mr. Gaythorne gave her an odd penetrating glance when she entered the library.

"I hardly knew you, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, dryly, and then his manner changed and softened. "That was her favourite colour," he said. "Olive was always a grey bird; she liked soft, subdued tints; she was a bit of a Puritan. I often told her so."

"I am glad you like my new dress," returned Olivia, simply. "My husband chose it for me, he has such good taste."

"You need not tell me that, Mrs. Luttrell." And again Olivia blushed like a girl at the implied compliment.

Mr. Gaythorne was looking over a portfolio of water-colour paintings. Olivia had not yet seen them, and she was full of outspoken admiration, as Mr. Gaythorne placed one after another before her.

"They are all the work of a young artist who died at Rome," he said. "I bought them of his widow. They are very well done; he had great promise, poor fellow. If he had lived, he would have done good work. These were merely pot-boilers, as he called them—little things he painted on the spur of the moment."

"To me they are perfectly beautiful," returned Olivia. "Those two are so lovely that I could not choose between them. Please let me look at them a little longer, Mr. Gaythorne, I want to tell Aunt Madge about them." And Olivia, who was always charmingly natural in her movements, propped her chin on her hands, and looked long and earnestly at the pictures.

Their beauty lay in the soft rich colouring and a certain suggestiveness in the subject.

One was a little grey church on a hill-side; the church was ruinous and out of repair, the churchyard full of weeds and thistles; a storm had just broken, and an old shepherd in a ragged smock had taken refuge in the porch, his rough-looking dog at his feet. The bowed figure and knotted hands, and the peaceful look in the wrinkled face were wonderfully striking, the patient eyes turned upwards were gazing at the rainbow. "'Tis a love token, I reckon," were the words written underneath the sketch.

Olivia could almost hear them through the parted lips; ruins and thistles and weeds and a broken storm, and beyond them the message of peace, written on the bright tints of the rainbow, for one simple heart to read.

"Aunt Madge would understand that," she said to herself; "she would like that picture best, but this is just as beautiful to my mind."

The second sketch was equally suggestive; it was a cornfield with poppies growing in it; under the hedge in the cool shade lay a brown baby asleep. A dish tied up in a blue handkerchief and a stone bottle lay beside the infant; an old terrier kept watch over them both.

"Keeping watch and ward" was the title of this picture; it was certainly very well painted. A breeze seemed rippling through the corn in the nook where the child lay; there were festoons of honeysuckle and dog-roses, and long sprays of traveller's joy. The stumpy grey terrier sitting erect at his post of duty was full of significance and individuality. The mother was evidently among the reapers in the far distance.

"One would never be tired of looking at that cornfield," observed Olivia, and though Mr. Gaythorne smiled at her enthusiasm, he would not spoil her enjoyment by pointing out to her one or two defects that he had already noticed.

By-and-by he called her to pour out the coffee—Mr. Gaythorne never indulged in afternoon tea.

"This is not much like Christmas weather," he said, looking out at the cold mizzling rain; "the forecasts promise a change, however. I suppose I must not ask if you dislike Christmas, it would not be a fair question at your age."

"No, indeed; I love it dearly. I have only had one sad Christmas—the year dear mother died—it is my birthday too, that makes it doubly festive. I am so glad I was born on such a beautiful day; that is why my second name is Noel."

"And you hold high festival on it?"

"Well, we cannot do much. Marcus and I always go to the early service, that is how we begin the day, and then he always has some little present on the breakfast table. It is the one day in the year we always dine with Aunt Madge; she is such an invalid, you see, that very little tires her; but on Christmas Day, we first dine with her quietly, and have an early tea, then come home; we are generally back by six o'clock, and have a long evening by ourselves. Do you spend Christmas Day quite alone, Mr. Gaythorne?"

"Yes, quite alone," he returned, gloomily; "but I have plenty of ghosts to visit me," and his face twitched, and he stooped over the pictures as he spoke.



CHAPTER VIII.

"'TIS A LOVE TOKEN, I RECKON."

"It is in men as in soils—where sometimes there is a vein of gold which the owner knows not of."—Dean Swift.

"Marcus, I have an idea."

Olivia had been sitting for some time in a brown study, staring into the red caverns, where the yellow fire-elves were beating out their rainbow gold on their glowing, hissing anvils.

It was in the gloaming, and the little sitting-room was warm and cosy. Dot was on her mother's lap, toasting her pink toes gleefully, and chuckling over them in baby fashion. And Marcus, who had finished his day's work, had left off trying to read by the light of the flickering flame, and was indulging in a furtive doze. He roused up when Olivia's clear voice broke the silence.

"Marcus, do you hear me? I have such a nice plan."

"Is it a riddle?" he returned, lazily. "I give it up." Then he contemplated his small daughter with much satisfaction. "I wonder none of you advanced women have ever turned your attention to baby-language," he observed presently; "we are studying the ape-vocabulary, you know. Dot has got quite a little language of her own. As far as I can make out each sentence is finished off with a 'gurgle-doe.' Something between the 'gobble, gobble' of a turkey and the coo of the ring-dove. I suppose it all means something."

"Means something!" and Olivia kissed the little rings of curly hair with passionate fondness. "Of course my girlie means something! I understand her as well as possible. She is scolding the fire, because it has burnt her dear little toes. Look, she is showing them to me. Naughty fire, to burn my baby." And thereupon followed one of those maternal and infantine duets, which appear such hopeless jargon to the masculine mind.

To Marcus it had a lulling effect, his eyes began to blink drowsily again, but Olivia, who had passed a solitary day, was not disposed for silence.

"You are not a bit curious about my plan, dear," she said presently. "I have been thinking so much of that sad, sad speech of Mr. Gaythorne's yesterday. I cannot bear to think of him alone all Christmas Day, with only the ghosts of happier years to haunt him."

"There is no need for him to be alone," returned Marcus, coolly. "He could invite us to supper. Why don't you propose it, Livy? You seem to say anything that comes into your head. A good bowl of steaming punch would drive all the grey and black spirits away. I would undertake to amuse him." But Olivia only looked at him rebukingly.

"Marcus, it is so tiresome that you will always joke when I want to be serious. Now, do give me a straightforward answer, if you can. Shall you have any visits to pay on Christmas Day?"

"My dear child, how can you expect me to answer in that off-hand way, and without consulting my visiting list? Well, if you must know," as Olivia uttered an impatient exclamation, "I shall have to go up to the Models after tea, to see that poor woman who was confined yesterday. The baby is not likely to live; and then I shall look in on Travers. I don't suppose I shall be out more than an hour."

"Oh, that will do nicely," returned his wife, in a satisfied tone. "Marcus, do you know, I have made up my mind to pay Mr. Gaythorne a surprise visit on Christmas evening. We are always back by six, and I know he does not dine until half-past seven. Do you think I dare venture? You see, I have never been without an invitation yet."

"And you actually mean 'to beard the lion in his den, and Douglas in his hall,'" spouted Marcus. And then, in his ordinary voice, "Well, you might try it, if you like; but I should not be surprised if you got snubbed. Christmas ghosts have a ghastly effect, and rub a man up the wrong way."

"Oh, I will take my chance of that," returned Olivia, cheerfully. "Now I will put Dot to bed, and leave you to finish your nap in peace."

"Thank goodness!" was on the tip of Marcus's tongue, but he refrained and only curled himself up afresh in his easy-chair. He had sat up late over his books the previous night, wasting lamp-oil and coals, as his wife had remarked, rather severely, and the cold air, with a touch of frost in it, had made him sleepy.

Olivia had been bristling all day, like a blissful porcupine, with little plans and surprises: first, she had actually saved out of Aunt Madge's Christmas gift enough money to buy Marcus another of Thackeray's novels; last Christmas she had given him The Newcomes, and this year she had fixed on Esmond.

Marcus was devoted to Thackeray, and thirsted for a complete set of his works, but at present only Vanity Fair and The Newcomes were on his modest bookshelves. Neither the husband nor wife thought it right to spend even those few shillings on the purchase of books, when they could make use of the Free Library.

The new copy of Esmond looked decidedly inviting, with its clean, uncut pages, and then there was really a handsome work-bag for Aunt Madge, fashioned by Olivia's skilful fingers out of a yard of cretonne. Olivia had already received her Christmas presents, and had nothing to expect. Her new outfit, and Dot's pelisse, and Martha's wages were all birthday and Christmas gifts. Nevertheless when Marcus came on Christmas Eve to hang up their scanty store of holly, he was met by his wife's excited face.

"Oh, Marcus!" she exclaimed, "I thought you would never come home; there is such a hamper from Galvaston House, and I am waiting for you to open it. And oh! do you know, dear, Aunt Madge has sent us some of her delicious mince pies, and a Christmas cake!"

"She is a good old soul," returned Marcus, fervently. "By-the-bye, Olive, could not we have supper earlier? for this sharp air—and it is freezing hard, let me tell you—has made me as hungry as a hunter." And as Olivia conceded this point graciously, he was induced to follow her to the small kitchen, where Martha, all smiles and excitement, awaited them.

Martha had her best dress on, for she was going round to her mother's presently, with her little store of Christmas gifts: a red knitted shawl for her mother and half a pound of tea, a comforter for her father, and some warm cuffs for the boys, and gingerbread-nuts and some oranges for the children, to which Olivia had added a bag of mixed sweets.

Martha's round eyes widened with amazement when the hamper was opened, and a plump turkey, and a fine York ham came to view; there were also half a dozen bottles of old port-wine for Dr. Luttrell, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments, and a box of candied fruit and a jar of preserved ginger for his wife.

"Oh, Marcus! is not this kind?" Olivia's voice was almost awe-struck; her acquaintance with turkeys had hitherto been strictly limited to a partial view of their limp bodies as they dangled above her in the poulterers' shops; now her little larder would be filled to overflowing.

"Shall I step across and thank him, while you put those things away?" suggested Marcus. And as Olivia agreed to this, he caught up his hat and vanished.

When everything was safely stowed away, and Martha had been made supremely happy by the gift of two mince pies for her mother, and had trotted off red in the face with excitement, Olivia busied herself in getting the supper ready. The unsightly remains of a cold shoulder of mutton had been transformed into tempting rissoles. Olivia always treated her husband to a hot supper on Christmas Eve. Potatoes cooked in their coats, and a couple of Deborah's mince pies, finished off the menu, to which Marcus did ample justice. Afterwards he hung up their holly, and then Olivia fetched her work-basket, and Marcus went on with the novel that he was reading aloud, and both of them looked at the clock in amazement when Martha's modest ring told them the evening was over.

When Marcus put on his new great-coat the next morning, he shrugged his shoulders as he opened the front-door. Instead of the frost he had expected, the icy coldness of the air and the heavy aspect of the wintry sky were premonitory signs of a snow-storm.

"It is hardly fit for you to go out," he said, as Olivia joined him, but she only smiled at him, her vigorous young strength was proof against the cold.

"We must hurry, Marcus," she said, briskly, "or we shall be late, and I want to enjoy my Christmas service," for she had already arranged to take care of Dot during the morning, while Martha went to church. Marcus had his rounds, and would fetch her in time for the early dinner at Maybrick Villas.

The quiet service in the warm, well-lighted church was very soothing and refreshing. As Olivia knelt beside her husband, her heart swelled with thankfulness for countless blessings. "I have not deserved to be so happy," she said to herself, as she thought of her two treasures.

Martha had breakfast ready for them on their return, and Olivia hurried upstairs to take off her hat. She was just stepping into the dining-room, when Marcus caught hold of her, and blindfolded her playfully.

"No, you are not to look yet!" he said, teasingly. "There is a surprise in store for you." But as he took his hands from her eyes, she uttered a little cry of ecstasy.

On the breakfast-table, propped up with books, was a small framed picture, the very cornfield, with the brown baby asleep under the hedge, and the old terrier guarding it, that she had so admired. A card, with Mr. Gaythorne's compliments and Christmas greeting, was beside it.

"What do you think of your friend now, Livy?"

But Olivia seemed to have no answer ready, her lips trembled, and the tears gathered in her bright eyes. Marcus, who was almost as pleased as she was, patted her on the shoulder kindly, and bade her pour out the coffee, but for a long time Olivia could not be induced to go on with her breakfast.

"If only I could take it to show Aunt Madge!" she said at last. But Marcus negatived this at once; the picture was heavy, and the damp, cold air might injure it.

That was a happy morning to Olivia, as she played with Dot, and then sang her to sleep. When Marcus came home he told her to wrap up as warmly as possible. "The damp quite gets into one's bones," he said; and even Olivia owned that it was disagreeably cold.

Aunt Madge received them with her usual kind welcome, but she looked at her niece with a queer expression.

"Livy," she said, "I feel as though I were living in the days of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp. I had to pinch myself this morning, to be sure I was not dreaming. What do you think our dear old magician has done now?" And as she pointed to the table beside her, Olivia saw the picture of the ruined church, and the old shepherd in his tattered smock. "'Tis a love token, I reckon," repeated Aunt Madge, but her voice was not quite steady. As for Olivia, the tears were fairly running down her face.

"Dear Aunt Madge, I do love him for this. What do you think, he has sent me the picture of the cornfield that I described to you, and such a hamper of good things!"

"Yes, and a brace of pheasants have come to me. Livy, do you know what that picture means to me? I have just been feasting my eyes on it all the morning. I mean to get an easel and stand it at the foot of my couch, with that Indian scarf of mine just draped over it; won't it cheer me up on one of my bad days when I can't read or work, and even thinking is too hard for my poor head? ''Tis a love token, I reckon,' I shall just say that to myself."

"Marcus, I shall have to pay that visit," observed Olivia, desperately. "Oh, dear, if only we could do something in return for him! Don't laugh at me, you tiresome boy; it is all very well for you, you are doing him a good turn every day, that is why it is so grand to be a doctor, but Aunt Madge and I want to have our share too."

"Take off your hat, Livy," interrupted Aunt Madge, "for I hear Deb dishing up the dinner, and Marcus looks blue in the face with cold and hunger." And at this reminder Olivia hurried.

Mrs. Broderick always gave them the same dinner, a roast fowl and a piece of boiled ham, with plum pudding and mince pies to follow, but Deborah's cookery always gave it a different and most delicious flavour.

When dinner was over they sat by the fire and roasted chestnuts, and talked softly to each other, while Aunt Madge dozed. She roused up when Deb brought in the tea-things, and chatted in her old bright way, but Marcus's professional eyes detected lassitude, and in spite of her entreaties took his wife away rather earlier than usual.

"Livy," observed Aunt Madge, as her niece stooped over her to kiss her, "I have not been able to write a note of thanks to Mr. Gaythorne yet, but will you tell him that I have not had such a Christmas gift as that since my husband left me, and that I have been praying for him off and on all day, that he may have his heart's desire—there, tell him that——" And then she sank back wearily on her pillows.



CHAPTER IX.

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

"This life of ours is a wild Aeolian harp of many a joyous strain; But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain."—Longfellow.

Olivia felt a little nervous as she sent in her name by Phoebe; the girl had looked at her dubiously.

"I am not sure whether master will see you, ma'am," she said. "He never sees anyone on Christmas Day; and Mrs. Crampton says he is but poorly;" nevertheless, at Olivia's request, she had taken the message.

After a brief delay she returned. Her master would see Mrs. Luttrell; but Olivia's heart beat a little quickly as she entered the library. For the first time she was not sure of her welcome.

The grand old room looked unusually gloomy. The tall standard lamps were unlighted, and only the blazing fire and a small green reading-lamp made a spot of brightness. Deep shadows lurked in the corners, and the heavy book-cases and window recesses only seemed to add to the gloom.

Mr. Gaythorne sat in his great ebony chair—with its crimson cushions. His face looked more cadaverous and sunken than usual; the fine features looked as if they were carved in old ivory, they were so fixed and rigid; as he held out his hand to Olivia there was no smile of welcome on his face—the melancholy deep-set eyes were sombre and piercing.



"This is indeed a surprise, Mrs. Luttrell."

"I hope you will not think it an intrusion," she returned, a little breathlessly. "I wanted so much to see you and give you Aunt Madge's message. Somehow I could not bear to think that we were so happy and that you were sitting alone and feeling sad. Are you vexed with me for coming?" she continued, in her winning way; "I can see you are not a bit pleased to see me."

"My dear Mrs. Luttrell," he said, in his harsh, grating voice, "it is one of my bad days, and nothing on earth would yield me pleasure. I gave you warning, did I not? You are visiting a haunted man! The Christmas ghosts have been holding high revel this evening; one of them has been pointing and gibing at me for ever so long: 'You are reaping what you have sown,' that was what it said. 'Why do you grumble at your harvest—there is no ripening without sunshine? Young hearts must be won by love and not severity; it is your own fault, your own obstinacy, your own blindness'—that is what it has been saying over and over again."

He shivered slightly as he said this, and held out his thin hands to the blaze. He had not asked her to sit down, but Olivia drew a small chair forward and seated herself.

"Do not listen to them any longer," she said, gently. "You are ill and sad, and so everything looks black and hopeless—let me talk to you instead; I want to tell you how we have spent our day."

Olivia had a charming voice. As she went on with her simple narrative the muscles of Mr. Gaythorne's face insensibly relaxed; hesitation, nervousness, a touch of self-consciousness even, would have repelled him; but her gentleness and childlike directness seemed to soothe him in spite of himself. And as she repeated Mrs. Broderick's message, though he shrugged his shoulders and muttered "Pshaw," she could see that he was gratified; and even his remark—"that Mrs. Broderick must be a very emotional person"—did not daunt her.

"If Aunt Madge is emotional, I am too," she said, softly. "Do you know what I said when I saw that picture of the old shepherd looking at the rainbow? 'I love him for this,' and, dear Mr. Gaythorne, I meant it."

"Tut, nonsense!" but as Olivia took his hand and held it in her firm grasp, there was a sudden moisture in the old man's eyes.

"No one has loved me since my two Olives left me," he muttered. "If only one had been spared to me, only one; but I am left here alone with my sorrow and remorse."

"You are not really alone," she returned, soothingly. "Why do you speak as if your wife and daughter had ceased to love you? Do you imagine for one moment that they forget you? It would do you good to talk to Aunt Madge; she has such wonderful ideas about all that. Some people—people like Mrs. Tolman, our vicar's wife—laugh at her and call her fanciful, but to me she is so real. Why should it not be true?" she went on, with gathering excitement, "nothing that is good can die! Love is eternal, and it is only pain and grief and sin that can come to an end. That is what Aunt Madge says, and she does more than say it, she lives it. Of course she misses her husband dreadfully—they were everything to each other—but he never seems dead like other women's husbands, if you know what I mean by that. She seems to keep step with him somehow, and think his thoughts. I have heard her say once that it is just as though a high wall separated them. 'I cannot see him or hear him, but I know he is just the other side of the wall; only he has all the sunshine, and I have to grope alone in the shadows.'"

"Oh, she is right there; I know what it is to grope among shadows. My dear young lady," laying his hand heavily on her arm, "Mrs. Broderick must be a wonderful woman, and I hope to see her some day; and I am not above caring for a good woman's prayers, but our cases are not exactly similar."

"I daresay not," returned Olivia, hesitatingly.

"No, indeed"—and Mr. Gaythorne's heavy eyebrows drew together—"look here, Mrs. Luttrell, what sort of comfort do you suppose a man can have in thinking of his wife, when he knows he has acted contrary to her desires, when he has failed to carry out even the wishes expressed on her deathbed. What would you say to that man?"

"I would say that he must be very unhappy, and that no doubt circumstances were too hard for him. Perhaps he did his best; but it is not always possible for dying people to judge rightly, they may make mistakes."

"No, it was I who made all the mistakes," and there was such anguish in the old man's eyes as he said this, that Olivia almost started; "but God help me, if it were to come over again I should do the same. Mrs. Luttrell, you do not know me; it is my whim to be generous now and then. I like to give and it costs me nothing, but I am a hard, domineering man; when people oppose and anger me, I can be relentless; it is not easy for me to forgive, even when the offender is my own flesh and blood, and I am no hypocrite. I must speak the truth at all costs."

"And yet we expect our Father to forgive us," returned Olivia, almost to herself, but Mr. Gaythorne heard her, and a strange expression crossed his face.

"That is what she always said—my Olive, but it never seemed to make any difference to me. Ah, well, it is no use talking, some spirits refuse to be laid, but this is poor entertainment, my dear, and on your birthday too!"

"Please do not say that. I should love to stay, but I must not; it is late now, and Marcus will be waiting for me," and Olivia rose as she spoke. "And now before I go may I ring for the lamps to be lighted? there is something uncanny in this darkness, and the fire is getting hollow too."

"Well, well, do as you like," was the abrupt answer. "I am going to have my dinner here tonight, it is warmer," and so Olivia had her way. As she bade him good-night, he said, a little wistfully, "You can come to-morrow afternoon if you like. I have those views of Venice and Florence to show you. I had an old Florentine palace for six months, the year before my little Olive died; that was our last happy year."

"Of course I will come," she replied, smiling at him. But as she left the room she sighed; had she really exorcised those evil spirits? or would they return again, with tenfold force? "remorse;" that was the word he used, this was the canker-worm that was robbing him of peace. "It is not easy for me to forgive even if the offender is my own flesh and blood." How sad it was to hear him say that.

"I think, after all, I did him some little good," she thought, as she groped her way cautiously through the dark shrubbery. "That hard, rigid look had quite disappeared before I left. I have a feeling somehow that one day he will open his heart to me and tell me his trouble. Every now and then he drops a word or two; perhaps this evening, if I had not been so hurried, he would have spoken out."

Olivia's warm heart was full of pity for the lonely man sitting beside his desolate hearth, but she was young, and as the heavy gate closed after her, and she hurried across the road, a sudden vision of her own bright little parlour with Marcus waiting for her rose blissfully before her.

Marcus would have returned long ago and would be wondering at her delay. She knew what he was doing—cutting the pages of Esmond for their evening reading. How charmed he had been with her gift, although he had pretended to be angry at her extravagance.

A few particles of snow powdered her as she rang the bell. Marcus answered it himself.

"Livy, my dear child," he said, quickly, "what an age you have been! Come into the kitchen a moment, I want to speak to you, and Martha is upstairs. No, not there," catching hold of her arm as she absently turned the handle of the parlour door. "I said the kitchen."

"Oh, Marcus, what is it?" in an alarmed voice, as she suddenly perceived his grave, preoccupied look, "there is something wrong—with baby," but his smile reassured her.

"Nothing is wrong, I am only a little perplexed. Dot's all right, and the house is not on fire, and Martha is enjoying her usual health, but we have got a Christmas guest, that's all."

"Marcus, what can you mean, when we know no one here? Is it one of your old hospital friends? And why may I not go in and see him?"

"So you shall, but I must explain matters first. I have a poor fellow in there whom I picked up off a door-step. At first I thought he was drunk, and I meant to call a policeman, but I very soon found out my mistake. The poor wretch had fainted from cold and exhaustion, he was simply starving."

"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Olivia, much shocked at this. "Have you given him some food? But why is he not here instead of in the sitting-room? Martha has a capital fire."

"Yes, she has been making him some tea, and luckily there was some cold bacon. He has had nothing but a penny roll and some coffee since yesterday morning. Another night of exposure and want would have killed him. I took him into the parlour because the couch was handy, but directly he spoke I saw he was a gentleman—at least an educated man, but his clothes are threadbare. He has parted with his waistcoat for food. Now you know why I brought you in here, to save you a shock."

"But, Marcus, what are we to do with him?"

"Ah, that is what puzzles me. I have fed and warmed him, and could give him money for a night's lodging, but he is not fit to move. When he tried to sit up just now, he nearly fell back from exhaustion. I should say from the look of him that he has been ill, perhaps in some hospital, and has not got up his strength. And he is quite young too—not more than five-and-twenty, I should say."

"May I go and look at him first, and then we will think what is to be done."

"Yes, dear, that will be best. But, Livy, I really cannot wait just now. All this has hindered me so that I have not been to the Traverses'. I shall not be long—not more than half an hour."

Olivia looked rather troubled at this, but it was no use making a fuss. Marcus must do his work, but her vision of a cosy evening was sadly marred. Instead of listening to Esmond she had to interview a strange man.

Directly Marcus had gone she went into the sitting-room; the couch had been drawn near the fire and Marcus's easy chair was pushed back, and there in the warmth and firelight, with an old plaid thrown over him, the forlorn wanderer lay sleeping as placidly as a child.

Olivia trod on tiptoe as she crossed the room and stood beside the couch, and studied him attentively.

Marcus was right; of course he was a gentleman; in spite of his emaciated appearance and poor, threadbare garments, this was evident; the features were well-cut and refined; the wasted hands bore no signs of manual labour, and the filbert nails were carefully attended.

Some poor prodigal fallen to low estate lay before her, and yet he looked so boyish and innocent in his sleep, that Olivia's heart grew very pitiful over him.

Turn him out in the winter's cold, and on Christmas night, too; when all the merciful angels were moving betwixt heaven and earth. When the bond of brotherhood that linked human beings together was drawn closer, and the rich man's gift and the widow's mite were paid into the same treasury of love, it was impossible!

How soundly he was sleeping, poor fellow, lulled by the very fulness of comfort, his sick hunger appeased, and his bones no longer aching with cold. A fair moustache covered his mouth, but Olivia, who prided herself on reading character, soon decided that the chin and lower part of the face showed signs of weakness, but as the thought passed through her mind a pair of deep blue eyes opened full on her face, and gazed at her in bewilderment.

"Where am I?" he said, feebly; "oh, I remember, I fainted on a doorstep, and some good Samaritan carried me in;" then in the same weak voice, "Forgive me, madam, but I am afraid to rise."

"Lie still—please lie still until my husband comes back," returned Olivia, a little nervously. How ill he looked—the eyes looked preternaturally large in the wasted face. "It is sad to see anyone in such distress," she continued, gently, "and on Christmas night, too."

"Yes, I am down on my luck," returned the stranger; but even in his feebleness he spoke a little recklessly; "I was always 'Murad the Unlucky;' it would have been all over with me in a few hours if the doctor had not found me. I was just at the end of my tether,"—but here a hard cough seemed to tear him to pieces.

"Lie still and try to sleep again," returned Olivia, hurriedly; then she went out of the room and summoned Martha.

When Marcus returned and went in search of her, he found her airing some sheets at the kitchen fire.

"Marcus," she said, "Martha has been lighting a fire in that little empty room, where the iron bedstead is; there are the mattress and the two blankets Aunt Madge lent me when I was ill; I am going to make up a bed there for to-night."

"You think we ought to keep him, then," returned her husband, looking at her questioningly. "To be sure, I hardly know how we are to turn him out; but if he falls ill on our hands, eh, Livy?"

"If he be very ill, you would have to take him to a hospital," she returned, quickly. "We have not got the cruise of oil, remember, and, as Aunt Madge says, we must be just before we are generous—but he has such a terrible cough, Marcus."

"Oh, that is from cold and exhaustion, and, as I told you before, he has evidently recovered from some severe illness, probably pleurisy or pneumonia. Well, Livy, I think you are about right; we must do our best for the poor beggar; now and then one must help 'lame dogs over stiles,'" and Marcus, whose bump of benevolence was largely developed, and who believed in practical religion, was sincerely grateful that his wife had fallen in with his views.

"I think you were sent to him to help him," returned Olivia, softly. "'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren.' Oh, Marcus, you know how that finishes," and Marcus smiled back at her as he left the room.



CHAPTER X.

A GENTLEMANLY TRAMP.

"'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after."—Timon of Athens.

When Olivia had finished her preparations she summoned Marcus upstairs, and with an air of housewifely pride showed him all the arrangements she had made.

In his bachelor days Dr. Luttrell had been in the habit of picking up all sorts of miscellaneous articles at sales, that he thought might be useful some day, and though Olivia had often laughed at his purchases and called them old lumber, they had often proved serviceable.

The strip of faded carpet and shabby little shut up washstand intended for the surgery, and a couple of chairs, had been put into the empty room, and though it looked bare enough to Marcus's eyes, and in spite of the bright little fire terribly chilly, it would doubtless be a haven of refuge to their miserable guest.

"He says it is just heaven," observed Marcus, when he came downstairs to his wife; "the night before last, poor beggar, he was in the casual ward, and last night he had a few hours in some refuge. 'Fancy the casual ward for a gentleman's son,' he said to me so bitterly, 'and there was actually a barrister there too, and we fraternised.' It is just as I thought, Livy, he was discharged from the hospital about three weeks ago, and has been roughing it ever since."

"Did you ask him his name, Marcus?"

"Yes, and he hesitated; I don't believe Robert Barton is his real name; the way he gave it looked a bit shady; he is a good-looking fellow, and I can't think he is vicious, but he is one of those weak fellows who get led away. If we are to help him, he must tell us more about himself."

Olivia found her hands full the next day; when Marcus went up to see Barton, he found him flushed and feverish, and complained of aching in his limbs.

"It is only a bad chill," he said, when Olivia looked grave at this report; "but unless we take care of him well for a day or two, it will be pneumonia or congestion of the lungs. I shall be pretty busy for the next two or three hours, and am afraid I must leave him to you and Martha. Don't let him talk, and keep the fire up, that room is still like an ice-house. Are you sure you don't mind the bother, Livy?"

And though Olivia was too truthful to answer in the negative, she promised to do her best for Marcus's protege.

Robert Barton looked more to advantage lying in bed in Dr. Luttrell's old red striped blazer than he had done in his threadbare shabby clothes the previous night; indeed, Olivia quite started when she saw him; he was certainly what Marcus called him, a good-looking fellow, the dark blue eyes were beautiful and full of expression; he flushed as Olivia asked him kindly how he felt.

"I feel pretty bad," he returned, "and the doctor says I must lie here. I used not to think much of the story of the Good Samaritan, but I believe in it now. Oh, if you knew what it was to feel clean linen about me again."

"My husband says you are not to talk," replied Olivia, gently, "so I must carry out his orders; there is some medicine you are to take, and by-and-by I shall bring you some hot broth; if only your cough were easier you would be able to sleep, but perhaps the drops will do you good."

"Thanks awfully; if you will put them down by me, I will take them, but please, please do not trouble about me, I am not worth it. I never was worth anything;" he sighed and there were tears in his eyes; but Olivia took no notice, she put things straight and then went about her business. On her next visit she found him sleeping; but as she put down the cup of hot broth beside him he half woke.

"Mother," he said, in a hoarse voice, "I never did it, I swear to you on my honour; I was never as bad as that; ask Olive, she believes in me, she knows I could not be such a low cad."

"Mr. Barton, I have brought you your broth; will you please take it before it gets cold?" and Olivia's clear voice roused Robert Barton effectually.

"I was dreaming," he said, looking at her rather confusedly. "I thought I was at Medhurst, in the old library; oh, what a fool I am!" and there was almost a despairing look in his eyes.

"You are weak, or you would not dream so, and yet it must be natural to dream about your own people. I am so glad you have someone belonging to you; last night we were afraid that you were quite friendless," then she stopped as she remembered Marcus's injunctions.

"No, I am not friendless," he returned, raising himself with difficulty, and coughing as he spoke. "Even the prodigal son had relatives, you know—a father and an elder brother; but he was better off than I, for he knew where to find them"—but here such a terrible fit of coughing came on, that Olivia forbade him to say another word.

"You shall tell us all about it when you are better," she said, kindly; "perhaps, who knows, we may be able to help you find your friends; we are poor people ourselves, my husband is only just beginning to make a practice, so there is not much that we can do."

Then as she stooped over him and wiped his brow, she was almost startled by the sweetness of the smile that crossed the young man's face.

"Not much," he reiterated; but Olivia shook her head at him to inculcate silence, and carried away the empty cup.

When Marcus came home at dinner-time, she proposed sending a note across to Galvaston House to tell Mr. Gaythorne that she could not leave home that afternoon, but to her surprise Dr. Luttrell objected to this.

"You know how crotchety Mr. Gaythorne is," he said, quickly, "and it will never do to disappoint him; he might be a bit touchy. Barton will be all right, and I shall be in myself the greater part of the afternoon." And then Olivia's scruples vanished.

She felt Marcus had been wise when she entered the library. Mr. Gaythorne was evidently expecting her; he had a large portfolio open before him. As he held out his hand to her without rising—for he had still great difficulty in moving—there was a brighter look on his face.

"We must make the most of the daylight," he said, and the next moment Olivia found herself in Venice.

The views were so beautiful and Mr. Gaythorne's descriptions so interesting, that, as usual, the time passed quickly. It was not until they were drinking their coffee in the pleasant firelight that Olivia found an opportunity of narrating her husband's strange adventure of the previous evening.

Mr. Gaythorne listened with his usual air of half contemptuous amusement; but before she came to the end of the recital he turned upon her quickly.

"Do you mean that the tramp is actually in your house at this moment?" he asked, indignantly.

"Oh, please don't call him that; he is a gentleman, he speaks in quite an educated manner, and his ways are so refined. Marcus saw that at once."

"Pooh, nonsense! My dear Mrs. Luttrell, a gentlemanly tramp is the worst kind; it is generally drink and profligacy that have dragged them down. You will be robbed or burnt in your beds!"

Olivia could not conceal her amusement. A vivid remembrance of the flushed, weary young face of the wanderer rose before her; it was so boyish-looking with the fair hair and golden brown moustache.

"I am sure he does not drink," she returned, trying vainly to suppress a smile; but this contradiction did not please Mr. Gaythorne.

"How can you know anything about it?" he asked, testily; "from your own account he has told you nothing except that he has been in a hospital and a casual ward—they have plenty of cases of delirium tremens in both places. Good heavens! and I thought Dr. Luttrell was a sensible man. This is the way he takes care of his wife and child, harbouring a frozen-out tramp."

"Dear Mr. Gaythorne," returned Olivia, pleadingly, "just put yourself in my husband's place. Marcus found the poor young fellow on a doorstep in Harbut Road not a dozen yards from his own door. Being a doctor, he saw at once that he must be warmed and fed or life would be endangered, and Christmas night of all nights. How could he forbear in sheer humanity to take in the poor creature, and then when he found how weak he was, how was he to turn him out into the streets again?"

"He might have sent for a cab and had him driven to a hospital."

"No—Marcus said it was no case for a hospital, at least at present; they would not have admitted him; indeed—indeed he could not have done otherwise—I told him so at once. What is the use of going to church and saying one's prayers if one shrinks from such a clear duty as that? Why, we should never dare to read St. James again!"

"And why not, may I ask?"

"Because we should have set our faces against his teaching. Oh, you know what I mean, Mr. Gaythorne," and Olivia repeated the text reverently: "'If a brother or sister be naked and in lack of daily food, and one of you say unto them go in peace, be ye clothed and fed, and yet you give them not those things needful for the body, what doth it profit?' Marcus does not only profess his religion. Oh"—finished Olivia, with sparkling eyes—"I did feel so proud of my husband last night."

"Well—well; if you choose to be Quixotic it is your own affair, not mine," but Mr. Gaythorne spoke with less irritation. "Now shall we go on with the portfolio, or do you want to go back to your gentlemanly tramp?" Then Olivia begged to finish the pictures.

"I have nearly half an hour before Dot's bedtime," she said, cheerfully, "and then I must go," and so harmony was restored.

When the half-hour had passed, Olivia took her leave, but before she reached the door, Mr. Gaythorne called her back and thrust something into her hand.

"That will help you to provide for your tramp," he said, hurriedly, "and prevent him from eating you out of house and home. Mind you repay yourself before you lay out any for him: do you suppose," in a cynical tone, "that your husband's income will bear the expense of such an inmate as that?" and Olivia, to her intense astonishment, found the two crumpled bits of paper in her hand were five-pound notes.

"Oh there is no need for this," she said, in distress; "have you forgotten the turkey and all those good things Aunt Madge sent us?" but Mr. Gaythorne waved her away.

"Nonsense," he said, crossly; "do you suppose a trifle like that matters to me? Why, I am not spending half my income; if you want any more you can just let me know; but if you take my advice you will get rid of that fellow as soon as possible."

Marcus smiled when Olivia showed him the money. "Put it away for the present," he said, "it will buy Barton some warm clothes; we can afford to give him his bit and sup for a few days; he is stone broke, as they call it, and a few pounds may be just what he requires, and put him on his feet again."

When Mrs. Broderick heard of the strange guest at No. 1, Galvaston Terrace, she was deeply interested, and warmly commended Marcus's philanthropy.

"I wonder," she said, thoughtfully, after a few minutes' silence, "whether any of Fergus's things would fit him; you know what a foolish body I have been, Livy, to keep them all this time, and it gives Deb so much trouble to preserve them from moth; but there, we all have our crazes.

"I have been meaning to part with them for a long time, and this seems a good opportunity; it does seem such a pity to touch that money; it would set him up to have a few pounds in hand."

Olivia could not deny this, and in her secret heart she thought Aunt Madge could not do better with her dead husband's things.

"It will be a real act of charity," she said, frankly. "Oh, Aunt Madge, if you could only see his clothes, they are so worn and threadbare, and when Martha washed his shirt and socks she almost cried over the holes; and then his boots!"

"Say no more, my child, it shall be done, and at once," and Mrs. Broderick's mouth looked unusually firm.

The very next day Marcus carried a big parcel upstairs and opened it before Robert Barton's astonished eyes.

Mrs. Broderick, who did nothing grudgingly, had put up all she thought requisite—a warm suit, and a great coat, a pair of boots, some coloured flannel shirts and warm underclothing.

"It has upset him a bit," Marcus said, when he re-entered the parlour, "he is still so weak, you see. He fairly broke down when I showed him the things. He is very grateful; by-the-bye, Livy," sitting down beside her as he spoke, "he has been telling me more about himself to-night; not much, certainly, he does not seem to like speaking of himself, but he gave me a brief outline.

"He has relations, only he has not seen them for some years; it appeared he quarrelled with them or got wrong somehow; in fact, he owned he had been a bit wild, and then things went from bad to worse with him, and he had a run of ill-luck.

"It seems he is an artist and rather fond of his profession, but he hurt his hand, and blood-poisoning came on, and for some time he was afraid he would lose his right arm; for months he could paint no pictures, and so all his little capital was swallowed up."

"But why did he not write to his people, Marcus, and make it up with them?"

"So he did, but his letters never got answered, and he got sick of it at last. When he was pretty nearly at the end of his tether he came back to England. I think he said he was in Paris then, or was it Beyrout? well, never mind, he went straight to his old home; but to his horror the house was shut up, and to let, and the caretaker told him that no one had lived there for years, and that she believed the party who had owned it was abroad; he could get nothing more than that out of her.

"He put up at a little wayside inn that night, meaning to make inquiries in the neighbourhood, but the next day he fell ill, and after a bit they took him to the hospital, and since then he drifted up to London, hoping to see his father's old lawyer and glean intelligence from him, but he found he was dead. His fixed intention was to go down again to the place and see the vicar and prosecute his inquiries in person, but ill-luck pursued him; he was robbed in some wretched lodging, and soon found himself in actual want; 'but I mean, if I die for it, to get to Medhurst somehow,' he said to me. 'I could have found someone to identify me there; not that we had been there long, for my people mostly lived abroad, but there must be some friends who could tell me about them.'

"It is a queer story altogether, and yet not a wholly improbable one; but there is a mystery somewhere, Livy, and I am sure of one thing, that his name is not Barton. I hinted as much, but he only flushed up and said nothing."



CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT-BELL RINGS.

"A bad beginning leads to a bad ending."—Livy.

The next few days passed quietly. Dr. Luttrell professed himself perfectly satisfied with his patient's progress. In spite of his delicate aspect, and the terrible hardships he had experienced, Robert Barton proved that he had a fair amount of recuperative power. Perhaps his youth was in his favour, and it was soon evident that he had a naturally sanguine temperament. His nature was singularly ill-balanced, he was always in extremes—either in the depths of depression or else unaccountably excited. Olivia would sometimes find him crouching over the fire with his head between his hands in a state of morose misery. And at other times she would hear him whistling a few bars from some opera in quite a light-hearted way.

"If you do not mind, Olive, I think that Barton had better come down to-morrow afternoon," Marcus observed one evening. "He will get on all the faster." And as Olivia made no objection to this the matter was settled.

Marcus secretly wondered how Robert Barton could take things quite so coolly. Perhaps it might be partly owing to his enfeebled state, but he certainly did not seem to trouble himself much about the future. "I feel as if I should pull through now," he said, once. "I only wanted a helping hand to lift me out of the slough of despond. When I am a bit stronger, doctor, I must paint a pot-boiler or two," and Marcus had quietly assented to this.

"I have made up my mind what I must do, Livy," continued Dr. Luttrell later on that same evening, when he had arranged that his patient should come downstairs. "You know that nice Mrs. Randall in the Models; well, she has a lodger, but she expects that he will leave her in a week or so, as he has work at a distance. I might take the room for Barton, it is a clean, tidy little place. And Mrs. Randall is a motherly sort of woman, and will look after him."

"Oh, what a good idea, Marcus."

"Yes, it came into my head when I was leaving the Models yesterday. And I had half a mind to go back and ask the price of the room, but I was in such a hurry. I would pay her a month in advance, and we would use some of Mr. Gaythorne's money in buying him what he wants for his painting. I have no idea what sort of an artist he is, but it seems the only thing he can do."

"Oh, how pleased he will be, poor fellow," exclaimed Olivia, "but surely he is not well enough to leave us just now, and in this weather?" for a hard frost had set in.

"Not for another week, perhaps, but we must not let him think himself a fixture here. We have had him ten days already."

Marcus had not repented of his philanthropy, he was too highly principled for that, but though he would not have confessed it to his wife for worlds, he was a little alarmed at the responsibility so suddenly thrown on him.

Barton seemed such a happy-go-lucky, casual sort of person. The gentlemanly tramp was not a bad name for him. He was not quite open, either. In Dr. Luttrell's opinion he ought by this time to have confided in them fully. "He is a bit shifty and hazy about things," he said to himself, "and I shall be glad when Livy and I have the house to ourselves."

"Ten days," repeated Olivia, thoughtfully; "is it so long as that, Marcus? How time flies when one is busy! Do you know, dear, I have such an odd feeling sometimes. I feel as though that poor fellow was sent to us for some special purpose, that we had a sort of mission towards him. It is not that I want him, for of course his being here makes so much work for Martha, but all the same, I do not wish you to lose sight of him."

"My dear child," returned Marcus, rather impatiently, "am I likely to lose sight of him when I am at the Models at least three times a week?"

"No, but we can see him so much better under our own roof," she replied, quietly. "We must not get tired of him too soon. Yes, you are tired, dear," laying her hand affectionately on his. "Do you think I do not know that, although you are so good about it, and never grumble, but it will be trying to us both when he comes downstairs."

"Yes, and one hardly knows how to treat him," returned Marcus, feeling it a relief to utter his thoughts. "He is clever and refined, and I suppose we must allow that he is a gentleman, but it is impossible somehow to trust him, or to feel at one's ease with him. There is something that fascinates and yet repels one."

"I know what you mean," replied Olivia, thoughtfully, "but somehow I like him in spite of everything; Marcus, what a blessing it is to think that I went to Galvaston House this afternoon, and so I shall be free to-morrow," for Olivia's sunny, nature always looked on the bright side of things.

That night a wonderful thing happened. The night-bell rang.

That sound so dreaded by the hard-worked doctor was like a triumphal reveille in Marcus's ears. And Robert Barton's muttered "poor devil" as he turned on his pillow would not have been endorsed.

Olivia indeed had been alarmed for a moment by the unaccustomed sound, and thought drowsily that the house must be on fire, but she was soon wide awake and hushing Dot.

"Go to sleep, girlie, it is only someone come to see dada," she said, rocking her little one. Dot had been startled and was cross in consequence, and it was sometime before she could be pacified.

The next minute Marcus came back fully dressed. "I must go round to 15, Brunswick Place," he said, hurriedly. "Don't expect me back till you see me," and then she heard him running downstairs.

"He expects to be detained, so I suppose some poor baby is to enter this wintry world," she thought, as she composed herself to sleep, but she little guessed the terribly hard work that was before Marcus.

It was early morning and Martha had already crept softly past her door in her stocking' feet, as she would have said, so as not to wake Miss Baby, before Dr. Luttrell let himself in with his latchkey.

He looked sadly jaded, but utterly refused to lie down and have a nap. "I will have my tub and some breakfast instead," he observed. "They gave me some hot coffee a couple of hours ago. My word, it is freezing hard still. Tell Martha to give us a good-sized rasher of ham."

"Is the poor thing all right," asked Olivia presently, when they were seated at their breakfast, with Dot crawling between them. Then for the moment Dr. Luttrell looked puzzled.

"What poor thing—oh," with a laugh, "I see what you mean now, but it was nothing of that sort. I have not had such a business since my hospital days," he went on; "poor Livy, you would not have slept so comfortably if you had known. It was a case of delirium tremens; an elderly man, too, and his poor daughter was frightened out of her wits; but she behaved splendidly; you women have pluck; I must tell you that she actually helped me when the man-servant was afraid to come near his master."

"Oh, Marcus, he might have hurt you," and Olivia turned pale—perhaps it is as well that doctors' wives know so little about their husbands' experiences.

"Oh, we had plenty of that sort of business at Bart's," he returned, coolly; "but I shall have to get him a nurse. I must see after one at once, or poor Miss Williams will be worn out; will you give me another cup of tea, Livy?"

"Are they new people too, Marcus, like the Stanwell's?" but Dr. Luttrell shook his head.

"No, they have lived in the place for years, but Mr. Williams quarrelled with Dr. Bevan, and his daughter dared not send for him, and as I was the nearest medical man, the servant came to me; it was just a fluke, that's all."

"Is there only one daughter, Marcus?"

"Well, my dear, it was not likely that I questioned Miss Williams about her family, but I imagine she is the only daughter; poor girl, I felt sorry for her; there have been plenty of briers besetting her path, I should say; as the poet writes so feelingly, she has had more kicks than halfpence," and as usual, when Marcus began to joke, Olivia took the hint and left off questioning him.

The little parlour looked a haven of comfort to Robert Barton's eyes as he entered it that afternoon, leaning on Dr. Luttrell's arm.

Olivia was sitting at needlework as usual, with Dot playing at her feet, and sprawling on the rug in exact imitation of Jet the black kitten; she rose at once with a bright, welcoming smile, and arranged the cushions in the easy-chair.

"I daresay you are glad to be down again," she said, kindly, as Barton sank back in them rather heavily; "but you must be careful, you are far from strong yet."

"Thanks, I am tolerably fit," but the weak, shaking hand rather contradicted this.

"Oh, what a pretty child! I should like to make a sketch of her. Will you come to me, little one?" And Robert Barton's smile was so winning that Dot crawled to him at once, and hauled herself up by the help of one finger.

Olivia gave her husband a quick glance which he quite understood; "there cannot be much harm in him if he likes children," this was what her look meant, and even Marcus was touched and surprised when he saw his little daughter put up her round face to be kissed, and then make playful dabs at him.

"What a darling she is—rather like you, Mrs. Luttrell, but she has a look of the doctor too. I have always been fond of children, they are never afraid of me," and this speech completely won the young mother's heart.

"He is really very distinguished-looking," she said to herself, as she watched him playing with Dot; "he is dreadfully thin, and, of course, Uncle Fergus's clothes are too big for him, but no one could help seeing that he is a gentleman."

They began to talk presently in quite a friendly way, and after a time Olivia said, quite simply:

"Your name is not really Robert Barton, is it?" She had blurted this out almost without thinking.

"Well, no," he returned, reddening a little, "but I have been calling myself by that name for the last month or two, it was handy," and his face twitched. "I did not care to carry my father's name into the places I have been obliged to frequent lately."

"You have a father then, Mr. Barton?" in an interested tone.

"Oh, yes, and a mother and a sister, though I have heard nothing of them for half a dozen years."

"Oh, not so long as that, surely," and then Olivia looked at him with kindly gravity. "Why, you could only have been a boy when you left home."

"I am older than you think, Mrs. Luttrell—I shall soon be eight-and-twenty—but I was young enough, certainly, when they shunted me off. Confession may be good for the soul," he went on, with a reckless laugh; "but it is not particularly pleasant. As I told your husband, I quarrelled with my people. It was my own fault in a great measure; but I do not mean to take all the blame; if they had treated me differently, things would not have come to this; but this is all ancient history; if a man sows thistles he must expect a harvest of the same. I have had my evil things certainly, and perhaps I deserved them."

"And you wish now that you had acted differently;" then such a look of intense pain crossed Robert Barton's face that Olivia was quite startled.

"I would give my right hand if those months could be blotted out," he said, vehemently. "You know the proverb, Mrs. Luttrell—'Give a dog a bad name, and hang him'—well, they were for hanging me, I mean figuratively, so I took the bit between my teeth and bolted."

"It seems to me, Mr. Barton," she said, thoughtfully, "that your one chance to retrieve the past is to find out your own people. I suppose"—hesitating a little—"that they are in a position to help you?"

"Most certainly they are; we lived mostly abroad, but always in good style; the house we had at Medhurst was only taken on lease for a short time; it was my father's fancy never to stay long in one place; he was fond of travelling; when I am strong enough to brave the weather, I will go down to Medhurst and hunt up an acquaintance or two; there must be someone who knew him; but the doctor will not give me leave yet."

"Did my husband say anything to you about the future?" asked Olivia, tentatively; then Robert Barton's face, that had grown suddenly old and haggard, brightened up.

"He told me some old gentleman, a friend of yours, had been awfully kind, and that he would be able to take a room for me for a month, and get me some canvas and colours. If I only had my tools, I could take a sketch of your little girl at once, just as she is now with the kitten. I could call it 'Play-fellows,' just a small thing, you know, but it would be sure to take. I do not paint badly, although I have not made my mark yet, but I have sold two or three small pictures besides pot-boilers. I could begin to-morrow if only I had my easel and palette," and his tone was so eager, that Olivia promised to consult her husband, and, if he approved, to go herself for the necessary things.

When Marcus came in he told them at once that he had been round to the Models. "The room will be vacant next Tuesday, Barton," he said, briskly, "and I have settled with Mrs. Randall that you will take it for a month. It is a poor place, of course, but in my opinion it is not so bare as your present diggings, and it is very clean and comfortable, so you may be sure of board and lodging for a month. You will have to be careful, you know," he went on, "as long as this weather lasts. You must not think of moving about the country just yet or you will be laid up again," and then Olivia chimed in, and after a little consultation it was arranged that Olivia should go to the picture-shop at the corner of Harbut Street the next morning.

Robert Barton made a list of things required. He was in such good spirits all tea-time, and told such amusing stories of his life in Paris, that even Marcus, tired as he was, was much entertained.

"He is really a well-informed fellow," he observed, when Barton had retired. "I am not so sure that we shall find him in the way, after all. He told us that story about the artist's model in quite a racy fashion. He seems to be up to date in his notions. I am a bit curious to find out if he can paint or if it is only tall talk, but he certainly seems bent on it. Now I must turn in, for I am dead beat. Oh, by-the-bye, Livy, I told Miss Williams that you would go round and see her to-morrow afternoon. It would really be a charity," as Olivia seemed very much astonished at this. "The poor girl is so lonely, she has no brothers and sisters, and as far as I can find out no friends either."

"No friends, Marcus—and they live in one of those nice houses in Brunswick Place, and keep a man-servant!"

"Oh, I daresay they have a few acquaintances," returned Dr. Luttrell, with a yawn. "Most likely it has been impossible for her to have friends. When I proposed sending you to cheer her up, she looked quite grateful. Poor soul, you will like her, Olive. She is just your sort; no nonsense about her, plenty of feeling, but nothing hysterical."

"Marcus," observed Olivia, slipping her hand through his arm, and speaking very deliberately, "do you not think we had better have those cards printed? our visiting acquaintance is so much increased," and then Marcus laughed and turned down the lamp.



CHAPTER XII.

GRETA.

"For I am the only one of my friends that I can rely on."—Appolodamus.

Olivia set out in good spirits to pay her call the next afternoon. It was a clear, frosty day, sunless and excessively cold, but Olivia felt a certain exhilaration in the ring of the horses' hoofs on the hard road, and the brisk exercise brought such a glow to her face, that more than one passer-by looked at her approvingly.

There are no cosmetiques so beneficial as good health, happiness, and an easy conscience. Olivia, who had never been handsome, looked so fresh and comely, that many a languid beauty might have envied her.

Brunswick Place was considered rather a desirable spot; it was quiet and retired, and the houses were well-built and substantial looking. They were chiefly inhabited by solicitors in good practice, and retired army men who had private means of their own. The very air was redolent of respectability and prosperity. No one with a small income would have thought of settling down in Brunswick Place.

The man-servant who admitted Olivia ushered her into a large, handsomely furnished drawing-room with a conservatory opening out of it, and the next moment Miss Williams joined her.

To her great surprise Olivia recognised her at once. She was the tall girl in brown that she had so often noticed in church, who was always alone, and who looked so sad. Yes, it was the same tired-looking young face, she was certain of it.

"I am sure I have often seen you," she said, as they shook hands, and Miss Williams smiled.

"I was just thinking the same of you. You attend St. Matthew's, do you not? I have seen you with Dr. Luttrell. Please sit down—no, not that chair. Come a little closer to the fire, it is so bitterly cold," and here she shivered a little.

"I do not mind the cold as much as some people," replied Olivia, sturdily. "I am very strong and take plenty of exercise. Perhaps you have not been out; it is so difficult to keep warm indoors."

"No, I have not been out," returned Miss Williams, and then she looked at Olivia. "It is very kind of you to come and see me—Mrs. Luttrell."

She spoke slowly, almost deliberately, but her voice was pleasant. In her light tweed, she looked even taller than Olivia had thought her, and very thin.

In spite of her pale complexion and want of animation, Miss Williams had some claims to good looks. She had soft grey eyes, with remarkably long lashes, and the coils of fair hair set off a finely shaped head.

"My husband thought that you seemed rather lonely," returned Olivia, in her usual straightforward fashion. Then a faint colour rose to Miss Williams's face.

"Yes, it was so kind of him to propose it, and I was very grateful. I suppose he told you that I had no friends—no one, I mean, that I could ask to come in and sit with me a little. I know the next-door people slightly. We call at intervals, and they have invited me to a party, but I have never got beyond that. It has been difficult for me to make friends. I am rather shy—and——" here she broke off rather awkwardly.

"I think I know what you mean," replied Olivia. "When one is in trouble, one wants real friends, not chance acquaintances, and if one has not made them——"

"Just so—that is precisely my case. Circumstances have been to blame, for I think I am sociable by nature. Dr. Luttrell was very quick; he understood at once, and he said it was not good for me to be so much alone. Oh, he was such a comfort to me. Even the first moment he did not seem like a stranger. I felt before half-an-hour was over that I could trust him implicitly. And when he suggested yesterday that you should come and cheer me up, I said yes at once."

"I was very glad to come," replied Olivia, quickly. "Like yourself, I have no friends here, with the exception of another patient of my husband's, an old gentleman who lives opposite to us. So I hope you will let me be of some use to you. You know," after a moment's hesitation, "Dr. Luttrell is not one to talk about his patients, but he told me a little about your trouble."

"So I imagined, and of course it makes it easier for me." And here Miss Williams's lips trembled slightly. "You could not help me or be any comfort without knowing a little. Oh, Mrs. Luttrell, is it not dreadful? My poor father, and such a good father, too. He is just killing himself, I know that."

"And you are all alone?"

"Yes, since my mother died. Things were bad enough then, but they have been worse since. She used to be able to influence him and keep him straight, but he will not listen to me."

"Have you had this to bear long?" and Olivia looked at her pityingly. What a life for a young, sensitive girl!

"For some years. Ever since Dacre, my brother, died. It was a boating accident, and they brought him home quite dead. We thought it was the shock, but Dr. Bevan, who attended him, then told us that it was due also to hereditary disease. We dared not send for Dr. Bevan the other night, though he understood him so thoroughly, and was so kind. My father had quarrelled with him, but Dr. Luttrell saw him yesterday and they had a long talk."

"My husband always speaks so highly of Dr. Bevan."

"Yes, and I liked him so much. He was such a comfort to me when poor mother died, and I shall always be grateful to him, but I dared not run the risk of exciting my father. He is a little better today; Dr. Luttrell says so; but of course he is coming again to-night. We have a good nurse, so things are more hopeful, but I shall have to get rid of our man. He is no use. Dr. Luttrell says I must have someone older and more reliable, who can help in an emergency. Roberts is far too young to be any real good."

Olivia listened and assented. She was quick-witted enough to see that it would be better to let Miss Williams talk and unburden herself a little. The girl, in spite of a naturally shy temperament, seemed ready to open her heart to her. Perhaps Olivia's winning personality had already won her. Human nature is so strangely constituted—the laws of attraction and repulsion are so unaccountable.

Some natures seem magnetic; they attract and draw us almost without our own volition. With others we make no way, months and years of intercourse will not bind us more closely. We are not on the same plane.

Olivia's sympathetic manner, the pitying kindness in her eyes, appealed strongly to Greta Williams, the lonely girl—isolated by the worst curse that can affect humanity—grievous hereditary vice—the innocent scape-goat of another's sin. Alas, how many homes even in our favoured land are desolated as well as desecrated from this one cause. What piteous waste of sweet young life, crushed under unnatural burdens. The sin of England, we say—the shameful curse of diseased self-indulgence.

Greta Williams seemed patient by nature; though it was a relief to talk openly to another woman, she did not complain. In spite of her father's faults, he was evidently very dear to her.

"It is a disease—a madness," she said once, "but it would never do to have young people here; one could not be sure, and for his sake it is better not," and in these few words there lay a world of tragedy.

To love, and yet not to be sure that the object of our love will not disgrace us. What misery to a refined and sensitive nature, to have to blush and grow pale from very shame and terror; to stretch out a helping hand to some dear one who has sunk too low to reach it. Ah, only One, the All-merciful, can rightly gauge the anguish of such a sorrow. No wonder Greta Williams looked so worn and pale, and that her eyes had grown sad.

"He is worse than he has ever been," she whispered, presently. "Dr. Luttrell does not tell me, but I know he was alarmed for him that night. He has been so much better lately," she went on, with a little sob in her throat. "I had felt almost comfortable; not quite comfortable, you know, because it never really lasted, but he liked me to read to him, and we played chess; but now"—her voice dropped into weariness—"I shall never feel quite easy again."

Olivia had long ago outstayed an ordinary conventional visit; but Marcus had sent her for a purpose: she was to try and cheer, and, if possible, comfort, this poor girl, so, when Greta rang for tea, she simply stayed on, and towards the end of her visit she thought her young hostess looked a shade brighter.

"You will come and see me," she said when she rose to take leave; but Miss Williams hesitated.

"Will you forgive me if I do not return your call just now? I simply dare not leave the house. You understand, do you not, Mrs. Luttrell? but if you would be so very kind as to come again."

"Most certainly I will come again; did you think that I should not? but, dear Miss Williams, you must not shut yourself up too closely, or your health will suffer."

But Greta only smiled faintly at this.

"I shall tell Dr. Luttrell that you have done me good," she said, pressing Olivia's hand; "how strange it seems—there is no cure for such a trouble as mine, and yet telling you about it has seemed to make it more bearable. Oh, please come again soon—very soon," and of course Olivia readily promised this.

It was rather a disappointment on her return to find Marcus had been in for tea and had gone out again. Robert Barton, who was reading by the fire, said that he would not be back for an hour or two.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Luttrell?" he asked, putting down his book, and trying to stifle a yawn; but, though Olivia replied in the affirmative, she did not vouchsafe any information about her visit.

When Marcus returned two hours later, he found their guest had betaken himself to bed, and Olivia was able to give him a graphic account of her afternoon.

"I am very much interested in Miss Williams," she observed presently; "fancy her turning out to be the very tall girl in brown at St. Matthew's."

"Did your ears burn just now, Livy," observed Marcus, mischievously. "I am glad to find someone appreciates my wife properly; you seem to have got on like a house on fire; well, you will be doing good work there."