"Well done, Rosie! If only Harry could hear you!"

"I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. You should see Hilda. Does not she preserve her equanimity? Fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission."

"I thought—I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda as a model mother," said Fanny, doubtfully.

"And a fond mother," said Graeme.

"She is a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise," said Rose, nodding her head. "I say no more."

"Fanny dear, we shall have to learn of Rose. We are very inexperienced people, I fear," said Graeme, smiling.

"Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But you should see Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. Suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?"

And then Rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his Aunt Graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. Graeme listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious.

"Rose," said she, "tell me about Hilda's way. I want to have the very best way with baby. I know I am not very wise, but I do wish to learn and to do right!"

Her words and her manner reminded Rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the Fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child's clasping fingers.

"She thinks I will never be like Hilda," said Fanny, dolefully, to Graeme.

Rose shook her head.

"There are not many like Hilda; but I don't see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. You have as good a teacher. No, don't look at Graeme. I know what you mean. She has taught you all the good that is in you. There are more of us who could say the same—except for making her vain. It is this young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you."

And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till Graeme and Fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense.

"I'll tell you what, Fanny," said she, looking up in a little. "It is the mother-love that makes one wise, and Solomon has something to do with it. You must take him into your confidence. But, dear me! Think of my venturing to give you good advice, I might be Janet herself."

"But, Rosie, dear," said Graeme, still laughing, "Solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one."

"Has he not? Well, that is Hilda's mistake, then. She is responsible for my opinions. I know nothing. The wisdom I am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. You must go and see Hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it."

"I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply."

"Yes, it is wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about going, will you? Two or three years hence will be time enough, I should think. I mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements Norman may have made."

"I don't think he will object to your going with me, if Arthur doesn't, and Fanny," said Graeme, smiling.

"Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper," said Rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. Graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,—

"I remember saying almost these very words before we went to Merleville, to Emily's wedding. But you know how differently it turned out for you and me. We will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness."

"Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at it. But I am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine."

"Graeme," said Fanny, earnestly, "I don't think Rose is spoiled in the least."

Fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other.

"I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. Did you?" said Rose, laughing.

"No, not Hilda; and it was not I who thought so, nor Graeme. But Harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and—"

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh! Harry is too wise for anything. I had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at Norman's. You must not mind what Harry says about me, Fanny, dear."

"But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything that was not nice. It was one night when Mr Millar was here, and there was something said about Mr Green. And he thought—one of them thought that you—that he—I have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme? You were here as well as I."

"I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said Graeme. "I don't quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering or repeating."

"I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once," said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.

"Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure."

"And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about Mr Green," said Fanny, "and about the 'palatial residence,' and how Rose, if she liked, might—"

Rose moved about impatiently.

"I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily.

"My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?"

Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, Rose said, with an effort,—

"Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about."

"Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in Mr Millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear."

"It seems it was he who had most to say."

"No. You are mistaken. Fanny did not remember correctly. It was either Arthur or Harry who had something to say about Mr Green. I don't think Charlie had anything to say about it. I am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. And, really, I don't see why you should be angry about it, dear Rosie."

"I am not angry. Why should I be angry?" But she reddened as she met Graeme's eye. Graeme looked at her in some surprise.

"Harry is—is unbearable sometimes," said Rose. "Fancy his taking me to task about—about his friend—Oh! there is no use talking about it. Graeme, are you going out?"

"Yes, if you like. But, Rose, I think you are hard upon Harry. There must be some misunderstanding. Why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. You must not be vain when I say so."

"That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. However, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. Don't let us speak any more about it, Graeme, or think about it either."

But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning Harry with regard to Rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. Nor did she ever speak about it again to Rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard Harry say something to Rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends.

How exactly like the old time before Arthur's marriage, and before Will or Harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of Rose. They seemed like the days even longer ago, Graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. The peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. Remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness—the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the content that comes to us from God, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is God-given, and we need fear no evil.

So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. Rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. These had to be returned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during Rose's absence, and Fanny's illness, took pleasure in going with her. She took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. The new way in which the character and manner of Rose came out never failed to amuse her. At home, and especially in her intercourse with her, Rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. But it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. She had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then Graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. The quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its cause was best of all to Graeme. Arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs Arthur that Rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. Not that there were very many of these. Fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and Rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. So the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and Graeme and Rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal.

For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother's household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on Arthur's wife. Not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. It was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. It was right that it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were Fanny's. These could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. The honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. For Fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching:

It was the same where the child was concerned. While she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. And every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. And besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem.

Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. Mr Millar did not quite fall into the place which Harry's friend Charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. He had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. His brother's determination not to return to Canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. Circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had hoped for a long time that Allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. He was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, Charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. But Will, who had visited Allan lately, assured Charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit Canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again.

"I should think not, indeed," said Arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with Will's last letter. "You don't display your usual good judgment, Charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. Why should he return? He is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour—a competency in society congenial to him. Why should he wait for this longer than he need?"

"Twenty or thirty years!" said Harry. "Not if I know it. You are thinking of old times. But I must say I agree with Charlie. It is strange that Mr Ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. And to tell you the truth, I never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man—a great merchant."

"It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, Harry," said Rose, "but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects."

"I don't think Allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman—in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. His place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors."

"Oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. It is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, Rose thinks," said Arthur.

"His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. It was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by Allan's uncle within ten years."

"Yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said Harry.

"And did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said Arthur.

"No, I think not. Allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother."

"Still he may think it his duty to live there."

"I don't know. It is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. I think the life suits him. My mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. He did not object decidedly. There seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. So he came to Canada."

"I daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. I wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, Charlie."

"I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don't think it is so altogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. He might always have the going home to look forward to."

"I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there," said Harry.

"But I think you are hard on yourself, Mr Millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you," said Graeme, smiling. "I could find a much nicer name for it than that."

"I would like him to come for his own sake," said Charlie. "As for me, I was just beginning to know him—to know how superior he is to most men, and then I lost him." He paused a moment—

"I mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. I shall see him if I go home next summer, and I don't despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least."

"Will says he means to come some time. Perhaps he will come back with you, or with Will himself, when he comes," said Rose.

"Oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less," said Arthur. "It is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. Of course he may come any month. I don't understand your desolation, Charlie."

Charlie laughed. "When is Will coming?"

"It does not seem to be decided yet," said Graeme. "He may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. It seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly."

"What if Will should think like Mr Ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? How would you like that, girls?" said Harry.

"Oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. There is no family estate in his case," said Rose, laughing.

"Who knows?" said Arthur. "There may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. That would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father's youngest son. What would you say to that Graeme?"

"I would rather say nothing—think nothing about it," said Graeme, hastily. "It is not likely that could ever happen. It will all be arranged for us, doubtless."

"It was very stupid of you, Harry, to say anything of that sort to Graeme," said Rose. "Now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. He never will, I know."

"I shall not vex myself, indeed, Rosie—at least I shall not until I have some better reason for doing so, than Harry's foolish speeches. Mr Millar, you said you might go home next summer. Is that something new? Or is it only new to us?"

"It is possible that I may go. Indeed, it is very likely. I shall know soon."

"It depends on circumstances over which he has no control," said Harry, impressively. "He has my best wishes, and he would have yours, Graeme, I think, if you knew about it."

"He has them, though I don't know about it," said Graeme. "I have confidence in him that he deserves success."

"Yes, it is safe to wish him success—if not in one thing, in another. I am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but I think I know what is good for him."

"Rosie," said Fanny, suddenly, "Mr Millar can set us right now. I am glad I thought of it. Mr Millar, is Mrs Roxbury your aunt, or only your brother's?"

"I am afraid it is only Allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. I don't think I can claim any relationship at all. I should have to consider, before I could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected."

"It is much better not to consider the subject, then," said Arthur, "as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go."

"But at any rate she is not your aunt, and Amy Roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over Rose and me the other day. I told you so, Rosie."

"Did you?" said Rose, languidly. "I don't remember."

"It was Mrs Gridley, I think, and she said—no, it must have been some one else—she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances."

"Very true, too, eh, Charlie," said Arthur, laughing.

"I should scarcely venture to call Miss Roxbury cousin," said Charlie.

"She is very nice, indeed," pursued Fanny. "Rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, I think."

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

"That is, perhaps, a little strong, Fanny, dear. She is very charming, I have no doubt, but I am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as I used to be."

"But you admired her very much. And you said she was very like Lily Elphinstone, when you first saw her. I am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did Graeme."

"Did I?" said Rose.

"She is very like her," said Mr Millar. "I did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. She is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. She is stronger than Lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady."

"Fast, a little, perhaps," said Arthur.

"Oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. She is self-reliant. She has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma's. But she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. Such a number there are of them, too."

Charlie spoke eagerly, looking at Graeme. "You seem deeply interested in her," said Arthur, laughing.

Harry rose impatiently.

"We should have Mrs Gridley here. I never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. Your cousin would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, I have no doubt, Charlie."

"But she is not his cousin," said Fanny. "And Harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of Mr Millar. Of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross." And Rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke.

Harry did look cross, and Charlie looked astonished. Graeme did not understand it.

"Was that young Roxbury I saw you driving with the other day?" asked Arthur. "He is going into business, I hear."

"It was he," said Charlie. "As to his going into business, I cannot say. He is quite young yet. He is not of age. Are you going, Harry? It is not very late yet."

They did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. He was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate Harry, Graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. Then they had some music. Rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still.

"What put Harry out of sorts to-night?" asked Arthur.

"Was he out of sorts?" asked Graeme, a little anxiously.

Rose laughed.

"I shall have to give Harry some good advice," said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said "good-night."

"There is something wrong," said Graeme to herself, "though I am sure I cannot tell what it is. In old times, Rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. But it is nothing that can trouble her, I am sure. I hope it is nothing that will trouble her. I will not fret about it beforehand. We do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. It ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. But, oh! Rosie, I am afraid I have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

Graeme had rejoiced over her sister's return, "heart-free and fancy-free," rather more than was reasonable, seeing that the danger to her freedom of heart and fancy was as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable anywhere, and, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. A very little thing had disturbed her sense of security before many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingling of anxiety and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain and foolish her feeling of security had been. It was the look that had come into Charlie Millar's face one day, as his eye fell suddenly on the face of Rose. Graeme's heart gave a sudden throb of pain and doubt, as she saw it, for it told her that a change was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made it seem to her a change to be dreaded.

There had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, in which they were all supposed to be much interested, because Master Albert Grove was one of the runners, and had good hope of winning a silver medal which was to be the prize of the foremost in the race. Graeme and Rose had come with his little sisters to look, on, and Rose had grown as eager and delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious of the admiration in Charlie's eyes, and of the shock of pain that thrilled at her sister's heart. It was more than admiration that Graeme saw in his eyes, but the look passed, and he made no movement through the crowd toward them, and everything was just as it had been before, except that the thought had come into Graeme's mind, and could not quite be forgotten again.

After that the time still went quietly on, and Charlie came and went, and was welcomed as before; but Graeme looking on him now with enlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw, more and more clearly every day, the secret that he did not seem in haste to utter. And every day she saw it with less pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, for the time when the lover's word should change her sister's shy and somewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what could not but be precious, Graeme thought, though still unknown or unacknowledged. And then the mention of Amy Roxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into the knowledge that she had been dreaming.

"Rose," said she, after they had been up-stairs for some time, and were about to separate for the night, "what was the matter with Harry this evening?"

"What, indeed?" said Rose, laughing. "He was quite out of sorts about something."

"I did not think he knew the Roxburys. He certainly has not known them long," said Graeme.

"No, not very long—at least, not Miss Amy, who has only just returned home, you know. But I think she was not at the root of his trouble; at least, not directly. I think he has found out a slight mistake of his, with regard to 'his friend and partner.' That is what vexed him," said Rose.

"I don't know what you mean?" said Graeme, gravely. "I should think Harry could hardly be seriously mistaken in his friend by this time, and certainly I should not feel inclined to laugh at him."

"Oh! no. Not seriously mistaken; and I don't think he was so much vexed at the mistake, as that I should know it."

"I don't understand you," said Graeme.

"It does not matter, Graeme. It will all come out right, I daresay. Harry was vexed because he saw that I was laughing at him, and it is just as well that he should be teased a little."

"Rose, don't go yet. What is there between you and Harry that I don't know about? You would not willingly make me unhappy, Rose, I am sure. Tell me how you have vexed each other, dear. I noticed it to-night, and I have several times noticed it before. Tell me all about it, Rose."

"There is nothing to tell, Graeme, indeed. I was very much vexed with Harry once, but I daresay there was no need for it. Graeme, it is silly to repeat it," added Rose, reddening.

"There is no one to hear but me, dear."

"It was all nonsense. Harry took it into his head that I had not treated his friend well, when he was out West, at Norman's, I mean. Of course, we could not fall into home ways during his short visit there; everything was so different. But I was not 'high and mighty' with him, as Harry declared afterwards. He took me to task, sharply, and accused me of flirting, and I don't know what all, as though that would help his friend's cause, even if his friend had cared about it, which he did not. It was very absurd. I cannot talk about it, Graeme. It was all Harry's fancy. And to-night, when Mr Millar spoke so admiringly of Amy Roxbury, Harry wasn't pleased, because he knew I remembered what he had said, and he knew I was laughing at him. And I fancy he admires the pretty little thing, himself. It would be great fun to see the dear friends turn out rivals, would it not?" said Rose, laughing.

"But that is all nonsense, Rose."

"Of course, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end. That is just what I think, and what I have been saying to you. So don't let us say or think anything more about it. Good-night."

"Good-night. It will all come right, I daresay;" and Graeme put it out of her thoughts, as Rose had bidden her do.

After this, Harry was away for a while, and they saw less of Mr Millar, because of his absence, Graeme thought. He must have more to do, as the busy time of the coming and going of the ships was at hand. So their days passed very quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, but they were happy days for all that; and Graeme, seeing her sister's half-veiled pleasure when Charlie came, and only half conscious impatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself as she repeated, "It will all come right."

It was a fair April day; a little colder than April days are generally supposed to be, but bright and still—just the day for a long walk, all agreed; and Rose went up-stairs to prepare to go out, singing out of a light heart as she went. Graeme hastened to finish something that she had in her hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, and before Rose came down with her hat on, another came; and the one that came last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, and Harry's aversion, Mrs Gridley. Rose had reconciled herself to the loss of her walk, by this time, and listened amused to the various subjects discussed, laying up an item now and then, for Harry's special benefit. There was variety, for this was her first visit for a long time.

After a good many interesting excursions among the affairs of their friends and neighbours, she brought them back in her pleasant way to their own.

"By the by, is it true that young Roxbury is going into business with Mr Millar and your brother?"

"We have not bees informed of any such design," said Rose.

"Your brother is away just now, is he not? Will he return? Young men who have done business elsewhere, are rather in the habit of calling our city slow. I hope your brother Harry does not. Is young Roxbury to take his place in the firm, or are all three to be together?"

"Harry does not make his business arrangements the subject of conversation very often," said Graeme, gravely.

"He is quite right," said Mrs Gridley. "And I daresay, young Roxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father's money might. However, some of that may be got in a more agreeable way. Mr Millar is doing his best, they say. But, Amy Roxbury is little more than a child. Still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out very well. Am I not to see Mrs Elliott, to-day? She is a very devoted mother, it seems."

"She would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home."

"And she is quite well again? What a relief it must be to you," said Mrs Gridley, amiably. "And you are all quite happy together! I thought you were going to stay at the West, Rose?"

"I could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me."

"And are you going to keep house for Harry, at Elphinstone house, or is Mr Millar to have that?"

And so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away.

"What nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!" said Rose.

"Worse than nonsense, I am afraid, sometimes," said Graeme. "Really, Harry's terror of her is not surprising. Nobody seems safe from her tongue."

"But don't let us lose our walk, altogether. We have time to go round the square, at any rate. It is not late," said Rose.

They went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of Mrs Gridley and her news behind them. They met Fanny returning home, before they had gone far down the street.

"Come with us, Fanny. Baby is all right. Are you tired?" said Rose.

"No, I am not tired. But is it not almost dinner time? Suppose we go and meet Arthur."

"Well—only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer up toward S street. However, we can go home that way. There will be time enough. How delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in the house!"

"And after Mrs Gridley," said Graeme, laughing.

"Have you had Mrs Gridley?" said Fanny.

"Yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. Is it not nice to be out? I would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, and go up the street as she does."

Fanny laughed. "Wouldn't all the people be amazed? Tell me what news Mrs Gridley gave you."

Rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily.

"All that, and more besides, which Graeme will give you, if you are not satisfied. There is your husband. I hope he may be glad to see us all."

"If he is not, he can go home by himself."

Arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might last longer.

"Very well, one at a time be it," said Rose. "Come, Fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good thing. Let him have Graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves."

They went away together, and Arthur and Graeme followed, and so it happened that Graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she saw something that brought some of Mrs Gridley's words unpleasantly to her mind. They had turned into S street, which was gay with carriages, and with people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance before them under the trees, when Arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, she saw Miss Roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode Mr Millar. She was startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return Miss Roxbury's bow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before she noticed that her brother was speaking to her. He was saying something about the possible admission of young Roxbury into the new firm, apropos of the encounter of Mr Millar and Amy.

"Harry is very close about his affairs," said Graeme, with a little vexation. "Mrs Gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. I am not sure that I did not deny it, decidedly. It is rather awkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know them ourselves."

"Awkward, indeed!" said Arthur, laughing. "But then this partnership is hardly our affair, and Mrs Gridley is not all the town, though she is not to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and she tells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. It would do well for some things."

But Graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. She was wondering whether Rose had seen Charles Millar and Miss Roxbury, and hoping she had not. And then she considered a moment whether she might not ask Arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she could not do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying her sister. And yet, how foolish such a thought was; for Rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. She repeated it more firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street where Fanny and Rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. If Rose felt any vexation, she hid it well.

"I will ask Fanny whom they met. No, I will not," said Graeme, to herself, again. "Why should Rose care. It is only I who have been foolish. They have known each other so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to happen. It would have been very nice for some things. And it might have been, if Rose had cared for him. He cared for her, I am quite sure. Who would not? But she does not care for him. I hope she does not care for him. Oh! I could not go through all that again! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

It was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed what Graeme was thinking. She started a little when her sister said,—

"Graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a new velvet jacket?"

"Not very extravagant just to wish for one," said Graeme, dubiously. Rose laughed.

"I might as well wish for a gown, too, while I am wishing, I suppose, you think. No, but I do admire those little jackets so much. I might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. It wouldn't take much, they are worn so small. What do you think about it, Graeme?"

"If you can afford it. They are very pretty, certainly."

"Yes, are they not? But, after all, I daresay I am foolish to wish for one."

"Why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, I daresay we can manage it between us."

"Oh! as to setting my heart on it, I can't quite say that. It is not wise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of getting—or on things that perish with the using—which is emphatically true of jackets. This one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost," added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve.

There was no time for more.

"Here we are," said Fanny, as they all came up to the door. "How pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. We will all come to meet you again, dear. I only hope baby has been good."

"She did not see them," said Graeme, to herself, "or she does not care. If she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless—. I will watch her. I shall see if there is any difference. But she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. I am quite sure of that."

If there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not Rose. She was just what she always was. She was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. She was just as usual. She came into Graeme's room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. She did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. Still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. And then Graeme said to herself, again, that Rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful.

Glad and thankful! Yet, Graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even Fanny could see were wistful and anxious. Rose did not see it, or she did not say so. She was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. She was just as usual, Graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see.

When Mr Millar called the first time after the night when Graeme had met him with Miss Roxbury, Rose was not at home. He had seen her going into the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told Mrs Elliott, when she wondered what had become of her. She did not come in till late. She had been beguiled into playing and singing any number of duets and trios with the young Gilberts, she said, and she had got a new song that would just suit Fanny's voice, and Fanny must come and try it. And then, she appealed to Arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wanted mamma. She was just as friendly as usual with Mr Millar during the short time he stayed after that—rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. He brought it the very next night, but Rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. She was not "making believe," Graeme assured herself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. In a day or two Harry came home, and Mr Millar came and went with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went on as before.

"Graeme," said Fanny, confidentially, one night when all but Rose were sitting together, "I saw the prettiest velvet jacket to-day! It was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. I asked the price."

"And were astonished at its cheapness," said Harry.

"For baby, I suppose?" said Arthur.

"For baby! A velvet jacket! What are you thinking of, Arthur?" said Fanny, answering her husband first. "No, Harry, I was not astonished at the cheapness. But it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering."

"And it is for baby's mamma, then," said Arthur, making believe to take out his pocket book. Fanny shook her head.

"I have any number of jackets," said she.

"But, then, you have worn them any number of times," said Harry.

"They are as good as new, but old-fashioned? Eh, Fanny?" said her husband.

"Three weeks behind the latest style," said Harry.

"Nonsense, Arthur! What do you know about jackets, Harry? But, Graeme, Rosie ought to have it. You know, she wants one so much."

"She spoke about it, I know; but I don't think she really cares for one. At any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one."

"Of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get," said Fanny, wisely. "But she would like it, all the same, I am sure."

The velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with much interest; but Rose had given up all thought of it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. Judging from what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, Fanny doubted the sincerity of Rose's resignation.

"I believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she says nothing," continued she.

"Vexing her," repeated Graeme. "What do you mean, Fanny? What have you seen?"

"Oh! I have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. But I know I should be vexed if I wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; at least I should have been when I was a young girl like Rose," added Fanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the folly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. The others laughed.

"And even later than that—till baby came to bring you wisdom," said her husband.

"And it would be nice if Rosie could have it before the Convocation," continued Fanny, not heeding him. "It would just be the thing with her new hat and grey poplin."

"Yes," said Graeme, "but I don't think Rosie would enjoy it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. I don't really think she cares about it much."

"I know what you mean, Graeme. She would not like me to interfere about it, you think. But if Arthur or Harry would have the sense to make her a present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice."

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma," said Harry. "A regular manager."

Fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma's wisdom and management were not admired. Graeme hastened to interfere.

"It is very nice of you to care so much about it, Fanny. You know Rose is very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, Harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. I am not sure, however. I have my misgivings."

And not without reason. Rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but not too liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. But more than once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to Fanny, in her attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, or by drawing on her own means. Even from Graeme, she would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on the little shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to the utmost limit.

But there was no difficulty this time. It all happened naturally enough, and Rose thanked Harry with more warmth than was necessary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of Graeme.

"I saw one on Miss Roxbury," said Harry, "or, I ought to say, I saw Miss Roxbury wearing one; and I thought it looked very well, and so did Charlie."

"Oh!" said Rose, with a long breath. "But then you know, Harry dear, that I cannot pretend to such style as Miss Roxbury. I am afraid you will be disappointed in my jacket."

"You want me to compliment you, Rosie. You know you are a great deal prettier than little Amy Roxbury. But she is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know her. You would win her heart directly, if you were to try."

"But then I should not know what to do with it, if I were to win it, unless I were to give it away. And hearts are of no value when given by a third person, as nobody should know better than you, Harry, dear. But I shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more good brothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well I look in mine. It is very nice, and I thank you very much."

But she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, Graeme could not help thinking.

"Of course, she did not really care much to have it. She does not need to make herself fine. I daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. It is well she can enjoy something else besides finery."

They all went to the Convocation, and Rose wore her new jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. The ladies went early with Arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. Fanny enjoyed this part of the affair very much, and Rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, Fanny whispered that there was Harry, with Miss Roxbury.

"I thought Harry was not coming," said she.

"I suppose, he was able to get away after all," said Graeme, and she looked round for Mr Millar. He was not to be seen, but by and by Harry came round to them, to say that there were several seats much better than theirs, that had been reserved for the Roxbury party, because Mr Roxbury had something to do with the College, and Mrs Roxbury wanted them to come round and take them, before they were filled.

"Oh! how charming!" said Rose. "If we only could. We should be quite among the great people, then, which is what I delight in."

"I thought you were not coming, Harry," said Graeme.

"I was afraid I could not get away, but I made out to do so. No, not at Charlie's expense. There he is now, speaking to Mrs Roxbury, and looking about for us, I daresay."

"Well, Fanny, you go on with Harry, and Graeme and I will follow," said Rose. "It would not do to separate, I suppose? Are you sure there is room for all, Harry?"

"Quite sure. No fear; we will make room."

So Harry gave his arm to Fanny, and Graeme rose to follow them, though she would much rather have stayed where she was. When she reached the other end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but Rose had not moved. She could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and Graeme could not linger without losing sight of Harry and Fanny, for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students were left vacant. So she was obliged to hasten on.

"I will send Harry back for her," said Graeme, to herself. "Or, perhaps, when Arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. We have made a very foolish move for all concerned, I think. But Rosie seemed to like the idea, and I did not care. I only hope we are not separated for the whole affair."

But separated for the whole affair they were. Arthur returned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away again. So as he could see and hear very well where he was, and as Rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with the companionship of her little friend, Miss Etta Goldsmith, he contented himself where he was.

Miss Goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till "dear Dick," had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. And after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had bidden farewell to each and all, in English so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmates for the applause, which they did not spare. Rose sat beside the eager little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that Arthur leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. Then she brightened.

"There is great deal more of it, is there not? I must not be tired yet. Why don't you find your way over to Fanny and Graeme?"

"Where are they? Ah! yes, I see them over there among the great folks— and Harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. And that bonny little Amy is not far-away, I'll venture to say. No. I shall stay where I am for the present."

Miss Goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. And so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy herself. And to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, there was a great deal worth seeing.

"How beautifully the ladies are dressed! How pretty the spring fashions are! I feel like an old dowdy! Who is that lady in blue? What a love of a hat! And your jacket! It is a beauty!"

It was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations that Rose listened to all that was going on. There was a good deal more to be said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. Then they had some Latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the Principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery English. And "will it ever be done?" thought Rose, with a sigh.

It was not "just the thing," all this discussion of hats and fashions; but little Miss Goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and Rose answered as silently, with a nod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were not the only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the Dean, and the prosing of the Chancellor, Rose thought to herself; as she glanced about. Arthur whispered that the Chancellor surpassed himself on the occasion, and that even the Dean was not very prosy, and Rose did not dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? She brightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go.

"Go and find Fanny and Graeme," said she to her brother. "Dr Goldsmith will take care of his sister and me."

Dr Goldsmith was nothing loth, and Rose was so engaged in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, that she did not notice that Graeme and Mr Millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. There was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. The Roxbury carriage was among the rest, and Miss Roxbury was sitting in it, though Rose could not help thinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on with the rest, as Harry was so bold as to propose. They were waiting for Mr Roxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words.

"I will walk on with the Goldsmiths. I have something to say to Etta," said Rose, and before Graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. The carriage passed them, and Miss Roxbury leaned forward and bowed and smiled, and charmed Miss Goldsmith with her pretty manner and perfect hat. In a little, Harry overtook them. Rose presented him to Miss Goldsmith, and walked on with the Doctor. At the gate of the college grounds, their ways separated.

"Mr Elliott," said Miss Goldsmith, "your sister has almost promised to come and visit us when I go home. I do so want papa and mamma to see her. Brother Dick goes home to-morrow, but I am going to stay a day or two, and then I want Rose to go with me. Do try and persuade Miss Elliott to let her go."

Harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had no doubt Graeme would be happy to give Rose the pleasure, and then they got away.

"Papa, and mamma, and brother Dick. I declare it looks serious. What are you meditating, now, Rosie, if I may ask?"

"My dear Harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. The idea of your taking Graeme and Fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! I don't know what I should have done if Arthur had not come back. To be sure I had Etta Goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. I don't think her big brother is so very ugly if he hadn't red hair. And he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. His papa and mamma must be delighted. But it was very shabby of you, Harry, to go and leave me alone; was it not, Arthur?"

"But, you might have come, too," said Fanny. "I thought you were following us."

"And so did I," said Graeme.

"Well, dear little Etta Goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. I did not feel sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd alone, or I might have followed you."

"I did not miss you at first," said Harry, "and then I wanted Charlie to go for you, but—"

"He very properly refused. Don't excuse yourself, Harry. And I had set my heart on comparing jackets with Miss Roxbury, too."

"Why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?" said Harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister's reproaches. He had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself,—

"Why didn't you wait and speak to her at the door?"

"Oh! you know, I could not have seen it well then, as she was in the carriage. It is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don't you think? And, besides, it would not have been quite polite to the Goldsmiths," added she, severely. "You know they befriended me when I was left alone."

"Befriended you, indeed. I expected every minute to see your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. I felt like giving him a beating," said Harry, savagely. Rose laughed merrily.

"My dear Harry! You couldn't do it. He is so much bigger than you. At least, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say."

"But it is all nonsense, Rose. I don't like it. It looked to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big—big—"

"Doctor," suggested Rose.

"And we shall have all the town, and Mrs Gridley, telling us next, that you—"

"Harry, dear, I always know when I hear you mention Mrs Gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent. I leave you. Quite the contrary. And please don't use that naughty word in connection with my name again, or I may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agreeable to you. Dear me, I thought you were growing to be reasonable by this time. Don't let Graeme see us quarrelling."

"You look tired, dear," said Graeme, as they went up-stairs together.

"Well, it was a little tedious, was it not? Of course, it wouldn't do to say so, you know. However, I got through it pretty well, with little Etta's help. Did you enjoy the Roxbury party much?"

"I kept wishing we had not separated," said Graeme. "Oh! yes, I enjoyed it. They asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. It is not to be a party. Harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is Mr Millar."

"It will be very nice, I daresay, only I am so very tired. However, we need not decide till after dinner," said Rose.

After dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, and she had a headache, besides.

"I noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon," said Arthur. "Don't go if you are tired. Graeme, what is the use of her going if she does not want to?"

"Certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. But I think you would enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might come home early."

"Oh! I enjoy regular parties only too well. I will go if you wish it, Graeme, only I am afraid I shall not shine with my usual brilliancy— that is all!"

"I hope you are really ill," said Harry. "I mean, I hope you are not just making believe to get rid of it."

"My dear Harry! Why, in all the world, should I make believe not well 'to get rid of it,' as you so elegantly express it? Such great folks, too!"

"Harry, don't be cross," said Fanny. "I am sure I heard you say, a day or two since, that Rose was looking thin."

"Harry, dear!" said Rose, with effusion, "give me your hand. I forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment. I have had horrible fears lately that I was getting stout—middle-aged looking, as Graeme says. Are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only making believe?"

"I didn't intend it as a compliment, I assure you. I didn't think you were looking very well."

"Did you not? What would you advise? Should I go to the country; or should I put myself under the doctor's care? Not our big friend, whom you were going to beat," said Rose, laughing.

"I think you are a very silly girl," said Harry, with dignity.

"You told me that once before, don't you remember? And I don't think you are at all polite,—do you, Fanny? Come up-stairs, Graeme, and I will do your hair. It would not be proper to let Harry go alone. He is in a dreadful temper, is he not?" And Rose made a pretence of being afraid to go past him. "Mr Millar, cannot you do or say something to soothe your friend and partner?"

Harry might understand all this, but Graeme could not, and she did not like this mood of Rose at all. However, she was very quiet; as she dressed her sister's hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. But she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if Graeme could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. Graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then she went away.

She did not go very cheerfully. She had had two or three glimpses of her sister's face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall with Harry, before Miss Goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences to Rose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there was something troubling her darling. She was not able to put it away again. The foolish, light talk between Rose and Harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by her words. But she only said, "good-night, and go to sleep," and then went down-stairs with a heavy heart. She wanted to speak with Harry about the sharp words that had more than once passed between him and Rose of late; but Mr Millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered Mr Roxbury's house.

The drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. Yet when Graeme stood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. It was only for a moment, and it was not for herself. The pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her own life, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of that troubled time. She had known this before, and the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden of dread of what might lie in the future for her sister.

It did not leave her all the evening. She watched the pretty, gentle Amy, flitting about among her father's guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl's face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. She watched her ways and words with Mr Millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from Rose. But she watched in vain. Amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still.

"She is very like Lily Elphinstone, is she not?" said her brother Harry in her ear.

She started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl's face.

"She is very like Lily—in all things," said Graeme; and to herself she added, "and she will steal the treasure from my darling's life, as Lily stole it from mine—innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still— and from Harry's, too, it may be."

And, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's face; but Harry was no longer at her side. Mr Millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as Harry's had been.

"She is very sweet and lovely—very like Lily, is she not?" he whispered.

"Very like her," repeated Graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness.

"You are very tired of all this, I am afraid," said he.

"Very tired! If Harry only would take me home!"

"Shall I take you home? At least, let me take you out of the crowd. Have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? Shall I take you up-stairs for a little while."

Graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. It was all so like what had been before—the lights, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now for Rose, and so much worse to bear. Still in a dream, she went from picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed with all her heart, for it was Rosie's face that looked down at her from the canvas; it was Rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes.

"Anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. Not very far, however. At the first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again.

"That is a very sad picture, I think," she said, coming back with an effort to the present. "I have seen it once before."

Charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. An impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. Scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his lips.

"Miss Elliott," murmured he, "you will never take your friendship from me, whatever may happen?"

She was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the crowd again. What was he thinking of! Of Allan and the past, or of Rose and Amy and the future? A momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, and then little Amy was looking up in her face, rather anxiously and wistfully, Graeme thought.

"You are not going away, Miss Elliott, are you?" said she.

"I am very tired," said Graeme. "Oh! here is my brother. I am very sorry to take you away, Harry, but if you don't mind much, I should like to go home. Will you make my adieux to your mother, Miss Roxbury?—No, please do not come up-stairs. I would much rather you did not. Good-night."

"You might at least have been civil to the little thing," growled Harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. Graeme laughed.

"Civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "Oh! Harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to know. But, indeed, I did not mean to be uncivil to the child."

"Then you were uncivil without meaning it," said Harry, sharply.

Graeme was silent a moment.

"I do not choose to answer a charge like that," said she. "I beg your pardon, Graeme, but—"

"Harry, hush! I will not listen to you."

They did not speak again till they reached home. Then Graeme said,—

"I must say something to you, Harry. Let us walk on a little. It is not late. Harry, what is the trouble between you and Rose?"

"Trouble!" repeated Harry, in amazement. "Do you mean because she fancied herself left alone this afternoon?"

"Of course I do not mean that. But more than once lately you have spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which I am ignorant—something that must have happened when you were away from home—at the West, I mean—something which I have not been told."

"Graeme, I don't understand what you mean. What could possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? Why don't you ask Rose?"

"Because I have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and now I prefer to ask you. Harry, dear, I don't think it is anything very serious. Don't be impatient with me."

"Has Rose been saying anything to you?"

"Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. You accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of—of flirting, in short—"

"My dear Graeme! I don't think I ever made any such assertion—at least in a way that you or Rose need to resent—or complain of."

"Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. Harry, dear, what is it? Don't you remember one night when something was said about Mrs Gridley—no, don't be impatient. You were annoyed with Rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least I thought not. I don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns Rose is a great matter to me. She is more to me than any one."

"Graeme," said Harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that I love Rose less than you do. I think I know what you mean, however. I annoyed her once by something I said about Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I am sure she does not care about that now."

"About Charlie!" repeated Graeme.

"Yes; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious matter to Charlie when you and Rose went away that time. He was like a man lost. And I do believe she cared for him, too—and I told him so—only she was such a child."

"You told him so!" repeated Graeme, in astonishment.

"I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in such a way, so—so miserable; and when he went West last winter, it was more to see Rose than for anything else. But he came back quite downhearted. She was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that he said very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, I took her to task sharply about it."

"Harry! How could you?"

"Very easily. It is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose with a man's heart, and such a man as Charlie. And I told her so roundly."

"And how did she take it?" asked Graeme, in a maze between astonishment and vexation.

"Oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended princess—and I rather think I had the worst of it," added Harry, laughing at the remembrance. "But I don't bear malice, and I don't think Rose does."

"Of course, she does not. But Harry, dear, though I should not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, I must say it was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. I don't believe Mr Millar ever said a word to her about—about his feelings, and you don't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her about—any one."

"Now; Graeme, don't be missish! 'Never said a word!'—Why, a blind man might have seen it all along. I know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her."

"No wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so in words; at least she ought not," said Graeme, gravely.

"Oh, well!—there is no use talking. Perhaps I was foolish; but I love Charlie, dearly. I daresay Rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you may agree with her. But I tell you, Graeme, Charlie is pure gold. I don't know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded—unless it is our own Will; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may be changed by this time. But I can swear for Charlie."

"You don't need to swear to me, Harry. You know well I have always liked Charlie."

"Well, it can't be helped now. Charlie has got over it. Men do get over these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time," added Harry, meditatively. "I was rather afraid of Rosie's coming home, and I wanted Charlie to go to Scotland, then, but he is all right now. Of course you are not to suppose that I blame Rose. Such things will happen, and it is well it is no worse. It is the way with those girls not to know or value true worth because they see it every day."

"Poor Charlie!" said Graeme, softly.

"Oh, don't fret about Charlie. He is all right now. He is not the man to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her own mind. 'There's as good fish in the sea,' you know. If you are going to be sorry for any one, let it be for Rosie. She has lost a rare chance for happiness in the love of a good man."

"But it may not be lost," murmured Graeme.

"I am afraid it is," said Harry, gravely. "It is not in Rose to do justice to Charlie. Even you don't do it, Graeme. Because he lives just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. As for Rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it is laid at her feet. I only hope she won't wait for the 'hats till the blue-bonnets go by,' as Janet used to say."

"As I have done, you would like to add," said Graeme, laughing, for her heart was growing light. "And Harry, dear, Rosie never had anybody's heart laid at her feet. It is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend."

"Oh! well. It doesn't matter. She will never have it now. Charlie is all right by this time. Her high and mighty airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admiration. Fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring Mrs Roxbury and her daughter, when they—Miss Roxbury, at least—wanted to see her to engage her for this evening."

"He is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said Graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "The Goldsmiths might have called her 'high and mighty' if she had left them and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those 'fine carriage people.' She could only choose between the two parties, and I think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to suppose."

"She need not have been rude to the Roxburys, however. Charlie noticed it as well as I."

"I think you are speaking very foolishly, Harry," said Graeme. "What do the Roxburys care for any of us? Do you suppose Mrs Roxbury would notice a slight from a young girl like Rose. And she was not rude."

"No, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that I was amazed, and so was Charlie, I know, though he did not say so."

"Nonsense, Harry! Rose knows them, but very slightly. And what has Mr Millar to do with it?"

"Mr Millar!" exclaimed Harry. "Do be reasonable, Graeme. Is it not of Mr Millar that we have been speaking all this time? He has everything to do with it. And as for not knowing them. I am sure Rose was at first delighted with Miss Roxbury. And Amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, I know. But Rose is such a flighty, flippant little thing, that—"

"That will do, Harry. Such remarks may be reserved for Mr Millar's hearing. I do not choose to listen to them. You are very unjust to Rose."

"It is you who are unjust, Graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. I am sure I don't understand it."

Graeme laughed.

"Well, perhaps I am a little out of temper, Harry. I know I am dreadfully tired. We won't say anything more about it to-night, except that I don't like to have Rose misunderstood."

"I was, perhaps, a little hard on Rosie, once, but I don't think I misunderstand her," said Harry, wisely. "She is just like other girls, I suppose; only, Graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. And I shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all right with Charlie."

But was it all right with Charlie? Graeme's talk with Harry had not enlightened her much. Had pretty, gentle Amy Roxbury helped Charlie "to get over it;" as Harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? Or did Charlie still care for Rose? And had Rose ever cared for him "in that way?" Was Rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as Harry declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful life? Was it this that had brought over her the change which could not be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very sad? Or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow over the life of her young sister? Even in her thoughts, Graeme shrunk from admitting that Rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late for her happiness.

"I will not believe that she has all that to pass through. It cannot be so bad as that. I will have patience and trust. I cannot speak to her. It would do no good. I will wait and trust."

Graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her mind, could only end in this: "I will wait and trust."



CHAPTER FORTY.

Graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister Rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, smiling down upon her. Rose disappointed and sad! Rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. She laughed, as Rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning.

"I could not have borne it," she said to herself. "I am afraid I never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. I am content with my own lot. I think I would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. But Rosie—. Ah! well, I might have known! I know I ought to trust for Rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. But oh! I am very glad and thankful for her sake."

She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Harry there.

"'The early bird,' you know, Graeme," said he. "I have been telling Rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home."

"But he won't tell me what it was all about," said Rose.

"I cannot. I don't know myself. I have an idea that you had something to do with it, Rosie. But I can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say."

"It is not absolutely necessary that you should," said Graeme, smiling.

"I hope you are in a much better humour this morning, Graeme."

"I think I am in a pretty good humour. Not that I confess to being very cross last night, however."

"It was he who was cross, I daresay," said Rose. "You brought him away before supper! No wonder he was cross. Are you going to stay very long, Harry?"

"Why? Have you any commands for me to execute?"

"No; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. I am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one."

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

"Now, Graeme, don't you call that flippant? Is it anything about the big doctor, Rosie?"

"You won't beat him, will you Harry? No. It is only about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. She cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure out of everything. Mayn't she come?"

"Certainly, if you would like her to come; I should like to know her very much."

"And is the big brother to come, too?" asked Arthur.

"No. He leaves town to-day. Will you go with me, Harry, to fetch her here?"

"But what about 'papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? The cunning, little thing has some design upon you, Rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us."

Rose laughed.

"Don't be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. And I intend to show myself to 'papa and mamma' later, if you don't object."

"There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are quarrelling, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge."

"Tell us about the party, Harry," said Fanny.

"It was very pleasant. I don't think Graeme enjoyed it much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. It was more than usually agreeable, I thought."

"You are degenerating, Harry," said his brother. "I thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. I should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least."

"And then to make him lose the supper! It was too bad of you, Graeme," said Rose.

"Oh! she didn't. I went back again."

They all exclaimed. Only Harry laughed.

"Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie?" asked he.

"Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all."

"It is very kind of you, Harry, to offer," said Graeme.

"Hem! not at all. I shall be most happy," said Harry.

"Oh! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, little Etta and I."

Miss Goldsmith's visit was a success. She was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country—not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. It might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, Etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, Etta added gravely.

Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. All the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. But notwithstanding the hard times to which Etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed.

Everything was made pleasure by this little girl. It was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. Shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. An hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. Rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. They paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. Rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. She taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in Berlin wool. She even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. In short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. Not a moment but was occupied in some way.

Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only Rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home.

"I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. I think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but I know I am only a silly little thing. Oh! Rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!"

"I should like it very much, indeed," said Rose.

"Of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't mind that. Miss Elliott, don't you think you could spare Rose to me for a few days?"

Graeme shook her head.

"I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I have seen very little of her for a long time, I think."

Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "Nonsense, Etta," said Rose; "she is only laughing at you. She has had you and me, too. And I should like very much to go with you. This is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, I think. What do you say, Graeme?"

Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so entreatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said nothing encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first June days, and, because of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and Graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. Etta was enchanted.

"I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for I know I am a foolish girl. But with Rose to help me, just at first, I shall succeed I know."

"Don't be silly, Etta," said Rose. "You are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever I was, or am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. If they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don't make me blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me so well."

No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of Rose's intention to go with her. Harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme disliked so much, and then Rose went away for a few minutes.

"Graeme," said Harry, "what is all this about? It seems to me Rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. What freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?"

"If it is a freak, it is mine," said Graeme, quietly. "Rose needs a change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and I am very glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith."

"A change," repeated Harry. "Why could she not go with Fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?"

"But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will be home before that time. She will not be away more than a fortnight, I hope."

"A fortnight, indeed! What has the time to do with it? It is the going at all that is so foolish: You astonish me, Graeme."

"You astonish me, Harry! Really I cannot understand why you should care so much about it."

"Well, well! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need not trouble myself about it," said Harry, sulkily.

"What has happened to you, Harry?" said Fanny. "You are not like yourself, to-night."

"He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times," said Graeme. "Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr Millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately."

"I was just thinking so," said Mr Millar.

"Why should not Rosie go?" persisted Fanny. "I think it must be a very stupid place, from all that Etta says; still, if Rose wishes it, why should she not go?"

"I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid of," said Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too.

"I don't think it is a laughing matter," growled Harry. "How would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?"

Arthur and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. "It would be just like a silly girl like Rose," continued Harry, gloomily.

"Harry," said Graeme, "I think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. You should be the last person to couple Rose's name with that of any gentleman."

"Of course, it is only among ourselves; and, I tell you, Graeme, you are spoiling Rosie—"

"Harry! be quiet. I don't choose to listen to you on that subject."

"I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of Rosie's conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable," said Arthur.

"Well, it may be so. At any rate, I shall say no more. Are you coming, Charlie? I must go."

He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "Rose, are you coming down again? I must go."

Rose came flying down.

"Must you go, Harry? I am just done with what I needed to do. Don't be cross with me, Harry." And greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek.

"Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn't mean to be cross, Rosie, my darling."

But, in a minute, Rose was smiling through her tears.

"Rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I wish—" Rose wiped her eyes.

"Don't go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately; and please don't tell Graeme that I am so silly. She wouldn't like it at all."

"Graeme is as silly as you are," growled Harry.

Rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with Miss Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which Etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said:

"I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us? We will take great care of her, I assure you."

"Since I am too silly to take care of myself," said Rose.

They had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before Harry and his friend went away.

"I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose," said Mr Millar. "I shall have sailed before you are home again, I suppose."

"You go in the first steamer, then?"

"I don't know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite decided."

"Of course, he goes by the first steamer," said Harry. "He should have gone long ago. There is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter."

Rose opened her eyes very wide.

"Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said Fanny.

"Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said Rose. "I think Mr Millar is very good not to mind you."