"I am a Canadian," said the young lady. "I never saw the 'gowany braes,' but I shall see them soon."

They had reached the gate by this time.

"Come again, soon. Come into the garden, whenever you like. I am sure Mr Stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. I think a few of his would improve your bouquet."

Mr Stirling touched his hat to his young lady.

"I shall be proud to show the flowers to Miss Rose, and I shall have the honour of making her a bouquet soon." The young lady laughed.

"You are to be a favourite. Is your name Rose," added she, lingering by the gate.

"Yes, Rose Elliott. I am the youngest. We all live over there, my brothers, and Graeme and I. It would be a dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your garden. Look, there is Nelly looking for me. I am afraid I have hindered Arthur. Thank you very much, and good-bye."

Rose shyly put forth her hand. The young lady took it in both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go.

"Stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you know the young lady's name is Rose? is she a friend of yours? Do you know her?"

"I know her face, that is all I have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. And whiles she looks through the gate. I heard her brothers calling her Rose. She's a bonny lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it."

That night, Nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into Graeme's room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, "maybe a gentleman," Nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his compliments to Miss Rose Elliott. A bouquet! it would have won the prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. Even when the autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlour, where by that time Graeme was able to appear.

"For," said Mr Stirling, to the admiring Nelly, "such were Miss Elphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty."

The autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. As Graeme grew strong, she grew content. The children were well and happy, and Arthur's business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and means, might be put aside for the present. They often heard from Norman, and from their friends in Merleville, and Graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise.

In the spring, they removed to another house. It was in town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the country. For the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the transforming hands of Rose and her brothers. There was a green field behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. The house itself, seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. It was larger than they needed, Graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with everything else. It was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and a never failing source of delight besides. Their new home was quite away from Mr Stirling's end of town, but he found time to come and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invaluable.

This was a short and pleasant summer to them all. It is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. To Will and Rosie everything was delightful. The early marketing with Nelly, to which Graeme and Arthur, and sometimes even Harry was beguiled, never lost its charm for them. Harry had lived in town, long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over Rosie's penchant for making acquaintance with the old French woman and little children whom they met. He mystified Rose and her friends by his free interpretation of both French and English, and made the rest merry too; so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough to go with them.

Sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of Nelly and Miss Beecher. Sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole family, Nelly and all, at Lachine or the Back River, or on the top of the mountain. All this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the Elliotts were able to find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times.

They had pleasures of another kind, too. Arthur's temporary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or other of them.

They had not many acquaintances at this time. In Janet's estimation, the averseness of Graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her character. It was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to be in the country, Graeme found. Besides, she had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister's daughter, and was inclined for quietness. Once or twice she made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" of the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a lane near their house, and stayed at home. She was by no means sure that she did right. For everybody knows, or ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments for those who have none. But then, though the "sewing-circle" is the generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear ladies who love to do good, but who are apt to be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. One thing is certain, though Graeme did not find it easy for a while to satisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept her at home, the little Finlays were all the happier and better for the time she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs.

They made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. Arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, a friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or lawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the city made him wish to show kindness. There were two or three gay French lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great liking to the grave and steady Arthur, and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fireside. Graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the French as a people, and as for Rose, the very sight of these polite moustached gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all comfortable to think about. But those light-hearted Canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though English had been their mother tongue. Very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better subjects for the exercise of Rosie's French than the old market women were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly welcomed.

This was a busy time, too. Graeme taught Rosie English, and they studied together French and German, and music; and were in a fair way, Harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. Very busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater importance. And if sometimes it came into Graeme's mind that the life they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful of life's true end.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"It is just three years to-night since we came to M. Did you remember it, Arthur?" said Graeme, looking up from her work.

"Is it possible that it can be three years?" said Arthur, in surprise.

"It has been a very happy time," said Graeme.

Rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother's chair. Arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister's face. Rose did not heed it.

"Three years!" repeated she. "I was quite a child then."

The others laughed, but Rose went on without heeding.

"It rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. How well I remember the time! Graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for Janet."

"That was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper," said Graeme; "and you were not at all homesick yourself, I suppose?"

"Perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days," said Rose, gravely; "but I was not homesick very long."

"I am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time—more than you let me know about," said Arthur.

Graeme smiled and shook her head.

"I am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. If I had known how hard you would have to work, I think I would have stayed in Merleville after all."

"Pooh! Nonsense! Hard work is wholesome. And at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in Merleville."

"But that was quite different—"

"Did I tell you that I have got a new client? I have done business for Mr Stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth I am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of 'Grove & Stone.' It will add something to our income, little woman."

Rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother's ear.

"Don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of 'Grove & Stone.' You know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated," said Graeme.

"To the Merleville visit. But this is not at all an extravagance, is it, Arthur?" said Rose.

"That depends—. I am afraid Graeme is the best judge. But we won't tell her to-night. We must break the matter to her gently," said Arthur.

"Graeme is so dreadfully prudent," sighed Rose.

Graeme laughed.

"It is well there is one prudent one among us."

"I don't believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. They are nicer than usual, are they not?" said Rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother's case.

"Yes. I treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of Grove & Stone. They are very nice. Have one?"

Rose took it with great gravity.

"Suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards," said she, coaxingly.

Arthur made a grimace.

"And where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?"

"There is no telling, indeed," said Rose. "Graeme, I am going to put on my new hat. When Mr Elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know."

"But, Arthur, you have an engagement to-night. Don't you remember?" asked Graeme.

"To Mrs Barnes'," said Rose. "Miss Cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. Her sister is nurse there. The party is to be quite a splendid affair. It is given in honour of Miss Grove, who has just come home. I wish I were going with you."

"You may go without me! I will give you my invitation. It is a great bore, and I don't believe I shall go. I don't see the good of it."

"But you promised," said Graeme.

"Well, I suppose I must go for a while. But it is very stupid."

"Just as if you could make us believe that. It must be delightful. I think it's very stupid of you and Graeme, not to like parties."

"You forget. I was not asked," said Graeme.

"But you might have been, if you had returned Mrs Barnes' call soon enough. How nice it would have been! I wish I were Miss Grove, to have a party given for me. She is a beauty, they say. You must notice her dress, Arthur, and tell me all about it."

"Oh! certainly," said Arthur, gravely. "I'll take particular notice. But come, get your hats. There is time enough for a walk before I go. Haste, Rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. Are you coming, Will? Man! you shouldna read by that light. You will blind yourself. Put away your book, you'll be all the better for a walk."

They lingered a moment at the gate.

"Here is Harry!" exclaimed Rose. "And some one with him. Charlie Millar, I think."

"We will wait for them," said Arthur.

The look that came to Graeme's face, as she stood watching her brother's coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. She stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at Harry with anxious eyes.

"Are you going out, Graeme?" asked he, coming within the gate.

"Only to walk. Will you go with us? Or shall I stay?"

"Miss Elliott," interposed Charlie Millar, "I beg you will not. He doesn't deserve it at your hands. He is as cross as possible. Besides, we are going to D street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. He came yesterday. Did Harry tell you?"

"Harry did not come home last night. What kept you, Harry?" asked Rose.

"We were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and Harry stayed with me last night," said Charlie.

"And of course Graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me," said Harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice.

"Of course she did no such foolish thing. I saw to that," said Arthur. "But which is it to be? A walk, or a quiet visit at home?"

"Oh! a walk, by all means," said Charlie Millar.

"I have a great mind not to go," said Harry.

"Nonsense, man! One would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. I refer to you, Miss Elliott. Would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?"

"Bother the new firm," said Harry, impatiently.

"The new partner, you mean. He has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight—calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers."

"Shy! A six-footer, with a beard enough for three. After that I'll vanish," said Harry.

"I don't think Harry is very polite," said Rose.

"Never mind. There are better things in the world than politeness. He will be more reasonable by and by," said Harry's friend.

"So your brother has come," said Graeme. "How long is it since you have seen him?"

"Oh! not for ten years. He was home once after he came out here, but I was away at school, and did not see him. I remembered him quite well, however. He is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;" then he added, as Harry reappeared, "the fact is, Miss Elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. We must overlook his ill-temper."

"By all means," said Graeme, laughing.

"Thank you," said Harry. "And I'll try to be patient."

"Well, shall we go now?" said Arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. The others followed him and Will.

"Is your brother going to remain here?" asked Graeme. "That will be nice for you."

"Yes, on some accounts it would be nice. But if they send Harry off to fill his place at the West, I shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. And I am not sure I should like that long."

"Send Harry!" exclaimed Graeme.

"Nonsense, Graeme!" said Harry. "That is some of Charlie's stuff."

"I hope so; but we'll see," said Charlie. "Miss Elliott, I had a letter from my mother to-day." The lad's eyes softened, as he turned them on Graeme.

"Have you?" said Graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. "Is she quite well?"

"Yes, she is much better than she was, and, Miss Elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks."

"For what?" said Graeme, smiling.

"Oh! you know quite well for what. What should I have done, if it had not been for you and Harry? I mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes."

"Stuff!" said Harry.

"Truth!" said Charlie. "I never shall forget the misery of my first months, till Harry came into our office. It has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again."

"That was no great self-denial on our part," said Graeme, smiling.

"You minded Graeme on some one she used to know long ago," said Rose. "And, besides, you are from Scotland."

Both lads laughed.

"And Graeme feels a motherly interest in all Scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be," said Harry.

And so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of Mr Elphinstone's garden, beyond which Arthur and Will were loitering.

"How pretty the garden is!" said Rose. "Look, Graeme, at that little girl in the window. I wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me."

"I am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get," said Graeme.

"Come in and let me gather you some," said Charlie.

"No, indeed. I should not venture. Though I went in the first time without an invitation. And you dare not pick Mr Stirling's flowers."

"Dare I not?" said Charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall.

"Oh! don't. Oh! thank you," said Rose.

As far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel.

"Look," said Rose, drawing back.

"The new partner," said Harry, with a whistle. "A double partnership— eh, Charlie?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, looking wise.

"He knows what he's about, that brother of yours. He's cute. He knows a thing or two, I guess."

"Harry," said Rose, gravely, "don't talk slang. And I don't think it very polite to speak that way to Mr Millar about his brother."

"My dear Rosie, I am not talking slang, but the pure American language; and I think you are more considerate about other people's brothers than you are of your own. Twice this night I have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke."

"You deserved it," said Rose, laughing.

"Miss Rose," said Charlie, "let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the evening."

Rose turned her laughing face to her brother.

"Be a good boy, Harry. Good bye."

As they returned, Will and Rose went on before, while Graeme lingered with Arthur.

"Did you hear what Mr Millar said about the possibility of Harry's being sent West? It must be to take the new partner's place, I suppose," said Graeme, after a little.

"No; did he say so? It would be a capital good thing for Harry."

"Do you think so? He would have to leave home."

"Yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. I doubt whether there is much in it, however. Harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. Still, it may be. I know they have great confidence in him."

There was a pause, and they walked slowly on.

"Arthur," said Graeme, in a low voice. "Do you think Harry is—quite steady?"

"Steady," repeated Arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. "Why should you doubt it?"

Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother's arm, and he knew it cost her an effort.

"I dare say there is no cause for doubt. Still, I thought I ought to speak to you. You will know better than I; and you must not think that I am unkind in speaking thus about Harry."

"You unkind! No; I should think two or three things before I thought that. But tell me why you have any fears?"

"You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. And once or twice— more indeed—he has been excited, more than excited—and—"

Graeme could not go on.

"Still, Graeme, I do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after—too much for his good, I dare say. But he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. Why, Graeme, in P street Harry is thought much of for his sense and talent."

Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. But she did not speak.

"Shall I speak to him, Graeme? What would you like me to do? I don't think there is much to fear for him."

"Well, I will think so, too. No; don't speak to him yet. It was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. I dare say I am foolish."

They walked on in silence for a little, and then Graeme said,—

"I hope it is only that I am foolish. But we have been so happy lately; and I mind papa and Janet both said to me—it was just when we were beginning to fear for Menie—that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. It proved so then."

"Yes; I suppose so," said Arthur, with a sigh. "We must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. But, Graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. And I am quite sure that after all your care for Harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. That would be too sad."

They said no more till they overtook the children,—as Rose and Will were still called in this happy household.

"I have a good mind not to go, after all. I would much rather stay quietly at home," said Arthur, sitting down on the steps.

"But you promised," said Graeme. "You must go. I will get a light, and you need not stay long."

"You must go, of course," said Rose. "And Graeme and I will have a nice quiet evening. I am going to practise the new music you brought home."

"A quiet evening," said Will.

"Yes; I have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. I'm sure, I don't know where the time goes to. I wish I were going with you, Arthur."

"You are far better at home."

"Yes, indeed," said Graeme; and Will added,—

"A child like Rosie!"

"Well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially Miss Grove's, and tell me all about them."

"Yes; especially Miss Grove, if I get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful."

"Well, good-night," said Rose. "I don't believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you."

Arthur bowed low.

"I suppose I ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. And I would, if I could conscientiously. But 'fine feathers make fine birds,' and Miss Grove aspires to be a belle it seems,—and, many who don't aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little Scottish Rose of our garden. Good-night to you all—and Graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time."

He went away, leaving Rose to her practising, Will to his books, and Graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. They were not very sad thoughts, though Arthur feared they might be. Her brother's astonishment at her fears for Harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for Harry, Arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all.

"Arthur will think I am foolish. He will think that I have lost confidence in Harry, which is not true. I wish I were more hopeful. I wish I did not take fright at the very first shadow. Janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. Such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our Harry! I won't think about it. And even if Harry has to go away, I will believe with Arthur, that will be for the best. He will be near Norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. Norman will be glad. And I will not fear changes. Why should I? They cannot come to us unsent. I will trust in God."

But quite apart from the thought of Harry's temptation or prospects, there was in Graeme's heart a sense of pain. She was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. She feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. Except the thought about Harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. She had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. Even household care, Nelly's skill and will had put far from her.

And now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and Janet had always spoken of life as a warfare—a struggle, and the Bible so spoke of it, too. She thought of Janet's long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by God. She thought of her father—how, even in the most tranquil times of his life—the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in Merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. Yes, life was a warfare. Not always with outward foes. The struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained—the struggle must only cease with life. It had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, Graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with Christ in God,—constant warfare— and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. And what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days?

It was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. Had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? Had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father's and her mother's would have been? They had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger Christian men, because of her? And if, as she had sometimes feared, Harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame?

The friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. And yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for Harry. She always came back to Harry in her thoughts.

"But I will not fear for him," she repeated often. "I will trust God's care for Harry and us all. Surely I need not fear, I think I have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. Outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. If we are humble and trustful God will guide us."

And busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, Graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

The shining boots crashed the gravel, and the white dress gleamed through the darkness, some time after the young men were seated in Mr Elphinstone's handsome drawing-room. The master of the mansion sat alone when they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the grate. For Mr Elphinstone was an invalid, with little hope of being other than an invalid all his life, though he was by no means an old man yet.

If he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for they had come quite close to him before he looked up, and he quite started at the sound of Mr Millar's voice. He rose and received them courteously and kindly, however. Mr Elphinstone in his own drawing-room was a different person, or rather, he showed a different manner from Mr Elphinstone in his counting-room in intercourse with his clerks; and Harry, who had had none but business intercourse with him, was struck with the difference. It required an effort for him to realise that the bland, gentle voice was the same that he had so often heard in brief and prompt command.

Business was to be ignored to-night, however. Their talk was of quite other matters. There was an allusion to the new partnership, and to Mr Millar's half-brother, the new partner, who at the moment, as they all knew, was passing along the garden walk with a little white hand on his coat-sleeve. This was not alluded to, however, though each thought his own thoughts about it, in the midst of their talk. That those of Mr Elphinstone were rather agreeable to himself, the lads could plainly see. He had no son, and that his partner and nephew should fall into a son's place was an idea that pleased him well. Indeed, it had cost him some self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after the pretty Lilias had withdrawn, and the smile that Harry was stealthily watching on his face, was called up by the remembrance of the admiration which his daughter had evidently called forth. Harry watched the smile, and in his heart called the new partner "lucky," and "cute," and looked at Charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that would have excited some grave astonishment to their host, if by any chance he had looked up to see. Though why Charlie should look discontented about it, Harry could not well see.

They talked about indifferent matters with a little effort till the white dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice said—

"What, still in the dark, papa!"

The lights came in, and Harry was introduced to Miss Elphinstone. He had shared Rosie's interest in the lady of the pony-carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen her since her return from Scotland, where her last three years had been spent. A very sweet-looking and graceful little lady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps in sympathy, Harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman who had come in with her.

It was evidently Harry's interest to be on good terms with the new partner, and common politeness might have suggested the propriety of some appearance of interest in him and his conversation. But he turned his back upon the group by the fire, and devoted himself to the entertainment of their young hostess who was by this time busy with her tea-cups in another part of the room. There was some talk about the weather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in the first little pause that came, the young lady looked up and said,—

"You don't live in the house opposite now, I think."

It was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thankful for a new opening, Harry said,—

"No; my sisters were never quite contented there. We left it as soon as possible; and we are quite at the other end of the town now."

"And is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever?"

"Rose? Oh, yes! She has a garden of her own now, and aspires to rival the pansies and verbenas of Mr Stirling, even."

Miss Elphinstone smiled brightly.

"I remember the first time she came into the garden."

"Yes, that was a bright day in Rosie's life. She has the gowans you gave her still. The garden was a great resource to her in those days."

"Yes; so she said. I was very glad. I never gathered gowans among the hills at home, but I seemed to see that pretty shy face looking up at me."

"Yes," said Harry, meditatively, "Rose was a very pretty child."

Mr Millar had drawn near by this time. Indeed, the other gentlemen were listening too, and when Miss Elphinstone looked up it was to meet a very wondering look from the new partner.

"By the by, Mr Elliott," said her father, breaking rather suddenly into the conversation, "whom did your elder brother marry?"

"Marry!" repeated Charles.

"He is not married," said Harry.

"No? Well he is to be, I suppose. I saw him walking the other day with a young lady. Indeed, I have often seen them together, and I thought—"

"It was my sister, I presume," said Harry.

"Perhaps so. She was rather tall, with a pale, grave face—but pretty— quite beautiful indeed."

"It was Graeme, I daresay. I don't know whether other people think her beautiful or not."

Harry did not say it, but he was thinking that his sister seemed beautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took the tender look of Graeme's own as he thought. It vanished quickly as a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the look of the new partner.

"You don't mean that you are the Harry Elliott that sailed with me in the 'Steadfast,' ten years ago."

"Yes, I am Harry Elliott, and I crossed the sea in the 'Steadfast' ten years ago. I knew you at the first glance, Mr Ruthven."

"I never should have known you in the least," said Mr Ruthven. "Why, you were quite a little fellow, and now you can nearly look down on me."

"I never thought of that," said Harry, looking foolish.

"And you thought the new partner fancied himself too big a man to know you," said Charlie. "And that's the reason you took umbrage at him, and told your sister he was—ahem, Harry?"

Miss Elphinstone's laugh recalled Charlie to a sense of propriety, and Harry looked more foolish than ever. But Mr Ruthven did not seem to notice what they were saying.

"I never should have known you. I see your father's look in you now— and you have your elder sister's eyes. Why did you not write to me as you promised?"

"We did write—Norman and I both, and afterwards Graeme. We never heard a word from you."

"You forget, it was not decided where you were to settle when I left you. You promised to write and tell me. I wrote several times to your father's friend in C—-, but I never heard from him."

"He died soon after we arrived," said Harry.

"And afterward I heard of a Reverend Mr Elliott in the western part of New York, and went a day's journey thinking I had found you all at last. But I found this Mr Elliott was a very young man, an Englishman—a fine fellow, too. But I was greatly disappointed."

Harry's eyes grew to look more like Graeme's than ever, as they met Allan's downward gaze.

"I can't tell you how many Mr Elliotts I have written to, and then I heard of your father's death, Harry, and that your sisters had gone home again to Scotland. I gave up all hope then, till last winter, when I heard of a young Elliott, an engineer—Norman, too—and when I went in search of him, he was away from home; then I went another fifty miles to be disappointed again. They told me he had a sister in a school at C—-, but Rose never could have grown into the fair, blue-eyed little lady I found there, and I knew it could not be either of the others, so I only said I was sorry not to see her brother, and went away."

Harry listened eagerly.

"I daresay it was our Norman, and the little girl you saw was his adopted sister, Hilda. If Norman had only known—" said Harry. And then he went on to tell of how Norman had saved the little girl from the burning boat, and how he had cared for her since. By and by they spoke of other things and had some music, but the new partner said little, and when it was time for the young men to go, he said he would walk down the street with them.

"So, Charlie, you have found the friends who were so kind to me long ago," said his brother, as they shut the gate.

"Yes," said Charlie, eagerly, "I don't know how I should have lived in this strange land without them. It has been a different place to me since Harry came to our office, and took me home with him."

"And I suppose I am quite forgotten."

"Oh, no, indeed!" said Harry, and Charlie added—

"Don't you mind, Harry, your sister Rose said to-night that I reminded Miss Elliott of some one she knew long ago. It was Allan, I daresay, she meant. My mother used to say I looked as Allan did when he went away."

They did not speak again till they came near the house. Then Charlie said,—

"It is not very late, Harry. I wonder whether they are up yet. There is a light."

"Allan," said Harry, lingering behind, "Marian died before my father. Don't speak of her to Graeme."

Graeme was still sitting on the steps.

"Miss Elliott," whispered Charlie, eagerly, "who is the new partner, do you think? Did I ever tell you my half-brother's name? It is Allan Ruthven."

Graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward holding out her hands to the tall figure who came forward with an arm thrown over Harry's shoulder. They were clasped in his.

"I knew you would come. I was quite sure that some time we should see you again," said Graeme, after a little.

"And I—I had quite lost hope of ever finding you," said Allan. "I wonder if you have missed me as I have missed you?"

"We have been very happy together since we parted from you," said Graeme, "and very sorrowful, too. But we never forgot you, either in joy or sorrow; and I was always sure that we should see you again."

They went into the house together. Rose, roused from the sleep into which she had fallen, stood very much amazed beneath the chandelier.

"You'll never tell me that my wee white Rose has grown into a flower like this!" said Allan.

It was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that Rose was nearly as tall as her sister; but he clasped her in his arms and kissed her "cheek and chin" as he had done that misty morning on the deck of the "Steadfast" so many years ago.

"Rose," said Graeme, "it is Allan—Allan Ruthven. Don't you remember. I was always sure we should see him again."

They were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one another in many words. The names of the dead were on their lips, making their voices trembling and uncertain.

"Arthur," said Rose, as they were all sitting together a day or two after, "you have forgotten to tell us about the party."

"You have forgotten to ask me, you mean. You have been so taken up with your new hero that I have had few of your thoughts."

Mr Ruthven smiled at Rose from the other side of the table.

"Well, tell us about it now," said she. "You must have enjoyed it better than you expected, for more than one of the 'small-hours' had struck before you came home."

"Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very well. I met young Storey, who has just returned from Europe. I enjoyed his talk very much. And then Mrs Gridley took me under her protection. She is a clever woman, and handsome, too."

"Handsome!" echoed Rose. "Why she is an old woman, with grown-up daughters. And if you were to see her by daylight!"

They all laughed.

"Well, that might make a difference. But she says very clever, or maybe very sharp, things about her neighbours, and the time passed quickly till supper. It was rather late but I could not leave before supper— the event of the evening."

"I should think not," said Harry.

"Well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might make Harry discontented with his own. And what happened after supper?"

"Oh! after supper Mr Grove and his friend Barnes began to discuss the harbour question, and I very foolishly allowed myself to be drawn into the discussion. Mr Green was there, the great western merchant. He is a long-headed fellow, that. You must know him, Mr Ruthven."

"I know him well. He is a remarkably clever business-man, and a good fellow; though, I suppose, few know it so well as I do. I had a long illness in C once, and he nursed me as if I had been a brother. I might have known him for years in the way of business, without discovering his many excellent qualities. He has the name of being rather hard in the way of business, I believe?"

"He has a clear head of his own," said Arthur; "I enjoyed a talk with him very much. He intends visiting Europe, he tells me."

"Well, what next?" said Rose, to whom Mr Green and his good qualities were matters of indifference.

"Then I came home. Mr Green walked down the street with me."

"And didn't you see Miss Grove, the belle of the evening!" exclaimed Rose.

"Oh, yes! I had the honour of an introduction to her. She is a pretty little thing."

"Pretty! Is that all you can say for the belle? How does she look? Is she fair or dark? What colour are her eyes?"

"I can hardly say. She would be called fair, I think. I can't say about her eyes. She has a very pretty hand and arm, and—is aware of it."

"Don't be censorious, Arthur! Does she wear curls? And what did she say to you?"

"Curls! I cannot say. I have the impression of a quantity of hair, not in the best order toward the end of the evening. She seemed to be dancing most of the time, and she dances beautifully."

"But she surely said something to you. What did you talk about?" demanded Rose, impatiently.

"She told that if she were to dance all the dances for which she was engaged, she wouldn't get home till morning."

"You don't mean to say you asked her to dance?"

"Oh, no! She volunteered the information. I could have waited so long as to have the honour."

"And, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress?"

"I beg your pardon," said Arthur, searching his pocket. "It must be in my other vest. I asked Mrs Gridley what the young lady's dress was made of, and put it down for your satisfaction. Rosie, I hope I haven't lost it."

"Arthur! what nonsense!" said Graeme, laughing. "I am sure Mrs Gridley was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time."

"She hadn't any sleeve to laugh in. But when I told her that I was doing it for the benefit of my little sister Rosie, she smiled in her superior way."

"I think I see her," said Rosie, indignantly. "But what was her dress, after all? Was it silk or satin?"

"No, nothing so commonplace as that. I could have remembered silk or satin. It was—"

"Was it lace, or gauze, or crape?" suggested Rose.

"Or tarltan or muslin?" said Graeme, much amused.

"Or damask, or velvet, or cloth of gold, or linsey-woolsey?" said Harry.

Arthur assumed an air of bewilderment.

"It was gauze or crape, I think. No; it had a name of three syllables at least. It was white or blue, or both. But I'll write a note to Mrs Gridley, shall I, Rosie?"

"It would be a good plan. I wonder what is the use of your going to parties?"

"So do I, indeed," said her brother. "I am quite in the dark on the subject. But I was told in confidence that there are cards to be issued for a great entertainment in Grove House, and I should not wonder if my 'accomplished sisters'—as Mrs Gridley in her friendly way calls them— were to be visited in due form by the lady of the Grove preparatory to an invitation to the same. So be in readiness. I think I should write the note to Mrs Gridley, Rosie; you'll need a hint."

Graeme laughed, while Rose clapped her hands.

"I am not afraid of the call or the invitation," said Graeme.

But they came—first the call, which was duly returned, and then the invitation. That was quite informal. Mrs Grove would be happy if Miss Elliott and her sister would spend the evening at her house to meet a few friends. To their surprise, Harry, as well as Arthur, came home with a little pink note to the same effect.

"I didn't know that you knew the Groves, Harry," said Arthur.

"Oh, yes, I know Mr Grove in a general way; but I am invited through a mistake. However, I shall go all the same. I am not responsible for other people's mistakes. Nothing can be plainer than that."

"A mistake!" repeated several voices.

"Yes; Mrs Grove thinks I am a rising man, like the squire here; and why undeceive her? I shall add to the brilliancy of her party, and enjoy it mightily myself. Why undeceive her, I ask?"

"Don't be nonsensical, Harry," said Rose.

"How came Mrs Grove to make such an absurd mistake?" said Arthur, laughing.

"She's cute, I know; still it was not surprising in the circumstances. I met her on the street yesterday, and I saw the invitation in her eyes as plainly as I see this little pink concern now;" and he tossed the note to Rose. "I think I should send the acceptance to Miss Elphinstone. It was she who obtained the invitation for me."

"Miss Elphinstone!"

"Yes, or Jack, or both, I should perhaps say. For if Jack had been at his post, I should not have been politely requested to call a carriage for Miss Elphinstone, and Mrs Grove would not have seen me escorting her down the street as she sat in her carriage at Alexander's door. I know she was thinking I was very bold to be walking on N Street with my master's daughter. Of course she didn't know that I was doing the work of that rascal Jack. And so I am going to the Grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to our going en masse. Eh, Graeme?"

"It is not a party, only a few friends," said Rose, eagerly.

"Certainly, we'll all go," said Arthur. "If they had not wanted us all, they would not have asked us. Of course, we'll all go for once."

"But, Graeme," said Harry, coming back after he had left to go away, "don't let the idea of 'a few friends' delude you. Make yourselves as fine as possible. There will be a great crowd, you may be sure. Miss Elphinstone and Mr Ruthven are invited, and they are not among the intimate friends of such people as the Groves. Shall I send you home a fashion book, Rosie?"

"Or write a note to Mrs Gridley," said Arthur.

Rose laughed. She was pleasantly excited at the prospect of her first large party, there was no denying it. Indeed, she did not seek to deny it, but talked merrily on, not seeing, or not seeming to see, the doubtful look on Graeme's face. She alone, had not spoken during the discussion. She had not quite decided whether this invitation was so delightful as Rosie thought, and in a little when her sister had left the room, she said—

"Shall I accept the invitation then for Rose and me?"

"Have you not accepted yet? you need not of course, unless you wish. But I think you will enjoy it, and Rosie, too."

"Yes, but I am by no means sure, that I like Mrs Grove," said she, hesitating.

"Are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "Well, I have got much farther than you. I am sure that I don't like her at all. But, what of that?"

"Only that I don't fancy accepting kindness, from a person I don't like, and to whom I don't think it would be pleasant to repay in kind."

"Oh! nonsense. The obligation is mutual. Her kindness will be quite repaid, by having a new face in her splendid rooms. And as for repaying her in kind, as you call it, that is quite out of the question. There are not a dozen people in town who do the thing on the scale the Groves attempt. And besides, Rosie would be disappointed."

Graeme did not believe that it was the best thing that could happen to Rosie, to be gratified in this matter, but she did not say so.

"After all," thought she, "I daresay there is no harm in it. I shall not spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming to enjoy it. But I don't like Mrs Grove."

The last words were emphatically repeated. She did not like her. She did not wish to see her frequently, or to know her intimately. She wished she had neither called, nor invited them. She wished she had followed her first impulse, which had been to refuse at once without referring to her brothers. Now, however, she must go with a good grace.

So they all went, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as they found on comparing notes around the bright little fire, which Nelly had kept burning, against their return.

"Only," said Rosie, with a little shamefacedness, "I am not sure that Graeme liked me to dance quite so much."

Graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the best time to speak about it. So she did not.

"But how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me," said Arthur, "and Harry too, I saw him carrying off Miss Elphinstone, with all the coolness imaginable. Really, the young people of the present day amaze me."

"Oh! one can dance without learning," said Rose, laughing. "The music inspires it."

"And I have danced many a time before," said Harry. "You are not sorry you went, are you Graeme?"

"Sorry! no indeed! I have had a very pleasant evening."

And so had they all. Mrs Grove had made a great effort to get a great many nice and clever people together, and she had succeeded. It had required an effort, for it was only lately, since his second marriage, that Mr Grove had affected the society of clever people, or indeed, any society at all. There were people who fancied that he did not affect it yet, and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in corners among the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to bring together. He did not enjoy society much, but that was a small matter in the opinion of his wife. He was as little of a drawback to the general enjoyment, as could be expected in the circumstances. If he was not quite at his ease, at least he was seldom in anybody's way, and Mrs Grove was quite able to do the honours for both. Mr Grove was a man whom it was not difficult to ignore, even in his own dining-room. Indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown to the poor little man in the circumstances, was to ignore him, and a great deal of this sort of kind feeling was manifested towards him by his guests.

On the first entrance of Arthur and Graeme, their host fastened on the former, renewing with great earnestness a conversation commenced in the morning in the young man's office. This did not last long, however. The hostess had too high an opinion of Mr Elliott's powers of pleasing, to permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly carried him off, leaving Mr Grove, for the present, to the tender mercies of Graeme. He might have had a worse fate; for Graeme listened and responded with a politeness and interest, to which he was little accustomed from his wife's guests. Before he became unbearably tedious, she was rescued by Mr Ruthven, and Mr Grove went to receive Mr Elias Green, the great western merchant, a guest far more worthy of his attention than any of the fine ladies and gentlemen, who only knew him in the character of feast-maker, or as the stupid husband of his aspiring wife.

Graeme had seen Allan Ruthven often since that first night. They had spoken of the pleasant and painful things that had befallen them, since they parted so long ago, or they might not have been able to walk so quietly up and down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. Then they found a quiet, or rather a noisy, corner in the music room, where they pursued their conversation unmolested, till Harry brought Miss Elphinstone to be introduced to Graeme.

This was a mutual pleasure, for Graeme wished to know the young lady who had long been Rosie's ideal of all that was sweet and beautiful, and Miss Elphinstone was as pleased to become the friend of one whom her cousins Allan and Charlie admired so much. And when she begged permission to call upon her and Rose, what could Graeme do, but be charmed more and more. Then Miss Elphinstone was claimed for another dance, and who should present himself again but their host, and with him the guest of the evening, the great western merchant! Then there were a few minutes not so pleasant, and then Mr Green proposed that they "should make the tour of the rooms." But Graeme had not the courage for such an ordeal, and smilingly begged to be excused; and so he sat down beside her, and by and by, Graeme was surprised to find herself interested in his conversation. Before he had been a great merchant. Mr Green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of Vermont, and when he knew that Miss Elliott had passed seven happy years in a New England village, he found enough to say to her; and Graeme listened and responded, well pleased.

She had one uncomfortable moment. It was when the supper movement began to be made, and the thought flashed upon her, that she must be led to the supper room, by this western giant. Mr Ruthven saved her from this, however, to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engaged in talking and listening, as not to have perceived that something interesting was about to take place. The sight of the freely flowing champagne gave Graeme a shock, but a glance at Harry reassured her. There was no danger for him to-night. Yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as they lingered over the fire after their return.

"But, Arthur," said Graeme, "I was disappointed in Miss Grove. She is pretty, certainly, but there is something wanting—in expression I mean. She looks good tempered, but not intellectual."

"Intellectual!" repeated Arthur. "No. One would hardly make use of that word in describing her. But she is almost the prettiest little thing I ever saw, I think."

"And she certainly is the silliest little thing I ever saw," said Harry. "Rosie, if I thought you capable of talking such stuff, as I heard from her pretty lips to-night, I would—"

Arthur laughed; less, it seemed, at what Harry had said, than at what it recalled.

"She is not likely to astonish the world by her wisdom, I should think," said he, as he rose to go up-stairs. "Nor Rosie either, for that matter," he added, laughing, and looking back.

"None of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, I think," said Graeme. "Come, Rosie, Nelly will lose patience if breakfast is kept waiting. Good-night, Harry. Don't sit long."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

Whether Nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, Rosie did not make her appearance at it. Graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. The late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, Rosie's lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. All were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another.

This did not last long, however. The drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from Mrs Gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. Mrs Gridley had promised some friends from Toronto, a treat of Scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. But the consolation of Mrs Gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. Arthur was to be out of town, but Will was to go in his place. They went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable.

Mrs Gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same—the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. She would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. So there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. Graeme and Rosie, and Will too, enjoyed it well. Harry professed to have been bored.

Out of these parties sprang others. Graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. Perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by Arthur, with the long-established firm of Black & Company. They certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. Invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. Regular reading was interfered with or neglected. Household matters must have fallen into confusion, if Nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. The long quiet evening at home became the exception. They went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. There were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time.

Graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. The novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. Sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. Rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. Indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child's sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. Then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. For a time, Graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. She determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. Several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. She only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved.

Christmas and New Year's Day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. Rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till Nelly had taken it from his hand. She just noticed that it was addressed to Graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it.

"What is it, Graeme?" asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. "I am almost sure it was left by Mrs Roxbury's servant. See, there is their crest. What is it? An invitation?"

"Yes," said Graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "For the twenty-seventh."

"Such a long time! It will be a grand affair. We must have new dresses, Graeme."

She took up the note and read:

"Mrs Roxbury's compliments to Miss Elliott."

"Miss Elliott!" she repeated. "Why, Graeme! I am not invited."

"So it seems; but never mind, Rosie. I am not going to accept it."

Rose was indeed crestfallen.

"Oh, you must go, of course. You must not stay at home on my account."

"No; certainly. That is not the reason. Your being invited would have made no difference."

"I could hardly have gone without you," said Rose, doubtfully.

"Certainly not. Neither of us would have gone. If I don't accept this invitation our acquaintance with the Roxburys will perhaps go no further. That would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others."

"A sufficient reason for not refusing, I should rather say," said Rose.

"No. There is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. There is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter."

"But Arthur wishes it. He thinks it right."

"Yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. I don't mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. But so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. I am tired of it. We won't speak of it now, however; I must finish my letter." For to tell the truth, Rosie's face did not look promising.

"Don't send a refusal till you have spoken to Arthur, Graeme. If he wishes you to go, you ought, you know."

"I am by no means sure of that. Arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. He does not enjoy them, and I see no reason why I should deny myself, in so bad a cause."

"But Graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. I am sure I have always enjoyed them."

"Yes, I have enjoyed some of them, but I am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. I mean, it may be too dearly bought. And besides, it is not the party, as a party, that I ever enjoy. I have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only—only one or two friends, than I ever had at a party, and—, but we won't talk about it now," and she bent over her letter again. She raised her head almost immediately, however.

"And yet, Rosie, I don't know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, I have meant to say. We have not been living a good or wise life of late. Do you mind, love, what Janet said to us, the night before we came away? Do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? Do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be— more fit to meet them where they are?"

Graeme spoke very earnestly. There were tears in her eyes.

"Graeme," said Rose, "do you think it wrong to go to parties—to dance? Many good people do not."

"I don't know, love. I cannot tell. It might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. Certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. I am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately."

Rosie looked grave, but did not reply. In a little, Graeme added,—

"I am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to Mrs Snow, Rosie. She seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world."

"But, Graeme, everything is so different in Merleville, Janet cannot know. And, besides—"

"I know, dear; and I would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. If we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, I daresay it would do us no harm. But, Rosie, I am afraid for myself, that I may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and I am afraid for you, too, dear Rose."

"I enjoy parties very much, and I can't see that there is any harm in it," said Rosie, a little crossly.

"No, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. But, Rose, think how dreadful, to become 'a lover of pleasure.' Is there no danger do you think, love?"

Rose hung her head, and was silent. Graeme went on,—

"My darling, there is danger for you—for me—for us all. How can we ever hope to win Harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?"

"But, Graeme, it is better that we should all go together—I mean Harry is more with us than he used to be. It must be better."

"I don't know, dear. I fear it is only a change of evils. Harry's temptation meets him even with us. And, oh! Rosie, if our example should make it easier for Harry to go astray! But we won't speak about Harry. I trust God will keep him safe. I believe He will."

Though Graeme tried to speak calmly, Rose saw that she trembled and grew very white.

"At any rate, Rose, we could not hope that God would hear our prayers for Harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to Him. For it is not well with us, dear. We need not try to hide it from ourselves. We must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. Yes, we must go farther back than that, Rosie," said Graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. "Do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? How little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. Rosie! I could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. My darling! we must begin again."

There were tears on Rose's cheeks, as well as Graeme's, by this time. But in a little Graeme sat down again.

"It is I who have been most to blame. These gay doings never should have commenced. I don't think Arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. And if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change."

It was not difficult to reconcile Arthur to the change. "Graeme must do as she thought right," he said. "It must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance—a loss of time to little purpose," and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if Harry had not discovered Mrs Roxbury's note.

"I declare Mrs Gridley is right," said he. "We are a rising family. I hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. But how is this? Miss Elliott. Have you one, Rosie?"

Rose shook her head.

"No. Have you, Harry?"

"Have I? What are you thinking of, Rose? Do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? It is only for such commercial successes as Mr Green, or Allan Ruthven, that that honour is reserved. But never mind, Rosie. We shall find something to amuse us that night, I have no doubt."

"Graeme is not going," said Rose.

"Not going! Oh! she'll think better of it."

"No, she has sent her refusal."

"And why, pray?"

"Oh! one can't go everywhere, as Mrs Gridley says," replied Graeme, thus appealed to.

"Yes; but Mrs Gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, Willie Birnie, the tailor. I can understand how she should not find time to go there. But how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for Mrs Roxbury's select affair, is more than I can comprehend."

"Don't be snobbish, Harry," said Will.

"I think the reasons are obvious," said Arthur.

"Yes," said Graeme, "we knew Willie Birnie when we were children. He was at the school with you all. And I like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, I enjoyed it well."

"Oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, I have nothing to say. And Willie is a fine fellow; I don't object to Willie, or the new wife either—quite the contrary. But of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs Roxbury and her set."

"Graeme is not like people generally," said Rose.

"I hope not," said Will. "And, Harry, what do you suppose Mrs Roxbury cares about any of us, after all?"

"She cares about Graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her."

"I am not sure of that," said Graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. "I suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. They are connected with the Blacks, in some way. Now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, I daresay she will be just as well pleased that I should stay at home."

"That is not the least bit uncharitable, is it Graeme?"

"No. I don't think so. It certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. I really think she asks me from a sense of duty—or rather, I ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the Blacks. It is very well that she should do so, and if I cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though I stay away."

"Well, I can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. I should think the Roxbury's would be the very house you would like to go to."

"Oh! one has to make a beginning. And I am tired of so much gaiety. It makes no difference about its being Mrs Roxbury."

"Very well. Please yourself and you'll please me," said Harry, rising.

"Are you going out to-night, Harry?" said Graeme, trying not to look anxious.

"Yes; but pray don't wait for me if I should not be in early," said Harry, rather hastily.

There was nothing said for some time after Harry went out. Will went to his books, and Rose went to the piano. Graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious.

"What can make Harry so desirous that you should go to Mrs Roxbury's?" said Arthur, at last. "Have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?"

"Do you think Harry really cared? No; I have no reason for not wishing to go there. But, Arthur, we have been going out too much lately. It is not good for Rosie, nor for me, either; and I refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, I might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her—as she would have been eager to go. But it is not good for her, all this party-going."

"I dare say you are right. She is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. She is a very pretty girl."

"Pretty! Who can compare with her?" said Graeme. "But she must not be spoiled. She is best at home."

"Proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend Ruthven, and Miss Elphinstone," said Arthur. "It seems the wedding is to come off soon. Proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know."

"No; I did not know it," said Graeme; and in a little she added, "ought that to make any difference about my going? My note is written but not sent."

"I should think not. You are not supposed to know anything about it. It is very likely not true. And it is nothing to us."

"No; that is true," said Graeme. "Rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. That should be quite otherwise at the close," and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. They played a long time together, and it was Rose who was tired first 'for a wonder.'

"Graeme, why did you not tell Harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to Mrs Roxbury's?" said Rose, when they went up-stairs together.

"The true reason?" repeated Graeme.

"I mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?"

"I don't know, dear. Perhaps I ought to have done so. But it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. I am afraid Harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one I gave."

"I don't know, Graeme. He was not satisfied; and don't you think it would have been better just to say you didn't think it right to go out so much—to large parties, I mean."

"Perhaps it would have been better," said Graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her Bible in her hand for the nightly reading. Rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,—

"Graeme, you are not afraid for Harry now? I mean not more afraid?"

Graeme started. Her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of Harry.

"I don't know, love. I hope not. I pray God, no harm may come to Harry. Oh! Rosie, Rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. We have been dreaming, I think. We must waken up, and begin again."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

Graeme's first judgment of Allan Ruthven, had been, "how these ten years have changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same, the very same."

But her first judgment was the true one. He was changed. It would have been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for the better.

In the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new acquaintance he made with his brother Charlie, he came to know himself that he had changed greatly. He remembered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he had not always withstood. He knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him.

Yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest an the deck of the "Steadfast," watching the gleaming lights of a strange city. Standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its attainment; and reading in Graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very same," his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving her.

He was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten years had not changed him more. The lonely life he had pictured to his friends, that last night on the "Steadfast," fell far short of the reality that awaited him. Removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the turmoil of a Western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that seemed opening before him. His native place, humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. A few months ago the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. Between gigantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay undisturbed still. The air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation is one of mistrust and doubt.

All his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. If business men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. Business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest portion. The feverish activity and energy which were fast changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end— the getting of wealth. Wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. There was no respite, no repose. One must go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. Fortune was daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till a new chance could be grasped at.

"Honest labour! Patient toil!" Allan wondered within himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle.

Allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by old standards. But there were among the swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish feet had wandered over English meadows, or trod the heather on Scottish hills. Men whose fathers had spent their lives content in mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, patient, God-fearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. The very diggers of ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of the new world.

That there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. He never could associate the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at every corner. He could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting the smiling mouth of a little child. Home! Why, all the world seemed at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. Even the children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. They troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future might be. Looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeter words, Ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. He fancied he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the daily strife.

Ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the first part of his residence in C. He changed his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became changed at last. By and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. Uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then pleasant to him. At first his duties were merely mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his time was his own. But this did not continue long. Trusted always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good service to his employers. His skill and will guided their affairs through more than one painful crisis. His integrity kept their good name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their credit. He thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. He did his duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. So passed the first years of his commercial life.

In default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from those who were about him. Those who came into close contact with him called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above them, was willing so to be called. But as one cannot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. So it came to pass that, as the years went on, Allan Ruthven was greatly changed.

It need not have been so. It doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of the Christian faith and the Christian life. There were those over whom the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman they held, the "constraining love of Christ," in them. Those walked through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. But Ruthven was not one of them. He had the name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his heart. He was a Christian only in name; and so, when the influence of early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way," at the "lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the questionable maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last.

Not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own sake. He never sank so low as that. But in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from degenerating into a character so despicable. If he was not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. Another ten years of such a life would have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly—all that in his youth he had most despised.