"Of course not. I was quite sure this would make no change. Rather than my sisters should be made unhappy by my—by this affair—I would go no further in it. My engagement should be at an end."

"Hush, Arthur! It is too late to say that now."

"But I was quite sure you would see it in the right way. You always do, Graeme. It was not my thought that you would do otherwise. And it will only be a new sister, another Rosie to care for, and to love, Graeme. I know you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to Rose and to us all."

Graeme pressed the hand that Arthur laid on hers, but she could not speak. "If it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child," thought she. She almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, when Arthur said,—

"You must not be hard on her, Graeme. You do not know her yet. She is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding little thing; and removed from her stepmother's influence and placed under yours, she will become in time all that you could desire."

She would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. Her heart refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not have uttered them. She sat silent and grave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy.

That night Graeme's head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. Her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. She shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, "How could he be so blind, so mad?" To her it was incomprehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up with no fear of God before her eyes—one whose highest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions and fancies of the world. He might dream, of happiness now, but how sad would be the wakening.

If there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against her brother's choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of years might come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was not till afterwards. None of these mingled with the bitter sadness and compassion of that night. Her brother's doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that might be wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was well nigh lost. It was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. She repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister's side in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows might darken her brother's future, he should find her love and trust unchanged for ever.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

Arthur Elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect—common sense. He remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. She had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of God's saints besides. Living for years in daily intercourse with his sister Graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. Yet in the choice of one who was to be "till death did them part" more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. Flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life's happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child.

One who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that Arthur Elliott's is by no means a singular case. Quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. If, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. A woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her solitary way through life content. But if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. For then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. Her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. What God has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss.

But it is possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. It is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. The rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. But when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. He grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. When he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. The voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. The tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part.

But this is a digression, and I daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. Indeed, I am not sure that I quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. There are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness.

Charlie Millar's private announcement to his friend Harry of his brother Arthur's engagement, was in these words:

"The efforts of the maternal Grove have been crowned with success. Your brother is a captive soon to be chained—"

Charlie was right. His clear eye saw, that of which Arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. And what Charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy Mr Green, the great Western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. Had the interesting fact transpired, that the great Elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, "wriggled himself clear," it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. But Mr Green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as Mrs Grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. She acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it.

When the pretty Fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. Fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. Mr Elliott was by no means Mr Green's equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,—except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. And then Fanny, though very pretty, was "a silly little thing," she said to herself with great candour. Her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. The chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. Then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma's own darlings; Charlotte twelve and Victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have Fanny well away.

And so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the Grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the Grove mansion, and roamed with the fair Fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the Grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. He made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. There were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. Not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests—parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town—but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which Mrs Grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. Very charming little fetes her guests generally pronounced them to be. Arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. He enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. He enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair Fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things.

Everything went on naturally and quietly. There was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. Quite the contrary. If any watchful fairy had suggested to Arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. Did not mamma keep watchful eyes on Fanny always? Had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? Had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest?

And if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of Mrs Grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. If it had been averred that mamma's faith, in her daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma's faithlessness was not surprising. As to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter.

But there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till Graeme came home from Cacouna, to play, in Mrs Grove's opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. She was mistaken, however. Graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. Even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother's short intimacy with the Groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. So, if there came a pause in the lady's operations, if Arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of Graeme. If he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and Graeme's influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to Mrs Grove, or her schemes.

But that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. She could not conceal from herself or Miss Fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. Not that this defection on Arthur's part was ever discussed between them. Mrs Grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. Fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. Indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. But mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. Besides she fancied that Mr Elliott's attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. Two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and "mar dear Fanny's prospects."

And so Mrs Grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. Another invitation was given, and it was accepted. In the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. With a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her "dear friend" for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible Fanny.

"Fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. But oh! Mr Elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?"

In vain Arthur looked the astonishment he felt. In vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society—that he did not understand—that she must be mistaken. The tender mother's volubility was too much for him. He could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on.

Mr Elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. She quite freed him from all intention of wrong. And after all, it might not be so bad. A mother's anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. Change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to—in short Mr Elliott must understand—. And Mrs Grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom Arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation.

But "pique and wounded pride!" He had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. Indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. Mrs Grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. The motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. How she could look her dear Fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so—so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. If, indeed, Miss Fanny had a secret. He wished very much not to believe it. Secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months' acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed.

Not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to Miss Grove and the epaulets. The result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. Greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. He was listened to with politeness, but not with Miss Fanny's usual amiability and interest, that was evident.

By and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here Miss Fanny was distant and dignified still. She gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom Mrs Grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. Arthur approached the centre-table, but Mrs Grove was too much occupied with Captain Starr to include him in the conversation. Mr Grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and Arthur felt there was no help for him. Miss Fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. Miss Grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that Captain Starr had sent her. She did sing it, very prettily, too. She had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. Then she played a brilliant piece or two; then Mrs Grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet Scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of Mr Elliott's, also. Then there were more Scottish airs, and French airs, and then there was a duet with Captain Starr, and mamma withdrew Mr Elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the Captain's handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. Then, when there had been enough of music, Miss Grove returned to her embroidery, and Captain Starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that Arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that Miss Fanny listened from "pique or wounded pride," or something else, not certainly because she liked it. Not but that she seemed to like it. She smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to Mr Elliott a single glance.

By and by Mr Grove came in and withdrew Mr Elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as Arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. It was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. It was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. Never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature.

It is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which Miss Fanny's working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary Point Saint Charles, past an imaginary Griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. It is quite possible that Mr Grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of Mount Royal City, and of Canada. And if Mr Grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it.

It was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over Miss Fanny's white hand when he said good-night. He had one uncomfortable moment. It was when Mrs Grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,—

"It would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite."

He was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on Miss Grove's "good points," and wondered "whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made." He was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. What if "pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection" should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! It would be sad, indeed.

And then he wondered if Miss Grove really cared for him in that way. Surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. As he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, Miss Fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. He visited Grove House a good many times—not to seem odd—and saw a good deal of Miss Fanny. Mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about I cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady's smiles, and the old lady's management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that Graeme had of it was given by Arthur on the night that Norman went away.

Time passed on. The wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. Graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when Arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. She had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. There were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when Miss Grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and Graeme took hope for Arthur. This was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have Fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. At such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with Rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother's choice.

But there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. On more than one occasion Graeme had dispatched Nelly as a messenger to Arthur, to tell him that Fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. For Fanny never appeared agreeable to her in Arthur's presence; and what was worse to bear still, Arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, in the presence of Miss Grove. The coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see Arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one's authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but really as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than Graeme could patiently endure. It was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. The lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times Graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them.

And almost as disagreeable were the visits which Fanny made with her stepmother. These became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than Graeme thought at all necessary. They used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made Graeme and Rose uncomfortable. The little airs of superiority, with which Miss Fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. How would it be when Fanny's marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? At present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by Rose, and sometimes even by Graeme. But it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time.

It must be confessed that Graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of Fanny's clever stepmother. Sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. More than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. Many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by Mrs Grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. It is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to Graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. As Miss Fanny said on one occasion, "One could never tell what mamma meant by what she said," and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. Yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. They were not so deep as to be dangerous. The little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. So Graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still.

The respect and admiration which Mrs Grove professed for Miss Elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. They were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. Her joy that the Elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless Fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister's longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. It was so dear in Miss Elliott to consent to it. Another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother's house. And then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear Fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. Miss Elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. How could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! She only hoped that Fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed.

Graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her "wayward daughter" tended rather to the encouragement of a "judicious resistance" than of "a proper and amiable submission" to the anticipated rule. But as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of Graeme's trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. She was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady's declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made Arthur a little uncomfortable too. He had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to Mrs Grove. He had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured.

"However, it is all right now," said Arthur, congratulating himself. "Graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma's twaddle, and there is no fear as far as Fanny and she are concerned."

The extent to which "mamma's twaddle" and other matters "put Graeme about" at this time she concealed quite, as far as Arthur was concerned. The best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on.

But her feelings changed somewhat. She did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call Arthur's mistake in the choice he had made. But now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. There seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. She was quite sure that Arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of Miss Grove, had he seen them in any one else. She remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. Now how blind he was! All her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. She was very amiable and charming in his eyes. There were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on.

Graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this—that it was better so. If it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other's faults. Somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. If they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. At any rate, there was no use vexing herself about Arthur now. If he was content, why should not she be so? Her brother's happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now.

But as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to Rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. She called herself foolish and faithless—selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. When Arthur should come quite to see with Fanny's eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? Fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed!

And so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. As a part of her marriage-portion, Mr Grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of Columbus Square, and there the young lady's married-life was to commence. The house was quite a little fortune in itself, Mrs Grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the Elliotts. It is just possible that Arthur's intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law's affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. The troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of Elphinstone & Company, had been felt more seriously still by Mr Grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter's benefit, could not but suggest itself to Arthur. He was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. But the state of Mr Grove's affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and Arthur might well look grave.

Not that he troubled himself about it, however. He had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. He knew that Miss Grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. So, if to Mrs Grove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of Fanny's father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. His remarks were reserved for Mr Grove's private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness.

As for Graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. If she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? They might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when Fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. But there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for Fanny's handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future.

"Fanny's house!" could it ever seem like home to them? Her thoughts flew back to Janet and Merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible—nay best and wisest, for her and Rose to go away.

"However, we must wait a while; we must have patience. Things may adjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just now."

In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will Graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "We must wait— we must have patience." And she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?"



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"Are you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme."

"I am very glad, Will. Why should you doubt it? You know I have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as Rosie has."

"No. I don't know any such thing. I can't be quite glad myself, till I am sure that you are glad, too."

"Well, you may be quite sure, Will. It is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. It will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, Will."

"Less like home than ever!" repeated Will. "Why, Graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs."

"Does it?" said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly.

"But, Graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. Fanny is very nice, and—"

"Yes, indeed," said Graeme, heartily. "Everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. I remember the time when I was quite afraid of Fanny and her fine house—my old perversity, you see."

"I remember," said Will, gravely.

"I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma Grove was a perfect night-mare to me. And really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all."

"Well, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma Grove," said Will, with a shrug.

"Oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of Master Tom. You will have to take him, Will."

"Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than that for Fanny's brother, without all this talk."

"But then, without 'all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her English friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy."

"Oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Let her rest."

"Yes, let her rest. And, Will, you are not to think I am not glad that you are going home. I would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate that the field should be a Canadian one."

"Of course. Canada is my home."

"Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called."

"But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that I am going home to learn from the 'British.'"

"There is no fear. Sandy has completed the work which my father and Janet began. Mr Snow is tolerant of the North British, at any rate. What a pleasant life our Merleville life was. It seems strange that none of us, but Norman, has been back there. It won't belong now, however."

"I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily's wedding. But I shall certainly go and see them all, before I go to Scotland."

"If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer there."

"And leave Rose here?" said Will, in some surprise.

"No. I wish to go for Rose's sake, as much as for my own. It seems as though going to Merleville and Janet, would put us all right again."

"I hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said Will.

"Do you know, Will, I sometimes wonder whether I can be the same person who came here with Rose and you? Circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. I think I should come back to my old self again, with Janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way."

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

"Don't you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; and that I have not improved. But I am not sure that I understand myself."

"What is wrong with you, Graeme."

"I cannot tell you, Will. I don't know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. But there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it."

"If I knew what is wrong I might try," said Will, gravely.

"Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?"

"If you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty."

"I know it, Will. But useless as my way of life is, I cannot change it. Next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and Fanny in hers, I have done nothing worth naming as work."

"That same nursing was not a little. And do you call the housekeeping nothing? It is all very well, Fanny's jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. If last year has nothing to show for work, I think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. It is not that you are getting weary of the 'woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?"

"No, Will. I hope not. I think not. But this last year has been very different from all former years. I used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. I cannot explain it. You would laugh at the trifles that make the difference."

"I see one difference," said Will. "You have the trouble, and Fanny has the credit."

"No, Will. Don't say that I don't think that troubles me. It ought not; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. And it is not fair to her. When the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. And she is learning nothing. She is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, I must say, Nelly is very tolerant of the 'whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. But Will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with Fanny, and indeed, I don't wish to do anything so disagreeable."

"I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can understand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell you how to help them."

"No, Will. The kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. What I want for myself is some kind of real work to do. And I want it for Rose."

"But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away,—I mean, to stay always?"

"Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and I. No, Will, I don't think it is that I am growing tired of 'woman's work.' It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. But of such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than I am; and I was content with it. It helped to make a happy home, and that was much."

"You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, Graeme,—your love and care for us all."

"No, Will. These are implied. It is the love and care that made all these trifles really 'woman's work.' A poor dreary work it would be without these."

"And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?" said Will.

"There is, indeed, Will. If I were only sure that it is my work. But, I am not sure. And it seems as though—somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do." And letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond.

"Oh! Will," she went on in a little, "you do not know. You who have your life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. You know the work before you is your work—given you by God himself. You need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. And look at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. And all the time not knowing whether I ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all—never sure but that elsewhere, I might find wholesome work for God and man."

Very seldom did Graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. But Will said,—

"Even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. Some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate 'woman's work' to do,—love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on Fanny's domain."

He began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. She did not laugh.

"I have thought of that, too. It seems so natural and proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman should marry. And there have been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, I have thought that any change would be for the better. But it would not be right, unless—" she hesitated.

"No, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not reasonably hope that the right person may come?"

"We won't talk about it, Will. There must be some other way than that. Many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. I wish I could do as the Merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school."

"But they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. And as for school-keeping—"

"It would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with God's help, I might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better for my labour."

"But you could not part from Rose, and Arthur could never be made to see it right that you should go away," said Will.

"Rose should go with me. And Arthur would not like it at first, nor Fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. And as to the school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more's the pity."

"There is work enough of the best kind. It is the remuneration that is scant. And the remuneration could not be made a secondary consideration; if you left home."

"In one sense, it ought to be secondary. But I think it must be delightful to feel that one is 'making one's living,' as Mr Snow would say. I should like to know how it feels to be quite independent, Will, I must confess."

"But Graeme, there is no need; and it would make Arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. Even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent."

"Does it, Will. That is dreadful. It is quite possible that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. We won't speak any more about it, Will."

"But, why should we not speak about it? You may be quite right. At any rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself."

But, if Graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just now. There was a knock at the door, and Sarah, the housemaid, presented herself.

"If you please, Miss Graeme, do you think I might go out as usual. It is Wednesday, you know."

Wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in Sarah's kirk. She was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young preacher of the day.

"If Nelly thinks she can manage without you," said Graeme.

"It was Nelly proposed it. She can do very well, unless Mrs Elliott brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late."

"Well, go then, and don't be late. And be sure you come home with the Shaws' Sarah," said Miss Elliott.

"They are late," said Will. "I am afraid I cannot wait for dinner. I promised to be with Doctor D at seven."

They went down-stairs together. Nelly remonstrated, with great earnestness against Will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner."

"Though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiled already. The fowls werena much to begin with. It needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things overdone, or else in the dead thraw."

"I am very sorry Will should lose his dinner," said Graeme; "but they cannot be long in coming now."

"There's no saying. They may meet in with folk that may keep them to suit their ain convenience. It has happened before."

More than once, when Fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone for Arthur and dined at Grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. To have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, was a trial to Nelly at any time. And if Mrs Grove had anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater.

For Nelly—to use her own words—had no patience with that "meddlesome person." Any interference on her part in household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies before Mrs Arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. All hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were utterly ignored by Nelly, when it could be done without positive disobedience to Miss Graeme or Mrs Elliott. If direct orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of availing herself of Mrs Grove's experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time irritating and amusing.

She had no reason to suppose that Mrs Grove had anything to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following Graeme into the dining-room, where Will sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she said,—

"As there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, Miss Graeme."

"We will wait a few minutes longer. There is no haste," said Graeme, quietly.

Graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came—so long that Nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she went,—

"I'll no vex her. She has her ain troubles, I daresay, with her young brother going away, and many another thing that I ken nothing about. It would ill set me to add to her vexations. She is not at peace with herself, that's easy to be seen."



CHAPTER THIRTY.

Graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled Will's pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease.

"For there is no good vexing him. He cannot even advise me; and, indeed, I am afraid I have not the courage really to go away."

But she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness.

They came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied—to Nelly's indignant satisfaction—by Mrs Grove. Graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. Rose came first, and her sister's question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face.

"Graeme, I have something to tell you. What is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?"

Graeme shook her head.

"I should have to consider a while first—I am not good at guessing. But won't it keep? Nelly is out of all patience."

But Rose was too excited to heed her.

"No; it won't keep. Guess who is coming—Janet!"

Graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Arthur got a letter from Mr Snow to-day. Read it."

Graeme read, Rose looking over her shoulder.

"I am very glad. But, Rosie, you must make haste. Fanny will be down in a minute, and Nelly is impatient."

"No wonder! But I must tell her about Mrs Snow."

And with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. Nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. Regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations.

"Nelly! Who do you think is coming? You will never guess. I may as well tell you. Mrs Snow!"

"Eh, me! That's news, indeed. Take care of the gravy, Miss Rose, dear. And when is she coming?"

There was not the faintest echo of rebuke in Nelly's tone. There was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. Besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. She looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more.

"And when will she be coming?" she asked.

"Some time in June. And, Nelly, such preparations as we shall have! But it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. We could not help it, indeed."

"You dinna need to tell me that. I heard who came with you. Carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly."

"And so your old nurse is coming?" said Mrs Grove, after they had been some time at the table. "How delightful! You look quite excited, Rose. She is a very nice person, I believe, Miss Elliott." Graeme smiled. Mrs Grove's generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, Mrs Grove continued.

"We must think of some way of doing her honour. We must get up a little fete—a pic-nic or something. Will she stay here or at Mr Birnie's. She is a friend of his, I suppose, as Rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. It is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. They are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one's time—"

Rose sent her a glance of indignation; Graeme only smiled. Arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first.

"I doubt such things would hardly be in Mrs Snow's way. Mrs Grove could hardly make a lion of our Janet, I fancy, Graeme."

"I fancy not," said Graeme, quietly.

"Oh! I assure you, I shall be willing to take any trouble. I truly appreciate humble worth. We so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. You must tell me all about her some day, Rose."

Rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. Mrs Grove went on.

"Didn't she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? Certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded—"

"By a pic-nic," said Rose, as Mrs Grove hesitated.

"Rose, don't be satirical," said Arthur, trying not to laugh.

"I am sure you must be delighted, Fanny—Arthur's old nurse you know. It need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. It is not you she comes to see."

"I am not so sure of that," said Arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. "I fancy Fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. She will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, I can assure her."

"And Janet was not Arthur's nurse," said Rose. "Graeme was baby when she came first."

"And I fancy nursing was but a small part of Janet's work in those days," said Arthur. "She was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. Eh, Graeme?"

"Ay, and more than that—more than could be told in words," said Graeme, with glistening eyes.

"And I am sure you will like her," said Rose, looking straight into Mrs Grove's face. "Her husband is very rich. I think he must be almost the richest man in Merleville."

Arthur did not reprove Rose this time, though she well deserved it. She read her reproof in Graeme's look, and blushed and hung her head. She did not look very much abashed, however. She knew Arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther.

"Do you know, Fanny," said Mrs Grove, in a little, "I saw Mrs Tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. She has seen better days. It is sad to see a lady—for she seems to have been quite a lady—so reduced."

"And who is Mrs Tilman?" asked Arthur.

Fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on.

"She is a person Mrs Gridley was speaking to Fanny about—a very worthy person indeed."

"She was speaking to you, you mean, mamma," said Fanny.

"Was it to me? Well, it is all the same. She is a widow. She lived in Q—-a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in Haughton Place. I don't know why she left. Some one married, I think. Since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn't agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel."

"She seems to have experienced vicissitudes," said Arthur, for the sake of saying something.

"Has she not? And a very worthy person she is, I understand, and an admirable cook. She markets, too—or she did at Haughton House—and that is such a relief. She must be an invaluable servant."

"I should think so, indeed," said Arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything.

Graeme and Rose were speaking about Janet and her expected visit, and Fanny sat silent and embarrassed. But Nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and Mrs Grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and Nelly "could put this and that together as well as another." The operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as Nelly shut the door Mrs Grove said,—

"She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. But you must be prompt if you wish to engage her."

"Oh! there is no hurry about it, I suppose," said Fanny, glancing uneasily at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. Mrs Grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving Graeme out of the conversation. She was very willing to be left out. Besides, she never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of her stepmother.

"Oh! but I assure you there is," said Mrs Grove. "There are several ladies wishing to have her. Mrs Ruthven, among the rest."

"Oh! it is such a trouble changing," said Fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly.

"Not at all. It is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome," said Mrs Grove, and she had a right to know. "I advise you not to let this opportunity pass."

"But, after all, Nelly does very well. She is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, I suppose," said Fanny.

"You are quite right, Fanny," said Arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. "I daresay Nelly is a better servant—notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know—than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be a second Janet, yet—an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. We couldn't do without Nelly. Eh, Graeme?"

Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Rose answered for her.

"No, indeed I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs Snow."

"Very well," said Mrs Grove. "Since Miss Elliott seems to be satisfied with Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a pity you had not known sooner, Fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. But she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate."

Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure.

"What is it all about! Who is Mrs Tilman?" asked Arthur.

"Some one Mrs Grove has seen," said Graeme, evasively.

"But what about Nelly? Surely you are not thinking of changing servants, Graeme?"

"Oh! I hope not; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately—grumbled a little—"

"Out of sorts, grumbled!" exclaimed Fanny, vexed that Mrs Grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that Arthur should have addressed his question to Graeme. "She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and I shall not bear it any longer."

Poor little Fanny could hardly keep back her tears.

"Impertinent to you, Fanny," cried Graeme and Arthur in a breath.

"Well, to mamma—and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says Nelly has been long enough here. Servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon Graeme as mistress rather than me. She quite treats me like a child," continued Fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded.

"And, besides," she added, after there had been a moment's uncomfortable silence, "Nelly wishes to go."

"Is Barkis willing at last?" said Arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment.

Rose laughed too. It had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified Mr Stirling. Nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener's attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged.

"Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it," said Fanny.

"Then, she must be going to her sister—the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. She has spoken about that every summer, more or less. Her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But she will get over it. It is all nonsense about her leaving."

"But it is not nonsense," said Fanny, sharply. "Of course Graeme will not like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says I shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. And I think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance."

"But how good a servant is she?" asked Arthur.

"Didn't you hear what mamma said about her? And, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing."

"Well, I think we may as well 'sleep upon it,' as Janet used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to-night," said Arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess.

The rest sat silent. Rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from Graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. Graeme was indignant, but not surprised. Indeed, Nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing.

She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. She felt that there was some truth in Fanny's declaration, that Nelly looked upon her as a child. She had Nelly's own word for that. She considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and "no' heeded" when any serious business was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it.

The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let Fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of Mrs Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to Nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. And yet, as she looked at Fanny's pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,—

"We must have patience and wait."

And the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister's cows and children, and the estimable Mrs Tilman was installed in her place. It was an uncomfortable time for all. Rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to Mrs Elliott as she ought to have done. If half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, Graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, Nelly would have been content. But Graeme would not compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of Mrs Grove in their affairs. And yet she could not bear that Nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes.

"Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? There are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you."

"I'm no' sure, Miss Elliott. I have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. And as to another place—"

Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. But she said nothing, and went away—ran away, indeed. For when she saw the sorrowful tears in Graeme's eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when Graeme said:

"You'll let us hear from you, Nelly. You'll surely let us hear from you soon?"

There was very little said about the new order of affairs. The remonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never came. Mrs Grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave Graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. Mrs Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce Graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when Fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. She was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week's trial; and Fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. Mrs Tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that Fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer's book and the butcher's book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. She was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of Mrs Tilman's magnificent experiences. But the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner.

To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to Sarah. But fortunately for her and the household generally, Graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people's duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. Not that Nelly's departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart Graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life.

For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of Mrs Snow's visit; and second, that Mrs Snow should admire and love Arthur's wife. She had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother's choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she could not bear to think that Janet should not be quite content. Not that she was very much afraid. For Graeme's feelings toward Fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. She was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and Graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which Fanny was not long recovered. Her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, and Fanny would improve in consequence. The vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to Graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire.

But she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. So Mrs Tilman's administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on Fanny's part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Rose was inclined to resent. Graeme did not resent it, and Rose was ready to forgive Fanny's triumph, since Fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of Mrs Snow's visit. As for Will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the McIntyre children and cows had proved irresistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

They came at last. Arthur and Will met them on the other side of the river, and Graeme and Rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go.

It was a very quiet meeting—a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and Janet's eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. They had all changed, she said. Arthur was like his father; Will was like both father and mother. As for Rosie—

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, "I think Rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister Marian," and her eye rested on the girl's blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. Graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had not changed more than any of them.

As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. She need not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Even now she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr Snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. That there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and Fanny relented. What might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before Janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, Mr Snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities—good—and not so good—of the pretty little housekeeper.

After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr Snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. Fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside Graeme; and Janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. Graeme grew silent too. Indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak.

She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. Rose's extraordinary restlessness prevented that. She seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with Fanny or Will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between Mr Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hanging over Graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs Snow's side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even Will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight.

The truth was, Rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of Mrs Snow's visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. She had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing—not to themselves. Janet would always be Janet to them— the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as Mrs Grove. But Rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals.

But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, Rose's misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. She had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little.

"A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn—is not little Emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? And such a beauty of a shawl!—that's the one Sandy brought."

And so Rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on Graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. All Rosie's admiration was for Mrs Snow.

"Is she not just like a picture sitting there?" she whispered to Will, as she passed him.

And indeed Rosie's admiration was not surprising; she was the very Janet of old times; but she sat there in Fanny's handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been "used with" fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes.

And yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth.

That Mr Snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, "had the faculty of doing 'most anything," had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. The hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. A judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that Will should show him Canada.

Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr Snow's ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old "History of the French and Indian War." Of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of Montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the Aborigines. Still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of Will and the indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the Queen's dominions. So when he proposed that Will should show him Canada, Rose looked gravely up and asked,—

"Where will you go first, Will? To the Red river or Hudson's Bay or to Nova Scotia? You must be back to lunch."

They all laughed, and Arthur said,—

"Oh, fie, Rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of Canada!—such ignorance!"

"They are in the Queen's dominions, though, and Mr Snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on British soil."

"Well, I guess we can make out a full day's work in Canada, can't we? It is best to take it moderate," said Mr Snow, smiling benignly on Rose. He was tolerant of the young lady's petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see.

He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must be confessed that just at first Arthur was a little disappointed in him. He had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the "sharp Yankee deacon." For Harry had a good story about "Uncle Sampson" ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. But Harry's acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their Merleville life, and Mr Snow had changed much since then. He saw all things in a new light. Wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. The charity which "believeth and hopeth all things," and which "thinketh no evil," lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as Will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of "showing him Canada," but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw.

The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. With the town itself he was greatly pleased. The great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. But as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. All these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the Montrealers "a leetle behind the times." On the whole, however, his appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances.

"You've got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one's ideas of what a river ought to be—broad and deep and full," he said to Arthur one day. "It kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea."

"Yes, it is like your Father of Waters," said Arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner.

"One wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. I didn't see it the day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we stood looking down upon it, I couldn't but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, I suppose, or ever since the time of Adam and Eve—if the date ain't the same, as some folks seem to think."

"I always think how wonderful it must have seemed to Jacques Cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore," said Rose. "No wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the China seas."

"A wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that," said Arthur. "The sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year."

"If ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too."

"Oh! the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. The Western trade will be benefited as well. What do you think of your Massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? This communication with the more northern cotton growing States is more direct by this than any other way."

"Well, I ain't prepared to say much about it. Some folks wouldn't think much of that. But I suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow."

But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. Of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain.

"A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! Why, our sheep pasture at Merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. It is only a hill, and moderate at that. You must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call that one. You've forgotten all about Merleville, Rosie, to be content with that for a mountain."

While, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content "to putter along" as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. In Merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. If the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony New England hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the Saint Lawrence, what a garden it might become! And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers.

One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. They had a fair day for a fair sight, and when Mr Snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. Above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon.

Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which June loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. There were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses.

Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them.

"I suppose the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must have been like this," said Mr Snow, as he gazed.

"Yes, the Promised Land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water," said Will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. Could they ever gaze enough? Could they ever weary themselves of the sight? The shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go.

"I wouldn't have missed that now, for considerable," said Mr Snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. "No, I wouldn't have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team'll cost," added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. Will smiled, and made no answer. He was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. To Will's imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He was one of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. Then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. And coming back to actual life, with an effort—a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his.

But Will was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. He passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of the Ottawa, as over the river of Death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the Divine Companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the Divine Exemplar.

Will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad's heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of God's face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend's eyes saw. A word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but Will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. And so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight.

That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, Mr Snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. It was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than Mr Snow had ever known him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, and had been sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likeness had been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. She was never weary of looking at it, and even Mr Snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. In a little, Rose came and stood beside him.