"Do you think it is very like him?" asked she.

"Well," said Mr Snow, meditatively, "it's like him and it ain't like him. I love to look at it, anyhow."

"At first it puzzled me," said Rose. "It seemed like the picture of some one I had seen in a dream; and when I shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father's face as it used to be in Merleville, it would not come—the face of the dream came between."

"Well, there is something in that," said Mr Snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. "No, it won't do that for me. It would take something I hain't thought of yet, to make me forget his face."

"It does not trouble me now," said Rose. "I can shut my eyes, and see him, Oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin—" She was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. Mr Snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,—

"Yes, dear, and so can I, If we didn't know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. But I shall never forget him— never. He did too much for me, for that. He was the best friend I ever had, by all odds—the very best."

Rose smiled through her tears.

"He brought you Mrs Snow," said she, softly.

"Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even she is—and that is saying considerable," added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair.

"Were you speaking?" said Mrs Snow, looking up at the sound of his voice.

"Yes, I was speaking to Rosie, here. How do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to Merleville with us?"

"She is going with us, or she will soon follow us. What would Emily say, if she didna come?"

"Yes, I know. But I meant to stay for good and all. Graeme, won't you give us this little girl?"

Graeme smiled.

"Yes. On one condition—if you will take me too."

Mr Snow shook his head.

"I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We should have other conditions to add to that one."

"Yes," said Arthur, laughing. "You would have to take Fanny and me, as well, in that case. I don't object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them—that would never do."

"But it must be both or neither," said Graeme, eagerly, "I couldna' trust Rosie away from me. I havena these sixteen years—her whole life, have I, Janet? If you want Rosie, you must have me, too."

She spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. Indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. The others saw it, and were silent, but Fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,—

"But what could we do without you both? That would not be fair—"

"Oh! you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you. At any rate, Rosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to any one who won't have me, too. She is all I shall have left when Will goes away."

"Graeme would not trust Rosie with Arthur and me," said Fanny, a little pettishly. "There are so many things that Graeme don't approve of. She thinks we would spoil Rose."

Janet's hand touched hers, whether by accident or design Graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,—

"Mrs Snow thinks that you and Arthur are spoiling us both, Fanny."

Janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking Graeme's bowed head,—

"I dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but I have seen worse bairns."

After this, Mr Snow and Will began the survey of Canada in earnest. First they went to Quebec, where they lingered several days. Then they went farther down the river, and up the Saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. This part of the trip Will enjoyed more than his friend, but Mr Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. Then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. They did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though Mr Snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire.

Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. That a "live Yankee," cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. Will's frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and Mr Snow's kindly advances were seldom long withstood. But there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention—perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. If he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of Glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than "so had their fathers said and done before them," and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the American frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five.

Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other's point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. This power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other's theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. By this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. They would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening.

Before returning home, they visited Niagara, that wonderful work of God, too great and grand, as Mr Snow told Rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. This part of the trip was for Will's sake. Mr Snow had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for Will's benefit, but those were not the parts which Mr Snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards.

"It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and Will's, too. If ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. It was worth going, just to see his pleasure."

When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of Canada, known as the Eastern Townships. Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they could give it. Passing in through Missisquoi County to the head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. Their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the County of Stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what Mr Snow declared to be "as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see."

This "seeing Canada" was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, Mr Snow acknowledged to the delighted Rose. It could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was.

"Canada will be heard from yet, I expect," said he, one night when they had returned home. "By the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you'll be ready to go ahead. I don't see but you have as good a chance as ever we had—better, even. You have got the same elements of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. Then for inhabitants, you've got the Scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you've got the Englishman, who'll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you've got Frenchmen, Germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you've got what we didn't have to begin with, you've got the Yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, Rosie."

Rose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night.

"Yes," continued he, "the real live Yankee is about as complete a man as you'll generally meet anywhere. He has the caution of the Scot, to temper the fire of the Irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the Englishman has. He'll keep things going among you. He'll bring you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let you fall back again. Yes; if ever Canada is heard from, the Yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman's department. Graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be.

The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had been too much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her first winter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others—that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair.

And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the void might be filled, that in God's good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart.

And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. The sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not be left undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God's peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be.

Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to—if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw.

But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "For," said she to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them— and no help." She was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in Graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less.

For Will she had no fear. He was his father's own son, with his father's work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And for Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother—the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked.

"He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I'll no deny," said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. "And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He'll maybe get them, and maybe no'. But if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he'll get something better. I have small fear for the lad. He minds his father's ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. It's a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it. There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father's son."

And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them all at last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God's keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat.

As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur's wife, and Arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in Janet's admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put Fanny's beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though Arthur's wife was not like Arthur's mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh.

"I needna wonder at it. Love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and Mr Arthur is no' above making a mistake. Though how he should—minding his mother as he does—amazes me. But he's well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and Miss Graeme is no' ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. Still I canna but wonder after all is said."

And she still wondered. There were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty Fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, Janet's candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. She could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as Mrs Grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of Fanny's future worth or wisdom.

That is, she would have had little hope but for one thing—Graeme had faith in Fanny, that was clear. Love might blind Arthur's eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for Graeme; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. She was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which Rose openly, and even in Arthur's presence, never failed to resent. Indeed, Graeme refused to see Fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister.

And that Fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted Graeme was very evident. There was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, Janet took courage to hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it was given her to see, and to hope also that Arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. She was slow to commit herself to Graeme, and Graeme was in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife.

They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their Merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days.

The talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. And Mrs Snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among them again; and then Sandy and Emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. Rose and Fanny never wearied of that, and Mrs Snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear.

And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, and Graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. Graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. She told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden Arthur. She told her of Harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. They rejoiced together over Hilda, and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little German girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. This was all to be rejoiced over now. No doubt the care and pains which Norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. So they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all.

And Will, who seemed to be Graeme's own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to his future. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though Janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow.

And now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, Janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over Graeme's life, but she was never sure. It was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that.

"For a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift of itself without help in a while. And if it is no' a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. And time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. And God is good." But all this was said in Janet's secret prayer. Not even her husband shared her thoughts about Graeme.

"What a dismal day it is!" said Fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain.

It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which Fanny looked, it was worse. Now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any.

It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was during the time of Mr Snow and Will's first trip, and Arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. A household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that Fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind.

Graeme and Rose were not uncomfortable. Rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all Fanny's exclamations of discontent were lost on her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and Mrs Snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear Fanny exclaim petulantly,—

"And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That would have been something to look forward to. And no one can possibly call. Even Mr Green would be better than nobody—or even Charlie Millar."

"These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you," said Rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to Mrs Snow.

"Are you not tired playing Rose," said Fanny, fretfully.

"By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. I think this march is charming. Come and try it."

"No, I thank you. If the music does not disturb Mrs Snow, I don't mind it."

"I like it," said Mrs Snow. "The music is cheerful this dull day. Though I would like a song better."

"By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this two or three times more."

"Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean," said Fanny. "There's no end to Rose's playing when she begins."

Then she wandered into the back parlour again.

"Are you going to write all day, Graeme?"

"Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "I have been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, but I'll soon be done now."

"My dear," said Mrs Snow, "dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and I enjoy the music."

"Oh! dear! I wish it didn't rain," said Fanny.

"My dear, the earth was needing it," said Mrs Snow, by way of saying something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over."

"I believe Graeme likes a rainy day," said Fanny. "It is very stupid, I think."

"Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, which is agreeable."

Fanny shrugged her shoulders.

"It is rather dismal to-day, however," said Graeme. "You look cold with that light dress on, Fanny, why don't you go and change it?"

"What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come, I'm sure."

"You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said Graeme; turning to her letter again.

"And my dear, might you no' take a seam? It would pass the time, if it did nothing else," said Mrs Snow.

But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on in silence.

"Make something nice for tea," suggested Rose, glancing over her shoulder.

"That is not necessary now," said Fanny, shortly.

"Oh! I only suggested it for your sake—to pass the time," said Rose.

It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching Mrs Snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about "Mrs Arthur." She rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a shiver:—

"It is dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor wee pussy."

"Graeme, don't you wish Arthur were coming home," said Fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then.

"Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. Go and change your dress, dear, and we'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won't miss him so much."

"Fire!" repeated Rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. "Who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?"

But Rose was overruled. They had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. Janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had "wearied for them" when they first left Merleville, and by and by Rose said,—

"But that was all over when Sandy came."

"It was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'll mind yourselves. I was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my Sandy."

"Oh! how glad you must have been!" said Rose. "I wish I had been there to see. Tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you."

"I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything at all. And he just said, 'Well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e'en," said Janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever I carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, I did that night."

"And would you have known him?" asked Rose, gently.

"Oh! ay, would I. No' but what he was much changed. I wouldna have minded him, but I would have kenned him anywhere."

Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on.

"I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew afraid as the time drew near. Either, I thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, I thought. You see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he should be to me all that I desired. But when he came, my fears were set at rest. He is an honest, God fearing lad, my Sandy, and I need say nae mair about him."

"And so clever, and handsome! And what did Mr Snow say?"

"Oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with Sandy's heartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. All my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I may have a thankful heart."

"And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?"

"Oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. It would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him—Mr and Mrs Greenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and plenty besides. He made himself very useful to Mr Greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my Sandy. It's on his business that he's West now. But he'll soon be home again."

"And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other."

"I canna do that, for I wasna there to hear. Emily saw my Sandy before I saw him myself, as you'll mind I told you before."

"And was it love at first sight?" asked Fanny.

"And did the course of true love for once run smooth," said Rose. Mrs Snow smiled at their eagerness.

"As for the love at first sight—it came very soon to my Sandy. I am no' sure about Emily. As for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. They had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. But, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, I think. It was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when I was young—the sweet old Scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, I fear. I never saw the two together in our garden, but I thought of the song that begins,—"

"Ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew, Garred ilka thing look bonny—"

"Ah! Well, God has been good to them, and to us all."

"And Mr Snow was well pleased, of course," said Fanny.

"Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his heart on it from the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. Folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. Oh ay, he was well pleased."

"And it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. I daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved."

"It is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. It was ay a bonny place, you'll mind. And it is improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for Emily."

"And Oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. If we trust our affairs in God's hand, He'll 'bring it to pass,' as he has said. And if we are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end."



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

"Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?"

The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute.

"Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?" he repeated impressively, fixing Will with his eye.

"Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West," said the literal Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired.

"He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts,—cool, sharp, far-seeing,—"

Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from Rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real live Yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company.

"Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?" said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "Why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars."

"And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content," said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose.

"Quite true, Charlie," said Arthur; "if Mr Green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the 'ultimate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith."

"Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral," said Charlie. "When he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it—the carpet and curtains—the books and pretty things—even the ladies—"

"Yes," continued Arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it would be—Mrs Snow worth so much—naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head."

"The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself," interposed Charlie.

"Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn't have a chance with him. You needn't frown, Rosie, you haven't. Whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, I can't say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him."

"A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron," said Charlie.

"Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you," said Rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. "You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has a very kind heart."

"Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can't speak for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. I didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry's authority and yours."

"You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say."

"Especially tender hearts," said Charlie; "I have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort."

"Charlie, I won't have you two quarrelling," said Graeme, laughing. "Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to Mr Snow. "Mr Green is a real live Yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hard perhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money."

"But, who is he?" asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested; His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,—

"Oh, he is a rich merchant—ever so rich. He is going to give up business, and travel in Europe."

"For the improvement of his mind," said Arthur.

"I don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor."

"I want to know?" said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny's triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity.

"He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott," said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more.

"Do tell?" said Mr Snow.

"A singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said Will.

"A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don't frown, Miss Rose. Mrs Grove's statement proves my assertion," said Charlie.

"If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday," said Mrs Grove. "I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expect you all. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope."

"But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us," said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table.

"Pray, don't mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a family party. I shall be quite disappointed if I don't see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now."

"And one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered Charlie.

"Thank you," said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. "I have been longing to show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over."

"Oh, no!" said Arthur. "There are any number left; and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will be delightful by moonlight, won't it, Rosie?"

Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by Arthur. "So unlike him," she thought. Mr Millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "and have it over," as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said,—

"Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest."

Charlie would be delighted, and said so.

"But the flute," added he to Rose. "Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming."

Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.

A dinner en famille, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow—that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap—in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.

"If she has spoiled Janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered Rose.

It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny's old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.

It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen—some of them at least—smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.

"It minds me of the Ebba Gardens," said she, after a little. "Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme."

They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.

"No," said Graeme, "I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful."

"It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight."

"Perhaps so. But I don't think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don't you mind?"

"Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place," said Janet, with a sigh.

"But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond."

"It wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said Mr Snow.

"It did for want of a bigger, you know," said Graeme, laughing. "It made up in beauty what it wanted in size."

"It was a bonny spot," said Mrs Snow.

"And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then."

"No, there are no such singing birds here," said Mrs Snow. "I used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here."

"Ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme," said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,—

"No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds—not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding."

"The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!" said Graeme, with a sigh. "You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too." Will smiled.

"I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don't remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well."

"I mind it, too," said Mrs Snow, gravely.

"And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things," said Graeme.

"I wouldna fear anything of that kind," said Mrs Snow; "I mind them all so well."

"Do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said Will. "Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?"

"No, lad," said Mrs Snow, emphatically. "I have no wish ever to go back."

"You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old 'Steadfast'."

"I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back."

There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,—

"I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content."

Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs Snow's either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet's lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?

"What are you thinking about, Graeme?" said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.

"Oh! of a great many things. I don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago—an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!"

"And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well," said Mr Snow.

"I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?"

"I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it."

"And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said Mrs Snow.

"Oh! I was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. Ah, me! I don't think I have been quite at peace with myself since that night."

"Miss Graeme! my dear," expostulated Mrs Snow.

"No, I have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. But I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I ever tell you—I am afraid I never did—how glad I am now, that you were stronger than I was, and prevailed—in taking Janet from us, I mean?"

She was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. He looked towards his wife, with a grave smile.

"I don't think you ever told me in words."

"No, because it is only a little while that I have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier—far happier with you and Emily and Sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be."

"I reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said Mr Snow, gravely.

"No, I know that—I am sure of that. And I am glad—so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much."

"Ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" said Mr Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. They were quite alone by this time. Will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away.

"No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad I am we lost her, for her sake. And when I remember all that she has lived through—all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid."

His eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to Graeme.

"What is it, dear?" he asked. "Is there anything I may not know?"

"No. Only I am glad for Janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because—"

It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be Mrs Grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be Mrs Grove's first remark.

"Ah! I see you have an eye for the beautiful."

She had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. It was varied a little, this time.

"You see, Mr Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the beautiful. I knew we should find her here, with her friends."

The rest was as usual.

"Observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. There is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. The scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. Can you imagine anything more tranquil? It seems the very domain of silence and repose."

The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by Charlie Millar and Will, and the young Groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight.

"It is a bonny, quiet place," said Mrs Snow.

"The garden is not seen at its best now," continued Mrs Grove. "The beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season."

"It looks first-rate," said Mr Snow.

"It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept," continued Mrs Grove. "I sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye."

Mrs Grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought "the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience.

"There is something in that," said Mr Snow, meditatively; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, I think."

"Oh! I expect it pays," said Mr Green. "To people who are fond of such things, I expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most any other thing."

"To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk—to one's friends," suggested Mrs Snow.

"I was calculating that, too," said Mr Green. "The pleasure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. That pays."

"If we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things God has made, the better and the happier we will be," said Mr Snow. "It will pay in that way, I guess."

He turned an inquiring look on Mr Green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife.

"Yes," said, she, softly, "the more we see of God's love and wisdom in the beautiful things He has made, the more we shall love Him, and in loving Him we shall grow like Him."

Mr Snow nodded. Mr Green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke.

"I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, Mr Green," said Mrs Grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. She flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of Mr and Mrs Snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views and opinions. Whether Mr Green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,—

"Miss Elliott, Mr Green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. It must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire."

Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating "Indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped.

"There must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. It must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don't you think so, Miss Elliott?"

"I don't know," said Graeme, hesitatingly. "For a place of residence, I should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried."

"Of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as Mr Green's—I forget what style of architecture it is."

But Mr Green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. He only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would "pay."

"Oh! you cannot tell yet," said Mrs Grove. "That will depend altogether on circumstances. It is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. You have been roaming about the world quite long enough. I don't at all approve of the European trip, unless, indeed—"

She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that Mr Green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps.

"Miss Elliott," continued Mrs Grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing Graeme into the conversation, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?"

"Accompanying Will? Oh! I have never for a moment thought of such a thing. The expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it."

"Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fancied I heard you say how much you would like to go. I thought you longed for a chance to see Scotland again."

"I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I should like to visit Scotland very much, and other countries, too. And I intend to do so when I have made my fortune," added she, laughing.

"Or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?" asked Mrs Grove.

"Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes my fortune for me, I shall visit Europe. I think I may promise that."

"Have you ever been West, yet, Miss Elliott? You spoke of going at one time, I remember," said Mr Green.

"Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fireside. I have very much wished to visit my brother Norman. I daresay Rose and I will find ourselves there some day," added she, turning to Mr Snow.

"Unless we keep you in Merleville," said he, smiling.

"Oh! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know."

"How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you?" asked Mrs Grove, reproachfully.

"Oh! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don't think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness."

"Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. We cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, I know."

"Especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion," said Graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to Mrs Snow. "Let us walk, again. What can Will and the children be doing? Something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise."

Mrs Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to Mr Snow on the exceeding loveliness of Miss Elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend.

"And with you, too," she added; "I scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel."

"There," said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "I have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. One can see what he wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

Why Mrs Grove thought Mr Green might need an opening for anything he had to say to Mr Snow did not appear, as he did not avail himself of it. It was Mr Snow who spoke first, after a short silence.

"Going to give up business and settle down. Eh?"

"I have thought of it. I don't believe I should enjoy life half as well if I did, however."

"How much do you enjoy it now?" inquired Mr Snow.

"Well, not a great deal, that is a fact; but as well as folks generally do, I reckon. But, after all, I do believe to keep hard to work is about as good a way as any to take comfort in the world."

Mr Green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and plucking a twig from the root of a young cedar, began fashioning it into an instrument slender and smooth.

"That is about the conclusion I have come to," repeated he; "and I expect I will have to keep to work if I mean to get the good of life."

"There are a good many kinds of work to be done in the world," suggested Mr Snow.

Mr Green gave him a glance curious and inquiring.

"Well, I suppose there are a good many ways of working in the world, but it all comes to the same thing pretty much, I guess. Folks work to get a living, and then to accumulate property. Some do it in a large way, and some in a small way, but the end is the same."

"Suppose you should go to work to spend your money now?" suggested Mr Snow, again.

"Well, I've done a little in that way, too, and I have about come to the conclusion that that don't pay as well as the making of it, as far as the comfort it gives. I ain't a very rich man, not near so rich as folks think; but I had got a kind of sick of doing the same thing all the time, and so I thought I would try something else a spell. So I rather drew up, though I ain't out of business yet, by a great deal. I thought I would try and see if I could make a home, so I built. But a house ain't a home—not by a great sight. I have got as handsome a place as anybody need wish to have, but I would rather live in a hotel any day than have the bother of it. I don't more than half believe I shall ever live there long at a time."

He paused, and whittled with great earnestness.

"It seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a man has worked hard half his life and more to make property, that he shouldn't be able to enjoy it when he has got it."

"What do you suppose is the reason?" asked Mr Snow, gravely, but with rather a preoccupied air. He was wondering how it was that Mr Green should have been betrayed into giving his dreary confidences to a comparative stranger.

"Well, I don't know," replied Mr Green, meditatively. "I suppose, for one thing, I have been so long in the mill that I can't get out of the old jog easily. I should have begun sooner, or have taken work and pleasure by turns as I went along. I don't take much comfort in what seems to please most folks."

There was a pause; Mr Snow had nothing to say in reply, however, and in a little Mr Green went on:

"I haven't any very near relations; cousins and cousin's children are the nearest. I have helped them some, and would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to be helped, but they don't seem very near to me. I enjoy well enough going to see them once in a while, but it don't amount to much all they care about me; and, to tell the truth, it ain't much I care about them. If I had a family of my own, it would be different. Women folks and young folk enjoy spending money, and I suppose I would have enjoyed seeing them do it. But I have about come to the conclusion that I should have seen to that long ago."

Without moving or turning his head, he gave his new friend a look out of the corner of his eyes that it might have surprised him a little to see; but Mr Snow saw nothing at the moment. To wonder as to why this new acquaintance should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding a feeling of pity for him—a desire to help him—and he was considering the propriety of improving the opportunity given to drop a "word in season" for his benefit. Not that he had much confidence in his own skill at this sort of thing. It is to be feared the deacon looked on this way of witnessing for the truth as a cross to be borne rather than as a privilege to be enjoyed. He was readier with good deeds than with good words, and while he hesitated, Mr Green went on:

"How folks can hang round with nothing particular to do is what I can't understand. I never should get used to it, I know. I've made considerable property, and I expect I have enjoyed the making more than I ever shall enjoy the spending of it."

"I shouldn't wonder if you had," said Mr Snow, gravely.

"I have thought of going right slap into political life. I might have got into the Legislature, time and again; and I don't doubt but I might find my way to Congress by spending something handsome. That might be as good a way to let off the steam as any. When a man gets into politics, he don't seem to mind much else. He has got to drive right through. I don't know how well it pays."

"In the way of comfort, I'm afraid it don't pay," said Mr Snow.

"I expect not. I don't more than half think it would pay me. Politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our country. I don't believe I should ever get to see my way clear to go all lengths; and I don't believe it would amount to anything if I could. Besides, if a man expects to get very far along in that road, he has got to take a fair start in good season. I learnt to read and cypher in the old log school-house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on Sunday afternoons, and that is about all the book-learning I ever got. I shouldn't hardly have an even chance with some of those college-bred chaps, though there are some things I know as well as the best of them, I reckon. Have you ever been out West?"

"I was there once a good many years ago. I had a great notion of going to settle there when I was a young man. I am glad I didn't, though."

"Money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it used to be," said Mr Green. "But there is chance enough, if a man has a head for it. I have seen some cool business done there at one time and another."

The chances in favour of Mr Snow's "word in season" were becoming fewer, he saw plainly, as Mr Green wandered off from his dissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of his business-life; so, with a great effort, he said:

"Ain't it just possible that your property and the spending of it don't satisfy you because it is not in the nature of such things to give satisfaction?"

Mr Green turned and looked earnestly at him.

"Well, I have heard so, but I never believed it any more for hearing it said. The folks that say it oftenest don't act as if they believed it themselves. They try as hard for it as any one else, if they are to be judged by their actions. It is all right to say they believe it, I suppose, because it is in the Bible, or something like it is."

"And you believe it, not because it is in the Bible, but because you are learning, by your own experience, every day you live."

Mr Green whistled.

"Come, now; ain't that going it a little too strong? I never said I didn't expect to enjoy my property. I enjoy it now, after a fashion. If a man ain't going to enjoy his property, what is he to enjoy?"

"All that some people enjoy is the making of it. You have done that, you say. There is less pleasure to be got from wealth, even in the most favourable circumstances, than those who haven't got it believe. They who have it find that out, as you are doing.

"But I can fancy myself getting all the pleasure I want out of my property, if only some things were different—if I had something else to go with it. Other folks seem to take the comfort out of theirs as they go along."

"They seem to; but how can you be sure as to the enjoyment they really have? How many of your friends, do you suppose, suspect that you don't get all the satisfaction out of yours that you seem to? Do you suppose the lady who was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has any idea that it is only a weariness to you?"

"I was telling her so as we came along. She says the reason I don't enjoy it is because there is something else that I haven't got, that ought to go along with it and I agreed with her there."

Again a furtive glance was sent towards Mr Snow's thoughtful face. He smiled and shook his head.

"Yes, it is something else you want. It is always something else, and ever will be till the end comes. That something else, if it is ever yours, will bring disappointment with it. It will come as you don't expect it or want it, or it will come too late. There is no good talking. There is nothing in the world that it will do to make a portion of."

Mr Green looked up at him with some curiosity and surprise. This sounded very much like what he used to hear in conference meeting long ago, but he had an idea that such remarks were inappropriate out of meeting, and he wondered a little what could be Mr Snow's motive for speaking in that way just then.

"As to making a portion of it, I don't know about that; but I do know that there is considerable to be got out of money. What can't it get? Or rather, I should say, what can be got without it? I don't say that they who have the most of it are always best off, because other things come in to worry them, maybe; but the chances are in favour of the man that has all he wants to spend. You'll never deny that."

"That ain't just the way I would put it," said Mr Snow. "I would say that the man who expects his property to make him happy, will be disappointed. The amount he has got don't matter. It ain't in it to give happiness. I know, partly because I have tried, and it has failed me, and partly because I am told that 'a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he possesseth.'

"Well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't one man in ten thousand who believes it, or at least who acts as if he believed it? Why is all the world chasing after wealth, as if it were the one thing for body and soul? If money ain't worth having, why hasn't somebody found it out, and set the world right about it before now?"

"As to money not being worth the having, I never said that. What I say is, that God never meant that mere wealth should make a man happy. That has been found out times without number; but as to setting the world right about it, I expect that is one of the things that each man must learn by experience. Most folks do learn it after a while, in one way or other."

"Well," said Mr Green, gravely, "you look as if you believed what you say, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty well too. If it ain't your property that makes you happy, what is it?"

"It ain't my property, sartain," said Mr Snow, with emphasis. "I know I shouldn't be any happier if I had twice as much. And I am sure I shouldn't be less happy if I hadn't half as much; my happiness rests on a surer foundation than anything I have got."

He paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right word to say—something that might be as "a fire and a hammer" to the softening and breaking of that world-hardened heart.

"He does look as if he believed what he was saying," Mr Green was thinking to himself. "It is just possible he might give me a hint. He don't look like a man who don't practise as he preaches." Aloud, he said,—

"Come, now, go ahead. What has cured one, may help another, you know. Give us your idea as to what is a sure foundation for a man's happiness."

Mr Snow looked gravely into his face and said,

"Blessed is the man who feareth the Lord."

"Blessed is the man whose trust the Lord is."

"Blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered."

"Blessed is the man to whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity, in whose spirit there is no guile."

Mr Green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. It came into his mind that if there was happiness to be found in the world, this man had found it. But it seemed a happiness very far-away from him—quite beyond his reach—something that it would be impossible for him ever to find now. The sound of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of a Sabbath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to him, and just for a moment he realised their unchangeable truth, and for that moment he knew that his life had been a failure. A pang of regret, a longing for another chance, and a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for an instant and then passed away. He rose from his seat, and moved a few paces down the walk, and when he came back he did not sit down again. His cedar twig was smoothed down at both ends to the finest possible point, and after balancing it for a minute on his forefingers, he tossed it over his shoulder, and shutting his knife with a click, put it in his pocket before he spoke.

"Well, I don't know as I am much better off for that," said he, discontentedly. "I suppose you mean that I ought to get religion. That is no new idea. I have heard that every time I have gone to meeting for the last thirty years, which hasn't been as often as it might have been, but it has been often enough for all the good it has done me." He looked at Mr Snow as if he expected him to make some sort of a reply, but he was silent. He was thinking how vain any words of his would be to convince him, or to show him a more excellent way. He was thinking of the old time, and of the talk wasted on him by the good people who would fain have helped him. At last he said, gravely:

"It wouldn't amount to much, all I could say to you, even if I was good at talking, which I ain't. I can only tell you that I never knew what it was to be satisfied till I got religion, and I have never been discontented since, and I don't believe I ever shall again, let what will happen to me."

He paused a moment, and added,—

"I don't suppose anything I could say would help you to see things as I wish you did, if I were to talk all night. Talk always falls short of the mark, unless the heart is prepared for it, and then the simplest word is enough. There are none better than the words I gave you a minute ago; and when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just you try what trust in the Lord will do."

Nothing more was said. The sound of approaching footsteps warned them that they were no longer alone, and in a little Mrs Elliott and Rose were seen coming up the walk, followed by Arthur and Captain Starr. They were discussing something that interested them greatly, and their merry voices fell pleasantly on the ear. Very pretty both young ladies looked, crowned with the roses they had been weaving into wreaths. The grave look which had settled on Mr Green's face, passed away as he watched their approach.

"Pretty creatures, both of them," remarked he. "Mrs Elliott appears well, don't she? I never saw any one improve so much as she has done in the last two years. I used to think her—well not very superior."

"She is a pretty little thing, and good tempered, I think," said Mr Snow, smiling. "I shouldn't wonder if our folks made something of her, after all. She is in better keeping than she used to be, I guess."

"She used to be—well, a little of a flirt, and I don't believe she has forgot all about it yet," said Mr Green, nodding in the direction of Captain Starr, with a knowing look. The possibility of a married woman's amusing herself in that way was not among the subjects to which Mr Snow had given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply.

"And the other one—she understands a little of it, too, I guess."

"What, Rosie? She is a child. Graeme will teach her better than that. She despises such things," said Mr Snow, warmly.

"She don't flirt any herself, does she?" asked Mr Green, coolly. "Miss Elliott, I mean."

Mr Snow turned on him astonished eyes. "I don't know as I understand what you mean by flirting. I always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, something unbecoming in any woman, married or single. Graeme ain't one of that sort."

Mr Green shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "Oh! as to its being wrong, and so forth, I don't know. They all do it, I guess, in one way or other. I don't suppose Miss Graeme would go it so strong as that little woman, but I guess she knows how."

The voice of Rose prevented Mr Snow's indignant reply.

"But, Arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. Of course you would admire Fanny's most, and as for Captain Starr, he is—"

"He is like the ass between two bundles of hay."

"Nonsense, Arthur. Fanny, let us ask Mr Snow," said Rose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. "Now, Uncle Sampson, which is prettiest? I'll leave the decision to you."

"Uncle Sampson" was a very pleasant sound in Mr Snow's ears, and never more so, than when it came from the lips of Rose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring look that he answered—

"Well I can't say which is the prettiest. You are both as pretty as you need to be. If you were as good as you are pretty!"

Rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited.

"I mean our wreaths. Look, mine is made of these dear little Scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. Fanny's, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. Now, which is the prettiest?"

She took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly.

"Yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. I think, now, I should admire Mrs Elliott's most," said Mr Green, gravely.

They both curtseyed to him.

"You see, Rosie, Mr Green has decided in my favour," said Fanny, triumphantly.

"Yes, but not in favour of your wreath. The others thought the same, but I don't mind about that. It is our wreaths I want to know about. Let us ask Graeme."

But Graeme did not come alone. The little Groves came with her, and Will and Charlie followed, a rather noisy party. The little girls were delighted, and danced about, exclaiming at the beauty of the flowery crowns; and in a little, Miss Victoria was wearing that of Rose, and imitating the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that must have encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate success in life. The other begged piteously for Fanny's, but she was too well aware of its charming effect on her own head to yield at once to her entreaties, and, in the midst of the laughing confusion that accompanied the carrying of the child's point, Graeme and Mrs Snow, who confessed herself a little tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. Mrs Grove and Mr Proudfute entered with them, and the others disposed, themselves in groups about the door. Mr Green stood leaning on the door-post looking in upon them.

"Miss Elliott," said Mr Proudfute, presently, "what has become of you for a long time? I have hardly seen you for years—for a year at least—and we used to meet so often." Graeme laughed.

"I have seen you a great many times within a year. I am afraid my society doesn't make the impression on you it ought. Have you forgotten your New Year's visit, and a visit or two besides, to say nothing of chance meetings in the street and in the market?"

"Oh, but excuse me. I mean we have not met in society. You have been making a hermit of yourself, which is not very kind or very complimentary to your friends, I assure you."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed Mrs Grove. "That is a subject on which Miss Elliott and I never agree—I mean the claims society has upon her. If she makes a hermit of herself, I assure you she is not permitted to do so without remonstrance."

"Your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally held," said Graeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conversation, and more vexed still with Mrs Grove's interference. "What does the ballad say?

"'A scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, And water from the spring.'

"I am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me."

"Oh! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion," said Mrs Grove. "Still, as ladies are supposed to have a fancy for going to extremes, Miss Elliott's taste for quietness is the most desirable extreme of the two."

The remark was addressed to Mr Green, who was an interested listener, but Mr Proudfute answered it.

"I am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. I can understand how those who have an opportunity of daily or frequent intercourse with Miss Elliott should be content to think so; but that she should withdraw herself altogether from society, should not be permitted. What charming parties, I remember, we used to enjoy."

"Mr Proudfute," said Graeme, gravely, "look at Mrs Snow's face. You are conveying to her the idea that, at one time, I was quite given up to the pursuit of pleasure, and she is shocked, and no wonder. Now, my own impression is, that I was never very fond of going into society, as you call it. I certainly never met you more than two or three times—at large parties, I mean."

Mr Proudfute bowed low.

"Well, that shows how profound was the impression which your society made on me, for on looking back I uniformly associate you with all the pleasant assemblies of the season. You went with us to Beloeil, did you not?"

Graeme shook her head.

"Well, no wonder I forget, it is so long ago, now. You were at Mrs Roxbury's great affair, were you not? It happened not long before Mr Elphinstone's death. Yes, I remember you were there."

"Yes, I remember you were kind enough to point out to me the beauties of that wonderful picture, in the little room up-stairs," said Graeme, smiling.

"Yes, you were ill, or slightly unwell, I should say, for you recovered immediately. You were there, Mr Green, I remember. It was a great affair, given in honour of Miss Elphinstone and your friend Ruthven. By-the-by, Miss Elliott, they lay themselves open to censure, as well as you. They rarely go out now, I hear."

"I am to be censured in good company, it seems," said Graeme, laughing.

"I suppose you see them often," continued he. "You used to be quite intimate with my pretty cousin—I call her cousin, though we are only distantly connected. She is a very nice little woman."

"Yes. I believe you used to be very intimate with them both," said Mrs Grove, "and there has hardly been any intercourse since Fanny's marriage. I have often wondered at and regretted it."

"Have you?" said Graeme, coldly. "We have had little intercourse with many old friends since then."

"Oh! yes, I daresay, but the Ruthvens are very different from most of your old friends, and worth the keeping. I must speak to Fanny about it."

"We saw Miss Elphinstone often during the first winter after her return. That was the winter that Mr Proudfute remembers as so gay," said Graeme. "Did I ever tell you about the beginning of Rosie's acquaintance with her, long before that, when she wandered into the garden and saw the gowans?"

"Yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter," said Mrs Snow.

"I never shall forget the first glimpse I got of that bunch of flowers," said Graeme, rather hurriedly. "Rose has it yet among her treasures. She must show it you."

But Mrs Grove did not care to hear about Rosie's flowers just then, and rather perversely, as Graeme thought, reverted to the falling away of their old intimacy with the Ruthvens, and to wonder at its cause; and there was something in her tone that made Mrs Snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon her, and helped Graeme to answer very quietly and coldly to her remark:

"I can easily see how marriage would do something towards estranging such warm friends, when only one of the parties are interested; but you were very intimate with Mr Ruthven, as well, were you not?"

"Oh! yes; more so than with Miss Elphinstone. Mr Ruthven is a very old friend of ours. We came over in the same ship together."

"I mind him well," interposed Mrs Snow; "a kindly, well-intentioned lad he seemed to be. Miss Rose, my dear, I doubt you shouldna be sitting there, on the grass, with the dew falling, nor Mrs Arthur, either."

A movement was made to return to the house.

"Oh! Janet," whispered Graeme, "I am afraid you are tired, mind as well as body, after all this foolish talk."

"By no means, my dear. It wouldna be very edifying for a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. He seems a decent, harmless body, that Mr Proudfute. I wonder if he is any friend of Dr Proudfute, of Knockie?"

"I don't know, indeed," said Graeme, laughing; "but if he is a great man, or connected with great folk, I will ask him. It will be an easy way of giving him pleasure."

They did not make a long evening of it. Mr Green was presented by Mrs Grove with a book of plates, and Graeme was beguiled to a side-table to admire them with him. Mr Proudfute divided his attention between them and the piano, to which Rose and Fanny had betaken themselves, till at the suggestion of Mrs Grove, Arthur challenged him to a game of chess, which lasted all the evening. Mrs Grove devoted herself to Mrs Snow, and surprised her by the significant glances she sent now and then in the direction of Graeme and Mr Green; while Mr Grove got Mr Snow into a corner, and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on the harbour question to a new and interested auditor.

"Rose," said Fanny, as they sat together the next day after dinner, "what do you think mamma said to me this morning? Shall I tell you?"

"If it is anything particularly interesting you may," said Rose, in a tone that implied a doubt.

"It was about you," said Fanny, nodding significantly.

"Well, the subject is interesting," said Rose, "whatever the remark might be."

"What is it, Fanny?" said Arthur. "Rose is really very anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent. I daresay it was some appropriate remark's on her flirtation with the gallant captain, last night."

"Mamma didn't mention Captain Starr, but she said she had never noticed before that Rose was so fond of admiration, and a little inclined to flirt."

Rose reddened and bit her lips.

"I am much obliged to Mrs Grove, for her good opinion. Were there any other appropriate remarks?"

"Oh! yes; plenty more," said Fanny, laughing. "I told mamma it was all nonsense. She used to say the same of me, and I reminded her of it. I told her we all looked upon Rose as a child, and that she had no idea of flirting—and such things."

"I hope you did not do violence to your conscience when you said it," said Arthur, gravely.

"Of course not. But still when I began to think about it, I could not be quite sure."

"Set a thief to catch a thief," said her husband.

Fanny shook her finger at him.

"But it wasn't Captain Starr nor Charlie Millar mamma meant. It was Mr Green."

The cloud vanished from Rosie's face. She laughed and clapped her hands. Her brothers laughed, too.

"Well done, Rosie," said Arthur. "But from some manoeuvring I observed last night, I was led to believe that Mrs Grove had other views for the gentleman."

"So she had," said Fanny, eagerly. "And she says Rose may spoil all if she divides his attention. It is just what a man of his years is likely to do, mamma says, to fall in love with a young girl like Rosie, and Graeme is so much more suitable. But I told mamma Graeme would never have him."

"Allow me to say, Fanny, that I think you might find some more suitable subject for discussion with Mrs Grove," said Rose, indignantly. Arthur laughed.

"You ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken in your welfare, and for Graeme's, too. I am sure Mr Green would be highly flattered if he could be aware of the sensation he is creating among us."