"Mr Green admires Graeme very much, he told mamma; and mamma says he would have proposed to her, when he was here before, if it had not been for Mr Ruthven. You know he was very intimate here then, and everybody said he and Graeme were engaged. Mamma says it was a great pity he did not. It would have prevented the remarks of ill-natured people when Mr Ruthven was married—about Graeme, I mean."

"It is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat anything of that sort in Graeme's hearing," said Arthur, very much annoyed.

"Oh! don't be alarmed. Graeme is too well accustomed by this time, to Mrs Grove's impertinences, to allow anything she says to trouble her," said Rose, with flashing eyes.

Mrs Snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young girl, who had risen in her indignation.

"Sit down, my dear," she whispered.

"Nonsense, Rosie," said her brother; "there is nothing to be vexed about. How can you be so foolish?"

"Indeed," said Fanny, a little frightened at the excitement she had raised, "mamma didn't mean anything that you wouldn't like. She only thought—"

"We had better say nothing more about it," said Arthur, interrupting her. "I dare say Graeme can manage her own affairs without help from other people. But there is nothing to be vexed about, Rosie. Don't put on a face like that about it, you foolish lassie."

"What is the matter here, good people?" said Graeme, entering at the moment. "What are you quarrelling about? What ails Rosie?"

"Oh! Mrs Grove has been giving her some good advice, which she don't receive so meekly as she might," said Arthur.

"That is very ungrateful of you, Rosie," said her sister. Mrs Grove's interference didn't seem a sufficient matter to frown about.

"How is she now, my dear?" inquired Mrs Snow, by way of changing the subject.

She was Mrs Tilman, who had of late become subject to sudden attacks of illness, "not dangerous, but severe," as she herself declared. They had become rather frequent, but as they generally came on at night, and were over before morning, so that they did not specially interfere with her work, they were not alarming to the rest of the household. Indeed, they seldom heard of them till they were over; for the considerate Mrs Tilman was wont to insist to Sarah, that the ladies should not be disturbed on her account. But Sarah had become a little uncomfortable, and had confessed as much to Graeme, and Graeme desired to be told the next time she was ill, and so it happened that she was not present when a subject so interesting to herself was discussed.

"Is Mrs Tilman ill again?" asked Fanny. "How annoying! She is not very ill, I hope."

"No," said Graeme, quietly; "she will be better to-morrow."

That night, in the retirement of their chamber, Mr and Mrs Snow were in no haste to begin, as was their custom, the comparing of notes over the events of the day. This was usually the way when anything not very pleasant had occurred, or when anything had had been said that it was not agreeable to recall. It was Mr Snow who began the conversation.

"Well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles in boxes and drawers.

"Oh! I think little of it—just what I have ay thought—that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. It is a pity her daughter hasna the sense to see it."

"Oh! I don't think the little thing meant any harm. But Rosie flared right up, didn't she?"

"I shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth in the accusation—about her love of admiration, I mean. But Mrs Arthur is not the one that should throw stones at her for that, I'm thinking."

"But about Graeme! She will never marry that man, will she?"

"He'll never ask her," said Mrs Snow, shortly. "At least I think he never will."

"Well, I don't know. It looked a little like it, last night and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too."

"He is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask in vain. He may, but I dinna think it."

"Well, perhaps not. Of course, I could see last night, that it was all fixed, their being together. But I thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn't liked it."

"Hoot, man! She thought nothing about it. Her thoughts were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes," said Mrs Snow, with a sigh.

"As a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out when a man cares for them, and he showed it plainly to me. I guess she mistrusts."

"No, a woman kens when a man his lost his heart to her. He lets her see it in many ways, when he has no thought of doing so. But a woman is not likely to know it, when a man without love wishes to marry her, till he tells her in words. And what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of his fellow men left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a thought on a worldling like him?"

Mr Snow was silent. His wife's tone betrayed to him that something was troubling her, or he would have ventured a word in his new friend's defence. Not that he was inclined to plead Mr Green's cause with Graeme, but he could not help feeling a little compassion for him, and he said:

"Well, I suppose I feel inclined to take his part, because he makes me think of what I was myself once, and that not so long ago."

The look that Mrs Snow turned upon her husband was one of indignant astonishment.

"Like you! You dry stick!"

"Well, ain't he? You used to think me a pretty hard case. Now, didn't you?"

"I'm no' going to tell you to-night what I used to think of you," said his wife, more mildly. "I never saw you on the day when you didna think more of other folks' comfort than you thought of your own, and that couldna be said of him, this many a year and day. He is not a fit mate for my bairn."

"Well—no, he ain't. He ain't a Christian, and that is the first thing she would consider. But he ain't satisfied with himself, and if anybody in the world could bring him to be what he ought to be, she is the one." And he repeated the conversation that had taken place when they were left alone in the summer-house.

"But being dissatisfied with himself, is very far from being a changed man, and that work must be done by a greater than Graeme. And besides, if he were a changed man to-night, he is no' the man to win Miss Graeme's heart, and he'll no ask her. He is far more like to ask Rosie; for I doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amusement."

"Oh! Come now, ain't you a little too hard on Rosie," said Mr Snow, expostulatingly. He could not bear that his pet should be found fault with. "I call that as cruel a thing as a woman can do, and Rosie would never do it, I hope."

"Not with a conscious desire to give pain. But she is a bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they all do sooner or later; and few make so good a use of such power as they might do;" and Mrs Snow sighed.

"You don't think there is anything in what Mrs Grove said about Graeme and her friend I have heard so much about?" asked Mr Snow, after a pause.

"I dinna ken. I would believe it none the readier that yon foolish woman said it."

"She seems kind of down, though, these days, don't she? She's graver and quieter than she used to be," said Mr Snow, with some hesitation. He was not sure how his remark would be taken.

"Oh! well, maybe. She's older for one thing," said his wife, gravely. "And she has her cares; some of them I see plainly enough, and some of them, I daresay, she keeps out of sight. But as for Allan Ruthven, it's not for one woman to say of another that, she has given her heart unsought. And I am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is one of those that need fear no evil."



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

"It is a wonder to me, Miss Graeme," said Mrs Snow, after one of their long talks about old times—"it is a wonder to me, that minding Merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us."

"Worth our while!" repeated Graeme. "It was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. I wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. When we first came here, how Will, and Rosie, and I, used to plan and dream about it! I may confess, now, how very homesick we all were—how we longed for you. But, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. We were very near going once or twice."

"And when was that?" asked Mrs Snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over Graeme. She did not answer immediately.

"Once was with Norman and Hilda. Oh! I did so long to go with them! I had almost made up my mind to go, and leave Rosie at home. I was glad I didn't, afterward."

"And why did you not?" demanded her friend.

"For one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and I did not like to leave home again; Arthur did not encourage me to go. It was on the very night that Norman went away that Arthur told me of his engagement."

"I daresay you did right to bide at home, then."

"Yes, I knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. I had the greatest desire to go to you. I had no one to speak to. I daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if I could have told you all about it."

"My dear, you had your sister."

"Yes, but Rosie was as bad as I was. It seemed like the breaking up of all things. I know now, how wrong and foolish I was, but I could not help being wretched then."

"It was a great change, certainly, and I dinna wonder that the prospect startled you."

Mrs Snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, Graeme went on rapidly,—

"If it only had been any one else, I thought. We didn't know Fanny very well, then—hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what I thought Arthur's wife should be; and I disliked her stepmother so much more than I ever disliked any one, I think, except perhaps Mrs Page, when we first came to Merleville. Do you mind her first visit with Mrs Merle, Janet?"

"I mind it well," said Mrs Snow, smiling. "She was no favourite of mine. I daresay I was too hard on her sometimes."

Graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "the smith's wife" had experienced at Janet's hands in those early days. The pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from Arthur and his marriage to Merleville and the old times. Janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,—

"And when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?"

"Oh! that was before, in the spring. Arthur proposed that we should go to Merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. It was on my account; I was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what I needed."

"The breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, I daresay. I wonder you didn't come then."

"Oh! I could not bear the thought of going then. I was ill, and good for nothing. It would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. I think I should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if Arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too."

Unconsciously Graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart.

"But what ailed you?" asked Mrs Snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded Graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend.

"What ailed you?" repeated Mrs Snow.

"I can't tell you. An attack of the nerves, Nelly called it, and she was partly right. I was tired. It was just after Will's long illness, and Harry's going away, and other things."

"I daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder," said Mrs Snow, tenderly.

"Yes, about Harry. I was very anxious. There were some doubts about his going, for a while. Mr Ruthven hesitated, and Harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last," added Graeme, with a great sigh.

"Did Mr Ruthven ken of Harry's temptation? Was it for that he hesitated?" asked Mrs Snow.

"I cannot say. Oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. But I don't think he hesitated altogether because of that. As soon as he knew that we were quite willing—Arthur and I—he decided at once. Mr Ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all."

"Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs Snow, with some hesitation, "did you ever think there was anything between your brother Harry and his master's daughter—the young lady that Allan Ruthven married—or was it only Sandy's fancy?"

Graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend.

"Sandy! Did he see it? I did not think about it at the time; but afterward I knew it, and, oh! Janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about Harry."

"My bairn! There have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. No wonder your feet get weary, whiles."

Graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend's lap. In a little she said,—

"How I longed for this place! I had no one to speak to. I used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little."

She did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. Janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by Graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,—

"And so Sandy saw poor Harry's secret? I did not, at first. I suppose little Emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then."

"Yes, Sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. Sandy never thought of Allan Ruthven and his cousin coming together."

Graeme rose and took her work again. It was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it.

"Was it for her money—or why was it?"

"Oh! no. I never could think so. She was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, Rose and I. They had been engaged a long time, I believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. That was because of her father's illness. He died soon after, you remember."

"Yes, I remember. Well, I didna think that Allan Ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. But folk change. I didna ken."

"Oh! no, it was not that," said Graeme, eagerly. "Indeed, at that time Mr Elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. He had met with great losses, Harry says, and Arthur thought that nothing but Mr Ruthven's high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. Oh! no; it was not for money."

"Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it. I am glad that Allan Ruthven hasna changed. I think you said he hasna changed?"

"At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thought him just the same."

"Maybe it was her that wanted the money? If her father was in trouble—"

"No, oh! no! You could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. I don't know how it happened. As all marriages happen, I suppose. It was very natural; but we won't speak about it."

"They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think you said you seldom see them now."

"We don't see them often. They have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. But we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since Arthur's marriage—friends of Fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. If Mr Ruthven knew you were in town, I am sure he would have been to see you before now."

"I am no' wearying to see him," said Mrs Snow, coldly. "But, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?"

Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. So she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. When there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room.

"My dear," said Mrs Snow, in a little, "how old are you now?"

Graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat.

"Oh! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point when ladies don't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute."

"And what point may that be, if I may ask?"

"Oh! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid."

"Ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said Janet, scornfully. "There must be near ten years between you and Rose."

"Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman—past sixteen. I am growing old."

"What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?"

"Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?"

"I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said Mrs Snow, laying her hand tenderly on Graeme's bowed head.

"I was weary and impatient often. What a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." And Graeme sighed.

"Were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said Mrs Snow, softly.

"No, rather because so many of them lie before me," said Graeme, slowly. "Unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past."

"We may all say that, dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely. "None of us have done all that we might have done. But, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not have time to grow weary of them."

"That is true," said Graeme. "And I ought not to grow weary, be they many or few."

There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme.

"Janet," said she, "do you think I could keep a school?"

"A school," repeated Mrs Snow. "Oh, ay, I daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. What would binder you? It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, I daresay."

"You know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. I don't mean that I could take charge of a school; I am afraid I am hardly fit for that. But I could teach classes. I know French well, and music, and German a little."

"My dear," said Mrs Snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? Have you spoken to your brother about it? What does he say?"

"To Arthur? No, I haven't spoken to him. He wouldn't like the idea at first, I suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time."

"You speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has been? Is not your brother able, and willing—"

"Oh! yes, it is not that I don't know. Our expenses are greater than they used to be—double, indeed. But there is enough, I suppose. It is not that—at least it is not that only, or chiefly."

"What is it then, dear child?" asked her friend.

But Graeme could not answer at the moment. There were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. They were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of Janet, even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. But with Janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. To herself she was willing to confess it. Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "With God's help I can bear it." She declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. But, that Janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told.

"What is it my dear?" said Mrs Snow. "Is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" Graeme laughed a little bitterly. "Can anything be worse than these?"

"Is it that your brother is wearying of you?"

"No, no! I could not do him the wrong to think that. It would grieve him to lose us, I know. Even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain."

"And you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?"

Graeme was silent a moment. She did not care to enter upon the subject of Arthur's wife just at this time.

"I don't think you quite understand Fanny, Janet," said she, hesitating.

"Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to deal with have not been of her kind. I have had no experience of the like of her."

"But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. I love her dearly. And, Janet, I don't think it is quite kind in you to think that I grudge Fanny her proper place in her own house. I only wish that—"

"You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. I wish that, too. And I am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have."

"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, with a sigh, "I shall never be able to make you understand."

"You might try, however. You havena tried yet," said Janet, gently. "It is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?"

"I don't think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that I should eat bread of my own winning than of his. Everybody has something to do in the world. Even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. An idle life like mine is not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it. I ought not to be idle."

"Idle! I should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. You used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but I see none of it now. You are ay busy at something."

"Yes, busy about something," repeated Graeme, a little scornfully. "But about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well."

"And I daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. But that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. But it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, I'll allow."

"Will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that I may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said Graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone.

"My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against you. I am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs Arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. She persuades her husband of it, at any rate."

"Fanny does not mean—she does not know much about it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time."

"Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away."

"About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you told me."

"Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and Rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. My dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you."

"But, Janet, it is so different now. When we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when Arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be Will's home again. It may never be his home, nor Harry's either."

"My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will's, too, while it is yours. Their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. And as for Mr Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? Would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?"

"It ought to do so. A man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, 'A man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' Married people ought to suffice for one another."

"Well, it may be. And if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you."

Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. Where could she turn now? She rose with a sigh.

"It is growing dark. I will get a light. But, Janet, you must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is because of Fanny that I want to go away. At first, I was unhappy—I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn't think Fanny good enough for him. And then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and all that. Arthur saw nothing, and Rosie got vexed sometimes. Will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I don't think Fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur saw nothing wrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better he did not. I can see that now."

"Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good deal of it was my fault. I think I was patient and forbearing, and I am quite sure I gave Fanny her own place from the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like Rosie, you know. Fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. There is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of Fanny I must go away."

She paused, and began to arrange the lamp.

"Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said Mrs Snow; and in a little Graeme came and sat down again.

"And about Fanny's not being good enough for Arthur," she went on. "If people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. Arthur is contented. And Janet, I don't think I am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my own sake. I think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. If Fanny has faults, it is better that Arthur should know them for the sake of both—that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. It is partly for them, as well as for Rose and me. For myself, I must have a change."

"You didna use to weary for changes. What is the reason now? You may tell me, dear, surely. There can be no reason that I may not know?"

Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of Graeme.

"Oh! I don't know: I cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "The very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. I am tired doing nothing, I suppose. I want real earnest work to do, and have it I will." She rose hastily, but sat down again.

"And so you think you would like to keep a school?" said Mrs Snow, quietly.

"Oh! I don't know. I only said that, because I did not know what else I could do. It would be work."

"Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. And I daresay it is no better than it is called. But, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the Lord, and for his people. Have you never thought about working in that way, dear?"

Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. Often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. There were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. This was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for God and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly,—

"It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. I cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. I don't know how I could make it otherwise. My time is not at my own disposal."

Mrs Snow assented, and Graeme went on.

"I suppose I might do more of that sort of work—caring for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but I don't think I am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse. Don't you mind, Janet, how Mrs Page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings."

"Yes, I mind," said Mrs Snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. In a little she said, hesitatingly:

"Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. Have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep."

Graeme laughed.

"Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it. But the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future."

"And wherefore not?" demanded Mrs Snow.

"Wherefore not?" echoed Graeme. "I can only say, that here I am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. Fanny's fears on my account have some foundation. Janet, do you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing?

"'The lads that cast a glance at me I dinna care to see, And the lads that I would look at Winna look at me.'

"Well, dear, you mustna be angry though I say it, but you may be ower ill to please. I told you that before, you'll mind."

"Oh! yes, I mind. But I convinced you of your error. Indeed, I look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for I am going to prove to you and Fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary."

"But, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. It is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but—"

"But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what I canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. They say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her."

"But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week—him that Rosie was telling me of?"

"Rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. Nothing particular ailed me at him. I liked him very well till—. But we won't speak of it."

"Was he not good enough? He was a Christian man, and well off, and well-looking. What said your brother to your refusal?" persisted Janet.

"Oh! he said nothing. What could he say? He would have known nothing about it if I had had my will. A woman must decide these things for herself. I did what I thought right. I could not have done otherwise."

"But, my love, you should consider—"

"Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because I was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying 'Yes,' and going with him, though I cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do you think of that for consideration?"

"That would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. I canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But, my dear, you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too much sense for the like of that."

"Have I?" said Graeme. "I ought to have at my age."

It was growing quite dark—too dark for Mrs Snow to see Graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token.

"My dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to 'thole it,' as they say."

She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply.

"Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of God before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken."

"It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet. But I'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken."

She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,—

"My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? You surely dinna doubt me, dear?"

"I am not vexed, Janet," said she. "And who could I trust if I doubted you?"

"And you are not to think that I am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna find you quite content here. And when I think of the home that your mother made so happy, I canna but wish to see you in a home of your own."

"But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world," Graeme forced herself to say.

"No, love, nor the chief thing—that is true," said Mrs Snow.

"And even if it were," continued Graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. It seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed."

"You mayna be the best judge of that," said Mrs Snow, gravely.

"No, I suppose not," said Graeme, with a laugh. "But I have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. Why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. In this very room I have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for God and man in the world."

"My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. Why should you be surprised at that?"

"But, Janet, more do it than these people. Don't you mind, the other day, when Mrs Grove was repeating that absurd story about Miss Lester, and I said to her that I did not believe Miss Lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer."

"But, Miss Graeme, I meant no reflection on your friend, though I said that. I saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and I thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman."

"Well," said Graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong."

"That is but a small matter. And, my dear, I am no' sure, and you canna be sure either, that Mrs Grove was altogether wrong. If, in her youth, some good man—not to say the best man on the face of the earth—had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?"

"There!—that is just what I dislike so much. That is just what Mrs Grove was hinting with regard to Miss Lester. If a woman lives single, it is from necessity—according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. I know that is not the case with regard to Miss Lester. But even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her—if she were an old maid from dire necessity— does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?—that life has been to her a failure?

"If she has failed in life; so do God's angels. Janet, if I could only tell you half that she has done! I am not intimate with her, but I have many ways of knowing about her. If you could know all that she has done for her family! She was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. Then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. She helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. Her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. And she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. Half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. And to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! It incenses me!"

"My dear, I thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say."

"But she is not the only one. Even Arthur sometimes provokes me. Because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. And because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. It is despicable."

"But, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. She has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. Why should she not marry?"

"Don't speak of it," said Graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, as you say, why should she not? But that is not the question. What I declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one—and a happy one too. Who can doubt it? There is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. And the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as Mrs Dale, though she were to marry the Reverend Doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that God has given her in her work as a single woman."

"I believe you, dear," said Mrs Snow, warmly.

"And she is not the only one I could name," continued Graeme. "She is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. But I know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. Some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens or nurseries—women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of 'old maid,' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. Why should such a woman be pitied or despised, I wonder?"

"Miss Graeme, you look as though you thought I was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. Every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. But that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal."

"It goes far to prove it—the chances of usefulness, at any rate."

"No, my dear, because I dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. Put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she does fail in life, who falls short of that. In a certain sense, I say."

"But it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!"

"Whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. That depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. But, my dear, what I say is this: As the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. And though it is a single woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with God's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. My saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. Was it their own free choice that put them where they are? If they speak the truth, they will say 'No.' Either no man asked them—though that is rare—or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. They had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. Or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. Or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. Sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past—that she is an 'old maid.' And if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her—so feared is she of the solitary life before her."

"And," said Graeme, in a low voice, "God is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon."

"It is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what I was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she finds herself alone in life. Sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. It is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. It is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. But does that end the pain? Does it make her strong to say it? May not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? I am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. My dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission—and great nonsense they have spoken of late—but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. There are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. Though why I should be saying all this to you, Miss Graeme, my dear, is mair than I ken."

There was a long silence after this. Mrs Snow knew well that Graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. But her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid.

"We were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. It is a great work, and she is a noble woman. God bless her! And, dear, though I dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother's house, it is not because I dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. I am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for God and man. It is partly that I am shy of new schemes, and partly because I am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because I think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. Whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you.

"I'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. The change would do you good. You will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother Norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. But this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. And, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. But it will pass. Whist! my darling," for Graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "Whist, love; I am not asking about its coming or its causes. I am only bidding you have patience till it pass away."

Graeme sat down again without a word. They sat a long time quite silent, and when Graeme spoke, it was to wonder that Arthur and the others were not come home.

"They must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. They will be as hungry as hawks. I must go and speak to Sarah."

And she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need.

"But I must go all the same. I cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. Oh me! And I thought the worst was past, and Janet says it will never be quite past, till I am grown old."

And Janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. She knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. She knew that Graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her.

"For, what could I say? I couldna bid her go. What good would that do, when she carries her care with her? And it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. I ken her better than she kens herself. Oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort I can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. Well, there is One she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and He can comfort her."



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

The only event of importance that occurred before Mrs Snow went away, was the return of Nelly. She came in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily accounted for at the first moment. And then she told them she was married. Her sudden departure had been the means of bringing Mr Stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister's, and "married her out of hand." Of course, she was properly congratulated by them all, but Rose was inclined to be indignant.

"You promised that I was to be bridesmaid, and I think it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me," said she.

"Yes, I know I promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. I thought your own turn might come first, Miss Rose, He didna seem in a hurry about it. But his leisure was over when I was fairly away out of reach. So he came after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, but back I must go with him. He couldna see what difference a month or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister and the rest up there—they sided with him. And there was reason in it, I couldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. He made small count of any preparations; so you see, Miss Rose, I couldna well help myself; and I hope it will all be for the best."

They all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. But, though congratulating Mrs Stirling heartily, Graeme was greatly disappointed for themselves. She had been looking forward to the time when, Mrs Tilman's temporary service over, they should have Nelly back in her old place again; but the best must be made of it now, and Nelly's pleasure must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. So she entered, with almost as much eagerness as Rose, into a discussion of the plans of the newly married pair.

"And is the market garden secured?" asked she. "Or is that to come later?"

"It will not be for a while yet. He is to stay where he is for the present. You will have heard that Mr Ruthven and his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in the house. I am to have the charge. It will be something coming in through my own hands, which will be agreeable to me," added the prudent and independent Nelly.

The meeting of Mrs Snow and Mrs Stirling was a great pleasure to them both. They had much to say to one another before the time of Mrs Snow's departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance with Fanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. She came to have a great respect for Mrs Stirling's sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. One of the few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, and Rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and "good property to have," as Mr Snow justly remarked, whether they used them or not.

The day of departure came at last. Will, Graeme, and Rose went with them over the river, and Fanny would have liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with Mrs Grove, and was obliged to stay at home. Arthur was to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but that was doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he went away. There was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and Graeme made haste to get a seat with Mrs Snow, in a quiet corner out of the way.

"Look, Graeme," said Rose. "There is Mr Proudfute, and there are the Roxburys, and ever so many more people. And there is Mr Ruthven. I wonder if they are going away to-day."

"I don't know. Don't let us get into the crowd," said Graeme, rather hurriedly. "We shall lose the good of the last minutes. Stay here a moment, Will, and see whether Arthur comes. I will find a seat for Mrs Snow. Let us get out of the crowd."

It was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quite close by the party towards which Rose had been looking, and which Graeme had intended to avoid.

"Who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?" asked Mrs Snow, with much interest. "You bowed to her, I think."

"Yes. That is Mrs Ruthven. I suppose they are going away to-day. I should like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people with her, and I am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. Ah! she has seen Rosie. They are coming over here."

She rose and went to meet them as they came near.

"You have never seen my baby," said Mrs Ruthven, eagerly. "And I want to see Mrs Snow."

Graeme took the little creature in her arms.

"No, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more than once—and now you are going away."

"Yes, we are going away for a little while. I am so glad we have met to-day. I only heard the other day that Mrs Snow had come, and I have not been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, I am so very glad to see you," added she, as she took Janet's hand. "I have heard your name so often, that I seem to know you well."

Mrs Snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers.

"I have heard about you, too," said she, gravely. "And I am very glad that we chanced to meet to-day. And you are going home to Scotland?"

"Yes, for a little while. I have not been quite well, and the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, I hope, or at the latest, in the spring."

There was not time for many words. Arthur came at the last minute, and with him Charlie Millar. He held out his arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and clung to Graeme, who clasped her softly.

"She has discrimination, you see," said Charlie. "She knows who is best and wisest."

"She is very like what Rosie was at her age," said Mrs Snow. "Don't you mind, Miss Graeme?"

"Do you hear that, baby!" said Charlie. "Take heart. The wee white Lily may be a blooming rose, yet—who knows?"

"You have changed," said Mrs Snow, as Mr Ruthven came up to her with Will.

"Yes, I have changed; and not for the better, I fear," said he, gravely.

"I do not say that—though the world and it's ways do not often change a man for the better. Keep it out of your heart."

There was only time for a word or two, and Graeme would not lose the last minutes with their friend. So she drew her away, and turned her face from them all.

"Oh, Janet! Must you go? Oh! if we only could go with you! But that is not what I meant to say. I am so glad you have been here. If you only knew how much good you have done me!"

"Have I? Well, I am glad if I have. And my dear, you are soon to follow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. God has been very good to you all."

"Yes, and Janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. Forget all the discontented foolish things I have said. God has been very good to us all."

"Yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust Him. And you must watch over your sister, your sisters, I should say. And Rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister's judgment in anything. And my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. God be with you."

Mr Snow and Will made a screen between them and the crowd, and Janet kissed and blessed them with a full heart. There were only a few confused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. And then Graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of Lilias Ruthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the many friends who were watching them as they went away. And then they turned to go home. There was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. But Graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. Her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and she was saying to herself,—

"I will take heart and trust Him, as Janet said. He has been good to us all I will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull and profitless to me. God will accept the little I can do, and I will be content."

Will and Charlie Millar left them, after they had passed through a street or two.

"We might just as well have gone to Merleville with them, for all the difference in the time," said Rose.

"But then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment of Janet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. It was a much better way for us to wait."

"Yes. And for some things it will be better to be there after the wedding, rather than before. But I don't at all like going back to an empty house. I don't like people going away."

"But people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away," said Graeme.

But the quiet was not for that day. On that day, two unexpected events occurred. That is, one of them was unexpected to Graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the rest. Mr Green proposed that Miss Elliott should accompany him on his contemplated European tour; and Mrs Tilman's time of service came to a sudden end.

As Graeme and Rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the Grove carriage standing at their door.

"That does not look much like quiet," said Rose. "However, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be; don't you remember, Graeme?"

Rose's fears were justified. They found Fanny in a state of utter consternation, and even Mrs Grove not quite able to conceal how much she was put about. Mrs Tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, and even the undiscerning Fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying on the bed beside her. Mrs Grove was inclined to make light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in a fault, on occasion; but Graeme put her very charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper's former illnesses. This was not the first fault of the kind, by many.

There were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it would be wise to record. Mrs Grove professed indignation that the "mistress of the house" should have been kept in ignorance of the state of affairs, and resented the idea of Fanny's being treated as a child. But Fanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future she would leave her to the management of her own household affairs; and Graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doing this, she would be quite safe and right.

Of course, after all this, Fanny could not think of going out to pass the afternoon, and Graeme had little quiet that day. There were strangers at dinner, and Arthur was busy with them for some time after; and when, being at liberty at last, he called to Graeme that he wanted to see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered with impatience.

"Oh! Arthur, I am very tired. Won't it keep till morning? Do let Mrs Tilman and domestic affairs wait."

"Mrs Tilman! What can you mean, Graeme? I suppose Mrs Grove has been favouring the household with some advice, has she?"

"Has not Fanny told you about it?" asked Graeme.

"No. I saw Fanny was in tribulation of some kind. I shall hear it all in good time. It is something that concerns only you that I wish to speak about. How would you like to visit Europe, Graeme?"

"In certain circumstances I might like it."

"Mr Green wished me to ask the question—or another—"

"Arthur, don't say it," said Graeme, sitting down and turning pale. "Tell me that you did not expect this."

"I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise. He meant to speak to you himself, but his courage failed him. He is very much in earnest, Graeme, and very much afraid."

"Arthur," said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think this is my fault? If I had known it should never have come to this."

"He must have an answer now."

"Yes, you will know what to say to him. I am sorry."

"But, Graeme, you should take time to think. In the eyes of the world this would be a good match for you."

Graeme rose impatiently.

"What has the world to do with it? Tell me, Arthur, that you do not think me to blame for this."

"I do not think you intended to give Mr Green encouragement. But I cannot understand why you should be so surprised. I am not."

"You have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement has not been from me. It cannot be helped now. You will know what to say. And, Arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me."

"Then, there is nothing more to be said?"

"Nothing. Good-night."

Arthur was not surprised. He knew quite well that Mr Green was not good enough for Graeme. But, then, who was? Mr Green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young now. If she was ever to marry, it was surely time. And why should she not?

He had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he had not found it easy to do. Well, she was old enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without the help of his position and his great wealth, Mr Green was certainly not a very interesting person; and probably Graeme had done well to refuse him. He pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but when he went up-stairs, Fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager.

"Well, what did Graeme say? Has she gone to bed?"

Arthur was rather taken aback. He was by no means sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister's affairs with his wife. Fanny would never be able to keep his news to herself.

"You ought to be in bed," said he.

"Yes, I know I ought. But is she not a wretch?"

"Graeme, a wretch!"

"Nonsense, Arthur! I mean Mrs Tilman. You know very well."

"Mrs Tilman! What has she to do with it?"

"What! did not Graeme tell you?"

And then the whole story burst forth—all, and a good deal more than has been told, for Fanny and Rose had been discussing the matter in private with Sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long.

"The wretch!" said Arthur. "She might have burned us in our beds."

"Just what I said," exclaimed Fanny, triumphantly. "But then, Sarah was there to watch her, and Graeme knew about it and watched too. It was very good of her, I think."

"But why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary to wait and watch, as you call it? Why was she not sent about her business? Why was not I told?"

"Sarah told us, it was because Miss Elliott would not have Mrs Snow's visit spoiled; and Rose says she wanted everything to go smoothly, so that she should think I was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. I am very much afraid I am not."

Arthur laughed, and kissed her.

"Live and learn," said he.

"Yes, and I shall too, I am determined. But, Arthur, was it not very nice of Graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? Especially when mamma had got Nelly away and all."

"It was very nice of her," said Arthur.

"And mamma was very angry to-day, and Graeme said—no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and Graeme said that would be much the best way."

"I quite agree," said her husband, laughing.

"But, Arthur, I am afraid if it had not been for Graeme, things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. I am afraid, dear, I am rather foolish."

"I am sure Graeme does not say so," said Arthur.

"No. She does not say so. But I am afraid it is true all the same. But, Arthur, I do mean to try and learn. I think Rose is right when she says there is no one like Graeme."

Her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these things much more than he said to his wife. It would be a different home to them all. Without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret Graeme's decision with regard to Mr Green and his European tour.

In the meantime, Graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with her sister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night. That was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained in her mind. She was annoyed that Mr Green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. Now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of Mr Green and his hopes. She saw now, that from various causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, and fallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time was passing, and she could see where he might have taken encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had been so. But she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself to pity him very much.

"He will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than I could ever have done; and, so that Arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done."

So she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. And there was something else quite past and done with.

"I am afraid I have been very foolish and wrong," she said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. She said it over and over again, and it was true. She had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. Never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought Harry home, had Graeme touched the hand or met the eye of Allan Ruthven. She had frequently seen Lilias, and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. In those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grown morbid over the fear. To-day she had seen him. She had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. They were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always.

She did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of Allan and Lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. She told herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home again the old glad time would come back.

"I am glad that I have seen them again, very glad. And I am glad in their happiness. I know that I am glad now."

It was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, of all that the future might bring. Her thoughts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating Janet's words, and making them her own.

"I will take heart and trust. If the work I have here is God-given, He will accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and I will take heart and trust."



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

If, on the night of the day when Janet went away, Graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. And yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. They had not been eventful years—that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. But Graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked God, for contentment and a quiet heart.

That which outwardly characterised the time to Graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. At first all things had happened as had been planned. They made their preparations for their long talked of visit to Merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. Will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with Janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of Fanny's illness—an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and Graeme did not need her brother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. The summons came during a brief absence of Rose from Merleville, and was too imperative to admit of Graeme's waiting for her return, so she was left behind. Afterwards, when Fanny's danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother Norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over Graeme's unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. The hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled Graeme to the thought, but when spring came, Fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would Norman consent to the return of Rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last.

The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was rather a dreary one. The restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to Fanny; and Graeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But all this changed as the hour of Fanny's trial approached—the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out of the entire trust which Fanny had come to place in her sister Graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. The love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object— a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. And so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. Loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near.

Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in Fanny's keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. Through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to Graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. One does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and Fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind, growing worthier of it every day.

Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much Arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. Life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. The small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. These hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! Fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. The confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. Listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days.

They helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and Graeme helped them both. These were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. In caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own.

This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. Fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before.

That summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to Merleville, where Arthur joined them. It was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. It did Arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. They spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. Viewed in the light which shone from his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to Arthur mean and worthless. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him.

Janet never spoke to Graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "It is all coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. And as the days went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched Fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to Graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,—a Fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "It is coming right with them all."

Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to Arthur and Fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. To Graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but Arthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. Will was still in Scotland, to stay for another year, at least Harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. A great change had taken place in his affairs. The firm of Elphinstone and Company no longer existed. It was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of Elliott, Millar and Company. Mr Ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. He lived in Scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. He had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. Either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to Canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again.

Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. Up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. When he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. He was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. Even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place.

Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. Arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, Mr Elias Green, in more than in success.

"He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a 'palatial residence', and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. You seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, Graeme."

"Discontented!" echoed Graeme. "It is with you, that I am discontented. How can you speak of anything so horrible? You don't know Harry."

"I know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as Harry's. Success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. No, you need not look at Harry's friend and partner. He is 'tarred with the same stick,' as Mrs Snow would say."

Harry's friend and partner, laughed.

"Mrs Snow would never say that about Mr Millar," said Graeme indignantly, "nor about Harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that."

"They may fail, or they may marry. I was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion."

"Harry will never grow to be like Mr Green," said Fanny, gravely. "Graeme will not let him."

"There is something in that," said Arthur.

"There is a great deal in that," said Mr Millar.

"There are a great many to keep Harry from a fate like that, besides me," said Graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature."

She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for.

"Graeme," said Fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose Arthur is in earnest. He thinks there is no one like Harry."

Arthur laughed.

"I don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and Graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, I am afraid."

"If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago," said Graeme, laughing.

"Oh! that is quite another matter; but as to Harry, it is a good thing that Rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while," added he, as his brother came into the room. "And you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteract your influence."

"What is it all about?" said Harry. "Are you spoiling your son, Fanny? Is that the matter under discussion?"

"No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and I. We admire you quite too much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for Rose."

"As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it," said Harry. "If one is to believe what Norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there."

"So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," said Graeme, with a little vexation. It was not Harry's words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don't think she tried to help it. Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour—her vocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather."

"Harry, don't! I can't bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way."

"Oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if you don't believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the last bit of news of Rosie."

Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met Graeme's eye.

"I don't understand you, Harry—the least in the world," said he.

"Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland's letter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much."

"Mr Green!" repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath.

"Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said Graeme, indignantly.

"The idea of Rose ever looking at him!" said Fanny.

"Oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm," said Harry. "She might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation—"

"Harry," said Fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the English language that Graeme hates it is that. Don't say it again, I beg."

Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed and anxious.

"Miss Elliott," said Charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "I hope you don't think me capable of discussing—or permitting—. I mean, in the letter to which Harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. You have received a wrong impression. I am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way."

"Charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, Graeme, you are as bad. Of course, Rosie's name was not mentioned; but I know quite well, and so do you, who 'La belle Canadienne' was. But no harm was meant, and none was done."

"It would be rather a good joke if Rosie were to rule in the 'Palatial Residence' after all, wouldn't it?" said Arthur, laughing.

"Arthur, don't! It is not nice to have the child's name coupled with— with any one," said Graeme.

"It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said Harry. "It is the penalty that very pretty girls, like Rose, have to pay for their beauty—especially when they are aware of it—as Rose has good right to be by this time. Small blame to her."

"And I don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, Graeme," said Arthur. "A great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without Rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you."

"Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it," said Graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. By and by Harry and his friend and partner rose to go. They lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which Rose had taken such pleasure in watching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly Nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office.

Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and then Mr Millar approached Graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,—

"I ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. I don't think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. Won't you just say so to me?"

"Charlie! I know you could not. You are one of ourselves."

Charlie's face brightened. Of late it had been "Mr Millar," mostly— not that Graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. But this time it was, "Charlie," and he was very much pleased.

"You have been quite a stronger, lately," she went on; "but now that Mrs Elliott is better and Rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. We cannot bring the old times quite back, even with Harry and Rose, but we shall always be glad to see you."

She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words.

"I hope there is nothing wrong," said Graeme, observing his changing look.

"Nothing for which there is any help," said he. "No there is nothing wrong."

"I am ready, Charlie," said Harry, coming forward. "And Graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about Rose's conquests. When she goes to her own house—'palatial' or otherwise—and the sooner the better for all concerned—you are coming to take care of Charlie and me."

"There may be two or three words to be said on that subject," said Arthur, laughing.

"I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object; you have had Graeme all your life—at least for the last seven years. I should like to hear you, just. I am not joking, Graeme."

Graeme laughed.

"There is no hurry about it, is there? I have heard of people changing their minds; and I won't set my heart on it, in case I should be disappointed."



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

So Rose came home at last. Not just the Rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. Her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. She was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away.

She would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. But Arthur declared that she had become Americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. Harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for Harry admired the American ladies, and took in good part Rose's hints and congratulations with regard to a certain Miss Cora Snider, an heiress and a beauty of C—-. "A trifle older than Harry," explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme; "but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things 'being agreeable.'"

"Of course," said Harry, with a shrug that set Graeme's fancy at rest about Miss Cora Snider.

In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. Rose's dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. With Graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away—a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister's loving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She was very fond of Norman and Hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like Graeme, and there was no place like home. So she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Rosie of old times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. It was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. Admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, Graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on.

"It amuses me very much to hear Arthur say I am changed," said Rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. "Why, if I had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which I daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. But what have you being doing to Fanny, Graeme?"

"Rose, my dear," said Graeme, gravely, "Fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, I am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?"

"Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is concerned. For the better! I should think so. But then I fancied that Fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as Janet would say; and I confess, when I heard of the arrival of young Arthur, I was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with."

"Now, Rosie, that is not quite kind."

"But it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and what I said to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but I thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see Fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first."

Graeme shook her head.

"I think you must have forgotten about the very first. We were both foolish and faithless, then. It has all come right; Arthur is very happy in his wife, though I never thought it could be in those days."

There was a long pause after that, and then Rose said,—

"You must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. I ought to have been here to help you, and I should have been, if I had known."

"I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, or to endure. I am none the worse for it all."

"No," said Rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. Graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. Rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,—

"I think you have changed—improved—almost as much as Fanny, though there was not so much need."

Graeme laughed, too.

"There was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. I am glad you see any."

"I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, I am sure," said Rose, as Fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "I think I see an intention on your part to become stout. I don't object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided."

"Graeme too stout! How can you say such things, Rosie?" said Fanny, indignantly.

"She is not so slender as when I went away."

"No, but she was too slender then. Arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do I."

"Well, perhaps," said Rose, moving believe to examine Graeme critically; "still I must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness—and other things."

"It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny," said Graeme, laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with."

"Fanny," said Rose, "don't contradict her. She says that on purpose to be contradicted. A middle-aged look, is it? I dare say it is!"

"A look of contentment with things as they are," said Graeme. "There is a look of expectation on most young faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. I mean, of course, with single women. I suppose it is that with me; or, do I look as if I were settling down content with things as they are?"

"Graeme," said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, I should say it sounded a little like affectation."

"I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?"

"But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear," said Fanny.

"How old are you, Graeme?" said Rose. "Middle-aged, indeed!"

"Rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? Shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?"

"Certainly not; by no means; I have no such intention, unless, indeed—. But we won't speak about such unpleasant things. Fanny, shan't I take the baby while you do that?"

"If you would like to take him," said Fanny, with some hesitation.

Baby was a subject on which Rose and Fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. Rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as Fanny thought she ought to be. Even Graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. But Rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after Hilda's strong, beautiful boys, Fanny's little, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of Graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. But now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. Fanny was delighted. Happily Graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,—