Wilmot did not notice the spitefulness in her voice. "They seem to have lovely gardens out there, my dearie. Miss Sampson was telling me of the different flowering trees they've got when she was in the kitchen on Tuesday. I'd promised to show her how to make those drop cakes you're so fond of, Miss Rosie. But I'll go and see about your tea. I wish you'd come this morning. The mistress was saying only yesterday that she was longing to see you."

Rose went up to her room while tea was being made ready for her. It was all in perfect order, as if ready for her to take possession of it at any moment. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on the little table by the window. The room that had been prepared for Rhoda was next to it. The door stood partly open, and Rose could not forbear taking one look. It was only one look. She hurried on, feeling ashamed of her curiosity. But she got an impression of exquisite neatness and freshness, and by some odd working of the law of contrast it was Pauline's room she thought of as she ran downstairs.

In the dining-room she noticed with jealous eyes how carefully the plants in the flower-stands before the windows had been tended, and with what care and skill the flowers on the table had been arranged. Wilmot hung round her at tea, pressing her to eat all sorts of dainties, and she could have easily learnt a great deal about Rhoda. The old servant seemed anxious to speak of her, anxious to impress Rose with her sweetness and goodness.

But Rose cut her short. She refused to interest herself in the stranger who in a few weeks' time would pass out of their lives again. And she grew cross at last at Wilmot's continual praises of her.

She went back by an earlier train than she had intended. She found that her aunt and the others would not return till dark; it was no good to wait for them.

She walked from Victoria to Chelsea along the Embankment, trying to convince herself that it was good to be in London. But her step flagged as she went up the stone stairs, and when she got to the flat and found that Pauline had not returned, a great flood of loneliness rushed over her. She put her flowers down on the table, and, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.



CHAPTER VIII.

AN INVITATION.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Pauline returned. Madame Verney had begged her so hard to stay and keep her company that she had not been able to refuse, she told Rose, with many caresses.

"I have been thinking of you all the time, you poor darling. But what could I do? Felicie—she begged me this evening to call her Felicie—was so bent on my staying. I am going to take you to see her tomorrow. I talked so much about my little English Rose. And what have you been doing with yourself? What a pity you did not go to the concert! It was glorious. We had delightful seats. I never enjoyed a concert so much before."

"I have been to Woodcote," Rose broke in. "It was such a lovely afternoon I could not stay indoors."

Pauline looked dismayed. "To Woodcote?" she said sharply. "What a strange idea, Rose! I thought you were going into the Park. Was not Miss Merivale surprised to see you alone? I fancy she thinks we are like the Siamese Twins—always together."

"I did not see Aunt Lucy. They had all gone to Guilford. I only saw Wilmot."

"Wilmot? That's the cook, isn't it? I never can remember servants' names. Well, did she condole with you about the concert, and think me a wretch for deserting you? I am afraid Miss Merivale will think so."

"I didn't say anything about the concert," returned Rose. "She talked about Miss Sampson chiefly. She seems to think her perfect."

"I daresay," returned Pauline, with a yawn. "Those sort of people always hang together. She's more of Wilmot's class than ours, you know. I wonder what your aunt thinks of her."

"Oh, Aunt Lucy thinks her perfect too," returned Rose, no longer able to keep her jealousy out of her voice. "And so does Tom. I don't believe they miss me one little bit, Pauline."

"Did Wilmot tell you that?"

"No, but I am sure they don't. Little things she said made me think so."

"You silly child!" laughed Pauline. "Did you want your aunt to fret herself to death because you weren't there to run her errands? You ought to be glad she finds Miss Sampson so useful. She may be willing to let you stay on with me all the summer. Wouldn't that be delightful? Why, what a gloomy little face! Rose, I believe you are angry because I accepted Felicie's invitation. But I am not going to leave you alone again. I must remember you are not like Clare. You are vexed with me, now confess it."

"I see you could not help it," Rose answered wearily. "And I was glad to go home. I shall go again on Saturday. You must come with me, Pauline."

"Don't tell your aunt that I wanted you to go to the concert alone, then," said Pauline, with a laugh. "She is such a dear old-fashioned thing, she might be shocked at me. And I believe you were shocked, just a little. How Clare would have laughed at you!"

There was an expression of alarm in Pauline's eyes as she watched Rose. She began to fear that she had really offended her by her behaviour. She had been so sure of her influence that she had not thought it necessary to consider her, but she told herself now that she had been distinctly foolish. And she tried her best to make Rose forget that she had been deserted for a new friend. But she could not chase away the shadow from Rose's face. It was not her disappointment about the concert which had brought it there. It was the feeling that she was not being missed at home.

Next morning she was practising her scales in the sitting-room, after Pauline had gone to give some lessons, when Tom was ushered in by Mrs. Richards. Rose ran to meet him with a glad cry.

"Oh, Tom, this is nice! Has Aunt Lucy come with you?"

"No; she sent me. She wants you and Miss Smythe to spend Saturday to Monday with us. Why didn't you let us know you were coming yesterday, Rosie? Aunt Lucy was so disappointed when she found you had come down."

"I didn't think of it till the middle of the day. You had gone to Guilford, they told me. Wasn't that too far for Aunt Lucy?"

"Why should it be?" asked Tom in a surprised tone. "She has often driven as far as that. She seemed to enjoy it. She is certainly stronger, Rosie. But you will see on Saturday. You look rather pale. Come out with me. If you'll ask me to lunch, I can stay."

Rose hesitated. "I don't think you would like Mrs. Richards' cooking, Tom. I would rather you wouldn't stay."

"You inhospitable sister! Well, I'll ask you to lunch with me. Run and put your hat on and let us go out. It is a glorious morning."

He watched her rather impatiently as she got the case and began to put her violin away. He was anxious to get her out into the open air. It distressed him to see how pale she was. And he had an uneasy feeling that he had been neglecting his little sister lately. For days he had hardly thought of her.

"You aren't practising too hard, I hope, Rosie?" he said kindly. "You mustn't overdo it, you know."

"Oh, I don't practise too much," Rose returned. She did not tell him that she found it impossible to practise except when Pauline was out. Pauline's neuralgia came on directly she began to play. "And how does Miss Sampson suit, Tom? I hope she looks after Aunt Lucy properly?"

Tom flushed up. "You will see for yourself on Saturday, Rosie. Aunt Lucy is very fond of her."

"Yes, Wilmot told me that."

Tom gave his sister a hasty glance, was on the point of saying something, but checked himself. And there was a moment's silence before he spoke. "I wish you had not settled to stay here till June, Rosie. We want you at home."

It was in a choked voice Rose answered him. "I don't believe you do want me. Aunt Lucy has got Miss Sampson. She doesn't want me."

Tom again paused a moment before he spoke. Each time Rose mentioned Rhoda in that slighting tone it roused his anger against her. But he told himself that Rose did not know Rhoda yet, and he must wait till they had seen something of each other before he could expect Rose's sympathy. He spoke very calmly and reasonably after the pause.

"Did you wish Aunt Lucy to be miserable while you were away, Rose? It was your own wish to go. Surely you ought to be glad that she has found someone to fill your place."

He felt he had said the wrong thing before Rose turned on him, her eyes flashing. "How could Miss Sampson, a stranger, fill my place? Tom, you are horrid!"

"Not at all," he said stoutly, bent on defending the position he had taken up. "I don't want to hurt you, Rosie; but look at the thing reasonably. Remember that you told me you were bored to death at home, that you would give anything to live in London all the year round. I didn't believe you. But suppose you had really wanted it? You couldn't have expected to keep your place at home and yet have the freedom of a life like this. If a girl gives up her home duties, she must take the consequences."

"I have only been away a fortnight," said Rose, with a trembling lip, "and I shall feel nothing but a visitor when I go back on Saturday. You—you only ask me because I went home yesterday and found you gone. I don't believe you want me a bit." And, to Tom's distress and amazement, Rose, poor little homesick Rose, burst into tears.

"I wish you would go back with me this minute and you'd find out whether we wanted you," he exclaimed, drawing her hands down from her face. "You silly child, what would Aunt Lucy say if she heard you talking such nonsense? Rosie, just listen to me a moment. I am going to tell you something I haven't even told Aunt Lucy yet, though I believe she guesses. Don't cry any more. Just listen to me."

The quiver in Tom's voice made Rose look wonderingly at him. It was very unlike him to show any emotion. His cool, matter-of-fact way of looking at things had often irritated her. But she saw now that he was deeply moved. And the reason of his agitation suddenly flashed upon her.

"Oh, Tom!" she faltered out.

"Rosie, you'll try to like her?" he said eagerly. "I'm not sure—I'm sure of nothing, except that I shall never be happy again unless—Rosie, you will be nice to her? You don't know her. There is nobody like her. You won't be able to help liking her, I'm sure of that."

Rose was still looking at him with wide-open, wondering eyes.

"But, Tom, is she—is she a lady?" she faltered.

He frowned. "She hasn't sixteen quarterings on her shield, if you mean that. But you won't ask the question again when you have seen her, Rose."

Rose did not remind him that she had seen her. She was trying to recall her as she sat at the side table busy over her typewriting. Her jealousy of Rhoda had somehow vanished in the light of Tom's wonderful confession. She was eager to see the girl again who might one day be her sister.

"Do you really think Aunt Lucy knows, Tom?" she asked in a doubtful voice. Tom's future wife had been often a subject for conversation between Miss Merivale and Rose. And of the two, Miss Merivale had been the more ambitious in her wishes. She had seemed to think that hardly anyone could be good enough for Tom.

"I'm sure she knows," returned Tom, with conviction. "But don't say anything to her, Rosie. I shouldn't have told you unless"—

"I'm glad you told me, Tom," said Rose, drawing a deep breath. "And I'm sure I shall like her. I'm sure she must be nice."

Tom beamed at her. "But you did see her for a moment, Rosie. She came here while you were staying with Miss Smythe last month."

"Yes; she sat at that table, and wrote the letters," Rose said, nodding towards the little side table in the corner. "She had a brown dress on, I remember. Tom, am I expected to say that I thought her very pretty? I hardly looked at her."

"Well, you will see her on Saturday," Tom said.

Rose noticed that his voice sounded quite different when he spoke of Rhoda. And there came a look into his face she had never seen there before. It was impossible for her to cherish any jealous feelings in face of the great fact that Tom was in love. It thrilled her to think of it.

That evening, when Tom was gone, and she and Pauline were sitting together in their little sitting-room, she let her book lie unheeded on her lap, while she looked forward dreamily into the future. She took it for granted that Tom and Rhoda would marry. It seemed quite out of the question that Tom could be refused. How strange it would be to have a sister! She had so often wished for a sister. She hoped Rhoda would soon learn to love her. She thought of her quite naturally as Rhoda now, and was tremulously eager to see her again. She was sure that the girl Tom loved must be worthy of his love. And the fact that he had made her his confidante had taken all bitterness out of her heart. She was proud that he had trusted her.

"Rosie, whatever is your little head full of?" asked Pauline suddenly. She had been watching her for some moments, unable to interpret the shining, far-off look in her blue eyes.

Rose pave a start and looked hastily round. "I was thinking of Tom," she said, feeling her colour rise.

"Tom ought to be flattered," laughed Pauline. "I believe you had forgotten my existence. How you started when I spoke! Where were you? At Woodcote?"

"I fancy so," said Rose, getting up and stretching her hands above her head. "Shall we have supper now, Pauline? I wonder why that lamp smells so. Ours never do at home. I must ask Wilmot how to clean it. I am sure Mrs. Richards can't do it properly."

"I don't suppose she does, my dear. I believe Sampson tried to teach her. She's a domestic genius, isn't she? I am beginning to feel grateful to Sampson. If your aunt had not heard of her you wouldn't have come to me."

"Pauline, I wish you would not speak of her like that," said Rose, with a note of irritation in her voice. "Why do you?"

"Why shouldn't I? It isn't as if she was a lady. One of her uncles is a butcher; she told Clare so."

"I don't see why she should be ashamed of it," returned Rose, answering Pauline's tone rather than her words. "It's what people are in themselves that matters, not what trade their relations belong to. But Miss Sampson has no relations of her very own. The M'Alisters adopted her. And Aunt Lucy thinks that her uncle might have been Cousin Lydia's husband. It is that which made Aunt Lucy so interested in her at first. For, you know, if Cousin Lydia's little girl had lived, she would have had Woodcote, and not Tom. And she and her father would have come to England when Uncle James died."

Pauline was watching Rose's face curiously. She did not feel any interest in Cousin Lydia and her husband, but she could not understand Rose's change of attitude towards Rhoda Sampson. One explanation occurred to her—a delightful one. Had Rose made up her mind to spend the summer in London with her? Was this the reason she felt glad that her aunt had someone she liked to take her place?

"Well, as I said before, Rosie, I am grateful to Miss Rhoda Sampson," she said laughingly. "If she was not at Woodcote, you would not be here. And I shall get more and more grateful to her as the weeks go on. I may get to love her in time, if she enables us to spend the summer together. You are quite happy about your aunt now, aren't you, my Rose?"

Rose looked aghast at the prospect of spending the whole summer in the flat. She hardly knew how she was to endure it till June.

"I must go home in June, Pauline," she said hastily. "I couldn't stay longer than that."

"Well, we shall see," said Pauline gaily. "You won't talk so lightly about going back when you have had a few more weeks of freedom, Rose. And if your aunt is so well provided for, there will be no need for you to go back. You won't be wanted."

"Oh yes, I shall be," Rose answered, with a swelling heart. Tom had made her feel sure of that. "Pauline, please don't think about my staying here after June. I can't stay. I want to go home."

"You haven't forgiven me for that wretched concert!" Pauline exclaimed.

"I haven't thought of it again. It isn't that, Pauline. How could it be? But I want to go home."

"You will be miserable, just as you were before. Remember how you talked to me. You were bored to death."

Rose flushed scarlet. "I wasn't. Or if I was, I don't mean to be so silly again."

Pauline looked at her with an angry glance. "You are a homesick baby, Rose, that is the long and short of it. I gave you credit for being grown-up. It was a mistake you coming here at all. Clare didn't get homesick."

"Clare had her work," answered Rose, knitting her pretty brows and looking miserably at Pauline's angry face. "I am doing nothing I couldn't do as well at home. I could come up once a week for lessons. Pauline, don't be angry. You didn't really think I should stay on after June, did you?"

"I gave you credit for meaning what you said," returned Pauline harshly. "And what you said was true. You were not happy at home. If you go back, you will get bored and unhappy again."

Rose shook her head. She had had a sharp lesson. She knew what the freedom was worth that Pauline had offered her. She longed to take up again the little daily cares that had filled her life at home. And she longed to get away from Pauline. She was beginning to feel that she had never really known her till now.

Pauline waited a moment for her to speak, and then turned sharply away. "Well, I shall not press you to stay with me. Madame Verney would be glad if I could live with her. I said it was impossible yesterday, as I was bound to you. Now I shall feel quite free to make my own arrangements. But you have disappointed me, Rose. I must tell you so quite frankly."

And Rose felt quite crushed for the moment by the judicial air with which Pauline pronounced this judgment on her.



CHAPTER IX.

PAULINE HAS HER SUSPICIONS.

Pauline and Rose went down to Woodcote on Friday evening.

Pauline had apparently recovered her spirits, and was in her brightest mood. She had been very sweet and caressing to Rose ever since their talk on the evening of Tom's visit to the flat. Rose inwardly chafed at this show of affection; she had ceased to believe in Pauline's sincerity.

Miss Merivale was waiting at the station for them with the pony carriage. The groom had driven her down, but Rose begged to be allowed to drive back. It was the first time she had driven the new pony, which was a pretty, gentle, timid creature, obedient to the lightest touch on the reins.

"We must take Miss Smythe to Bingley woods to-morrow, Rose dear," Miss Merivale said, as they drove slowly up the long hill from the station. "The primroses are very plentiful this year. Tom says the ground is carpeted with them."

Rose did not answer. The pony had started aside at the sight of a railway train that had just come out of the tunnel, and she was engaged in soothing it.

"Rose, you had better let me drive," Pauline suggested. "I drove a great deal when I was staying with the Warehams. You are not firm enough."

"It is only trains and traction engines Bob is frightened of," Miss Merivale said. "And coaxing is best, I am sure. There, we shall have no more trouble with him now. He is a dear little fellow."

Pauline said nothing, but she had some difficulty in keeping herself from shrugging her shoulders. She thought both Miss Merivale and Rose deplorably weak and silly. A smart stroke with the whip was what the pony wanted. But she had come down determined to be on her best behaviour, and she made some smiling remark on the beauty of the country.

"Rose has been pining for fresh air like a lark in a cage," she said. "Are you content now, Rosie?"

"Tom said she looked pale," Miss Merivale said, giving Rose an anxious, loving glance. "I wish you would come down again next week, dear. I can't let a fortnight pass again without seeing you; it is much too long."

"Time goes faster in London," said Pauline, without allowing Rose to answer. "It seems only yesterday that Rose came to me. How quiet it is here! Don't you miss the roar of London, Rosie? I do. Not the clatter of cabs and carts, but that deep, low roar we hear when we open the window. It is like the voice of the great city. There is no music like it."

"I would rather hear the birds," Miss Merivale said gently; but she gave Rosie another anxious look. She was wondering if the time had gone as quickly with her as with Pauline.

Rose did not speak. She was waiting till they got home to pour her heart out to her aunt. She could not speak before Pauline.

"I am afraid I haven't many rustic tastes," Pauline said in a cool, superior voice. "But it is certainly lovely here. What a delightful change it must be for that little Miss Sampson! I hear you find her very useful, Miss Merivale. Clare will be pleased to hear it."

For the first time in her life Pauline saw Miss Merivale look angry. Her mild blue eyes actually flashed as she answered in a voice that trembled a little, "I don't think you can have heard that Rhoda is related to us, Miss Smythe. She is staying with me as my visitor. Rose, my dear, I want you to be very good to her."

Pauline stole a look at Rose, expecting to see a cloud of jealousy on her pretty face; but she saw instead a tender, happy smile lurking in the corners of her lips. She was distinctly mystified.

"Yes, I remember now that Rose spoke of some distant family connection," she said carelessly to Miss Merivale. "How very good of you to acknowledge it, dear Miss Merivale! Some people wouldn't, I know. They think poor relations should be kept out of sight as much as possible. But Miss Sampson is hardly to be called a relation, is she? I forget the exact link between you, though Rose told me."

"She is related to poor Cousin Lydia's second husband," Rose said, as Miss Merivale did not answer. "He and his little girl were lost in the bush, weren't they, Aunt Lucy?"

"Yes, dear," said Miss Merivale in a low voice. Her face had become very white.

"If she had lived, we might never have come to Woodcote," Rose went on, her glance resting lovingly on the old house, which had just come into sight. "How strange it seems to think of that! How old was she, Aunt Lucy? It is only lately I have thought of her at all."

"She was about two years old, dear," Miss Merivale answered in the same low voice. Pauline, who was watching her in some wonder, could see that she was profoundly agitated.

"Then she would have been about twenty now," Rose went on, not noticing her aunt's disinclination to talk of her niece. "How old is Miss Sampson, Aunt Lucy? I wonder if they ever saw each other."

"She is nearly twenty; I remember Clare telling me so," said Pauline, answering for Miss Merivale. "But she looks much older. It is the kind of life she has lived, I suppose."

Rose was intent on turning the curve of the drive in a masterly manner, and did not answer this. And Pauline, after another glance at Miss Merivale's face, was silent about Rhoda. It was plain to her that, for some reason or another, the subject was intensely painful to Miss Merivale.

Rhoda came shyly across the hall as they entered. She had on a new brown dress that Miss Merivale had given her. It was brown cashmere, made very simply, but it was a prettier dress than Pauline had ever seen her wearing, and she stared undisguisedly at her as they shook hands.

"I hardly knew you, Miss Sampson," she said. "How very well you are looking! But you must be having quite a holiday."

The condescending tone did not appear to irritate Rhoda. She answered pleasantly; there was even a twinkle deep down in her dark eyes as she met Pauline's glance.

It was Rose who felt irritated. Now that she saw Rhoda's face in the full light, with no hat to shade it, she recognised what a frank, sweet face it was. She did not wonder that Tom loved her, or that her aunt smiled upon his wooing. And Pauline's assumption of superiority vexed her intensely.

Miss Merivale asked Rhoda to show Pauline the room that had been prepared for her, and they went upstairs together. Rose cast an anxious glance after them.

"I had better go too, Aunt Lucy."

"No, wait a moment, darling. I want to have a good look at you. Tom gave me a bad account. And you are looking pale. You are not working too hard?"

"Not a bit of it," laughed Rose. "And I am quite well. But I shall be glad when June comes, Aunt Lucy. I am beginning to count the days. But don't tell Pauline that."

A delighted look flashed into Miss Merivale's face. "My darling, it is so sweet to hear you say that. I was afraid you would find it dull here when you came back. I have missed you more than I could tell you."

"Really?" asked Rose half wistfully, half teasingly. "You've had Miss Sampson, you know, Aunt Lucy."

"I want you both," Miss Merivale said in an eager voice. "Rose, you will try to love her, won't you? She is so lonely. Mrs. M'Alister and her children have gone to Devonshire, and Rhoda was left behind. She has nobody but us. You won't treat her like a stranger, will you, dearest?"

Rose felt chilled and hurt by her aunt's strange eagerness. It was all very well for Tom to speak so, but her aunt was different. Why should she plead for Rhoda like that?

"You'll see how sweet I mean to be to her, Aunt Lucy," she said gaily; and Miss Merivale did not notice that the gaiety was forced. "I'll go up now and send her down to you. I wonder why Pauline is keeping her."

She hastened away, and Miss Merivale sat down in the porch and put her hand on the head of Bruno, Tom's black Newfoundland, who had come to her side with an inquiring glance in his beautiful eyes.

"Your master will be home soon, Bruno," she said. The dog wagged his tail, but still kept looking at her. She went on speaking to him. "And everything is coming right, Bruno," she said. "I am glad I was silent. It's all coming right. We shall all be happy together."

She looked round as she spoke, and saw Rhoda coming down the broad shallow stairs into the wainscoted hall. A tender smile brightened her face as she watched her. She had lost the feeling that she was doing her an injustice by not acknowledging her as her niece. As Tom's wife she would be as a daughter to her. She would have everything that was hers by right.

Rhoda stepped rather slowly down, her head bent, a line of anxiety showing between her clearly pencilled dark brows. She knew something about Pauline that she was beginning to feel Miss Merivale should know. Yet she had no wish to disclose the secret she had accidentally learnt. At first it had amused her, it amused her still. In the brief, decidedly unpleasant tete-a-tete which Rose had just put an end to, she had found it easy to bear Pauline's half-veiled taunts. Ever since her visit to Leyton she had understood the bitter animosity which Miss Smythe had shown her from the first. It was not altogether a personal dislike. Rhoda was sure that she would have treated in the same manner any girl who was poor and yet was not ashamed of her poverty or of her friends.

"Rhoda."

Miss Merivale's gentle call made her hurry her footsteps. Her face had a wonderfully sweet look on it as she approached Miss Merivale. Miss Merivale's kindness had completely won the girl's heart. She was so happy at Woodcote that sometimes she felt as if it must be a dream from which she would awake to find herself in the lonely bedroom in Acacia Road with the boys' cots empty, and a long London day of searching for work to look forward to.

"Sit down here beside me, dear," Miss Merivale said, taking her hand and drawing her down on the seat. "Just look at Bruno. He has been asking me when Tom is coming back. I tell him he will be back in a few moments."

Rhoda had turned her head quickly away to look at the dog, but Miss Merivale saw how her colour rose, making even the little ear pink. And she smiled to herself.

"I hope Tom will be able to go with us to-morrow," she went on, without giving Rhoda time to speak. "I want to take Miss Smythe to Bingley woods. It is too early for a picnic, but we could drive over there directly after lunch. Ah, there is Tom."

Bruno had heard the click of the wicket gate leading to the stables before Miss Merivale spoke. So had Rhoda. She started up. "I promised Wilmot I would light the lamps, Miss Merivale, as Ann is out. We shall want them for tea."

Miss Merivale let her go, smiling softly again to herself. "Rose and Miss Smythe have come, Tom," she called to him, as he crossed the lawn, swinging his stick, and walking with a free, happy step.

"I'm glad of that. Where is Rosie? I'm afraid I shall not be able to see much of her to-morrow, Aunt Lucy. I must go to Croydon, after all. But I'll get back early. How do you think Rose is looking?"

"She is pale, Tom; but she says she is very well. I don't think she likes it as much as she expected She is anxious to come home in June."

Tom's eyes twinkled. "Yes, I gathered that on Tuesday. I am glad you let her go, Aunt Lucy. But there is no need for her to stay till June if she does not like it, is there? Why should she go back at all?"

"I don't think it would be quite fair to Miss Smythe for her to leave her now, dear," said Miss Merivale gently. "I am sure Rose would rather go back."

Their talk was interrupted by Rose herself, who came flying across the hall at the sight of Tom, followed more slowly by Pauline. "Oh, Tom, have you come back? I drove Bob from the station. Did Aunt Lucy tell you?"

"She hasn't had time. I have only just come in. How do you do, Miss Smythe? I hope Rose has been a good little girl since Tuesday?"

"Have you, Rose?" said Pauline, with a lazy smile.

Rose did not hear the question. She had caught sight of Rhoda entering the hall through the swing doors that led to Wilmot's pantry, and she stepped back to speak to her. They stood talking together by the wide stone hearth, filled now with green fir boughs. Pauline noticed how Tom's eyes kept wandering to them as he made disjointed remarks to her and his aunt, and he presently moved across the hall to join them.

Miss Merivale got up from her seat in the porch. "It is getting chilly, my dear," she said to Pauline. "Shall we go into the dining-room? Tea will be ready in a few moments."

But Pauline lingered in the hall. Though the twilight had begun to gather, enough light streamed through the great west window to make the portraits on the wainscoted walls clearly visible. Pauline went from one to the other, asking Miss Merivale a question now and then, but really far more intent on studying the group at the fireplace than the pictures she appeared to be interested in.

Over the fireplace hung the portrait of Miss Merivale's mother, a sweet, gentle-eyed woman, very much like Miss Merivale, except that her eyes were a soft brown instead of a soft blue.

Pauline remarked on the likeness at once. "Except for the dark eyes, it might be your portrait, Miss Merivale."

Rose had been glancing from the portrait to Rhoda. "Aunt Lucy, your mother's eyes are exactly the same colour as Miss Sampson's."

Pauline, who was standing by Miss Merivale, felt her start violently. "I had not noticed, dear," she said, without looking at Rhoda.

"Oh, but they are," Rose went on. "Only Miss Sampson's are shaped a little differently. And she was named Rhoda, wasn't she, Aunt Lucy? Tom, don't you see the likeness?"

"I can't say I do, Rosie," said Tom, who considered in his heart of hearts that Rhoda's long-lashed, sparkling dark eyes were far more beautiful than the mild brown ones in the portrait. As he spoke he moved quickly towards his aunt. "Aunt Lucy, it is too cold for you here. Come in by the dining-room fire. Why, you are trembling with the cold. The evening is very chilly for April."

Pauline stood still for a moment gazing intently up at the picture, and then followed the others into the dining-room. Before Tom had spoken to his aunt she had seen how white and strange her face was—as white as if she was about to faint. And a sudden idea had flashed upon Pauline, making her heart beat fast.

That night, when Rhoda was brushing her hair, she heard a soft tap at the door. To her surprise, it was Pauline who entered.

"I have come to borrow some matches," she said. "I find my box is empty. How pretty your room is! So is mine. It is a charming house altogether. May I sit down and talk to you a little? I want you and Miss Merivale to spend a long day with us next week. Do you think you could persuade her to come?"

The change in Pauline's manner was so extraordinary that Rhoda found it difficult to speak. But Pauline did not appear to notice her constrained answer. She sat down in the low chair by the window and took up the photograph frame that stood there by Rhoda's little writing case and a saucer filled with white violets and moss.

"May I look at this? It is your aunt and cousins, isn't it? What a dear little fellow that is on your aunt's lap! Is that the little boy who was ill? You took him into the country, didn't you?"

An irrepressible glimmer of fun came into Rhoda's dark eyes. "Yes, into Essex," she said demurely.

"They have all gone into the country now, haven't they? How fortunate it was that Miss Merivale heard me mention you, Miss Sampson! She noticed the name at once. It is quite certain, isn't it, that you are related to her through her sister's marriage?"

"Miss Merivale insists on thinking so," said Rhoda quietly. "But I cannot be sure of it."

"Don't you remember your own people at all? I can feel for you, if that is so. My father and mother died while I was a baby. Can you remember your mother? I wish I could."

"No, I cannot remember her."

"And your father?"

"Just a little."

Rhoda's cold, brief replies checked Pauline. She did not find it so easy to pump Rhoda as she had expected. She put the photograph down, and got up with a yawn. "I am keeping you up," she said. "May I have the matches? Thank you. Good-night." She gave Rhoda one of her most charming smiles as she spoke; but Rhoda's good-night was studiously cold. She had no desire to accept the olive branch Pauline was holding out to her.



CHAPTER X.

A CONFESSION.

The more Pauline thought of it the more she felt convinced that she had solved the mystery of Miss Merivale's sudden interest in Rhoda. And she spent a long time in considering what was the best use she could make of her discovery.

Her first idea had been to disclose the truth to Rhoda herself, and thus establish a claim to her gratitude. But something in Rhoda's manner the night before made her hesitate. And she felt half inclined to believe that her best plan would be to speak to Miss Merivale and assure her that she could be trusted to keep silent.

She was still undecided when she went into the garden next morning to help Rose pick the flowers for the table.

Rhoda was already in the garden. Old Jackson, the gardener, had come to the house to seek her directly after breakfast.

"Jackson expects Rhoda to spend half the day in his company," Miss Merivale said, with a laugh. "He won't sow a seed without asking her opinion first. My opinions he has always laughed to scorn."

"And mine too," said Rose, with a merry glance at Rhoda. "He has always been a regular despot about the garden. How have you managed to subdue him, Miss Sampson?"

"I expect he has found out that Miss Sampson knows more than he does," said Pauline smilingly. "I want you to teach me something about flowers while I am here, Miss Sampson. I have schemes for a flower-box outside our windows at the flat. Don't you think that would be a delightful plan, Rosie?"

Rhoda made some fitting response, but Pauline discerned the coldness in her voice. She said angrily to herself that Rhoda did not deserve to know what she could tell her. And ten minutes later she had fully made up her mind to speak to Miss Merivale. It was another discovery which had led her to a decision. She had wandered on before Rose towards the end of the garden, where an archway through a clipped yew hedge led to the stables and farm buildings. Her steps made no sound on the turf path, and she suddenly came in sight of Tom and Rhoda standing close to the archway. Rhoda had her gardening gloves and apron on, and a trowel in her hand. She had just been sowing seeds in the bed that ran along the yew hedge. Tom had come through the archway to bid her good-bye before starting on his long ride.

"I wish I was going to Bingley woods with you," he said. "You will have a lovely day."

"Yes, it will be beautiful," Rhoda answered, finding it just as difficult as Tom did to speak these ordinary words in an ordinary tone. A blush came over her face, and she dropped her eyes. She could not meet his eager glance. For one moment Tom was silent—a moment that was eloquent to them both. Then, "Rhoda!" he said, almost below his breath.

It was at that moment Pauline turned the corner by the great lilac bushes and caught sight of them. Rhoda came towards her instantly, showing no sign of discomposure except a controlled quivering at the corners of her firm lips; but Pauline was not deceived by her calmness. Her only doubt was as to whether Tom shared Miss Merivale's knowledge as to Rhoda's parentage. And after a moment or two's consideration she decided that he did not. It was impossible to look at Tom and doubt his perfect honesty.

After a short talk, he went through the archway to start on his ride, and Pauline returned to Rose, leaving Rhoda to her gardening.

"Rose, why didn't you warn me?" she said in a tone of laughing reproach when she joined her. "I am afraid your brother will never forgive me. I have just interrupted a tete-a-tete."

"What do you mean, Pauline?" asked Rose, jarred through and through by her friend's tone.

"Is it possible you don't guess, you blind girl? But perhaps you would rather I did not speak of it? I thought I could say anything to you, Rosie."

"You spoke of Tom," Rose answered. "Of course I know what you mean, Pauline."

"Ah, you are jealous, Rosie."

Rose flashed a glance at her. "I am not jealous. I am not so horrid as that. But don't make a joke of it, Pauline, please don't."

Pauline burst into a loud laugh. "Oh, Rosie, what a solemn little face! But, seriously, do you think the course of true love is likely to run smooth? Surely your aunt will object. We are not all so unworldly and sentimental as you."

"Aunt Lucy is glad, I am sure of it. And so am I," said Rose stoutly, "I am beginning to see what Rhoda is."

"You think Miss Merivale will be glad? Well, you are odd people. I shall begin to think Miss Sampson must have a fairy godmother. It's a new version of Cinderella, isn't it?"

This made Rose too angry to answer, and she walked away to the next flower-bed to put an end to the conversation. Pauline did not attempt to follow her. After standing in deep thought for a moment, she returned to the house.

Miss Merivale was sitting in the drawing-room busy with her embroidery. She looked up with a smile as Pauline entered. "I was just wishing you or Rose would come in, Miss Smythe," she said. "I am not sure whether blue or green would be best for the centre of this flower."

Pauline gravely examined the embroidery, and gave her opinion. Then she took up the basket of silks. "May I sort these for you, Miss Merivale?"

"Oh, do, my dear. The kittens got hold of the basket just now and made sad work with it."

Pauline seated herself at a little distance and began quickly and skilfully to arrange the basket, glancing once or twice at her companion. Miss Merivale looked very composed and cheerful. She was intent on her embroidery, and seemed in no hurry to talk.

It was Pauline who began the conversation.

"I have just been talking to Miss Sampson in the garden, Miss Merivale. How very happy she seems here!"

"Yes, I think she is happy, my dear."

"And if you and Rosie had not come to the flat that afternoon, you might never have heard of her. How strangely things come about, don't they, dear Miss Merivale?"

"I am very glad we came," Miss Merivale answered. "What colour shall I use for this leaf, my dear? My eyes are not what they used to be, and I like to take advice."

Pauline bent forward to look, and patiently discussed the question; but she spoke of Rhoda again directly it was decided. "But something still more strange might have happened, Miss Merivale," she went on lightly. "Suppose Miss Sampson had been your own niece? She might have been. People who are supposed to be lost in the bush aren't always lost, and—Oh, Miss Merivale, what have I said?"

Miss Merivale had dropped her work, and was staring at Pauline with wide-open, terrified eyes. She made no effort to answer her. She was incapable of speech.

"What have I said?" repeated Pauline. She got up and came close to Miss Merivale, kneeling down beside her. "You are angry with me. I have hurt you. Is it possible that Rhoda is your niece, and that you do not want her to know it? But you must trust me. Please trust me, Miss Merivale."

Miss Merivale put her hand up to her eyes. She spoke in a stunned voice. Pauline's words had suddenly torn away the veil which had hidden the meaning of her own conduct from her.

"Yes, Rhoda is my niece," she said. "She is my sister Lydia's little girl. What made you guess it?"

Pauline was slightly taken aback at this speech of Miss Merivale's. She had not expected her to admit the truth so readily. "Miss Merivale, you must trust me," she said in a low, eager voice. "I understand exactly why you want it to be a secret. No one shall ever know from me."

Miss Merivale pushed her chair back, freeing herself from the touch of Pauline's hands. A shock of repulsion had gone through her.

"It will be no secret after to-day," she said in the same stunned, heavy voice. "I shall tell Tom this afternoon. I ought to have told him before."

Tom came home late in the afternoon. He expected to find that his aunt and the girls had all gone to Bingley woods, and he only went to the house to change his riding boots before going to meet them. He passed through the archway in the yew hedge, marking with tender, happy eyes the exact spot where Rhoda had stood that morning while they talked together. His feet lingered a little as he went down the turf path to the house. Everything in the garden spoke to him of Rhoda, and it was in the garden he had seen her first.

He went through the open window of the library and across the hall. As he reached the foot of the stairs he was surprised to hear his aunt's voice.

She was standing at the drawing-room door, with her hand resting heavily on the jamb. It was with difficulty she had crossed the room to call him on hearing his step. Her limbs were trembling under her.

"I thought you had all gone to Bingley woods," Tom exclaimed. "Have the others gone?"

"Yes; I would not let them stay at home. I was feeling too tired to go."

"You caught cold yesterday in the porch," Tom said in a playful scolding voice. "You do want a lot of looking after, Aunt Lucy. Have you a fire? The wind is keen, though the sun is so bright. Here, let me make a better fire than this."

He knelt down on the rug, stirring the logs into a cheerful blaze. Miss Merivale sank down on the sofa and watched him in silence. If Tom had looked attentively at her, he would have seen that her face was grey with pain. She had spent some bitter hours since Pauline had spoken to her that morning. Though she had done it for Tom's sake, she feared that he would find it very hard to forgive her. And looking back over the last few weeks, she found it almost impossible to understand how she could have been happy for a moment while keeping such a secret from him.

The knowledge that Pauline shared the secret had been like a light brought into a dark room. Her shock of repulsion at Pauline's eagerness to convince her that she would be silent had been followed by the sad reflection that she had no right to blame Pauline for being willing to do what she herself had done for a month past.

"There, that is better," Tom said, getting up. "Let me draw your sofa close up to the fire. Where is your knitting, Aunt Lucy? I know you can't have your afternoon nap without it."

But Miss Merivale did not laugh at the old joke that she pretended to be knitting when she was really fast asleep. "Tom, sit down," she said. "I want to speak to you."

Tom hesitated. She had spoken in so low a tone he had not noticed how her voice trembled. "I thought I would go to meet them, Aunt Lucy. They will be coming back by this time."

"Sit down," she repeated more urgently. "I want to speak to you. I must tell you before they come home."

He was thoroughly startled now. "Has anything happened?" he said. "What is it?" He drew a chair close to her and sat down, his square, honest face full of concern. "What is it, Aunt Lucy?"

She turned away from him. It was more difficult to speak than she had expected, though she had known it would be very difficult. "Tom, it is about Rhoda," she said in a choked voice.

He straightened himself in his chair. "About Rhoda?" he echoed. She heard the challenge in his grave voice.

"Yes, about Rhoda. I want to tell you why I asked her here. You know that I love her, Tom. You know how happy it has made me to see that you"—

"Dear Aunt Lucy, I was sure you had guessed," Tom said in an eager voice. "And"—

"Tom, wait," she said breathlessly. "You don't understand me yet. Has it never struck you as strange that I should have asked Rhoda to live here, that I should have treated her as a child of my own?"

No, Tom was not able to say that he had thought it strange. Rhoda being Rhoda, it had seemed to him most natural that his aunt should have loved her at first sight, just as he had done. But his voice was anxious as he answered, "Aunt Lucy, I don't understand in the least what you are driving at. What is it you want to tell me?"

She turned towards him, clasping her hands together. "Tom, Rhoda is Lydia's little girl. She is my own niece. I have known it ever since the first day she came to see me."

He stared at her, not comprehending. "How can she be Cousin Lydia's child?" he asked. "She would have known you were her aunt."

"She does not. She knows nothing. But, Tom, she is Lydia's daughter. I know it. I have known it all these weeks."

"But why"—he began, and then stopped, a dark flush rising in his face. He knew why his aunt had been silent.

"Tom, at first I tried to persuade myself I was mistaken," she faltered. "And then, when I saw"—

He made a quick gesture that was full of pain. The flush in his face had faded, leaving it very white. "Aunt Lucy, do not speak of that," he said, turning his face aside.



She drew closer to him, putting her hand on his arm. "Tom, what do you mean?"

"Don't you see?" he returned, just glancing at her and then looking away again. "You have made it impossible, Aunt Lucy. I could never ask her to marry me now."

The bitterness in his voice overwhelmed her. "Tom, you don't suppose she would believe that you—Oh, what have I done? Tom, you will never forgive me!"

At the sound of the quick sob that choked her voice he turned quickly to her. "Aunt Lucy, do not talk like that. What is done can't be undone. But let me understand. What proofs have you that Rhoda is your niece? You must write to Mr. Thomson and tell him all you know. But he will want proofs."

He spoke so quietly, she took courage. And she was able to speak fully to him. He listened with grave intentness, asking a question now and then.

"We must write to this Mr. Harding," he said, when she had finished. "Mrs. M'Alister will be sure to know his address. Shall I go up and see Mr. Thomson for you to-morrow, Aunt Lucy? I think the first step is to tell him."

"And Rhoda, Tom?"

"Wait till I have seen Thomson. Though there seems no room for doubt. Aunt Lucy, I wish you had told me at first."

How she wished it she tried to tell him, but her tears prevented her. She sobbed hysterically, while he did his best to soothe her, forgetting his own pain at the sight of hers. When she could speak, her first words were of Rhoda.

"Tom, you won't let this come between you? Tom dear, I know she loves you."

His face quivered all over. "I have no right to speak to her yet," he said. "Perhaps—but I must wait. Can't you see it must be so? I shall have my own way to make in the world." He squared his shoulders as he said it, as if eager to begin the struggle.

"Tom, I don't see it," his aunt burst out. But he would not let her go on. He could not bear it. He felt that it was utterly impossible for him to ask Rhoda to marry him if she was heiress of Woodcote and he without a penny he could call his own. If they had met knowing their relative positions, it might have been different. But now he could make no claim on her. His aunt's conduct had raised a barrier between them that could not be broken down till he had won an independent position for himself.

Miss Merivale's heart ached as she looked at him, but she was far from understanding the full bitterness of the blow she had inflicted on him.

Tom felt as if he had suddenly grown old. He left his aunt presently and went out into the open air. He no longer felt inclined to go and meet the pony carriage, but he went through the wood to the furzy common beyond. From there he could see the high road stretching like a white ribbon across the downs.

No pony carriage was in sight, but a traction engine was lumbering heavily upwards, with a man walking before it carrying a red flag. Tom was glad to see it disappear over the dip of the hill. The lane from Bingley woods entered the high road lower down the hill. There was no danger of Bob's nerves being shaken by the sight of the fiery-throated monster.

The road lay white and silent in the sunshine now. Tom sat down on a turf hillock, fixing his eyes drearily upon it. He felt intensely miserable.



CHAPTER XI.

POLLY SMITH.

The expedition to Bingley woods was not a success. Pauline was in one of her worst tempers, and treated Rose so rudely that the poor girl was more ashamed of her chosen friend than angry with her.

To Rhoda, Pauline was all that was sweet and flattering. She had promised Miss Merivale to say nothing to her; but she was eager to ingratiate herself with the girl whom she now knew to be an heiress, and to make her forget how she had treated her while she was Clare's assistant.

Rhoda was strongly irritated by her advances. Pauline's snubs had never wounded her very deeply. Rhoda only valued the good opinion of those whom she respected. But Pauline's eagerness to make friends turned her indifference to something like violent dislike. She found it hardly possible to speak civilly to her.

She went off at last into the depths of the wood, leaving Rose and Pauline together. Her irritation soon passed away when she was alone. The basket she had brought to fill with primroses remained empty in her hands. She wandered on, her eyes drinking in the beauty round her. Only the lower boughs of the trees were in leaf as yet, and the wood was full of golden light. Primroses were everywhere, and in the more open spaces celandines starred the ground with deeper yellow. In a month the glades between the trees would be carpeted by bluebells. But there were no bluebells yet. Spring was still in its infancy. The great oaks that skirted the wood stretched bare wintry boughs over the flowers beneath them.

It was a time of hope, of delicate, exquisite promise; and Rhoda's lips curved with a happy, dreamy smile, as she listened to the story the woods whispered to her that April day.

The deep voice of the clock in Bingley church tower recalled her to the necessity of going back to her companions. It was four o'clock, the time they had fixed for starting homewards. It was not with any pleasure that she thought of the long drive. She suspected that Pauline and Rose had had a serious quarrel, and that Pauline's politeness to her arose from a wish to vex Rose.

All the way to the woods Pauline had criticised Rose's driving, speaking with authority, as if she had driven a pony carriage all her life. Rhoda could have laughed outright if she had not been so angry.

She found the two girls ready to start for the village when she got back to the spot where she had left them.

"Pauline wants to go round by the high road," Rose said, looking appealingly at Rhoda. "It will make us much later at home. You can see the Abbey another day, Pauline. There isn't much to see; is there, Miss Sampson?"

"It will not take us half an hour longer. How obstinate you are, Rosie!" exclaimed Pauline irritably. "I will drive, and make Bob understand that he must hurry a little. Why should we walk up that long tiresome lane to save his legs? There is no hill to speak of the other way, you say. I am too tired to walk a step. I am not so strong as you are. Miss Sampson, don't you agree with me that the high road will be much the better way for us?"

"We promised Miss Merivale that we would be back early," Rhoda said coldly. "I think it is a pity to go out of our way."

"But we should be at home just as soon. Rose insists that we must all walk up the lane. I am sure you are too tired to do it, Miss Sampson, if I was not. But Bob is to be considered before either of us, eh, Rose?"

Rose walked down the turf slope towards the village without answering; she was too cross to discuss the question any further.

A new complication arose when they reached the rustic inn where Bob and the carriage had been left. One of Bob's shoes was found to be loose, and it was necessary to get it fixed before starting for home.

Rose drew Rhoda aside, and spoke eagerly to her. "Miss Sampson, would you drive home with Pauline? I could walk across the downs and be home in half an hour. I don't like to leave Aunt Lucy so long alone."

"Will you let me go?" Rhoda answered, as eagerly as Rose had spoken. "I know the way quite well. I would so much rather go, if you don't mind."

Rose could quite well understand that Rhoda must find Pauline's society unpleasant, even though Pauline now appeared bent on being agreeable to her. "Are you sure you know the way?" she said doubtfully. "But it is easy. You will see Woodcote when once you are on the top of the downs."

"I know the way quite well," Rhoda said, with a bright face. It was delightful to her to escape the drive home with Pauline.

She started at once, and was soon on the top of the downs, enjoying the breezy expanse of beautiful rolling country round her. Half an hour's rapid walking brought her to the furzy common close to Woodcote woods. She had come down to it from the downs; and Tom, seated on his hillock, with his eyes turned to the road, did not become aware of her presence till she was quite close to him. He had been hidden by the gorse bushes from Rhoda till the moment before he started up. And she would have shyly hurried on without speaking to him if the sound of her step had not made him look round.

She hurriedly explained how she came to be there alone. "I don't think they will be back for an hour or more," she said, looking at the white ribbon of road Tom had been watching for so long. "The high road is much longer than the lane, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Tom briefly. He had forgotten all about the traction engine. In fact, he had hardly understood what Rhoda was saying. His heart was heavy within him.

They turned and walked down the sunny bit of slope, where the bees were busy among the golden gorse blossoms. Tom was not silent. He could not trust himself to be silent. He began to speak of the meeting he had just been attending at Croydon. He gave Rhoda a vivid account of it, which lasted till they got close to the house; then, with a hasty excuse of having forgotten to tell Jackson something, he left her.

Rhoda walked on to the house with a calm, even step. Wilmot, who met her in the hall, and told her that Miss Merivale was lying down and did not wish to be disturbed, noticed nothing unusual about her. She stood and talked some minutes with the old servant before going upstairs to her room. And she gave her a sunny smile as she left her. Even when she was alone, and had shut the door between her and the world, she did not fling herself down by the bed and burst into tears, as unhappy heroines so often do. She changed her dress, and carefully mended a rent the briers had made in the one she took off. Then she got Hamblin Smith's Arithmetic and her notebook, and began the hour's work she set herself every day. A tear or two did come—she could not keep them back; but she worked steadily on. She would not even allow herself to think how she could have offended Tom, or what the explanation of his changed manner could be. She picked out the hardest examples in Complex Fractions she could find, and concentrated her mind on them.

She was still working when Wilmot came to her door.

"Miss Rose and Miss Smythe have not come home, miss. Shall I send in tea? It is past six o'clock."

Rhoda opened the door. "I will go and ask Miss Merivale, Wilmot."

Wilmot looked doubtful. Her mistress had given strict orders that she was not to be disturbed.

"I will not go in," Rhoda said, as she saw her doubtful glance. "I will just knock softly. If she is awake, she might be glad of a cup of tea."

Rhoda's first knock was not answered; but when she tapped softly again, she heard Miss Merivale's voice telling her to come in. Miss Merivale was lying on the bed, with her face turned to the wall. She reached out her hand for Rhoda's, and clasped it tenderly, but did not turn round.

"My head is very bad, darling. Tell Rose I won't have any tea. I want to keep quite quiet."

Rhoda did not tell her that Rose and Pauline had not returned. She was afraid she might be alarmed. The deadly pallor of her face quite frightened her. She spoke to Tom when she went downstairs.

"Miss Merivale looks very ill," she said, "and she won't let me do anything for her."

Tom was sitting at the table before the hall window, busy making flies for his trout fishing. He was so intent on his work that he did not look up.

"She gets bad headaches. I should not be anxious. She always likes to be left alone."

Rhoda did not answer this. She went into the dining-room, where tea was laid ready, and sat down in the broad window-seat with some needlework.

If Tom had come in then, she would have been very cold to him. Her pride was up in arms. But he did not come near her; and for a miserable half hour Rhoda sat there alone, feeling as if all life's music had suddenly stopped, and winter had taken the place of spring.

Wilmot came in at last to urge her to have some tea. "Miss Rosie may be stopping to tea at the Rectory. It isn't any good for you and Mr. Tom to wait any longer."

Rhoda looked at the clock in some alarm. She had not been conscious of the lapse of time. "I don't think Miss Rosie meant to stop anywhere, Wilmot. But they ought to be home. I hope nothing has happened."

At that moment Tom entered the room. "It is getting very late," he said to Rhoda. "How long did Jones mean to take to put that shoe right? Not very long, surely."

"Miss Merivale thought they would be at home by six o'clock," Rhoda answered.

"And it is seven now," Tom said, glancing at the clock. "It will be dark in half an hour. They were coming by the high road all the way, didn't you say?"

"Yes; Miss Smythe did not want to go up the lane. But the high road is not very much longer, is it, Mr. Merivale?"

"About two miles longer. But it is a better road. They ought to be home by this time."

Rhoda was standing by the window, and he came to her side and looked out. He carefully avoided glancing at her, yet he knew that her face was very proud and cold.

"I think I will go down the road to meet them," he said. His voice shook a little. It was very hard—it was almost harder than he could bear—to let her go on misunderstanding him. Yet how could he explain?

"I wish they would come home," Rhoda answered. "Do go and meet them, Mr. Merivale. Miss Smythe wanted to drive, and I do not trust her driving."

"Bob doesn't want much driving," Tom answered. But as he spoke he suddenly remembered the traction engine crawling up the hill. For the first time he felt really alarmed. "I will go down the road," he said, moving quickly from the window. "Though I daresay I shall meet them almost at once."

Wilmot followed him into the hall. "Mr. Tom, where can they be?"

"Somewhere on the road between Bingley and our gates," he said lightly. "Don't alarm Miss Sampson or my aunt, Wilmot. But send Ann round to the stables to tell Jack to get my horse ready. If I do not see any sign of them on the road, I will ride towards Bingley."

He went off; and Rhoda, after watching him down the drive, crept upstairs to listen at Miss Merivale's door. But as she crossed the landing the door opened, and Miss Merivale stepped out, a black lace shawl framing the whiteness of her face.

"Rhoda, where has Tom gone?" she asked. "How still the house is! Haven't Rose and Miss Smythe come back?"

"Not yet," answered Rhoda lightly. "Bob's shoe got loose, you know. They were delayed at the village."

"But it is nearly dark. Something must have happened. Let us go down to the gate, Rhoda. I am frightened."

Rhoda could not persuade her to let her go alone, and they went together down the drive. Tom had just ridden off; they could hear the sound of his horse's feet on the hilly road. But when that died away, a long period of silence ensued. They went out of the gates and down the hill towards the station, Miss Merivale clinging to Rhoda.

It was after what seemed hours to them both that they heard a horse trotting rapidly towards them. Miss Merivale leant against the low stone wall that divided the road on one side from the common.

"Rhoda, that is Tom. I could tell Black Beauty's trot anywhere. Go on to meet him, dear. I cannot go any farther."

Rhoda went quickly on. It was Tom; he sprang off his horse on catching sight of her.

"Miss Smythe has been badly hurt," he said. "She is at the Rectory. Rose is with her."

"Your sister is not hurt?"

"A bruise or two. They met that traction engine; Miss Smythe was driving, and tried to make Bob pass it. The result was that Bob bolted down the hill."

They were walking quickly up the hill as he spoke. Rhoda told him that Miss Merivale was waiting for them, and a couple of moments brought them to her side. She refused to accept at first Tom's emphatic assurances that Rose had escaped with only a bruise or two, and begged him to take her to the Rectory. Tom would not hear of her going. "Rose did not want to leave Miss Smythe, or I would have brought her home, Aunt Lucy. She is perfectly well. Rose is a plucky little girl She wasn't half as frightened as you are."

It was not till they got back to the house and he had made Miss Merivale drink the cup of tea Wilmot brought her, that he allowed her to know how serious Pauline's injuries were.

"They fear concussion of the brain," he said. "I have promised Hartley to telegraph for her friends. Can you give me their address?"

Miss Merivale hesitated. "I am afraid she has no near relatives, poor girl. I never heard her speak of any."

"But she is continually calling for 'Granny,' Mrs. Hartley says. Her grandmother ought to be here, if she has one. How could we find out?"

Rhoda, who had been sitting silent till then, now looked up and spoke. "Her grandparents live at Leyton, Miss Merivale. They have a shop next door to Aunt Mary's brother. Mr. Smith is a grocer."

Miss Merivale stared at her. "My dear, are you sure?"

"Quite sure," Rhoda answered. "I saw her photograph when I took little Hugh to his uncle's, and they talked a great deal about her. Polly, they call her. She writes to them constantly. They brought her up, and I expect she is really very fond of them."

"But—Rhoda, are you quite sure? Why has she never spoken of them? Do you think she was ashamed of the shop? It must have been that."

"She had no reason to be ashamed," Rhoda answered quietly. "They are dear, good people."

"Poor girl, poor girl!" was all Miss Merivale could say; but Tom, who had brought a telegraph form from the library, asked Rhoda to give him the address.

"I will send this off at once," he said, getting up. "She evidently wants to have her grandmother with her now. She calls continually for her."



CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

When the twelve o'clock train stopped at the station next morning two passengers got out—a little old lady dressed with Quaker-like neatness, and a tall, grizzled, sunburnt man with a breezy, open-air look about him.

Tom and the Rector were both waiting on the platform, and hurried up to them. There was good news.

"Your granddaughter is better, Mrs. Smith," the Rector said in his kind voice. "But she may not know you. You must not be alarmed at that. The doctor is much more hopeful this morning, and she calls continually for you. We trust it may soothe her to have you near her."

The tears were streaming fast over Mrs. Smith's wrinkled face. "Polly would never have no one but me to nurse her," she said. "She was always like that from a baby. I came off the first minute I could. Mr. Smith wasn't able to leave the shop, but Mr. Harding came with me. I've never travelled alone in my life, and I'd have lost my way sure enough without him. Mr. Harding's from Australia, sir," she added, looking at Tom, whom she had identified as Mr. Merivale. "And he'd be glad to see Miss Sampson if she's still with Miss Merivale supposing 'twas convenient."

"I am going back to Woodcote now," Tom said, looking at Mr. Harding. He had started violently at the first mention of his name by Mrs. Smith, but he spoke coolly enough. "Will you walk back with me? My aunt will be very glad to see you. Miss Sampson is now at the Rectory, but I am going to fetch her and my sister after lunch."

The Rector's trap was waiting outside, and Mrs. Smith was soon comfortably settled in it. She was too simple and homely to be shy, and it was plain both to the Rector and Tom that her distress at Pauline's accident was largely mingled with delight at the prospect of having her to nurse. She spoke with eagerness to the Rector as they drove off of the time when she could take Polly back with her to Leyton.

"She's a good sort," Mr. Harding said, as he and Tom turned to walk up the hill. "I hope her Polly will soon be better. She is a governess, isn't she? Price told me she didn't spend much time with the old folks."

Tom did not feel called upon to answer this. He was determined to find out at once how much Mr. Harding knew about Rhoda's father and mother. "My aunt and I were talking about you yesterday, Mr. Harding, but we had no idea that you were in England."

Mr. Harding turned his keen black eyes upon him. "No, I only landed last week."

"My aunt has some reason to believe that Miss Sampson is related to her," Tom hurried on. "You knew her father well, I believe?"

Mr. Harding's answer was emphatic. "I should say I did, sir. Poor old Jack and I were boys together. Why, he married a cousin of mine, as good as a sister. And we should have been partners now if he hadn't died. Some people never understood Jack, and after Jenny died he got queerer than ever; but he and I never had a cloud between us."

Tom had stopped still in the road. The ground seemed to be swaying under his feet, and something caught him in the throat so that he could scarcely speak. "Was your cousin Rhoda's mother?" he asked.

"Yes; she was their only child. I knew she was safe and happy with the M'Alisters, or I would have looked after her more. I've no chick nor child of my own, and I mean Rhoda to have a big slice of what I've got to leave."

Tom did not catch the last words clearly. "My aunt's sister married a Mr. James Sampson," he hurried to say. "Was he related to Miss Sampson's father?"

"Ah, that was Jim. He got lost in the bush, poor fellow. He had his girl with him. Yes, he was Jack's brother. They lived close together in Melbourne. I fancy Rhoda was named after Jim's little girl. They were about the same age; but Jenny died when Rhoda was a year old, and Jack left Melbourne for Adelaide."

When Tom and Mr. Harding reached the house, he went hastily in search of his aunt. He found her in her own room, her eyes dim with weeping. She started up at the sight of his face.

"Oh, Tom, what have you come to tell me?"

In a few rapid words he made her understand. "You see how your mistake arose, Aunt Lucy. They both had the same name, Rhoda and Cousin Lydia's little girl. And Cousin Lydia must have given that locket to Rhoda's mother or to Rhoda's father for her when they left Melbourne. But come down and speak to Mr. Harding. There is no need for him to know the mistake you fell into. Let us forget it, Aunt Lucy."

At this, Miss Merivale's tears began to flow afresh. "Oh, Tom, I have told Rhoda."

"You told her? Why did you? I thought we had decided to wait till I had seen Thomson."

"Tom, I could not help it. She was so miserable, poor child. She tried to hide it, but she could not hide it from me. She thought she had offended you. I do not know what she thought. How could you treat her so differently? Do you think you will get her to forgive you?"

A glimmer of a smile showed itself in Miss Merivale's eyes as she spoke. But Tom could not smile yet.

"Well, you told her," he said. "Did she believe you?"

"I don't know. But she declared that nothing would induce her to claim her rights if she had any. She said there were no proofs, and if she had them she would not produce them. She spoke very strongly, Tom."

Tom made no answer for a moment. "She has gone to the Rectory?" he said then.

"Yes, she was anxious to go. But she is going to walk home across the downs. I think she was anxious to avoid you, Tom. No wonder! How could you make her so unhappy?"

Tom did not point out that he had been far more unhappy, and that it was all Miss Merivale's fault. He looked at his aunt, giving her now back smile for smile. "Aunt Lucy, will you go and fetch Rose?" he said.



Rose was delighted to see her aunt in the carriage when she ran out to meet it.

"Rhoda did not think you would be able to come, Aunt Lucy. Were you very much frightened when you heard about it? Poor Rhoda looks quite ill But Pauline is really better. She has slept since her grandmother came. She knew her directly, and has held her hand tight ever since. Poor old lady, she is so fond of her."

"I wish we could move her to Woodcote," Miss Merivale said. "I must speak to the doctor about it. I will go and see Mrs. Prance for a moment, Rosie darling. And then we will go home. Oh, my darling, I am so thankful!"

She held Rose close to her, and kissed her once or twice before she let her go. Till that moment she had hardly been able to realise her happiness in having Rose safe.

Rose began to talk again of Pauline as they were driving home. "How strange she could be so silent about her grandmother and yet be so fond of her, Aunt Lucy! Or do you think that she is only fond of her when she wants her? She was calling for her over and over again all last night."

"I expect she is really fond of her, dear. As fond as she can be of anybody. I don't wish to speak harshly of her, Rose, and we will do all we can for her. But you must not live with her again. Not because her grandmother is Mrs. Smith," added Miss Merivale quickly, afraid that Rose might misunderstand her. "It isn't that. Rhoda's people are in the same rank of life as the Smiths, yet Rhoda is a true gentlewoman."

"Aunt Lucy, I could not live with Pauline again," Rose said earnestly. "Besides, I want to live at home. I believe I shall loathe the thought of a flat as long as I live. Pauline has effectually cured me of my desire to live in one."

"She and Mrs. Smith must come to stay with us as soon as she can be moved," Miss Merivale said. "Perhaps this illness will make her see things differently, Rosie. Let us hope so."

"Rhoda knew all the time," Rose said, after a moment's pause. "Poor Pauline, how angry she would have been if she had guessed it! If I had been Rhoda, I should have told her."

"We should not have known where to telegraph if it had not been for Rhoda. Her uncle—Mr. M'Alister's brother, I mean—has a shop next door to Mr. Price. It was he who told Mr. Harding that Rhoda was with us. I fancy he was rather distressed to find that she was not with Mrs. M'Alister. But I think I have convinced him that we have taken good care of her."

Tom and Mr. Harding were outside the porch together when the carriage drew up. While Mr. Harding talked to Rose, Tom drew his aunt aside.

"Aunt Lucy, will you go up to Rhoda?" he whispered.

She gave him one shining look, and went quickly in.

Rhoda had heard the carriage enter, and was standing in the middle of the room when Miss Merivale softly knocked and entered. There was a tremulous, eager, anxious look in the girl's face. Happy as she was, she could not be quite happy till she was sure Miss Merivale was content.

But it was only a tiny shadow of doubt that clouded the brightness, and when Miss Merivale clasped her close, and kissed her as fondly and tenderly as she had kissed Rose a little while before, it nearly all fled away.

"My dear, I am delighted," Miss Merivale said, with happy tears in her voice. "Tom has always been like a son to me, and now you will be my daughter."

"And you are not sorry you asked me here?" Rhoda whispered. She felt she must ask the question once.

"Ask Tom if he thinks I am sorry," returned Miss Merivale, kissing her again. And this was answer enough. Rhoda doubted no more.

THE END