Sylvia Trevor, however, being a young woman of spirit, was by no means disposed to provide amusement for Master Jack or any other masculine flirt. If any man wished to win her, she was worth wooing seriously, so she told herself with a tilt of the pretty dark head, but when Jack said one thing with his lips, beseeching Miss Munns to take pity on his ignorance, and put him on the path whereon he should walk, and another with his eyes, mutely inviting her to stay and flirt with him the while he pretended to listen—then her pride was roused, and she determined to teach him a wholesome lesson. She waited until Miss Munns had produced half a dozen ledgers to demonstrate the elaborate system of book-keeping by which she conducted her miniature establishment—until Jack had seated himself by her side and was irrevocably victimised for the evening; then she rose from her chair and said amiably—

"I mustn't disturb you. You will like to be quiet, so I'll run across and chat to Bridgie for an hour, while you are away!"

The "running" was a polite fiction, for in spite of massage and the most careful doctoring it would be many months before Sylvia could run again. By walking very deliberately she could just conceal her limp, and now as she turned towards the door she had a good view of Jack's petrified glare of disgust.

The picture of him sitting by the old lady's side, while she prepared to teach him what he himself knew a dozen times better than herself, was too much for Sylvia's composure, and around the corner of the door, where her aunt could not see her, she doubled up with silent laughter and cast on him a glance of such mocking triumph, such sparkling, dimpling, deliciously girl-like derision, as was more eloquent than a thousand gibes.

Jack leapt to his feet; at that moment he would have given half he possessed to have rushed after the tantalising creature, to have stood over her, and watched her self-confidence give place gradually to embarrassment, and the pink flush rise to the pale cheeks as it had a trick of doing under his scrutiny, but, alas! the door was shut, and Miss Munns's voice inquired soberly—

"Do you want the lamp? Put it on the mat, please. You can't be too careful of lamps. If the oil gets on the cloth, nothing will take it out!"

"'Twill be a lesson to me while I live!" sighed Jack sorrowfully to himself. He was smarting with annoyance and impatience, but he managed, as not one man in a hundred could have done, to keep his irritation to himself, and be absolutely amiable and courteous to his instructress. Miss Munns thought him a most well-disposed young man, and did not discover one of the anxious glances at the clock, nor the yawns so dexterously hidden beneath strokings of the moustache.

When three-quarters of an hour had passed by, Jack felt as if the interview had lasted a fortnight, but fate was kinder to him than he deserved, and sent relief in the person of the widow occupant of Number Ten, who arrived to pay an evening call, cribbage-board in hand. Then Mr Jack departed, and paced up and down the road smoking cigarettes, and meditating on revenge. He caught the echo of girlish laughter from within his own threshold, and could easily picture the scene within—the two sisters huddling over the fire, Sylvia seated in state in the grandfather chair, Pat, her devoted admirer, perched on the end of a table, and placidly maintaining his position in spite of repeated injunctions to run away.

He pictured Sylvia's face also as he had often seen it—the sharply-cut little features, the suspicion of pride and self-will in aquiline nose and firmly-moulded chin, the short, roughened hair, which was such a cross to its owner, but which gave her a gallant, boyish air, which one spectator at least found irresistibly piquant. He saw the firelight play upon the pretty pink dress and the rings on the restless hands, saw the brown eyes sparkle with laughter, and grow suddenly soft and wistful. It seemed to him that they were turned towards himself, that her thoughts were meeting his half-way, that she was already repenting, and dreading the result of her hasty flight.

Jack O'Shaughnessy stopped short in his pacings up and down, and stood staring before him with a strange, rapt expression. Out there in the prosaic street the greatest discovery of his life had come to him, and the wonder of it took away his breath. Young men often imagine themselves in love with half a dozen pretty faces before they have reached five-and-twenty, but to most of them there comes at last, in the providence of God, the one woman who is as far removed from the passing fancies of an hour as the moon from her attendant stars. She has appeared, and for him thenceforth there is no more doubt or change; his life is, humanly speaking, in her hands, and her influence over him is the greatest of all the talents which has been entrusted to her care. Too often he is careless about religious matters, if not actively antagonistic, and her light words may confirm him in a life of indifference; but, on the other hand, his heart is never so tender and ready to be influenced as at the moment when she has given her life into his charge, and this golden opportunity is hers to seize and turn to lasting good. In the best sense of the word she is his Queen and he is her knight, who will perform noble and gallant deeds at her behest.

Jack of the humbugging eyes, handsome, happy-go-lucky Jack O'Shaughnessy, had been what he called "in love" since the days when he wore pinafores and little round collars with frills at the edge, but he had never known what love meant until this winter evening, when at the vision of Sylvia's face his heart leapt with painful violence, and he stood still appalled by the strength of his own emotions.

He had known Sylvia Trevor for one month, four short weeks in all, yet now here she was occupying the foremost position in his thoughts, making the past years seem blank and empty, blocking the gate of the future with her girlish figure. Jack felt dazed and bewildered, a trifle alarmed, too, at the extent of the journey which he had travelled so unthinkingly, but he never attempted to deny its reality. He loved Sylvia—that was an established truth; the only question which remained concerned the next step in the drama.

When a man loved a girl, when a girl blushed when he appeared, and, despite all her little airs of superiority, could not hide her pleasure in his society, it was generally easy enough to prophesy a speedy engagement and marriage, but what if Providence had made other ties for the man before the Queen's appearance? What if, though unmarried, he was still master of a household, a bread-winner to whom brothers and sisters looked for support?

Jack's thoughts drifted longingly towards a little home of his own, where Sylvia reigned as mistress, and cast pretty, saucy glances at him from the other side of the table, but he knew all the time that it was the veriest castle of dreams. He could not keep a wife who was hard pressed to fulfil his present obligations; marriage was out of the question until the boys were self-supporting, and the girls either settled in homes of their own, or comfortably portioned off. That being so, it was plainly the duty of an honourable man to keep out of the girl's way, to make no attempt to win her affections, but to hide his love both from her and those at home, who would otherwise be made to feel themselves in the way.

Jack turned and renewed his pacings up and down. There was a heavy weight of depression on his spirits, but he never flinched from the right path, nor did it occur to him that there was anything heroic in this simple accepting of a hard duty. Family affection was very strong among the O'Shaughnessys, and not even the glamour of first love could make him grudge anything to Bridgie and Pixie, or the two big boys who looked up to him with such touching confidence. His first duty was to them, and it would be "caddish" to let them suspect any sacrifice in its fulfilment. A poor, commonplace word, which it is safe to say would have a nobler translation in the Great White Book, wherein are written the records of men's lives!

Sylvia blushed as she heard the key turn in the latch, and cast an apprehensive glance at the door. Would Jack be angry? How would he look? What would he say? The first glance showed him graver than usual, but with no shadow of offence in look or bearing, and for some unaccountable reason her spirits sank as she met his unclouded smile. He sat down and held out his hand to Pixie, who promptly seated herself on the arm of his chair, and amused herself by trying the effects of various arrangements of the curling brown hair. Parted in the middle, it gave a ridiculously dandified expression to the handsome face; pulled forward in shaggy locks over the forehead, the dandy died a sudden death, and Pat of the cabin and clay pipe appeared in his stead; combed upward by ten little fingers until it stood erect above the forehead, nationality underwent an even more startling change.

"Voila, Adolph!" cried Pixie triumphantly. "Me I have seen a hundred men, but a hundred, all the same as thou every day I promenade me in Paris!" And Jack smiled and, to Bridgie's surprise, allowed himself to be disfigured without a protest—a surprising thing when a pretty girl was among the spectators.

When the hairdressing operations were concluded, he held Pixie's hand in his own, as if unwilling to let her go, and turned towards Sylvia with a smile.

"I think your aunt quite enjoyed giving me a lesson, and I was very much interested in her original system of book-keeping. What a wonderful old dear she is, so energetic and full of interest in her fellow-creatures! I must go to see her again, and have a game of cribbage, which appears to be her pet dissipation. I'm fond of old people, but I daresay they get a little trying if you have no variety. If I relieve guard sometimes, it will set you free to have a chat with the girls!"

Was he sarcastic? Was he paying her back in her own coin? Sylvia stared dumbly, but could see no hidden meaning in the glance which met hers so frankly. "Thanks awfully. You are kind!" she cried with enthusiasm, but in her heart she thought the kindness the most cruel treatment she had ever experienced. As soon as she could leave naturally she rose to say good-bye, and then came a fresh blow, for, instead of escorting her across the road as he had insisted on doing hitherto, Jack kept his arm round Pixie's shoulder, and deputed Pat to take his place.

"Now, then, you lazy fellow, get your hat, and see Miss Trevor home!"

Pat was delighted, and after all it was natural enough that Jack should not care to turn out in the cold so soon after coming in, and yet—and yet—Sylvia stood at her bedroom window looking at the lights across the road, and as she looked they grew strangely dull and faint. Triumphs are dearly won sometimes, and her mood to-night was the reverse of victorious.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

AT THE CIRCUS.

Mamzelle Paddy began and continued her work in the Wallace nursery with complete satisfaction to all concerned. Esmeralda, it is true, had surpassed herself in violence of diction in the letter which came in answer to the one breaking the news; but while Bridgie shed tears of distress, and Jack frowned impatience, the person against whom the hurricane of invective was hurled, received it with unruffled and even sympathetic composure.

As Pixie read over the crowded sheets her eye flashed approval of dramatic points, she set her lips, and wagged her head, entering so thoroughly into the spirit of the writer that she unconsciously adopted her manner when aroused, and when the concluding words were read, heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction. "She'll feel a lot better after that!" she remarked tersely, and the prophecy could not fail to be comforting to those who knew Mrs Hilliard's temperament.

After such an outburst, repentance might be expected to set in even more speedily than usual, and a peace-offering in the shape of a hamper crowded with good things could be confidently looked for in the course of the next few days. Esmeralda disliked formal apologies, and from the boys' point of view, at least, turkeys and game made a more eloquent amende.

Viva and Inda Wallace were loving and lovable children, but possessed with a nervous restlessness, an insatiable curiosity, and with such easily-roused tempers as would have reduced an ordinary adult governess to despair within a very short period. Their delicate mother was occupied with many social duties, and the father, though devoted to his pretty daughters, had little patience with their vagaries, while the frequent screaming attacks which sounded through the house had a trying effect on nerves already strained by long residence abroad.

Parents and servants alike breathed sighs of relief when each morning punctually as the clock struck ten, Mamzelle Paddy came running upstairs primed with half a dozen thrilling devices for amusement and occupation. Viva, as ringleader and rebel-in-chief, had flatly refused to speak, or listen to, a word of French, but when it was presently revealed to her that the Spoopjacks understood no other language, there was no course left but to withdraw her opposition. The Bobityshooties were English, and stupid at that, but by the time that Nicholas Spoopjack had succeeded in teaching them how to address him with propriety, the two unsuspicious listeners to the conversation had themselves mastered the lesson without once suspecting what they were about.

The adventures which those two enterprising and admirable families went through, were as varied as they were endless, and each day brought a thrilling development of the situation. Nicholas Spoopjack thought nothing of going out in a diving-bell in the morning, and a balloon in the afternoon, while the Bobityshooties entertained royalty to dinner in the kitchen cupboard, and feasted luxuriously on the cruets, and the pinked-out paper which covered the shelves.

"She don't teach us nuffin': we only plays!" was little Inda's summing up of the situation; but a moment later she would repeat a dialogue which had taken place between the rival factions during the morning, reproducing, with the wonderful imitative faculty of children, the very accent and gesture with which it had been delivered, and her parents would look at each other with delighted appreciation.

Mamzelle Paddy was a grand institution, and being generously disposed people, Mr and Mrs Wallace endeavoured to show their gratitude by including her in the many amusements which were arranged for the children's benefit. She accompanied them on sight-seeing expeditions, organised games at evening parties, and on one memorable occasion paid a visit to the circus. Pixie had always cherished a passion for clowns, and when in Paris had appreciated nothing more than an evening at the "Nouveau Cirque," where Auguste the Frenchman played a secondary part to his English brother, and the performance concluded with a play in which the British tourist played a large part, conspicuous in plaid suits, sailor hats, and thick-soled shoes. She was all eagerness to see the London circus, and nearly as much excited as her pupils, as they drove up to the door, and took their seats on the red velvet chairs.

Inda sat by her mother and stared solemnly around, but Viva insisted upon being next her dear Mamzelle, and pranced up and down in a manner which augured ill for future comfort. Once she began to fidget, adieu to all hope of peace for her companions. Once she began to ask questions, it was safe to predict that she would go on until despair seized those who were obliged to answer. Pixie recognised signs of the coming attack, and managed an adroit change of places which would leave Mrs Wallace free to enjoy the afternoon, and punctually at three o'clock the performance began.

The ring-master walked in and cracked his whip; the clown tumbled head over heels into the arena, and cried, "Here we are again!" the lady rider jumped through paper hoops, and blew kisses to the audience. Viva's cheeks grew a vivid pink, and at each change in the performance she adopted a change of position. When the hook of her jacket had been extricated from the hair of the lady in front, she perched herself on the arm of her own chair; when she had applauded herself backward into Pixie's arms, she leant against the supercilious-looking gentleman in the next seat, and tickled his cheeks with her fluffy hair. Then the first wonder wore away, and she found her tongue.

"Why does the clown look like that?"

"It's a way they have in the family. They always have those funny eyes, and red and white faces."

"Did he always look like that?"

"He did—all the time he has been a clown."

"Is it the same clown that was here before?"

"It says on the paper it's a new one for the occasion."

"Then why does he say he is here again?"

"I'll ask him next time we meet! Hush now, and listen to what he is saying. See how they are all laughing!"

"Does the clown sleep in the circus?"

"'Deed he does not, poor creature! There are no beds, and the seats are too hard."

"Where does he sleep, then? What is his true home?"

"Number Seven, Poplar Gardens, corner of Phillamore Park—the corner house with the red curtains!"

Pixie understood her pupil's love of detail by this time, and Viva put her head on one side and stared at her with gratified admiration. If she had asked her mother, she would have looked tired and sighed, and said, "My dear child! how should I know? Don't ask ridiculous questions," but Mamzelle Paddy knew better than that.

Her face assumed an expression of radiant satisfaction as she pondered on that house in Poplar Gardens. Big and grey, with flower boxes in the windows and little clowns looking out of the nursery windows. Delightful! She was silent for several minutes, and the supercilious gentleman took advantage of the pause to examine the party with curious eyes. The elegant-looking woman was plainly the mother of the little girls, but who was this, who was scarcely more than a child herself, who was addressed as "Mamzelle" and spoke with a strong Irish accent? He stared at her, and Viva discovering his glance turned round with her back to the ring, and stared back with leisurely enjoyment.

At first her face expressed nothing but curiosity, but gradually her features became twisted, the lips down drawn, the eyebrows elevated to an unnatural height, until the beholder realised with horror that she was experimenting on his own expression, and endeavouring to copy it on her own small visage. Many a long year had passed since he had known what it meant to blush, but he blushed then, and hitched round in his seat to hide his scarlet face from view, while Viva once more turned her attention to the ring.

The white-skirted lady had disappeared and another was cantering round, clad in a riding habit and gentleman's hat. The horse was black, and shone like satin; he pawed the ground with dainty, cat-like tread; the ring-master followed him as he went, and cracked his whip in encouraging fashion. Viva planted one foot on Pixie's toe, and jumped up and down to attract attention.

"Is the gentleman really angry, that he cracks his whip? Does he pitend to be angry? If he pitends to be angry, why do all the others pitend that they think he doesn't pitend, but only,—Why does the gentleman crack his whip?"

"Maybe he hears you talking! I saw him cast his eye upon you," replied Pixie sagely, and the supercilious gentleman pointed the sentence with a sigh, and privately resolved to remove his seat at the first opportunity.

The threat of the whip, however, had the effect of quietening Miss Viva for a good two minutes, and in the meantime Fate sent an unexpected deliverance. Certain portions of the auditorium were portioned off into squares, which did duty for private boxes, and into the nearest of these there now entered a party of ladies and children, in whom he recognised some intimate friends. To advance towards them and beg the use of a vacant chair was the work of a moment, when he proceeded to pour the story of his woes into the ear of the young lady by his side. She was fair and pretty, charmingly dressed, and almost as supercilious in expression as he was himself.

"Little wretch! How impossible of her!" she ejaculated, and bent forward to examine the wretch forthwith.

Viva had climbed on the empty seat, and was craning her little face to right and left to discover where the deserter had fled. With her great blue eyes and rose-leaf complexion set in a frame of golden hair, she looked like an angel from heaven, or one of the sweet-faced cherubs who float in space at the top of Christmas cards and valentines.

But it was not on Viva that the young lady's attention was riveted, but upon the figure by her side—Mamzelle Paddy in all the glory of a French hat, wearing the very biggest hair-ribbon in her possession, in honour of the occasion. At sight of the profile the young lady started and cried, "It is! It must be!" Then she dodged backwards, saw the hat, and became filled with doubt. "No, it can't be! It's much too smart!"

Finally Pixie turned round to apostrophise Miss Viva, who was in the act of striding the back of her chair, and immediately a flash of recognition leapt from eye to eye. The French hat nodded until the feathers fairly quivered with the strain, and the face beneath became a beam of delight, in which eyes disappeared and the parted lips stretched back to a surprising distance. The fair-haired young lady had more respect to appearance in her recognition, but all the same she grew quite pink with pleasure, and cried eagerly—

"It's my dearest friend! We were at school together, but she has been in Paris finishing her education, and I have not heard from her since her return. I must speak to her in the interval—I really must! You can't think what a fascinating little creature she is when you get to know her."

"Ah, really! She looks distinctly—er—out of the common," drawled the supercilious man lazily. "Rather interesting-looking woman, the children's mother. Some relation of your friend, I suppose?"

"Oh, I suppose so! The O'Shaughnessys are a very good family. Very well connected. Beautiful old place in Ireland," drawled the young lady in her turn, and in the intervals of the performance she proceeded to expatiate on the grandeur of the O'Shaughnessy family, the beauty of Esmeralda, and the riches of her husband, until her companion looked forward with increased interest to the coming introduction.

At the first interval Pixie came forward in response to eager beckonings, and stood leaning against the side of the box talking to her friend, with superb disregard of the more extended audience.

"Fancy, now, the two of us meeting without knowing that we were here! You look quite old, Lottie, with your hair done up. Turn your head and let me see the back! D'you still curl it with slate-pencils, like you did at school? I came home at Christmas, and I've thought of writing ever since, but I've been too busy. I suppose you're busy too, now you are grown-up and living at home. Have you come out, and gone to dances in low necks? We had an old servant at Knock, and one day a friend came to lunch and she says to Bridgie, 'That's a fine, handsome young lady!' 'She is,' says Bridgie. 'She's just come out!' 'Out of w'ere?' says Molly, staring."

Pixie darted a quick glance round the box to enjoy the general appreciation of her joke, then gave a low chuckle of satisfaction. "Ye'll never guess what I'm doing!"

"No," said Lottie Vane complacently. She too had noticed the smiles of the audience, and was anxious to encourage her friend in her reminiscences. In society people were always grateful for being amused, and if in her recital Pixie let fall further references to the standing and importance of her family, why, so much the better for all concerned.

"What mischief are you up to now, you funny little thing?"

"I'm in service!" said Pixie proudly.

The shocked amaze of Lottie's expression, the involuntary rustle of surprise which went round the box, were as so many tributes to the thrilling nature of the intelligence, and she waited a moment to enjoy it before pointing unabashed in the direction of the two children, and condescending to further explanations.

"Me pupils! I've been with them now for over a month."

"What do you mean? How absurd you are, Pixie!" cried Lottie irritably. "In service—you! I never heard such nonsense. As if you were a servant! I don't know what you are talking about!"

"I get wages, anyhow, and that's all I care about. They are my pupils, I tell you, and I've brought them here with their mother for a little diversion. I've the training of them every morning for a couple of hours, and thirty pounds a year paid every month. Jack and I make enough between us to support the family."

"You don't really mean it?" gasped Lottie, horrified. Her cheeks were scarlet, and it was evident that she was profoundly uncomfortable, but as she met the triumphant eyes her face softened, and she made a valiant effort to retain composure. "You mean to say you have turned into a governess at sixteen—you who were always at the bottom of the class, and couldn't get a sum right to save your life! Poor little girls, I pity their education! How did you ever persuade the mother to take you?"

Mamzelle Paddy tossed her head with complacent pride.

"'Deed, me dear, the room was packed with them, and natives at that, and she chose me before the whole bunch. I'm not supposed to teach them anything but French, and I don't teach that except by playing games. But I keep them from crying and quarrelling, and ye don't need to be head of your class for that! 'Twasn't cleverness she took me for, as she told me plainly the first day I went; 'twas m'influence!"

A smothered laugh went round the box at the sound of this curious compound word, uttered in tones of complacent pride; but Lottie Vane did not laugh, and her hand stretched out involuntarily and clasped the little fingers which lay on the side of the box. Her face lost its supercilious expression, and grew sweet and womanly.

"Dear little Pixie," she said softly, "I don't pity the pupils after all. I think they are very well off. May I come over and be introduced to them and their mother? She must be a very wise woman."

The two girls walked forward together towards the spot where Mrs Wallace was sitting, and the supercilious man looked after them with thoughtful eyes. He had always admired Miss Lottie Vane, though he had privately sneered at her snobbish tendencies, but it occurred to him to- day that he had been over-hasty in judgment. How sweet she had looked as she answered her little friend, how kindly had been the tones of her voice! He felt his heart thrill with the beginning of a new and deeper interest.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A TEA-PARTY.

Jack kept his resolve of avoiding dangerous tete-a-tetes with Sylvia Trevor, and kept it in so pleasant and friendly a manner that no one suspected his motives save the person most concerned. She knew only too well that a wall of division had suddenly risen between them, but though her heart ached she carried her proud little head more erect than ever, and was so very, very lively and pleasant that Jack in his turn was deceived, and believed that she was relieved by his absence. When they met, as meet they did from time to time, they laughed and joked, and teased each other about little family jokes, and Bridgie listened delightedly, and told herself that it did Jack all the good in the world to meet Sylvia, for he was growing so much quieter, and seemed so worried over that horrid old business. Miss Munns, however, had the same complaint to make about her niece, and delivered herself of many homilies on the subject.

"Extremes," she said, "extremes, my dear, ought always to be avoided. To be constantly running from one extreme to another shows an unbalanced character. A medium path is the wisest which one can choose, and one should show neither undue elation nor foundless depression at the events of life. I remember a proverb which we used to quote as children: 'Laugh in the morning, cry before night!'—and there is a great deal of truth in it, too. High spirits are bound to be brought low before very long."

"Well, I think it's a horrid proverb and a very wicked one into the bargain!" cried Sylvia hotly. "It sounds as if God disliked seeing one happy, and I believe He loves it and means it, and tries to teach us that it is a duty! He made the world as bright as He could for us to live in, with the sunshine and the flowers, and He made all the little animals skip and bound, and play games among themselves, so it stands to reason that He expects men and women to be happy too, especially young ones."

"Exactly! Precisely! Just what I say! I was just pointing out to you, my love, that it is over an hour since you made a remark, and that such depression of spirits was very trying to me as your companion," cried Miss Munns, with an air of triumph. "After the long period of anxiety through which I have passed, I think I am entitled to expect some cheering society."

"But then, you see, I might cry before evening!" retorted Sylvia pertly, and had the satisfaction of feeling that she had been rude to her elders, and put herself hopelessly in the wrong, as Miss Munns took up her stocking-bag and began to darn, drooping her eyelids with an air of stony displeasure.

Sylvia glanced at her from time to time during the next half-hour, and felt ashamed of herself, and wished she were sweet-tempered like Bridgie, and thought how nice it would be if she could learn to think before she spoke, and be cautious and prudent, and never say what she was sorry for afterwards. She also wished that Aunt Margaret would not look so particularly old and frail this morning of all others. How thin she was! What great big hollows she had in her cheeks! It was rather dreadful to be old like that, and have no one to love and care for one best of all, no one but a thoughtless girl, who was never so grateful as she ought to be, and sometimes even really impertinent. The wave of penitence could not be repressed, and she jumped from her seat with her characteristic impetuosity, and threw her arms round her aunt's shoulders.

"I'm sorry I answered you back, auntie; it was horrid of me. I've been a great trouble to you this winter, but I really am awfully grateful for all your goodness. Do give me a kiss, and say you forgive me!"

"Well, well, well, my dear child, don't be so impetuous! You have nearly pulled the cap off my head. Extremes, as I said before, always extremes! Do please try to exercise some self-control. I quite understand that you are troubled about your foot, but as the doctor says it is only a question of time, and if you are patient for a month or two more, you will be able to go about as well as ever. There is no necessity to brood about it as you do, no necessity at all!"

Sylvia was not brooding about her foot, but she did not choose to say so to Miss Munns, and her silence being accepted as a sign of submission, the old lady became so mollified as to suggest that the two Miss O'Shaughnessys should be invited to tea forthwith.

Afternoon tea under Miss Munns's regime was a more formal meal than is usually the case, and also a trifle more solid, for it was followed by no dinner, but a supper of cocoa and potted meat served at nine o'clock. This arrangement was one of Sylvia's minor trials in life, but Pixie O'Shaughnessy saw great compensations in a tea where you really sat up to the table, and had jam in a pot, and a loaf, and scones, and eggs. It fascinated her to see how the table was laid, with a white cloth spread diamond-wise under the tea-tray, and the different viands dotted about on the green baize.

Miss Munns boiled her own water, and ladled the tea out of a little silver caddy, and dipped the bottom of each cup in water before it was filled to prevent slippings on the saucer. She had a kettle-holder worked in cross-stitch—red wool roses on a black wool background—and a cosy ornamented with a wreath of bead flowers. The eggs were boiled to order, hard or soft, just as you liked, in a silver pot filled with methylated spirits out of a fascinating, thimble-like measure. Pixie watched the various preparations with rapt attention, while the two elder girls chatted together at the end of the table.

"I want you to give me Whitey's address," Bridgie said, "so that I can send her some flowers. Esmeralda sent me a hamper this morning, so I am rather rich and would like to share my goad things. You said she was nursing a case in the city, so she probably has no flowers, and it's cheery to have boxes coming in as a surprise. It's so hard for nurses to live in a constant atmosphere of depression and sickness. When one is ill for a long time, as you were, one gets so bored and wearied by the monotony of the sick-room, and it's such bliss to be free again, and speak at the pitch of your voice, and be done with medicines, and pulses, and temperatures, and tiresome rules and regulations, but the nurse never gets free. Just when things are beginning to get cheerful, she goes away to another darkened room and another anxious household, and the whole programme begins over again. They love their work, of course, but it must be very hard sometimes. Don't you think so?"

"I—I—" Sylvia pursed up her lips and elevated her eyebrows in deprecatory fashion. "I never thought of it! It does sound horrid when you put it like that, but I'm afraid I just took it for granted that it was their work. Whitey never grumbled. She left that to me, and was always cheerful, though I found out afterwards that she had been awfully anxious about her sister. I wish I had thought of sending her flowers!"

"Send these—do!" cried Bridgie eagerly. "She will like them better from you, and I don't mind a bit so long as she gets them. I'll send over the box, and you shall address it and put in a little note. Yes, you must, because I felt rather mean about not bringing some for yourself, but there were not very many, and as I was going into town I couldn't resist taking some to the woman in the waiting-room."

"The woman in the— What do you mean?"

Bridgie laughed easily.

"At London, of course. There are several waiting-rooms at our station, but I go to the dullest of all, where there is hardly a gleam of light, and one day I saw the woman staring so longingly at some flowers which a lady was carrying. Since then I have generally taken her a little bunch when I go up to town, and it is quite pathetic the way she grabs them. She knows me now, and looks so pleased to see me!"

That was an easy thing to imagine. Sylvia pictured to herself the long, monotonous day in that dreary little room, the constant hope which reached its fulfilment when the door swung open and Bridgie's face smiled a greeting, leaving behind her the fragrant blossoms to sweeten the hours with their own perfume, and the remembrance of another's care. Such a simple thing to do! Such an easy thing! Why had she never thought of it herself? She would have done it gladly enough if it had occurred to her mind: it was not heart that was wanted, but thought! Oh, what a number of lives might be brightened, what an army of good deeds would be accomplished if people would only "think!"

"Well, my dear, I only hope she was a decent woman, and worthy of your kindness," said Miss Munns primly. "A lazy life, I call it. I've no opinion of people who make their living by sitting still all day. I had occasion to wait at a station some little time ago, and entered into conversation with the woman in charge. She said she was a widow, and I advised her to use my furniture-polish, for the woodwork was in a disgraceful condition, and she answered me back in a most unbecoming manner. I have done a great deal of charitable work in my day, and am on three committees at the present moment, so I am not easily taken in.

"I have been investigating cases for relief this very afternoon, and if you'll believe me in one house where they asked for help there was a musical-box upon the table! The woman said it was given to her by an old mistress, and that it amused the children while she did her work. I told her we did not undertake to relieve cases who could afford to keep musical instruments. I don't know what the poor are coming to in these days. She must dispose of it before I can have anything to do with her."

"But 'twas a present to her! It's not polite to give away presents. Who do you want her to give it to?" queried Pixie, with the wide-eyed stare which always made Miss Munns feel so hot and discomposed. She frowned and fidgeted with the kettle, while Pixie continued to discuss the situation. "I know what it is to have children about when there's something to do. Mrs Wallace gave me a book the other day, and the schemes I made to get time to look at the pictures! I was supposed to have gone out for a walk, and they were to prepare a surprise for me when I got back. And 'twas a surprise! They'd pretended to be savages, and pulled all the feathers out of my hat to stick in their hair!"

"Very ill-mannered and impertinent I call it! I hope you gave them a good scolding?"

"I did not," said Pixie calmly. "I don't like scolding meself, and it makes me worse. I merely remarked that it was a pity, as I'd have to sew them back again instead of playing games. 'Twas dull work watching me sew, and I didn't disturb myself with hurrying. Ye couldn't bribe them within yards of me hat this last week!"

"Humph! When I was a child I was whipped when I did wrong, and that was the end of it. But things have changed since then, and time will prove which was the best system. Another cup of tea, Miss Bridgie? I hope you have good news of your sister and the little boy?"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Munns. They are both well, and we are hoping to see them quite soon. They come up to their town house at the beginning of May, and we expect to have quite a gay time. Esmeralda is bringing a house-party of old Irish friends with her, and it will be delightful to meet again. She always loved entertaining, and was clever in devising novelties, and now that she has plenty of money she can do as she likes without thinking of the cost. You must get your fineries ready, Sylvia. There will be lots of invitations for you next month."

Sylvia's smile was less whole-hearted than it would have been if one sentence had been omitted from Bridgie's announcement. "Old friends from Ireland" would of a surety include Miss Mollie Burrell, and Esmeralda would see that Jack made the most of his opportunity. It would not be exactly pleasure to accept invitations for the sake of seeing other people flirting together, while she herself sat alone in a corner.

"I shan't go!" she told herself. "If she asks me I shall refuse. I don't care to be patronised at Park Lane or anywhere else. I'd rather stay at home and play cribbage in Rutland Road." But all the same in the depths of her heart she knew well that when the time came she would not have enough resolution to say no. The temptation to obtain a glimpse of the fashionable world of which she had read so much and seen too little would be too great to be resisted; she would go even if it were to have her heart stabbed with a fresh pain, and to come home to weep herself to sleep!

"My dear, your sister will have plenty of friends to ask without thinking of Sylvia. She won't find it plain sailing looking after a big house like that. I should advise her to engage a housekeeper if she doesn't want to be cheated right and left. I know what servants are when the mistress is never in the kitchen to look after the scraps. I daresay I might be able to help her to find a suitable woman in connection with our different agencies. I'll inquire for you if you think she would like it."

"Dear Miss Munns, how kind of you! I'll write to Esmeralda at once, and I daresay she would be most grateful. You make me quite ashamed of myself when I think of all the work you do, and how lazy and useless I am in comparison!" cried Bridgie earnestly. Her grey eyes were fixed on Miss Munns's face with the sweetest, most unaffected admiration, and Sylvia looked at them both and thought many thoughts.

Miss Munns did indeed give both time and strength to charitable work, and withal a generous share of her small income, but her interest was of the head, not of the heart, and she was sublimely ignorant of her failure to help or comfort. Bridgie thought she was not helping at all, and was ashamed of herself because she was on no committees, and knew nothing of authorised agencies. Her ignorance was so sweet that it would be a sin to enlighten it, but there was something in Sylvia's expression which aroused her friend's curiosity.

"What are you thinking of, Sylvia?" she asked. "Something nice?"

"Very nice!" said Sylvia, smiling. She had just recalled a quotation which seemed as though it might have been written to describe Bridgie O'Shaughnessy—

"Sweet souls without reproach or blot, Who do God's will and know it not!"



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A LUNCHEON BASKET.

Esmeralda announced her arrival in town on the first of May, a week in advance of her house-party, so that she might have leisure to visit her brothers and sisters, and put the final touches to her own preparations. She did not mention the hour of her arrival, but this was easily calculated, and at home in Rutland Road, Bridgie and Pixie held eager committee meetings as to the best method of welcome. It was decided not to go to the station, as Esmeralda did not appreciate being taken unawares, and would of a certainty be annoyed if her son and heir were beheld at a disadvantage.

"Babies are bound to be cross at the end of a journey, and his little frock would be soiled and crumpled, and she will want him to look his very, very best. No! we will go straight to Park Lane," Bridgie decided, "and arrive an hour after they are due, so that they will have had time to get tidy. The house will be upset, of course, for it has been closed for so long, and we may be able to help. I shall never forget the day we came here—all the furniture piled in the middle of the rooms, and nowhere to sit down, and nothing to eat, and my poor back aching as if 'twere broken. That's another thing I was thinking about. We'll take lunch with us all ready prepared—a cold chicken, I think, and some fruit for dessert, and enjoy it together, we three girls, if we have to sit on the floor to eat it. How lovely it will be to meet again! It seems too good to be true."

Pixie was delighted at the idea of the luncheon basket, and when the eventful day arrived one little extra after another was added to the original list, until the weight became quite formidable, but Bridgie declared that an omnibus ran to within but a short distance of their destination, and the two girls set off in high spirits, each holding a handle of the basket, and swinging it gaily to and fro. Curious glances were cast towards it en route, whereat Pixie beamed with pride. It looked so like a picnic basket, with the top bulging from the sides, allowing glimpses to be seen of the fruit bags, and the white linen serviette enfolding the chicken; she was convinced that the beholders were consumed with envy and curiosity!

Arrived at Park Lane, Pixie was much concerned to realise that Esmeralda's much vaunted town residence was situated in this dull and narrow street! In vain Bridgie represented that the site was famous the world over; the little sister smiled quietly, and retained her own opinion. Bridgie as usual was making the best of the situation, but it was evident that Geoffrey's riches had been much exaggerated, since this was the best he could do for his wife.

Poor Esmeralda! how disappointed she would be! What a good thing it was that they had brought the cold chicken to take off the first edge of disappointment! The house itself looked dark and gloomy, but there were a great many windows, and looking upwards Pixie espied a glimpse of a graceful head inside the line of one of the curtains. The travellers had indeed arrived, and in another moment the three sisters would be reunited, after four months' separation.

"Ring again, darling! I can't. This basket weighs me down!" said Bridgie, straining at the heavy handle, and then came surprise number one, for even as she spoke the door was flung back, and there appeared on the threshold one immaculate-looking man-servant, while farther down the hall stood two more in attitudes of attention. Three whole men to open one door! This was indeed a height of luxury to which the simple Irish mind had never soared; and where was the upset and confusion which had been expected, where the signs of recent arrival, where the smallest, most trifling evidence of confusion? The stately hall looked as if it had been undisturbed from immemorial ages, and the butler stared at the two girls and their basket with lofty disdain.

"Not at home, madam!"

Bridgie gasped, and looked blank dismay, but Pixie's shrill protest could not be restrained.

"Not at home, when I saw her meself not a second ago looking out of the window?"

What would have happened it is difficult to say, but at that moment a voice sounded from afar, an eager voice repeating two names over and over again in tones of rapturous welcome. The man stepped aside, and Bridgie pressed the basket into his hands and raced along the hall, past the staring footmen to the bend of the stairs, where Esmeralda stood with arms stretched wide. Pixie was only a step aside, and Esmeralda escorted the two girls upstairs to her own room, talking breathlessly the while.

"Of course he said I was not at home! We arrived only an hour ago, so I can hardly be ready for visitors yet, but I saw the top of your hats from the nursery windows. You must come this very minute and see the boy. He is sweeter than ever. Everyone says he is a perfect beauty. Oh, me dears, how glad I am to see you! How sweet of you to come!"

"Of course we came; we thought perhaps we might be able to—help!" Bridgie said, looking around the gorgeous staircase with pensive regret. "We imagined you in such an upset, dear, with the carpets up, and the furniture covered with dust-sheets, and we thought we could dust, and put things straight as we used to do at Knock. You told us you were coming to open the house!"

"You didn't expect I was going to work myself?" drawled Esmeralda, her impetuous manner changing suddenly to one of drawling affectation. "The servants have been here for a week, getting ready for our arrival. I have nothing to look after but a few frocks, and preparations for the fray next week! Did you expect to see me in an apron, with a duster over my head?"

"It makes no difference to me what you wear!" said Bridgie quietly, and at that Esmeralda laughed, and became herself once more.

"It does to me, though. The best of everything is good enough for me, nothing less! You dear old thing, it's like old times to have you looking at me with that solemn face. No one keeps me in order now. Geoff tries occasionally, but it's such an evident effort that it doesn't have much effect. It will be quite good for me to have some family snubbings once more. This is the way to the nursery—this door! Now, my beauty, come to mother. She's brought two new aunties to see you!"

The beauty regarded his relations in stolid silence for a moment, then hung his lower lip and began to howl. His mother walked him up and down the room, striving by various blandishments to win him back to smiles, but he kept turning his head over his shoulder to gaze at his new relatives with an expression of agonised incredulity, as though loath to believe that such monsters could really exist on the earth. He was very fat and very bald, and, if the truth were told, not a beauty at all, but Esmeralda made a fascinating mother, and was so happily deluded about his charms that it would have been cruel to undeceive her.

Even Pixie managed for once to preserve a discreet silence, while Bridgie's ejaculations of astonishment at size and weight passed muster as admiration with the complacent mother and nurse.

"You shall see him again later on," Esmeralda announced, as though anxious to soften the pain of separation, as she led her sisters from the room. "I must show you over the house before lunch. Geoffrey had the drawing-rooms redecorated before we were married, but this is the first time I have been able to entertain. I wish you could come and stay here, Bridgie, but I suppose nothing would make you desert the boys. Never mind, you will be here every time that there is anything going on, and it is not much fun preparing when one has a houseful of servants. Do you remember how we used to be making jellies and creams all the day before, and running about arranging the house until a few minutes before the time when the people arrived? That's all over now, and I do nothing but give orders and grumble. This way! There! What do you think of that for an imposing vista?"

It was indeed very imposing, for one long yellow room opened into another decorated in palest blue, which in its turn showed a glimpse of a conservatory gay with flowers.

The rooms were so huge, so lofty in stature, that Pixie was puzzled to understand how the unimposing exterior could contain such surprises, while Esmeralda strutted about displaying one treasure after another, giving detailed descriptions of exactly how the rooms were to be arranged for the contemplated entertainments, and glancing complacently at her own reflection in the long mirrors. She looked ridiculously young to be the mistress of this fine establishment, and despite occasional affectations, there was more of the schoolgirl than of the woman of the world, in her happy voice and eager gestures.

From the reception-rooms the sisters adjourned to the dining-room, a big, somewhat gloomy apartment facing the street, very handsome, very severe, and evidently dedicated to one purpose only, and never by any chance entered from the time one meal ended until another began. The butler was arranging dishes on the sideboard, the table was spread with a glittering profusion of glass and silver, and an array of cold dainties, at sight of which Bridgie blushed, and stared at the floor. She waited, trembling, to hear Pixie's exclamation, but none came, and as they adjourned towards the library she slipped her hand through Esmeralda's arm, and said, half laughing, half nervous—

"I don't understand the ways of grand ladies yet, Joan dear! I shall have to get into them by degrees. You wrote that you were coming to open the house, and I imagined you in the same sort of confusion which we were in at Rutland Road, only of course ten times worse, as your house is so big. We thought you would be tired and hungry, and perhaps have nothing to eat but sandwiches or biscuits, and we—we brought some lunch for you and ourselves!"

Esmeralda threw back her head and laughed with much enjoyment.

"You funny dear, I never heard of anything so quaint! It was sweet of you all the same, and I'm ever so grateful. But, oh dear! what would the servants say if they knew! They would think my relations had come out of the Ark. And where in the world have you put the provisions?"

"I—I—" Bridgie looked round for Pixie, but she had lingered behind, and there was no one to help her out of her plight. "I had the basket in my hand, and we were standing at the door, and I heard you calling and I rushed in. I gave it to someone. I was in such a hurry I hardly noticed who it was. I think it was the man in the dining-room now!"

"Montgomery!" echoed Esmeralda blankly. She stood staring at Bridgie with horrified eyes. "Bridgie, how could you? What do you mean by it? What did you bring, and how was it made up?"

"A chicken, and pies, and apples, and a tin of toffee. Everything you liked—and some little rolls and a pot of butter. They were in a basket—a big basket with a serviette over the top!" cried Bridgie, with desperate candour, determined to tell the worst at once and get it over.

At home at Rutland Road it had seemed such a simple and natural thing to do, but ten minutes' experience of Park Lane had shown clearly enough how unnecessary had been her anxiety, how ridiculous it must seem in the estimation of the household! She looked at Esmeralda with troubled eyes, and Esmeralda flushed, and cried testily—

"A basket of provisions, and you handed it to Montgomery! He would think, of course, that it was his duty to open it, and— Oh, Bridgie, how could you? He will tell the story in the servants' hall, and they will all laugh and make fun. It's too tiresome! I can't think how you can have made such a mistake!"

"I thought of you, you see, and not of the servants. It never occurred to my mind that you could be ashamed of me, whatever I did!" said Bridgie quietly.

"I'm not in the least ashamed of you, I'm ashamed of the basket! You ask Jack when you go home, and he'll tell you 'twas a foolish thing to do, and you walking, too, and not driving to the door. We won't talk about it any more, or we shall both get angry, and it's done now and can't be helped. What do you think of this room? Geoffrey is quite proud of his books, and we mean to make this our private little den, and retire here when we are tired of living in public. Here's the electric light, you see, switched on to these movable lamps, so that one can read comfortably in any position!"

"Very nice! So convenient! It looks most comfortable!"

Bridgie's voice sounded formal and ill-at-ease, and both sisters felt the position a trifle strained, and were unaffectedly relieved to see Pixie strolling towards them at this critical minute.

She was smiling to herself as at a pleasant remembrance, and lost no time in entering into conversation.

"I don't know how it is about butlers—they all love me!" she announced thoughtfully. "The Wallace one turns his back to the sideboard when I talk, and the vegetable-dishes wobble when he hands them round. He tries hard not to laugh, because it's rude for servants to see a joke, but he really appreciates them frightfully much. Your one has whiskers, too, and isn't he pleasant to talk to? Not half as proud as he looks. We have just been talking about the basket, because he'd got chickens already, and he asked what he should do with ours. I said we'd take it back, of course, because it would be a treat to us to-night. That was quite right, wasn't it, Bridgie?"

"Yes, darling, perfectly right!" said Bridgie.

Esmeralda frowned, bit her lip, and finally succumbed, even as the butler had done before her, and laughed with a good grace. She hugged Pixie, and Pixie hugged her back, and chattered away so freely and naturally that it was impossible for restraint to live in her presence.

Esmeralda as usual avoided a formal apology, but when Geoffrey arrived and the little party were seated round the luncheon-table, she made the amende honorable by telling him of the basket incident in the presence of three men-servants with as much unction as if it had given her the most unmitigated delight.

"Thank you, Bridgie, you are a brick! How jolly of you to have taken so much trouble! If I'd known of that chicken before I began lunch, nothing would have induced me to eat anything else!" cried Geoffrey heartily.

There was no snobbishness about him at any rate, and to judge from the glance which his wife cast upon him it was evident that she was quite able to appreciate a quality that was lacking in her own composition.

They seemed very happy together, this young husband and wife, and as Bridgie saw them smile at one another across the table, for no other reason than pure happiness and content in each other's presence; when Esmeralda announced "Geoffrey says," as the definite conclusion of any argument, and Geoffrey said quietly, "Esmeralda likes it!" as though the fact debarred all further discussion—when she heard and saw all this, the pain which was so bravely buried in Bridgie's heart seemed to take a fresh lease of life, and stab her with the memory of dead hopes.

It was not that she envied Esmeralda her happiness—Bridgie had none of the dog in the manger in her composition—but she felt suddenly oppressed by loneliness and a sense of want, which the quiet home-life failed to satisfy. Once she had imagined that this happiness would be hers in the future, but that hope was dead, and it did not seem possible that it could ever come to life again. Even if by chance she met Dick Victor in the future, what explanation could he have to offer which would wipe away the reproach of that long silence? Bridgie hoped they might never meet; it would be too painful to see her idol dethroned from his pedestal.

"Are they worth a penny, dear? I've asked you the same question twice over!" cried Esmeralda mischievously, and Bridgie came back to the present with a shock of remembrance.

"I was wool-gathering again. So sorry! What did you want to know?"

"I was talking about our invitations. Do you want any cards for friends? Is there anyone whom you would like me to ask?"

"Lottie Vane, please, and Mr and Mrs Wallace," cried Pixie eagerly, and Esmeralda smiled at the first name, and frowned at the second. She remembered having seen the Vanes at a school festival, and being favourably impressed by their appearance, but the name of Wallace was still repugnant to her ears, and could not be heard unmoved.

She did not care, however, to appear ungracious in Geoffrey's presence, and reflected that it might be judicious to impress Pixie's employers with the grandeur of the O'Shaughnessy family, and thus nip in the bud any ideas of patronage. A moment later she was thankful that she had made no objections, as Sylvia Trevor's name from Bridgie's lips convinced her that here at least a stand must be made.

"Oh, my dear, it is no use asking Miss Trevor. She is lame, and I shall have enough to do without looking after invalids."

"She would come with us, and we would take care of her. The boys are so fond of Sylvia. They'd think it a pleasure!" pleaded innocent Bridgie, all unconscious of the fatal nature of her argument, and Esmeralda frowned again and said impatiently—

"She'd much better stay at home. Crowded rooms are no place for people who need such care."

"No, but that is all the more reason why she should get what enjoyment she can. She would love one of the receptions you spoke of, when you will have music and other entertainments, and her limp can scarcely be noticed now. She would be no trouble to you. You asked her to visit you in Ireland, Esmeralda!"

"'Deed I did, and she snubbed me for my pains. I don't like Miss Trevor, and I don't mean to give her the chance of refusing any more invitations."

Bridgie looked aghast, as well she might, and made no attempt to hide her discomfiture.

"But—but I told her you would! I made quite sure of it, and told her she would have such a good time. The poor girl is counting upon it."

"And she is Bridgie's friend. Bridgie wants to bring her. That settles the question surely!" said Geoffrey quietly. He looked across the table with uplifted brows, and, wonder of wonders, Esmeralda blushed, and murmured vaguely about being "much pleased."

"What a mercy it was that Geoffrey was at home! But oh, if you love me, Pixie, never, never let Sylvia guess that we had to plead for her invitations!" pleaded Bridgie earnestly, as the two sisters made their way home an hour later on.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

AN "AT HOME."

Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, there is no hall mark of sincerity to distinguish one invitation from another, and the printed cards which were in due time received by Sylvia Trevor differed in no respect from those sent to the most favoured of Esmeralda's guests. Fortunately also the remarks with which invitations are received are not overheard by the prospective hostess, else might she often feel her trouble wasted, and repent when it was too late.

Mrs Hilliard's fashionable acquaintances yawned when they received her cards, and exclaimed, "Another engagement for Thursday! We shall have to accept, I suppose, but it's a dreadful nuisance! We can just look in for a quarter of an hour on our way to Lady Joan's dance;" and unfashionable Sylvia pursed up her lips and remarked to herself, "Humph! I suppose she wants to dazzle me with the sight of her splendours. Much 'pleasure' my company will give her! I shall go, of course. I don't think I could stay quietly at home and play cribbage, and know that Bridgie and the boys were driving away, and that I might have been with them. Yes, I'll go, and I will get a new dress for the occasion—a beauty! Dad said I might be extravagant once in a way, without emptying the exchequer; and he would like me to look nice. Perhaps Bridgie will go to town with me and help me to choose. It is nice to have some excitement to look forward to. What with typhoid and—Jack,—this has been the dullest winter I ever knew."

The advent of the Hilliards did indeed make a great difference to the two quiet households in Rutland Road. Esmeralda was too much occupied with her guests to pay many visits in person, but she appeared at intervals, leaning back against the cushions of the carriage, and looking like some wonderful princess out of a fairy-tale, and as far removed as possible from the good ladies of the neighbourhood.

The coachman would draw up before the door of Number Three, the footman would throw open the door, and Mistress Esmeralda would saunter up the little garden, dragging yards of chiffon and lace in her train, and acutely, delightfully conscious of the heads peering from behind the curtains on either side of the road. Acknowledged beauty as she was, her advent caused a greater sensation in this suburban district than among her own associates, and though she affected to despise its demonstrations, they were yet very dear to her vain little heart.

Sometimes the two sisters were spirited away to lunch or a drive in the Park, and on their return would adjourn into Number Six, and entertain Miss Munns and her niece with the story of their adventures. There was a party every single day at Park Lane—titled creatures, and "men who did things," as Pixie eloquently explained, and Miss Munns recognised every name as it was repeated, and inquired anxiously concerning clothes, if the celebrity were of the female sex, concerning manner and choice of eatables, if he were a man.

Once, too, before the date of the formal invitation, Sylvia herself was invited to accompany her friend to an afternoon reception, when she beheld the fabled glories with her own eyes. Never before had she entered such a house, or met so distinguished a company, but not for worlds would she have allowed her surprise to be visible to Esmeralda's eyes. The fashionable expression, she noticed, was one of bored superiority, so she looked bored and superior too, refused offers of refreshments which she was really longing to accept, and lounged from one room to another with an abstracted air, as if unconscious of her surroundings. All the same she felt very lonely and out of her depth, for Bridgie was helping her sister to receive her guests, and Pixie as usual roaming about in search of adventure.

It is very difficult to sit alone in a crowd and keep up an appearance of dignity, and Sylvia was grateful when a girl of her own age took possession of the chair by her side, and began to talk without waiting for the formality of an introduction. She was a pleasant-looking, much- freckled damsel, with a wholesome, out-of-door atmosphere, which distinguished her from the other ladies present, and she seemed for some reason quite interested in Sylvia Trevor.

All the time that they talked the honest blue eyes—studied the little clear-cut face of her companion, and though Sylvia was puzzled to account for the scrutiny, she was quite conscious of its presence, and anxious that the decision should be in her favour. She dropped her artificial airs and graces, and talked simply and naturally, asking questions about the different people present, and listening to the biographical sketches which were given in return, with much greater interest than was vouchsafed to her aunt's more humble reminiscences.

It was so interesting to meet a celebrated author in flesh and blood, and find that she talked about the weather like any ordinary stupid person; a statesman in whose hands lay the destiny of a nation, yet could discuss with seriousness whether he should choose pink cakes or white. So extraordinary to discover that this gorgeously-attired lady was plain Mrs Somebody, while the funny, shabby-looking old woman in black was a celebrated Duchess, whose name was a household word.

Sylvia understood now why Esmeralda had been so anxious to place this guest in the most comfortable chair, and had waited on her with such assiduous care; she understood, too, why the Duchess herself wore an expression of patient resignation, and cast surreptitious glances at the clock. Poor creature, these so-called amusements were the business of her life, and one was so much like another that it was impossible to get up any feeling of interest, much less amusement. She yawned behind her glove, and vouchsafed the briefest of answers to her companions; it was abundantly evident, in short, that the Duchess was bored, and as this was the first time that she had honoured his house by a visit, Geoffrey was naturally anxious that this state of things should not continue. Esmeralda had done her utmost, but her airs and graces had failed to make any impression on one who had been acquainted with the beauties of the last fifty years, and there seemed no one present who possessed the requisite qualities to help him out of his difficulty. The Duchess was already acquainted with every visitor of note, and would not care to be introduced to insignificant nonentities.

Stay, though! What of the most insignificant of his guests? What of Pixie O'Shaughnessy, of the ready tongue, and the audacious self- confidence, which would flourish unchecked in the presence of kings and emperors? "Pixie for ever! Pixie to the rescue!" cried Geoffrey to himself, and promptly stole across to the room set apart for refreshments, where his small sister-in-law sat eating her fourth ice, waited upon with assiduous care by her friend Montgomery.

"Pixie," he said, "there's an old lady in black sitting under the big palm in the yellow drawing-room and looking dreadfully bored! Just go and talk to her like a good girl, and see if you can amuse her a little bit before she goes."

"I will so!" responded Pixie heartily. "It's a very dull party when there's nothing to do but be pleasant. I was bored myself, before I began to eat. I'll leave the ice now, but maybe I'll venture on another by and by.—In black, you said, under the palm?"

She flicked a lapful of crumbs on to the floor, and pranced away with her light, dancing step. Geoffrey watched her from the doorway, saw her squeeze herself into the corner of the lounge on which the Duchess was seated, and gaze into her face with the broadest of broad beaming smiles, while the great lady, in her turn, put up a lorgnon and stared back in amazed curiosity.

"Well, little girl," said the Duchess, smiling, "and what have you got to say?"

"Plenty, thank you! I always have. Me difficulty is to find someone to listen!" replied Miss Pixie, with a confidential nod.

The old lady looked extraordinarily thin; the lines on her face crossed and re-crossed like the most intricate puzzle, her lips were sunken, and the tips of nose and chin were at perilously close quarters, but her eyes were young still, such sharp, bright little eyes, and they twinkled just as Pat's did when he was pleased.

"Talk to me, then. I'll stop you when I'm bored!" she said, and at that Pixie nodded once again.

"Of course. We always do. Jack stamps on me foot, and Pat snores, the same as if he were asleep. He says he is strong enough to hear a tale six times over, but he won't listen to it a seventh, to please man nor woman. Bridgie says jokes are one of the trials of family life, because by the time you've improved the points so that no one would recognise them for the same, your relations won't give you a hearing. It's a curious thing, when you think of it, that you get so exhausted with other people's stories, while you go on laughing at your own. Bridgie says you'll find fifty people to cry with you, for one who will sympathise about jokes. Have you found it that way in your experience?"

"Upon my word," cried the Duchess with unction, "this Bridgie appears to be a remarkably sensible young woman! My experience has been that I rarely meet a joke that is not my own exclusive property, to judge by the faces of my companions. Do you happen to possess a name, my youthful philosopher? I should like to know to whom I am talking."

"I'm Pixie O'Shaughnessy, and Geoffrey married my sister Esmeralda. He came over to Ireland and fell in love with her in spite of me telling him about her bad temper, thinking of course that he was a perfect stranger. I apologised to him after it was settled and said there was nothing really wrong with her, for she'd always rather be pleasant than not, only at times it's easier to be nasty, and she's been lazy from her youth. The night they met they mistook each other for ghosts, and Esmeralda clung to his arm and screeched for help.

"There was never a thing that girl was frightened at, all her life, until now, and, would you believe it?—it's her own servants! Of course in Ireland they were like friends, as free and easy as we were ourselves, and entering into the conversation at table; but Geoffrey's Englishmen are so solemn and proper that she lives in terror of shocking their feelings. One day the butler found her kissing Geoffrey, believing they were alone, and she waited for him to say, 'Allow me, madam!' as he always does if she ventures to do a hand's turn for herself. She's says it's dispiriting to think you can't even quarrel in peace for fear of interruption, and it takes a good deal to interrupt Esmeralda when once she's started."

The Duchess screwed up her bright little eyes, and her shoulders shook beneath her black lace cape. Sylvia and her companion, watching the strangely assorted pair from across the room, saw Pixie move nearer and nearer, and whisper a long dramatic history; saw the Duchess nod her head in appreciation of the various points, and heard the burst of laughter which greeted the denouement. Everyone stopped talking and stared with inquiring eyes. Esmeralda turned towards the lounge, anxiety thinly disguised by smiles, and, seeing her, the Duchess rose from her seat with a sigh of regret.

"Your sister is a born story-teller, Mrs Hilliard. I wish I had more time to listen. Please ask me to meet her again! It is a long time since I have been so amused."

Here was praise indeed! Esmeralda beamed with satisfaction, and seized Pixie's hand with an unusual outburst of affection.

"How noble of you, dear! She was looking as bored as bored, and I was at my wits' end. What did you tell her that made her laugh like that?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just things about ourselves, and the adventures at home. 'Twas the beeswax pudding that pleased her most," said Pixie easily, and wondered at Esmeralda's sudden extinction of interest.

"Now what disclosures has that child been making next!" cried the freckled girl, looking on at this little scene with curious eyes. "I doubt whether Esmeralda appreciates them as much as the Duchess. We used to say at home that if there was one thing which should not be revealed, Pixie was bound to choose it as the subject of conversation on the first possible occasion! And she was so sweet and innocent about it, too, that it was impossible to be angry. I expect you have found out that for yourself?"

"Yes—No!" said Sylvia absently, for she was thinking less of what she was saying than of certain phrases which her companion had just uttered. "We used to say at home." Who was this, then, who had known Pixie O'Shaughnessy in bygone days—could it by any chance be the dreaded rival towards whom she was prepared to cherish so ardent a dislike? She stared at the honest, kindly face, and felt that it would be difficult to harbour a prejudice against its owner, even if—if— "Are you Miss Burrell?" she asked, and Mollie smiled assent.

"I am that, and you are Sylvia Trevor. I've heard about you from—"

"Bridgie—yes! We have been great friends all winter."

"Not Bridgie—no! We had so much to discuss about the old place and its people, that I'm afraid we have never mentioned your name. It was not Bridgie."

"Oh!" said Sylvia, and stared across the room. It might, of course, have been Esmeralda herself who had enlightened Miss Burrell's ignorance, but there was a mysterious something in the girl's manner which gave a different impression. She was too proud to ask questions, and Miss Burrell volunteered no information, but smiled to herself as at an interesting reminiscence. It seemed as though what she had heard had been of a distinctly pleasant character!

Sylvia returned home feeling mysteriously happy and elated, and the sight of a letter addressed to herself in her father's handwriting put the finishing touch on her satisfaction. She took it upstairs to her own room, and sat herself down on the one comfortable chair which she possessed, to read its contents with undisturbed enjoyment. She was in no hurry to break the seal, however, for it was so pleasant just to hold the letter in her hand, and lean back comfortably against the cushions, and dream.

The dreams, it is true, were mostly concerned with the events of the afternoon, and Mollie Burrell's intent and kindly scrutiny; but it was like the old times when she had thought her own thoughts with her hand clasped in that of the dear old dad, and the touch of the sheet on which his fingers had rested brought back the old feeling of strength and security. She had told him much about her new friends, and he seemed always to wish to hear more, asking carefully veiled questions, the meaning of which were perfectly understood by his shrewd little daughter.

Dad was anxious about this friendship with a family which included a handsome grown-up son among its members; a trifle afraid lest she should be spirited away to another home before he had enjoyed his own innings.

"Poor old darling!" murmured Sylvia remorsefully, for at the bottom of her heart she knew well which home she would choose if the choice were given, and it did seem hard—horribly hard—that a parent should love and guard and work for his child from the hour of her birth, and that when she had grown old and sensible enough to be a companion instead of a care, she should immediately desert him for another! "But I could never love dad any less, never, never! I'd give anything in the world to see him again!" Sylvia cried mentally as she opened the envelope and straightened the thin, foreign sheets.

It was a long letter, and took a long time to read, and in the process Sylvia's expression changed once and again, and finally settled into one of incredulous dismay. It was not that the news was bad; on the contrary, it was good—very good indeed—the thing above all others which she would have wished to hear, but it threatened a complete uprooting of her life just as it was growing most interesting, and full of possibilities. Dad was coming home, was even now on his way, and had desired her to meet him on his arrival at Marseilles. It was incredible, quite incredible in its startling unexpectedness. She turned again to the wonderful paragraph, and read it over once more slowly and carefully.

"And now, my darling, I have a piece of news, which I hope and believe will be welcome to you. Certain business changes have taken place of late, which you would not understand even if I tried to explain them, but such as they are they set me free to return home at my own convenience. I have been impatiently waiting this settlement of affairs for some time back, as I have been most anxious to see you after your long illness, and to satisfy myself that the best means are being used to restore the full use of your foot.

"I have made inquiries here, and believe that a course of baths of the German Spa B—- would probably put the final touch to what has already been done. I propose, therefore, that you engage in good time a trustworthy lady courier from an office in London, and travel in her company to Marseilles, where I will meet you in the first week of June, having previously spent a week or ten days in Italy with my old friends the Nisbets, who return in the same boat.

"Come prepared for a summer abroad, and we can fit you up with any extras that are needed before we start on our travels. After you have finished your course of treatment and are, I trust, thoroughly convalescent, we will have a tour through Switzerland, and settle down at some mountain hotel, where the air will brace us up after our sufferings, climatic and otherwise.

"For the future, I have as yet no definite plans, except that, of course, you will not return to your present quarters. Perhaps we may eventually find a house that suits us in the south of England, but I can't face English winters after my long residence in this sunny land, and you must make up your mind to humour a restless old Anglo-Indian for the next few years to come. Perhaps by that time I may have regained my old strength and nerve, which have sadly failed of late. I will wire from Brindisi as to definite arrangements."

Sylvia let the letter drop on her lap, and stared before her with blank eyes. Through the curtains could be seen a glimpse of the house opposite, the blind at Bridgie's window drawn up at its usual rakish angle.

In three weeks, in less than three weeks, she would say good-bye for ever to Rutland Road and its inhabitants; good-bye to England itself, it appeared, for at least a year to come, and at two-and-twenty a year is as long as a lifetime, if it divides us from those we love. She would drift away out of sight, and the last six months would become but an episode in her own life and those of her friends.

"D'ye remember Sylvia,—the girl with the bark on the road?" In imagination she could hear Pixie putting the question in the years to come, and Bridgie would remember quite well, because she had not the faculty of forgetting, but other people—other people were reputedly fickle, and tempted to forget old friends in favour of new! Other people would probably be in love with a fair-haired beauty by that time, and have forgotten all about Sylvia Trevor!

The pain which shot through the girl's heart at these reflections was so sharp that it startled her into a realisation of her own position. Dad was coming home, she was going to live with him once more, and instead of being happy and elated she was miserable—miserable! She was going to leave her aunt's home, with the restrictions and lack of sympathy which had made it so trying, and was once more to live with the fondest and most indulgent of parents, and instead of filling her with delight the news seemed like a sentence of banishment from all that made life worth living!

To do Sylvia justice she was shocked at her own thoughts, and made a valiant effort to look at the prospect in a more dutiful spirit. At least, she determined, no one should suspect a want of loyalty to that best and kindest of men! Aunt Margaret would take for granted that she felt nothing but delight, and she would postpone breaking the news to Bridgie until she had grown accustomed to the idea of separation, and could discuss it with composure.

It would be easier than usual to keep this resolve, for since Esmeralda's arrival the neighbours necessarily saw less of each other than in the long winter days when there had been no rival claims on their time and attention. Aunt Margaret would be pleased to find that she was chosen as counsellor and adviser-in-chief, and during the short time which was left she must do her utmost to gratify the old lady, who had been on the whole very kind and forbearing during the two years which they had spent together.

"I wish I had been nicer to her!" sighed Sylvia regretfully. "I was always meaning to be, but now it's too late. That's the worst of putting off things in this world; the chance may never come again!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

A whole week passed by before Sylvia had an opportunity of telling her great news to her friend. To begin with, Bridgie was absent from home for three days and nights, attending a ball and a water-party given by Esmeralda for the entertainment of her house-party, and to neither of which Sylvia had received an invitation. To be sure, it was no use going to a dance when dancing was an impossibility, and the getting in and out of boats would have been painful and difficult, but all the same Sylvia felt slighted and out in the cold, and, though absent in the flesh, mentally followed every stage in the two entertainments, and tortured herself by imagining Jack's light-hearted enjoyment and absorption in other company than her own.

When Bridgie returned home, Miss Munns insisted on several expeditions to town, and also to surrounding suburbs, where lived those family connections to whom it was clearly the girl's duty to say good-bye. The old lady was quite inclined to enjoy the little stir of preparation involved by the trip abroad, and would allow no one but herself to interview the lady in whose charge her niece was to travel. That she was entirely satisfied was the best possible guarantee for Sylvia's safety, and Mistress Courier Rickman promised to be ready to start the moment the expected wire was received.

Miss Munns laid in a store of patent medicines, stocked her niece's workbox with every imaginable useful, and waxed quite affectionate in her manner, but all the same it was easy to see that she would be relieved to get rid of her charge, and settle down once more in the old groove. It requires a great deal of forbearance and unselfish imagination to enable a young person and an old to live together happily, and the lack of these qualities is the explanation of many miserable homes.

Old people should remember that the peaceful monotony which has become their own idea of happiness, must by the laws of nature spell a very different word to buoyant, restless youth, and also that there comes a stage when the children are not children any longer, when they are entitled to their own opinions, and may even—most reverently be it said—understand what is best for themselves, better than those of a different generation; and the young people in their turn should remember the long years of tender care and devotion which they have received, and be infinitely patient in their turn. They, who are so impatient of passing ailments, should try to imagine how it would feel to be always feeble, and to see in the future the certainty of growing more and more suffering and incapable. They should realise that it is in their power to make the sunshine of declining days, and thereby to store up for themselves a lasting joy, instead of a reproach.

In looking back upon those two years spent in Rutland Road, Sylvia forgot her aunt's lack of sympathy, her prosy talk, and repeated fault- finding; they were lost in remembering the true kindness of heart which lay beneath all mannerism. What she was never able to forget was her own impatience and neglect of opportunity.

Once or twice as the days passed by, Bridgie O'Shaughnessy ran to the gate to intercept her friend as she passed, and exchange a hurried greeting, but Sylvia would not trust her great news to such occasions as these. She waited until an opportunity arose for an uninterrupted talk, and as she waited a desire awoke and grew in intensity, to herself tell Jack of the coming separation. Bridgie must, of course, be informed of the journey to France and Germany, but she would wait until the evening of Esmeralda's reception before disclosing the full extent of her travels.

When she and Jack were sitting together in one of the charming little niches in which the rooms abounded, he would naturally begin to talk of her journey, and she would smile and look unconcerned, and, in the most cheerful and natural of tones, announce that she was not coming back to Rutland Road, that it would probably be a year at least before she saw England again.

Surely when he heard this for the first time, when it was burst upon him as an utter surprise, she would read in his face whether she had been right in imagining that he really "cared," or if it had been a delusion born of girlish vanity. She would be quite calm and serene, would not in any way pose as a martyr or seem to expect any expression of distress, but she could not—could not bring herself to go away without making this one innocent little effort to solve the mystery which meant so much to her happiness and peace of mind.

So Sylvia purposely kept out of Bridgie's way during the ten days after the receipt of her letter, and when they met it was easy to tell just what she chose, and keep silent about the rest, for Bridgie was not one of the curious among womenkind, and never dreamt of questioning and cross-questioning as to the plans of another. She simply took for granted that Sylvia would return to her old quarters, after a pleasant summer holiday, just as she was happily assured that her friend felt nothing but purest joy and satisfaction in the prospect before her.

"Oh, me darling," she cried rapturously, "I am delighted for you! Isn't that the very best news that could happen? So soon, too, and a lovely jaunt together in the beautiful summer weather. 'Twill make you strong again in no time, and you will write me long letters telling me all your adventures, and 'twill be almost as good as having them myself. I couldn't tell you when I've been so pleased!"

"Humph!" said Sylvia disconsolately. Would Jack be delighted also, and hail her departure with rapturous congratulations? "Won't you miss me? Won't you feel lonely when I'm not here?" she questioned earnestly, and Bridgie smiled a cheery reassurement.

"I'll have Esmeralda, you see! She will be here until the end of the season, and then we are going up to Scotland with her. We shall be so busy and taken up with one thing and another that I shan't have time to miss you, darling."

"Humph!" said Sylvia once more. This was intended for comfort, she was aware, but it was not the kind of comfort that was required. Bridgie O'Shaughnessy might be so unselfish as to rejoice because a friend did not suffer by her absence, but Sylvia longed to hear that she was indispensable, and that nothing and no one could fill her place. It was another bitter drop in her cup to realise that the O'Shaughnessy girls were so closely united that any friend must needs be at a discount in comparison with a sister.