"Ye don't seem as excited as I should have expected. Is anything worrying you, dear?" Bridgie inquired, and Sylvia hurriedly searched for a plausible excuse and found it in her father's health.

In reality she was not disquieted by his reference to his own weakness, for he had been complaining for months back without apparently growing worse, and she was convinced that the coming rest would speedily restore him to health. It made an excuse, however, and Bridgie sympathised and offered a dozen kindly, unpractical suggestions as her custom was.

Then the conversation drifted to the all-important reception which was so close at hand, and to which both girls were looking forward with such expectation. Bridgie related the latest arrangements for the entertainment of some three hundred guests, while her friend listened with eager attention. Esmeralda was sparing neither money nor pains to make the evening one of the events of the season. Singers and musicians whose names were known throughout Europe were to perform at intervals in the great drawing-room; the hall and staircase were to be transformed into a bower of roses, pink La France roses here, there, and everywhere, wreathed round the banisters, massed on the window-sills and mantelpieces, hanging in great golden baskets from the ceiling. Rose- coloured shades were to soften the glare of the electric lights; the air was to be kept cool by great blocks of ice, and scented fountains rising from banks of moss and ferns; the conservatory was to be illuminated by jewelled lanterns.

It sounded like a fairy-tale to the girl in the unfashionable suburb, and she would have been less than human if she had not counted the hours which must elapse before the evening arrived. Bridgie thought it a pity that the guests could not be labelled for the edification of the unsophisticated, but Sylvia's greatest interest was centred on figures which were too familiar to be mistaken. The whole entertainment was, in truth, but a gorgeous setting to that conversation with Jack, which might be their last tete-a-tete for so long to come.

The dressmaker who was preparing Miss Trevor's dress for the great occasion had seldom had more difficulty in satisfying an employer, and the sum total expended on fineries would have horrified Miss Munns if she had been allowed to see the bills. Even Sylvia winced when she added up the figures, but she repeated sturdily the old phrase, "Dad won't mind!" and felt secure that she would meet with no worse reprimand than a little good-natured banter. On the whole she had been very economical during her stay in England, and her conscience did not upbraid her concerning this one extravagance.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A TELEGRAM.

As soon as her room was in order on the day of the reception, Sylvia began the delightful task of opening boxes and parcels, and laying their contents on the bed. The satin skirt was spread out with careful fingers, and over it a foam of frills and flounces which must surely have grown, since it was inconceivable that they could have been fashioned by mortal hands. Fan, and gloves, and little lacy handkerchief lay side by side on the pillows; little satin shoes stood at a jaunty angle, the crystal buckles shining in the sun. The pearl necklace, which had been a present from dad on her twenty-first birthday, lay on the toilet-table ready to be snapped on, and a spray of white roses and maiden-hair floated in a basin of water.

All was ready, and Sylvia beamed with delight at the result of her preparations. She had come upstairs ostensibly to rest, but in reality she was far too excited to settle down even to read, and could only wander about the room inventing one little duty after another, and weaving endless day-dreams. In a corner of the room stood her travelling-box, a convenient receptacle into which to put the new purchases as they arrived from the shops.

The travelling dress, the piles of cool garments for summer wear lay neatly packed away, looking fresh and dainty enough to have charmed any girl's heart, but this afternoon Sylvia had no thought for the future; every hope and ambition was centred on the events of the next few hours.

Three o'clock! How slowly the time passed! Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—six hours still to while away before she would drive from the door with Pixie by her side, and Jack vis-a-vis, leaning forward to look her over, and exclaim in admiration at her fine feathers.

Sylvia could almost imagine that she heard him speak, and saw the sudden softening of the handsome eyes, and for once in her life she was inclined to rejoice that Bridgie was again staying at Park Lane, since Pixie and Pat would be so much engrossed in their own discussions as to ensure a virtual tete-a-tete for their companions. She rose restlessly from her seat and walked to the window. Was Pixie occupied even as she had been herself in laying out her dress for the evening? She peered curiously through the opposite windows, but no sign of the inhabitants was to be seen; she yawned, drummed her fingers against the pane, and stared idly down the road.

It was not a lively neighbourhood at the best of times, and to-day it seemed even duller than usual. A nurse was wheeling a perambulator along the pavement, a milkman's cart was making slow progress from door to door, a telegraph-boy was sauntering down the middle of the road whistling a popular air. Sylvia wondered where he was going, and what was the nature of the message which he bore. Some people were so nervous about telegrams—Aunt Margaret, for instance! It was so rarely that her quiet life was disturbed by a message of sufficient importance to make it worth while for the sender to expend sixpence on its delivery.

Sylvia's heart gave a leap of apprehension as the thought arose that perhaps the message was for the O'Shaughnessy household to tell of some dire accident which had interfered with the festivity of the evening. She had hardly time to breathe a sigh of relief as the boy passed the gate of Number Three before apprehension re-awoke as he approached her own doorway.

A telegram for Aunt Margaret! What could it be? Ought she to go downstairs to lend the support of her presence, or stay in her room where she was supposed to be enjoying a refreshing nap? She heard the opening of the door and the sound of voices in the hall, then to her surprise footsteps ascended the stairs, and someone whispered a gentle summons—

"Sylvia! Are you awake? A telegram has arrived for you, my dear. You had better see it at once."

Miss Munns looked flurried and anxious, but her niece smiled a placid reassurement.

"I expect it is from father, fixing the date of my journey. He said he would wire." She tore open the envelope and glanced hurriedly at the address. "Yes, it is! He is at Marseilles. 'Come at—'" Her voice died away, and she stood staring at the words in horrified incredulity, while Miss Munns stepped forward hurriedly, and peered over her shoulder.

"Come at once. Father dangerously ill. Remain in charge till you come.—Nisbet."

"Nisbet! Nisbet! That was the name of the friends with whom he was to travel. 'Dangerously ill!' 'At once!' What can it mean?"

Sylvia laid the paper on the bed and pressed her hands against her head. She was deathly pale, but perfectly composed and quiet, and the expression of her eyes showed that so far from being stunned, she was thinking in quick, capable fashion.

"There is a train from Charing Cross at four o'clock," she said presently. "I should arrive in Paris at midnight, and at Marseilles some time to-morrow. It is three now. My box is more than half packed. I shall have time. Mary must go out and order a cab!"

"My dear, it is impossible! You cannot possibly leave to-day. I will go with you myself, and I cannot get ready at an hour's notice. Wait until to-morrow, and—"

Sylvia turned round with a flash of anger in her eyes, but suddenly softened and took both the old lady's hands in her own, holding them in a tender pressure.

"Listen," she said, and her voice, gentle though it was, had in it a new quality which awed and impressed the hearer. "Listen!—there is not one single minute to spare. If there was a train at half-past three, I should catch that, box or no box, for father is dying, Aunt Margaret—he would not have let me be summoned like this for any passing ailment. Nothing in all the world would make me wait here until to-morrow, so please, dear, do not hinder me now. I know it is impossible for you to come with me, but I will telegraph the moment I arrive, and if—if there is still time, you can follow then."

"But you can't travel alone! Edward would not like it. He is so particular. How can you manage about the trains?"

"Listen! I have thought of that too. Put on your bonnet and go to the telephone office at the corner. Ask the people at the agency if they can possibly send a lady courier to meet me at the train at Charing Cross. If they can, very well! If they can't, I am twenty-two, and can speak French easily, and am not afraid of travelling by myself. I will telegraph to Cook's agent to meet me in Paris, if it will make you any happier, but I am going, auntie dear, and I have not a moment to spare. I will get dressed now, and the cab must be here in half an hour."

Miss Munns turned without a word, and left the room. She had the sense to know when she was beaten, and, having once faced the situation, set to work in her usual business-like fashion, and proved the most capable of helpers. Having been successful in arranging for a lady courier through the convenient medium of the telephone, she returned home to write labels, fasten together cloaks and umbrellas, and order a hasty but tempting little meal for the refreshment of the traveller. This accomplished, she returned once more to the bedroom, where Sylvia was putting the last touches to her packing.

"Nearly finished? That's right, my dear. You have eight minutes still, and tea is waiting for you downstairs. Don't trouble to tidy the room, I'll attend to that after you have gone. All these things on the bed— they had better be packed away in the attics, I suppose. It's a pity they were ever bought, as things have turned out. You may never need them now."

"No, I may never need them now!" said Sylvia steadily. "In one minute, aunt, just one minute. You go down and pour out my tea, and I'll follow immediately. I've just one thing more I want to do."

"Don't dawdle, then—don't dawdle! Mary will fasten the straps—don't wait for that."

Miss Munns departed, unwillingly enough, and Sylvia shut the door after her, and gave a swift step back towards the bed. The satin dress, and the fan, and the gloves, and the jaunty little shoes lay there looking precisely the same as they had done an hour ago—the only difference was in the eyes which beheld them.

Sylvia had read of a bride who was buried in her wedding dress, and she felt at this moment as if she were leaving her own girlhood behind, with that mass of dainty white finery. What lay in the future she could not tell; only one thing seemed certain, that those few words on the slip of brown paper had made a great chasm of separation between it and the past. The opportunity for which she had longed was not to be hers; she must leave England without so much as a word of farewell to the friends who of late had filled such a large part of her life.

If her plans had been frustrated by one of the annoying little contretemps of daily life, Sylvia would have exhausted herself in lamentations and repinings, but she was dumb before this great catastrophe, which came so obviously from a higher Hand. When her father lay dying, there was no regret in her heart for a lost amusement, but this hurried departure might mean more—much more than the forfeiture of Esmeralda's hospitality. She stretched out her hand, and smoothed the satin folds with a very tender touch.

"Good-bye!" she whispered softly, in the silence of the room. "Good- bye, Jack!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

TOO LATE.

Sylvia's journey was quiet and uneventful, and her companion was tactfully silent, leaving her at peace to think her own thoughts. As time passed by, the natural hopefulness of youth reasserted itself, and she began to think that she had been too hasty in taking it for granted that her father was hopelessly ill.

After all he had not despatched the telegram; it had been signed by his friends, the Nisbets, who, no doubt, were unwilling to accept a position of responsibility. When she arrived she would nurse him so devotedly, would surround him with such an atmosphere of love and care, that he could not help recovering and growing strong once more. He would be longing to see her, poor dear old dad, working himself into an invalid's nervous dread lest they might never meet again, as she herself had done a few months earlier, and the sight of his child would be his best medicine.

They left the train and took their places in the boat. It was a cloudless summer afternoon, and the white cliffs stood out in striking contrast to the blue sky and sea. What a change from the big grey city which even now was beginning to grow close and dusty, what a glorious open prospect for one who had been shut up for months in the confines of a narrow street, and yet Rutland Road had been far more beautiful to one voyager at least, for at that moment, exactly at that moment, as timed by the little watch at her wrist, Jack O'Shaughnessy would have turned the corner of the main road to saunter towards his own home.

Jack always sauntered, with the air of a gentleman at large who had never known the necessity of hurry. Sylvia had watched him many times from the shelter of her window curtains, and knew exactly how he would carry his head, and twirl his stick, and glance rapidly across the road as he unlatched the gate. Pixie would open the door and breathlessly unfold the news with which she had by this time been made acquainted, and how would Jack look then? Would the smile fade away, would he feel as if all zest and interest had departed from the evening entertainment, or would he make the best of things in happy O'Shaughnessy fashion and console himself in Mollie's smiles?

The breeze grew fresher and more chill, and the stars began to peep; the travellers had reached the shores of France; and far-away in London Esmeralda's guests were beginning to arrive, the carriages were jostling one another in the narrow street. Then came Paris, and a space for rest and refreshment before starting on the next stage of the journey.

Sylvia had hoped that a telegram might be waiting for her at this point, but none was forthcoming, and its absence was a bitter disappointment despite the old adage that no news is good news. She sat in the big deserted buffet, drinking bouillon and eating poulet and salad; and catching sight of her own pallid reflection in one of the mirrors, smiled feebly at the contrast between the present and the "might have been"! This white-faced, weary-looking girl was surely not the Sylvia Trevor whose day-dreams had woven such golden things about this very hour.

The lady courier engaged a sleeping compartment for the first stage of the long journey to Marseilles, but though it was a comfort to lie down and stretch her weary limbs, there was little sleep for Sylvia that night. She was up and gazing out of the window by six o'clock in the morning, and the day seemed endless despite the interest of the scenes through which she passed. "Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France."

The lines which she had read in her youth came back to memory as the train crossed the broad waters of the Loire and sped through valleys of grapes and olives, surrounded by hills of smiling green. The sun was hot in these southern plains, and the dust blew in clouds through the windows; it was a relief when evening fell again, and brought the end of the long journey.

Sylvia stepped on to the platform and looked around with eager gaze. Although she had never met her father's friends, she knew their appearance sufficiently well from photographs and descriptions to be able to distinguish them from strangers, but nowhere could she see either husband or wife. It was unkind to leave her unwelcomed and with no word to allay her anxiety, and she had hard work to keep back her tears as her companion ran about collecting the scattered pieces of luggage.

She was so tired mentally and physically that this last disappointment was too much for her endurance, and she thanked God that in a few minutes the strain would be over, and she would be seated by her father's side. They drove along the quaint, foreign streets, and presently arrived at the hotel itself, a large building set back in a courtyard in which visitors sat before little tables, smoking and drinking their after-dinner coffee.

They looked up curiously as Sylvia passed, but no one came forward to meet her, and the waiter gesticulated dumbly in answer to her questionings, and led the way upstairs without vouchsafing a word in reply. It was humiliating to think that her accent had so degenerated as to be unrecognisable in his ears, but there was no other explanation, and it was at least evident that she was expected, since he seemed in no doubt as to where to conduct her first. He turned down a corridor to the right, stopped at the second door, and threw it open, and Sylvia saw with surprise that it was not a bedroom, but a sitting-room, in which a lady and a gentleman were already seated.

The gentleman leapt to his feet, wheeled round and stood with his face to the window; the lady shrank back into her chair, then suddenly jumped up and ran forward with outstretched hands. It was Mrs Nisbet, though looking older and more worn than Sylvia had expected to see her, and nothing could have been kinder or more affectionate than her greeting.

"My dear child—my poor dear child, how tired you must be! You have had an awful journey. Come in, dear, and rest a few minutes while I will make some tea for you. English people always like tea, don't they? And I will make it myself, so that it shall be good. Come, dear, sit down! Let me take off your hat."

She stroked the girl's cheek with her hand—such a hot, trembling hand— and there was an odd, excited thrill in her voice which filled Sylvia with a vague alarm. She stepped back a step, and drew herself up straight and determined.

"Thank you very much, but I don't want any tea. I want to go at once to father. It has been such a long, long journey. I mustn't waste any more time!"

"No, no, but you are not ready just this moment. You must have something to strengthen you first. If you won't wait for tea, here is some wine. Drink a glass, dear, do. To please me!"

Sylvia stared at her fixedly, and from her to that other figure which stood motionless by the window without so much as a glance for his friend's child. A cold fear seized her in its grip, the room swam before her eyes, and out of the confusion she heard a weak voice saying brokenly, "Tell me quickly, please! It won't help me to drink wine. Father—"

Mrs Nisbet burst into a passion of tears, and clasped the girl tightly in her arms.

"You are too late, dear. An hour too late! We did everything we could. He left you his last love and blessing."

————————————————————————————————————

It was all over. The two long days of waiting, the last glimpse of dad's still face, the funeral in the foreign cemetery, and Sylvia sat alone in the hotel sitting-room, striving to recover sufficiently from the shock to decide on the next step which lay before her.

In the crushing weight of the new sorrow it seemed as if it were impossible to go on living at all, yet it was absolutely necessary to make her plans, for she could not be an indefinite burden on her father's friends. They had come home to enjoy a hard-earned rest, and as the holiday had begun so sadly there was all the more reason why the remainder should be passed under cheerful conditions. Mr and Mrs Nisbet had pressed the girl to spend the next few months travelling in their company, but Sylvia was resolute in her refusal.

"I should be a constant care to you, and a constant kill-joy, and that would be a poor return for all you have done for me," she said sadly. "It will comfort me all my life to remember that you were with dad during those last dreadful days, and some day I should like very much to visit you when I can be a pleasure instead of a burden. It does not seem now as if I could ever be happy again, but I suppose it will come in time."

"It will, if you trust in God and ask Him to help you. He sends troubles to teach us lessons, dear, and to draw our thoughts to Him, but never, never to make us miserable," said Mrs Nisbet softly. "You did not feel that you had lost your father when he was far-off in India, and he is a great deal nearer to you now in the spirit world. Never think of him as in the grave, think of him in heaven, and it will grow dear and home-like to you just because he is there. It would have grieved him to the heart to see your young life clouded, so you must try to be happy for his sake. I don't mean by that that you can be lively, or care for the old amusements; that can only come with time; but unhappiness comes from rebellion against God's will, and if you submit to that and leave your life in His hands, you will find that all the sting has gone out of your trouble."

The slow tears rose and stood in Sylvia's eyes.

"Thank you!" she said meekly. "I will try, but it's hard to be resigned when one is young, and all one's life seems shattered. I don't know what to do next. Every arrangement so far has been made, 'till dad comes home,' and now that hope has gone, and what am I to do? I have no home, and no work, and nobody needs me. Aunt Margaret would take me in, of course, but she would not like it as a permanency any more than I should myself. She has her own way, and I have mine, and we did not agree very well. She was very kind when she thought I was going away, but at the bottom of her heart she was glad. She doesn't need me, you see! I don't help her at all."

"But you could make her need you! You could help her if you went back determined to make it your work in life!"

Mrs Nisbet took the girl's hand in hers and pressed it gently, and Sylvia looked into her face with miserable, honest eyes.

"Yes—I could! I could shut my lips up tight and never answer back, and look interested when I was bored, and go little walks up and down the terrace, and play cribbage when I wanted to read, and read aloud dull books when I wanted to read lively ones to myself, and pretend to like what I really hate and detest."

"Poor lassie! It does sound dull. I'll tell you a secret, though. It would not be pretence very long, for it is one of the blessed recompenses in life that if we conquer self, and perform a duty whole- heartedly and cheerfully, it is distasteful no longer, but becomes more interesting than we could have believed possible in the old rebellious days."

"Does it? But I don't think I quite want to be satisfied with that kind of life," Sylvia said slowly. "I don't wish to seem disrespectful, but really and truly Aunt Margaret's ideas are terribly narrow and old- fashioned, and I shouldn't like it a bit if I were like her when I was old. I have managed pretty well so far, for I had nice friends, and was always looking forward to the time when I should have my own home, but don't you understand how different it is now, and how dreary it seems to settle down to it as a permanency?" She looked up wistfully in Mrs Nisbet's face, and met a smile of kindest understanding.

"But there is no necessity to grieve over the future, child! At your age arrangements are rarely 'permanent,' and you are concerned only with the next step. It seems for the moment as if it were the right course to return to London, so try to look upon the situation from a new standpoint, and face it bravely. Forget your aunt's shortcomings, and remember only that she is your father's only remaining relative, the playmate and companion of his youth, and that you are connected by a common sorrow and a common loss. Set yourself to brighten her life, and to fill it with wider interests; forget yourself, in short, and think about other people. When you have learned that lesson, dear, you will have solved the great secret of life, and found the key to happiness and peace of mind."

"Yes," sighed Sylvia faintly. It sounded very sweet and very beautiful, but, oh, so terribly difficult to accomplish! If it had been a big thing, on great, heroic sacrifice which she was called upon to make, she could have braced herself to the effort, and have borne it with courage, but the little daily pin-pricks, the chafings of temper, the weariness of uncongenial companionship—these were the hardest test, the most cruel tax upon endurance.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, the same uneventful, monotonous existence—and suppose for one moment that Jack married Mollie Burrell, and Bridgie returned to her Irish home! Sylvia shivered and shut her eyes as at an unbearable prospect, and Mrs Nisbet's voice said softly in her ear—

"'I do not ask to see the distant scene. One step enough for me!' Take each day as it comes, dear, and try to live it bravely without thinking of to-morrow. We will travel with you as far as Paris, and have a few days together before you go on to London. I wish you would have stayed with us longer, but perhaps it will be better for us all to be apart for a time, and meet again later on. We shall be in London in autumn, and one of my first visits will be to you. Your father has been like a brother to my husband for years past, and we shall always feel a very close interest in your welfare.

"By the way, dear, how are you off for money? Would it be a convenience if I lent you some to pay for mourning and the return journey? You came away expecting to be responsible for a few days only, and, as you know, when a man dies it is not possible to touch his money until certain legal formalities have been observed. We should be only too delighted to act as your bankers until matters are settled."

"Thank you very much, but I think I shall have enough. I drew out what money was in the bank before leaving home, and I would rather not get into debt until I know exactly how I am placed. There may be very little left. Father always spoke as if he were poor."

"He told you nothing about his affairs, then? You know nothing about them?"

Mrs Nisbet looked at her curiously as she spoke, and Sylvia's heart gave a throb of fear. She knew something; there was evidently some secret with which she herself was unacquainted, and in her present depressed condition of mind and body it was only natural that she should leap to the conclusion that the news must be bad, and, ostrich-like, tried to hide her head in the sand.

"He told me there had been some changes lately, which I should not understand. His lawyers will write to me some time, I suppose, but I don't want to think about money yet. I have sufficient for the next few months, for I shall go nowhere, and need no more clothes."

"Yes, yes, dear! It's all right. You will get along nicely, I'm sure," said the other soothingly, and Sylvia felt another thrill of foreboding.

"Get along nicely!" Did that mean that she would have to earn her own living? She dared not inquire further, shrinking from the possibility of another blow, but it was impossible to keep from wondering what she should do if indeed there was no provision for her support.

Pixie's adventures in search of employment had proved how difficult it was for an inexperienced girl to escape becoming the prey of fraudulent advertisements, and it was humiliating to reflect on her own incapacity. What could she do that a thousand other girls could not accomplish equally well? She could play fairly well, sing fairly well, paint fairly well, trim a hat so that it did not look obviously home-made, make a trifle or creams, though she was densely ignorant about boiling a potato. She possessed, in fact, a smattering of many things, but had not really mastered one which, if needs be, would be a staff through life.

A hundred poor girls find themselves in this position every year, yet their short-sighted sisters continue to fritter away their time, oblivious of the fact that to them also may come the rainy day when they must face the world alone. Learn to do one thing well, compare your productions, whatever they may be, not with those of other amateurs, but with perfected professional specimens, and do not be content until your own reach the same standard. This is a golden rule, which every girl ought to take to heart.

During the ten days which elapsed before Sylvia's return to London, she was haunted by the fear of monetary troubles which would make her either dependent on her own efforts, or a burden upon her aunt's narrow income, but neither Mrs Nisbet nor her husband referred again to the subject, and some time must still elapse before she could hear from her father's lawyer in Colombo.

The week in Paris passed away quietly, but more pleasantly than she could have believed possible under the circumstances; for nothing could have been kinder or more considerate than the way in which she was treated by her father's friends, while the brilliant sunshine acted as a tonic to the spirits. Every day they went long drives in the Bois, or took the train to Versailles, and spent long quiet hours in the woods, and Sylvia even found herself able to enjoy a visit to one of the huge Magasins, where Mrs Nisbet invested in quite a collection of presents to send home to English friends. Sylvia was tempted to buy some on her own account, and it was a new and depressing experience to feel that she must not spend an unnecessary penny. Her little hoard was diminishing rapidly, and she was growing more and more anxious to be safest home, and free from at least immediate anxiety.

There was no lady courier to accompany her on this journey, for the days of independence had begun, and she preferred to be alone to wrestle with her forebodings, and try to bring herself into a fitting frame of mind for that trying return to the old scenes.

The parting from the Nisbets was like saying good-bye once more to the dear dad, and she felt hopelessly adrift without their wise and tender counsels, and the feeling of loneliness grew ever deeper and deeper as she approached the English shores.

The great shock through which she had passed had loosened all the ties in life, and made the friends of a few weeks ago seem but the merest of acquaintances. Bridgie had written the sweetest of sympathetic letters, but sorry though she might be, the force of circumstances kept the two girls so far apart, that what had been the saddest time in her friend's life had seen the climax of her own gaiety. She had been dancing, and singing, and pleasure making while Sylvia shed the bitter tears of bereavement, and in a few weeks more she would be spirited off in Esmeralda's train to another scene of gaiety. The O'Shaughnessys were by nature so light of heart that they might not care to welcome among them a black-robed figure of grief!

Sylvia felt as though the whole wide world yawned between her and the old interests, and did not yet realise that this feeling of aloofness from the world and its interests is one of the invariable accompaniments of grief. She was young and not given to serious reflection, and she knew only that she was tired and miserable, that the white cliffs about which she had been accustomed to speak with patriotic fervour, looked bleak and cheerless in the light of a wet and chilly evening.

June though it was, she was glad to wrap herself in her cloak, and pull her umbrella over her head as she passed down the gangway on to the stage. In Paris it had been a glorious summer day, and the change to wet and gloom seemed typical of the home-coming before her. The cloaked and mackintoshed figures on the stage seemed all black, all the same. She would not look at them lest their presence should make her realise more keenly her own loneliness; but someone came up beside her as she struggled through the crowd, and forcibly lifted the bag from her hand. She turned in alarm and saw a man's tall figure, lifted her eyes, and felt her troubles and anxieties drop from her like a cloak.

It was Jack O'Shaughnessy himself!



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A COMFORTER.

Think of it! Think of it! The grey, inhospitable skies, the rain-swept stage, the feeling of hopeless loneliness, as one traveller after another was greeted with loving exclamations, and borne away by friendly watchers; and then suddenly to feel your hand grasped, and laid tenderly on a protecting arm, and to see, looking into your own, the face of all others which you would have wished for, had the choice been given! To feel no longer a helpless unit, belonging to no one, and having no corner of the earth to call your own, but to know that someone had watched for your arrival, and to read how you had been missed, in the flash of eloquent eyes.

"Oh, Jack!" cried Sylvia involuntarily; "oh, Jack!" and clung to his arm with a sob of pure joy and thanksgiving. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was so lonely. How did you—whatever made you come?"

"A great many reasons, but principally because I couldn't stay away!" replied Jack, not smiling as was his wont, but looking down upon her with an intent scrutiny, which aroused Sylvia's curiosity. She did not realise how changed she was by the experience of the last few weeks, or what a pathetic little face it was which looked up at him between the dead black of hat and cape.

The brown eyes looked bigger than ever, the delicate aquiline of the features showed all the more distinctly for their sharpened pallor, and Jack looked down at her through the mist, and thanked God for the health and strength which made him a fitting protector for her weakness. The sound of that involuntary "Oh, Jack!" rang sweetly in his ears, and gave a greater confidence to his manner, as he steered her through the crowd.

"Miss Munns told us when you were expected, and we talked of meeting you at the station, but I decided that I had better stay away; then I wrote a letter to welcome you, and tore it up; then for no purpose at all I began looking at Bradshaw, and it seemed there was a train which I could catch. And it rained! It's dismal arriving in the rain. Next thing I knew I was in the station, and the train started when I was sitting inside, and—here I am!"

Sylvia laughed softly, it was such an age since she had laughed, and it was such a happy, contented little sound that she was quite startled thereat. The custom-house officials were going through the farce of examining the luggage, and while the rest of the passengers groaned and lamented at the delay, Jack and his companion stood together in the background, blissfully unconscious of time and damp.

"Are you glad to see me, Sylvia?" he asked, for the joy of hearing her say in words what voice and eyes had already proclaimed; and she waved her hand round the bleak landscape, and said tersely—

"Look! It felt like that; black and empty, and heart-breaking, and all the others seemed to have friends—everyone but me. I think I was never so glad before. I shall bless you for coming all my life!"

Jack laughed softly, and pressed her hand against his arm. "Poor little girl! I knew just how you would be feeling; that's why I came. Wouldn't you have come to meet me, if you had been the man and I the girl?"

"Yes, to the ends of the earth!" Sylvia replied, but not with her lips, for there are some things which a self-respecting girl may not say, however much she may feel them. Instead she murmured a few non- committal phrases, and gave the conversation a less personal tone, by inquiring after the various friends at home—Miss Munns, Bridgie, Pixie and the boys, and Jack answered in his usual breezy fashion, relating little incidents which made Sylvia smile with the old happy sense of friendship, repeating loving speeches, which brought the grateful tears to her eyes. The world was not empty after all, while she possessed such faithful, loving friends.

When the luggage had passed the inspection of the custom-house and received the magic mark in chalk, Jack led the way down the platform, before which the train was already drawn up, and passed by one carriage after another, until at last an empty compartment was discovered, of which he immediately took possession.

"Now we can talk!" he said, and sat himself down opposite Sylvia, looking at her with compassionate eyes.

"I have gone through it myself," he said. "Tell me all you can."

And as the train steamed onward, Sylvia told the story of the past weeks, told it quietly, and without breakdown, though the dark eyes grew moist, and tears trembled on the lashes which looked so long and black against the white cheeks. It was a comfort to tell it all to one who understood, and was full of sympathy and kindness, and strange though it might seem, separation, instead of widening the distance between Jack and herself, had only drawn them more closely together.

The old formalities of intercourse had dropped like a cloak at the first moment of meeting; they were no longer Miss and Mr, but "Jack" and "Sylvia"; no longer acquaintances, but dear and intimate friends.

"Miss Munns has been terribly distressed," Jack said, when at last the sad recital came to an end. "She loved your father more than anyone in the world, and you come next as his child. Poor old lady! it was quite pathetic to see her efforts to make your home-coming as cheerful as possible. Bridgie says she has put up clean curtains all over the house, and discussed the menu for supper for the last week. It's her way of showing sympathy, the creature! and you understand better than myself all that it means. Different people have different ways, haven't they, Sylvia? I came to Dover!"

"Yes!" assented Sylvia, with a flickering smile. "You came to Dover, and Aunt Margaret put up clean curtains, and ordered a roast fowl for supper—I know it will be a roast fowl!—and if you had not warned me in time, I should probably have said I could not eat anything, and gone to bed supperless, without even noticing the curtains. I am afraid I have been horrid to the poor old soul in that sort of way many times in the last two years. It is good of her to take such trouble, because, honestly speaking, she won't be any more pleased to have me back as a permanency than I am to come. We have mutually comforted ourselves with the reflection that it was 'only for a time,' but now it is different. I want to be good—I have made, oh! such a crowd of good resolutions, but I don't know how long they will last!"

Jack looked down at his boots, and drew his brows together thoughtfully.

"You—er—it's too early, I suppose, to have made any plans for the future. You hardly know what you will do?"

"No: my natural home is, of course, with Aunt Margaret as father's sister, but there are other considerations." Sylvia hesitated a moment, then added impetuously—it seemed so natural to confide in Jack!—"About money, I mean. I don't know what I have, or if I have anything at all. Father always said he was poor, though he seemed to have enough for what he wanted, and to give me all I asked. Perhaps he made enough to keep us, but had nothing to leave behind. Mrs Nisbet just referred to the subject one evening, and I could see from her manner that there was something I did not know, so I turned the conversation at once. I had had so much trouble that I felt as if I simply could not bear any more bad news just then, and would rather remain in ignorance as long as possible. It was weak, perhaps, but—can't you understand the feeling?"

"Me name's O'Shaughnessy!" said Jack simply. "We never face a disagreeable fact until it comes so close that we hit ourselves against it. I'm sorry; but don't worry more than you can help. I've been short of money all my life, but I don't know anyone who has had a better time. So long as you have youth and health, what does it matter whether you are rich or poor? It's all in the way you look at things. For useful purposes, most people can make their money go farther than mine, but for sheer fun and enjoyment I'll back my half-crown against another fellow's sovereign!"

"Ah, but you're Irish! You have the happy temperament which can throw off troubles and forget all about them for the time being. They sit right down upon my shoulders—little black imps of care, and anxiety, and quaking fears, and press so heavily that I can remember nothing else. Perhaps I could be philosophical too, if I were one of a big, happy family—but when one is all alone—"

"All alone—when I'm here! How can you be all alone, when there are two of ye!" cried Jack impulsively.

He had resolved, not once, but a hundred times over, that he would speak no words but those of friendship; that no temptation, however strong, should make him break his vow of silence; but some impulses seem independent of thought. He did not know what he was going to do, he was conscious of no mental prompting, but one moment he was quietly sitting in his corner opposite Sylvia, and the next he was seated beside her, with both arms wrapped tightly round her trembling figure, and she was shedding tears of mingled sorrow and happiness upon his shoulder.

"I've been in love with you ever since the first evening you came to our house. Before that! Ever since I saw you sitting up at your window in your little red jacket. You knew it, didn't you? You found that out for yourself?"

"No—Yes! Sometimes. Only I thought—I was afraid it couldn't be true, and there was—Mollie!" faltered Sylvia incoherently, hardly knowing what she was saying, conscious of nothing but an overwhelming sense of content and well-being, as the strong arm supported her tired back, and the big, tender finger wiped away her tears.

Jack laughed at the suggestion, but did not indulge in the depreciatory remarks concerning Miss Burrell which many men would have used under the circumstances.

"Good old Mollie!" he said. "She's a broth of a girl, but I would as soon think of marrying Bridgie herself. She was my confidante, bless her, and cheered me up when I was down on my luck. You might have noticed how interested she was in you that night at Esmeralda's crush!"

At that Sylvia opened her eyes wide, with a sudden unpleasant recollection.

"What will Esmeralda think? Oh, Jack, what will she say?"

"Plenty, my dear! You may be sure of that," replied Jack, laughing; then he, too, gave a little start of surprise, and, straightening himself, held Sylvia from him at the length of his strong young arms. "I say—what's this? You little witch, what have you done to me? I had made a solemn vow not to speak a word of love-making, and it seems to me I have broken it pretty successfully. Have I been making love to you, Sylvia—have I?"

It was a very charming little face that laughed back at him, pale no longer, but flushed to a delicate pink, the dark eyes a-sparkle with happiness, and a tinge of the old mischievous spirit.

"Yes, you have! Do you want to draw back?"

Jack's answer was wordless but convincing, but the next moment he sobered, and said in that charming way of his, which was at once so manly and so boyish, "But I didn't want to bind you, I spoke only for myself. I am your property, darling, and your slave to command, but I can't ask you to marry me yet awhile, for I've the children on my hands, and until they are settled I can't think of myself. I am the head of the house, and must do what I can for them, poor creatures.

"Pat will be off to the Agricultural College next term, and then back to Ireland to do agent's work; Miles is doing well in the city, but can't keep himself for several years to come; and then there are the girls. I had no right to speak as I did; it wasn't fair to you. I won't bind you down to a long, uncertain engagement. You must feel yourself free, perfectly free."

"I don't want to be free! I like to be bound—to you, Jack!" Sylvia said firmly. "I'm so thankful that you did speak, for it makes just all the difference in my life. I am young, and can wait quite happily and contentedly, so long as I know that you care, and can look forward—"

Sylvia stopped short, awed at the prospect of happiness which had suddenly opened before her, and Jack was silent too, holding her hand in a close pressure. His face was very tender, but troubled through all its tenderness, and when he spoke again, it was in very anxious accents.

"But are you contented to leave it a secret, darling, a secret between you and me? You see, if Bridgie knew we were waiting, she'd know no peace, feeling that she was in our way, and the young ones would get the same fancy, and be wanting to turn out before they were ready. They have no one but me, and I couldn't have them feeling upset in their own home. That was why I determined to keep silent, and it's bad of me to have broken my vow, but it's your own fault, darling! I couldn't be with you again, and keep quiet. Do you care for me enough to wait perhaps for years before we can even be publicly engaged?"

Sylvia smiled at him bravely, but her heart sank a little, poor girl, as it was only natural it should do. A girl is by nature much quicker than a man projecting herself into the future, and in realising all that is involved.

Jack was conscious only of a general regret that he could not claim his bride before the world, but Sylvia saw in a flash the impossibility of frequent meetings, the minute chance of tete-a-tetes, the quicksands in the shape of misunderstandings, which must needs attend so unnatural a position. On the other hand, she honoured Jack the more for his loyalty to his home duties, and agreed with the wisdom of his decision.

"Yes, Jack, I do. I'd like to wait. I love Bridgie with all my heart, and could not bear her to suffer through me. It shall be exactly as you think best for them in every way."

Jack bent and kissed her, even more tenderly than before.

"My little helpmeet!" he said, and Sylvia found her best reward in the sound of that word, and the knowledge that she was strengthening him in the right path. Surely it was the best guarantee for the happiness of their new relationship, that it was inaugurated in a spirit of self- sacrifice and care for others.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

REMINISCENCES.

Bridgie was not waiting at the station. "She heard me saying that I might be here myself, and maybe remembered that two are company," said Jack, with a laugh.

But when Rutland Road was reached someone stood waiting to open the door of the cab and welcome the wanderer in the sweetest tones of a sweet contralto voice. She said only a few words, but with true Irish tact chose just the ones which were most comforting under the circumstances.

"Welcome back, dear. I've missed you badly. So have we all." Then she looked at Jack, and smiled as if his presence were the most natural thing in the world. "You have brought her home safely. That's right," she said. It was one of Bridgie's most lovable qualities that she never asked awkward questions, nor showed undue curiosity about the affairs of others.

Brother and sister said good-bye at the door, leaving aunt and niece alone, and, as the door closed behind them, Sylvia felt a spasm of loneliness and regret. It was hard to part from Jack with that formal shake of the hand, to feel that days might elapse before they met again, and, as she looked round the ugly little dining-room, she felt like a prisoned bird which longs to break loose the bars and fly to its mate.

It seemed impossible to settle down to the old monotonous life, and yet—and yet—how much, much worse it might have been! How thankful she ought to be! If one hope had been taken away, another had been granted in its stead. The path ahead was still bright with promise, and a sudden pity seized her for the woman whose youth was gone, and who had lost the last tie to the past. She returned her aunt's kisses with unusual affection, and roused herself to notice and show appreciation of the efforts which had been made on her behalf.

The table was laid with the best china, the red satin tea-cosy had been brought from its hiding-place upstairs and divested of its muslin bag and holland wrappings; the centre mat presented by Cousin Mary Ferguson two Christmases ago was displayed for the first time; the serviettes were folded into rakish imitations of cocked hats.

It was half touching, half gruesome, to find the occasion turned into a fete, but Sylvia was determined to be amiable, and said gratefully—

"How kind of you to have supper ready for me, Aunt Margaret! I could not eat anything on the boat, but now I believe I am hungry. It all looks very good. The chickens one gets in France are not the least like the ones at home."

"They don't know how to feed them, my dear. I am glad you have an appetite. I always find that when I am in trouble nothing tempts me so much as a cup of tea and a slice off the breast. Just take off your hat, and sit down as you are. Everything is ready."

Miss Munns was evidently gratified to receive an acknowledgment of her efforts, and insisted upon waiting upon her niece and loading her plate with one good thing after another; but after the meal was over there followed a painful half-hour, when Sylvia had to submit to a searching cross-questioning on the events of the past weeks.

Unlike Bridgie, Miss Munns insisted upon detail—had a ghoulish curiosity to know in exactly what words Mrs Nisbet had broken the sad news, in exactly what words Sylvia had replied, in exactly what manner the first black days had been spent. Her spectacles were dimmed with tears as she listened to what the girl had to tell, and her thin lips quivered with genuine grief; but she was still acutely interested to hear of the number of carriages at the funeral, of the meals in the hotel, and the purchase of Sylvia's mourning garments.

"You must show them to me to-morrow. I expect they are very smart— coming from France. I always wear black, so there was not much to be done. I had the black satin taken off my cashmere dress, and folds of crape put in its place, and some dull trimming, instead of jet, on my cape. I haven't decided about my bonnet. You must give me your advice. Of course, I wish to do everything that is proper, but it's been an expensive year."

"Yes," assented Sylvia absently. She rose from her seat and, walking across the room, leant her elbow on the mantelpiece. There was something she wanted to say, and it was easier to say it with averted face. "Aunt Margaret, I want to ask you a question. Please tell me the truth. Shall I have any money? Was father able to provide for me? I know you are not well off, and I could not bear to be a burden to you. If I have no money of my own, I must try to earn some."

"I should be telling you the truth, my dear, if I said that I knew less about it than you do yourself. Your father was very close about business matters—very close indeed. He was supposed to have a good business a few years ago, and was always very handsome in his ways, but he has grumbled a good deal of late, and I don't know how things will be now he is gone. He had a lawsuit with an old partner in Ceylon, which hung on a long time. I don't know if it is settled yet; and, if not, we shall have to let it drop. You can always have a home with me; but there will be nothing to spare for lawyers' expenses. Give me a bird in the hand, as I said to your father the last time he was home.

"If the worst comes to the worst, you can give some music lessons in the neighbourhood. Mrs Burton was telling me on Monday that her little boy has quite a taste—picks out all the barrel-organ tunes on the piano with one finger. You might get him as a beginning."

"Yes," assented Sylvia faintly; and to herself she cried, "Oh, Jack dear—how good of you to love me! How good of you to give me something to live for! How dreadful, dreadful, dreadful I should be feeling now if you had not met me, and made the whole world different!"

Miss Munns was watching her anxiously, fearing a burst of tears, and was greatly relieved when she turned round and showed a composed and even smiling face. "I'll find some work if it is necessary, auntie; and I'll try to help you too. You have been very good to me, and I'm afraid I have been rather horrid sometimes. I thought of it when I was away, and determined to make a fresh start if you would forgive me this time. We are the only two left, and we ought to love each other."

"I am sure I am very much attached to you, my dear. I was saying so to Miss O'Shaughnessy only to-day. I don't deny that your manner is rather sharp at times, but there's nothing like trouble for taming the spirits. I shouldn't wonder if we got along much more happily after this. Miss Bridgie brought a little parcel for you—I mustn't forget that. It is on that little table. She told me to give it to you at once."

"What can it be, I wonder?—something I left over there by mistake, I suppose," Sylvia said listlessly, as she unfolded the paper; but her expression altered the next moment as she beheld a flat leather case, inside which reposed a miniature painting of the same face which used to smile upon her from her own chimney-piece.

Surprise held her speechless, while a quick rush of tears testified more eloquently than words to the faithfulness of the portrait. The painting was exquisitely fine and soft, the setting the perfection of good taste in its handsome severity. It seemed at the moment just the greatest treasure which the world could offer. Who could have sent it?

Sylvia reluctantly handed the case for Miss Munns's curious scrutiny, the while she opened the note which had fallen from the paper. Bridgie's handwriting confronted her; but she had hardly time to marvel how so costly a gift could come from such an impecunious donor, before surprise number two confronted her in the opening words.

"Esmeralda told me to give you this miniature from myself, but I want you to know that it is entirely her idea and present from the beginning. As soon as she heard your sad news, she asked me to borrow the best photograph of your father, to be copied by the same artist who painted the Major for her. She has been to see how he was getting on almost every day, till the poor man was thankful to finish it, just to be rid of her, and here it is to welcome you, dear, and, we hope, to be a comfort to you, all your life."

"Esmeralda!" echoed Sylvia blankly. It seemed for a moment as if Bridgie must be romancing, for the staid English mind refused to believe that one who had at one time appeared actively antagonistic, and at the best had shown nothing warmer than a lofty tolerance, should suddenly become the most thoughtful and generous of friends. Yet there it was, specified in black and white. Esmeralda had originated the kindly plan; she had engaged no second-rate artist, but one to whom her own work had been entrusted, and had given freely of what was even more value to her than money, her time, in order that the gift should arrive at the right moment.

Sylvia flushed with a gratification which was twofold in its nature, for here at last seemed an opening of drawing near in heart to that beautiful, baffling personality, who was Jack's sister, and might some day—oh, wonderful thought!—be her own also. It would be a triumph, indeed, if in these days of waiting she could overcome the last lingering prejudice, and feel that there would be no dissentient note when at last the great secret was revealed.

Aunt and niece hung together over the case with its precious contents, the one exhausting herself in expressions of gratitude and appreciation, the other equally delighted, but quite unable to resist looking the gift horse in the mouth, and speculating in awed tones concerning the enormous cost of ivory miniatures. That jarred, but on the whole the evening passed more pleasantly than Sylvia could have believed possible, the unexpected excitement breaking the thread of that painful cross- examination, and carrying the old lady's thoughts back to the far-off days when she and her brother had been sworn friends and playmates.

"Tell me what you used to do, auntie! It must be so nice to have someone to play with. Do tell me some of your escapades!" she pleaded wistfully, and Miss Munns shook her head, and assumed a great air of disapproval, though it was easy to see that she cherished a secret pride in the remembrance of her own audacities.

"I am afraid we were very naughty, thankless children. One day, I remember, Teddy, as we used to call him, had been very rightly punished for disobedience, and he confided in me that he intended to run away, and go to sea, as a cabin-boy. We always did everything together in those days, so of course nothing must suit me but I must go too. We got up early the next morning, and ran out into the garden, where we were allowed to play before breakfast, and then slipped out of the side door, to walk to Portsmouth.

"Portsmouth was eighteen miles away, and I was only six, and before we had walked two miles, I was crying with fatigue and hunger. Teddy had brought some bread-and-butter, so we sat under a hedge to eat it, and he told me we must be very nearly there. Just then up came a tramp, and stopped to ask why we were crying, and what we were doing out there in the road at that hour in the morning. 'We are going to Portsmouth to be cabin-boys,' we told him, and I can remember to this day how he laughed. 'If you are going to be cabin-boys, you won't want those clothes,' he said. 'You had better take them off, and give them to me, to change for proper sailor things.'

"We thought that a splendid idea, so he took Teddy's suit, and my frock and hat, and left us shivering under the hedge waiting his return. Of course he never came, and an hour or two later, my father came driving along to look for us, and we were taken home, and punished as we deserved. That is to say, Teddy was whipped, and I was only put to bed, for he insisted that the idea was his, and that he alone was to blame."

"Nice little Teddy!" murmured Sylvia fondly, looking down at the pictured face, which, despite grey hair and wrinkles, had still the gallant air of the little boy who shielded his sister from blame.

Having once started, Miss Munns told one story after another of her childhood's days; of the lessons which brother and sister used to learn together—a whole page of Mangnall's Questions at a time, and of the dire and terrible conspiracy, by which they learnt alternate answers, easily persuading the docile governess to take the right "turns." Thus Teddy, when asked "What is starch?" could reply with prompt accuracy, while remaining in dense ignorance of the date when printing was introduced into England, concerning which his small sister was so well informed.

Sylvia was told of the books which were read and re-read, until the pages came loose from their bindings; of the thrilling adventures of one Masterman Ready, whose stockade, being besieged by savages, it became an immediate necessity to guard the gate at the head of the nursery stairs, and to hurl a succession of broken toys at the innocent nurse, as she forced an entry; of a misguided and stubborn "Rosamond" who expended her savings on a large purple vase from a chemist's window, and found to her chagrin that when the water was poured away, it was only a plain glass bottle; and of a certain "Leila," who sojourned on a desert island in the utmost comfort and luxury, being possessed of a clever father who found all that he needed on the trees in the forest.

An hour later, when Sylvia went up to her room, it was impossible to resist drawing aside the blind to look across the road, and in an instant, another blind was pulled back, and a tall dark figure stood clearly outlined against the lighted background.

Sylvia understood that Jack had been watching for her advent, and felt comforted by his presence, and all that was meant by that waving hand. She wondered whether she had better write to Esmeralda, or try to see her in person, but the question was decided by Pixie, who came over early the next morning to announce Mrs Hilliard's arrival in the afternoon.

"She wants to see you, and say she's sorry," she explained, and when Sylvia exhausted herself in expressions of gratitude and delight, "Oh, Esmeralda would give you her skin if it would fit ye!" she said coolly. "She's the kindest of us all when she isn't cross. Give her her way, and you may have all the rest. I've known her raise the roof on us, and appealing to every relation we owned, to get what she wanted, and then wrap it up in brown paper that very day, and post it back where it came. I'm glad ye like it so much. Now if I'd been clever, and bought some more paints when those people wanted me, maybe I could have done it for you meself." Her face grew suddenly grave and wistful.

"When I got my telegram at school, the girls all brought me home presents from the walk—pencil-boxes, and jujubes, and a little toy rabbit that wagged its head. I don't know how it was, but they soothed my feelings! I should have liked to buy you something, Sylvia, but I don't get my wages till the end of the month, and then they are spent. You'll excuse me, won't you, me dear, for you know I am sorry!"

"My darling girl, I don't want presents! Come to see me as often as you can, and go on being fond of me—that's all I want," cried Sylvia warmly, and Pixie brightened once more.

"There's no credit in that. It isn't as if you were nasty. I'll not be able to call on ye as often as I'd like, for I'm off to the seaside. Mrs Wallace has taken a house on the Thames, and her cousin is coming home from the wars and a friend with him, and lots of ladies and gentlemen all staying in the house to be entertained, so they want me to go too. Of course!"

"Of course," repeated Sylvia gravely. There was something so charming in Pixie's simple assumption that everyone desired her company, that she would not for the world have tried to destroy it. "I hope you will enjoy yourself very much, dear, and come back with some colour in your cheeks, though I am afraid that particular part of the 'seaside' is not very bracing. Tell Mrs Hilliard with my love that I shall be charmed to see her this afternoon!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ESMERALDA'S VISIT.

Miss Munns was greatly excited to hear of the expected visit, and busied herself taking the holland covers off the drawing-room chairs, and displaying the best antimacassars in the most advantageous position.

Sylvia longed to introduce a little disorder into the painful severity of the room, but it would have distressed her aunt if she had moved a chair out of the straight, or confiscated one of the books which were ranged at equal distances round the rosewood table, and, as it was one of her resolves not to interfere with domestic arrangements, she shrugged her shoulders resignedly, and hoped that Esmeralda might be as unnoticing of her surroundings as were her brothers and sisters.

At four o'clock a carriage drove up to the door, and Esmeralda alighted, clad from head to foot in black, as Sylvia noticed at the first quick glance. She was waiting in the little drawing-room, and scarcely was the door opened when the tall figure was at her side, and her hands were crushed with affectionate fervour. She looked up, and was startled by the beauty of the face above her, startled as even Esmeralda's brothers and sisters were at times, when as now the grey eyes were misty with tears, and the lips all sweet and tremulous.

"If I'd known—if I'd had the slightest idea he was ill, I would rather have killed myself than have behaved as I did! Oh, don't pretend you didn't notice! I was hateful to you when you were ill, too, poor creature, and my sister's guest. I told Geoff all about it. I hate telling him when I do wrong, so I did it just as a penance, and he was so vexed with me. Do you know why I spoke as I did? Did you guess the reason?"

Sylvia shrank into herself with an uneasy foreboding, for Esmeralda was an impetuous creature, who might be expected to be as undisguised in her penitence as in offence.

"Oh, please don't say anything more about it!" she cried hurriedly. "It was very trying for you finding me there when you came over for a visit. I have forgotten all about it, if there is anything to forget; and now there's this lovely miniature. How can I thank you?"

"Oh, that is nothing—that's nothing!" cried Esmeralda, waving aside the subject, and insisting upon a full confession of her fault. "I was jealous of you—that is what it was—jealous because they all seemed so fond of you, and I wanted their attention for myself. It was horribly mean, because I have Geoff and the boy, and it is only natural that they should want their own interests.

"I daresay Pixie has told you how father spoiled me all my life, and Bridgie gave way to me until it seemed natural to think first of myself. But I don't now. I think of Geoffrey and the boy, and I'm trying to be better for their sake. Geoff says he got me only just in time. He is rather stern with me sometimes, do you know. He doesn't say much— perhaps I don't give him the chance—but his face sets, and his eyes are so large and grave. I can't bear it when he looks at me like that, because, as a rule, you know,"—she gave a soft, happy little laugh—"he loves me so frightfully much, and we are so happy together. I ought to want every girl to be as happy as I am, and I do—really I do.

"In a month or two, when we are home at Knock, will you come and stay with me, Sylvia, and learn to be fond of me too? I'm rather lonely over there now that all the others have left, and I have not many girl- friends. The one I cared for most will be engaged soon, I think, and the man lives abroad, so she may be leaving the neighbourhood. It is not settled yet, but I think Mrs Burrell will give in."

She stared ostentatiously through the window, and Sylvia blushed, and had some ado not to smile at this very transparent intimation of hostility withdrawn.

"Thank you so much! I'd love to come," she said simply; and then the two girls talked quietly together for a few minutes before Miss Munns came in and dispensed tea and reminiscences of all the grand people whom she had ever met, with a view of impressing her visitor, who, of course, was not impressed at all, but secretly amused, as listeners invariably are under such circumstances.

Esmeralda was just rising to leave when a loud rat-tat at the knocker made Sylvia's heart leap in expectation; and the next moment Jack came into the room in his most easy and assured manner.

"I thought I would come across for my sister, and inquire how Miss Trevor was after her journey," he announced; and once more Sylvia smiled to herself as she noted how Esmeralda immediately plunged into animated conversation with Miss Munns, to keep her attention engrossed at the opposite end of the room.

Jack O'Shaughnessy stood by the window, and looked down upon his little love with tender, dissatisfied eyes.

"I say," he said softly, "I can't stand this sort of thing! Two minutes' talk, with two other people in the room. How much longer do you suppose I can stand this?"

"You have had only one day yet. It's too soon to complain. You may have seven years!" retorted Sylvia saucily; but at the bottom of her heart she was glad that he found it difficult to be patient.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

BY THE RIVER.

Pixie went off in great spirits to join the Wallaces at the riverside cottage which they had rented for the remainder of the summer. The heat in town was already growing oppressive, and it was delightful to think of being in the country again and running free over the dear green fields. Esmeralda had presented her with quite a trousseau of summer dresses, with a selection of hair-ribbons to match, at least an inch wider than any which she had previously possessed, and she piled up her pompadour higher than ever, and pulled out the bows to their farthest extent in her anxiety to do justice to the occasion, and the importance of her own position as the instructor of youth.

A pony-cart was at the station to meet her, with Viva and Inda clinging together on the front seat, ready to pour breathless confidences into her ear the moment she appeared. They spoke with a curious mingling of tongues, but had apparently no difficulty in understanding her when she replied in rapid, colloquial French, so that it was evident that the hours of play had not been wasted, but had the effect of successful study.

"Mamzelle! Mamzelle Paddy, we have boats in our house!" cried Viva eagerly. "Three boats with cushions, and a punt, and one with a funnel in the miggle. And Cousin Jim takes us out with the 'nother gentleman, and we splash with our hands, and the lady was cross because of her sash, and she dried it in the sun. And there's tea in the garden, and a big steamer that makes waves, and muzzer says if we are very good you will play with us at being gipsies under the wheel-barrow."

"An' we got in a box, and the water went up, an' up, an' up, an' then it went down, an' down, an' down, an' then we came home," contributed fat little Inda in her deep, gurgling voice, and Pixie turned from one to the other and cried, "Vraiment!" "Sans doute!" "Bravo!" and beamed in delighted expectation.

The house-party were assembled on the lawn drinking tea when the pony- carriage turned in at the gate, and Pixie looked round with sparkling eyes, quite dazzled by the beauty of the scene. The narrow road, running at the back of the houses, had been dull and uninteresting, but before many yards of the drive had been traversed, there came a view over the wide sunlit river, and beyond it green meadows stretching away as far as the eye could reach.

The house was not a cottage after all, but quite a large, imposing- looking house, and the lawn sloping to the river bank was smooth and soft as velvet. Baskets of flowers hung from the verandah; picturesque stumps of trees were hollowed out to receive pots of geraniums; a red and white awning shaded the tea-table; and the wicker chairs were plentifully supplied with scarlet cushions. It was Pixie's first peep at the summer glories of the river, and she felt as if she had stepped into fairyland itself.

The little girls seized her hands and dragged her in triumph across the lawn, and Mrs Wallace looked round, and said smilingly to her friends—

"Here's my French governess—the latest addition to the household. What do you think of my choice?"

"Governess! That girl! She looks a child herself. Edith, what nonsense are you talking?"

"Sense, my dear, I assure you. The wisest thing I ever did, as you will see before many hours are past. We shall have some peace now that she has arrived. Bon jour, Mamzelle. How I am happy to see thee again! Thou are not fatigued—no? Seat thyself in this chair, and I will make known to thee my friends."

She spoke in French, and evidently wished her governess to appear as French on this occasion at least; and Pixie rose to the occasion, sweeping elaborate bows from side to side, unconsciously elevating her shoulders, and waving expressive hands. She discoursed volubly about her long and adventurous journey of three-quarters of an hour's duration, and Mrs Wallace's guests looked on with smiling faces, putting an occasional laborious question as she appeared to be reaching the end of her story.

There were several ladies, all young and pretty and beautifully dressed, and three strange men, including Cousin Jim and his soldier friend from India. Cousin Jim had bright, twinkling eyes, and looked full of life and spirit; but his friend's brown face was lined and haggard, and his smile was half-hearted, as if his thoughts were not in the present.

Pixie noticed, however, that it was to his side that little Inda crept for support, and that his disengaged hand softly stroked the child's head from time to time, as if he found comfort in her presence. Such good friends did they appear that after the meal was finished she refused to be separated from him, and implored his company in the gipsy tent in the paddock. Mrs Wallace protested, but the young fellow declared that he enjoyed being victimised, and walked off with the schoolroom party with the utmost good humour.

"But I can't speak French, Viva," he explained—"not well enough to be able to converse with Mademoiselle, at least! You must explain to her that I am only a stupid Englishman, and ask her to excuse me. You can translate that for me, I suppose?"

"She's not French either; she's only pitending. She's only English the same as me," protested Viva sturdily; and Pixie nodded at him with complacent smiles.

"But I've lived abroad; so I speak it to them for their good. You've been away too, haven't you? I hope you enjoyed yourself?"

He smiled, but it was rather a sad little smile, despite its amusement. "I went for work, you know, not pleasure. We accomplished what there was to do, which was satisfactory; but I can't honestly say I enjoyed it."

"I hate work!" agreed Pixie sympathetically. "We all do; it's in the family. 'Never do to-day what you can put off till to-morrow,' my brother used to tell me, for you never know what may happen, and you may get out of it altogether if you wait. But if we are obliged to do it, we pretend we like it, for it's so dull to be unhappy. And if it was horrid abroad, it makes it all the nicer to come back, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes," he said shortly.

They had reached the gipsy encampment by this time, and were peremptorily commanded to sit down on a bench pending certain important preparations under the wheel-barrow; so he took possession of one corner, and Pixie took the other and stared at him with unabashed scrutiny. He was unhappy, she decided, and that was enough to enlist her whole-hearted sympathy; but besides being unhappy, he was very good to look upon, with his bronzed skin, well-cut features, and soldierly bearing. She admired him immensely; and the admiration was mutual, though of a different nature.

She was a quaint-looking little soul, the young fellow decided—plain- looking, he had thought on first sight, but there was something oddly attractive about the wide eyes and large curving lips; you wanted to look at them once and yet again, and each time you looked the attraction increased. What was it? Not beauty, not intellect, not wit—nothing, it appeared, but a crystalline sincerity and sweetness of heart, which exercised an irresistible claim on the affections. His face softened, and he bent towards her with a kindly questioning.

"How do you come to be governessing these children? You are so young still—sixteen—seventeen, is it? You ought to be in the schoolroom yourself!"

"There was nothing else I could do, and I wanted to earn some money, because we're poor. I'm small, but I've known a lot of trouble," replied Pixie, with a complacent air which was distinctly trying to her companion's composure. He stroked his moustache to hide the twitching lips, and said solemnly—

"I'm sorry—very sorry to hear that! I hope, however, it is all in the past. You look remarkably cheerful now."

"That's because I'm helping; and we are such a nice family at home. If you are with the people you like best, that makes you happy, doesn't it, without thinking of anything else?"

"Yes," he said shortly, and rose from his seat to walk across to where the children were scrambling on the grass. They leapt on him, and hung on his arms; and he played with them for five or ten minutes, then produced a packet of chocolate from a pocket, and giving it to Pixie to distribute, made his escape to the house.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A CONFIDENCE.

During the next few days the "Capting," as Viva called him, was constantly deserting his companions to join himself to the schoolroom party in their walks and games.

As Pixie had suspected, his heart was sore, and the innocent affection which the children lavished upon him made their society more congenial than that of his own companions, who were enjoying their stay in the country in merry, uproarious fashion.

Viva and Inda were interesting and original children, while "Mamzelle Paddy" was a house-party in herself—a delicious combination of shrewdness and innocence. He had little chance of private conversation with her, for the children were exacting in their demands; but their intimacy rapidly increased, as was only natural under the circumstances.

It was impossible to remain on formal terms with one who was united with yourself to withstand an assault of wild savages, as portrayed by two little girls with branches of bracken waving above their heads, and geranium petals stuck in ferocious patterns about their cheeks; impossible not to feel an affection for the tallest member of the battalion which marched regularly every morning to the corner of the paddock to be drilled by their commander, scarlet sashes crossed sideways over holland dresses, and Panama hats fastened by immaculate black chin-straps.

In the afternoon, when the grown-up members of the household drove off in state to attend garden parties at neighbouring mansions, the Captain found it infinitely more enjoyable to punt slowly down the stream, dreaming his own dreams, or listening with a smile while the older child amused her juniors by quaint and adventurous stories.

She was always happy, this little Mamzelle Paddy. Another girl of her age might have felt lonely and diffident in this large, bustling household, but she was sunshine personified—content to work, content to play, content to go on an expedition, content to be left behind, having no desires of her own, it would appear, excepting only this one—to love, and be loved by those around.

"Some day, Mamzelle," the Captain said, "I will take you and the children a little jaunt on our own account. We will take a boat and go up the river to a dear little spot which I know very well, and there we will have tea and pretend to be Robinson Crusoes on a desert island. It is an island, you know; and we will take a basket of provisions with us, and boil our own kettle, and spread the tablecloth under the trees. Robinson didn't have tablecloths, I believe; but we will improve on the story, and go shopping in the village to see what we can buy."

"Wants to go now!" Inda insisted; while Viva executed a war-dance of triumph, and Pixie murmured deeply—

"I love picnics! We had a beauty once when I was young. 'Twas some friends near by, and they asked me and Miles; and ye could smell the cooking coming up the drive—all sorts of things cooked for days before, and packed in hampers. We went there by train—to the place we were going to, I mean—but by bad luck the hampers went somewhere else, through leaving them on the platform without seeing them put in. Ye get very hungry when you are enjoying yourself, and there was nothing to be bought in the village but bread and spring-onions and herrings in barrels. 'Twas a lucky accident, all the same, for we had the picnic, and a party next day to eat up the food."

"Well, we'll look after the hamper this time. We should not find even the onions on our island," said the Captain, laughing. "We will ask Mrs Wallace's permission when she comes home, and begin preparations to-morrow morning if it is fine."

Mrs Wallace protested that the children were being spoiled by so much kindness, but was delighted to give her consent, and the next morning was happily employed in packing the tea-basket, and purchasing strawberries, cakes, and chocolates from the shops in the village.

Several of the visitors pleaded to be allowed to join the party, and tried to wheedle invitations from the children during the luncheon-hour, to their own humiliation and defeat.

"You would like to have me with you, wouldn't you, darling? You would like to sit next to me in the boat?" pleaded one pretty young lady of the chubby baby; but Inda wriggled away, and replied sturdily—

"Don't want you in the boat! Don't want nobody only the Capting and Mamzelle. You go anuzzer picnic by yourself!"

"You must forgive us, Miss Rose, but this is strictly a limited expedition. We children want to be as mischievous as we like without the controlling influence of grown-up people. No best frocks, please, Mrs Wallace! Just holland pinafores that we can soil as much as we like!" pleaded the Captain, feeling more than rewarded for his firmness as he met the adoring glances of three pairs of innocent eyes.

There was quite a little assembly by the boat-house to speed the expedition on its way, and it is safe to say that no boat on the river that afternoon carried a happier, more excited party. The Captain rowed; Pixie sat in the stern and pulled the rudder-lines according to instructions, with occasional lapses of memory when she mistook her right hand for her left, and was surprised to find the boat going in an opposite direction from what had been intended; the little girls sat on either side, as yet too mindful of their promises of good behaviour even to splash the water. They snored with excitement at the mystery of the first lock, and wrapped their hands in their pinafores to keep them safely out of the way, since the Captain said that it was impossible to be too careful in such places.

Along the banks were dotted beautiful houses set back in luxuriant gardens; round the bend of the river stood a house-boat known by the fascinating name of The Yellow Butterfly. The paint was white, but everything else was a rich, glowing yellow—yellow plants and flowers in baskets; yellow curtains to the windows; yellow cushions on the chairs; actually—if you can believe it—a yellow parakeet in a golden cage on the top deck.

"I should like to live and die in that house-boat!" cried Viva rapturously.

Presently came the sound of music from afar and a thud, thud, thud, which foretold the advent of a steamer. Now there would be waves—real, true, up-and-down waves, and you could pitend you were going to be drowned, and the boat go upside down. What fun! What fun! The gurgles of excitement, the clutchings of Mamzelle's skirts, the shrieks of exultation as the happy moment drew near, were as charming to the beholder as to the children themselves.

In the sunny reaches of the river the boats carried Japanese umbrellas which made charming touches of colour against the green. Under the great trees more boats were moored in the shade, while their occupants brought out the tea-baskets from beneath the seats.

Viva and Inda regarded all such proceedings as deliberate offences against their exclusive rights, and angrily pointed out the fact that "other people" were having picnics too; but the Captain soothed them by a promise that the island should be their private property, and that he would fight to the death to keep off foreign invasions. Already this land of promise was looming in the distance, and presently they were rowing slowly round and round looking for a convenient place of landing, tying the rope to the trunk of a willow whose branches dipped in the stream, and stepping cautiously ashore.

The children were wild with excitement, but the Captain claimed for himself a quarter of an hour's rest and smoke before proceeding to the difficult business of boiling the kettle; and the two little girls scampered off to explore the island, promising faithfully to keep clear of the banks.

"Mamzelle shall stay and talk to me! It's my turn to be amused," he said; but for once Pixie did not seem in a talkative mood, but leant silently against the stump of a tree, staring around her with dreamy eyes.

The young fellow watched her curiously as he pulled his pipe out of his pocket and prepared for the longed-for smoke. "What are you thinking of, Mamzelle?" he asked; and Pixie looked round with a little start of remembrance.