"I think you quite worthy of me," she answered, softly, and now there were tears in her eyes.

"Oh, no; no fellow could be that," he replied, decidedly. "I am well enough in my way, and compared with other men I am not so bad," continued Dick, who had a sufficiently good opinion of his own merits, in spite of the humility of his speech; "but as to coming up to you, Nan, by a long way, why, the thing is impossible! But I tell you this, it helps a fellow to keep right and steady when he believes in the goodness of the girl belonging to him."

"You must not make me vain," she half whispered, and her lips trembled a little at his praise. But he disregarded this remonstrance, and went on:

"You have kept me right all my life. How could I ever do a mean or a shabby action to make you ashamed of me? When I was tempted once or twice,—for idle young fellows will be tempted,—I used to say to myself, No, Nan would not approve if she knew it. And I held tight to this thought, and I am glad now that I can look in your dear face and tell you this. It makes me feel so happy." And indeed Dick's face was radiant.

They were almost sorry when the journey was over; they had so much to say to each other. The wintry landscape was growing gray and indistinct as they reached their destination, and, though Nan peered anxiously into the darkness for a glimpse of each well-remembered spot, she could only just discern the dim outline of Glen Cottage before the carriage turned in at the gates of Longmead.

Mr. Mayne had determined to pay his intended daughter-in-law all becoming honors, and as soon as the carriage wheels were heard he had the hall door thrown back to show the bright, welcoming light, and he himself descended the flight of steps to the terrace. "Just as though I were a royal personage," laughed Nan. But she was a little nattered by the compliment.

Most girls would have felt the awkwardness of the situation, but not Nan. The moment Dick assisted her out of the carriage she walked up to his father, and put up her face to be kissed in the most natural way. "It was so good of you to ask me here; and I am so glad to come," she said, simply.

"There, there! run in out of the cold," was all his answer; and he patted her hand a little awkwardly. But, though his voice had its usual gruffness, his manner was otherwise kind. "How are you, Dick? I hope Roper did not keep you waiting at the station, for you are a quarter of an hour behind your time." And then he took his son's arm and walked up the steps again.

Nan, meanwhile, had run through the hall and into the warm, softly-lighted drawing-room, and there she soon found herself in Mrs. Mayne's motherly arms. When the gentlemen came in they interrupted quite a little scene, for Mrs. Mayne was actually crying over the girl, and Nan was kissing her.

"Don't you think you had better stop that sort of thing, Bessie," observed her husband, drily, "and get Nan a cup of tea? You would like some tea, my dear, would you not?" in a more gracious voice.

Of course Nan said she would like some, just to show her appreciation of his thoughtfulness; and then Dick said he should like some too, and his father quizzed him a little as he rang the bell. And as Mrs. Mayne obediently dried her eyes at her husband's behest, they were soon very happy and comfortable. When Nan's cup was empty, Dick darted to take it, that it might be replenished; but his father was before him.

All that evening Mr. Mayne waited on Nan, quite ignoring his son's claims. He had a special brand of champagne served that Nan had once said she liked; and he reminded her of this, and pressed her to partake of it.

"This is to your health, my dear," he said, lifting his glass of port to his lips when the servants had withdrawn; "and to yours too, Dick." And then Nan blushed very becomingly, and Dick thanked him a little gravely.

"I do think the old boy has fallen in love with you himself, for he has not let me come near you all the evening," whispered Dick later on that night, pretending to grumble, but in reality looking very happy.

"He has been so good to me," returned the girl; and she repeated this for Mrs. Mayne's benefit, when at last the two women found themselves free to indulge in a little talk. Nan had coaxed her friend to sit beside her fire for a few minutes, and then she had knelt down beside her, wrapping her arms round her in the most affectionate way.

"Dear, dear Mrs. Mayne, how nice all this is! and how good Mr. Mayne has been to me all this evening!"

"My Richard never does things by halves," returned Mrs. Mayne, proudly. "People cannot always understand him, because his manner is a little rough sometimes; but I know, and none better, his real goodness of heart. Why, he is so pleased with himself and you and Dick this evening that he hardly knows how to contain himself; but he is a little awkward in showing it."

"Oh, no; I did not think him awkward at all."

"I must say you behaved beautifully, Nan, never seeming as though you remembered that there had been anything amiss, but just taking everything as he meant it. Of course I knew how you would act: I was not afraid that I should be disappointed."

"Of course I could not do otherwise."

"And Dick, too, behaved so well, keeping in the background just to give his father full freedom. I must say I was pleased with him, too, for most young men are so thoughtless; but then his behavior to his father has been perfect throughout."

"I knew it would be," whispered Nan.

"I am sure it made my heart ache to see him. Sometimes he would come in whistling and pretending to be his old self, so light-hearted and cheerful; and all the time he was fretting himself to death, as I told Richard. Richard was terribly trying sometimes,—you know his way,—but the boy bore it so well. It was not till the last, when they had that walk, and Dick was goaded into positive anger, that he ever lost his temper in the least. I will say this, Nan, that though my Dick may not be much to look at, he has the sweetest temper and the kindest heart." And so the simple woman ran on, and Nan listened, well pleased.

When Mr. Mayne came up to his dressing-room that evening, his wife stole in after him, and laid her hands on his shoulder as he stood thoughtfully contemplating the fire.

"Well, Richard, won't you own she is lovely now?"

"Humph! yes; I suppose people would call her pretty," he returned, in his grudging way. "But I tell you what, Bessie," suddenly kindling into animation, "she is better than handsome; she is out and out good, and she will make a man of Dick."

"God bless him, and her too!" whispered the mother, as she withdrew softly, but not before she caught the sound of an "Amen" uttered distinctly in her husband's voice.

Nan made Dick take her to all their old haunts the next morning; but first of all they went to Glen Cottage. Nan ran through all the rooms with almost a child's glee: nothing could exceed her delight when Dick showed her the drawing-room, with the new conservatory opening out of it.

"It always was a pretty room," she said, glancing round her; "but the conservatory and the new furniture have quite transformed it. How charmed mother and the girls will be! The whole house looks better than when we were in it."

"Nonsense!" returned Dick, stoutly. "There never was a house to compare with it. I always loved it; and so did you, Nan. What a summer we shall have here, when I am reading up for honors in the long vacation! I mean to work pretty hard; for when a fellow has such an object as that——" And then he looked at Nan meaningly; but she was not to be beguiled into that subject.

They were so happy, and so young, that they could afford to wait a little; and she did not wish Dick to speak yet of that day that was looming in the distance.

She could only be sure of one summer at Glen Cottage; but what a time they would have! She stood for a long while looking out on the lawn and calling up possible visions of summer afternoons. The tennis-ground was marked out already in her imagination; the tea-table in its old place under the trees; there was her mother knitting in her favorite wicker-chair; there were Dulce and Phillis, surrounded by their friends

"Come away, Nan. Are you moon-struck, or dreaming?" questioned Dick, drawing her arm through his. "Do you remember what we have to do before luncheon? And Vigo looks so impatient for his run." But even Dick paused for a moment in the veranda to show Nan the rose she had picked for him just there, and which still lay in his pocket-book.

All her old friends crowded round Nan to welcome her back; and great were the rejoicings when they heard that Glen Cottage was to be in the Challoners' possession again. Carrie Paine and Adelaide Sartoris called first. Carrie embraced Nan with tearful effusion: she was an honest, warm-hearted creature. But Adelaide looked at her a little curiously.

"Oh, my dear, the scandal that has been talked about you all!" she said, in a mysterious tone. "Carrie and I would not believe it: would we, Car? We told people to hold their tongues, and not talk such nonsense."

"Never mind that now, Addie," returned Nan, cheerfully. She felt she must be careful of what she said, for Dick's sake. "We have had our worries, and have worked as better people have before us; but now it is all over."

"But is it true that your cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, has bought Gilsbank?" broke in Carrie. "Tell us about him, dear. Addie thought she saw him once. Is he a tall man, with red hair?"

"Very red hair," responded Nan, laughing.

"Then I did see him," replied Miss Sartoris, decidedly. "He is quite a giant, Nan; but he looks very good-natured."

Miss Sartoris was just engaged to a dapper little colonel in the Hussars, so she could afford to be quizzical on the subject of Sir Harry's inches; but Carrie, who was at present unattached, was a little curious about the future master of Gilsbank.

After this, Nan called at Fitzroy Lodge, and Dick went with her. Lady Fitzroy, who was looking very pretty and delicate, welcomed Nan with the greatest kindness. When Lord Fitzroy came in with the rest of the gentlemen from hunting, he questioned Nan very closely about their new neighbor, Sir Henry Challoner, and made a great many kind inquiries after his favorite, Miss Phillis.

"So we are to have you all back, eh," he queried, pleasantly. "Well, I call that good news. I am bound that Evelyn is as pleased to hear it as I am."

"I am very much pleased," returned Lady Fitzroy graciously. "And you must tell your mother so, with my love. Percival, will you ring for some more hot water, please? I shall not be long: but I am going to take Miss Challoner upstairs to see our boy."

Nan knew that a great privilege was being conferred on her as she followed Lady Fitzroy into the grand nursery, where the tiny heir lay in his bassinette.

"Is he not just like Fitzroy?" exclaimed the proud young mother, as they stood looking down on the red crumpled features of the new-comer. "Nurse says she has never seen such a striking likeness."

"He is a darling!" exclaimed Nan, who was, like other girls, a devout baby-worshipper; and then they discoursed very eloquently on his infantile beauties.

It was after this that Lady Fitzroy congratulated Nan on her engagement, and kissed her in quite a sisterly way.

"Fitzroy and I do not think him half good enough for you," she said, very prettily. "But no one who knows Mr. Mayne can fail to like him, he is so thoroughly genuine and nice. Will the engagement be a long one, Miss Challoner?"

"Not so very long," Nan returned, blushing. "Dick has to read for honors; but, when he has taken his degree, his father has promised to make things straight for us, while Dick reads for the bar."

"He is to be a barrister, then?" asked Lady Fitzroy, in surprise. "You must not think me inquisitive, but I thought Mr. Mayne was so very well off."

"So he is," replied Nan, smiling,—"quite rich, I believe; but Dick would not like an idle life, and during his father's lifetime he can only expect a moderate income."

"You will live in London, then?"

"Oh, yes; I suppose so;" was Nan's answer. "But we have not talked much about that yet. Dick must work hard for another year, and after that I believe things are to be settled." And then Lady Fitzroy kissed her again, and they went downstairs.

Nan wrote home that she was feted like a queen, and that Dick grumbled sadly at having her so little to himself; but then Dick was much given to that sort of good-natured grumbling.

The visit was necessarily a very brief one, as term-time was approaching, and Dick had to go up to Oxford. On the last morning he took Nan for a walk down to Sandy Lane. Vigo and the other dogs were with them, and at the point where the four roads met, Dick stopped and leaned his arms over a gate.

"It will seem a long time to Easter, Nan," he said, rather lugubriously.

"Oh, no," she replied brightly to this; "you will have my letters,—such long ones, Dick,—and you know Mr. Mayne has promised to bring Phillis and me down for a couple of days. We are to stay at the Randolph, and of course we shall have afternoon tea in your rooms."

"Yes; I will ask Hamilton and some of the other fellows to meet you. I want all my friends to see you, Nan." And as Dick thought of the glory of this introduction, and of the envy of Hamilton and the other fellows, his brow cleared and his old spirits returned.

"I shall think of nothing but my work and those letters, Nan," were his last words. "I am determined that next summer shall see you my wife." His voice dropped over the last word almost shyly; but Nan saw a great brightness come into his eyes.

"You must not work too hard," was all her answer to this, as she moved gently away from him. But her heart beat a little faster at his words. No; she would only have another summer at Glen Cottage. She knew that, and then the new life would lie before them, which she and Dick were to live together.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

MRS. SPARSIT'S POODLE.

While Nan was being feted and petted at Longmead, Mattie's visit was dragging heavily to its close. Since the evening of the tea-party things had been more unsatisfactory than ever.

Archie and Grace were a good deal out. Grace was perpetually at the Friary, and Archie had resumed his old habit of dropping in there for a morning or evening chat. Sir Harry came almost daily, and often spent his disengaged hours with them; but Mattie never saw him for a moment alone. Grace was always in the room, and his conversation was chiefly addressed to her. When Mattie dropped sadly out of the talk, or sat silent in her corner, he did not in his old kind fashion try to include her in the conversation: indeed, he rarely noticed her, except in his brief leave-taking. It hurt Mattie inexpressibly to be thus ignored by her old friend, for from the first his cordiality had had a sunshiny influence over her,—he had been so good to her, so thoughtful for her comfort, before Grace came; but now he seemed to forget sometimes that such a person as Mattie even existed. Was it because Grace's fair, serious face had bewitched him, or was there anything on his mind? for more than once Mattie thought he seemed absent and ill at ease.

Mattie could not understand it at all. She was not a very acute little person, neither was she over-sensitive by nature, but this sudden coldness on Sir Harry's part was wounding and perplexing in the extreme. Had she done anything to offend him? Mattie wondered, or was he simply bored by her as most people were?

Once Archie had snubbed her very severely in his presence; something had put him out, and he had spoken to Mattie as though no one were present but their two selves. It was Grace who called him so gently to order, and made him feel ashamed of himself. Sir Harry did not even seem to notice it: he had a paper in his hand, and he went on reading it. But as Mattie left the room she heard him speaking to Grace in his usual way about some political question or other.

Mattie cried bitterly in her room that day. Somehow, she had never taken Archie's snubbing so much to heart before. How could he speak to her like that, she thought? What would Sir Harry think of her, and of him too? Archie's conscience pricked him when he saw the traces of tears on Mattie's face that afternoon, and he was very kind to her all the remainder of the day; but he did not apologize for his words: no one ever did apologize to Mattie. But to his surprise, and Grace's too, Mattie's sad face did not clear.

It was her last afternoon but one at the vicarage, and Mattie was sitting alone. All the morning she and Grace had been packing together, for Grace, in her sensible way, had begged her sister not to leave things for the last day. It would tire her for her journey, she said; and the Challoners were coming to spend Mattie's last evening with her at the vicarage; and there were the Middletons probably coming for an afternoon visit, and so Mattie had better keep herself free for her friends. Mattie had assented to this, and she had been very grateful to Grace for all the help she had given her. Her boxes were ready for cording, and her little parting gifts for the servants laid ready labelled in her drawers, and nothing remained for her busy hands to do.

It was a cold, cheerless afternoon; a cutting north wind and a gray cloudy sky made the fireside all the more tempting by comparison; but Mattie knew there was one duty unfulfilled that she ought to perform. She had promised to call and say good-bye to an old acquaintance of hers who lived at Rock Building.

Mrs. Chamberlain was not a favorite with most people: she was an invalid of somewhat uncertain temper, and most of her friends felt her society an infliction on their patience. Mattie, who was very good-natured, had often done kindly little offices for her, sitting with her for an hour or two at a time, and teaching her some new stitch, to beguile her tedious and often painful days.

Mrs. Chamberlain would feel herself aggrieved if Mattie disappointed her. And she never had stayed at home for the weather; only she was lazy,—tired, perhaps, from her packing,—and reluctant to move.

Sir Harry was in the study, she knew: she had heard his voice some time ago. He often turned in there of his own accord or perhaps Archie had waylaid him and brought him in, for they were excellent friends now; Grace was there, of course, but Mattie had hesitated to join them: none of them wanted her, she said bitterly to herself.

A dim hope that Grace might come in search of her, or that even Sir Henry might saunter in by and by and ask for a cup of tea in his old way, had kept Mattie in her place; but now it was getting a little late, and perhaps after all Grace would ring, and have the tea in there, as she had done once before: and it was no use waiting. And so, when Mattie reached this point, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat and thick jacket, and then, after a moment's hesitation, opened the study door.

It was just the scene she pictured. Sir Harry was in the big chair in front of the blazing fire, and Grace in her low wicker seat, facing him, with a Chinese screen in her hand. Archie was standing on the rug, with his elbow against the narrow wooden mantelpiece, and all three were talking merrily. Sir Harry stopped in the middle of a laugh, as Mattie entered, and shook hands with her a little gravely.

"How comfortable you all look!" faltered Mattie. The words came in spite of her efforts not to say them.

"Then come and join us," returned Archie, with unusual affability. "Grace was just wondering what you were doing."

"I was in the drawing-room alone. No, I cannot sit down, Archie, thank you. I am just going to bid old Mrs. Chamberlain good-bye: she is expecting me, and I must not disappoint her."

"Oh, but it is not fit for you," remonstrated Grace. "Sir Harry says the wind is piercing. Do put off your visit until to-morrow, Mattie, and we will go together."

"Fie, Miss Grace! never put off until to-morrow what can be done to-day," observed Sir Harry, in his joking voice. "What is it the copy-books say?—is it procrastination or money that is the root of all evil?"

"Sir Harry is quite right, and I must go," stammered Mattie, made quite desperate by this joke; he knew how the wind was sweeping over the gray sea, and yet he had not said a word about her remaining. Poor Mattie! a miserable choking feeling came into her throat, as she closed the door on another laugh and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. Another time she would not have minded it, for she was hardy by nature; but now the cold seemed to freeze her very heart; she looked quite blue and pinched when she entered Mrs. Chamberlain's drawing-room. It seemed to Mattie as though hours had passed before she brought her visit to a close, and yet she had been sitting there only three quarters of an hour before she took her leave. The old lady was very gracious this afternoon; she pressed Mattie again and again to wait a little until Sallie brought up the tea and a nice hot cake she was baking. But Mattie steadily refused even these tempting delicacies: she was not cold any longer, she said; but it was growing late, or the afternoon was darker than usual. And then she wished her old friend good-bye,—oh, good-bye for such a long time, Mattie thought,—and sallied forth bravely into the wind gain.

It had lulled a little, but the scene before her was very desolate; just the gray expanse of sea, with the white line of surge breaking into the shore; and here and there a wave tossing up its foamy head in the distance. The air seemed full of that continuous low rolling and splashing of breakers on the beach: a sea-gull was flying inland; the Parade looked white and wind-bleached,—not a creature in sight but a coast-guard on duty, moving backwards and forwards in a rather forlorn manner, except——Here Mattie turned her head quickly: yes, a little beyond there was a man in a rough pilot's coat, looking out seaward,—a nautical man, Mattie thought, by the way he stood, as though summer gales were blowing about his ears.

Mattie passed quite close to him, for the wind drifted her a little as she did so. He turned coolly round and confronted her.

"Sir Harry! Oh, I did not know you in the least," faltered Mattie, standing still in her surprise.

"I dare say not," he replied, quietly: "you have never seen me in this costume before, and I had my back turned towards you. I saw you coming, though, walking as unsteadily as a duck in a storm. What a time you have been, Miss Mattie! You ladies are so fond of a gossip."

"Were you waiting for me?" she asked, rather breathlessly, and then colored painfully at her question. How absurd! Of course he was not waiting for her; his hotel was just opposite, and he was probably taking a constitutional before his dinner. "Mrs. Chamberlain pressed me to take tea with her," she went on, by way of saying something, "but I told her I would rather go home."

"Miss Grace was just ringing for tea when I left," he returned. "No wonder you look cold or like a starved robin, Miss Mattie. Why are you walking so fast? there is no hurry, is there? I think you owe me some amends for keeping me standing for an hour in this bitter wind. There! why don't you take my arm and hold on, or you will be blown away?"

Mattie always did as she was bidden, and Sir Harry's tone was a little peremptory. He had been waiting for her, then; he had not quite forgotten her. Mattie began to feel a little less chilled and numb. If he would only say a kind word to her, she thought, she could go away more happily.

"I am thinking about that rejected cup of tea," he said, suddenly, when they had walked for a moment in silence: "it will be all cleared away at the vicarage, and you do look so cold, Miss Mattie."

"Oh, no, not very," she corrected.

"But I say that you do," he persisted, in quite a determined manner: "you are cold, and tired, and miserable,—there!"

"I—I am not particularly miserable," but there were tears in Mattie's voice, as she uttered this little fib. "I don't quite like going away and saying good-bye to people."

"Won't your people be kind to you?" Then changing his tone, "I tell you what, Miss Mattie, no one is in a hurry for you at home, and I don't see why we should not enjoy ourselves. You remember my old friend Mrs. Sparsit, who lives up at Rose Cottage,—you know I saved her poodle from drowning one rough day, when some boys got hold of it: well, Mrs. Sparsit and I are first-rate friends, and I will ask her to give us some tea."

"Oh, no," faltered Mattie, quite shocked at this; for what would Grace say? "I only know Mrs. Sparsit a very little."

"What does that matter?" returned Sir Harry, obstinately: "I am always dropping in myself for a chat. Now, it is no use your making any objection, Miss Mattie, for I have got a lot to say to you, and I don't mean to part with you yet. They will only think you are still at Rock Building, and I suppose you are old enough to act without Miss Grace's advice sometimes."

Mattie hung her head without replying to this. What a feeble, helpless sort of creature he must think her! his voice seemed to express a good-humored sort of contempt. Well, he was right; she was old enough to do as she pleased, and she would like very much to go with him to Mrs. Sparsit's. It was rather a reckless proceeding, perhaps; but Mattie was too down and miserable to argue it out, so she walked beside Sir Harry in a perfectly unresisting manner. Perhaps this was the last time she would enjoy his company for a long time: she must make the most of it.

"We need not walk quite so fast," he said, checking her, for she was hurrying again. "Look here, Miss Mattie, I want to ask you a queer sort of question, if only this confounded wind will let me make myself heard. Please don't laugh; I don't want to be laughed at, for I am quite in earnest. But have you any special objection to red hair?—I mean, do you particularly dislike it?"

Mattie opened her eyes rather widely at this. "No, I rather like it," she returned, without a moment's hesitation, and quite in the dark as to his possible meaning.

"Oh, that is all right," he returned, cheerfully. "You won't believe it, Miss Mattie, but, though I am such a great big fellow, I am as bashful as anything; and I have always had a fancy that no one would have me because of my red hair."

"What an idea!" observed Mattie, with a little laugh, for she thought this so droll, and had not the dimmest idea of his real purpose in asking her such a question.

"Don't laugh, please," he remonstrated, "for I am quite serious; I never was more serious in my life; for this sort of thing is so awkward for a fellow. Then, Miss Mattie, you won't say 'No' to me?"

Mattie stared; but Sir Harry's face, red and embarrassed as it was, gave her no clue to his meaning.

"I don't think you understand me," he said, a little impatiently; "and yet I am sure I am putting it very plainly. You don't object to me, do you, Miss Mattie? I am sure I will do my best to make you happy. Gilsbank is a pretty place, and we shall have Aunt Catherine and the girls near us. We shall all be as merry as larks, if you will only promise to marry me, for I have liked you from the first; I have indeed, Miss Mattie."

Sir Harry was a gentleman, in spite of his rough ways. He understood in a moment, when Mattie's answer to this was a very feeble clutch at his arm, as though her strength were deserting her. What with the sudden surprise of these words, and the force of the wind, the poor little woman felt herself reeling.

"Stand here for a moment, and I will shelter you from the wind. No, don't speak; just hold on, and keep quiet: there is no hurry. No one shall scold you, if I can help it. I am afraid"—speaking as gently as to a child—"that I have been a little rough and sudden with you. Do you feel faint? I never saw you look so pale. What a thoughtless brute I have been!"

"No,—oh, no," panted Mattie; "only I am so giddy, and—so happy." The last words were half whispered, but he caught them. "Are you sure you really mean this, Sir Harry?"

"As sure as that the wind blows," he returned, cheerfully. "Well, that's settled. You and I are to be in the same boat for good and all,—eh, Miss Mattie? Now let us walk on; and I won't say another word until we reach Mrs. Sparsit's."

Perhaps he had taken this resolution because he saw that Mattie found speech impossible. Her very footsteps tottered as she struggled against the opposing wind. Only the arm on which she leaned seemed to give her strength; and yet Mattie no longer shivered in the cutting blast. She was no longer cold, and numb, and desolate. Something wonderful and incredible and altogether unreal had befallen her,—something that had turned her dizzy with happiness, and which she could not in the least believe. All she knew was that he had told her that no one should scold her now.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Sir Harry, stopping at a trim little cottage, with a side-view of the sea; "and, by Jove, there is the poodle himself at the window. How do you do, Mrs. Sparsit?" as a pleasant, wrinkled dame appeared on the threshold. "You know Miss Drummond, I believe? though not as well as you know me. How is Popples? Oh, there you are, old fellow,—ready to give me your paw, as usual! Look at him, Miss Mattie! Now, Mrs. Sparsit," in a coaxing voice, "this lady is dreadfully tired; and I know your kettle is boiling——" but here Mrs. Sparsit interrupted him:

"Oh, yes, indeed, Sir Harry; and you shall have some tea directly. Dear me, Miss Drummond, you do look poorly, to be sure! Let me stir the fire a little, and draw out the couch. Bettie has gone out to see her sick mother, Sir Harry; but if you don't mind my leaving you a minute, while I just brew the tea——" And without waiting for his answer, the worthy creature bustled off to her tiny kitchen, leaving Popples to entertain her guests.

Sir Harry closed the door, and then he helped Mattie to divest herself of her warm jacket, and placed her in a snug corner of the old-fashioned couch.

"You will be all right directly," he said, as he sat down beside her. "The wind was too strong; and I was a little sudden: wasn't I, Mattie?" And now the color began to come into Mattie's face.

Sir Harry found plenty to tell her as Mrs. Sparsit brewed the tea and prepared the hot buttered cakes.

Mattie shed tears of pure happiness when she heard from his own lips how good and unselfish and amiable he thought her, and how he had liked her from the first in a sort of way,—"not quite the right way, you know," explained Sir Harry, candidly; "but every one was so hard on you, and you bore it so well, and were such a good little woman, that I quite longed to stand your friend; and we were friends,—were we not, Mattie? And then somehow it came to me what a nice little wife you would make; and so——" but here Mattie timidly interrupted him:

"But Grace,—I thought you liked Grace best!"

Sir Harry laughed outright at this; but he had the grace to look ashamed of himself:

"So I did like her very much; but I was only trying you, Mattie. I was not sure how much you liked me; but you seemed such a miserable little Cinderella among them all that I could hardly keep it up. If they snub you now, they will have to answer to me." And at this moment Mrs. Sparsit entered with the tea-tray.

Dinner was nearly over at the vicarage when Mattie's step was heard in the hall. Archie, who was the soul of punctuality, frowned a little when the sound reached his ear.

"This is too bad of Mattie," he said, rather fretfully. "She has no right to put us to such inconvenience. I suppose we must have the fish up again?"

"Miss Drummond desires that you will go on with your dinner, sir," observed the maid, entering at that moment. "She has had a late tea, and will not require anything more."

"Very strange!" fumed Archie; but he was a little pacified by the message. But Grace slightly elevated her eyebrows with an expression of surprise. Such independence was new in Mattie.

The brother and sister had adjourned to the drawing-room, and Archie was about to ring for his coffee, before Mattie made her appearance.

Grace uttered a little exclamation when she saw her sister:

"My dear Mattie, we have no visitors coming in this evening! Why have you put on your best gown? You extravagant child!" for Mattie had come into the room rustling in her green silk dress, and her little dark face glowing from the wind. "She looked almost pretty," as Grace said afterwards; but at her sister's quizzical observation Mattie blushed and seemed confused.

"It is no use saving it," she began. "Sir Harry is coming in by and by. And, oh, Archie! he told me to say it, but I don't know how to do it." And then, to Archie's intense surprise,—for she had never done such a thing in her life,—she suddenly threw her arms round his neck. "Oh, Archie! he says you are never to scold me again,—any of you," she sobbed, "because I belong to him now. And he—Sir Harry, I mean—is so good to me; and I am so happy. And won't you wish me joy, both of you? And what—what will mother say?" finished Mattie, as though this were the climax of everything.

"Good heavens, Mattie!" gasped Archie; but he did not shake her off: on the contrary, he kissed her very kindly. "Do you mean you are going to marry Sir Harry Challoner?"

"He means to marry me," returned Mattie, smiling, in spite of her tears; and then Grace came forward, and took her in her arms.

"I am so glad, dear Mattie," she whispered, soothingly. "Of course we none of us expected it; and we are all very much surprised. Oh, dear! how happy mother will be!"

"I tell you what," exclaimed Archie, in great excitement, "I will take you down myself to Lowder Street, and see what she says. They will all be out of their senses with joy; and, upon my word, Mattie, I never was so pleased about anything in my life. He is a right-down good fellow, I am sure of that; and you are not such a bad little thing yourself, Mattie. There!"



CHAPTER XLIX.

MATTIE IN A NEW CHARACTER.

The family at Lowder Street were all gathered together when the travellers made their appearance. There was a general shout of delight when Archie's face peered in at them from the dusky hall over Mattie's shoulder. Mrs. Drummond's thin face flushed with the unexpected pleasure.

"Oh, Archie! my dear boy, I never thought you would surprise us in this way!" she said, throwing down her work with tremulous hands. She kissed Mattie affectionately; but that dark glow of tenderness in her eyes was for Archie. In spite of her ordinary undemonstrativeness, she seldom spoke to him without that involuntary softening of her voice. However much she loved her other children, her maternal passion was reserved for her first-born son.

"How naughty of you to steal a march on us in this manner!" she said, playfully. "We have only prepared a meat-tea for Mattie, because I knew she would not mind; but if you had telegraphed I would have had dinner ready for you, Archie."

"Stuff! nonsense! why need he have telegraphed? I suppose what is good enough for Mattie and the rest of us is good enough for Archie!"

Mr. Drummond spoke testily as he put down the paper. These hints about the late dinners always nettled him. His renunciation of them years ago had been a heavy piece of self-denial, for he was a man rather fond of creature comforts; he had done it for his children's sake; but it was more than flesh and blood could bear that this renounced luxury should be served for his son's benefit. Was he not as good as Archie, though he had not been to a University and become fellow of his college?

"Father is quite right," returned Archie, cheerfully. "I would not telegraph, because I wanted to surprise you; and I knew you were such a good manager, mother, that you would have plenty of aired sheets ready for my bed. Of course what is good enough for Mattie is right for me. As we are both as hungry as hunters, we shall do justice to anything you have prepared."

"There is only some cold meat and some ham and eggs," observed Mrs. Drummond, a little plaintively. She did not dare anger her husband further by proposing even a chop, for she knew how touchy he was about Archie's fastidiousness; but if she could have had her own way she would have killed the fatted calf for this dearest son. Nothing was too good for him in her eyes; and yet for the sake of tranquillity she dared not even hazard the question of a chop.

"Cold meat,—that is just what I should like," replied Archie, with excellent sang-froid. He detested that stock-dish of the Lowder Street larder, ham and eggs. The eggs were dubious, he considered,—not actually new-laid, but a little suggestive of lime. "But there! you must not give me all your attention, mother," he continued. "I have brought Mattie home, you see, and you have never told her even how she looks."

"She looks very well," replied Mrs. Drummond. In spite of her anxiety about Archie, she had been looking at her daughter more than once with puzzled eyes. There was something different about her, she thought. It was hardly like Mattie to come in so quietly among them all and take her place beside her father. Mattie seldom did anything without a fuss: it was her ordinary way to stand among them chattering as fast as her tongue would go, until some one reminded her that it was time for her to take off her hat and jacket or she would be late for tea. But to-night Mattie had hardly opened her lips, except to answer her father's questions about the journey. She had kissed her sisters very quietly, and had asked after Isabel, and had then proposed of her own accord to go upstairs.

"Clara, go up with your sister. No, not Laura; you will all get chattering, and then we shall be kept waiting. Isabel is upstairs, Archie: she has come in to sit with us this evening, as Ellis has to go to a business dinner. He will call for her on his way."

"I am very glad she is here," returned Archie, "for I have to go back by the early train to-morrow. Ah, there she is. Well, how are you, Belle?" greeting her affectionately as she came up to him rather shyly. Archie could hardly help smiling at the contrast between Isabel's brilliant evening toilet and his other sister's brown stuff dress. It was a little trying to his gravity to see her putting on such pretty little airs of matronly dignity. Mrs. Ellis Burton was an important person now; that was sufficiently obvious; the plump little figure was most lavishly adorned. But the round childish face was certainly very pretty; and, as every other sentence brought in "Ellis," and as Ellis's opinion appeared always right in her eyes, Archie deduced that his sister was satisfied with her choice.

"Oh, dear, Mattie! how droll it is to see you home again!" exclaimed Susie, who was noted for making awkward speeches. "And how funny you look beside Isabel!"

"We are very glad to have her back," returned Mrs. Drummond, in her repressive tones. She was just refilling her teapot from the urn, but she found opportunity to shake her head at Susie. "People do not generally look smart in their travelling-dress; but I think she looks very nice. Had you not a commoner gown, my dear? That looks almost too good for the purpose;" for Mrs. Drummond's sense of economy was a little shocked by perceiving that Mattie's gown was a new one.

"It is very well made," observed Isabel, critically. "I am so glad, Mattie, that you have given up that hideous plaid: it never suited you."

"If I had been you, I would have travelled in it," persisted Mrs. Drummond, who never could remember that Mattie was over thirty and might possibly have opinions of her own.

Archie listened to all this with great amusement.

"Don't you think it is about time I started a pleasanter subject, Mattie?" he asked, laughing. "Have you finished your tea, my dear? for I do not want to spoil your appetite; but time is getting on, and——" here he glanced at the clock.

Every one stared at this, for Archie had never spoken in exactly that way to Mattie before; and, as he did so, Mattie's cheeks were burning. But what was their surprise when Archie suddenly rose from his seat and laid his hand kindly on Mattie's shoulder!

"She is too shy to tell you herself; I have come all these miles to do it for her. Isabel, you need not look so consequential. Ellis is a good fellow, I dare say, but our little Mattie has done better for herself than even you. Mother, you have achieved a success in one of your seven daughters: let me introduce to you the future Lady Challoner!" And then, still keeping his hand upon her shoulder, he looked blandly round on them all.

"Well, I am sure!" from Isabel, half pouting; but no one else spoke except Mr. Drummond:

"What does this mean, Archie? Can't you speak for yourself, my girl? Is this a joke? Does he mean something amusing?" asked the father; but his lip quivered a little: if it should be true,—if it were no joke!

"It is just as Archie says!" replied Mattie, timidly, not daring to raise her eyes. "Sir Harry asked me to marry him, and I said yes, because—because he was always so good to me." And here Mattie laughed a little hysterically. "And I did not think you would object, father."

"Me object!" replied Mr. Drummond, oblivious of grammar just then. "Why, my little Mattie, what news is this? Come here and kiss me, my girl. I am proud of you; I am delighted to think a daughter of mine is going to make such a splendid match. Why don't you speak to her, my dear?" addressing his wife, with some excitement. "Bless my soul,—Lady Challoner, my plain little Mattie Lady Challoner! Is it possible? Why, you were telling us, Archie, what a Croesus this Sir Henry was, and how he had just bought quite a fine place for himself."

"Mattie, come here." Her children could hardly recognize their mother's voice, it was so broken, and the tears were running down her cheeks, though not one of them remembered seeing her cry before. Mattie never felt her triumph greater, never understood the magnificence of her own success, until she saw those tears, and felt the presence of her mother's arms round her. Never since the child Mattie had had to make way for the new-born brother, and had toddled away with the never-forgotten words, "Mammy's arms are full; no room for Mattie now," had she laid her head upon that mother's shoulder to indulge in the good cry that was needed to relieve her. Isabel looked almost affronted as she twirled her diamond rings round her plump fingers. When she and Ellis had been engaged, her mother had not made all this fuss. And Mattie was such an old thing; and it was so ridiculous; and her father seemed on the verge of crying too. "But then," as Susie said afterwards, "Belle did not like her consequence to be set aside; and she and Ellis were just nobodies at all."

No one enjoyed the scene so much as Archie: that was how his mother ought to be with her girls. Nevertheless, he interrupted them ruthlessly:

"Don't make your eyes too red, Mattie: remember who will be in by and by." And as she started up at this and began to smooth her rumpled hair, he explained to them generally that they had not travelled alone; Sir Harry had accompanied them to Leeds, and was at present dining, he believed at the Star Hotel, where he had bespoken a room. "He thought it best to make himself known personally to you; and, as Mattie raised no objection, he announced his intention of calling this evening——" but before Archie could finish his sentence, or the awe-struck domestic announce him properly, Sir Harry himself was among them all, shaking hands with everybody, down to Dottie.

And, really, for a shy man he did his part very well: he seemed to take his welcome for granted, and beamed on them all most genially.

"I suppose the parson has already introduced me," he said, when Mr. Drummond senior held out his hand, "What a lot of you there are!" he continued, as he reached Dottie, who, dreadfully frightened at his size, tried to hide behind Susie. Dottie compared him in her own mind to one of their favorite giants. "He was so dreadfully like Fee-fo-fum in 'Jack the Giant-Killer,'" she pouted, when Mattie afterwards took her to task, "when he kissed me I thought he was going to eat me up."

Mattie's dark little face lit up with shy happiness when she saw him sit down beside her mother and talk to her in his frank pleasant way. In her eyes he was nothing less than an angel of light. True, the room had never looked so small and shabby as it looked to-night, but what did that matter to Mattie?—the poor little Cinderella in the brown gown had found her prince. By and by the pumpkin-coach would fetch her to a grand house, she would have jewels and fine clothes,—everything that the heart of woman could desire; but it may be doubted if such thoughts ever crossed Mattie's mind. That he had chosen her, this was the miracle; that she was never to be scolded, and laughed at, and teased; that he had stooped to her, this noble, great-hearted man, to raise her from her humbleness; that he could care for her, in spite of her plainness and her many faults. No wonder if such happiness almost beautified Mattie, as she sat a little apart, surrounded by her young sisters.

Mrs. Drummond's stern face glowed with pleasure when Sir Harry in a few simple words spoke to her of his pride in winning her daughter. Could it be her homely, old-fashioned little Mattie of whom he was speaking, whose unselfishness and goodness he praised so highly! "I have never known a more beautiful nature: she does not seem to me to have an unkind thought of any one. All my cousins love her. If you will trust her to me, I think I can promise, as far as a man can, that her life shall be a happy one." No wonder if the mother's eyes filled with joyous tears at such words as these.

"Mattie, dear," said Sir Harry to her the next day, when they found themselves alone,—a rather difficult thing to achieve in the crowded household, but Mrs. Drummond had just left the room,—"I have been talking to your mother. She is a sensible woman, and she thinks in six weeks everything can be ready. What do you say?"

"If mother thinks so, I suppose she is right," returned Mattie, very much confused by this sudden appeal to her opinion. Sir Harry had already importuned for a speedy marriage, and she had in much trepidation referred him to her mother, feeling herself unequal to the task of answering him.

"Yes, your mother is a sensible woman," continued Sir Harry, taking no notice of her confusion. "She knows that a great house full of servants is more than a man can manage alone; and so, as I told her that Gilsbank was ready, and its master waiting, she was quite of my opinion that there should be no delay. You see, Mattie," in a tone of great gentleness, "though I am very fond of you, I cannot help feeling stifled in a small house full of people. There is no getting you to myself, or being comfortable; and a man of my size feels out of place among a lot of girls. So if you are willing, as of course you are," very coaxingly, "and I am willing, we may as well get the thing over. It takes a good deal out of a fellow to go through this sort of thing properly, and I don't fancy I hit it off well: so we will say this day six weeks. And to-morrow you will be a good little woman, and let me go back to my comfortable quarters at Hadleigh, for one breathes only smoke here; and how you have always borne it all these years is a mystery to me."

So Mattie let him go cheerfully. She had never been selfish in her life, and of course she spoke no word to dissuade him; but, though she had but few letters from him, and those of the briefest possible kind,—for Sir Harry was not fond of penmanship,—those six weeks were far from being unhappy. How could they be, when they were all so good to her, Mattie thought?—when her opinion was deferred to even by her mother, and when her brothers and sisters treated her with such respect and affection?

Mattie had no sense of the ludicrous, or she would have laughed at the change in Clyde's tone, or at the way Fred boxed Dottie's ears for speaking rudely to Mattie: in their eyes the future Lady Challoner was a person of the utmost importance. The boys vied with each other in waiting on her; the girls were always ready with their little services. Mattie felt herself almost overwhelmed sometimes.

"Oh, mother, ask them not to do it!" she said, one day, with tears in her eyes. "I am only Mattie; I am not different; I never shall be different. I shall want to wait on you all my life,—on you and all of them!"

"It is for them to wait on you more!" returned her mother, gravely. "I am afraid they have not always been good to you, and they want to make up for it."

But not all the attentions she received could move Mattie from her own humble estimate of herself; and yet in some ways, if she could have seen herself, she would have owned there was a difference. Mattie no longer fussed and fidgeted: always sweet-natured, she grew placid in her new happiness.

"I consider myself a fortunate fellow, for I have the dearest little wife in the world," Sir Harry said to her a few days after they were married, when Mattie had, as usual, said something disparaging of herself. "Never mind what you think, so long as I am satisfied; and it is very rude of you to be always finding fault with my choice,—ay, Lady Challoner!"



CHAPTER L.

PHILLIS'S FAVORITE MONTH.

Archie had been persuaded to remain until the following evening, and to take the night mail up to London. "You know you always sleep so soundly in a railway-carriage," his mother had said, with her eyes full of pleading.

"Perhaps so; but all the same it is dreary work to be shunted on to a platform in the middle of the night, and to have to find your way across London to catch a Sussex train." But, in spite of his grumbling he had remained. For once it was difficult to tear himself away from that happy family party.

But all through that night he scarcely closed his eyes, but sat staring at the swinging-lamp and his drowsy fellow-passengers, or out into the blank wall of darkness, too wide awake and full of thought to lose himself in his usual placid slumbers. The fortunes of the Drummond family seemed rising a little, he thought, with pleasure. How alert and full of energy his father had seemed when he had parted from him at the station! he had lost that subdued despondent look that had grown on him of late. Even his shoulders were a little less bowed, as though the burden did not press quite so heavily.

"All this makes a great difference to me, Archie," he had said, as they had walked to and fro on the platform. "Two such wealthy sons-in-law ought to satisfy any father's ambition. I can hardly believe yet that my little Mattie—whom her sisters always called 'the old maid'—should have secured such a prize. If it had been Grace, now, one need not have wondered so much."

"You may leave Grace out of your reckoning," returned Archie, smiling assent to this, "and consider you have three out of your seven daughters provided for, for Grace will always be my care. Whatever happens in the future, I think I can promise as much as that."

"Ay, ay! I remember when she was a little thing she always called herself Archie's wife. Well, well, the mother must bring on Clara now: it would be a shame to separate you two. Look, there is your train, my boy! Jump in, and God bless you! You will come down to the wedding of course, and bring Grace."

"Archie's wife." It was these two words that were keeping him so wide awake in the rushing darkness. A dusky flush mounted to the young man's forehead as he pondered over them.

He knew himself better now. Only a few weeks, scarcely more than a fortnight, had passed since Grace had given him that hint; but each day since then had done the work of years. Caught at the rebound indeed, and that so securely and strongly that the man's heart could never waver from its fixed purpose again.

Now it was that he wondered at his blindness; that he began to question with a perfect anguish of doubt whether he should be too late; whether his vacillation and that useless dream of his would hinder the fulfilment of what was now his dearest hope.

Would he ever bring her to believe that he had never really loved before,—not, at least, as he could love now? Would he ever dare to tell her so, when she had known and understood that first stray fancy of his for Nan's sweet face?

Now, as day after day he visited the cottage and talked apart with her mother, his eyes would follow Phillis wistfully. Once the girl had looked up from her work and caught that long, watchful glance; and then she had grown suddenly very pale, and a pained expression crossed her face, as though she had been troubled.

Since that night when the young vicar had stood bare-headed on the snowy steps, and had told Phillis laughingly that one day she would find out for herself that all men were masterful, and she had run down the steps flashing back that disdainful look at him, he had felt there was a change in her manner to him.

They had been such good friends of late; it had become a habit with him to turn to Phillis when he wanted sympathy. A silent, scarcely perceptible understanding had seemed to draw them together; but in one moment, at a word, a mere light jest of his that meant nothing, the girl had become all at once reserved, frozen up, impenetrable even to friendship.

In vain he strove to win her back to her old merry talk. Her frank recklessness of speech seemed over for the present. In his presence she was almost always silent,—not with any awkwardness of embarrassment, but with a certain maidenly reserve of bearing, as though she had marked out a particular line of conduct for herself.

When Grace was in the room, things were better: Phillis could not be otherwise than affectionate to her chosen friend. And when they were alone together, all Phillis's bright playfulness seemed to return; but nothing would induce her to cross the threshold of the vicarage.

The evening after his return from Leeds, Archie, as usual, dropped in at the Friary; but this time he brought Grace with him. They were all gathered in the work-room, which had now become their favorite resort. On some pretext or other, the lamp had not been brought in; but they were all sitting round the fire, chatting in an idle desultory way.

Phillis was half hidden behind her mother's chair: perhaps this was the reason why her voice had its old merry chord. She had welcomed Archie rather gravely,—hardly turning her face to him as she spoke; but as soon as she was in her corner again, she took up the thread of their talk in her usual frank way. But it was Grace that she addressed.

"Poor dear Harry! We have all been laughing a little at the notion of Alcides being in love. Somehow, it seems so droll that Mattie should turn out his Deianeira; but, after all, I think he has shown very good sense in his choice. Mattie will wear well."

"You seem to agree with the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' Miss Challoner," observed Archie, rather amused at this temperate praise. "Did not that excellent man choose his wife for the same reason that she choose her wedding-dress, with a view to durability?"

"Oh, there is a vast amount of wisdom in all that," returned Phillis, with mock solemnity; for she did not mind what nonsense she talked in the darkness. "If life had nothing but fair-weather days, it might be excusable for a man to choose his wife for mere beauty; but when one thinks of fogs and east-winds, and smoky chimneys, and all such minor evils, they may need something a little more sustaining than a pink complexion. At least," catching herself up, and hurrying on as though the real meaning of her words only just occurred to her, "though Mattie may not be beautiful outwardly, she is just the right sort of person for a regular east-windy day. Not even a smoky chimney and a fog together will put her out of temper."

"I will recollect your advice when the time comes," replied Archie rather audaciously at this, as he laughed and stroked his beard.

It pleased him to see the old fun brimming over again, fresh and sparkling; but, as he answered her in the same vein of pleasantry, she colored up in her dark corner and shrank back into herself, and all the rest of the evening he could hardly win a smile from her.

"My dear, I think Mr. Drummond comes very often," Mrs. Challoner said to her eldest daughter that night. "He is very gentlemanly, and a most excellent young man: but I begin to be afraid what these visits mean." But Nan only laughed at this.

"Poor mother!" she said, stroking her face. "Don't you wish you had us all safe at Glen Cottage again? There are so few young men at Oldfield."

"I cannot bear young men," was the somewhat irritable answer. "What is the use of having children, when just when they grow up to be a comfort to you, every one tries to deprive you of them? Dick has robbed me of you,"—and here Mrs. Challoner grew tearful,—"and Dulce is always with the Middletons; and I am not at all sure that Captain Middleton is not beginning to admire her."

"Neither am I," observed Nan, a little gravely; for, though they seldom talked of such things among themselves, "son Hammond's" attentions were decidedly conspicuous, and Dulce was looking as shy and pretty as possible.

No; she could not give her mother any comfort there, for the solemn-faced young officer was clearly bent on mischief. Indeed, both father and son were making much of the little girl. But as regarded Mr. Drummond there could be no question of his intentions. The growing earnestness, the long wistful looks, were not lost on Nan who knew all such signs by experience. It was easy to understand the young vicar: it was Phillis who baffled her.

They had never had any secrets between them. From their very childhood, Nan had shared Phillis's every thought. But once or twice when she had tried to approach the subject in the gentlest manner, Phillis had started away like a restive colt, and had answered her almost with sharpness:

"Nonsense, Nannie! What is it to me if Mr. Drummond comes a dozen times a day?" arching her long neck in the proudest way, but her throat contracting a little over the uttered falsehood; for she knew, none better, what these visits were to her. "Do you think I should take the trouble to investigate his motives? Don't you know, Nan," in her sweet whimsical voice, "that the masculine mind loves to conjugate the verb 'to amuse'? Mr. Drummond is evidently bored by his own company; but there! the vagaries of men are innumerable. One might as well question the ebbing tide as inquire of these young divinities the reason of all their eccentric actions. He comes because we amuse him, and we like to see him because he amuses us: and when he bores us, we can tell him so, which is better than Canute and the waves, after all." And of course, after this, Nan was compelled to drop the subject.

But she watched Phillis anxiously; for she saw that the girl was restless and ill at ease. The thoughtful gray eyes had a shadow in them. The bright spirits were quenched, and only kindled by a great effort; and, as the time for their leaving the Friary grew closer day by day, until the last week approached, she flagged more, and the shadow grew deeper.

"If he would only speak and end all this suspense!" thought Nan, who knew nothing of the real state of things, and imagined that Mr. Drummond had cared for Phillis from the first.

They had already commenced their packing. Sir Harry was back in his hotel, solacing himself with his cousin's company, and writing brief letters to his homely little bride-elect, when one fine afternoon he met them and Grace just starting for the shore.

This was their programme on most afternoons, and of course they had not gone far before Captain Middleton and his father and sister joined them; and a little later on, just as they were entering the town, they overtook Mr. Drummond.

Phillis nodded to him in a friendly manner, and then walked on with Grace, taking no further notice; but when they were on the shore, admiring the fine sunset effect, Grace quietly dropped her arm and slipped away to join the others. Phillis stood motionless: her eyes were riveted on the grand expanse of sky and ocean. "It is so like life," she said at last, not seeing who stood beside her, while all the others were walking on in groups of twos and threes, Dulce close to the colonel, as usual. "Do you see those little boats, Grace? one is sailing so smoothly in the sunlight, and the other scarcely stirring in the shadow,—brightness to some, you see, and shade to others; and beyond, that clear line of light, like the promise of eternity."

"Don't you think it lies within most people's power to make their own lives happier?" returned Archie so quietly to this that she scarcely started. "The sunshine and shade are more evenly balanced than we know. To be sure, there are some lives like that day that is neither clear nor dark,—gray, monotonous lives, with few breaks and pleasures in them. But perhaps even that question may be happily solved when one looks out a little farther to the light beyond."

"Yes, if one does not grow tired of waiting for the answer," she said, a little dreamily. "There is so much that cannot be clear here." And then she roused with a little difficulty from her abstraction, and looked around her. The others had all gone on: they were standing alone on the shingly beach, just above a little strip of yellow sand,—only they two. Was it for this reason that her eyes grew wide and troubled, and she moved away rather hurriedly? But he still kept close to her, talking quietly as he did so.

"Do you remember this place?" he said: "it reminds me of a picture I once saw. I think it was 'Atalanta's Race,' only there was no Paris. It was just such as scene as this: there was the dark breakwater, and the long line of surf breaking on the shore, and the sun was shining on the water; and there was a girl running with her head erect, and she scarcely seemed to touch the ground, and she stopped just here," resting his hand on the black, shiny timber.

"Do not," she answered, in a low voice, "do not recall that day: it stings me even now to remember it." And as the words "Bravo Atalanta!" recurred to her memory, the hot blush of shame mounted to her face.

"I have no need to recall it," he returned, still more quietly, for her discomposure was great, "for I have never forgotten it. Yes, this is the place, not where I first saw you, but where I first began to know you. Phillis, that knowledge is becoming everything to me now!"

"Do not," she said, again, but she could hardly bring out the words. But how wonderful it was to hear her name pronounced like that! "The others have gone on: we must join them."

"May I not tell you what I think about you first?" he asked, very gently.

"Not now,—not yet," she almost whispered; and now he saw that she was very pale, and her eyes were full of tears. "I could not bear it yet." And then, as she moved farther away from him, he could see how great was her agitation.

It was a proof of his love and earnestness that he suffered the girl to leave him in this way, that he did not again rejoin her until they were close to the others. In spite of his impatience and his many faults, he was generous enough to understand her without another word. She had not repelled him; she had not silenced him entirely; she had not listened to him and then answered him with scorn. On the contrary, her manner had been soft and subdued, more winning than he had ever known it; and yet she had refused to hearken to his suit. "Not now,—not yet," she had said, and he could see that her lip quivered, and her beautiful eyes were full of tears. It was too soon, that was what she meant; too soon for him to speak and for her to listen. She owed it to her own dignity that his affection should be put to greater proof than that. She must not be so lightly won; she must not stoop down from her maidenly pride and nobleness at his first words because she had grown to care for him. "It must not be so, however much the denial may cost me," Phillis had said to herself. But as she joined the others, and came to Nan's side, she could scarcely steady her voice or raise her eyes, for fear their shy consciousness would betray her. "At last," and "at last!"—that was the refrain that was ringing so joyously in her heart. Well, and one day he should tell her what he would.

She thought she had silenced him entirely, but she forgot that men were masterful and had cunning ways of their own to compass their ends. Archie had recovered his courage; he had still a word to say, and he meant to say it; and just before the close of the walk, as they were in the darkest part of the Braidwood Road, just where the trees meet overhead, before one reaches the vicarage, Phillis found him again at her side.

"When may I hope that you will listen?" he said. "I am not a patient man: you must remember that, and not make it too hard for me. I should wish to know how soon I may come."

"Spring is very beautiful in the country," she answered, almost too confused by this unexpected address to know what she was saying. "I think May is my favorite month, when the hawthorns are out."

"Thank you, I will come in May." And then Phillis woke up to the perception of what she had said. "Oh, no, I did not meant that," she began, incoherently; but this time it was Archie who moved away, with a smile on his face and a certain vivid brightness in his eyes, and her stammered words were lost in the darkness.

The whole week was much occupied by paying farewell visits. On the last afternoon Phillis went down to the White House to say good-bye. It was one of Magdalene's bad days; but the unquiet hour had passed, and left her, as usual, weak and subdued. Her husband was sitting beside her: as Phillis entered he rose with a smile on his lips. "That is right, Miss Challoner!" he said, heartily. "Magdalene always looks better the moment she hears your voice. Barby is unfortunately out, but I can leave her happily with you."

"Is he not good?" exclaimed his wife, as soon as he had left them. "He has been sitting with me all the afternoon, my poor Herbert, trying to curb his restlessness, because he knows how much worse I am without him. Am I not a trying wife to him? and yet he says he could not do without me. There, it has passed: let us talk of something else. And so you are going to leave us?" drawing the fresh face down to hers, that she might kiss it again.

"Yes, to-morrow!" trying to stifle a sigh.

"There are some of us that will not know what to do without you. If I am not very much mistaken, there is one person who——" but here the girl laid her hand hurriedly on her lips. "What! I am not to say that? Well, I will try to be good. But all the same this is not good-bye. Tell your mother from me that she will not have her girls for long. Captain Middleton has lost his heart, and is bent on making that pretty little sister of yours lose hers to; and as for you, Phillis——" but here Phillis stooped, and silenced her this time by a kiss.

"Ah, well!" continued Magdalene, after a moment's silence, as she looked tenderly into the fair face before her; "so you have finished your little bit of play-work, and are going back into your young-ladyhood again?"

"It was not play-work!" returned Phillis, indignantly: "you say that to provoke me. Do you know," she went on, earnestly, "that if we should have had to work all our lives as dressmakers, Nan and I would have done it, and never given in. We were making quite a fine business of it. We had more orders then we could execute; and you call that play? Confess, now, that you repent of that phrase!"

"Oh, I was only teasing you," returned Magdalene, smiling. "I know how brave you were, and how terribly in earnest. Yes, Phillis, you are right; nothing would have daunted you; you would have worked without complaint all your life long, but for that red-haired Alcides of yours."

"Dear Harry! how much we owe to him!" exclaimed Phillis.

"No, dear, you will owe your happiness to yourself,—the happiness," as the girl looked at her in surprise, "that is coming to you and Dulce. It was because you were not like other girls—because you were brave, self-reliant gentlewomen, afraid of nothing but dishonor; not fearful of small indignities, or of other people's opinions, but just taking up the work that lay to your hands, and going through with it—that you have won his heart: and, seeing this, how could he help loving you as he does?" But to this Phillis made no answer.

The next day was rather trying to them all. Phillis's cheerfulness was a little forced, and for some time after they had left the Friary—with Grace and Archie waving their farewells from the road—she was very silent.

But no sooner had they crossed the threshold of Glen Cottage than their girlhood asserted itself. The sight of the bright snug rooms, with their new furniture, the conservatory, with its floral treasures, and Sir Harry's cheery welcome, as he stood in the porch with Mrs. Mayne, was too much even for Phillis's equanimity. In a few minutes their laughing faces were peering out of every window and into every cupboard.

"Oh, the dear, beautiful home! Isn't it lovely of Harry to bring us back!" cried Phillis, oblivious of everything at that moment but her mother's satisfied face.

In a few days they had settled down into their old life. It was too early for tennis while snowdrops and crocuses were peeping out of the garden borders. But in the afternoon friends dropped in in the old way, and gathered round the Challoner tea-table; and very soon—for Easter fell early that year—Dick showed himself among them, and then, indeed, Nan's cup of happiness was full.

But as April passed on Phillis began to grow a little silent again; and it became a habit with her to coax Laddie to take long walks with her, when Nan and Dulce were otherwise engaged. The exercise seemed to quiet her restlessness; and the spring sights and sounds, the budding hedgerows, and the twittering of the birds as they built their nests, and the fresh leafy green, unsoiled by summer heat and dust, seemed to refresh her flagging spirits.

It was the 1st of May, when one afternoon she called to Laddie, who was lying drowsily in the sunny porch. Nan, who was busily engaged in training the creeper round the pillars of the veranda, looked up in a little surprise:

"Are you going out again, Phil? And neither Dulce nor I can come with you. Mrs. Mayne has some friends coming to five-o'clock tea, and she wants us to go over for an hour. It is so dull for you, dear, always to walk alone."

"Oh no; I shall not be dull, Nannie," returned Phillis, with an unsteady smile, for her spirits were a little fluctuating that afternoon. "I am restless, and want a good walk: so I shall just go to Sandy Lane, and be back in time to make tea for mother." And then she waved her hand, and whistled to Laddie as she unlatched the little gate. It was a long walk. But, as usual, the quiet and the sweet air refreshed her, and by the time she reached Sandy Lane her eyes were brilliant with exercise, and a pretty pink tinge of color was in her cheeks. It is May-day,—the 1st of May. I wonder how soon he will come, she thought, as she leaned on the little gate where poor Dick had leaned that day.

There were footsteps approaching, but they made no sound over the sandy ruts. A tall man, with a fair beard and a clerical felt hat, was walking quickly up the road that leads from Oldfield; and as he walked his eyes were scanning the path before him, as though he were looking for some one. At the sight of the girl leaning against the gate his face brightened, and he slackened his steps a little, that he might not startle her. She was looking out across the country with a far-off, dreamy expression, and did not turn her head as he approached. It was Laddie who saw him first, and jumped up with a joyous bark to welcome him; and then she looked round, and for a moment her eyes grew wide and misty, for she thought it was a continuation of her dream.

"Laddie saw me first," he said, stepping up quietly to her side,—for he still feared to startle her,—and his voice was very gentle. "Phillis, you must not look so surprised! Surely you expected me? It is the 1st of May!"

"Oh, I knew that," she said; and then she turned away from him. But he had not dropped her hand, but was holding it very quietly and firmly. "But I could not tell the day; and——"

"Did you think I should wait an hour beyond the time you fixed?" he answered, very calmly. "May is your favorite month; and what could be more beautiful than May-day for the purpose I have in hand! Phillis, you will not go back from your promise now? You said you would listen to me in May."

There was no answer to this; but, as Archie looked in her face, he read no repulse there. And so, in that quiet lane, with Laddie lying at their feet, he told all he had to tell.

"Are you sure you can trust me now, Phillis?" he asked, rather wistfully, when he had finished. "You know what I am, dear—a man with many faults."

"Yes; now and forever," she answered, without a moment's hesitation. "I am not afraid—I never should have been afraid to trust you, I have faults of my own: so why should I wish you to be perfect? I care for you as you are; you will believe that?" for there was almost a sad humility in his face as he pleaded with her that went to her heart.

"Oh, yes; I believe what you tell me. You are truth itself, my darling,—the bravest and truest woman I have ever met. You do not know how happy you have made me, or how different my life will be when I have you by my side. Phillis, do you know how glad Grace will be about this?"

"Will she?" returned Phillis, shyly. They were walking homeward now, hand in hand toward the sunset,—so, at least, it seemed to the girl. No one was in sight, only the quiet country round them bathed in the evening light, and they two alone. "Archie!" she exclaimed, suddenly, and her beautiful eyes grew wistful all at once, "you will not let this make any difference to Grace? She loves you so; and you are all she has at present. You must never let me stand between you two. I am not so selfish as that."

"You could not be selfish if you tried, dearest. How I wish Grace could have heard you! No; you are right. We must not let her suffer from our happiness. But, Phillis, you know who must come first now." And then, as she smiled in full understanding, he put her hand upon his arm, and held it there. His promised wife,—Archie's wife! Ah, the Drummond star was rising now in earnest! His life lay before him, like the road they were now entering, white and untrodden and bathed in the sunlight. What if some clouds should come, and some shadows fall, if they might tread it together to the end? And so, growing silent with happiness, they walked home through the sunset, till the spring dusk and the village lights saw them standing together on the threshold of Glen Cottage, and the dear faces and loving voices of home closed around them and bade them welcome.

THE END



HOW TO BECOME RICH. A TREATISE ON PHRENOLOGY

A Choice of Professions and Matrimony—A Self-Instructor By Prof. William Windsor, Ph. D. Fully illustrated.



Every young man and woman of reasonable intelligence is, or ought to be, possessed of a laudable ambition to be self-sustaining. To win a competency, to secure the necessities, to have even the luxuries of life, is perfectly praiseworthy, provided they are obtained in a legitimate manner. Every rational man seeks the occupation, trade or profession which insures the profitable employment of his best talents, and the science which discloses to the youth at the beginning of his education what those talents are and how they may be developed to perfection in early manhood, confers upon him the greatest favor within the gift of knowledge, from a financial standpoint. That a knowledge of Phrenology does this, and more, this book proves beyond all question.

Paper, 184 pages. Price, 25 cents.

FACIOLOGY OR, THE SCIENCE OF CHARACTER . A SELF-INSTRUCTOR

By L. B. Stevens, LL. B. 95 Illustrations



"Faciology" opens up an old, familiar and picturesque field of observation in a new and scientific light; it gives one a mortgage on man, a quasi-ownership in every creature and individual that comes within our range of contemplation; this science stimulates our observation and augments our reason; it teaches us to interrogate the causes and meaning of human actions, intensifies our interest in humanity, and fills the heart with a higher and more ardent devotion to philanthropy.

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QUO VADIS By Henryk Stenkiewicz.

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IN HIS STEPS By Charles M. Sheldon.



275 pages, illustrated with 8 beautiful half-tone engravings. Printed from new clear type on superior paper, bound in ornamental cloth, stamped from unique dies, title on side and back in gold. Over three million copies of this book have been sold, and it has been the aim of the publishers to make this edition the most attractive illustrated edition at a popular price. Price....$1.00

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UNCLE TOM'S CABIN By Harriet Beecher Stowe



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PATRIOTIC RECITATIONS AND READINGS Compiled by Charles Walter Brown



This is the choicest, newest and most complete collection of Patriotic recitations published, and includes all of the best known selections, together with the best utterances of many eminent statesmen. Selections for Decoration Day, Fourth of July, Washington's and Lincoln's Birthdays, Arbor Day, Labor Day, and all other Patriotic occasions.

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COMPLETE GUIDE TO DANCING

Ball Room Etiquette and Quadrille Call Book



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The "German" introduces over One Hundred of the newest and most popular Figures, fully described, and conveniently grouped for ready reference.

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THE SELF-EDUCATOR SERIES Edited by John Adams, M. A., B. Sc.

12Mo. Cloth. Uniform in Size and Binding. List Price. 75 Cents Each



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OUR SUNDAY SCHOOL LIBRARY FOR VERY YOUNG CHILDREN

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1. PAPA'S PET 2. SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS 3. MISS ROSY 4. BEACH FARM CHILDREN 5. GOOD NIGHT STORIES 6. HELPING MAMMA 7. PLEASANT TIMES 8. BOBBY'S TEETH 9. PLAY DAY 10. LITTLE TEACHERS 11. PRETTY STORIES 12. AUNT ELIZABETH

Each volume contains about 50 pages printed on an extra quality of heavy book paper, profusely illustrated and bound in an excellent quality of silk cloth, assorted colors, and stamped with unique dies in two colors ink.

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NATURAL HISTORY STORIES.



We have included in this series a carefully selected number of books that will fascinate and interest, as well as instruct, old and young alike. The books are printed from large, clear type; are profusely illustrated and are bound in a substantial and attractive manner in Cloth, artistically stamped in Inks from Unique Dies.

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History of Animals, Their Varieties and Oddities.

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History of Birds.

Containing their varieties and habits, and comprising sketches of every known species of birds in all climes; illustrating their use, value and culture, by the Rev. W. Bingley, A. M. Containing 500 pages of clear type text and nearly 500 illustrations, made especially for this work; bound in Cloth and stamped in Inks from unique dies. Large 12mo, 6-1/2 x 9 inches.

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History of the Sea.

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LIVES OF FAMOUS MEN Edited by Charles Walter Brown, A. M.

In this series of historical and biographical works the publishers have included only such books as will interest and instruct the youth of both sexes. A copy should be in every public school and private library. Special discount made when entire set is ordered. They are printed from large, clear type on an excellent quality of paper and substantially and attractively bound in cloth, stamped in inks and gold from original designs. Each book is fully illustrated. Price, $1.00 per copy, postpaid.

LIFE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON. By George Washington Parke Curtis, the adopted son of our first president. Cloth, 664 pages, large, 12mo.

LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. By Hon. Joseph H. Barrett, ex-member of Congress, Cloth, 842 pages, large, 12mo.

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LIFE OF ETHAN ALLEN, By Charles Walter Brown, A. M. Cloth, nearly 300 pages, 12mo.

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"HARKAWAY" SERIES OF BOOKS FOR BOYS By Bracebridge Hemyng



"Jack Harkaway's School Days" is one of the most fascinating and instructive books for boys published, and should be read by every boy before his 15th year. After reading this book the other 14 should be read in the order in which they are given since each is a continuation of the one preceding.

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1 Jack Harkaway's School Days 2 Jack Harkaway After School Days 3 Jack Harkaway Afloat and Ashore 4 Jack Harkaway at Oxford, Part 1 5 Jack Harkaway at Oxford, Part 2 6 Jack Harkaway Among the Brigands, Part 1 7 Jack Harkaway Among the Brigands, Part 2 8 Jack Harkaway's Adventures Around the World 9 Jack Harkaway in America and Cuba 10 Jack Harkaway's Adventures in China 11 Jack Harkaway's Adventures in Greece, Part 1 12 Jack Harkaway's Adventures in Greece, Part 2 13 Jack Harkaway's Adventures in Australia 14 Jack Harkaway and His Boy Tinker, Part 1 15 Jack Harkaway and His Boy Tinker, Part 2

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THE GREATEST LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN YET PUBLISHED

By Hon. Jos. H. Barrett, and Charles Walter. Brown, A. M.



In this great work which embraces the complete life of the greatest man of modern times, nothing has been omitted or slighted. His early History, Political Career, Speeches, both in and out of Congress, the great Lincoln-Douglas Debates, every state paper, speech, message and two inaugural addresses are given in full, together with many characteristic STORIES AND YARNS by and concerning Lincoln, which have earned for him the sobriquet "The Story Telling President."

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This immense volume of 850 pages contains nearly 360,000 words, being six times larger than the average school history. Size of book 6-1/2x9, 3 inches thick, weighing nearly 3 pounds.

Price, $1.00

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THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO BLACKSMITHING, HORSESHOEING, CARRIAGE AND WAGON BUILDING AND PAINTING



For all general mechanical work, this is the most valuable book for the farmer, blacksmith, carpenter, carriage and wagon building, painting and varnishing trades published. The department on Blacksmithing is based on the various text books by Prof. A. Lungwitz, Director of the Shoeing School of the Royal Veterinary College at Dresden, while the chapters on Carriage and Wagon Building, Painting, Varnishing are by Charles F. Adams, one of the most successful builders in Wisconsin. The language employed is so simple that any young man of average ability can, in a short time become proficient in all of these useful and profitable occupations. Each chapter is fully illustrated, there being more than 50 drawings throughout the book.

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THE COMPLETE HOUSE BUILDER With Practical Hints on Construction



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COMPLETE HYPNOTISM Or, How to Hypnotize



A manual of self-instruction based on the new and improved system of mental and bodily healing. Pronounced by all who have read it to be the most fascinating and instructive book of its kind published. Inductive Hypnotism, Mesmerism, Suggestive Therapeutics and Magnetic Healing, including Telepathy, Mind Reading and Spiritualism fully treated. Nearly 100 lessons especially prepared for self-instruction. This is positively the best book on Hypnotism published. Fully illustrated.

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THE COMPLETE PALMIST



Prepared for self-instruction by Ina Oxenford, the world-renowned author and acknowledged authority on Palmistry. This is the simplest presentation of the science of Modern Palmistry published. There is no trait, no characteristic, no inherited tendency that is not marked on the palm of the hand and can be traced with unerring accuracy by following the instructions given in this book. Even a casual reading will enable one to know his own character better and give convincing proof of the constancy of friends, or the professing ones. The Bible attests the truth of Palmistry.

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THE MYSTIC FORTUNE TELLER, Dream Book and Policy Players' Guide



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COMIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS Compiled by CHARLES WALTER. BROWN, A. M.



Few of the selections contained in this book have ever before appeared in print. Copyright matter has been procured at great expense from the greatest wits of the age. Such delightful entertainers as Ezra Kendall, Lew Dockstadter, Josh Billings, James Whitcomb Kiley, Marshall P. Wilder, Mark Twain, Bret Harte, Opie Read, Bill Nye, Petroleum V. Nashby, Artemus Ward, together with the best from "Puck," "Judge," "Life," "Detroit Free Press," "Arizona Kicker," renders this book the best of its kind published.

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THE AMERICAN STAR SPEAKER AND MODEL ELOCUTIONIST By CHARLES WALTER. BROWN, A. M.



Many Speakers are advertised to be the best, but a comparison is all that is necessary to convince anyone that our claim that The American Star Speaker & Model Elocutionist is beyond all question the best from an Elocutionary point of view. Of the 500 or more selections there is not one that is not available for reading on any desired occasion. The treatise on Acting, Delsarte, Elocution, Oratory and Physical Culture is by the professor of these departments in the Missouri State University, while its mechanical make-up is that of a work of art, for the text and half-tone illustrations are the best made. No home, school, church, club, literary society, lodge or library is complete without this book. It gives more for the money than any similar work published. Space forbids further details. Satisfaction is guaranteed. Elegantly and substantially printed and bound in the best silk cloth, the national emblems being stamped from artistic designs in the patriotic colors. Price, $1.00

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DOROTHY VERNON or, THE BEAUTY of HADDON HALL

The author has produced a powerful love story, replete with stirring and pathetic incidents. This book will be read and re-read with increasing interest, and will long be remembered as one of the purest, sweetest and most romantic of modern love stories. It is creating a great sensation.

THE END