"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said, and gave his coat-sleeve a coaxing little pat. "I would rather have danced with you than Mr. Hamilton, though he does reverse beautifully, and I never knew any one who waltzed more perfectly."

"Oh, I do not presume to rival Hamilton," began Dick hotly, but she silenced him.

"Listen to me, you foolish Dick! I would have danced with you, and willingly, but I knew my duty better, or rather I knew yours. You were a public man to-day; the eyes of the county were upon you. You had to pay court to the big ladies, and to take no notice of poor little me. I sent you away for your own good, and because I valued your duty above my pleasure," continued this heroic young person, in a perfectly satisfied tone.

"And you wanted to dance with me, Nan, and not with that goose of a Hamilton?" in a wheedling voice.

"Yes, Dick; but he is not a goose for all that: he is more of a swan in my opinion."

"He is a conceited ass!" was the very unexpected reply, which was a little hard on Dick's chum, who was in many ways a most estimable young man and vastly his superior. "Why are you laughing, when you know I hate prigs? and Hamilton is about the biggest I ever knew." But this did not mend matters, and Nan's laugh still rang merrily in the darkness.

"What are those two doing?" asked Phillis, trying to peep between the lilac-bushes, but failing to discover more than the white glimmer of Nan's shawl.

Nan's laugh, though it was full of sweet triumph, only irritated Dick; the lord of the evening was still too sore and humiliated by all these rebuffs and repulses to take the fun in good part.

"What is it that amuses you so?" he asked, rather crossly. "That is the worst of you girls; you are always so ready to make merry at a fellow's expense. You are taking Hamilton's part against me, Nan,—I, who am your oldest friend, who have always been faithful to you ever since you were a child," continued the young man, with a growing sense of aggravation.

"Oh, Dick!" and Nan's voice faltered a little; she was rather touched at this.

Dick took instant note of the change of key, and went on in the same injured voice:

"Why should I look after all the big people and take no notice of you? Have I not made it my first duty to look after you as long as I can remember? Though the whole world were about us, would you not be the first and the principal to me?"

"Don't, Dick," she said, faintly, trying to repress him; "you must not talk in that way, and I must not listen to you; your father would not like it." The words were sweet to her,—precious beyond everything,—but she must not have him speak them. But Dick, in his angry excitement, was not to be repressed.

"What does it matter what he likes? This is between you and me, Nan; no one shall meddle between us two." But what imprudent speech Dick was about to add was suddenly quenched in light-pealing laughter. At this critical moment they were met and surrounded; before them was the red glow of Cathcart's cigar, the whiteness of Phillis's gown; behind were two more advancing figures. In another second the young people had joined hands: a dusky ring formed round the startled pair.

"Fairly caught!" cried Dulce's sunshiny voice; the mischievous little monkey had no idea of the sport she was spoiling. None of the young people thought of anything but fun; Dick was just Dick, and he and Nan were always together.

Dick muttered something inaudible under his breath; but Nan was quite equal to the occasion; she was still palpitating a little with the pleasure Dick's words had given her, but she confronted her tormentors boldly.

"You absurd creatures," she said, "to steal a march on us like that! Dick and I were having a quarrel; we were fighting so hard that we did not hear you."

"I enjoy a good fight above everything," exclaimed Cathcart, throwing away his cigar. He was a handsome dark-eyed boy, with no special individuality, except an overweening sense of fun. "What's the odds, Mayne? and who is likely to be the winner?"

"Oh, Nan, of course," returned Dick, trying to recover himself. "I am the captive of her spear and of her bow: she is in possession of everything, myself included."

The rest laughed at Dick's jest, as they thought it; and Mr. Hamilton said, "Bravo, Miss Challoner! we will help to drag him at your chariot-wheels." But Nan changed color in the darkness.

They went in after this, and the young men took their leave in the porch. Dick's strong grip of the hand conveyed his meaning fully to Nan: "Remember, I meant it all," it seemed to say to her.

"What did it matter? I am quite sure of him. Dick is Dick," thought Nan, as she laid her head happily on the pillow.

As for Dick, he had a long ordeal before him ere he could make his escape to the smoking-room, where his friends awaited him. Mr. Mayne had a great deal to say to him about the day, and Dick had to listen and try to look interested.

"I am sure Dick behaved beautifully," observed Mrs. Mayne, when the son and heir had at last lounged off to his companions.

"Well, yes; he did very well on the whole," was the grudging response; "but I must say those Challoner girls made themselves far too conspicuous for my taste;" but to this his wife prudently made no reply.



CHAPTER VI.

MR. TRINDER'S VISIT.

The next few days passed far too quickly for Nan's pleasure, and Dick's last morning arrived. The very next day the Maynes were to start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to stand empty for the remainder of the summer. It was a dreary prospect for Nan, and in spite of her high spirits her courage grew somewhat low. Six months! who could know what might happen before they met again? Nan was not the least bit superstitious, neither was it her wont to indulge in useless speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spite of herself—a presentiment that things were not going to be just as she would have them,—that Dick and she would not meet again in exactly the same manner.

"How silly I am!" she thought, for the twentieth time, as she brushed out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her usual simple fashion.

Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some ways; they had never thought fit to curl their hair en garcon, or to mount a pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; no pruning scissors had touched the light-springing locks that grew so prettily about their temples; in this, as in much else, they were unlike other girls, for they dared to put individuality before fashion, and good taste and a sense of beauty against the specious arguments of the multitude.

"How silly I am!" again repeated Nan. "What can happen, what should happen, except that I shall have a dull summer, and shall be very glad when Christmas and Dick come together;" and then she shook her little basket of housekeeping keys until they jingled merrily, and ran downstairs with a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of the day.

They were to play tennis at the Paines' that afternoon, and afterwards the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. Challoner had been invited also; but she had made some excuse, and pleaded for a quiet evening. She was never very ready to accept these invitations; there was nothing in common between her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she agreed with Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious.

It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality to his neighbors, and he chose to be much offended at Mrs. Challoner's refusal.

"I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we are such old neighbors, and on our last evening, too," he said to Nan, as she entered the drawing-room that evening bringing her mother's excuses wrapped up in the prettiest words she could find.

"Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exertion of dining out to-night," returned Nan, trying to put a good face on it, but feeling as though things were too much for her this evening. It was bad enough for Mr. Mayne to insist on them all coming up to a long formal dinner, and spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it was still worse for her mother to abandon them after this fashion.

The new novel must have had something to do with this sudden indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped herself up in her white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and had declared herself unfit for any exertion, what could a dutiful daughter do but deliver her excuses as gracefully as she could? Nevertheless, Mr. Mayne frowned and expressed himself ill pleased.

"I should have thought an effort could have been made on such an occasion," was his final thrust, as he gave his arm ungraciously to Nan, and conducted her with ominous solemnity to the table.

It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Mayne's efforts. Dick looked glum. He was separated from Nan by a vast silver epergne, that fully screened her from view. Another time she would have peeped merrily round at him and given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was she to do it when Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when he insisted on keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation with her on the subjects of the day?

When Dick tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly snubbed that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis.

"You young fellows never know what you are talking about," observed Mr. Mayne, sharply, when Dick had hazarded a remark about the Premier's policy; "you are a Radical one day, and a Conservative another. That comes of your debating societies. You take contrary sides, and mix up a balderdash of ideas, until you don't know whether you are standing on your head or your heels;" and it was after this that Dick found his refuge with Phillis.

It was little better when they were all in the drawing-room together. If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the purpose of keeping them all under his own eyes and making them uncomfortable, he could not have managed better. When Dick suggested a stroll in the garden, he said,—

"Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the dews are heavy and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!"

"We do it every evening of our life," observed Nan, hardily; but even she dared not persevere in the face of this protest, though she exchanged a rebellious look with Dick that did him good and put him in a better humor.

They found their way into the conservatory after that, but were hunted out on pretence of having a little music; at least Nan would have it that it was pretence.

"Your father does not care much for music, I know," she whispered, as she placed herself at the grand piano, while Dick leaned against it and watched her. It was naughty of Nan, but there was no denying that she found Mr. Mayne more aggravating than usual this evening.

"Come, come, Miss Nancy!" he called out,—he always called her that when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a special dislike to her quaint, old-fashioned name; it had been her mother's and grandmother's name; in every generation there had been a Nancy Challoner,—"come, come, Miss Nancy! we cannot have you playing at hide-and-seek in this fashion. We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us all awake." And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the piano.

She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend Dick's father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.

Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady's point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory,—"My mother bids me bind my hair," or "Bid your faithful Ariel fly," and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fashion that pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music in bird-fashion, rather wildly and shrilly, with small respect to rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner once told her.

When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while Dick shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the usual time, in terror of an outbreak.

It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.

"I will be even with him," growled Dick, who was in a state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan's sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not hear him, "This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;" and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. Mayne's last question.

If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man's wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward looks in answer.

"Nevermind," it seemed to say; "we shall have to-morrow;" and then she bade them cheerfully good-night.

Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.

"Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?" questioned the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.

"No, Miss Nan; she is still in there," jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room. "Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the lamp."

"Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has been," broke in Dulce, impatiently. "He always comes and tells her some nightmare tale or other to prevent her sleeping. Now we shall not have the new gowns we set our hearts on, Nan."

"Oh, never mind the gowns," returned Nan, rather wearily.

What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when Dick would not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who was contemplating her favorite nursling with the privileged tenderness of an old servant, chimed in with the utmost cheerfulness:

"It does not matter what she wears; does it, Miss Nan? She looks just as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is what I say of all my young ladies; dress does not matter a bit to them."

"How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dorothy?" interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. "Mother will wonder what conspiracy we are hatching, and why we leave her so long alone." And then Dorothy took up her candlestick, grumbling a little, as she often did, over Miss Phillis's masterful ways, and the girls went laughingly into their mother's presence.

Though it was summer-time, Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair was drawn up in front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in her white shawl, with her eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire-screen that hid the blackness of the coals. She did not turn her head or move as her daughters entered; indeed, so motionless was her attitude that Dulce thought she was asleep, and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nan, who had caught sight of her mother's face, put her quickly aside.

"Don't, Dulce; mother is not well. What is the matter, mammie, darling?" kneeling down and bringing her bright face on a level with her mother's. She would have taken her into her vigorous young arms, but Mrs. Challoner almost pushed her away.

"Hush, children! Do be quiet, Nan; I cannot talk to you. I cannot answer questions to-night." And then she shivered, and drew her shawl closer round her, and put away Nan's caressing hands, and looked at them all with a face that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at once, and eyes full of misery.

"Mammie, you must speak to us," returned Nan, not a whit daunted by this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the time. "Of course, Dorothy told us that Mr. Trinder has been here, and of course we know that it is some trouble about money." Then, at the mention of Mr. Trinder's name, Mrs. Challoner shivered again.

Nan waited a moment for an answer: but, as none came, she went on in coaxing voice:

"Don't be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all bear a little trouble, I hope. We have had such happy lives, and we cannot go on being happy always," continued the girl, with the painful conviction coming suddenly into her mind that the brightness of these days was over. "Money is very nice, and one cannot do without it, I suppose; but as long as we are together and love each other——"

Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter and took up the unfinished sentence:

"Ah, if we could only be together!—if I were not to be separated from my children! it is that—that is crushing me!" and then she pressed her dry lips together, and folded her hands with a gesture of despair; "but I know that it must be, for Mr. Trinder has told me everything. It is no use shutting our eyes and struggling on any longer; for we are ruined—ruined!" her voice sinking into indistinctness.

Nan grew a little pale. If they were ruined, how would it be with her and Dick! And then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and her heart felt faint within her. Nan, who had Dick added to her perplexities, was hardly equal to the emergency; but it was Phillis who took the domestic helm as it fell from her sister's hand.

"If we be ruined, mother," she said, briskly, "it is not half so bad as having you ill. Nan, why don't you rub her hands! she is shivering with cold, or with the bad news, or something. I mean to set Dorothy at defiance, and to light a nice little fire, in spite of the clean muslin curtains. When one is ill or unhappy, there is nothing so soothing as a fire," continued Phillis as she removed the screen and kindled the dry wood, not heeding Mrs. Challoner's feeble remonstrances.

"Don't, Phillis: we shall not be able to afford fires now;" and then she became a little hysterical. But Phillis persisted, and the red glow was soon coaxed into a cheerful blaze.

"That looks more comfortable. I feel chilly myself; these summer nights are sometimes deceptive. I wonder what Dorothy will say to us; I mean to ask her to make us all some tea. No, mamma, you are not to interfere; it will do you good, and we don't mean to have you ill if we can help it." And then she looked meaningly at Nan, and withdrew.

There was no boiling water, of course, and the kitchen fire was raked out; and Dorothy was sitting in solitary state, looking very grim.

"It is time for folks to be in their beds, Miss Phillis," she said, very crossly. "I don't hold with tea myself so late: it excites people, and keeps them awake."

"Mother is not just the thing, and a cup of tea will do her good. Don't let us keep you up, Dorothy," replied Phillis, blandly. "I have lighted the drawing-room-fire, and I can boil the kettle in there. If mother has got a chill, I would not answer for the consequences."

Dorothy grew huffy at the mention of the fire, and would not aid or abet her young lady's "fad," as she called it.

"If you don't want me, I think I will go to bed, Miss Phillis. Susan went off a long time ago." And, as Phillis cheerfully acquiesced in this arrangement, Dorothy decamped with a frown on her brow, and left Phillis mistress of the situation.

"There, now, I have got rid of the cross old thing," she observed, in a tone of relief, as she filled the kettle and arranged the little tea-tray.

She carried them both into the room, poising the tray skilfully in her hand. Nan looked up in a relieved way as she entered. Mrs. Challoner was stretching out her chilled hands to the blaze. Her face had lost its pinched unnatural expression; it was as though the presence of her girls fenced her in securely, and her misfortune grew more shadowy and faded into the background. She drank the tea when it was given to her, and even begged Nan to follow her example. Nan took a little to please her, though she hardly believed its solace would be great; but Phillis and Dulce drank theirs in a business-like way, as though they needed support and were not ashamed to own it. It was Nan who put down her cup first, and leaned her cheek against her mother's hand.

"Now, mother dear, we want to hear all about it. Does Mr. Trinder say we are really so dreadfully poor?"

"We have been getting poorer for along time," returned her mother, mournfully; "but if we had only a little left us I would not complain. You see, your father would persist in these investments in spite of all Mr. Trinder could say, and now his words have come true." But this vague statement did not satisfy Nan; and patiently, and with difficulty, she drew from her mother all that the lawyer had told her.

Mr. Challoner had been called to the bar early in life, but his career had hardly been a successful one. He had held few briefs, and, though he worked hard, and had good capabilities, he had never achieved fortune; and as he lived up to his income, and was rather fond of the good things of this life, he got through most of his wife's money, and, contrary to the advice of older and wiser heads, invested the remainder in the business of a connection who only wanted capital to make his fortune and Mr. Challoner's too.

It was a grievous error; and yet, if Mr. Challoner had lived, those few thousands would hardly have been so sorely missed. He was young in his profession, and if he had been spared, success would have come to him as to other men; but he was cut off unexpectedly in the prime of life, and Mrs. Challoner gave up her large house at Kensington, and settled at Glen Cottage with her three daughters, understanding that life was changed for her, and that they should have to be content with small means and few wants.

Hitherto they had had sufficient; but of late there had been dark whispers concerning that invested money; things were not quite square and above-board; the integrity of the firm was doubted. Mr. Trinder, almost with tears in his eyes, begged Mrs. Challoner to be prudent and spend less. The crash which he had foreseen, and had vainly tried to avert, had come to-night. Gardiner & Fowler were bankrupt, and their greatest creditor, Mrs. Challoner, was ruined.

"We cannot get our money. Mr. Trinder says we never shall. They have been paying their dividends correctly, keeping it up as a sort of blind, he says: but all the capital is eaten away. George Gardiner, too, your father's cousin, the man he trusted above every one,—he to defraud the widow and the fatherless, to take our money—my children's only portion—and to leave us beggared." And Mrs. Challoner, made tragical by this great blow, clasped her hands and looked at her girls with two large tears rolling down her face.

"Mother, are you sure? is it quite as bad as that?" asked Nan; and then she kissed away the tears, and said something rather brokenly about having faith, and trying not to lose courage; then her voice failed her, and they all sat quiet together.



CHAPTER VII.

PHILLIS'S CATECHISM.

A veil of silence fell over the little party. After the first few moments of dismay, conjecture, and exclamation, there did not seem to be much that any one could say. Each girl was busy with her own thoughts and private interpretation of a most sorrowful enigma. What were they to do? How were they to live without separation, and without taking a solitary plunge into an unknown and most terrifying world?

Nan's frame of mind was slightly monotonous. What would Dick say, and how would this affect certain vague hopes she had lately cherished? Then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and shivered, and a sense of coldness and remote fear stole over her.

One could hardly blame her for this sweet dual selfishness, that was not selfishness. She was thinking less of herself than of a certain vigorous young life that was becoming strongly entwined with hers. It was all very well to say that Dick was Dick; but what could the most obstinate will of even that most obstinate young man avail against such a miserable combination of adverse influences,—"when the stars in their courses fought against Sisera"? And at this juncture of her thoughts she could feel Phillis's hand folding softly over hers with a most sisterly pressure of full understanding and sympathy. Phillis had no Dick to stand sentinel over her private thoughts; she was free to be alert and vigilant for others. Nevertheless, her forehead was puckered up with hard thinking, and her silence was so very expressive that Dulce sat and looked at her with grave unsmiling eyes, the innocent child-look in them growing very pathetic at the speechlessness that had overtaken them. As for Mrs. Challoner, she still moaned feebly from time to time, as she stretched her numb hands towards the comforting warmth. They were fine delicate hands, with the polished look of old ivory, and there were diamond rings on them that twinkled and shone as she moved them in her restlessness.

"They shall all go; I will keep nothing," she said, regarding them plaintively; for they were heirlooms, and highly valued as relics of a wealthy past. "It is not this sort of thing that I mind. I would live on a crust thankfully, if I could only keep my children with me." And she looked round at the blooming faces of her girls with eyes brimming over with maternal fondness.

Poor Dulce's lips quivered, and she made a horrified gesture.

"Oh, mamsie, don't talk so. I never could bear crusts, unless they were well buttered. I like everything to be nice, and to have plenty of it,—plenty of sunshine, and fun, and holiday-making, and friends; and—and now you are talking as though we must starve, and never have anything to wear, and go nowhere and be miserable forever?" And here Dulce broke into actual sobs; for was she not the petted darling? and had she not had a life so gilded by sunshine that she had never seen the dark edge of a single cloud? So that even Nan forgot Dick for a moment, and looked at her young sister pityingly; but Phillis interposed with bracing severity:

"Don't talk such nonsense, Dulce. Of course we must eat to live, and of course we must have clothes to wear. Aren't Nan and I thinking ourselves into headaches by trying to contrive how even the crusts you so despise are to be bought?" which was hardly true as far as Nan was concerned, for she blushed guiltily over this telling point in Phillis's eloquence. "It only upsets mother to talk like this." And then she touched the coals skilfully, till they spluttered and blazed into fury. "There is the Friary, you know," she continued, looking calmly round on them, as though she felt herself full of resources. "If Dulce chooses to make herself miserable about the crusts, we have, at least, a roof to shelter us."

"I forgot the Friary," murmured Nan, looking at her sister with admiration; and, though Mrs. Challoner said nothing, she started a little as though she had forgotten it too. But Dulce was not to be comforted.

"That horrid, dismal, pokey old cottage!" she returned, with a shrill rendering of each adjective. "You would have us go and live in that damp, musty, fusty place?"

Phillis gave a succession of quick little nods.

"I don't think it particularly dismal, or Nan either," she returned, in her brisk way. Phillis always answered for Nan, and was never contradicted. "It is not dear Glen Cottage, of course, but we could not begin munching our crusts here," she continued, with a certain grim humor. Things were apparently at their worst; but at least she,—Phillis,—the clever one, as she had heard herself called, would do her best to keep the heads of the little family above water. "It is a nice little place enough if we were only humble enough to see it; and it is not damp, and it is our own," running up the advantages as well as she could.

"The Friary!" commented her mother, in some surprise: "to think of that queer old cottage coming into your head! And it so seldom lets. And people say it is dear at forty pounds a year; and it is so dull that they do not care to stay."

"Never mind all that, mammy," returned Phillis, with a grave business-like face. "A cottage, rent-free, that will hold us, is not to be despised; and Hadleigh is a nice place, and the sea always suits you. There is the house, and the furniture, that belongs to us; and we have plenty of clothes for the present. How much did Mr. Trinder think we should have in hand?"

Then her mother told her, but still mournfully, that they might possibly have about a hundred pounds. "But there are my rings and that piece of point-lace that Lady Fitzroy admired so——" but Phillis waved away that proposition with an impatient frown.

"There is plenty of time for that when we have got through all the money. Not that a hundred pounds would last long, with moving, and paying off the servants, and all that sort of thing."

Then Nan, who had worn all along an expression of admiring confidence in Phillis's resources, originated an idea of her own.

"The mother might write to Uncle Francis, perhaps;" but at this proposition Mrs. Challoner sat upright and looked almost offended.

"My dear Nan, what a preposterous idea! Your uncle Francis!"

"Well, mammy, he is our uncle; and I am sure he would be sorry if his only brother's children were to starve."

"You are too young to know any better," returned Mrs. Challoner, relapsing into alarmed feebleness; "you are not able to judge. But I never liked my brother-in-law,—never; he was not a good man. He was not a person whom one could trust," continued the poor lady, trying to soften down certain facts to her innocent young daughters.

Sir Francis Challoner had been a black sheep,—a very black sheep indeed: one who had dyed himself certainly to a most sable hue; and though, for such prodigals, there may be a late repentance and much killing of fatted calves, still Mrs. Challoner was right in refusing to intrust herself and her children to the uncertain mercies of such a sinner.

Now, Nan knew nothing about the sin; but she did think that an uncle who was a baronet threw a certain reflected glory or brightness over them. Sir Francis might be that very suspicious character, a black sheep; he might be landless, with the exception of that ruined tenement in the North; nevertheless, Nan loved to know that he was of their kith and kin. It seemed to settle their claims to respectability, and held Mr. Mayne in some degree of awe; and he knew that his own progenitors had not the faintest trace of blue blood, and numbered more aldermen than baronets.

It would have surprised and grieved Nan, especially just now, if she had known that no such glory remained to her,—that Sir Francis Challoner had long filled the cup of his iniquities, and lay in his wife's tomb in some distant cemetery, leaving a certain red-headed Sir Harry to reign in his stead.

"I don't think we had better talk anymore," observed Phillis, somewhat brusquely: and then she exchanged meaning looks with Nan. The two girls were somewhat dismayed at their mother's wan looks; her feebleness and uncertainty of speech, the very vagueness of her lamentations, filled them with sad forebodings for the future. How were they to leave her, when they commenced that little fight with the world? She had leaned on them so long that her helplessness had become a matter of habit.

Nan understood her sister's warning glance, and she made no further allusion to Sir Francis; she only rose with assumed briskness, and took her mother in charge.

"Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling," she said, cheerfully. "Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may turn out better than we expect." And, as Mrs. Challoner was too utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her head against her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten her troubles for a little while.

"Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!" thought Nan, as she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to find her sisters' room dark and empty as she passed. They must be still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea must have stimulated them to wakefulness.

The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called "a good cry." Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with her hands clasped behind her head,—a favorite attitude of hers when she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with some astonishment from the threshold.

"Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cry."

"I can't help it," returned Dulce, with another sob; "everything is so horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things."

"Poor little soul!" said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; "it is very hard for her and for us all," with a pent-up sigh.

"Of course it is hard," retorted Phillis, confronting them rather impatiently from the hearth-rug; "it is bitterly hard. But it is not worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters, and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under the circumstances."

"Yes, indeed," repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce, and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce, and her tears soon ceased to flow.

"I am thinking about mother," went on Phillis, pondering her words slowly as she spoke; "she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how we are to leave her."

Mrs. Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely alluded to them except in this vague fashion. For years they had shielded and petted her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.

"Mother cannot bear this; we always keep these little worries from her," Nan had been accustomed to say; and the others had followed her example.

The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How were they to prevent the rough winds of adversity from blowing too roughly upon their cherished charge? The roof, and perhaps the crust, might be theirs; but how were they to contrive that she should not miss her little comforts? They would gladly work; but how, and after what fashion?

Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for Nan felt almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce.

"We must go into the thing thoroughly," began Phillis, drawing a chair opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, but her eyes had a certain brightness of determination. She looked too young for that quiet care-worn look that had come so suddenly to her; but one felt she could be equal to any emergency. "We are down-hearted, of course; but we have plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is, how are we to live?"

"Just so," observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce gave a little gasp.

"There is the Friary standing empty; and there is the furniture; and there will be about fifty pounds, perhaps less, when every thing is settled. And we have clothes enough to last some time, and——" here Dulce put her hands together pleadingly, but Phillis looked at her severely, and went on: "Forty or fifty pounds will soon be spent, and then we shall be absolutely penniless; we have no one to help us. Mother will not hear of writing to Uncle Francis; we must work ourselves or starve."

"Couldn't we let lodgings?" hazarded Dulce, with quavering voice; but Phillis smiled grimly.

"Let lodgings at the Friary! why, it is only big enough to hold us. We might get a larger house in Hadleigh; but no, it would be ruinous to fail, and perhaps we should not make it answer. I cannot fancy mother living in the basement story; she would make herself wretched over it. We are too young. I don't think that would answer, Nan: do you?"

Nan replied faintly that she did not think it would. The mere proposition took her breath away. What would Mr. Mayne say to that? Then she plucked up spirit and went into the question vigorously.

There were too many lodging-houses in Hadleigh now; it would be a hazardous speculation, and one likely to fail; they had not sufficient furniture for such a purpose, and they dare not use up their little capital too quickly. They were too young, too, to carry out such a thing, Nan did not add "and too pretty," though she colored and hesitated here. Their mother could not help them; she was not strong enough for housework or cooking. She thought that plan must be given up.

"We might be daily governesses, and live at home," suggested Dulce, who found a sort of relief in throwing out feelers in every direction. Nan brightened up visibly at this, but Phillis's moody brow did not relax for a moment.

"That would be nice," acquiesced Nan, "and then mother would not find the day so long if we came home in the evening; she could busy herself about the house, and we could leave her little things to do, and she would not find the hours so heavy. I like that idea of yours, Dulce; and we are all so fond of children."

"The idea is as nice as possible," replied Phillis, with an ominous stress on the noun, "if we could only make it practicable."

"Phil is going to find fault," pouted Dulce, who knew every inflection of Phillis's voice.

"Oh, dear, no, nothing of the kind!" she retorted, briskly. "Nan is quite right: we all dote on children. I should dearly like to be a governess myself; it would be more play than work; but I am only wondering who would engage us."

"Who?—oh, anybody!" returned Nan, feeling puzzled by the smothered satire of Phillis's speech. "Of course we are not certificated, and I for one could only teach young children; but——" here Phillis interrupted her:

"Don't think me horrid if I ask you and Dulce some questions, but do—do answer me just as though I were going through the Catechism: we are only girls, but we must sift the whole thing thoroughly. Are we fit for governesses? what can you and I and Dulce teach?"

"Oh, anything!" returned Nan, still more vaguely.

"My dear Nanny, anything won't do. Come, I am really in earnest; I mean to catechise you both thoroughly."

"Very well," returned Nan, in a resigned voice; but Dulce looked a little frightened. As for Phillis, she sat erect, with her finger pointed at them in a severely ominous fashion.

"How about history, Nan? I thought you could never remember dates; you used to jumble facts in the most marvellous manner. I remember your insisting that Anne of Cleves was Louis XII.'s second wife; and you shocked Miss Martin dreadfully by declaring that one of Marlborough's victories was fought at Cressy."

"I never could remember historical facts," returned Nan, humbly. "Dulce always did better than I; and so did you, Phillis. When I teach the children I can have the book before me." But Phillis only shook her head at this, and went on:

"Dulce was a shade better, but I don't believe she could tell me the names of the English sovereigns in proper sequence;" but Dulce disdained to answer. "You were better at arithmetic, Nan. Dulce never got through her rule of three; but you were not very advanced even at that. You write a pretty hand, and you used to talk French very fluently."

"Oh, I have forgotten my French!" exclaimed Nan, in a panic-stricken voice. "Dulce, don't you remember me quite settled to talk in French over our work three times a week, and we have always forgotten it; and we were reading Madame de Sevigne's 'Letters' together, and I found the book the other day quite covered with dust."

"I hate French," retuned Dulce, rebelliously. "I began German with Phillis, and like it much better."

"True, but we are only beginners," returned the remorseless Phillis: "it was very nice, of course, and the Taugenichts' was delicious; but think how many words in every sentence you had to hunt out in the dictionary. I am glad you feel so competent, Dulce; but I could not teach German myself, or French either. I don't remember enough of the grammar; and I do not believe Nan does either, though she used to chatter so to Miss Martin."

"Did I not say she would pick our idea to pieces?" returned Dulce, with tears in her eyes.

"My dear little sister don't look so dreadfully pathetic. I am quite as disheartened and disappointed as you are. Nan says she has forgotten her French, and she will have to teach history with an open book before her; we none of us draw—no, Dulce please let me finish our scanty stock of accomplishments. I only know my notes,—for no one cares to hear me lumber through my pieces,—and I sing at church. You have the sweetest voice Dulce, but it is not trained; and I cannot compliment you on your playing. Nan sings and plays very nicely, and it is a pleasure to listen to her; but I am afraid she knows little about the theory of music, harmony and thorough-bass: you never did anything in that way, did you, Nan?"

Nan shook her head sadly. She was too discomfited for speech. Phillis looked at them both thoughtfully; her trouble was very real, but she could not help a triumphant inflection in her voice.

"Dear Nan, please do not look so unhappy. Dulce, you shall not begin to cry again. Don't you remember what mother was reading to us the other day, about the country being flooded with incompetent governesses,—half-educated girls turned loose on the world to earn their living? I can remember one sentence of that writer, word for word: 'The standard of education is so high at the present day, and the number of certificated reliable teachers so much increased, that we can afford to discourage the crude efforts to teach, or un-teach, our children.' And then he goes on to ask, 'What has become of womanly conscientiousness, when such ignorance presses forward to assume such sacred responsibilities? Better the competent nurse than the incompetent governess.' 'Why do not these girls,' he asks, 'who, through their own fault or the fault of circumstances, are not sufficiently advanced to educate others—why do they not rather discharge the exquisitely feminine duties of the nursery? What an advantage to parents to have their little ones brought into the earliest contact with refined speech and cultivated manners,—their infant ears not inoculated by barbarous English!'" but here Phillis was arrested in her torrent of reflected wisdom by an impatient exclamation from Dulce.

"Oh, Nan, do ask her to be quiet! She never stops when she once begins. How can we listen to such rubbish, when we are so wretched? You may talk for hours, Phil, but I never, never will be a nurse!" And Dulce hid her face on Nan's shoulder in such undisguised distress that her sisters had much ado to comfort her.



CHAPTER VIII.

"WE SHOULD HAVE TO CARRY PARCELS."

It was hard work to tranquillize Dulce.

"I never, never will be a nurse!" she sobbed out at intervals.

"You little goose, who ever thought of such a thing? Why will you misunderstand me so?" sighed Phillis, almost in despair at her sister's impracticability. "I am only trying to prove to you and Nan that we are not fit for governesses."

"No, indeed; I fear you are right there," replied poor Nan, who had never realized her deficiences before. They were all bright, taking girls, with plenty to say for themselves, lady-like, and well-bred. Who would have thought that, when weighed in the balance, they would have been found so wanting? "I always knew I was a very stupid person; but you are different,—you are so clever, Phil."

"Nonsense, Nanny! It is a sort of cleverness for which there is no market. I am fond of reading. I remember things, and do a great deal of thinking; but I am destitute of accomplishments: my knowledge of languages is purely superficial. We are equal to other girls,—just young ladies, and nothing more; but when it comes to earning our bread-and-butter——" Here Phillis paused, and threw out her hands with a little gesture of despair.

"But you work so beautifully; and so does Nan," interrupted Dulce, who was a little comforted, now she knew Phillis had no prospective nurse-maid theory in view. "I am good at it myself," she continued, modestly, feeling that, in this case, self-praise was allowable. "We might be companions,—some nice old lady who wants her caps made, and requires some one to read to her," faltered Dulce, with her child-like pleading look.

Nan gave her a little hug; but she left the answer to Phillis, who went at once into a brown study, and only woke up after a long interval.

"I am looking at it all round," she said, when Nan at last pressed for her opinion; "it is not a bad idea. I think it very possible that either you or I, Nan,—or both, perhaps,—might find something in that line to suit us. There are old ladies everywhere; and some of them are rich and lonely and want companions."

"You have forgotten me?" exclaimed Dulce, with natural jealousy, and a dislike to be overlooked, inherent in most young people. "And it is I who have always made mammy's caps and you know how Lady Fitzroy praised the last one."

"Yes, yes; we know all that," returned Phillis, impatiently. "You are as clever as possible with your fingers; but one of us must stop with mother, and you are the youngest, Dulce; that is what I meant by looking at it all round. If Nan and I were away, it would never do for you and mother to live at the Friary. We could not afford a servant, and we should want the forty pounds a year to pay for bare necessaries; for our salary would not be very great. You would have to live in lodgings,—two little rooms, that is all; and even then I am afraid you and mother would be dreadfully pinched, for we should have to dress ourselves properly in other people's houses."

"Oh, Phillis, that would not do at all!" exclaimed Nan, in a voice of despair. She was very pale by this time: full realization of all this trouble was coming to her, as it had come to Phillis. "What shall we do? Who will help us to any decision? How are you and I to go away and live luxuriously in other people's houses, and leave mother and Dulce pining in two shabby little rooms, with nothing to do, and perhaps not enough to eat, and mother fretting herself ill, and Dulce losing her bloom? I could not rest; I could not sleep for thinking of it. I would rather take in plain needlework, and live on dry bread if we could only be together, and help each other."

"So would I," returned Phillis, in an odd, muffled voice.

"And I too," rather hesitatingly from Dulce.

"If we could only live at the Friary, and have Dorothy to do all the rough work," sighed Nan, with a sudden yearning towards even that very shabby ark of refuge: "if we could only be together, and see each other every day, things would not be quite so dreadful."

"I am quite of your opinion," was Phillis's curt observation: but there was a sudden gleam in her eyes.

"I have heard of ladies working for fancy-shops; do you think we could do something of that kind?" asked Nan, anxiously. "Even mother could help us in that; and Dulce does work so beautifully. It is all very well to say we have no accomplishments," went on Nan, with apathetic little laugh, "but you know that no other girls work as we do. We have always made our own dresses. And Lady Fitzroy asked me once who was our dressmaker, because she fitted us so exquisitely; and I was so proud of telling her that we always did our own, with Dorothy to help——"

"Nan," interrupted Phillis, eagerly, and there was a great softness in her whole mien, and her eyes were glistening,—"dear Nan, do you love us all so that you could give up the whole world for our sakes,—for the sake of living together, I mean?"

Nan hesitated. Did the whole world involve Dick, and could even her love for her sisters induce her voluntarily to give him up? Phillis, who was quick-witted, read the doubt in a moment, and hastened to qualify her words:

"The outside world, I mean,—mere conventional acquaintances, not friends. Do you think you could bear to set society at defiance, to submit to be sent to Coventry for our sakes; to do without it, in fact to live in a little world of our own and make ourselves happy in it?"

"Ah, Phillis, you are so clever, and I don't understand you," faltered Nan. It was not Dick she was to give up; but what could Phillis mean? "We are all fond of society; we are like other girls, I suppose. But if we are to be poor and work for our living, I dare say people will give us up."

"I am not meaning that," returned her sister, earnestly; "it is something far harder, something far more difficult, something that will be a great sacrifice and cost us all tremendous efforts. But if we are to keep a roof over our heads, if we are to live together in anything like comfort, I don't see what else we can do, unless we go out as companions and leave mother and Dulce in lodgings."

"Oh, no, no; pray don't leave us!" implored Dulce, feeling that all her strength and comfort lay near Nan.

"I will not leave you, dear, if I can possibly help it," returned Nan, gently. "Tell us what you mean, Phillis, for I see you have some sort of plan in your head. There is nothing,—nothing," she continued, more firmly, "that I would not do to make mother and Dulce happy. Speak out; you are half afraid that I shall prove a coward, but you shall see."

"Dear Nan, no; you are as brave as possible. I am rather a coward myself. Yes; I have a plan; but you have yourself put it into my head by saying what you did about Lady Fitzroy."

"About Lady Fitzroy?"

"Yes; your telling her about our making our own dresses. Nan, you are right: needlework is our forte; nothing is a trouble to us. Few girls have such clever fingers, I believe; and then you and Dulce have such taste. Mrs. Paine once told me that we were the best-dressed girls in the neighborhood, and she wished Carrie looked half as well. I am telling you this, not from vanity, but because I do believe we can turn our one talent to account. We should be miserable governesses; we do not want to separate and seek situations as lady helps or companions; we do not mean to fail in letting lodgings; but if we do not succeed as good dressmakers, never believe me again."

"Dressmakers!" almost shrieked Dulce. But Nan, who had expressed herself willing to take in plain needlework, only looked at her sister with mute gravity; her little world was turned so completely upside down, everything was so unreal, that nothing at this moment could have surprised her.

"Dressmakers!" she repeated, vaguely.

"Yes, yes," replied Phillis, still more eagerly. The inspiration had come to her in a moment, full-fledged and grown up, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. Just from those chance words of Nan's she had grasped the whole thing in a moment. Now, indeed she felt that she was clever; here at least was something striking and original; she took no notice of Dulce's shocked exclamation; she fixed her eyes solemnly on Nan. "Yes, yes; what does it matter what the outside world says? We are not like other girls; we never were; people always said we were so original. Necessity strikes out strange paths some times. We could not do such a thing here; no, no, I never could submit to that myself," as Nan involuntarily shuddered; "but at Hadleigh, where no one knows us, where we shall be among strangers. And then, you see, Miss Monks is dead."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what does she mean?" cried Dulce, despairingly; "and what do we care about Miss Monks, if the creature be dead, or about Miss Anybody, if we have got to do such dreadful things?"

"My dear," returned Phillis, with compassionate irony, "if we had to depend upon you for ideas——" and here she made an eloquent pause. "Our last tenant for the Friary was Miss Monks, and Miss Monks was a dressmaker; and, though perhaps I ought not to say it, it does seem a direct leading of Providence, putting such a thought into my head."

"I am afraid Dulce and I are very slow and stupid," returned Nan, putting her hair rather wearily from her face: her pretty color had quite faded during the last half-hour. "I think if you would tell us plainly, exactly what you mean, Phillis, we should be able to understand everything better."

"My notion is this," began Phillis, slowly: "remember, I have not thought it quite out, but I will give you my ideas just as they occur to me. We will not say anything to mother just yet, until we have thoroughly digested our plan. You and I, Nan, will run down to the Friary, and reconnoitre the place, judge of its capabilities, and so forth; and when we come back we will hold a family council."

"That will be best," agreed Nan, who remembered, with sudden feelings of relief, that Dick and his belongings would be safe in the Engadine by that time. "But, Phillis, do you really and truly believe that we could carry out such a scheme?"

"Why not?" was the bold answer. "If we can work for ourselves, we can for other people. I have a presentiment that we shall achieve a striking success. We will make the old Friary as comfortable as possible," she continued, cheerfully. "The good folk of Hadleigh will be rather surprised when they see our pretty rooms. No horse-hair sofa; no crochet antimacassars or hideous wax flowers; none of the usual stock-in-trade. Dorothy will manage the house for us; and we will all sit and work together, and mother will help us, and read to us. Aren't you glad, Nan, that we all saved up for that splendid sewing-machine?"

"I do believe there is something, after all, in what you say," was Nan's response; but Dulce was not so easily won over.

"Do you mean to say that we shall put up a brass plate on the door, with 'Challoner, dressmaker,' on it?" she observed, indignantly. A red glow mounted to Nan's forehead; and even Phillis looked disconcerted.

"I never thought of that: well, perhaps not. We might advertise at the Library, or put cards in the shops. I do not think mother would ever cross the threshold if she saw a brass plate."

"No, no; I could not bear that," said Nan, faintly. A dim vision of Dick standing at the gate, ruefully contemplating their name—her name—in juxtaposition with "dressmaker," crossed her mind directly.

"But we should have to carry parcels, and stand in people's halls, and perhaps fit Mrs. Squails, the grocer's wife,—that fat old thing, you know. How would you like to make a dress for Mrs. Squails, Phil?" asked Dulce, with the malevolent desire of making Phillis as uncomfortable as possible; but Phillis, who had rallied from her momentary discomfiture, was not to be again worsted.

"Dulce, you talk like a child; you are really a very silly little thing. Do you think any work can degrade us or that we shall not be as much gentlewomen at Hadleigh as we are here?"

"But the parcels?" persisted Dulce.

"I do not intend to carry any," was the imperturbable reply, "Dorothy will do that; or we will hire a boy. As for waiting in halls, I don't think any one will ask me to do that, as I should desire to be shown into a room at once; and as for Mrs. Squails, if the poor old woman honors me with her custom, I will turn her out a gown that shall be the envy of Hadleigh."

Dulce did not answer this, but the droop of her lip was piteous; it melted Phillis at once.

"Oh, do cheer up, you silly girl!" she said, with a coaxing face. "What is the good of making ourselves more miserable than we need? If you prefer the two little rooms with mother, say so; and Nan and I will look out for old ladies at once."

"No! no! Oh, pray don't leave me!" still more piteously.

"Well, what will you have us do? we cannot starve; and we don't mean to beg. Pluck up a little spirit, Dulce; see how good Nan is! You have no idea how comfortable we should be!" she went on, with judicious word-painting. "We should all be together,—that is the great thing. Then we could talk over our work; and in the afternoon, when we felt dreary, mother could read some interesting novel to us,"—a tremulous sigh from Nan at this point.

What a contrast to the afternoons at Glen Cottage,—tennis, and five-o'clock tea, and the company of their young friends! Phillis understood the sigh, and hurried on.

"It will not be always work. We will have long country walks in the evening; and then, there will be the garden and the sea-shore. Of course we must have exercise and recreation, I am afraid we shall have to do without society, for no one will visit ladies under such circumstances; but I would rather do without people than without each other, and so would Nan."

"Yes, indeed!" broke in Nan; and now the tears were in her eyes.

Dulce grew suddenly ashamed of herself. She got up in a little flurry, and kissed them both.

"I was very naughty; but I did not mean to be unkind. I would rather carry parcels, and stand in halls,—yes, and even make gowns for Mrs. Squails,—than lose you both. I will be good. I will not worry you any more, Phil, with my nonsense; and I will work; you will see how I will work," finished Dulce, breathlessly.

"There's a darling!" said Nan; and then she added, in a tired voice, "But it is two o'clock; and Dick is coming this morning to say good-bye; and I want to ask you both particularly not to say a word to him about this. Let him go away and enjoy himself, and think we are going on as usual; it would spoil his holiday; and there is always time enough for bad news," went on Nan, with a little tremble of her lip.

"Dear Nan, we understand," returned Phillis, gently; "and you are right, as you always are. And now to bed,—to bed," she continued, in a voice of enforced cheerfulness; and then they all kissed each other very quietly and solemnly, and crept up as noiselessly as possible to their rooms.

Phillis and Dulce shared the same room; but Nan had a little chamber to herself very near her mother's: a door connected the two rooms. Nan closed this carefully, when she had ascertained that Mrs. Challoner was still sleeping, and then sat down by the window, and looked out into the gray glimmering light that preceded the dawn.

Sleep; how could she sleep with all these thoughts surging through her mind, and knowing that in a few hours Dick would come and say good-bye? and here Nan broke down, and had such a fit of crying as she had not had since her father died,—nervous, uncontrollable tears, that it was useless to stem in her tired, overwrought state.

They exhausted her, and disposed her for sleep. She was so chilled and weary that she was glad to lie down in bed at last and close her eyes; and she had scarcely done so before drowsiness crept over her, and she knew no more until she found the sunshine flooding her little room, and Dorothy standing by her bed asking rather crossly why no one seemed disposed to wake this beautiful morning.

"Am I late? Oh, I hope I am not late!" exclaimed Nan, springing up in a moment. She dressed herself in quite a flurry, for fear she should keep any one waiting. It was only at the last moment she remembered the outburst of the previous night, and wondered with some dismay what Dick would think of her pale cheeks and the reddened lines round her eyes, and only hoped that he would not attribute them to his going away. Nan was only just in time, for as she entered the breakfast-room Dick came through the veranda and put in his head at the window.

"Not at breakfast yet? and where are the others?" he asked in some surprise, for the Challoners were early people, and very regular in their habits.

"We sat up rather late last night, talking," returned Nan, giving him her hand without looking at him, and yet Dick showed to advantage this morning in his new tweed travelling suit.

"Well, I have only got ten minutes. I managed to give the pater the slip: he will be coming after me, I believe, if I stay longer. This is first-rate, having you all to myself this last morning. But what's up, Nan? you don't seem quite up to the mark. You are palish, you know, and——" here Dick paused in pained embarrassment. Were those traces of tears? had Nan really been crying? was she sorry about his going away? And now there was an odd lump in Dick's throat.

Nan understood the pause and got frightened.

"It is nothing. I have a slight headache; there was a little domestic worry that wanted putting to right," stammered Nan; "it worried me, for I am stupid at such things, you know."

She was explaining herself somewhat lamely, and to no purpose, for Dick did not believe her in the least. "Domestic worry!" as though she cared for such rubbish as that; as though any amount could make her cry,—her, his bright, high spirited Nan! No; she had been fretting about their long separation, and his father's unkindness, and the difficulties ahead of them.

"I want you to give me a rose," he said, suddenly, a propos of nothing, as it seemed; but looking up, Nan caught a wistful gleam in his eyes, and hesitated. Was it not Dick who had told her that anecdote about the queen, or was it Lothair? and did not a certain meaning attach to this gift? Dick was forever picking roses for her; but he had never given her one, except with that meaning look on his face.

"You are hesitating," he said, reproachfully; "and on my last morning, when we shall not see each other for months;" And Nan moved towards the veranda slowly, and gathered a crimson one without a word, and put it in his hand.

"Thank you," he said, quite quietly; but he detained the hand as well as the rose for a moment. "One day I will show you this again, and tell you what it means if you do not know; and then we shall see, ah, Nan, my——" He paused as Phillis's step entered the room, and said hurriedly, in a low voice, "Good-bye; I will not go in again. I don't want to see any of them, only you,—only you. Good-bye: take care of yourself for my sake, Nan." And Dick looked at her wistfully, and dropped her hand.

"Has he gone?" asked Phillis, looking up in surprise as her sister came through the open window; "has he gone without finding anything out?"

"Yes, he has gone, and he does not know anything," replied Nan, in a subdued voice, as she seated herself behind the urn. It was over now, and she was ready for anything. "Take care of yourself for my sake, Nan!"—that was ringing in her ears; but she had not said a word in reply. Only the rose lay in his hand,—her parting gift, and perhaps her parting pledge.



CHAPTER IX.

A LONG DAY.

Nan never recalled the memory of that "long gray day," as she inwardly termed it, without a shiver of discomfort.

Never but once in her bright young life had she known such a day, and that was when her dead father lay in the darkened house, and her widowed mother had crept weeping into her arms as to her only remaining refuge; but that stretched so far back into the past that it had grown into a vague remembrance.

It was not only that Dick was gone, though the pain of that separation was far greater than she would have believed possible, but a moral earthquake had shattered their little world, involving them in utter chaos.

It was only yesterday that she was singing ballads in the Longmead drawing-room,—only yesterday; but to-day everything was changed. The sun shone, the birds sang, every one ate and drank and moved about as usual. Nan talked and smiled, and no stranger would have guessed that much was amiss; nevertheless, a weight lay heavy on her spirits, and Nan knew in her secret heart that she could never be again the same light-hearted, easy-going creature that she was yesterday.

Later on, the sisters confessed to each other that the day had been perfectly interminable; the hours dragged on slowly; the sun seemed as though it never meant to set; and to add to their trouble, their mother looked so ill when she came downstairs, wrapped in her soft white shawl in spite of the heat, that Nan thought of sending for a doctor, and only refrained at the remembrance that they had no right to such luxuries now except in cases of necessity.

Then Dorothy was in one of her impracticable moods, throwing cold water on all her young mistress's suggestions, and doing her best to disarrange the domestic machinery. Dorothy suspected a mystery somewhere; her young ladies had sat up half the night, and looked pale and owlish in the morning. If they chose to keep her in the dark and not take her into their confidence, it was their affair; but she meant to show them what she thought of their conduct. So she contradicted and snapped, until Nan told her wearily that she was a disagreeable old thing, and left her and Susan to do as they liked. She knew Mr. Trinder was waiting for her in the dining-room, and, as Mrs. Challoner was not well enough to see him, she and Phillis must entertain him.

He had slept at a friend's house a few miles from Oldfield, and was to lunch at Glen Cottage and take the afternoon train to London.

He was not sorry when he heard that Mrs. Challoner was too indisposed to receive him. In spite of his polite expressions of regret, he had found the poor lady terribly trying on the previous evening. She was a bad manager, and had muddled her affairs, and she did not seem to understand half of what he told her; and her tears and lamentations when she had realized the truth had been too much for the soft hearted old bachelor, though people did call him a woman-hater.

"But I never could bear to see a woman cry; it is as bad as watching an animal in pain," he half growled, as he drew out his red pocket-handkerchief and used it rather noisily.

It was easier work to explain everything to these two bright, sensible girls. Phillis listened and asked judicious questions; but Nan sat with downcast face, plaiting the table-cloth between her restless fingers, and thinking of Dick at odd intervals.

She took it all in, however, and roused up in earnest when Mr. Trinder had finished his explanations, and Phillis began to talk in her turn; she was actually taking the old lawyer into her confidence, and detailing their scheme in the most business-like way.

"The mother does not know yet,—this is all in confidence; but Nan and I have made up our minds to take this step," finished the young philosopher, calmly.

"Bless my soul," ejaculated Mr. Trinder,—he had given vent to this expression at various intervals, but had not further interrupted her. "Bless my soul! my dear young ladies, I think—but excuse me if I am too abrupt, but you must be dreaming."

Phillis shook her head smilingly; and as Dorothy came into the room that moment to lay the luncheon, she proposed a turn in the garden, and fetched Mr. Trinder's hat herself, and guided him to a side-walk, where they could not be seen from the drawing-room windows. Nan followed them, and tried to keep step with Mr. Trinder's shambling footsteps, as he walked between the girls with a hot perplexed face, and still muttering to himself at intervals.

"It is all in confidence," repeated Phillis, in the same calm voice.

"And you are actually serious? you are not joking?"

"Do your clients generally joke when they are ruined?" returned Phillis, with natural exasperation. "Do you think Nan and I are in such excellent spirits that we could originate such a piece of drollery? Excuse me, Mr. Trinder, but I must say I do not think your remark quite well timed." And Phillis turned away with a little dignity.

"No, no! now you are put out, and no wonder!" returned Mr. Trinder, soothingly; and he stood quite still on the gravel path, and fixed his keen little eyes on the two young creatures before him,—Nan, with her pale cheeks and sad eyes, and Phillis, alert, irritated, full of repressed energy. "Dear, dear! what a pity!" groaned the old man; "two such bonnie lasses and to think a little management and listening to my advice would have kept the house over your heads, if only your mother would have hearkened to me!"

"It is too late for all that now, Mr. Trinder," replied Phillis, impatiently: "isn't it waste of time crying over spilt milk when we must be taking our goods to market? We must make the best of our little commodities," sighed the girl. "If we were only clever and accomplished, we might do better; but now——" and Phillis left her sentence unfinished, which was a way she had, and which people thought very telling.

"But, my dear young lady, with all your advantages, and——" Here Phillis interrupted him rather brusquely.

"What advantages? do you mean we had a governess? Well, we had three, one after the other; and they were none of them likely to turn out first-rate pupils. Oh, we are well enough, compared to other girls: if we had not to earn our own living, we should not be so much amiss. But, Nan, why don't you speak? why do you leave me all the hard work? Did you not tell us last night that you were not fit for a governess?"

Nan felt rather ashamed of her silence after this. It was true that she was leaving all the onus of their plan on Phillis, and it was certainly time for her to come to her rescue. So she quietly but rather shyly endorsed her sister's speech, and assured Mr. Trinder that they had carefully considered the matter from every point of view, and, though it was a very poor prospect and involved a great deal of work and self-sacrifice, she, Nan, thought that Phillis was right, and that it was the best—indeed the only—thing they could do under the circumstances.

"For myself, I prefer it infinitely to letting lodgings," finished Nan: and Phillis looked at her gratefully.

But Mr. Trinder was obstinate and had old-fashioned views, and argued the whole thing in his dictatorial masculine way. They sat down to luncheon, and presently sent Dorothy away,—a piece of independence that bitterly offended that crabbed but faithful individual,—and wrangled busily through the whole of the meal.

Mr. Trinder never could remember afterwards whether it was lamb or mutton he had eaten; he had a vague idea that Dulce had handed him the mint-sauce, and that he had declined it and helped himself to salad. The doubt disturbed him for the first twenty miles of his homeward journey. "Good gracious! for a man not to know whether he is eating lamb or mutton!" he soliloquized, as he vainly tried to enjoy his usual nap; "but then I never was so upset in my life. Those pretty creatures, and Challoners too,—bless my soul!" And here the lawyer's cogitations became confused and misty.

Nan, who had more than once seen tears in the lawyer's shrewd little gray eyes, had been very gentle and tolerant over the old man's irritability; but Phillis had resented his caustic speeches somewhat hotly. Dulce, who was on her best behavior, was determined not to interfere or say a word to thwart her sisters: she even went so far as to explain to Mr. Trinder that they would not have to carry parcels, as Phillis meant to hire a boy. She had no idea that this magnanimous speech was in a figurative manner the last straw that broke the camel's back. Mr. Trinder pushed back his chair hastily, made some excuse that his train must be due, and beat a retreat an hour before the time, unable to pursue such a painful subject any longer.

Nan rose, with a sigh of relief, as soon as the door closed upon their visitors, and took refuge in the shady drawing-room with her mother, whom she found in a very tearful, querulous state, requiring a great deal of soothing. They had decided that no visitors were to be admitted that afternoon.

"You may say your mistress is indisposed with a bad headache, Dorothy, and that we are keeping the house quiet," Nan remarked, with a little dignity, with the remembrance of that late passage of arms.

"Very well, Miss Nan," returned the old servant. However, she was a little cowed by Nan's manner: such an order had never before been given in the cottage. Mrs. Challoner's headaches were common events in every-day life, and had never been known before to interfere with their afternoon receptions. A little eau de Cologne and extra petting, a stronger cup of tea served up to her in her bedroom, had been the only remedies; the girls had always had their tennis as usual, and the sound of their voices and laughter had been as music in their mother's ears.

"Very well, Miss Nan," was all Dorothy ventured to answer; but she withdrew with a face puckered up with anxiety. She took in the tea-tray unbidden at an earlier hour than usual; there were Dulce's favorite hot cakes, and some rounds of delicately-buttered toast, "for the young ladies have not eaten above a morsel at luncheon," said Dorothy in explanation to her mistress.

"Never mind us," returned Nan, with a friendly nod at the old woman: "it has been so hot to-day," And then she coaxed her mother to eat, and made believe herself to enjoy the repast while she wondered how many more evenings they would spend in the pretty drawing-room on which they had expended so much labor.

Nan had countermanded the late dinner, which they all felt would be a pretence and mockery; and as Mrs. Challoner's headache refused to yield to the usual remedies, she was obliged to retire to bed as soon as the sun set, and the three girls went out in the garden, and walked up and down the lawn with their arms interlaced, while Dorothy watched them from the pantry window, and wiped away a tear or two, as she washed up the tea-things.

"How I should like a long walk?" exclaimed Dulce, impatiently. "It is so narrow and confined here; but it would never do: we should meet people."

"No, it would never do," agreed her sisters, feeling a fresh pang that such avoidance was necessary. They had never hidden anything before, and the thought that this mystery lay between them and their friends was exquisitely painful.

"I feel as though I never cared to see one of them again!" sighed poor Nan, for which speech she was rather sharply rebuked by Phillis.

They settled a fair amount of business before they went to bed that night; and when Dorothy brought in the supper-tray, bearing a little covered dish in triumph, which she set down before Nan, Nan looked at her with grave, reproachful eyes, in there was a great deal of kindness.

"You should not do this, Dorothy," she said, very gently: "we cannot afford such delicacies now."

"It is your favorite dish, Miss Nan," returned Dorothy, quite ignoring this remark. "Susan has cooked it to a nicety; but it will be spoiled if it is not eaten hot." And she stood over them, while Nan dispensed the dainty. "You must eat it while it is hot," she kept saying, as she fidgeted about the room, taking up things and putting them down again. Phillis looked at Nan with a comical expression of dismay.

"Dorothy, come here," she exclaimed, at last, pushing away her plate. "Don't you see that Susan is wasting all her talents on us, and that we can't eat to-day?"

"Every one can eat if they try, Miss Phillis," replied Dorothy, oracularly. "But a thing like that must be hot, or it is spoiled."

"Oh, never mind about it being hot," returned Phillis, beginning to laugh. She was so tired, and Dorothy was such a droll old thing; and how were even stewed pigeons to be appetizing under the circumstances?

"Oh, you may laugh," began Dorothy, in an offended tone; but Phillis took hold of her and nearly shook her.

"Oh, what a stupid old thing you are! Don't you know what a silly, aggravating old creature you can be when you like? If I laugh, it is because everything is so ludicrous and wretched. Nan and Dulce are not laughing."

"No, indeed," put in Dulce; "we are far, far too unhappy!"

"What is it, Miss Nan?" asked Dorothy, sidling up to her in a coaxing manner. "I am only an old servant, but it was me that put Miss Dulce in her father's arms,—'the pretty lamb,' as he called her, and she with a skin like a lily. If there is trouble, you would not keep it from her old nurse, surely?"

"No, indeed, Dorothy: we want to tell you," returned Nan touched by this appeal; and then she quietly recapitulated the main points that concerned their difficulties,—their mother's loss, their future poverty, the necessity for leaving Glen Cottage and settling down at the Friary.

"We shall all have to work," finished Nan, with prudent vagueness, not daring to intrust their plan to Dorothy: "the cottage is small, and, of course, we can only keep one servant."

"I dare say I shall be able to manage if you will help me a little," returned Dorothy, drying her old eyes with the corner of her apron. "Dear, dear! to think of such an affliction coming upon my mistress and the dear young ladies! It is like an earthquake or a flood, or something sudden and unexpected,—Lord deliver us! And to think of my speaking crossly to you Miss Nan, and you with all this worry on your mind!"

"We will not think of that," returned Nan, soothingly. "Susan's quarter will be up shortly, and we must get her away as soon as possible. My great fear is that the work may be too much for you, poor Dorothy; and that—that—we may have to keep you waiting sometimes for your wages," she added, rather hesitatingly fearing to offend Dorothy's touchy temper, and yet determined to put the whole matter clearly before her.

"I don't think we need talk about that," returned Dorothy, with dignity. "I have not saved up my wages for nineteen years without having a nest-egg laid up for rainy days. Wages,—when I mention the word, Miss Nan," went on Dorothy, waxing somewhat irate, "it will be time enough to enter upon that subject. I haven't deserved such a speech; no, that I haven't," went on Dorothy, with a sob. "Wages, indeed!"

"Now, nursey, you shan't be cross with Nan," cried Dulce, throwing her arms round the old woman; for, in spite of her eighteen years, she was still Dorothy's special charge. "She's quite right; it may be an unpleasant subject, but we will not have you working for us for nothing."

"Very well, Miss Dulce," returned Dorothy, in a choked voice preparing to withdraw; but Nan caught hold of the hard work-worn hand, and held her fast.

"Oh, Dorothy, you would not add to our trouble now, when we are so terribly unhappy! I never meant to hurt your feelings by what I said. If you will only go to the Friary and help us to make the dear mother comfortable, I, for one, will be deeply grateful."

"And you will not talk of wages?" asked Dorothy, mollified by Nan's sweet, pleading tones.

"Not until we can afford to do so," returned Nan, hastily, feeling that this was a safe compromise, and that they should be eked out somehow. And then, the stewed pigeons being regarded as a failure, Dorothy consented to remove the supper tray, and the long day was declared at an end.



CHAPTER X.

THE FRIARY.

Oldfield was rather mystified by the Challoners' movements. There were absolutely three afternoons during which Nan and her sisters were invisible. There was a tennis-party at the Paines' on one of these days, but at the last minute they had excused themselves. Nan's prettily-worded note was declared very vague and unsatisfactory, and on the following afternoon there was a regular invasion of the cottage,—Carrie Paine, and two of the Twentyman girls, and Adelaide Sartoris and her young brother Albert.

They found Dulce alone, looking very sad and forlorn.

Nan and Phillis had gone down to Hadleigh that morning, she explained in rather a confused way: they were not expected back until the following evening.

On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother was not well,—oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died.

This was all very plausible; but Dulce's manner was so constrained, and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good, and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping.

It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea was over, there was no mention of a second game. "No, we will not stay any longer," observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much affection. "Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit with your mother."

"Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it is," added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her and looked relieved.

She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily.

"What happy girls!" she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie and Sophy Paine would have money. "None of them will have to work," said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: "they can go on playing tennis and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like." And then she went up to her mother's room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy brow.

"You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those Challoners," said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of the cottage; "no one has seen anything of them for the last three or four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself."

"Oh, I hope not," returned Carrie, gravely, who had heard enough from her father to guess that there was pecuniary embarrassment at the bottom. "Poor little thing, she did seem rather subdued. How many people do you expect to muster to-morrow, Adelaide?" and then Miss Sartoris understood that the subject was to be changed.

While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends, Nan and Phillis were reconnoitring the Friary.

They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived to reach Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to Beach House,—a small unpretending house on the Parade, kept by a certain Mrs. Mozley, with whom they had once lodged after Dulce had the measles.

The good woman received them with the utmost cordiality. Her place was pretty nearly filled, she told them proudly; the drawing-room had been taken for three months, and an elderly couple were in the dining-room.

"But there is a bedroom I could let you have for one night," finished Mrs. Mozley, "and there is the little side parlor where you could have your tea and breakfast." And when Nan had thanked her, and suggested the addition of chops to their evening meal, they left their modest luggage and set out for the Friary.

Phillis would have gone direct to their destination, but Nan pleaded for one turn on the Parade. She wanted a glimpse of the sea, and it was such a beautiful afternoon.

The tide was out, and the long black breakwaters were uncovered; the sun was shining on the wet shingles and narrow strip of yellow sand. The sea looked blue and unruffled, with little sparkles and gleams of light, and white sails glimmered on the horizon. Some boatmen were dragging a boat down the beach; it grated noisily over the pebbles. A merry party were about to embark,—a tall man in a straw hat, and two boys in knickerbockers. Their sisters were watching them. "Oh, Reggie, do be careful!" Nan heard one of the girls say, as he waded knee-deep into the water.

"Come, Nan, we ought not to dawdle like this!" exclaimed Phillis, impatiently; and they went on quickly, past the long row of old-fashioned white houses with the green before them and that sweet Sussex border of soft feathery tamarisk, and then past the cricket-field, and down to the whitewashed cottage of the Preventive Station; and then they turned back and walked towards the Steyne, and after that Nan declared herself satisfied.

There were plenty of people on the Parade, and most of them looked after the two girls as they passed. Nan's sweet bloom and graceful carriage always attracted notice; and Phillis, although she generally suffered from comparison with her sister, was still very uncommon-looking.

"I should like to know who those young ladies are," observed a military-looking man with a white moustache, who was standing at the Library door waiting for his daughter to make some purchases. "Look at them, Elizabeth: one of them is such a pretty girl, and they walk so well."

"Dear father, I suppose they are only some new-comers: we shall see their names down in the visitors' list by and by;" and Miss Middleton smiled as she took her father's arm, for she was slightly lame. She knew strangers always interested him, and that he would make it his business for the next few days to find out everything about them.

"Did you see that nice-looking woman?" asked Phillis, when they had passed. "She was quite young, only her hair was gray: fancy, a gray-haired girl!"

"Oh, she must be older than she looks," returned Nan, indifferently.

She was not looking at people: she was far too busily engaged identifying each well-remembered spot.

There was the shabby little cottage, where she and her mother had once stayed after an illness of Mrs. Challoner's. What odd little rooms they had occupied, looking over a strip of garden-ground full of marigolds! "Marigolds-all-in-a-row Cottage," she had named it in her home letters. It was nearly opposite the White House where Mrs. Cheyne lived. Nan remembered her,—a handsome, sad-looking woman, who always wore black, and drove out in such handsome carriages.

"Always alone; how sad!" Nan thought; and she wondered, as they walked past the low stone walls with grassy mounds slopping from them, and a belt of shrubbery shutting out views of the house, whether Mrs. Cheyne lived there still.

They had reached a quiet country corner now; there was a clump of trees, guarded by posts and chains; a white house stood far back. There were two or three other houses, and a cottage dotted down here and there. The road looked shady and inviting. Nan began to look about her more cheerfully.

"I am glad it is so quiet, and so far away from the town, and that our neighbors will not be able to overlook us."

"I was just thinking of that as a disadvantage," returned Phillis, with placid opposition. "It is a pity, under the circumstances, that we are not nearer the town." And after that Nan held her peace.

They were passing an old-fashioned house with a green door in the wall, when it suddenly opened, and a tall, grave looking young man, in clerical attire, came out quickly upon them, and then drew back to let them pass.

"I suppose that is the new vicar?" whispered Phillis, when they had gone a few steps. "You know poor old Dr. Musgrave is dead, and most likely that is his successor."

"I forgot that was the vicarage," returned Nan. But happily she did not turn round to look at it again; if she had done so, she would have seen the young clergyman still standing by the green door watching them. "It is a shabby, dull old house in front; but I remember that when mother and I returned Mrs. Musgrave's call we were shown into such a dear old-fashioned drawing-room, with windows looking out on such a pleasant garden. I quite fell in love with it."

"Well, we shall be near neighbors," observed Phillis, somewhat shortly, as she paused before another green door, set in a long blank wall; "for here we are at the Friary, and I had better just run over the way and get the key from Mrs. Crump."

Nan nodded, and then stood like an image of patience before the shabby green door. Would it open and let them into a new untried life? What sort of fading hopes, of dim regrets, would be left outside when they crossed the threshold? The thought of the empty rooms, not yet swept and garnished, made her shiver: the upper windows looked blankly at her, like blind, unrecognizing eyes. She was quite glad when Phillis joined her again, swinging the key on her little finger, and humming a tune in forced cheerfulness.

"What a dull, shut-in place! I think the name of Friary suits it exactly," observed Nan, disconsolately, as they went up the little flagged path, bordered with lilac-bushes. "It feels like a miniature convent or prison: we might have a grating in the door, and answer all outsiders through it."

"Nonsense!" returned Phillis, who was determined to take a bright view of things. "Don't go into the house just yet, I want to see the garden." And she led the way down a gloomy side-path, with unclipped box and yews, that made it dark and decidedly damp. This brought them to a little lawn, with tall, rank grass that might have been mown for hay, and some side-beds full of old fashioned flowers, such as lupins and monkshood, pinks and small pansies; a dreary little greenhouse, with a few empty flower-pots and a turned-up box was in one corner, and an attempt at a rockery, with a periwinkle climbing over it, and an undesirable number of oyster-shells.

An old medlar tree, very warped and gnarled, was at the bottom of the lawn, and beyond this a small kitchen-garden, with abundance of gooseberry and currant-bushes, and vast resources in the shape of mint, marjoram, and lavender.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched little place after our dear old Glen Cottage garden!" And in spite of her good resolutions, Nan's eyes grew misty.

"Comparisons are odious," retorted Phillis, briskly. "We have just to make the best of things,—and I don't deny they are horrid,—and put all the rest away, between lavender, on the shelves of our memory." And she smiled grimly as she picked one of the gray spiky flowers.

And then, as they walked round the weedy paths, she pointed out how different it would look when the lawn was mown, and all the weeds and oyster-shells removed, and the box and yews clipped, and a little paint put on the greenhouse.

"And look at that splendid passion-flower, growing like a weed over the back of the cottage," she remarked, with a wave of her hand: "it only wants training and nailing up. Poor Miss Monks has neglected the garden shamefully; but then she was always ailing."

They went into the cottage after this. The entry was rather small and dark. The kitchen came first: it was a tolerable-sized apartment, with two windows looking out on the lilacs and the green door and the blank wall.

"I am afraid Dorothy will find it a little dull," Nan observed, rather ruefully. And again she thought the name of Friary was well given to this gruesome cottage; but she cheered up when Phillis opened cupboards and showed her a light little scullery, and thought that perhaps they could make it comfortable for Dorothy.