She would intrude her advice when it was not needed, in her good-natured way; she had always interfered with everything and everybody. "Meddlesome Mattie" they had called her at home.

She was so wonderfully elastic, too, in her temperament, that nothing long depressed her. She took all her brother's snubbings in excellent part: if he scolded her at dinner-time, and made the ready tears come to her eyes,—for it was not the least of Mattie's sins that she cried easily and on every possible occasion,—she had forgotten it by tea-time, and would chatter to him as happily as ever.

She was just one of those persevering people who seem bound to be snubbed; one cannot help it. It was as natural to scold Mattie as it was to praise other people; and yet it was impossible not to like the little woman, though she had no fine feelings, as Archie said, and was not thin-skinned. Grace always spoke a good word for her; she was very kind to Mattie in her way,—though it must be owned that she showed her small respect as an elder sister. None of her brothers and sisters respected Mattie in the least; they laughed at her, and took liberties with her, presuming largely on her good nature. "It is only Mattie; nobody cares what she thinks," as Clyde would often say. "Matt the Muddler," as Frederick named her.

"I wonder what Mattie would say if any one ever fell in love with her?" Grace once observed in fun to Archie. "Do you know, I think she would be all her life, thanking her husband for the unexpected honor he had done her, and trying to prove to him that he had not made such a great mistake, after all."

"Mattie's husband! He must be an odd sort of person, I should think." And then Archie laughed, in not the politest manner. Certainly Mattie was not appreciated by her family. She was not looking her best this morning when she went into her brother's study. She wore the offending plaid dress,—a particular large black-and-white check that he thought especially ugly. Her hat-trimmings were frayed, and the straw itself was burnt brown by the sun, and her hair was ill arranged and rough, for she never wasted much time on her own person, and, to crown the whole, she looked flushed and heated.

Archie, who was sitting at his writing-table in severely-cut ecclesiastical garments, looking as trim and well-appointed a young clergyman as one might wish to see, might be forgiven for the tone of ill-suppressed irritation with which he said,—

"Oh, Mattie! what a figure you look! I am positively ashamed that any one should see you. That hat is only fit to frighten the birds."

"Oh, it will do very well for the mornings," returned Mattie, perfectly undisturbed at these compliments. "Nobody looks at me: so what does it matter?" But this remark, which she made in all simplicity, only irritated him more.

"If you have no proper pride, you might at least consider my feelings. Do you think a man in my position likes his sister to go about like an old beggar-woman? You are enough to try any one's patience, Mattie; you are, indeed!"

"Oh, never mind me and my things," returned Mattie coaxingly; "and don't go on writing just yet," for Archie had taken up his pen again with a great show of being busy. "I want to tell you something that I know will interest you. There are some new people come to the Friary."

"What on earth do you mean?—what Friary? I am sure I never heard of such a place."

"Dear me, Archie, how cross you are this morning!" observed Mattie, in a cheerful voice, as she fidgeted the papers on the table. "Why, the Friary is that shabby little cottage just above us,—not a stone's throw from this house."

"Indeed? Well, I cannot say I am much interested in the movements of my neighbors. I am not a gossip like you, Mattie!"—another fling at poor Mattie. "I wish you would leave those papers alone. You know I never allow my things to be tidied, as you call it, and I am really very busy just now. I am in the middle of accounts, and I have to write to Grace and——"

"Well, I thought you would like to know." And Mattie looked rather crestfallen and disappointed. "You talked so much about those young ladies some weeks ago, and seemed quite sorry not to see them again; and now——" but here Archie's indifference vanished, and he looked up eagerly.

"What young ladies? Not those in Milner's Library, who asked about the dressmaker?"

"The very same," returned his sister, delighted at this change of manner. "Oh, I have so much to tell you that I must sit down," planting herself comfortably on the arm of an easy-chair near him. Another time Archie would have rebuked her for her unlady-like attitude, and told her, probably, that Grace never did such things; but now his interest was so excited that he let it pass for once. He even suffered her to take off her old hat and deposit it unreproved on the top of his cherished papers. "I was over at Crump's this morning, to speak to Bobbie about weeding the garden, when I was surprised to see a railway-van unloading furniture at the Friary."

"What an absurd name!" sotto voce from Archie: but he offered no further check to Mattie's gossip.

"I asked Mrs. Crump, as a matter of course, the name of the new people; and she said it was Challoner. There was a mother and three daughters, she believed. She had seen two of them,—pretty, nice-spoken young creatures, and quite ladies. They had been down before to see the cottage and to have it done up. It looks quite a different place already,—nicely painted, and the shrubs trimmed. The door was open, and as I stood at Mrs. Crump's window, peeping between her geraniums, I saw such a respectable gray-haired woman, like an upper servant, carrying something into the house; and a moment after one of those young ladies we saw in the Library—not the pretty one, but the other—came to the door and spoke to the men."

"Are you sure you did not make a mistake, Mattie?" asked her brother, incredulously. "You are very short-sighted: perhaps you did not see correctly. How can those stylish-looking girls live in such a shabby place? I can hardly believe it possible."

"Oh, it was the same, I am positive about that. She was in the same cambric dress you admired. I could see distinctly. I watched her for a long time; and then the pretty one came out and joined her. She is pretty, Archie, she has such a lovely complexion."

"But are they poor?—they don't look so. What on earth can it mean?" he asked, in a perplexed voice; but Mattie only shook her head, and went on:

"We must find out all about them by and by. They are worth knowing, I am sure of that. Poor?—well, they cannot be rich, certainly, to live in the Friary; but they are gentle-people, one can see that in a moment."

"Of course! who doubted it?" was the somewhat impatient answer.

"Well, but that is not all," went on Mattie, too delighted with her brother's interest to try to curtail her story. "Of course I could not stand long watching them, so I did my errand and came away; and then I met Miss Middleton, and we walked down to the Library together to change those books. Miss Milner was talking to some ladies when we first went in and, as Miss Masham was not in the shop, we had to wait our turn, so I had a good look at them. The elder one was such a pretty, aristocratic-looking woman,—a little too languid, perhaps for my taste; and the younger one was a little like Isabel, only nicer-looking. I shouldn't have stared at them so much,—at least, I am afraid I stared," went on Mattie, forgetting for the moment how often she had been taken to task for this very thing,—"but something Miss Milner said attracted my attention, 'I am not to send it to the Friary, then, ma'am?' 'Well, no,' the lady returned, rather hesitatingly. She had such a nice voice and manner, Archie. 'My youngest daughter and I are at Beach House at present; I am rather an invalid, and the bustle would be too much for me. Dulce, we had better have these things sent to Beach House.' And then the young lady standing by her said, 'Oh, yes, mother; we shall want them this evening.' And then they went out."

"There is a third sister, then?" observed Archie, not pretending to disguise his interest in Mattie's recital.

"Yes, there is a third one: she is certainly a little like Isabel; she has a dimple like hers, and is of the same height. I asked Miss Milner, when they were out of hearing, if their name were Challoner, and if they were the new people who were coming to live at the empty cottage on the Braidwood Road. I thought she did not seem much disposed to give me information. Yes, their name was Challoner, and they had taken the Friary; but they were quite strangers in the town, and no one knew anything about them. And then Miss Middleton chimed in; she said her father had noticed the young ladies some weeks ago, and had called her attention to them. They were very pretty girls, and had quite taken his fancy; he had not forgotten them, and had spoken of them that very morning. She supposed Mrs. Challoner must be a widow, and not very well off: did Miss Milner know. Would you believe it, Archie? Miss Milner got quite red, and looked confused. You know how she enjoys a bit of gossip generally; but the questions seemed to trouble her. 'They were not at all well off, she knew that, but nicer young ladies she had never seen, or wished to see; and she hoped every one would be kind to them, and not forget they were real born ladies, in spite of——' And here the old thing got more confused than ever, and came to a full stop, and begged to know how she could serve us."

"It is very strange,—very strange indeed," returned her brother, in a meditative voice; but, as Mattie had nothing more to tell him, he did not discuss the matter any further, only thanked her for her news, and civilly dismissed her on the plea that his business was at a stand-still.

But he did not resume his accounts for sometime after he was left alone. Instead of doing so, he walked to the window and looked out in a singularly absent manner. Mattie's news was somewhat exciting. The idea of having such pleasant neighbors located within a stone's throw of the vicarage was in itself disturbing to the imagination of a young man of eight-and-twenty, even though a clergyman. And then, it must be confessed, Nan's charming face and figure had never been forgotten: he had looked out for the sisters many times since his chance encounter with Phillis, and had been secretly disappointed at their total disappearance. And now they proved not mere visitors, but positively inhabitants of Hadleigh. He would meet them every day; and, as there was but one church in the place, they would of course be numbered among his flock. As their future clergyman he would have a right of entrance to the cottage.

"How soon do you think we ought to call upon them, Mattie?" he asked, when he was seated opposite to his sister at the luncheon-table. The accounts had not progressed very favorably, and the letter to Grace was not yet commenced. Mattie's news had been a sad interruption to his morning's work.

"Whom do you mean, Archie," she returned, a little bewildered at this abrupt remark; and then, as he frowned at her denseness, she bethought herself of the new people. It was not often Archie asked her advice about anything, but on this occasion the young vicar felt himself incompetent to decide.

"I suppose you mean the new folk at the Friary," she continued, carelessly. "Oh, they are only moving in to-day, and they will be in a muddle for a week, I should think. I don't think we can intrude for ten days or so."

"Not if you think it will be intrusive," he returned, rather anxiously; "but they are strangers in the place, and all ladies—there does not seem to be a man belonging to them—would it not be neighborly, as we live so close, just to call, not in a formal way, you know, but just to volunteer help? There are little things you could do for them, Mattie; and, as a clergyman, they could not regard my visit as an intrusion, I should think. Do you not agree with me?" looking at his sister rather gravely.

"Well, I don't know," replied Mattie, bluntly: "I should not care for strangers prying into my concerns, if I were in their place. And yet, as you say, we are such close neighbors, and one would like to be kind to the poor things, for they must be lonely, settling in a strange new place. I'll tell you what, Archie," as his face fell at this matter-of-fact speech: "it is Thursday, and they will be sure to be at church on Sunday; we shall see them there, and that will be an excuse for us to call on Monday. We can say then that we are neighbors, and that we would not wait until they were all in order. We can offer to send them things from the vicarage, or volunteer help in many little ways. I think that would be best."

"Yes, perhaps you are right, and we will wait until Monday," returned Archie, taking off his soft felt hat. "Now I must go on my rounds, and not waste any more time chattering." But, though he spoke with unusual good nature, he did not invite Mattie to be his companion, and the poor little woman betook herself to the solitary drawing-room and some plain sewing for the rest of the afternoon.

The young clergyman stood for a moment irresolutely at the green door, and cast a longing glance in the direction of the Friary, where the van was still unloading, and then he bethought himself that, though Mattie had given orders about the weeding of the garden-paths, it would be as well to speak to Crump about the wire fence that was wanted for the poultry-yard; and as soon as he had made up his mind on this point he walked on briskly.

The last piece of furniture had just been carried in; but, as Mr. Drummond was picking his way through the straw and debris that littered the side-path, two girlish figures came out of the doorway full upon him.

He raised his hat involuntarily, but they drew back at once, and, as he went out, confused at this sudden rencontre, the sound of a light laugh greeted his ear.

"How annoying that we should always be meeting him!" observed Nan, innocently. "Don't laugh, Phillis: he will hear you."

"My dear, it must be fate," returned Phillis solemnly. "I shall think it my duty to warn Dick if this goes on." But, in spite of her mischievous speech, she darted a quick, interested look after the handsome young clergyman as he walked on. Both the girls stood in the porch for some minutes after they had made their retreat. They had come out to cool themselves and to get a breath of air, until a July sun and Mr. Drummond's sudden appearance defeated their intention. They had no idea that they were watched from behind the screening geraniums in Mrs. Crump's window. Both of them were enveloped in Dorothy's bib-aprons, which hid their pretty rounded figures. Phillis's cheeks were flushed, and her arms were bare to the dimpled elbows; and Nan's brown hair was slightly dishevelled.

"We look just like cooks!" exclaimed Phillis, regarding her coarse apron with disfavor; but Nan stretched her arms with a little indifference and weariness.

"What does it matter how we look,—like cooks or housemaids? I am dreadfully tired; but we must go in and work, Phil. I wonder what has become of Dulce?" And then the charming vision disappeared from the young clergyman's eyes, and he was free to fix his mind on the wire fence that was required for the poultry-yard.

As soon as he had accomplished his errand he set his face towards the vicarage, for he made up his mind suddenly that he would call on the Middletons, and perhaps on Mrs. Cheyne. The latter was a duty that he owed to his pastoral conscience; but there was no need for him to go to the Middletons'. Nevertheless, the father and daughter were his most intimate friends, and on all occasions he was sure of Miss Middleton's sympathy. They lived at Brooklyn,—a low white house a little below the vicarage. It was a charming house, he always thought, so well arranged and well managed; and the garden—that was the colonel's special hobby—was as pretty as a garden could be. The drawing-room looked shady and comfortable, for the French windows opened into a cool veranda, fitted up with flower-baskets and wicker chairs; and beyond lay the trim lawn, with beds of blazing verbenas and calceolarias. Miss Middleton's work-table was just within one of the windows; but the colonel, in his gray summer suit, reclined in a lounging-chair in the veranda. He was reading the paper to his daughter, and was just in the middle of last night's debate; nevertheless, he threw it aside, well pleased at the interruption.

"I knew how I should find you occupied," observed Mr. Drummond, as he exchanged a smile with Miss Middleton. He was fully aware that politics were not to her taste, and yet every afternoon she listened to such reading, well content even with the sound of her father's voice.

Elizabeth Middleton was certainly a charming person. Phillis had called her the "gray-haired girl," and the title suited her. She was not a girl by any means, having reached her six-and-thirtieth year; but her hair was as silvery as an old woman's, gray and plentiful, and soft as silk, and contrasted strangely with her still youthful face.

Without being handsome, Elizabeth Middleton was beautiful. Her expression was sweet and restful, and attracted all hearts. People who were acquainted with her said she was the happiest creature they knew,—that she simply diffused sunshine by her mere presence; such a contrast, they would add, to her neighbor Mrs. Cheyne, who bore all her troubles badly and was of a proud, fretful disposition. But then Mrs. Cheyne had lost her husband and her two children, and led such a sad, lonely life; and no such troubles had fallen to Miss Middleton.

Elizabeth Middleton could afford to be happy, they said, for she was the delight of her father's eyes. Her young half-brother, Hammond, who was with his regiment in India, was not nearly so dear to the old man; and of course that was why she had never married, that her father's house might not be left desolate.

This is how people talked; but not a single person in Hadleigh knew that Elizabeth Middleton had had a great sorrow in her life.

She had been engaged for some years most happily, and with her father's consent, to one of his brother officers. Captain Sedgwick was of good family, but poor; and they were waiting for his promotion, for at that time Colonel Middleton would have been unable to give his daughter any dowry. Elizabeth was young and happy, and she could afford to wait. No girl ever gloried in her lover more than she did in hers. Capel Sedgwick was not only brave and singularly handsome, but he bore a reputation through the whole regiment for having a higher standard of duty than most men.

Promotion came at last, and, just as Elizabeth was gayly making preparations for her marriage, fatal tidings were brought to her. Major Sedgwick had gone to visit an old servant in the hospital who had been struck down with cholera; he had remained with him some time, and on his return to his bungalow the same fell disease had attacked him, and before many hours were over he was dead. The shock was a terrible one; in the first moments of her bitter loss, Elizabeth cried out that her misery was too great,—that all happiness was over for her in this world, and that she only prayed that she might be buried in the same grave with Capel.

The light had not yet come to the poor soul that felt itself afflicted past endurance and could find no reason for such pain. It could not be said that Elizabeth bore her trouble better than other girls would have borne theirs under like circumstances. She fretted and grew thin, and dashed herself wildly against the inevitable, only reproaching herself for her selfishness and want of submission when she looked at her father's care-worn face.

But then came a time when light and peace revisited the wrecked heart,—when confused reasonings no longer beset the poor weak brain and filled it with dismay and doubt,—when the Divine will became her will, and there was no longer submission, but a most joyful surrender. And no one, and least of all she herself, knew when the darkness was vanquished by that clear uprising of pure radiance, or how those brooding wings of peace settled on her soul. From that time, every human being that came within her radius was welcome as a new object of love. To give and yet to give, and never to be satisfied, was a daily necessity of life to Elizabeth. "Now there is some one more to love," she would say to herself, when a new acquaintance was brought to her; and, as the old adage is true that tells us love begets love, there was no more popular person in Hadleigh than Elizabeth Middleton. She had something to say in praise of every one; not that she was blind to the faults of her neighbors, but she preferred to be silent and ignore them.

And she was especially kind to Mattie. In the early days of their intimacy, the young vicar would often speak to her of his sister Grace and lament their enforced separation from each other. Miss Middleton listened sympathetically, with the same sweet attention that she gave to every man, woman, and child that laid claim to it; but once, when he had finished, she said, rather gravely,—

"Do you know, Mr. Drummond, that I think your mother was right?"

"Right in dooming Grace to such a life?" he said, pausing in utter surprise at her remark.

"Pardon me; it is not her mother who dooms her," returned Miss Middleton, quickly, "but duty,—her own sense of right,—everything that is sacred. If Mrs. Drummond had not decided that she could not be spared, I am convinced from all you tell me, that Grace would still have remained at home: her conscience would have been too strong for her."

"Well, perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. "Grace is a noble creature, and capable of any amount of self-sacrifice."

"I am sure of it," returned Miss Middleton, with sparkling eyes. "How I should like to know her! it would be a real pleasure and privilege; but I am very fond of your sister Mattie, too."

"Fond of Mattie!" It was hardly brotherly, but he could not help that incredulous tone in his voice. How could such a superior woman as Miss Middleton be even tolerant of Mattie?

"Oh, yes," she replied, quite calmly; "I have a great respect for your sister. She is so unselfish and amiable, and there is something so genuine in her. Before everything one wants truth," finished Elizabeth, taking up her work.

Now, as the young clergyman entered the room, she stretched out her hand to him with her usual beaming smile.

"This is good of you, to come so soon again," she said, making room for him between her father and herself. "But why have you not brought Mattie?" and Archie felt as though he had received a rebuke.

"She is finishing some work," he returned, a little confused; "that is, what you ladies call work. It is not always necessary for the clergywoman to pay visits, is it?"

"The clergywoman, as you call her, is doing too much. I was scolding her this morning for not sparing herself more: I thought she was not looking quite well, Mr. Drummond."

"Oh, Mattie is well enough," he replied, carelessly. He had not come to talk about his sister: a far more interesting subject was in his mind. "Do you know, colonel," he went on, with some animation, "that you and I have new neighbors? Do you remember the young ladies in the blue cambric dresses?" And at this question the colonel threw aside his paper at once.

"Elizabeth has been telling me. I remember the young ladies perfectly. I could not help noticing them. They walked so well,—heads up, and as neat and trim as though they were on parade; pretty creatures, both of them. Elizabeth pretends not to be interested, but she is quite excited. Look at her!"

"Nay, father, it is you who can talk of nothing else; but it will be very nice to have such pleasant neighbors. How soon do you think we may call on them?"

And then Archie explained, with some little embarrassment, that he and Mattie thought of calling the following Monday and offering their services.

"That is very thoughtful of Mattie. She is such a kind-hearted little creature, and is always ready to serve everybody."

And then they entered into a discussion on the new-comers that lasted so long that the tea-things made their appearance; and shortly afterwards Mr. Drummond announced that he must go and call on Mrs. Cheyne.



CHAPTER XVI.

A VISIT TO THE WHITE HOUSE.

Hitherto Mr. Drummond had acknowledged his afternoon to be a success. He had obtained a glimpse of the new-comers through Mrs. Crump's screen of geraniums, and had listened with much interest to Colonel Middleton's innocent gossip, while Miss Middleton had poured out their tea. Indeed, his attention had quite flattered his host.

"Really, Drummond is a very intelligent fellow," he observed to his daughter, when they were at last left alone,—"a very intelligent fellow, and so thoroughly gentlemanly."

"Yes, he is very nice," returned Elizabeth; "and he seems wonderfully interested in our new neighbors." And here she smiled a little archly.

There was no doubt that Mr. Drummond had fully enjoyed his visit. Nevertheless, as he left Brooklyn, and set his face towards the White House, his manner changed, and his face became somewhat grave.

He had told himself that he owed it to his pastoral conscience to call on Mrs. Cheyne; but, notwithstanding this monition, he disliked the duty, for he always felt on these occasions that he was hardly up to his office, and that this solitary member of his flock was not disposed to yield herself to his guidance. He was ready to pity her if she would allow herself to be pitied; but any expression of sympathy seemed repugnant to her. Any one so utterly lonely, so absolutely without interest in existence, he had never seen or thought to see; and yet he could not bring himself to like her, or to say more than the mere commonplace utterances of society. Though he was her clergyman, and bound by the sacredness of his office to be specially tender to the bruised and maimed ones of his flock, he could not get her to acknowledge her maimed condition to him, or to do anything but listen to him with cold attention, when he hinted vaguely that all human beings are in need of sympathy. Perhaps she thought him too young, and feared to find his judgments immature and one-sided; but certainly his visits to the White House were failures. Mrs. Cheyne was still young enough and handsome enough to need some sort of chaperonage: and though she professed to mock at conventionality, she acknowledged its claims in this respect by securing the permanent services of Miss Mewlstone—a lady of uncertain age and uncertain acquirements. It must be confessed that every one wondered at Mrs. Cheyne and her choice, for no one could be less companionable than Miss Mewlstone.

She was a stout, sleepy-looking woman, with a soft voice, and in placidity and a certain cosyness of exterior somewhat resembled a large white cat. Some people declared she absolutely purred, and certainly her small blue eyes were ready to close on all occasions. She always dressed in gray,—a very unbecoming color to a stout person,—and when not asleep or reading (for she was a great reader) she seemed always busy with a mass of soft fleecy wool. No one heard her ever voluntarily conversing with her patroness. They would drive together for hours, or pass whole evenings in the same room, scarcely exchanging a word. "Just so, my dear," she would say, in return to any observation made to her by Mrs. Cheyne. "Just so Mewlstone," a young wag once nicknamed her.

People stared incredulously when Mrs. Cheyne assured them her companion was a very superior woman. They thought it was only her satire, and did not believe her in the least. They would have stared still more if they had really known the extent of Miss Mewlstone's acquirements.

"She seems so stupid, as though she cannot talk," one of Mrs. Cheyne's friends said.

"Oh, yes, she can talk, and very well too," returned that lady, quietly, "but she knows that I do not care about it; her silence is her great virtue in my eyes. And then she has tact, and knows when to keep out of the way," finished Mrs. Cheyne, with the utmost frankness; and, indeed, it may be doubted whether any other person would have retained her position so long at the White House.

Mrs. Cheyne was no favorite with the young pastor, nevertheless she was an exceedingly handsome woman. Before the bloom of her youth had worn off she had been considered absolutely beautiful. As regarded the form of her features, there was no fault to be found, but her expression was hardly pleasing. There was a hardness that people found a little repelling,—a bitter, dissatisfied droop of the lip, a weariness of gloom in the dark eyes, and a tendency to satire in her speech, that alienated people's sympathy.

"I am unhappy, but pity me if you dare!" seemed to be written legibly upon her countenance; and those who knew her best held their peace in her presence, and then went away and spoke softly to each other of the life that seemed wasted and the heart that was so hardened with its trouble. "What would the world be if every one were to bear their sorrows so badly?" they would say. "There is something heathenish in such utter want of resignation. Oh, yes, it was very sad, her losing her husband and children, but it all happened four or five years ago; and you know"—And here people's voices dropped a little ominously, for there were vague hints afloat that things had not always gone on smoothly at the White House, even when Mrs. Cheyne had her husband. She had been an only child, and had married the only survivor of a large family. Both were handsome, self-willed young people; neither had been used to contradiction. In spite of their love for each other, there had been a strife of wills and misunderstandings from the earliest days of their marriage. Neither knew what giving up meant, and before many months were over the White House witnessed many painful scenes. Herbert Cheyne was passionate, and at times almost violent; but there was no malice in his nature. He stormed furiously and forgave easily. A little forbearance would have turned him into a sweet-natured man; but his wife's haughtiness and resentment lasted long; she never acknowledged herself in the wrong, never made overtures of peace, but bore herself on every occasion as a sorely-injured wife, a state of things singularly provoking to a man of Herbert Cheyne's irritable temperament.

There was injudicious partisanship as regarded their children: while Mrs. Cheyne idolized her boy, her husband lavished most of his attentions on the baby girl,—"papa's girl," as she always called herself in opposition to "mother's boy."

Mrs. Cheyne really believed she loved her boy best, but when diphtheria carried off her little Jane also, she was utterly inconsolable. Her husband was far away when it happened: he had been a great traveller before his marriage, and latterly his matrimonial relations with his wife had been so unsatisfactory that virtual separation had ensued. Two or three months before illness, and then death, had devastated the nursery at the White House, he had set out for a long exploring expedition in Central Africa.

"You make my life so unbearable that, but for the children, I would never care to set foot in my home again," he had said to her, in one of his violent moods; and, though he repented of this speech afterwards, she could not be brought to believe that he had not meant it, and her heart had been hard against him even in their parting.

But before many months were over she would have given all she possessed—to her very life—to have recalled him to her side. She was childless, and her health was broken; but no such recall was possible. Vague rumors reached her of some miserable disaster: people talked of a missing Englishman. One of the little party had already succumbed to fever and hardship; by and by another followed; and the last news that reached them was that Herbert Cheyne lay at the point of death in the kraal of a friendly tribe. Since then the silence had been of the grave: not one of the party had survived to bring the news of his last moments: there had been illness and disaster from the first.

When Mrs. Cheyne recovered from the nervous disorder that had attacked her on the receipt of this news, she put on widow's mourning, and wore it for two years; then she sent for Miss Mewlstone, and set herself to go through with the burden of her life. If she found it heavy, she never complained: she was silent on her own as on other people's troubles. Only at the sight of a child of two or three years of age she would turn pale, and draw down her veil, and if it ran up to her, as would sometimes happen, she would put it away from her angrily, pushing it away almost with violence, and no child was ever suffered to cross her threshold.

The drawing-room at the White House was a spacious apartment, with four long windows opening on the lawn. Mrs. Cheyne was sitting in her low chair, reading, with Miss Mewlstone at the farther end of the room, with her knitting-basket beside her; two or three grayhounds were grouped near her. They all rushed forward with furious barks as Mr. Drummond was announced, and then leaped joyously round him. Mrs. Cheyne put down her book, and greeted him with a frosty smile.

She had laid aside her widow's weeds, but still dressed in black, the sombreness of her apparel harmonizing perfectly with her pale, creamy complexion. Her dress was always rich in material, and most carefully adjusted. In her younger days it had been an art with her,—almost a passion,—and it had grown into a matter of custom.

"You are very good to come again so soon, Mr. Drummond," she said, as she gave him her hand. The words were civil, but a slight inflection on the word "soon" made Mr. Drummond feel a little uncomfortable. Did she think he called too often? He wished he had brought Mattie; only last time she had been so satirical, and had quizzed the poor little thing unmercifully; not that Mattie had found out that she was being quizzed.

"I hardly thought I should find you at home, it is so fine an afternoon; but I made the attempt, you see," he continued, a little awkwardly.

"Your parochial conscience was uneasy, I suppose, because I was missing at church?" she returned, somewhat slyly. "You would make a capital overseer, Mr. Drummond,"—with a short laugh. "A headache is a good excuse, is it not? I had a headache, had I not, Miss Mewlstone?"

"Yes, my dear, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. She always called her patroness "my dear."

"Miss Mewlstone gave me the heads of the sermon, so it was not quite labor lost, as regards one of your flock. I am afraid you think me a black sheep because I stay away so often,—a very black sheep, eh, Mr. Drummond?"

"It is not for me to judge," he said, still more awkwardly. "Headaches are very fair excuses; and if one be not blessed with good health——"

"My health is perfect," she returned, interrupting him ruthlessly. "I have no such convenient plea under which to shelter myself. Miss Mewlstone suffers far more from headaches than I do. Don't you, Miss Mewlstone?"

"Just so; yes, indeed, my dear," proceeded softly from the other end of the room.

"I am sorry to hear it," commenced Mr. Drummond, in a sympathizing tone of voice. But his tormentor again interrupted him.

"I am a sad backslider, am I not? I wonder if you have a sermon ready for me? Do you lecture your parishioners, Mr. Drummond, rich as well as poor? What a pity it is you are so young! Lectures are more suitable with gray hair; a hoary head might have some chance against my satire. A woman's tongue is a difficult thing to keep in order, is it not? I dare say you find that with Miss Mattie?"

Mr. Drummond was literally on thorns. He had no repartee ready. She was secretly exasperating him as usual, making his youth a reproach, and rendering it impossible for him to be his natural frank self with her. In her presence he was always at a disadvantage. She seemed to take stock of his learning and to mock at the idea of his pastoral claims. It was not the first time she had called herself a black sheep, or had spoken of her scanty attendances at church. But as yet he had not dared to rebuke her; he had a feeling that she might fling back his rebuke with a jest, and his dignity forbade this. Some day he owed it to his conscience to speak a word to her,—to tell her of the evil effects of such an example; but the convenient season had not yet arrived.

He was casting about in his own mind for some weighty sentence with which to answer her; but she again broke in upon his silence:

"It seems that I am to escape to-day. I hope you are not a lax disciplinarian; that comes of being young. Youth is more tolerant, they say, of other people's errors: it has its own glass houses to mind."

"You are too clever for me, Mrs. Cheyne," returned the young man, with a deprecating smile that might have disarmed her. "No, I have not come to lecture: my mission is perfectly peaceful, as befits this lovely afternoon. I wonder what you ladies find to do all day?" he continued, abruptly changing the subject, and trying to find something that would not attract her satire.

Mrs. Cheyne seemed a little taken aback by this direct question; and then she drew up her beautiful head a little haughtily, and laughed.

"Ah, you are cunning, Mr. Drummond. You found me disposed to take the offensive in the matter of church-going, and now you are on another track. There is a lecture somewhere in the background. How doth the little busy bee, etc. Now, don't frown,"—as Mr. Drummond knitted his brows and really looked annoyed: "I will not refuse to be catechised."

"I should not presume to catechise you," he returned, hastily. "I appeal to Miss Mewlstone if my question were not a very innocent one."

"Just so; just so," replied Miss Mewlstone; but she looked a little alarmed at this appeal. "Oh, very innocent; oh, very so."

"With two against me I must yield," returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a curl of her lip. "What do we do with our time, Miss Mewlstone? Your occupation speaks for itself: it is exquisitely feminine. Don't tell Miss Mattie, Mr. Drummond, but I never work. I would as soon arm myself with a dagger as a needle or a pair of scissors. When I am not in the air, I paint. I only lay aside my palette for a book."

"You paint!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden interest. It was the first piece of information he had yet gleaned.

"Yes," she returned, indifferently: "one must do something to kill time, and music was never my forte. I sketch and draw and paint after my own sweet will. There are portfolios full of my sketches in there,"—with a movement of her hand towards a curtained recess. "No, I know what you are going to say: you will ask to see them; but I never show them to any one."

"For what purpose, then, do you paint them?" were the words on his lips; but he forbore to utter them. But she read the question in his eyes.

"Did I not say one must kill time?" she returned, rather irritably: "the occupation is soothing: surely that is reason enough."

"It is a good enough reason, I suppose," he replied, reluctantly, for surely he must say a word here; "but one need not talk about killing time, with so much that one could do."

Then there came a gleam of suppressed mischief in her eyes:

"Yes, I know: you may spare me that. I will listen to it all next Sunday, if you will, when you have it your own way, and one cannot sin against decorum and answer you. Yes, yes, there is so much to do, is there not?—hungry people to be fed, and sick to visit,—all sorts of disagreeables that people call duties. Ah, I am a sad sinner! I only draw for my own amusement, and leave the poor old world to get on without me. What a burden I must be on your conscience, Mr. Drummond,—heavier than all the rest of your parish. What, are you going already? and Miss Mewlstone has never given you any tea."

Then Archie explained, very shortly, that he had partaken of that beverage at Brooklyn, and his leave-taking was rather more formal than usual. He was very much surprised, as he stood at the hall door, that always stood open in the summer, to hear the low sweep of a dress over the tessellated pavement behind him, and to see a white pudgy hand laid on his coat-sleeve.

"My dear Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me!"

"Just so; yes, I am afraid I did, Mr. Drummond; but I just wanted to say, never mind all that nonsense; come again: she likes to see you; she does, indeed. It is only her way to talk so; she means no harm, poor dear,—oh, none at all!"

"Excuse me," returned Archie, in a hurt voice, "but I think you are mistaken. Mrs. Cheyne does not care for my visits, and shows me she does not: if it were not my duty, I should not come so often."

"No, no; just so, but all the same it rouses her and does her good. It is a bad day with her, poor dear!—the very day the darlings were taken ill, four years ago. Now, don't go away and fancy things, don't, there's a dear young man; come as often as you can, and try and do her good."

"Oh, if I only knew how that is to be done!" returned Archie, slowly; but he was mollified in spite of himself. There were tears in Miss Mewlstone's little blue eyes: perhaps she was a good creature after all.

"I will come again, but not just yet," he said, nodding to her good-humoredly; but as he walked down the road he told himself that Mrs. Cheyne had never before made herself so disagreeable, and that it would be long before he set foot in the White House again.



CHAPTER XVII.

"A FRIEND IN NEED."

Human nature is weak, and we are told there are mixed motives to be found even in the holiest actions. Mr. Drummond never could be brought to acknowledge even to himself the reason why he took so much pains to compose his sermon for that Sunday. Without possessing any special claim to eloquence, he had always been earnest and painstaking, bestowing much labor on the construction and finish of his sentences, which were in consequence more elaborate than original. At times, when he took less pains and was simpler in style, he seldom failed to satisfy his hearers. His voice was pleasant and well modulated, and his delivery remarkably quiet and free from any tricks of gestures.

But on this occasion his subject baffled him; he wrote and rewrote whole pages, and then grew discontented with his work. On the Sunday in question he woke with the conviction that something out of the common order of events distinguished the day from other days; but even as this thought crossed his mind he felt ashamed of himself, and was in consequence a little more dictatorial than usual at the breakfast-table.

The inhabitants of Hadleigh were well accustomed to the presence of strangers in their church. In the season there was a regular influx of visitors that filled the lodging-houses to overflowing. Hadleigh had always prided itself on its gentility, as a watering-place it was select and exclusive; only the upper middle classes, and a sprinkling of the aristocracy, were the habitual frequenters of the little town. It was too quiet; it offered too few attractions to draw the crowds that flocked to other places. Mr. Drummond's congregation was well used by this time to see new faces in the strangers' pew; nevertheless, a little thrill of something like surprise and excitement moved a few of the younger members as Nan and her sisters walked down the aisle, with their mother following them.

"The mother is almost as good-looking as her daughters," thought Colonel Middleton, as he regarded the group through his gold-mounted eye-glasses, and Miss Middleton looked up for an instant from her prayer-book. Even Mrs. Cheyne roused from the gloomy abstraction which was her usual approach to devotion, and looked long and curiously at the three girlish faces before her. It was refreshing even to her to see anything so fresh and bright-looking.

Nan and her sisters were perfectly oblivious of the sensation they were making. Nan's pretty face was a trifle clouded: the strange surroundings, the sight of all those people unknown to them, instead of the dear, familiar faces that had always been before her, gave the girl a dreary feeling of oppression and dismay. Her voice quavered audibly as she sang, and one or two drops fell on her prayer-book as she essayed to join in the petitions.

"Why is there not a special clause in the Litany for those who are perplexed and in poverty? It is not only from murder and sudden death one need pray to be delivered," thought Nan, with much sinking of heart. "Oh, how helpless they were,—so young, and only girls, with a great unknown world before them, and Dick away, ignorant of their worst troubles, and too youthful a knight to win his spurs and pledge himself to their service!"

Nan's sweet downcast face drew many eyes in the direction of the great square pew in which they sat. Phillis intercepted some of these looks, as her attention insensibly wandered during the service. It was wrong, terribly wrong of course, but her thoughts would not concentrate themselves on the lesson the young vicar was reading in his best style. She was not heavy-hearted like Nan; on the contrary, little thrills of excitement, of impatience, of repressed amusement, pervaded her mind, as she looked at the strange faces round her "They would not be long strange," she thought: "some of them would be her neighbors. What would they say, all these people, when they knew——" And here Phillis held her breath a moment. People were wondering even now who they were. They had dressed themselves that morning, rehearsing their parts, as it were, with studied simplicity. The gown Nan wore was as inexpensive as a gown could be; her hat was a model of neatness and propriety: nevertheless, Phillis groaned in spirit as she glanced at her. Where had she got that style? She looked like a young princess who was playing at Arcadia. Would people ever dare to ask her to work for them? Would they not beg her pardon, and cry shame on themselves for entertaining such a thought for a moment? Phillis almost envied Nan, who was shedding salt tears on her prayer-book. She thought she was absorbed in her devotions, while her own thoughts would wander so sadly; and then a handsome face in the opposite pew attracted her attention. Surely that must be Mrs. Cheyne, who lived in the White House near them, of whom Nan had talked,—the poor woman who had lost husband and children and who lived in solitary state. The sermon had now commenced, but Phillis turned a deaf ear to the sentences over which Mr. Drummond had expended so much labor: her attention was riveted by the gloomy beautiful face before her, which alternately attracted and repelled her.

As though disturbed by some magnetic influence, Mrs. Cheyne raised her eyes slowly and looked at Phillis. Something in the girl's keen-eyed glance seemed to move her strangely. The color crept into her pale face, and her lip quivered: a moment afterwards she drew down her veil and leaned back in her seat and Phillis, somewhat abashed, endeavored fruitlessly to gather up the thread of the sermon.

"There! it is over! We have made our debut," she said, a little recklessly, as they walked back to Beach House, where Mrs. Challoner and Dulce were still staying. And as Nan looked at her, a little shocked and mystified by this unusual flippancy, she continued in the same excited way:

"Was it not strange Mr. Drummond choosing that text, 'Consider the lilies'? He looked at us; I am sure he did, mother. It was quite a tirade against dress and vanity; but I am sure no one could find fault with us."

"It was a very good sermon, and I think he seems a very clever young man," returned Mrs. Challoner, with a sigh, for the service had been a long weariness for her. She had not been unmindful of the attention her girls had caused; but if people only knew—And here the poor lady had clasped her hands and put up petitions that were certainly not in the Litany.

Phillis seemed about to say something, but she checked herself, and they were all a little silent until they reached the house. This first Sunday was an infliction to them all: it was a day of enforced idleness. There was too much time for thought and room for regret. In spite of all Phillis's efforts,—and she rattled on cheerily most of the afternoon,—Mrs. Challoner got one of her bad headaches, from worry, and withdrew to her room, attended by Dulce, who volunteered to bathe her head and read her to sleep.

The church-bells were just ringing for the evening service, and Nan rose, as usual, to put on her hat; but Phillis stopped her:

"Oh, Nan, do not let us go to church again this evening. I am terribly wicked to-day, I know, but somehow I cannot keep my thoughts in order. So what is the use of making the attempt? Let us take out our prayer-books and sit on the beach: it is low tide, and a walk over the sands would do us good after our dreadful week."

"If you are sure it would not be wrong," hesitated Nan, whose conscience was a little hard to convince in such matters.

"No, no. And the run will do Laddie good. The poor little fellow has been shut up in this room all day. We need not tell the mother. She would be shocked, you know. But we never have stayed away from church before, have we? And, to tell you the truth," continued Phillis, with an unsteady laugh that betrayed agitation to her sister's ear, "though I faced it very well this morning, I do not feel inclined to go through it again. People stared so. And I could not help thinking all the time, 'If they only knew!'—that was the thought that kept buzzing in my head. If only Mr. Drummond and all those people knew!"

"What does it matter what people think?" returned Nan. But she said it languidly. In her heart she was secretly dismayed at this sudden failure of courage. Phillis had been quite bold and merry all the day, almost reckless in her speeches.

"I am glad we came. This will do us both good," said Nan, gently, as they left the parade behind them, and went slowly over the shelving beach, with Laddie rolling like a clumsy black ball about their feet. Just before them there was a pretty black-timbered cottage, covered with roses, standing quite low on the shore, and beyond this was nothing but shingly beach, and a stretch of wet, yellow sand, on which the sun was shining. There was a smooth white boulder standing quite alone, on which the girls seated themselves. The tide was still going out; and the low wash of waves sounded pleasantly in their ears as they advanced and then receded. A shimmer of silvery light played upon the water, and a rosy tinge began to tint the horizon.

"How quiet and still it is!" said Phillis, in an awe-struck voice. "When we are tired we must come here to rest ourselves. How prettily those baby waves seem to babble! it is just like the gurgle of baby laughter. And look at Laddie splashing in that pool: he is after that poor little crab. Come here, you rogue!" But Laddie, intent upon his sport, only cocked his ear restlessly and refused to obey.

"Yes, it is lovely," returned Nan. "There is quite a silvery path over the water; by and by the sunset clouds will be beautiful. But what is the matter, dear?" as Phillis sighed and leaned heavily against her; and then, as she turned, she saw the girl's eyes were wet.

"Oh, Nan! shall we have strength for it? That is what I keep asking myself to-day. No you must not look so frightened. I am brave enough generally, and I do not mean to lose pluck; but now and then the thought will come to me, Shall we have strength to go through with it?"

"We must think of each other; that must keep us up," returned Nan, whose ready sympathy fully understood her sister's mood. Only to Nan would Phillis ever own her failure of courage or fears for the future. But now and then the brave young heart needed comfort, and always found it in Nan's sympathy.

"It was looking at your dear beautiful face that made me feel so suddenly bad this morning," interrupted Phillis, with a sort of sob. "It was not the people so much; they only amused and excited me, and I kept thinking, 'If they only knew!' But, Nan, when I looked at you—oh, why are you so nice and pretty, if you have got to do this horrid work?"

"I am not a bit nicer than you and Dulce," laughed Nan, embracing her, for she never could be made to understand that by most people she was considered their superior in good looks. The bare idea made her angry. "It is worse for you, Phillis, because you are so clever and have so many ideas. But there! we must not go on pitying each other, or else, indeed, we shall undermine our little stock of strength."

"But don't you feel terribly unhappy sometimes?" persisted Phillis. Neither of them mentioned Dick, and yet he was in both their minds.

"Perhaps I do," returned Nan, simply; and then she added, with quaintness that was pathetic, "You see, we are so unused to the feeling, and it is over-hard at first: by and by we shall be more used to not having our own way in things."

"I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and Dulce were not miserable," sighed Phillis.

"That is what I say," returned Nan. "Don't you see how simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What does it matter—what does anything matter—if we only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?" finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings, even to Phillis.

"Nan, you are a saint," returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual. "Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, 'I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming across the sand! How eerie it looks, such a tall black figure standing between the earth and sky!"

Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and commenced reading.

There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan's eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis's voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal sky.

She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and she touched Phillis's arm, whispering breathlessly,—

"The Sphinx moves! Look—is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?"

"Hush!" returned Phillis, "she will hear you;" and then Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a moment, as she passed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.

The sisters must have made a pretty picture, as they sat almost clinging together on the stone: one of Nan's little white hands rested on Laddie's head, the other lay on Phillis's lap. Phillis glanced up from her book, keen-eyed and alert in a moment; she turned her head to look at the stranger that had excited her interest, and then rose to her feet with a little cry of dismay.

"Oh, Nan, I am afraid she has hurt herself! She gave such a slip just now. I wonder what has happened? She is leaning against the breakwater, too. Shall we go and ask her if she feels ill or anything?"

"You may go," was Nan's answer. Nevertheless, she followed Phillis.

Mrs. Cheyne looked up at them a little sharply as they came towards her. Her face was gray and contracted with pain.

"I have slipped on a wet stone, and my foot has somehow turned on me," she said, quickly, as Phillis ran up to her. "It was very stupid. I cannot think how it happened; but I have certainly sprained my ankle. It gives me such pain. I cannot move."

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry!" returned Phillis, good-naturedly; and, in the most natural manner, she knelt down on the beach, and took the injured foot in her hands. "Yes, I can feel it is swelling dreadfully: we must try and get your boot off before the attempt gets too painful." And she commenced unfastening it with deft fingers.

"How am I to walk without my boot?" observed Mrs. Cheyne, a little drily, as she looked down on the girl; but here Nan interposed in her brisk sensible way:

"You must not walk; you must not think of such a thing. We will wet our handkerchiefs in the salt water, and bind up your ankle as well as we can; and then one of us will walk over to the White House for assistance. Your servants could easily obtain a wheeled chair."

"You knew I lived at the White House, then?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, arching her eyebrows in some surprise; but she offered no opposition to Nan's plan. The removal of the boot had brought on a sensation of faintness, and she sat perfectly still and quiet while the girls swathed the foot in wet bandages.

"It is a little easier now," she observed, gratefully. "How neatly you have done it! you must be used to such work. I am really very much obliged to you both for your kindly help; and now I am afraid I must trouble you further if I am ever to reach home."

"I will go at once," returned Nan, cheerfully; "but I will leave my sister for fear you should feel faint again: besides, it is so lonely."

"Oh, I am used to loneliness!" was the reply, as a bitter expression crossed her face.

Phillis, who was still holding the sprained foot in her lap, looked up in her eager way.

"I think one gets used to everything; that is a merciful dispensation; but all the same I hope you will not send me away. I dearly like to be useful; and at present my object is to prevent your foot coming into contact with these stones. Are you really in less pain now?—you look dreadfully pale."

"Oh, that is nothing!" she returned, with a smile so sudden and sweet that it quite startled Phillis, for it lit up her face like sunshine; but almost before she caught it, it was gone. "How good you are to me! and yet I am a perfect stranger!" and then she added, as though with an afterthought, "But I saw you in church this morning."

Phillis nodded: the question certainly required no answer.

"If I knew you better, I should ask why your eyes questioned me so closely this morning. Do you know, Miss—Miss——" And here she hesitated and smiled, waiting for Phillis to fill up the blank.

"My name is Challoner,—Phillis Challoner," replied Phillis, coloring a little; and then she added, frankly, "I am afraid you thought me rude, and that I stared at you, but my thoughts were all topsy-turvy this morning and refused to be kept in order. One feels curious, somehow, about the people among whom one has come to live."

"Have you come to live here?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, eagerly, and a gleam of pleasure shot into her dark eyes,—"you, and your mother and sisters?"

"Yes; we have just come to the Friary,—a little cottage standing on the Braidwood Road."

Her manner became a little constrained and reserved as she said this: the charming frankness disappeared.

"The Friary!" echoed Mrs. Cheyne; and then she paused for a moment, and her eyes rested searchingly on Phillis. "That shabby little cottage!" was the thought that filled up the outline of her words; but, though she felt inward surprise and a momentary disappointment, there was no change in the graciousness of her manner. Never before had she so thawed to any one: but the girl's sweet ministry had won her heart. "Then you will be near me,—just at my gates? We shall be close neighbors. I hope you will come and see me, Miss Challoner."

Poor Phillis! the blood suddenly rushed over her face at this. How was she to answer without appearing ungracious?—and yet at this moment how could she explain?

"If you please, we are dressmakers." Oh, no! such words as these would not get themselves said. It was too abrupt, too sudden, altogether: she was not prepared for such a thing. Oh, why had she not gone to the White House instead of Nan? Her officiousness had brought this on her. She could not put the poor foot off her lap and get up and walk away to cool her hot cheeks.

"Thank you; you are very good," she stammered, feeling herself an utter fool: she,—Phillis,—the clever one!

Mrs. Cheyne seemed rather taken aback by the girl's sudden reserve and embarrassment.

"I suppose you think I should call first, and thank you for your kindness," she returned, quickly; "but I was afraid my foot would keep me too long a prisoner. And, as we are to be neighbors, I hardly thought it necessary to stand on ceremony; but if you would rather wait——"

"Oh, no," replied Phillis, in despair; "we will not trouble you to do that! Nan and I will call and ask after your foot, and then we will explain. There is a little difficulty: you might not care to be friends with us if you knew," went on Phillis with burning cheeks; "but we will call and explain. Oh, yes, Nan and I will call!"

"Do; I shall expect you," returned Mrs. Cheyne, half amused and half mystified at the girl's obvious confusion. What did the child mean? They were gentle-people,—one could see that at a glance. They were in reduced circumstances: they had come down to Hadleigh to retrench. Well, what did that matter? People's wealth or poverty never affected her; she would think none the less well of them for that; she would call at the Friary and entertain them at the White House with as much pleasure as though they lived in a palace. The little mystery piqued her, and yet excited her interest. It was long since she had interested herself so much in anything. To Miss Middleton she had always been cold and uncertain. Mr. Drummond she treated with a mixture of satire and haughtiness that aroused his ire. Phillis's frankness and simplicity had won her for a moment to her earlier and better self: she conceived an instantaneous liking for the girl who looked at her with such grave kindly glances. "I shall expect you, remember," she repeated, as Nan at that moment appeared in sight.

"Oh, yes, Nan and I will come," returned Phillis, slowly, and almost solemnly; but an instant afterwards a flicker of amusement played round her mouth. It was painful, of course; but, still, how droll it was!

"How long you have been, Nan!" she exclaimed, a little unreasonably, as Nan ran towards them, flushed and breathless from her haste.

"It has not been long to me," observed Mrs. Cheyne, pointedly. She talked more to Nan than to Phillis after this, until the servants appeared with the wheeled chair; but nevertheless her last words were for Phillis. "Remember your promise," was all she said, as she held out her hand to the girl; and Phillis tried to smile in answer, though it was rather a failure after all.



CHAPTER XVIII.

DOROTHY BRINGS IN THE BEST CHINA.

"What a fool I made of myself yesterday! but to-day Richard is himself again," said Phillis, as she gathered up another muslin curtain in her arms ready to hand to Nan, who was mounted on some steps. It was only Monday afternoon, but the girls had done wonders: the work-room, as they called it, was nearly finished. The great carved wardrobe and mahogany table had been polished by Dorothy's strong hands. Mrs. Challoner's easy-chair and little work-table at one window looked quite inviting; the sewing-machine and Nan's rosewood davenport were in their places. A hanging cupboard of old china, and a few well-bound books, gave a little coloring and finish, and one or two fine old prints that had hung in the dining-room at Glen Cottage had been disposed with advantage on the newly-papered walls. An inlaid clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and some handsome ruby-colored vases stood on either side of it. Nan was quite right when she had glanced round her a few minutes ago in a satisfied manner and said no one need be ashamed of living in such a room.

"Our pretty things make it look almost too nice for the purpose," she continued, handling a precious relic, a Sevres cup and saucer, that had been her especial pride in old days. "I think you were wrong, Phil, not to have the china in the other room."

"No, indeed; I want people to see it and be struck with our taste," was Phillis's frank answer. "Think what pleasure it will give the poor ladies when their dresses are being tried on. Don't you remember the basket of wax fruit at Miss Slinders's, when we were small children? I thought it the loveliest work of art, and feasted my eyes all the time Miss Slinders was fitting my pink frock. Now, our pictures and china will refresh people's eyes in the same way."

Nan smiled and shook her head, as she dusted and arranged her treasures. The china was very dear to her,—far more than the books Phillis was arranging on the chiffonnier. The Dresden figures that Dick had given to her mother were among them. She did not care for strangers to look at them and appraise their value. They were home treasures,—sacred relics of their past. The last time she had dusted them, a certain young man of her acquaintance had walked through the open window whistling "Blue bonnets over the Border," and had taken up his station beside her, hindering her work with his chattering. Dulce was in the upper regions, unpacking a box in her mother's room. Mrs. Challoner was coming home the next day, and Dorothy and she were hard at work getting things in order.

When Phillis made her downright speech, Nan looked down from her lofty perch, and held out her arms for the curtain.

"Richard is always himself, my dear," she said, softly. "Do you know when you are down, Phil, I feel as though we are all at a stand-still, and there's no getting on at all? and then at one of your dear droll speeches the sunshine comes out again, and we are all as right as possible."

"Don't talk nonsense," was Phillis's blunt answer; but she could not help being pleased at the compliment. She looked up archly at Nan, as the mass of soft white drapery lay between them; and then they both broke into a laugh, just as two shadows seemed to glide past the window, and a moment afterwards the house-bell sounded. "Visitors!—oh, Nan!" And Phillis glanced down at the neat bib apron that she wore over her cambric dress.

"Don't be afraid; Dorothy will have too much sense to admit them," returned Nan, quite indifferently, as she went up a step higher to hang up the curtain.

Phillis was still holding it; but her manner was not quite so well assured. She thought she heard Dulce's voice in confabulation with the stranger. A moment afterwards Dulce came briskly into the room.

"Nan, Mr. Drummond and his sister have kindly called to see us. We are not in order, of course. Oh, dear!" as Nan looked down on them with startled eyes, not venturing to descend from her perch. "I ought not to have brought them in here," looking half mischievously and half guiltily at the young clergyman, who stood hat in hand on the threshold.

"It is I who ought not to have intruded," he began, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, blushing over his face like a girl as Nan looked down at him in much dignity, but Mattie, who was behind him, pushed forward in her usual bustling way.

"Oh, Miss Challoner, it is too bad! I told Archie that we ought not to come too soon——" but Phillis stopped her with an outstretched hand of welcome.

"What is too bad? I call it very kind and friendly of you both: one hardly expected to find such good neighbors. Nan, if that curtain is finished I think you had better come down. Take care; those steps are rickety: perhaps Mr. Drummond will help you."

"Let me do the other ones for you. I don't think those steps are safe!" exclaimed Archie, with sudden inspiration.

No one at home would have believed such a thing of him. Mattie's eyes grew quite round and fixed with astonishment at the sight. He had not even shaken hands with Nan, yet there he was, mounted in her place, slipping in the hooks with dexterous hands, while Nan quietly held up the curtain.

Months afterwards the scene came back on Archibald Drummond with a curious thrill half of pain and half of amusement. How had he done it? he wondered. What had made him all at once act in a way so unlike himself?—for, with the best intention, he was always a little stiff and constrained with strangers. Yet there he was laughing as though he had known them all his life, because Nan had rebuked him gravely for slipping two hooks into one ring. Months afterwards he recalled it all: Nan glancing up at him with quietly amused eyes, Phillis standing apart, looking quaint and picturesque in her bib-apron, Dulce with the afternoon sunshine lighting up her brown hair; the low old-fashioned room, with the great carved wardrobe, and the cupboard of dainty china; the shady little lawn outside, with Laddie rolling among the daisies. What made it suddenly start up in his memory like a picture one has seen and never quite forgotten?

"Thank you, Mr. Drummond. You have done it so nicely," said Nan, with the utmost gravity, as he lingered, almost unwilling to descend to conventionality again. Dulce and Phillis were busily engaged looping up the folds. "Now we will ask Dorothy to remove the steps and then we can sit down comfortably."

But here Archie interposed:

"Why need you call any one? Tell me where I shall put them." Mattie broke into a loud laugh. She could not help it. It was too droll of Archie. She must write and tell Grace.

Archie heard the laugh as he marched out of the room with his burden, and it provoked him excessively. He made some excuse about admiring Laddie, and went out on the lawn for a few minutes, accompanied by Nan. When they came back, the curtains were finished and the two girls were talking to Mattie. Mattie seemed quite at ease with them.

"We have such a dear old garden at the vicarage," she was saying, as her brother came into the room. "I am not much of a gardener myself but Archie works for hours at a time. He talks of getting a set of tennis down from town. We think it will help to bring people together. You must promise to come and play sometimes of an afternoon when you have got the cottage in order."

"Thank you," returned Phillis; and then Nan and she exchanged looks. A sort of blankness came over the sisters' faces,—a sudden dying out of the brightness and fun.

Mr. Drummond grew a little alarmed:

"I hope you will not disappoint my sister. She has few friends, and is rather lonely, missing so many sisters; and you are such close neighbors."

"Yes, we are close neighbors," returned Phillis. But her voice was a little less clear than usual; and, to Archie's astonishment,—for they all seemed talking comfortably together,—her face had grown suddenly pale. "But you must not think us unkind if we refuse your hospitality," she went on, looking straight at him, and not at Mattie. "Owing to painful circumstances, we have made up our minds that no such pleasure are in store for us. We must learn to do without things: must we not, Nan?"

"Yes, indeed," returned Nan, very gravely. And then the tears came into Dulce's eyes. Was Phillis actually going to tell them? She would have run away, only she was ashamed of such cowardice.

"I hope you do not mean to do without friends," stammered Archie. "That would be too painful to bear." He thought they were excusing themselves from partaking of their neighbors' hospitality because they were too poor to return it, and wanted to set them at their ease. "You may have reasons for wishing to be quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Challoner's health, and—and—parties are not always desirable," he went on, floundering, a little in his speech, and signing to Mattie to come to his help, which she did at once, breathlessly:

"Parties! Oh, dear, no! They are such a trouble and expense. But tennis and tea on the lawn is just nothing,—nothing at all. One can give a little fruit and some home-made cake. No one need scruple at that. Archie is not rich,—clergymen never are, you know,—but he means to entertain his friends as well as he can. I should like you to see Miss Middleton. She is a charming person. And the colonel is as nice as possible. We will just ask them to meet you in a quiet way, and, if your mother is not too much of an invalid, I hope she will give us the pleasure of her company, for when people are such close neighbors it is stupid to stand on ceremony," finished Mattie, bringing herself rapidly to a full stop.

"You are very kind. But you do not understand," returned Phillis. And then she stopped, and a gleam of fun came into her eyes. Her sharp ears had caught the rattle of cups and saucers. Actually, that absurd Dorothy was bringing in tea in the old way, making believe that they were entertaining their friends in Glen Cottage fashion! She must get out the truth somehow before the pretty purple china made its appearance. "Oh," she went on, with a sort of gulp, as though she felt the sudden touch of cold water, "you come here meaning kindly, and asking us to your house, and taking compassion upon us because we are strangers and lonely, and you do not know that we are poor, and that we have lost our money, and——" But here Mr. Drummond was absolutely rude enough to interrupt her:

"What does that matter, my dear Miss Challoner? Do you think that is of any consequence in mine or my sister's eyes? I suppose if I be your clergyman——" And then he stopped, and stroked his beard in an embarrassed way; for though Phillis's face was pale, there was laughter in her eyes.

"Oh, if this be a parochial visit," she began, demurely; "but you should not have talked of tennis, Mr. Drummond. How do you know we are not Roman Catholics, or Wesleyans, or even Baptists, or Bible Christians? We might have gone to your church out of curiosity on Sunday, or to see the fashions. There is not a Quaker cut about us; but, still, we might be Unitarians, and people would not find it out," continued Phillis, looking with much solemnity at the bewildered young Anglican.

The situation was too absurd; there was no knowing to what length Phillis's recklessness and sense of humor would have brought her, only Nan's good sense came to the rescue:

"Phillis is only in fun, Mr. Drummond. Of course we are Church-people: and of course we hope to attend your services. I am sure my mother will be pleased to see you, when you are kind enough to call. At Oldfield we were always good friends with our clergyman: he was such a dear old man."

"Do you mean to forbid my sister's visits, then?" asked Archie, looking anxiously at her sweet face; Nan looked so pretty, in spite of her discomposure.

"Oh, no! we do not mean to be so rude: do we, Phillis? We shall be so glad to see Miss Drummond; but—but," faltered Nan, losing breath a little, "we have been unfortunate, and must work for our living; and your sister perhaps would not care to visit dressmakers."

"What!" exclaimed Archie: he almost jumped out of his chair in his surprise.

Phillis had uttered a faint "Bravo, Nan!" but no one heard her. Dulce's cheeks were crimson, and she would not look at any one; but Nan, who had got out the dreaded word, went on bravely, and was well hugged by Phillis in private afterwards.

"We are not clever enough for governesses," continued Nan, with a charming smile, addressing Mattie, who sat and stared at her, "and there was nothing we dreaded so much as to separate: so, as we had capable fingers and were fond of work, my sister Phillis planned this for us. Now you see, Miss Drummond, why we could not accept your kind hospitality. Whatever we have been, we cannot expect people to visit us now. If you would be good enough to recommend us, and help us in our efforts to make ourselves independent, that is all we can ask of you."

"Well, I don't know," returned Mattie, bluntly: "as far as I am concerned, I am never ashamed of any honest calling. What do you say, Archie?"

"I say it is all very proper and laudable," he returned, hesitating; "but surely—surely there must be some other way more suitable to ladies in your position! Let me call again when your mother comes, and see if there is nothing that I can do or recommend better than this. Yes, I am sure if I can only talk to your mother, we could find some other way than this."

"Indeed, Mr. Drummond, you must do nothing of the kind," replied Phillis, in an alarmed voice: "the poor dear mother must not be disturbed by any such talk! You mean it kindly, but we have made up our own minds, Nan and I: we mean to do without the world and live in one of our own; and we mean to carry out our plan in defiance of everything and everybody; and, though you are our clergyman and we are bound to listen to your sermons, we cannot take your advice in this."

"But—but I would willingly act as a friend," began the young man, confusedly, looking not at her, but at Nan.

He was so bewildered, so utterly taken aback, he hardly knew what he said.

"Here comes Dorothy with the tea," interrupted Nan, pleasantly, as though dismissing the subject: "she has not forgotten our old customs. Friends always came around us in the afternoon. Mr. Drummond, perhaps you will make yourself useful and cut the cake. Dorothy, you need not have unpacked the best silver teapot." Nan was moving about in her frank hospitable way. Laddie was whining for cake, and breaking into short barks of impatience. "This is one of our Glen Cottage cakes. Susan always prides herself on the recipe," said Nan, calmly, as she pressed it on her guests.

Mr. Drummond almost envied his sister as she praised the cake and asked for the recipe. He had always found fault with her manners; but now nothing could be finer than her simplicity. Pure good nature and innate womanliness were teaching Mattie something better than tact. Nan had dropped a painful subject, and she would not revive it in her brother's presence. There would be plenty of time for her to call and talk it over with them quietly. Help them!—of course she would help them. They should have her new silk dress that Uncle Conway had just sent her. It was a risk, for perhaps they might spoil it; but such fine creatures should have a chance. At present she would only enjoy the nice tea, and talk to poor little frightened Dulce, who seemed unable to open her lips after her sister's disclosure.

Archie could not emulate her ease: a man is always at a disadvantage in such a case. His interest had sustained no shock: it was even stimulated by what he had just heard; but his sympathy seemed all at once congealed, and he could find no vent for it. In spite of his best efforts his manner grew more and more constrained every moment.

Nan looked at him more than once with reproachful sweetness. She thought they had lost caste in his eyes; but Phillis, who was shrewd and sharp-set in her wits, read him more truly. She knew—having already met a score of such—how addicted young Englishmen are to mauvaise honte, and how they will hide acute sensibilities under blunt and stolid exteriors; and there was a certain softness in Mr. Drummond's eye that belied his stiffness. Most likely he was very sorry for them, and did not know how to show it; and in this she was right.

Mr. Drummond was very sorry for them; but he was still more grieved for himself. The Oxford fellow had not long been a parish priest, and he could not at all understand the position in which he found himself,—taking tea with three elegant young dressmakers who talked the purest English and had decided views on tennis and horticulture. He had just been congratulating himself on securing such companionship for his sister and himself. Being rather classical-minded, he had been calling them the gray-eyed Graces, and one of them at least "a daughter of the gods,—divinely tall and most divinely fair;" for where had he seen anything to compare with Nan's bloom and charming figure? Dressmakers!—oh, if only Grace were at hand, that he might talk to her, and gain her opinion how he was to act in such case! Grace had the stiff-necked Drummond pride as well as he, and would hesitate long behind the barriers of conventionality. No wonder, with all these thoughts passing through his mind, that Nan, with her bright surface talk, found him a little vague.

It was quite a relief to all the party when Mattie gave the signal for departure and the bell was rung for Dorothy to show them out.

"Well, Nan, what do you think of our visitors?" asked Phillis, when the garden-door had clanged noisily after them, and she had treated Nan to the aforesaid hugs; "for you were so brave, darling, and actually took the wind out of my sails!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Phillis. "Miss Drummond is not so bad, after all, is she, in spite of her dowdiness and fussy ways?"

"No; she means well; and so does her brother. He is very nice, only his self-consciousness spoils him," returned Nan, in a calm, discursive tone, as though they were discussing ordinary visitors.

It was impossible for these young girls to see that their ordinary language was not humble enough for their new circumstances. They would make mistakes at every turn, like Dorothy, who got out the best china and brewed her tea in the melon-shaped silver teapot.

Phillis opened her eyes rather widely at this. Nan was not often so observant. It was true: self-consciousness was a torment to Archibald Drummond, a Frankenstein of his own creation, that had grown imperceptibly with his growth to the fell measure of his manhood, as inseparable as the shadow from the substance. Phillis had recognized it at once; but then, as she said, no one was faultless; and then, he was so handsome. "Very handsome" chimed in Dulce, whose opinions were full-fledged in such matters.

"Is he? Well, I never cared for a man with a long fair beard," observed Nan, carelessly. Poor Archie! how his vanity would have suffered if he had heard her! for, in a masculine way, he prided himself excessively on the soft silky appendage that Grace had so often praised. A certain boyish countenance, with kindly honest eyes and a little sandy moustache, was more to Nan's taste than the handsome young Anglican.

"Oh, we all know Nan's opinion in such matters," said Dulce, slyly; and then Nan blushed, and suddenly remembered that Dorothy was waiting for her in the linen-closet, and hurried away, leaving her sisters to discuss their visitors to their hearts' content.



CHAPTER XIX.

ARCHIE IS IN A BAD HUMOR.

"Oh, Archie, I was never more astonished in my life!" exclaimed Mattie, as she tried to adapt her uneven trot to her brother's long swinging footsteps; and then she glanced up in his face to read his mood: but Archie's features were inscrutable and presented an appalling blank. In his mind he was beginning his letter to Grace, and wondering what he should say to her about their new neighbors. "Writing is such a nuisance when one wants to talk to a person," he thought, irritably.

"Oh, Archie, won't you tell me what we are to do?" went on Mattie, excitedly. She would not take Archie's silence as a hint that he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself. "Those poor girls! oh, how nice and pretty they all are, especially the eldest! and is not the youngest—Dulce, I think they called her—the very image of Isabel?"

"Isabel! not a bit. That is so like you, Mattie. You always see likenesses when other people cannot trace the faintest resemblance," for this remark was sure to draw out his opposition. Isabel was a silly flirting little thing in her brother's estimation, and, he thought, could not hold a candle to the youngest Miss Challoner.

"Oh dear! now I have made you cross!" sighed poor Mattie, who especially wanted to keep him in good humor. "And yet every one but you thinks Isabel so pretty. I am sure, from what Grace said in her last letter, that Mr. Ellis Burton means to propose to her."

"And I suppose you will all consider that a catch," sneered Archie. "That is so like a parcel of women, thinking every man who comes to the house and makes a few smooth-tongued speeches—is, in fact, civil—must be after a girl. Of course you have all helped to instill this nonsense into the child's head."

"Dear me, how you talk, Archie!" returned Mattie, feeling herself snubbed as usual. Why, Archie had been quite excited about it only the other day, and had said quite seriously that with seven girls in a family, it would be a great blessing if Isabel could make such a match; for it was very unlikely that Laura and Susie, or even Clara, would do much for themselves in that way, unless they decidedly improved in looks.

"Well, it is nothing to me," he returned in a chilling manner; "we all know our own mind best. If an angular lantern-jawed fellow like Burton, who, by the bye, does not speak the best English, is to Isabel's taste, let her have him by all means: he is well-to-do, and I dare say will keep a carriage for her by and by: that is what you women think a great advantage," finished Archie, who certainly seemed bent on making himself disagreeable.

Mattie heaved another great sigh, but she did not dare to contradict him. Grace would have punished him on the spot by a dose of satire that would have brought him to reason and good nature in a moment; but Mattie ventured only on those laborious sighs which she jerked up from the bottom of her honest little heart.

Archie heard the sigh, and felt ashamed of his bad temper. He did not know himself why he felt so suddenly cross; some secret irritation was at work within him, and he could scarcely refrain from bidding Mattie quite roughly to hold her tongue and not tease him with her chatter. If she expected him in his present state of mind, which was at once contradictory and aggressive, to talk to her about the Challoners, she must just make up her mind to be disappointed, for he could not bring himself to speak of them to her just now: he wanted to hold counsel with his own thoughts and with Grace. He would call at the Friary again and see Mrs. Challoner, and find out more of this strange matter; but as to talking it over with Mattie, he quite shrugged his shoulders as he swung open the green door.

"Are you going in?" faltered Mattie, as she noticed this movement.

"Well, yes; I have letters to write, and it is too hot for a longer walk," he returned, decidedly; and then, as Mattie stood hesitating and wistful in the middle of the road, he strode off, leaving the door to close noisily after him, and not caring to inquire into her further movements, such being the occasional graceless manners of brothers when sisterly friendship is not to their liking.

Mattie felt snubbed; but for the first time in her life, she did not take her snubbing meekly. It was too much to expect of her, who was only a woman and not one of Archie's divinities, that she should follow him into the house and hold her tongue just because he was pleased to refrain from speaking. Water must find its vent; and Mattie's tongue could not be silenced in this way. If Archie would not talk to her, Miss Middleton would: so at once she trotted off for Brooklyn, thereby incurring Archie's wrath if he could only have known her purpose; for gossip was to him as the sin of witchcraft, unless he stooped to it himself, and then it was amiable sociability.

Miss Middleton was listening to her father's reading as usual, but she welcomed Mattie with open arms, literally as well as metaphorically, for she kissed Mattie on either cheek, and then scolded her tenderly for looking so flushed and tired; "for somebody who is always looking after other people, and never has time to spare for herself, is growing quite thin; is she not, father? and we must write to Grace if this goes on," finished Miss Middleton, with one of her kind looks.

All this was cordial to poor Mattie, who, though she was used to snubbing, and took as kindly to it as a spaniel to water, yet felt herself growing rather like a thread-paper and shabby with every-day worries and never an encouraging word to inspirit her.

So she gave Elizabeth a misty little smile,—Mattie's smile was pretty, though her features were ordinary,—and then sat up straight and began to enjoy herself,—that is, to talk,—never noticing that Colonel Middleton looked at his paper in a crestfallen manner, not much liking the interruption and the cessation of his own voice.

"Oh, dear!" began Mattie: she generally prefaced her remarks by an "Oh, dear!" ("That was one of her jerky ways," as Archie said.) "I could not help coming straight to you, for Archie would not talk, and I felt I must tell somebody. Oh, dear, Miss Middleton! What do you think? We have just called at the Friary—and——" but here Colonel Middleton's countenance relaxed, and he dropped his paper.