"Those young ladies, eh? Come, Elizabeth, this is interesting. Well, what sort of place is the Friary, seen from the inside, eh, Miss Drummond?"

"Oh, it is very nice," returned Mattie, enthusiastically. "We were shown into such a pretty room, looking out on the garden. They have so many nice things,—pictures, and old china, and handsomely-bound books, and all arranged so tastefully. And before we went away, the old servant—she seems really quite a superior person—brought in an elegant little tea-tray: the cups and saucers were handsomer even than yours, Miss Middleton,—dark-purple and gold. Just what I admire so——"

"Ah, reduced in circumstances! I told you so, Elizabeth," ejaculated the colonel.

"I never saw Archie enjoy himself so much or seem so thoroughly at home anywhere. Somehow, the girls put us so at our ease. Though they were hanging up curtains when we went in,—and any one else would have been annoyed at our intruding so soon,—actually, before we were in the room a moment, Archie was on the steps, helping the eldest Miss Challoner fasten the hooks."

Miss Middleton exchanged an amused look with her father. Mattie's narrative was decidedly interesting.

"Oh, don't tell him I repeated that, for he is always calling me chatterbox!" implored Mattie, who feared she had been indiscreet, and that the colonel was not to be trusted, which was quite true as far as jokes were concerned. No one understood the art of teasing better than he, and the young vicar had already had a taste of his kindly satire. "Archie only meant to be good-natured and put every one at their ease."

"Quite right. Mr. Drummond is always kind," returned Elizabeth, benignly. She had forgotten Mattie's frequent scoldings, and the poor little thing's tired face, or she would never have hazarded such a compromise with truth. But somehow Elizabeth always forgot people's weaknesses, especially when they were absent. It was so nice and easy to praise people; and if she always believed what she said, that was because her faith was so strong, and charity that is love was her second nature.

"Oh, yes, of course," returned Mattie, innocently. She was far too loyal a little soul to doubt Archie's kindness for a moment. Was he not the pride and ornament of the family,—the domestic pope who issued his bulls without possibility of contradiction? Whatever Archie did must be right. Was not that their domestic creed?—a little slavish, perhaps, but still so exquisitely feminine. Mattie was of opinion that—well, to use a mild term—irritability was a necessary adjunct of manhood. All men were cross sometimes. It behooved their womankind, then, to throw oil on the troubled waters,—to speak peaceably, and to refrain from sour looks, or even the shadow of a frown. Archie was never cross with Grace: therefore it must be she, Mattie, on whom the blame lay; she was such a silly little thing, And so on. There is no need to follow the self-accusation of one of the kindest hearts that ever beat.

"Did not your visit end as pleasantly as it began?" asked Elizabeth, who, though she was over-merciful in her judgments, was not without a good deal of sagacity and shrewdness. Something lay beyond the margin of Mattie's words, she could see that plainly; and then her father was getting impatient.

"Well, you see, that spoiled everything," returned Mattie, jumbling her narrative in the oddest manner. "Archie was so sorry, and so was I; and he got quite—you know his way when he feels uncomfortable. I thought Miss Challoner was joking at first,—that it was just a bit of make-believe fun,—until I saw how grave Miss Phillis, that is the second one, looked: and then the little one—at least, she is not little, but somehow one fancies she is—seemed as though she were going to cry."

"But what did Miss Challoner say to distress you and Mr. Drummond so?" asked Elizabeth, trying patiently to elicit facts and not vague statements from Mattie.

"Oh, she said—no, please don't think I am exaggerating, for it is all true—that they had lost their money, and were very poor, and, that she and her sisters were dressmakers."

"Dressmakers!" shouted the colonel, and his ruddy face grew almost purple with the shock: his very moustache seemed to bristle. "Dressmakers! my dear Miss Drummond, I don't believe a word of it! Those girls! It is a hoax!—a bit of nonsense from beginning to end!"

"Hush, father! you are putting Mattie out," returned Elizabeth, mildly. It was one of her idiosyncrasies to call people as soon as possible by their Christian names, though no one but her father and brother ever called her Elizabeth. Perhaps her gray hair, and a certain soft dignity that belonged to her, forbade such freedom. "Dear father, we must let Mattie speak." But even Elizabeth let her work lie unheeded in her lap in the engrossing interest of the subject.

"I do not mean they have been dressmakers all this time, but this is their plan for the future. Miss Challoner said they were not clever enough for governesses, and that they did not want to separate. But that is what they mean to do,—to make dresses for people who are not half so good as themselves."

"Preposterous! absurd!" groaned the colonel. "Where is their mother? What can the old lady be thinking about?" Mrs. Challoner was not an old lady by any means; but then the choleric colonel had never seen her, or he would not have applied that term to the aristocratic-looking gentlewoman whom Mattie had admired in Miss Milner's shop.

"I had a good look round the room afterwards," went on Mattie, letting this pass. "They had got a great carved wardrobe,—I thought that funny in a sitting-room; but of course it was for the dresses,"—another groan from the colonel,—"and there was a sewing-machine, and a rosewood davenport for accounts, and a chiffonnier of course for the pieces. Oh, they mean business; and I should not be surprised if they understand their work well," went on Mattie, warming up to her subject and thinking of the breadths of green silk that reposed so snugly between silver paper in her drawers at the vicarage,—the first silk dress she had ever owned, for the Drummond finances did not allow of such luxuries,—the new color, too; such a soft, invisible, shadowy green, like an autumn leaf shrivelled by the sun's richness. "Oh, if they should spoil it!" thought Mattie, with a sigh, as the magnitude of her intended sacrifice weighed heavily upon her mind.

"It is sheer girlish nonsense,—I might say foolery; and the mother must be a perfect idiot!" began the colonel, angrily.

He was an excitable man; and his wrath at the intelligence was really very great. He had taken a fancy to the new-comers, and was prepared to welcome them heartily in his genial way; but now his old-fashioned prejudices were grievously wounded. It was against his nice code of honor that women should do anything out of the usual beaten groove: innovations that would make them conspicuous were heinous sins in his eyes.

"Come, Mattie, you and I will have a chat about this by ourselves," observed Elizabeth, cheerfully, as she noticed her father's vexation. He would soon cool down if left to himself: she knew that well. "Suppose we go down to Miss Milner, and hear what she has to say: you may depend upon it that it was this that made her so reserved with us the other day."

"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Mattie; but she was charmed at the idea of fresh gossip. And then they set off together.

Miss Milner seemed a little surprised to see them so soon, for Mattie had already paid her a visit that day; but at Miss Middleton's first words a look of annoyance passed over her good-natured face.

"Dear, dear! to think of that leaking out already," she said, in a vexed voice; "and I have not spoken to a soul, because the young ladies asked me to keep their secret a few days longer. 'You must give us till next Monday,' one of them said this very morning: 'by that time we shall be in order, and then we can set to work.'"

"It was Miss Challoner who told me herself," observed Mattie, in a deprecating manner. "My brother and I called this afternoon: you see, being the clergyman, and such close neighbors, he thought we might be of some use to the poor things."

"Poor things indeed!" ejaculated Miss Milner. "I cannot tell you how bad I felt," she went on, her little gray curls bobbing over her high cheek-bones with every word, "when that dear young lady put down her head there"—pointing to a spot about as big as a half-crown on the wooden counter—"and cried like a baby. 'Oh, how silly I am!' she said, sobbing-like; 'and what would my sisters say to me? But you are so kind, Miss Milner; and it does seem all so strange and horrid.' I made up my mind, then and there," finished the good woman, solemnly, "that I would help them to the best of my powers. I have got their bits of advertisements to put about the shop; and there's my new black silk dress, that has laid by since Christmas, because I knew Miss Slasher would spoil it; not but what they may ruin it finely for me; but I mean to shut my eyes and take the risk," with a little smile of satisfaction over her own magnanimity.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand across the counter.

"Miss Milner, you are a good creature," she said, softly. "I honor you for this. If people always helped each other and thought so little of a sacrifice, the world would be a happier place." And then, without waiting for a reply from the gratified shopwoman, she went out of the library with a thoughtful brow.

"Miss Milner has read me a lesson," she said, by and by, when Mattie had marvelled at her silence a little. "Conventionality makes cowards of the best of us. I am not particularly worldly-minded," she went on, with a faint smile, "but all the same I must plead guilty to feeling a little shocked myself at your news; but when I have thought a little more about it, I dare say I shall see things by a truer light, and be as ready to admire these girls as I am now to wonder at them." And after this she bade Mattie a kindly good-bye.

Meanwhile, Phillis was bracing herself to undergo another ordeal. Mr. Drummond and his sister had only just left the cottage when a footman from the White House brought a note for her. It was from Mrs. Cheyne, and was worded in a most friendly manner.

She thanked the sisters gracefully for their timely help on the previous evening, and, though making light of her accident, owned that it would keep her a prisoner to her sofa for a few days; and then she begged them to waive ceremony and come to her for an hour or two that evening.

"I will not ask you to dinner, because that will perhaps inconvenience you, as you must be tired or busy," she wrote; "but if one or both of you would just put on your hats and walk up in the cool of the evening to keep Miss Mewlstone and myself company, it would be a real boon to us both." And then she signed herself "Magdalene Cheyne."

Phillis wore a perplexed look on her face as she took the note to Nan, who was still in the linen-closet.

"Very kind; very friendly," commented Nan, when she had finished reading it; "but I could not possibly go, Phil. As soon as I have done this I have promised to sit with mother. She has been alone all day. You could easily send an excuse, for Mrs. Cheyne must know we are busy."

"I don't feel as though an excuse will help us here," returned Phillis, slowly. "When an unpleasant thing has to be done, it is as well to get it over: thinking about it only hinders one's sleep."

"But you will surely not go alone!" demanded Nan, in astonishment. "You are so tired, Phil: you have been working hard all day. Give it up, dear, and sit and rest in the garden a little."

"Oh, no," returned Phillis, disconsolately. "I value my night's rest too much to imperil it so lightly: besides, I owe it to myself for a penance for being such a coward this afternoon." And then, without waiting for any further dissuasion, she carried off the letter and wrote a very civil but vague reply, promising to walk up in the evening and inquire after the invalid; and then she dismissed the messenger, and went up to her room with a heavy heart.

Dulce came to help her, like a dutiful sister, and chattered on without intermission.

"I suppose you will put on your best dress?" she asked, as she dived down into the recesses of a big box.

Phillis, who was sitting wearily on the edge of her bed, roused up at this:

"My best blue silk and cashmere, that we wore last at Fitzroy Lodge? Dulce, how can you be so absurd! Anything will do,—the gray stuff, or the old foulard. No, stop; I forgot: the gray dress is better made and newer in cut. We must think of that. Oh, what a worry it is going out when one is tired to death!" she continued, with unusual irritation.

Dulce respected her sister's mood, and held her peace, though she knew the gray dress was the least becoming to Phillis, who was pale, and wanted a little color to give her brightness.

"There, now, you look quite nice," she said, in a patronizing voice, as Phillis put on her hat and took her gloves. Phillis nodded her thanks rather sadly, and then bethought herself and came back and kissed her.

"Thank you, dear Dulce; I am not nearly so tired now; but it is getting late, and I must run off." And so she did until she had turned the corner, and then, in spite of herself, her steps became slower and more lagging.



CHAPTER XX.

"YOU ARE ROMANTIC."

Human nature is prone to argument; a person will often in the course of a few moments bring himself or herself to the bar of conscience, and accuse, excuse, and sum up the case in the twinkling of an eye.

On arriving at the lodge-gates Phillis began to take herself to task. Conscience, that "makes cowards of us all," began its small inner remonstrance; then followed self-flagellation and much belaboring of herself with many remorseful terms. She was a pitiful thing compared to Nan; she was conventional; there were no limits to her pride. Where were that freedom and nobility of soul which she once fancied would sweep over worldly prejudices, and carry her into purer air? She was still choking in the fogs of mere earthly exhalations; no wonder Nan was a little disappointed in her, though she was far too kind to say so. Well, she was disappointed in herself.

By this time she had reached the hall door; and now she began to hold up her head more boldly, and to look about her; when a very solemn-looking butler confronted her, she said to herself, "It will be all the same a hundred years hence, and I am determined this time not to be beaten;" and then she asked for Mrs. Cheyne with something of her old sprightliness, and nothing could exceed the graceful ease of her entrance.

All the Challoners walked well. There was a purity of health about them that made them delight in movement and every bodily exercise,—an elasticity of gait that somehow attracted attention.

No girls danced better than they. And when they had the chance, which was seldom, they could ride splendidly. Their skating was a joy to see, and made one wish that the ice would last forever, that one could watch such light, skimming practice; and as for tennis, no other girl had a chance of being chosen for a partner unless the Challoners good-naturedly held aloof, which ten times out of twelve they were sure to do.

Phillis, who, from her pale complexion, was supposed to possess the least vitality, delighted in exercise for its own sake. "It is a pleasure only to be alive and to know it," was a favorite speech with her on summer mornings, when the shadows were blowing lightly hither and thither, and the birds had so much to say that it took them until evening to finish saying it.

Mrs. Cheyne, who was lying on her couch, watched with admiring eyes the girl's straightforward walk, so alert and business-like, so free from fuss and consciousness, and held out her hand with a more cordial welcome than she was accustomed to show her visitors.

It was a long room; and as the summer dusk was falling, and there was only a shaded lamp beside Mrs. Cheyne, it was full of dim corners. Nevertheless, Phillis piloted herself without hesitation to the illuminated circle.

"This is good of you, Miss Challoner, to take me at my word. But where is your sister? I wanted to look at her again, for it is long since I have seen any one so pretty. Miss Mewlstone, this is the good Samaritan who bound up my foot so cleverly."

"Ah, just so," returned Miss Mewlstone. And a soft, plump hand touched Phillis's, and then she went on picking up stitches and taking no further notice.

"Nan could not come," observed Phillis. "She had to run down to Beach House to report progress to mother. We hope she is coming home to-morrow. But, as you were so kind as to write, I thought I would just call and inquire about your foot. And then it would be easier to explain things than to write about it."

"Oh! so your mother is coming home!" returned Mrs. Cheyne, with so much interest in her voice that Miss Mewlstone left off counting to look at her. ("Just so, just so," Phillis heard her mutter.) "You must have worked hard to get ready for her so soon. When my foot will allow me to cross a room without hobbling, I will do myself the pleasure of calling on her. But that will be neither this week nor the next, I am afraid. But I shall see a good deal of you and your sister before then," she concluded, with the graciousness of one who knows she is conferring an unusual honor.

"I do not know," faltered Phillis. And then she sat upright, and looked her hostess full in the face. "That will be for you to decide when you hear what I have to say. But I fear"—with a very poor attempt at a smile—"that we shall see very little of each other in the future."

"Oh, there is a mystery, is there?" returned Mrs. Cheyne, with a little scorn in her manner; and her mouth took one of the downward curves that Mr. Drummond so thoroughly disliked. She had taken an odd fancy to these girls, especially to Phillis, and had thought about them a good deal during a sleepless, uneasy night. Their simplicity, their straightforward unconsciousness, had attracted her in spite of her cynicism. But at the first suspicion of mystery she withdrew into herself rather haughtily. "Do speak out, I beg, Miss Challoner; for if there be one thing that makes me impatient, it is to have anything implied."

"I am quite of your opinion," replied Phillis, with equal haughtiness, only it sat more strangely on her girlishness. "That is why I am here to-night,—just to inquire after your foot and explain things."

"Well?" still more impatiently, for this woman was a spoiled child, and hated to be thwarted, and was undisciplined and imperious enough to ruin all her own chances of happiness.

"I told you that we were very poor," went on Phillis, in a sweet and steady voice; "but that did not seem to impress you much, and I thought how noble that was,"—catching her breath an instant; "but it will make a difference and shock you dreadfully, as it did Mr. Drummond, when I tell you we are dressmakers,—Nan and Dulce and I: at least that will be our future occupation."

"Ah, just so!" ejaculated Miss Mewlstone; but she said it with her lips far apart, and a mistiness came into her sleepy blue eyes. Perhaps, though she was stout and middle-aged and breathed a little too heavily at times, she remembered—long ago when she was young and poor and had to wage a bitter war with the world—when she ate the dry bread and drank the bitter water of dependence and felt herself ill nourished by such unpalatable sustenance. "Oh, just so, poor thing!" And a little round tear dripped on to the ball of scarlet fleecy wool.

But Mrs. Cheyne listened to the announcement in far different mood. There was an incredulous stare at Phillis, as though she suspected her of a joke; and then she laughed, a dry, harsh laugh, that was not quite pleasant to hear.

"Oh, this is droll, passing droll!" she said, and leaned back on her cushions, and drew her Indian cashmere round her and frowned a little.

"I am glad you find it so," returned Phillis, who was nonplussed at this, and did not know what to say, and was a little angry in consequence; and then she got up from her chair with a demonstration of spirit. "I am glad you find it so; but to us it is sad earnestness!"

"What! are you going?" asked Mrs. Cheyne, with a keen glance through her half-shut eyes at poor Phillis standing so tall and straight before her. "And you have not told me the reason for taking so strange a step!"

"The reason lies in our poverty and paucity of resources," was Phillis's curt reply.

"It is not to make a sensation, then? no, I did not mean that," as Phillis shot an indignant glance at her,—"not exactly; but there is no knowing what the emancipated girl will do. Of course I have no right to question, who was a stranger to you four-and-twenty hours ago, and had never heard the name of Challoner, except that it was a good and an old name; but when one sees young things like you about to forfeit caste and build up a barrier between yourselves and your equals that the bravest will fear to pass, it seems as though one must lift up one's voice in protest."

"Thank you; but it will be of no use," returned Phillis, coldly.

"You are determined to make other people's dresses?" And here her lip curled a little, perhaps involuntarily.

"We must must make dresses or starve; for our fingers are cleverer than our brains," replied Phillis, defiantly; for she knew nothing about it, and her powers were so immature and unfledged that she had never tried her wings, and had no notion whether she could fly or not, and yet no girl had a clearer head. "We have chosen work that we know we can do well, and we mean not to be ashamed of our occupation. In the old days ladies used to spin and weave, and no one blamed them, though they were noble; and if my work will bring me money, and keep the mother comfortable, I see nothing that will prevent my doing it."

"Ah, you are romantic, Miss Challoner; you will soon be taught matter-of-fact!"

"I am willing to learn anything, but I must choose my teachers," retorted Phillis, with a little heat, for the word "romantic," and the satirical droop of Mrs. Cheyne's lip made her decidedly cross. "But I must not detain you any more with our uninteresting affairs," dropping a little courtesy, half in pique and half in mockery, for her spirits were rising under this rough treatment.

"It is far from uninteresting; I have not heard anything so exciting for a long time. Well, perhaps you had better go before I say anything very rude, for I am terribly outspoken, and I think you are all silly self-willed young people." Then, as Phillis bridled her neck like an untamed colt, she caught hold of the girl's dress to detain her, and the sharpness passed out of her eyes. "Now, don't go away and believe that I think any worse of you for telling me this. I am a cross-grained body, and contradiction makes me worse. I don't know how I shall act: I must have time to consider this extraordinary bit of news. But all the same, whatever I do, whether I know you or do not know you, I shall always think you the very bravest girl I ever saw." And then she let her go, and Phillis, with her head in the air and her thoughts all topsy-turvy, marched out of the room.

But when she reached the end of the corridor there was a soft but distinctly audible breathing behind her, and, as in Mr. Drummond's case Miss Mewlstone's shadowy gray gown swept between her and the door.

"Miss Mewlstone, how you startled me! but the carpets are so soft and thick!"

"Yes, indeed! just so, my dear; but Phillips must be asleep as he does not answer the bell, and so I thought I would let you out. You are young to walk alone: shall I throw a shawl over my cap, and walk down the road with you?"

"Not for worlds, my dear Miss Mewlstone;" but Phillis was quite touched at this unexpected kindness. Miss Mewlstone did not look sleepy now; her small blue eyes were wide open, and her round placid face wore a most kindly expression, and there was a tremulous movement of her hands, as though they were feeling after something. "It is only such a little bit of road; and though the trees make it dark, I am not the least afraid of going alone."

"Ah! just so. When we are young, we are brave; it is the old who are afraid of the grasshopper. I like your spirit, my dear; and so does she, though she is a little taken aback and disappointed; but anything that interests and rouses her is welcome. Even this may do her good; for it will give her something to think about besides her own troubles."

"I have heard of her troubles——" began Phillis; but a moving door arrested Miss Mewlstone's attention, and she interrupted her hurriedly:

"Ah! there is Phillips at last. Just so; you shall hear from me again. It is a gray satin,—one of her presents,—but I have never had it made up; for what is the use, when we keep no company?" went on Miss Mewlstone incoherently. "Oh! is that you, Phillips? Please go with this young lady to the lodge-gate.—You shall make it after your own fashion," she whispered in Phillis's ear; "and I am not as particular as other people. There is Magdalene now. Ah! just so. Good-night, my dear; and mind the scraper by the gate."

Phillis was almost sorry when the obsequious Phillips left her; for the road certainly looked terribly dark. There was no moon, and the stars chose to be invisible; and there was a hot thundery feeling in the air that suggested a storm. And she moved aside with a slight sensation of uneasiness—not fear, of course not fear—as a tall, gloomy-looking figure bore swiftly down on her; for, even if a girl be ever so brave, a very tall man walking fast on a dark night with a slouching hat like a conspirator's is rather a terrifying object; and how could she know that it was only Archie Drummond in his old garden-hat, taking a constitutional?

But he brought himself up in front of her with a sudden jerk.

"Miss Challoner!—alone at this time of night!"

"Why, it is not ten; and I could not wait for Dorothy to fetch me," returned Phillis, bound to defend herself, and quite palpitating with relief; not that she was afraid—not a bit of it!—but still, Mr. Drummond's presence was very welcome.

"I suppose I shall do as well as Dorothy?" he returned veering round with the greatest ease, just as though he were Dick, and bound to escort a Challoner. "Challoners' Squire,"—that was Dick's name among people.

"Oh poor Dick!" thought Phillis, with a sudden rush of tenderness for her old playmate; and then she said, demurely but with a spice of malice,—

"Thank you, Mr. Drummond. The road is so gloomy that I shall be glad of your escort this evening, but we shall have to do without that sort of thing now, for our business may often bring us out after dark, and we must learn not to be too particular."

"Oh, this must not be!" he returned, decidedly; and, though it was too dark to see his face, she knew by his voice that he was dreadfully shocked. "I must see your mother and talk to her about this; for it would never do for you to run such risks. I could not allow it for a moment; and as your clergyman"—coming down from his high horse, and stammering a little,—"I have surely—surely a right——" But Phillis snapped him up in a moment, and pretty sharply too, for she had no notion of a young man giving himself airs and torturing her.

"Oh, no right at all!" she assured him: "clergymen could only rebuke evil-doers, to which class she and her sisters did not belong, thank heaven!" to which Mr. Drummond devoutly said an "amen." "And would he please tell her if dressmakers were always met two and two, like the animals in the ark? and how would it sound when she or Nan had been fitting on a dress, on a winter's evening, if they were to refuse to leave the house until Dorothy fetched them? and how——" But here Mr. Drummond checked her, and the darkness hid his smile.

"Now you are beyond me, Miss Challoner. In a matter of detail, a man, even a parson, is often at fault. Is there no other way of managing this odious business? Forgive me; the word slipped out by accident! Could you not do the fitting, or whatever you call it, by daylight, and stay at home quietly in the evening like other young ladies?"

"Of course not," returned Phillis, promptly. She had not the least idea why it could not be done; indeed, if she had been perfectly cool—which she was not, for Mrs. Cheyne had decidedly stroked her the wrong way and ruffled her past endurance—she would have appreciated the temperate counsel vouchsafed her, and acquiesced in it without a murmur; but now she seemed bent on contradiction.

"Our opinions seem to clash to-night," returned Mr. Drummond, good-humoredly, but feeling that the young lady beside him had decidedly a will of her own. "She is very nice, but she is not as gentle as her sister," he said to himself; which was hard on Phillis, who, though she was not meek, being a girl of spirit, was wholesomely sweet and sound to the heart's core.

"One may be supposed to know one's business best," she replied rather dryly to this. And then, fearing that she might seem ungracious to a stranger, who did not know her and her little ways, she went on in a more cordial tone: "I am afraid you think me a little cross to-night; but I have been having a stand-up fight, and am rather tired. Trying to battle against other people's prejudices makes one irritable. And then, because I am down and out of heart about things, our clergyman thinks fit to lecture me on propriety."

"Only for your good. You must forgive me if I have taken too much upon myself," returned Mr. Drummond, with much compunction. "You seem so lonely,—no father or brother; at least—pardon me—I believe you have no brother?"

"Oh, no; we have no brother," sighed Phillis. Their acquaintance was in too early a stage to warrant her in bringing in Dick's name. Besides, that sort of heterogeneous relationship is so easily misconstrued. And then she added, "I see. You meant to be very kind, and I was very ungrateful."

"I only wish I could find some way of helping you all," was his reply to this. But it was said with such frank kindness that Phillis's brief haughtiness vanished. They were standing at the gate of the Friary by this time; but Mr. Drummond still lingered. It was Phillis who dismissed him.

"Good-night, and many thanks," she said, brightly. "It is too late to ask you in, for you see, even dressmakers have their notions of propriety." And as she uttered this malicious little speech, the young man broke into a laugh that was heard by Dorothy in her little kitchen.

"Oh, that is too bad of you, Miss Challoner," he said, as soon as he recovered himself; but, nevertheless, he liked the girl better for her little joke.

Mr. Drummond's constitutional had lasted so long that Mattie grew quite frightened, and came down in her drab dressing-gown to wait for him. It was not a becoming costume, but it was warm and comfortable; but then Mattie never considered what became her. If any one had admired her, or cared how she looked or what she wore, or had taken an interest in her for her own sake, she would doubtless have developed an honest liking for pretty things. But what did it matter under the present circumstances? Mr. Drummond was lighting his chamber candle when Mattie rushed out on him,—a grotesque little figure, all capes and frills.

"Oh, Archie, how you frightened me! Where have you been?"

Archie shrugged his shoulders at this.

"I am not aware, Matilda,"—for in severe moods he would call her by her full name, a thing she especially disliked from him,—"I did not know before that I was accountable to you for my actions. Neither am I particularly obliged to you for spying upon me in this way." For the sight of Mattie at this time of night was peculiarly distasteful. Why was he to be watched in his own house?

"Oh, dear, Archie! How can you say such things? Spy on you, indeed! when there is a storm coming up, and I was so anxious."

"I am very much obliged to you," returned Archie, ironically; "but, as you see I am safe, don't you think you had better take off that thing"—pointing to the obnoxious garment—"and go to bed?" And such was his tone that poor Mattie fled without a word, and cried a little in her dark room, because Archie would not be kind to her and let her love him, but was always finding fault with one trifle or other. To-night it was her poor old dressing-gown, which had been her mother's, and had been considered good enough for Mattie. And then he had called her a spy. And here she gave a sob that caught Archie's ears as he passed her door.

"Good-night, you little goose!" he called out, for the sound made him uncomfortable; and though the words were contemptuous, the voice was not, and Mattie at once dried her eyes and was comforted.

But before Archie went to sleep that night he made up his mind that it was his duty as a clergyman and a Christian to look over Phillis's wilfulness, and to befriend to the utmost of his power the strangers, widow and fatherless, that Providence had placed at his very gates.

"They are so very lonely, poor things!" he said to himself; "not a man about them. By the bye, I noticed she did not wear an engagement-ring." But which was the "she" he meant, was an enigma known only to himself. "Not a man about them!" he repeated, in a satisfied manner, for as yet the name of Dick had not sounded in his ear.



CHAPTER XXI.

BREAKING THE PEACE.

Nan went to Beach House to fetch her mother home, escorted by Laddie, who was growing a most rollicking and friendly little animal, and a great consolation to his mistress, whom he loved with all his doggish heart.

They all three came back in an old fly belonging to their late host, and found Phillis waiting for them on the door-step, who made her mother the following little speech:

"Now, mammie, you are to kiss us, and tell us what good industrious girls we have been; and then you are to shut your eyes and look at nothing, and then sit down in your old arm-chair, and try and make the best of everything."

"Welcome home, dearest mother," said Nan, softly kissing her. "Home is home, however poor it may be; and thank God for it," finished the girl, reverently.

"Oh, my darlings!" exclaimed the poor mother; and then she cried a little, and Dulce came up and put a rose-bud in her hand; and Dorothy executed an old-fashioned courtsey, and hoped that her mistress and the dear young ladies would try and make themselves as happy as possible.

"Happy, you silly old Dorothy! of course we mean to be as busy as bees, and as frolicsome as kittens!" returned Phillis, who had recovered her old sprightliness, and was ready to-day for a dozen Mrs. Cheynes and all the clergy of the diocese. "Now, mammie, you are only to peep into this room: this is our work-room, and those are the curtains Mr. Drummond was kind enough to hang. In old days," continued Phillis, with mock solemnity, "the parson would have pronounced a benediction; but the modern Anglican performs another function, and with much gravity ascends the steps, and hooks up the curtains of the new-comers."

"Oh, Phillis, how can you be so absurd! I am sure it was very good-natured of him. Come, mother, dear, we will not stand here listening to her nonsense." And Nan drew the mother to the parlor.

It was a very small room, but still snug and comfortable, and full of pretty things. Tea was laid on the little round table that would hardly hold five, as Nan once observed, thinking of Dick; and the evening's sunshine was stealing in, but not too obtrusively. Mrs. Challoner tried not to think it dull, and endeavored to say a word of praise at the arrangements Dulce pointed out to her; but the thought of Glen Cottage, and her pretty drawing-room, and the veranda with its climbing roses, and the shady lawn with the seat under the acacia-trees, almost overpowered her. That they should come to this! That they should be sitting in this mean little parlor, where there was hardly room to move, looking out at the little strip of grass, and the medlar-tree, and the empty greenhouse! Nan saw her mother's lip quiver, and adroitly turned the subject to their neighbors. She had so much to say about Mr. Drummond and his sister that Mrs. Challoner grew quite interested; nevertheless, it was a surprise even to Nan when Dorothy presently opened the door, and Mr. Drummond coolly walked in with a magnificent basket of roses in his hand.

Nan gravely introduced him to her mother, and the young man accosted her; but there was a little surprise on his face. He had taken it into his head that Mrs. Challoner would be a far older-looking and more homely person; but the stately-looking woman before him might have been an older and faded edition of Nan. Somehow, her appearance confused him; and he commenced with an apology for his intrusion:

"I ought not to have been so unceremonious. I am afraid, as you have just arrived, my visit will seem an intrusion; but my sister thought you would like some of our roses,"—he had obliged poor Mattie to say so,—"and, as we had cut some fine ones, we thought you ought to have them while they are fresh."

"Thank you; this is very kind and neighborly," returned Mrs. Challoner; but, though her tone was perfectly civil, Nan thought her manner a little cold, and hastened to interpose with a few glowing words of admiration.

"The roses were lovely; they were finer than those at Longmead, or even at Fitzroy Lodge, though Lady Fitzroy prided herself on her roses." Archie pricked up his ears at this latter name, which escaped quite involuntarily from Nan. "And was it not good of Miss Drummond to spare them so many, and of Mr. Drummond to carry them?" all of which Nan said with a sweet graciousness that healed the young man's embarrassment in a moment.

"Yes, indeed!" echoed Mrs. Challoner, obedient, as usual, to her daughter's lead. "And you must thank your sister, Mr. Drummond, and tell her how fond my girls are of flowers." But, though Mrs. Challoner said this, the roses were not without thorns for her. Why had not Miss Drummond brought them herself? She was pleased indeed that, under existing circumstances, any one should be civil to her girls; but was there not a little patronage intended? She was not quite sure that she rejoiced in having such neighbors. Mr. Drummond was nice and gentlemanly, but he was far too young and handsome for an unmarried clergyman; at least, that was her old-fashioned opinion; and when one has three very good-looking daughters, and dreads the idea of losing one, one may be pardoned for distrusting even a basket of roses.

If Mr. Drummond perceived her slight coldness, he seemed quite determined to overcome it. He took small notice of Nan, who busied herself at once arranging the flowers under his eyes; even Phillis, who looked good and demure this evening, failed to obtain a word. He talked almost exclusively to Mrs. Challoner, plying her with artful questions about their old home, which he now learned was at Oldfield, and gaining scraps of information that enabled him to obtain a pretty clear insight into their present circumstances.

Mrs. Challoner, who was a soft hearted woman, was not proof against so much sympathy. She perceived that Mr. Drummond was sorry for them, and she began to warm a little towards him. His manner was so respectful, his words so discreet; and then he behaved so nicely, taking no notice of the girls, though Nan was looking so pretty, but just talking to her in a grave responsible way, as though he were a gray-haired man of sixty.

Phillis was not quite sure she approved of it: in the old days she had never been so excluded from conversation: she would have liked a word now and then. But Nan sat by quite contented: it pleased her to see her mother roused and interested.

When Mr. Drummond took his leave, she accompanied him to the door, and thanked him quite warmly.

"You have done her so much good, for this first evening is such a trial to her, poor thing!" said Nan, lifting her lovely eyes to the young man's face.

"I am so glad! I will come again," he said, rather incoherently. And as he went out of the green door he told himself that it was his clear duty to befriend this interesting family. He ought to have gone home and written to Grace, for it was long past the time when she always expected to hear from him. But the last day or two he had rather shirked this duty. It would be difficult to explain to Grace. She might be rather shocked, for she was a little prim in such things, being her mother's daughter. He thought he would ask Mattie to tell her about the Challoners, and that he was busy and would write soon; and when he had made up his mind to this, he went down to the sea-shore and amused himself by sitting on a breakwater and staring at the fishing-smacks,—which of course showed how very busy he was.

"I think I shall like Mr. Drummond," observed Mrs. Challoner, in a tolerant tone, when Nan had accompanied the young vicar to the door. "He seems an earnest, good sort of young man."

"Yes, mammie dear. And I am sure he has fallen in love with you," returned Phillis, naughtily, "for he talked to no one else. And you are so young-looking and pretty that of course no one could be surprised if he did." But though Mrs. Challoner said, "Oh, Phillis!" and looked dreadfully shocked in a proper matronly way, what was the use of that, when the mischievous girl burst out laughing in her face?

But the interruption had done them all good, and the evening passed less heavily than they had dared to hope. And when Mrs. Challoner complained of fatigue and retired early, escorted by Dorothy, who was dying for a chat with her mistress, the three girls went out in the garden, and walked, after their old fashion, arm in arm up and down the lawn, with Nan in the middle; though Dulce pouted and pretended that the lawn was too narrow, and that Phillis was pushing her on the gravel path.

Their mother's window was open, and they could have heard snatches of Dorothy's conversation if they had chosen to listen. Dulce stood still a moment, and wafted a little kiss towards her mother's room.

"Dear old mamsie! She has been very good this evening, has she not, Nan? She has only cried the least wee bit, when you kissed her."

"Yes, indeed. And somebody else has been good too. What do you say, Phillis? Has not Dulce been the best child possible?"

"Oh, Nan, I should be ashamed to be otherwise," returned Dulce, in such an earnest manner that it made her sisters laugh, "Do you think I could see you both so good and cheerful, making the best of things, and never complaining, even when the tears are in your eyes,—as yours are often, Nan, when you think no one is looking,—and not try and copy your example? I am dreadfully proud of you both,—that is what I am," continued the warm-hearted girl. "I never knew before what was in my sisters. And now I feel as though I want the whole world to come and admire my Phillis and Nan!"

"Little flatterer!" but Nan squeezed Dulce's arm affectionately. And Phillis said, in a joking tone,—

"Ah, it was not half so bad. This evening there was mother looking so dear and pretty: and there were you girls; and, though the nest is small, it feels warm and cosy. And if we could only forget Glen Cottage, and leave off missing the old faces, which I never shall—" ("Nor I," echoed Nan, with a deep sigh, fetched from somewhere)—"and root ourselves afresh, we should contrive not to be unhappy."

"I think it is our duty to cultivate cheerfulness," added Nan, seriously; and after this they fell to a discussion on ways and means. As usual, Phillis was chief spokeswoman, but to Nan belonged the privilege of the casting vote.

The next few days were weary ones to Mrs. Challoner: there was still much to be done before the Friary could be pronounced in order. The girls spent most of the daylight hours unpacking boxes, sorting and arranging their treasures, and, if the truth must be told, helping Dorothy to polish furniture and wash glass and china.

Mrs. Challoner, who was not strong enough for these household labors, found herself condemned to hem new dusters and mend old table-linen, to the tune of her own sad thoughts. Mr. Drummond found her sorting a little heap on the parlor table when he dropped in casually one morning,—this time with some very fine cherries that his sister thought Mrs. Challoner would enjoy.

When Mr. Drummond began his little speech he could have sworn that there were tears on the poor lady's cheeks; but when he had finished she looked up at him with a smile, and thanked him warmly, and then they had quite a nice chat together.

Mr. Drummond's visit was quite a godsend, she told him, for her girls were busy and had no time to talk to her; and "one's thoughts are not always pleasant companions," she added, with a sigh. And Mr. Drummond, who had caught sight of the tears, was at once sympathetic, and expressed himself in such feeling terms—for he was more at ease in the girls' absence—that Mrs. Challoner opened out in the most confiding way, and told him a great deal that he had been anxious to learn.

But she soon found out, to her dismay, that he disapproved of her girls' plans; for he told her so at once, and in the coolest manner. The opportunity for airing his views on the subject was far too good to be lost. Mrs. Challoner was alone; she was in a low, dejected mood; the rulers of the household were gathered in an upper chamber. What would Phillis have said, as she warbled a rather flat accompaniment to Nan's "Bonnie Dundee," which she was singing to keep up their spirits over a piece of hard work, if she had known that Mr. Drummond was at that moment in possession of her mother's ear?

"Oh, Mr. Drummond, this is very sad, if every one should think as you do about my poor girls! and Phillis does so object to being called romantic;" for he had hinted in a gentlemanly way that he thought the whole scheme was crude and girlish and quixotic to a degree.

"I hope you will not tell her, then," returned Mr. Drummond in a soothing tone, for Mrs. Challoner was beginning to look agitated. "I am afraid nothing I say will induce Miss Challoner to give up her pet scheme; but I felt, as your clergyman, it was my duty to let you know my opinion." And here Archie looked so very solemn that Mrs. Challoner, being a weak woman, and apt to overvalue the least expression of masculine opinion, grew more and more alarmed.

"Oh, yes!" she faltered; "it is very good—very nice of you to tell me this." Phillis would have laughed in his face and Mrs. Cheyne would have found something to say about his youth; but in Mrs. Challoner's eyes, though she was an older woman, Archie's solemnity and Oriental beard carried tremendous weight with them. He might be young, nevertheless she was bound to listen meekly to him, and to respect his counsel as one who had a certain authority over her. "Oh, you are very good! and if only my girls had not made up their minds so quickly! but now what can I do but feel very uncomfortable after you have told me this?"

"Oh, as to that, there is always time for everything; it is never too late to mend," returned Mr. Drummond, tritely. "I meant from the first to tell you what I thought, if I should ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone. You see, we Oxford men have our own notions about things: we do not always go with the tide. If your daughters—" here he hesitated and grew red, for he was a modest, honest young fellow in the main—"pardon me, but I am only proposing an hypothesis—if they wanted to make a sensation and get themselves talked about, no doubt they would achieve a success, for the novelty——" But here he stopped, reduced to silence by the shocked expression of Mrs. Challoner's face.

"Mr. Drummond! my girls—make a sensation—be talked about?" she gasped; and all the spirit of her virtuous matronhood, and all the instinctive feeling that years of culture and ingrained refinement of nature had engendered, shone in her eyes. Her Nan and Phillis and Dulce to draw this on themselves!

Now, at this unlucky moment, when the maternal fires were all alight, who should enter but Phillis, wanting "pins, and dozens of them,—quickly, please," and still warbling flatly that refrain of "Bonnie Dundee!"

"Oh, Phillis! Oh, my darling child!" cried Mrs. Challoner, quite hysterically; "do you know what your clergyman says? and if he should say such things, what will be the world's opinion? No, Mr. Drummond, I did not mean to be angry. Of course you are telling us this for our good; but I do not know when I have been so shocked."

"Why, what is this?" demanded Phillis, calmly; but she fixed her eyes on the unlucky clergyman, who began to wish that that last speech had not been uttered.

"He says it is to make a sensation—to be talked about—that you are going to do this," gasped Mrs. Challoner, who was far too much upset to weigh words truly.

"What!" Phillis only uttered that very unmeaning monosyllable: nevertheless, Archie jumped from his seat as though he had been shot.

"Mrs. Challoner, really this is too bad! No, you must allow me to explain," as Phillis turned aside with a curling lip, as though she would leave them. He actually went between her and the door, as though he meant to prevent her egress forcibly. There is no knowing to what lengths he would have gone in his sudden agitation. "Only wait a moment, until I explain myself. Your mother has misunderstood me altogether. Never has such a thought entered my mind!"

"Oh," observed Phillis. But now she stood still and began to collect her pins out of her mother's basket. "Perhaps, as this is rather unpleasant, you will have the kindness to tell me what it was you said to my mother?" And she spoke like a young princess who had just received an insult.

"I desire nothing more," returned Archie, determined to defend himself at all costs. "I had been speaking to Mrs. Challoner about all this unfortunate business. She was good enough to repose confidence in me, and, as your clergyman, I felt myself bound to tell her exactly my opinions on the subject."

"I do not quite see the necessity; but no doubt you know best," was Phillis's somewhat sarcastic answer.

"At least, I did it for the best," returned the young man, humbly. "I pointed out things to Mrs. Challoner, as I told you I should. I warned her what the world would say,—that it would regard your plan as very singular and perhaps quixotic. Surely there is nothing in this to offend you?"

"You have not touched on the worst part of all," returned Phillis, with a little disdain in her voice. "About making a sensation, I mean."

"There it was that your mother so entirely misunderstood. What I said was this: If this dressmaking scheme were undertaken just to make a sensation, it would of course, achieve success, for I thought the novelty might take. And then I added that I was merely stating an hypothesis by way of argument, and then Mrs. Challoner looked shocked, and you came in."

"Is that all?" asked Phillis, coming down from her stilts at once, for she knew of old how her mother would confuse things sometimes; and, if this were the truth, she, Phillis, had been rather too hard on him.

"Yes. Do you see now any necessity for quarrelling with me?" returned Mr. Drummond, breathing a little more freely as the frown lessened on Phillis's face. He wanted to be friends with these girls, not to turn them against him.

"Well, no, I believe not," she answered, quite gravely. "And I am sure I beg your pardon if I was rude." But this Archie would not allow for a moment.

"But, Mr. Drummond, one word before peace is quite restored," went on Phillis, with something of her old archness, "or else I will fetch my sisters, and you will have three of us against you."

"Oh, do, Phillis, my dear," interrupted her mother; "let them come and hear what Mr. Drummond thinks."

"Mammy, how dare you!—how dare you be so contumacious, after all the trouble we have taken to set your dear fidgety mind at rest? Just look what you have done, Mr. Drummond," turning upon him. "Now I am not going to forgive you, and we will not trust the mother out of our sight, unless you promise not to say this sort of thing to her when we are not here to answer them."

"But, Miss Challoner, my pastoral conscience!" but his eyes twinkled a little.

"Oh, never mind that!" she retorted, mischievously. "I will give you leave to lecture us collectively, but not individually: that must not be thought about for a moment." She had not a notion what the queer expression on Mr. Drummond's face meant, and he did not know himself; but he had the strongest desire to laugh at this.

They parted after this the best of friends; and Phillis tasted the cherries, and pronounced them very good.

"You have quite forgiven me?" Mr. Drummond said, as she accompanied him to the door before rejoining her sisters. "You know I have promised not to do it again until the next time."

"Oh, we shall see about that!" returned Phillis, good-humoredly. "Forewarned is forearmed; and there is a triple alliance against you."

"Good heavens, what mockery it seems! I never saw such girls,—never!" thought Mr. Drummond, as he took long strides down the road. "But Mattie is right: they mean business, and nothing in the world would change that girl's determination if she had set herself to carry a thing out. I never knew a stronger will!" And in this he was tolerably right.



CHAPTER XXII.

"TRIMMINGS, NOT SQUAILS."

The longest week must have an end; and so at last the eventful Monday morning arrived,—"Black Monday," as Dulce called it, and then sighed as she looked out on the sunshine and the waving trees, and thought how delicious a long walk or a game of tennis would be, instead of stitch, stitch, stitching all day. But Dulce was an unselfish little soul, and kept all these thoughts to herself, and dressed herself quickly; for she had overslept herself, and Phillis had long been downstairs.

Nan was locking up the tea-caddy as she entered the parlor, and Phillis was standing by the table, drawing on her gloves, and her lips were twitching a little,—a way they had when Phillis was nervous.

Nan went up and kissed her, and gave her an encouraging pat.

"This is for luck, my dear; and mind you make the best of poor Miss Milner's dumpy, roundabout little figure. There I have put the body-lining, and the measuring-tape, and a paper of pins in this little black bag; and I have not forgotten the scissors,—oh, dear, no! I have not forgotten the scissors," went on Nan, with such surprising cheerfulness that Phillis saw through it, and was down on her in a moment.

"No, Nan; there! I declare I will not be such a goose. I am not nervous,—not one bit; it is pure fun, that's what it is. Dulce, what a naughty child you are to oversleep yourself this morning, and I had not the heart to wake you, you looked so like a baby: and we never wake babies because they are sure to squall!"

"Oh, Phil, are you going to Miss Milner's? I would have walked with you if I had had my breakfast; but I am so hungry."

"I could not possibly wait," returned Phillis; "punctuality is one of the first duties of—hem!—dressmakers; all orders executed promptly, and promises performed with undeviating regularity: those are my maxims. Eat a good breakfast, and then see if mammy wants any help, for Nan must be ready for me at the work-table, for she is our head cutter-out." And then Phillis nodded briskly, and walked away.

By a singular chance, Mr. Drummond was watering his ferns in the front court as Phillis passed, and in spite of her reluctance, for somehow he was the last person she wanted to encounter that day, she was obliged to wish him good-morning.

"Good-morning! Yes, indeed, it is a glorious morning," observed Archie, brightly. "And may I ask where you are going so early?"

"Only to the Library," returned Phillis, laconically; but the color mounted to her forehead. "We begin business to-day."

And then Archie took up his watering-pot and refrained from any more questions. It was absurd, perhaps, but at the moment he had forgotten, and the remembrance was not pleasing.

Phillis felt quite brave after this, and walked into the Library as though the place belonged to her. When it came to details, Miss Milner was far more nervous than she.

She would keep apologizing to Phillis for making her stand so long, and she wanted to hold the pins and to pick up the scissors that Phillis had dropped; and when the young dressmaker consulted her about the trimmings, she was far too humble to intrude her opinions.

"Anything you think best, Miss Challoner, for you have such beautiful taste as never was seen; and I am sure the way you have fitted that body-lining is just wonderful, and would be a lesson to Miss Slasher for life. No, don't put the pins in your mouth, there's a dear."

For, in her intense zeal, Phillis had thought herself bound to follow the manner of Mrs. Sloper, the village factotum, and she always did so, though Nan afterwards assured her that it was not necessary, and that in this particular they might be allowed to deviate from example.

But she was quite proud of herself when she had finished, for the material seemed to mould under her fingers in the most marvellous way, and she knew the fit would be perfect. She wanted to rush off at once and set to work with Nan; but Miss Milner would not let her off so easily. There was orange wine and seed-cake of her own making in the back parlor, and she had just one question—a very little question—to ask. And here Miss Milner coughed a little behind her hand to gain time and recover her courage.

"The little papers were about the shop, and Mrs. Trimmings saw one, and—and——" Here Phillis came promptly to her relief.

"And Mrs. Trimmings wants to order a dress, does she?" And Phillis bravely kept down the sudden sinking of heart at the news.

Mrs. Trimmings was the butcher's wife,—the sister of that very Mrs. Squails of whom Dulce once made mention,—well known to be the dressiest woman in Hadleigh, who was much given to imitate her betters. The newest fashions, the best materials, were always to be found on Mrs. Trimmings's portly figure.

"What could I do?" observed Miss Milner, apologetically: "the papers were about the shop, and what does the woman do but take one up? 'I wonder what sort of dressmakers these are?' she said, careless-like; 'there is my new blue silk that Andrew brought himself from London and paid five-and-sixpence a yard for in St. Paul's Churchyard; and I daren't let Miss Slasher have it, for she made such a mess of that French merino. She had to let it out at every seam before I could get into it, and it is so tight for me now that I shall be obliged to cut it up for Mary Anne. I wonder if I dare try these new people?"

"And what did you say, Miss Milner?"

"What could I do then, my dear young lady, but speak up and say the best I could for you? for though Mrs. Trimmings is not high,—not one of the gentry, I mean,—and has a rough tongue sometimes, still she knows what good stuff and good cutting-out means, and a word from her might do you a power of good among the townfolks, for her gowns are always after the best patterns."

"All right!" returned Phillis, cheerfully: "one must creep before one runs, and, until the gentry employ us, we ought to think ourselves fortunate to work for the townpeople. I am not a bit above making a dress for Mrs. Trimmings, though I would rather make one for you, Miss Milner, because you have been so kind to us."

"There, now! didn't I say there never were such young ladies!" exclaimed Miss Milner, quite affected at this. "Well, if you are sure you don't mind, Miss Challoner dear, will you please go to Mrs. Trimmings's this morning? for though I told her my dress was to be finished first, still Trimmings's isn't a stone's-throw from here; and you may as well settle a thing when you are about it."

"And I will take the silk, Miss Milner, if you will kindly let me have a nice piece of brown paper."

"Indeed and you will do no such thing, Miss Challoner; and there is Joseph going down with the papers to Mr. Drummond's, and will leave it at the Friary as he passes."

"Oh, thank you," observed Phillis, gratefully. "Then I will pencil a word to my sister, to let her know why I am detained." And she scrawled a line to Nan:

"Trimmings, not Squails: here beginneth the first chapter. Expect me when you see me, and do nothing until I come."

There was no side-door at Trimmings's, and Mrs. Trimmings was at the desk, jotting down legs of mutton, and entries of gravy-beef and suet, with a rapidity that would have tried the brain of any other woman than a butcher's wife.

When Phillis approached, she looked up at her suavely, expecting custom.

"Just half a moment, ma'am," she said, civilly. "Yes, Joe, wing-rib and half of suet to Mrs. Penfold, and a loin of lamb and sweet-bread for No. 12, Albert Terrace. Now, ma'am, what can I do for you?"

"I have only come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings," returned Phillis, in a very small voice; and then she tried not to laugh, as Mrs. Trimmings regarded her with a broad stare of astonishment, which took her in comprehensively, hat, dress, and neat dogskin gloves.

"You might have taken up my pen and knocked me down with it," was Mrs. Trimmings's graphic description of her feelings afterwards, as she carved a remarkably fine loin of veal, with a knuckle of ham and some kidney-beans to go with it. "There was the colonel standing by the desk, Andrew; and he turned right round and looked at us both. 'I've come about your dress, Mrs. Trimmings,' she said, as pertlike as possible. Law, I thought I should have dropped, I was that taken aback."

Phillis's feelings were none of the pleasantest when Colonel Middleton turned round and looked at her. There was an expression almost of sorrow in the old man's eyes, as he so regarded her, which made her feel hot and uncomfortable. It was a relief when Mrs. Trimmings roused from her stupefaction and bustled out of the desk.

"This way, miss," she said, with a jerk of her comely head. But her tone changed a little, and became at once sharp and familiar. "I hope you understand your business, for I never could abide waste; and the way Miss Slasher cut into that gray merino,—and it only just meets, so to say,—and the breadths are as scanty as possible; and it would go to my heart to have a beautiful piece of silk spoiled, flve-and-sixpence a yard, and not a flaw in it."

"If I thought I should spoil your dress I would not undertake it," returned Phillis, gently. She felt she must keep herself perfectly quiet with this sort of people. "My sister and I have just made up some very pretty silk and cashmere costumes, and they fitted as perfectly as possible."

"Oh, indeed!" observed Mrs. Trimmings, in a patronizing tone. She had no idea that the costumes of which Phillis spoke had been worn by the young dressmakers at one of Lady Fitzroy's afternoon parties. She was not quite at her ease with Phillis; she thought her a little high-and-mighty in her manner. "A uppish young person," as she said afterwards; "but her grand airs made no sort of difference to me, I can assure you."

There was no holding pins or picking up scissors in this case. On the contrary, Mrs. Trimmings watched with a vigilant eye, and was ready to pounce on Phillis at the least mistake or oversight, seeing which Phillis grew cooler and more off-hand every moment. There was a great deal of haggling over the cut of the sleeve and arrangement of the drapery. "If you will kindly leave it to me," Phillis said once; but nothing was further from Mrs. Trimmings's intention. She had not a silk dress every day. And she had always been accustomed to settle all these points herself, while Miss Slasher had stood by humbly turning over the pages of her fashion-books, and calling her, at every sentence, "Ma'am," a word that Phillis's lips had not yet uttered. Phillis's patience was almost tired out, when she was at last allowed to depart with a large brown-paper parcel under her arm. Mrs. Trimmings would have wrapped it up in newspaper, but Phillis had so curtly refused to have anything but brown paper that her manner rather overawed the woman.

Poor Phillis! Yes, it had really come to pass, and here she was, actually walking through Hadleigh in the busiest time of the day, with a large, ugly-looking parcel and a little black bag! She had thought of sending Dorothy for the dress, but she knew what a trial it would have been to the old woman to see one of her young ladies reduced to this, and she preferred ladening herself to hurting the poor old creature's feelings. So she walked out bravely in her best style. But nevertheless her shapely neck would turn itself now and then from side to side, as though in dread of some familiar face. And there were little pin-pricks all over her of irritation and mortified self-love. "A thing is all very well in theory, but it may be tough in practice," she said to herself. And she felt an irresistible desire to return the offending dress to that odious Trimmings and tell her she would have nothing to do with her,—"a disagreeable old cat," I am afraid Phillis called her, for one is not always charitable and civil-spoken in one's thoughts.

"We are going the same way. May I carry that formidable-looking parcel for you?" asked a voice that was certainly becoming very familiar.

Poor Phillis started and blushed; but she looked more annoyed than pleased at the rencontre.

"Mr. Drummond, are you omnipresent?—one is forever encountering you!" she said, quite pettishly; but, when Archie only laughed, and tried to obtain possession of the parcel, she resisted, and would have none of his assistance.

"Oh, dear, no!" she said: "I could not think of such a thing! Fancy the vicar of Hadleigh condescending to carry home Mrs. Trimmings's dress!"

"Mrs. Trimmings's dress?" repeated Mr. Drummond, in a rapid crescendo. "Oh, Miss Challoner! I declare this beats everything!"

Phillis threw him a glance. She meant it to be cool, but she could not keep the sadness out of her eyes; they did so contradict the assumed lightness of her words:

"Miss Milner was far more considerate: she made Joseph carry hers to the Friary when he left your papers. Was he not a benevolent Joseph? Mrs. Trimmings wanted to wrap up her silk in newspaper; but I said to myself, 'One must draw the line somewhere;' and so I held out for brown paper. Do you think you could have offered to carry a parcel in newspaper, Mr. Drummond? Oh, by the bye, how can you condescend to walk with a dressmaker? But this is a quiet road, and no one will see you."

"Pardon me if I contradict you, but there is Colonel Middleton looking over his garden palings this moment," returned Mr. Drummond, who had just become painfully aware of the fact.

"Don't you think you had better go and speak to him, then? for you see I am in no need of help," retorted Phillis, who was sore all over, and wanted to get rid of him, and yet would have been offended if he had taken her at her word. But Mr. Drummond, who felt his position an uncomfortable one, and was dreadfully afraid of the colonel's banter, was not mean enough to take advantage of her dismissal. He had joined himself to her company out of pure good nature, for it was a hot day and the parcel was heavy, but she would have none of his assistance.

So he only waved his hand to his friend, who took off his old felt hat very solemnly in return, and watched them with a grieved expression until they were out of sight.

"Now I will bid you good-bye," he said, when they had reached the vicarage.

Phillis said nothing; but she held out her hand, and there was a certain brightness in her eyes that showed she was pleased.

"He is a gentleman, every inch of him; and I won't quarrel with him any more," she thought, as she walked up to the Friary. "Oh, how nice it would have been if we were still at Glen Cottage and he could see us at our best, and we were able to entertain him in our old fashion! How Carrie and the other girls would have liked him! and how jealous Dick would have been! for he never liked our bringing strange young men to the house, and always found fault with them if he could," and here Phillis sighed, and for the moment Mrs. Trimmings was forgotten.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"BRAVO, ATALANTA!"

Phillis received quite an ovation as soon as she crossed the threshold. Dulce, who was listening for her footsteps, rushed out into the little hall, and dragged her in, as though she were too weary to have any movement or volition of her own. And then Nan came up, in her calm elder-sisterly way, and put her arm round her, and hoped she was not so very tired, and there was so much to say, and so much to do, and she wanted her advice, and so on.

And on Nan's forehead lay a thoughtful pucker; and on the centre-table were sundry breadths of green silk, crisp-looking and faintly bronzed, like withered leaves with the sun on them.

"Oh, dear! has Miss Drummond been here in my absence?" asked Phillis, with the overwhelmed feeling of a beginner, who has not yet learned to separate and classify, or the rich value of odd moments. "Three dresses to be done at once!"

"One at a time. But never mind Miss Drummond's this moment. Mother is safe in the store-cupboard for the next half-hour, and we want to know what you mean by your ridiculous message, 'Trimmings, not Squails.' Dulce is dying of curiosity, and so am I."

"Yes; but she looks so hot and tired that she must refresh herself first." And Dulce placed on her sister's lap a plate of yellow plums, perfectly bedded in moss, which had come from the vicarage garden. And as Phillis enjoyed the dainty repast and poured out her morning's experiences in the ears of her astonished auditors, lo, the humiliation and the sting were forgotten, and only an intense sense of the humor of the situation remained.

It was Dulce whose pink cheeks were burning now.

"Oh, Phillis! how could you? It is too dreadful even to think about! That fat old thing, too! Why, she is twice as big as Mrs. Squails!"

"Beggars cannot be choosers, my dear," replied Phillis, airily; for rest was pleasant, and the fruit was good, and it was so delicious to feel all that was over and she was safe in her nest again; and then the pleasure of talking it all over! "Do you know—?" she began, in a disconnected manner, and then sat and stared at her sisters with luminous gray eyes, until they begged to know what the new idea was.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, and colored a little. And then she blurted out, in an oddly-ashamed way, "it was talking to you two dears that put it in my head. But I could not help thinking that moment that if one is ever good enough to get to heaven, one of the greatest pleasures will be to talk about all our past miseries and difficulties, and how the angels helped us! and, though you may laugh at me,"—they were doing nothing of the kind, only admiring her with all their might,—"I have a kind of fancy that even my 'Trimmings, not Squails' episode may have a different look up there!"

"My dear," returned Nan, gently, for she loved all speeches of this sort, being a devout little soul and truly pious, "nothing was further from my thoughts than to laugh at you, for the more we think in this way the grander our work will appear to us. Mrs. Trimmings may be fat and vulgar, but when you were measuring her and answering her so prettily—and I know how nicely you would speak, Phil—I think you were as brave as one of those old knights—I cannot remember their names—who set out on some lofty quest or other!"

"I suppose the child means Sir Galahad," observed Phillis, with a groan at Nan's ignorance. "Oh, Nannie, I wish I could say,—

"'My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure;'"

and then she softly chanted,—for quotation never came amiss to her, and her head was crammed with choice selections from the poets,—

"'All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail.'"

"Yes, the Sangreal, or the Quest. It does not matter what, for it was only an allegory," returned Nan, who had plenty of ideas, only she confused them sometimes, and was not as clever in her definitions as Phillis. "It only meant that those grand old knights had some holy purpose and aim in their lives, for which they trained and toiled and fought. Don't you see?—the meaning is quite clear. We can have our Quest too."

"Bless her dear heart, if she is not travelling thousands of years and miles from Mrs. Trimmings!" exclaimed Phillis, who never could be serious long. "Well, Nannie, I understand you, though you are a trifle vague. We will have our Quest and our unattainable standard; and I will be your maiden knight—yours and Dulce's.

"'How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I'll battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall.'"

And when she had repeated this she rose, laughing, and said they were all a little demented; and what did they mean by wasting their time when there were three dresses to be cut out? and Dulce must have the work fixed for the sewing-machine.

For the next hour there was little talk, only the snipping sound of scissors and the rustling of silken breadths, and sometimes the swish and the tearing of sundry materials, and then the whirring and burning and tappings of Dulce's sewing machine, like a dozen or two of woodpeckers at work on an iron tree. And no one quoted any more poetry, for prose was heaped up everywhere about them, and their heads were full of business.

But in the afternoon, when things were in progress and looked promising, and Mrs. Challoner had had her nap, and was busy over some sleeves that they had given her to keep her quiet and satisfy her maternal conscience that she was helping her girls, Phillis did hear a little about Miss Drummond's visit. The sewing machine, which they worked by turns, had stopped for a time, and they were all three round the table, sewing and fixing as busily as possible: and Phillis, remembering Sir Galahad, dared not say she was tired, only she looked out on the lengthening shadows with delight, and thought about tea and an evening walk just to stretch her cramped muscles. And if one day seemed so long, how would a week of days appear before the blessed Sunday gave them a few hours of freedom?

It was at this moment that Nan, with fine tact, broke the silence that was good for work, but was apt to wax drowsy in time:

"Miss Milner's dress is getting on well. How fast you two girls work! and mammie is doing the sleeves beautifully. Another afternoon you must let the work rest, mammie, and read to us, or Phillis will get restive. By the bye, Dulce, we have not told her a word about Miss Drummond's visit."

"No, indeed: was it not good of her to come so soon?" exclaimed Dulce. "She told us she wanted to be our first customer, and seemed quite disappointed when we said that we were bound in honor and mere gratitude to send Miss Milner's dress home first. 'Not that I am in a hurry for my dress, for nobody cares what I wear,' she said, quite cheerfully; 'but I wanted to be the first on your list.' I wish we could oblige her, for she is a nice, unaffected little thing, and I am beginning to like her, though she is a little fussy."

"But she was as meek as a lamb about her dress," added Nan, who was a first-rate needle-woman, and could work rapidly while she talked. "Just fancy, Phil! she wanted to have a jacket with tabs and loose sleeves, just for comfort and coolness."

"Loose sleeves and a jacket!" almost gasped Phillis, for the princess skirts were then worn, and jackets were consigned to oblivion for the time being. "I hope you told her, Nan, that we had never worked for Mrs. Noah, neither had Mrs. Shem ever honored us by her custom."

"Well, no, Phillis; I was not quite so impertinent, and clever speeches of that sort never occur to me until you say them. But I told Miss Drummond that I could not consent to spoil her lovely dress in that way; and then she laughed and gave in, and owned she knew nothing about fashions, and that her sister Grace always ordered her clothes for her, because she chose such ugly things. She sat and chatted such a long time with us; she had only just gone when you came home."

"And she told us such a lot about this wonderful Grace," went on Dulce: "she says Archie quite worships her.—Well, mammie," as Mrs. Challoner poised her needle in mid-air and regarded her youngest daughter with unfeigned astonishment, "I am only repeating Miss Drummond's words; she said 'Archie.'"

"But, my dear, there was no need to be so literal," returned Mrs. Challoner, reprovingly; for she was a gentlewoman of the old school, and nothing grieved her more than slipshod English or any idiom or idiotcy of modern parlance in the mouths of her bright young daughters: to speak of any young man except Dick without the ceremonious prefix was a heinous misdemeanor in her eyes. Dulce would occasionally trespass, and was always rebuked with much gravity. "You could have said 'her brother,' could you not?"

"Oh, mammie, I am sure Providence intended you for an old maid, and you have not fulfilled your destiny," retorted Dulce, who was rarely awed by her mother's solemnity. "All that fuss because I said 'Archie!' Oh, I forgot, that name is sacred: the Rev. Archibald Drummond adores his sister Grace."

"And she must be very nice," returned Mrs. Challoner with an indulgent smile at her pet Dulce. "I am sure, from what Miss Drummond told us this morning, that she must be a most superior person. Why, Phillis, she teaches all her four younger sisters, and one of them is sixteen. Miss Drummond says she is never out of the school-room, except for an hour or two in the evening, when her father and brothers come home. There are two more brothers, I think she said. Dear what a large family! and Miss Drummond hinted that they were not well off."

"I should like to know that Grace," began Phillis; and then she shook her head reflectively. "No, depend upon it, we should be disappointed in her: family paragons are generally odious to other folk. Most likely she wears spectacles, and is a thin thread-papery sort of person."

"On the contrary, she is a sweet-looking girl, with large melancholy eyes; for Miss Drummond showed us her photograph. So much for your imagination, Phil?" and Dulce looked triumphant. "And she is only twenty-two, and, though not pretty, just the sort of face one could love."

"Some people's swans turn out to be geese in the end," remarked Phillis, provokingly; but she registered at the same time a mental resolve that she would cross-examine Mr. Drummond on the earliest opportunity about this wonderful sister of his. Oh, it was no marvel if he did look down on them when they had not got brains enough to earn their living except in this way! and Phillis stuck her needle into Miss Milner's body-lining so viciously that it broke.

The sharp click roused Nan's vigilance, and she looked up, and was at once full of pity for Phillis's pale face.

"You are tired, Phil, and so are we all," she said, brightly; "and, as it is our first day of work, we will not overdo ourselves. Mammie, if you will make the tea, we will just tidy up, and look out the patterns for you to match the trimmings and buttons to-morrow;" for this same business of matching was rather hailed by Mrs. Challoner as a relief and amusement.

Phillis grumbled a little over this additional labor, though, at the same time, no one worked harder than she; but she was careful to explain that it was her right, as a freeborn Britoness, to grumble, and that it was as much a relief to her peculiar constitution as a good long yawn is to some people.

"And it answers two purposes," as she observed; "for it airs the lungs, and relieves the mind, and no one takes any more notice than if I set the wind blowing. And thankful I am, and every mother's child of us, that Dorothy is approaching this room with her dust-pan and brush. Dorothy, I have a nice little sum for you to do. How many snippets of green and black silk go to a dust-pan? Count them, and subtract all the tacking-thread, and Dulce's pins."

"Phillis, you are just feverish from overfatigue and sitting so long in one place, for you are used to running about." And Nan took her by the shoulders, and marched her playfully to the small parlor, where Mrs. Challoner was waiting for them.

"Come, girls!" she said, cheerfully. "Dorothy has baked your favorite little cakes, and there are new-laid eggs for those who are hungry; and I am sure you all earned your tea, darlings. And, oh, Phillis! how tired you look!" And Mrs. Challoner looked round on each face in turn, in the unwise but loving way of mothers.

This was too much for Phillis; and she interlaced her fingers and put them suddenly and sternly over her mother's eyes.

"Now, mammie, promise."

"Phillis, my dear, how can you be so absurd!" but Mrs. Challoner strove in vain to release herself. Phillis's fingers had iron tenacity in them when she chose.

"A thing like this must be nipped in the bud," pronounced Phillis, apostrophizing her laughing sisters. "You must not look at us in that fashion every evening, as though we were sheep in a pen, or rabbits for sale. You will be weighing us next; and my nerves will not stand it. No, mother; here I strike. I will not be looked at in that manner."

"But, Phillis—Oh, you nonsensical child!"

"Personal remarks are to be tabooed from this moment. You must not say, 'How tired you look!' or 'How pale you are!' It is not manners at the Friary, and it is demoralizing. I am ten times more tired this minute than I was before you told me so."

"Very well, Phillis; but you must let me pour out the tea." And then Phillis subsided. But she had started the fun, and Dulce soon took it up and set the ball rolling. And Dorothy, working hard with her dust-pan and brushes, heard the merriment, and her old face lighted up.

"Bless their sweet faces!—pretending to be happy, just to cheer up the mistress, and make believe it is only a game they are having!" muttered the old woman, as she paused to listen. "But, if I am not mistaken, Miss Phillis, poor dear, is just ready to drop with fatigue. Only to hear her, one would think she was as perky as possible."

When the evening meal was over, Mrs. Challoner leaned back in her chair and made a little speech to her daughters:

"Thank you, my dears. You have done me so much good. Now, if you want to please me, you will all three put on your hats and take a nice long walk together."

The girls looked at each other, and every pair of eyes said, as plainly as possible, "What a delicious idea! But only two can go, and I intend to be the filial victim." But Mrs. Challoner was too quick for them. "I said all three," she remarked, very decidedly. "If one offers to stay with me, I shall just put myself to bed and lock the door; but if you will be good, and enjoy this lovely evening, I will take my book in the garden and be quite happy until you come back to me." And when they saw that she meant it, and would only be worried by a fuss, they went off as obediently as possible.

They walked very sedately down the Braidwood Road, and past the White House; but when they got into the town, Phillis hurried them on a little: "I don't want people. It is air and exercise and freedom for which I am pining." And she walked so fast that they had some trouble to keep up with her.

But when they had left every trace of human habitation behind them, and were strolling down the rough, uneven beach, towards a narrow strip of sand, that would soon be covered by the advancing tide, Phillis said, in an odd, breathless way, "Nan, just look round and see if there be any one in sight, before, behind, or around us;" and Nan, though in some little surprise, did at once as she was bidden, in the most thorough manner. For she looked up at the sky first, as though she were afraid of balloons or possible angels; and then at the sea, which she scanned narrowly, so that not even a fish could escape her; and after that she beat the boundaries of the land.