Phillis thought of Coleridge's lines,—

"And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness on the brain,"—

as she took refuge in the dim drawing-room. Here, at least, there were signs of human life and occupation. A little tea-table had been set in one window, though the tea was cold. The greyhounds came and laid their slender noses on her gown, and one small Italian one coiled himself up on her lap. Miss Mewlstone's work-basket stood open, and a tortoise shell kitten had helped itself to a ball of wool and was busily unwinding it. The dogs were evidently frightened at the storm, for they all gathered round Phillis, shivering and whining, as though missing their mistress; and she had much ado to comfort them, though she loved animals and understood their dumb language better than most people.

It was not so very long, and yet it seemed hours before Miss Mewlstone came down to her.

"Are you here, my dear?" she asked, in a loud whisper, for the room was dark. "Ah, just so. We must have lights, and I must give you a glass of wine or a nice hot cup of coffee." And, notwithstanding Phillis's protest that she never took wine and was not in need of anything, Miss Mewlstone rang the bell, and desired the footman to bring in the lamp. "And tell Bishop to send up some nice hot coffee and sandwiches as soon as possible. For young people never know what they want, and you are just worried and tired to death with all you have gone through,—not being an old woman and seasoned to it like me," went on the good creature, and she patted Phillis's cheek encouragingly as she spoke.

"But how is she? Oh, thank God, the storm has lulled at last!" exclaimed the girl, breathlessly.

"Oh, yes; the storm is over. We have reason to dread storms in this house," returned Miss Mewlstone, gravely. "She was quite exhausted, and let Charlotte and me help her to bed. Now she has had her composing-draught, and Charlotte will sit by her till I go up. I always watch by her all night after one of these attacks."

"Is it a nervous attack?" asked Phillis, timidly, for she felt she was treading on delicate ground.

"I believe Dr. Parkes calls it hysteria," replied Miss Mewlstone, hesitating a little. "Ah, we have sad times with her. You heard what she said, poor dear: she has been sorely tried."

"Was not her husband good to her, then?"

"I am sure he meant to be kind," returned Miss Mewlstone, sorrowfully, "for he loved her dearly; but he was passionate and masterful, and was one that would have his way. As long as it was only courtship, he worshipped the ground she walked upon, as the saying is. But poor Magdalene was not a good wife. She was cold when she ought to have been caressing, stubborn when she might have yielded; and sarcasm never yet healed a wound. Ah, here comes your coffee! Thank you, Evans. Now, my dear, you must just eat and drink, and put some color into those pale cheeks. Scenes like these are not good for young creatures like you. But when Magdalene is in these moods, she would not care if the whole world listened to her. To-morrow she will be herself, and remember and be ashamed; and then you must not mind if she be harder and colder than ever. She will say bitter things all the more, because she is angered at her own want of self-control."

"I can understand that: that is just as I should feel," returned Phillis, shuddering a little at the idea of encountering Mrs. Cheyne's keen-edged sarcasms. "She will not like to see me any more; she will think I had no right to witness such a scene."

"It is certainly a pity that I wrote that note," returned Mrs. Mewlstone, reflectively. "I hoped that you would turn her thoughts, and that we might avert the usual nervous paroxysm. When I opened the door and saw you sitting together so peacefully beside the children's beds, I expected a milder mood; but it was the thunder. Poor Magdalene! She has never been able to control herself in a storm since the evening Herbert left her, and we went in and found her lying insensible in the library, in the midst of one of the worst storms I have ever witnessed."

"That was when he said those cruel words to her!" ejaculated Phillis.

"Yes. Did she repeat them? How often I have begged her to forget them, and to believe that he repented of them before an hour was over! Ah, well! the sting of death lies in this: if she had had one word, one little word, she would be a different woman, in spite of the children's death. God's strokes are less cruel than men's strokes: the reed may be bruised by them, but is not broken. She had a long illness after the children were gone; it was too much,—too much for any woman's heart to bear. You see, she wanted her husband to comfort her. Dr. Parkes feared for her brain, but we pulled her through. Ah, just so, my dear; we pulled her through!" finished Miss Mewlstone, with a sigh.

"Oh, how good you are to her! she is happy to have such a friend!" observed Phillis, enthusiastically.

Miss Mewlstone shook her head, and a tear rolled down her face.

"Oh, my dear, I am only an old fool, as she said just now. And, after all, the company of a stupid old woman is not much to a proud bonnie creature like that. Sometimes for days together she hardly opens her lips to me; we sit together, eat together, drive together, and not a word for Barby. But sometimes, poor dear! she will cling to me and cry, and say her heart is breaking. And Solomon was right: but it was not only a brother that is good for adversity. When she wants me, I am here, and there is nothing I will not do for her, and she knows it;—and that is about the long and short of it," finished Miss Mewlstone, dismissing the subject with another sigh. And then she bade Phillis finish her coffee and put on her hat. "For your mother will be expecting you, and wondering what has become of you; and Phillips or Evans must walk with you, for it is past nine o'clock, and such a pretty young lady must not go unattended," concluded the simple woman.

Phillis laughed and kissed her at this; but, though she said nothing of her intentions, she determined to dismiss the servant as soon as possible, and run on alone to the Friary. She had not forgotten her encounter with Mr. Drummond on her last visit to the White House; but to-night the storm would keep him in-doors.

Evans, the new footman, was desired to escort her; but in the middle of the avenue Phillis civilly dismissed him.

"There is no need for two of us to get wet; and the rain is coming on very heavily," she said.

The young man hesitated; but he was slow-witted and new to his duty, and the young lady had a peremptory way with her, so he touched his hat, and went back to the house.

"Such nonsense, having a liveried servant at my heels, when I am only a dressmaker!" thought Phillis, scurrying down the avenue like a chased rabbit.

Hitherto, the trees had sheltered her; but a glance at the open road and the driving rain made her resolve to take refuge in the porch of the cottage that stood opposite the gate. It was the place where Nan and her mother had once lodged; and, though all the lights were extinguished, and the people had retired to bed, she felt a comfortable sense of safety as she unlatched the little gate. Not even Mr. Drummond would discover her there.

But Phillis's satisfaction was of short duration: the foolish girl was soon to repent of her foolhardiness in dismissing her escort. She little knew that her words to Evans had been overheard, and that behind the dripping shrubbery she had been watched and followed. Scarcely had she taken refuge under the green porch, and placed her wet umbrella to dry, before she heard the latch of the little gate unclosed, and a tall dark figure came up the gravel-walk. It was not Isaac Williams's portly form,—she could discern that in the darkness,—and, for the moment, a thrill of deadly terror came upon the incautious girl; but the next minute her natural courage returned to her aid. The porch was just underneath the room where Isaac slept; a call of 'help' would reach him at once; there was no reason for this alarm at all. Nevertheless, she shrunk back a little as the stranger came directly towards her, then paused as though in some embarrassment:

"Pardon me, but you have poor shelter here. I am Mrs. Williams's lodger. I could easily let you into the cottage. I am afraid the rain comes through the trellis-work."

Phillis's heart gave a great thump of relief. In the first place, Mrs. Williams's lodger must be a respectable person, and no dangerous loafer or pickpocket; in the second place the refined cultured tones of the stranger pleased her ear. Phillis had a craze on this point. "You may be deceived in a face, but in a voice, never!" she would say; and, as she told Nan afterwards, the moment that voice greeted her in the darkness she felt no further fear.

"I have a dry corner here," she returned, quietly; "it is only a thunder-shower, and I am close to home,—only down the road, and just round the corner, past the vicarage."

"Past the vicarage!" in a tone of surprise: "why, there are no houses there!"

"There is a very small one called the Friary," returned Phillis, feeling herself color in the darkness, as she mentioned their humble abode. There was no answer for a moment, and then her mysterious neighbor continued:

"My good landlord seems to retire early; the whole place looks deserted. They are very early risers, and perhaps that is the reason. If you will allow me to pass, I will open the door and light a lamp in my little parlor. Even if you prefer to remain in the porch, it will look more cheerful." And, without waiting for her reply, he took a key from his pocket, and let himself into the house.

Their voices had disturbed the owners of the cottage, and Phillis overheard the following colloquy:

"Dear sakes alive! what a frightful storm! Is there anything you want, Mr. Dancy?" in Mrs. Williams's shrill tones.

"Not for myself, Mrs. Williams; but there is a young lady sheltering in the porch. I should be glad if you could come down and make her a little comfortable. The floodgates of heaven seem open to-night."

"Dear, dear!" in a still more perplexed voice; "a young lady at this time of night,—why, it must be half-after nine. Very well, Mr. Dancy; beg her to come in and sit in your parlor a moment, and I will be down."

But Phillis absolutely refused to comply with the invitation.

"I am not tired, and I am not a bit wet, and I like watching the rain. This is a nice little porch, and I have taken refuge here before. We all know Mrs. Williams very well."

"She is a good creature, if she were not always in a bustle," returned Mr. Dancy. "There, the lamp is lighted: that looks more comfortable." And as he spoke he came out into the little hall.

Phillis stole a curious glance at him.

He was a tall man, and was dressed somewhat strangely. A long foreign-looking cloak and a broad-brimmed felt hat, which he had not yet removed, gave him the look of an artist; but, except that he had a beard and moustache, and wore blue spectacles, she could not gain the slightest clue to his features. But his voice,—it pleased Phillis's sensitive ear more every moment; it was pleasant,—rather foreign, too,—and had a sad ring in it.

He leaned against the wall opposite to her, and looked out thoughtfully at the driving rain.

"I think I saw you coming out from the White House," he observed presently. "Are you a friend of Mrs. Cheyne? I hope," hesitating a little, "that she is very well."

"Do you know her?" asked Phillis, in surprise.

"That is a very Irish way of answering my question; but you shall have your turn first. Yes; I used to know her many years ago, and Herbert Cheyne, too."

"Her poor husband! Oh! and did you like him?" rather breathlessly.

"Pretty fairly," was the indifferent reply. "People used to call him a pleasant fellow, but I never thought much of him myself,—not but what he was more sinned against than sinning, poor devil. Anyhow, he paid dearly enough for his faults."

"Yes, indeed; and one must always speak leniently of the dead."

"Ah, that is what they say,—that he is dead. I suppose his widow put on mourning, and made lamentation. She is well, you say, and cheerful?"

"Oh, no! neither the one nor the other. I am not her friend; I only know her just little; but she strikes me as very sad. She has lost her children, and——"

"Ah!" Phillis thought she heard a strange sound, almost like a groan; but of course it was fancy; and just then good Mrs. Williams came bustling downstairs.

"Dear heart! why, if it is not Miss Challoner! To think of you, my dear miss, being out so late, and alone! Oh, what ever will your ma say?"

"My mother will scold me, of course," returned Phillis, laughing; "but you must not scold me too, Mrs. Williams, though I deserve all I get. Mrs. Mewlstone sent Evans with me, but I made him go back. Country girls are fearless and it is only just a step to the Friary."

"The rain is stopping now, if you will permit me to escort you. Mrs. Williams will be the voucher for my respectability," observed Mr. Dancy, very gravely and without a smile; and, as Phillis seemed inclined to put him off with an excuse, he continued, more seriously: "Pardon me, but it is far too late, and the road far too lonely, for a young lady to go unattended. If you prefer it, I will go to the White House, and bring out the recreant Evans by force."

"Oh, no; there is no need for that," observed Phillis, hastily; and Mrs. Williams interposed volubly:

"Goodness' sakes, Miss Challoner, you have no call to be afraid of Mr. Dancy! Why, Mr. Frank Blunt, that nice young gentleman who lodged with me ever so many years, recommended him to me as one of his best and oldest friends. Your ma knew Mr. Blunt, for he was here with her, and a nicer-spoken young gentleman she said she never saw."

"That will do, Mrs. Williams," returned Mr. Dancy, in rather a peremptory tone; and then, turning to Phillis, he said, more civilly, but still a little abruptly, as though he were displeased,—

"Well, Miss Challoner, do you feel inclined to trust yourself with me for the few hundred yards, or shall I fetch Evans?" And Phillis, feeling herself rebuked, unfurled her umbrella at once, and bade Mrs. Williams good-night by way of answer.



CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. WILLIAMS'S LODGER.

Phillis felt rather shy and uncomfortable as she picked her way warily among the rain-pools in the semi-darkness. Her companion was inclined to be silent; most likely he considered her churlish in repelling his civil offers of help: so, to make amends, and set herself at her ease, she began to talk to him with an attempt at her old sprightliness.

"Do you know this neighborhood well, Mr. Dancy? Have you been long at Ivy Cottage?"

"Only a few days; but I know the place well enough," he responded, quietly. "It depends upon circumstances how long I remain here."

"Hadleigh is very quiet," returned Phillis, quickly. "It does not offer many attractions to strangers, unless they have very moderate views of enjoyment. It is select, and the bathing is good, and the country tolerable; but when you have said that, you have said all in its favor."

"I have always liked the place," with a checked sigh. "Quiet,—that is what I want, and rest also. I have been rather a wanderer over the face of the earth, and one wants a little breathing-time occasionally, to recruit one's exhausted energies. I like Ivy Cottage, and I like Mrs. Williams: both suit me for the present. Are you a visitor to Hadleigh,—a mere bird of passage like myself, Miss Challoner?"

"Oh, dear, no: we have come here to live."

"And—and you are intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?" coming a little closer to her side in the darkness.

"Nothing of the kind," retorted Phillis: "we are mere acquaintances. I do not feel to know her at all; she is not a person with whom one could get intimate all at once; she is a little difficult. Besides in our position——" And here she pulled herself up suddenly.

"Pardon me," returned Mr. Dancy, in an interested voice, "perhaps I have no right to inquire, but your words are a little mysterious. Why should you not be intimate with Mrs. Cheyne?"

Phillis grew hot in the darkness. What right had he, a perfect stranger, to question her so closely? And yet, if he were interested in his old friends, perhaps he meant to call at the White House, and then he would hear all about them; and after all, perfect frankness always answered best in the long run. Phillis hesitated so long over her rejoinder that Mr. Dancy said, rather apologetically,—

"I see, I have been incautious; but you must not attribute my question to impertinent curiosity. I am anxious to learn all I can about a very old friend, of whom I have long lost sight, and I hoped that you might have been able to satisfy me."

"Miss Middleton would tell you far more than I."

"What! Elizabeth Middleton? Oh, no: she is far too much of a saint for me."

"You know her, too!" exclaimed Phillis, in surprise. "No, I do not think you are curious, Mr. Dancy; it was only a little awkward for me to tell you about our acquaintance with Mrs. Cheyne. My sister and I rendered her a trifling service, and she took a fancy to us, and wished to be friends; but in our present position any close intimacy would be impossible, as we are only dressmakers."

"Dressmakers!" It is impossible to describe the genuine astonishment, almost dismay, in Mr. Dancy's voice. "Dressmakers! Pardon me, Miss Challoner, but when one has seen and spoken to a lady like yourself, it is almost incredible."

This put Phillis on her mettle at once, and in a moment she laid by all her reserve:

"You have been a traveller, Mr. Dancy, and must have seen strange things by this time: it surely cannot be such a matter of surprise that when gentle-people are poor they must work for their bread. When one has ten clever fingers, it is better to use them than to starve. I am not ashamed of my position; my sisters and I are very independent; but, as we do not like to cause other people embarrassment, we prefer to lead hermit lives."

Phillis's silvery tones were rather fierce, but it was well that she did not see her companion's expression of suppressed amusement; there was a little smothered laugh, too, that was turned into a cough.

"Are your sisters young like yourself?" he asked, rather abruptly.

"Oh, yes, we are all much of an age."

"And you have parents?"

"Only one parent," she corrected,—"a mother. Ah, here we are at the Friary! Many thanks for your escort, Mr. Dancy."

"Many thanks for allowing me to escort you," he returned, pointedly: "after what you have told me, I esteem it an honor, Miss Challoner. No, you have no need to be ashamed of your position; I wish more English ladies would follow such a noble example. Good-night. I trust we shall meet again." And, lifting his felt hat, he withdrew, just as Nan appeared on the threshold, holding a lamp in her hand.

"You naughty girl, what has kept you so late?" she asked, as Phillis came slowly and meditatively up the flagged path.

"Hush, Nannie! Have they all gone to bed? Let me come into your room and talk to you. Oh, I have had such an evening!" And thereupon she poured into her sister's astonished ears the recital of her adventure,—the storm, the figure in the shubbery, the scene in the west corridor, the porch at Ivy Cottage, and the arrival of Mrs. Williams's mysterious lodger.

"Oh, Phillis, I shall never trust you out of my sight again! How can you be so reckless,—so incautious? Mother would be dreadfully shocked if she knew it."

"Mother must not know a single word: promise, Nan. You know how nervous she is. I will tell her, if you like, that I took refuge from the rain in Mrs. Williams's porch, and that her lodger walked home with me; but I think it would be better to suppress the scene at the White House."

Nan thought over this a moment, and then she agreed.

"It would make mother feel uneasy and timid in Mrs. Cheyne's presence," she observed. "She never likes that sort of hysterical attacks. We could not make her understand. Poor thing! I hope she is asleep by this time. Shall you go to-morrow, Phil, and ask after her?"

Phillis made a wry face at this, and owned she had had enough adventures to last her for a long time. But she admitted, too, that she would be anxious to know how Mrs. Cheyne would be.

"Yes, I suppose I must go and just ask after her," she said, as she rose rather wearily and lighted her candle. "There is not the least chance of my seeing her. Good-night, Nannie! Don't let all this keep you awake; but I do not expect to sleep a wink myself."

Which dismal prophecy was not fulfilled, as Phillis dropped into a heavy slumber the moment her head touched the pillow.

But her dreams were hardly pleasant. She thought she was walking down the "ghost's walk," between the yews and cypresses, with Mr. Dancy, and that in the darkest part he threw off his cloak and felt hat, and showed the grinning skull of a skeleton, while a bony arm tried to seize her. She woke moaning with fright, to find Dulce's long hair streaming over her face, and the birds singing in the sweet breezy dawn; after which she fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep.

Phillis had to submit to rather a severe reproof from her mother, in return for her frankness. Mrs. Challoner's prudery was up in arms the moment she heard of Mrs. Williams's lodger.

"Mrs. Williams ought to have come with you herself; but a strange man at that time of night!—what would Mr. Drummond have said to you?"

"Whatever Mr. Drummond liked to say!" returned Phillis, pettishly, for this was stroking her already ruffled feelings decidedly the wrong way.

Phillis always turned captious whenever Mr. Drummond was mentioned; but she subsided into meekness again when her mother fell to crying and bemoaning her hard fate and her darlings' unprotected position.

"Oh, what would your dear father have said?" she cried, in such utter misery of tone that Phillis began kissing her, and promising that she would never, never be out so late again, and that on no account would she walk up the Braidwood Road in the evening with a strange man who wore an outlandish cloak and a felt hat that only wanted a feather to remind her of Guy Fawkes, only Guy Fawkes did not wear blue spectacles.

When Phillis had at last soothed her mother,—always a lengthy process, for Mrs. Challoner, like other sensitive and feeble natures, could only be quieted by much talk,—she fell to her work in vigorous silence; but by a stroke of ill luck, Mr. Drummond chose to make another pastoral visitation; and, to her secret chagrin, her mother at once repeated the whole story.

"Mrs. Williams's lodger saw Miss Phillis home! Why, I did not know Mrs. Williams had a lodger!" returned Mr. Drummond, in a perplexed voice.

This made matters worse.

"I suppose Mrs. Williams is not bound to let the vicarage know directly she lets her rooms?" observed Phillis, rather impatiently; for she was vexed with her mother for repeating all this.

"No, of course not; but I was at Ivy Cottage myself yesterday, and Mrs. Williams knows I always call on her lodgers, and she never mentioned the fellow's existence to me."

"Fellow, indeed!" observed Phillis, sotto voce; for she had a vivid remembrance of the stranger's commanding presence and pleasant voice.

"When did he come?" inquired the young vicar, curiously, "He must keep himself pretty close by daylight; for I have passed and repassed Ivy Cottage at least half a dozen times a day, and have never caught a glimpse of any one;" to which Phillis replied reluctantly that he had not been there long,—that he wanted rest and quiet, and was most likely an invalid.

"And his name is Dancy, you say?"

Phillis bowed. She was far too much taken up in her work to volunteer unnecessary words; and all this maternal fuss and fidget was odious to her.

"Then I will go and call upon him this very afternoon," returned Archie, with cheerful alacrity. He had no idea that his curiosity on the subject was disagreeable to the girl: so he and Mrs. Challoner discussed the matter fully, and at some length. "I don't like the description of your mysterious stranger, Miss Challoner," he said, laughing, as he stood up to take his leave. "When novelists want to paint a villain, they generally bring in a long cloak and beard, and sometimes a disguising pair of blue spectacles. Well, I will catch him by daylight, and see what I can make of him."

"You may disguise a face, but you cannot disguise a voice," returned Phillis, bluntly. "I do not want to see Mr. Dancy to know he is a gentleman and a true man." And this speech, that piqued Archie, though he did not know why, made him all the more bent on calling on Mrs. Williams's lodger.

But Mr. Drummond's curiosity was destined to be baffled. Mrs. Williams turned very red when she heard the vicar's inquiries.

"You never told me you had let your rooms," he said, reproachfully; "and yet you know I always make a practice of calling on your lodgers."

"'Deed and it is very kind and thoughtful of you, too," returned the good woman, dropping an old-fashioned courtesy; "and me that prizes my clergyman's visits and thinks no end of them! But Mr. Dancy he says to me, 'Now, my good Mrs. Williams, I have come here for quiet,—for absolute quiet; and I do not want to see or hear of any one. Tell no tales about me, and leave me in peace; and then we shall get on together.' And it was more than I ventured to give you the hint, hearing him speak so positive; for he is a bit masterful, and no mistake."

"Well, never mind; a clergyman never intrudes, and I will thank you to take Mr. Dancy my card," returned Archie, impatiently; but his look of assurance soon faded when Mrs. Williams returned with her lodger's compliments, and he was very much obliged to Mr. Drummond for his civility, but he did not wish to receive visitors.

Phillis was a little contrary all the remainder of the day: she was not exactly cross,—all the Challoners were sweet-tempered,—but nothing quite suited her. Mrs. Challoner had proposed going that evening into the town with her youngest daughter to execute some commissions.

Just before they started Phillis observed rather shortly that she should call at the White House to make inquiries after Mrs. Cheyne, and that she would came back to the Friary to fetch Nan for a country walk. "If I do not appear in half an hour, you must come in search of me," finished Phillis, with a naughty curl of her lip, to which Nan with admirable tact returned no answer, but all the same she fully intended to carry out the injunction; for Nan had imbibed her mother's simple old-fashioned notions, and a lurking dislike of Mrs. Williams's lodger had already entered her mind.

As Phillis did not enjoy her errand, she put on the best face she could, and hurried down the Braidwood Road as though her feet were winged like a female Mercury; and Mr. Dancy, who happened to be looking over the wire blind in the little parlor, much admired the girl's free swift gait as she sped down the avenue. Evans, the young footman, admitted her, and conducted her at once to the drawing-room; and great was Phillis's surprise and discomposure when she saw Mrs. Cheyne sitting alone reading by one of the windows, with her greyhounds grouped around her.

She started slightly at the announcement of Phillis's name, and, as she came forward to greet her, a dark flush crossed her face for a moment; then her features settled into their usual impassive calm, only there was marked coldness in her voice.

"Good-evening. Miss Challoner: you have chosen a fine evening for your visit. Let me beg of you never again to venture to the White House in such a storm."

Phillis stammered out something about hoping that she was better, but she interrupted her almost abruptly:

"Much better, thank you. I am afraid you found me decidedly strange yesterday. I had what people call a nervous attack: electricity in the air, a brooding storm, brings it on. It is a pity one should be so childish as to dread thunder; but we are oddly constituted, some of us." She shrugged her shoulders, as though to dismiss the subject, and stroked the head of the greyhound that lay at her feet.

Poor Phillis found her position decidedly embarrassing. To be sure, Miss Mewlstone had warned her of the reception that she might expect; but all the same she found it very unpleasant. She must not abridge her visit so much as to excite suspicion; and yet it seemed impossible to carry on a comfortable conversation with Mrs. Cheyne in this freezing mood, and, as Phillis could think of nothing to say, she asked after Miss Mewlstone.

"Oh, she is very well," Mrs. Cheyne answered, indifferently. "Nothing ever ails Barby: she is one of those easy-going people who take life as they find it, without fuss and grumbling."

"I think she is very nice and sympathetic," hazarded Phillis.

"Oh, yes Miss Mewlstone has a feeling heart," returned Mrs. Cheyne; but she said it in a sarcastic voice. "We have all our special endowments. Miss Mewlstone is made by nature to be a moral feather bed to break other people's awkward tumbles. She hinders broken bones, and interposes a soft surface of sympathy between unlucky folks. There is not much in common between us, but all the same old Barby is a sort of necessity to me. We are a droll household at the White House, Miss Challoner, are we not,—Barby and the greyhounds and I?—oh, quite a happy family!" And she gave a short laugh, very much the reverse of merriment.

Phillis began to feel that it was time to go.

"Well, how does the dressmaking progress?" asked her hostess, suddenly. "Miss Middleton tells me the Challoner fit is quite the rage in Hadleigh."

"We have more orders than we can execute," returned Phillis, curtly.

"Humph! that sounds promising. I hope your mother is careful of you, and forbids any expenditure of midnight oil, or you will be reduced to a thread-paper. As I have told you you are not the same girl that you were when you came to the relief of my injured ankle."

"I feel tolerably substantial, thank you," returned Phillis, ungraciously, for, in common with other girls, she hated to be pitied for her looks, and she had a notion that Mrs. Cheyne only said this to plague her. "Nan is our head and task mistress. We lead regular lives, have stated hours for work, take plenty of exercise and on the whole, are doing as well as possible."

"There speaks the Challoner spirit."

"Oh, yes; that never fails us. But now Nan will be waiting for me, and I only called just to inquire after you."

"And you did not expect to see me. Well, come again when I am in a better humor for conversation. If you stay longer now I might not be sparing of my sarcasms. By the by, what has become of our young vicar? Tell him he has not converted me yet, and I quite miss his pastoral visits. Do you know," looking so keenly at Phillis that she blushed with annoyance, "a little bird tells me that our pastor has undertaken the supervision of the Friary. Which is it, my dear, that he is trying to convert?"

The tone and manner were intolerable to Phillis.

"I don't understand you, Mrs. Cheyne," she returned, with superb youthful haughtiness. "Mr. Drummond is a kind neighbor, and so is Miss Mattie. You may keep these insinuations for him, if you will." Then she would have escaped without another glance at her tormentor, but Mrs. Cheyne detained her:

"There, never mind. I will take back my naughty speech. It was rude and impertinent of me, I know that. But I like you all the better for your spirit; and, my dear, take care of yourself and your pretty sisters, for he is not worthy of one of you."

"Oh, Mrs. Cheyne! for shame!" And Phillis's gray eyes sparkled with lively indignation.

"He is a very ordinary good young man; and you and your sisters are real metal, and worth your weight in gold. There! go away, child; and come and see me again, for it does me good to torment you!" And the singular woman drew the girl into her arms suddenly and kissed her forehead, and then pushed her away. "To-morrow, or the next day, but not to-night," she said, hurriedly. "I should make you cross fifty times if you stay longer to-night." And Phillis was too thankful to be released to linger any longer; but her cheeks were burning as she walked down the avenue.

"Why do people always put these things into girls' heads?" she said to herself. "A young man cannot come into the house, cannot say pleasant words, or do kind neighborly actions, but one must at once attribute motives of this kind. I have not been free from blame myself in this matter, for I have feared more than once that Nan's sweet face attracted him,—poor Mr. Drummond! I hope not, for he would not have a chance against Dick. I wonder if I ought to say a word?—if it would be premature or unnecessary? But I should hate him to be unhappy,"—here Phillis sighed, and then threw up her head proudly: "I might say just a word, mentioning Dick,—for he does not know of his existence. I wonder if he would take the hint. I could do it very cleverly, I know. I hate to see people burning their fingers for nothing: I always want to go to their rescue. He is tiresome, but he is very nice. And, heigh-ho! what a crooked world we live in!—nothing goes quite straight in it." And Phillis sighed again.

"Miss Challoner!" The voice sounded so near her that Phillis gave a great start. She had nearly reached the gate, and there was Mr. Dancy walking beside her, just as though he had emerged from the ground; and yet Phillis had not heard a sound. "Have I startled you?" he continued, gravely. "You were in such a brown study that I had to call you by your name to rouse you. There is nothing wrong at the White House, I hope?"

"Oh, no! Mrs. Cheyne is better: her nervous attack has quite passed off."

"Magdalene suffering from a nervous attack?" and then Mr. Dancy stopped, and bit his lip. "Excuse me, I knew her before she was married, when she was Magdalene Davenport—before she and poor Herbert Cheyne unfortunately came together. I doubt whether things have not happened for the best; there!—I mean," as Phillis looked at him in some perplexity, "that there is little fear of her being an inconsolable widow."

"How can you say such a thing!" returned Phillis, indignantly. "That is the way with you men, you judge so harshly of women. Mrs. Cheyne is singular in her ways. She wears no mourning, and yet a more unhappy creature never existed on this earth. Not inconsolable!—and yet no one dares to speak a word of comfort to her, so great is her misery."

"Excuse me one moment: I have been ill, and am still subject to fits of giddiness. A mere vertigo; nothing more." But he said the words gasping for breath, and looked so deadly pale that Phillis felt quite frightened as she stood beside him.

They had been walking a few steps down the Braidwood Road, and Phillis had looked out anxiously for Nan, who had not yet appeared in sight. But now Mr. Dancy had come to an abrupt pause, and was leaning for support against the low wall that shut in the grounds of the White House. Phillis looked at him a little curiously, in spite of her sympathy. He still wore his loose cloak, though the evening was warm; but he had loosened it, and taken off his felt hat for air.

In figure he was a tall, powerful-looking man, only thin and almost emaciated, as though from recent illness. His features were handsome, but singularly bronzed and weather-beaten, as though from constant exposure to sun and wind; and even the blue spectacles could not hide a pair of keen blue eyes. By daylight Phillis could see that his brown beard and moustache were tinged with gray, and the hair on the temples was almost white; and yet he seemed still in the prime of life. It was a far handsomer face than Archie Drummond's; but the deep lines and gray hair spoke of trouble more than age, and one thing especially impressed Phillis,—the face was as refined as the voice.

If Mr. Dancy were aware of her close scrutiny, he took no notice of it. He leaned his arm against the wall and rested his head against it; and the thin brown hand was plainly visible, with a deep-red scar just above the wrist.

As Phillis had regarded it with sudden horror, wondering what had inflicted it, he suddenly aroused himself with an apology:

"There! it has passed: it never lasts long. Shall we walk on? I am so ashamed of detaining you in this way; but when a man has had a sunstroke——"

"Oh, that is sad!" returned Phillis, in a sympathizing voice. "Is that why you keep in-doors so much in the daylight? at least"—correcting herself in haste, for she had spoken without thought—"one never sees you about," which was a foolish speech, and showed she took notice of his movements; but she could not betray Mr. Drummond.

"Some one else only comes out in the evening," he rejoined, rather pointedly. "Who told you I kept in-doors in the daylight? Oh, I know!" the frown passing from his face, for he had spoken quickly and in annoyed fashion. "This sounds like a parson's prating: I know the language of old. By the bye, did you set the clergy on my track?" turning the blue spectacles full on the embarrassed Phillis.

"I?—no indeed!" and then she went on frankly: "Mr. Drummond was at our house, and he told us that he always called on Mrs. Williams's lodgers."

"True, Miss Challoner; but how did his reverence know Mrs. Williams had a lodger?"

This was awkward, but Phillis steered her way through the difficulty with her usual dexterity.

"I mentioned to my mother that you were kind enough to see me home, and she repeated the fact to Mr. Drummond."

"Thank you, Miss Challanor; now I understand. I wonder if your mother would be very shocked if a stranger intruded upon her? but you and I must have some more conversation together, and I do not see how it is to be managed in accordance with what you ladies call les convenances."

"My mother——" began Phillis, demurely; and then she paused, and looked up at him in astonishment, "What, Mr. Dancy! you purpose to call on my mother, and yet you refused Mr. Drummond's visit?" for the news of Archie's defeat had already reached the Friary through Miss Mattie.

Mr. Dancy seemed rather nonplussed at this, and then he laughed:

"Ah, you are shrewd, Miss Challoner; there is no deceiving you! I have seen Mr. Drummond pass and repass often enough; and—pardon me, if he be a friend—I thought from the cut of his coat that he was prig, and I have a horror of clerical prigs."

"He is not priggish in the least," was Phillis's annoyed rejoinder.

"No? Well, appearances are sometimes deceptive: perhaps I was too hasty in my dread of being bored. But here comes your sister, I think,—at least, I have seen you together: so I am leaving you in good hands." And, before Phillis could reply, he had lifted his hat and turned away, just as Nan, whose vigilant eyes were upon him, was hurrying to join her sister.

"Oh, Phillis, was that Mr. Dancy?" she asked, in a reproachful voice, as she hurried up to her.

"Yes, Nannie, it was Mr. Dancy," returned Phillis, composedly; "and I wish I could have introduced him to you, for I believe he is coming to call on mother." And, when she had related this astounding piece of intelligence, she looked in Nan's face and laughed, and, in high good humor, proceeded to relate their conversation.



CHAPTER XXX.

"NOW WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER."

One fine morning in September, Mr. Drummond was standing at the back of Milner's Library, turning over the last new assortment of books from Mudie, when two gentlemen entered the shop.

Strangers were always interesting to Archie, and he criticised them under a twofold aspect—pastoral and social. In this way curiosity becomes a virtue, and a man with a mission is not without his interests in life. Hadleigh was Mr. Drummond's sheep-walk, where he shepherded his lambs, and looked after his black sheep and tried to wash them white, or, in default of that, at least to make out that their fleece was not so sable after all: so he now considered it his duty to leave off turning over the pages of a seductive-looking novel, and to inspect the strangers.

They were both dressed in tweed travelling costumes, and looked sunburnt, as though they had just returned from a walking-tour. The elder was a short wiry man, with a shrewd face and quizzical eyes; and he asked in sharp clipping voice that was not free from accent, for the last number of the local paper, containing lists of inhabitants, visitors, etc.

Meanwhile, the younger man walked about the shop, whistling softly to himself, as though he had a fund of cheerfulness on hand which must find vent somewhere. When he came opposite Archie, he took a brief survey of him in a careless, good-humored fashion, and then turned on his heel, bestowing a very cursory glance on Miss Masham, who stood shaking her black ringlets after the fashion of shopwomen, and waiting to know the gentleman's pleasure.

No one would have called this young man very good-looking, unless such a one had a secret predilection for decidedly reddish hair and a sandy moustache; but there was an air of bonhommie, of frank kindness, of boyish fun and pleasantry, that attracted even strangers, and Archie looked after him with considerable interest.

"Oxford cut, father and son: father looks rather a queer customer," thought Archie to himself.

"Dick, come here!—why, where is that fellow?" suddenly exclaimed the elder man, beginning to put on his eye-glasses very nervously.

"Coming, father. All right: what is it?" returned the imperturbable Dick. He was still whistling "Twickenham Ferry" under his breath, as he came to the counter and leaned with both elbows upon it.

"Good gracious, boy, what does this mean?" went on the other, in an irritable perturbed voice; and he read a short advertisement, written in a neat lady-like hand: "Dressmaking undertaken. Terms moderate, and all orders promptly executed. Apply to—the Misses Challoner, the Friary, Braidwood Road. Ladies waited upon at their own residences'. What the"—he was about to add a stronger term, but, in deference to Miss Milner, substituted—"dickens does this mean, Dick?"

The young man's reply was to snatch the paper out of his father's hand, and study it intently, with his elbows still on the counter, and the last bar of "Twickenham Ferry" died away uncompleted on his lips; and if any one could have seen his face, they would have remarked a curious redness spreading to his forehead.

"Nan's handwriting, by Jove!" he muttered, but still inaudibly; and then he stared at the paper, and his face grew redder.

"Well, Dick, can't you answer? What does this piece of tomfoolery mean—'dressmaking undertaken—ladies waited upon at their own residences'? Can there be two families of Challoner and two Friaries? and why don't you speak and say something?"

"Because I know as little as yourself, father," returned the young man, without lifting his head; and he surreptitiously conveyed the paper to his pocket. "Perhaps this lady," indicating Miss Milner, "could inform us?"

"I beg your pardon," observed a gentlemanly voice near them; and, looking up, Dick found himself confronted by the young clergyman. "I overheard your inquiries, and, as I am acquainted with the ladies in question, I may be able to satisfy you."

"I should be extremely obliged to you if you would do so, sir," returned the elder man, with alacrity; but Dick turned away rather ungraciously, and his cheerful face grew sullen.

"Confound him! what does he mean by his interference? Knows them, indeed! such a handsome beggar, too,—a prig, one can see that from the cut of his clothes and beard!" And again he planted his elbows on the counter, and began pulling his rough little stubbly moustache.

"If you are referring to a mother and three daughters who live in the Friary and eke out a scanty income by taking in dressmaking, I am happy to say I know them well," went on Archie. "My sister and I visit at the cottage, and they attend my church; and, as Miss Milner can tell you, they work hard enough all the six days of the week."

"Indeed, Mr. Drummond, there are few that work harder!" broke in Miss Milner, volubly. "Such pretty creatures, too, to earn their own living; and yet they have a bright word and a smile for everybody! Ever since Miss Phillis," (here Dick groaned) "made that blue dress for Mrs. Trimmings—she is the butcher's wife, and a dressy woman, though not flashy, like Mrs. Squails—they have been quite the rage in Hadleigh. All the townspeople, and the resident gentry, and even the visitors, want their gowns made by the Miss Challoners. Their fit is perfect; and they have such taste. And——" But here the luckless Dick could bear no more.

"If you will excuse me, sir," he said, addressing his bewildered father, "I have left something particular at the hotel: I must just run and fetch it."

Dick did not specify whether it was his handkerchief, or his cigar-case, or his purse, of which he stood so urgently in need; but before Mr. Mayne could remonstrate, he had gone out of the shop. He went as far as the door of the hotel, and there he seized on a passing waiter and questioned him in a breathless manner. Having obtained his information, he set off at a walk that was almost a run through the town, and down the Braidwood Road. The few foot-passengers that he met shrank out of the way of this young man; for he walked, looking neither to the right nor to left, as though he saw nothing before him. And his eyes were gloomy, and, he did not whistle; and the only words he said to himself were, "Oh, Nan, never to have told me of this!" over and over again.

The gate of the Friary stood open; for a small boy had been washing the flags, and had left his pail, and had gone off to play marbles in the road with a younger brother. Dick,—who understood the bearings of the case at once, shook his fist at the truant behind his back, and then turned in at the gate.

He peeped in at the hall door first; but Dorothy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, and would see him as he passed, so he skirted the little path under the yews. And if Dulce had been at her sewing-machine as usual, she would have seen him at once; but this morning the machine was silent.

A few steps farther he came to a full stop, and his eyes began to glisten, and he pricked up his ears after the manner of lovers; for through an open window just behind him, he could hear Nan's voice, sweet and musical, reading aloud to her sisters.

"Oh, the darling!" he murmured, and composed himself for a few moments' ecstasy, for no doubt she was reading Tennyson, or Barrett-Browning, or one of the poetry-books he had given her; but he was a little disappointed when he found it was prose.

"'With regard to washing-dresses,'" read Nan, in her clear tones, "'cottons, as a general thing, have another material made up with them; the under-skirt may be of foulard or satin——?'"

"Oh, I dare say! What nonsensical extravagance!" observed Phillis.

"'Or the bodice of surah, satin, cashmere, or llama, and the skirt of cotton.... The skirts are nearly always made with single box-pleats, with a flat surface in the centre, and a flat band of trimming is often stitched on at about five inches from the edge of the flounce.' I should say that would be sweetly pretty, dear: we might try it for Mrs. Penlip's dress. And just listen to a little more."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," blurted out Dick. "Oh, Nan, Nan! how could you be such a traitor?—washing-dresses indeed, and me left in ignorance!" And there was Dick, his face glowing and indignant, standing in the window, with Laddie barking furiously at him, and his outstretched hand nearly touching Nan.

Phillis and Dulce screamed with surprise, being young and easily excited; but Nan only said, "Oh, Dick!" very faintly; and her sweet face grew red and pale by turns, and her fingers fluttered a little in his grasp, but only for joy and the sheer delight of seeing him.

As for Dick, his eyes shone, but his manner was masterful.

"Look here!" he said, drawing Nan's advertisement from his pocket; "we had come down here to surprise you girls, and to have a little fun and tennis; and I meant to have treated you to the public ground at the hotel, as I knew you had only a scrubby little bit of lawn; and this is what has met my eyes this morning! You have deceived mother and me; you have let us enjoy our holiday, which I didn't a bit, for I had a sort of nasty presentiment and a heap of uncomfortable thoughts; and all the while you were slaving away at this hideous dressmaking,—I wish I could burn the whole rag, tag, and bobtail,—and never let us know you wanted anything. And you call that being friends!"

"Yes, and the best of friends, too," responded Phillis, cheerfully, for Nan was too much crushed by all this eloquence to answer. "Come along, Dulce! don't listen any more to this nonsense, when you know mother is wanting us. Dick is all very well when he is in a good humor, but time and dressmaking wait for no man." And the young hypocrite dragged the unwilling Dulce away. "Can't you leave them alone to come to an understanding?" whispered Phillis in her ear, when they got outside the door. "I can see it in his eyes; and Nan is on the verge of crying, she is so upset with the surprise. And, you goose, where are you going now?"

"To mother. Did you not say she wanted us?"

"Oh, you silly child!" returned Phillis, calmly: "does not mother always want us? One must say what comes uppermost in one's mind in emergencies of this sort. But for me, you would have stood there for an hour staring at them. Mother is out, as it happens: if you like we will go and meet her. Oh, no, I forgot: Dick is a young man, and it would not be proper. Let us go into the kitchen and help Dorothy." And away they went.

"Phillis is a trump!" thought Dick, as he shut the door. "I love that girl." And then he marched up to Nan, and took her hands boldly.

"Now, Nan you owe me amends for this; at least you will say you are sorry."

"No, Dick," hanging her head, for she could not face his look, he was so masterful and determined with her, and so unlike the easy Dick of old. "I am not a bit sorry: I would not have spoiled your holiday for worlds."

"My holiday!—a precious holiday it was without you! A lot of stupid climbing, with grinning idiots for company. Well, never mind that," his wrathful tone changing in a moment. "So you kept me in the dark just for my own good?"

"Yes, of course, Dick. What an unnecessary question!"

"And you wanted me, Nan?"

"Yes," very faintly, and there was a little tear-drop on one of Nan's lashes.

She had been so miserable,—how miserable he would never know; but he need not have asked her that.

"Oh, very well: then I won't bother you with any more questions. Now we understand each other, and can just go to business."

Nan looked up in his face in alarm. She anticipated another lecture, but nothing of the sort came. Dick cleared his throat, got a little red, and went on.

"I say settle our business, because we have been as good as engaged all these years. You know you belong to me, Nan?"

"Yes, Dick," she returned, obediently; for she was too much taken by surprise to know what she ought to say, and the two words escaped from her almost unconsciously.

"There never was a time we were not fond of each other,—ever since you were so high," pointing to what would represent the height of an extremely dwarfish infant of seven or eight months.

"Oh, not so long ago as that," returned Nan, laughing a little.

"Quite as long," repeated Dick, solemnly. "I declare, I have been so fond of you all my life, Nan, that I have been the happiest fellow in the world. Now, look here; just say after me, 'Dick, I promise on my word and honor to marry you.'"

Nan repeated the words, and then she paused in affright.

"But your father!" she gasped,—"and the dressmaking! Oh, Dick! what have you made me say? You have startled me into forgetting everything. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?" continued Nan, in the most innocent way. "We shall be engaged all our lives, for he will never allow you to marry me. Dick, dear Dick, please let me off! I never meant to give in like this."

"Never mind what you meant to do," returned Dick, with the utmost gravity: "the thing is, you have done it. On your word and honor, Nan, remember. Now we are engaged."

"Oh, but Dick, please don't take such advantage of me, just because I said—or, at least, you said—I was fond of you. What will mother say? She will be so dreadfully shocked; and it is so cruel to your father. I will be engaged to you in a way. I will promise—I will vow, if you will—never to marry any one else."

"I should think not," interrupted Dick, fiercely. "I would murder the fellow, whoever he was!" and in spite of himself his thought reverted to the fair beard and handsome face of the young clergyman.

Nan saw from his obstinate face that her eloquence was all wasted; but she made one more attempt, blushing like a rose:

"I will even promise to marry you, if your father gives his consent. You know, Dick, I would never go against him."

"Nor I. You ought to know me better, Nan, than to think I should act shabbily and leave the dear old fellow in the dark."

"Then you will set me free," marvelling a little over her lover's good sense and filial submission.

"As free as an engagement permits. Why, what do you mean, Nan? Have I not just told you we are engaged for good and all? Do you suppose I do not mean to tell my father so on the first opportunity? There he comes! bless the man, I knew he would follow me! Now you shall see how I can stick up for the girl I love." But Dick thought it better to release the hand he had been holding all this time.

There are certain moments in life when one is in too exalted a mood to feel the usual sensations that circumstances might warrant. At another time Nan would have been shocked at the condition of her work-room, being a tidy little soul, and thrifty as to pins and other odds and ends; and the thought of Mr. Mayne coming upon them unexpectedly would have frightened her out of her senses.

The room was certainly not in its usual order. There had been much business transacted there that morning. The table was strewn with breadths of gay broche silk; an unfinished gauzy-looking dress hung over a chair; the door of the wardrobe was open, and a row of dark-looking shapes—like Bluebeard's decapitated wives—were dimly revealed to view. A sort of lay figure, draped in calico, was in one corner. As Nan observed to Phillis afterwards, "There was not a tidy corner in the whole room."

Nevertheless, the presence of Dick so glorified the place that Nan looked around at the chaos quite calmly, as she heard Mr. Mayne's sharp voice first inquiring for her mother and then for herself. Dorothy, with her usual tact, would have shown him into the little parlor; but Nan, who wished for no disguise, stepped forward and threw open the door.

"I am here, Dorothy. Come in, Mr. Mayne. Dick is here too, and I am so sorry mother is out."

"I might have known that scapegrace would have given me the slip!" muttered Mr. Mayne, as he shook hands ungraciously with Nan, and then followed her into the work-room.

Dick, who was examining the wardrobe, turned round and saluted his father with a condescending nod:

"You were too long with the parson: I could not wait, you see. Did you make all these dresses, Nan? You are awfully clever, you girls! They look first-rate,—this greeny-browny-yellowish one, for example," pulling out a much furbelowed garment destined for Mrs. Squails.

"Oh, Dick, do please leave them alone!" and Nan authoritatively waved him away, and closed the wardrobe.

"I was only admiring your handiwork," returned Dick, imperturbably. "Does she not look a charming little dressmaker, father?" regarding Nan with undisguised pleasure, as she stood in her pretty bib-apron before them.

But Mr. Mayne only drew his heavy eyebrows together, and said,—

"Pshaw, Dick! don't chatter such folly. I want to have some talk with Miss Nancy myself."

"All right: I have had my innings," returned naughty Dick; but he shot a look at Nan that made her blush to her finger ends, and that was not lost on Mr. Mayne.

"Well, now, Miss Nancy, what does all this mean?" he asked, harshly. "Here we have run down just in a friendly way,—Dick and I,—leaving the mother rather knocked up after her travels at Longmead, to look you up and see how you are getting on. And now we find you have been deceiving us all along, and keeping us in the dark, and that you are making yourselves the talk of the place, sewing a parcel of gowns for all the townspeople."

Mr. Mayne did not add that his son had so bothered him for the last three weeks to run down to Hadleigh that he had acceded at last to his request, in the hope of enjoying a little peace.

"Draw it mild!" muttered Dick, who did not much admire this opening tirade; but Nan answered, with much dignity,—

"If people talk about us it is because of the novelty. They have never heard of gentle-people doing this sort of work before——"

"I should think not!" wrathfully from Mr. Mayne.

"Things were so bad with us that we should have all had to separate if Phillis had not planned this scheme; and then mother would have broken her heart; but now we are getting on famously. Our work gives satisfaction, we have plenty of orders; we do not forfeit people's good opinions, for we have nothing but respect shown us, and——"

But here Mr. Mayne interrupted her flow of quiet eloquence somewhat rudely.

"Pack of nonsense!" he exclaimed, angrily. "I wonder at your mother,—I do indeed. I thought she had more sense. You have no right to outrage your friends in this way! it is treating us badly. What will your mother say, Dick? She will be dreadfully shocked. I am sorry for you, my boy,—I am indeed: but, under the circumstances——"

But what he was about to add was checked by a very singular proceeding on the part of his son; for Dick suddenly took Nan's hand, and drew her forward.

"Don't be sorry for me, father: I am the happiest fellow alive. Nan and I have come to an understanding at last, after all these years. Allow me to present to you the future Mrs. Richard Mayne."



CHAPTER XXXI.

DICK THINKS OF THE CITY.

When Dick had uttered this audacious speech, Mr. Mayne started back, and his expression of mingled wrath and dismay was so ludicrous that under any other circumstances his son would have found it difficult to keep his countenance.

"What! what!" he almost shouted, losing all sense of politeness, and even of Nan's presence; "you young fool, what do you mean by trumping up this nonsense and presuming to talk to me in this way?"

Dick thought it prudent to drop Nan's hand,—and, indeed, the girl shrank away from them both in alarm at this outburst: nevertheless, his countenance and bearing maintained the same admirable sang-froid, as he confronted his angry parent:

"Now, father, what is the use of calling me names? When a fellow is of age, and knows his own mind, he does not care a pin for being called a fool. 'Hard words break no bones,' as our copy-leaves used to tell us,—no, I have not got that quite right; but that is about my meaning. Look here, father," he continued, in a coaxing, boyish voice; "I have cared for Nan ever since she was a little creature so high," again reverting to the infantile measurement. "I have always meant to marry her,—that is, if she would have me," correcting himself, as Nan drew herself up a little proudly. "Money or no money, there is not another girl in England that I would have for a wife. I would wait for her if I had to wait half my life, just the same as she would wait for me; and so, as I said before, when a fellow has made up his mind, there is nothing more to say." And here Dick pursed up his lips for a whistle, but thought better of it, and fell to twisting and untwisting the ends of his sandy moustache.

Nan's downcast eyes revealed nothing. But if Dick could only have seen the happy look in them! What eloquence could ever have been so dear to her as that clear rough-and-ready statement of her lover's feelings for her? "There is not another girl in England that I would have for a wife." Could anything surpass the beauty of that sentence? Oh, how manly, how true he was, this Dick of hers!

"Oh, indeed! I am to say nothing, am I?" returned Mr. Mayne, with exquisite irony. "My son is to dictate to me; and I am to be silent! Oh, you young fool!" he muttered under his breath; but then for the moment words seemed to fail him.

In spite of the wrath that was boiling within him, and to which he did not dare give vent in Nan's presence, in spite of the grief and disappointment that his son's defiance had caused him, Dick's bearing filled him with admiration and amazement.

This boy of his was worth something, he thought. He had a clear head of his own, and could speak to some purpose. Was a likely young fellow like this to be thrown away on that Challoner girl? Poor Nan! Pretty and blooming as she looked, Mr. Mayne felt almost as though he hated her. Why had she come between his boy and him? Had he a dozen sons, that he could spare one of them? Was not Dick his only one,—the son of his right hand, his sole hope and ambition? Mr. Mayne could have wept as these thoughts passed through his mind.

It was at this moment that Nan thought it right to speak. Dick had had his say, but it was not for her to be silent.

"Mr. Mayne, please listen to me a moment," she said, pleadingly. "No; I must speak to your father," as Dick, much alarmed, tried to silence her. "He must not think hard things of us, and misunderstand us."

"No, dear; indeed you had better be silent!" implored Dick, anxiously; but Nan for once turned a deaf ear to him.

"I must speak," she persisted. "Mr. Mayne, it is quite true what Dick says: we have been together all our lives, and have grown to care for each other. I cannot remember the time,"—the tears coming into her bright eyes—"when Dick was not more to me than a brother; it is all of such long standing, it is far, far too late to stop it now."

"We shall see about that, Miss Nancy," muttered Mr. Mayne, between his teeth; but the girl did not seem to hear him.

"Dick took me by surprise just now. I ought to have been more on my guard, and not have given him that promise."

"What promise?" demanded Mr. Mayne, harshly; and Nan hung her head, and returned, shyly,—

"That I would marry him some time; but indeed—indeed he made me say it, and I was so taken by surprise. No, Dick; you must let me finish," for Dick was looking at her with piteous entreaty in his eyes. "I know we were wrong to say so much without your leave; but indeed I will do your son no harm. I cannot marry any one else, because I am engaged to him; but as far as he is concerned he is free. I will never marry him without your permission; he shall not come here if you do not wish; but do not be so angry with us;" and here her lip quivered. "If you did not mean this to happen, you should have kept us apart all these years."

"Oh, hush, dear!" whispered Dick in her ear; but Mr Mayne almost thrust him aside, and laid a rough grasp on the girl's wrist. "Never mind him: answer me one question. Are you serious in what you say, that you will never marry him without my permission?"

"Of course I will not," answered Nan, quite shocked. "Dick would not ask me to do such a thing; he is far too honorable, and—and—no one would think of such a thing."

"Very well; that is all I wanted to know;" and he released her, not over-gently: "the rest I can settle with Master Dick himself. Good-morning, Miss Nancy: under the circumstances I do not think I will wait to see your mother. I am not quite in the mood for ladies; perhaps, later on, I may have something to say to her."

"Don't you mean to shake hands with me, Mr. Mayne?" asked poor Nan, much distressed at the evil temper of Dick's father; but there was no sign of softening.

"Yes; I will shake hands with you, and gladly, if you will promise to be sensible and send this boy of mine about his business. Come now, Nan; own for my comfort that it is only a bit of boy-and-girl nonsense, that means nothing. I am not over-particular, and do not object to a bit of flirting with young folk."

"You had better go with your father, Dick," returned Nan, with much dignity, and quite ignoring this speech.

Dick seized the little hand that had been so rudely rejected, and kissed it under his father's eyes.

"I will see you again somehow," he whispered, and Nan was quite content with this promise. Dick would keep his word, she knew: he would not leave Hadleigh without seeing her.

A very unpleasant hour ensued for poor Dick. Mr. Mayne in one of his worst tempers; he had conducted himself to Nan in an ungentlemanly manner, and he knew it; as Dick said to himself,—

"It is very hard on a fellow when one's father acts like a cad."

Mr. Mayne had shown himself a cad. No gentleman by birth or breeding would have conducted himself in that offensive way. Bad temper had broken down the trammels of conventionality: never before in his life had Dick felt so utterly ashamed of his father. Mr. Mayne was conscious of his son's criticism, and it made things worse.

It spoke well for Dick's prudence and self-command that he let the storm of his father's anger break over his head, and said no word. Mr. Mayne ranted and raved; I am afraid he even swore once or twice,—at least his language was undesirably strong,—and Dick walked beside him and held his peace. "Poor old boy, he is terribly cut up about this!" he thought once.

Mr. Drummond saw them coming along, and wondered at the energy of the older man. Was it the visit to the Friary that had put him out? and then he fell anew into cogitation. Who were these people who were so curious about the Challoners? At least that sulky young fellow had taken no apparent interest, for he had made an excuse to leave them; but the other one had persisted in very close investigation. Perhaps he was some relation,—an uncle, or a distant cousin; evidently he had some right or claim to be displeased. Archie determined to solve the mystery as soon as possible.

"Well, sir, have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Mr. Mayne, when he had fairly exhausted himself. He had disinherited Dick half a dozen times; he had deprived him of his liberal allowance; he had spoken of a projected voyage to New Zealand: and Dick had only walked on steadily, and thought of the cold trembling little hand he had kissed. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?" he vociferated.

Dick woke up at this.

"Oh, yes, I have plenty to say," he returned cheerfully; "but two cannot talk at once, you know. It was right for you to have the first innings, and all that; and I say, father,"—his filial feelings coming to the surface,—"I am awfully sorry, and so is Nan, to see you so vexed."

"Speak for yourself," was the wrathful answer. "Don't mention that girl's name in my hearing for the present."

"Whose name?—Nan's?" returned Dick, innocently. "I don't see how we are to keep it out of the conversation, when the row is all about her. Look here, father: I say again I am awfully sorry you are vexed; but as N—she says, it is too late to mend matters now. I have made my choice, for better for worse, and I am sorry it does not please you."

"Please me!" retorted Mr. Mayne; and then he added, venomously: "The girl said you would not marry without my permission; but I will never give it. Come, Dick, it is no use thwarting me in this: you are our only child and we have other plans for you. Pshaw! you are only a boy! You have not seen the world yet. There are dozens of girls far prettier than this Nan. Give this nonsense up, and there is nothing I will not do for you; you shall travel, have your liberty, do as you like for the next two or three years, and I will not worry you about marrying. Why, you are only one-and-twenty; and you have two more years of University life! What an idea,—a fine young fellow like you talking of tying yourself down to matrimony!"

"There is no use in my going back to Oxford, father," returned Dick, steadily; "thank you kindly all the same, but, it would be sheer waste of money. I have made up my mind to go into the City; it is the fashionable thing nowadays. And one does not need Greek and Latin for that, though, of course, it is an advantage to a fellow, and gives him a standing; but, as I have to get my own living, I cannot afford the two years. Your old chums Stanfield & Stanfield would give me a berth at once."

"Is the boy mad? What on earth do you mean by all this tomfoolery?" demanded Mr. Mayne, unable to believe his ears. His small gray eyes opened widely and irately on his son; but Dick took no notice. He walked on, with his shoulders looking rather square and determined; the corners of his mouth were working rebelliously: evidently he did not dare to look at his father for fear of breaking into incontrollable laughter. Really the dear old boy was getting too absurd; he—Dick—could not stand it much longer. "What in the name of all that is foolish do you mean, sir?" thundered Mr. Mayne.

Dick executed a low whistle, and then he said, in an aggrieved voice,—

"Well, father, I don't call you very consistent. I suppose I know what being disinherited means? In plain language, you have told me about half a dozen times that if I stick to Nan I am not to expect a shilling of your money. Now, in my own mind, of course I call that precious hard on a fellow, considering I have not been such a bad sort of son after all. But I am not going to quarrel with you about that: a man has a right to do as he likes with his own money."

"Yes; but, Dick, you are going to be sensible, you know, and drop the girl?" in a wheedling sort of tone.

"Excuse me, father; I am going to do nothing of the kind," returned Dick, with sudden firmness. "I am going to stick to her, as you did to my mother; and for just as long, if it must be so. I am not a bit afraid that you will not give your permission, if we only wait long enough to prove that we are in earnest. The only thing I am anxious about is how I am to get my living; and that is why I will not consent to waste any more time at the University. The bar is too uphill work; money is made quickest in the City: so, if you will be good enough to give me an introduction to Stanfield & Stanfield,—I know they are a rattling good sort of people,—that is all I will trouble you about at present." And Dick drew in a long breath of relief after this weighty speech.

"Do you mean this, Dick?" asked Mr. Mayne, rather feebly.

They had reached the hotel now, and, as they entered the private room where their luncheon was awaiting them, he sat down as though he had grown suddenly old and tired, and rested his head on his hand, perhaps to hide the moisture that had gathered under his shaggy eyebrows.

"Yes, father, I do," returned Dick; but he spoke very gently, and his hand touched his father's shoulder caressingly. "Let me give you some wine: all this business has taken it out of you."

"Yes, I have had a blow, Dick,—my only boy has given me a blow," returned Mr. Mayne, pathetically; but as he took the wine his hand trembled.

"I am awfully sorry," answered Dick, penitently: "if there were anything else you had asked me but this—but I cannot give up Nan." And, as he pronounced the name, Dick's eyes shone with pride and tenderness. He was a soft-hearted, affectionate young fellow, and this quarrel with his father was costing him a great deal of pain. In everything else he would have been submissive to his parents; but now he had a purpose and responsibility in his life: he had to be faithful to the girl whom he had won; he must think for her now as well as for himself. How sweet was this sense of dual existence, this unity of heart and aim!

Mr. Mayne fairly groaned as he read the expression on his son's face. Dick's youthful countenance was stamped with honest resolution. "I am going to stick to her, as you did to my mother."—that was what he had said. If this were true, it was all over with Dick's chances with the pretty little heiress; he would never look at her or her thirty thousand pounds; "but all the same he, Richard Mayne, would never consent to his son marrying a dressmaker. If she had only not disgraced herself, if she had not brought this humiliation on them, he might have been brought to listen to their pleading in good time and at his own pleasure; but now, never!—never!" he muttered, and set his teeth hard.

"Dick," he said, suddenly, for there had been utter silence for a space.

"Yes, father."

"You have upset me very much, and made me very unhappy; but I wish you to say nothing to your mother, and we will talk about this again. Promise me one thing,—that you will go back to Oxford at least until Christmas."

"What is the good of that, sir?" asked his son, dubiously.

"What is the good of anything? for you have taken every bit of pleasure out of my life; but at least you can do as much as this for me."

"Oh, yes, father, if you wish it," returned Dick, more cheerfully; "but all the same I have fixed upon a City life."

"We will talk of that again," replied his father; "and, Dick, we go home to-morrow, and, unless you promise me not to come down to Hadleigh between this and Christmas, I shall be obliged to speak to Mrs. Challoner."

"Oh, there is no need for that," returned Dick, sulkily.

"You give me your word?"

"Oh, yes," pushing aside his chair with a kick. "It would be no use coming down to Hadleigh, for Nan would not speak to me. I know her too well for that. She has got such a conscience, you know. I shall write to her, but I do not know if she will answer my letters; but it does not matter: we shall both be true as steel. If you don't want me any more, I think I will have a cigar on the beach, for this room is confoundedly hot." And, without waiting for permission, Dick strode off, still sulky and fully aware that his father meant to follow him, for fear of his footsteps straying again down the Braidwood Road.



CHAPTER XXXII.

"DICK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER."

Never was a father more devoted to his son's company than Mr. Mayne was that day. Dick's cigar was hardly alight before his father had joined him. When Dick grew weary of throwing stones aimlessly at imaginary objects, and voted the beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk with alacrity. They dined together,—not talking much, it is true, for Dick was still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache, but keeping up a show of conversation for the waiter's benefit. But when that functionary had retired, and the wine was on the table, Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but placed himself in the window-seat and stared moodily at the sea, while his father watched him and drank his wine in silence.

Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly.

Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make his escape.

"Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?" asked his father, as he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him.

"Not just yet. I feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and it is a shame to shut out the moonlight," returned that wicked Dick, calling up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he spoke.

The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was nodding in earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed the door behind him, and was taking his straw hat from its peg.

Nan was walking up and down the little dark lawn, feeling restless and out of sorts after the agitation of the morning, when she heard a low whistle at the other side of the wall, and her heart felt suddenly as light as a feather.

Dick saw her white gown as she came down the flagged path to the gate to let him in. The moonlight seemed to light it up with a sort of glory.

"You are a darling not to keep me waiting, for we have not a moment to lose," he whispered, as she came up close to him. "He is asleep now, but he will wake up as soon as he misses me. Have you expected me before, Nan? But indeed I have not been left to myself a moment."

"Oh, I knew all about it, my poor Dick," she answered, looking at him so softly. "Phillis is reading to mother in the parlor, and Dulce is in the work-room. I have nowhere to ask you unless you come in and talk to them. But mother is too upset to see you, I am afraid."

"Let us wait here," returned Dick, boldly. "No one can hear what we say, and I must speak to you alone. No; I had better not see your mother to-night, and the girls would be in the way. Shall you be tired, dear, if you stand out here a moment talking to me? for I dare not wait long."

"Oh, no, I shall not be tired," answered Nan gently. Tired, when she had her own Dick near her!—when she could speak to him,—look at him!

"All right; but it is my duty to look after you, now you belong to me," returned Dick, proudly. "Whatever happens,—however long we may be separated,—you must remember that—that you belong to me,—that you will have to account to me if you do not take care of yourself."

Nan smiled happily at this, and then she said,—

"I have told mother all about it, and she is dreadfully distressed about your father's anger. She cried so, and took his part, and said she did not wonder that he would not listen to us; he would feel it such a disgrace, his son wanting to marry a dressmaker. She made me unhappy, too, when she put it all before me in that way," and here Nan's face paled perceptibly in the moonlight, "for she made me see how hard it is on him, and on your mother, too! Oh, Dick don't you think you ought to listen to them, and not have anything more to do with me?"

"Nan, I am shocked at you!"

"But, Dick!"

"I tell you I am utterly shocked! You to say such a thing to my face, when we have been as good as engaged to each other all our lives! Who cares for the trumpery dressmaking? Not I!"

"But your father!" persisted Nan, but very faintly, for Dick's eyes were blazing with anger.

"Not another word! Nan, how dare you—after what you have promised this morning! Have I not been worried and badgered enough, without your turning on me in this way? If you won't marry me, you won't; but I shall be a bachelor all my life for your sake!" and Dick, who was so sore, poor fellow, that he was ready to quarrel with her out of the very fulness of his love, actually made a movement as though to leave her, only Nan caught him by the arm in quite a frightened way.

"Dick! dear Dick!"

"Well?" rather sullenly.

"Oh, don't leave me like this! It would break my heart! I did not mean to make you angry. I was only pleading with you for your own good. Of course I will keep my promise. Have I not been true to you all my life? Oh, Dick! how can you turn from me like this?" And Nan actually began to sob in earnest, only Dick's sweet temper returned in a moment at the sight of her distress, and he fell to comforting her with all his might; and after this things went on more smoothly.

He told her about his conversation with his father, and how he had planned a city life for himself; but here Nan timidly interposed:

"Would that not be a pity, when you had always meant to study for the bar?"

"Not a bit of it," was the confident answer. "That was my father's wish, not mine. I don't mind telling you in confidence that I am not at all a shining light. I am afraid I am rather a duffer, and shall not make my mark in the world. I have always thought desk-work must be rather a bore; but, after all, with a good introduction and a tolerable berth, one is pretty sure of getting on in the City. What I want is to make a little nest cosey for somebody, and as quick as possible,—eh, Nan?"

"I do not mind waiting," faltered Nan. But she felt at this moment that no lover could have been so absolutely perfect as her Dick.

"Oh, that is what girls always say," returned Dick, rather loftily. "They are never in a hurry. They would wait seven—ten years,—half a lifetime. But with us men it is different. I am not a bit afraid of you. I know you will stick to me like a brick, and all that; and father will come round when he sees we are in earnest. But all the same I want to have you to myself as soon as possible. A fellow likes the feeling of working for his wife. I hate to think of these pretty fingers stitching away for other people. I want them to work for me: do you understand, Nan?'" And Nan, of course, understood.

Dick, poor fellow, had not much time for his love-making, he and Nan had too much business to settle. Nan had to explain to him that her mother was of opinion that under the present circumstances, nothing ought to be done to excite Mr. Mayne's wrath. Dick might write to her mother sometimes, just to let them know how he was getting on; but between the young people themselves there must be no correspondence.

"Mother says it will not be honorable, and that we are not properly engaged." And, though Dick combated this rather stoutly, he gave in at last, and agreed that, until the new year, he would not claim his rights, or infringe the sacred privacy of the Friary.

"And now I must go," said Dick, with a great sigh; "and it is good-bye for months. Now, I do not mean to ask your leave,—for you are such a girl for scruples, and all that, and you might take it into your head to refuse me: so there!"

Dick's words were mysterious; but he very soon made his meaning plain.

Nan said, "Oh, Dick!" but made no further protest. After all, whatever Mr. Mayne and her mother said, they were engaged.

As Dick closed the little gate behind him, he was aware of a tall figure looming in the darkness.

"Confound that parson! What does he mean by loafing about here?" he thought, feeling something like a pugnacious bull-dog at the prospect of a possible rival. "I forgot to ask Nan about him; but I dare say he is after one of the other girls." But these reflections were nipped in the bud, as the short, sturdy form of Mr. Mayne was dimly visible in the road.

Dick chuckled softly: he could not help it.

"All right, dear old boy," he said to himself; and then he stepped up briskly, and took his father's arm.

"Do you call this honorable, sir?" began Mr. Mayne, in a most irascible voice.

"I call it very neat," returned Dick, cheerfully. "My dear pater, everything is fair in love and war; and if you will nap at unseasonable times—but that comes of early rising, as I have often told you."

"Hold your tongue, sir!" was the violent rejoinder. "It is a mean trick you have served me, and you know it. We will go back to-night; nothing will induce me to sleep in this place. You are not to be trusted. You told me a downright lie. You were humbugging me, sir, with your naps."

"I will plead guilty to a fib, if you like," was Dick's careless answer. "What a fuss you are making, father! Did you never tell one in your life? Now, what is the use of putting yourself out?—it is not good at your age, sir. What would my mother say? It might bring on apoplexy, after that port-wine."

"Confound your impertinence!" rejoined Mr. Mayne, angrily; but Dick patted his coat-sleeve pleasantly:

"There, that will do. I think you have relieved your feelings sufficiently. Now we will go to business. I have seen Nan, and told her all about it; and she has had it out with her mother. Mrs. Challoner will not hear of our writing to each other; and I am not to show my face at the Friary without your permission. There is no fibbing or want of honor there: Nan is not the girl to encourage a fellow to take liberties."

"Oh, indeed!" sneered Mr. Mayne; but he listened attentively for all that. And his gloomy eyebrows relaxed in the darkness. The girl was not behaving so badly, after all.

"So we said good-bye," continued Dick, keeping the latter part of the interview to himself; "and in October I shall go back for the term, as I promised. We can settle about the other things after Christmas."

"Oh, yes, we can talk about that by and by," replied his father, hastily; and then he waxed cheerful all at once, and called his son's attention to some new houses they were building. "After all, Hadleigh is not such a bad little place," he observed; "and they gave us a very good dinner at the hotel. It is not every one who can cook fish like that." And then Dick knew that the storm had blown over for the present, and that his father intended to make himself pleasant and ignore all troublesome topics.

Dick was a little tired when he went to bed; but, on the whole, he was not unhappy. It was quite true that the idea of a City life was repugnant to him, but the thought of Nan sweetened even that. Nothing else remained to him if his father chose to be disagreeable and withdraw his allowance, or threaten to cut him off with a shilling, as other fellows' fathers did in novels.

"It is uncommonly unpleasant, having to wage war with one's own father," thought Dick, as he laid his sandy head on the pillow. "He is such an old trump, too, that it goes against the grain. But when it comes to his wanting to choose a wife for me, it is too much of a good thing: it is tyranny fit for the Middle Ages. Let him threaten if he likes. He will find I shall take his threats in earnest. After Christmas I will have it out with him again; and if he will not listen to reason, I will go up to Mr. James Stanfield myself, and then he will see that I mean what I say. Heigho! I am not such a lucky fellow as Hamilton always thinks me." And at this juncture of his sad cogitations Dick forgot all about it, and fell asleep.

Yes, Dick slept the sleep of the just. It was Mr. Drummond who was wakeful and uneasy that night. A vague sense of something wrong tormented him waking and sleeping.

Who was that sandy-headed young fellow who had been twice to the Friary that day. What business had he to be shutting the gate after him in that free-and-easy way at ten o'clock at night? He must find it out somehow; he must make an excuse for calling there, and put the question as indifferently as he could; but even when he made up his mind to pursue this course, Archie felt just as restless as ever.

He made his way to the cottage as early as possible. Phillis, who was alone in the work-room, colored a little as she saw him coming in at the gate. He came so often, he was so kind, so attentive to them all, and yet she had a dim doubt in her mind that troubled her at times. Was it for Nan's sake that he came? Could she speak and undeceive him before things went too far with him? Yes, when the opportunity offered, she thought she could speak, even though the speaking would be painful to her.

Mr. Drummond looked round the room with a disappointed air as he entered, and then he came up to Phillis.

"You are alone?" he said, with a regretful accent in his voice; at least Phillis fancied she detected it. "How is that? Are your sisters out, or busy?"

"Oh, we are always busy," returned Phillis, lightly; but, curiously enough, she felt a little sore at his tone. "Nan has gone down to Albert Terrace to take a fresh order, and Dulce is in the town somewhere with mother. Don't you mean to sit down, Mr. Drummond? or is your business with mother? She will not be back just yet, but I could give her any message." Phillis said this as she stitched away with energy; but one quick glance had shown her that Mr. Drummond was looking irresolute and ill at ease as he stood beside her.

"Thank you, but I must not stay and hinder you. Yes, my business was with your mother; but it is of no consequence, and I can call again." Nevertheless, he sat down and deposited his felt hat awkwardly enough on the table. He liked Phillis, but he was a little afraid of her; she was shrewd, and seemed to have the knack of reading one's thoughts. He was wondering how he should bring his question on the tapis; but Phillis, by some marvellous intuition that really surprised her, had already come to the conclusion that this visit meant something. He had seen Dick; perhaps he wanted to find out all about him. Certainly he was not quite himself to-day. Yes, that must be what he wanted. Phillis's kind heart and mother-wit were always ready for an emergency.

"How full Hadleigh is getting!" she remarked, pleasantly, as she adjusted the trimming of a sleeve. "Do you know some old neighbors of ours from Oldfield turned up unexpectedly yesterday? They are going away to-day, though," she added, with a little regret in her voice.

Archie brightened up visibly at this.

"Oh, indeed!" he observed, with alacrity. "Not a very long visit. Perhaps they came down purposely to see you?"

"Yes, of course," returned Phillis, confusedly. "They had intended staying some days at the hotel, but Mr. Mayne suddenly changed his mind, much to our and Dick's disappointment; but it could not be helped."

"Dick," echoed Archie, a little surprised at this familiarity and then he added, somewhat awkwardly, "I think I saw the young man and his father at the Library yesterday; and last night as I was coming from the station I encountered him again at your gate."

"Yes, that was Dick," answered Phillis, stooping a little over her work. "He is not handsome, poor fellow! but he is as nice as possible. They live at Longmead; that is next door to our dear old Glen Cottage, and the gardens adjoin. We call him Dick because we have known him all our lives, and he has been a sort of brother to us."

"Oh, yes, I see," drawled Archie, slowly. "That sort of thing is very nice when you have not a man belonging to you. It is a little awkward sometimes, for people do not always see this sort of relationship. He seemed a nice sort of fellow, I should say," he continued, in his patronizing way, stroking his beard complacently. After all, the sandy-headed youth was no possible rival.

"Oh, Dick is ever so nice," answered Phillis, enthusiastically; "not good enough for—" and then she stopped and broke her thread. "I am glad we are so fond of him," she continued, rather hurriedly, "because Dick is to be our real brother some day. He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives, and, though Mr. Mayne is dreadfully angry about it, they consider themselves as good as engaged, and mean to live down his opposition. They came to an understanding yesterday," finished Phillis, who was determined to bring it all out.

"Oh, indeed!" returned Archie: "that must be a great relief, I am sure. There is your little dog whining at the door; may I let him in?" And, without waiting for an answer, Archie had darted out in pursuit of Laddie, but not before Phillis's swift upward glance had shown her a face that had grown perceptibly paler in the last few minutes.

"Oh, poor fellow! I was right!" thought Phillis, and the tears rushed to her eyes. "It was best to speak. I see that now; and he will get over it if he thinks no one knows it. How I wish I could help him! but it will never do to show the least sympathy: I have no right." And here Phillis sighed, and her gray eyes grew dark with pain for a moment. Archie was rather a long time absent; and then he came back with Laddie in his arms, and stood by the window.

"Your news has interested me very much," he said, and his voice was quite steady. "I suppose, as this—this engagement is not public, I had better not wish your sister joy, unless you do it for me."

"Oh, no; there is no need of that," returned Phillis, in a low voice. "Mother might not like my mentioning it; but I thought you might wonder about Dick, and——" here Phillis got confused.

"Thank you," replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked at her. "You are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to know." And then, as Phillis rose and gave him her hand, for he had taken up his hat as he spoke, she read at once that her caution had been in vain,—that he had full understanding why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and that he was grateful to her for so telling him.

Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet as the door closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears fell on her work. He was not angry with her; on the contrary, he had thanked her, and the grasp of his hand had been as cordial as ever. But, in spite of the steadiness of his voice and look, the arrow had pierced between the joints of his armor. He might not be fatally wounded,—that was not in the girl's power to know; but that he was in some way hurt,—made miserable with a man's misery,—of this she was acutely sensible; and the strangest longing to comfort him—to tell him how much she admired his fortitude—came over her, with a strong stinging pain that surprised her.

Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had in his life. He came in quite fagged and foot-sore to his dinner, and far too tired to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill and worn out; but, though he generally resented any such personal remarks, he merely told her very gently that he was tired, and that he would like a cup of coffee in his study, and not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee presently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, and evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe.

But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed upon her. It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral strength to bear a pain that threatened to be unendurable. How had that girl read his secret? Surely he had not betrayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her calmness and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence. Never for an instant had her changing color testified to the faintest uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve now. Her thoughts had been with this Dick; and here Archie groaned and hid his face.

Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense of loss were very bitter to this young man, who had felt for weeks past that his life was permeated by the sweetness and graciousness of Nan's presence. How lovely she had seemed to him,—the ideal girl of his dreams! It was love at first sight. He knew that now. His man's heart had been set on the hope of winning her, and now she was lost to him.

Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could belong to him. "He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives,"—that was what her sister had told him; and what remained but for him to stamp out this craze and fever before it mastered him and robbed him of his peace?

"I am not the only man who has had to suffer," thought Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. "At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace's sympathy in this." And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis's eyes. "She was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me," thought the young man.