"Clara will never do me credit," returned his sister, mournfully: "she works steadily and takes pains, but she was never as clever as Isabel."

"No; she is no shining light, as mother owns; but she will play beautifully, if she be properly trained. Well, as to the other girls, it appears that my father has decided to accept my offer of sending Susie to a first-class boarding-school; and, as he has determined to do the same for Laura, there is only Dottie for Mattie to manage or mismanage. So you see, Gracie, your school-room drudgery is over. Mother herself, by her own will, has opened the prison-doors."

He spoke in a light jesting tone, but Grace answered, almost passionately,—

"I tell you no, Archie! I no longer wish it so; it is too late: things are now quite different."

"What do you mean?" he returned, with a long steady look that seemed to draw out her words in spite of her resolve not to speak them.

"I mean that things are changed—that you no longer need me, or wish me to live with you."

"I need you more," he returned, calmly; "perhaps I have never needed you so much. As for living with me, is it your desire to condemn me to an existence of perfect loneliness?—for after Christmas Mattie leaves me. You are mysterious, Grace; you are not your old self."

"Oh, it is you that are not yourself!" she retorted, in a tone of grief. "Why have you avoided me? why do you withhold your confidence? why do your letters tell me nothing? and then you come and are still silent."

"What is it that you would have me tell you?" he asked; but this time he did not look her in the face.

"I would know this thing that has come between us and robbed me of your confidence. You are ill at ease; you are unhappy, Archie! You have never kept a trouble from me before: it was always I who shared your hopes and fears."

"You may still share them. I am not changed, as you imagine Grace. All that I can tell you I will, even if you demand it in that 'money-or-your-life' style, as you are doing now," trying to turn it off with a jest.

"Oh, Archie!"

"Well, what of Archie, now?"

"That you should laugh away my words! you have never done that before."

"Very well, I will be serious; nay, more, I will be solemn. Grace, I forbid you ever to mention this thing again, on pain of my bitter displeasure!"

Then, as she looked at him, too much startled to answer, he went on:

"A man has a right to his own thoughts, if he choose to keep them to himself and his Maker. There are some things with which even you may not meddle, Grace. What if my life holds a grief which I would bury from all eyes but my own? would you tear up the clods with unhallowed fingers? To no living person but my Saviour"—and here Archie looked up with reverent eyes—"will I speak of this thing." Then she clung to his arm, and tears flowed over her cheeks.

"Oh, Archie! forgive me! forgive me! I never meant to hurt you like this; I will not say another word!"

"You have not hurt me," he returned, striving after his old manner, "except in refusing to live with me. I am lonely enough, God knows! and a sister who understands me, and with whom I could have sympathy, would be a great boon."

"Then I will come," she replied; drying her eyes. "If you want me, I will come, Archie."

"I do want you; and I have never told you anything but the truth. But you must come and be happy, my dear. I want you, yourself, and not a grave, reticent creature who has gone about the house the last few days, looking at me askance, as though I had committed some deadly sin."

Then the dimple showed itself in Grace's cheek.

"Have I really been so naughty, Archie?"

"Yes, you have been a very shadowy sort of Grace; but I give you full absolution, only don't go and do it any more." And, as she looked at him with her eyes full of sorrowful yearning, he went on, hastily: "Oh, I am all right, and least said is soonest mended. I am like the dog in AEsop's fable, who mistook the shadow for the substance. A poor sort of dog, that fellow. Well, is your poor little mind at rest, Grace?" And the tone in which she said "Yes" seemed to satisfy him, for he turned their talk into another channel.

When Mrs. Drummond saw her daughter's face that evening, she knew the cloud had passed between the brother and sister.

Grace followed her to her room that night,—a thing she had not done for months.

"Mother, I must thank you for being so good to us," she began, impulsively, as soon as she had crossed the threshold.

"How have I been good to you, Grace?" observed her mother, calmly, as she unfastened her brooch. "Of course, I have always tried to be good to my children, although they do not seem to think so."

"Ah, but this is very special goodness: and I am more grateful than I can say. Are you sure you will be able to spare me, mother?"

"After Christmas?—oh, yes: things will be possible then. If I remember rightly, I had to endure some very bitter words from you on this very subject. I hope you will do justice to my judgment at that time."

"Yes, mother," with downcast eyes. "I am afraid Archie and I were very wilful."

"You were wilful, Grace,"—for Mrs. Drummond never suffered any one to find fault with her son in her hearing,—"you who ought to have known better. And yet I do believe that, but for my determination to enforce the right thing, you would have left your post, and all your duties, because Archie wanted you."

"I was wrong. I see that plainly."

"Yes, you were wrong: for a long time you bore yourself towards me as no daughter ought to bear herself to her mother. You angered me sorely, Grace, because I saw you were hardening yourself against me, only because I insisted that no child of mine should neglect her duty."

"Mother, surely I am humbling myself now?"

"True; but how long have I waited for this confession? Night after night I have said to myself, 'Surely Grace will come and tell me that she feels herself in the wrong!' But no such words came. At last I ceased to hope for them; and now at this eleventh hour you can hardly expect me to show much joy at hearing them spoken."

Then Grace's head drooped, and she was silent. She knew she deserved all these hard words, bitter as they were to bear; but Mrs. Drummond had said her say.

"Well, well, better late than never; and we will say no more about it. Next time you will understand me better, Grace."

Then, as her mother kissed her, Grace knew that her sin was condoned. Nevertheless, as she left the room a few minutes later, her heart was not quite so light in her bosom; she felt that her mother had been just, but hardly generous.

"I thought mothers forgave more easily," she said to herself, in somewhat aggrieved fashion. She had no idea that her mother was equally disappointed.

Mrs. Drummond was a hard, but not an unloving woman; and she would have liked more demonstration from her daughters. If Grace, for example, instead of all these words, had thrown herself into her arms and owned herself in the wrong, with a child-like pleading for forgiveness, Mrs. Drummond would have felt herself satisfied, and would have pressed her to her bosom with a loving word or two that Grace would have remembered when her mother was in her grave. But such outward forms of tenderness were not possible to Mrs. Drummond's daughters: for in such matters we must reap as we sow; and Mrs. Drummond's manner hardly merited softness. For there are mothers and mothers; and the world must produce its Drummonds and its Challoners until the end of time.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ABOUT NOTHING PARTICULAR.

It was as well that Grace had had this talk with her brother; for, during the two days that remained of his brief visit, they were not alone together until the last half-hour before his departure. The young vicar had to return for his Sunday duties; but Mattie remained behind for another week. Archie, indeed, had once sought her in his old fashion,—running up to the school-room for a chat; but Susie had been there all the time. In former days, Archie would have sent her away with blunt peremptoriness; but now he seemed well content to have her there. He had no secrets to discuss, as he sat in his old place in the window-seat; yet Grace was too happy to see him there to find fault with his discourse.

But on the morning of his departure she had come down early to pour out his coffee. He had bidden his mother good-bye in her room; but he knew that, in spite of the earliness of the hour, Grace would be in her place to minister to his wants.

"Well, Grace," he said, entering with his travelling-plaid over his arm, "so it is to be good-bye until Christmas."

"Yes," she returned, looking at him with a sort of wistfulness; "but the time will pass quickly now. It is so nice to think that we shall begin our new year together." And, as her brother checked an involuntary sigh, she went on eagerly: "If you knew how happy I am about it! It will be something to wake every morning and know you are not a hundred miles off,—that when I come down to breakfast I shall find you there,—that I shall be able to talk to you as much as I like; and as for work, why, it will be play to me to work for you, Archie!"

"Of course I know that," rather mischievously.

"I would work for you like a servant: would I not, dear? I mean to be ever so good to you. Your friends shall be my friends; your likes and dislikes shall be mine too."

"Why, Gracie," he said, humoring her, "this is more than a wife would do for me!"

"Ah! but it is not too much to ask from a sister," she returned, earnestly. "When you bring home your wife, Archie, I mean to be good to her too. I shall have to leave you then, and come back here; but if you are happy I shall not be miserable." But he interrupted her a little impatiently.

"What put such nonsense into your head? I shall never marry. We shall be a pattern of old-bachelor brother and maiden sister." And then he pushed away his plate, and went to the window. "Is it not Mrs. Carlyle who quotes that quaint old story about some one who always thanked God 'for the blessings that passed over his or her head'? Is not that a curious idea, when one comes to think it out? Fancy thanking heaven really and seriously for all our disappointed hopes and plans,—for 'the blessings that go over our heads'! It would be a new clause in our petitions,—eh, Gracie?"

"Why, yes," she replied, as she came and stood near him. "I am afraid I could never say that from my heart."

"It is not easy," he returned, quietly; "but I do not know that we ought to give up trying, for all that." And then his manner changed, and he put his arm round her in his old fashion. "Recollect, I want you very much, Grace: your coming will make me far happier. Mattie only touches the outside of things; I want some one near me who can go deeper than that,—who will help me with real work, and put up with my bad humors; for I am a man who is very liable to discouragement." And when he had said this, he bade her good-bye.

It was a comfort to Archie to find himself hard at work again. These few days of idleness had been irksome to him. Now he could throw himself without stint or limit into his pastoral labors, walking miles of country road until he was weary, and planning new outlets for the feverish activity that seemed to stimulate him to fresh efforts.

People began to talk of the young vicar. His sermons were changed somehow. There was more in them,—"less of the husk, and more of the kernel," as Miss Middleton once remarked rather pithily.

They were wonderfully brief discourses; but, whereas they had once been elegant and somewhat scholarly productions, they were now earnest and even pungent. If the sentences were less carefully compiled, more rough-hewn, and deficient in polish, there was matter in them that roused people and made them think.

"I never could remember Mr. Drummond's sermons before," Dulce once observed, "but now I can recollect whole sentences quite nicely."

Phillis, to whom she spoke, assented by a nod. If she had chosen, she could have admitted the fact that she could remember not sentences, but the entire sermon itself. In secret she marvelled also at the change.

"He is more earnest," she would say to herself. "He preaches now, not from the outside, but from the inside of things,—from his own experience, not from other people's. That makes the difference."

And to Nan, who was her other conscience, she said one day, when they were discussing this subject,—

"I have been thinking a great deal about sermons lately. I wish I could publish the result of my cogitation. I feel inclined to write a pamphlet and entitle it 'Hints to the Clergy.' I think it would take vastly."

It was Sunday afternoon, and they were sitting together on their favorite boulder. Phillis had christened it her "thinking-stone."

"I never think to more purpose than when I am sitting here," she would say.

Nan, who was looking out to sea rather dreamily, intent on her usual vision, Dick, roused herself at this, and began to smile in a lofty way.

"You think yourself very clever, Phillis, and so do I; but sermons are hardly in your province, my dear."

Phillis shook her head gravely. She dissented from this view of the case.

"Common sense is in every one's province," she persisted. "I am a practical woman, and some of my hints would be valuable. Sermons are failures, Nan. They go over people's heads like a flight of badly-shot arrows. Does not Goulburn say that? Now and then one touches the mark. When they are all let fly hither and thither and anyhow, the preacher shuts up his book, and his hearers cease to yawn."

"Oh, Phillis, how absurd you are! Suppose Mr. Drummond were to hear you?"

"I should have no objection. But, Nan, seriously, do you not notice how formal and cut-and-dried most sermons are? They come round regularly, like Sunday. People have to bear being preached at, and so the unfortunate parson must hammer it out of his head somehow. He picks out his text, writes out his composition, drags in his learning by the ear, and delivers it in his best fashion; and people listen to it politely, and the best behaved do not yawn."

"Phillis, you are positively irreverent! I am shocked at you!"

"On the contrary, I am very reverent. Well, in my 'Hints to the Clergy' I would say, first, 'Never preach what you do not feel yourself, or the current of electricity or sympathy, or whatever it is that communicates between preacher and people, will be checked or impeded. Do not preach out of the book: we can read that for ourselves. Preach out of your own head and your own experience, just as much as you can.' Bless you," continued Phillis, in a wise, half-sad tone, "half the pulpits would be empty: we should get sometimes no sermons at all!"

This was too much for Nan's simplicity.

"But people would be so disappointed," she observed, plaintively. "All the middle-aged people like sermons."

"It would not hurt them to be disappointed sometimes. They would appreciate the real thing all the more when it came. It is as well to go without food altogether as to be fed on husks. After all, people forget that they come to church to say their prayers all together, and sing glorias."

"That is very nicely said, dear," was Nan's admiring comment on this.

But Phillis waved aside the praise. She was quite in earnest.

"But if I were speaking to one of these real and not make-believe preachers, I would say to him, 'Never be discouraged. Say what you have got to say: if you really feel it and mean it, some one will feel it too. You can't see into people's hearts: and a good thing, too, my friend. But "the arrow at the venture" may tell; some one may be "hit between the joints of the armor."' There, come along; you shall have more of my hints another time. I have said my say for the present." And Phillis rose from the boulder, with her eyes bright and kindled by some moving thought, and went down to the edge of the water, and watched a sea-gull dipping towards the shore in the midst of the windy lights; while Nan, marvelling at her sister's unusual earnestness, followed more slowly.

The Challoners were holding up their heads in the place now. There was no denying that. By the people at the vicarage and the White House they were owned and regarded as equals. Mrs. Cheyne made no secret of her affection for Phillis; and she was full of kindness also to Nan and Dulce. It was their own fault if they declined her frequent invitations. But there was one person who refused to hold out the hand of amity to the eccentric new-comers.

Colonel Middleton still shook his white head, and delivered his protest into his daughter's ear. Elizabeth, declared, laughingly, "that the Challoner girls were to her father what a red rag is to a bull." He never met one of them without coming home and relieving his mind, as he called it. "My father is dying to know them," she would say to Mr. Drummond. "He has fallen in love with them all,—mother and daughters too; but he is denying himself an introduction for a certain reason." But, though Archie looked curious and questioned her very closely, she chose to be provoking and say no more. It was Colonel Middleton who at last enlightened the young man.

They were walking from the town together. The colonel was carrying his stick musket-wise over his shoulder, and had the vicar by the arm, when Phillis and Dulce came out of the gateway of the White House. As the girls passed Archie, they smiled at him and nodded, and Phillis, in a pretty way she had, waved her hand; and then they went on rapidly towards the Friary. As they did so, Colonel Middleton groaned, and touched his companion's arm impressively.

"There, now, Drummond, did you ever see girls with a better carriage?—heads up—light springy step? Why, it is a pleasure even to an old fellow like myself to watch them. Fancy that taller one on horseback in the Row! Why, she would cut out half the girls. And think that one dare not notice them!" And he struck his stick into the ground almost angrily.

Archie smiled: he could not help it. The colonel was so whimsical in his wrath.

"They had plenty of notice from the folk at the White House," he returned, quietly.

"Ah, Cheyne was always a bit of a Radical, and madam is no better. They can do as they like, without being afraid of consequences. But that is not my case." And, as Archie looked at him rather mystified, he went on: "Bless me, you do not suppose I am afraid of knowing them for my own sake? Elizabeth tells me that she is intimate with them. But that is not my business, so long as she does not have them at Brooklyn. 'We must draw the line there, Elizabeth,' I said. 'If you choose to visit your dressmakers, it is not for me to prevent you; you are old enough to select your own friends, so you may be as eccentric as you like. But your brother is coming home. Young men are young men; and I do not choose to expose Hammond to such temptation.'"

"Oh, Hammond! That is your son, I suppose?" asked Archie, who was much amused at the colonel's earnestness.

"Yes; my boy Hammond! the finest fellow in the regiment, though I say it, who should not. Do you think that I, his father, would expose him to such danger as to throw him into the society of a set of fascinating young women who have chosen to emancipate themselves from all conventionality, and who call themselves—stuff and rubbish!—dressmakers?"

"Not call themselves, so: they are excellent dressmakers!" was Archie's somewhat malicious reply.

"All the more reason that my son should not know them!" thundered the old man. "What, sir! an officer in one of her Majesty's regiments—the son and grandson of officers,—is such a one to be mixed up with a family that has lost caste,—to flirt with or make love to girls who are not above making gowns for my butcher's wife? Before Hammond does such a thing as that——" And here the colonel paused from excess of emotion.

"You are perfectly right to defend your son from such danger," returned the young clergyman with covert sarcasm. "In your case I should probably feel the same. But, in my position, being intimate with those ladies of whom you speak, and having had good opportunity to form my opinions of them, I cannot help saying, in their defence, that even your son, excellent officer as he is,—and, I am sure, a most worthy young man,—would scarcely be dishonored by an alliance with the finest young gentlewomen I ever met!" And, as he said this, with all due gravity, Archie released his arm, and, with a farewell nod, went off, leaving the colonel, open-mouthed and gasping with astonishment, at his own gate.

Elizabeth met him on the threshold.

"Oh, father, why did you not bring Mr. Drummond in!" she said, reproachfully; "it is so long since he has paid us a visit."

"Poor Drummond!" replied the colonel, with a mournful shake of his head: "it is just as I thought. He has almost owned it, in fact. He is seriously smitten with one of those Challoner girls, and before long there will be a wedding in the place."

"Now, father, this is just one of your whimsies," replied Elizabeth, placidly. "Mr. Drummond is going to have his favorite sister, Grace, to live with him and keep his house. He told me so himself; and that does not look as though he expected to bring home a wife. So you may just put this idea out of your head." But, though Elizabeth was well aware of the truth of her words, that no new mistress was to come to the vicarage, still her fine sympathy and unerring woman's divination had read the meaning of the young vicar's clouded brow, and she knew that he, too, had to try and be grateful for "the blessings that went over his head."

Archie's grand and somewhat heroic speech failed in its effect, as far as the colonel was concerned. Elizabeth was right in saying her father was longing to know the Challoners. The old man's fancy had been mightily taken by the girls; but for Hammond, for his boy's sake, he was capable of any amount of self-denial. Once he was sorely tempted to give in. When turning the corner of the Braidwood Road, not far from his own house, he came suddenly upon his daughter, who was standing on the side-path, talking to Dulce.

Dulce, who always seemed a sort of reflection and shadow of her sisters, and who withdrew somewhat in the background, obscured a little by Nan's beauty and Phillis's sprightliness, was nevertheless in her way a most bewitching little maiden.

"There comes my father!" observed Elizabeth, tranquilly, never doubting that he would join them; and Dulce looked up a little shy and fluttered from under her broad-brimmed hat; for she had taken a fancy to the colonel, with his white moustache and kindly inquisitive eyes. He was a sort of hero in her fancy; and Dulce loved heroes,—especially when they wore a medal.

Colonel Middleton saw the little girl dimpling and blushing with pleasure, and his old heart thumped a little with excitement and the conflict of feeling: the innocent child-look appealed to his fatherly sympathies. There was a moment's wavering; then he lifted his white hat, with a muttered "Good-morning," and the next minute he was walking on with squared shoulders and tremendous energy.

Poor little Dulce's lip quivered with disappointment: she thought it hard, when other people were so kind to them. Elizabeth said nothing; but she bade the child good-bye with greater tenderness than usual, and sent all sort of messages to her mother and Nan.

The colonel, meanwhile, had retreated into the house, and was opening his papers with more than his usual fuss.

"It is for Hammond," he murmured to himself. "When one has boys, one must do one's duty by them; but it was confoundedly hard, by Jove!" And all the remainder of the day a pair of appealing eyes seemed to reproach him with unkindness. But Elizabeth never said a word; it was not her place to find fault with her father.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

"HOW DO YOU DO, AUNT CATHERINE?"

One drizzling November morning, Mattie was standing at the hall door, looking out a little blankly through the open gateway at the prospect before her,—at the rotting leaves that lay heaped up in the road, and at the gray, humid sky,—when a very big man suddenly blocked up the entrance, and startled her dreadfully.

Mattie afterwards described the occurrence very graphically to her brother:

"He was the biggest man I ever saw in my life, Archie. He looked as strong as a navvy; and his shoulders reminded me of one of those men one sees in brewers' drays. And his face was so red, and his hair, too,—that dreadfully red color, you know, that no one admires; and his hands, and even his voice, were big."

"What a fascinating description!" laughed Archie. "Upon my word, Mattie, you are rather tremendous in your language. Well, and what did the navvy say to you?"

"Oh, he was not a navvy, really! Of course he was a gentleman. He could not help his big voice, and what he said was nice; but, I assure you, Archie, he nearly took my breath away;" and so on, and so on, to the end of her story.

But it was enough to surprise any one whose nerves were not of the strongest, when one lives in a lonely country road, and the master of the house is out, to see a gigantic specimen of manhood, not very carefully dressed, and with hair like a red glory, come suddenly striding through one's open gate, without "by your leave," or waiting for any possible permission.

Mattie dropped her umbrella,—for she was dressed in her waterproof, and her oldest hat, ready for her district-work; and the stranger picked it up, and handed it to her promptly, and then he removed his hat politely.

"How do you do, cousin?" he said; and a broad, genial smile revealed a set of white teeth.

Mattie retreated a step in genuine affright.

"For you know, Archie," she explained afterwards, in her simple way, "we have no cousins worth mentioning, except Sophy Trinder, who is not our cousin at all, but mother's; and so you see it sounded so very odd."

"Very odd indeed," muttered Archie.

"If you please, Mr. Drummond—that is my brother—is out, and I am going out too," faltered Mattie, who was not a specially heroic little person, and who decidedly had not got her wits about her just then.

"I do not want Mr. Drummond, whoever he may be. I never heard of him in my life. I only want my aunt and cousins. Which of them are you, eh? Why, you must be Nan, I suppose?" And the big man looked down at her with a sort of supercilious good nature. The name gave Mattie instant enlightenment.

"Nan!—Oh, you must mean the Challoners!" she exclaimed, with a little gasp of surprise.

"Yes, of course; I am a Challoner myself. Well, which of them are you, eh? You are a long time telling me your name." And the new-comer peered down at her still more curiously, as though he were surprised to find anything so small and ordinary-looking.

Mattie never looked to advantage in her waterproof. More than once her brother had threatened to burn the old rag of a thing.

"My name is Mattie Drummond," replied the bewildered Mattie, trying to speak with dignity,—she never would call herself Matilda, she hated it so,—"and I live with my brother, who is the clergyman of the parish. This is the vicarage: if you want the Friary, it is a little lower down the road."

"Where?" he asked, striding to the gate; and then he came back again, taking the few steps at a single bound,—so at least it appeared to Mattie. "Why—why—there is no house at all—only a miserable cottage, and——"

"That is the Friary," repeated Mattie, decidedly; "but it is not miserable at all: it is very nice and pretty. The Challoners are very poor, you know; but their house looks beautiful for all that."

"Oh, yes; I know all about it. I have been down to that place, Oldfield, where they lived; and what I heard has brought me here like an express train. I say, Miss Mattie Drummond, if you will excuse ceremony in a fellow who has never seen his father's country before, and who has roughed it in the colonies, may I come in a moment and ask you a few questions about my cousins?"

"Oh, by all means," returned Mattie, who was very good-natured and was now more at her ease. "You will be very welcome, Mr. Challoner."

"Sir Henry Challoner, at your service," responded that singular individual with a twinkle of his eye, as Mattie became confused all at once. "You see," he continued, confidentially, as she led the way rather awkwardly to her brother's study, hoping fervently that Archie would come in, "I have been making up my mind to come to England for years, but somehow I have never been able to get away; but after my father's death—he was out in Australia with me—I was so lonely and cut up that I thought I would take a run over to the mother-country and hunt up my relations. He was not much of a father perhaps; but, as one cannot have a choice in such matters, I was obliged to put up with him;" which was perhaps the kindest speech Sir Francis's son could make under the circumstances.

Mattie listened intelligently, but she was so slightly acquainted with the Challoners' past history that she did not know they possessed any relations. But she had no need to ask any questions: the new-comer seemed determined to give a full account of himself.

"So do you see, Miss Drummond, having made my fortune by a stroke of good luck, and not knowing quite how to spend it—the father and mother both gone,—and having no wife or chick of my own, and being uncommon lonely under the circumstances, I thought I would just run over and have a look at my belongings. I have a sort of fancy for Aunt Catherine; she used to write me such pretty letters when I was a little chap in Calcutta, and tell me about Nan, and Phillis, and—what was the baby's name?—Dulce. I believe she and the poor old governor never hit it off: the old man had been a sad sinner in his day. But I never forgot those letters: and when he was gone, poor old boy! I said to myself, Now I will go and see Aunt Catherine."

"And you went down to Oldfield, Sir Henry?"

"Eh, what? meaning me, I suppose? but out there they called me Sir Harry, or Harry mostly, for what was the use of a title there? Oh, yes, I went down and found out all about them from a chatty little woman, rather like yourself, and she sent me on here."

"Oh, dear, I am so glad!" exclaimed Mattie, who was now thoroughly herself: "they will be so pleased to see you, and you will think them all so charming. I am sure I never saw any one the least like them, except Grace, and she is not half so pretty as Nan; and as for Phillis, I admire her even more, she lights up so when she talks."

"Aunt Catherine used to be beautiful," observed Sir Harry, gravely; for then and afterwards he insisted on that form of address. He was not English enough or sufficiently stiff for Henry, he would say.

"Oh, dear, yes! she is quite lovely now,—at least Archie and I think so; and Dulce is the dearest little thing. I am ever so fond of them; if they were my own sisters I could not love them more," continued Mattie, with a little gush; but, indeed the girls' gentle high-bred ways had won her heart from the first.

Sir Harry's eyes positively sparkled with delight; he had pleasant eyes which redeemed his other features, for it must be confessed he was decidedly plain.

"I must shake hands with you, Miss Drummond," he said, stretching out a huge hand, with a diamond ring on it that greatly impressed Mattie. "We shall be good friends, I see that." And though poor Mattie winced with pain under that cordial grasp, she hid it manfully.

"Did they tell you at Oldfield how poor they are?" she said, when this ceremony had been performed, and Sir Harry's face looked more like a sunset than ever with that benevolent glow on it.

"Oh, yes," he returned, indifferently; "but all that is over now."

"You know they have to work for their living; the girls are dressmakers," bringing out the news rather cautiously, for fear he should be shocked; a baronet must be sensitive on such points. But Sir Harry only laughed.

"Well, they are plucky girls," he said, admiringly; "I like them for that." And then he asked, a little anxiously, if his aunt sewed gowns too,—that was how he put it,—and seemed mightily relieved to hear that she did very little but read to the girls.

"I would not like to hear she was slaving herself at her age," he remarked, seriously. "Work will not hurt the girls: it keeps them out of mischief. But now I have come, we must put a stop to all this." And then he got up and threw back his shoulders, as though he were adjusting them to some burden; and Mattie, as she looked up at him, thought again of the brewer's dray.

"I was afraid when he got off his chair he would touch the ceiling," she said, afterwards. "He quite stooped of his own accord going through the study doorway."

When Sir Henry had shaken himself into order, and pulled an end of his rough red moustache, he said, quite suddenly,—

"As you are a friend of the family, Miss Drummond, I think it would be as well if you would go with me to the Friary and introduce me in due form; for, though you would not believe it in a man of my size, I am painfully shy, and the notion of all these girls, unless I take them singly, is rather overwhelming." And, though this request took Mattie a little by surprise, she saw no reason for refusing to do him this kindness. So she assented willingly, for in her heart Mattie was fond of a scene. It gave her such a hold on Archie's attention afterwards; and, to do him justice, when the Challoners were on the tapis, he made a splendid listener.

Sir Henry walked very fast, as though he were in a tremendous hurry; but he was nervous, poor fellow, and, though he did not like to own as much to a woman, he would almost have liked to run away, in spite of his coming all those thousands of miles to see his relations. He had pressed Mattie into the service to cover his confusion, but the little woman herself hardly saw how she was needed, for, instead of waiting for her introduction, or sending in his name or card by Dorothy, he just put them both aside and stepped into the first room that stood handy, guided by the sound of voices.

"How do you do, Aunt Catherine?" he said, walking straight up to the terrified lady, who had never seen anything so big in her life. "I am Harry,—Harry Challoner, you know,—to whom you used to write when I was a little slip of a boy."

A strange queen in a hive of bees could not have produced more confusion. Dulce stopped her sewing-machine so suddenly that her thread broke; Phillis, who was reading aloud, let her book fall with quite a crash; and Nan said, "Oh, dear!" and grew quite pale with surprise and disappointment: for a moment she thought it was Dick. As for Mrs. Challoner, who had a right to her nerves from years of injudicious spoiling and indulgence, and would not have been without her feelings for worlds, she just clasped her hands and murmured "Good heavens!" in the orthodox lady-like way.

"Why, yes, Aunt Catherine, I am Harry; and I hope you have not forgotten the existence of the poor little beggar to whom you were so kind in the old Calcutta days." And his big voice softened involuntarily in the presence of this dignified aunt.

"Oh, no, my dear!—no!" touched by his manner, and remembering the boyish scrawls that used to come to her, signed "Your affectionate nephew, Harry." "And are you indeed my nephew?—are you Harry?" And then she held out her slim hand, which he took awkwardly enough. "Girls, you must welcome your cousin. This is Nan, Harry, the one they always say is like me; and this is Phillis, our clever one; and this is my pet Dulce." And with each one did their cousin solemnly shake hands, but without a smile; indeed, his aspect became almost ludicrous, until he caught sight of his homely little acquaintance, Mattie, who stood an amused spectator of this family tableau, and his red, embarrassed face brightened a little.

"Aunt Catherine was such an awfully grand creature, you know," as he observed to her afterwards, in a confidential aside: "her manners make a fellow feel nowhere. And as for my cousins, a prettier lot of girls I never saw anywhere; and of course, they are as jolly and up to larks as other girls; but just at first, you know, I had a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of feeling among them all."

Mrs. Challoner, in spite of her fine manners, was far too nervous herself to notice her nephew's discomfort. She had to mention a name that was obnoxious to her, for of course she must ask after his father. She got him into a chair by her at length, where he stared into his hat to avoid the bright eyes that seemed to quiz him so unmercifully.

"And how is Sir Francis?" she asked, uttering the name with languid interest.

"My father! Oh, did you not know, Aunt Catherine?—he died out in Sydney a year ago. Poor old fellow! he had a terrible illness. There was no pulling him through it."

Mrs. Challoner roused up at this:

"Your father dead! Then, Harry, you have come to the title?"

But her nephew burst into a boisterous laugh at this:

"Yes,—a title and an old ruin. A precious heritage, is it not? Not that I care what people call me. The most important part is that another fellow—Dalton they call him—and I made a grand hit out in Sydney. When I saw the money flowing in, I just sent for the poor old governor to join me; and we did not have a bad time of it, until the gout took him off. And then I got sick of it all, and thought I would have a look at England and hunt up my relations."

Sir Harry had blurted out this long speech as he still attentively regarded the lining of his hat; but, happening to look up, he caught Phillis's eyes, which were contemplating him. The mischievous look of fun in them was not to be resisted. Sir Harry first got redder, if possible; then his own eyes began to twinkle, and finally they both laughed. And after that the ice was broken, and they got on famously.

The girls chattered to him like magpies. They made Mattie take off her hat and hideous old waterproof and stay to luncheon. Nan smoothed her hair, which was sadly ruffled, and Phillis settled her brooch and collar.

There was only cold mutton in the larder; but what did that matter? Dulce ran out in the garden and picked dahlias for the table; and Nan took her mother's keys and drew from the recesses of a dim sweet-smelling press some dainty napkins and a fine old cloth that might have suited a princess. There was a bottle of rare Madeira that remained from their stock of wine; and Dorothy had made a batch of fresh dinner-rolls. Dorothy was always full of resources in an emergency.

"Don't fash yourself, Miss Nan," she said, when her young mistress came into the kitchen. "The cold mutton can't be helped; but we have got angels in the larder, and I will just pop them into the oven."

Sir Harry roared with laughter when Dorothy's speech was repeated to him. The little puddings were declared by Mattie to be delicious; but Sir Harry could scarcely eat his for laughing.

"Who ever heard of baked angels, Aunt Catherine!" he exclaimed, after another explosion.

"My dear, it is only a name," she returned, mildly. "Will you have another, Harry? And, Nan, you must pass your cousin the Madeira."

They were all seated round the table in the small parlor. It was felt to be a triumph when Sir Harry contrived to seat himself without grazing himself seriously against the chiffonnier or knocking over a piece of the blue-and-gold china.

"What a cosey little cabin of a place!" he said with critical approval; "but it is rather small to hold you all,—eh, Aunt Catherine?"

"Yes: it is small after Glen Cottage," she sighed. "We had such a pretty drawing-room there."

"And such a lovely garden!" added Dulce.

"Oh, this crib in not fit for you? We will alter all that," he returned, complacently. "I am the head of the family now, and I must take my uncle's place. I am awfully rich, Aunt Catherine; so you have only got to tell me what you and the girls want, you know." And then he rubbed his hands as though he were pleased about something.

But no one took any notice of this speech, hardly knowing how to treat it.

When luncheon—which was, indeed, the family dinner—was over, the girls carried him off to the work-room, and showed him specimens of their skill.

"Very nice; very well done," he observed, approvingly.

"I am glad you showed such pluck; for why any woman should think it infra dig. to make a gown for another woman quite beats me. Why, bless you, in the colonies we fellows turned our hands to anything! Well, Aunt Catherine, they are plucky ones, these girls of yours. But we must put a stop to this sort of thing, you and I. I don't think my uncle would have liked it. And as I am in his place——" And here he thrust aside some amber satin with his great hands, with a movement full of suggestive possibilities.

He took them all out to walk after that. Mrs. Challoner, indeed, begged to be excused,—the poor lady was already sadly fatigued, and longed for her nap,—but he would not dispense with Mattie's company.

"We were acquaintances first," he said to her; "and I look upon you as a sort of cousin too, Miss Mattie." And poor little Mattie, who had never met with so much friendliness before, quite blushed and bridled with pleasure.

Mr. Drummond, who was coming out of his own gate, stood as though transfixed as the procession came towards him. The four girls were walking all abreast, Mattie in the middle; and beside them stalked a huge man, in rough, rather outlandish attire, looking like a son of the Anakin, or a red-headed Goliath.

Archie stood still in the middle of the road, and Mattie rushed up to him:

"We are going for a walk. Oh, Archie, I wish you would come too! It would be such fun!"

"Yes; do come!" cried unconscious Nan, seconding her out of pure good nature. "Mr. Drummond, this is our cousin, Sir Henry Challoner, who has just come from Australia; and we have never seen him before." And then the young clergyman shook hands with him very stiffly, and spoke a few conventional words.

"They have not a man belonging to them," he had said to himself, triumphantly, and then that odious Dick had turned up and now this extraordinary-looking being who called himself Sir Henry Challoner.

Archie took down the "Peerage" when he got home, for he could not be induced to join the merry party in their walk. He found the name there all right,—"Henry Fortescue Challoner, son of Sir Francis Challoner, son of Sir Henry Challoner," and so on. It was an old baronetcy,—one of the oldest in England,—but the estates had dwindled down to a half-ruined residence and a few fields. "Challoner Place," as it was called, was nothing but a heap of mouldering walls; but Mattie had whispered to him gleefully that he was "awfully rich, and the head of the family, and unmarried; and he did not mean to let his cousins make gowns anymore for other people, though they might do it for themselves."

Mattie never forgot that walk. Never in her life had she enjoyed such fun. Archie, with his grave face and prim ways, would have spoiled the hilarity.

First Sir Henry took his cousins to the hotel, where they heard him order his apartments and dinner: he evidently considered he had not dined; and there was a good deal of discussion about some game that he ordered, and a certain brand of champagne that was to his liking.

"If they make me comfortable, I may stop on a goodish bit," he informed them, "until we have settled where my aunt would like to live. I shall run up to London every few days, and can do all your commissions. By the bye, I got some trinkets for you girls on my way down; we will haul them over when I come up for the cup of coffee Aunt Catherine promised me this evening."

"Now, Harry, we don't want presents," remarked Phillis, taking him to task as easily as though she had known him all her life long.

In spite of his bigness, his great burly figure and plain face, there was something very pleasant about him. He was rough and unpolished, his dress was careless and of colonial cut; and yet one could not fail to see he was a gentleman. His boyishness and fun would have delighted Dick, who was of the same calibre; only Dick was far cleverer, and had more in his little finger than this great lumbering Harry in his whole body.

He was slow and clumsy, but his heart and intentions were excellent; he was full of tenderness for women, and showed a touching sort of chivalry in his intercourse with them. In some way, his manners were far finer than those of a New Bond Street gentleman; for he could not sneer at a woman, he believed in the goodness of the sex, in spite of much knowledge to the contrary, he could not tell a lie, and he only cheated himself. This was saying a good deal for the son of that very black sheep Sir Francis; but, as Sir Harry once simply observed, "his mother was a good woman:" if this were the case, her husband's vices must have shortened her life, for she died young.

Phillis was glad when they turned their backs on the town: she found her cousin's long purse a difficulty: it seemed an impossibility to get him past the shops.

First, he was sure Aunt Catherine was fond of champagne,—all ladies liked sweet sparkling things; but he would see about that at the hotel presently. Then his attention was attracted by some grouse hanging up at the poulterer's: Aunt Catherine must have some grouse, as he remembered the cold mutton. Phillis made no objection to the grouse, for she knew her mother's fondness for game; but she waxed indignant when partridges and a hare were added, and still more when Sir Harry ransacked the fruiterers for a supply of the rarest fruit the town could afford. After this, he turned his attention to cakes and bonbons; but here Dulce took his part, for she loved bonbons. Phillis caught Nan by the arm, and compelled her to leave them; but Mattie deserted her friends, and remained to watch the fun.

Dulce grew frightened at last, and tried to coax her cousin away.

"Oh, no more—no more?" she pleaded. "Phillis and Nan will be so angry with us."

"I don't see anything more worth getting," returned her cousin, contemptuously. "What a place this is, to be sure! Never mind, Dulce; I am going up to London to-morrow, and I will bring you down as many bonbons as you like from the French place in Regent Street. I will bring Miss Mattie some too," he continued, as the girls hurried him along. "And, Dulce, just write out a list of what you girls want; and I will get them, as sure as my name is Harry."



CHAPTER XL.

ALCIDES.

There was quite a battle-royal on the sea-shore after that: Dulce and Phillis pelted Laddie with bonbons; while their mother enjoyed her nap in the snug parlor. And Dorothy, pleased, bewildered, and half frightened at what the mistress might say, stowed away game and fruit and confectionery in the tiny larder, and then turned her attention to such a tea as her young ladies had not seen since the Glen Cottage days.

Laddie raced and barked, and nearly made himself ill with the sweet things; and Nan laughed, and then grew serious as she remembered an afternoon in the Longmead Meadows, when Dick, in wild spirits, had pelted her and Phillis with roses until their laps were full of the delicious, fragrant leaves. "'Sweets to the sweet,'—so look out for yourself, Nan!" he had said, in his half-rough, boyish way. But that was in the days when both were very young and Dick had not learned to make love.

Mattie joined in the game a little awkwardly,—it was so long since the poor little woman had played at anything. Her younger sisters never chose Mattie in their games. "She makes such mistakes, and puts us out; and that spoils the fun," they said; and so Grace was their favorite playfellow.

For it is perfectly true that some grown-up people have forgotten how to play, while others are such children at heart that they can abandon themselves most joyously and gracefully to any game, however romping; but Mattie, who was sobered by frequent snubbing, was not one of these. She loved fun still, in her way, but not as Phillis and Dulce, who thought it the cream of life and would not be content with the sort of skimmed-milk existence of other young ladies.

Sir Harry watched them admiringly, and his enthusiasm grew every moment.

"I say, you are the right sort, and no mistake. I never met jollier girls in my life. A fellow would not know which to choose: would he, Miss Mattie?"

Mattie took this seriously.

"Nan is chosen:—are you not, Nan?" she said, in her downright fashion. And then, as Sir Harry stared at this, and Nan blushed and looked even prettier, Phillis first scolded Mattie soundly for her bluntness, and then took upon herself to describe Dick's perfections:

"The dearest fellow in the world, Harry, when you come to know him; but not handsome, and dreadfully young looking, some people think. But, as Nan will not look at any one else, we must make the best of him."

"And when are they to be married?" asked her cousin, curiously. He was not quite pleased with this discovery.

"When?—Oh, Harry, there is an 'if' in the case," returned Phillis, solemnly. "The dearest fellow in the world has an ogre of a father,—a man so benighted, so narrow in his prejudices, that he thinks it decidedly infra dig. for his intended daughter in-law to sew other people's gowns. I do love that expression. Harry: it is so forcible. So he forbids the banns."

"No, really!—Is she serious, Nan?" But Nan grew shy all at once, and would not answer.

"I am serious, Sir Henry Challoner," replied Phillis, pompously. "The path of true love is impeded. Poor Dick is pining in his rooms at Oxford; and Nan—well, I am afraid her looks belie her; only you know appearances are sometimes deceitful." And indeed Nan's pink cheeks and air of placid contentment scarcely bore out her sister's words.

The newly found cousin sat in silent perplexity staring at them both. Love-affairs were not much in his way; and until now he had never been thrown much with his equals in the other sex. His rough colonial life, full of excitement and money-getting, had engrossed his youth. He was now a man of thirty; but in disposition, in simplicity, and in a certain guilelessness of speech, he seemed hardly more than an overgrown boy.

"Well, now, is it not like a book?" he said, at last, breaking the silence quite abruptly. "It must be an awful bother for you, Nan; but we must put a stop to all that. I am the head of the family; and I shall have a word to say to that Mr.—what is his name?"

"Mr. Mayne," returned Nan, softly.

It was at this moment that the name of Hercules came into Phillis's head for her cousin. What feats of strength did he mean to undertake on their behalf? Would he strangle the hydra-headed monster of public opinion that pronounced "women who sewed other women's gowns" were not to be received into society? Would he help Nan gather the golden apples of satisfied love and ambition? What was it that he meant to do by dint of sheer force and good nature?

Harry Challoner did not long leave them in ignorance of his intentions. In the coolest possible way he at once assumed the headship of the family,—adopting them at once, and giving them the benefit of his opinions on every point that could possibly be mooted.

"I had not a soul belonging to me until now," he said, looking around on his cousins' bright faces with a glow of honest satisfaction on his own. "It made a fellow feel precious lonely out there, I can tell you."

"You ought to have married, Harry," suggested Dulce.

"I never thought any one would care for such a great hulking fellow," he returned, simply; "and then the girls over there were not to my taste. Besides, I never thought of it; I was too busy. I am going to take a holiday now, and look about me a little; and when you and Aunt Catherine are settled, I may have a try myself at some one," he finished, with a big laugh.

This notion amused the girls immensely, then and afterwards. They began to talk of the future Lady Challoner. Nan proposed one of the Paines. Phillis thought if Grace Drummond were only as sweet-looking as her photograph he could hardly help falling in love with her. And Dulce was of opinion that Adelaide Sartoris, handsome and queenly as she was, would not consider a baronet beneath her. They confided all these thoughts to Sir Harry, who thanked them quite gravely for their interest and promised to consider the matter. He even wrote down the names in his pocket-book one after another.

"Adelaide Sartoris, did you say? Ah, we had an Adelaide at Sydney, a little, dark thing, with hair blown all over her temples, and such a pair of mischievous eyes: that girl was always laughing at me, somehow. And yet she seemed sorry to bid me good-bye."

"Perhaps she was in love with you?" observed Dulce. But Phillis frowned at this. She thought they had gone too far in their jokes already with a cousin who was such a complete stranger. But he returned, quite gravely,—

"Well, now, you know, such a thing never came into my head. I talked to her because a fellow likes to be amused by a lively girl like Miss Addie. But as to thinking seriously of her—well, I could not stand that, you know to be laughed at all one's life; eh, Miss Mattie?" And Mattie, at this appeal, looked up with round, innocent eyes, and said, "Certainly not," in such an impressive tone that the other girls burst out laughing.

They all went home after that. Sir Harry escorted his cousins and Mattie to the Friary, and then returned to his hotel to dinner. But the girls, who were in a merry mood, would not part with Mattie. They sent her home to put on her green silk dress, with strict orders that she was to return as soon as possible.

"We are all going to make ourselves pretty," announced Phillis. "A cousin does not turn up every day; and when he promises to be a good fellow, like Harry, we cannot do him too much honor."

"Ah, I should like to come," returned Mattie. "I have had such a nice day; and, if Archie will not mind——" And then she bustled into the vicarage, and into her brother's study.

Archie roused himself a little wearily from his abstraction to listen to his sister's story; but at the end of it he said good-naturedly, for he had taught himself to be tolerant of Mattie's little gaucheries,—

"And the long and short of it is that you want to be gadding again. Well, run and get ready, or you will keep their tea waiting; and do put on your collar straight, Mattie." But this slight thrust was lost on Mattie as she delightedly withdrew. Archie sighed as he tried to compose himself to his reading. He had not been asked to join Mattie. For the last few weeks he had become a stranger to the cottage. Did they notice his absence? he wondered. Did they miss the visits that had once been so frequent? By and by he would resume his old habits of intimacy, and go among them as he had done; but just now the effort was too painful. He dreaded the unspoken sympathy in Phillis's eyes. He dreaded anything like an understanding between them. Nan's perfect unconsciousness was helpful to him; but there was something in Phillis's manner that stirred up an old pain. For the present he was safer and happier alone in his study, though Mattie did not think so, and told her friends that Archie looked terribly dull.

Mrs. Challoner proposed sending for him; but Phillis, greatly to her mother's surprise, negatived the proposition:

"Oh, no, mother; pray do not! Mattie, you must excuse me. I do not mean to be rude, but we should all have to be so dreadfully well-behaved if Mr. Drummond came, and I just feel myself in a 'nonsense mood,' as Dulce used to say when she was a baby." And then they all forgot Archie, and fell to discussing the new cousin.

"He is dreadfully ugly, mammie, is he not?" observed Dulce, who had a horror of red hair. But Mrs. Challoner demurred:

"Well, no, pet; I cannot agree with you. He is very plain, but so is Dick; but it struck me they were both rather alike." An indignant "How can you, mother!" from Nan. "Well, my dear," she continued, placidly, "I do not mean really alike, for they have not a feature in common; but they have both got the same honest, open look, only Dick's face is more intelligent." But this hardly appeased Nan, who was heard to say under her breath "that she thought Dick had the nicest face in the world."

"And Sir Harry has a nice face too: has he not, Mrs. Challoner?" exclaimed Mattie, who never could be silent in a discussion. "It takes time to get used to such very red hair; and, of course, he is dreadfully big,—almost too big, I should say. But when he talks he has such a good-natured way with him; now, hasn't he?" appealing to Nan, who looked just a little glum,—that is, glum for Nan, for she could not do the sulks properly; she could only look dignified.

Mrs. Challoner grew a little alarmed at her daughter's demure face: "Nan, darling, you know I am as fond of Dick as possible; but I cannot help being pleased with my new nephew, can I? And I must say I think Harry is very nice, in spite of his roughness." But here Phillis, who had been unaccountably silent, suddenly struck in:

"Mother, it was a mistake mentioning Dick: the name is sacred. Nan, if it will please you we will declare that he is beautiful as a young Apollo."

"Don't be a goose, Phil!" from her sister. But Nan was smiling.

"As for Harry, he is a perfect hero. I expect great things from the great man. To my imagination he is a perfect Hercules,—Heracles, son of Zeus and Alcmene. I wonder if Harry could tell us the name of Hercules's mother?"

"Of course not, and no one else either," retorted Dulce.

But Phillis did not heed this.

"To me he shall be the young Alcides. He has promised to fight the Nemaean lion, in the shape of Richard Mayne the elder. By and by we shall have him striking off the heads of the Lernean Hydra. You look mystified, Nan. And I perceive Mattie has a perplexed countenance. I am afraid you are deficient in heathen mythology; but I will spare your ignorance. You will see, though, I am right——"

"But, Phillis——" broke in Dulce, eagerly. But Phillis waved her hand majestically at the interruption:

"Mother, to be serious, I consider Harry in the light of a providential interposition. You are always mourning that there is not a man belonging to us. Well, now we have got one, large as life, and larger, and a very good fellow, as you say; and we are no longer 'forlorn females.'"

"And indeed, Phillis, I am most thankful for that, my dear; for if Harry be only as good as a brother to you——"

"He means to be more," returned Phillis, with a sage nod of her head. "He talks in the coolest way, as though he had adopted the whole family and meant to put a spoke into the domestic wheel. 'I must put a stop to this,' or, 'That must be altered,' has been a frequent remark of his. Mother, if he is dreadfully rich, as he says, does he mean to make us rich too?"

"My dear, we have no claim on him."

"He thinks we have the strongest possible claim: does he not, Nan? You should have heard him talk this afternoon! According to him, we were never to sew gowns again; Nan and Dick were to be immediately united; the Friary was to be pulled down, and a glorified Glen Cottage to be erected in its stead. But mother,"—here Phillis's lip grew plaintive,—"you won't desert your own girls, and be talked over even by an Alcides? We do not mean to have our little deeds all put on the shelf in that off-hand fashion. I shall sew gowns as long as I like, in spite of a hundred Sir Harrys."

And then they perceived that under Phillis's fun there was a vein of serious humor, and that, in spite of her admiration of her hero, she was a little afraid that her notions of independence would be wounded.

They became divided on the question. Mrs. Challoner, who had never had a son of her own, and did not much like the idea of a son-in-law, was disposed to regard her nephew warmly, and to accord to him at once his privilege of being head of the family.

"In this case, a cousin is as good as a brother," she averred; and Nan rather leaned to her opinion.

"You see," she said, in her practical way, addressing no one in particular, but looking at Phillis, "it has been terribly against us, having no one belonging to us of the same name; and it will really give us a standing with some sort of people."

"Fie, Nan! what a worldly speech! You are thinking of that tiresome Mayne pere again."

"I have to think of him," returned Nan, not at all put out by this. "Dick's father must be a person of great importance to me. He has often hinted in my hearing that we have no relations, and that the Challoner name will die out. I expect he will be rather taken aback at Harry's appearance."

"Yes; and Dick will be jealous: he always is of other fellows, as he calls them. You must score that up against Dick, please. Well, I won't deny that Harry may make himself useful there: all I protest against is the idea that he will bundle us out of this dear old Friary, and make us grand, in spite of ourselves."

"Dear old Friary!—Oh, oh!" gasped Dulce; and even Nan looked mildly surprised.

"He will not make me give up my work until I choose," continued Phillis, who was in an obstinate mood. "It is not make-believe play-work, I can tell him that;" but Mrs. Challoner grew tearful at this.

"Phillis, my dear, pray hush! Indeed—indeed I cannot have you talking as though you meant and wished to be a dressmaker all your life."

And when Phillis asked, "Why not?" just for the sake of argument,—for in her heart she was growing heartily sick of her employment,—her mother threw up her hands in despair:

"Oh, my dear Miss Drummond, do not believe her: Phillis is a good girl; but she is always like that,—hard to be convinced. She does not really mean it. She has worked harder than any of them; but she has only done it for her mother's sake."

"Of course she does not mean it," echoed Nan, affectionately, and much struck by a sudden yearning look on Phillis's face,—an expression of smothered pain; but Phillis drew away from her sister's gentle grasp.

"I do mean it!" she said, almost passionately. "I am dreadfully tired of the work sometimes, and hate it. Oh, how I hate it! But I think I have been happy, too. I liked the excitement of the fighting, and the novelty of the thing; it was such fun,—first shocking people, and then winning them over in spite of themselves. One felt 'plucky,' as Harry said. And then one's friends were so real." And her eyes fell unconsciously on Mattie.

"Oh, yes," returned Mattie, with her usual gush: "Archie and I took to you from the first. I must say I was surprised, knowing how fastidious Archie was, and his notions about young ladies in general. But, dear, he never would hear a word against you: he was even angry with Colonel Middleton the other day because—but there! I ought not to have told you that."

"Oh, we know all about it," returned Phillis, carelessly; but Dulce's bright face looked a little overcast. "Son Hammond is in the case; and we can all judge of a father's feelings by a certain example that shall be nameless. Good gracious, mammie! there comes the Alcides himself, and Dorothy has not cleared the tea-things! I vote we meet him in the garden, to avert breakages." And Phillis's proposition was carried out.

But when they were all seated in the little parlor again, and the lamp was brought, sundry packages made their appearence, and were delightedly unpacked by the girls, Phillis assisting with great interest, in spite of her heroic speeches.

"One can accept gifts from a cousin," she said, afterwards.

Sir Harry had shown good taste in his purchases. The ornaments and knick-knacks were all pretty and well chosen. The good-natured fellow had ransacked the shops in Paris for such things as he thought would please his unknown cousins. The bracelets, and fans, and gloves, and laces, made Dulce almost dance with glee. The lace was for Aunt Catherine, he said; and there were gloves for everybody,—dozens and dozens of them. But the fans and bracelets were for the girls; and to-morrow he would get the bonbons for Dulce. And then, as the girls laughingly apportioned the spoil, he whispered something to Nan, at which she nodded and smiled.

Mattie, who was carefully admiring the lace in her short-sighted way, felt something touch her elbow, and found Nan pushing a fan and a parcel of gloves towards her,—beautiful gloves, such as Isabel had in her trousseau.

"Yes; take them; we have so many; and, indeed, we have no use for more than a fan apiece. Oh, you extravagant Harry!"

Sir Harry laughed as he balanced the fan clumsily on his huge finger:

"Take it; you are very welcome, Miss Mattie. You know we are quite old acquaintances; and, indeed, I look on you as a sort of cousin."

"Oh, dear!—thank you; you are very good, Sir Harry," cried poor Mattie, blushing with pleasure.

Never had she spent such a day in her life,—a day wherein she had not been once snubbed, except in that remark of Archie's about her collar, and that did not matter.

"Poor little woman, she looks very happy!" observed Mrs. Challoner, benevolently, as Mattie gathered up her spoils and went out of the room, accompanied by Dulce. "She is such a good little soul, and so amiable, that it is a pity Mr. Drummond is always finding fault with her. It spoils him, somehow; and I am sure she bears it very well." She spoke to Nan, for her nephew seemed engrossed with tying up Laddie's front paw with his handkerchief.

"I am afraid, from what she says, that they all snub her at home," returned Nan. "It seems Grace is the favorite; but you know, mother, Mattie is just a little tiresome and awkward at times."

"Yes; but she is very much improved. And I must say her temper is of the sweetest; for she never bears her brother any malice." But at that moment Mattie re-entered the room: and Sir Harry, releasing Laddie, proceeded, as in duty bound, to escort her to the vicarage.



CHAPTER XLI.

SIR HARRY BIDES HIS TIME.

Phillis might have spared herself that little outburst to which she had given vent on the day of her cousin's arrival. For, in spite of the lordly way in which he had claimed his prerogative as the only male Challoner, Sir Harry took no further steps to interfere with her liberty: indeed, as the days and even the weeks passed away, and nothing particular happened in them, she was even a little disappointed.

For it is one thing to foster heroic intentions, but quite another when one has no choice in the matter. The heroism seemed lost, somehow, when no one took the trouble to combat her resolution. Phillis began to tire of her work,—nay, more, to feel positive disgust at it. The merry evenings gave her a distaste for her morning labors, and the daylight seemed sometimes as though it would never fade into dark, so as to give her an excuse for folding up her work.

These fits of impatience were intermittent, and she spoke of them to no one: in other respects the new cousin brought a great deal of brightness and pleasure into their daily life.

They all grew very fond of him. Mrs. Challoner, indeed, was soon heard to say that she almost loved him like a son,—a speech that reached Dick's ears by and by and made him excessively angry. "I should like to kick that fellow," he growled, as he read the words. But then Dick never liked interlopers. He had conceived a hatred of Mr. Drummond on the spot. Sir Harry took up his quarters at the same hotel where Dick and his father had spent that one dreary evening. He gave lavish orders and excited a great deal of attention and talk by his careless munificence. Without being positively extravagant he had a free-handed way of spending his money: as he often said, "he liked to see things comfortable about him." And, as his notions of comfort were somewhat expensive, his host soon conceived a great respect for him,—all the more that he gave himself no airs, never talked about his wealth except to his cousins, and treated his title as though it were not of the slightest consequence to himself or any one else; indeed, he was decidedly modest in all matters pertaining to himself.

But, being a generous soul, he loved to give. Every few days he went up to London, and he never returned without bringing gifts to the Friary. Dulce, who was from the first his chief favorite, revelled in French bonbons; hampers of wine, of choice game, or fruit from Covent Garden, filled the tiny larder to overflowing. Silks and ribbons, and odds and ends of female finery, were sent down from Marshall & Snelgrove's, or Swan & Edgar's. In vain Mrs. Challoner implored him not to spoil the girls, who had never had so many pretty things in their lives, and hardly knew what to do with them. Sir Harry would not deny himself this pleasure; and he came up evening after evening, overflowing with health and spirits, to join the family circle in the small parlor and enliven them with his stories of colonial life.

People began to talk about him. He was too big and too prominent a figure to pass unnoticed in Hadleigh. The Challoners and their odd ways, and their cousin the baronet who was a millionaire and unmarried, were canvassed in many a drawing-room. "We always knew they were not just 'nobodies,'" as one young lady observed; and another remarked, a little scornfully, "that she supposed Sir Henry Challoner would put a stop to all that ridiculous dressmaking now." But when they found that Nan and Phillis went about as usual, taking orders and fitting on dresses, their astonishment knew no bounds.

Sir Harry watched them with a secret chuckle. "He must put a stop to all that presently," he said; but just at first it amused him to see it all. "It was so pretty and plucky of them," he thought.

He would saunter into the work-room in the morning, and watch them for an hour together as he sat and talked to them. After the first they never minded him, and his presence made no difference to them. Nan measured and cut out, and consulted Phillis in her difficulties, as usual. Dulce sang over her sewing-machine, and Phillis went from one to the other with a grave, intent face. Sometimes she would speak petulantly to him, and bid him not whistle or tease Laddie: but that was when one of her fits of impatience was on her. She was generally gracious to him, and made him welcome.

When he was tired of sitting quiet, he would take refuge with Aunt Catherine in her little parlor, or go into the vicarage for a chat with Mattie and her brother: he was becoming very intimate there. Sometimes, but not often, he would call at the White House; but, though the Cheynes liked him, and Magdalene was amused at his simplicity, there was not much in common between them.

He had taken a liking to Colonel Middleton and his daughter, and would have found his way to Brooklyn over and over again, only the colonel gave him no encouragement. They had met accidentally in the grounds of the White House, and Mr. Cheyne had introduced them to each other; but the colonel bore himself very stiffly on that occasion and ever after when they met on the Parade and in the reading-room. In his heart he was secretly attracted by Sir Harry's blunt ways and honest face; but he was a cousin of those Challoners, and intimacy was not to be desired: so their intercourse was limited to a brief word or two.

"Your father does not want to know me," he said once, in his outspoken way, to Miss Middleton, when they met at the very gate of Brooklyn, and she had asked him, with some little hesitation, if he were coming in. "It is a pity," he added, regretfully, "for I have taken a fancy to him: he seems a downright good sort, and we agree in politics."

Elizabeth blushed; for once her courtesy and love of truth were sadly at variance.

"He does like you very much, Sir Harry," she said; and then she hesitated.

"Only my cousins sew gowns," he returned, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, "so he must not encourage me,—eh, Miss Middleton?—as we are all in the same boat. Well, we must allow for prejudice. By and by we will alter all that." And then he gave her a good-natured nod, and sauntered away to tell his old friend Mattie all about it; for he had a kindly feeling towards the little woman, and made her his confidante on these occasions.

Phillis still called him Alcides, to his endless mystification: but she privately wondered when his labors were to begin. After that first afternoon he did not speak much of his future intentions: indeed, he was a little reserved with the girls, considering their intimacy; but to his aunt he was less reticent.

"Do you know, Aunt Catherine," he said one day to her, "that that old house of yours—Glen Cottage, is it not?—will soon be in the market? Ibbetson wants to get off the remainder of the lease."

Mrs. Challoner leaned back in her chair and put down her knitting:

"Are you sure, Harry? Then Adelaide was right: she told me in her last letter that Mrs. Ibbetson's health was so bad that they thought of wintering at Hyeres, and that there was some talk of giving up the house."

"Oh, yes, it is true," he returned, carelessly; "Ibbetson told me so himself. It is a pretty little place enough, and they have done a good deal to it, even in a few months: they want to get off the lease, and rid themselves of the furniture, which seems to be all new. It appears they have had some money left to them unexpectedly; and now Mrs. Ibbetson's health is so bad, he wants to try travelling, and thinks it a great pity to be hampered with a house at present. I should say the poor little woman is in a bad way, myself."

"Dear me, how sad! And they have been married so short a time,—not more than six months. She comes of a weakly stock, I fear. I always said she looked consumptive, poor thing! Dear little Glen Cottage! and to think it will change hands so soon again!"

"You seem fond of it, Aunt Catherine," for her tone was full of regret.

"My dear," she answered, seriously, "I always loved that cottage so! The drawing-room and the garden were just to my taste; and then the girls were so happy there."

"Would you not like a grander house to live in?" he asked, in the same indifferent tone. "I do not think it is half good enough for you and the girls."

Mrs. Challoner opened her eyes rather widely at this: but his voice gave her no clue to his real meaning, and she thought it was just his joking way with her.

"It would seem a palace after this!" she returned, with a sigh. "Somehow, I never cared for great big houses, they are so much expense to keep up; and when one has not a man in the house——"

"Why, you have me, Aunt Catherine!" speaking up rather briskly.

"Yes, my dear; and you are a great comfort to us all. It is so nice to have some one to consult; and, though I would not say so to Nan for the world, Dick is so young that I never could consult him."

"By the bye, that reminds me I must have a look at that young fellow," returned her nephew. "Let me see, the Oxford term is over, and he will be home again. Suppose I run over to Oldfield—it is no distance from town—and leave my card on Mr. Mayne senior?"

"You, Harry!" And Mrs. Challoner looked quite taken aback at the proposition.

"Well," he remarked, candidly, "I think it is about time something was done: Nan looks awfully serious sometimes. What is the good of being the head of one's family, if one is not to settle an affair like that? I don't feel inclined to put up with any more nonsense in that quarter, I can tell you that, Aunt Catherine."

"But, Harry,"—growing visibly alarmed,—"you do not know Mr. Mayne: he can make himself so excessively disagreeable."

"So can most men when they like."

"Yes; but not exactly in that way. I believe he is really very fond of Dick; but he wants to order his life in his own way, and no young man will stand that."

"No, by Jove! that is rather too strong for a fellow. I should say Master Dick could not put up with that."

"It seems my poor Nan is not good enough for his son, just because she had no money and has been obliged to make herself useful. Does it not seem hard, Harry?—my beautiful Nan! And the Maynes are just nobodies: why, Mr. Mayne's father was only a shopkeeper in a very small way, and his wife's family was no better!"

"Well, you must not expect me to understand all that," replied her nephew, in a puzzled tone. "In the colonies, we did not think much about that sort of thing: it would not have done there to inquire too narrowly into a man's antecedents. I knew capital fellows whose fathers had been butchers, and bakers, and candlestick-makers; and, bless me! what does it matter if the fellow is all right himself?" he finished; for the last Challoner was a decided Radical.

But Mrs. Challoner, who was mildly obstinate in such matters, would not yield her point:

"You would think differently if you had been educated at Eton. In England, it is necessary to discriminate among one's acquaintances. I find no fault with Dick: he is as nice and gentlemanly as possible; but his father has not got his good-breeding; possibly he had not his advantages. But it is they—the Maynes—who would be honored by an alliance with one of my daughters." And Mrs. Challoner raised her head and drew herself up with such queenly dignity that Sir Harry dared not argue the point.

"Oh, yes; I see," he returned, hastily. "Well, I shall let him know what you think. You need not be afraid I shall lower your dignity, Aunt Catherine. I meant to be rather high and mighty myself,—that is, if I could manage it." And he broke into one of his huge laughs.

Mrs. Challoner was very fond of her nephew; but she was not a clever woman, and she did not always understand his hints. When they were alone together, he was perpetually making this sort of remarks to her in a half-serious, half-joking way, eliciting her opinions, consulting her tastes, with a view to his future plans.

With the girls he was provokingly reticent. Phillis and Dulce used to catechise him sometimes; but his replies were always evasive.

"Do you know, Harry," Phillis said to him once, very gravely, "I think you are leading a dreadfully idle life? You do nothing absolutely all day but walk to and fro between the hotel and the Friary."

"Come, now," retorted her cousin, in an injured tone, "I call that confoundedly hard on a fellow who has come all these thousands of miles just to cultivate his relations and enjoy a little relaxation. Have I not worked hard enough all my life to earn a holiday now?"

"Oh, yes," she returned, provokingly, "we all know how hard you have worked; but all the same it does not do to play at idleness too long. You are very much improved, Harry. Your tailor has done wonders for you; and I should not be ashamed to walk down Bond Street with you any afternoon, though the people do stare, because you are so big. But don't you think it is time to settle down? You might take rooms somewhere. Lord Fitzroy knows of some capital ones in Sackville Street; Algie Burgoyne had them."

"Well, no, thank you, Phillis: I don't think I shall go in for rooms."

"Well, then, a house: you know you are so excessively rich, Harry," drawling out her words in imitation of his rather slow pronunciation.

"Oh, of course I shall take a house; but there is plenty of time for that."

And when she pressed him somewhat eagerly to tell her in what neighborhood he meant to live, he only shrugged his shoulders, and remarked, carelessly, that he would have a look round at all sorts of places by and by.

"But do you mean to take a house and live all alone?" asked Dulce. "Won't you find it rather dull?"

"What's a fellow to do?" replied her cousin, enigmatically. "I suppose Aunt Catherine will not undertake the care of me?—I am too big, as you call it, for a houseful of women!"

"Well, yes; perhaps you are," she replied, contemplating him thoughtfully. "We should not know quite what to do with you."

"I wish I could get rid of a few of my superfluous inches," he remarked, dolorously; "for people seem to find me sadly in the way sometimes."

But Dulce said, kindly,—

"Oh, no, Harry; we never find you in the way: do we, mammie? We should be dreadfully dull without you now. I can hear you whistling a quarter of a mile off, and it sounds so cheerful. If there were only a house big enough for you next door, that would do nicely."

"Oh. I dare say I shall not be far off: shall I, Aunt Catherine?" for, to his aunt's utter bewilderment, he had established a sort of confidence between them, and expected her to understand all his vague hints. "You will not speak about this to the girls; this is just between you and me," he would say to her, when sometimes she had not a notion what he meant.

"I don't understand you, Harry," she said, once. "Why did you stop me just now when I was going to tell Phillis about the Ibbetsons leaving Glen Cottage? She would have been so interested."

"You must keep that to yourself a little while, Aunt Catherine: it will be such a surprise to the girls, you know. Did I tell you about the new conservatory Ibbetson has built? It leads out of the drawing-room, and improves the room wonderfully, they say."

"My dear Harry! what an expense! That is just what Mr. Mayne was always wanting us to do; and Nan was so fond of flowers. It was just what the room needed to make it perfect." And Mrs. Challoner folded her hands, with a sigh at the remembrance of the house she had loved so dearly.

"They say Gilsbank is for sale," remarked her nephew, rather suddenly, after this.

"What! Gilsbank, where old Admiral Hawkins lived? Nan saw the announcement of his death the other day, and she said then the place would soon be put up for sale. Poor old man! He was a martyr to gout."

"I had a look at it the other day," he replied, coolly. "Why, it is not a hundred yards from your old cottage. There is a tidy bit of land, and the house is not so bad, only it wants doing up; but the furniture—that is for sale too—is very old-fashioned and shabby."

"Are you thinking of it for yourself?" asked his aunt, in surprise. "Why, Gilsbank is a large place; it would never do for a single man. You would find the rooms Phillis proposed far handier."

"Why, Aunt Catherine!" in a tone of strong remonstrance. "You don't mean to condemn me to a life of single blessedness because of my size?"

"Oh, Harry, of course not! My dear boy, what an idea!"

"And some one may be found in time who could put up even with red hair."

"Oh, yes; that need not be an obstacle." But she looked at him with vague alarm. Of whom could he be thinking?

He caught her expression, and threw back his head with one of his merry laughs:

"Oh, no, Aunt Catherine; you need not be afraid. I am not going to make love to one of my cousins; I know your views on the subject, and that would not suit my book at all. I am quite on your side there."

"Surely you will tell me, my dear, if you are serious?"

"Oh, yes, when I have anything to tell; but I think I will have a good look round first." And then, of his own accord, he changed the subject. He was a little sparing of his hints after that, even to his aunt.

It was shortly after this that he came into the Friary one evening and electrified his cousins by two pieces of news. He had just called at the vicarage, he said; but he had not gone in, for Miss Mattie had run downstairs in a great bustle to tell him her sister Grace had just arrived. Her brother had been down to Leeds and brought her up with him. Phillis put down her work; her face had become suddenly rather pale.

"Grace has come," she half whispered to herself. And then she added aloud, "Poor Mattie will be glad, and sorry too! She will like to have her sister with her for the New Year; but in a few weeks she will have to pack up her own things and go home. And she was only saying the other day that she has never been so happy in her life as she has been here."

"Why can't she stay, then?" asked Sir Harry, rather abruptly. "I don't hold with people making themselves miserable for nothing: that does not belong to my creed."

"Oh, poor Mattie has not a choice in the matter," returned Nan, who had grown very fond of her little neighbor. "Though she is thirty, she must still do as other people bid her. They cannot both be spared from home,—at least, I believe not,—and so her mother has recalled her."

"Oh, but that is nonsense!" replied Sir Harry, rather crossly for him. "Girls are spared well enough when they are married. And I thought the Drummonds were not well off. Did not Phillis tell me so?"

"They are very badly off; but then, you see, Mr. Drummond does not want two sisters to take care of his house; and, though he tries to be good to Mattie, he is not so fond of her as he is of his sister Grace; and they have always planned to live together, and so poor Mattie has to go."

"Yes, and I must say I am sorry for the poor little woman," observed Mrs. Challoner. "There is a large family of girls and boys,—I think Mr. Drummond told us he had seven sisters,—and Mattie seems left out in the cold among them all: they laugh at her oddities, and quiz her most unmercifully; even Mr. Drummond does, and Nan scolds him for it; but he has not been so bad lately. It is rather hard that none of them seem to want her."

"You forget Grace is very good to her, mother," broke in Phillis, somewhat eagerly. "Mattie always says so."

"By the by, I must have a look at this paragon. Is not her name among those in my pocket-book?" returned her cousin, wickedly. "I saw Miss Sartoris at Oldfield that day, and she was too grand for my taste. Why, a fellow would never dare to speak to her. I have scored that one off the list, Phillis."

"My dears, what have you been saying to Harry?"

"Oh, nothing, mammie," returned Dulce, hastily, fearing her mother would be shocked. "Phillis was only in her nonsense-mood; but Harry is such a goose, and will take things seriously. I wish you would let me have your pocket-book a moment, and I would tear out the page." But Sir Harry returned it safely to his pocket.

"What was your other piece of news?" asked Nan, in her quiet voice, when all this chatter had subsided.

"Oh, I had almost forgotten it myself! only Miss Middleton charged me to tell you that 'son Hammond' has arrived by the P. and O. Steamer the 'Cerberus,' and that she and her father were just starting for Southampton to meet him."



CHAPTER XLII.

"COME, NOW, I CALL THAT HARD."

Phillis was unusually silent during the remainder of the evening; but, as she bade Nan good-night at the door of her little room, she lingered a moment, shading the flame of her candle with her hand.

"Do you think Mattie will bring her sister round to see us, to-morrow?" she asked, in a very low tone.

"Oh, yes,—I am sure I hope so," returned Nan, sleepily, not noticing the restrained eagerness of Phillis's manner. "We can hardly call first, under our present circumstances. Mr. Drummond knows that." And Phillis withdrew, as though she were satisfied with the answer.

Nothing more was said on the subject; and they settled themselves to their work as usual on the following morning, Dulce chattering and singing snatches of songs,—for she was a most merry little soul,—Nan cheerful and ready for conversation with any one; but Phillis withdrew herself to the farthest window and stitched away in grave silence. And, seeing such was her mood, her sisters wisely forbore to disturb her.

At twelve o'clock the gate-bell sounded, and Dulce, who hailed any interruption as a joyful reprieve, announced delightedly that Mattie and a tall young lady were coming up the flagged walk; and in an instant Phillis's work lay untouched on her lap.

"Are you all here? Oh, dear, I am so glad," exclaimed Mattie, bustling into the room with a radiant face. "I have brought Grace to see you; she arrived last night." And in a moment the young stranger was surrounded and welcomed most cordially.

Phillis looked at her curiously for a moment: indeed, during the whole visit her eyes rested upon Grace's face from time to time, as though she were studying her. She had heard so much of this girl that she had almost feared to be disappointed in her; but every moment her interest increased.

Grace Drummond was not a pretty girl,—with the exception of Isabel and the boys, the Drummond family had not the slightest pretension to beauty,—but she was fair and tranquil-looking, and her expression was gentle and full of character. She had very soft clear eyes, with a trace of sadness in them; but her lips were thin—like her mother's—and closed firmly, and the chin was a little massively cut for a woman.

In looking at the lower part of this girl's face, a keen observer would read the tenacity of a strong will; but the eyes had the appealing softness that one sees in some dumb creatures.

They won Phillis at once. After the first moment, her reserved manner thawed and became gracious; and before half an hour had passed she and Grace were talking as though they had known each other all their lives.

Nan watched them smilingly as she chatted with Mattie: she knew her sister was fastidious in her likings, and that she did not take to people easily. Phillis was pleasant to all her friends and acquaintances: but she was rarely intimate with them, as Nan and Dulce were wont to be. She held her head a little high, as though she felt her own superiority.

"Phillis is very amusing and clever; but one does not know her as well as Nan and Dulce," even Carrie Paine had been heard to say; and certainly Phillis had never talked to Carrie as she did to this stranger.

Grace was just as must charmed on her side. On her return, she delighted and yet pained her brother by her warm praises of his favorites.

"Oh, Archie!" she exclaimed, as they sat at luncheon in the old wainscoted dining-room at the vicarage, "you are quite right in saying the Challoners are not like any other girls. They are all three so nice and pretty; but the second one—Miss Phillis—is most to my taste."

Archie checked an involuntary exclamation, but Mattie covered it.

"Dear me, Grace!" she observed, innocently; "I rather wonder at your saying that. Nan is by far the prettiest: is she not, Archie? Her complexion and coloring are perfect."

"Oh, yes! If you are talking of mere looks, I cannot dispute that," returned Grace, a little impatiently; "but, in my opinion, there is far more in her sister's face: she has the beauty of expression, which is far higher than that of form or coloring. I should say she has far more character than either of them."

"They are none of them wanting in that," replied Archie, breaking up his bread absently.

"No; that's just what I say: they are perfectly unlike other girls. They are so fresh, and simple, and unconscious, that it is quite a pleasure to be with them: but if I were to choose a friend from among them I should certainly select Miss Phillis." And to this her brother made no reply.

"They are all so pleased about Tuesday," interrupted Mattie, at this point,—"Nan was so interested and amused about my grand tea-party, as she called it. They have all promised to come, only Mrs. Challoner's cold will not allow her to go out this severe weather. And then we met Sir Harry, and I introduced him to Grace, and he will be delighted to come too. I wish you would let me ask Miss Middleton and her brother, Archie; and then we should be such a nice little party."

"How can you be so absurd, Mattie?" returned Archie, with a touch of his old irritability. "A nice confusion you would make, if you were left to arrange things! You know the colonel's one object in life is to prevent his son from having any intercourse with the Challoners; and you would ask him to meet them the first evening after his arrival in the place."

"Is the father so narrow in his prejudices as that?" asked Grace, who had quite forgotten her own shocked feelings when she first heard that Archie was visiting a family of dressmakers on equal terms.

"Oh, dear! I forgot," sighed Mattie, taking her brother's blame meekly, as usual. "How very stupid of me! But would you not like the Cheynes or the Leslies invited, Archie? Grace ought to be introduced to some of the best people."

"You may leave Grace to me," returned her brother, somewhat haughtily: "I will take care of her introductions. As for your tea-party, Mattie, I shall be much obliged if you will keep it within its first limits,—just the Challoners and Sir Harry. If any one be asked, it ought to be Noel Frere: he has rather a dull time of it, living alone in lodgings,"—the Rev. Noel Frere being a college chum of Archie's, who had come down to Hadleigh to recruit himself by a month or two of idleness. "Perhaps we had better have him, as there will be so many ladies."

"Oh, yes,—of course! He is so nice and clever," observed Grace, not noticing the shade on Mattie's face. "How pleased you must be to have him staying here so long, Archie!—you two were always such friends."

"He comes nearly every evening," returned Mattie, disconsolately. "He may suit you, Grace, because you are clever yourself; but I am dreadfully afraid of him, he is so dry and sarcastic. Must he really be asked for Tuesday, Archie?"

"Yes, indeed: you ought to have thought of him first. I am sorry for your bad taste, Mattie, if you do not like Frere: he is a splendid fellow, though terribly delicate, I fear. Now, Gracie, if we have finished luncheon, I should like you to put on your wraps, and I will show you some of my favorite haunts; and perhaps we shall meet Frere."

Grace hesitated for a moment. She thought Archie would have included Mattie in his invitation; but he did nothing of the kind, and she knew him too well to suggest such a thing.

"Good-bye, Mattie dear. I hope you will have some tea ready for us when we come back," she said, kissing her sister affectionately; but they neither of them noticed the pained wistfulness of Mattie's look as the door closed upon them.

They were going out without her; and on Grace's first day, too. Archie was going to show her the church, and the schools, and the model cottages where his favorite old women lived,—all those places that Mattie had visited and learned to love during the eight months she had lived with her brother. In a few weeks she must say good-bye to them all, and go back to the dull old house at Leeds, to be scolded by her mother for her awkward ways, and to be laughed at and teased by her brothers and sisters. Archie was bad enough sometimes, but then he was Archie, and had a right to his bad humors; but with the boys and girls it was less endurable. It was, "Oh, you stupid old Matt! Of course it was all your fault;" or, "Mattie, you goose!" from Fred; or, "You silly child, Mattie" from her father, who found her a less amusing companion than Grace; and even Dottie would say, "Oh, it is only Mattie: I never care if she scolds me."

The home atmosphere was a little depressing, Mattie thought, with a sigh, dearly as she loved her young torments. She knew she would find it somewhat trying after these eight months of comparative freedom. True, Archie had snubbed her and kept her in order; but one tyrant is preferable to many. At home the thirty-years-old Mattie was only one of the many daughters,—the old maid of the family,—the unattractive little wall-flower who was condemned to wither unnoticed on its stalk. Here, in her brother's vicarage, she had been a person of consequence, whom only the master of the house presumed to snub.

The maids liked their good-natured mistress, who never found fault with them, and who was so bustling and clever a little housekeeper. The poor people and the school-children liked Mattie too. "Our Miss Drummond" they called her for a long time, rather to Grace's discomfiture. "Ah, she is a rare one, when a body is low!" as old Goody Saunders once said.

And Archie's friends respected the little woman, in spite of her crudities and decidedly odd ways. Miss Middleton and the Challoners were quite fond of her. So no wonder Mattie grew low at the thought of leaving her friends.

Grace had come to take her place. Nevertheless, she had welcomed her on the previous evening with the utmost cheerfulness and unselfishness. She had shown her the house; she had introduced her to the Challoners; she had overwhelmed her with a thousand little attentions; and Grace had not been ungrateful.

"I am afraid this is hard for you, Mattie," Grace had said to her, as the sisters were unpacking late the previous night. "I ought not be so happy to come, when I know I am turning you out." And Mattie had winked away a tear, and answered, quite cheerily,—

"Oh, no, Grace; you must not feel that. I have had a nice time, and enjoyed myself so much with dear Archie, and now it is your turn; and, you know, he has always wanted you from the first."

"Poor dear fellow!" murmured Grace; "but he looks thin, Mattie. Perhaps I ought to be here, as he wants me; but I shall never keep his house as beautifully as you have done. Mother would be astonished if she saw it." And this piece of well-deserved praise went far to console Mattie that night.

But she began to feel just a little sore at breakfast-time. Once or twice, Archie decidedly ignored her, and turned to Grace; he even brought her his gloves to mend, though Mattie had been his faithful mender all these months.

"Come into the study, and we will have a talk, Grace," he had said, and as Grace had involuntarily waited for her sister to accompany them, he had-added, hastily: "Oh, Mattie is always busy at this time with butchers and bakers! Come along, Grace:" and, though Mattie had no such business on her hands, she dared not join them.