"Oh, dull! Dull does not express my feelings! We are so shut in here, and so little happens, and I know nothing. I have had no chance of learning and finding interests in that way."

"Why didn't ye study, then, when ye had the chance? Ye drove Miss Minnitt crazy with your idleness!" interposed Pixie brutally; and Esmeralda flushed and hesitated, momentarily discomfited, then, recovering herself, cast a melancholy glance in Hilliard's face.

"Our old governess," she explained resignedly, in the tone of one who might speak volumes, but is restrained from feelings of loyalty and decorum. "A kind old creature, so good to us! She has lived in this village all her life."

"I understand," said the model listener. It seemed to him quite natural that this beautiful creature possessed an intellect to match her person, and felt her eagle wings pinioned in the atmosphere of an Irish village. He wished he were only more intellectual himself, so that he might be a fitter companion, and devoutly hoped that he might make no bad slip to betray his ignorance, and so alienate her sweet confidence. "As you say, the more one knows, the less possible it should be to be dull or idle. Amusement can never make up for good solid occupation."

"Oh, never, never!" cried Miss Esmeralda, with a fervour which brought Pixie's eyes upon her in a flash of righteous indignation. Esmeralda to talk like this! Esmeralda, who sat at ease while others worked, who groaned aloud if asked to sew on a button, and was at once so dilatory and so inefficient that Bridgie declared it was easier to do a task at once than to unravel it after her vain attempts. Pixie gasped and pranced on ahead, her back towards the direction in which she was going, her face turned upon the culprit in kindling reproach.

"Joan O'Shaughnessy, what's happened to you to talk in such a fashion this day? You, that doesn't know the meaning of work, to be sighing and groaning that you haven't enough to do! You, to be saying that it would cheer you to be busy, when ye sigh like a furnace and grumble the day long if you have to work for an hour on end! I've heard ye say with my own ears that if you had your own way, you would never do another hand's turn, and of all the lazy, idle girls—"

"Wouldn't it perhaps be wise if you looked which way you were going? The ground is rough, and I'm afraid you will have a fall," interposed Hilliard mildly; not that he was in truth the least bit anxious about this strange child's safety, or could not have witnessed her downfall with equanimity, but in pity for Esmeralda's embarrassment she could not be allowed to continue her tirade indefinitely. He was rewarded by a melting glance, as the beauty sighed once more, and said, in a tone of sweet forbearance—

"She does not understand! She has been away, and that's not the sort of work I meant; and besides—"

She stopped short, for she could not think how to finish the sentence, and the fear of Pixie was ever before her eyes. It was in a different and much more natural voice that she again took up her explanation. "Perhaps I was mistaken in saying it was work I wanted, but it is certainly interest. I have never been farther away than Dublin, and I get so tired and weary of it all, and have such a longing for something fresh. The others don't feel it, for they are so fond of the place; but I'm restless. I feel pent in, knowing the world is moving on and on, all the time, and I am shut up here, and sometimes the longing comes over me so strongly that it's more than I can bear, and I fall into—"

"A rage!" said Pixie calmly. Esmeralda had paused just long enough to draw that short eloquent breath which adds so largely to the eloquence of a peroration, and was preparing to roll out a tragic "despair," when that tiresome child must needs interfere and spoil everything by her suggestion. Esmeralda's anger was quickly roused, but fortunately even quicker still was her sense of humour. For a moment clouds and sunshine struggled together upon her face, then the sunshine prevailed, she looked at Hilliard, beheld him biting his lips in a vain effort to preserve composure, and went off into peal after peal of rich, melodious laughter.

"Next time I wish to talk at my ease, it's not bringing you out with me I'll be, Pixie O'Shaughnessy!" she cried between her gasps; and Hilliard's merry "Ho! ho! ho!" rang out in echo.

"She is indeed a most painfully honest accompanist. I am thankful that I have no small brothers to give me away in return. You give your sister a very bad character, Miss Pixie; but you seem very little in awe of her, I notice. She must possess some redeeming qualities to make up for the bad ones you have quoted."

Pixie bent her head in benignant assent, as one bound by honesty to see both sides of a question and to deal out praise with blame.

"She's idle," she said judicially, "and she's hasty, but she's sorry afterwards. The more awful her temper, the quicker she's sorry. The night after you left—"

"Thank you, Pixie, you can spare us further domestic revelations!" cried Esmeralda, flushing in lovely confusion, and keeping her face turned away from the merry blue eyes so persistently bent upon her. "There's one comfort, Mr Hilliard. You know the worst of me now, and there is nothing more to dread. Pixie has spoiled my chance of posing as a blighted genius, and shown me as just a bad-tempered, discontented girl who has not the sense to be satisfied with her position. I'm sorry, for it would have been interesting to hear you talk like the clever, intellectual people in books, and perhaps, if I had kept very quiet and agreed with all you said, you wouldn't have discovered my ignorance for quite a long time to come."

"But, dear me, you would have discovered mine! I couldn't have kept it up for an hour. You surely don't expect me to lecture on improving topics!" cried Hilliard, in such transparent amaze that Esmeralda could not but be convinced of his sincerity.

"Then you are not clever either!" she exclaimed. "What a relief! Now we can just talk comfortably, and not pretend any more. But at any rate you have seen more than we have. Have you travelled much? What have you seen? What countries have you been in?"

"I can hardly say straight off. Let me count. France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Greece, Turkey—"

The "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of astonishment had been steadily gaining in volume, but at the sound of this last name they reached a perfect shriek of delight. There was something so very strange and mysterious about Turkey that even to see a man who had visited its borders gave one a thrill of excitement. Pixie's premeditated boast that she had been in Surbiton died upon her lips, and Esmeralda's eyes grew soft with wonder.

"Turkey! Oh, you are a traveller! What on earth made you go to Turkey?"

"It was part of a tour on which my uncle took me after leaving the University, and I went even farther afield than that,—to Palestine and Egypt. You would like Egypt even better than Turkey, Miss Joan, for there, thanks to our rule, you have picturesqueness without squalor, whereas Turkey does not stand a close inspection. We were thankful to leave Constantinople after a very few days, but were sad indeed to turn our backs on fascinating Cairo. If I had the seven-leagued boots, I should be a frequent visitor over there."

The two sisters linked arms, and gazed at him with awe-stricken eyes.

"And you have seen veiled women," sighed Esmeralda softly, "and Mont Blanc, and the Pyramids, and the desert, and the Red Sea, and Saint Peter's at Rome, and all the things I have dreamt about ever since I was a child! Oh, you are lucky! I think I should die with joy if anyone offered to take me a trip like that. Did you have any adventures? What did you like best? Begin at the beginning, and tell us all about it!"

Well, as our American cousins would say, this was rather a large order; but Hilliard could refuse nothing to such an audience, and, if the truth must be told, had his full share of the traveller's love of relating his experiences. He passed lightly over days spent in countries near home, but grew even more and more animated as he went farther afield, and reached the Eastern surroundings in which he delighted.

"Shall I tell you about Palestine? I never knew anything stranger than arriving at that railway station and seeing 'Jerusalem' written up on the hoardings. It seemed extraordinary to have a station there at all, and such a station! It was in autumn, and everything was white with dust. Outside in the road were a number of the most extraordinary- looking vehicles you can possibly imagine, white as if they had been kept in a flour mill, and as decrepit as if a hundred years had passed since they were last used. How they kept together at all was a marvel to me, and as for the harness, there was more string than leather to be seen. The drive from the station to the hotel was one of the most exciting things I ever experienced. I am not nervous, and have had as much driving as most fellows, but that was a bit too much even for me. The road is very hilly, turns sharply at many corners, and is, of course, badly made to the last degree, so that it would have seemed difficult enough to manage suck crazy vehicles even at a foot-pace; but our fellow drove as if the Furies were at his back, as if it were a question of life and death to get to the hotel before any of his companions. He stood up on the box and shouted to his horses; he lashed at them with his whip; he yelled imprecations to the rivals who were galloping in pursuit. When an especially dangerous corner came in view, two drivers made for it in a reckless stampede, which made it seem certain that one or other must be hurled to the bottom of the hill. A lady inside our carriage burst into a flood of tears, and I believe her companions were all clinging to one another in terror. As for me, I was on the box, and I never passed a more exciting ten minutes. We were told afterwards that we had had the best driver in Jerusalem, but I never engaged his services again.

"That same night in the hotel I was introduced to a dragoman, whom we engaged to take us about. I am sure you will like to hear about Salim, for, apart from himself, he had a great claim to attention, for he had been Gordon's dragoman years ago when he was in Egypt. Yes! I knew that would interest you, and you would have loved Salim for his own sake too. He had a gentle, sad face, with the beautiful dark eyes of the Eastern, and he spoke English remarkably well. He was unmarried, and lived with his mother and a married brother. Sixteen years he and his sister-in-law had lived in the same house, but he had never seen her face. He had been unlucky in money matters, but accepted his poverty with the placid acquiescence of the Oriental. I remember one day when he told me of a piece of good fortune which had befallen a fellow- dragoman, and I said that I hoped he might be similarly fortunate. He bowed his head with quiet dignity, and waved a brown hand in the air. 'That is with God, sahib—that is with God!' I used to question him about Gordon, and he loved to talk of him. 'He was a good man, sahib, better than any bishop. When we were camping in the desert he was up every morning before it was light, kneeling to pray before his tent, and his heart was so great that he could not bear to see anyone in trouble. I must always keep with me a bag with small moneys, and he would not wait to be asked. Everyone who needed must be helped. When he went away he gave me his two best horses, but my heart was sore. He was a great chief—a great chief; but I heard afterwards that when he came to die he was quite poor—the same as Christ!'"

Hilliard told a story well, and now, as he repeated the words, his voice softened into the deep cadence of the Eastern tones, in which they had first been said; his hand waved and his eye kindled with emotion.

Esmeralda looked at him, and her heart gave a throb of admiration. The manner in which he had spoken was unmistakably reverent, and if young men only knew it, there is nothing which a girl loves more than a mingling of manliness and reverence in the man who singles her out for attention.

"He is a good man; I like him," was the mental comment. Aloud she said dreamily, "Gordon is my hero. I love to hear about him. He was too generous to others to heap up money for himself. I suppose he didn't care about it. I wish I didn't, but I do. It's so very distressing to be always short of money. All the good people in books are poor, but for myself I think it's bad for the temper. They talk about the peril of riches, but I should like to try it for myself, wouldn't you, Mr Hilliard?"

Hilliard smiled—a quiet, amused smile.

"Well, I don't know. Everything is comparative. If some people would think us poor, others would most certainly consider us very rich indeed. We have all that we need, and for myself I'm quite content. I manage to have a very good time."

"And you get away for holidays like this. That must make it easier. Have you to work very hard? What is your work? In what way do you make your living?"

Once more Hilliard smiled in amusement, and in truth there was a directness about Esmeralda's questionings which was as unusual as it was unconscious. He put up his hand and stroked one end of his curly moustache.

"Glue!"

"Glue!" echoed Esmeralda shrilly.

"Glue!" shrieked Pixie in even shriller echo.

The two pairs of eyes were fixed upon him in horrified incredulity. The pity, the commiseration of their expressions was touching to behold.

"Oh, poor fellow!" sighed Esmeralda softly. "You must be poor! How can anyone manage to make a living out of—glue?"

"But you know, Esmeralda darling, it is useful! We break such heaps of things ourselves. We often use it," urged Pixie anxiously; and at this her sister brightened visibly.

"We do. That's true for you, Pixie. Perhaps it's your glue we use, Mr Hilliard. Dear me, it will be quite cheering when we break anything after this! We shall feel we are helping a friend by our misfortune."

"That's very kind of you. I'll remember that you said that, and it will cheer me too," replied Hilliard gallantly, and at that very moment a sound came to the ears of all. "The gong! It must be tea-time. They are sounding it to let us hear. I hope I have not kept you out too long."

Ten minutes later they were all seated in the hall enjoying tea and scones, while Bridgie smiled sweetly on their flushed, animated faces.

"You look well after your walk," she said. "And what did Mr Hilliard think of our tame ruins?"

Pixie looked at Esmeralda; Esmeralda looked at Mr Hilliard; Mr Hilliard looked at his boots. One and all they had forgotten all about the ruins!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE UNWRITTEN PAGE.

The New Year gathering was a great success, and justified Esmeralda's boast that she would organise an entertainment which should be both original and striking. Mademoiselle was not admitted to the secret conferences, for she was to be surprised with the other guests; but she could not shut her ears, and would not have done so if she could, for the sound of the music which rose to her ears was too melodious to lose. One and all the O'Shaughnessys possessed beautiful singing voices, and though the carols which they rehearsed were simple in themselves, they were practised with a care which made them a joy to hear. Over and over again the Major made his choir repeat a certain phrase, until the diminuendo or crescendo was rendered to his satisfaction, until opening and closing notes sounded together to the instant, and due expression was given to every mark. Music he loved, and over music would spend time and trouble which he would have grudged in almost every other way; but he rubbed his hands with satisfaction when the last rehearsal was over, and boasted gleefully that for carol-singing not many choirs could be found to beat his own.

By eight o'clock the girls were dressed and strutting up and down the hall to exhibit themselves to the gaze of their companions. Bridgie wore her coming-out dress—not so white as it had once been, but carefully chalked at the worst places, and swathed in lovely old lace round the shoulders. Esmeralda sported a pink moire dress which had once belonged to her mother, with a voluminous sash of white muslin, since nothing more elaborate was to hand, a wreath of roses out of last summer's hat pinned over one shoulder, with all the crunched-up leaves ironed out smooth and flat, and white gloves cleaned with benzoline until you could hardly tell them from new. She was a vision of elegance, or looked so at least to the ordinary observer; for when a girl is eighteen, and a beauty at that, she is bound to look charming, whatever be her clothes.

At nine o'clock the guests were asked, and the hour had barely struck before they began to arrive. The sound of horses' feet was heard from without, wheels drew up before the door, and in they came, one party after another, having driven across country in the cold and the dark for five, for six, and in one instance for ten long miles, but arriving fresh and radiant for all that, and brimming over with good humour. Mademoiselle thought that she had not seen such a merry assembly since leaving her own dear land, or heard such a babel of tongues. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and to be on terms of closest intimacy and affection; everyone talked at once and exclaimed with rapture and admiration at the preparations for the entertainment. It was easy to amuse such a company, and dancing and games were carried on with gusto in the long drawing-room, which had been prepared for the occasion, and looked comparatively festive with great fires burning in the fireplaces at either end.

Soon after eleven o'clock the different members of the O'Shaughnessy family began to slip out of the room, but almost before their absence was noted, the Major was ringing a bell to attract attention and marshalling the company to the far end of the room. At the same signal two servants entered the room, turned out the lamps, and drew aside the curtains from the mullioned windows, through which the grounds could be seen, lying white and still in the moonlight. There was a rustle of expectation among the guests, for evidently something was about to happen, something appropriate to the day and the hour, yet what it could be no one had the ghost of an idea. That was the best of those dear O'Shaughnessys, a smiling lady confided to Geoffrey Hilliard—no one could tell what they would be up to next! They were different from everybody else, and their ways were so much more amusing and charming than the ordinary stereotyped usages of society.

Hilliard agreed with fervour, and found an additional proof of the assertion as, one by one, a picturesque band of carollers entered the room by the farthest door and took up their position in a semicircle facing the audience. They were uniformly robed in black, with cowl-like hoods hanging loosely round the face, and each bore a stick, on the end of which waved a brilliant Japanese lantern. The lights lit up the features of the singers, and seldom indeed had "the beautiful O'Shaughnessys" appeared to greater advantage than at this moment. Jack's handsome features and commanding stature made him appear a type of young manhood, Miles for once forgot to grimace, and Pat's misleading air of innocence was even more guileless and touching than usual. As for the girls, Esmeralda looked like a picture by Rossetti, and Bridgie's halo of golden hair was more bewitching than ever in its sombre setting. No one looked at Pixie until the signal was given and the choristers burst into song, when she came in for even more than her own share of admiration, for the treble solos were without exception given to her to sing, and the piercing sweetness of the young voice moved some of the more emotional of the audience to surreptitious tears.

Several carols were sung, interspersed with part-songs suitable to the occasion, and then the singers formed up in rank two and two, and at the Major's request the guests followed their example, making a long procession in the rear. Another song was started, something slow and plaintive in tone, its subject being the dying year, with regret for all that it had brought of joy and gladness, and to its strains the procession started on a strange and charming expedition. Down one long corridor, unlit save by the cold light from without and the warm flicker of lantern ahead along a deserted wing, where dust lay thick on the walls and the faces of departed ancestors looked down sadly from their tarnished frames, finally down the circular staircase, from which Esmeralda had had her first glimpse of Geoffrey Hilliard, and so into the great hall beneath. At the end farthest from the door the Major halted, raised one hand, and called aloud in slow, solemn tones.

"Prithee, silence!" he said. That was all—"Prithee, silence!" and at the sound there was another flutter of excitement among the guests. The hands of the clock pointed to four minutes to twelve, and it was evident that the last item in the charming programme was about to take place. Ladies moved about on tiptoe, mounting the first steps of the staircase, or standing on stools to ensure a better view. Men moved politely to the rear. There was a minute's preoccupation, and when the general gaze was once more turned to the doorway, it was seen that a significant change had taken place in the scene.

Against a background of screens stood the figure of an old man—a very old man, it would appear, since his back was bowed and his head and beard white as the snow on the ground outside. His brown cloak hung in tatters, and he leant heavily upon his staff. A deep-toned "Ah-h!" sounded through the assembly, and showed that the onlookers were at no loss to understand the character which he was intended to represent. "The Old Year," murmured one voice after another.

Then a solemn hush fell over all as the clock ticked out the last minutes, and through the opened door came a blast of icy air and a few flakes of snow, blown inwards by the wind. Only another minute, and then there it came—the slow, solemn chiming of the clock on the tower. One, two, three. Good-bye, Old Year! What if you have brought troubles in your wake, you have brought blessings too, and sunny summer hours! Four, five, six—Dear old friend, we are sorrier to part with thee than we knew! We have not appreciated thee enough, made enough of thy opportunities. If we have ever reproached thee, thou hast cause to reproach us now. Seven, eight, nine. Going so soon? We were used to thee, and had been long companions, and of the new and untried there is always a dread. Good-bye, Old Year! Take with thee our blessings and our thanks, our sorrowful regrets for all wherein we have been amiss. Ten, eleven, twelve.

It is here! The New Year has come, and to greet its arrival such a clashing of bells, such an outburst of strange and jangling sounds as fairly deafened the listening ears. Molly, grinning from ear to ear, was running the broom-handle up and down the row of bells outside the servants' hall. Mike was belabouring the gong as if his life depended on his exertions. The stable-boy was blowing shrilly through a tin whistle, and the fat old cook was dashing trays of empty mustard-tins on the stone floor, and going off into peals of laughter between each movement.

Perhaps it was owing to the stunning effect of this sudden noise that what had happened at the doorway seemed to have something of the quickness of magic to the astonished onlookers, but a good deal of the credit was still due to the castors, on which the screens had been mounted, to an ingenious arrangement of strings, and to many and careful rehearsals. Certain it is that, whereas at one moment the figure of the Old Year was visible to all, at the next he had disappeared, and the sound of that last long chime had hardly died away before another figure stood in his place. No need to ask the name of the visitor. It was once more patent to the most obtuse beholder. A small, girlish figure with dark locks falling loosely over the shoulders, with a straight white gown reaching midway between the knees and the ankles, and showing little bare feet encased in sandals. A few white blossoms were held loosely in one hand, and in the other a long white scroll—the page on which was to be inscribed the history of an untried path.

Pixie's face was white and awed, for the solemnity of the occasion and the poetry of the impersonation alike appealed to her emotional nature, and there was an expression upon the plain little face which was more impressive than any mere pink and white prettiness, as more than one of the onlookers remarked with astonishment.

"Who could have believed that that child could look like that?" cried Geoffrey Hilliard to Mademoiselle, and that young lady tossed her head with an impatient movement.

"Why not, pray? If Pixie is not pretty, she is something better—she is spirituelle!" for it had come to this, that Mademoiselle could not endure to hear Pixie adversely criticised, and resented a depreciating remark as hotly as if it had had reference to herself.

At this point the formal programme came to an end, and the guests hurried forward to shake hands with their hosts and thank them over and over again for the entertainment which they had provided, while the choristers shed their monk-like robes, (nothing after all but mackintosh cloaks with hoods cut out of black calico!) and appeared once more in evening dress. The way was led to the dining-room, where refreshments were spread out on the long table, and there was much drinking of healths and exchanging of good wishes for the New Year. Everyone was hungry and happy, and Mademoiselle's cakes and jellies were much appreciated; but Esmeralda sighed as she looked around, and ate sandwiches with such a pensive air that Hilliard demanded the reason of her depression.

"This!" she sighed, holding out the half-eaten fragment, on which was plainly circled the mark of small white teeth. "It hurts my sense of fitness. We should have had boar's head and venison, and a sheep roasted whole. We have some lovely old silver dishes which would have held them, but—" the "but" was significant, and she raised her beautiful shoulders with a shrug—"those days have departed. We have to be content with sandwiches now."

"There's no limit to one, surely," Hilliard replied gravely. "We will keep this plate to ourselves, for I am prepared to eat a very good half, and you must be hungry after your exertions. I can't tell how much I have enjoyed this evening. It will stand out in my memory as unlike any other I have ever spent. I shall often recall it when I am back in town."

"When—when are you going back?" asked Esmeralda, with an anxiety which she made no effort to conceal. "Not very soon, I hope. Jack goes to- morrow, and that is quite enough at one time. Oh, I do hate the end of the Christmas season! Everyone seems to go away. In a fortnight or so Pixie will be off, and Mademoiselle with her. It has been so delightful having a visitor in the house, and she has been so kind and useful. She made most of the things on the table to-night,—all those pretty iced cakes."

"Ah, yes! Very clever, I'm sure," said Hilliard absently. It was easy to see that he had no attention to spare for Mademoiselle or her confectionery, and presently he added in a lower tone, "There is no immediate hurry for my return. I can just as well stay another three or four days, but I must be back in town before this day week. I fear there is no getting out of that."

"Glue?" queried Esmeralda saucily. They were sitting together at a little table behind most of the other guests, and she lay back in her chair looking up at him with a roguish smile. "Glue?"

"Glue principally. It is a very—er—engrossing occupation," returned Hilliard, nobly resisting the inclination to pun; "but I think it could manage without me for a few days longer, and perhaps we could have another ride together. There is a meet somewhere near the day after to- morrow. Shall you be there?"

Esmeralda hesitated, seized with a sudden mysterious disinclination to say "No," a desperate longing to say "Yes," and yet—and yet,—how could it decently be done?

"I—don't know! It's Bridgie's turn. We have only one horse between us, and I have been the last three times. I don't like to ask her again. It seems so mean."

"But if you did ask, she would let you go. She would not mind taking her turn later on?"

"Oh no, or not at all, for the matter of that. There's nothing Bridgie wouldn't give away if anyone else wanted it. She's an angel. It's just because she's so sweet that I'm ashamed to be selfish."

"I can understand that, but—just for once! If you were to ask her very nicely to change places with you this time, because—because—er—"— Hilliard hesitated and pulled his moustache in embarrassment—"because you—"

"Yes, that's just it. What can I say? Because what?" laughed Esmeralda gaily, then suddenly met the gaze of a pair of deep blue eyes, twinkling no longer, but fixed upon her in intent, earnest scrutiny, and flushed in mysterious embarrassment.

"Because it was my last chance, and I had asked you especially to be there. Because I had stayed on purpose to have another ride with you! That's the true reason, so far as I am concerned. I am sure, if you told Miss Bridgie the truth, she wouldn't have the heart to say No."

Esmeralda looked down at the table and crumbled bread thoughtfully. She was by no means so sure. Bridgie was enough of a mother to take fright at such an open declaration of interest. She would not be so rash as to repeat the conversation verbatim, but go to that meet she would, let Bridgie refuse ten times over, let every horse disappear from the stable. Go she would, if she had to borrow the pedlar's pony and ride barebacked all the way. Such was the mental decision; aloud she said languidly—

"Don't know, I'm sure! Perhaps I may be too tired. I'll see when the time comes," and stretched out her hand to beckon Pixie to her side.

Hilliard smiled quietly. He had an extraordinary way of seeing through Esmeralda's pretences, and he welcomed Pixie as genially as if the tete-a-tete were of no consequence in his eyes.

"Well, little white New Year, are you coming to sit down beside us? Have you had no supper yet? I am sure you must be hungry after all your exertions. Let me wait upon you now, in return for all the pleasure you have given me by your charming singing."

But no, Pixie refused to sit down or to eat any of the good things pressed upon her. For once in her life jellies and creams, even meringues themselves, failed to tempt her appetite, for she was feasting on an even sweeter diet—that of unlimited flattery and praise. As she strolled to and fro among the guests she was greeted on every side with words of commendation for her singing, her charming impersonation of the character assigned to her, and by the more facetious members of the party implored to smile kindly upon them, to promise them her favour, and to remember their especial desires. It was not likely that she was going to sit down in a corner of the room with no one but her sister and that stupid Mr Hilliard, who did nothing but stare at Esmeralda, as if he had never seen a girl before. She shook her head as he pointed to a chair, but lingered a moment to allow him to examine her costume and pay the proper tribute of praise.

"It's charming—quite charming—so simple, and yet so effective. Those few loose flowers are much better than a formal bouquet, and the scroll—who made the scroll? It is most professional, and I see you have a pencil hanging by the side,—white,—to match the rest." He lifted it as he spoke, and made as though about to write, but at that Pixie drew back in dismay.

"No, you mustn't! Be careful,—you must be careful. It won't rub out."

She walked hastily away, and the two who were left looked at each other, half sad, half smiling, for the words went home with a meaning deeper than any which the speaker had intended to convey.

"Be careful. It won't rub out," repeated Hilliard slowly. "That's a good motto for the New Year. I don't know that one could have a better. I shall remember that, and the scroll all white and unmarked. I wonder what will be written there before the year is done?"

"A great deal, I hope—a great many happenings. I am tired of jogging along in the same old way. I would like a sensational headline in big print, and that as soon as possible!" cried Esmeralda recklessly.

Poor Esmeralda! The day was near at hand when she recalled her words, and winced at the remembrance in sorrow and misery.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE LAST RUN.

"Me dear," said Bridgie to Mademoiselle, the next morning, showing all her dimples at once in the most mischievous of smiles, "what do you think Mr Hilliard said to me last night before he left? He has made arrangements to stay a few days later to have another ride with the hounds. He believed it would be a very good meet on Thursday, and how wonderfully my sister did ride, to be sure. It's my belief he started with the intention of asking me to let Esmeralda go in my place, but I looked so innocent at him that he hadn't the heart. 'Indeed,' I said, 'she did so, and I feared he would think I made but a poor show in comparison.' Wasn't it cruel of me now, and the poor thing looking at me speechless, with those lovely, humbugging eyes! I had to turn away and laugh in a corner, but I wouldn't relent, for, says I to myself, if I have to give up my run, I'll get some fun another way—and it is amusing, isn't it now, when a man shows you so plainly that he doesn't want you?"

"Indeed that is a form of humour I do not understand!" returned Mademoiselle, with her nose in the air. "But you will give way, of course—that goes without saying—and let Esmeralda go once again. You will not stand out to the end!"

"How could I? Suppose it was myself, and—someone I told you about. How should I feel if I had the chance of seeing him, and she would not allow me? I believe they are really beginning to care for each other, and he is a nice man. I should like him well enough."

"A week ago you were alarmed at the thought! I confess he makes on me a pleasant impression, but surely you know very little about him, and it is rather rash to accept him at once as a possible suitor. What do you know beyond that he is handsome, and appears amiable and kind?"

"His uncle was one of the Hilliards of Nanabeg. My father knew him well, and he was a fine, old-fashioned gentleman. That was what made this Mr Geoffrey come here for the hunting. He had heard his uncle speak of Bally William, and the Trelawneys take paying guests for the hunting season, so he arranged to come to them. He is not very well off, I'm afraid, for Joan tells me that he has to make his money out of glue, poor creature! But he must be nice, if he is the old squire's nephew."

Mademoiselle's eyes rolled upward with an eloquent glance. It was a new article of faith that a nephew must needs be exemplary because his uncle had been a popular country squire, but she held her peace and amused herself by watching the play which went on between the two sisters during the next twenty-four hours. Esmeralda was plainly anxious and ill at ease, and made tentative allusions to the coming meet, which Bridgie received with bland obtuseness. She had not the courage to make her request in so many words, but instead brought forward a succession of gloomy prophecies calculated to dampen expectation in the mind of any but the most enthusiastic rider.

"It will be a heavy run to-morrow," she said, shaking her head dismally as she glanced out of the window on the quickly melting snow. "I wouldn't wonder if it poured with rain! It's a fine draggled set the women will look before they get home."

"I prefer the ground soft, and as for sunshine, it's a thing I detest,— dazzling your eyes, and the poor mare's into the bargain. Dull weather and a cloudy sky is what I hope to see, and for once it looks as if I should get my wish."

"Well, it's good weather you need, to get safely over that country. Mr O'Brien was saying only last season that it was the worst we had. There are some nasty bits of water this side of Roskillie, and they will be swollen with all this snow. Now next week over at Aughrin it really will be pleasant and comfortable."

"I'm so glad, darling! I hope you will enjoy it!" Bridgie put her head on one side, with a smile of angelic sweetness. Then, as Esmeralda flounced from the room in disgust, turned back to Mademoiselle, laughingly penitent.

"Isn't it wicked of me now, but I do enjoy it! She must care very much to be so shy about asking, for in an ordinary way she would have blurted it out long ago. Well, I shall just wait until to-morrow, and then I'll say I am—" she paused to laugh over the word—"indisposed!"

There is many a true word spoken in jest, and Bridgie was reminded of the proverb when the next morning arrived, and her inclination for hunting or any other amusement died a sudden death through an incident which happened at the breakfast-table. The Major was the only one of the party who received a letter, and when he had perused it he gave an exclamation of dismay, and leant back in his chair with an expression of bewilderment. "It can't be! It isn't possible!" he muttered to himself, and when Bridgie inquired the reason of his distress, he threw the letter across the table with an impatient movement.

"That wretched bank! They say I have overdrawn. It's impossible,— there was a decent balance only a few months back! They have made some mistake. I am positive it is a mistake."

He left the room as he spoke, for breakfast had come to an end at last, after the usual long-drawn-out proceedings, and he had waited until he had finished his meal before opening the uninteresting looking envelope, and only Bridgie was left, sitting patiently behind the urn, with Mademoiselle to keep her company. She also rose as if to go, feeling that she might be de trop under the circumstances, but Bridgie raised a pale face, and said flatly—

"Don't run away, Therese, I'd rather you stayed! I knew it must come some day. It's only a little sooner than I expected."

"But, ma cherie—don't look like that, Bridgie dear! Your father says there is a mistake. He seemed surprised like yourself. If, as he says, the bank is mistaken—"

But at this Bridgie shook her head with doleful conviction.

"The bank is never wrong! Oh, I've been through this before, and every time father declares it's a mistake, but it never is! I've been disappointed so often that I can't hope any more. Poor dear father seems to have no idea how quickly money goes, and he is so extravagant with his horses. He bought a new hunter this autumn, and made alterations in the stables. I have tried to be careful, but, as I said before, it is so little I can do! Well, this is the last stage but one. There are a few more shares that can be sold to keep us going for a little longer, and then out we go. Poor father, he won't be able to carry out his programme at this rate. Esmeralda's duke has not come forward, and neither has my millionaire. When we leave the Castle we shall have to squeeze into a cottage, and live on potatoes and buttermilk. I am glad I am not going to the meet. I should have been wretched all the time, but Joan need not know until she comes back."

Bridgie's pale cheeks seemed sufficient explanation of her determination to stay at home, and Esmeralda was sweetly sympathetic and concerned, but quite decided that exertion must at all costs be avoided.

"Me dear, you must not think of going! It would be madness. I'll keep father company, so don't you worry a bit, but just lie down and take it easy the whole day long," she cried gushingly; and Bridgie smiled, despite her heartache, and felt comforted by the reflection that two people would owe their happiness to her absence.

The Major looked very handsome in his "pink" coat, but his brow was clouded, and he sighed profoundly as he came into the dining-room to light his cigar, and saw his eldest daughter standing disconsolately by the window.

"So you are not coming after all, Bride? Letting Joan take your place? Well, everyone to his taste. I feel as if it would do me good to have a hard run and let off steam that way. I'll show them some riding to-day, if they have never seen it before. There won't be much that will stand in my way, but you prefer to stay at home and eat your heart out in quiet. Your mother was the same; she couldn't throw it off. It's a pity for your own sake you don't take after me instead." Then suddenly, as he looked at her, his face altered, and he put his arms round her with a rare tenderness. "Poor little woman! Poor little anxious Martha, this is rough on you! I've brought about this ill day by my thoughtlessness. If I'd been as careful as you, we might have lasted out until the children were grown up, but I was like Micawber—always expecting something to 'turn up.' You must try to forgive me, Bride. You must not be hard on your old father!"

Ah, and it was a lovely sight to see Bridget O'Shaughnessy's face at that moment—the sweetness of it, and the pity and tenderness, and the deep, unselfish love! Her father was touched by the sight, and lingered by her side, stroking her soft hair and murmuring fond, regretful words.

"I haven't treated you well. That minx Joan has twisted me round her finger, and you have suffered for it. You have had a hard time these last two years. Never mind, we'll make a fresh start. I'll turn over a new leaf from this day, and you shall take me in hand. Who knows but we may pull through yet?"

He went off waving his hand in adieu, and Bridgie stood watching the two riders until they disappeared from sight, and repeating his loving words with fond appreciation. Hard time! Who had had a hard time? She was a fortunate girl to have had so much love and kindness, to possess such a dear, gallant, handsome father. What if they had to leave the Castle? Happiness did not depend upon the walls by which they were surrounded. So long as they were all together, they might laugh at poverty!

Meanwhile Esmeralda and her father were gently trotting along towards the park at Roskillie, from whence, in hunting parlance, they were to proceed to "draw Long Gorse," and on their way were enjoying the picturesque surroundings of a meet in the country. Along every high road, footpath, and byroad came horses and riders of various sorts and sizes, walking or jogging along towards the central point. Schoolboys were coming on ponies to see the start, farmers on clever nags; neatly dressed grooms riding, or leading horses conspicuous for shape and beauty. Down the cross-road approached the hounds themselves, headed by their whipper-in and surrounding the picturesque figure of the huntsman. They took up their position in the park, and presently from every point of the compass the scarlet coats came trotting forward, followed by a string of drags, dogcarts, and gigs. The Major and his daughter came in for greetings on every side, for they were among old friends, and the girl's beauty and daring had made her popular with all. There were other ladies present, but they looked colourless and insignificant beside the glowing young Amazon, and she was quite conscious of the fact, and of the becoming correctness of the new habit. While yet twenty yards distant her quick eye had distinguished Geoffrey Hilliard, but she affected not to see him until he rode up to her side, his face aglow with pleasure.

"You managed it, then? You managed to get here?"

"My sister is not feeling very well. She begged to be excused," replied Esmeralda demurely, and Hilliard laughed and muttered something about "blessed Saint Bridget," which on the whole she thought it wiser not to hear. When the signal was given to move on, he kept beside her as the horsemen proceeded to cross several grassy fields; and, contrary to his usual custom, her father lagged behind, as though relieved to leave her to the care of another. Esmeralda turned lightly in her saddle, saw him riding at the farther end of the long line, and looked wonderingly at her companion.

"Something's wrong with the Major. He was so glum all the way here, and look at him now with his head hanging forward! It's not like him to be down-hearted at a meet."

"Perhaps he is tired. He'll waken up presently when we get to business. It would only worry him if we took any notice."

"That's true. Perhaps the mare fidgets him. It's the one he bought a short time since, and she has an awkward temper. Sometimes she is a paragon and does everything that she ought, but at others she is fidgety and uncertain. Father thinks she has been badly ridden at the start, but that she is good enough to take trouble with still."

"She looks a beauty, and she has not had any time to annoy him to-day. I think it can hardly be that. Did not your brother return to town yesterday? I stayed away on purpose, because I feared that on his last day you would not care to be disturbed; but isn't it very likely that Major O'Shaughnessy is depressed at being without him?"

Esmeralda looked up with a brightening glance. "Why, of course, I never thought of that! Father hates saying good-bye to Jack, hates him being in town at all, for he is the first O'Shaughnessy who has ever gone into business. There was a great scene when Jack was twenty, because he insisted on doing something for himself. 'Have you no pride?' cries my father. 'Faith I have!' cries Jack. 'Too much of it to spend all my life starving in a ruin.' 'You will be the first of your race to soil your hands with trade.' 'Honest work,' says Jack, 'will soil no man's hands, and please God, I'll touch nothing that isn't honest.' 'You'll be falling into English ways and selling the old place as not fit for you to live in. I know the ways of your purse-proud English.' Then Jack went white all over his face, and he says, 'It's never a stone of Knock I'd sell if I could keep it with my own heart's blood, but it's time it had a master who could spend money on it instead of seeing it fall to pieces before his eyes.' Then it was the Major's turn to go white, and mother said softly, 'Jack dear—Jack!' You never knew my mother. Bridgie is like her, she always made peace—and after that father made no more objections. I think, in a curious sort of way, he was proud of Jack because he would have his will, and he is doing well. He will retrieve our fortunes some fine day. There! there go the hounds! They are over into the covert, and see! see! there's that old shepherd holding up his hat. The fox is off! Now for it!"

Now for it indeed! From that time forth there was little chance of connected conversation, but all his life long Geoffrey Hilliard looked back upon that morning with the fond, yearning tenderness with which we recall the sunshine which precedes a storm. It was so delightful to be mounted upon a fine horse galloping lightly across country with that beautiful figure by his side, the dark eyes meeting his with a flash of understanding at every fresh incident of the run. As time wore on and the ground became more difficult, the other ladies dropped behind one by one, but Esmeralda never wearied, never flinched before any obstacle. It was the prettiest thing in the world to see her trot slowly but straightly towards gate or fence, loosen the reins, and soar like a bird over the apparently formidable obstacle, and Hilliard privately admitted that it took him all his time to keep level with her. The Major still rode apart, and seemed to take pleasure in choosing the most difficult jumps that came in his way; but his mare behaved well, and no one felt any anxiety about the safety of one of the cleverest riders present. Danger was close at hand, however, in one of those nasty "bits of water" of which Esmeralda had spoken to her sister. The hounds doubled suddenly, and the huntsmen, wheeling their horses to follow, saw before them at a distance of some quarter of a mile a line of those well-known willows which to the practised eye so plainly bespeak the presence of a brook. Esmeralda pointed towards them and spoke a few warning words.

"A bad bit, swollen, I expect, after the snow. A fence this side. There's the Master taking a view. He will tell us if it's safe, if not, we must try the meadow. Ride over here towards him."

She swerved to the side as she spoke, and a moment later was within short enough distance to hear the warning cry. The Master pointed with his whip in the direction of the meadow, of which Esmeralda had spoken, and the next moment the whole hunt was galloping after him. The whole hunt, we have said, but there was one exception, for one rider refused to take warning or to turn aside from the direct line across country. The sudden change of course had left him in the rear, and so it happened that his absence was not noted by his companions, and it was only when several moments had passed that Esmeralda, looking from side to side, began to draw her delicate brows into a frown as she asked Hilliard—

"Where's father? I can't see him. He is not here."

"I don't see him either, but he was with us five minutes ago before we turned back. I saw him in the last field."

"So did I, but where is he now? He can't—" Esmeralda reined in suddenly and turned startled eyes upon her companion—"he can't have tried that brook?"

"No, no! Certainly not." But even as he spoke Hilliard had a prevision of the truth. Although he would not admit as much as Esmeralda, there had been something in the Major's bearing which had struck him unpleasantly since the moment of meeting, and his reckless riding had deepened the impression. "You go on," he said earnestly, "and I will ride back and see. Perhaps he took a look at the brook and then had to come round after all, which would make him late. Please go on, Miss Joan."

But Esmeralda looked him full in the eyes and turned her horse back towards the brook.

"I am going back myself. If there has been an accident, it is I who should be there. Don't hinder me, Mr Hilliard. I must go to my father."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

TROUBLE AT KNOCK.

The Major was lying on the bank of the stream, white and motionless, while Black Bess was pawing the air in agony a few yards away. Esmeralda slipped from her saddle and ran to his side, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her feebly.

"Joan, my girl! That's right. My—own—fault! I had no business to try it, but I was—mad, I think. That poor beast!" and he turned away his head, unable to look upon the animal's struggles. "I can't move. Get a cart—O'Brien's farm."

"I'll go! I can see the chimneys. I'll bring help at once. I'll bring back men with me, and we'll lift him with less pain."

Hilliard dashed off in the direction of the farm, and Joan knelt down and lifted her father's head on to her knee. He tried to smile encouragement into the ashen face.

"It might have been worse, dear! She threw me clear of the water, and I've no pain. I shall be all right when I get home, and have a rest."

"Yes, darling, yes. Of course you will," answered Esmeralda bravely. Accidents in the hunting-field were unfortunately no new thing to her, and her heart died within her as she looked at the helpless limbs, and heard her father's words. Over and over again had she heard old huntsmen marvel at the unconsciousness of those who were most mortally injured. Absence of pain, combined with loss of power in the limbs, meant serious injury to the spine, yet it seemed as if, with the comparative comfort of the body, there must be a dulling of the mental powers, since the victim frequently congratulated himself on his escape, and seemed to forget the experiences of others!

As Esmeralda sat holding her father's head on her knee, the future stretched before her, transformed by the accident of a moment. The Major would never again ride by her side, never again mount his horse and gallop over the wide green land; while he lived he must lie even as he lay now, still and straight, a child in the hands of his nurses! Poor father! oh, poor, poor father! what a death in life, to one of his restless nature! what grief, what agony to see his sufferings! The spring would come, and the summer, and the autumn, but there would be no sunshine at Knock Castle, nothing but clouds and darkness, and dull, settled gloom. Esmeralda had been her father's darling, and had returned his love with all the fervour of a passionate Irish heart, so that the sight of him in his helplessness hurt like a physical pain, and the moments seemed endless until Hilliard returned accompanied by the farmer and three of his men.

An hour later the Major was carried upstairs to his own room in the Castle, and laid gently upon the old four-poster bed. Hilliard had ridden on in advance to prepare the young mistress, and there she stood at the doorway, white to the lips, but smiling still, a smile of almost motherly tenderness as she bent over the prostrate form.

"More trouble to ye, Bridgie!" murmured the Major faintly. "A little rest—that's all I need; but that poor beast! Tell Dennis to go and put her out of her misery." He shut his eyes and remained silent until the doctor arrived, galloping up to the door on Hilliard's horse, which he had lent to save time, and tearing up the staircase to the sick-room with the unprofessional speed of an old and devoted friend.

The examination was soon over, and fortunately the patient asked no questions; he was tired and inclined for sleep, unperturbed on his own account, but greatly distressed for the noble animal for whose agony he held himself responsible. He was soothed by the assurance that everything possible should be done to cure, or, if that were impossible, to end its sufferings, and was then left to rest, while the doctor returned to the morning-room, to face the sisters with what courage he might. Bridgie lay back in a deep, old-fashioned chair, a slight, almost childlike figure, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders bowed as by too heavy a burden—the burden of all those five motherless,—it might soon be fatherless?—children. Esmeralda, straight and defiant by the fireplace, her stormy eyes challenging his face.

"I—I—there is very little to say!" The doctor passed his hands helplessly through his grey locks and wished himself at the other end of the county. "I didn't want to fatigue him to-day, but to-morrow we can have a better examination. Perhaps Trevor would come over in consultation. He seems quite easy—quite easy and comfortable. I think he will sleep. You must keep up your hearts, and not let him think you are anxious. A great thing to keep up the spirits!"

"Why do you talk like that? Why do you try to deceive us? My father will never get better. You know perfectly well that it is hopeless!" Esmeralda's voice sounded clear and cold as falling water; her lips did not tremble, she looked the doctor full in the face with hard, defiant eyes. "I have seen other accidents before this, and know what it means. It is useless to pretend. He has no pain because his spine is too much injured. If he suffered, there might be some hope; as it is, there is none. He will lie there days, weeks, months, whichever it may be, but he will never move out of that room. He is dead already, my father, the father I love, and it will be cruel and wicked of you if you try to keep him alive!"

"Joan, Joan! Oh, darling, don't! Think what you are saying!"

Tender-hearted Bridgie burst into tears, but Esmeralda would not be restrained. She turned to her sister ablaze with righteous anger.

"What! You too? Would you keep him here, existing—merely existing— not able to do anything—he who has been so active all his life! It's cruel, I tell you—cruel and selfish! You ought not even to wish such a thing!"

"My child, the issues of life and death are not in our hands!" The voice of the old man sounded solemn and deep after the girl's heated accents, and she caught her breath as she listened. "It is not for you to decide what is best. If your father lingers in helplessness, it will be for some wise purpose, and you will see that it will be less trying than you expect. Nature herself will work in his favour, for, when paralysis comes, on the brain is mercifully deadened against the worst. He will not suffer, and in all probability he will be patient and resigned. Is not that something for which to be thankful?"

Bridgie covered her face with a low, heart-broken cry, for the doctor's silent assent to Esmeralda's verdict—the undisguised conviction that the case was hopeless—came to her with a shock of surprise before which her courage wavered.

"Mother dead—father dead! All those children alone in the world, and no money for them, and only me—only me—" Her heart swelled with a great wave of protecting love; she held out her arms and cried brokenly, "Esmeralda, come—come to me. Darling, if we are to be alone, we must help each other, we must love each other more! Oh, Esmeralda, be brave, for I am frightened—I can't do everything alone!" And at that Esmeralda gave a great cry and rushed across the room, and the old doctor groped his way downstairs, leaving the sisters sobbing in each other's arms.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE SENTENCE.

That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night, bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the dangerous nature of her father's illness, for they knew her excitable nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her passionate bursts of lamentation.

"Besides, what's the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want her to be happy!" cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented, knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man moved his eyes—the only part of him that seemed able to move—and looked wistfully into the eager face.

"Well, my Pixie, I've been getting into trouble, you see!"

"Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?"

"Never a bit, Pixie. I'm just numb. I feel as if I can't move!"

"I've felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I'm made to get up. It's the same as being lazy."

The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never could resist Pixie's quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight his brightening glance.

"Is it, piccaninny? That doesn't sound very serious. You'll have to tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?"

"Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle's going to play games with me, and I'll enjoy them now that you're comfortable. You've got on the very best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked so much at church last Sunday?"

Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie knew best what would please her father, for once more his face brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the O'Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness—

"'Come unto Me, ye weary, And I will give you rest!'"

The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor—

"'Come unto Me, ye fainting, And I will give you life!' O cheering voice of Jesus, Which comes to end our strife. The foe is stern and eager, The fight is fierce and long, But He has made us mighty, And stronger than the strong."

There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer, stronger tone, as the singer's emotional nature caught the triumph in the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo.

"'And whosoever cometh I will not cast him out.' O welcome voice of Jesus, Which drives away our doubt; Which calls us very sinners, Unworthy though we be Of love so free and boundless, To come, dear Lord, to Thee!"

The Major's face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room.

"You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep."

"Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!" cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father's eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones—

"Bride, I'm wanting to see O'Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!"

Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man's attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour's time the two old friends were once more face to face.

"O'Brien," said the Major clearly, "I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?" And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer.

"Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home."

"O'Brien, shall I ever hunt again?"

The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had known handsome Jack O'Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers. It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant.

"Now—now—now," he cried impatiently, "it isn't like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you've a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I'm not a prophet—I can't foretell the future."

The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.

"You foolish fellow!" he cried. "You foolish fellow! You were always a bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening. What are you afraid of, man? I'm not a coward! If my time's come, I can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That's why I felt no pain, but it's difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?"

He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and his voice was rough with tears.

"I can't say. You are very ill, old man—I won't deceive you—but while there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart. One never knows what changes may take place." But the Major only looked at him the more steadily and repeated his question.

"How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for the children. I haven't been the best of fathers to them, and the estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I'd like to see him again, but if it's not imminent, I won't bring him back just yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!"

"My dear fellow, it's not a question of days! At the worst it will be weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked me. It's the hardest work I've ever had to do, to tell you this; but for the children's sake—If there is anything to be done, you ought not to waste time!"

"I understand!" said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. "I shall die at Knock!" he cried. "I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that that drove me mad, O'Brien—the thought of leaving the old place where I was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank, and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was riding I was feeling desperate—driven into a corner. The poor beast tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock! Thank God for that! Go downstairs, O'Brien, and tell the girls that I know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn't mind leaving me. I shall sleep now!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ESMERALDA'S SOLACE.

The Dublin specialist came down in due course, and entirely agreed with Dr O'Brien's diagnosis. There was no chance of the Major's recovery, and though there was no immediate danger, it was not likely that life would be prolonged for more than two or three months at most. He would not suffer physically nor mentally, for the brain power would become more and more dulled, so that he would hardly realise his condition.

The thought of watching him die by inches, as it were, was an even harder trial to Esmeralda's impetuous nature than the shock of a sudden death, but Bridgie was thankful for every day as it came, for every opportunity of ministering to his needs. And he was so sweet, so gentle; all his former indifference and selfishness had fallen from him like a cloak, and his one thought was for his children, his one anxiety on their behalf. When Bridgie saw how devoted he was to his piccaninny, and how she could always succeed in raising a smile, she proposed that the child should not return to school for the next term at least; but the Major would not listen to the suggestion.

"No, no! I promised Molly that she should have her chance, and I won't have her distressed. If she stayed on she would find out—and she would cry, and I never could endure to see her cry. It would be delightful to have her, but it will count for one real unselfish thing I've done in my life if I do without her for these last weeks."

So it was arranged that Pixie should return at the proper date, and Mademoiselle sat in the morning-room stitching away at the pile of shabby little garments, mending, and darning, putting in "elegant" little patches at the elbows, and turning and pressing the frayed silk cuffs. Neither of the sisters had time to help, and indeed seemed to think It unnecessary to spend so much trouble on a child's outfit, but Mademoiselle set her lips and went steadily on with her task. She knew, if they did not, that it is not too pleasant for a girl to be noticeably shabby at a fashionable school, and many a dainty piece of ribbon and lace found its way from her box to refresh hat or dress, and give an appearance of freshness to the well-worn background. When the last night came, and Bridgie tried to thank her for her help, she shook her head and refused to listen.

"I was a stranger to you, and you welcomed me among you as if I had been your own. You were more than kind, you seemed to love me, and never let me feel for one moment that I was one apart. That means a great deal to a woman who is alone in a strange land, and I could not be more happy than to find something to do for you in return. What is a little sewing? Bah! I tell you, my friend, it is much more than that I intend to do for your Pixie. You say that you will not long be able to send her to school, but I can do better for her than school. At the end of this year I must go 'ome, for my sister is fiancee, and when she is married I must be there to look after the old father. Lend Pixie to me, and she shall learn to speak French, the proper French, not that dreadful language of Holly House, and I will take her myself to the Conservatoire—there is no better place in the world to learn music than the Conservatoire in Paris—and she shall learn to sing and make use of that lovely voice. Voila, ma chere, at the end of a few years she comes back to you, and you will not know her! A young woman, with grace, with charm, with—what shall I say?—an air such as your English girls do not know how to possess, and everyone shall say, 'How she is accomplished, that Pixie! How she is clever and chic!'"

The tears had risen in Bridgie's eyes, but now she was obliged to laugh at the same time, for it was so droll to think of Pixie as a young lady "with an air!" She laid her hand on Mademoiselle's arm, with one of her pretty caressing gestures.

"You are a dear, kind Therese, and it all sounds too charming, but I am afraid it cannot be done. We shall be very poor, dear father's pension will die with him, and if we cannot afford school, we could not pay you properly for all your trouble. You are a darling for thinking of it, but—"

She stopped short in dismay, for Mademoiselle had straightened her back until it was as stiff as a poker, and was glaring at her with the air of an offended Fury.

"Did you ask me for money when I came here? Did you expect me to pay when you asked me to your house? Am I a pauper, then, that you insult me with such an idea? It is the first time, I must say, that I have invited a guest, and been offered a payment."

"Oh! oh! oh! What will I do? Don't glare at me like that, Therese, or I'll expire with fright! I never offered you a payment, my dear; I said I couldn't pay. I don't know what I said, but I never meant to make you angry! If you don't forgive me this instant, I'll cry, and if I once start crying, I shall go on till to-morrow, and so I warn you! Please, Therese!"

She held out her hand appealingly, but Mademoiselle still tilted her head, and kept up an air of offence.

"My feelings are 'urt," she said with dignity, "and they can only be appeased if you withdraw your remarks, and promise that Pixie shall come. You can pay for the lessons she takes, and the Paris Conservatoire will not ruin you, my dear, I can tell you that; but for the rest, do you suppose Pixie will do nothing for me in return for her board? It is not too lively, a house with an invalid and an old maid, and they may perhaps be glad to have a young thing about; to be made to laugh sometimes and have some interest in life beyond rheumatism and asthma! Do not disturb yourself; if you are too proud to accept help from me, be assured that I shall make the child useful. She shall work for her living!"

"You are pretending to be cross, to make me say 'Yes,' but you needn't keep it up any longer, dear. I'll say it with thankfulness this minute, if it is indeed a pleasure to you too. I don't feel at all too proud to accept a favour from you, and besides, it seems as if Providence meant it to be so, and just the most wonderful and beautiful reason for your coming here, which seemed at first so extraordinary. If you will really let us pay for her lessons and make her as useful as if she were your own little sister, why, then, thank you a thousand times, and a thousand times more for lifting a weight off my mind. I was worrying myself about her future, and now I shall worry no more, and father will be so relieved, so happy! Are you sufficiently appeased to let me kiss you, you haughty Mademoiselle?"

"With pleasure; yes! but my feelings are still sensitive. With the slightest irritation I should have a relapse!" said Mademoiselle stiffly; for it would not do to indulge in sentiment to-day, and Bridgie's tears were dangerously near the surface.

The time for parting came at last, and the Major nerved himself to bid adieu to his piccaninny with a composure which should leave her unsuspicious of its final nature. He was very white, but Pixie had grown accustomed to his pallor, and mingling with her grief at leaving home was a keen pleasure at the thought of returning to her school companions, of seeing Margaret and Ethel, of hearing Flora's fat, contented chuckle, and seeing poor Lottie, and hearing how she had fared at home. It was all very interesting and exciting, and somehow or other home had been unusually dull during the last fortnight. Even Esmeralda had turned quiet and mild, and Pat abandoned practical joking, and for once been as good as he looked. The longing for some of the old mischievous days made Pixie listen to her father's precepts with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

"You will be a good child now, piccaninny, and work hard at your tasks. Remember what I say to you, that you couldn't please me more than by being good and industrious, and obedient to your teachers. I let you run wild too long, and that's made you behind other girls of your age, but you'll promise me that you will settle down, and make the most of your opportunities?"

"I don't feel as if I wanted to 'settle down.' It sounds so dull! Ye can work without being so awfully proper, can't you, father? I can be a little mischievous sometimes, can't I—especially on half-holidays? I'll work all the better for it afterwards. And the girls would be so disappointed if I were proper. You wouldn't believe how I liven them up. Ye wouldn't like it yourself, now, Major, if ye never saw any more of my pranks!"

He winced at that, but smiled bravely, his eye resting longingly upon the thin little figure wriggling to and fro in the earnestness of its appeal. With the remembrance of all that her brightness had been to him, he could not bring himself to forbid it to others.

"Be as happy as you can, darling, and make other people happy too. So long as you consider their feelings, and are careful not to go too far, you will do no harm. Good-bye, my piccaninny! God bless you! Never mind if you are not clever. Go on loving and making sunshine, and you will do a great work in the world. Remember your old father when you get back among your new friends!"

"I'll think of you for ever!" said Pixie solemnly. "Haste and get well, Major, and come and take me out. You must be getting tired of your bed, poor creature, but I'm glad you have no pain! You won't be here long now."

"No, not long," said the Major quietly. Then he held up his lips to be kissed, murmuring the last, the very last words of farewell, "Good-bye, dearest. Thank you for being such a good, loving little daughter!"

"Thank you, me dear, for the father you have been to me!" returned Pixie, in a tone of gracious condescension which made the listener smile through his tears. That was a sweet characteristic little speech to cherish as the last! He shut his eyes in token of dismissal, and Pixie stole away, somewhat sobered and impressed, for the Major had not been given to improving an occasion, but free from the vaguest suspicion that she had bidden him her last farewell.

Downstairs Esmeralda was waiting to drive the cart to the station, and at the station itself Mr Hilliard was standing ready to receive the travellers and make every preparation for their comfort. No one seemed in the least surprised to see him, for in Jack's absence he had quietly taken upon himself the part of an elder son, and in every emergency had stepped forward and filled the gap so efficiently and with such tact that he seemed more like a friend of years' standing than an acquaintance of a few weeks. His business in London had apparently been accomplished in a flying visit of forty-eight hours, during which time he had seen Jack, and eased anxiety by a personal report of the invalid, and here he was back again, declaring that there was no reason to keep him in town, and that if he could be of the slightest use at Bally William, there was no place in the world where he would sooner remain. Bridgie smiled to herself with quiet understanding, and Esmeralda grew thoughtful, and her white cheeks hung out a flag of welcome every time he made his appearance.

To-day she made no objections to his proposal that they should walk back from the station, leaving a boy to drive the cart home during the afternoon, and they struck across the fields together, disregarding damp and mud with the callousness of true lovers of the country. The girl's face was worn and downcast, for the Castle would seem sadder and emptier than ever, now that the little sister had gone and that dear, helpful Mademoiselle; and at nineteen it is hard to look forward and know for a certainty that the shadows must deepen. There were still sadder times ahead, and a loneliness such as she dared not even imagine; for Esmeralda had not Bridgie's sweet faith and trust, and hers was a stormy, rebellious nature, which made trouble harder to bear by useless fightings against the inevitable. Bridgie found a dozen reasons for thankfulness among all her distresses—the kindness of friends, the ceaseless attentions of the good old doctor, her father's freedom from pain, and the fact that he would be spared the dread of his lifetime—a separation from the old home. Joan saw nothing but clouds and darkness, and tortured herself with useless questionings. Why—why—why—why should all this trouble fall upon her? Why should other girls have father and mother and money and opportunity, and she be deprived of all? Why should the accident have been allowed to happen when her father's life was of such value—such inestimable value to his young family? Why should her life be darkened just at the time when she was most able to appreciate joy and gladness?

Hilliard watched the clouds flit over the beautiful face, and was at no loss to understand their meaning. During the last fortnight he had more than once been a witness to a storm of misery and rebellion, and apart from that fact he had an instinctive understanding of the girl's moods, which seemed all the more curious, as his own nature of happy optimism was as great a contrast to hers as could possibly be imagined.

A smile flickered over his face as he reflected on the strangeness of his present position. A month ago, if anyone had described to him the O'Shaughnessy sisters, he would have declared without a moment's hesitation that Bridgie would be his favourite—that in every way her character would be more attractive to him than that of Esmeralda. Even now—even now, yes!—if the question were put plainly before him, he must still confess that "Saint Bridget" was sweeter, simpler, less wayward, more unselfish; yet in spite of all there remained the extraordinary fact that he liked Bridgie and loved Esmeralda with the whole strength of a warm and loving heart! He saw her faults clearly enough with those keen, quizzical eyes; but what the sight roused in him was not so much disapproval as pity, and an immense longing to help and comfort. He loved her; he understood her; he honestly believed he could help her to rise above the weaknesses of girlhood, and become the fine large-hearted woman which Providence had intended her to be; and the time had come when he intended to speak his mind and ask her to be his wife. The silence had lasted so long that at last Joan herself became conscious of it, and roused herself to apologise for her rudeness.

"But I'm miserable," she said simply. "I can't remember to be polite. I was miserable last time when the Pixie left us, but now it is a hundred times worse. I can't bear to think of going back to that big empty place, with that dreadful shadow coming nearer and nearer every day. I am a coward, and can't face it!"

"You are a very brave girl—one of the bravest I have known. If anyone but yourself dared to call you cowardly, you would never forgive him!"

"I know. It's quite true. I am brave physically, but I've never been tried in this way before, so I didn't know how weak I was. It arises from selfishness, I suppose. It's so hard to suffer like this."

"No one can be selfish who loves another person more than himself. I have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other as you and Miss Bridgie. You will think of her before yourself, and try to help her, simply because you will not be able to help it!"

"Darling Bridgie—yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is God's will, and must be for the best. I can't feel that—I can't! It's against reason. It's no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a hypocrite."

"You have a different nature from your sister's. It is more difficult for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission."

The tears rose slowly to Joan's eyes, and she looked at him with a flickering smile.

"It's no use talking to you. You won't believe how wicked I am. You make excuses for me all the time."

"Because I love you, Joan, that's why! Have you found that out for yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I've been progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long, as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of years' standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in return?"

Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.

"I don't know," she said simply. "I can't tell. I like you very much; you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but that isn't enough, is it? I don't know if I love you, but I love you to love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less lonely. Sometimes this last week—just once or twice when we have been alone—I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped I was not mistaken."

"You darling! Oh, you darling!" cried Hilliard rapturously. "You do make me happy by telling me that. That's all I want—the very best proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don't you see, my beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don't you see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you, and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you ever since we met?"

He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back, refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous appeal in her voice.

"No, no! I don't see, and I don't want to see. My father is dying—he has only a little time to live, and I don't want to think of anything but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but I can't think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we shall have him with us. You mustn't be vexed; you mustn't think me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can't help it!"

"Vexed!" echoed Hilliard. "Ungrateful!" His glance was eloquent enough to show how far such words were from expressing his real feelings; and indeed, if it had been possible to love Esmeralda more dearly than he did, he would have done so at this moment, when she had shown him the reality of the generous nature which lay beneath her girlish extravagances, "You are absolutely and perfectly right, dearest," he said warmly, "and I promise you faithfully that I will not try in any way to absorb your attention so long as your father lives. But after that, Esmeralda, (I may call you Esmeralda, mayn't I? Dear, charming, ridiculous name—I love it, it is so deliciously characteristic!) after that you must let me take my right place as your chief helper and comforter. I won't be put off any longer, and I think I shall be able to do more for you than anyone else."

"I believe you would, but—" Esmeralda looked at him beneath a troubled, puckered brow—"please understand exactly what you are doing! We are dreadfully poor—we shall be poorer than ever after father's death. If I marry I shall not have a penny; for what little there is will be needed, and more than needed, for Bridgie and the children. It would be rather hard on you, for, as you are not rich yourself, you ought to marry a rich wife."

"The same argument would apply to you, wouldn't it? Are you quite sure that you would not mind marrying a poor man, and that you would be willing to give up luxuries for my sake?"

"If I cared enough in other ways, it would not be money that would prevent me, but I should not like to be very poor!" returned Esmeralda honestly. "I've had a taste of it, you see, and it is so dull to be always worried about butchers' bills, and not be able to have nice puddings because of the eggs, and to have to turn your dresses over and over again. I've never once in my life bought a thing because I liked it best. I've always had to think that it was cheaper than the others, and I must make it do. I suppose men can't realise how hard that is, for they need so much less, and their things are so much alike; but it's hard to know for certain that you could look just twice as nice, and have to put up with the frumpy things, because you have no money to pay for the pretty ones!"