'No indeed, ma'am,' he replied. 'We shall have no rain just yet a bit.'

'It's a perfect day,' said Frances. 'I really sometimes think I like autumn as well as spring.'

'I have always liked it much better,' said Jacinth calmly.

Lady Myrtle was walking up and down the terrace, waiting for them. She was much better—for her, indeed, quite well—she said, and her face lighted up with pleasure as she kissed Jacinth tenderly. Then she turned to the younger ones and kissed them too.

'I must have a good look at you, Frances,' she said. 'No—you are not a Moreland, and yet—yes, there is a slight something—in spite of your blue eyes and shaggy hair,' and she patted Frances's head. 'And you, my boy;' and she examined Eugene in his turn. 'His eyes are more like his grandmother's; nothing approaching your eyes, Jacinth, but still they are more of the colour.'

'Eugene is very like mamma,' said Frances eagerly. 'Everybody says so.'

'And I'm called after her,' added Eugene.

'So that's quite as it should be,' said Lady Myrtle. 'And some day I hope I may have the great pleasure of comparing mamma and her boy together. Now dears, listen to my plan—would you like to go a drive this afternoon, or would you rather play about the garden and the little farm? I mean Frances and Eugene—Jacinth, of course, is quite at home here.'

The two younger ones looked at each other.

'Oh please,' said Frances, 'if we may go home in the open carriage, I think that would be enough driving. And—it's so long since we've had a nice big place to run about in, and—pigs and cows, you know, like at home? Wouldn't you like that best, Eugene?'

'May we see the cows milked?' said Eugene, prudently making his conditions, 'and, oh please, if we find any eggs, might we take one home for breakfast to-morrow?'

Lady Myrtle looked much amused.

'I will put you under Barnes's charge,' she said. 'Barnes is the under-gardener, and whatever he lets you do will be quite right. You and I, Jacinth, will have a long drive to-morrow, as I always go to Elvedon church once a month, and to-morrow is the day. So I daresay you will manage to entertain yourself at home to-day. We can go through the houses in the afternoon.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Jacinth. 'And the house—you said you would show me all over the house, dear Lady Myrtle.'

'Of course; that will amuse Frances and Eugene too, I daresay, when they have had enough running about. Now your sister will go with you to your room to take her things off;' and as the two set off, she added playfully, 'Jacinth has a room of her very own here, you know, Frances.'

The younger girl was breathless with interest and pleasure, and the first sight of the interior of the quaint old house—above all, of the lovely conservatory, past which Jacinth took care to convoy her—impressed her as much as her sister.

'Oh Jass,' she said, when they found themselves in the pleasant, rather 'old-world-looking' bedroom, where a tiny wood-fire sparkling in the grate gave a cheery feeling of welcome as they entered—'Oh Jass, isn't it like a dream? That we should really be here in this dear old house, treated almost as if we were Lady Myrtle's own grandchildren, and you staying here, and this called your room, and—and'——

She stopped, at a loss for words to express her feelings.

Jacinth smiled, well pleased.

'Yes,' she said, 'it really is like a fairy-tale. And'——She hesitated a little. 'You don't know, Francie, what more may not come. Do you remember our saying that morning to Marmy, how lovely it would be if some day we had a house like this for our home, and how he and we would pay visits to each other?'

Frances's face grew rather pink.

'Do you mean if,' she said, her voice growing lower and lower—'if Lady Myrtle left it to us, to you? I don't like, Jass, to'——

'Oh, how matter-of-fact you are!' said Jacinth impatiently; 'I don't mean anything but what I say. Lady Myrtle says she is going to invite us all—papa and mamma and us three—to stay with her when they come home, and it's a very big house, and she has no relations she cares for. It might get to be almost like our home. And Lady Myrtle is the sort of person that often speaks of getting old and—and dying. I daresay she makes plans for what she'd like to be done with her things—I know I should—though I hope she'll live twenty years, and I daresay she will, dear old thing.'

Frances would have accepted this simply enough, and after all, Jacinth felt as she said. The thought that 'some day' Robin Redbreast might be her home would be quite enough for her, and she already loved her kind old friend sincerely. But one sentence in her sister's speech startled Frances with a quick sharp stab: 'No relations that she cares for.'

Somehow, in the pleasure and excitement of coming to Robin Redbreast, she had forgotten about the Harpers. Now all her old feelings of chivalry for them, and wishes that she could be the means of helping them, rushed back upon her, and she felt as if she had, in some queer way, been faithless, even though she was debarred from doing anything, debarred even from telling Jacinth all she knew. And Frances was unaccustomed to hide her feelings; her face at once grew grave and almost distressed looking.

'What is the matter, Frances?' said Jacinth. 'You are such a kill-joy. What are you looking so reproachful about?'

'I didn't mean—I'm not looking reproachful,' said Frances; 'it was only—oh, just something of my own I was thinking of.'

'Well then, I wish you would think of something cheerful, and not screw your face up as if you were going to cry. I don't want Lady Myrtle to think we've been quarrelling up here.'

Frances swallowed down a lump in her throat, which was far too apt to come there on small provocation.

'Of course Lady Myrtle would never think such a thing, or if she did, she would only think I was naughty or silly or something. She'd never dream of you being anything but perfect, Jass. I do like her for that,' said Frances.

'You should like her for everything. I'm sure she's as kind as she can possibly be,' said Jacinth.

'Yes,' said Frances, 'she is.'

Then they ran down-stairs again to the library, where Lady Myrtle had told them she would be. They found her improving her acquaintance with Eugene, who was chattering away in a most confiding and friendly fashion, even retailing to her his self-congratulation at having been the first cause of their making friends.

'For you see if I hadn't been so fir—wursty,' with a great effort, 'that day, and made Jacinth let me ask; no,' suddenly recollecting himself, 'she didn't let me, but you heard me over the wall, Lady Myrtle; that was it, wasn't it? So it did come of me being wursty, didn't it?'

'Yes, my dear, of course it did,' the old lady replied, with a smile.

But just then the luncheon gong sounded and they all made their way into the dining-room. All went well till about half-way through the meal, when a sudden thought struck Lady Myrtle.

'Oh Jacinth, my dear,' she said, 'I was forgetting to tell you. Your young friend at school, Honor Falmouth, is the niece of my friend. I was writing to her husband the other day about a business matter—he is one of my trustees—and I asked the question. I thought it would interest you to hear it.'

'Yes,' said Jacinth, 'of course it does. She is a very nice girl indeed, but she is a good deal older than I. She plays beautifully, and next term she is going somewhere—to Germany, I think—for the best music lessons she can have. Did you play the harp, when you were a girl, Lady Myrtle?' she went on rather eagerly. She was vaguely anxious to change the conversation, for she had still a half-nervous fear of Frances's indiscretion should the subject of their school-fellows be entered upon.

'The harp!' repeated Lady Myrtle, half-absently; 'no, my love, I never was very musical. But your grandmother sang charmingly.' And Jacinth, believing she was launched on long-ago reminiscences, began to breathe freely, when suddenly the old lady reverted to the former topic.

'How much older than you is Honor?' she inquired.

'About three years. I think she is eighteen, but I'm not quite sure,' said Jacinth.

'I was wondering,' said Lady Myrtle, 'if she would like to come to luncheon some day when you are with me. Or is there any other among your friends you care more for?'

'No,' said Jacinth, 'I think I like Honor as much as any.'

Frances was listening with the greatest interest; her mouth half-open, her knife and fork suspended in their operations. Lady Myrtle caught sight of her absorbed face and smiled.

'Have you any friend you would like to ask to come here some day?' she said, kindly. 'If it were summer it would be different; we might have a strawberry feast.'

Frances grew crimson, painfully crimson.

'Oh how silly she is!' thought Jacinth.

'Thank you,' stammered Frances. 'I—I don't know. I don't think so.'

'Come, you must think it over,' said Lady Myrtle, imagining the child was consumed with shyness. 'Who are your favourite friends, or have you any special favourites?'

'Yes,' replied Frances, in an agony, increased by the consciousness of Jacinth's eye, but fully remembering, too, that in replying truthfully she was violating no confidence; 'yes, I'm much the fondest of Bessie and Margaret, but they mightn't come. I don't think it would be any use inviting any of them, except a big one like Honor, thank you.'

'Ah! well I know Miss Scarlett is strict, and rightly so, I daresay,' said the old lady. 'Who are these friends of yours—Bessie and Margaret what?'

'Bessie and Margaret Harper,' said Frances, bluntly; 'that's their name.'

A look of perplexity crossed Lady Myrtle's face. 'Harper,' she repeated. 'Bessie and Margaret Harper. No, I never heard of them. But still'——And the lines on her face seemed visibly to harden. 'Ah well, I will only ask Honor Falmouth then. You must see about it, Jacinth, and let me know when I should write to her or to Miss Scarlett.'

And then they talked of other things, Jacinth exerting herself doubly, to prevent Lady Myrtle's noticing Frances's silence and constraint. But afterwards, when they were by themselves for a moment, she took her sister to task.

'Why did you speak of the Harpers?' she said; 'and why, still worse, if you thought you shouldn't have named them, did you look so silly and ashamed as if you had done something wrong? I daresay you felt uncomfortable because, as Aunt Alison said, there have been such disagreeables in Lady Myrtle's family, and these Harpers may be some relations of hers. But—couldn't you have managed not to mention them?'

Frances looked quite as distressed as Jacinth could have expected—or more so. 'I'm sure I didn't mean to speak of them,' she said. Her meekness disarmed Jacinth.

'Well never mind,' she said reassuringly. 'I daresay Lady Myrtle didn't notice; at least, if she did, she couldn't have thought you knew anything about her family affairs. I don't want to hear about them; I'd rather not know what sort of relations the Harpers are, or if they're any. Don't think any more about them.'

And with this, Frances had to be or to appear content. But besides the little Jacinth knew, she had her own sorer feelings. Though Bessie and Margaret had scrupulously carried out the advice, Frances could see, they had received from home, and while as affectionate as ever to her, refrained from the very slightest allusion to family affairs or even to Robin Redbreast, yet, now that her eyes were opened as it were, Frances noticed many things that had not struck her before. As the season advanced and the weather grew colder, most of the girls appeared in new and comfortably warmer garments, for Thetford stands high and is a 'bracing' place. Well-lined ulsters, fur-trimmed jackets, muffs and boas, were the order of the day. But not so for Bessie and Margaret. They wore the same somewhat threadbare serges; the same not very substantial gray tweeds on Sundays, which had done duty since they came to school; the same little black cloth jackets out-of-doors, with only the addition of a knitted 'cross-over' underneath. And one day, admiring Frances's pretty muff, and congratulating her on the immunity from chilblains it must afford, poor little Margaret confided to her impulsively that she had never possessed such a treasure in her life.

'It is one of the things I have always wished for so,' she said simply, 'though these woollen gloves that Camilla knits us are really very good.'

Then on another occasion both sisters consulted their friend on a most important matter. It was going to be mother's birthday. They must send her something; they had never been away from her on her birthday before, and at home one could always make something or find out what she wanted a good while before, so as to prepare. Could Frances think of anything? She must be used to thinking of things that could go by post because of her mother being in India; only—and here Bessie's eager face flushed a little, and Margaret's grave eyes grew graver—'you see it mustn't cost much; that's the worst of it.'

Frances tried not to look too sympathising.

'I know,' she said. 'I quite understand, for of course we haven't ever much money to spend. I will try to think of something.'

And for once she thoroughly enlisted Jacinth's sympathy for her friends. Possibly, far down in Jacinth's heart, candid and loyal by nature, lay a consciousness that, notwithstanding the plausible and, to a certain extent, sound reasons for not meddling in other people's affairs, and for refraining from all 'Harper' allusions to Lady Myrtle, she was going farther than she needed in her avoidance of these girls, in her determination not to know anything about their family or their possible connection with her old lady. Her conscience was not entirely at rest. And in a curious undefined way she was now and then grateful for Frances's ready kindness to Bessie and Margaret: it seemed a vicarious making up for the something which she felt she herself was withholding. And this little appeal touched her sympathy; so that with a good deal of tact—more tact than Frances, blunt and blundering, could have shown—she helped to suggest and carry out a really charming little birthday present, most of the materials for which she had 'by her,' lying useless, only asking to be made into something.

Never had Bessie Harper felt so ready to make a friend of the undemonstrative girl; never had Francie herself felt more drawn to her elder sister.

And the little present was carefully packed and sent off; and the tender mother's letter of thanks, when it came, was read to the Mildmays as but their due, and for a while it seemed as if the friendship was to extend from a trio into a quartette!

But alas! a very few days after the cheery letter from Southcliff, Frances, spending a holiday afternoon at Ivy Lodge, as often happened, especially when Jacinth was with Lady Myrtle, found Bessie Harper pale and anxious, and Margaret's eyes suspiciously red. What was the matter?

'We didn't want to tell you about our home troubles,' said Bessie. 'I'm sure it's better not, because of—you know what. But I must tell you a little. It's—it's a letter from Camilla. Father has been so much worse lately, and they didn't want to tell us. They hoped it was only rheumatism with the cold weather. But—mother managed to get him up to London to see the great doctor, and—he gave a very bad report.'

Here Bessie's voice failed.

'He's not going to die?—oh don't say that!' burst out Frances in her heedless way.

Margaret flung out her hands wildly.

'Oh Bessie,' she cried, 'is that what it really means?'

Bessie looked almost angrily at Frances.

'No, no,' she exclaimed; 'of course not. Frances, why did you say that? Margaret, you are so fanciful. Of course it is not that. It is just that the doctor says his leg is getting stiffer and stiffer, and unless something can be done—some treatment in London first, and afterwards a course of German baths—he is afraid dad must become quite a cripple—quite helpless. And that would be dreadful. It's bad enough when people are rich'—it was sad to hear the old sad 'refrain' of poverty, from lips so young—'but when they're poor! Oh no, I can't face the thoughts of it. What would his life be if he could never get out—he is so active in spite of his lameness—if he had to lie always in his poky little room? How would darling mother bear it?'

And then brave Bessie herself broke down and fled away to the house—they were in the garden—to hide herself till she had recovered some degree of calm.



CHAPTER IX.

THE INDIAN MAIL.

Frances went home that evening feeling very unhappy and terribly full of sympathy, while painfully conscious the while that as yet she must not unburden herself to any one, not even to Jacinth, of her whole thoughts and feelings in connection with the Harpers. And in any case she could not have done so, for Jacinth was away at Robin Redbreast till Monday.

They met at school on Monday morning, but it was not till they were on their way home at dinner-time that the sisters had any opportunity of speaking to each other. Jacinth was looking almost brilliantly well, and, for her, Frances saw in a moment, in extremely good spirits. No wonder—every time she went to Lady Myrtle, the old lady showed her increasing signs of affection and goodwill: she almost hinted that she wished the girl to think of herself as in a sense adopted by her.

'Francie,' said the elder sister, when they at last found themselves alone, 'I have something so lovely to show you,' and she drew out a little velvet-covered case from her pocket. 'See—this is what dear Lady Myrtle has given me; isn't it splendid?'

The 'it' was a small and evidently valuable watch. The back was enamelled and set with diamonds, in the form of a 'J.' It was somewhat old-fashioned, enough to enhance its beauty and uncommonness, and Frances gazed at it in breathless admiration.

'It was Lady Myrtle's own,' explained Jacinth. 'She told me that she and our grandmother once had a fancy—rather a silly one, I think, though I didn't say so—for having each other's initial on their things—things like this, I mean. So when somebody gave them each a watch, two the same, they exchanged them. Lady Myrtle doesn't know what became of our grandmother's, but she thinks it was lost or stolen, otherwise mother would have had it. And she has not worn this for ever so long. She says she always hoped that some day she'd find somebody belonging to grandmother. Oh Francie, isn't it a good thing I was called "Jacinth?"'

Frances murmured something in reply; her eyes were fixed on the watch.

'The works are first-rate—better than they make them now,' Jacinth continued; 'and Lady Myrtle has had it thoroughly overhauled by her own watchmaker in London, so she's sure it'll go perfectly, with any one careful; and I am careful, am I not, Francie? Lady Myrtle says she could see I was, almost the first time she spoke to me.'

'Yes,' said Frances, absently, 'I am sure you are, and I am sure Lady Myrtle thinks you almost perfect.'

But still she gazed at the watch, as if it half-mesmerised her.

'I've felt in such a hurry to tell you about it—to show it to you,' said Jacinth. 'It seemed to be burning a hole in my pocket, as they say. I did so wish I could have shown it to some of the girls, but I thought it was better not.'

This last remark seemed to arouse Frances.

'Yes,' she agreed heartily, 'I think it was much better not.' Then, after a moment or two's silence, 'I wonder how much it is worth?' she went on; 'ten or twenty pounds, I daresay?'

'Ten or twenty!' repeated Jacinth; 'oh, much more than that. Forty or fifty at least, I should say.'

Frances gasped.

'What a lot of things one could do with as much money as that!' she said. 'I daresay it would be enough to—to'——

'To what?' said Jacinth, a little impatience in her tone.

'Oh—only something I was thinking of—some one who's ill and can't do what the doctor says,' replied Frances, confusedly.

Jacinth felt irritated.

'I don't understand you, Frances,' she said. 'Do you want to take away my pleasure in my watch? I've never had one before, you know, and lots of girls have watches, quite young. Of course I know the value of it would do lots of things—make some poor family quite rich for a year. But when you get a new frock of some good stuff and nicely made, I don't say to you that you might have had it of common print, run up anyhow, and spent the rest on poor people. You don't see things fairly, Frances.'

Frances recognised the sense of Jacinth's argument, but she could not explain herself.

'I didn't mean that exactly,' she said. 'I know there have to be degrees of things—rich and poor, and I suppose it's not wrong to be rich, if—if one doesn't get selfish. That isn't what I meant. I'm very pleased you've got the watch, Jass, and I wish I hadn't said that.'

'I wish you hadn't too,' said her sister. 'It has taken away a good deal of my pleasure; and somehow, Frances, very often now, I don't understand you. I know you are never the least jealous, you haven't it in you, but yet you don't seem to like to see me happy. I could almost think you are what Aunt Alison would call "morbid."'

'I don't think I know what that means,' said Frances, sadly, though she had a sort of idea what Jacinth wished to express.

'Sometimes,' continued Jacinth, 'I have a feeling that other girls have come between you and me. If it could be—if I really thought it was the Harpers, though they do seem nice, I would almost hate them. One way and another, they do seem to have been the cause of a lot of worry.'

'Oh Jass, it isn't their fault—truly it isn't,' pleaded Frances, almost in tears. 'I haven't been very happy lately, but indeed it isn't that I'm changed to you. Perhaps after a while you'll understand me better. If only mamma was at home'——

'It's no good wishing for that,' replied Jacinth. 'And you are so queer, I really don't know if you'd be pleased if things did happen to make mamma come home. I was going to tell you some things,' she added mysteriously, 'but I think I'd better not.'

And, to her surprise, her hints, instead of whetting her sister's curiosity, seemed rather to alarm her.

'No,' she agreed, 'if it's anything about Lady——or, or plans, I'd rather not know. I hate any sort of secret.'

She said the last few words almost roughly, and Jacinth, in spite of her irritation, felt sorry for her. It was evident that poor little Frances had something on her mind. But the elder sister did not invite her confidence.

'I believe it has to do with these girls,' she thought, 'and if it has, I don't want to know it. So Frances and I are quits; she doesn't want my secrets and I don't want hers. Honor Falmouth says it is uncertain if the Harpers will stay after Christmas. I'm sure I hope they won't. Frances would forget all about them once they were away. She is such a baby.'

But her own words had suggested some comfort to Frances. 'If only mamma were here!' she had said. And suddenly she remembered that though mamma herself could not be hoped for, a letter—a letter in answer to her own long one enclosing Camilla Harper's—would soon be due.

'It is five—no, six weeks since I sent it,' she thought joyfully. 'I must hear soon. And then I do hope mamma will say it is best to tell Jass all about it, whether Jass is vexed with me or not; and even if there's no chance of making Lady Myrtle kind to them, I'd far rather Jass knew all I know.'

She sighed, but there was relief in her sigh. And when in another moment she began talking cheerfully about Jacinth's visit, and all she had done at Robin Redbreast, her sister almost decided that she herself had been fanciful and exaggerated about Frances—making mountains out of molehills. Jacinth was very anxious to take this view of things; it was much more comfortable to think that the Harpers had had nothing to do with Frances's fits of depression.

'And after all,' thought Jacinth, 'why should we bother about them? As likely as not they're no relation to Lady Myrtle, or so distant that it doesn't count. And it's really not our business.'

It is seldom the case that a looked-for letter—especially from a great distance—arrives when hoped for. And Frances had hoped for her mother's reply by the very first date possible.

She was not disappointed. They came—a good fat letter for her, a thinner one for Jacinth. They lay on the hall table one day when the girls came home from school; having arrived by the mid-day post, in which Thetford now rejoiced.

Frances seized her letter, her cheeks flushing with excitement.

'What a thick letter you've got this time!' said Jacinth. But Frances scarcely heard her.

'Oh, I do so hope I shall have time to read it before dinner!' she said.

'You've half—no, twenty-five minutes,' said Jacinth. 'Run and get ready first; it won't take you any time, and then you can read your letter in peace. That's what I'm going to do.'

Frances took her sister's advice, and she managed to make her appearance in the dining-room punctually, the precious letter in her pocket, its contents already digested. She was rosier than usual, and Jacinth, who knew her ways so well, could see that she was struggling to keep down her excitement. Jacinth herself was not sorry when dinner was over and she was free to talk to Frances, after answering a question or two from her aunt about their Indian news.

'Frances,' said her sister, when they found themselves in their own little sitting-room, 'mamma tells me that she has written a good deal more to you this time than to me, as there was something particular you asked her about. And she says you will tell it me all, or show me her letter.'



Frances drew out her packet.

'There's more than one letter there, surely,' said Jacinth, with some curiosity.

'Yes,' said Frances, 'there's one I sent on to mamma to read, and she's sent it back, so that you can see it now. I daresay you'll be angry with me for not having told you about it before, but I can't help it if you are. Mamma says I did the best I could; but I am so glad for you to know all about it now,' and she gave a great sigh.

Jacinth, more and more curious, took the letters which Frances gave her, and began to read them eagerly. Rather unfortunately, the first she began was Camilla Harper's, and she went to the end of it in spite of Frances's 'Oh, do read mamma's first, Jass.'

Jacinth's brows contracted, and the lines of her delicate face hardened, but she said nothing—nothing really audible, that is to say, though a murmur escaped her of, 'I knew it had something to do with them; it is too bad.'

When she had finished, she looked up at her sister.

'There is a good deal more for you to explain,' she said, coldly. 'Mamma says you will do so—not that I want to hear it. And as you have got so thoroughly in the way of having secrets from me, and now that you have friends you care for more than me, I really don't see why I need to be mixed up in this affair at all.'

'Oh Jass, dear Jass, don't speak like that,' exclaimed Frances, the ever-ready tears starting to her eyes. 'I couldn't help it. Read again what mamma says.'

'I know what she says,' Jacinth replied. 'I don't need to read it again. I am waiting for you to tell me the whole.'

It was difficult, but Frances was eager to re-establish confidence with her sister. She told the whole—even how the old Christmas card in her pocket had brought up the subject of Robin Redbreast, and how Bessie had asked her to tell no one but her mother, if she could help it; then how Camilla's letter had repeated this, ending up by what had recently come to her knowledge of the increased troubles of the Harper family.

'Oh Jass,' she concluded, 'if we could help them somehow. I am so glad mamma has met that aunt of theirs—isn't it lucky? Perhaps she'll be able now to manage something without vexing Captain and Mrs Harper.'

Jacinth lifted her head and looked at Frances. She was paler than usual.

'I really do think you must be a sort of an idiot,' she said. 'Otherwise, I should be forced to believe you had no real family affection at all. Surely the Harpers might teach you to have that, however much mischief they have made in other ways.'

Frances stared at her, dumb with perplexity.

'What do you mean, Jacinth?' she said at last.

Jacinth for once lost her self-control.

'Do you not care for your own father and mother to get anything good?' she said. 'Papa's life has been hard enough—so has ours—separated almost ever since we can remember from our parents. And it is all a question of money, to put it plainly, though it is horrid of you to force me to say it. Do you think papa, who is far from a young man now, stays out in that climate for pleasure—wearing himself out to be sure of his pension? And if Lady Myrtle chooses to treat us as her relations—mamma, the daughter of her dearest friend—instead of the son of that bad, wretched brother of hers—why shouldn't she? And you would ruin everything by silly interference in behalf of people we have nothing to do with: very likely you'd do no good to them, and only offend her for ever with us. Do you understand now what I mean?'

Frances was trembling, but she would not cry.

'Mamma does not see it that way,' she said. 'She is pleased and delighted at Lady Myrtle being so kind, but she does care about the Harpers too. Read what she says,' and Frances hurriedly unfolded the letter again till she found the passage she wanted.

This was what Mrs Mildmay said, after expressing her sympathy with all Frances had told her, and advising her now to tell the whole to Jacinth. 'I remember vaguely about the Harper family in the old days,' she wrote. 'I know that Lady Myrtle's two brothers caused her much trouble, especially the younger, really embittering her life. But for many years I have heard nothing of her or any of the family till just now, for a curious coincidence has happened. A few days before I got your long letter, enclosing Miss Harper's, and dear Jacinth's too, telling of her invitation to Robin Redbreast, I had met a Mrs Lyle, whose husband has got an appointment here. And Mrs Lyle is Captain Harper's sister. I like her very much, and we have already made great friends. She is very frank, and devoted to her brother and his family; and when she heard of my children being at Thetford, in talking, one thing led to another, so that I really knew all you tell me—and perhaps more. It will be rather difficult for you and Jacinth—for Jassie especially—to avoid all appearance of interference, as that would do harm on both sides. But still you may find opportunities of speaking warmly and admiringly of the Harper girls, whenever your school happens to be mentioned. That can do no harm, and may even help to pave the way for bringing about a better state of things some day. For I do feel most interested in the Harpers, and every time we meet, Mrs Lyle and I talk about them, and all the troubles they have really so nobly borne.'

Then Mrs Mildmay went on to speak of her pleasure in her children's having won Lady Myrtle's kindness, adding that she would look forward eagerly to the next letters, telling of Jacinth's visit.

'Marmy says,' she wrote, 'that it must have been a presentiment which made you all take such a fancy to that quaint old house, even though you only saw it from the outside.'

All this Frances read again boldly to her sister. Jacinth did not interrupt her, but listened in silence.

'Well,' she said, when Frances stopped, 'I told you I had read all mamma said.'

'Then why are you so angry with me?' demanded Frances bluntly. 'If I am a sort of an idiot, mamma is too.'

Jacinth did not reply.

'Mamma says you are not to attempt to interfere,' she said at last.

'I am not going to. I wouldn't do so for the Harpers' sake, much more than for Lady Myrtle's. The Harpers have trusted me, and I won't do anything they wouldn't like.'

'Well,' said Jacinth bitterly, 'you'd better write it all to mamma—all the horrid, calculating, selfish things I've said. You've got quite separated from me now, so that it really doesn't matter what you say of me.'

This was too much. Frances at last dissolved into tears and flung herself upon her sister, entreating her 'not to say such things,' to believe that nobody in the world—not Bessie or Margaret or anybody—could ever make up to her for her own dear Jass.

'You're not selfish,' she said. 'You're far more unselfish, really, than I am. For I never think of things. I see I've never thought enough of poor papa and mamma, and how hard it's been for them in many ways, though I did say to Bessie the other day that, whatever troubles they'd had, they'd not been parted from each other the way we've been.'

'I'm glad you said that,' Jacinth condescended to say, 'just to let them see that they're not the only people in the world who have to bear things.'

'Oh, they don't think that,' said Frances. 'And Jass,' she went on, encouraged by her sister's softer tone, and encircling her neck fondly with her two arms as she sat, half on Jacinth's knee, half on the edge of her chair, 'I don't quite see why being sorry for the poor Harpers, and—and—wishing we could make Lady Myrtle feel so too, need make her leave off being kind to us too. That's how mamma sees it. I am not only thinking of the Harpers, Jass; indeed, I'm not. I'm looking forward more than I can tell you to what you said—that when papa and mamma come home, Lady Myrtle is going to invite us all to stay with her. Oh, it would be lovely!' and the little girl clasped her hands together. 'All the same,' she went on, 'I don't think I want ever to go to Robin Redbreast till that time comes. I can't feel natural there, and I'm afraid of vexing you or doing harm somehow.'

'It is not in our hands—not in mine, any way,' said Jacinth quietly. 'All you have told me makes no difference to me. I am not going to meddle, and I shall not mention the Harpers at all, if I can help it.'

'Not even in the way mamma says we might?' said Frances.

'No—not at all, if I can help it. I do not want to spoil the happiness of being with Lady Myrtle by bringing up disagreeable subjects. I shall tell mamma so when I write.'

Frances was silent. After all, she reflected, perhaps it did not much matter. Jacinth did not know Bessie and Margaret as she did, and now that her sister understood the whole—the near relationship and the whole story, perhaps it would be very difficult for her to come upon the subject naturally.

'Honor Falmouth says,' remarked Jacinth in a moment or two, 'that she has heard that perhaps the girls are not coming back to school after the Christmas holidays.'

'Oh,' exclaimed Frances, looking greatly troubled, 'oh, Jass, I do hope it's not true.'

'I should not be very sorry,' said Jacinth, 'except,' she added with some effort, 'except for your sake. And of course I have never said that they were not very nice girls. I know they are, only—it has been so tiresome and unlucky. I just wish we had never known them.'

'I wish sometimes we had never known Lady Myrtle,' said Frances. 'You and I have never been—like this—with each other before, Jass.'

'Well, we needn't quarrel about it,' said her sister. 'Let's try to keep off the subject of the Harper family. For I can do them no good.'

'Very well,' said Frances, though rather sadly. 'I wonder,' she went on thinking to herself—'I wonder why Bessie and Margaret are perhaps to leave school; they are getting on so well.'

She was too unpractical to guess at the truth—which Jacinth had thought it useless to mention as a part of Miss Falmouth's information—that their parents could no longer afford to pay for them.

'For to be gentlepeople, as they undoubtedly are in every sense of the word,' the girl had said, 'they are really awfully poor. I have heard so from some people who know them at that place where they live. It is quite a little seaside place, where people who want to be quiet go for bathing in the summer. But the Harpers live there all the year round. It must be fearfully dull.'

'Yes,' Jacinth agreed, 'it can't be lively. Still, being poor isn't the only trouble in the world.'

'No,' Miss Falmouth replied, 'but I fear they have others too. Captain Harper is so delicate.'

Jacinth said no more. Honor Falmouth was a kind-hearted but not particularly thoughtful girl, and she forgot all about the Harpers in five minutes. Her visit to Robin Redbreast had never come to pass, and Jacinth did not very specially regret it. She liked best to be alone with Lady Myrtle. So the relationship of the young Harpers to the old lady had never come to Honor's knowledge, as it might perhaps have done if her attention had been drawn to Lady Myrtle by visiting at her house. And at Christmas Honor was leaving school.



CHAPTER X.

THE HARPERS' HOME.

Southcliff was a very dull little place, especially so in winter, of course. In fine weather there is always a charm about the seaside, even on the barest and least picturesque coast. There are the endless varieties of sky panorama—the wonderful sunsets, if you are lucky enough to face seawards to the west; the constantly changing effects of light and colour reflected in the water itself. And on a wild or rugged coast, winter and stormy weather bring of course their own grand though terrible displays.

But Southcliff, despite its promising name, was tame in the extreme. The 'cliff' was so meagre and unimposing as to suggest the suspicion of being only an artificial or semi-artificial erection; the shore had no excitement about it, not even that of quicksands. It was the 'safest' spot all along the coast; even the most suicidally disposed of small boys could scarcely come to mischief there. The tides went out and came in with an almost bourgeois regularity and respectability; there was no possibility of being 'surprised' by the waves; no lifeboat, because within the memory of man no vessel of any description whatever had been wrecked there; no lighthouse, no smugglers' caves of ancient fame, no possibility of adventure of any kind—'no nothing,' Bessie Harper was once heard to say, when she was very little, ''cept the sea and the sky.'

A grand exception those, however, as we have said. And dull though it was, there were some people who loved the little place as their home, and were most ready to be happy in it.

It had some few distinct advantages. It was very healthy, and for these days very cheap. There was a good church, venerable and well cared for; the few, very few residents were all estimable and some interesting. Such as it was, take it all in all, it had seemed a very haven of refuge to Captain Harper and his wife when, some eight or ten years ago, they had pitched their tent there, after the last hopes of recovering any of Mrs Harper's lost money—hopes which for long had every now and then buoyed them up only to prove again delusive—had finally deserted them.

'At anyrate,' the wife, with her irrepressibly sanguine nature, had said, 'we have the comfort of now knowing the worst. And Colin and Bertram are started. What a good thing the boys were the eldest! There is only Fitz to think about, and we'll manage him somehow. For of course the three girls will turn out well. Look at Camilla already.'

Fitz was then about five—the youngest son, the youngest of the family excepting delicate little Margaret. He was 'managed,' and not badly, though a public school was an impossibility; his destination proved to be the navy, and thither at the proper age he made his way in orthodox fashion. The girls, helped by their mother, and by their father too, did their best, and it was far from a bad best. They were naturally intelligent; intensely anxious to seize all opportunities of learning, so that a stray chance of half a dozen lessons in music or French did more for them than as many years will do for most ordinary girls; they were, the two elder ones at least, wonderfully healthy in mind and body, bright-tempered, faithful, unselfish, inheriting from their father the noble characteristics which in some mysterious way had in him so flourished as to oust all the reckless and contemptible qualities of the Bernard Harper who had half-broken his sister's heart, and brought down in sorrow to the grave his gray-haired father.

But alas! they had not known the worst, as the loving, brave-spirited wife and mother had believed. In some sense, it is true, they had not known the best, for the years had brought many satisfactions, many unlooked-for, though unimportant, mitigations of the poverty so hard to bear cheerfully—people had been 'very kind.' But the poverty itself had increased. There were literally unavoidable expenses for 'the boys,' if they were not to be stranded in their careers; there was an unexpected rising of the rent owing to their good landlord's sudden death by accident; there was, worst of all, the terrible strain of Captain Harper's ill-health. In itself this was sad enough for the wife and daughters who adored him: it became almost an agony when, joined to the knowledge that more money, and not so very much more, might both relieve his suffering and hold out a reasonable prospect of comparative restoration.

One operation—now some years ago—had succeeded for the time; but not being followed by the treatment at home and residence abroad prescribed, the improvement had not been lasting. Then it was that Mrs Lyle had written to her aunt, with the result that we know. Her letter was returned unopened.

Then there came a period of comparative comfort, and for two or three years the family at Hedge End (such was the not very euphonious name of the Harpers' house) took heart again, and began to be sure 'father was going to get well all of himself, after all.' And during this time some other cheering things came to pass. An old acquaintance of long-ago days between Mrs Harper and the Misses Scarlett was renewed by the ladies of Ivy Lodge coming to Southcliff one Midsummer holiday-time for sea-air, and this resulted in their offering to take Camilla, then almost grown-up, and later her younger sisters, on exceptionally moderate terms. The news from and of the far-away 'boys' was regular and good. The parents began to breathe freely, and to dare to hope that they had passed the worst of their troubles.

But alas! it was only an interlude. Scarcely had Bessie and Margaret been settled at Ivy Lodge when there came anxiety about Colin—tidings of his prostration by a bad attack of fever; then, when he was able to write of his recovery, little Fitz broke his leg, and had to be brought home at the cost of much expense as well as distress to be nursed well again. And worst of all, through these many weeks a terrible suspicion was dawning on poor Captain Harper—a suspicion all too soon to be changed into a certainty—that he himself was falling back again, that the very symptoms he had been warned of were reappearing, and that unless something were done he might find himself a hopeless and complete cripple.

He kept it to himself till Fitz was all right again; then it had to be told. And the painful journey to London, which Frances heard of at school, followed, with the great doctor's terribly perplexing verdict.

What was to be done? Every conceivable suggestion was made and discussed, but so far no definite scheme had been hit upon.

It was at this juncture that the mail which brought the letter from her mother so anxiously looked for by Frances Mildmay, brought also tidings from Mrs Lyle to her relations at Southcliff.

This letter came at breakfast-time; there was no mid-day post at the little bathing-place, but it was nearer London than Thetford.

'From Aunt Flora, mother,' said Camilla, the only one besides her young brother now at home. 'I do hope it is cheerful, otherwise——No, I suppose it would not do for you to read it first before giving it to father?'

Mrs Harper shook her head. She was a slight dark-haired woman, at first sight more like her youngest daughter than the others, but with a much more hopeful expression in her eyes, and far greater firmness and determination in all the lines of her face, so that, in spite of superficial dissimilarity, Bessie Harper really resembled her mother more nearly than either Camilla, calm, gentle, by nature possibly, a little indolent, or the nervous, anxious-minded Margaret.

'No,' she replied, 'it is no use keeping anything from your father. He has got an almost magic power of finding out things. Besides, your Aunt Flora always tries to cheer him if she can. Put the letter on the tray beside his breakfast, Camilla. I will take it up myself.'

Camilla and Fitz had almost finished their meal before Mrs Harper returned.

'I do hope there's nothing wrong,' said Camilla, with the apprehensiveness which reiterated experience of ill-tidings begets in even the calmest nature.

'It can't be my having broken my leg again,' said her brother, with a not very successful attempt at a joke; 'it was horrid, but I wouldn't mind breaking the other any day if it would save father's getting worse.'

But at that moment their mother came in. Her face was decidedly brighter than when she had left the room.

'Mother dear, do eat some breakfast. You'll be quite faint,' said Camilla, tenderly; 'I was nearly going after you to see if anything were the matter.'

'No dear, thank you,' replied her mother. 'Your aunt's letter is unusually interesting. Fancy! is it not a curious coincidence?—rather a pleasant one, indeed—the Lyles have just made acquaintance at this new place with Colonel and Mrs Mildmay, the parents of the two girls at Miss Scarlett's.'

Camilla looked up with a little misgiving.

'Aunt Flora is not very discreet always, mother,' she said; 'I hope she won't have confided too much to Mrs Mildmay. It might come round in some disagreeable way to—Robin Redbreast.'

'I think Mrs Mildmay must be particularly nice and sensible,' Mrs Harper replied. 'Of course your aunt has talked to her about Lady Myrtle and all the old story; it would scarcely have been in human nature, certainly not in Flora's nature, not to do so, when she found that her new friend was the daughter of Lady Jacinth Denison; but I don't see that it can do any harm. Mrs Mildmay has seen nothing of Lady Myrtle since she was a little child; it is only quite lately, as we know, that your great-aunt has come across the Mildmay girls, really by accident. Mrs Mildmay is pleased at it, for her mother's sake, but I am sure she is not a person to make any mischief. Indeed,' she added with some hesitation, 'it is just possible that indirectly it may do good. Not that your aunt suggests anything of the kind.'

Camilla's face flushed.

'I should hope not, indeed,' she said indignantly; 'when you think of the insult she exposed herself and us to, that time, mother, it would be impossible ever to accept any help from Lady Myrtle.'

But Mrs Harper did not at once reply. Her face had grown very grave, and her eyes seemed to be looking far into things.

'I cannot quite say that,' she answered at last. 'There are times when I am afraid to say what I would not accept, for your father's sake. I feel as if I would consent to anything not wrong or sinful that could save him. And remember, we must be just. As things are, Lady Myrtle knows nothing of us except that we are poor. And there is every excuse for her deep-seated prepossessions against her brother Bernard's family. Pride must not blind our fair judgment, Camilla.'

The girl did not reply. She felt the reasonableness of her mother's argument.

'But oh,' she thought to herself, 'I should hate to be indebted to Lady Myrtle for any help. What would I not do—what would we all not do, rather than that!'

Her feelings might almost have been written on her face, for Fitz, who had been listening silently, though intently, to the conversation, here made a remark which might have been a remonstrance with her unspoken protest.

'There's one thing to be said,' began the boy. 'Even though it's all Lady Myrtle's by law, it came to her from father's own grandfather. If our grandfather had been good, his share would have been his and then father's and then ours. There's a sort of right about it. It isn't as if it was all Lady Myrtle's own in any other way—through her husband, for instance—and that she did anything for us just out of pity, because we were relations. That would be horrid.'

Fitz was only fifteen, but he and Margaret seemed older than their years, as is not unusual with the youngest members of a large family. Besides, all the Harpers had grown up in full knowledge of and sympathy with their parents' anxieties. Living as they did, in closest family union, it would have been all but impossible to prevent its being so, save by some forced and unnatural reticence, the evil of which would have been greater than the risk of saddening the children by premature cares.

So neither Mrs Harper nor her daughter felt the least inclined to 'snub' the boy for his observation, which contained a strong element of common-sense.

'Lady Myrtle's wealth comes in part from her husband,' said Mrs Harper. 'That makes one feel the more strongly that the Harper portion should to some extent return to where it is so needed. But your father has told me that the Elvedons are sure to inherit some of it, and that is quite right.'

'And,' said Camilla, with a little effort, anxious to show her mother that she did wish to be quite 'fair-judging,' 'you know, Fitz, as we have often said, if our grandfather, being what he was, had got his share, it is most improbable that any of it would have come to father. After all,' she added with an honest smile that lighted up her quiet face and made it almost as bright as Bessie's—'after all, it was better for the money to be kept together by Lady Myrtle, than for it to be thrown away and nobody to have any good of it. She is a generous old woman, too, in outside ways. I see her name in connection with several philanthropic institutions.'

'And really good and well-managed things, your father says. She must be a wise and considerate woman,' said Mrs Harper.

'All the more pity, then, that she and father have never come together,' said Camilla with a sigh. 'She would be able to appreciate him. I never could imagine any one wiser and juster than father—though you come pretty near him sometimes, I must say, mother;' and she smiled again. 'Neither of you is ever the least bit unfair to any one, and it does take such a lot of self-control and—and—a wonderfully well-balanced mind, I suppose, to be like that.'

'I have only learned it—if I have learned it—from your father,' replied Mrs Harper. 'At your age I was dreadfully impetuous and hasty. I often wonder, dear child, how you can be so thoughtful and helpful as you are.'

Camilla's eyes sparkled with pleasure.

'Mother,' she said, 'we mustn't degenerate into a mutual admiration society. I shall tell father how we've been buttering each other up all breakfast-time. It will amuse him. I'm going to see if he will have some more tea.'

And she ran off.

By mid-day Captain Harper was established on his sofa in the little drawing-room, which his wife and daughters still strove so very hard to keep fresh and pretty. From this sofa, alas! especially now that winter was in the ascendant even at sheltered Southcliff, the invalid was but seldom able to move. For walking had become exceedingly painful and difficult, and so slow that even a little fresh air at the best part of the day could only be procured at the risk of chill and cold—a risk great and dangerous. And barely six months ago the tap of his crutch had been one of the most familiar sounds in the little town; he had been able to walk two or three miles with perfect ease and the hearty enjoyment which his happy nature seemed to find under all circumstances. It had not proved untrue to itself even now. There was a smile on his somewhat worn face—a smile that was seen in the eyes too, as real smiles should always be—as his daughter came into the room to see that he had everything he wanted about him.

'It is really getting colder at last, father,' she said. 'At Thetford, Bessie writes, they have had some snow. And Margaret was delighted because it made her think of Christmas, and Christmas means coming home.'

'Poor old Mag!' said Captain Harper. 'Mag' was his own special name for his youngest daughter; and no one else was allowed to use it. 'Poor old Mag! I really think she's very happy at school, though—don't you, Camilla? Bessie, I knew, would be all right, but I had my misgivings about Mag. And it is in every way such a splendid chance for them. It would be'——And he hesitated.

'What, father?'

'Such a pity to break it up,' he said, 'as—we have almost come to think must be done.'

'They would be perfectly miserable to stay there, if they understood—as indeed they do now,' Camilla replied, 'that it would be only at the cost of what you must have, father dear.'

Her voice, though low, was very resolute. Captain Harper glanced at her half-wistfully.

'I wish you didn't all see things that way,' he said. 'You see it's this, Camilla. If I go up to London to be under Maclean for three months, it may set me up again to a certain point, but unless it be followed by the "kur" at the baths, and then by that other "massage" business within a year or so, it would be just the old story, just what it was before, only that I am three or four years older than I was, and—certainly not stronger. So this is the question—is it worth while? It will be at such a cost—stopping Bessie and Mag's schooling, wearing out your mother and you—for what will be more trying than letting this house for the spring, as must be done, and moving you girls into poky lodgings. That, at least, we have hitherto managed not to do. And then the strain on your poor mother being up alone with me in London—so dreary for her too. And at best to think that a partial, temporary cure is all we can hope for. No, my child, I cannot see that it is worth it. I am happy at home, and more than content to bear what must be, after all not so very bad. And I may not get worse. Do, darling, try to make your mother see it my way.'

It was not often—very, very seldom indeed—that Captain Harper talked so much or so long of himself. Now he lay back half-exhausted, his face, which had been somewhat flushed, growing paler than before.

Camilla wound her arms round him and hid her face on his shoulder.

'Father dearest,' she whispered, doing her best to hide any sign of tears in her voice, 'don't be vexed or disappointed, but I can't see it that way. It seems presumptuous for me to argue with you, but don't you see?—the first duty seems so clear, to do what we can. Surely there can be no doubt at all about that? And who knows—something may happen to make the rest of what is prescribed for you possible. And even if not, and if the three months in London only do a little good, at least we should all feel we had tried everything. Father dearest, if we didn't do it, do you think mother and Bessie and I—and the boys when they hear of it, and even the two little ones—do you think we should ever again feel one moment's peace of mind? Every time you looked paler or feebler, every time we saw you give the least little wince of pain—why, I think we should go out of our minds. It would be unendurable.'

Captain Harper stroked her fair soft hair fondly.

'But, dear, suppose it doesn't do any good, or much? Suppose'—and his voice grew very low and tender—'suppose all this increased suffering and weakness is only the beginning of the end—and sometimes I cannot help thinking it would be best so—my darling, it would have to be endured.'

Camilla raised her tear-stained face and looked at her father bravely.

'I know,' she said quietly. 'It may be. Mother and I don't deceive ourselves, though it is no use dwelling upon terrible possibilities. But even then, don't you see the difference? We should feel that we had done our best, and—and that more was not God's will.'

'Yes,' said her father, 'I see how you mean. I suppose I should feel the same if it were about your mother or one of you.'

'And father,' Camilla went on more cheerfully, 'don't worry about the girls leaving school; it won't do them lasting harm. They have got a good start, and they are still very young. Some time or other they may have another opportunity, as I had. And Margaret is such a delicate little creature. Father, I wouldn't have said it if they had been going to stay at Thetford, but I have had my misgivings about her being fit to be so far away. I fear she is very homesick sometimes.'

'Do you really think so?' said Captain Harper with a start. 'Poor little soul! If I thought so—ah dear, my home was not much, but still while my mother lived it was home, and oh how I remember what I suffered when I left it! Who is it that speaks of "the fiend homesickness?" The mere dread of it would reconcile me to having them back again.'

'Then I am very thankful I told you,' said the girl. 'And father, is it not nice to know that in spite of everything we girls have not come off badly? Bessie and Margaret took good places at once, and I did too, you know. Indeed, Miss Scarlett said that if I had thought of being a governess, she would have been very glad to have me.'

'I know,' said her father. 'Well, there is no necessity for that as yet, except for governessing the younger ones as you used to do. And if things go better with me, even if I'm only not worse, when we come home again I can take you all three for Latin and German and mathematics.'

Camilla's eyes sparkled. She was so delighted to have talked him into acquiescence and hopefulness.

'We shall work so hard the three months we are by ourselves that you will be quite astonished,' she said. 'And old Mrs Newing will make us very comfortable; it's there we're to live, you know. It will really be great fun.'

So from this time the move to London was decided upon for Captain and Mrs Harper.

And when Bessie and Margaret bade their companions good-bye at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, they knew, though it had been thought best to say little about it, and the good Misses Scarlett refused to look upon it as anything but a temporary break, that it was good-bye for much longer than was supposed—good-bye perhaps and not improbably for always, to Ivy Lodge and Thetford and all their friends.

Bessie felt it sorely. Little Margaret was all absorbed in the delight of going 'home' again. But both were at one in the real sorrow with which they parted from their companions, among whom no one had won a more lasting place in their affection than blunt, warm-hearted, honest Frances Mildmay.



CHAPTER XI.

GREAT NEWS.

The first Christmas at a strange place or in a new home is always full of mingled feelings. Even when the change has been a happy one, not brought about by sorrows of any kind, the old associations give a sort of melancholy to the thankfulness and joy we all wish to feel at this time. And for the young Mildmays it was more than natural that the sadness should predominate.

'Only a year ago how different it was!' sighed Frances, the first morning of the holidays, when there was no school to hurry off to—nothing particular to do or look forward to. 'I shall be very glad when it's time to begin lessons again.'

'I don't see why you should feel so particularly gloomy just now,' said Jacinth, not unkindly. 'Things might have been a good deal worse than they are.'

'People can always say that,' replied Frances. 'If you've got to have a leg cut off, you can say to yourself it might have been both legs. I daresay having Robin Redbreast to go to makes it much nicer for you; I suppose you'll go there a good deal during the holidays. But it doesn't make much difference to me. Lady Myrtle doesn't ask me often, and I don't want her to. I'm quite glad for you to go there, but it's not the same for me.'

And again she sighed.

'What would make you happier, then?' asked Jacinth.

'Oh, I don't know. Nothing that could be, I suppose. Nothing will make very much difference till papa and mamma come home. There are one or two things that are making me particularly unhappy, besides the thinking it's Christmas and how changed everything is, but—I daresay it's no good speaking of them.'

'I know what one of them is,' said Jacinth. 'I can guess it: shall I tell you what it is?'

'If you like,' Frances replied.

'It's about the Harpers—Bessie and Margaret—not coming back again to school,' said her sister.

'How did you know about it?' inquired Frances. 'They didn't tell even me—not really. But I know they were very sad about their father being so much worse, and once, a few days ago, Bessie said it was almost settled they were going to let their house at that place where they live, and that their father and mother were going to be a long time in London, and of course that will cost a lot of money—the going to London, I mean. And—I could tell,' and Frances's voice sounded rather suspicious—'I could tell—by the way, they kissed me—when—when they said good-bye—I could tell they weren't coming back,' and here the choking down of a sob was very audible.

For a wonder Jacinth did not seem at all irritated. Truth to tell, she, too, had felt very sorry for the Harper girls—Bessie especially—and as we know, though she did not allow it to herself, her conscience was not entirely at ease about them. Something had touched her, too, in Bessie's manner when they bade each other good-bye.

'Will you kiss me, Jacinth?' Bessie had said. 'I have been so glad to know you.'

'I have not felt sorry enough for them perhaps,' Jacinth had allowed to herself. 'But really, there are so many sad things in the world, one would wear one's self out with being sorry for everybody.'

'How did you know about it?' Frances repeated.

'I heard something a good while ago from Honor Falmouth; don't you remember?' said Jacinth. 'And last week she told me more, only she said they didn't want any fuss made about it. She heard it from friends. But Frances, do try and cheer up. You've been as kind—at least as affectionate—as you could be to the Harpers. We hadn't it in our power to ask them here or anything like that. I'm sure you tried to get Aunt Alison to ask them, over and over again. And you won't do them any good by crying about their troubles, you know, dear. Perhaps they may come back to school some time or other, even if they're away next term.'

'Thank you, dear Jass,' said Frances, wiping her eyes. 'You're very kind. I'll try and not be dull.'

She would perhaps have been less grateful for Jacinth's sympathy had she understood the relief it was to her sister, notwithstanding her genuine pity for them, to know that the Harpers were not likely to be associated with them any more. Their presence at Ivy Lodge, ever since the acquaintance with Lady Myrtle—more especially since Jacinth herself had become fully informed as to the whole history—had been a perpetual irritation and almost a reproach to her. And the pertinacity with which she repeated to herself that it was not her business to take up the cudgels in the Harpers' behalf, of itself suggested a weak point somewhere—a touch of the self-excusing which tries to whiten over the unacknowledged self-blame.

Now, Jacinth could afford to let herself feel sorry for Bessie and Margaret and their family—could even picture to herself ways in which some day, in some vague future, she and Frances might show kindness to their former school-fellows.

'If I were rich,' thought Jacinth, 'they're just the sort of people I'd love to be good to; of course one would have to do it very carefully, so as not to offend them.'

Frances was still looking somewhat lugubrious when the door opened and Miss Mildmay senior came in. It was not very often that their aunt paid the girls a visit in their own little sitting-room, and they both looked up with some curiosity.

'I had a letter from Lady Myrtle this morning,' she said. 'I did not want to speak about it before Eugene'—for Eugene had lately been promoted to breakfast down-stairs—'as I was not sure what you and Frances would wish about it. It is an invitation for you all—Eugene too—to spend Christmas at Robin Redbreast. Christmas time, I should say. Lady Myrtle invites you all three for a week, and Jacinth for a fortnight. What do you say?'

Frances said nothing, but Jacinth looked up quickly.

'I think it would be unnatural for us all to go away from you for Christmas, Aunt Alison,' she said.

Miss Mildmay smiled.

'A lonely Christmas would be nothing new to me, my dear child,' she said; but she spoke without any bitterness.

'I'll stay with you, Aunt Alison,' said Frances, eagerly. 'I really don't care about going to Robin Redbreast, and it's Jacinth Lady Myrtle wants. Do let me and Eugene stay here; Eugene needn't be told about it at all.'

'Thank you, my dear,' said their aunt. 'Thank you both. But—do not think me ungracious—when I spoke of a lonely Christmas, I only meant that I have not been used to a family party. I am always very happy and very busy on Christmas—and I think I should be missed if I were not here. I should have told you that Lady Myrtle very kindly invites me too—for Christmas Day—but that would not suit me at all. I must be here in the evening, and indeed I am wanted all day; but I was trying to arrange to do less, so as to be with you three in the afternoon at least.'

'Then—to put it plainly—it would be rather a relief to you for us all to be away?' asked Jacinth.

'Well, yes—in a sense it would. That is to say, if I knew you were happy and well looked after,' said Miss Mildmay, smiling again.

'There, Francie,' said Jacinth, 'you see it is much the best thing that could have happened. And of course you and Eugene must come. I suppose we shall take Phebe, Aunt Alison?'

'Certainly, my dear.'

The mention of Phebe seemed to cheer Frances. 'I shouldn't mind so much, if Eugene and I could go walks,' she said. 'But you know, Aunt Alison, Jass must be a great deal with Lady Myrtle, and I shouldn't know what to do all day, and Eugene wouldn't either.'

'It'll be all right, you'll see,' said Jacinth, who, now that she was satisfied as to her aunt, felt in high spirits. 'You can go about just as you like with Phebe, and it's only for a week. I don't think I should stay more than a week, Aunt Alison?'

'I cannot say,' her aunt replied. 'I almost think you should, if Lady Myrtle wishes it. That week—the week after Christmas week—I think I could help to amuse Frances and Eugene. We shall be having our children's feasts, and they could be very useful.'

'I should like that!' said Frances eagerly.

So all seemed satisfactory, and Miss Mildmay left them, to write her answer to Lady Myrtle. Human nature is very inconsistent. The maiden lady of a certain age could not repress a sigh as she sat down at her desk: she had not realised till now that all was changed; how she had been looking forward to something like an orthodox Christmas for once, in her prim old house—how she had been planning about the plum-puddings and cakes, even while groaning a little over the reversal of her usual habits!

'But it is much better as it is,' she decided. 'They will be quite happy, and poor old Lady Myrtle will be less lonely than for many years. She may be a good friend to Eugenia and the children in the future. And as for me, I don't know how they would have managed without me at St Blaise's, after all.'

And the young Mildmays—Frances included—were very happy at Robin Redbreast.

Things settled themselves very much as Jacinth had foreseen. Under Phebe's care the two younger ones were left free to run about as they chose during such parts of the day as Jacinth found that their hostess liked to have her with herself. And the children were much more accustomed to this sort of life than if they had ever known thorough home care. For even at Stannesley Mrs Denison's age and fragile health had often made it impossible for them to be with her as much as she would have liked: they had early learned to be 'very good at amusing themselves.'

On Christmas Day the large landau, quite roomy enough for half a dozen instead of four, took them all to Elvedon church, where they sat with Lady Myrtle in the square, be-curtained pew—one of those appropriated to the Court, which was kept for the lady from Robin Redbreast.

'It felt very like Stannesley,' was the verdict of the two younger ones, who had not been at Elvedon before, which seemed to please Lady Myrtle.

'Yes,' she said. 'I think you will feel more at home than if you spent the day at Thetford.'

And the prettily decorated rooms, and the old folk who came in for dinner in the servants' hall, and the roast turkey and flaming plum-pudding and snapdragon afterwards—yes, though they were only such a very small party, just they three and the old lady instead of their own granny, and no Uncle Marmy to make his jokes—still it was much more homelike than No. 9 Market Square Place could possibly have been. And when Frances went to bed that night, glancing with pleasure at the pretty presents so thoughtfully provided for her—a dear little gold pencil-case in a bracelet from Lady Myrtle, a pair of gloves from Aunt Alison, and a handkerchief with a red embroidered border from Jacinth and Eugene—the child felt that she had indeed a great many 'good things' to be thankful for.

'If only'——she thought. 'Oh, how I would like to think that Bessie and Margaret are happy too! I am so afraid that they are very, very sad about their father.'

Christmas Day was a Thursday. It was always considered a lucky coincidence by the young Mildmays when letters from their far-off parents reached them on the very day of any anniversary. But this year the Christmas budget only arrived the morning before Frances and Eugene were returning to Thetford. Miss Mildmay sent it on by a special messenger, knowing how anxious her nieces would be to get their letters. And a mysterious allusion in the little note from her which accompanied them made Jacinth start and call out to Frances.

'Look at what Aunt Alison says, before you read your letter, Francie. What can she mean?'

This was what Jacinth pointed to: 'I have heard from your father and mother also,' wrote Miss Mildmay. 'The great piece of news will surprise you as much as it has surprised me. I shall be glad to have you back again to talk it all over.' The sisters stared at each other, their lips parted and their breath coming quickly.

Then said Jacinth at last: 'It can't be anything wrong, Francie. Aunt Alison never would have written of it like that, if it had been.'

'No,' said Frances, though her voice was rather tremulous; 'of course it can't be.'

'And,' continued Jacinth, 'how silly we are to sit here wondering about it, when we've only to look at our letters to know! Here goes, Francie!' and she tore open her own envelope; 'let's see which of us will get at it first.'

Frances unfastened her letter more deliberately. It was a much shorter one than Jacinth's, and she had scarcely glanced at the first few lines when she sprang from her seat with a sort of shriek.

'They're coming home, Jass! that's the secret. Oh Jass, Jass, listen: "As I may hope to see you before long, my darling, I won't attempt to write very much." That's it. Oh Jassie, sweet, they're coming home!'

Jacinth's face had grown pink, then white again, whiter than usual, as she rapidly ran through her own letter.

'Yes,' she said at last, 'it's—no, it's not quite so good as that. Mamma's coming first: she'll be here in the spring; but papa's not coming for some months later. He's got to go somewhere for some kind of inspection, where mamma couldn't go with him, and after that, he's got six months' leave, which may or may not—I don't quite understand. Listen, Francie: "During this leave your father will have time to decide as to the future. It is possible he may have the offer of an appointment in England, which would obviate the necessity of our returning to India. But even if he has this chance, there are fors and againsts to consider: the appointment is not in some ways a very desirable one; it would oblige us to live for some, perhaps for several years in a large manufacturing town in the north of England, and it would be very hard work for your father. Still, we might—we should be all together."'

Frances heaved a deep sigh of intense longing.

'Oh yes,' she said, 'that would be everything.'

'No, I don't see that it would be,' said Jacinth. 'I should hate living in a place like that; and then think of the hard work for papa. When he does come home I want him to be quite his own master, and, and—to be rather grand, you know. I should not mind his having an appointment in London, or some county thing that wouldn't give him much to do, about here perhaps. But to go and slave in some horrid dirty place where there would be no one we could speak to; that would be a come-down after the position he has had in India.'

'Oh Jass,' said Frances, 'don't let us spoil this beautiful news by thinking of anything disagreeable. Papa must know best, far better than we can. Do go on reading the letter. Mamma says I'm to ask you everything.'

Jacinth's eyes returned to the sheets in her hand. Her face cleared a little.

'There's something else,' she said. 'Oh, I should like that far better. Listen, Frances: "Your father has also the certainty of a good—as to position and agreeableness—appointment in London; but the pay would be much, much less, so he is not taking this into consideration. So the chances are that we may have to return to India after his leave is over, and be joined by you, dear Jass, a year later; though at worst I hope we shall be settled in England before my little Francie would be ready to come out. But I don't mean to think of anything at present but the unexpected joy of seeing you all three again so soon. I am writing to your aunt, to know if she can find a little house at Thetford where we can be together. You will just have been one year with her, and I do thank her for her care of you. It all seems to have fitted in so well. When you see Lady Myrtle Goodacre, thank her again from me for her kindness to you, and tell her what a pleasure it has been to me to think of it. Tell her, too, how much I am looking forward to meeting again my mother's dearest friend."'

'You will tell Lady Myrtle at once,' said Frances.

'Yes, of course,' said Jacinth, but she spoke half absently. Her eyes were still fixed on her mother's letter.

'I don't see why he shouldn't even "take it into consideration,"' she repeated to herself. 'We can't be so desperately poor as all that. I shall take it into consideration, any way, my dear mother;' and she smiled a little. 'Yes, Frances,' she went on, looking up, and speaking more decidedly; 'of course I'll tell Lady Myrtle. I think I'll go and tell her now. I know she is alone in the boudoir. And, Francie, you may tell Eugene.'

'May I?' exclaimed Frances, jumping up. 'Oh, thank you, Jass. I'm not sure,' she went on, 'I'm not sure that Eugene can feel quite so—so wild with happiness as I do. Oh Jass, it is almost too much. It takes my breath away.' She was running out of the room, when she looked back for a moment.

'Jass,' she began with a little hesitation, 'does mamma say anything more about Mrs Lyle, their aunt, you know? I wonder if she has seen her again?'

'She is sure to have seen her again. They are living close together,' said Jacinth. 'But she doesn't say anything about her in this letter. Why should she?' Jacinth's tone was growing a little acrid. 'May she not for once be taken up with our own affairs? what can be more important than all she has to tell us? I do wish, Frances, you wouldn't drag these Harpers into everything; it is really bad taste.'

Frances was not very clear as to what 'bad taste' meant, but she was very sorry to have vexed Jacinth.

'It was only,' she said, 'only that it seems as if all the happiness were coming to us, and all the troubles to them. And I was so glad mamma was sorry for them.'

'You speak as if they were our nearest relations,' said Jacinth, 'instead of being, as they are, actual strangers.'

But she was not sure if Frances heard her. She had already run off.

Jacinth followed her down-stairs more slowly. They had been sitting in the elder girl's bedroom, which, with its cheerful outlook and pleasant arrangements of writing-table and bookcases and sofa, and fire burning brightly, was rather a favourite resort of theirs in the morning, before Lady Myrtle was free from her various occupations. For she was a busy and methodical old lady.

The staircase was one of the pretty features of Robin Redbreast: though a spiral one, the steps were pleasantly shallow, and every here and there it was lighted by quaintly shaped windows.

'How I love this house!' said Jacinth to herself, as she passed out round the gallery, already described, on into the conservatory, even at that mid-winter season a blaze of lovely brilliant colour. 'If—oh, if it were going to be our home some time or other, how beautiful it would be to look forward to! how delightful it would make mamma's coming back! I can't bear to think of papa's having that horrid appointment up in the north. I'd rather keep on as we are, and go out to India when I'm old enough.'

She had loitered a moment among the flowers; the door of Lady Myrtle's boudoir was slightly ajar; the old lady's ears were quick; she heard even the slight rustle of Jacinth's skirts, and called out to her.

'Is that you, dear Jacinth? Come in—I have finished my letters and accounts, and was just going to send for you.'

And as the girl hastened in, Lady Myrtle looked up with a bright smile of welcome. It was pleasant to be thus greeted: a change from Aunt Alison's calm unimpassioned placidity.

'Dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth, 'I don't know how to tell you our news. We have got our Christmas letters from papa and mamma; Aunt Alison sent out a messenger on purpose with them. And Francie and I have just read them. And—what do you think?'

She sat down on a stool at Lady Myrtle's feet and looked up in her face. The old lady laid her hand fondly on the girl's soft hair.

'Nothing wrong, dear; I can see by your face. What can it be? Not—it can't be that they are coming home?'

Jacinth's eyes sparkled.

'Yes, indeed,' she said; 'that's just what it is. At least it's not quite that they're coming home for good; I wish it were. But if you like, if it won't bother you, I'll read you mamma's letter.'

'Yes, do, dear,' said the old lady.

And Jacinth did so, congratulating herself on what had disappointed Frances, that there was no mention at all in this letter of the Harper family or Mrs Lyle.

Lady Myrtle listened with evidently extreme interest. When Jacinth had finished, there was a moment or two's silence. Then Lady Myrtle said quietly but decidedly: 'She must come straight here—your mother, I mean. I shall write to her myself. Don't you think that will be best? It will be the greatest satisfaction to me to see her—little Eugenia—how proud your dear grandmother was of her! A fair-haired, brown-eyed little creature. Not so like my Jacinth as you are, child. But that, one could not expect. It is not often that one sees such a likeness as yours to your grandmother. But I am so thankful to know I may hope to see your mother. Sometimes I have feared'——But here Lady Myrtle broke off without finishing her sentence. 'Jacinth, I want you to talk about it. What can I say to ensure her coming to me? I want to make her feel that it will be really like coming home?'

'Say that to her, dear Lady Myrtle,' Jacinth replied. 'Nothing could touch her more. And I am sure she will love to come here, at any rate for a while, at first. You see she speaks of living at Thetford till papa comes—of having a little house there and us with her. There would not be room in Aunt Alison's house, and besides, I think mamma would like to feel more independent with us three.'



'Of course. I would not at all advise her living in Market Square Place, even if there were room,' said Lady Myrtle. 'In a small house, and with your aunt being accustomed to be the authority—no, it would not do. But there would be no such difficulties here. Your mother must come to me first, and you three must be here, too, to meet her. And then, later on, if she thinks it better to take a little house—well, I shall not oppose her. I am not an unreasonable old woman, am I, my child?'

'No, indeed,' said Jacinth warmly. 'And'—with a little smile—'I know mamma is very sensible. I can tell it by her letters, and even by what I remember of her. She is eager and hearty—sometimes Francie reminds me of her—but she is never fanciful or obstinate. It sounds impertinent of me talking like that of her, but I think you will understand. And I am sure you and mamma will suit each other.'

'I am sure we shall, dear, though, in a sense, you will always seem the most of your grandmother to me, Jacinth. You see my most vivid memory of her is about your age; it is really as if she had come back to me, sometimes.'

'I do so love you to say that,' said Jacinth.

'But I want to speak of all your mother writes,' the old lady went on. 'I—there can be no harm in my talking to you quite frankly, for I see your mother confides in you, and she is quite right to do so. Jacinth—I don't like the idea of that post, whatever it is, at Barmettle.'

Jacinth drew a deep breath of relief.

'Oh, I am so glad you think so,' she said. 'I scarcely liked to say it—it seems selfish—if it would save papa's going out again, and he has had so much of India; but it would be rather horrid, wouldn't it? And almost a come-down, it seems to me. The other appointment in London would be so much nicer, only living at all nicely in London is so dear, and the pay is smaller. Perhaps it will end after all in papa and mamma going back to India, and my joining them in two or three years.'

Lady Myrtle put out her hand, and clasped Jacinth's firmly in hers.

'No, my child,' she said. 'That must not be. I think when one gets as old as I am, one may be a little selfish; that is to say, if one's selfishness does no one any harm. And your parents have had enough of India; there can be no necessity for their return there, nor for your joining them. No, I could not consent to lose you again—the one thing that has been sent to cheer me! Put all such possibilities out of your mind, my Jacinth. I will write to your mother.'

'And what shall I say to her?' asked Jacinth. 'About all you have said, I mean.'

'Refer her to me. But tell her how you are all—we are all—counting on her coming first to Robin Redbreast, and that then we shall be able to talk over everything. Tell her I cannot consent to giving you up; tell her, as I hope you can, that this place is beginning to feel like home to you.'

'You know I feel it so, dear Lady Myrtle,' said Jacinth simply. 'I think I have been happier here already than I have ever been anywhere else. And I am so glad this news has come while we were here. It makes it doubly delightful. And we shall remember that it came to us here—this Christmas week.'



CHAPTER XII.

'"CAMILLA" AND "MARGARET," YES.'

There was a great writing of letters during the next day or two at Robin Redbreast. And both Lady Myrtle and the children found it difficult to give their attention to anything but the absorbing subject of Mrs Mildmay's return.

And in response to a pressing invitation from the old lady, Miss Mildmay actually managed to spare or make time to come out to Robin Redbreast to 'spend the day'—that is to say, three or four hours of it, so that she and Lady Myrtle might have a talk about the plans under discussion.

The day chosen was the one in which Frances and Eugene were to return to Market Square Place. The big carriage was to take them and their aunt and Phebe home in the afternoon, leaving Jacinth for another week at Robin Redbreast.

Never had her nieces found Miss Mildmay so pleasant and almost genial. She was greatly delighted at the news of her sister-in-law's return—delighted and relieved. For it had begun to strike her rather uncomfortably that what she had undertaken was all but an impossibility. She was very conscientious, as I have said, and no self-deceiver. She saw that the girls, as they grew older, were becoming not less but more in need of sympathy and guidance in their out-of-school life—sympathy and guidance which at best she felt very doubtful of being able to give them, even if she sacrificed all the other duties and occupations which had for so many years made her life, for their sakes. And the sacrifice would have been a very tremendous one.

The doubts and perplexities were increasing daily in her mind when there came this most welcome and little expected news, followed by the almost as welcome tidings of Lady Myrtle's eager offer of hospitality to the children's mother.

'It is very good, very, very kind and good of her,' said Miss Mildmay to herself. 'The children's making friends with her really seems to have brought good-luck. And she may be of lasting and substantial help to Frank and Eugenia. Not exactly because she is rich—Frank is far too proud to take anybody's money—but she may have interest that would be of use to him. And there would be nothing unnatural in her leaving something to Eugenia or to Jacinth. I don't suppose she means to leave everything to the Elvedons, for a good deal would have been her own share in any case, and a good deal her husband must have left her. By the bye, I have always forgotten to ask Miss Scarlett if the Harper girls she has, or had—some one said they had left—were any relation to the Elvedon family. Nice girls, evidently, but very badly off, I fancy.'

And then she forgot about the Harpers again.

But with her grateful feelings to Lady Myrtle, Miss Mildmay naturally felt that the least she could do was to clear a day for herself by working extra hard, so as to be able to spend part of it at Robin Redbreast, as the old lady much wished her to do.

And she was in her happiest and most cheerful mood, and all would have gone just as Jacinth wished, but for one unfortunate allusion, which came in the first place, strange to say, from considerate, cautious Miss Alison Mildmay herself.

Lady Myrtle and her new guest had a long talk by themselves in the first place. Then Jacinth, anxiously waiting, heard the boudoir-bell ring, and a message was brought to herself asking her to join them.

'Come in, my dear child,' said her old friend; 'your aunt and I have been enjoying a good talk. It is so pleasant when such things end in people quite agreeing with each other, is it not?' she added, turning to Miss Mildmay with a smile.

Jacinth's anxious face cleared.

'Then you do think Lady Myrtle's plan best, Aunt Alison?' she said.

'I think it a delightful one, for all concerned,' said Miss Mildmay. 'I have been explaining to Lady Myrtle all my—my conflicting feelings. For much as I should like to have your mother with me, I know it would not be as comfortable as I should wish, nor should I be able to see very much of her, unless'——

'Forgive my interrupting you, my dear Miss Mildmay,' interposed Lady Myrtle; 'but I wish you would not worry yourself about all these questions, now that they are settled and done with. Eugenia shall come straight to Robin Redbreast for as long as I can get her to stay, and that will be as long as she wishes. The children, as well as Jacinth, my child'—and she glanced up affectionately at the young girl standing beside her—'shall be here to receive her, and you too, Miss Mildmay, if you will so far honour me. It will be about Easter probably; there are holidays then, I believe, which will be all the better. And there need never be any difficulty about sending you all three to school and fetching you, even when it is not holiday time. Then if Eugenia prefers to take a little house temporarily at Thetford, I shall leave her free to do so, though I may have my private hopes on this matter.'

Lady Myrtle's eyes were quite sparkling, and there was a bright colour in her cheeks. It was very pleasant to see her so eager and happy. Jacinth, in spite of her aunt's repressing presence, could not help stooping down and gently kissing the soft old face.

'And to look further forward still,' Lady Myrtle continued, holding Jacinth's hand which she had possessed herself of, 'your aunt and I are of accord on another point, my child. Your father must not return to India; he has had enough of it. And your mother too.'

'Then you think he should accept'——began Jacinth.

'We will not go into particulars,' she replied, patting Jacinth's hand. 'To begin with, Colonel Mildmay has not consulted me. He must first get to know me. But—no, of course that dreadful Barmettle is out of the question. You might almost as well be all in India, as far as I am concerned, for all I should see of you. But all that is some way off still. The first thing to do is to get your mother's promise to come straight here.'

'I am sure she will,' said Jacinth. 'I don't feel any anxiety about that.'

'Nor do I,' said her aunt.

Just then the luncheon gong sounded, and they all went down-stairs in the best of spirits. In the dining-room they were joined by Frances and Eugene, who thanks to the genial influences of the morning's news, ran up to Miss Mildmay, and kissed her much more effusively than was usual with them.

'How well you are both looking!' she said, and Lady Myrtle glanced round, pleased at the remark. 'I don't think his mother will recognise Eugene,' Miss Mildmay went on. 'Well, no, she could scarcely do that in any case. But I mean to say I think she will find it difficult to believe we are not cheating her altogether when she sees this great, strong, rosy fellow. He was such a poor little specimen!'

'He must have been brought home in time, however,' said Lady Myrtle. 'Ah, yes, our Indian possessions cost us dear in some ways. Though it is nothing to the old days; my people were soldiers for generations you know, so we had full experience of these difficulties. I and my brothers were born in India; my father was only captain in his regiment when he came into the Elvedon title and property unexpectedly. He would have lived to be very distinguished, I feel sure, if he had not left the army;' and she sighed a little.

'But you have distinguished relatives in the army still,' said Miss Mildmay. 'The Captain Harper who was wounded at——after his most gallant conduct. He is a relation, is he not? I heard about him from Miss Scarlett: you know his daughters were at Ivy Lodge, and'——

'Indeed!' said Lady Myrtle, and a very strange expression came into her voice—not annoyance, not even constraint—more like a sort of repressed anxiety and painful apprehensiveness. 'Indeed! No, I do not remember—what were you going to say?'

For Miss Mildmay had stopped abruptly. She was seated opposite Jacinth, and as she got to her last words, some consciousness made her glance across the table at her elder niece. In an instant she saw her mistake, and recalled her own vague warnings to the girls to avoid allusions to Lady Myrtle's family history. But she was far from cowardly, and essentially candid. And in her mind there had been no mingling of any selfish motive; nothing but the desire to prevent any possible annoyance to their kind old friend had prompted her few words of advice to the girls. And now the strange look—a look almost of restrained anger—on Jacinth's face positively startled her.

'I may have been mistaken in my impression that the family in question was in any way related to you,' she said quietly. 'One should be more cautious in such matters.'

'Yes,' said Lady Myrtle, nervously, 'I think you must have been mistaken. I do not know anything of such people, and Harper is not a very uncommon name. By the way, that reminds me—was it you, my dear?' and she turned somewhat abruptly to Frances—'was it not you who once mentioned some school-fellows of the name, and afterwards something was said which removed the impression that they could possibly be Elvedon Harpers? I am confused about it.'

All this time Frances's eyes had been fixed on her plate; she had scarcely dared to breathe since her aunt's allusion. Now she looked up, bravely, though her cheeks were flaming and her heart beating as if to choke her. An inner voice seemed to tell her that the moment had come for something to be said—the something which even Camilla Harper in her letter had not debarred her from, which her own mother had hoped some opportunity might arise for.

And in spite of Jacinth's stony face, and her aunt's evident wish to change the subject which she herself had brought on to the tapis, Frances spoke out.

'Yes, Lady Myrtle,' she said clearly. 'It was I that spoke about Bessie and Margaret Harper. They were at school with us then, and before that, their big sister Camilla was there. But they've left now, I'm afraid,' and her voice trembled a little. 'I think it's because their father's very ill, and it costs a lot, and they're not at all rich. They're the very nicest girls in the world; oh, they are so good and nice.—You said so too, Jacinth?'

Lady Myrtle's eyes turned to Jacinth.

'Yes,' the elder girl replied coldly; 'I believe they are very nice girls. But I did not know them nearly as well as you, Frances. I do not care for making friends as you do.'

'No,' said Frances, rather lamely. 'I know you don't; but still I'd like you to tell Lady Myrtle how nice they are.'

'Why should it interest Lady Myrtle to hear about your school-fellows, my dear?' said Miss Mildmay, surprised and a little annoyed by Frances's rather pertinacious manner. 'These girls are very nice, I have no doubt; indeed I recollect Miss Scarlett speaking very highly of them; but no one doubts it. I think all your school-fellows must be nice girls—not only the Harpers. And the name may be a mere coincidence. I have never heard certainly that they were of the Elvedon family.'

Lady Myrtle had not seemed to be attending to what Miss Mildmay said. She was speaking to herself.

'"Camilla,"' she murmured softly, '"Camilla" and "Margaret." Not "Bessie;" no I never heard of a Bessie, and "Margaret" is not uncommon. But "Camilla"—yes, I suppose it must be.'