'There! I said so, didn't I, Nanny?' she cried, turning to her maid, a highly respectable, middle-aged woman, with as good-humoured a face as her young charge.—'Sarah, I said the minute you saw us come out of a third-class carriage you would put on that shocked face of yours. That's partly why I did it.'

'You must excuse Miss Horatia, miss. She's full of mischief, and she got into this carriage at the junction without my seeing what class it was, or I would never have allowed her to do such a thing as arrive here third, with you to meet her, and the "chauffer" and all,' said Horatia's maid.

'Oh, bother the chauffeur! It's nothing to do with him which class I travel!' exclaimed Horatia, who, to do her justice, had no idea that the chauffeur was just behind her. That individual was far too well trained to give any sign of having heard this remark, though it was very different from the way his present employers treated him. Mark Clay bullied his servants, and his timid little wife hardly dared to speak to them. Sarah was very reserved, except with Naomi; while George was as courteous to a beggar as to a lord, having but one manner with them all.

When Horatia saw what she had done she made a funny little face, and said in an undertone to Sarah, 'I say, Sarah, can't we walk to your house?'

'I don't think we had better. We shall meet the mill-hands coming out, and mother does not like us to do that,' said Sarah.

'Oh, of course, if your mother does not allow it, we can't; but do you think I had better apologise to your man?' she suggested.

'Apologise? Pray, don't think of such a thing! But I suppose you are only saying that to shock me, though why that should amuse you so much I can't think,' observed Sarah.

'You would if you could see your own face; but I really didn't get into that railway-carriage only to shock you. I got in to hear Yorkshire people talk. I saw some country men and women get in, and I just followed them; and, oh Sarah, what does "ginnel" mean, and a "fettle"?'

'I don't know what a "ginnel" is; but "fettle" is a verb. A fettler is the man who cleans the machines in the mill. I have heard the people here talk of "fettling" the hearth when they mean "clean up." And old Matthew, a mill-hand, said the other day he didn't feel in a grand fettle. I suppose he meant "well."'

'A ginnel's a narrow passage, miss. Yon's a ginnel we are just passing,' said the chauffeur to Horatia, slowing down as they passed what is generally called an alley, to which he pointed.

'Oh, thank you very much,' said Horatia genially, and added to Sarah, as she squeezed her arm, 'Oh Sarah, I am enjoying myself so much!'

Her happiness was infectious, and Sarah turned to her visitor with an amused smile. 'Why, what can you find to enjoy already?' she asked, with some reason, for they were going almost at walking pace through the town, because of the crowds that poured into the streets from almost every side-turning, so that it could not be the exhilarating motion of motoring that she liked so much.

'Everything! Seeing all those people and hearing people talk Yorkshire,' cried Horatia.

'The people are just like poor people anywhere, only rather dirtier; and I don't like their way of speaking—they have such rough, loud voices,' replied Sarah.

'I think that kind of sing-song they have is musical, and they are not a bit like our villagers; I don't know how, but they are not,' said Horatia, glancing about her, and almost jumping up and down in her eagerness to see all there was to be seen, as they drove slowly along the narrow, and at this time crowded, streets of the grimy manufacturing town.

'Oh, oh, look, Nanny, at that lovely river all purple!' she cried enthusiastically.

'Well, really, Miss Horatia, I can't say that I do admire that. It looks shocking dirty,' said the maid.

'It is. It's lovely before it gets to Ousebank; but it's so polluted by the mills turning all their horrid dyes and things into it that fish can't live in it,' observed Sarah in tones of disgust.

'Well, I call it a lovely colour. Just think how delightful—when you get tired of a dress one colour, you have just got to dip it into the river when the water's the colour you want, and, hey, presto! there you are with a new dress!'

Even the chauffeur on the seat in front let his face relax into a smile at Horatia's chatter; but Sarah, though she laughed, said decidedly, 'I'd rather send my dresses to proper dyers than put them into that dirty water; and I'd rather see the river clean, and so would you if you lived here.'

They had got clear of the town now, and Horatia, having nothing to look at except an ugly row of cottages, in which even she could not find anything to admire, turned her attention to the car, which she declared most luxurious, and ever so much better than her father's.

'We can go out in it as much as you like, if you like motoring, and go for picnics in the country,' suggested Sarah.

'That will be very nice; but I want to see your mill first,' said Horatia. 'Is it near the house?'

'No; we passed it just now, when you said, "What a big stream of people"!' answered Sarah.

'But they didn't know you,' objected the other.

'Oh yes, they did—by sight, I mean. But what difference would that make? You don't expect them to nod to me, do you?'

'All our villagers do to me, even though I don't know them by sight,' said Horatia.

'Then they are different from our people, and perhaps there are not so many. We have over eight hundred men in our mill, besides women and boys.'

Horatia began to see that Sarah did not care to talk about mill-people, as she called them in her mind, and as they entered the park at the moment, and the house in another moment, she found other subjects for conversation.

Horatia was a year younger than Sarah and more than a head shorter, and a greater contrast than the two presented could not be imagined: the one tall, slender, dignified, with regular features and clear complexion; and the other short, square-set, with snub-nose and freckled skin, a face only redeemed from plainness by its merry, twinkling eyes and good-humoured mouth, which was always broadening into a smile.

Mrs Clay had seen Horatia Cunningham's photograph, so that she was prepared for a girl with a homely face; but most photographs flatter, and Mrs Clay had not expected to see any one quite so ordinary in appearance, 'an' that plainly dressed,' as she confided to her husband. However, she came forward with a hearty welcome, and as soon as Horatia smiled at her she forgot the slight shock her young guest's appearance had given her.

Horatia jumped out of the car as she had jumped out of the train. 'It is so kind of you to have me; and what a lovely view you have! One would never think the town was so near. I suppose it is hidden behind those trees?' she said.

'No, my dear—Miss Cunningham, I mean—the town is be'ind the 'ouse. My 'usband built the mansion this way on purpose,' said Mrs Clay, in her nervousness dropping the h's more than usual.

Sarah kept a keen eye upon Horatia during this speech. She had been dreading this moment, and had only forgotten her anxiety, thanks to Horatia's free praise of all she saw; but not a trace of mockery could she see in her schoolfellow's smile; in fact, Horatia was more polite than she was to the teachers at school, to whom they were expected to be most courteous. 'I suppose she didn't expect her to be educated,' thought Sarah, a little bitterly.

But she did her school friend an injustice, for Mrs Clay was a far greater shock to Horatia than she was to her hostess; and it said much for the girl's innate good-breeding that she showed no sign of the fact, but only answered frankly, 'Please don't call me Miss Cunningham. I'm not grown up yet, and my name is Horatia.' And here the thought came into Horatia's mind that she would certainly be ''Oratia' to her hostess, and she felt a wild desire to laugh, but valiantly repressed it; for which she was very thankful when Mrs Clay, with a pretty, pink colour in her delicate, faded cheeks, said, 'Thank you, my dear; it's a very pretty name, but it's difficult to remember. I expect I shall always call you "my dear," as you don't mind, and I am sure you are a very dear young lady.'

Horatia impulsively threw her arms round Mrs Clay's neck, and, kissing her, said, 'I am sure I am going to have a lovely time here, and I think it's awfully good of you to ask me.'

Mrs Clay beamed with delight, and all fears on her part that the visit would not be a success were over.

Sarah's brow cleared. She was rather surprised that Horatia and her mother had taken to each other; but so far so well. The worst was—her father; and Sarah almost longed for dinner-time, so that that meeting also should be over. 'She won't like him, I know,' she murmured, with a recollection of a scene at school when a visitor had been presuming in Horatia's opinion, and she had rather surprised her companions by the frigid air she assumed. 'He'll offend her, and she will say something, and, oh dear! I'm sure there will be a scene,' sighed Sarah.

However, dinner was two hours off, and Sarah took Horatia through the vast corridors and up to the royal rooms, followed by Horatia's old nurse, who had come in the capacity of maid, and was by her mistress's orders keeping near her charge till she settled down in her new surroundings.

Horatia and her maid were both used to large houses, and had stayed at the ducal mansion of Horatia's relative; but when the door leading into the royal rooms was opened she gave a cry of admiration. 'But am I to sleep here? It's far too grand for me, Sarah. And what a big room! I shall lose myself in it!' she cried.

'My father wished you to have these rooms. There's a bed for your maid next door, in the dressing-room. My mother thought you might be nervous in a new house,' explained Sarah.

'How kind you all are! Fancy taking all that trouble about making me comfortable! I'm afraid I sha'n't be able to give you such a lot of rooms when you come to stay with us,' said Horatia, as she wandered from room to room, and stopped first to admire the writing-table with gold everything, and finally the bathroom with silver fittings.

'I will leave you to rest a little, and when you are ready for a walk in the park, please ring the bell and Naomi will fetch me,' said Sarah as she went off, relieved to find that Horatia took everything in a friendly spirit.

'Oh Miss Horatia, this is a funny house!' exclaimed Horatia's nurse.

'I don't see anything funny in it,' said Horatia; 'it's a very beautiful one.'

'Yes, miss, it is that; these people must have a mint of money. Why, look at these rooms; they're fit for a king. And to think that poor thing is the mistress of it all. She doesn't look hardly fit,' said the woman.

Horatia let this remark pass in silence; but if her loyalty to her hostess had let her she would probably have agreed with her nurse, for she did feel, somehow, as Sarah did, that it was all too grand, and oppressed her somehow. 'My dresses are not grand enough for these rooms, Nanny, or for this house,' she replied.

But this was too much for the old nurse. 'You'll look a lady and be a lady in the commonest of them, and that's more than these Clays be, for all their money,' she cried indignantly.

'That isn't very nice of you when they are so kind to us, Nanny, and have asked us here so that we may enjoy ourselves,' said Horatia reproachfully.

'No, Miss Horatia, it isn't, and I ought to be ashamed of myself that you have to teach me my duty instead of me showing you a good example; but I felt wild to think of them, perhaps, thinking themselves better than you because they have such a lot of money out of blankets,' said the good woman. 'Why, I'd sooner have The Grange than this house any day.'

'So would I, of course, because it's my home; but I wouldn't mind having a bathroom like this, all marble and silver, and all those lovely little contrivances to wash yourself without any trouble; and I will some day, when I'm rich,' declared Horatia.



And now, being ready for dinner, Horatia rang for Sarah, and the two went down to the painted and gilded drawing-room to wait till the gong sounded, which it presently did, and the three went into the dining-room, where they found Mr Mark Clay, as was his custom, seated at the table.

When they arrived, Mrs Clay, whose duty it was to introduce Horatia to her host, left that duty to Sarah, and Sarah left it to her mother, with the result that no one performed that ceremony.

Horatia had to introduce herself, which she did very prettily. 'How do you do, Mr Clay? Thank you for giving me such a lovely room'—everything was lovely according to Horatia; 'it's the loveliest I have ever seen—better than the peacock-room at Hasingfield.

Now, Hasingfield was the palace of Horatia's ducal relative, her grandfather, and the peacock-room was so famous that even Mark Clay had heard of it; so that Horatia could not have said anything that would have pleased her host better. He held her hand for a moment, and looked down at her bright, smiling face, as he said, 'I'm right glad to see you here, and welcome you to Yorkshire. And there's nothing here that you are not welcome to use as your own. Make yourself at home, lass.'

Horatia's smile broadened as she gave a laugh of delight. 'Oh, I'm so glad you've called me "lass"! I was so hoping some one would. That shall be your name for me, and Mrs Clay will call me "my dear,"' she answered, taking her seat at the table in the best of humours.

It was a sumptuous repast, and if Horatia got tired of it and of her host's boastings and unrefined remarks, she gave no sign, but seemed, as she had said when she first arrived, to be enjoying herself immensely.

'So the dreaded introductions were safely and happily over, and either she is acting or else she doesn't notice or mind anything,' Sarah said to herself. But she was wrong, for Horatia was not acting, and she did notice, and did mind some things. Later on Sarah was undeceived on this point.



CHAPTER VIII.

HORATIA.

So the dinner was over, and Sarah heaved a great sigh of relief as the two followed Mrs Clay to the drawing-room.

'What are you sighing for, Sarah? One would think you had just discovered that you were a pauper, and had eaten your last grand dinner; for it was a grand dinner. Was it in honour of little, insignificant me? Because, you know, if it was, perhaps you wouldn't mind telling Mrs Clay that I don't come down to dinner at home, but have schoolroom supper with Nanny; and I don't think mamma would like me to eat all those things every evening,' observed Horatia, taking Sarah's arm and doing a rink step along the hall.

'Oh, we have that kind of dinner every day. There may have been extra trouble taken because of you; but father likes it. You needn't eat any more than you like; but I shouldn't sigh if I heard it was my last in this house,' replied Sarah vehemently.

She spoke so vehemently that Horatia stopped her rinking and looked at her friend in surprise. 'But it is your home,' she said.

'I'd rather live in a cottage,' declared Sarah.

'You say so; but I'd just like to see you turning up your aristocratic nose at the tiny rooms; only, of course, your nose wouldn't turn up properly, not being a snub like mine. Anyway, it would look down on everything. But, I say, Sarah, what a lovely rink this hall would make! If it weren't so hot we might have a fine rink this evening.'

'Oh my dear, not in this 'all; it's real cedar-board, brought express from abroad for Mr Clay!' cried Mrs Clay in shocked accents. 'I'm sure I don't know w'at 'e'd say if you was to suggest such a thing. Pray don't name it to 'im.'

Horatia laughed gaily. 'I was only in fun. Of course, I shouldn't rink on a parquet floor. I should like to see our butler's face if I did it on our polished oak. I think I'll suggest it to Mr Clay this evening,' she announced.

'You won't see him again. He never comes into the drawing-room in the evening, thank goodness!' said Sarah. The 'thank goodness' slipped out from habit, and she was rather glad that Horatia did not notice it.

'We shall just 'ave a quiet evenin'. Mr Clay likes to smoke 'is pipe after dinner in 'is study, an' I go an' talk to 'im sometimes. So per'aps you won't mind if I go an' leave you two to enjoy yourselves alone.—Your father seems quite cheerful to-night.—I think you an' 'e will get on, my dear,' said Mrs Clay, who was quite cheerful herself, owing to her husband being in a pleasant humour.

It was the first peaceful dinner they had had since Sarah came home; Mark Clay was never a very pleasant companion, and the dinner-table was very often the scene of his rages, but Sarah seemed to anger her father without even opening her mouth, and her mother, much as she missed her only daughter, was generally relieved when she returned to school.

But before Mrs Clay thought it was time for her husband to have finished his wine and retired to his study to smoke, to the surprise of all three he appeared in the drawing-room, without the obnoxious pipe, and with quite a pleasant expression for him.

'I'm thinking this lass will be dull with only us plain folk, and so I've got a concert for her. Now, what would you like to hear—the opera at Covent Garden, the Queen's Hall concert, or what?'

'Oh, how lovely! The opera, please. That is better than rinking in your parquet hall, Mr Clay,' cried Horatia, clapping her hands.

'Rink in my hall!' cried the millionaire, scandalised; and then, seeing Horatia's twinkling eyes, he laughed his hoarse laugh, and said, 'You'd have Sykes after you if you did. What do you want to rink for? Senseless pastime, I call it. Now, skating I can understand; it's healthy exercise, and you might make use of it in cold countries; but rinking—what's the use on't?'

'Oh, it's such fun! I do love it so!' cried Horatia.

'Well, now, if it's like that, I'll see what we can do. I am afraid I can't get a rink built for you in a day, but I'll see what we can do. For to-night, you'll have to put up with the opera,' said Mr Clay good-naturedly.

Horatia thanked him profusely, and after he had left she said to Sarah, 'Oh Sarah, you are rich! I'm sorry I ever came here to stay with you.'

'Why?' inquired Sarah quickly, as the colour mounted to her forehead, for she expected that Horatia was going to say that she did not like people who made such a display of wealth.

'Because I sha'n't be contented to be just middlingly well off after this, and I never wanted to be rich before; but your father can do everything he likes,' she cried enthusiastically.

'Oh no, he can't,' retorted Sarah.

'What can't he do?' demanded Horatia.

Sarah paused for a moment. She could not very well say what was in her mind, which was that he could not make himself a gentleman, so she said instead, 'He can't buy people's affection, for one thing.'

Horatia gave Sarah one of her quick, quizzical glances, but only replied, 'I don't know so much about that. There's cupboard-love, at any rate; but never mind, let's go and listen to this opera. It's a lovely way of spending the evening,' she added, for Sarah's face had taken on its disdainful expression again.

So the two sat down at the gramophone to listen to Tetrazzini singing in the opera, and Mrs Clay went off to her husband's study to take advantage of his being in a good humour to spend the hour with the husband she worshipped, although she feared him, and had none too happy a life with him.

Mr Clay was smoking a short clay-pipe. If Sarah had been there she probably would have said that another thing that he could not do was to enjoy refined things, or give himself refined tastes, for one of Mark Clay's greatest enjoyments was to smoke his short clay-pipe and the rankest of rank tobacco, though he only did so in private.

'She's a nice young lady, Mark, this friend o' Sarah's, isn't she?' Mrs Clay hazarded.

'Yes, she's a grand lass, is yon. She's always got a joke ready to crack with you, and doesn't give herself no airs; and she might, for I find they're a very high family—two dukes in it, and other titles as well,' said Mr Clay.

'Oh, I don't care about 'er titles; she's a dear young lady in 'erself, an' I'm sure Sarah'll only learn good from 'er,' said Mrs Clay.

'I wish Sarah'd learn not to give herself airs; you'd think she was a duke's granddaughter and not the other. I'm sure she looks at me sometimes as much as to say, "I'm a princess, and you're only a common man," and treats me as if I was the dirt under her feet, instead of being her father, to whom she owes everything,' said Mr Clay, with an aggrieved air.

'She's not good-lookin',' said Mrs Clay, who alluded to Horatia and was trying to put a word in indirectly for her daughter.

'No, she isn't, there's no denying that; but I'd sooner have her opposite me at table, for all her plain looks, than I would our Sally.'

'I wouldn't go so far as that. I'm sure w'en the two came in to-night, an' our girl lookin' so straight an' 'andsome, I felt proud o' 'er; but the other is a dear young lady, an' keeps us all lively,' she said, repeating her one remark about Horatia that she was a dear young lady.

'And if you'll believe me, George,' she wrote to her son two days later, 'your father's a different man since that little girl has been here, as polite to the servants since he spoke sharp to Sykes and the little lady stared at him so surprised like; and so kind to me I hardly know myself. Not that I'm not very grateful to him, and know a man like him must have his worries, and can't always be even-tempered.'

But much had happened during these two days. Sarah had planned these two days, and, indeed, all the visit, as a succession of excursions in the motor, picnics, tennis-parties (for the Clays knew every one for miles round), and rides, and the next morning, accordingly, she said to Horatia, 'I thought we might go to the lakes for lunch to-day; we might start directly after breakfast, and get back for dinner in the evening.'

'Oh, haven't you seen the lakes?' asked Horatia in rather a disappointed tone.

'Yes, of course; but they are always worth going to see,' replied Sarah. 'But if you don't care to see them, or would rather go anywhere else, or do anything else, you have only to say so, and of course we'll do that.'

Horatia's face brightened. 'Do you really mean that? May I do what I like just for the first day or two?' she inquired eagerly.

'Of course you may do what you like to-day and every day while you are here. I would much rather you did. I'm tired of doing what I like; and, besides, it will save me a lot of bother, because I did not want to go to the lakes at all, and I was going to please you.'

'And I should have gone to please you,' cried Horatia, 'so we should both have wasted a day; but I'm afraid you won't care for my plan. I want to go and see your mills.'

'You mean my father's,' said Sarah hastily; but, though her face fell a little, she continued, 'We shall have to ask his leave. I'll ask mother to 'phone to him.'

But this plan of Horatia's was not destined to be carried out, for a message came back to say that Mr Clay would rather they came another day, as he was busy that day, and could not take them over himself.

'Then just let's go down the town and see the outsides of the mills. No; not in the motor,' for Sarah had her hand on the bell to ring for it.

'How, then? Do you want to ride?' inquired Sarah in surprise.

'No; I want to go on Shank's mare, and poke into ginnels. I want to go up a ginnel,' she declared.

'But a ginnel is only a narrow passage. The chauffeur told you so, don't you remember? You've often been up a passage, I suppose?'

'Yes; but not when it's called a ginnel. I want to say I've been up one, and I can't bring it in unless I say, "I went up a ginnel at Ousebank,"' explained Horatia.

Sarah laughed. 'You are funny, Horatia,' she said. However, to please her friend she put on her hat, and the two went off to Ousebank; and whom should they meet but Uncle Howroyd, who stopped quite naturally to speak to his niece and her friend.

'And what are you two lasses doing in Ousebank alone and on foot?' he inquired.

'We've come to go up a ginnel,' said Horatia, her eyes twinkling.

Mr William Howroyd's twinkled in response. 'Eh, what, are you a Yorkshire lassie, then, that you talk so pat about ginnels? And what particular one do you want to go up—the ginnel against my mill?' he inquired.

'Oh, have you got a mill, and can I come and see it?' cried Horatia eagerly.

'Why, of course I've got a mill. Didn't Sarah tell you? Surely you weren't coming to Ousebank without coming to see me?' he inquired reproachfully. Then, seeing that Sarah coloured and looked rather ashamed, he half-guessed the truth, and turned quickly to another subject, and said, 'Come along, then, both of you.—This is not the grandest mill in Ousebank, Miss Cunningham, nor the largest. My brother Clay's is much bigger; but it's the oldest, and I like it best.'

'Oh, please, say Horatia,' she cried, as the three turned towards Howroyd's Mill.

'Horatia! Any relation to the great Nelson?' he inquired, looking kindly down on the eager young face smiling up at him.

'Yes; that's why I am called it; but I like Macaulay's Horatius best, so I pretend I am named after him.'

'What!

Then out spake brave Horatius... And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?

Isn't that how it goes?' he asked.

'Not quite; you've left out three lines; but that's the man I mean,' she replied. 'But I forgot. Perhaps I ought not to have asked to go over your mill? Perhaps you are busy, and don't want us, like Mr Clay?'

'No, I'm not so busy as he is, and I have always time for Sarah, as she knows,' he replied; 'though I don't know that a warm summer morning is the time to go over a mill and into hot rooms.'

'Oh, please, don't discourage me! I've longed to see a mill, and now I am really going to.'

Sarah privately thought Horatia rather childish, but she did not say anything; and Mr Howroyd, who did whatever he did thoroughly, took them over his mill.

'Now, I am going to show you the whole process of making a blanket out of sacks of woollen rags or wool as it comes off the sheep's back,' he announced.

'I hope you are not going to make a lesson of it, Uncle Howroyd,' protested Sarah.

'Of course I am, and am going to question you upon it afterwards,' he said, his eyes twinkling. 'Only, I hope you won't be like a young man that came here for a newspaper once, and went away saying he was much obliged, and had learnt a lot, and then wrote in his paper that we made blankets of old newspapers.'

'And don't you?' inquired Horatia innocently.

'No, we do not,' said Mr Howroyd with emphasis; 'and it's about time you did come and see a blanket-mill if that's all you know about it.'

Horatia not only joined merrily in Sarah's laugh, but listened quite intelligently to Mr William Howroyd's explanation of the material used to make blankets.

'It's most fearfully interesting,' she said with a sigh.

Mr Howroyd laughed. 'You'd best have gone to the lakes, as Sarah proposed. This is a very dull holiday task you've set yourself, Miss Horatia.'

'I never enjoyed any holiday so much in my life,' she protested stoutly, and a look at her beaming, interested face confirmed her words.



CHAPTER IX.

A YORKSHIRE MIXTURE.

'Do you particularly want to walk home, Horatia?' inquired Sarah as they were leaving Howroyd's Mill.

'No; I particularly don't want, considering that I have been driving Shank's mare up awful break-neck steps and down precipices,' replied Horatia, who had climbed up and down funny stairs and ladders in the mill, which she called precipices.

'You are not going home, anyway, just now, for the mills are just coming out, and the streets will be crowded, and it's luncheon-time; so you're going to have a plain lunch with me, if you will honour me so far,' said Mr Howroyd, and looked for a delighted acceptance from Sarah. But, to his surprise, Sarah coloured and looked at Horatia doubtfully. 'I think they'll be expecting us at home,' she said.

'Oh, will they? Can't we send a special messenger? I should so like to stay, and I am so hungry.—You've no idea how hungry I am,' she said, turning to Mr Howroyd with a merry laugh. 'Perhaps if you did you wouldn't ask us to stay.'

Mr Howroyd laughed his cheery laugh. 'It would be the first time there wasn't enough for any stranger at Howroyd's. That's not a Yorkshire failing. We've always enough and to spare for any kind visitor, and they're always sure of a Yorkshire welcome.'

'What's a Yorkshire welcome like? Is it different from any other kind of welcome?' inquired Horatia slyly.

'Well, we think it's heartier and more sincere. You see, we don't go in for show so much as they do down south; we say there's real old oak up here, and French-polished deal down there.'

'Oh, what conceit!' cried Horatia. 'Are you hitting at me?'

'No; at me,' said Sarah a little bitterly.

'I'm hitting at myself; for old oak, you know, gets worm-eaten.—And you're quite correct, Miss Horatia; that was boasting, and in very bad taste. Let's hope my cook won't have burnt up the chicken and apple-tart to punish me for it,' he said as he led the way into the cool, old parlour of the mill, with its wainscoted walls and old-fashioned furniture.

Horatia sat down in a rocking-chair, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. 'I feel I deserve a rest. I've done a good day's work this morning. I'm afraid I've tired you, Mr Howroyd, and taken up a lot of your time. I'd no idea it took so long to look over a mill. Why, we must have been nearly two hours.'

'Nearer two hours and a half. I calculate one and a half for most of my visitors; but, then, they don't all want to know so much as this young lady,' he replied, laughing.

'Oh, did I ask a lot of questions?' inquired Horatia.

'You did,' said Sarah.

'Well, I am enjoying myself,' repeated Horatia for the hundredth time, with always the same emphasis on the 'am.'

Mr Howroyd flashed one of his bright glances at her. 'That's right!' he said.

'I do like knowing new things and doing new things, and all this is so new to me. I feel as if I were abroad, out of England somewhere; and wool-making—I mean making blankets and woollen things—is most interesting,' said Horatia.

Sarah seemed to be pondering over something. Suddenly she lifted her head—'What holiday-essay are you going to write this summer?'

Horatia gave a merry laugh. 'Oh, well, it wasn't for that I came to stay with you, Sarah. You mustn't think that; but, of course, it will be nice and easy to write one upon wool.'

'Oh, ho! So I have been teaching you your holiday-lesson, have I?' said Mr Howroyd, as he helped Horatia to apple-tart and handed her the cheese; for at Howroyd's Mill no maid waited at lunch. William Howroyd said he had to be careful what he said before a servant, and he could reach all he wanted himself.

Sarah was just putting out her hand to stop her uncle, but decided not to interfere with him, for Mr Howroyd never understood a hint, and, with what his niece considered a lamentable want of tact, would say, 'What are you driving at, lass?' or 'Speak out, child; I like plain speaking.' So, much as Sarah would have liked to prevent her uncle from offering 'such an unfashionable mixture' as apple-tart and cheese, she abstained.

Horatia stared for a moment; then, thinking it was absent-mindedness on the part of her host, burst into a merry laugh. 'You've only just given me apple-tart, Mr Howroyd. I haven't come to the cheese course yet.'

'But we eat them together in Yorkshire. Come, you like new things; just try cheese and apple-tart; it's a very good mixture, to my mind,' said Mr Howroyd as he held the plate to Horatia.

'Very well, I will try it; but I don't think it sounds very nice, and if I don't like it you must give me a lump of sugar; in fact, I think I had better have one all ready in case it's horrid,' said Horatia, with pretended resignation.

'I can do better than that,' said Mr Howroyd, as, getting up from the table, he opened a cupboard and produced a long, flat box wrapped up in white paper. 'Now, if you don't like our Yorkshire mixture, you shall have one of these; but if you do like it you shall have the box.'

'Chocolates!' cried Horatia, opening the box. Then she took a spoonful of apple-tart, put a square piece of cheese in the middle of it, and ate it; but hastily took a chocolate out of the box, put it in her mouth, and said, 'Delicious!'

Both Sarah and her uncle laughed at Horatia's way out of the difficulty. 'You didn't like it a bit. I saw by your face, so you don't deserve that box of chocolates,' said the former.

'Indeed, she does, and she shall have them if she will accept them!' protested Mr Howroyd.

So Horatia won her chocolates.

Mr Howroyd had telephoned to Balmoral to say that the girls were staying to lunch, and a message was sent back that the motor would be sent about an hour and a half after the lunch. So, when they had finished, William Howroyd led the way into the drawing-room, a big, old-fashioned room, and, drawing two chairs up to the large window, brought out all sorts of quaint, old things for Horatia to see.

'Oh dear! I never saw anything like these things before; I can't possibly put them into my essay, because I can't describe them. It is a pity, because I really think I should get the prize. I'm sure no one else will see anything so interesting in her holidays,' cried Horatia, as she examined Mr Howroyd's family treasures with interest and reverence.

'I'm sure, I can't see what you find so interesting in these old things; every one has them,' said Sarah half-impatiently.

'Nay, lass, every one has not got a tree made of hair, nor a beautiful model of their church, a hundred years old, made of cork,' her uncle corrected her.

'They may not have exactly that; but they have things that belonged to their grandmothers,' declared Sarah. 'I know you have much grander things at home, Horatia, though you pretend to admire these so much,' she protested.

Horatia coloured a little; but it was not easy to offend her, and she said, with a little laugh, 'I'm not pretending at all; and I only said what was quite true, that I had never seen such things before.'

'Then you are simply laughing at us. You are only interested because we are like savages, with their trinkets and beads, which they think fine jewels,' said Sarah.

This time Horatia was really offended, but she did not say anything; and Mr Howroyd said quickly, 'I shall begin to think you are ill, Sarah, or sickening for a fever, and shall telephone to your mother to send for a doctor, if you talk such nonsense.—Now, Miss Horatia, come and see my greatest treasure of all; and he took her into an adjoining room, without asking Sarah to accompany them at all. By the time they had seen his greatest treasure, which was some wonderful needlework, the motor was announced, and the two girls got into it.

'Now, I'm just going to time ourselves. We got home in seven minutes last time; do you think we could do it in five to-day?' inquired Horatia of Sarah.

'Certainly not. It's four miles from door to door. You'd no business to do it in seven minutes; and if you incite Tom to do it in five he'll get locked up, if he lives, and he'll well deserve it,' declared Mr Howroyd.

Tom Fox smiled grimly. He had known Mr Howroyd and Mr Howroyd had known him since he was a tiny boy, so he answered, 'You'll not live to see me locked up, Mr Howroyd—not for furious driving in the public road; though I'll not deny that I did put on speed the day missie speaks of, going through the park.'

'Oh, well, if you choose to risk your necks in that wretched car, you must. For my part, there's nothing like a dogcart with a good trotting horse; that's fast enough for me; but then I'm fifty years behind the times, I know. Well, off you go. Good-bye; and come and see me again, and have some more cheese to your tart,' he added, with a laugh and a twinkle of his eye, as he raised his hat to the two girls.

'I will if you'll give me chocolates to help it down,' said Horatia; and the car, with a hoot, sped away.

'And we have done it in five minutes,' cried Horatia as they drew up at the front-door.

Mrs Clay met them in the hall, breathless. 'Mercy on us, Sarah, w'atever 'appened to the car or Tom? I'm sure my 'eart was in my mouth w'en I saw you comin' along the park. I ran all the way down the stairs, thinkin' I should never see you alive w'en I got to the bottom,' cried the poor woman.

'It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Mrs Clay! I begged Fox to get home in five minutes, and I made the car go when we got to the park-gates,' said Horatia penitently, as she linked her arm coaxingly in little Mrs Clay's.

'My dear, don't you go for to do such a thing again,' said Mrs Clay, smiling with indulgence at the girl; 'but it's not you I'm blamin', but Tom Fox, who ought to know better than endanger two lives, let alone takin' notice o' a child like you, if you'll excuse my speakin' so freely.'

'You are very good not to scold me; but I do so enjoy going at a tremendous speed, and the motor does run so smoothly, much better than ours, and mother is too nervous to go fast,' explained Horatia.

'I should think not, an' I don't blame 'er. For my part, I 'old on every time I go in it if my 'usband isn't lookin', an' I'd rather by 'alf walk or take the pony-chaise than go in it; but I'll stop Fox playin' such tricks. W'atever would your ma 'ave said if she'd seen you, I can't think.'

They had gone upstairs by this time, and were walking along the corridor at the back of the house, which looked out on the back-yard, which was coach-yard and garage, and Mrs Clay had scarcely finished the above speech when they heard the angry voice of Mr Mark Clay in the yard below.

'How dare you drive my car at that speed, with my daughter and the Duke of Arnedale's granddaughter in the car? Don't excuse yourself, but take yourself off this moment, and never show your face in Ousebank again, or I'll have you locked up, do you hear?' stormed Mr Clay at the chauffeur. But his speech was interspersed with stronger language than that.

Horatia dropped Mrs Clay's arm, and ran a little in front of her and Sarah, and both of them thought she was running to take refuge in her room from language to which she was not accustomed; but, on the contrary, she ran to the open window, and, leaning out of it, cried, 'Mr Clay, stop, please, and listen to me a moment.—Don't go, Tom Fox.'

At sight of Horatia, Mr Clay's face changed a little, and perhaps he felt a little shame at the language he knew she must have heard; but he was too angry to heed her. 'Excuse me, but this is my business, and my orders must be obeyed.—Get out of this, do you hear, Tom Fox?'

The man, white as a sheet, touched his hat, with a faint smile, to Horatia, and walked off.

'Tom Fox, stop!' said Horatia. 'Wait one moment. If you are really going I will go too, and you can come to the station with me.'

'Horatia!' cried Sarah; and, 'My dear!' echoed Mrs Clay.

Mr Clay looked up at the flushed, determined little face at the window. He was a dogged, self-willed man, and gave way to no one; but he knew when he had met his match. 'What does this mean, Miss Cunningham?' he asked grimly, while Tom Fox stood hesitating in the doorway, and the other servants stood in the background, wondering what would be the end of the scene.

'It means that I drove the car at that break-neck speed, because I turned the high-speed gear, and Tom could not help himself, and he was too much of a man to tell tales of me.'

'You can stop, Tom.—As for you, my lass'—the millionaire paused—'you're a plucky un, you are! You ought to have Yorkshire blood in you, if you haven't,' he concluded, and walked into the house without another word.

'Thank you, miss,' said the chauffeur, as he took off his hat and stood bareheaded, looking up at Horatia.

'I'm sorry I got you into a row, Tom Fox,' she said, 'and I promise you I won't interfere with the motor any more without leave.' Then she withdrew her head.

'Oh, my dear, I don't believe you'd be afraid of anything,' said Mrs Clay, looking at her with admiration.

Horatia only laughed, and Sarah said nothing either.



CHAPTER X.

PLAIN SPEAKING CLEARS THE AIR.

'Your young lady's got a spirit,' said Sykes to Horatia's nurse, who was as popular below-stairs as her mistress was above, for it is a fact that 'Like mistress, like maid,' is a very true saying, and Miss Cunningham's old nurse behaved in the same kindly, tactful manner towards her fellow-servants that her mistress showed towards her.

But on this occasion Nanny, or Mrs Nancy, as the servants called her, gave way to her feelings, which had been much ruffled on this visit. 'If by spirit you mean she don't allow injustice to be done to a poor man, you're right; but I should like you to know that this isn't what we've been used to—not by no means. Why, our last visit was to Miss Horatia's grandpa, his Grace the Duke of Arnedale, and there we didn't have no scenes; I should say not, indeed! It's not considered good form; that's what they call it.'

'It's not a bad word, isn't that? You talk of a prize-fighter being in good form,' observed Sykes.

'Well, our prize-fighter was in good form to-night, and yet Miss Cunningham knocked him out in the first round,' interposed a young footman, who went in for being a wit.

'Don't you get into the habit of making free with young ladies' names, nor making jokes on them, young man,' said Mrs Nancy severely, as she took up the work which she had been doing in the shade at the back of the house, and went indoors.

'Now, there's a funny thing; she's only a servant same as us, and yet she thinks herself our better because her family's got blood. Well, ours has got money, and, for my part, give me good wages and plenty to eat, and blood be blowed!' remarked the young footman, who had been nettled at the reproof.

'No low talk here, please,' said Sykes with dignity as he rose to see about the wine for dinner.

Nanny went upstairs ostensibly to get her young lady's things out for dinner, although, as it was only three o'clock, it was rather early; but in reality she felt that Miss Horatia wanted one of her own people with her at this moment, so she knocked at her door, and found Horatia in the silver-fitted bathroom plunging her head into the marble basin.

'Miss Horatia, my dearie, what are you thinking about? This hot day it's enough to give you your death!' she cried.

'Oh Nanny, I was so hot, and my head does ache! I really couldn't help it,' exclaimed Horatia.

'You lie down on your bed, missie, and I'll lower the blinds and bathe your head with this spray. You've overdone yourself getting into such a taking with that wretched man,' said the old nurse soothingly, as she patted up the pillows for her charge and lowered the green sun-blinds.

'He wasn't a wretched man; he had nothing to do with it. I touched the high-speed gear, I tell you, and poor Tom Fox was as frightened as any one.'

'I wasn't speaking of him. I know he wasn't to blame. And I'm talking of some one else, as you very well know, whom there's no living in peace with; and I know what you're going to say, Miss Horatia—that he's our host, and my better, which he may be the first, but I don't know so much about his being the second, for my father wouldn't have demeaned himself by such language to any man, let alone before women. And as I'm speaking I may as well say it all out, which is that if the master and mistress had known what kind of place we were coming to they'd never have allowed it. And if I write and tell them'——

'Tell them what, pray?' interrupted Horatia.

'What kind of a man Mr Clay is, which no one has a good word for him; and however you manage to keep him in good temper, Sykes says, he doesn't know,' wound up Nancy.

'I don't want to know what Sykes says; and if you can't talk of more agreeable things than that I'd rather you went away and left my headache to cure itself. I'm only tired after looking all the morning at machines turning round,' announced Horatia.

'And whatever you can find to please you in that passes me. Sykes says those woollen-mills are all one like another, and hot, dirty, greasy places!' declared Nancy.

'I believe you've fallen in love with Sykes,' said Horatia wickedly.

'Miss Horatia! Considering he's got a wife and family!' protested Nancy. But she quoted Sykes no more, which was just what Horatia wanted and expected.

'Now, Nanny, I'm quite all right, so you can get out my white muslin and blue ribbon,' she said.

'Not that white muslin, miss! You've worn it three times, and it is so plain compared with Miss Clay's,' objected the woman.

'So am I, so it's no good my trying to dress like her, and it's no use your getting angry about it, and arguing, because you know she's beautiful and I'm plain. And what's funnier still, I don't envy her a bit—oh, I don't mean her wealth, but I mean her face and figure—for she isn't a bit happy, and she doesn't enjoy life, and I do most awfully.'

'Because you try to make other people enjoy it, and you know the way to win people's hearts. Why, the way you've won Mr Clay's'—— Here Nancy paused.

'As Sykes says,' added Horatia slyly.

'Well, Miss Horatia, you will have your joke; and if I was going to say that it's no wonder, seeing that I have to sit at his right hand, as the place of honour, at the servants' hall dinner. And, oh, miss, if you did but see our table! Well, we live well at his Grace's; but here! You never saw such food—seven and eight courses we have, and fruit and wines. I'm sure I don't know how much they cost.'

'You'll be wanting to stay up here, Nanny; you will never be contented with our plain food after all these luxuries,' suggested Horatia.

Nancy gave a scornful sniff. 'I suppose that is a joke, Miss Horatia; but it's a poor one. For if it were this house or the Union I'd not hesitate between them.'

'Is that a joke, or do you expect me to believe you'd rather live in the workhouse than this place?' inquired Horatia.

'It's no joke. Nothing would induce me to live here,' said Nancy.

'I wonder why,' said Horatia meditatively. It was just what Sarah said, she remembered.

'It's not half so wonderful as the way you seem to have taken to these people,' said Nancy; and then, feeling that she had gone too far, and that Horatia thought so, she changed the conversation and spoke of the dirt of Ousebank, which actually was blown to Balmoral.

Then the gong rang, and Horatia, cheery and smiling as ever, went tripping down the grand staircase to the drawing-room to meet Mrs Clay and Sarah. This evening, rather to her surprise, Mr Clay was there, having departed from his usual habit of going straight to the dining-room and sitting down at the table before the ladies appeared. He came forward with a gauche gallantry, and offered his arm to Horatia. 'Come, little lass, I hear you lunched at Howroyd's and went over his mill to-day. Couldn't you have waited one day more?'

'He didn't want us to,' said Horatia, taking the millionaire's arm with a simple grace, as if it was quite an ordinary thing for her to go in to dinner in this style, instead of its being the first time.

'I dare say not. Howroyd was only too proud to get you there. I'm talking of my mills, which you could have seen just by waiting a day,' explained Mr Clay.

'Oh, but I am going to see your mills too. I'll come to-morrow if you will let us. Of course they will be much grander than Mr Howroyd's, so it was better to see his first and keep the best to the last.'

'Oh ay, our stuff's much grander. We make finer cloth than Howroyd's, and turn out ten times as much, I'll warrant,' said Mr Clay, with his boastful laugh.

'I think, my dear, you'd better leave a day between. You can't spend all these fine days in factories. You look tired out, an' Sarah too, trapezing up and down greasy, slippery stairs,' protested Mrs Clay.

'The wife's right, and I'd as soon you waited a few days. I don't know that I want visitors in my mills for a day or so,' chimed in the millionaire.

Sarah looked searchingly at her father, and did not seem to like what she saw in his face, for she turned away with a frown. Mrs Clay evidently did not see anything except that her husband upheld her opinion, and was kind to her, as he had been ever since Horatia had come to Balmoral.

'Why don't you want visitors, father?' inquired Sarah.

'Because I don't,' said her father shortly.

'I dare say you often don't; in fact, I shouldn't wonder if you would rather visitors never came, because they must interrupt work dreadfully,' said Horatia.

'Well, they do interrupt,' agreed the millionaire, glad to find an excuse, 'and we're just at a busy time for a special Colonial order; but I'll get you a day when everything is going smoothly.'

'But Uncle Howroyd is just as busy, and everything goes smoothly there.—Doesn't it, Horatia?—And he found time to take us round; he said it was doing his work all right, because he made a round of the mill every day, and he might as well take us with him as go alone, as it made it more agreeable.'

Mr Clay gave a scornful laugh. 'I'd like to see myself go the round of all my mills daily! Why, I'd pretty soon be done for. It's easy enough in a paltry place like Howroyd's; and as for him, he spoils his people, and spoils other people's too.' And his face grew dark.

Horatia felt dimly that Sarah was treading on dangerous ground, and that something was annoying her host, so she turned to Mrs Clay and said, 'Sarah says I am to choose what we do every day, so may I choose to go and fish in the Adder?'

'Why, certainly, my dear; not that you'll find any fish there; but if it amuses you, go by all means.'

'Don't you worry about an amusement for to-morrow. I've planned one for you,' said Mr Clay.

'Oh, what is it?' cried Horatia, eager as usual for novelty.

'If she wants to fish, why shouldn't she?' objected Sarah, who had no faith in her father's choice of a day's entertainment.

'But I don't want to fish if there are no fish to catch. There's nothing duller than sitting all day and catching nothing,' put in Horatia. 'What's your plan, Mr Clay?'

'You wait till to-morrow morning, and you'll see,' he replied as they rose from the table.

'It'll be something horrid, you'll see,' said Sarah after they had left the dining-room.

'Why should it be something horrid?' inquired Horatia rather sharply.

'Because my father has not the least idea what kind of thing will please you,' retorted Sarah.

'How do you know that?' demanded Horatia.

'Because he is far too ignorant,' said Sarah.

'You are not very respectful to your own father,' said Horatia rather coldly, 'and I think that's rather ignorant.'

'Why don't you say we're all ignorant and vulgar? You know you think it in your heart,' burst out Sarah.

Horatia looked at Sarah for a minute. 'Would you like me to say what I really think?' she inquired.

'Yes, I would; I'd rather you said it than pretend to be enjoying everything and being at home, when you despise us all in your heart. You showed it this afternoon, and I know what you think of my father and mother and uncle, and all of us, although you are too much of a lady to say so. Oh yes; I can see your mouth curling with contempt. I know you are a lady and I am not,' said Sarah, and then stopped, breathless from her tirade.

Horatia looked at her steadily. 'You are quite wrong about one thing. I am enjoying myself immensely,' she began.

But Sarah interrupted her. 'Of course you are, because you make fun of everything and everybody, and you will go away home and make fun of us here as vulgar parvenus.'

'How dare you accuse me of such mean behaviour? You want to hear the truth, and you shall, Sarah. There is one person who is vulgar here, and that is yourself, and you are the only one. I am sorry I ever came to Balmoral just for that reason, because I used to like you so much at school, and be so proud that you liked me best—you seemed so superior to the other girls; but here you have quite changed and become despicable.'

'Because you have seen my parents, that is all,' said Sarah.

'No; it is not for any such reason. I like your parents very much, and I think your father is a wonderful man to have made such a position for himself without any school education; and I love your mother, and I can't see anything vulgar in them. Vulgarity, mother says, is pretending to be what you are not. Education has nothing to do with vulgarity in its bad sense.'

'I don't believe that. Do you mean to say that you thought my father's behaviour refined this afternoon?' inquired Sarah, speaking slowly.

'It was very natural. It would have been vulgar of my father; but Mr Clay is different. I can't explain very well; but if mother were here she would be able to do it. I don't want to discuss your parents; I'm sorry for you if you can't respect them. And, please, I'd rather you didn't say so to me. But I think there's nothing quite so contemptible as being ashamed of one's family. Why, I believe you are even ashamed of your uncle Howroyd, and I think he's the most splendid man I ever saw, and I am glad we met him this morning, for I verily believe you didn't mean to introduce me to him, and I should have been angry if I had missed seeing him and his mill.'

Sarah did not make any reply, but said, 'Good-night, Horatia,' and turned to go.

In a moment Horatia's arms were round her. 'Oh Sarah! don't be angry and horrid, and don't mind what I said. Forget it all.'

Sarah turned with wet eyes. 'I dare say you're right, and I am horrid and contemptible; but you don't understand,' she said.

'Yes I do, a little; but why should you think so much about education and titles and things? They don't really matter, or make you happy; and papa says they're going quite out of fashion,' said Horatia, with a merry laugh, as she gave Sarah a final goodnight hug.



CHAPTER XI.

HORATIA SPEAKS OUT.

One thing Sarah had learnt from Horatia, and that was to be outwardly respectful to her father, whatever she might inwardly feel towards him. It is true, she had been told the same thing by her mother and brother; but one word from her schoolfellow had had more effect than all her brother's arguments or her mother's scoldings.

The next morning dawned cold and rainy; and Sarah was surprised to find that for once the bad weather did not depress her, and the prospect of a day in the house, which she generally dreaded, rather pleased her than otherwise. The fact was that Sarah was glad her father's plans for the day were put an end to. 'He's sure to have thought of something quite unsuitable, that Horatia would not like,' she said to herself.

'Isn't this horrid, Sarah?' cried Horatia when the two met at breakfast, and the rain was falling faster.

'It's a bore; but I dare say we can find something to do,' said Sarah, after looking out of the window and seeing no prospect of better weather.

'It 'as turned quite cold; one might think it was autumn,' complained Mrs Clay, rubbing her hands. 'That's the worst o' our climate, never two days alike. I'm sure I'm starved in this dress; an' so must you be, my dear,' she added to Horatia. 'Starved' is Yorkshire for 'cold.'

'I'm dreadfully sorry,' said Horatia, who was always in extremes of joy or sorrow; 'because of Mr Clay's lovely plan, which can't come off now.'

'What was it?' demanded Sarah, who imagined from her way of speaking that Horatia knew and liked the plan.

'I don't in the least know; but I'm quite sure it would have been lovely, and now we can't do it,' she replied.

'I'm not so sure about that,' remarked Mrs Clay.

'Oh, what is it? Do tell me!' cried Horatia.

'I don't think Mr Clay would like me to; but I think 'e'll be in by the time you've 'ad your breakfast, an' before it, if you go on as you're doin', my dear, not eatin' anythin',' she put in; for Horatia, in her excitement, had put down her knife and fork, and was letting her breakfast get cold while she questioned her hostess.

'Hasn't father gone to the mill?' asked Sarah.

'No; 'e's busy over this plan,' replied his wife, smiling at Horatia, and adding, 'It's not often 'e breaks 'is 'abit of goin' to the mill by nine o'clock, for all 'e's so rich, so you must take that as a compliment, my dear.'

'I do. I think it's most awfully kind of him, and I'm simply dying to know what his plan is,' cried Horatia.

'You look anything but dying,' said Sarah, with a glance at Horatia's bright, eager face.

'If you please, ma'am, the master has sent word that he'd be glad if the young ladies would come to the barn as soon as they've finished breakfast,' announced Sykes.

Both girls looked in surprise at this request—which, however, they both prepared to carry out; and Sarah remarked that Sykes looked quite excited for him.

'It's the plan! What on earth can it be, Sarah? What kind of place is the barn?'

'A huge, ugly, dark, long room,' said Sarah in disgust, for the barn was the last place to amuse one's self in.

'Oh, then, your father is having a magic-lantern show for us. Well, it's very kind of him,' said Horatia in rather disappointed tones, for she was not fond of a magic-lantern.

'We'd better drive there; it will be wet across the grass. Put on your 'ats an' take wraps wi' you in case you get 'ot, for the barn may be draughty,' said Mrs Clay.

'Are you coming, mother?' said Sarah.

'Yes, my dear, if you don't mind. I sha'n't interfere wi' your pleasure, an' I'd like to see the magic-lantern, too,' said Mrs. Clay quite gaily for her.

'Of course, come along. Perhaps Nancy might come too; she'd like to see it.'

'If she goes, Naomi might as well go too; it's absurd to have a magic-lantern for three people,' said Sarah.

Mrs Clay said no more, but put on the cloak her maid brought her, and sat there smiling, in what Sarah considered rather an aggravating way, till the large motor which was to take them all to the barn drove up to the door.

Two minutes brought them to the barn-door.

'Why, there's a band!' cried Horatia; 'or is it a gramophone?'

The door flew open as if by magic when they appeared, and even Sarah gave a cry of admiration as Horatia, clapping her hands, exclaimed, 'Why, it's a rink!—a lovely rink!'

'It is,' said Sarah, and said no more.

'It's better than a magic-lantern, isn't it, my dear?' inquired Mrs Clay with a happy smile.

'Oh Mr. Clay, you are good!' cried Horatia, as she laid her little hand in his huge, rough one.

The millionaire held it for a moment as he said, 'That's all right. You're more than welcome, my little lass. Now, let's see you play this new-fangled game.'

'But how did you do it? When was it done? You must have had it done since I spoke two days ago,' declared Horatia.

'How did I do it? I did it by turning a golden key, my lass. There's few things that that can't do,' he replied with a rough laugh.

'I should never have imagined that the barn could have been made so pretty and artistic. It was very clever of you to think of it, father,' said Sarah.

The millionaire looked pleased. Perhaps these few words of his proud daughter gave him more satisfaction than all Horatia's delighted thanks, for Sarah was hard to please, and her father always felt that she secretly, and sometimes openly, despised him; but he only said, 'You didn't think your rough, old father knew what dainty young ladies like you and Miss Horatia would like, did you?'

Sarah coloured, for this was exactly what she had thought; but she replied, 'Then I was mistaken, for it is just the thing for this nasty, cold weather.—Isn't it, Horatia?'

'Yes; but my roller-skates! I have left them at home. I never thought I should get skating up here,' said Horatia suddenly, and her face fell.

'You can have mine. I'll send to the house for them, and we can get a pair in Ousebank for me,' said Sarah.

'I think we can manage that,' said the millionaire, as he made a sign to the footman, who brought two beautiful pairs of roller-skates, and prepared to put them on.

'It's just like Cinderella or a fairy pantomime,' cried Horatia, as she started skimming along the smooth floor.

'My!' cried Naomi to Nancy. 'However can they keep on their feet with they wheels under their boots?'

'It's habit. Miss Horatia's very fond of the pastime,' replied the nurse, as she followed her charge with admiring gaze.

But in a moment Sarah joined Horatia, and then the relations between Nancy and Naomi became strained, for if Horatia rinked well, Sarah rinked much better.

'Oh, ain't she beautiful on they things? Why, it's like a bird, is that,' cried Naomi. 'It's a pastime where you want a good figger.'

'For my part, I like well-made, strong-built figures more than such thin ones,' said Nancy.

'If you'd be calling Miss Sarah thin, I'd have you to know she's not. Her arms are beautiful and round, and so is she, and it's the grapes that are sour, Mrs. Nancy,' retorted Naomi.

Mrs. Nancy did not deign even to notice this remark with a look, but with a slow and dignified step walked over to where Sykes stood watching the two girls with grave, approving face; and Naomi, who was only a young servant, did not presume to join these two, and wished she'd kept her tongue still.



'Ask the band to play "La Rinka," Sarah,' cried Horatia, 'and we'll go round together and dance it.'

The band, a local one, struck up 'La Rinka,' and even Mr Clay exclaimed, 'That's something to look at, Polly, ain't it? There ought to be some folk asked to see 'em do it.'

At that moment Horatia and Sarah, still with linked hands, skated up to them, and Sarah said, 'Horatia wishes we could have a skating-party this afternoon. It sounds rather absurd in August; but really the weather is more like November, so I dare say people will like to come.'

'They'll come right enough if I ask 'em to Balmoral,' said Mr Clay, with his usual laugh. 'There's not many refuses my invitations.'

Sarah felt her lip curl; but the thought of Horatia checked her. She gave her a quick look to see if she, too, was disgusted at this boasting, and felt almost cross with her schoolfellow when, with a bright smile, she answered, 'Then do ask them, Mr. Clay. I don't wonder that your invitations are popular; you do have such good ideas for entertaining your guests. When could we have them? To-morrow?'

'You'd better have them to-day. Who knows but to-morrow may be summer again, and then it'll be too hot for rinking. We'll just 'phone up a hundred or so.'

'A hundred?' gasped Horatia, as she thought of the preparation a party of that kind would require at her own home.

'Oh, they won't all be able to come, but half will; and mother'll give orders for the spread. And now I must be off. Good-bye, and enjoy yourselves.' And the millionaire, with a brusque nod, was off.

Mrs Clay soon followed him, and the girls skated for another hour, and then decided to stop, so as not to be tired for the afternoon.

'Well, mother, have you got victuals for seventy or so?' inquired Mark Clay when they all met at lunch.

'Yes, Mark, the chef is seein' to all that, an' 'e is sure to 'ave everythin' to do you credit.'

'That's right. I've ordered the Ousebank band up, and I met Bill down town, and asked him up. He says he can't rink, but he supposes you'll want some to admire you, so he's coming to do that part. He's a great admirer of Miss Horatia already, it appears.'

'I like him most awfully, and everybody else seems to, too. All the people in his mill do, anyhow; they all looked glad to see him when he went into their part.'

Mark Clay scowled. 'Ay, it's cheap popularity, is Bill Howroyd's; but it's bad policy and bad business. If you let sentiment come into your business you pretty soon have no business left for it to come into.'

No one made any comment upon these remarks, and the millionaire went on in his harsh, dictatorial tones: 'Business is business, say I, and you've got to keep your people under. I'm not making blankets and cloth to please them, nor from philanthropy. I'm doing it to make money, and the man that can make the most money for me I keep, and the one that doesn't make enough goes, and the sooner the better.' And he gave another laugh.

Mark Clay had been eating between his sentences, and had his eyes upon his plate, or he would have noticed Horatia's face. He gave a start of surprise when she said, with indignation in her voice, 'What a horrid, hard-hearted way to talk! I think Mr Howroyd's way is ten thousand times better.'

Poor little Mrs Clay trembled, and even Sarah grew pale at the thought of the storm Horatia had brought down upon her devoted head.

Mark Clay stared at this girl who presumed to call him horrid and hard-hearted, and to hold up as an example his bugbear and opponent, Bill Howroyd. Horatia returned his look with a perfectly fearless one. 'So you prefer Bill Howroyd's way? Perhaps you prefer his home to mine? He'll never build himself a Balmoral,' said the millionaire with a sneer.

'No; but he'll have a mansion up in heaven, and perhaps that's what he's thinking of,' said Horatia.

Sarah looked at Horatia in amazement, and Mrs Clay looked anxiously at her husband, as if imploring him not to be hard on this daring child; but Mark Clay was not taking any notice of any one, not even of Sykes, who, to divert his attention from this dangerous conversation, was pressing some delicacy upon his master, who was staring moodily in front of him.

Horatia had little idea that she had quoted his mother—William Howroyd's mother's last words to her sons, for they had had the same mother, though their fathers had been very different: 'I've been very happy here; but I am going to a better mansion up in heaven. Be sure and join me there, lads,' she had said.

'Ay, there's something in what you've said, my lass,' observed the millionaire after a pause, which seemed an eternity to those who were present. 'There's sommat in it.' And without another word he rose from the table.

'Oh Mrs Clay, what have I done? I'd no business to speak to Mr Clay like that. I don't know what made me,' said Horatia, rather ashamed of her plain speaking.

'I think the Almighty made you, my dear; an' may He bless you for 'avin' done so, an' bless the words to my dear 'usband,' said his faithful wife. And she, too, left the room.

'I'd no idea you were religious,' said Sarah to Horatia when they were alone.

'Do you mean you thought I was a heathen?' demanded Horatia with a laugh.

'No; but I never heard you talk like that before,' said Sarah, who could not get over her surprise at the way Horatia had come out. Truth to tell, Sarah had an idea that to talk religion was not good form.

'I never heard myself,' laughed Horatia.



CHAPTER XII.

A RINKING-PARTY.

In spite of Horatia's laugh and her attempt to be as cheerful as ever, depression seemed to have fallen on every one, and Sarah looked the picture of melancholy.

'We'd better go and get ready for our rink-party. I expect everybody will be thankful to have something to do this horrid weather. Not that I mean that they will have accepted your invitation for that reason,' Horatia added hastily.

'Oh, they come because we're rich, of course,' said Sarah; and then she suddenly added, as if it were weighing on her mind, 'I wonder how many would come if we were to lose all our money. Would you, Horatia?'

'Thank you for the compliment. No, I don't think I should; but I should not stay away because you were poor, but because you are not what I thought you were—your character, I mean,' said Horatia, who could speak her mind at times, as will have been noticed.

'You would be the exception if you did stick to us. I expect Uncle Howroyd will, and Naomi, and she will have to be our general servant,' continued Sarah.

Horatia gazed at her in amazement. 'What in the world are you talking about? How are you going to get poor? Oh,' as a thought struck her, 'is there anything the matter? Do you know, to-day I thought there was. Tell me, is there? Because, if so, I don't mean what I said. Of course I will come and see you, and help to cook, too. I can make toffee.'

But instead of answering, Sarah demanded, 'Why did you think there was something the matter to-day of all days, when father has just shown you how much money he can spend merely for a few hours' amusement? What made you think anything was wrong?'

'I don't really know, now that I come to think of it. I don't think I had any reason; it was an idea that came to me while your father was talking at lunch,' replied Horatia, hesitating.

'It must have been intuition,' said Sarah solemnly.

Horatia was not only a year younger than her schoolfellow, but she was far less fond of study, and she said frankly, 'What's intuition? I know what tuition is, because my brother has it—private tuition from his tutor; but what you mean I can't think, and I do wish you'd speak out plainly and tell me if you are in any trouble about money; because, you know, you need not go spending it on me. I'm quite content to play battledore and shuttlecock in the hall, and I didn't want a rink, really.'

Sarah interrupted her with a smile. 'You need not mind father spending money like that; he's got more than he knows what to do with at present,' she said.

'But if he won't have any by-and-by, why don't you save it up for then?' inquired Horatia.

'He thinks he will always be a millionaire, and so did I till the other day; and then the idea came into my head, just as it came into yours—I can't tell how or why—that there was something the matter, or that there was going to be something the matter, and that one day we should not be so rich. But, Horatia, please don't ever say such a thing to anybody; it would do us great harm, even if it were quite untrue, and perhaps make it come true. And, after all, it may be only my imagination.'

Horatia looked very grave. 'But, Sarah, if there is any chance of such a thing, why don't you begin to save up?' she repeated.

'But, don't you see? if the mill failed we should have to give up every penny we had, however much we had saved. But, of course, you don't understand these things, and the more I think of it the more impossible it seems. Clay's Mills are as prosperous as ever. Do let's forget about it. Not that I should mind for myself, but I should be sorry for mother, because she likes having lots of money and motors, though she is afraid to go out in them, so let us hope she will live and die in this hateful house.'

Horatia did not argue with Sarah as to whether the house was hateful or not. She rather liked it, for she was too young to perceive that it was overladen with costly ornaments, and she revelled in the royal rooms in which she was installed, and of which she had written long and graphic descriptions home. 'Let us hope so, indeed,' was all she said; and added, 'But do leave off talking about miserable things and get ready for this party. What ought I to wear? One ought to have winter things for skating, but I haven't any best winter dress here.'

'Why not wear your white flannel? And, if you don't mind, I'll lend you a white feather hat and boa. I have never worn them, and I have heaps of other things to wear; mother has a mania for buying me clothes, and I have a wardrobeful never touched.'

Horatia was just going to refuse, for she preferred wearing her own clothes; but she thought it might please Sarah, so she accepted, and went to her bedroom with them on. 'I've got a new hat and boa, Nanny,' she announced.

Mrs Nancy looked at them, and cried, 'How well they suit you, Miss Horatia! The mistress ought to get you some like them;' for she guessed at once they were Sarah's.

'I'm going to wear them this afternoon,' replied Horatia.

'Wear Miss Clay's hat! Oh Miss Horatia! you can never do such a thing,' protested the old nurse.

'Why not?' inquired Horatia, as she pirouetted before the cheval-glass, admiring the pretty feather toque. 'It's the very thing for rinking, and so is this boa. Look how queerly it is made, with chiffon twined in; that's what makes it so becoming. Clothes make a lot of difference, Nanny. I don't look half so ugly with these on.'

'You never look ugly, Miss Horatia, and you look "distangy" whatever you put on, so there's no need for you to put on other folk's clothes to look nice; the mistress wouldn't like it at all, I'm sure,' said Nancy.

'I don't think she'd mind, Nanny, and I should vex Sarah if I refused, and that's just what I don't want to do,' said Horatia.

'Well, they do suit you, and if you've a fancy for them, and to please Miss Clay, perhaps you'd better; specially if she's got a temper anything like her father's, for they say he's fairly hated at the mills,' said Nancy.

Nancy did not like Mr Clay, and not all his wealth could make her think him a fit host for her young lady; and, indeed, after his explosion in the back-yard she had taken it upon herself to write to Lady Grace Cunningham, and said: 'I feel sure, my lady, that if you knew the people we are with, you would never let us stay; for not but what this is a palace fit for a king, and we eat like fighting-cocks. Still, they are not what I've been used to since I've been in your service, and his language is shocking, except when in Miss Horatia'a presence, which she has a wonderful influence over him, every one says.' In spite of the grammar of this letter being somewhat involved, Nancy's meaning and opinions were pretty clear, and Lady Grace Cunningham took it to her husband, who had a character rather like Horatia's.

'Let the child stay where she is; it will do her all the good in the world, as, you see, she is evidently doing good—taming this boor, by all accounts. Nancy is a rank old Tory, and turns up her nose at any one not born in the purple. Times have changed, as Nancy will find out one day.'

So Lady Grace Cunningham did not recall them, but only wrote and told Horatia that she must shorten her visit if she was not happy.

'I'm enjoying myself immensely. I never met kinder people,' Horatia wrote back. And so she stayed on; and as Nancy was living, as she expressed it, like a fighting-cock, she resigned herself very contentedly to her lot, as she resigned herself to Horatia's wearing Sarah's clothes.

Horatia, with very mingled feelings, went down to the motor which was to take them to the barn. She wondered what kind of people would be there. She had an idea that, as the invitations were issued by Mr Clay, they would be his friends or people of his choice, and Horatia looked forward to an afternoon with a very rough and unrefined set of people.

Sarah wore the daintiest of costumes, just the right thing for the day and pastime, for Sarah, if left to herself, had very good taste.

'What a lot of motors, Sarah! Does every one have one here?' inquired Horatia, as she saw a number of cars coming up the three avenues which led to Balmoral.

'Most people do,' said Sarah carelessly; 'and they'll use them to-day sooner than their horses because of the bad weather, and some have come a good distance.'

Tom Fox put on speed so as to arrive at the barn before the first of the guests, which would not have been hospitable according to Yorkshire ideas; and the two girls, accompanied by Mrs Clay, had alighted, and were standing inside the door ready to receive the first guests; or, rather, Sarah and her mother were there, for Horatia had gone away under the pretext of putting on her roller-skates, and had her back to the door. The nearer the time came the less she liked the idea of this rinking-party, for though she managed to get on with Mr Clay, she felt that seventy people of that kind would be more than she could bear.

'Well, Miss Horatia, what will you touch with your fairy wand next, eh? I shall expect my old mill parlour to be turned into Aladdin's palace after your next visit,' cried a cheery, brisk voice.

Horatia turned with delight to greet Mr Howroyd. 'I'm so glad you have come!' she said, with more feeling than she had any idea of.

Mr William Howroyd's keen, kindly eyes gave her a quick glance, and his sympathetic nature jumped at the right conclusion. 'Yes, I'm here; and now, as I can't skate, and you don't know any one here yet, suppose we go to those raised seats there; we shall hear the band, and, I can tell you, our Ousebank band is not to be despised, and we shall see the people rinking, and if you see any one you particularly want to know we'll go down and ask Sarah to introduce her. I don't suppose I shall know half the people here. I'm not a society man, you know.'

The first to arrive were two tall girls and their brother, very pleasant-looking and lady-like; and after them, people came so fast that Horatia could not look closely at them all; but she noticed that they were all well dressed and looked ladies and gentlemen. 'But, then, dress makes a lot of difference,' she repeated to herself for the second time that afternoon.

'Hallo, Horatia!' cried a boy's voice in her ear; and, turning, Horatia saw her cousin, once removed, George Cunningham, grinning at her.

'Oh George, how on earth did you get here?' she demanded, beaming with delight.

'In the Maddoxes' car, to be sure. Didn't you know I was staying there?'

'I knew you were staying somewhere in Yorkshire, but I didn't know it was near here,' she replied.

'As a matter of fact, it isn't so very near; but we came over in an hour, in spite of the beastly roads. But, I say, it's a jolly good idea of yours this,' he observed.

'Of mine? What do you mean? This isn't my party; it's Mr Clay's and Mrs and Miss Clay's idea—this rink, I mean.'

'Oh, well, he called it Miss Horatia Cunningham's party. That's what made us come. I wanted to see you, and see how you get on with these people. But I'm jolly glad I came. The old buffer does it in style.'

'This is Mr Howroyd, Mr Clay's brother,' said Horatia hastily, to warn her cousin that he must be careful what he said; but when she turned to introduce her cousin to him, Mr William Howroyd had disappeared. He had slipped away as soon as he saw that Horatia had a congenial companion. That was William Howroyd's invariable way, always doing kindly, unobtrusive acts, and then effacing himself.

George Cunningham gave a hearty laugh. 'The bird has flown,' he said.

'And a good thing, too. Suppose he had heard his brother called an "old buffer"?' said Horatia reprovingly.

'He's heard him called much worse than that, by all accounts. Your host isn't too popular, for all his money.'

'Well, anyway, it's horrid of you to come and eat his food, and then criticise him,' said Horatia.

'Begging your pardon, I haven't eaten anything yet; and talking of grub, what do you say to coming and having some? There's a splendid spread behind that glass screen,' he said.

'It's much too early. Don't be so greedy, but come and rink before it gets too full,' said Horatia; and the two went off.

When they had made several rounds, Horatia stopped near the two tall girls who had come in first, and they immediately complimented her on her rinking. 'You rink as if you thought no one was looking at you,' they told her.

Horatia laughed. 'How should one rink when people are looking? In a different way?' she asked.

'No, one shouldn't; only most people look a little self-conscious,' they replied.

Horatia noticed the slight Yorkshire intonation which she thought so musical, and was inclined to laugh at her former fears, for there were no 'Mark Clays' at the party, and she soon heard many familiar names mentioned as being present.

One of the Maddox party eventually asked her to have an ice. 'Come and sit in this alcove place, and I'll fetch you one,' he suggested.

Horatia was tired, for she had already rinked for some time in the morning, and she sat back in the alcove, half-hidden from sight.

'I always wonder how many more entertainments Mark Clay will hold out for?' said a voice quite near her.

'Why, is he shaky?' inquired another.

'Not that I know of; but these fortunes made in a day, so to speak, generally melt away in the same way.'

'I understood he was a solid man,' said the second speaker.

'So he is—so he is, for aught I know. I only know that we all have that feeling about him. Perhaps the wish is father to the thought, for he's none too popular.'

'Still, you need not wish him to be ruined, even if you don't like him. I suppose he does some good with his money? These rich Yorkshire manufacturers are most generous as a rule,' said the other, evidently a stranger.

'He's an exception. His half-brother, Howroyd, gives twice as much, with not a quarter his money. Pity he's not the millionaire, now. He's beloved far and near.'

'What's wrong with Clay? This is a generous entertainment, for instance.'

'Oh yes, he'll do this to show off; but he's an awful brute to his workpeople—grinds them down and shows no mercy to weak or worn-out employes.'

'Here, Horatia, I've got the ice,' said young Maddox.

'Thank you. I'm glad we're not millionaires, Jack. People only hate you for it,' she remarked.

'Do they? I'd chance that if I could be one. Look what this man can do? Anything he likes! Make a rink in a day! Come on and have a turn,' said young Maddox, to whom this particular example of the power of wealth naturally appealed.

Horatia was unusually quiet, for her, that afternoon, and the moment Mr Clay appeared at the door she started up to him to tell him how much they were enjoying themselves, for she wished to show him attention, and to show him, too, that she had not meant to criticise him that afternoon.



CHAPTER XIII.

HORATIA'S INFLUENCE.

The millionaire did not look very prepossessing as he stood near the door, his tall, powerful form towering above the young skaters; his coarse, red face darkened by a scowl.

'There's an ugly-looking brute just come into the rink,' young George Cunningham had said to Horatia, who had replied, 'That's Mr Mark Clay,' and had made straight for her host, dodging the skaters very cleverly.

Sarah, on the other hand, who had been near the door when her father appeared, gave one glance at his ill-tempered face, and skated in the opposite direction. She thought that he had not seen her. Not that it would have made any difference, for his family were wont to avoid their head when he was what his wife called 'put out about something'—which, alas! was only too frequently the case.

Not so Horatia. She saw the danger-signals, but was no more afraid of him than she would have been of a fly, to use her own expression. 'We are enjoying ourselves so much! It was a brilliant idea of yours,' she said, beaming at him and giving his arm an approving pat.

Mark Clay looked down at the eager little, freckled face, with its snub-nose; and, in spite of himself, he smiled back at her. 'I'm glad you are enjoying yourself. I did it for that. You must come and spend your winter holiday with us. It'll be a more seasonable pastime then, it seems to me,' he replied.

'But are you going to keep this as a rink? I thought you used it as a barn in the autumn and winter?' inquired Horatia.

'We can build another,' he replied lightly, as if building another huge barn was the work of a few hours. 'Come, let's see you go round.'

Horatia accordingly started off, and Mark Clay followed her with approving eyes.

'She's a nice, dear girl, isn't she, Mark?' said his wife, emboldened by her husband's softer expression to approach him.

'She is that,' he replied with emphasis.

'The man seems fond of his daughter. I heard he was as harsh at home as he is abroad; but I see he has been maligned,' said a visitor, who did not know Sarah.

'That is not his daughter, I am sure, for they say she is the prettiest girl in Ousebank,' replied a friend.

'Well, that is a very nice, bright-looking girl, and a millionaire's daughter is always pretty in the eyes of the world; gold makes most things beautiful,' replied the lady; and she had hardly uttered the words when Sarah herself, noticing that the two were strangers, and had not had refreshments, came up to them.

'Won't you come and have some tea?' she asked in her dignified and rather stiff way.

'Thank you; it would be nice. Are you Miss Clay, then?' inquired the lady, who recognised that she was speaking to the prettiest girl present, at all events.

'Yes,' said Sarah gravely.

'We thought the young lady laughing and talking to Mr Clay must be his daughter; they seemed so friendly,' observed the stranger, as she and her friend skirted the barn to get to the refreshment-tables.

Sarah could not help colouring slightly. 'No; she is only a schoolfellow who is staying with us,' she replied; and the lady thought she had never met with such an unapproachable girl, and wondered whether it was shyness or pride. She had no idea that she was touching on a sore point.

When the party was over and the last motor had disappeared down the long avenue, Horatia gave a little sigh of relief. 'I am glad they have gone. I couldn't have skated another minute,' she said.

'You needn't have gone as long as you did. Why didn't you stop?' demanded Sarah with uplifted brows. 'I was wondering at you; you scarcely rested at all. I'm not a bit tired, because I rested at intervals.'

'I simply can't stop when I see other people. I must rink too,' she declared.

There was a glorious sunset, and Tom Fox prophesied a fine day on the morrow.

'So it will be too hot to rink then, and it's just as well, as you have such a mania for it that you wear yourself out,' observed Sarah.

'Yes, my dear, you 'ave such dark circles round your eyes! I don't know w'at her ladyship would say if she could see you just now lookin' so tired,' added Mrs Clay.

'She would say I was a foolish girl, as she did last time I came from the rink dead-tired. I expect it's like taking to drink,' said Horatia, and she gave a merry laugh.

Mr Clay smiled at her. He was very quiet; but he had lost the scowl he had when he arrived at the barn, for which his wife was very thankful.

'To-morrow I am going over your mills, you know, Mr Clay,' she informed him.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but only said, 'You'll be too tired; better rest a few days. You shall go over the mills before you go home. Not that there is anything so very wonderful to see, or to interest a young lady like you.'

'I haven't half-written my essay yet; I expect I shall find some more to put in after I've been round with you,' explained Horatia.

'Don't you go putting me and my mills into print,' said the millionaire, looking almost afraid.

Horatia only laughed merrily as ever. 'I'll let you read my essay before I send it up. Yes'—clapping her hands—'that's an awfully good idea. You shall read it through, and tell me anything I have left out; and you shall sign at the end, "Audited and found correct.—Mark Clay, millionaire mill-owner."'

It was impossible not to laugh at the girl, and equally impossible to be gloomy while Horatia was bubbling over with good spirits. The drooping line round Mrs Clay's mouth had almost disappeared since Horatia's advent.

During this drive even, Horatia had managed to chase away Mr Clay's ill-humour, and his wife leant back comfortably, with a feeling that she need not fear any storms, as the dear young lady would 'keep things pleasant.'

When they got out of the motor and were going together to their rooms, Horatia took Sarah's arm and began dancing along the polished surface with a rinking movement. 'I thought you said you were tired out, and I thought, too, that the rink was specially built to prevent you from rinking here,' observed the latter, who was trying, with some difficulty, to keep her balance and her dignity during this peculiar mode of progress.

'So I did. I must stop,' agreed Horatia.

'You said I had changed, and that you did not know me before you came here. And I certainly did not know you,' remarked Sarah abruptly.

'How am I changed? I feel just the same,' said Horatia, stopping short and facing Sarah. 'Didn't I always laugh and make jokes at school? Where's the difference?'

Sarah did not reply directly, for it was difficult to explain what she meant. 'I did not say you were changed. I said I did not know you, and I don't now. Why are you so nice to my father?' she suddenly demanded.

'I've a good mind to ask you why you are so nasty to him,' retorted Horatia; 'but I won't, because I don't want to know. And as for my being nice to him; you don't generally go and stay in people's houses, and then be rude or disagreeable to them. Besides'——and here Horatia stopped.

'Besides what?' asked Sarah.

'Besides, it's time to go and dress for dinner. I shall feel quite dull and unimportant when I go home and have to be a schoolgirl again; no dressing for dinner, and no dinner to dress for, only schoolroom supper, and it all depends upon cook's temper whether we get anything very nice or not,' laughed Horatia.

As Horatia evidently did not intend to answer her question, Sarah said no more on the subject; but she wondered very much what Horatia meant to say. Sarah knew quite well she had not meant to say, 'Besides, it is dinner-time.' Perhaps it was as well Horatia had stopped before she added that she was 'sorry for Mr Clay.' 'Because,' she observed to herself, 'she would have wanted to know why I was sorry for such a rich man, and I really could not have told her. And, besides, Sarah is so proud that she would hate to be pitied.'

Sarah walked thoughtfully to her room, and there, instead of dressing for dinner, she threw herself down in her favourite place, the broad window-seat that looked towards Ousebank, her chin resting on the two palms of her hands. 'Why am I so nasty to him?' she muttered to herself. 'Why is every one nasty to him? At least, I don't know that we are any of us nasty—he wouldn't let us; but we are not "nice," like Horatia.' Sarah did not attempt to answer this question; she sat there staring out over Ousebank, and asked herself why she could not be 'nice' to her father if Horatia could.

Naomi came to the door twice and knocked, and the second time she ventured to open it; but, seeing Sarah, as she thought, looking cross and staring out of the window, she went away again without daring to interrupt her. But as time went on and no call came from her young mistress, the good girl began to be anxious for fear Miss Sarah should be late for dinner and thereby 'upset' Mr Clay, a thing to be avoided. So she came in, and, standing at the door, coughed. She had to do this two or three times before Sarah woke up to the fact of her presence, which she did with a start. 'Oh Naomi, what is it?' she asked.

'Dinner, Miss Sarah,' said Naomi.

'Dinner?' Sarah started up in real fright this time. 'Has the gong gone? I never heard it,' she cried.

'No, miss, not yet, but it soon will,' said Naomi, bustling about to get Sarah ready.

'Then what do you mean by telling me such a story? I've a good mind not to get ready at all,' said Sarah irritably and rather foolishly.

'Whatever would be the good of that, Miss Sarah, upsetting of Mr Clay for nothing, let alone that I never told no story? You asked me what I came for—at least, so I understood it—and I answered you, "Dinner," and that's what I am here for. Oh, do make haste, Miss Sarah! You could keep on that white skirt, and just slip on this pretty bodice; master won't never notice. There's the gong! Oh dear, oh dear!' said Naomi, getting quite flustered in her anxiety to get Sarah ready in time.

'You needn't be in such a state, Naomi; we are not all slaves or prisoners that we have to be ready to a minute,' observed Sarah coolly, and taking extra long instead of hurrying.

'No, Miss Sarah; but there's no call to do things a purpose to annoy any one. Now, there's Miss Horatia going down as pleasant as can be,' protested Naomi.

'You see we can't all be as pleasant as Miss Horatia, Naomi,' remarked Sarah a little bitterly.

'You can be a deal pleasanter than her. Why, a word or a smile from you goes further than all Miss Horatia's smiles, if only you'd give yourself the trouble. Not that I'm saying a word against Miss Cunningham, for there's no denying she makes the house a different place; and so they all say, from the master downwards,' observed Naomi, her loyalty to her young mistress struggling with her desire to be just and truthful.

'How does she do it, Naomi? I can't make it out. The house has been much more comfortable since she came, and yet she doesn't do anything but laugh, and you know any fool can laugh,' said Sarah, as she laughed herself and ran off after Horatia.

'Miss Horatia's no fool, though,' observed Naomi, as she folded up and arranged Sarah's clothes.

Before dinner was half-over, Sarah had to acknowledge to herself that she had not been fair to Horatia in saying that she made things pleasant by laughing, and it fell out in this wise.

The two girls arrived in the drawing-room at the same moment, and there, according to his new practice, they found Mr Clay, who had taken to coming properly into the drawing-room and going into dinner with his women-folk. His face lightened as he saw the two girls; but instead of offering his arm to Horatia, he gave it to his wife.

Mrs Clay did not take it for a moment. Such an attention had never been paid her before in all their married life, for long before Mark Clay had gained his wealth he had ceased to show any civility to his wife.

Sarah was as much surprised as her mother, though she had more tact than to show it. Horatia looked pleased, but said nothing.

In the middle of dinner one of the footmen, who had gone out to get a dish, came in with perturbed countenance, and said something to Sykes in an undertone.