'Are they not very boisterous?' said Marianne.

'Not Maurice,' said Phyllis.

'No, indeed,' said Lily, 'Maurice is like nobody else. He takes up some scientific pursuit each time he comes home, and cares for nothing else for some time, and then quite forgets it. He is an odd- looking boy too, thick and sturdy, with light flaxen hair, and dark, overhanging eyebrows, and he makes the most extraordinary grimaces.'

'And Reginald?' said Alethea.

'Oh! Redgie is a noble-looking fellow. But just eleven, and taller than Jane. His complexion so fair, yet fresh and boyish, and his eyes that beautiful blue that Ada's are—real blue. Then his hair, in dark brown waves, with a rich auburn shine. The old knights must have been just like Redgie. And Claude—Oh! Miss Weston, have you ever seen Claude?'

'No, but I have seen your eldest brother.'

'William? Why, he has been in Canada these three years. Where could you have seen him?'

'At Brighton, about four years ago.'

'Ah! the year before he went. I remember that his regiment was there. Well, it is curious that you should know him; and did you ever hear of Harry, the brother that we lost?'

'I remember Captain Mohun's being called away to Oxford by his illness,' said Alethea.

'Ah, yes! William was the only one of us who was with him, even papa was not there. His illness was so short.'

'Yes,' said Alethea, 'I think it was on a Tuesday that Captain Mohun left Brighton, and we saw his death in the paper on Saturday.'

'William only arrived the evening that he died. Papa was gone to Ireland to see about Cousin Rotherwood's property. Robert, not knowing that, wrote to him at Beechcroft; Eleanor forwarded the letter without opening it, and so we knew nothing till Robert came to tell us that all was over.'

'Without any preparation?'

'With none. Harry had left home about ten days before, quite well, and looking so handsome. You know what a fine-looking person William is. Well, Harry was very like him, only not so tall and strong, with the same clear hazel eyes, and more pink in his cheeks—fairer altogether. Then Harry wrote, saying that he had caught one of his bad colds. We did not think much of it, for he was always having coughs. We heard no more for a week, and then one morning Eleanor was sent for out of the schoolroom, and there was Robert come to tell us. Oh! it was such a thunderbolt. This was what did the mischief. You know papa and mamma being from home so long, the elder boys had no settled place for the holidays; sometimes they stayed with one friend, sometimes with another, and so no one saw enough of them to find out how delicate poor Harry really was. I think papa had been anxious the only winter they were at home together, and Harry had been talked to and advised to take care; but in the summer and autumn he was well, and did not think about it. He went to Oxford by the coach—it was a bitterly cold frosty day—there was a poor woman outside, shivering and looking very ill, and Harry changed places with her. He was horribly chilled, but thinking he had only a common cold, he took no care. Robert, coming to Oxford about a week after, found him very ill, and wrote to papa and William, but William scarcely came in time. Harry just knew him, and that was all. He could not speak, and died that night. Then William stayed at Oxford to receive papa, and Robert came to tell us.'

'It must have been a terrible shock.'

'Such a loss—he was so very good and clever. Every one looked up to him—William almost as much as the younger ones. He never was in any scrape, had all sorts of prizes at Eton, besides getting his scholarship before he was seventeen.'

Whenever Lily could get Miss Weston alone, it was her way to talk in this manner. She loved the sound of her own voice so well, that she was never better satisfied than when engrossing the whole conversation. Having nothing to talk of but her books, her poor people, and her family, she gave her friend the full benefit of all she could say on each subject, while Alethea had kindness enough to listen with real interest to her long rambling discourses, well pleased to see her happy.

The next time they met, Lilias told her all she knew or imagined respecting Eleanor, and of her own debate with Claude, and ended, 'Now, Miss Weston, tell me your opinion, which would you choose for a sister, Eleanor or Emily?'

'I have some experience of Miss Mohun's delightful manners, and none of Mrs. Hawkesworth's, so I am no fair judge,' said Alethea.

'I really have done justice to Eleanor's sterling goodness,' said Lily. 'Now what should you think?'

'I can hardly imagine greater proofs of affection than Mrs. Hawkesworth has given you,' said Miss Weston, smiling.

'It was because it was her duty,' said Lilias. 'You have only heard the facts, but you cannot judge of her ways and looks. Now only think, when Frank came home, after seven years of perils by field and flood—there she rose up to receive him as if he had been Mr. Nobody making a morning call. And all the time before they were married, I do believe she thought more of showing Emily how much tea we were to use in a week than anything else.'

'Perhaps some people might have admired her self-command,' said Alethea.

'Self-command, the refuge of the insensible? And now, I told you about dear Harry the other day. He was Eleanor's especial brother, yet his death never seemed to make any difference to her. She scarcely cried: she heard our lessons as usual, talked in her quiet voice—showed no tokens of feeling.'

'Was her health as good as before?' asked Miss Weston.

'She was not ill,' said Lily; 'if she had, I should have been satisfied. She certainly could not take long walks that winter, but she never likes walking. People said she looked ill, but I do not know.'

'Shall I tell you what I gather from your history?'

'Pray do.'

'Then do not think me very perverse, if I say that perhaps the grief she then repressed may have weighed down her spirits ever since, so that you can hardly remember any alteration.'

'That I cannot,' said Lily. 'She is always the same, but then she ought to have been more cheerful before his death.'

'Did not you lose him soon after your mother?' said Alethea.

'Two whole years,' said Lily. 'Oh! and aunt, Robert too, and Frank went to India the beginning of that year; yes, there was enough to depress her, but I never thought of grief going on in that quiet dull way for so many years.'

'You would prefer one violent burst, and then forgetfulness?'

'Not exactly,' said Lily; 'but I should like a little evidence of it. If it is really strong, it cannot be hid.'

Little did Lily think of the grief that sat heavy upon the spirit of Alethea, who answered—'Some people can do anything that they consider their duty.'

'Duty: what, are you a duty lover?' exclaimed Lilias. 'I never suspected it, because you are not disagreeable.'

'Thank you,' said Alethea, laughing, 'your compliment rather surprises me, for I thought you told me that your brother Claude was on the duty side of the question.'

'He thinks he is,' said Lily, 'but love is his real motive of action, as I can prove to you. Poor Claude had a very bad illness when he was about three years old; and ever since he has been liable to terrible headaches, and he is not at all strong. Of course he cannot always study hard, and when first he went to school, every one scolded him for being idle. I really believe he might have done more, but then he was so clever that he could keep up without any trouble, and, as Robert says, that was a great temptation; but still papa was not satisfied, because he said Claude could do better. So said Harry. Oh! you cannot think what a person Harry was, as high- spirited as William, and as gentle as Claude; and in his kind way he used to try hard to make Claude exert himself, but it never would do- -he was never in mischief, but he never took pains. Then Harry died, and when Claude came home, and saw how changed things were, how gray papa's hair had turned, and how silent and melancholy William had grown, he set himself with all his might to make up to papa as far as he could. He thought only of doing what Harry would have wished, and papa himself says that he has done wonders. I cannot see that Henry himself could have been more than Claude is now; he has not spared himself in the least, his tutor says, and he would have had the Newcastle Scholarship last year, if he had not worked so hard that he brought on one of his bad illnesses, and was obliged to come home. Now I am sure that he has acted from love, for it was as much his duty to take pains while Harry was alive as afterwards.'

'Certainly,' said Miss Weston, 'but what does he say himself?'

'Oh! he never will talk of himself,' said Lily.

'Have you not overlooked one thing which may be the truth,' said Alethea, as if she was asking for information, 'that duty and love may be identical? Is not St. Paul's description of charity very like the duty to our neighbour?'

'The practice is the same, but not the theory,' said Lily.

'Now, what is called duty, seems to me to be love doing unpleasant work,' said Miss Weston; 'love disguised under another name, when obliged to act in a way which seems, only seems, out of accordance with its real title.'

'That is all very well for those who have love,' said Lily. 'Some have not who do their duty conscientiously—another word which I hate, by the bye.'

'They have love in a rough coat, perhaps,' said Alethea, 'and I should expect it soon to put on a smoother one.'



CHAPTER VII—SIR MAURICE



'Shall thought was his, in after time, Thus to be hitched into a rhyme; The simple sire could only boast That he was loyal to his cost, The banished race of kings revered, And lost his land.'

The holidays arrived, and with them the three brothers, for during the first few weeks of the Oxford vacation Claude accompanied Lord Rotherwood on visits to some college friends, and only came home the same day as the younger ones.

Maurice did not long leave his sisters in doubt as to what was to be his reigning taste, for as soon as dinner was over, he made Jane find the volume of the Encyclopaedia containing Entomology, and with his elbows on the table, proceeded to study it so intently, that the young ladies gave up all hopes of rousing him from it. Claude threw himself down on the sofa to enjoy the luxury of a desultory talk with his sisters; and Reginald, his head on the floor, and his heels on a chair, talked loud and fast enough for all three, with very little regard to what the damsels might be saying.

'Oh! Claude,' said Lily, 'you cannot think how much we like Miss Weston, she lets us call her Alethea, and—'

Here came an interruption from Mr. Mohun, who perceiving the position of Reginald's dusty shoes, gave a loud 'Ah—h!' as if he was scolding a dog, and ordered him to change them directly.

'Here, Phyl!' said Reginald, kicking off his shoes, 'just step up and bring my shippers, Rachel will give them to you.'

Away went Phyllis, well pleased to be her brother's fag.

'Ah! Redgie does not know the misfortune that hangs over him,' said Emily.

'What?' said Reginald, 'will not the Baron let Viper come to the house?'

'Worse,' said Emily, 'Rachel is going away.'

'Rachel?' cried Claude, starting up from the sofa.

'Rachel?' said Maurice, without raising his eyes.

'Rachel! Rachel! botheration!' roared Reginald, with a wondrous caper.

'Yes, Rachel,' said Emily; 'Rachel, who makes so much of you, for no reason that I could ever discover, but because you are the most troublesome.'

'You will never find any one to mend your jackets, and dress your wounds like Rachel,' said Lily, 'and make a baby of you instead of a great schoolboy. What will become of you, Redgie?'

'What will become of any of us?' said Claude; 'I thought Rachel was the mainspring of the house.'

'Have you quarrelled with her, Emily?' said Reginald.

'Nonsense,' said Emily, 'it is only that her brother has lost his wife, and wants her to take care of his children.'

'Well,' said Reginald, 'her master has lost his wife, and wants her to take care of his children.'

'I cannot think what I shall do,' said Ada; 'I cry about it every night when I go to bed. What is to be done?'

'Send her brother a new wife,' said Maurice.

'Send him Emily,' said Reginald; 'we could spare her much better.'

'Only I don't wish him joy,' said Maurice.

'Well, I hope you wish me joy of my substitute,' said Emily; 'I do not think you would ever guess, but Lily, after being in what Rachel calls quite a way, has persuaded every one to let us have Esther Bateman.'

'What, the Baron?' said Claude, in surprise.

'Yes,' said Lily, 'is it not delightful? He said at first, Emily was too inexperienced to teach a young servant; but then we settled that Hannah should be upper servant, and Esther will only have to wait upon Phyl and Ada. Then he said Faith Longley was of a better set of people, but I am sure it would give one the nightmare to see her lumbering about the house, and then he talked it over with Robert and with Rachel.'

'And was not Rachel against it, or was she too kind to her young ladies?'

'Oh! she was cross when she talked it over with us,' said Lily; 'but we coaxed her over, and she told the Baron it would do very well.'

'And Robert?'

'He was quite with us, for he likes Esther as much as I do,' said lily.

'Now, Lily,' said Jane, 'how can you say he was quite with you, when he said he thought it would be better if she was farther from home, and under some older person?'

'Yes, but he allowed that she would be much safer here than at home,' said Lily.

'But I thought she used to be the head of all the ill behaviour in school,' said Claude.

'Oh! that was in Eleanor's time,' said Lily; 'there was nothing to draw her out, she never was encouraged; but since she has been in my class, and has found that her wishes to do right are appreciated and met by affection, she has been quite a new creature.'

'Since she has been in MY class,' Claude repeated.

'Well,' said Lily, with a slight blush, 'it is just what Robert says. He told her, when he gave her her prize Bible on Palm Sunday, that she had been going on very well, but she must take great care when removed from those whose influence now guided her, and who could he have meant but me? And now she is to go on with me always. She will be quite one of the old sort of faithful servants, who feel that they owe everything to their masters, and will it not be pleasant to have so sweet and expressive a face about the house?'

'Do I know her face?' said Claude. 'Oh yes! I do. She has black eyes, I think, and would be pretty if she did not look pert.'

'You provoking Claude!' cried Lily, 'you are as bad as Alethea, who never will say that Esther is the best person for us.'

'I was going to inquire for the all-for-love principle,' said Claude, 'but I see it is in full force. And how are the verses, Lily? Have you made a poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor, our uncle, whom I discovered for you in Pepys's Memoirs?'

'Nonsense,' said Lily; 'but I have been writing something about Sir Maurice, which you shall hear whenever you are not in this horrid temper.'

The next afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over, Lily drew Claude out to his favourite place under the plane-tree, where she proceeded to inflict her poem upon his patient ears, while he lay flat upon the grass looking up to the sky; Emily and Jane had promised to join them there in process of time, and the four younger ones were, as usual, diverting themselves among the farm buildings at the Old Court.

Lily began: 'I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed, and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte, embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you must hear about his return home.'

'A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe, By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,'

muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily on:-

''Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May; Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day, Their joyous light revealing Full many a troop in garments gay, With cheerful steps who take their way By the green hill and shady lane, While merry bells are pealing; And soon in Beechcroft's holy fane The villagers are kneeling. Dreary and mournful seems the shrine Where sound their prayers and hymns divine; For every mystic ornament By the rude spoiler's hand is rent; Scarce is its ancient beauty traced In wood-work broken and defaced, Reft of each quaint device and rare, Of foliage rich and mouldings fair; Yet happy is each spirit there; The simple peasantry rejoice To see the altar decked with care, To hear their ancient Pastor's voice Reciting o'er each well-known prayer, To view again his robe of white, And hear the services aright; Once more to chant their glorious Creed, And thankful own their nation freed From those who cast her glories down, And rent away her Cross and Crown. A stranger knelt among the crowd, And joined his voice in praises loud, And when the holy rites had ceased, Held converse with the aged Priest, Then turned to join the village feast, Where, raised on the hill's summit green, The Maypole's flowery wreaths were seen; Beneath the venerable yew The stranger stood the sports to view, Unmarked by all, for each was bent On his own scheme of merriment, On talking, laughing, dancing, playing - There never was so blithe a Maying. So thought each laughing maiden gay, Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray; So thought that hand of shouting boys, Unchecked in their best joy—in noise; But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars Bore token of the civil wars, And hooded dames in cloaks of red, At the blithe youngsters shook the head, Gathering in eager clusters told How joyous were the days of old, When Beechcroft's lords, those Barons bold, Came forth to join their vassals' sport, And here to hold their rustic court, Throned in the ancient chair you see Beneath our noble old yew tree. Alas! all empty stands the throne, Reserved for Mohun's race alone, And the old folks can only tell Of the good lords who ruled so well. "Ah! I bethink me of the time, The last before those years of crime, When with his open hearty cheer, The good old squire was sitting here." "'Twas then," another voice replied, "That brave young Master Maurice tried To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey - We ne'er shall see so blithe a day - All the young squires have long been dead." "No, Master Webb," quoth Andrew Grey, "Young Master Maurice safely fled, At least so all the Greenwoods say, And Walter Greenwood with him went To share his master's banishment; And now King Charles is ruling here, Our own good landlord may be near." "Small hope of that," the old man said, And sadly shook his hoary head, "Sir Maurice died beyond the sea, Last of his noble line was he." "Look, Master Webb!" he turned, and there The stranger sat in Mohun's chair; At ease he sat, and smiled to scan The face of each astonished man; Then on the ground he laid aside His plumed hat and mantle wide. One moment, Andrew deemed he knew Those glancing eyes of hazel hue, But the sunk cheek, the figure spare, The lines of white that streak the hair - How can this he the stripling gay, Erst, victor in the sports of May? Full twenty years of cheerful toil, And labour on his native soil, On Andrew's head had left no trace - The summer's sun, the winter's storm, They had but ruddier made his face, More hard his hand, more strong his form. Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd, A farmer came, and spoke aloud, With rustic bow and welcome fair, But with a hesitating air - He told how custom well preserved The throne for Mohun's race reserved; The stranger laughed, "What, Harrington, Hast thou forgot thy landlord's son?" Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout, On Beechcroft hill that now rang out, And still remembered is the day, That merry twenty-ninth of May, When to his father's home returned That knight, whose glory well was earned. In poverty and banishment, His prime of manhood had been spent, A wanderer, scorned by Charles's court, One faithful servant his support. And now, he seeks his home forlorn, Broken in health, with sorrow worn. And two short years just passed away, Between that joyous meeting-day, And the sad eve when Beechcroft's bell Tolled forth Sir Maurice's funeral knell; And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried, Was a widow the year she was Maurice's bride; Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight, Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light, And still his descendants shall sing of the fame Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.'

'It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,' said Claude. 'Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.'

'Oh! here come Emily and Jane,' said Lily, 'let me put it away.'

'You are very much afraid of Jane,' said Claude.

'Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,' said Lily, with simplicity, which made her brother smile.

Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a camp-stool and a book. 'I wonder,' said she, 'where those boys are! By the bye, what character did they bring home from school?'

'The same as usual,' said Claude. 'Maurice's mind only half given to his work, and Redgie's whole mind to his play.'

'Maurice's talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,' said Emily.

'No,' said Jane, 'it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.'

'Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great a point were made of them,' said Lily.

'I think not,' said Claude; 'he has more notion of them than of Latin verses.'

'Then you are on my side,' said Jane, triumphantly.

'Did I say so?' said Claude.

'Why not?' said Jane. 'What is the use of his knowing those stupid languages? I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as he has for mechanics and natural history. Now, Claude, I wish you would answer.'

'I was waiting till you had done,' said Claude.

'Why do you not think it nonsense?' persisted Jane.

'Because I respect my father's opinion,' said Claude, letting himself fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.

'Pooh!' said Jane, 'that sounds like a good little boy of five years old!'

'Very likely,' said Claude.

'But you have some opinion of your own,' said Lily.

'Certainly.'

'Then I wish you would give it,' said Jane.

'Come, Emily,' said Claude, 'have you brought anything to read?'

'But your opinion, Claude,' said Jane. 'I am sure you think with me, only you are too grand, and too correct to say so.'

Claude made no answer, but Jane saw she was wrong by his countenance; before she could say anything more, however, they were interrupted by a great outcry from the Old Court regions.

'Oh,' said Emily, 'I thought it was a long time since we had heard anything of those uproarious mortals.'

'I hope there is nothing the matter,' said Lily.

'Oh no,' said Jane, 'I hear Redgie's laugh.'

'Aye, but among that party,' said Emily, 'Redgie's laugh is not always a proof of peace: they are too much in the habit of acting the boys and the frogs.'

'We were better off,' said Lily, 'with the gentle Claude, as Miss Middleton used to call him.'

'Miss Molly, as William used to call him with more propriety,' said Claude, 'not half so well worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.'

'Not even for young ladies?' said Emily.

'No, Phyllis and Ada are much the better for being teased,' said Claude. 'I am convinced that I never did my duty by you in that respect.'

'There were others to do it for you,' said Jane.

'Harry never teased,' said Emily, 'and William scorned us.'

'His teasing was all performed upon Claude,' said Lily, 'and a great shame it was.'

'Not at all,' said Claude, 'only an injudicious attempt to put a little life into a tortoise.'

'A bad comparison,' said Lily; 'but what is all this? Here come the children in dismay! What is the matter, my dear child?'

This was addressed to Phyllis, who was the first to come up at full speed, sobbing, and out of breath, 'Oh, the dragon-fly! Oh, do not let him kill it!'

'The dragon-fly, the poor dear blue dragon-fly!' screamed Adeline, hiding her face in Emily's lap, 'Oh, do not let him kill it! he is holding it; he is hurting it! Oh, tell him not!'

'I caught it,' said Phyllis, 'but not to have it killed. Oh, take it away!'

'A fine rout, indeed, you chicken,' said Reginald; 'I know a fellow who ate up five horse-stingers one morning before breakfast.'

'Stingers!' said Phyllis, 'they do not sting anything, pretty creatures.'

'I told you I would catch the old pony and put it on him to try,' said Reginald.

In the meantime, Maurice came up at his leisure, holding his prize by the wings. 'Look what a beautiful Libellulla Puella,' said he to Jane.

'A demoiselle dragon-fly,' said Lily; 'what a beauty! what are you going to do with it?'

'Put it into my museum,' said Maurice. 'Here, Jane, put it under this flower-pot, and take care of it, while I fetch something to kill it with.'

'Oh, Maurice, do not!' said Emily.

'One good squeeze,' said Reginald. 'I will do it.'

'How came you be so cruel?' said Lily.

'No, a squeeze will not do,' said Maurice; 'it would spoil its beauty; I must put it ever the fumes of carbonic acid.'

'Maurice, you really must not,' said Emily.

'Now do not, dear Maurice,' said Ada, 'there's a dear boy; I will give you such a kiss.'

'Nonsense; get out of the way,' said Maurice, turning away.

'Now, Maurice, this is most horrid cruelty,' said Lily; 'what right have you to shorten the brief, happy life which—'

'Well,' interrupted Maurice, 'if you make such a fuss about killing it, I will stick a pin through it into a cork, and let it shift for itself.'

Poor Phyllis ran away to the other end of the garden, sat down and sobbed, Ada screamed and argued, Emily complained, Lily exhorted Claude to interfere, while Reginald stood laughing.

'Such useless cruelty,' said Emily.

'Useless!' said Maurice. 'Pray how is any one to make a collection of natural objects without killing things?'

'I do not see the use of a collection,' said Lily; 'you can examine the creatures and let them go.'

'Such a young lady's tender-hearted notion,' said Reginald.

'Who ever heard of a man of science managing in such a ridiculous way?'

'Man of science!' exclaimed Lily, 'when he will have forgotten by next Christmas that insects ever existed.'

It was not convenient to hear this speech, so Maurice turned an empty flower-pot over his prisoner, and left it in Jane's care while he went to fetch the means of destruction, probably choosing the lawn for the place of execution, in order to show his contempt for his sisters.

'Fair damsel in boddice blue,' said Lily, peeping in at the hole at the top of the flower-pot, 'I wish I could avert your melancholy fate. I am very sorry for you, but I cannot help it.'

'You might help it now, at any rate,' muttered Claude.

'No,' said Lily, 'I know Monsieur Maurice too well to arouse his wrath so justly. If you choose to release the pretty creature, I shall be charmed.'

'You forget that I am in charge,' said Jane.

'There is a carriage coming to the front gate,' cried Ada. 'Emily, may I go into the drawing-room? Oh, Jenny, will you undo my brown holland apron?'

'That is right, little mincing Miss,' said Reginald, with a low bow; 'how fine we are to-day.'

'How visitors break into the afternoon,' said Emily, with a languid turn of her head.

'Jenny, brownie,' called Maurice from his bedroom window, 'I want the sulphuric acid.'

Jane sprang up and ran into the house, though her sisters called after her, that she would come full upon the company in the hall.

'They shall not catch me here,' cried Reginald, rushing off into the shrubbery.

'Are you coming in, Claude?' said Emily.

'Send Ada to call me, if there is any one worth seeing,' said Claude

'They will see you from the window,' said Emily.

'No,' said Claude, 'no one ever found me out last summer, under these friendly branches.'

The old butler, Joseph, now showed himself on the terrace; and the young ladies, knowing that he had no intention of crossing the lawn, hastened to learn from him who their visitors were, and entered the house. Just then Phyllis came running back from the kitchen garden, and without looking round, or perceiving Claude, she took up the flower-pot and released the captive, which, unconscious of its peril, rested on a blade of grass, vibrating its gauzy wings and rejoicing in the restored sunbeams.

'Fly away, fly away, you pretty creature,' said Phyllis; 'make haste, or Maurice will come and catch you again. I wish I had not given you such a fright. I thought you would have been killed, and a pin stuck all through that pretty blue and black body of yours. Oh! that would be dreadful. Make haste and go away! I would not have caught you, you beautiful thing, if I had known what he wanted to do. I thought he only wanted to look at your beautiful body, like a little bit of the sky come down to look at the flowers, and your delicate wings, and great shining eyes. Oh! I am very glad God made you so beautiful. Oh! there is Maurice coming. I must blow upon you to make you go. Oh, that is right—up quite high in the air—quite safe,' and she clapped her hands as the dragon-fly rose in the air, and disappeared behind the laurels, just as Maurice and Reginald emerged from the shrubbery, the former with a bottle in his hand.

'Well, where is the Libellulla?' said he.

'The dragon-fly?' said Phyllis. 'I let it out.'

'Sold, Maurice!' cried Reginald, laughing at his brother's disaster.

'Upon my word, Phyl, you are very kind!' said Maurice, angrily. 'If I had known you were such an ill-natured crab—'

'Oh! Maurice dear, don't say so,' exclaimed Phyllis. 'I thought I might let it out because I caught it myself; and I told you I did not catch it for you to kill; Maurice, indeed, I am sorry I vexed you.'

'What else did you do it for?' said Maurice. 'It is horrid not to be able to leave one's things a minute—'

'But I did not know the dragon-fly belonged to you, Maurice,' said Phyllis.

'That is a puzzler, Mohun senior,' said Reginald.

'Now, Redgie, do get Maurice to leave off being angry with me,' implored his sister.

'I will leave off being angry,' said Maurice, seeing his advantage, 'if you will promise never to let out my things again.'

'I do not think I can promise,' said Phyllis.

'O yes, you can,' said Reginald, 'you know they are not his.'

'Promise you will not let out any insects I may get,' said Maurice, 'or I shall say you are as cross as two sticks.'

'I'll tell you what, Maurice,' said Phyllis, 'I do wish you would not make me promise, for I do not think I CAN keep it, for I cannot bear to see the beautiful live things killed.'

'Nonsense,' said Maurice, fiercely, 'I am very angry indeed, you naughty child; promise—'

'I cannot,' said Phyllis, beginning to cry.

'Then,' said Maurice, 'I will not speak to you all day.'

'No, no,' shouted Reginald, 'we will only treat her like the horse- stinger; you wanted a puella, Maurice—here is one for you, here, give her a dose of the turpentine.'

'Yes,' said Maurice, advancing with his bottle; 'and do you take the poker down to Naylor's to be sharpened, it will just do to stick through her back. Oh! no, not Naylor's—the girls have made a hash there, as they do everything else; but we will settle her before they come out again.'

Phyllis screamed and begged for mercy—her last ally had deserted her.

'Promise!' cried the boys.

'Oh, don't!' was all her answer.

Reginald caught her and held her fast, Maurice advanced upon her, she struggled, and gave a scream of real terror. The matter was no joke to any one but Reginald, for Maurice was very angry and really meant to frighten her.

'Hands off, boys, I will not have her bullied,' said Claude, half rising.

Maurice gave a violent start, Reginald looked round laughing, and exclaimed, 'Who would have thought of Claude sneaking there?' and Phyllis ran to the protecting arm, which he stretched out. To her great surprise, he drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, saying, 'Well done, Phyl!'

'Oh, I knew he was not going to hurt me,' said Phyllis, still panting from the struggle.

'To be sure not,' said Maurice, 'I only meant to have a little fun.'

Claude, with his arm still round his sister's waist, gave Maurice a look, expressing, 'Is that the truth?' and Reginald tumbled head over heels, exclaiming, 'I would not have been Phyl just them.'

Ada now came running up to them, saying, 'Maurice and Redgie, you are to come in; Mr. and Mrs. Burnet heard your voices, and begged to see you, because they never saw you last holidays.'

'More's the pity they should see us now,' said Maurice.

'I shall not go,' said Reginald.

'Papa is there, and he sent for you,' said Ada.

'Plague,' was the answer.

'See what you get by making such a row,' said Claude. 'If you had been as orderly members of society as I am—'

'Oh, but Claude,' said Ada, 'papa told me to see if I could find you. Dear Claude, I wish,' she proceeded, taking his hand, and looking engaging, 'I wish you would put your arm round me as you do round Phyl.'

'You are not worth it, Ada,' said Reginald, and Claude did not contradict him.



CHAPTER VIII—THE BROTHERS



'But smiled to hear the creatures he had known So long were now in class and order shown - Genus and species. "Is it meet," said he, "This creature's name should one so sounding be - 'Tis but a fly, though first-born of the spring, Bombylius Majus, dost thou call the thing?"

It was not till Sunday, that Lily's eager wish was fulfilled, of introducing her friend and her brothers; but, as she might have foreseen, their first meeting did not make the perfections of either party very clear to the other. Claude never spoke to strangers more than he could help, Maurice and Reginald were in the room only a short time; so that the result of Miss Weston's observations, when communicated in reply to Lily's eager inquiries, was only that Claude was very like his father and eldest brother, Reginald very handsome, and Maurice looked like a very funny fellow.

On Monday, Reginald and Maurice were required to learn what they had always refused to acknowledge, that the holidays were not intended to be spent in idleness. A portion of each morning was to be devoted to study, Claude having undertaken the task of tutor—and hard work he found it; and much did Lily pity him, when, as not unfrequently happened, the summons to the children's dinner would bring him from the study, looking thoroughly fagged—Maurice in so sulky a mood that he would hardly deign to open his lips—Reginald talking fast enough, indeed, but only to murmur at his duties in terms, which, though they made every one laugh, were painful to hear. Then Claude would take his brothers back to the study, and not appear for an hour or more, and when he did come forth, it was with a bad headache. Sometimes, as if to show that it was only through their own fault that their tasks were wearisome, one or both boys would finish quite early, when Reginald would betake himself to the schoolroom and employ his idle time in making it nearly impossible for Ada and Phyllis to learn, by talking, laughing, teasing the canary, overturning everything in pursuing wasps, making Emily fretful by his disobedience, and then laughing at her, and, in short, proving his right to the title he had given himself at the end of the only letter he had written since he first went to school, and which he had subscribed, 'Your affectionate bother, R. Mohun.' So that, for their own sake, all would have preferred the inattentive mornings.

Lily often tried to persuade Claude to allow her to tell her father how troublesome the boys were, but never with any effect. He once took up a book he had been using with them, and pointing to the name in the first page, in writing, which Lily knew full well, 'Henry Mohun,' she perceived that he meant to convince her that it was useless to try to dissuade him, as he thought the patience and forbearance his brother had shown to him must be repaid by his not shrinking from the task he had imposed upon himself with his young brothers, though he was often obliged to sit up part of the night to pursue his own studies.

If Claude had rather injudiciously talked too much to Lilias of 'her principle,' and thus kept it alive in her mind, yet his example might have made its fallacy evident. She believed that what she called love had been the turning point in his character, that it had been his earnest desire to follow in Henry's steps, and so try to comfort his father for his loss, that had roused him from his indolence; but she was beginning to see that nothing but a sense of duty could have kept up the power of that first impulse for six years. Lily began to enter a little into his principle, and many things that occurred during these holidays made her mistrust her former judgment. She saw that without the unvarying principle of right and wrong, fraternal love itself would fail in outward acts and words. Forbearance, though undeniably a branch of love, could not exist without constant remembrance of duty; and which of them did not sometimes fail in kindness, meekness, and patience? Did Emily show that softness, which was her most agreeable characteristic, in her whining reproofs- -in her complaints that 'no one listened to a word she said'—in her refusal to do justice even to those who had vainly been seeking for peace? Did Lily herself show any of her much valued love, by the sharp manner in which she scolded the boys for roughness towards herself? or for language often used by them on purpose to make her displeasure a matter of amusement? She saw that her want of command of temper was a failure both in love and duty, and when irritated, the thought of duty came sooner to her aid than the feeling of love.

And Maurice and Reginald were really very provoking. Maurice loved no amusement better than teasing his sisters, and this was almost the only thing in which Reginald agreed with him. Reginald was affectionate, but too reckless and violent not to be very troublesome, and he too often flew into a passion if Maurice attempted to laugh at him; the little girls were often frightened and made unhappy; Phyllis would scream and roar, and Ada would come sobbing to Emily, to be comforted after some rudeness of Reginald's. It was not very often that quarrels went so far, but many a time in thought, word, and deed was the rule of love transgressed, and more than once did Emily feel ready to give up all her dignity, to have Eleanor's hand over the boys once more. Claude, finding that he could do much to prevent mischief, took care not to leave the two boys long together with the elder girls. They were far more inoffensive when separate, as Maurice never practised his tormenting tricks when no one was present to laugh with him, and Reginald was very kind to Phyllis and Ada, although somewhat rude.

It was a day or two after they returned that Phyllis was leaning on the window-sill in the drawing-room, watching a passing shower, and admiring the soft bright tints of a rainbow upon the dark gray mass of cloud. 'I do set my bow in the cloud,' repeated she to herself over and over again, until Adeline entering the room, she eagerly exclaimed, 'Oh Ada, come and look at this beautiful rainbow, green, and pink, and purple. A double one, with so many stripes, Ada. See, there is a little bit more green.'

'There is no green in a rainbow,' said Ada.

'But look, Ada, that is green.'

'It is not real green. Blue, red, and yellow are the pragmatic colours,' said Ada, with a most triumphant air. 'Now are not they, Maurice?' said she, turning to her brother, who was, as usual, deep in entomology.

'Pragmatic, you foolish child,' said he. 'Prismatic you mean. I am glad you remember what I tell you, however; I think I might teach you some science in time. You are right in saying that blue, red, and yellow are the prismatic colours. Now do you know what causes a rainbow?'

'It is to show there is never to be another flood,' said Phyllis, gravely.

'Oh, I did not mean that,' said Maurice, addressing himself to Ada, whose love of hard words made him deem her a promising pupil, and whom he could lecture without interruption. 'The rainbow is caused by—'

'But, Maurice!' exclaimed Phyllis, remaining with mouth wide open.

'The rainbow is occasioned by the refraction of the rays of the sun in the drops of water of which a cloud is composed.'

'But, Maurice!' again said Phyllis.

'Well, what do you keep on "but, Mauricing," about?'

'But, Maurice, I thought it said, "I do set my bow in the cloud." Is not that right? I will look.'

'I know that, but I know the iris, or rainbow, is a natural phenomenon occasioned by the refraction.'

'But, Maurice, I can't bear you to say that;' and poor Phyllis sat down and began to cry.

Ada interfered. 'Why, Maurice, you believe the Bible, don't you?'

This last speech was heard by Lilias, who just now entered the room, and greatly surprised her. 'What can you be talking of?' said she.

'Only some nonsense of the children's,' said Maurice, shortly.

'But only hear what he says,' cried Ada. 'He says the rainbow was not put there to show there is never to be another flood!'

'Now, Lily,' said Maurice, 'I do not think there is much use in talking to you, but I wish you to understand that all I said was, that the rainbow, or iris, is a natural phenomenon occasioned by the refraction of the solar—'

'You will certainly bewilder yourself into something dreadful with that horrid science,' said Lily. 'What is the matter with Phyl?'

'Only crying because of what I said,' answered Maurice. 'So childish, and you are just as bad.'

'But do you mean to say,' exclaimed Lily, 'that you set this human theory above the authority of the Bible?'

'It is common sense,' said Maurice; 'I could make a rainbow any day.'

Whereupon Phyllis cried the more, and Lily looked infinitely shocked. 'This is philosophy and vain deceit,' said she; 'the very thing that tends to infidelity.'

'I can't help it—it is universally allowed,' said the boy doggedly.

It was fortunate that the next person who entered the room was Claude, and all at once he was appealed to by the four disputants, Lily the loudest and most vehement. 'Claude, listen to him, and tell him to throw away these hateful new lights, which lead to everything that is shocking!'

'Listen to him, with three ladies talking at once?' said Claude. 'No, not Phyl—her tears only are eloquent; but it is a mighty war about the token of peace and LOVE, Lily.'

'The love would be in driving these horrible philosophical speculations out of Maurice's mind,' said Lily.

'No one can ever drive out the truth,' said Maurice, with provoking coolness. 'Don't let her scratch out my eyes, Claude.'

'I am not so sure of that maxim,' said Claude. 'Truth is chiefly injured—I mean, her force weakened, by her own supporters.'

'Then you agree with me,' said Maurice, 'as, in fact, every rational person must.'

'Then you are with me,' said Lily, in the same breath; 'and you will convince Maurice of the danger of this nonsense.'

'Umph,' sighed Claude, throwing himself into his father's arm-chair, ''tis a Herculean labour! It seems I agree with you both.'

'Why, every Christian must be with me, who has not lost his way in a mist of his own raising,' said Lilias.

'Do you mean to say,' said Maurice, 'that these colours are not produced by refraction? Look at them on those prisms;' and he pointed to an old-fashioned lustre on the chimney-piece. 'I hope this is not a part of the Christian faith.'

'Take care, Maurice,' and Claude's eyes were bent upon him in a manner that made him shrink. And he added, 'Of course I do believe that chapter about Noah. I only meant that the immediate cause of the rainbow is the refraction of light. I did not mean to be irreverent, only the girls took me up in such a way.'

'And I know well enough that you can make those colours by light on drops of water,' said Lily.

'So you agreed all the time,' said Claude.

'But,' added Lily, 'I never liked to know it; for it always seemed to be explaining away the Bible, and I cannot bear not to regard that lovely bow as a constant miracle.'

'You will remember,' said Claude, 'that some commentators say it should be, "I HAVE set my bow in the cloud," which would make what already existed become a token for the future.

'I don't like that explanation,' said Lily.

'Others say,' added Claude, 'that there might have been no rain at all till the windows of heaven were opened at the flood, and, in that case, the first recurrence of rain must have greatly alarmed Noah's family, if they had not been supported and cheered by the sight of the rainbow.'

'That is reasonable,' said Maurice.

'I hate reason applied to revelation,' said Lily.

'It is a happier state of mind which does not seek to apply it,' said Claude, looking at Phyllis, who had dried her tears, and stood in the window gazing at him, in the happy certainty that he was setting all right. Maurice respected Claude for his science as much as his character, and did not make game of this observation as he would if it had been made by one of his sisters, but he looked at him with an odd expression of perplexity. 'You do not think ignorant credulity better than reasonable belief?' said he at length.

'It is not I only who think most highly of child-like unquestioning faith, Maurice,' said Claude—'faith, that is based upon love and reverence,' added he to Lily. 'But come, the shower is over, and philosophers, or no philosophers, I invite you to walk in the wood.'

'Aye,' said Maurice, 'I daresay I can find some of the Arachne species there. By the bye, Claude, do you think papa would let me have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen by twenty, to cover my case of insects?'

'Ask, and you will discover,' said Claude.

Accordingly, Maurice began the next morning at breakfast, 'Papa, may I have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen by—?'

But no one heard, for Emily was at the moment saying, 'The Westons are to dine here to-day.'

Claude and Maurice both looked blank.

'I persuaded papa to ask the Westons,' said Lily, 'because I am determined that Claude shall like Alethea.'

'You must expect that I shall not, you have given me so many orders on the subject,' said Claude.

'Take care it has not the same effect as to tell Maurice to like a book,' said Emily; 'nothing makes his aversion so certain.'

'Except when he takes it up by mistake, and forgets that it has been recommended to him,' said Claude.

'Take care, Redgie, with your knife; don't put out my eyes in your ardour against that wretched wasp. Wat Greenwood may well say "there is a terrible sight of waspses this year."'

'I killed twenty-nine yesterday,' said Reginald.

'And I will tell you what I saw,' said Phyllis; 'I was picking up apples, and the wasps were flying all round, and there came a hornet.'

'Vespa Crabro!' cried Maurice; 'oh, I must have one!'

'Well, what of the hornet?' said Mr. Mohun.

'I'll tell you what,' resumed Phyllis, 'he saw a wasp flying, and so he went up in the air, and pounced on the poor wasp as the hawk did on Jane's bantam. So then he hung himself up to the branch of a tree by one of his legs, and held the wasp with the other five, and began to pack it up. First he bit off the yellow tail, then the legs, and threw them away, and then there was nothing left but the head, and so he flew away with it to his nest.'

'Which way did he go?' said Maurice.

'To the Old Court,' answered Phyllis; 'I think the nest is in the roof of the old cow-house, for they were flying in and out there yesterday, and one was eating out the wood from the old rails.'

'Well,' said Mr. Mohun, 'you must show me a hornet hawking for wasps before the nest is taken, Phyllis; I suppose you have seen the wasps catching flies?'

'Oh yes, papa! but they pack them up quite differently. They do not hang by one leg, but they sit down quite comfortably on a branch while they bite off the wings and legs.'

'There, Maurice,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I had rather hear of one such well-observed fact than of a dozen of your hard names and impaled insects.'

Phyllis looked quite radiant with delight at his approbation.

'But, papa,' said Maurice, 'may I have a piece of plate-glass, eighteen by twenty?'

'When you observe facts in natural history, perhaps I may say something to your entomology,' said Mr. Mohun.

'But, papa, all my insects will be spoilt if I may not have a piece of glass, eighteen by—'

He was interrupted by the arrival of the post-bag, which Jane, as usual, opened. 'A letter from Rotherwood,' said she; 'I hope he is coming at last.'

'He is,' said Claude, reading the letter, 'but only from Saturday till Wednesday.'

'He never gave us so little of his good company as he has this summer,' said Emily.

'You will have them all in the autumn, to comfort you,' said Claude, 'for he hereby announces the marvellous fact, that the Marchioness sends him to see if the castle is fit to receive her.'

'Are you sure he is not only believing what he wishes?' said Mr. Mohun.

'I think he will gain his point at last,' said Claude.

'How stupid of him to stay no longer!' said Reginald.

'I think he has some scheme for this vacation,' said Claude, 'and I suppose he means to crowd all the Beechcroft diversions of a whole summer into those few days.'

'Emily,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I wish him to know the Carringtons; invite them and the Westons to dinner on Tuesday.'

'Oh don't!' cried Reginald. 'It will be so jolly to have him to take wasps' nests; and may I go out rabbit-shooting with him?'

'If he goes.'

'And may I carry a gun?'

'If it is not loaded,' said his father.

'Indeed, I would do no mischief,' said Reginald.

'Let me give you one piece of advice, Reginald,' said Mr. Mohun, with a mysterious air—'never make rash promises.'

Lilias was rather disappointed in her hopes that Miss Weston and Claude would become better acquainted. At dinner the conversation was almost entirely between the elder gentlemen; Claude scarcely spoke, except when referred to by his father or Mr. Devereux. Miss Weston never liked to incur the danger of having to repeat her insignificant speeches to a deaf ear, and being interested in the discussion that was going on, she by no means seconded Lily's attempt to get up an under-current of talk. In general, Lily liked to listen to conversation in silence, but she was now in very high spirits, and could not be quiet; fortunately, she had no interest in the subject the gentlemen were discussing, so that she could not meddle with that, and finding Alethea silent and Claude out of reach, she turned to Reginald, and talked and tittered with him all dinner-time.

In the drawing-room she had it all her own way, and talked enough for all the sisters.

'Have you heard that Cousin Rotherwood is coming?'

'Yes, you said so before dinner.'

'We hope,' said Emily, 'that you and Mr. Weston will dine here on Tuesday. The Carringtons are coming, and a few others.'

'Thank you,' said Alethea; 'I daresay papa will be very glad to come.'

'Have you ever seen Rotherwood?' said Lilias.

'Never,' was the reply.

'Do not expect much,' said Lily, laughing, though she knew not why; 'he is a very little fellow; no one would suppose him to be twenty, he has such a boyish look. Then he never sits down—'

'Literally?' said Emily.

'Literally,' persisted Lily; 'such a quick person you never did see.'

'Is he at Oxford?'

'Oh yes! it was all papa's doing that he was sent to Eton. Papa is his guardian. Aunt Rotherwood never would have parted with him.'

'He is the only son,' interposed Emily.

'Uncle Rotherwood put him quite in papa's power; Aunt Rotherwood wanted to keep him at home with a tutor, and what she would have made of him I cannot think,' said Lily; and regardless of Emily's warning frowns, and Alethea's attempt to change the subject, she went on: 'When he was quite a child he used to seem a realisation of all the naughty Dicks and Toms in story-books. Miss Middleton had a perfect horror of his coming here, for he would mind no one, and played tricks and drew Claude into mischief; but he is quite altered since papa had the management of him—Oh! such talks as papa has had with Aunt Rotherwood—do you know, papa says no one knows what it is to lose a father but those who have the care of his children, and Aunt Rotherwood is so provoking.'

Here Alethea determined to put an end to this oration, and to Emily's great relief, she cut short the detail of Lady Rotherwood's offences by saying, 'Do you think Faith Longley likely to suit us, if we took her to help the housemaid?'

'Are you thinking of taking her?' cried Lily. 'Yes, for steady, stupid household work, Faith would do very well; she is just the stuff to make a servant of—"for dulness ever must be regular"—I mean for those who like mere steadiness better than anything more lovable.'

As Alethea said, laughing, 'I must confess my respect for that quality,' Mr. Devereux and Claude entered the room.

'Oh, Robert!' cried Lily, 'Mrs. Weston is going to take Faith Longley to help the housemaid.'

'You are travelling too fast, Lily,' said Alethea, 'she is only going to think about it.'

'I should be very glad,' said Mr. Devereux, 'that Faith should have a good place; the Longleys are very respectable people, and they behaved particularly well in refusing to let this girl go and live with some dissenters at Stoney Bridge.'

'I like what I have seen of the girl very much,' said Miss Weston.

'In spite of her sad want of feeling,' said Robert, smiling, as he looked at Lily.

'Oh! she is a good work-a-day sort of person,' said Lily, 'like all other poor people, hard and passive. Now, do not set up your eyebrows, Claude, I am quite serious, there is no warmth about any except—'

'So this is what Lily is come to!' cried Emily; 'the grand supporter of the poor on poetical principles.'

'The poor not affectionate!' said Alethea.

'Not, compared within people whose minds and affections have been cultivated,' said Lily. 'Now just hear what Mrs. Wall said to me only yesterday; she asked for a black stuff gown out of the clothing club, "for," said she, "I had a misfortune, Miss;" I thought it would be, "and tore my gown," but it was, "I had a misfortune, Miss, and lost my brother."'

'A very harsh conclusion on very slight grounds,' said Mr. Devereux.

'Prove the contrary,' said Lily.

'Facts would scarcely demonstrate it either way,' said Mr. Devereux. 'They would only prove what was the case with individuals who chanced to come in our way, and if we are seldom able to judge of the depth of feeling of those with whom we are familiar, how much less of those who feel our presence a restraint.'

'Intense feeling mocks restraint,' said Lily.

'Violent, not intense,' said Mr. Devereux. 'Besides, you talk of cultivating the affections. Now what do you mean? Exercising them, or talking about them?'

'Ah!' said Emily, 'the affection of a poor person is more tried; we blame a poor man for letting his old mother go to the workhouse, without considering how many of us would do the same, if we had as little to live upon.'

'Still,' said Alethea, 'the same man who would refuse to maintain her if poor, would not bear with her infirmities if rich.'

'Are the poor never infirm and peevish?' said Mr. Devereux.

'Oh! how much worse it must be to bear with ill-temper in poverty,' said Emily, 'when we think it quite wonderful to see a young lady kind and patient with a cross old relation; what must it be when she is denying herself, not only her pleasure, but her food for her sake; not merely sitting quietly with her all day, and calling a servant to wait upon her, but toiling all day to maintain her, and keeping awake half the night to nurse her?'

'Those are realities, indeed,' said Alethea; 'our greatest efforts seem but child's play in comparison.'

Lilias could hardly have helped being sobered by this conversation if she had attended to it, but she had turned away to repeat the story of Mrs. Walls to Jane, and then, fancying that the others were still remarking upon it, she said in a light, laughing tone, 'Well, so far I agree with you. I know of a person who may well be called one of ourselves, who I could quite fancy making such a speech.'

'Whom do you mean?' said Mr. Devereux. Alethea wished she did not know.

'No very distant relation,' said Jane.

'Do not talk nonsense, Jane,' said Claude, gravely.

'No nonsense at all, Claude,' cried Jane in her very very pertest tone, 'it is exactly like Eleanor; I am sure I can see her with her hands before her, saying in her prim voice, "I must turn my old black silk and trim it with crape, for I have had a misfortune, and lost my brother."'

'Lilias,' said Miss Weston, somewhat abruptly, 'did you not wish to sing with me this evening?'

And thus she kept Lilias from any further public mischief that evening.

Claude, exceedingly vexed by what had passed, with great injustice, laid the blame upon Miss Weston, and instead of rendering her the honour which she really deserved for the tact with which she had put an end to the embarrassment of all parties, he fancied she was anxious to display her talents for music, and thus only felt fretted by the sounds.

Mr. Weston and his daughter intended to walk home that evening, as it was a beautiful moonlight night.

'Oh, let us convoy you!' exclaimed Lilias; 'I do long to show Alethea a glow-worm. Will you come, Claude? May we, papa? Feel how still and warm it is. A perfect summer night, not a breath stirring.'

Mr. Mohun consented, and Lily almost hurried Alethea upstairs, to put on her bonnet and shawl. When she came down she found that the walking party had increased. Jane and Reginald would both have been in despair to have missed such a frolic; Maurice hoped to fall in with the droning beetle, or to lay violent hands on a glow-worm; Emily did not like to be left behind, and even Mr. Mohun was going, being in the midst of an interesting conversation with Mr. Weston. Lily, with an absurd tragic gesture, told Alethea that amongst so many, such a crowd, all the grace and sweet influence of the walk was ruined. The 'sweet influence' was ruined as far as Lily was concerned, but not by the number of her companions. It was the uneasy feeling caused by her over-strained spirits and foolish chattering that prevented her from really entering into the charm of the soft air, the clear moon, the solemn deep blue sky, the few stars, the white lilies on the dark pond, the long shadows of the trees, the freshness of the dewy fields. Her simplicity, and her genuine delight in the loveliness of the scene, was gone for the time, and though she spoke much of her enjoyment, it was in a high- flown affected style.

When the last good-night had been exchanged, and Lily had turned homeward, she felt the stillness which succeeded their farewells almost oppressive; she started at the dark shadow of a tree which lay across the path, and to shake off a sensation of fear which was coming over her, she put her arm within Claude's, exclaiming, 'You naughty boy, you will be stupid and silent, say what I will.'

'I heard enough to-night to strike me dumb,' said Claude.

For one moment Lily thought he was in jest, but the gravity of his manner showed her that he was both grieved and displeased, and she changed her tone as she said, 'Oh! Claude, what do you mean?'

'Do you not know?' said Claude.

'What, you mean about Eleanor?' said Lily; 'you must fall upon Miss Jenny there—it was her doing.'

'Jane's tongue is a pest,' said Claude; 'but she was not the first to speak evil falsely of one to whom you owe everything. Oh! Lily, I cannot tell you how that allusion of yours sounded.'

'What allusion?' asked Lily in alarm, for she had never seen her gentle brother so angry.

'You know,' said he.

'Indeed, I do not,' exclaimed Lily, munch frightened. 'Claude, Claude, you must mistake, I never could have said anything so very shocking.'

'I hope I do,' said Claude; 'I could hardly believe that one of the little ones who cannot remember him, could have referred to him in that way—but for you!'

'Him?' said Lilias.

'I do not like to mention his name to one who regards him so lightly,' said Claude. 'Think over what passed, if you are sufficiently come to yourself to remember it.'

After a little pause Lily said in a subdued voice, 'Claude, I hope you do not believe that I was thinking of what really happened when I said that.'

'Pray what were you thinking of?'

'The abstract view of Eleanor's character.'

'Abstract nonsense!' said Claude. 'A fine demonstration of the rule of love, to go about the world slandering your sister!'

'To go about the world! Oh! Claude, it was only Robert, one of ourselves, and Alethea, to whom I tell everything.'

'So much the worse. I always rejoiced that you had no foolish young lady friend to make missish confidences to.'

'She is no foolish young lady friend,' said Lilias, indignant in her turn; 'she is five years older than I am, and papa wishes us to be intimate with her.'

'Then the fault is in yourself,' said Claude. 'You ought not to have told such things if they were true, and being utterly false—'

'But, Claude, I cannot see that they are false.'

'Not false, that Eleanor cared not a farthing for Harry!' cried Claude, shaking off Lily's arm, and stopping short.

'Oh!—she cared, she really did care,' said Lily, as fast as she could speak. 'Oh! Claude, how could you think that? I told you I did not mean what really happened, only that—Eleanor is cold—not as warm as some people—she did care for him, of course she did—I know that—I believe she loved him with all her heart—but yet—I mean she did not—she went on as usual—said nothing—scarcely cried—looked the same—taught us—never—Oh! it did not make half the difference in her that it did in William.'

'I cannot tell how she behaved at the time,' said Claude, 'I only know I never had any idea what a loss Harry was till I came home and saw her face. I used never to trouble myself to think whether people looked ill or well, but the change in her did strike me. She was bearing up to comfort papa, and to cheer William, and to do her duty by all of us, and you could take such noble resignation for want of feeling!'

Lilias looked down and tried to speak, but she was choked by her tears; she could not bear Claude's displeasure, and she wept in silence. At last she said in a voice broken by sobs, 'I was unjust— I know Eleanor was all kindness—all self-sacrifice—I have been very ungrateful—I wish I could help it—and you know well, Claude, how far I am from regarding dear Harry with indifference—how the thought of him is a star in my mind—how happy it makes me to think of him at the end of the Church Militant Prayer; do not believe I was dreaming of him.'

'And pray,' said Claude, laughing in his own good-humoured way, 'which of us is it that she is so willing to lose?'

'Oh! Claude, no such thing,' said Lily, 'you know what I meant, or did not mean. It was nonsense—I hope nothing worse.' Lily felt that she might take his arm again. There was a little silence, and then Lily resumed in a timid voice, 'I do not know whether you will be angry, Claude, but honestly, I do not think that if—that Eleanor would be so wretched about you as I should.'

'Eleanor knew Harry better than you did; no, Lily, I never could have been what Harry was, even if I had never wasted my time, and if my headaches had not interfered with my best efforts.'

'I do not believe that, say what you will,' said Lily.

'Ask William, then,' said Claude, sighing.

'I am sure papa does not think so,' said Lily; 'no, I cannot feel that Harry is such a loss when we still have you.'

'Oh! Lily, it is plain that you never knew Harry,' said Claude. 'I do not believe you ever did—that is one ting to be said for you.'

'Not as you did,' said Lily; 'remember, he was six years older. Then think how little we saw of him whilst they were abroad; he was always at school, or spending the holidays with Aunt Robert, and latterly even farther off, and only coming sometimes for an hour or two to see us. Then he used to kiss us all round, we went into the garden with him, looked at him, and were rather afraid of him; then he walked off to Wat Greenwood, came back, wished us good-bye, and away he went.'

'Yes,' said Claude, 'but after they came home?'

'Then he was a tall youth, and we were silly girls,' said Lilias; 'he avoided Miss Middleton, and we were always with her. He was good- natured, but he could not get on with us; he did very well with the little ones, but we were of the wrong age. He and William and Eleanor were one faction, we were another, and you were between both- -he was too old, too sublime, too good, too grave for us.'

'Too grave!' said Claude; 'I never heard a laugh so full of glee, except, perhaps, Phyllis's.'

'The last time he was at home,' continued Lily, 'we began to know him better; there was no Miss Middleton in the way, and after you and William were gone, he used to walk with us, and read to us. He read Guy Mannering to us, and told us the story of Sir Maurice de Mohun; but the loss was not the same to us as to you elder ones; and then sorrow was almost lost in admiration, and in pleasure at the terms in which every one spoke of him. Claude, I have no difficulty in not wishing it otherwise; he is still my brother, and I would not change the feeling which the thought of his death gives me—no, not for himself in life and health.'

'Ah!' sighed Claude, 'you have no cause for self-reproach—no reason to lament over "wasted hours and love misspent."'

'You will always talk of your old indolence, as if it was a great crime,' said Lily.

'It was my chief temptation,' said Claude. 'As long as we know we are out of the path of duty it does not make much difference whether we have turned to the right hand or to the left.'

'Was it Harry's death that made you look upon it in this light?' said Lily.

'I knew it well enough before,' said Claude, 'it was what he had often set before me. Indeed, till I came home, and saw this place without him, I never really knew what a loss he was. At Eton I did not miss him more than when he went to Oxford, and I did not dwell on what he was to papa, or what I ought to be; and even when I saw what home was without him, I should have contented myself with miserable excuses about my health, if it had not been for my confirmation; then I awoke, I saw my duty, and the wretched way in which I had been spending my time. Thoughts of Harry and of my father came afterwards; I had not vigour enough for them before.'

Here they reached the house, and parted—Claude, ashamed of having talked of himself for the first time in his life, and Lily divided between shame at her own folly and pleasure at Claude's having thus opened his mind.

Jane, who was most in fault, escaped censure. Her father was ignorant of her improper speech. Emily forgot it, and it was not Claude's place to reprove his sisters, though to Lily he spoke as a friend. It passed away from her mind like other idle words, which, however, could not but leave an impression on those who heard her.

An unlooked-for result of the folly of this evening was, that Claude was prevented from appreciating Miss Weston He could not learn to like her, nor shake off an idea, that she was prying into their family concerns; he thought her over-praised, and would not even give just admiration to her singing, because he had once fancied her eager to exhibit it. It was unreasonable to dislike his sister's friend for his sister's folly, but Claude's wisdom was not yet arrived at its full growth, and he deserved credit for keeping his opinion to himself.



CHAPTER IX—THE WASP



'Whom He hath blessed and called His own, He tries them early, look and tone, Bent brow and throbbing heart, Tries them with pain.'

The next week Lily had the pleasure of fitting out Faith Longley for her place at Mrs. Weston's. She rejoiced at this opportunity of patronising her, because in her secret soul she felt that she might have done her a little injustice in choosing her own favourite Esther in her stead. Esther's popularity at the New Court, however, made Lilias confident in her own judgment; the servants liked her because she was quick and obliging, Mr. Mohun said she looked very neat, Phyllis liked her because a mischance to her frock was not so brave an offence with her as with Rachel, and Ada was growing very fond of her, because she was in the habit of bestowing great admiration on her golden curls as she arranged them, and both little girls were glad not to be compelled to put away the playthings they took out.

Maurice and Reginald had agreed to defer their onslaught on the wasps till Lord Rotherwood's arrival, and the war was now limited to attacks on foraging parties. Reginald most carefully marked every nest about the garden and farm, and, on his cousin's arrival on Saturday evening, began eagerly to give him a list of their localities. Lord Rotherwood was as ardent in the cause as even Reginald could desire, and would have instantly set out with him to reconnoitre had not the evening been rainy.

Then turning to Claude, he said, 'But I have not told you what brought me here; I came to persuade you to make an expedition with me up the Rhine; I set off next week; I would not write about it, because I knew you would only say you should like it very much, but— some but, that meant it was a great deal too much trouble.'

'How fast the plan has risen up,' said Claude, 'I heard nothing of it when I was with you.'

'Oh! it only came into my head last week, but I do not see what there is to wait for, second thoughts are never best.'

'Oh! Claude, how delightful,' said Lily.

Claude stirred his tea meditatively, and did not speak.

'It is too much trouble, I perceive,' said Lord Rotherwood; 'just as I told you.'

'Not exactly,' said Claude.

Lord Rotherwood now detailed his plan to his uncle, who said with a propitious smile, 'Well, Claude, what do you think of it?

'Mind you catch a firefly for me,' said Maurice.

'Why don't you answer, Claude?' said Lilias; 'only imagine seeing Undine's Castle!'

'Eh, Claude?' said his father.

'It would be very pleasant,' said Claude, slowly, 'but—'

'What?' said Mr. Mohun.

'Only a but,' said the Marquis. 'I hope he will have disposed of it by the morning; I start next Tuesday week; I would not go later for the universe; we shall be just in time for the summer in its beauty, and to have a peep at Switzerland. We shall not have time for Mont Blanc, without rattling faster than any man in his senses would do. I do not mean to leave any place till I have thoroughly seen twice over everything worth seeing that it contains.'

'Then perhaps you will get as far as Antwerp, and spend the rest of the holidays between the Cathedral and Paul Potter's bull. No, I shall have nothing to say to you at that rate,' said Claude.

'Depend upon it, it will be you that will wish to stand still when I had rather be on the move,' said the Marquis.

'Then you had better leave me behind. I have no intention of being hurried over the world, and never having my own way,' said Claude, trying to look surly.

'I am sure I should not mind travelling twice over the world to see Cologne Cathedral, or the field of Waterloo,' said Lily.

'Let me only show him my route,' said Lord Rotherwood. 'Redgie, look in my greatcoat pocket in the hall for Murray's Handbook, will you?'

'Go and get it, Phyl,' said Reginald, who was astride on the window- sill, peeling a stick.

Away darted Lord Rotherwood to fetch it himself, but Phyllis was before him; her merry laugh was heard, as he chased her round the hall to get possession of his book, throwing down two or three cloaks to intercept her path. Mr. Mohun took the opportunity of his absence to tell Claude that he need not refuse on the score of expense.

'Thank you,' was all Claude's answer.

Lord Rotherwood returned, and after punishing the discourteous Reginald by raising him up by his ears, he proceeded to give a full description of the delights of his expedition, the girls joining heartily with him in declaring it as well arranged as possible, and bringing all their knowledge of German travels to bear upon it. Claude sometimes put in a word, but never as if he cared much about the matter, and he was not to be persuaded to give any decided answer as to whether he would accompany the Marquis.

The next morning at breakfast Lord Rotherwood returned to the charge, but Claude seemed even more inclined to refuse than the day before. Lilias could not divine what was the matter with him, and lingered long after her sisters had gone to school, to hear what answer he would make; and when Mr. Mohun looked at his watch, and asked her if she knew how late it was, she rose from the breakfast-table with a sigh, and thought while she was putting on her bonnet how much less agreeable the school had been since the schism in the parish. And besides, now that Faith and Esther, and one or two others of her best scholars, had gone away from school, there seemed to be no one of any intelligence or knowledge left in the class, except Marianne Weston, who knew too much for the others, and one or two clever inattentive little girls: Lily almost disliked teaching them.

Phyllis and Adeline were in Miss Weston's class, and much did they delight in her teaching. There was a quiet earnestness in her manner which attracted her pupils, and fixed their attention, so as scarcely to allow the careless room for irreverence, while mere cleverness seemed almost to lose its advantage in learning what can only truly be entered into by those whose conduct agrees with their knowledge.

Phyllis never dreamt that she could be happy while standing still and learning, till Miss Weston began to teach at the Sunday school. Obedience at school taught her to acquire habits of reverent attention, which gradually conquered the idleness and weariness which had once possessed her at church. First, she learnt to be interested in the Historical Lessons, then never to lose her place in the Psalms, then to think about and follow some of the Prayers; by this time she was far from feeling any fatigue at all on week-days; she had succeeded in restraining any contortions to relieve herself from the irksomeness of sitting still, and had her thoughts in tolerable order through the greater part of the Sunday service, and now it was her great wish, unknown to any one, to abstain from a single yawn through the whole service, including the sermon!

Her place (chosen for her by Eleanor when first she had begun to go to Church, as far as possible from Reginald) was at the end of the seat, between her papa and the wall. This morning, as she put her arm on the book-board, while rising from kneeling, she felt a sudden thrill of sharp pain smear her left elbow, which made her start violently, and would have caused a scream, had she not been in church. She saw a wasp fall on the ground, and was just about to put her foot on it, when she recollected where she was. She had never in her life intentionally killed anything, and this was no time to begin in that place, and when she was angry. The pain was severe—more so perhaps than any she had felt before—and very much frightened, she pulled her papa's coat to draw his attention. But her first pull was so slight that he did not feel it, and before she gave a second she remembered that she could not make him hear what was the matter, without more noise than was proper. No, she must stay where she was, and try to bear the pain, and she knew that if she did try, help would be given her. She proceeded to find out the Psalm and join her voice with the others, though her heart was beating very fast, her forehead was contracted, and she could not help keeping her right hand clasped round her arm, and sometimes shifting from one foot to the other. The sharpness of the pain soon went off; she was able to attend to the Lessons, and hoped it would soon be quite well; but as soon as she began to think about it, it began to ache and throb, and seemed each moment to be growing hotter. The sermon especially tried her patience, her cheeks were burning, she felt sick and hardly able to hold up her head, yet she would not lean it against the wall, because she had often been told not to do so. She was exceedingly alarmed to find that her arm had swelled so much that she could hardly bend it, and it had received the impression of the gathers of her sleeve; she thought no sermon had ever been so long, but she sat quite still and upright, as she could not have done, had she not trained herself unconsciously by her efforts to leave off the trick of kicking her heels together. She did not speak till she was in the churchyard, and then she made Emily look at her arm.

'My poor child, it is frightful,' said Emily, 'what is the matter?'

'A wasp stung me just before the Psalms,' said Phyllis, 'and it goes on swelling and swelling, and it does pant!'

'What is the matter?' asked Mr. Mohun.

'Papa, just look,' said Emily, 'a wasp stung this dear child quite early in the service, and she has been bearing it all this time in silence. Why did you not show me, Phyl?'

'Because it was in church,' said the little girl.

'Why, Phyllis, you are a very Spartan,' said Lord Rotherwood.

'Something better than a Spartan,' said Mr. Mohun. 'Does it give you much pain now, my dear?'

'Not so bad as in church,' said Phyllis, 'only I am very tired, and it is so hot.'

'We will help you home, then,' said Mr. Mohun. As he took her up in his arms, Phyllis laughed, thanked him, replied to various inquiries from her sisters and the Westons—laughed again at sundry jokes from her brothers, then became silent, and was almost asleep, with her head on her papa's shoulder, by the time they reached the hall-door. She thought it very strange to be laid down on the sofa in the drawing-room, and to find every one attending to her. Mrs. Weston bathed her forehead with lavender-water, and Lily cut open the sleeve of her frock; Jane fetched all manner of remedies, and Emily pitied her. She was rather frightened: she thought such a fuss would not be made about her unless she was very ill; she was faint and tired, and was glad when Mrs. Weston proposed that they should all come away, and leave her to go to sleep quietly.

Marianne was so absorbed in admiration of Phyllis that she did not speak one word all the way from church to the New Court, and stood in silence watching the operations upon her friend, till Mrs. Weston sent every one away.

Adeline rather envied Phyllis; she would willingly have endured the pain to be made of so much importance, and said to be better than a Spartan, which must doubtless be something very fine indeed!

Phyllis was waked by the bells ringing for the afternoon service; Mrs. Weston was sitting by her, reading, Claude came to inquire for her, and to tell her that as she had lost her early dinner, she was to join the rest of the party at six. To her great surprise she felt quite well and fresh, and her arm was much better; Mrs. Weston pinned up her sleeve, and she set off with her to church, wondering whether Ada would remember to tell her what she had missed that afternoon at school. Those whose approbation was valuable, honoured Phyllis for her conduct, but she did not perceive it, or seek for it; she did not look like a heroine while running about and playing with Reginald and the dogs in the evening, but her papa had told her she was a good child, Claude had given her one of his kindest smiles, and she was happy. Even when Esther was looking at the mark left by the sting, and telling her that she was sure Miss Marianne Weston would have not been half so good, her simple, humble spirit came to her aid, and she answered, 'I'll tell you what, Esther, Marianne would have behaved much better, for she is older, and never fidgets, and she would not have been angry like me, and just going to kill the wasp.'



CHAPTER X—COUSIN ROTHERWOOD



'We care not who says And intends it dispraise, That an Angler to a fool is next neighbour.'

In the evening Lord Rotherwood renewed his entreaties to Claude to join him on his travels. He was very much bent on taking him, for his own pleasure depended not a little on his cousin's company. Claude lay on the glassy slope of the terrace, while Lord Rotherwood paced rapidly up and down before him, persuading him with all the allurements he could think of, and looking the picture of impatience. Lily sat by, adding her weight to all his arguments. But Claude was almost contemptuous to all the beauties of Germany, and all the promised sights; he scarcely gave himself the trouble to answer his tormentors, only vouchsafing sometimes to open his lips to say that he never meant to go to a country where people spoke a language that sounded like cracking walnuts; that he hated steamers; had no fancy for tumble-down castles; that it was so common to travel; there was more distinction in staying at home; that the field of Waterloo had been spoilt, and was not worth seeing; his ideas of glaciers would be ruined by the reality; and he did not care to see Cologne Cathedral till it was finished.

On this Lily set up an outcry of horror.

'One comfort is, Lily,' said Lord Rotherwood, 'he does not mean it; he did not say it from the bottom of his heart. Now, confess you did not, Claude.'

Claude pretended to be asleep.

'I see plainly enough,' said the Marquis to Lily, 'it is as Wat Greenwood says, "Mr. Reynold and the grapes."'

'But it is not,' said Lily, 'and that is what provokes me; papa says he is quite welcome to go if he likes, and that he thinks it will do him a great deal of good, but that foolish boy will say nothing but "I will think about it," and "thank you"'

'Then I give him up as regularly dense.'

'It is the most delightful plan ever thought of,' said Lily, 'so easily done, and just bringing within his compass all he ever wished to see.'

'Oh! his sole ambition is to stretch those long legs of his on the grass, like a great vegetable marrow,' said Lord Rotherwood. 'It is vegetating like a plant that makes him so much taller than any rational creature with a little animal life.'

'I think Jane has his share of curiosity,' said Lily, 'I am sure I had no idea that anything belonging to us could be so stupid.'

'Well,' said the Marquis, 'I shall not go.'

'No?' said Lily.

'No, I shall certainly not go.'

'Nonsense,' said Claude, waking from his pretended sleep, 'why do you not ask Travers to go with you? He would like nothing better.'