'Phyllis,' said Emily, 'what are you thinking of? What makes you such a figure? Come and speak to Aunt Rotherwood.'

Phyllis drew off her left-hand glove, and held out her hand, making a few sidelong steps towards her aunt, who gave her a rather reluctant kiss. Lily bent her bonnet into shape, and pulled down her frock, while Florence laughed, patted her cheek, and asked what she had been doing.

'Helping Redgie to chop turnips,' was the answer.

Afraid of some further exposure, Emily hastily sent her away to be made fit to be seen, and Lady Rotherwood went on caressing Ada and talking of something else. Emily had no opportunity of explaining that this was not Phyllis's usual condition, and she was afraid that Lady Rotherwood would never believe that it was accidental. She was much annoyed, especially as the catastrophe only served to divert Mr. Mohun and Claude. Of all the family William and Adeline alone took her view of the case. Ada lectured Phyllis on her 'naughtiness,' and plumed herself on her aunt's evident preference, but William was not equally sympathetic. He was indeed as fastidious as Emily herself, and as much annoyed by such misadventures; but he maintained that she was to blame for them, saying that the state of things was not such as it should be, and that the exposure might be advantageous if it put her on her guard in future.

It appeared as if poor Phyllis was to be punished for the vexation which she had caused, for in the course of her adventures with Reginald she caught a cold, which threatened to prevent her from being of the party on Twelfth-Day. She had a cough, which did not give her by any means as much inconvenience as the noise it occasioned did to other people. Every morning and every evening she anxiously asked her sisters whether they thought she would be allowed to go. Another of the party seemed likely to fail. On the 5th of January Claude came down to breakfast later even than usual; but he had no occasion to make excuses, for his heavy eyes, the dark lines under them, his pale cheeks, and the very sit of his hair, were sure signs that he had a violent headache. He soon betook himself to the sofa in the drawing-room, attended by Lily, with pillows, cushions, ether, and lavender. Late in the afternoon the pain diminished a little, and he fell asleep, to the great joy of his sister, who sat watching him, scarcely daring to move.

Suddenly a frightful scream and loud crash was heard in the room above them. Claude started up, and Lily, exclaiming, 'Those tiresome children!' hurried to the room whence the noise had come.

Reginald, Phyllis, and Ada, all stood there laughing. Reginald and Phyllis had been climbing to the top of a great wardrobe, by means of a ladder of chairs and tables. While Phyllis was descending her brother had made some demonstration that startled her, and she fell with all the chairs over her, but without hurting herself.

'You naughty troublesome child,' cried Lily, in no gentle tone. 'How often have you been told to leave off such boyish tricks! And you choose the very place for disturbing poor Claude, with his bad headache, making it worse than ever.'

Phyllis tried to speak, but only succeeded in giving a dismal howl. She went on screaming, sobbing, and roaring so loud that she could not hear Lily's attempts to quiet her. The next minute Claude appeared, looking half distracted. Reginald ran off, and as he dashed out of the room, came full against William, who caught hold of him, calling out to know what was the matter.

'Only Phyllis screaming,' said Lily. 'Oh, Claude, I am very sorry!'

'Is that all?' said Claude. 'I thought some one was half killed!'

He sank into a chair, pressing his hand on his temples, and looking very faint. William supported him, and Lily stood by, repeating, 'I am very sorry—it was all my fault—my scolding—'

'Hush,' said William, 'you have done mischief enough. Go away, children.'

Phyllis had already gone, and the next moment thrust into Lily's hand the first of the medicaments which she had found in the drawing-room. The faintness soon went off, but Claude thought he had better not struggle against the headache any longer, but go to bed, in hopes of being better the next day. William went with him to his room, and Lilias lingered on the stairs, very humble, and very wretched. William soon came forth again, and asked the meaning of the uproar.

'It was all my fault,' said she; 'I was vexed at Claude's being waked, and that made me speak sharply to Phyllis, and set her roaring.'

'I do not know which is the most inconsiderate of you,' said William.

'You cannot blame me more than I deserve,' said Lily. 'May I go to poor Claude?'

'I suppose so; but I do not see what good you are to do. Quiet is the only thing for him.'

Lily, however, went, and Claude gave her to understand that he liked her to stay with him. She arranged his blinds and curtains comfortably, and then sat down to watch him. William went to the drawing-room to write a letter. Just as he had sat down he heard a strange noise, a sound of sobbing, which seemed to come from the corner where the library steps stood. Looking behind them, he beheld Phyllis curled up, her head on her knees, crying bitterly.

'You there! Come out. What is the matter now?'

'I am so very sorry,' sighed she.

'Well, leave off crying.' She would willingly have obeyed, but her sobs were beyond her own control; and he went on, 'If you are sorry, there is no more to be said. I hope it will be a lesson to you another time. You are quite old enough to have more consideration for other people.'

'I am very sorry,' again said Phyllis, in a mournful note.

'Be sorry, only do not roar. You make that noise from habit, I am convinced, and you may break yourself off it if you choose.'

Phyllis crept out of the room, and in a few minutes more the door was softly opened by Emily, returning from her walk.

'I thought Claude was here. Is he gone to bed? Is his head worse?'

'Yes, the children have been doing their best to distract him. Emily, I want to know why it is that those children are for ever in mischief and yelling in all parts of the house.'

'I wish I could help it,' said Emily, with a sigh; 'they are very troublesome.'

'There must be great mismanagement,' said her brother.

'Oh, William! Why do you think so?'

'Other children do not go on in this way, and it was not so in Eleanor's time.'

'It is only Phyllis,' said Emily.

'Phyllis or not, it ought not to be. What will that child grow up, if you let her be always running wild with the boys?'

'Consider, William, that you see us at a disadvantage; we are all unsettled by this illness, and the children have been from home.'

'As if they learnt all these wild tricks at Broomhill! That excuse will not do, Emily.'

'And then they are always worse in the holidays,' pleaded Emily.

'Yes, there are reasons to be found for everything that goes wrong; but if you were wise you would look deeper. Now, Emily, I do not wish to be hard upon you, for I know you are in a very difficult position, and very young for such a charge, but I am sure you might manage better. I do not think you use your energies. There is no activity, nor regularity, nor method, about this household. I believe that my father sees that this is the case, but it is not his habit to find fault with little things. You may think that, therefore, I need not interfere, but—'

'Oh, William! I am glad—'

'But remember that comfort is made up of little things. And, Emily, when you consider how much my father has suffered, and how desolate his home must be at the best, I think you will be inclined to exert yourself to prevent him from being anxious about the children or harassed by your negligence.'

'Indeed, William,' returned Emily, with many tears, 'it is my most earnest wish to make him comfortable. Thank you for what you have said. Now that I am stronger, I hope to do more, and I will really do my best.'

At this moment Emily was sincere; but the good impulse of one instant was not likely to endure against long cherished habits of selfish apathy.

Claude did not appear again till the middle of the next day. His headache was nearly gone, but he was so languid that he gave up all thoughts of Devereux Castle that evening. Lord Rotherwood, who always seemed to know what was going on at Beechcroft, came to inquire for him, and very unwillingly allowed that it would be better for him to stay at home. Lilias wished to remain with him; but this her cousin would not permit, saying that he could not consent to lose three of the party, and Florence would be disappointed in all her plans. Neither would Claude hear of keeping her at home, and she was obliged to satisfy herself with putting his arm-chair in his favourite corner by the fire, with the little table before it, supplied with books, newspaper, inkstand, paper-knife, and all the new periodicals, and he declared that he should enjoy the height of luxury.

Phyllis considered it to be entirely her fault that he could not go, and was too much grieved on that account to have many regrets to spare for herself. She enjoyed seeing Adeline dressed, and hearing Esther's admiration of her. And having seen the party set off, she made her way into the drawing-room, opening the door as gently as possible, just wide enough to admit her little person, then shutting it as if she was afraid of hurting it, she crept across the room on tiptoe. She started when Claude looked up and said, 'Why, Phyl, I have not seen you to-day.'

'Good morning,' she mumbled, advancing in her sidelong way.

Claude suspected that she had been more blamed the day before than the occasion called for, and wishing to make amends he kissed her, and said something good-natured about spending the evening together.

Phyllis, a little reassured, went to her own occupations. She took out a large heavy volume, laid it on the window-seat, and began to read. Claude was interested in his own book, and did not look up till the light failed him. He then, closing his book, gave a long yawn, and looked round for his little companion, almost thinking, from the stillness of the room, that she must have gone to seek for amusement in the nursery.

She was, however, still kneeling against the window-seat, her elbows planted on the great folio, and her head between her hands, reading intently.

'Little Madam,' said he, 'what great book have you got there?'

'As You Like It,' said Phyllis.

'What! are you promoted to reading Shakspeare?'

'I have not read any but this,' said Phyllis. 'Ada and I have often looked at the pictures, and I liked the poor wounded stag coming down to the water so much, that I read about it, and then I went on. Was it wrong, Claude? no one ever told me not.'

'You are welcome to read it,' said Claude, 'but not now—it is too dark. Come and sit in the great chair on the other side of the fire, and be sociable. And what do you think of 'As You Like It?''

'I like it very much,' answered Phyllis, 'only I cannot think why Jacks did not go to the poor stag, and try to cure it, when he saw its tears running into the water.'

To save the character of Jacks, Claude gravely suggested the difficulty of catching the stag, and then asked Phyllis her opinion of the heroines.

'Oh! it was very funny about Rosalind dressing like a man, and then being ready to cry like a girl when she was tired, and then pretending to pretend to be herself; and Celia, it was very kind of her to go away with Rosalind; but I should have liked her better if she had stayed at home, and persuaded her father to let Rosalind stay too. I am sure she would if she had been like Ada. Then it is so nice about Old Adam and Orlando. Do not you think so, Claude? It is just what I am sure Wat Greenwood would do for Redgie, if he was to be turned out like Orlando.'

'It is just what Wat Greenwood's ancestor did for Sir Maurice Mohun,' said Claude.

'Yes, Dame Greenwood tells us that story.'

'Well, Phyl, I think you show very good taste in liking the scene between Orlando and Adam.'

'I am glad you like it, too, Claude. But I will tell you what I like best,' exclaimed the little girl, springing up, 'I do like it, when Orlando killed the lioness and the snake,—and saved Oliver; how glad he must have been.'

'Glad to have done good to his enemy,' said Claude; 'yes, indeed.'

'His enemy! he was his brother, you know. I meant it must be so very nice to save anybody—don't you think so, Claude?'

'Certainly.'

'Claude, do you know there is nothing I wish so much as to save somebody's life. It was very nice to save the dragon-fly; and it is very nice to let flies out of spiders' webs, only they always have their legs and wings torn, and look miserable; and it was very nice to put the poor little thrushes back into their nest when they tumbled out, and then to see their mother come to feed them; and it was very pleasant to help the poor goose that had put its head through the pales, and could not get it back. Mrs. Harrington said it would have been strangled if I had not helped it. That was very nice, but how delightful it would be to save some real human person's life.'

Claude did not laugh at the odd medley in her speech, but answered, 'Well, those little things train you in readiness and kindness.'

'Will they?' said Phyllis, pressing on to express what had long been her earnest wish. 'If I could but save some one, I should not mind being killed myself—I think not—I hope it is not naughty to say so. I believe there is something in the Bible about it, about laying down one's life for one's friend.'

'There is, Phyl, and I quite agree with you; it must be a great blessing to have saved some one.'

'And little girls have sometimes done it, Claude. I know a story of one who saved her little brother from drowning, and another waked the people when the house was on fire. And when I was at Broomhill, Marianne showed me a story of a young lady who helped to save the Prince, that Prince Charlie that Miss Weston sings about. I wish the Prince of Wales would get into some misfortune—I should like to save him.'

'I do not quite echo that loyal wish,' said Claude.

'Well, but, Claude, Redgie wishes for a rebellion, like Sir Maurice's, for he says all the boys at his school would be one regiment, in green velvet coats, and white feathers in their hats.'

'Indeed! and Redgie to be Field Marshal?'

'No, he is to be Sir Reginald Mohun, a Knight of the Garter, and to ask the Queen to give William back the title of Baron of Beechcroft, and make papa a Duke.'

'Well done! he is to take good care of the interests of the family.'

'But it is not that that I should care about,' said Phyllis. 'I should like it better for the feeling in one's own self; I think all that fuss would rather spoil it—don't you, Claude?'

'Indeed, I do; but Phyllis, if you only wish for that feeling, you need not look for dangers or rebellions to gain it.'

'Oh! you mean the feeling that very good people indeed have—people like Harry—but that I shall never be.'

'I hope you mean to try, though.'

'I do try; I wish I was as good as Ada, but I am so naughty and so noisy that I do not know what to do. Every day when I say my prayers I think about being quiet, and not idling at my lessons, and sometimes I do stop in time, and behave better, but sometimes I forget, and I do not mind what I am about, and my voice gets loud, and I let the things tumble down and make a noise, and so it was yesterday.' Here she looked much disposed to cry.

'No, no, we will not have any crying this evening,' said Claude. 'I do not think you did me much mischief, my head ached just as much before.'

'That was a thing I wanted to ask you about: William says my crying loud is all habit, and that I must cure myself of it. How does he mean? Ought I to cry every day to practise doing it without roaring?'

'Do you like to begin,' said Claude, laughing; 'shall I beat you or pinch you?'

'Oh! it would make your head bad again,' said Phyllis; 'but I wish you would tell me what he means. When I cry I only think about what makes me unhappy.'

'Try never to cry,' said Claude; 'I assure you it is not pleasant to hear you, even when I have no headache. If you wish to do anything right, you must learn self-control, and it will be a good beginning to check yourself when you are going to cry. Do not look melancholy now. Here comes the tea. Let me see how you will perform as tea- maker.'

'I wish the evening would not go away so fast!'

'And what are we to do after tea? You are queen of the evening.'

'If you would but tell me a story, Claude.'

They lingered long over the tea-table, talking and laughing, and when they had finished, Phyllis discovered with surprise that it was nearly bedtime. The promised story was not omitted, however, and Phyllis, sitting on a little footstool at her brother's feet, looked up eagerly for it.

'Well, Phyl, I will tell you a true history that I heard from an officer who had served in the Peninsular War—the war in Spain, you know.'

'Yes, with the French, who killed their king. Lily told me.'

'And the Portuguese were helping us. Just after we had taken the town of Ciudad Rodrigo, some of the Portuguese soldiers went to find lodgings for themselves, and, entering a magazine of gunpowder, made a fire on the floor to dress their food. A most dangerous thing—do you know why?'

'The book would be burnt,' said Phyllis.

'What book, you wise child?'

'The Magazine; I thought a magazine was one of the paper books that Maurice is always reading.'

'Oh!' said Claude, laughing, 'a magazine is a store, and as many different things are stored in those books, they are called magazines. A powder magazine is a store of barrels of gunpowder. Now do you see why it was dangerous to light a fire?'

'It blows up,' said Phyllis; 'that was the reason why Robinson Crusoe was afraid of the lightning.'

'Right, Phyl, and therefore a candle is never allowed to be carried into a powder magazine, and even nailed shoes are never worn there, lest they should strike fire. One spark, lighting on a grain of gunpowder, scattered on the floor, might communicate with the rest, make it all explode, and spread destruction everywhere. Think in what fearful peril these reckless men had placed, not only themselves, but the whole town, and the army. An English officer chanced to discover them, and what do you think he did?'

'Told all the people to run away.'

'How could he have told every one, soldiers, inhabitants, and all? where could they have gone? No, he raised no alarm, but he ordered the Portuguese out of the building, and with the help of an English sergeant, he carried out, piece by piece, all the wood which they had set on fire. Now, imagine what that must have been. An explosion might happen at any moment, yet they had to walk steadily, slowly, and with the utmost caution, in and out of this place several times, lest one spark might fly back.'

'Then they were saved?' cried Phyllis, breathlessly; 'and what became of them afterwards?'

'They were both killed in battle, the officer, I believe, in Badajoz, and the sergeant sometime afterwards.'

Phyllis gave a deep sigh, and sat silent for some minutes. Next, Claude began a droll Irish fairy-tale, which he told with spirit and humour, such as some people would have scorned to exert for the amusement of a mere child. Phyllis laughed, and was so happy, that when suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, she started up, wondering what brought the others home so soon, and was still more surprised when Claude told her it was past ten.

'Oh dear! what will papa and Emily say to me for being up still? But I will stay now, it would not be fair to pretend to be gone to bed.'

'Well said, honest Phyl; now for the news from the castle.'

'Why, Claude,' said his eldest brother, entering, 'you are alive again.'

'I doubt whether your evening could have been pleasanter than ours,' said Claude.

'Phyl,' cried Ada, 'do you know, Mary Carrington's governess thought I was Florence's sister.'

'You look so bright, Claude,' said Jane, 'I think you must have taken Cinderella's friend with the pumpkin to enliven you.'

'My fairy was certainly sister to a Brownie,' said Claude, stroking Phyllis's hair.

'Claude,' again began Ada, 'Miss Car—'

'I wish Cinderella's fairy may be forthcoming the day of the ball,' said Lily, disconsolately.

'And William is going after all,' said Emily.

'Indeed! has the great Captain relented?'

'Yes. Is it not good of him? Aunt Rotherwood is so much pleased that he consents to go entirely to oblige her.'

'Sensible of his condescension,' said Claude. 'By the bye, what makes the Baron look so mischievous?'

'Mischievous!' said Emily, looking round with a start, 'he is looking very comical, and so he has been all the evening.'

'What? You thought mischievous was meant in Hannah's sense, when she complains of Master Reginald being very mischie-vi-ous.'

Ada now succeeded in saying, 'The Carringtons' governess called me Lady Ada.'

'How could she bring herself to utter so horrid a sound?' said Claude.

'Ada is more cock-a-hoop than ever now,' said Reginald; 'she does not think Miss Weston good enough to speak to.'

'But, Claude, she really did, she thought I was Florence's sister, and she said I was just like her.'

'I wish you would hold your tongue, or go to bed,' said William, 'I have heard nothing but this nonsense all the way home.'

While William was sending off Ada to bed, and Phyllis was departing with her, Lily told Claude that the Captain had been most agreeable. 'I feared,' said she, 'that he would be too grand for this party, but he was particularly entertaining; Rotherwood was quite eclipsed.'

'Rotherwood wants Claude to set him off,' said Mr. Mohun. 'Now, young ladies, reserve the rest of your adventures for the morning.'

Adeline had full satisfaction in recounting the governess's mistake to the maids, and in hearing from Esther that it was no wonder, 'for that she looked more like a born lady than Lady Florence herself!'

Lilias's fit of petulance about the ball had returned more strongly than ever; she partly excused herself to her own mind, by fancying she disliked the thought of the lonely evening she was to spend more than that of losing the pleasure of the ball. Mr. Mohun would be absent, conducting Maurice to a new school, and Claude and Reginald would also be gone.

Her temper was affected in various ways; she wondered that William and Emily could like to go—she had thought that Miss Weston was wiser. Her daily occupations were irksome—she was cross to Phyllis.

It made her very angry to be accused by the young brothers of making a fuss, and Claude's silence was equally offensive. It was upon principle that he said nothing. He knew it was nothing but a transient attack of silliness, of which she was herself ashamed; but he was sorry to leave her in that condition, and feared Lady Rotherwood's coming into the neighbourhood was doing her harm, as certainly as it was spoiling Ada. The ball day arrived, and it was marked by a great burst of fretfulness on the part of poor Lilias, occasioned by so small a matter as the being asked by Emily to write a letter to Eleanor. Emily was dressing to go to dine at Devereux Castle when she made the request.

'What have I to say? I never could write a letter in my life, at least not to the Duenna—there is no news.'

'About the boys going to school,' Emily suggested.

'As if she did not know all about them as well as I can tell her. She does not care for my news, I see no one to hear gossip from. I thought you undertook all the formal correspondence, Emily?'

'Do you call a letter to your sister formal correspondence!'

'Everything is formal with her. All I can say is, that you and William are going to the ball, and she will say that is very silly.'

'Eleanor once went to this Raynham ball; it was her first and last,' said Emily.

'Yes, not long before they went to Italy; it will only make her melancholy to speak of it—I declare I cannot write.'

'And I have no time,' said Emily, 'and you know how vexed she is if she does not get her letter every Saturday.'

'All for the sake of punctuality, nothing else,' said Lily. 'I rather like to disappoint fidgety people—don't you, Emily?'

'Well,' said Emily, 'only papa does not like that she should be disappointed.'

'You might have written, if you had not dawdled away all the morning.'

This was true, and it therefore stung Emily, who complained that Lily was very unkind. Lily defended herself sharply, and the dispute was growing vehement, when William happily cut it short by a summons to Emily to make haste.

When they were gone Lily had time for reflection. Good-temper was so common a virtue, and generally cost her so little effort, that she took no pains to cultivate it, but she now felt she had lost all claim to be considered amiable under disappointment. It was too late to bear the privation with a good grace. She was heartily ashamed of having been so cross about a trifle, and ashamed of being discontented at Emily's having a pleasure in which she could not share. Would this have been the case a year ago? She was afraid to ask herself the question, and without going deep enough into the history of her own mind to make her sorrow and shame profitable, she tried to satisfy herself with a superficial compensation, by making herself particularly agreeable to her three younger sisters, and by writing a very long and entertaining letter to Eleanor.

She met Emily with a cheerful face the next day, and listened with pleasure to her history of the ball; and when Mr. Mohun returned home he saw that the cloud had passed away. But, alas! Lilias neglected to take the only means of preventing its recurrence.

The next week William departed. Before he went he gave his sisters great pleasure by desiring them to write to him, and not to let him fall into his ancient state of ignorance respecting the affairs of Beechcroft.

'Mind,' was his farewell speech, 'I expect you to keep me au courant du jour. I will not be in the dark about your best friends and neighbours when I come home next July.'



CHAPTER XVI—VANITY AND VEXATION



'And still I have to tell the same sad tale Of wasted energies, and idle dreams.'

Devereux Castle now became the great resort of the Miss Mohuns. They were always sure of a welcome there. Lady Rotherwood liked to patronise them, and Florence was glad of their society.

This was quite according to the wishes of Emily, who now had nothing left to desire, but that the style of dress suitable, in her opinion, to the granddaughter of the Marquis of Rotherwood, was more in accordance with the purse of the daughter of the Esquire of Beechcroft. It was no part of Emily's character to care for dress. She was at once too indolent and too sensible; she saw the vulgarity of finery, and only aimed at simplicity and elegance. During their girlhood Emily and Lilias had had no more concern with their clothes than with their food; Eleanor had carefully taught them plain needlework, and they had assisted in making more than one set of shirts; but they had nothing to do with the choice or fashion of their own apparel. They were always dressed alike, and in as plain and childish a manner as they could be, consistently with their station. On Eleanor's marriage a suitable allowance was given to each of them, in order that they might provide their own clothes, and until Rachel left them they easily kept themselves in very good trim. When Esther came Lily cheerfully took the trouble of her own small decorations, considering it as her payment for the pleasure of having Esther in the house. Emily, however, neglected the useful 'stitch in time,' till even 'nine' were unavailing. She soon found herself compelled to buy new ready-made articles, and expected Lilias to do the same. But Lilias demurred, for she was too wise to think it necessary to ruin herself in company with Emily, and thus the two sisters were no longer dressed alike. A constant fear tormented Emily lest she should disgrace Lady Rotherwood, or be considered by some stranger as merely a poor relation of the great people, and not as the daughter of the gentleman of the oldest family in the county. She was, therefore, anxious to be perfectly fashionable, and not to wear the same things too often, and in her disinterested desire to maintain the dignity of the family the allowance which she received at Christmas melted away in her hands.

Lily, though exempt from this folly, was not in a satisfactory state of mind. She was drawn off from her duties by a kind of spell. It was not that she liked Florence's society better than her home pursuits.

Florence was indeed a very sweet-tempered and engaging creature; but her mind was not equal to that of Lilias, and there was none of the pleasure of relying upon her, and looking up to her, which Lilias had learnt to enjoy in the company of her brother Claude, and of Alethea Weston. It was only that Lily's own mind had been turned away from her former occupations, and that she did not like to resume them. She had often promised herself to return to her really useful studies, and her positive duties, as soon as her brothers were gone; but day after day passed and nothing was done, though her visits to the cottages and her lessons to Phyllis were often neglected. Her calls at Devereux Castle took up many afternoons. Florence continually lent her amusing books, her aunt took great interest in her music, and she spent much time in practising. The mornings were cold and dark, and she could not rise early, and thus her time slipped away, she knew not how, uselessly and unsatisfactorily. The three younger ones were left more to themselves, and to the maids. Jane sought for amusement in village gossip, and the little ones, finding the nursery more agreeable than the deserted drawing-room, made Esther their companion.

Mr. Mohun had, at this time, an unusual quantity of business on his hands; he saw that the girls were not going on well, but he had reasons for not interfering at present, and he looked forward to Eleanor's visit as the conclusion of their trial.

'I cannot think,' said Marianne Weston one day to her sister, 'why Mr. Mohun comes here so often.'

Alethea told her he had some business with their mamma, and she thought no more of the matter, till she was one day questioned by Jane. She was rather afraid of Jane, who, as she thought, disliked her, and wished to turn her into ridicule; so it was with no satisfaction that she found herself separated from the others in the course of a walk, and submitted to a cross-examination.

Jane asked, in a mysterious manner, who had been at Broomhill that morning.

'Mr. Mohun,' said Marianne.

'What did he go there for?' said Jane.

'Alethea says he has some business with mamma.'

'Then you did not hear what it was?'

'I was not in the room.'

'Are you never there when he comes?'

'Sometimes.'

'And is Alethea there?'

'Oh yes!'

'His business must be with her too. Cannot you guess it?'

'No,' said Marianne, looking amazed.

'How can you be so slow?'

'I am not sure that I would guess if I could,' said Marianne, 'for I do not think they wish me to know.'

'Oh! nonsense, it is fine fun to find out secrets,' said Jane. 'You will know it at last, you may be sure, so there can be no harm in making it out beforehand, so as to have the pleasure of triumph when the wise people vouchsafe to admit you into their confidence; I am sure I know it all.'

'Then please do not tell me, Jane, I ought not to hear it.'

'Little Mrs. Propriety,' said Jane, 'you are already assuming all the dignity of my Aunt Marianne, and William's Aunt Marianne—oh! and of little Henry's Great-aunt Marianne. Now,' she added, laughing, 'can you guess the secret?'

Marianne stood still in amazement for a moment, and then exclaimed, 'Jane, Jane! you do not mean it, you are only trying to tease me.'

'I am quite serious,' said Jane. 'You will see that I am right.'

Here they were interrupted, and as soon as she returned from her walk Marianne, perplexed and amazed, went to her mother, and told her all that Jane had said.

'How can she be so silly?' said Mrs. Weston.

'Then it is all nonsense, as I thought,' said Marianne, joyfully. 'I should not like Alethea to marry an old man.'

'Mr. Mohun is very unlikely to make himself ridiculous,' said Mrs. Weston. 'Do not say anything of it to Alethea; it would only make her uncomfortable.'

'If it had been Captain Mohun, now —' Marianne stopped, and blushed, finding her speech unanswered.

A few days after, Mr. Mohun overtook Marianne and her mother, as he was riding home from Raynham, and dismounting, led his horse, and walked on with them. Either not perceiving Marianne, or not caring whether she heard him, he said,

'Has Miss Weston received the letter she expected?'

'No,' said Mrs. Weston, 'she thinks, as there is no answer, the family must be gone abroad, and very probably they have taken Miss Aylmer with them; but she has written to another friend to ask about them.'

'From all I hear,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I should prefer waiting to hear from her, before we make further inquiries; we shall not be ready before midsummer, as I should wish my eldest daughter to assist me in making this important decision.'

'In that case,' said Mrs. Weston, 'there will be plenty of time to communicate with her. I can see some of the friends of the family when I go to London, for we must not leave Mr. Weston in solitude another spring.'

'Perhaps I shall see you there,' said Mr. Mohun. 'I have some business in London, and I think I shall meet the Hawkesworths there in May or June.'

After a little more conversation Mr. Mohun took his leave, and as soon as he had ridden on, Marianne said, 'Oh! mamma, I could not help hearing.'

'My dear,' said Mrs. Weston, 'I know you may be trusted; but I should not have told you, as you may find such a secret embarrassing when you are with your young friends.'

'And so they are to have a governess?'

'Yes; and we are trying to find Miss Aylmer for them.'

'Miss Aylmer! I am glad of it; how much Phyllis and Ada will like her!'

'Yes, it will be very good for them; I wish I knew the Grants' direction.'

'Well, I hope Jane will not question me any more; it will be very difficult to manage, now I know the truth.'

But poor Marianne was not to escape. Jane was on the watch to find her alone, and as soon as an opportunity offered, she began:-

'Well, auntie, any discoveries?'

'Indeed, Jane, it is not right to fancy Mr. Mohun can do anything so absurd.'

'That is as people may think,' said Jane.

'I wish you would not talk in that way,' said Marianne.

'Now, Marianne,' pursued the tormentor, 'if you can explain the mystery I will believe you, otherwise I know what to think.'

'I am certain you are wrong, Jane; but I can tell you no more.'

'Very well, my good aunt, I am satisfied.'

Jane really almost persuaded herself that she was right, as she perceived that her father was always promoting intercourse with the Westons, and took pleasure in conversing with Alethea. She twisted everything into a confirmation of her idea; while the prospect of having Miss Weston for a stepmother increased her former dislike; but she kept her suspicions to herself for the present, triumphing in the idea that, when the time came, she could bring Marianne as a witness of her penetration.

The intercourse between the elder Miss Mohuns and Miss Weston was, however, not so frequent as formerly; and Alethea herself could not but remark that, while Mr. Mohun seemed to desire to become more intimate, his daughters were more backward in making appointments with her. This was chiefly remarkable in Emily and Jane. Lilias was the same in openness, earnestness, and affection; but there was either a languor about her spirits or they were too much excited, and her talk was more of novels, and less of poor children than formerly. The constant visits to Devereux Castle prevented Emily and Lilias from being as often as before at church, and thus they lost many walks and talks that they used to enjoy in the way home. Marianne began to grow indignant, especially on one occasion, when Emily and Lily went out for a drive with Lady Rotherwood, forgetting that they had engaged to take a walk with the Westons that afternoon.

'It is really a great deal too bad,' said she to Alethea; 'it is exactly what we have read of in books about grandeur making people cast off their old friends.'

'Do not be unfair, Marianne,' said Alethea. 'Lady Florence has a better right to—'

'Better right!' exclaimed Marianne. 'What, because she is a marquis's daughter?'

'Because she is their cousin.'

'I do not believe Lilias really cares for her half as much as for you,' said Marianne. 'It is all because they are fine people.'

'Nay, Marianne, if our cousins were to come into this neighbourhood, we should not be as dependent on the Mohuns as we now feel.'

'I hope we should not break our engagements with them.'

'Perhaps they could not help it. When their aunt came to fetch them, knowing how seldom they can have the carriage, it would have been scarcely civil to say that they had rather take a walk with people they can see any day.'

'Last year Lilias would have let Emily go by herself,' said Marianne. 'Alethea, they are all different since that Lady Rotherwood came—all except Phyl. Ada is a great deal more conceited than she was when she was staying here; she pulls out her curls, and looks in the glass much more, and she is always talking about some one having taken her for Lady Florence's sister. And, Alethea, just fancy, she does not like me to go through a gate before her, because she says she has precedence!'

Alethea was much amused, but she would not let Marianne condemn the whole family for Ada's folly. 'It will all come right,' said she, 'let us be patient and good-humoured, and nothing can be really wrong.'

Though Alethea made the best of it to her sister, she could not but feel hurt, and would have been much more so if her temper had been jealous or sentimental. Almost in spite of herself she had bestowed upon Lilias no small share of her affection, and she would have been more pained by her neglect if she had not partaken of that spirit which 'thinketh no evil, but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, and endureth all things.'

Lilias was not satisfied with either herself, her home, her sisters, or her school; she was far from being the fresh, happy creature that she had been the year before. She had seen the fallacy of her principle of love, but in her self-willed adherence to it she had lost the strong sense and habit of duty which had once ruled her; and in a vague and restless frame of mind, she merely sought from day to day for pleasure and idle occupation. Lent came, but she was not roused, she was only more uncomfortable when she saw the Rector, or Alethea, or went to church. Alethea's unfailing gentleness she felt almost as a rebuke; and Mr. Devereux, though always kind and good- natured, had ceased to speak to her of those small village matters in which she used to be prime counsellor.

The school became a burthen instead of a delight, and her attendance there a fatigue. On going in one Sunday morning, very late, she found Alethea teaching her class as well as her own. With a look of vexation she inquired, as she took her place, if it was so very late, and on the way to church she said again, 'I thought I was quite in time; I do not like to hurry the children—the distant ones have not time to come. It was only half-past nine.'

'Oh, Lilias,' said Marianne, 'it was twenty minutes to ten, I know, for I had just looked at the clock.'

'That clock is always too fast,' said Lily.

The next Sunday was very cold, and Lilias did not feel at all disposed to leave the fire when the others prepared to go to the afternoon school.

'Is it time?' said she. 'I was chilled at church, and my feet are still like ice; I will follow you in five minutes.'

Alethea went, and Lilias lingered by the fire. Mrs. Weston once asked her if she knew how late it was; but still she waited, until she was startled by the sound of the bell for evening service. As she went to church with Mrs. Weston and Emily she met Jane, who told her that her class had been unemployed all the afternoon.

'I would have taken them,' said she, 'but that Robert does not like me to teach the great girls, and I do think Alethea might have heard them.'

'It is very provoking,' said Lily, pettishly; 'I thought I might depend—' She turned and saw Miss Weston close to her. 'Oh, Alethea!' said she, 'I thought you would have heard those girls.'

'I thought you were coming,' said Alethea.

'So I was, but I am sure the bell rang too early. I do wish you had taken them, Alethea.'

'I am sorry you are vexed,' said Alethea, simply.

'What makes you think I am vexed? I only thought you liked hearing my class.'

They were by this time at the church door, and as they entered Alethea blamed herself for feeling grieved, and Lily awoke to a sense of her unreasonableness. She longed to tell Alethea how sorry she felt, but she had no opportunity, and she resolved to go to Broomhill the next day to make her confession. In the night, however, snow began to fall, and the morning showed the February scene of thawing snow and pouring rain. Going out was impossible, both on that day and the next. Wednesday dawned fair and bright; but just after breakfast Lily received a little note, with the intelligence that Mr. Weston had arrived at Broomhill on Monday evening, and with his wife and daughters was to set off that very day to make a visit to some friends on the way to London. Had not the weather been so bad, Alethea said she should have come to take leave of her New Court friends on Tuesday, but she could now only send this note to tell them how sorry she was to go without seeing them, and to beg Emily to send back a piece of music which she had lent to her. The messenger was Faith Longley, who was to accompany them, and who now was going home to take leave of her mother, and would call again for the music in a quarter of an hour. Lily ran to ask her when they were to go. 'At eleven,' was the answer; and Lily telling her she need not call again, as she herself would bring the music, went to look for it. High and low did she seek, and so did Jane, but it was not to be found in any nook, likely or unlikely; and when at last Lily, in despair, gave up the attempt to find it, it was already a quarter to eleven. Emily sent many apologies and civil messages, and Lily set out at a rapid pace to walk to Broomhill by the road, for the thaw had rendered the fields impassable. Fast as she walked, she was too late. She had the mortification of seeing the carriage turn out at the gates, and take the Raynham road; she was not even seen, nor had she a wave of the hand, or a smile to comfort her.

Almost crying with vexation, she walked home, and sat down to write to Alethea, but, alas! she did not know where to direct a letter. Bitterly did she repent of the burst of ill-temper which had stained her last meeting with her friend, and she was scarcely comforted even by the long and affectionate letter which she received a week after their departure. Kindness from her was now forgiveness; never did she so strongly feel Florence's inferiority; and she wondered at herself for having sought her society so much as to neglect her patient and superior friend. She became careless and indifferent to Florence, and yet she went on in her former course, following Emily, and fancying that nothing at Beechcroft could interest her in the absence of her dear Alethea Weston.



CHAPTER XVII: LITTLE AGNES



'O guide us when our faithless hearts From Thee would start aloof, Where patience her sweet skill imparts, Beneath some cottage roof.'

Palm Sunday brought Lily many regrets. It was the day of the school prize giving, and she reflected with shame, how much less she knew about the children than last year, and how little they owed to her; she feared to think of the approach of Easter Day, a dread which she had never felt before, and which she knew to be a very bad sign; but her regret was not repentance—she talked, and laughed, and tried to feel at ease. Agnes Eden's happy face was the most pleasant sight on that day. The little girl received a Bible, and as it was given to her her pale face was coloured with bright pink, her blue eyes lighted up, her smile was radiant with the beauty of innocence, but Lily could not look at her without self-reproach. She resolved to make up for her former neglect by double kindness, and determined that, at any rate, Passion Week should be properly spent—she would not once miss going to church.

But on Monday, when Emily proposed to ride to Devereux Castle, she assented, only saying that they would return for evening service. She took care to remind her sister when it was time to set out homewards; but Emily was, as usual, so long in taking her leave that it was too late to think of going to church when they set off.

About two miles from Beechcroft Lily saw a little figure in a gray cloak trudging steadily along the road, and as she came nearer she recognised Kezia Grey. She stopped and asked the child what brought her so far from home.

'I am going for the doctor, Miss,' said the child.

'Is your mother worse?' asked Lily.

'Mother is pretty well,' said Kezia; 'but it is for Agnes Eden, Miss- -she is terrible bad.'

'Poor little Agnes!' exclaimed Lily. 'Why, she was at school yesterday.'

'Yes, Miss, but she was taken bad last night.'

After a moment's consultation between the sisters, Kezia was told that she might return home, and the servant who accompanied the Miss Mohuns was sent to Raynham for the doctor. The next afternoon Lily was just setting out to inquire for Agnes when Lord Rotherwood arrived at the New Court with his sister. He wanted to show Florence some of his favourite haunts at Beechcroft, and had brought her to join his cousins in their walk. A very pleasant expedition they made, but it led them so far from home that the church bell was heard pealing over the woods far in the distance. Lily could not go to Mrs. Eden's cottage, because she did not know the nature of Agnes's complaint, and her aunt could not bear that Florence should go into any house where there was illness. In the course of the walk, however, she met Kezia, on her way to the New Court, to ask for a blister for Agnes, the doctor having advised Mrs. Eden to apply to the Miss Mohuns for one, as it was wanted quickly, and it was too far to send to Raynham. Lily promised to send the blister as soon as possible, and desired the little messenger to return home, where she was much wanted, to help her mother, who had a baby of less than a week old.

Alas! in the mirth and amusement of the evening Lily entirely forgot the blister, until just as she went to bed, when she made one of her feeble resolutions to take it, or send it early in the morning. She only awoke just in time to be ready for breakfast, went downstairs without one thought of the sick child, and never recollected her, until at church, just before the Litany, she heard these words: 'The prayers of the congregation are desired for Agnes Eden.'

She felt as if she had been shot, and scarcely knew where she was for several moments. On coming out of church, she stood almost in a dream, while Emily and Jane were talking to the Rector, who told them how very ill the child was, and how little hope there was of her recovery. He took leave of them, and Lily walked home, scarcely hearing the soothing words with which Emily strove to comfort her. The meaning passed away mournfully; Lily sat over the fire without speaking, and without attempting to do anything. In the afternoon rain came on; but Lily, too unhappy not to be restless, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out.

She walked quickly up the hill, and entered the field where the cottage stood. There she paused. She did not dare to knock at the cottage door; she could not bear to speak to Mrs. Eden; she dreaded the sight of Mrs. Grey or Kezia, and she gazed wistfully at the house, longing, yet fearing, to know what was passing within it. She wandered up and down the field, and at last was trying to make up her mind to return home, when she heard footsteps behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Devereux advancing along the path at the other end of the field.

'Have you been to inquire for Agnes?' said he.

'I could not. I long to know, but I cannot bear to ask, I cannot venture in.'

'Do you like to go in with me?' said her cousin. 'I do not think you will see anything dreadful.'

'Thank you,' said Lily, 'I would give anything to know about her.'

'How you tremble! but you need not be afraid.'

He knocked at the door, but there was no answer; he opened it, and going to the foot of the stairs, gently called Mrs. Eden, who came down calm and quiet as ever, though very pale.

'How is she?'

'No better, sir, thank you, light-headed still.'

'Oh! Mrs. Eden, I am so sorry,' sobbed Lily. 'Oh! can you forgive me?'

'Pray do not take on so, Miss,' said Mrs. Eden. 'You have always been a very kind friend to her, Miss Lilias. Do not take on so, Miss. If it is His will, nothing could have made any difference.'

Lily was going to speak again, but Mr. Devereux stopped her, saying, 'We must not keep Mrs. Eden from her, Lily.'

'Thank you, sir, her aunt is with her,' said Mrs. Eden, 'and no one is any good there now, she does not know any one. Will you walk up and see her, sir? will you walk up, Miss Lilias?'

Lily silently followed her cousin up the narrow stairs to the upper room, where, in the white-curtained bed, lay the little child, tossing about and moaning, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her blue eyes wide open, but unconscious. A woman, whom Lily did not at first perceive to be Mrs. Naylor, rose and courtsied on their entrance. Agnes's new Bible was beside her, and her mother told them that she was not easy if it was out of sight for an instant.

At this moment Agnes called out, 'Mother,' and Mrs. Eden bent down to her, but she only repeated, 'Mother' two or three times, and then began talking:

'Kissy, I want my bag—where is my thimble—no, not that I can't remember—my catechism-book—my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, wherein I was made a member—my Christian name—my name, it is my Christian name; no, that is not it -

"It is a name by which I am Writ in the hook of life, And here below a charm to keep, Unharmed by sin and strife; As often as my name I hear, I hear my Saviour's voice."'

Then she began the Creed, but, breaking off, exclaimed, 'Where is my Bible, mother, I shall read it to-morrow—read that pretty verse about "I am the good Shepherd—the Lord is my Shepherd, therefore can I lack nothing—yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art within me."

"I now am of that little flock Which Christ doth call His own, For all His sheep He knows by name, And He of them is known."'

'Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,' said the pastor, and the child turned her face towards him as if she understood him. Kneeling down, he repeated the Lord's Prayer, and the feeble voice followed his. He then read the prayer for a sick child, and left the room, for he saw that Lily would be quite overcome if she remained there any longer. Mrs. Eden followed them downstairs, and again stung poor Lily to the heart by thanks for all her kindness.

They then left the house of mourning; Lily trembled violently, and clung to her cousin's arm for support. Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs were checked by awe at Mrs. Eden's calmness. She felt as if she had been among the angels.

'How pale you are!' said her cousin, 'I would not have taken you there if I thought it would overset you so much. Come into Mrs. Grey's, and sit down and recover a little.'

'No, no, do not let me see any one,' said Lily. 'Oh! that dear child! Robert, let me tell you the worst, for your kindness is more than I can bear. I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it!'

She could say no more for some minutes, but her cousin did not speak. Recovering her voice, she added, 'Only speak to me, Robert.'

'I am very sorry for you,' answered he, in a kind tone.

'But tell me, what shall I do?'

'What to do, you ask,' said the Rector; 'I am not sure that I know what you mean. If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so for your good.'

'I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,' said Lily.

'I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a little deeper than this omission.'

'You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,' said Lily; 'I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.'

'May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this Lent?'

'Robert, you are right,' cried Lily; 'you may well ask. I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy. Oh! how different it will be.'

'It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,' said the Rector.

'No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,' said Lily; 'it all began from just after Eleanor's wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.'

'Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.'

'But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price—the widow's only child?'

'You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.'

'Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,' said Lily.

'Surely,' was the answer, 'it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.'

'If it was to fall on any one,' said Lilias, 'I should be thankful that it is on one so fit to die.'

The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence. Presently Lily said, 'Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my Lent was not one of self-denial.'

'You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can devise,' said her cousin.

'Of course,' said Lily; 'but some one thing, some punishment.'

'I will answer you to-morrow,' said Mr. Devereux.

'One thing more,' said Lily, looking down; 'after this great fall, ought I to come to next Sunday's feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.'

'Lily, you can best judge,' said the Rector, kindly. 'I should think that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better prepared than when self-confident.'

'How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,' said Lily; 'and Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next Sunday at the altar?'

They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, 'God bless you, Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.'

Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.

When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of paper in the handwriting of her cousin. It was thus: 'You had better find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.'

Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time before her peaceful death. She had spoken much of her baptism, had begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia's, and asked her mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.

It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be comforted. Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child's present happiness; but afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.

Mrs. Naylor was at church on that and several following Sundays; but though her husband now showed every kindness to his sister, he still obstinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.

For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very unhappy. Her blithe smiles were gone, her eyes filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join the sports of the other children, but she kept close to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed to have no pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister, who, two Sundays after the funeral, was christened by the name of Agnes.

It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias that the grave of the little girl should be marked by a stone cross, thus inscribed

'AGNES EDEN, April 8th, 1846, Aged 7 years. "He shall gather the lambs in His arms."'



CHAPTER XVIII: DOUBLE, DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE



'Truly the tender mercies of the weak, As of the wicked, are but cruel.'

And how did Lilias show that she had been truly benefited by her sorrows? Did she fall back into her habits of self-indulgence, or did she run into ill-directed activity, selfish as her indolence, because only gratifying the passion of the moment?

Those who lived with her saw but little change; kind-hearted and generous she had ever been, and many had been her good impulses, so that while she daily became more steady in well-doing, and exerting herself on principle, no one remarked it, and no one entered into the struggles which it cost her to tame her impetuosity, or force herself to do what was disagreeable to herself, and might offend Emily.

However, Emily could forgive a great deal when she found that Lily was ready to take any part of the business of the household and schoolroom, which she chose to impose upon her, without the least objection, yet to leave her to assume as much of the credit of managing as she chose—to have no will or way of her own, and to help her to keep her wardrobe in order.

The schoolroom was just now more of a labour than had ever been the case, at least to one who, like Lilias, if she did a thing at all, would not be satisfied with half doing it. Phyllis was not altered, except that she cried less, and had in a great measure cured herself of dawdling habits and tricks, by her honest efforts to obey well- remembered orders of Eleanor's; but still her slowness and dulness were trying to her teachers, and Lily had often to reproach herself for being angry with her 'when she was doing her best.'

But Adeline was Lily's principal trouble; there was a change in her, for which her sister could not account. Last year, when Eleanor left them, Ada was a sweet-tempered, affectionate child, docile, gentle, and, excepting a little occasional affectation and carelessness, very free from faults; but now her attention could hardly be commanded for five minutes together; she had lost the habit of ready and implicit obedience, was petulant when reproved, and was far more eager to attract notice from strangers—more conceited, and, therefore, more affected, and, worse than all, Lily sometimes thought she perceived a little slyness, though she was never able to prove any one instance completely to herself, much less to bring one before her father. Thus, if Ada had done any mischief, she would indeed confess it on being examined; but when asked why she had not told of it directly, would say she had forgotten; she would avail herself of Phyllis's assistance in her lessons without acknowledging it, and Lilias found it was by no means safe to leave the Key to the French Exercises alone in the room with her.

Emily's mismanagement had fostered Ada's carelessness and inattention. Lady Rotherwood's injudicious caresses helped to make her more affected; other faults had grown up for want of sufficient control, but this last was principally Esther's work. Esther had done well at school; she liked learning, was stimulated by notice, was really attached to Lilias, and tried to deserve her goodwill; but her training at school and at home were so different, that her conduct was, even at the best, far too much of eye-service, and she had very little idea of real truth and sincerity.

On first coming to the New Court she flattered the children, because she did not know how to talk to them otherwise, and afterwards, because she found that Miss Ada's affections were to be gained by praise. Then, in her ignorant good-nature, she had no scruples about concealing mischief which the children had done, or procuring for Ada little forbidden indulgences on her promise of secrecy, a promise which Phyllis would not give, thus putting a stop to all those in which she would have participated. It was no wonder that Ada, sometimes helping Esther to deceive, sometimes deceived by her, should have learnt the same kind of cunning, and ceased to think it a matter of course to be true and just in all her dealings.

But how was it that Phyllis remained the same 'honest Phyl' that she had ever been, not one word savouring of aught but strict truth having ever crossed her lips, her thoughts and deeds full of guileless simplicity? She met with the same temptations, the same neglect, the same bad example, as her sister; why had they no effect upon her? In the first place, flattery could not touch her, it was like water on a duck's back, she did not know that it was flattery, but so thoroughly humble was her mind that no words of Esther's would make her believe herself beautiful, agreeable, or clever. Yet she never found out that Esther over-praised her sister; she admired Ada so much that she never suspected that any commendation of her was more than she deserved. Again, Phyllis never thought of making herself appear to advantage, and her humility saved her from the habit of concealing small faults, for which she expected no punishment; and, when seriously to blame, punishment seemed so natural a consequence, that she never thought of avoiding it, otherwise than by expressing sorrow for her fault. She was uninfected by Esther's deceit, though she never suspected any want of truth; her singleness of mind was a shield from all evil; she knew she was no favourite in the nursery, but she never expected to be liked as much as Ada, her pride and glory. In the meantime Emily went on contriving opportunities and excuses for spending her time at Devereux Castle, letting everything fall into Lily's hands, everything that she had so eagerly undertaken little more than a year ago. And now all was confusion; the excellent order in which Eleanor had left the household affairs was quite destroyed. Attention to the storeroom was one of the ways in which Lilias thought that she could best follow the advice of Mr. Devereux, since Eleanor had always taught that great exactness in this point was most necessary. Great disorder now, however, prevailed there, and she found that her only chance of rectifying it was to measure everything she found there, and to beg Emily to allow her to keep the key; for, when several persons went to the storeroom, no one ever knew what was given out, and she was sure that the sweet things diminished much faster than they ought to do; but her sister treated the proposal as an attempt to deprive her of her dignity, and she was silenced.

She was up almost with the light, to despatch whatever household affairs could be settled without Emily, before the time came for the children's lessons; many hours were spent on these, while she was continually harassed by Phyllis's dulness, Ada's inattention, and the interruption of work to do for Emily, and often was she baffled by interference from Jane or Emily. She was conscious of her unfitness to teach the children, and often saw that her impatience, ignorance, and inefficiency, were doing mischief; but much as this pained her, she could not speak to her father without compromising her sister, and to argue with Emily herself was quite in vain. Emily had taken up the principle of love, and defended herself with it on every occasion, so that poor Lily was continually punished by having her past follies quoted against herself.

Each day Emily grew more selfish and indolent; now that Lily was willing to supply all that she neglected, and to do all that she asked, she proved how tyrannical the weak can be.

The whole of her quarter's allowance was spent in dress, and Lily soon found that the only chance of keeping her out of debt was to spend her own time and labour in her behalf; and what an exertion of patience and kindness this required can hardly be imagined. Emily did indeed reward her skill with affectionate thanks and kind praises, but she interfered with her sleep and exercise, by her want of consideration, and hardened herself more and more in her apathetic selfishness.

Some weeks after Easter Lilias was arranging some books on a shelf in the schoolroom, when she met with a crumpled piece of music-paper, squeezed in behind the books. It proved to be Miss Weston's lost song, creased, torn, dust-stained, and spoiled; she carried it to Emily, who decided that nothing could be done but to copy it for Alethea, and apologise for the disaster. Framing apologies was more in Emily's way than copying music; and the former task, therefore, devolved upon Lily, and occupied her all one afternoon, when she ought to have been seeking a cure for the headache in the fresh air. It was no cure to find the name of Emma Weston in the corner, and to perceive how great and irreparable the loss of the paper was to her friend. The thought of all her wrongs towards Alethea, caused more than one large tear to fall, to blot the heads of her crotchets and quavers, and thus give her all her work to do over again.

The letter that she wrote was so melancholy and repentant, that it gave great pain to her kind friend, who thought illness alone could account for the dejection apparent in the general tone of all her expressions. In answer, she sent a very affectionate consoling letter, begging Lily to think no more of the matter; and though she had too much regard for truth to say that she had not been grieved by the loss of Emma's writing, she added that Lily's distress gave her far more pain, and that her copy would have great value in her eyes.

The beginning of June now arrived, and brought with it the time for the return of Claude and Lord Rotherwood.

The Marquis's carriage met him at Raynham, and he set down Claude at New Court, on his way to Hetherington, just coming in to exchange a hurried greeting with the young ladies.

Their attention was principally taken up by their brother.

'Claude, how well you look! How fat you are!' was their exclamation.

'Is not he?' said Lord Rotherwood. 'I am quite proud of him. Not one headache since he went. He will have no excuse for not dancing the polka.'

'I do not return the compliment to you, Lily,' said Claude, looking anxiously at his sister. 'What is the matter with you? Have you been ill?'

'Oh, no! not at all!' said Lily, smiling.

'I am sure there is enough to make any one ill,' said Emily, in her deplorable tone; 'I thought this poor parish had had its share of illness, with the scarlet fever, and now it has turned to a horrible typhus fever.'

'Indeed!' said Claude. 'Where? Who?'

'Oh! the Naylors, and the Rays, and the Walls. John Ray died this morning, and they do not think that Tom Naylor will live.'

'Well,' interrupted Lord Rotherwood, 'I shall not stop to hear any more of this chapter of accidents. I am off, but mind, remember the 30th, and do not any of you frighten yourselves into the fever.'

He went, and Lily now spoke. 'There is one thing in all this, Claude, that is matter of joy, Tom Naylor has sent for Robert.'

'Then, Lily, I do most heartily congratulate you.'

'I hope things may go better,' said Lily, with tears in her eyes. 'The poor baby is with its grandmother. Mrs. Naylor is ill too, and every one is so afraid of the fever that nobody goes near them but Robert, and Mrs. Eden, and old Dame Martin. Robert says Naylor is in a satisfactory frame—determined on having the baby christened—but, oh! I am afraid the christening is to be bought by something terrible.'

'I do not think those fevers are often very infectious,' said Claude.

'So papa says,' replied Emily; 'but Robert looks very ill. He is wearing himself out with sitting up. Making himself nurse as well as everything else.'

This was very distressing, but still Claude scarcely thought it accounted for the change that had taken place in Lilias. Her cheek was pale, her eye heavy, her voice had lost its merry tone; Claude knew that she had had much to grieve her, but he was as yet far from suspecting how she was overworked and harassed. He spoke of Eleanor's return, and she did not brighten; she smiled sadly at his attempts to cheer her, and he became more and more anxious about her. He was not long in discovering what was the matter.

The second day after his return Robert told them at the churchyard gate that Tom Naylor was beginning to mend, and this seemed to be a great comfort to Lily, who walked home with a blither step than usual. Claude betook himself to the study, and saw no more of his sisters till two o'clock, when Lily appeared, with the languid, dejected look which she had lately worn, and seemed to find it quite an effort to keep the tears out of her eyes. Ada and Phyllis were in very high spirits, because they were going to Raynham with Emily and Jane, and at every speech of Ada's Lily looked more grieved. After the Raynham party were gone Claude began to look for Lily. He found her in her room, an evening dress spread on the bed, a roll of ribbon in one hand, and with the other supporting her forehead, while tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks.

'Lily, my dear, what is the matter?'

'Oh! nothing, nothing, Claude,' said she, quickly.

'Nothing! no, that is not true. Tell me, Lily. You have been disconsolate ever since I came home, and I will not let it go on so. No answer? Then am I to suppose that these new pearlins are the cause of her sorrow? Come, Lily, be like yourself, and speak. More tears! Here, drink this water, be yourself again, or I shall be angry and vexed. Now then, that is right: make an effort, and tell me.'

'There is nothing to tell,' said Lily; 'only you are very kind—I do not know what is the matter with me—only I have been very foolish of late—and everything makes me cry.'

'My poor child, I knew you had not been well. They do not know how to take care of you, Lily, and I shall take you in hand. I am going to order the horses, and we will have a gallop over the Downs, and put a little colour into your cheeks.'

'No, no, thank you, Claude, I cannot come, indeed I cannot, I have this work, which must be done to-day.'

'At work at your finery instead of coming out! You must be altered, indeed, Lily.'

'It is not for myself,' said Lily, 'but I promised Emily she should have it ready to wear to-morrow.'

'Emily, oh? So she is making a slave of you?'

'No, no, it was a voluntary promise. She does not care about it, only she would be disappointed, and I have promised.'

'I hate promises!' said Claude. 'Well, what must be, must be, so I will resign myself to this promise of yours, only do not make such another. Well, but that was not all; you were not crying about that fine green thing, were you?'

'Oh, no!' said Lily, smiling, as now she could smile again.

'What then? I will know, Lily.'

'I was only vexed at something about the children.'

'Then what was it?'

'It was only that Ada was idle at her lessons; I told her to learn a verb as a punishment, she went to Emily, and, somehow or other, Emily did not find out the exact facts, excused her, and took her to Raynham. I was vexed, because I am sure it does Ada harm, and Emily did not understand what I said afterwards; I am sure she thought me unjust.'

'How came she not to be present?'

'Emily does not often sit in the schoolroom in the morning, since she has been about that large drawing.'

'So you are governess as well as ladies'-maid, are you, Lily? What else? Housekeeper, I suppose, as I see you have all the weekly bills on your desk. Why, Lily, this is perfectly philanthropic of you. You are exemplifying the rule of love in a majestic manner. Crying again! Water lily once more?'

Lily looked up, and smiled; 'Claude, how can you talk of that old, silly, nay, wicked nonsense of my principle. I was wise above what was written, and I have my punishment in the wreck which my "frenzy of spirit and folly of tongue" have wrought. The unchristened child, Agnes's death, the confusion of this house, all are owing to my hateful principle. I see the folly of it now, but Emily has taken it up, and acts upon it in everything. I do struggle against it a little; but I cannot blame any one, I can do no good, it is all owing to me. We have betrayed papa's confidence; if he does not see it now it will all come upon him when Eleanor comes home, and what is to become of us? How it will grieve him to see that we cannot be trusted!'

'Poor Lily!' said Claude. 'It is a bad prospect, but I think you see the worst side of it. You are not well, and, therefore, doleful. This, Lily, I can tell you, that the Baron always considered Emily's government as a kind of experiment, and so perhaps he will not be so grievously disappointed as you expect. Besides, I have a strong suspicion that Emily's own nature has quite as much to do with her present conduct as your principle, which, after all, did not live very long.'

'Just long enough to unsettle me, and make it more difficult for me to get any way right,' said Lily. 'Oh! dear, what would I give to force backward the wheels of time!'

'But as you cannot, you had better try to brighten up your energies. Come, you know I cannot tell you not to look back, but I can tell you not to look forward. Nay, I do tell you literally, to look forward, out of the window, instead of back into this hot room. Do not you think the plane-tree there looks very inviting? Suppose we transport Emily's drapery there, and I want to refresh my memory with Spenser; I do not think I have touched him since plane-tree time last year.'

'I believe Spenser and the plane-tree are inseparably woven together in your mind,' said Lily.

'Yes, ever since the time when I first met with the book. I remember well roving over the bookcase, and meeting with it, and taking it out there, for fear Eleanor should see me and tell mama. Phyl, with As You Like It, put me much in mind of myself with that.'

Claude talked in this manner, while Lily, listening with a smile, prepared her work. He read, and she listened. It was such a treat as she had not enjoyed for a long time, for she had begun to think that all her pleasant reading days were past. Her work prospered, and her face was bright when her sisters came home.

But, alas! Emily was not pleased with her performance; she said that she intended something quite different, and by manner, rather than by words, indicated that she should not be satisfied unless Lily completely altered it. It was to be worn at the castle the next evening, and Lily knew she should have no time for it in the course of the day. Accordingly, at half-past twelve, as Claude was going up to bed, he saw a light under his sister's door, and knocked to ask the cause. Lily was still at work upon the trimming, and very angry he was, particularly when she begged him to take care not to disturb Emily. At last, by threatening to awake her, for the express purpose of giving her a scolding, he made Lily promise to go to bed immediately, a promise which she, poor weary creature, was very glad to make.

Claude now resolved to tell his father the state of things, for he well knew that though it was easy to obtain a general promise from Emily, it was likely to be of little effect in preventing her from spurring her willing horse to death.

The next morning he rose in time to join his father in the survey which he usually took of his fields before breakfast, and immediately beginning on the subject on which he was anxious, he gave a full account of his sister's proceedings. 'In short,' said he, 'Emily and Ada torment poor Lily every hour of her life; she bears it all as a sort of penance, and how it is to end I cannot tell.'

'Unless,' said Mr. Mohun, smiling, 'as Rotherwood would say, Jupiter will interfere. Well, Jupiter has begun to take measures, and has asked Mrs. Weston to look out for a governess. Eh! Claude?' he continued, after a pause, 'you set up your eyebrows, do you? You think it will be a bore. Very likely, but there is nothing else to be done. Jane is under no control, Phyllis running wild, Ada worse managed than any child of my acquaintance—'

'And poor Lily wearing herself to a shadow, in vain attempts to mend matters,' said Claude.

'If Lily was the eldest, things would be very different,' said Mr. Mohun.

'Or even if she had been as wise last year as she is now,' said Claude, 'she would have kept Emily in order then, but now it is too late.'

'This year is, on many accounts, much to be regretted,' said Mr. Mohun, 'but I think it has brought out Lily's character.'

'And a very fine character it is,' said Claude.

'Very. She has been, and is, more childish than Eleanor ever was, but she is her superior in most points. She has been your pupil, Claude, and she does you credit.'

'Thereby hangs a tale which does me no credit,' muttered Claude, as he remembered how foolishly he had roused her spirit of contradiction, besides the original mischief of naming Eleanor the duenna; 'but we will not enter into that now. I see this governess is their best chance. Have you heard of one?'

'Of several; but the only one who seems likely to suit us is out of reach for the present, and I do not regret it, for I shall not decide till Eleanor comes.'

'Emily will not be much pleased,' said Claude. 'It has long been her great dread that Aunt Rotherwood should recommend one.'

'Ay, Emily's objections and your aunt's recommendations are what I would gladly avoid,' said Mr. Mohun.

'But Lily!' said Claude, returning to the subject on which he was most anxious. 'She is already what Ada calls a monotony, and there will be nothing left of her by the time Eleanor comes, if matters go on in their present fashion.'

'I have a plan for her. A little change will set her to rights, and we will take her to London when we go next week to meet Eleanor. She deserves a little extra pleasure; you must take her under your protection, and lionise her well.'

'Trust me for that,' said Claude. 'It is the best news I have heard for a long time.'

'Well, I am glad that one of my remedies meets with your approbation,' said his father, smiling. 'For the other, you are much inclined to pronounce the cure as bad as the disease.'

'Not for Lily,' said Claude, laughing.

'And,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I think I can promise you that a remedy will be found for all the other grievances by Michaelmas.'

Claude looked surprised, but as Mr. Mohun explained no further, only observing upon the potatoes, through which they were walking, he only said, 'Then it is next week that you go to London.'

'There is much to do, both for Rotherwood and for Eleanor; I shall go as soon as I can, but I do not think it will be while this fever is so prevalent. I had rather not be from home—I do not like Robert's looks.'



CHAPTER XIX: THE RECTOR'S ILLNESS



'Thou drooping sick man, bless the guide That checked, or turned thy headstrong youth.'

The thought of her brother's kindness, and the effect of his consolation, made Lilias awake that morning in more cheerful spirits; but it was not long before grief and anxiety again took possession of her.

The first sound that she heard on opening the schoolroom window was the tolling of the church bell, giving notice of the death of another of those to whom she felt bound by the ties of neighbourhood.

At church she saw that Mr. Devereux was looking more ill than he yet had done, and it was plainly with very great exertion that he succeeded in finishing the service. The Mohun party waited, as usual, to speak to him afterwards, for since his attendance upon Naylor had begun he had not thought it safe to come to the New Court as usual, lest he should bring the infection to them. He was very pale, and walked wearily, but he spoke cheerfully, as he told them that Naylor was now quite out of danger.

'Then I hope you did not stay there all last night,' said Mr. Mohun.

'No, I did not, I was so tired when I came back from poor John Ray's funeral, that I thought I would take a holiday, and sleep at home.'

'I am afraid you have not profited by your night's rest,' said Emily, 'you look as if you had a horrible headache.'

'Now,' said Mr. Mohun, 'I prescribe for you that you go home and lie down. I am going to Raynham, and I will tell your friend there that you want help for the evening service. Do not think of moving again to-day. I shall send Claude home with you to see that you obey my prescription.'

Claude went home with his cousin, and his sisters saw him no more till late in the day, when he came to tell them that Mr. Mohun had brought back Dr. Leslie from Raynham with him, that Dr. Leslie had seen Mr. Devereux, and had pronounced that he had certainly caught the fever.

Lily had made up her mind to this for some time, but still it seemed almost as great a blow as if it had come without any preparation. The next day was the first Sunday that Mr. Devereux had not read the service since he had been Rector of Beechcroft. The villagers looked sadly at the stranger who appeared in his place, and many tears were shed when the prayers of the congregation were desired for Robert Devereux, and Thomas and Martha Naylor. It was announced that the daily service would be discontinued for the present, and Lily felt as if all the blessings which she had misused were to be taken from her.

For some time Mr. Devereux continued very ill, and Dr. Leslie gave little hope of his improvement. Mr. Mohun and Claude were his constant attendants—an additional cause of anxiety to the Miss Mohuns. Emily was listless and melancholy, talking in a maundering, dismal way, not calculated to brace her spirits or those of her sisters. Jane was not without serious thoughts, but whether they would benefit her depended on herself; for, as we have seen by the events of the autumn, sorrow and suffering do not necessarily produce good effects, though some effects they always produce.

Thus it was with Lilias. Grief and anxiety aided her in subduing her will and learning resignation. She did not neglect her daily duties, but was more exact in their fulfilment; and low as her spirits had been before, she now had an inward spring which enabled her to be the support of the rest. She was useful to her father, always ready to talk to Claude, or walk with him in the intervals when he was sent out of the sickroom to rest and breathe the fresh air. She was cheerful and patient with Emily, and devoid of petulance when annoyed by the spirits of the younger ones rising higher than accorded with the sad and anxious hearts of their elders. Her most painful feeling was, that it was possible that she might be punished through her cousin, as she had already been through Agnes; that her follies might have brought this distress upon every one, and that this was the price at which the child's baptism was to be bought. Yet Lily would not have changed her present thoughts for any of her varying frames of mind since that fatal Whitsuntide. Better feelings were springing up within her than she had then known; the church service and Sunday were infinitely more to her, and she was beginning to obtain peace of mind independent of external things.

She could not help rejoicing to see how many evidences of affection to the Rector were called forth by this illness; presents of fruit poured in from all quarters, from Lord Rotherwood's choice hothouse grapes, to poor little Kezia Grey's wood-strawberries; inquiries were continual, and the stillness of the village was wonderful. There was no cricket on the hill, no talking in the street, no hallooing in the hay-field, and no burst of noise when the children were let out of school. Many of the people were themselves in grief for the loss of their own relations; and when on Sunday the Miss Mohuns saw how many were dressed in black, they thought with a pang how soon they themselves might be mourning for one whose influence they had crippled, and whose plans they had thwarted during the three short years of his ministry.

During this time it was hard to say whether Lord Rotherwood was more of a comfort or a torment. He was attached to his cousin with all the ardour of his affectionate disposition, and not one day passed without his appearing at Beechcroft. At first it was always in the parlour at the parsonage that he took up his station, and waited till he could find some means of getting at Claude or his uncle, to hear the last report from them, and if possible to make Claude come out for a walk or ride with him. And once Mr. Mohun caught him standing just outside Mr. Devereux's door, waiting for an opportunity to make an entrance. He could not, or would not see why Mr. Mohun should allow Claude to run the risk of infection rather than himself, and thus he kept his mother in continual anxiety, and even his uncle could not feel by any means certain that he would not do something imprudent. At last a promise was extracted from him that he would not again enter the parsonage, but he would not gratify Lady Rotherwood so far as to abstain from going to Beechcroft, a place which she began to regard with horror. He now was almost constantly at the New Court, talking over the reports, and quite provoking Emily by never desponding, and never choosing to perceive how bad things really were. Every day which was worse than the last was supposed to be the crisis, and every restless sleep that they heard of he interpreted into the beginning of recovery. At last, however, after ten days of suspense, the report began to improve, and Claude came to the New Court with a more cheerful face, to say that his cousin was munch better. The world seemed immediately to grow brighter, people went about with joyful looks, Lord Rotherwood declared that from the first he had known all would be well, and Lily began to hope that now she had been spared so heavy a punishment, it was a kind of earnest that other things would mend, that she had suffered enough. The future no longer hung before her in such dark colours as before Mr. Devereux's illness, though still the New Court was in no satisfactory state, and still she had reason to expect that her father and Eleanor would be disappointed and grieved. Thankfulness that Mr. Devereux was recovering, and that Claude had escaped the infection, made her once more hopeful and cheerful; she let the morrow take thought for the things of itself, rejoicing that it was not her business to make arrangements.



CHAPTER XX: THE LITTLE NEPHEW



'You must be father, mother, both, And uncle, all in one.'

Mr. Mohun had much business to transact in London which he could not leave undone, and as soon as his nephew began to recover he thought of setting off to meet Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth, who had already been a week at Lady Rotherwood's house in Grosvenor Square, which she had lent to them for the occasion. Claude had intended to stay at home, as his cousin was not yet well enough to leave the room; but just at this time a college friend of the Rector's, hearing of his illness, wrote to propose to come and stay with him for a month or six weeks, and help him in serving his church. Mr. Devereux was particularly glad to accept this kind offer, as it left him no longer dependent on Mr. Stephens and the Raynham curates, and set Claude at liberty for the London expedition. All was settled in the short space of one day. The very next they were to set off, and in great haste; Lily did all she could for the regulation of the house, packed up her goods, and received the commissions of her sisters.

Ada gave her six shillings, with orders to buy either a doll or a book—the former if Eleanor did not say it was silly; and Phyllis put into her hands a weighty crown piece, begging for as many things as it could buy. Jane's wants and wishes were moderate and sensible, and she gave Lily the money for them. With Emily there was more difficulty. All Lily's efforts had not availed to prevent her from contracting two debts at Raynham. More than four pounds she owed to Lily, and this she offered to pay her, giving her at the same time a list of commissions sufficient to swallow up double her quarter's allowance. Lily, though really in want of the money for her own use, thought the debts at Raynham so serious, that she begged Emily to let her wait for payment till it was convenient, and to pay the shoemaker and dressmaker immediately.

Emily thanked her, and promised to do so as soon as she could go to Raynham, and Lily next attempted to reduce her list of London commissions to something more reasonable. In part she succeeded, but it remained a matter of speculation how all the necessary articles which she had to buy for herself, and all Emily's various orders, were to come out of her own means, reduced as they were by former loans.

The next day Lilias was on her way to London; feeling, as she left Beechcroft, that it was a great relief that the schoolroom and storeroom could not follow her. She was sorry that she should miss seeing Alethea Weston, who was to come home the next day, but she left various messages for her, and an affectionate note, and had received a promise from her sisters that the copy of the music should be given to her the first day that they saw her. Her journey afforded her much amusement, and it was not till towards the end of the day that she had much time for thinking, when, her companions being sleepily inclined, she was left to her own meditations and to a dull country. She began to revolve her own feelings towards Eleanor, and as she remembered the contempt and ingratitude she had once expressed, she shrank from the meeting with shame and dread, and knew that she should feel reproached by Eleanor's wonted calmness of manner. And as she mused upon all that Eleanor had endured, and all that she had done, such a reverence for suffering and sacrifice took possession of her mind that she was ready to look up to her sister with awe. She began to recollect old reproofs, and found herself sitting more upright, and examining the sit of the folds of her dress with some uneasiness at the thought of Eleanor's preciseness. In the midst of her meditations her two companions were roused by the slackening speed of the train, and starting up, informed her that they were arriving at their journey's end. The next minute she heard her father consigning her and the umbrellas to Mr. Hawkesworth's care, and all was bewilderment till she found herself in the hall of her aunt's house, receiving as warm and affectionate a greeting from Eleanor as Emily herself could have bestowed.

'And the baby, Eleanor?'

'Asleep, but you shall see him; and how is Ada? and all of them? why, Claude, how well you look! Papa, let me help you to take off your greatcoat—you are cold—will you have a fire?'

Never had Lily heard Eleanor say so much in a breath, or seen her eye so bright, or her smile so ready, yet, when she entered the drawing- room, she saw that Mrs. Hawkesworth was still the Eleanor of old. In contrast with the splendid furniture of the apartments, a pile of shirts was on the table, Eleanor's well-known work-basket on the floor, and the ceaseless knitting close at hand.

Much news was exchanged in the few minutes that elapsed before Eleanor carried off her sister to her room, indulging her by the way with a peep at little Harry, and one kiss to his round red cheek as he lay asleep in his little bed. It was not Eleanor's fault that she did not entirely dress Lily, and unpack her wardrobe; but Lilias liked to show that she could manage for herself; and Eleanor's praise of her neat arrangements gave her as much pleasure as in days of yore.

The evening passed very happily. Eleanor's heart was open, she was full of enjoyment at meeting those she loved, and the two sisters sat long together in the twilight, talking over numerous subjects, all ending in Beechcroft or the baby.

Yet when Lily awoke the next morning her awe of Eleanor began to return, and she felt like a child just returned to school. She was, however, mistaken; Eleanor assumed no authority, she treated Lily as her equal, and thus made her feel more like a woman than she had ever done before. Lily thought either that Eleanor was much altered, or that in her folly she must have fancied her far more cold and grave than she really was. She had, however, no time for studying her character; shopping and sight-seeing filled up most of her time, and the remainder was spent in resting, and in playing with little Henry.

One evening, when Mr. Mohun and Claude were dining out, Lilias was left alone with Mr. and Mrs. Hawkesworth. Lily was very tired, but she worked steadily at marking Eleanor's pocket-handkerchiefs, until her sister, seeing how weary she was, made her lie down on the sofa.

'Here is a gentleman who is tired too,' said Eleanor, dancing the baby; 'we will carry you off, sir, and leave Aunt Lily to go to sleep.'

'Aunt Lily is not so tired as that,' said Lily; 'pray keep him.'

'It is quite bedtime,' said Eleanor, in her decided tone, and she carried him off.

Lilias took up the knitting which she had laid down, and began to study the stitches. 'I should like this feathery pattern,' said she, '(if it did not remind me so much of the fever); but, by the bye, Frank, have you completed Master Henry's outfit? I looked forward to helping to choose his pretty little things, but I see no preparation but of stockings.'

'Why, Lily, did not you know that he was to stay in England?'

'To stay in England? No, I never thought of that—how sorry you must be.'

At this moment Eleanor returned, and Mr. Hawkesworth told her he had been surprised to find Lily did not know their intentions with regard to the baby.

'If we had any certain intentions we should have told her,' said Eleanor; 'I did not wish to speak to her about it till we had made up our minds.'

'Well, I know no use in mysteries,' said Mr. Hawkesworth, 'especially when Lily may help us to decide.'

'On his going or staying?' exclaimed Lily, eagerly looking to Mr. Hawkesworth, who was evidently more disposed to speak than his wife.

'Not on his going or staying—I am sorry to say that point was settled long ago—but where we shall leave him.'

Lily's heart beat high, but she did not speak.

'The truth is,' proceeded Mr. Hawkesworth, 'that this young gentleman has, as perhaps you know, a grandpapa, a grandmamma, and also six or seven aunts. With his grandmamma he cannot be left, for sundry reasons, unnecessary to mention. Now, one of his aunts is a staid matronly lady, and his godmother besides, and in all respects the person to take charge of him,—only she lives in a small house in a town, and has plenty of babies of her own, without being troubled with other people's. Master Henry's other five aunts live in one great house, in a delightful country, with nothing to do but make much of him all day long, yet it is averred that these said aunts are a parcel of giddy young colts, amongst whom, if Henry escapes being demolished as a baby he will infallibly be spoilt as he grows up. Now, how are we to decide?'

'You have heard the true state of the case, Lily,' said Mrs. Hawkesworth. 'I did not wish to harass papa by speaking to him till something was settled; you are certainly old enough to have an opinion.'

'Yes, Lily,' said Frank; 'do you think that the hospitable New Court will open to receive our poor deserted child, and that these said aunts are not wild colts but discreet damsels?'