"Why have you not lighted all the lamps?" she inquired, and when Lettice replied in amazement that there were as many lamps as usual, she shrugged her shoulders, and muttered something about "inky darkness." If Mr Bertrand had not appeared at that moment it would be difficult to say what would have happened, but he came rushing in like a breeze of fresh, wintry air, seizing each of the girls in turn, and folding them in a bear-like hug.

"Well—well—well—here we are again! Glad to be back in the old home. How are you, dear? How are you, pet? Miss Briggs, I see you are flourishing! How have all these young people been behaving while I was away? What about dinner? I'm so hungry that I shall eat the Mouse in desperation if I am kept waiting. Well, little Mouse, glad to see your father back again, eh? Come upstairs with me while I change my coat for dinner."

It was like another house when the cheery, bustling master was at home, and Lettice and Norah forgot their passing annoyance in rejoicing over his return. During the evening, however, Hilary managed to give offence more than once. She kept frowning to herself as she sat at the head of the table, and looking up and down with a discontented air which was very exasperating to those who had done their utmost to study her tastes and to give her a pleasant home-coming. When dinner was over and the family party adjourned into the drawing-room, she kept jumping up from her seat to alter the arrangement of plants and ornaments, or to put some article in its proper place. Norah elevated her eyebrows at Lettice, who nodded in sympathetic understanding, but both girls controlled their irritation out of consideration for their father, whose pleasure in the first evening at home would have been spoiled if his daughters had taken to quarrelling among themselves.

Mr Bertrand had brought home a perfect treasure-trove of presents for the stay-at-homes. A beautiful little brooch and bangle for Lettice; music, books, and a paint-box for Norah: furs for Miss Briggs; and a small toy-shop for the dear little "youngest of seven."

Such an excitement as there was in the drawing-room while the presentations were going on! such shrieks of delight! such exclamations of "Just what I wanted!" such huggings and kissings of gratitude! Mr Bertrand declared at last that he would be pulled to pieces, and ran upstairs to the shelter of his beloved study. After he had gone, Hilary seemed for the time being to forget her grievances, whatever they might be, and drawing her chair to the fire, settled down to one of the good old-fashioned gossips which her sisters loved Lettice and Norah had a dozen extra questions which they were burning to ask about every incident of the visit to London; and they were not more eager to hear than Hilary was to tell, for what is the good of going away and having adventures if we cannot talk about them when we come home?

The meeting with Madge Newcome was a subject of much interest. "Quite grown-up, you say, and very grand and fashionable! And you went to lunch with her one day. Are the boys at home? What are they like? There was Cyril, the little one in the Eton jacket, who used to play with Raymond; and Phil, the middy; and the big one who was at college— Arthur, wasn't he? What is he like now?"

"I saw him only once, but it was quite enough. He is in business with his father—a terribly solemn, proper person, who talks about books, and says, 'Were you not?'—'Would you not?' Miss Carr says he is very clever, and good, and intellectual, but all the same, I am sure she doesn't like him. I heard her describe him to father as 'that wooden young man.' It will be nice to see Madge in the summer, though I haven't forgiven her for leaving me alone that afternoon. Oh, and I must tell you—" And the conversation branched off in another direction, while the girls crouched over the fire, laughing and talking in happy reunion.

Alas! the next day the clouds gathered over the family horizon and culminated in such a storm as was happily of rare occurrence. The moment that she left her bedroom Hilary began to grumble, and she grumbled steadily the whole day long. Everything that Lettice had done during her absence was wrong; the servants were careless and inefficient; the drawing-room—Norah's special charge—looked as if no one had touched it for a fortnight; the house was dingy and badly lighted, and each arrangement worse than the last. Lettice hated quarrelling so much that she was prepared to bear a good deal before getting angry, but quick-tempered Norah exploded into a burst of irritation before the afternoon was half over.

"The fact is you have been staying for a fortnight in a grand London house, and you are spoiled for your own home. I think it is mean to come back, after having such a lovely time, and make everyone miserable with your grumbling and fault-findings! Lettice did everything she could while you were away, and the house is the same as when you left it."

"Perhaps it is, but I didn't know any better then. I know now how things ought to be done, and I can't be satisfied when they are wrong."

"And do you expect things to be managed as well in this house with five of us at home, besides father and Miss Briggs, and three servants to do all the work, as it is at Miss Carr's, with no one but herself, and six or seven people to wait upon her?" Lettice spoke quietly, but with a flush on her cheeks which proved that she felt more than she showed. "It's very foolish if you do, for you will only succeed in upsetting everyone, and making the whole house miserable and uncomfortable."

"As you have done to-day!" added Norah bluntly. "I would rather have an old-fashioned house than the finest palace in the world with a cross, bad-tempered mistress going about grumbling from morning till night."

"Norah, you are very rude to speak to me like that! You have no right. I am the eldest."

"You had no right to say to me that I haven't touched the drawing-room for a fortnight."

"I have a right to complain if the work of the house is not properly done. Father has given me the charge. If I see things that can be improved, I am certainly not going to be quiet. Suppose Mr Rayner or the Newcomes came here to see us, what would they think if they came into a half-lit hall as we did last night?"

"Yes, I knew that was it. It's your grand London friends you are thinking of. If they are too grand to come here, let them stay away. Father is a greater man than any of them, if he is not rich."

"Girls, girls, girls! what is all this?" Miss Briggs pulled aside the curtain over the doorway, and came hurriedly into the room. "I heard your voices across the hall. Are you quarrelling the first day Hilary is at home? Don't let your father hear, I beg you; he would be terribly grieved. What is the matter?"

"It's Hilary's fault. She has done nothing but grumble all day long, and I can't stand it. She has made Lettice miserable; the servants are as cross as they can be, and there's no peace in the house."

"Norah has been very rude to me, Miss Briggs. I am obliged to find fault when things are wrong, and I can't help it if the servants are cross."

Miss Briggs looked at the younger girls. "Go upstairs, dears, and change your dresses for dinner. I want to speak to Hilary by herself," she said quietly, and Lettice and Norah left the room with awed faces. The kind old governess did not often interfere with the girls now that they were growing up, but when she did, there was a directness about her speech which was very telling, and this afternoon was no exception to the rule.

"Hilary," she said slowly, when the door had closed behind the two younger girls, "I have been with you now for ten years, and have watched you grow up from a little girl. You were my first pupil, and I can't help taking a special interest in you. You were a dear little child. I thought you would grow up into a sweet, lovable woman; but you will have to change a great deal, Hilary, if you are to do that! You will think me cruel; but your mother is dead, and I must be truthful with you for your own good. I think you have behaved very unkindly to your sisters to-day. You have been away enjoying yourself while they were left at home; they did their best to fill your place, and counted the days until your return, and you have made them miserable from the moment of your arrival. The house is as you left it; but even supposing you had noticed a few things which were not to your taste, you could have put them right quietly, or spoken of them in a pleasant, kindly manner. Things have gone on smoothly and quietly while you were away—more smoothly than when you are at home, my dear, for though Lettice is not such a good manager, she has a sweet, amiable manner which makes the servants anxious to please her by doing their best. You are very young, Hilary, and you make the mistake of over-estimating your own importance, and of thinking you are necessary to the welfare of the household. You can easily make yourself so, if you wish, for you are a very clever housekeeper; but if you continue to be as self-satisfied and as regardless of the feelings of others as you are at present, I tell you plainly that you will end in being a hindrance rather than a help. I am not saying that the other girls are faultless, but instead of setting them a good example, in nine cases out of ten you are the one to begin a quarrel. You think me very cruel to speak like this—it's not easy to do, Hilary—but you may thank me for it some day. Open your eyes, my dear, and try to see yourself as you really are, before it is too late!"

Miss Briggs swept from the room in a flutter of agitation, and Hilary sank into the nearest chair, and gazed blankly at the fire. Her heart was beating in heavy thuds, and she put her hand to her head in stupefied fashion. For several minutes she sat motionless, unable to form any definite thought. She only felt a curious shattered sensation, as though she had come through some devastating experience, which had laid waste all her fondest delusions. What had Miss Briggs said? That the household arrangements had been managed better in her absence than when she was at home. That if she did not alter, she would end in being a hindrance rather than a help. That she set a bad example to the younger girls and was the instigator of quarrels!—Hilary's cheeks burnt with a flush that was almost painful. Her pride was wounded in its most sensitive point. She would have been ready enough to acknowledge that she was not so sweet-tempered as Lettice, or so clever as Norah, but she had been secure in her conviction that no one could touch her in her own department—that she was a person of supreme importance, without whom the whole fabric of the household would fall to pieces. And things had gone on better while she was away! Better! Hilary writhed in humiliation, and the flush burnt more fiercely than before. If she could only manage to disbelieve it all, and wave it aside as a piece of foolish prejudice; but she could not do this, for her eyes were opened, and she saw the meaning of many things which she had misread before. Miss Carr's quizzical, disapproving glance; her father's anxious gaze; the little scornful sniff on the face of the old cook as she took her morning's orders. Could it be that they all felt the same, and were condemning her in their hearts as a stupid, consequential little girl, who had no importance whatever except in her own estimation? And—"a hindrance!" The word brought with it a throb of something deeper than wounded pride, for, with all her faults, Hilary was devoted to her father and her brothers and sisters, and the thought stung like a whip that they might not care for her—that the time could come when they might even wish for her absence!

The light was growing dim in the deserted room, and, as Hilary laid her head back in the old-fashioned chair, the tears which rose to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks were the bitterest she had known in the course of her short life.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE VIOLIN LESSON.

Three days after Mr Bertrand's return, Rex Freer arrived at the house in a state of triumphant excitement. This was by no means his first appearance since he had left Cloudsdale, for he never passed the house on any of his numerous expeditions without running in for ten minutes' chat, so that the girls were getting accustomed to see his head appear at the window as they sat at work, or to hear the loud rat-tat on the door which heralded his coming. They soon had practical demonstration of his "managing powers," for more than once, after definitely making up their minds that nothing would induce them to stir from the house, they found themselves meekly putting on hats and jackets to join a tobogganing party, and to accompany the young gentleman part of his way home. Lettice was always easily influenced, but high-spirited Norah made many protests against what she was pleased to call his "Indian ways," and on one occasion even went so far as to dare a direct refusal. Lettice had left the room to get ready for a walk along the snowy lanes, but Miss Norah sat obstinately in her chair, the heel of one slipper perched on the toe of the other, in an attitude which was a triumph of defiance.

"Well!" said Mr Rex, putting his hands in his pockets, and standing with his back to the fire in elderly gentleman fashion. "Why don't you get on your coat? I can't wait many minutes, you know, or it will get dark. Hurry up!"

"I'm not going. It's too cold. I don't like trudging over the snow. I am going to stay at home."

Norah raised her thin, little face to his with an audacious glance, whereat "the strange boy's" eyes dilated with the steely flash which she knew so well.

"Then please go upstairs and tell Lettice not to trouble to get ready. I can't allow her to come home alone, along the lonely roads," he said quietly; and Norah slunk out of the room and put on her snow-shoes in crestfallen silence, for it did Lettice good to have a daily walk, and she could not be so selfish as to keep her at home.

This afternoon, however, the call was longer than usual, for Rex came as the bearer of good news. "You have only to make up your mind to do anything, and the rest is quite easy," he announced coolly. "The mater has made a point of speaking to everyone she has seen about the music lessons, and she has heard of a capital man in Lancaster who is willing to come down for an afternoon once a fortnight. I met your father in the village, and he agrees to the terms, so now there is nothing left but to write and fill in the day to begin. Thursday suits him best. Do you say Thursday first or Thursday fortnight?"

"Oh, the first Thursday. I don't want to wait a day longer than I can help. Oh, how lovely! So it is really settled. I wanted it so badly that I was afraid it would never come true. How am I to get over to your house, I wonder?"

"I'll drive over and bring you back next morning. We might use our bicycles, but the violin case would be rather a nuisance, and I suppose you'll need a bag of some description. I'll be here at eleven, and then we shall get home to lunch. Edna is in a great state of excitement at the thought of seeing you."

Norah pulled a funny little face of embarrassment. "I'm rather shy, you know," she said, laughing. "I've only seen your mother once, and the other two are absolute strangers; it seems funny to be coming over to stay. Is your father a formidable sort of old gentleman?"

"Humph—well—I think he is rather! He is awfully fond of getting his own way," said Rex, in a tone which implied that he failed to understand how anyone could be guilty of such a weakness. "But he is an awfully decent sort if you take him the right way; and poor little Edna would not frighten a mouse. You will feel at home with her in five minutes. I only wish she knew Lettice. We must arrange for her to come over some time."

Norah looked at him with a feeling of curiosity which was not altogether agreeable. "Why do you wish that she knew Lettice! Do you think she would like her better than me?"

"Oh, yes," said Rex easily. (He was just like other boys, Norah told herself, and had not the slightest regard for a poor girl's feelings!) "She is such a jolly, affectionate little thing, you know, that Edna would take to her at once. And she has heard so much of 'Lovely Lettice'! I say, isn't she pretty?"

"Yes, she is—lovely! It's a very good name for her." Norah spoke with all the greater emphasis because, for the moment, she had been guilty of an actual pang of envy of her beloved Lettice, for she regarded the "strange boy" as her special friend, by virtue of having been the first to make his acquaintance, and it was not agreeable to find her own claims to popularity brushed aside in this unceremonious fashion. "Lettice is a darling, and everyone likes her, because she is sweet- tempered, and never says unkind things to make other people miserable," she added, not without the hope that Mr Rex would take the hint to himself. He did nothing of the sort, however, but only yawned, thought he must be going, and marched away with stoical unconsciousness of the aching little heart which he had left behind.

On Thursday morning Rex duly drove up to the door in his father's dog- cart. He was a little before his time, but Norah was waiting for him, wrapped up in her warm scarlet coat; her violin case and bag ready on the hall table. Before he came she had been lamenting loudly, because she felt a conviction that something would happen to prevent his arrival; but when it came to setting off, she was seized with an attack of shyness, and hung back in hesitating fashion. "Oh, oh! I don't like it a bit. I feel horrid. Don't you think father would drive over, and bring me home to-night?"

"H-ush! No! Don't be foolish, Norie! You will enjoy it ever so much when you get there. Remember everything to tell me to-morrow," whispered Lettice encouragingly, and Norah climbed up into the high seat and waved her hand to her two sisters until a turn of the drive hid them from sight.

"If you want to cry, don't mind me!" said Rex coolly, which remark served better than anything else could possibly have done to rouse Miss Norah to her usual composure. The saucy little nose was tilted into the air at once, and the red lips curled in scornful fashion.

"I wonder how it is that schoolboys are always so rude and unpleasant?"

Mr Rex laughed, and gave the horse a flick with the whip, which sent him spinning round the corner at break-neck speed. Norah understood that he was proud of his driving, and wished to impress her with the fact that it was very unlike a schoolboy performance. She pressed her lips together to stifle an exclamation of dismay at his recklessness, and her silence pleased Rex, who liked to see "a girl with some courage," so that presently he began to talk in quite a confidential strain. "The professor will be at the house about half-past two, so you won't have too much time to spare. He is a tall, lanky fellow, six feet two, with a straggling black beard, goggle eyes, and spectacles. He looks awfully bad-tempered, but I suppose he can't do more than rap your knuckles with a pencil, and they all go as far as that."

"No one ever rapped my knuckles," said Norah loftily. "You told Hilary a few minutes ago that none of you had seen him, and that your mother had engaged him entirely on her friends' recommendation. So you can't know what he is like, or anything about him!"

"How do you know that the friends did not describe him?" cried Rex quickly. "You can't know what they said. I tell you he is a tall, cadaverous fellow, with a stoop in his back and a white beard."

"Black! black! You said black last time," cried Norah in triumph. "You are making it up, and I could imagine what he is like as well as you, if I liked, but I won't, because it is so horribly uncomfortable when you really meet. I tried that trick with Lettice once, when a friend of Miss Briggs came to visit us. She was a very nice old lady, and awfully kind (she made me a sweet little pin-cushion for my room), but she was ugly! She looked just like a fat, good-natured frog, with light eyes very far apart, big, big freckles spotted over her face, and such a great, wide mouth. Well, I saw her first, and then I went upstairs, and Lettice met me and asked me what she was like. I felt mischievous, so I said that she was dark, and tall, and stately, with a long, thin face, and beautiful, melancholy eyes. Lettice went rushing downstairs, and when she saw her she stopped quite short, and began to choke and gurgle as if she were going to have a fit. She pretended that she was laughing at something Raymond was doing in the garden; but it was horribly awkward, and I vowed I'd never do it again. I should hate people to laugh at me, and it's unkind to do things that you wouldn't like other people to do to you—I mean—you know what I mean!"

"I know," said Rex gravely. He looked quite serious and impressed, and Norah cast inquiring glances at his face, wondering what he could be thinking of, to make him so solemn all of a sudden.

At last, "Look here," he said, "talking of meeting strangers, don't stare at poor little Edna when you meet! There is—er—something—about her eyes, and she is very sensitive about it. Try and look as if you don't notice it, you know."

"Oh, I will!" cried Norah gushingly. She knitted her brows together, trying to think what the "something" could be. Something wrong with her lungs, and something wrong with her eyes—poor Edna! she was indeed to be pitied! "I am glad he told me, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world," she said to herself; and many times over, during the course of the next hour, did her thoughts wander sympathetically towards her new companion.

It was a long, cold drive, but Norah could have found it in her heart to wish it were longer, as the dog-cart turned in at the gate of the Manor House and drew up before the grey stone porch. Mrs Freer came into the hall to welcome her guest, with a grey woollen shawl wrapped round her shoulders, and her little face pinched with cold.

"How do you do, dear? I'm afraid you are quite starved. Come away to the fire and get thawed before you go upstairs," she said cordially; and Norah followed, conscious that a girl's head had peeped out of the door to examine her, and then been cautiously withdrawn. When they entered the room, however, Miss Edna was seated demurely behind a screen, and came forward in the most proper way to shake hands with the new-comer. Norah was only conscious that she was tall, with narrow shoulders, and brown hair hanging in a long plait down her back, for the fear of seeming to stare at the "something" in her eyes about which she was so sensitive, kept her from giving more than the most casual of glances. Conversation languished under these circumstances, and presently Mrs Freer took Norah upstairs to her room to get ready for lunch. Before that meal was served, however, there was another painful ten minutes to go through downstairs, when the mistress of the house was out of the room and Rex came in to take her place. Edna was reported to be shy, but in this instance it was Norah who was tongue-tied, and the other who made the advances. It is so extremely difficult to speak to a person at whom one is forbidden to look. Norah fixed her eyes on Edna's brooch, and said, "Yes, oh yes, she was fond of skating." Questioned a little further, she gave a rapid glance so far upward as to include a mouth and chin, and was so much abashed by her own temerity that she contradicted herself hopelessly, and stammered out a ridiculous statement to the effect that she never used a bicycle, that is to say always—when it was fine. Edna sat silent, dismayed at the reality of the sprightly girl of whom she had heard so much, and it did not add to Norah's comfort to hear unmistakable sounds of chuckling from the background. She darted an angry glance at Rex, scented mischief in his twitching smile, and turned at bay to stare fixedly into Edna's face. A broad forehead, thin cheeks, a delicate pink and white complexion, dark grey eyes, wide open with curiosity, but as free from any disfigurement about which their owner could be "sensitive" as those of the visitor herself.

"Oh—oh!" gasped Norah. Rex burst into a roar of laughter, and Edna pleaded eagerly to be told of the reason of their excitement.

"He told me I was not to look at you. He told me—there was something— wrong—with your eyes; that you didn't like people to stare at you. I— I was afraid to move," panted Norah in indignation.

"Something wrong with my eyes! But there isn't, is there? They are all right?" cried Edna in alarm, opening the maligned eyes to about twice their usual size, and staring at Norah in beseeching fashion. "How could he say anything so untrue!"

"I never said there was anything 'wrong.' I was very particular how I put it. I said there was 'something' about your eyes, and that you were sensitive about meeting strangers, and did not like to be stared at. All quite true, isn't it? It's not my fault if Norah chose to think you squinted," declared Rex, jetting the best of the argument as usual, and nodding his head at Norah with the air of triumph which she found so exasperating.

Edna looked from one to the other in startled fashion, as though she were afraid that such flashing looks must be the commencement of a quarrel, and drew a sigh of relief when Norah's dignity gave way to giggles of uncontrollable amusement.

The Squire made his appearance at the luncheon table, an irascible- looking old gentleman, with red, weather-beaten face, grey hair, and fierce white whiskers sticking out on either side. The ribbons on his wife's cap trembled every time he spoke to her, and she said, "Yes, love, yes!" and "No, love, no!" to everything he said, as if afraid to differ from him on any subject. Norah jumped on her seat the first time he spoke to her, for his voice sounded so loud and angry. He said, "I am afraid you have had a cold drive," in much the same tone as that in which the villain on the stage would cry—"Base villain, die a thousand deaths!" and when he called for mustard, the very rafters seemed to ring. "What on earth must he be like when he is really angry, if he is like this when he is pleased?" asked Norah of herself; but there was something in the Squire's keen, blue eyes which took her fancy, despite his fierceness, and she noticed that when he spoke to his little daughter his face softened, while each time that she coughed, he knitted his brows and stared at her with undisguised anxiety. Edna was evidently his darling, and her delicate health the cause of much anxiety.

At two o'clock the two girls ensconced themselves behind the window curtains and exchanged confidences while watching for the first appearance of the Professor from Lancaster. Edna told Norah about the school which she left; how grieved she had been to say good-bye to her friends, and how sadly she missed their bright society, and Norah comforted her in warm-hearted fashion. "Never mind, I am coming every fortnight, and when the bright days are here you will be able to drive over and see us. I hope you will like me, for I think I shall like you very much indeed, in spite of your eyes." Then they pinched each other, and crouched together with "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" of excitement, as a small, wiry figure came hurrying towards the house. It was Mr Morris, of course, but the collar of his coat was turned up and his hat pulled over his face, so that it was impossible to tell what he was really like. Only one thing was certain—he had neither a white nor a black beard, as Mr Rex had predicted.

"Let me have the first lesson! He won't think I am so bad if he hears me first," pleaded Edna; and at the end of an hour she came out of the drawing-room, to announce that Mr Morris was rather terrible, but that she was sure he was a good teacher, and that she had not been so frightened as she expected. Then it was Norah's turn. She played her favourite pieces, one after the other, while Mr Morris sat at the edge of the table, watching and listening. Never a word of praise or blame did he say until she had finished the third selection. Then he looked at her fixedly with his light, grey eyes (they were rather goggled, after all!), and said quietly, "Well, and what do you mean to do?"

"Mean to do? I—I don't think I understand."

"Are you content to be a young lady amateur who plays well enough to entertain her friends in her own drawing-room, or do you mean to work seriously, and make a first-rate performer? You can do as you like. You have the talent. It is for yourself to decide."

Norah's face was a study in its raptured excitement. "Oh-oh!" she cried breathlessly, "I'll work—I don't care how hard I work! I love it so much. I want to do my very, very best."

"Then I'll work too, and do all I can to help you!" said Mr Morris in return. He jumped off the table as he spoke, and advanced towards her, rubbing his hands as one who prepares for a pleasant task. "Now then!" he cried; and for the next hour Norah was kept hard at work, with never another word of praise, but with many sharp corrections and reminders to call attention to hitherto unsuspected faults. She was radiantly happy, nevertheless, for the first step towards correcting a fault was to discover its existence, and what was the good of a teacher who did not point out what was wrong? At four o'clock Mr Morris took his departure, and Norah found that Edna had retired to her room to rest, as was her custom every afternoon. Mrs Freer was also invisible, but Rex came to join her in the drawing-room, looking particularly cheerful and self-satisfied.

"Well, has the old fellow departed? How are the knuckles? Is he any good? He looks a miserable little shrimp."

"He's a delightful teacher! I like him immensely! He told me I could be a splendid player if I would only work hard enough."

"Oh, well, I could have told you as much as that myself." It was clear that Rex thought it the polite thing to inquire about the success of the music lesson, but also that his attention was fixed on some other subject. "Look here!" he said suddenly, "the mater and Edna always rest for an hour or two in the afternoon, and I promised to look after you until they come down. Would you like a real, genuine—bloodcurdling adventure?"

Norah gave a shriek of delight. "Rather, just! I should think I would. What is it?"

"You can pin up your dress, and put on a big old coat?"

"Yes—yes!"

"And you won't mind if you do get grimy?"

"Not a bit I'm used to—I mean, I can soon wash myself clean again."

"Come along then! Follow me, and tread lightly. I don't want anyone to see where we are going." And Rex led the way down the cellar stairs, while Norah followed, afire with curiosity.



CHAPTER TEN.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE.

The Manor house dated back for nearly two hundred years, and the underground premises were of an extent unknown in modern houses. Rex led the way through various flagged divisions, and leaving behind washing, wine, and coal cellars, came at last to a large door, locked and bolted. Here he stopped, and drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket, fitted one into the lock, and pushed and dragged at the door until it opened before him. "Now then," he said, turning to Norah, "we will prepare for business! I've got a lantern here and two old coats; button yourself up in this, and you will come to no harm. I found these old keys in a drawer to-day, and it struck me that one of them might fit this door, so I came down to experiment before coming back for you. There is a tradition that there is a subterranean passage leading from this house to the lake, and I believe I have discovered the entrance. I'll show you what I mean. Be careful how you tread, for the floor is strewed with rubbish."

He took Norah by the arm as he spoke, and led her forward for two or three steps. At first the darkness appeared impenetrable, but presently her eyes became accustomed to the imperfect light, and she saw that she was standing in a long apartment, filled with all manner of odd, injured, and useless articles. Scraps of broken furniture, balks of timber, and strangely-shaped pieces of iron lay on every side. It was evidently a lumber-room of past generations which had been deserted by later tenants, for the grated windows were thick with dust, and the cobwebs hung in wreaths on the walls. Rex lighted the lantern, closed the door as quietly as might be, and dodged in and out the piles of rubbish to the far end of the cellar. "Come here! What do you think of this?" he cried triumphantly; and Norah groped her way forward, to find him standing before a part of the wall which had been broken down for some purpose and left unrepaired. The stones and mortar were piled high on the ground, and hidden behind them was a large hole opening into a dark passage. "This looks like the genuine article, doesn't it? Are you game to explore, and see where it leads?" queried Rex; and Norah assented eagerly—

"Oh, yes, yes; I should love it! It looks so beautifully mysterious. There may be hidden treasures. Would they belong to me if I found them?"

"You would have a share, of course; the rest would be mine because I discovered the opening. Now then, I'll go first, and hold the lantern; you will have to stoop, but it may get higher as we go along."

The passage proved to be smooth, and, to Norah's relief, quite dry and free from those "creepy, crawly animals" which were the only things about which she was really nervous. But Rex was wrong in thinking that it might improve in height, for it grew ever narrower and lower as they progressed, until at times they were obliged to bend almost double. "This is the way people have to crawl about inside the Pyramids," said Rex. "It's a queer kind of place, but I mean to go on until I find where it leads. I say, though! don't you come on if you would rather not. You could go back to the cellar and wait for me."

But Norah would not listen to such a suggestion. What if her back did ache, it was not every day that she had the chance of such an adventure; besides, she had no particular wish to be left alone in the dark, while it yet remained to be proved how she was to turn round when the time came for the return journey. For five minutes longer they trudged forward in silence, then Rex's stick struck against some other substance than stone, and his outstretched hand came across a bar of iron. It proved to be a half-closed grating, shutting out the entrance into the further portion of the passage, but he was not to be turned aside by such a trifle as this, and after much pushing and banging managed to raise it sufficiently to make it possible to scramble underneath. Norah followed in agile fashion, but hardly had she done so than there came the sound of a fall, and a sharp, metallic click.

"What's that?" cried Rex quickly, and Norah stretched out her hand to discover the cause of the noise. It came, into contact with something hard and cold, and her heart gave a leap of fear, for she realised in an instant that the trap-door had fallen, and that the click which they had heard had been the catch with which it had swung into its rightful position.

"I—I think something has fastened the grating," she said faintly. "I can't make it move. We shan't be able to get back this way."

"Oh, what nonsense! Let me come and try," said Rex impatiently, but the passage was so narrow at this point that it was impossible for him to pass, and he had to content himself with directing Norah's efforts. "I'll hold the lantern; look up and down and see if you can find the fastening. Push upwards! Put your fingers in the holes, and tug with all your might. ... Try it the other way. ... Kick it with your feet!"

Norah worked with all her strength—and she was a strong, well-grown girl, with no small muscular power—but the grating stood firm as a rock, and resisted all her efforts. "It's no use, Rex," she panted desperately; and there was silence for a few moments, broken by a sound which was strangely like the beating of two anxious hearts.

"Well, we shall just have to go on then, that's all," said Rex shortly. "A passage is bound to lead somewhere, I suppose. The worst that can happen is that we may have a walk home, and you couldn't come to much harm in that coat!"

"Oh no! I shall be all right," said Norah bravely. For a few moments she had been horribly frightened, but Rex's matter-of-fact speech had restored her confidence in his leadership. Of course the passage must have an outlet. She considered where they would come out, and even smiled faintly to herself at the thought of the comical figure which she would cut, striding through the lanes in the squire's old yellow mackintosh. She was determined to let Rex see that though she was only a girl, she could be as brave as any boy; but it was difficult to keep up her spirits during the next ten minutes, for the passage seemed to grow narrower all the time, while the air was close and heavy. A long time seemed to pass while they groped their way forward, then suddenly Rex's stick struck against some obstacle directly in his path, and he stopped short.

"What is it?" cried Norah fearfully. It seemed an endless time to the poor child before he answered, in a voice so strained and hoarse as to be hardly recognisable.

"The passage is blocked. It is walled up. We cannot get any further!" Rex lifted the lantern as he spoke and looked anxiously into the girl's face, but Norah said nothing. It seemed as if she could not realise the meaning of his words, but there was a dizzy feeling in her head as if a catherine-wheel were whirling round and round, and she felt suddenly weak and tired, so that she was obliged to sit down and lean against the wall.

Rex bent over her with an anxious face.

"You are not going to faint, Norah?"

"Oh, no; I am—quite well."

There was a long silence, then—"Rex," said Norah, in a very weak little voice, "did anyone know that you were down in the cellars to-day?"

Rex cleared his throat in miserable embarrassment.

"No, Norah. I am afraid no one saw me."

"Will they miss the keys?"

"They are very old keys, Norah. Nobody uses them."

A little frightened gasp sounded in his ear, but Norah said no more. Rex clenched his fist and banged it fiercely on his knee.

"Idiot! idiot that I was! What business had I to let you come. It's all my fault. It was no place for a girl; but the opening looked right enough, and I thought—"

"I know. Besides, you asked me if I would like an adventure, and I said I would. I came of my own free will. Don't be angry with yourself, Rex; it is as much my fault as yours."

"You are a little brick, Norah," said a husky voice, and Rex's hand gripped hers with a quick, strong pressure. "I never thought a girl could be so plucky. I'll not forget—" He broke off suddenly, and Norah's voice was very unsteady as she asked the next question—

"If—if we shouted very loudly would anyone hear?"

"I—er— Think how far away from the house we must be by this time, Norah!"

There was a long, throbbing silence. Rex sat with his head bent forward on his knees; Norah stared blankly before her, her face looking thin and ghost-like in the dim light. The silence grew oppressive, and presently the lad raised his head and touched his companion on the arm. "Don't look like that, Norah. What is it? Norah, speak! What are you thinking about?" He had to bend forward to hear the answer, for Norah's lips were dry, and her throat parched as with thirst.

"Poor father!" she gasped; and Rex started at the sound with a stab of pain.

"Don't! I can't bear it. Norah, for pity's sake don't give in—don't give up hope. Something will happen—it will—it must! We shall get out all right."

"But if we can't go forward, and if we can't go back, and if no one can hear us call," said Norah, still in the same slow, gasping accents, "I don't see—how—we can. ... Rex! how long shall we have to wait before we—"

"If you say that word, Norah, I'll never forgive you! We must get out— we shall get out! Come, rouse yourself like a good girl, and I will go back to see what I can do with that grating. It's our only chance. Lead the way until we come to the broadest part of the passage, and then I must manage to pass you somehow or other. It has to be done."

Norah put out her hands and dragged herself wearily to her feet. The feeble gleam of the lantern seemed only to call attention to the inky blackness, and the air was so close and noisome, that she breathed in heavy pants. It had been a delightful adventure to explore this passage, so long as it was in her power to turn back at any moment; but now that there was this dreadful terror of not being able to get out at all, it seemed like a living grave, and poor Norah staggered forward in sick despair. As they neared the grating, however, it became possible to stand upright, and this, in itself, was a relief, for her back was aching from long stooping.

Rex laid down the lantern at a safe distance, and put his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Now then, Norah, I am going to squeeze past. I may hurt you a little, but it will be only for a moment. Stretch your arms out flat against the wall, turn your head sideways, and make yourself as small as you can. I will take off my coat. Now! Are you ready?"

"Ready!" said Norah faintly; and the next moment it seemed as if the breath were being squeezed out of her body, as Rex pressed her more and more tightly against the wall. A horrible gasp of suffocation, a wild desire to push him off and fight for her own liberty, and then it was all over, and they were standing side by side, gasping, panting, and tremulous.

"That's over!" sighed Rex thankfully. "Poor Norah! I am afraid I hurt you badly, but it was the best plan to get it over as quickly as possible. Now then, hold up the lantern, and let me have a look round." ...

It was a time of breathless suspense as Rex went carefully over every inch of the door, examining niche and corner in the hope of discovering the secret of the spring by which it was moved. The grating was rusty with age, and had evidently stuck in the position in which he had found it an hour before, when his vigorous shakings had loosened the springs by which it was moved. Try as he might, however, he could not succeed in moving it a second time; there was no sign of knob or handle; he could find no clue to its working.

"It's no use, Rex," said Norah feebly. "You will have to give it up." But the lad's indomitable will would not permit him to agree in any such conclusion.

"I will never give it up!" he cried loudly. "I brought you into this place, and I'll get you out of it, if I have to break every bar with my own hands—if I have to pick the stones out of the wall! Move along a few yards; I'm going to lie down on my back, and try what kicking will do."

No sooner said than done. Rex stretched himself at full length on the ground, moved up and down to get at the right distance, and began to assail the grating with a series of such violent kicks as woke a babel of subterranean echoes. Not in vain he had been the crack "kick" of the football team at school; not in vain had he exercised his muscles ever since childhood in scrambling over mountain heights, and taking part in vigorous out-of-door sports. Norah clasped her hands in a tremor of excitement. It seemed to her that no fastenings in the world could long withstand such a battery, and when Rex suddenly sprang to his feet and charged at the door, she fairly shrieked with exultation.

"Go on! Go on! It shakes! I'm sure it shakes! Oh, Rex, kick! kick for your life!" It was a superfluous entreaty. The strength of ten men seemed to be concentrated in the lad for the next ten minutes, as he fought the iron grating, changing from one position to another, as signs of increasing weakness appeared in different parts of the framework. Norah gasped out encouragement in the background, until at last, with a crash and bang, the old springs gave way, and the grating fell to the ground.

"Now—come!" shouted Rex. He did not waste a moment in rejoicing; now that the barrier was removed both he and Norah were possessed with but one longing—to get out of the passage as quickly as possible into light, and air, and safety. Two minutes later they were seated side by side on one of the beams of timber on the cellar floor, gazing into each other's face with distended eyes. Rex was purple with the strain of his late efforts—his breath came pantingly, his hair lay in damp rings on his forehead. Norah's face was ghastly white; she was trembling from head to foot.

"Thank God!" said Rex solemnly. They were his first words, and Norah bent her head with a little sob of agitation.

"Oh, thank God! We might have been buried alive in that awful place."

Rex took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, looking anxiously at his companion the while. "You don't think you will be ill, do you, Norah? You look horribly white."

"Oh no!—oh no! I shall be all right in an hour, but I shall never forget it. Rex, I think we ought to be awfully good all our lives—we have had such a wonderful escape, and we know now how it feels— When I thought I was never going to come out of that passage, I was sorry I had been cross to Hilary, and—so selfish! I made up my mind if I had another chance—"

"I don't believe you have ever done anything wrong, Norah," said Rex, in a low, husky voice. There was a long silence, then—"My father will feel inclined to kill me when he hears about this!" he added shortly.

Norah started. "But need we tell them? I don't think it would be wrong to say nothing about it. We are safe, and it has taught us to be more careful in future. It would only upset everyone, and make them miserable, if they knew we had been in such danger. I'll slip quietly to my room, and it shall be a secret between us, Rex—you and I."

Rex looked at her in silence, with his big, keen eyes. "You are the best little soul in the world, Norah," he said. "I wish I were like you!"



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE NEW MARY.

Norah was white and subdued for the rest of the evening, but as she was a stranger to three out of the four members of the household, this unusual fact attracted little attention. It was taken for granted that, like Edna, she was exhausted by the excitement of the first music lesson, and both girls were despatched to bed at an early hour.

Next morning Rex hied off to the Vicarage, to work for a couple of hours with the vicar, a scholarly recluse, with whom he was reading for college, and the girls were left alone to pursue their acquaintance. Conversation naturally turned on Rex, but Edna told the story of his discontent from a fresh point of view.

"Father doesn't ask him to choose a profession if he would rather go into business, but he thinks every man is the better for a college education, and that Rex is too young to decide for himself until he is twenty-one. If he works till then, he can do what he likes in the future. But Rex is so obstinate; he thinks he is a man because he is nearly eighteen, and wants to have his own way at once. It makes father so angry."

Norah pursed up her lips. She could imagine that a conflict of wills between the old Squire and his son would be no trifling matter. In imagination, she saw them standing facing each other, the father ruddy, bristling, energetic, Rex straight and tall, his lips set, his eyes gleaming. They were too like each other in disposition for either to find it easy to give way.

"Boys are a great trial," she said, sighing profoundly. "We have two, you know—Raymond and Bob. They have gone back to school now, and the house is so peaceful. I am glad I wasn't born a boy. They never seem happy unless there is a disturbance going on. But both Rex and your father seem so fond of you. Can't you coax them round?"

"Oh, I daren't!" Edna looked quite alarmed. "Mother and I never interfere; we leave them to fight it out between themselves. But if they go on fighting for the next three years it won't be very lively, I must say!"

Edna would have been as much surprised as delighted if she had known that the conflict which had so long destroyed the peace of the household was at an end, even as she spoke. No one could fail to notice that the Squire was in an unusually radiant frame of mind at luncheon, or that he addressed his son with marked favour; but it was not until the drive home was nearly over, and the gates of Cloudsdale in view, that Rex enlightened his companion's curiosity on the point. He cleared his throat once or twice in a curious, embarrassed manner, before he began to speak.

"Er—Norah—I've something to tell you. When we were shut up in that hole last night, I was thinking too. The governor has been very good to me, and it seems ungrateful to stand out about college, when he is so keen on it. It is only for three years. I—er—I told him this morning that I would do my best till I was twenty-one, if he would promise to let me have a free choice after that."

"Oh, Rex, did you? I am so glad. I am sure you will never regret it. You will always be glad that you did what your father wished, even if it is hard at the time. I think you are very, very good and kind, and unselfish."

"All right! You needn't gush. I hate girls who gush," said Rex curtly; and Norah understood that she was to say no more on the subject, and collapsed into obedient silence.

It seemed a day of good resolutions, for Norah could not but notice that Hilary looked ill and was obviously in low spirits. Her greeting had been more affectionate than usual; nevertheless, the remembrance of the quarrel of a few days earlier still rankled in Norah's mind, and the resolutions of yesterday were too fresh to allow her to be satisfied without a definite reconciliation. The first time they were alone together, she burst into impetuous apologies. "Oh, Hilary, I wanted to say that I'm sorry I was cross on Monday. I don't mind a bit about the drawing-room; alter it in any way you like. Of course you know better how things should be, after staying in London. I'm sorry I was rude, but I did dust it, really!"

To her surprise, the tears rose in Hilary's eyes, and she looked absolutely distressed. "Oh, Norah, don't! I'm sorry too. I didn't think I had grumbled so much. But Miss Carr's house is so beautiful, and when I came home—"

"I know. But it looks ever so much nicer in summer, when the doors are open and the flowers are in bloom. If you like to move the piano, and make it stand out from the walls, I'll give you my yellow silk for the drapery. Aunt Amy sent it to me for a dress, but I've never used it."

"Thank you, Norah; it's awfully good of you, but I shall have something else to do besides draping pianos for the next few weeks, I'm afraid," said Hilary dismally. "Mary has given notice!" And the poor little housekeeper heaved a sigh, for Mary had been a model housemaid, and it would be a difficult matter to replace her in this quiet country place.

"Mary given notice! Oh, how horrid! I hate strange servants, and she has been with us so long. Why ever is she—" Norah checked herself with a quick recollection of the events of the last week, but Hilary did not shirk the unfinished question.

"She was vexed because I found fault. I felt cross and worried, and vented it on her. I didn't realise it at the time, but I see now that I was unreasonable." And to hear Hilary confess a fault was an experience so extraordinary, that Norah sat dumbfounded, unable to account for the phenomenon.

The threatened loss of Mary was too important a family event to pass unnoticed in the general conversation. Lettice was full of lamentations, and even Rex had a tribute to pay to her excellence. "The big, strapping girl, who waited on me when I was laid up? Oh, I say, what a nuisance! I wish she would come to us; she has such a jolly good-natured face."

"If she came to you, I would never stay at your house again. I'd be too jealous," said Norah dolefully. "We shall never get anyone like Mary."

"We may be thankful if we get anyone at all. Girls don't like living so far from the village," groaned Lettice in concert; and the virtues of Mary, and the difficulties of supplanting her, were discussed at length throughout the afternoon. Hilary's sense of guilt in the matter made her even more energetic than usual in her efforts to find a new maid. She visited the local registry offices, inserted advertisements in the papers, and wrote reams of letters; and, on the third day, to her delight, a young woman arrived to apply for the situation. It was the first time that the duty of interviewing a new servant had devolved upon Hilary's shoulders, for all three maids had been in the family for years, and, in her new doubtfulness of self, she would have been glad to ask the help of Miss Briggs, but that good lady had taken Geraldine for a walk, and there was no help at hand.

"I don't know if she is afraid of me, but I am certainly terrified of her!" said poor Hilary, smoothing her hair before the glass, and trying to make herself look as staid and grown-up as possible. "I don't know what on earth to say. Lettice, come and sit in the room, there's a dear, and see what you think of her. I shouldn't like to engage anyone on my own responsibility." So the two girls went downstairs together, and Lettice looked on from a quiet corner, while Hilary sat bolt upright, cross-questioning the new servant. She was a tall, awkward girl, untidily dressed, with a fly-away hat perched on the top of her head, a spotted veil drawn over her face, and the shabbiest of boas wound round her neck. "What a contrast to our nice, trim Mary!" groaned Lettice to herself, while Hilary cudgelled her brain to think of appropriate questions.

"And—er—have you been accustomed to housemaid's work?"

"Oh, yes, miss. I'm very handy about a house, miss. I'm sure I could give you satisfaction, miss."

("I don't like her voice. She has not nearly such nice manners as Mary," sighed Hilary to herself. "Oh dear me!")

"And—er—can you—er—get up in the morning without being called?"

"Oh yes, miss; I'm fond of early rising. It's never any trouble to me to get up."

"And—er—we are rather a large family, and I am very particular. Are you quite strong and able to work?"

"Oh yes, miss; quite strong, miss. Never had a day's illness in my life."

"And—er—(there must be other questions to ask, but it's terribly difficult to think of them. I can't ask her to her face if she is honest and sober—it's absurd," thought Hilary in despair). "And—er— er—I suppose you are good-tempered, and would not quarrel with the other servants?"

"Oh yes, miss. Oh no, miss. All my mistresses would say for me, I'm sure, miss, that there never was a girl with a sweeter temper. I couldn't hurt a fly, miss, I'm sure I couldn't, I've such a tender heart."

("I'm sure she has nothing of the kind. I don't like her a bit; but, oh dear! what can I do? If she goes on agreeing with all I say, I have no excuse for telling her that she won't suit.")

"And—er—you would have to attend to all the bedrooms, and the schoolroom, and help the parlour-maid with the waiting. If you have not been accustomed to a large family, I am afraid you would find it a heavy place."

"Oh no, miss; not too heavy, miss. I'm never so happy as when I'm working. I've been brought up to work."

"Yes—but—but—but I'm afraid you would not suit me," cried Hilary, summoning the courage in despair, and determined, at all costs, to put an end to the interview. "I won't trouble you to send your character, for perhaps your mistress might object to give it twice, and I—er—you see—I don't quite know when my present maid is leaving, and I think—I am afraid—"

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, miss. I'll bring it with pleasure. I am sure you would suit me very well. I've always heard of you as such a good mistress, and I'd like to live with you; I would indeed!"

Hilary sat dumbfounded. She was beginning to feel quite afraid of this terrible young woman who stood up before her, looking so tall and formidable, and tossing her head until all the shabby black feathers shook again on her hat. "I—I won't detain you any longer," she said icily, as she rose from her seat. "You can leave your address, and if I change my mind I will let you know." She laid her hand on the bell as she spoke, but, to her amazement, the young woman suddenly flopped down on a chair, and folded her arms with a determined gesture.

"I won't stir an inch till I've had my lunch," she said; and from beneath the skirts of her dress there appeared a pair of stout, hob- nailed boots; from within her muff, two big, brown hands; and beneath the veil, a laughing, mischievous face.

"Rex!" screamed Hilary, at the pitch of her voice. "Oh, you horrible, deceiving, bad, impertinent boy!"

"Rex!" echoed Lettice in chorus. "Oh, oh! how lovely I how delicious! However did you do it? Norah!—Norah! Norah! Oh, do come here!"

In rushed Norah, breathless with curiosity, to know what had happened, and the next ten minutes was passed in a clamour of questionings. When had he thought of it? How had he thought of it? Where had he found the clothes? How had he dressed? etcetera, etcetera.

Rex paraded the room with mincing steps, and simpered at his own reflection in the looking-glass.

"Old things of the mater's and Edna's. Brought 'em over in the cart, and dressed in the summer-house. What a nice girl I should have made, to be sure! Seems quite a waste, doesn't it? I say, though, I am nearly suffocating with heat. Can't I go and take them off somewhere?"

He was crossing the hall on the way to the cloak-room, when who should come tripping downstairs but Mary herself, trim and neat as ever, but casting a glance the reverse of approving at the strange young woman who had come to supplant herself.

"Good morning, Mary. I've come to apply for the place," said Rex gravely; then suddenly picking up his skirts, displayed his trousered legs underneath, and executed a wild schottische round the hall.

Mary gave a shriek, put her hand to her heart, and sank down on the stairs, brushes and all, in a breathless heap. "Oh, Mr Rex, oh! I never in all my life! Oh, what a turn you gave me! Oh! oh! oh!" And she gasped and panted till Norah became alarmed, and went up to pat her on the shoulder.

"Don't, Mary, don't! Oh, Mary, I wish it was all fun. I wish you weren't going."

"So do I, Miss Norah. I don't want to leave you, but Miss Hilary—"

"I don't want you to go, Mary. I would rather have you than anyone else."

"Ha! ha! ha!" Rex pranced round the hall in wild delight. "Look at that now! Reginald Freer, Esquire, peacemaker and housemaid-waitress. Apply—Brathey Manor—"

"What in the world is the matter? Has everyone gone mad? How am I supposed to write in this uproar?" Mr Bertrand appeared at his study door with an expression of long-enduring misery, whereat there was a general stampede, and the house subsided into silence.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

VISITORS ARRIVE.

Whitsuntide fell in the beginning of June, and as Hilary went a tour of inspection round the house and grounds, she was proudly conscious that everything was looking its very best. The rooms were sweet with the scent of flowers; the open doors and windows showed a vista of well-kept lawn, and in the distance the swelling height of mountains, beautiful with that peculiar rich, velvet green which can be seen in no other country in the world. Who would pause to notice the deficiencies of curtain and carpet, when they could look out of the window and see such a scene as that? As for the garden itself, it was a miracle of beauty, for the flowering trees were still in bloom, while the wild roses had thrown their branches high over the tall fir trees, and transformed the drive into a fairy bower.

Hilary had special reasons for wishing everything to appear at its best to-day, for two visitors were expected to arrive by the afternoon train—Miss Carr, and the crippled author, Henry Rayner himself. Half- a-dozen times she made a round of inspection, each time finding some trifling alteration or addition to make to her preparations. At last, however, all was ready: the tea-tray laid in the drawing-room, her own white dress donned, a bunch of roses pinned in her belt; and there was nothing left but to wait in such patience as she could command, while Lettice and Norah looked at her slyly and exchanged glances of approval.

"Doesn't she look nice?" they whispered; and, indeed, Hilary was looking her best this afternoon, with the pretty flush in her cheeks, and her eyes alight with excitement. A few minutes after six o'clock the fly drove up to the door, and there sat Miss Carr, in her fashionable London bonnet, and, beside her, Mr Rayner, pale and delicate as ever, but looking around him with an air of intense delight in the beautiful surroundings. Mr Bertrand was on the front seat, and Hilary came forward to do the honours with much less assurance than she would have shown six months earlier.

"My dear, good child, have you any tea? I am perishing of thirst!" cried Miss Carr loudly. She was so bustling and matter-of-fact, that she was the best remedy in the world for shyness; and Hilary led the way to the drawing-room with recovered equanimity. She had only had time for a quick hand-shake with the other visitor, but the glance which had been exchanged between them was delightful in its memory of past meetings—its augury of good times to come.

"And here are your other big girls. Dear me!" said Miss Carr, bestowing a hasty glance at Norah, and staring hard at Lettice over the edge of her cup. "I remember them all in long clothes, but I shall make a point of forgetting them soon if they go on growing up like this. There is a limit to everything—even to the memory of an old woman like myself. The boys are at school, I suppose? But the little one—my baby— Geraldine?"

"Quite well, sank you—how are you?" said the Mouse, coming forward from her hiding-place, and holding out her tiny hand, with a sweet-faced gravity which was too much for the good lady's composure. Down went the teacup on the table, and Geraldine was folded in a hearty embrace.

"Bless your innocent face! I'm well, my darling—a great deal better for seeing you. You don't remember me, do you?"

The Mouse put her head on one side as if considering how to answer truthfully, without hurting the visitor's feelings. "I sink I don't," she said slowly, "only p'raps I shall by-and-by. I'm very pleased to see you."

"There now! What do you think of that? She couldn't possibly belong to anyone in the world but you, Austin," cried Miss Carr in triumph; and Mr Rayner held out his hand to the child with a smile that showed that the Mouse had added yet another to the long list of her adorers.

It was not until dinner was over and the whole party had strolled into the garden, that Hilary had a chance of a quiet talk with Mr Rayner; but when her father and Miss Carr began to pace up and down the lawn, he came up to her with a gesture of invitation.

"Won't you sit down for a few minutes on this seat?" Then, with a smile of friendly interest, "Well—how goes it?—How goes it?"

Hilary drew in her breath with a gasp of pleasure. She had not realised when in London how greatly she had been touched and impressed by her meetings with the crippled author; it was only after she had returned to the quiet of the country home that she had found her thoughts returning to him again and again, with a longing to confide her troubles in his ear; to ask his advice, and to see the kindly sympathy on his face. The deep, rich tone of his voice as he said that "How goes it?" filled her with delighted realisation that the long-looked-for time had arrived.

"Oh, pretty well—better and worse! I have been making discoveries."

"About—?"

"Myself, I think!" And Hilary stretched out her hands with a little gesture of distaste, which was both graceful and natural.

Mr Rayner looked at her fixedly beneath bent brows. "Poor little Two Shoes!" he said gravely. "So soon! It hurts, Two Shoes, but it's good in the end. Growing pains, you know!"

"Yes!" said Hilary softly. It was good to find someone who understood without asking questions or forcing confidence. "And you?" she asked presently, raising her eyes to his with a smile of inquiry—"what have you been doing?"

"I? Oh! making discoveries also, I fear; among others, the disagreeable one that I can no longer work as I used, or as other men work, and must, therefore, be satisfied to be left behind in the race. But we are getting melancholy, and it's a shame even to think of disagreeable subjects in a place like this. What a perfect view! I should never tire of looking at those mountains."

"Aren't they beautiful? That is Coniston Old Man right before us, and those are the Langdale Pikes over there to the right. I like them best of all, for they stand out so well, and in winter, when they are covered with snow, they look quite awful. Oh, I am so glad you have come! We generally have good weather in June, and we will have such lovely drives—"

Meantime Mr Bertrand and Miss Carr were having an animated conversation.

"What do you think of my three little girls?" had been his first question, and Miss Carr laughed derisively as she answered—

"Little girls, indeed! They will be grown-up women before you know where you are, Austin. I like that young Norah. There is something very taking about her bright, little face. Miss Consequence has improved, I think; not quite so well pleased with herself, which means more pleasing to other people. She looks well in that white dress. As for Miss Lettice, she is quite unnecessarily good-looking."

"Isn't she lovely?" queried Mr Bertrand eagerly. "And you will find her just as sweet as she looks. They have been very good and contented all spring, but it has been in the expectation of your visit, and the changes which you were to make. We are looking to you to solve all our difficulties."

"Very kind of you, I am sure. It's not an easy position to fill. The difficulty, so far as I can see, is compressed into the next three years. After that you will have to face it, Austin, and come back to town. You can keep on this house for a summer place, if you wish, but the boys will be turning out into the world by then, and you ought to be in town to keep a home for them. Hilary will be twenty-one, the other two not far behind, and it is not fair to keep girls of that age in this out-of-the-way spot all the year round, when it can be avoided. For the next three years you can go on very well as you are; after that—"

"I'm afraid so! I'm afraid you are right. I've thought so myself," said Mr Bertrand dolefully. "I can't say I look forward to the prospect, but if it must be done, it must. I must make the most of my three last years. And, meantime, you think the girls are all right as they are? I need make no change?"

Miss Carr pressed her lips together without speaking, while they paced slowly up and down the lawn. "I think," she said slowly, at last, "that three girls are rather too many in a house like this. You have Miss Briggs to look after Geraldine, and three servants to do the work. There cannot be enough occupation or interest to keep three young people content and happy. I have thought several times during the spring, Austin, that it would be a good plan if you lent one of your daughters to me for a year or two."

"My dear Helen! A year or two! One of my girls!"

"Yes—yes! I knew that you would work yourself up into a state of excitement. What a boy you are, Austin! Listen quietly, and try to be reasonable. If you send one of the girls to me, I will see that she finishes her education under the best masters; that she makes her entrance into society at the right time, and has friends of whom you would approve. It would be a great advantage—"

"I know it, I feel it, and I am deeply grateful, Helen; but it can't be done. I can't separate myself from my children."

"You manage to exist without your boys for nine months of the year; and I would never wish to separate you. She could come home for Christmas and a couple of months in summer, and you yourself are in town half-a- dozen times in the course of the year. You could always stay at my house."

"Yes, yes; it's all true; but I don't like it, Helen, and—"

"And you think only of yourself. It never occurs to you that I have not a soul belonging to me in that big, lonely house, and that it might be a comfort to me to have a bright young girl—"

Mr Bertrand stopped short in the middle of the lawn and stared into his companion's face. There was an unusual flush on her cheeks, and her eyes glistened with tears.

"Oh, my dear Helen," he cried. "I am a selfish wretch! I never thought of that. Of course, if you put it in that light, I can say no more. My dear old friend—I accept your offer with thanks! You have done so much for me, that I can refuse you nothing. It will be a lifelong advantage to the child, and I know you will make her happy."

"I will, indeed; and you may trust me, Austin, to consider more than mere happiness. I will do my best to make her such a woman as her dear mother was before her."

"I know you will. Thank you, Helen. And which—which—?"

"Nay, I am not going to tell you that." Miss Carr had brushed the tears from her eyes, and with them all signs of her unusual emotion. She was herself again—sharp, decisive, matter-of-fact. "I must have my choice, of course; but I will take a week to make up my mind. And she must be left entirely in my hands for the time being, remember! I shall look after her clothes, education, pleasuring, as if she were my own child. There must be no interference."

"Obstinate woman! Who would dare to enter the lists against you?" cried Mr Bertrand between a laugh and a sigh. "Heigho! Which of my little lasses am I going to lose? Whichever it is, I shall feel she is the last I could spare, and shall bear you a grudge for your choice. Can't you give me a hint?"

"No! and I wouldn't if I could. I'll tell you when I am ready," said Miss Carr coolly. And that settled the question for the time being.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A TETE-A-TETE.

During the next few days the girls could not help noticing a peculiar contradiction in their father's manner towards themselves. He was alternately demonstratively affectionate and unreasonably irritable. He snubbed Norah's performance on the violin, scolded Lettice because she was wearing white dresses instead of her old blue serge, and called attention to flaws in the housekeeping in a manner which sent the iron into Hilary's soul. And then, when a chance meeting occurred on the landing or stairs, he would throw his arms round them and kiss them over and over again with passionate tenderness.

"Something is happening, but I haven't the remotest idea what it is," said Norah to her sisters; and it added to their curiosity to notice that Miss Carr was openly amused at their father's demeanour, while he was as evidently embarrassed by her quizzical smiles.

Mr Bertrand had decided to say nothing of Miss Carr's invitation until that lady had made her final choice; but when the third day came he could restrain himself no longer, and taking the girls aside he proceeded to inform them of the new life which was before one of their number. The news was received in characteristic fashion. Hilary stood in silence, thinking deeply; Lettice promptly burst into tears, and clung round her father's arm; and Norah blurted out a dozen contradictory speeches.

"How horrid of her! I won't go! I should hate to leave you all. It's very kind. ... The best masters! It would be lovely, of course, but— Oh, dear! whom will she choose?"

"I couldn't leave home, father. Who would look after the house? It would be impossible for Lettice to do the housekeeping. Miss Carr knows me best. I should love it if it were not for leaving home."

"I don't want to go! I don't want to leave you. Oh, father, father! I'd be so homesick! Don't let me go!"

Mr Bertrand stroked Lettice's golden locks, and looked on the point of breaking down himself.

"Whichever Miss Carr chooses will have to go," he said slowly. "I have promised as much, and I think it will be for the best. I shall be in town every two or three months, and she will come home for the Christmas and the summer holidays, so that it will not be a desperate matter. Don't cry, my pet; you are only one of three, remember; it is by no means certain that Miss Carr would have you, even if you begged to go. Perhaps I should not have said anything about it; but it was on my mind, and I was bound to speak. London is a fascinating place. It is the centre of the world—it is the world; you will find many compensations."

"I shall see a great deal of Mr Rayner. I'm sure she will choose me. It's only fair. I'm the eldest, and she knows me best," thought Hilary to herself.

"I should go to the Royal College of Music, learn from the best masters, and play at the concerts," thought Norah. "I wonder if it would stop Edna's lessons! I should feel mean if it did that, and I do enjoy going over every fortnight and having fun at the Manor!"

Lettice sobbed on her father's shoulder, and tried to smother the thought that it would be "nice" to know grand people, and drive in the park dressed in pretty, fashionable clothes.

Very little more was said on the subject. The girls were shy of revealing their secret thoughts, and Mr Bertrand was already beginning to repent the confidence which had had the effect of damping their high spirits.

"We must get up an excursion of some kind to-morrow, or we shall all be in the blues," he said to himself, and when tea-time arrived he had all the plans cut and dried.

"A char-a-banc will be at the door at half-past ten to-morrow, good people. We will drive over to Grasmere and lunch at the Rothay. It is convenient for the churchyard and the gingerbread shop, and there is a good garden. We can lounge about in the afternoon, and get back in time for a late dinner. There will be eight of us, and the char-a-banc holds twelve, so we shall have plenty of room."

"Oh, father!—Rex and Edna! Do let us ask them! There is time to send a letter to-night, and we could pick them up at the cross-roads. Oh, father!"

"Oh, Norah! Certainly, my dear; ask your friends if you wish. I shall be pleased to have them," said Mr Bertrand laughingly; and Norah rushed off in delight to scribble her note of invitation.

When the char-a-banc came to the door the next morning, Hilary busied herself looking after the storage of cloaks, cushions, camp-stools, and various little etceteras which would add to the comfort of the excursion. She looked a very attractive little mistress of the ceremonies as she bustled about, with a sailor hat on her head and the nattiest little brown shoes in the world peeping out from beneath the crisp, white, pique skirts. Hilary was one of the fortunate people who seemed to have been born tidy, and to have kept so ever since. The wind which played havoc with Norah's locks never dared to take liberties with her glossy coils; the nails which tore holes in other people's garments politely refrained from touching hers; and she could walk through the muddiest streets and come home without a speck upon boots or skirt.

Mr Rayner leant on his crutches and watched her active movements with the wistful glance which was so often seen upon his face. Hilary knew that for the thousandth time he was chafing at his own inability to help, and made a point of consulting him on several matters by way of proving that there were more ways than one in which he could be of service.

"I don't know. In the front—in the back; put them where you like. Are you going to sit beside me?" he replied hurriedly, and with an undisguised eagerness which brought a flush of pleasure into the girl's cheek.

"Oh, yes, I should like to!"

Hilary stood still in a little glow of exultation. The last few days had been delightful with their experiences of lounging, driving, and boating, but the coach-drive along the lovely roads, side by side with Mr Rayner, able to point out each fresh beauty as it appeared, and to enjoy a virtual tete-a-tete for the whole of the way—that was best of all! And he had chosen her as his companion before Lettice, before Norah, before any one of the party! The thought added largely to her satisfaction.

As Miss Carr refused point-blank to take the box seat, and as Mr Bertrand insisted that it should be taken by the other visitor, Hilary advanced to the ladder, and was about to climb up to the high seat, when she turned back with an expression of anxious inquiry.

Mr Rayner stood immediately behind, but his "Please go on!" showed that he understood her hesitation, and was annoyed at the suggestion of help. She seated herself, therefore, and tried in vain to look at ease while he followed. For two or three steps he managed to support himself on his crutches with marvellous agility; on the fourth they slipped, and if he had not been seized from behind by Mr Bertrand and pulled forward by Hilary's outstretched hand, he must have had a serious fall. Hilary literally dare not look at his face for the first ten minutes of the drive, for with an instinctive understanding of another person's feeling which was a new experience to this self-engrossed little lady, she realised that he was smarting beneath the consciousness of having made himself an object of general commiseration. Whatever happened, he must not think that she was pitying him. She racked her brain to think of something to say—some amusing stories to tell. "I wish we were going on a coach instead of a char-a-banc. I love to see the drivers in their white hats and red coats, and to hear the horns blowing. There is something so cheerful about a horn! We are getting to know all the drivers quite well now. I say 'getting to know,' because it takes quite three years to know a North-countryman. They are so terribly reserved! Last year I was on the box seat of a coach sitting next to the driver whom we knew best of all. There were some American ladies behind who kept worrying him with questions all the while. 'Driver, will you show us Wordsworth's house?' 'Driver, you won't forget Wordsworth's house?' 'Driver, hev you passed by Wordsworth's house?' He just sat like a statue and took no notice whatever. Poor man! I wonder how many thousand times he has been asked those questions! One of the horses had bandages round his front leg, and at last I said—I believe I was trying to show off a little bit, you know, just to let them see how polite he would be with me—I said, 'Oh, Robert, why has the off leader got gaiters on to-day?' His face was just as blank as if I had never spoken. We drove along in silence for about ten minutes, while I got hotter and hotter. Then he cleared his throat deliberately, and said, 'Well, in the first place—he needs 'em! and in the second place—he likes 'em! and in the third place—he can't do without 'em!' I felt so small!"

A forced "Humph!" being the only reception which the story received, Hilary braced herself to fresh efforts. Two or three experiences of North-country manners were suggested by the last; she related them in her liveliest manner, and even forced herself to laugh merrily at the conclusion. "So funny, wasn't it? Don't you think it was good?"

The char-a-banc had now reached Bowness, and, for the first time, she ventured a glance into her companion's face. He met her eyes and smiled, the slow, sweet smile that transformed his expression.

"I know someone who is good," he said meaningly. "You have talked yourself out of breath trying to drive away the evil spirit. It's too bad! I am ashamed of my own stupidity."

"I wish—" began Hilary eagerly, and stopped short as suddenly as she had begun.

"You wish? Yes, what is it? Tell me, do! I want to hear—"

Hilary paused for a moment and turned her head over her shoulder. A reassuring clatter of voices came to her ear. Rex, Norah, and Lettice chattering away for their lives, and Edna's soft laughter greeting each new joke. The young folks were too much taken up with their own conversation to have any attention to spare for the occupants of the box seat. She could speak without fear of being overheard.

"I wish you would try not to be so cross with yourself for being lame!"

Mr Rayner winced in the old, pained manner, but the next moment he began to smile.

"'Cross'! That's a curious way of expressing it. How am I cross?"

"Oh, always—every way! Every time it is alluded to in the most distant way, you flare up and get angry. You have snubbed me unmercifully three or four times."

"I have snubbed you? I!" He seemed overcome with consternation. "Miss Hilary, what an accusation. I have never felt anything but sincerest gratitude for your sympathy—I suppose I am stupid. I ought to be hardened to it by this time, but after being so strong, so proud of my strength, it is a bitter pill to find myself handicapped like this—a burden to everybody."

"You have been with us now for nearly a week, and there have only been two occasions on which you have seemed any different from another man, and each time," said Hilary, with unflinching candour, "it has been entirely your own fault! You would not let yourself be helped when it was necessary. If I were in your place, I would say to myself—'I am lame! I hate it, but whether I hate it or not, it's the truth. I am lame! and everybody knows it as well as I do. I won't pretend that I can do all that other people do, and if they want to be kind and help me, I'll let them, and if they don't offer, I'll ask them! Whatever happens, I am not going to do foolish, rash things which will deceive nobody, and which may end in making me lamer than ever!' And then I'd try to think as little about it as I could, and get all the happiness that was left!"

"Oh, wise young judge!" sighed Mr Rayner sadly. "How easy it is to be resigned for another person. But you are quite right; don't think that I am disputing the wisdom of what you say. I should be happier if I faced the thing once for all, and made up my mind as to what I can and cannot do. Well—Miss Carr told me her plans last night. If you come to London, you must keep me up to the mark. I shall hope to see a great deal of you, and if you find me attempting ridiculous things, such as that ladder business to-day, you must just—what is it I am supposed to have done?—'snub' me severely as a punishment."

Hilary smiled with two-fold satisfaction. So Mr Rayner agreed with her in believing that Miss Carr's choice was practically certain. The prospect of living in London grew more and more attractive as the various advantages suggested themselves, and she was roll of delicious anticipations.

"Oh, I will," she said merrily. "I am glad that I did not know you before you were ill, because I see no difference now, and I can do it more easily. I think I am like the Mouse; I like you better for being different from other people. She spent a whole morning searching for twigs in the garden, and now all her dolls are supplied with crutches."

"Dear little mortal! I never met a sweeter child," cried Mr Rayner, and the conversation branched off to treat of Geraldine and her pretty ways.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE WISHING GATE.

Lunch was ready when the visitors reached the hotel at Grasmere, and as they were equally ready for lunch, they lost no time in seating themselves at the large table in the window, and making a vigorous attack upon rolls and butter. The other tables were well filled, and Hilary held up her head with complacent pride, while Lettice and Norah nudged each other to call attention to the glances of curiosity and interest which were directed towards their father.

"A party of Americans, and the waiter whispered to them as we passed. Oh, father, you are in for it! Now—I told you so! The one with the light hair is getting up. She is going upstairs to bring down the autograph albums. Wait till you've finished lunch, then it will be—'Oh, Mr Bertrand, such an honour to meet you; would you be kind enough to write your name in my little book?'"

Mr Bertrand went through a pantomime of tearing his hair. "Is there no escape?" he groaned. "It's bad enough to be a lion in town, but I positively refuse to roar in the country. I won't do it. I have writer's cramp—I can't use my right hand. Rayner, my boy, I'll turn them on to you!"

"He is only pretending. He is really awfully pleased and flattered. Wait till you see how polite he will be when they ask him," said Lettice mischievously; and, indeed, nothing could have been more courteous than Mr Bertrand's manner when the American party flocked round him in the hall after luncheon.

"Your books are in every house in America, sir, and it gives us the greatest pleasure to have an opportunity of—"

"Oh, come along!" whispered Norah, pulling impatiently at Edna's arm. "I know it all by heart. Come into the garden, both of you; Lettice and I have something to tell you—an exciting piece of news!"

"Kitten dead? New ribbons for your hats?" queried Rex indifferently. He was sceptical on the point of Norah's "exciting confidences," but this time Lettice looked at him reproachfully with her great, grey eyes.

"No, indeed—don't make fun—it's serious! Miss Carr is going to adopt one of us to live with her in London as her own daughter, for the next three years."

"Nonsense!" Rex sat down in a heap on the grass, in front of the bench where the girls were seated. "Which?"

"Ah, that's the mystery! She is to have her choice, and she won't say which it is to be until Wednesday night—two days more. So, you see, you had better be polite, for you mayn't have me with you much longer."

"I am always polite to you," said Rex moodily: and the statement passed unchallenged, for however much he might tease Norah, and snap at Hilary, he was always considerate for the feelings and comfort of "Lovely Lettice!"

"Oh, Norah, Norah! I hope it won't be you!" cried Edna, clasping her hands round her friend's arm in warm-hearted affection. "What should I do without you? We have been so happy, and have had such fun! Three years! What an age of a time! We shall be quite grown-up."

"Yes; and after that, father is going to take a house in London, because the boys will have left school, and it will be better for them. Isn't it horrid to think that after to-day it may never be the same for one of us again? She will only come back as a visitor, for a few weeks at a time, and everything will be strange and different—"

"And Rex may go abroad before the end of the three years, and Hilary may marry—and—oh, a hundred other horrible things. Perhaps we may never meet again all together like this until we are quite old and grey- headed. We would write to one another, of course; stiff, proper sort of letters like grown-up people write. How funny it would be! Imagine you writing to me, Edna—'My dear Eleanora, you must not think my long silence has arisen from any want of affection towards you and yours. ... And how has it been with you, my valued friend?'"

The burst of laughter which greeted this speech did something to liven the gloom which was fast settling upon the little party, and presently Mr Bertrand's voice was heard calling from the verandah—

"Now then, children, what are we to do until four o'clock? Do you want to go on the lake?"

"It's no good, sir. We could row round it in ten minutes." This from Rex, with all the scorn of a young man who owned a Una of his own on Lake Windermere.