"Do you want to scramble up to the Tarn, then? I don't. It's too hot, and we should have no time to spend at the top when we got there."

"Let us go to the Wishing Gate, father," suggested Norah eagerly. "It's a nice walk; and I got what I wished for last summer—I did really—the music lessons! I'm sure there is something in it."

"Let us go then, by all means. I have a wish of my own that I should be glad to settle. Helen, will you come?"

"No, thank you, Austin, I will not. I can wish more comfortably sitting here in the shade of the verandah I've been once before, and I wouldn't drag up there this afternoon for a dozen wishes."

"And Rayner—what will you—?"

Mr Rayner hesitated, then, "I—er—if it's a steep pull, I think I had better stay where I am," he added, in cheery, decided tones, which brought a flush of delight to Hilary's cheeks.

She turned in silence to follow her sisters, but before she had advanced many steps, stood still hesitating and stammering—"I—I—the sun is very hot. My head—"

"Well, don't come, dear, if you are afraid of head-ache. Stay where you are," said her father kindly; and Miss Carr chimed in, in characteristic fashion—

"But if you are going to chatter, be kind enough to move away to another seat. I am not going to have my nap disturbed if I know it."

"Come along, Miss Hilary. Our pride won't allow us to stay after that!" cried Mr Rayner, picking up his crutches and leading the way across the lawn with suspicious alacrity; and no sooner were they seated on the comfortable bench than he turned a smiling face upon his companion, and wished to know if she were satisfied with the result of her lecture.

"Entirely," said Hilary. "It sounded brave and man-like, and put all at their ease. It is always best to be honest."

"It is. I agree with you. What about the head?"

"What head?"

"Ah! and is that honest? You know what I mean. Does it ache very badly?"

"N-no! Not a bit! I stayed behind because I preferred to—to talk to you," said Hilary stoutly, wishing she could prevent herself blushing in such a ridiculous fashion, wishing Mr Rayner would not stare at her quite so fixedly; happy, miserable, discomfited, triumphant, all at the same moment, and in the most incomprehensible fashion.

"That's very satisfactory, because I like to talk to you also," he said gravely; and the next two hours passed so quickly that it was quite a shock to hear calls from the verandah, and to see the walking party already assembled round the tea-table.

"What did you wish?" was Hilary's first question, but, with the exception of the Mouse, everyone refused to divulge the secret.

"I wished I might have a doll's pramulator," said Geraldine gravely, and when Miss Carr asked if the dolls were not able to take walking exercise, she shook her head with pathetic remembrance.

"Mabel isn't, 'cause she's only one leg. She really had two, only one day, Raymond hanged her up from the ceiling, and when I sawed her, I cried, and pulled with my hands, and one leg earned off. So now I want a pramulator."

"And she shall have one, bless her! and the best that can be bought," muttered Miss Carr beneath her breath; while Norah whispered eager questionings into her companion's ear.

"You might tell me, Rex—you might! I won't tell a soul. What did you wish?"

"Don't be so curious. What does it matter to you?"

"It does matter. I want to know. You might! Do-oo!"

"No-o! I won't now. There's an end of it."

"Oh, Rex, look here—I've sixpence in my pocket. I'll buy you a packet of gingerbread if you will."

"I don't want the gingerbread. What a girl you are! You give a fellow no peace. I didn't wish anything particular, only—"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Only that she," with a nod of the head towards where Miss Carr sat sipping her tea—"that she might choose Hilary to live with her in London."

"Oh-oh! You wouldn't like it if it were Lettice?"

"Of course not, neither would you."

"But—but—it might be me!"

"It might. There's no saying. I'll have another cup of tea, if you please," said Rex coolly.

Aggravating boy! It would be just as easy to draw water from a stone, as to persuade him to say anything nice and soothing to one's vanity!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MISS CARR'S CHOICE.

Wednesday was a day of great, though suppressed excitement, and when evening came, and Miss Carr summoned the girls into the drawing-room, it would be difficult to say which of the three felt the more acute anxiety. Mr Rayner had considerately taken himself out of the way, but Mr Bertrand was seated in an easy chair, his arms folded, his face grave and set. Miss Carr pointed to the sofa, and the three girls sat down, turning inquiring eyes on her face. It was horribly formal, and even Norah felt cowed and spiritless.

"Girls," said Miss Carr slowly, "it was my intention to say nothing about my plans until I had made my decision, but it seems that your father has forestalled me and told you of my wishes. ... When you were little children I saw a great deal of you. Your father was one of my most valued friends, your dear mother also, and you were often at my house. When you came here I felt a great blank in my life, for I am fond of young people, and like to have them about me. Last January, your father visited me, and told me of a conversation which he had had with you here. He was anxious about your future, and it occurred to me that in some slight degree I might be able to take the responsibility off his hands. I have felt the need of a companion, and of some fresh interest in life, and nothing could give me more pleasure than to help one of Austin Bertrand's daughters. Well, my dears, I spoke to your father: he did not like the idea at first, as you will understand, but in the end he gave way to my wishes, and it only remained to make my choice. When I use the word 'choice,' you must not imagine that I am consulting merely my own preference. I have honestly tried to study the question from an unselfish point of view—to think which of you would most benefit from the change. One consideration has influenced me of which I can only speak in private, but for the rest I have watched you carefully, and it seemed to me that two out of the three have already a definite interest and occupation in their lives, which is wanting in the other case. Lettice has no special work in the house, no pet study to pursue; therefore, my dears, I choose Lettice—"

There was a simultaneous exclamation of consternation.

"Lettice!" cried Hilary, and drew in her breath with a pang of bitterest disappointment.

"Lettice! Oh, no, no, no!" cried Norah, throwing her arms round her favourite sister, and trembling with agitation.

"My little Lettice!" echoed Mr Bertrand, with a groan of such genuine dismay, that Miss Carr stared at him in discomfiture.

"My dear Austin—if it makes you so unhappy—"

"No—no. I gave you my word, and I am not going back. Besides," with a kindly glance at the other two girls, "I should have felt the same, whichever way you had decided. Well, that's settled! I am off now, Helen. We can have our talk later."

He walked hastily out of the room, and Miss Carr turned back to the girls with a troubled expression.

"My dears, I know you will both feel parting with your sister, but I will do all I can to soften the blow. You can always look forward to meeting at Christmas and Midsummer, and I shall ask your father to bring you up in turns to visit us in London. Though Lettice is to be my special charge, I take a deep interest in you both, and shall hope to put many little pleasures in your way. And now, my dears, will you leave us alone for a time? I want to have a quiet talk with Lettice before we part."

The two girls filed out of the room, and stood in the hall, facing each other in silence. Miss Briggs put her head out of the morning-room, with an eager—"Well—Who!" and when Norah pointed dolefully towards the drawing-room door, disappeared again with an exclamation of dismay. It was the same all round, Hilary told herself. Everyone was miserable because Lettice had been chosen. Everyone called out in sharp tones of distress, as if disappointed not to hear another name. Mr Bertrand was too dear and kind for it to be possible to make a charge of favouritism against him, but Lettice's striking likeness to her mother seemed to give her a special claim to his tenderness, while as for the rest of the household, Miss Briggs was as wax in Lettice's hands, for the simple reason that she was a solitary woman, and the girl showed her those little outward signs of affection which make up the sweetness of life; while the servants would do twice as much for her as for any other member of the family, because, "bless her pretty face, she had such a way with her!" Hilary felt indescribably chilled and humiliated as she realised how little regret her own departure would have caused in comparison, and when she spied Mr Rayner's figure crossing the lawn, she shrank back, with uncontrollable repugnance. "You tell him, Norah! I can't. I am going upstairs."

Meanwhile, Lettice herself had not broken down, nor shown any signs of the emotion of a few days earlier. She was a creature of moods, but though each mood was intense while it lasted, it lasted, as a rule, for a remarkably short space of time. If she were in tears over a certain subject on Monday, it was ten to one that she had forgotten all about it before Thursday. If she were wild with excitement over a new proposition, she would probably yawn when it was mentioned a second time, and find it difficult to maintain a show of interest. So, in the present case, she had exhausted her distress at the idea of leaving home while weeping upon her father's shoulders, and ever since then the idea of the life in London, in Miss Carr's beautiful house, had been growing more and more attractive. And to be chosen first—before all the others! It was a position which was full of charm to a girl's love of appreciation.

"Come here, dear," said Miss Carr tenderly, when the door had shut behind the other two girls; and when Lettice seated herself on the sofa, she took her hands in hers and gazed fixedly into her face. In truth, it would have been difficult to find an object better worth looking at than "lovely Lettice" at that moment. The hair which rippled over her head was of no pale, colourless flaxen, but of a rich coppery bronze, with half-a-dozen shades of gold in its luxuriant waves; the grey eyes had delicately marked brows and generous lashes, and the red lips drooped in sweetest curves. The old lady's face softened as she gazed, until it looked very sweet and motherly.

"Lettice," she said softly, "my dear little girl, I hope we shall be happy together! I will do all I can for you. Do you think you can be content—that you can care for me a little bit in return?"

"Yes, oh yes—a great deal!" Lettice's heart was beating so quickly that she hardly knew what she was saying, but it came naturally to her to form pretty speeches, and the glance of the lovely eyes added charm to her words.

"I hope so—I hope so! And now I want to tell you the reason why I choose you before either of your sisters. I alluded just now to something which had influenced me, but which I could not mention in public. It is about this that I want to speak." Miss Carr paused for a few minutes, stroking the girl's soft, flexible hands.

"Do you know what is meant by an 'Open Sesame,' my dear?"

"Oh, yes. It is the word which Ali Baba used in the 'Arabian Nights,' and that made the doors in the rocks fly open before him."

"Yes, that is right. I see you know all about it; but would you understand what I meant, dear, if I said that God had given you an 'Open Sesame' into other people's hearts and lives?"

Lettice looked up quickly, surprised and awed. "I? No! How have I—?"

"Look in the mirror opposite!" said the old lady gravely, and the girl hung her head in embarrassment.

"No, my dear, there is no need to blush. If you had a talent for music, like Norah, you would not think it necessary to be embarrassed every time it was mentioned, and beauty is a gift from God, just as much as anything else, and ought to be valued accordingly. It is a great power in the world—perhaps a greater power than anything else, and the people who possess it have much responsibility. You are a beautiful girl, Lettice; you will be a beautiful woman; everyone you meet will be attracted to you, and you will have an 'Open Sesame' into their hearts. Do you realise what that means? It means that you will have power over other people's lives; that you will be able to influence them for good or evil; that you can succeed where others fail, and carry sunshine wherever you go. But it will also be in your power to cause a great deal of misery. There have been women in the world whose beauty has brought war and suffering upon whole nations, because they loved themselves most, and sacrificed everything for the gratification of vanity. You are young, Lettice, and have no mother to guide you, so perhaps you have never thought of things in this way before. But when I saw you first, I looked in your face and thought, 'I should like to help this girl; to help her to forget herself, and think of others, so that she may do good and not evil, all the days of her life.'"

The ready tears rose to Lettice's eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She was awed and sobered, but the impression was rather pleasurable than otherwise. "A beautiful woman"—"a power over others"—"sunshine"—"success"—the phrases rang in her ear, and the sound was musical. "Of course I'll be good. I want to be good—then everyone will like me," she said to herself, while she kissed and clung to Miss Carr, and whispered loving little words of thanks, which charmed the good lady's heart.

For the next three days all was excitement and bustle. Lettice's belongings had to be gathered together and packed, and though Miss Carr would hear of no new purchases, there were a dozen repairs and alterations which seemed absolutely necessary. Mr Bertrand took his two guests about every morning, so as to leave the girls at liberty, but when afternoon came he drove them out willy-nilly, and organised one excursion after another with the double intention of amusing his visitors and preventing melancholy regrets. Norah was in the depths of despondency; but her repinings were all for her beloved companion, and not for any disappointment of her own. Now that she had the interest of her music lessons, and the friendship of Rex and Edna, she was unwilling to leave home even for the delights of London and the College of Music. Poor Hilary, however, was in a far worse case. She had made so sure of being chosen by Miss Carr, had dreamed so many rosy dreams about the life before her, that the disappointment was very bitter. The thought of seeing Lettice driving away in the carriage with Miss Carr and Mr Rayner brought with it a keen stab of pain, and the life at home seemed to stretch before her, still and uneventful, like a stretch of dreary moorland. Her pride forbade her showing her disappointment, since no one had expressed any satisfaction in retaining her company. Stay! there was one exception. Mr Rayner had said a few simple words of regret which had been as balm to the girl's sore heart. He, at least, was sorry that she was not to be in London, and would have preferred her company even to that of "lovely Lettice" herself.

On the whole, it was almost a relief when the hour for departure arrived. Rex and Edna drove over to see the last of their friend and cheer the stay-at-homes by their presence; but it did not seem as though they could be very successful in their errand of mercy, since Edna cried steadily behind her handkerchief, and Rex poked holes in the garden walks with gloomy persistence.

When Mr Rayner said his good-byes, he left Hilary to the last, and held her hand in his a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary. "Good-bye, and thank you for all you have done for me. I'll remember your advice. ... We shall meet soon, I hope. You will be coming up to town, and Mr Bertrand has been good enough to ask me to come again next spring."

Next spring! A whole year! As well say the end of the world at once. Hilary felt such a swelling sense of misery that the only way in which she could refrain from tears was by answering in sharp, matter-of-fact tones, and the consciousness that Mr Rayner was surprised and hurt by her manner was part of the general misery against which it was useless to fight.

As for Lettice, she was fairly dissolved in tears—clinging to every one in turn—and sobbing out despairing farewells. "Oh, Norie, Norie! my heart will break! I shall die; I know I shall. I can never bear it. Oh, Mouse, don't forget me! Don't let her forget me! Oh, do write— everyone write! I shall live on the letters from home!"

The last glimpse was of a tear-stained face, and a handkerchief held aloft in such a drenched condition that it refused to open to the breeze, and when the carriage turned the corner Miss Briggs shuffled off to the schoolroom, Hilary ran off to her room upstairs, leaving the three young people in the porch staring at each other with a miserable realisation of loss.

"What shall I do?—what shall I do? She said her heart would be broken, but it is ten times worse for me! The house will seem so dreadfully bare and lonely!"

"Just when we were all so happy! Oh, that hateful Miss Carr! why did she ever come? I thought we were going to have such a h-appy summer," sobbed Edna dolefully. "It's always the way! As soon as I make friends, I am bound to lose them."

Rex put his hands into his pockets and began to whistle. "It will do no good to turn yourselves into a couple of fountains! I'll go for a walk, and come back when you've done crying. It's a nuisance, but it might have been worse," he said shortly, and Norah looked at him with a gleam of curiosity lighting up her poor, tear-stained eyes.

"How worse? What do you mean?" she inquired; but Rex did not deign to answer, or to have anything more to say until tea was served a couple of hours later. The tears to which he so much objected were dried by this time, but the conversation was still sorrowfully centred on the dear traveller. "What is she doing now? Poor, poor Lettice! she will cry herself ill. Every mile further from home will make her more wretched!" cried Norah, and the listeners groaned in sympathy.

If they had seen Miss Lettice at that moment, however, their fears would have been allayed. Miss Carr had changed into a corridor train at Preston, and her companion was charmed with the novel position. She had never before travelled in a corridor, and the large, open carriage, the view, the promenade up and down, were all fascinating to her inexperience. Then to have lunch, and afternoon tea just when the journey was beginning to drag—it was indeed a luxurious way of travelling! Lettice had ceased to cry before the train had reached Kendal; at Lancaster she began to smile; at Crewe she laughed so merrily at one of Miss Carr's sallies, that the people on the next seat turned to look at her with smiles of admiring interest. Everyone was "so nice and kind." It was a pleasure to see them. Clearwater was a dear, sweet place, but, after all, it was only a poky little village. Delightful to get away and see something of the world!



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

AFTER THREE YEARS.

Three years had passed away since Lettice Bertrand had bidden farewell to her Northern home and accompanied Miss Carr to London, but there was little sign of change in the big drawing-room at Kensington, or in the mistress herself, as she sat reading a magazine by the window one sunny June afternoon. When the purse is well lined it is easy to prevent signs of age so far as furniture and decorations are concerned, while the lapse of three years makes little difference in the appearance of a lady who has long passed middle age. Miss Carr looked very contented and comfortable as she lay back against the cushions of her easy chair, so comfortable that she groaned with annoyance as the servant came forward to announce a visitor, and the frown did not diminish when she heard the name.

"Oh, ask Mr Newcome to come up, Baker! I will see him here." The man disappeared, and she threw down the magazine with an exclamation of disgust. "That stolid young man! Now I shall have to listen to improving anecdotes for the next half-hour. Why in the world need he inflict himself upon me?"

The next moment the door opened and the "'stolid' young man" stood before her. So far as appearance went, however, the description was misleading, for Arthur Newcome was tall and handsome, with yellow hair, a good moustache, and strong, well set up figure. He came forward and shook hands with Miss Carr in a quick, nervous fashion, which was so unlike his usual stolid demeanour, that the good lady stared at him in amazement.

"He is actually animated! I always said that it would take a convulsion of nature to rouse him from his deadly propriety, but upon my word he looks excited. What can have happened?"

The laws of propriety do not always permit us to ask the questions nearest our hearts, however, and Miss Carr was obliged to content herself with commonplaces.

"It is a beautiful day. I suppose Madge got home safely last night? She isn't too tired after the picnic, I hope!"

"A little fatigued, I believe, but no doubt she will have recovered before evening. She is apt to get excited on these occasions and to exert herself unduly."

"Nobody can say the same of you, more's the pity," was Miss Carr's mental comment. "Madge rows very well, and the exercise will do her no harm," she said shortly, and relapsed into determined silence. "I suppose he has something to say, some message for Lettice most likely; better let him say it and take himself off as soon as possible," was her hospitable reflection; but Mr Newcome sat twirling his hat and studying the pattern of the carpet in embarrassed silence.

Three times over did he clear his throat and open his lips to speak, before he got the length of words.

"Miss Carr, I—er, I feel that I am—er—I am deeply sensible of my own unworthiness, and can only rely on your generosity, and assure you of my deep and sincere—"

"What in the name of all that is mysterious is the man driving at?" asked Miss Carr of herself; but she sat bolt upright in her seat, with a flush on her cheeks and a pang of vague, indefinite fear at her heart.

"My dear Mr Newcome, speak plainly, if you please! I cannot follow your meaning. In what respect are you a claimant for my generosity?"

"In respect of what is the most important question of my life," replied Mr Newcome, recovering his self-possession at last, and looking her full in the face, in what she was obliged to confess was a very manly fashion—"In respect to my love for your ward, Miss Bertrand, and my desire to have your consent to our engagement, to ratify her own promise."

"Her own promise! Your engagement! Lettice? Do you mean to tell me that you have proposed to Lettice and that she has accepted you?"

"I am happy to say that is my meaning. I had intended to consult you in the first instance, but yesterday, on the river, we were together, and I—I—"

He stopped short with a smile of tender recollection, and Miss Carr sat gazing at him in consternation.

Arthur Newcome had proposed to Lettice, and Lettice had accepted him. The thing was incomprehensible! The girl had showed not the slightest signs of preference, had seemed as gay and heart-whole as a child. Only a fortnight before she had convulsed Miss Carr with laughter by putting on Mr Rayner's top-coat, and paying an afternoon call, a la Arthur Newcome, when all that young gentleman's ponderous proprieties had been mimicked with merciless fidelity. And she had actually promised to marry him!

"I—excuse me—but are you quite sure that you understood Lettice aright? Are you sure you are not mistaken?"

Mr Newcome smiled with happy certainty.

"Quite sure, Miss Carr. I can understand your surprise, for I find it difficult to believe in my own good fortune. Lettice is the sweetest, most beautiful, and most charming girl in the world. I am not worthy of her notice, but there is nothing that I would not do to ensure her happiness. She is all the world to me. I have loved her from the day we first meet."

He was in earnest—horribly in earnest! His voice quivered with emotion, his eyes were shining, and his face, which was usually immovable, was radiant with happiness. Miss Carr looked at him, and her heart fell. If the mere thought of Lettice could alter the man in this manner, she could imagine the transformation which must have passed over him as he spoke to the girl herself, among the trees and flowers on the river-bank; and, alas for Lettice! she could imagine also how easily gratified vanity might have been mistaken for reciprocal love. It had been late when they returned from the water party the night before, and Lettice had hurried off to bed. She had been a trifle more lingering than usual in her good-night embrace, but Lettice was always demonstrative in her ways, so that the fact had attracted no attention, and the morning had been so full of engagements that there had been no time for private conferences.

Miss Carr was speechless with grief, disappointment, and dismay. Her anxious training for the last three years, her motherly oversight, her hopes and prayers for the welfare of her beloved child, had they all ended in this, that Lettice had been too selfish to discourage admiration which she could not return?—too weak to say no to the first man who approached with flattering words? Poor, foolish child! What misery she had prepared for herself and everyone belonging to her!—for of course it was all a mistake, her heart was not really touched; the engagement could not be allowed. With a sigh of relief Miss Carr reflected that the onus of responsibility was lifted off her shoulders by the fact of Mr Bertrand's arrival in town that very afternoon, and also that Lettice's engagements for the day would prevent a meeting until she had been able to consult with her father. She drew a long sigh, and her voice sounded both sad and tired as she replied—

"Ah, well! I am only Lettice's guardian in name, Mr Newcome; I have no authority to refuse or to sanction her engagement. I have had a telegram to say that Mr Bertrand is coming to town on business to-day, so you will be able to see him to-morrow and hear what he has to say. Lettice is very young—too young, in my opinion, to be able to know her own mind. I wish there had been no such questions to disturb her for the next two or three years. I don't know what Mr Bertrand will think."

"I am in a good position. I can provide a name that will not be unworthy of her. You know me and my family. We have been friends for years. She would have the warmest welcome—"

"Yes, yes, I am sure of that. I will tell Mr Bertrand all you say, Mr Newcome, and if you call to-morrow morning you will find him at home. In the afternoon he will probably be engaged. I can say nothing, and— Excuse me! I am not so young as I was, and I feel a good deal upset..."

Arthur Newcome rose at once, and held out his hand in farewell.

"Pray pardon me. I can understand your sentiments. It must be a shock to think of losing Lettice in any case, and I am aware that I am not what is called a good match. Such a beautiful girl—her father's daughter, your ward—might marry into any circle. I sympathise with your disappointment; but, believe me, Lettice should never have any reason to regret her choice. I would devote my life to securing her happiness. I will call to-morrow morning, then, with your permission. Eleven o'clock? Thank you! Pray pardon any distress I may have caused you, and think of me as indulgently as you can."

He left the room, and Miss Carr raised both hands to her head with a gesture of despair.

"He is all that he should be—humble, devoted, deferential—but oh, Lettice! my poor, dear child, what a mistake you have made! You would eat your heart out in a year's time, married to a man whom you do not love; and you don't love Arthur Newcome, I know you don't—it is all vanity, and weakness, and imagination. Poor Austin, what a welcome for him! A nice pill for me to have such a piece of news to tell—I, who was going to do such wonders for the child! Well, well! this comes of mixing oneself up in other people's affairs. She could have come to no worse fate than this if I had left her to vegetate in Clearwater."

There was no more rest for Miss Carr that afternoon. The magazine lay neglected on the table, the cushions fell to the ground and lay unnoticed as she fidgeted about, now rising and pacing angrily to and fro, now throwing herself on a seat in weary despair. She alternately longed for and dreaded Mr Bertrand's arrival, and it needed all her self-control to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness while he drank his tea and refreshed himself after the long journey. It was not easy, however, to deceive such an intimate friend. Mr Bertrand studied her face with critical eyes, and said kindly—

"You are not up to the mark, Helen; you look tired and worried! That youngster of mine has not been misbehaving herself, I hope? What's the trouble?"

"Oh, Austin, the deluge! The most awful complication. I feel inclined to whip her! Would you believe it, that wooden Arthur Newcome called upon me this very afternoon, not two hours ago, to ask my consent to his engagement to Lettice!"

"Arthur Newcome? Oh, I know—the solemn person in the frock coat! What preposterous nonsense! Lettice is a baby! We must not let the young people at home hear of this, or they will tease the poor girl to death. Young Newcome is a favourite butt, and they often mimic him for my benefit. Well, I hope you let the poor fellow down gently, and saved me a disagreeable task."

"But—but, my dear Austin, you don't understand. He cannot be dismissed in that easy fashion, for he says—it is inconceivable—I don't know what to make of it—but he tells me that he has spoken to Lettice herself, and that she has accepted him!"

"What?" Mr Bertrand put down his cup and turned to confront Miss Carr with a face from which every trace of laughter had disappeared. "Accepted him? Lettice? This is serious indeed. Had you ever suspected—or noticed any sign of an attachment growing up between them?"

Miss Carr wrung her hands in distress.

"My dear Austin, how can you ask such a question? As if I would not have consulted with you at once if that had been the case. You know what Arthur Newcome is—the acme of all that is sober and stolid. I have never seen a sign of emotion of any kind on his face until this afternoon. He has seen a good deal of Lettice, for she and Madge are great friends, but I never thought of anything more—never for one moment! And as for Lettice herself, I am confident that the child never thought of him in that light, and that she is as heart-whole as I am myself."

"Then why—why—?"

"Oh, don't ask me! I am too miserable and disappointed to speak. I thought I had guarded against this sort of thing; but you know what Lettice is. He is very much in love, and no doubt she was pleased and flattered."

Mr Bertrand thrust his hands into his pockets and paced up and down the room. His face looked drawn and anxious, but after five minutes had passed he drew a long breath and made a determined effort at cheerfulness.

"Well, it's a bad business, but it has to be faced. I am humiliated and disappointed that Lettice could have behaved so foolishly; but you must not blame yourself, my dear old friend. No one could have done more for the child for the last three years, and I am glad I am here to help you through this difficulty. The young fellow will have to be told that there has been a mistake. I am sorry for him, but it is better now than later on. When did you say you expected Lettice?"

"She may be here at any moment. She was to leave her friends at six o'clock. I thought I heard the door open just now. Perhaps she has arrived."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

LETTICE IS OBSTINATE.

Miss Carr's surmise proved correct, for even as she spoke the door opened and Lettice appeared on the threshold. No longer the Lettice of short skirts and flowing locks, but an elegant young lady who swept forward with a rustle of silken skirts, and held up the sweetest pink and white face in the world to receive her father's kiss of greeting. "Lovely Lettice," indeed, lovelier than ever in the first bloom of womanhood. As her father held her from him at arm's length, the slim figure was almost as tall as his own, and the golden head dropped before the grave, scrutinising glance. Lettice knew that her lover had called during her absence, and Miss Carr's silence, her father's unusual solemnity, added to her natural nervousness. The grey eyes roved from one face to another with a scared, helpless look which they were quick to understand.

"Yes," said Mr Bertrand, "we know all about it by this time, Lettice. Mr Newcome has interviewed Miss Carr. She was intensely surprised; I also; but she has had more opportunity of seeing you together, and she tells me that you have shown no special signs of interest in this young fellow. Tell me, my dear—speak frankly, we are only thinking of your happiness—have you allowed yourself to be persuaded against your own judgment? It is a pity if that is the case, but it can be remedied. There is no engagement as yet, and I can easily explain to Mr Newcome that you have made a mistake."

Lettice had seated herself opposite her father and busied herself pulling off her long suede gloves. She avoided her father's glance, but the answer came in a little, breathless gasp—"Oh, no, no! I don't want—"

"No—you say no? Lettice, this is a serious matter. Do you mean to tell me that you love Arthur Newcome, and wish to marry him? Think well, my dear. You know what it means—that you are content to spend your life with this man, to give up everything for him, to say good-bye to friends and relations—"

"Father, Miss Carr is here; you are all coming up for the winter; he lives here. I should not have to leave you!"

"You can't count on that, Lettice. Mr Newcome's business arrangements might make it necessary for him to leave London at any time, and it would be your duty to follow. Do you care for him enough to make such a sacrifice? If you love him you will not hesitate; but do you love him? That is what I want to hear! Come, Lettice, speak; I am waiting for your answer."

"I—I—father, I do like him! I promised I would. I think he is very kind!"

The two elders exchanged glances of baffled helplessness. There was silence for a few minutes, then Mr Bertrand seated himself by Lettice's side and took her hand in his.

"My dear little girl, let us understand each other. Of course he is 'kind'; of course you 'like him,' but that is not enough; you must do something more than 'like' the man who is to be your husband. Do you care for him more than for me and Miss Carr, and your sisters and brothers all together? If he were on one side of the scale and we on the other, which would you choose? That is the way to face the question. You must not be satisfied with less. My dear, you are very young yet; I think you had better let me tell Mr Newcome that he is not to mention this matter again for the next two years, until you are twenty-one. By that time you will know your own mind, and, if you still wished it, I should have no more to say. You would be willing to leave it in that way, wouldn't you, dear?"

But Lettice did not look at all willing. She drew her hand away from her father's grasp, and turned her shoulder on him with a pettish gesture which was strangely unlike her usual sweet demeanour.

"Why should I wait? There is nothing to wait for! I thought you would be pleased. It's very unkind to spoil it all! Other girls are happy when they are engaged, and people are kind to them. You might let me be happy too—"

Mr Bertrand sat bolt upright in his seat, staring at his daughter with incredulous eyes. Could it be possible that the girl was in earnest after all, that she was really attached to this most heavy and unattractive young man? He looked appealingly at his old friend, who, so far, had taken no part in the conversation, and she took pity on his embarrassment and came to the rescue. Two years' constant companionship with Lettice had shown her that there was a large amount of obstinacy hidden beneath the sweetness of manner, and for the girl's sake, as well as her father's, she thought the present interview had better come to an end.

"Suppose you go to the library and have a smoke, Austin, while Lettice and I have a quiet talk together," she said soothingly, and Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of nervous irritation, and strode from the room.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lettice produced a little lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket, and began to sob and cry.

"Father is cruel; why won't he believe me? Why may I not get engaged like other girls? I am nineteen. I was so happy—and now I'm miserable!"

"Come here, Lettice, and for pity's sake, child, stop crying, and behave like a reasonable creature. There are one or two questions I want to ask you. How long have you known that Arthur Newcome was in love with you?"

"I don't know. At least, he was always nice. That summer at Windermere, he always walked with me, and brought me flowers, and—"

"That was three years ago—the summer you came to me. So long as that! But, Lettice, whatever your feelings may be now, you have certainly not cared for him up to a very recent period. I don't need to remind you of the manner in which you have spoken about him. When you saw that lit; was growing attached to you, did you try to show that you did not appreciate his attentions?"

Lettice bent her head and grew crimson over cheek and neck.

"I was obliged to be polite! He was always with Madge, and I did like—"

Miss Carr shut her lips in tight displeasure.

"Yes, my dear, you 'liked' his attentions, and you were too vain and selfish to put an end to them, though you did not care for the man himself. Oh, Lettice, this is what I have feared! this is what I have tried to prevent! My poor, foolish child, what trouble you have brought upon us all! Arthur Newcome will have every reason to consider himself badly treated; his people will take his part; you will have alienated your best friends."

"I am not going to treat him badly. You are very unkind. He would not be unkind to me. I wish he were here, I do! He would not let you be so cruel." And Lettice went off into a paroxysm of sobbing, while Miss Carr realised sorrowfully that she had made a false move.

"My dear child, you know very well I don't mean to be cruel. I am too anxious for your happiness. Lettice, Mr Newcome is very much in love just now, and is excited and moved out of himself; but though he may not be less devoted to you, in the course of time he will naturally fall back into his old quiet ways. When you think of a life with him, you must not imagine him as he was yesterday, but as you have seen him at home any time during the last three years. You have mimicked him to me many times over, my dear. Can you now feel content to spend your life in his company?"

It was of no use. Lettice would do nothing but sob and cry, reiterate that everyone was unkind, that she was miserable, that it was a shame that she could not be happy like other girls, until at last Miss Carr, in despair, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, and went to rejoin Mr Bertrand.

"Well?" he said, stopping short in his pacings up and down, and regarding her with an anxious gaze, "what luck?"

Miss Carr gave a gesture of impatience.

"Oh, none—none at all! She will do nothing but cry and make a martyr of herself. She will not acknowledge that she has made a mistake, and yet I know, I feel, it is not the right thing! You must speak to Arthur Newcome yourself to-morrow, and try to make him consent to a few months' delay."

"I was thinking of that myself. I'll try for six, but he won't consent. I can't say I should myself under the circumstances. When Lettice has accepted him and cries her eyes out at the idea of giving him up, you can hardly expect the young fellow to be patient. Heigho, these daughters! A nice time of it I have before me, with four of them on my hands."

Punctually at eleven o'clock next morning Arthur Newcome arrived for his interview with Mr Bertrand. They were shut up together for over half- an-hour, then Mr Bertrand burst open the door of the room where Miss Carr and his daughter were seated, and addressed the latter in tones of irritation such as she had seldom heard from those kindly lips.

"Lettice, go to the drawing-room and see Mr Newcome. He will tell you what we have arranged. In ten minutes from now, come back to me here."

Lettice dropped her work and glided out of the room, white and noiseless as a ghost, and her father clapped his hands together in impatience.

"Bah, what a man! He drives me distracted! To think that fate should have been so perverse as to saddle me with a fellow like that for a son- in-law! Oh dear, yes, perfectly polite, and all that was proper and well-conducted, but I have no chance against him—none! I lose my head and get excited, and he is so abominably cool. He will wait a month as a concession to my wishes before making the engagement public, and during that time she is to be left alone. He is neither to come here, nor to write to her, and we will say nothing about it at home, so that there may be as little unpleasantness as possible if it ends as we hope it may. I had really no decent objection to make when he questioned me on the subject. He is in a good position; his people are all we could wish; his character irreproachable. He wishes to be married in the autumn, and if he persists I shall have to give in; I know I shall—you might as well try to fight with a stone wall."

"Autumn!" echoed Miss Carr in dismay. "Autumn! Oh, my poor Lettice! my poor, dear child! But we have a month, you say; a great deal may be done in a month. Ah, well, Austin, we must just hope for the best, and do everything in our power to prevent an engagement."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

LETTICE DECIDES.

For the next month, Lettice saw nothing of Arthur Newcome. He had packed up his traps and gone to spend the weeks of probation in Norway, where he would be out of the way of temptation, and have his mind distracted by novel surroundings.

No such change, however, fell to Lettice's share. Mr Bertrand would not allow the ordinary summer visit to Clearwater to be anticipated. He had forbidden Lettice to mention the proposed engagement to her sisters as he was sanguine that a month's reflection would be more than enough to convince the girl of her mistake, when the less that was known about the matter the better for all concerned. As Arthur Newcome was out of town he could see no objection to Lettice remaining where she was, and Miss Carr agreed the more readily in this decision as she had made a number of engagements which it would have been difficult to forego. Both were thinking only of the girl's welfare; but alas! the best- meaning people make mistakes at times, and this arrangement was the most unfortunate which could have been made, considering the object which they had in view. Lettice had nothing to distract her mind from the past, no novelty of any kind to keep her from dwelling on the gratifying remembrance of Arthur Newcome's devotion. On the contrary, her life was less bright than usual, for the Newcomes were naturally displeased at Mr Bertrand's objections to the engagement, and would not hold any communication with Miss Carr's household until the matter was decided. Thus Lettice was deprived of the society of her best friend, and was forbidden the house in which she had been accustomed to spend her happiest hours.

Miss Carr did her best to provide interest and amusement, but there was a constraint between the old lady and her ward, which was as new as it was painful. Lettice was conscious that she was in disgrace. When her father fumed and fidgeted about the room, she guessed, without being told, that he was thinking of the proposed engagement; when Miss Carr sighed, and screwed up her face until it looked nothing but a network of wrinkles, she knew that the old lady was blaming herself for negligence in the past, and pondering what could still be done to avert the marriage, and a most unpleasant knowledge it was. Lettice had lived all her life in the sunshine of approval. As a little child everyone had petted and praised her because of her charming looks; as a schoolgirl she had reigned supreme among her fellows; her short experience of society had shown that she had no less power in the new sphere. Cold looks and reproachful glances were a new experience, and instead of moving her to repentance, they had the effect of making her think constantly of her lover, and long more and more for his return. Miss Carr thought she was vain and selfish—Arthur said she was the best and sweetest of women; her father called her a "foolish little girl"—Arthur called her his queen and goddess; Miss Carr sat silent the whole of the afternoon, sighing as if her heart was broken—Arthur had walked across London many times over for the chance of a passing word. Other people were disappointed in her, but Arthur declared that she was perfect, without possibility of improvement! Lettice would take refuge in the solitude of her bedroom, cry to herself, and look out of the window wondering in which direction Norway lay, what Arthur was doing, and if he were half as miserable at being separated from her as she was at being left alone in London. Then she would recall the afternoon on the river, when he had asked her to be his wife. How terribly in earnest he had seemed. She had tried to say no, because, though she enjoyed his attentions, she had never really intended to marry him; but the sight of his face had frightened her, and when he had said in that awful voice, "Lettice, do you mean it? Is there no hope? Have you been making a fool of me for all these years?"—she had been ready to promise anything and everything in the world if he would only smile again. And he had been very "kind." It was "nice" being engaged. She had been quite happy until her father came, and was so cross.

If Miss Carr could have been her own cheery, loving self, and talked to the girl in a natural, kindly manner, still better, if she could have had half-an-hour's conversation with outspoken Norah, all might have been well; but Miss Carr was under the mistaken impression that it was her duty to show her disapproval by every act and look, and the result was disastrous. Every morning Lettice awoke with the doleful question, "How am I to get through the day?" Every night she went to bed hugging the thought that another milestone had been passed, and that the probation was nearer to its end. By the end of the month her friends' efforts had so nearly succeeded in making her honestly in love with Arthur Newcome, that they marked the girl's bright eyes and happy smiles, and told each other sadly that it was no use standing out further.

Arthur Newcome wrote to Mr Bertrand announcing his arrival in London, and asking permission to call and receive his answer from Lettice's lips, and there was nothing to do but to consent forthwith. An hour was appointed for the next afternoon, and Lettice spent an unconscionable time in her bedroom preparing for the great occasion, and trying to decide in which of her dainty garments Arthur would like her best. Her father had taken himself into the City after a conversation in which he had come perilously near losing his temper, and when Lettice floated into the drawing-room, all pale green muslin and valenciennes insertion, looking more like an exquisite wood nymph than a creature of common flesh and blood, there sat Miss Carr crying her eyes out on a corner of the ottoman.

"Oh, Lettice, Lettice! is it too late? Won't you listen to reason even at the eleventh hour? It is the greatest folly to enter into this engagement. Never were two people more unsuited to each other! You will regret it all your life. My poor, dear child, you are wrecking your own happiness..."

It was too bad! For almost the first time in her life Lettice felt a throb of actual anger. She had been docile and obedient, had consented to be separated from Arthur for a whole month, and done all in her power to satisfy these exacting people, and even now they would not believe her—they would not allow her to be happy. She stood staring at Miss Carr in silence, until the servant threw open the door and announced her lover's arrival.

"Mr Newcome, ma'am. I have shown him into the morning-room as you desired."

Lettice turned without a word and ran swiftly downstairs to the room where Arthur Newcome was waiting for her in painful anxiety. For three long years he had tried to win the girl's heart, and had failed to gain a sign of affection. Her acceptance had been won after a struggle, and he was racked with suspense as to the effect of this month's separation. When the door opened, Lettice saw him standing opposite, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, his handsome face pale with the intensity of his emotion.

She gave a quick glance, then rushed forward and nestled into his arms with a little cry of joy.

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur! you have come back! Take care of me! Take care of me! I have been so miserable!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE SCATTERED NEST.

Two days later a happy party were disporting themselves on the lawn at Cloudsdale. Rex and Edna Freer had driven over to spend the afternoon with their friends, and just as Mary placed the tea-tray on the wicker table, the postman came marching up the drive, and delivered the only thing which was necessary to complete the happiness of the party—a letter from Lettice!

"She has written so little lately, and her letters have been so unlike herself, that I have been quite uneasy," said Hilary, turning the envelope round and round, and feeling its proportions with undisguised pleasure. "I'll give you each a cup of tea, and then I'll read it out, while you listen in comfort."

The three years which had passed since we saw her last had dealt very kindly with Hilary. The consequential air had given place to an expression of quiet serenity which was by no means unbecoming. Her complexion was pink and white as of yore, and as she presided over the tea-table, her blue cambric dress fitting closely to the line of her neat little figure, her tiny feet crossed before her, and her shining brown hair arranged in its usual fastidious order, it would have been difficult to find a more favourable specimen of a young English girl. Norah, seated opposite on the long hammock chair, was still very girlish in appearance, despite the dignity of eighteen years. She was thin and lanky, and her cheeks had none of Hilary's delicate bloom, but the heavy eyebrows and expressive lips lent a charm to a face which was never the same in expression for two minutes together, and though there could be no question as to which was the prettier of the two, it was safe to predict that few people who looked at Norah would be tempted to return to the study of Hilary's more commonplace features.

Edna was narrow-chested and delicate in appearance, but Rex had developed into an imposing looking personage; broad-shouldered, muscular, and with such a moustache as was unequalled by any young fellow of his age in the country-side. He wore a white flannel suit, and though there were several unoccupied seats at hand, chose to loll on the grass, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue cap pushed well back on his curly head. Nestled beside him sat Geraldine, a little taller, a little older in appearance, but with the same grave, earnest little face which had characterised her three years before. Perhaps the member of the family who was the most changed, was the tall, young fellow who sat beside Norah. Raymond had only lately returned from a two years' sojourn in Germany, where he had acquired an extra four inches, a pair of eye-glasses, and such "a man of the world" manner, that it had been a shock to his sisters to find that his teasing propensities were as vigorous as when he had been a schoolboy. Faithful Bob hovered near, ready to obey his leader's commands, and take part in any mischief which might be at hand, but for the moment all other interests gave way to the hearing of the letter from London.

Hilary handed the last cup to its owner, and opening the envelope, ran her eye rapidly down the sheet. The next moment a loud "Oh!" of amazement startled the hearers into eager curiosity.

"What is the matter?"

"Oh—oh! It can't be true—it can't! Lettice is engaged to be married!"

"Engaged!" A moment's breathless silence was succeeded by a very babel of questioning.

"Engaged?" "Who to?" "When?" "Where." "What does she say?" "Oh, read it aloud. Let us hear every word she says!"

But Hilary folded up the sheet with an air of determination. "Not yet. I'll read it by-and-by; but first you must guess. I'll give you fifty guesses who it is..."

"The painter fellow who did her portrait!"

"That what-do-you-call-him man—the Polish nobleman who sent her the verses!"

"The curate!"

"Sir Neville Bruce!"

"One of the men she met at Brighton!"

"Wrong! wrong! wrong! Guess again. Nearer home this time. Someone you know!"

"Not Mr Rayner?"

"Oh, dear me, no! I should think not. He and Lettice never get on well together. Someone else."

"Someone we know! But we know so few of her friends. Only Mr Neville, and the Bewleys, and—oh! No, it can't—it can't possibly be—"

"What? what? Who—who? Never mind if you are wrong. Say whom you are thinking of."

"It—can't be Arthur Newcome!"

"Arthur Newcome it is, my dear!" said Hilary tragically; whereupon Raymond instantly dropped his teacup on the grass, and fell heavily on Norah's shoulders.

"Smelling salts! Brandy! I am going to faint! Oh, my heart!"

But, for once, no one paid any attention. Even Norah sat motionless, forgetting to push him away, forgetting everything but the appalling nature of the news which she had just heard.

"Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome?"

"Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome!"

"But—but—we knew that he admired her in his solemn way, but she never seemed to like him! She used to make fun of him, and imitate the way he talked!"

Raymond sat up and passed in his cup for a fresh supply of tea. What was the good of fainting if nobody took any notice! "I say," he cried energetically, "fancy Arthur Newcome proposing! I'd give anything if I could have overheard him. ... 'Miss Bertrand!—Lettice!—may I call you Lettice? Deign, oh deign—'"

"Oh, be quiet, Raymond, and let us hear the letter," pleaded Norah, who was on the verge of tears with agitation and distress. "I can't believe it until I hear her own words. Read it, Hilary, from the very beginning."

Hilary opened out the dainty, scented sheet, and read aloud, with an impressiveness worthy of the occasion:—

"My dearest old Hilary, and Norah, and every one of you,—I have a great piece of news to tell. I am engaged to Arthur Newcome, and he wants to be married some time this autumn. He proposed to me a month ago, on the day of our water party, but father and Miss Carr wished us to wait a month before it was settled, so that I should have time to make up my mind. They think I am so young, but if we wait until September I shall be twenty, and many girls are married at that age. I have a beautiful ring—a big pearl in the centre, and diamonds all round, and Arthur has given me a brooch as well, three dear little diamond swallows—it looks so sweet at my neck! Madge is very pleased, of course, and Mr and Mrs Newcome are very kind. Won't it be nice when I have a house of my own, and you can come and stay with me? I shall have six bridesmaids—you three, Madge, Edna, and either Mabel Bruce or Monica Bewley. You must think of pretty dresses. I like a white wedding, but it doesn't show the bride off so well—that's the great objection. We shall have a great deal to talk about when I come home next month, and I am longing for the time to come. It is so hot and close in town, and Cloudsdale must be looking lovely just now. Father expects to leave on Tuesday. He does not seem very pleased about my engagement. I suppose parents never are! Good-bye, dear, darling girls. I wish I could be with you now.

"Your own loving Lettice.

"PS—How surprised you will be. Tell me every word you said when you read this letter!"

"Humph I slightly awkward if we took her at her word!" It was Rex who spoke, and there was the same expression of ill-concealed scorn in his voice which had been noticeable on his face since the announcement of the news. "Charming epistle, I must say. So much about 'dear Arthur' and her own happiness. One must excuse a little gush under the circumstances, and Lettice was always demonstrative!"

Hilary looked at him, puckering her forehead in anxious fashion. "You mean that sarcastically! She says nothing about being happy. I noticed that myself. There is something strange about the whole thing. I am quite sure she did not care for him when I was there in spring. What can have possessed her to accept him?"

"Because he asked her nicely, and puts lots of treacle on the bread," said Raymond, laughing. "You could always make Lettice do what you wanted if you flattered her enough. She would accept any fellow who went down on his knees and swore he worshipped her. Oh, I say I fancy having Arthur Newcome as a brother-in-law! We used to call him 'Child's Guide to Knowledge' when he was at Windermere last summer, because he would insist upon improving every occasion. We played some fine pranks on him, didn't we, Norah? We'll give him a lively time of it again if he comes to visit us, as I suppose he will, under the circumstances."

"We can't," said Norah dolefully. "He is engaged to Lettice, and she would be vexed. I don't feel as if I could ever play pranks again. I was so looking forward to having Lettice with us again when we went up to London, but now it will never be the same again. Even if she has a house of her own, Arthur Newcome will be there, and I could never, never get to like him as a brother." She put her cup on the table and walked off by herself into the shrubbery which encircled the lawn, and though the others looked after her in sympathetic silence, they did not attempt to follow. As Lettice's special friend and companion, the news was even more of a shock to her than to the rest, and it was understood that she might prefer to be alone.

Ten minutes later, however, when tea was finished, Rex rose lazily from the ground, stretched his long arms, and strode off in the direction of the shrubbery. Half-way down the path he met Norah marching along in solitary state, white about the cheeks, suspiciously red and swollen about the eyes.

Rex clasped his hands behind his back, and blocked the narrow way.

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"Crying!" Norah flashed a defiant glance at him, then turned aside to dab her face with her handkerchief and gulp in uncontrollable misery, whereupon Rex looked distressed, uncomfortable, and irritated all at the same moment.

"Then please stop at once. What's the use of crying? You can't help it now, better make the best of it, and be as jolly as you can. Norah— look here, I'm sorry to bother you any more to-day, but I came over specially to have a chat. I have not had a chance of speaking to you quietly until now, and my father is driving round for us at six o'clock. Before he comes I wanted to tell you—"

Norah put her handkerchief in her pocket, and faced him with steady eyes. Her heart gave a leap of understanding, and a cold certainty of misery settled upon her which seemed to dry up the fountain of tears, and leave her still and rigid.

"Yes?"

"We had a big talk last night, Norah. The three years are up, you know, and I have fulfilled my share of the bargain. I have known all the time what my decision would be, and six months ago I wrote to all the men I know abroad, asking them to look out for the sort of berth I wanted. On Tuesday I had a letter from a man in India offering me a good opening. You will be surprised to hear why he gives me the chance instead of all the other fellows who are anxious to get it. It is because I am a good musician! I don't mean in your sense of the word, of course, but I can rattle away on the piano and play any air I happen to hear, and he says the fellows up-country set no end of store by that sort of thing. If other qualifications are equal, the post is given to the man who can play, and make things cheerful in the evening. Rather a sarcasm, isn't it, after all the money that has been spent on my education, that such a trifle should decide my destiny? Well—I showed the letter to my father, and he was terribly cut up about the whole thing. I had said nothing about my plans for some time back, for it seemed no use to upset him before it was necessary, but he has been hoping that I was 'settling down.' Norah, I can't do it! I hate leaving home, and shall be wretched when the time comes; but I have roving blood in my veins, and cannot settle down to a jog-trot, professional life in a small English town. If I go out to this place I shall lie low until I have a practical knowledge of the land and its possibilities, and then I'll buy an estate, and work it in my own way. I have the money my uncle left me, and can make my way without asking father for a penny. He is coming over this afternoon, and I am sure he means to talk to you. We didn't say anything to the mater and Edna, but he knows that you and I are friends, and that I will listen to what you say. He means to ask you to persuade me to stay at home. But—you understand how I feel, Norah?"

"Yes, Rex. Don't be afraid! If your father speaks to me I shall advise him to let you go. You have kept your share of the bargain: it is for him to keep his," said Norah steadily. "And it appears that you want to go away and leave us."

"You will live in London now for the greater part of the year. If I were at home I should only see you at long intervals. I should not settle in this neighbourhood. Our life would be quite different..."

"Oh yes, quite different! Everything will be different now. You will have gone, and—Lettice too! Rex! don't be angry if I ask you something. I will try to persuade your father to give you your way, but—tell me this before you go!— Has the news about Lettice had anything to do with your decision?"

Rex stopped short, and stared at her in amazement.

"This news about Lettice! Norah, what do you mean?"

"About her engagement! I always thought that you liked her yourself. You remember what you used to call her—'Lovely Lettice'?"

"Well, and so she was lovely! Anybody might have seen that. Of course I liked her, but if you mean that I am jealous of Arthur Newcome—no, thank you! I should not care for a wife who would listen to the first man who came along, as Lettice has done. She was a jolly little girl, and I took a fancy to her at first sight, but—do you remember our adventure in the old passage, Norah? Do you think Lettice would have stuck to me, and been as brave, and plucky, and loyal as you were in the midst of your fright? I never forgot that day. It was last night that I spoke to my father, before I heard a word about Lettice, or her matrimonial intentions."

"So it was; I forgot that!" Norah smiled with recovered cheerfulness, for Rex's words had lifted a load from her mind, and the future seemed several shades less gloomy than it had done a few minutes before.

"And if you went, how soon would you start?"

"As soon as possible. I have wasted too much time already. The sooner I go, the sooner I can make my way and come home again to see you all. Three or five years, I suppose. You will be quite an old woman, Norah."

"Yes; twenty-three! Lettice will be married; Hilary too, very likely. The Mouse will be as big as I was when you first knew us, and Raymond a doctor in practice. It will all be different!" Norah's voice was very low as she spoke the last words, and her face twitched as if she were about to break down once more.

Rex looked at her with the same odd mingling of tenderness and vexation which he had shown a few minutes earlier.

"Of course it will be different! We are not children any longer, and can't expect to go on as we have been doing. What was the Vicar's text the other Sunday?—'As an eagle stirreth up her nest'—I liked that sermon! It has been very happy and jolly, but it is time we stirred out of the old nest, and began to work for ourselves, and prepare for nests of our own. I am past twenty-one, my father need not be afraid to trust me, for I can look after myself, and though the life will be very different out there, I'll try to do nothing that I should be ashamed to tell you, Norah, when I come home!"

Norah turned round with a flush, and an eager, outstretched hand, but only to behold Mr Rex marching along on the edge of the very flowerbeds, with a head in the air, and a "touch me if you dare" expression, at the sight of which his companion gave a dismal little smile.

That was Rex all over! In spite of his masterful ways, he was intensely shy where his deeper feelings were concerned. To say an affectionate word seemed to require as painful an effort as to drag out a tooth, and if by chance he was betrayed into such an indiscretion, he protected himself against its consequences by putting on his most "prickly" airs, and freezing the astonished hearer by his frigid tones. Norah understood that having shown her a glimpse of his heart in the last remark, he was now overcome with remorse, and that she must be wise and take no notice of the indiscretion.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

MORE CHANGES.

For the next ten minutes conversation was of the most desultory character; then the sound of wheels was heard in the distance, and Rex became eager and excited once more.

"There's my father! Go and meet him, Norah. Get hold of him before Hilary comes with her everlasting chatter. He wants to speak to you. Bring him along here, and I'll go into the house!"

Norah sped off obediently, and met the Squire as the cart turned in at the gate. He pulled up at once, handed the reins to the man, and jumped down to join her. His ruddy face looked drawn and anxious, and the first glance at the girl showed that she was, like himself, in a woe- begone state of mind.

"Oh, you know all about it! That boy of mine has been talking to you, I can see!" he said, as they shook hands, and turned along the winding path. "Well, well, this is a fine ending to all my hopes. The lad's as obstinate as a mule—I am sure I don't know where he got his disposition; if he once takes a thing in his head there's no moving him. Now he wants to go and bury himself in the wilds of India! I've talked until I am tired, and I can't make him see what mad folly it is. After an expensive college education—"

"Yes, but, Squire, I don't think that's a fair argument! Rex didn't want to go to college; he went against his own wishes because you were set on it. He said it would be waste of money."

"Tut, tut! nonsense! Waste of money, indeed! I don't grudge a few hundreds spent on my only son's education, I hope. Things would have come to a pretty pass if that were the case," cried the Squire, turning off at a tangent, as usual, the moment he found his position attacked by the enemy. "I thought the boy would have come to his senses long before the three years were over. I have told him—" And he launched off into a lengthy account of the interview of the night before, repeating his own arguments and his son's replies, while Norah listened with downcast eyes. "There!" he cried in conclusion, "that is the matter in a nutshell, and everyone must see that I am perfectly reasonable and within my rights. Now, my dear, you talk to him; he thinks a great deal of your opinion. Just tell him plainly that if he persists in his folly, he is ruining his life, and behaving in a very wrong, undutiful manner to his mother and to me. Talk to him plainly; don't spare your words!"

"I can't do that, Squire. I'm sorry, but I don't agree with you. Rex has given in to your wishes for three whole years, though, from his point of view, it was waste of time. He has worked hard and not grumbled, so that he has kept every word of his promise. Now he asks you to fulfil yours. I am sure you must feel sad and disappointed, but I don't think you ought to be angry with Rex, or call him undutiful."

"Eh—eh, what's this? Are you going to side against me? This is a pretty state of affairs. I thought I could count upon your help, and the boy would have listened to what you said. Well, well, I don't know what is coming over the young folk nowadays! Do you mean to say that you approve of Rex going abroad?"

"Yes, I do! It is better to be a good planter than a bad lawyer," said Norah steadily; and the Squire pursed up his lips in silence.

The girl's words had appealed to his pet theory, and done more to silence objections than any amount of arguing. The Squire was always lecturing other people on the necessity of doing the humblest work as well as it was possible for it to be done, and had been known on occasions to stand still in the middle of a country lane, brandishing his stick while he treated a gang of stone-breakers to a dissertation on the dignity of labour. The thought that his son might perform his duties in an unsatisfactory manner was even more distasteful than the prospect of separation.

"Well, well," he sighed irritably, "no one need envy a man for having children! They are nothing but trouble and anxiety from beginning to end. It's better to be without them at all."

"You don't mean what you say. You know quite well you would not give up your son and daughter for all the money in the world. You love Edna all the more because she needs so much care, and you are just as proud of Rex as you can be. Of course he is self-willed and determined, but if you could change him into a weak, undecided creature like the vicar's son, you would be very sorry to do it!"

"You seem to know a great deal about my sentiments, young lady," said the Squire, trying hard to look ferocious. Then his shoulders heaved, and he drew a long, weary sigh. "Well, my last hope has gone if you range yourself against me. The boy must go and bury himself at the ends of the earth. Goodness knows when he will come back, and I am getting old. Ten to one I may never see him again!"

"It will be your own fault if you don't. Westmoreland is sweet and beautiful, but if I had no ties and plenty of money like you, I would never be content to settle here for the rest of my life, while the great, wide world lay beyond. If Rex goes to India, why should you not all pack up some year and pay him a visit? You could sail down the Mediterranean and see all the lovely places on the way—Gibraltar, and Malta, and Naples, and Venice; stay a month or two in India, and come home overland through Switzerland and France. Oh, how delightful it would be! You would have so much to see and to talk about afterwards. Edna would get fat and rosy, and you and Mrs Freer would be quite young and skittish by the time you got home! If you went to see him between each of his visits home, the time would seem quite short."

"I daresay! I daresay! A very likely prospect. I am too old to begin gadding about the world at my time of life," said the Squire; but he straightened his back even as he spoke, and stepped out as if wishing to disprove the truth of his own words. Norah saw his eyes brighten, and the deep lines down his cheeks relax into a smile, and knew that her suggestion had met a kindly welcome, "Well, there's no saying! If all the young people go away and leave us, we shall be bound to make a move in self-defence. You are off to London for the winter. It seems a year of changes—"

"Oh, it is, it is, and I am so miserable! Lettice—my own, dear Lettice—is going to be married, and she will never come back to live with us any more. I have been looking forward to London, just to be with her, and now it is further off than ever. It will never come!"

Norah had fought hard for the self-possession which she had shown during the whole of the interview; but now her lips trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. The future seemed dreary indeed, with Rex abroad, Lettice appropriated by Arthur Newcome, and Edna at the other end of England. She had hard work not to cry outright, to the great distress of the Squire, who was the kindliest of men, despite his red face and stentorian voice.

"Ha, humph—humph! Sorry, I'm sure. Very sorry! Come, come, my dear, cheer up! Things may turn out better than we expect. I didn't know you had a trouble of your own, or I would not have intruded mine. Shall we go up to the house? There, take my arm. What a great, big girl you are, to be sure!"

Norah found time for a whispered conference with Rex before he took his seat behind his father and Edna in the dog-cart.

"It's all right! I have spoken to him and he means to give in. Be as kind and patient as possible, for he does feel it, poor old man, and he is very fond and proud of you!"

"Humph!" said Rex shortly. He knitted his brows and looked anxiously at the girl's face. "You are awfully white! Don't cry any more, Norah, for pity's sake. We are not worth it, either Lettice or I." Then he was off, and Raymond turned to his sister with a long, lazy yawn.

"Well, and so Rex is bound for India! He has just been telling me about it. Lucky beggar! When I take my degree I mean to ask father to let me travel for a year or two before settling down to work."

"Oh, dear, dear!" sighed Norah to herself, "what a stirring up of the poor old nest! There will be no eagles left if this sort of thing goes on much longer. And we were so happy! Why, oh, why did I ever wish for a change?"



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

LETTICE AT HOME.

Lettice's annual summer visit was postponed this year until the middle of August, for Arthur Newcome had gained his point, as Mr Bertrand had prophesied, and the wedding was arranged to take place at the end of September. Mr Bertrand had done his best to gain more time, but it was difficult to fight against a man who was so quiet, so composed, and so immovably determined as Arthur Newcome. He listened to what was said with the utmost politeness, and replied to all argument with the statement that he was twenty-eight, that he was in a good position, and saw no reason for waiting indefinitely. After this performance had been enacted four or five times, Mr Bertrand's patience gave way, and he declared that he was powerless to stand out any longer, and that perhaps it was a good thing to get the wedding over, since if he had much to do with Arthur Newcome, he should certainly collapse, and fall into a nervous decline.

"His very presence oppresses me. It is all I can do not to yawn in his face when he is telling those long-winded yarns. Poor little Lettice! I wonder what sort of conversation he treats her to when they are alone. I thought she looked very tired yesterday at dinner. Get her all the pretty things she wants for this trousseau, Helen. I must do what I can for the poor child, for I fear she has a dull time before her."

Miss Carr sighed, and shook her head. As time went on she was more and more distressed about her ward's engagement, for now that his time of suspense was over, Arthur Newcome had lost his temporary gleam of brightness and had settled down into the old solemn ways which made him so different from other young men of his age. The previous night was not the only occasion on which Lettice had seemed weary and dispirited after a tete-a-tete with her lover, but she showed plenty of interest in the selection of her trousseau and in the equipment of the handsome house which Mr Newcome was preparing for his bride.

By the middle of August dressmakers and upholsterers had received the necessary instructions, and could be left to complete their work, while the tired little bride-elect went north to recoup her energies. How glad she was to escape from London only Lettice herself knew; while at Cloudsdale, the whole house was turned upside down in excitement at the prospect of her arrival. Lettice, as an engaged young lady, a bride on the eve of her marriage, had assumed a position of vast importance in her sisters' eyes, and the questions as to how she would look, how she would bear herself, formed the subject of many lengthy discussions.

The hour came at last. Lettice was once more among them. She came rushing in, in the old impetuous way, kissing everyone in turns, and exclaiming in delight at being once more at home. There had never been any unpleasantness connected with Lettice's home-comings. Though she had lived in the lap of luxury for the last three years, she was utterly unspoiled by its influence, and so far from being dissatisfied with her own home, seemed to take an affectionate delight in finding it unchanged in every particular. Her sisters followed her from room to room, listening with smiles to her ecstatic exclamations.

"Oh, how nice it looks—the dear old place! What a sweet, sweet smell of mignonette! Oh, look at the old red table-cloth, and the ink-stain in the corner, where I upset the bottle. Oh, how lovely to see it all again! And the dear old sofa where we used to camp out all together—I have never found such a comfy sofa anywhere else. Tea! How pretty the urn looks! I love that cheerful, hissing sound! And what cream! You never see cream like that in London."

She was all smiles and dimples, and though decidedly thinner, the flush upon her cheeks made her look so bright and well that she was a picture of a radiant young bride. Hilary and Norah watched her with fascinated eyes as she flitted about the room, or lay back in the chintz-covered chair. What a vision of elegance she was! The blue serge coat and skirt was exactly like those which the village dressmaker had made for their own wear—exactly like, and yet how different! The sailor hat was of a shape unknown in northern regions; each little detail of her attire was perfect in its unobtrusive beauty, and with every movement of the hand came the flash of precious stones. If she had been a whit less like herself Norah would have been awed by the presence of this elegant young lady; but it was the old Lettice who flung her arms round her neck the moment they were left alone together in their own room; the old Lettice who kissed, and hugged, and caressed with a hundred loving words.

"Oh, Norah, I have wanted you! I longed for you so, but father would not let me write. It was a horrid, horrid time, and I was wretchedly lonely. Dear, darling Norie! I am so glad to be back."

"And, oh, Lettice, I am so glad to have you! I have a hundred questions to ask. Let me look at your ring. It is a beauty, far nicer than the ordinary row of diamonds. And are you awfully happy? I was very much surprised, you know; but if you are happy, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks!"

"N-no!" said Lettice slowly. "Yes, of course I am happy. It hasn't been as nice as I expected, for Miss Carr has behaved so queerly, and father was not pleased. But—oh yes, I am quite happy. Madge is delighted about it, and Arthur does everything I like. He is very kind!"

"You funny old Lettice! Kind! of course he is kind!" cried Norah laughing, and kissing the soft, fair cheek. The flush of excitement had faded by this time, and the girl's face looked pale and wan, while the blue shadows beneath her eyes gave a pathetic expression to the sweet face. "Lettice," cried Norah anxiously, "how ill you look! You were excited before, and I didn't notice it, but you are as white as a ghost, and so thin! Aren't you well, dear? Have you a head-ache? Can I do anything: for you?"

"Oh, no, no!" Lettice stretched out her arms over her head with a long, weary sigh. "I shall be quite well now that I am at home, and with you, Norah. I have been tired to death in London lately. You have no idea how tiring it is to be engaged. I have stood such hours and hours at the dressmaker's being tried on, and Arthur and I were always going to the house. The workmen are so stupid; they have no idea of colourings. The drawing-room was painted three times over before Arthur was satisfied. I was so tired that I would have left it as it was, but he is so obs—, he likes to have things done exactly in his own way, and worries on and on until he gets it. I thought it would be fun furnishing a house, but it gets a little tiresome when people are so very, very particular. We will have a nice lazy time, won't we, Norah? Arthur is not coming up for three weeks, so we shall be alone and have no one to bother us."

"Ye-es!" stammered Norah confusedly.

This novel way of regarding the presence of a lover was so amazing that it took away her breath, and before she recovered, Miss Briggs entered the room, and there was no more chance of private conversation for the present.

Nothing could have been sweeter or more amiable than Lettice's demeanour during the first week at home. She seemed to revel in the simple country life, and to cling to every member of the household with pathetic affection. She went into the kitchen and sat on the fender stool, talking to the cook and inquiring for "your aunt at Preston," "the little niece Pollie," "your nephew at sea," with a kindly remembrance which drew tears from the old soul's eyes. She made dresses for Geraldine's dolls, trimmed Miss Briggs' caps, and hovered about her father and sisters on the watch for an opportunity to serve them. Everyone was charmed to have her at home once more, and fussed over her in a manner which should have satisfied the most exacting of mortals; but sweet and loving as she was, Lettice did not look satisfied. The grey eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until her face appeared all eyes, and her cheeks showed a faint hollow where the dimples used to play. One miserable night, too, Norah woke to find Lettice sobbing with her head buried in the pillow, and heard a pitiful repetition of the words, "What shall I do? What shall I do?" But when she inquired what was wrong, Lettice declared that a tooth was aching, and sat up in the bed and rubbed her gums obediently with a lotion brought from the medicine cupboard. Norah blamed herself for doubting her sisters word, but she could not help noticing that the toothache yielded very rapidly to the remedy, and the incident left a painful impression on her mind.

Norah was not the only member of the household who was anxious about Lettice's happiness. Mr Bertrand had a serious conversation on the subject with his eldest daughter one morning when Lettice's pallor and subdued voice had been more marked than usual.

"I can't stand seeing the child going about like this. She looks the ghost of what she was five or six months back, and seems to have no spirit left. I shall have to speak to her. It is most painful and awkward on the very eve of the marriage, but if she is not happy—"

"Perhaps it is only that she is tired, and feels the prospect of leaving home," said Hilary; and at that very moment the door was burst open and in rushed Lettice herself, cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes dancing with merriment. She and Raymond had just played a trick upon unsuspecting Miss Briggs with magnificent success. She was breathless with delight, could hardly speak for bursts of laughter, and danced up and down the room, looking so gay and blithe and like the Lettice of old, that her father wont off to his study with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hilary was right. The child was happy enough. If she were a little quieter than usual it was only natural and fitting under the circumstances. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and settled contentedly to work.

One thing was certain: Arthur Newcome was a most attentive lover. Lettice contented herself with scribbling two or three short notes a week, but every afternoon the postman brought a bulky envelope addressed to her in the small neat handwriting which was getting familiar to every member of the household. Norah had an insatiable passion for receiving letters, and was inclined to envy her sister this part of her engagement.

"It must be so lovely to get long epistles everyday. Lettice, I don't want to see them, of course, but what sort of letters does he write? What does he talk about? Is it all affection, or does he tell you interesting pieces of news?"

Lettice gave the sheets a flick with her white fingers.

"You can read it if you like. There is nothing private. I must say he does not write exciting letters. He has been in Canterbury, and this one is a sort of guide-book about the crypt. As if I wanted to hear about crypts! I must say I did not think when I was engaged that I should have letters all about tombs and stupid old monuments! Arthur is so serious. I suppose he thinks he will 'improve my mind,' but if I am to be improved I would rather read a book at once and not be lectured in my love letters."

She had never spoken so openly before, and Norah dared not let the opportunity pass.

"Oh, Lettice, dear! aren't you happy? aren't you satisfied?" she cried earnestly. "I have been afraid sometimes that you were not so fond of Arthur as you should be. Do, do speak out, dear, if it is so, and put an end to things while there is time!"

"An end! What do you mean? I am to be married in less than a month— how could I put an end to it? Don't be foolish, Norah. Besides, I do care for Arthur. I wish sometimes that he were a little younger and less proper, but that is only because he is too clever and learned for a stupid little thing like me. Don't talk like that again; it makes me miserable. Wouldn't you like to have a house of your own and be able to do whatever you liked? My little boudoir is so sweet, all blue and white, and we will have such cosy times in it, you and I, and Edna must come up and stay with me too. Oh, it will be lovely! I am sure it will. I shall be quite happy. I am glad father insisted upon having the wedding up here; it will be so much quieter than in a fashionable London church with all the rabble at the doors. Dreadful to be stared at by hundreds of people who don't know or care anything about you, and only look at you as part of a show. Here all the people are interested and care a little bit for 'Miss Lettice.' If only Rex were to be here! It seems hard that he should leave home just a fortnight before my wedding."

Norah sighed and relapsed into silence, for it was all settled about Rex's departure by this time. The Squire had given way, Mrs Freer and Edna had wept themselves dry, and were now busily occupied in preparing what Rex insisted upon describing as his "trousseau."

"I have one hundred and fifty 'pieces' in my trousseau; how many have you in yours?" he asked Lettice one day; and the girls were much impressed at the extensiveness of his preparations, until it was discovered that he counted each sock separately, and took a suit of clothes as representing three of the aforesaid "pieces." Having once given way, the Squire behaved in the most generous manner, and at his suggestion, Rex was to travel overland to Brindisi, spending a month in various places of interest on the Continent. In order to do this and catch the appointed boat, it was necessary to leave Westmoreland at the end of August. Ten days more, and then good-bye to Rex, good-bye to the happy old day which could never come back again! Four days more, three days, two days, one day—the last afternoon arrived, and with a sinking heart Norah went to meet Rex in the drawing-room for the last time for long years to come.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

GOOD BYE!

It was a gloomy afternoon. The rain was felling in a persistent drizzle; the clouds were low and grey. It seemed as if nature itself shared in the depression which settled on the little party gathered together in the drawing-room at Cloudsdale. What merry times they had spent together in this room! What cosy chats there had been round the fireside in winter! what refreshing hours of rest in summer, when the sun blinds were lowered, and the windows stood open to the green lawn! And now they were all over. A melancholy feeling of "last time" settled on each of the beholders as they looked at Lettice with the betrothal ring sparkling on her finger, at Rex, so tall and man-like in his travelling suit of rough grey tweed. To make matters worse, the curate had taken this opportunity to pay a call, so that they were not even alone, and the rain prevented an adjournment to the garden. Norah sat at the extreme end of the room from Rex, trifling with her teacup and spoon, with a feeling of such helpless misery as she had never known before in the course of her short life. The Mouse cried openly, Miss Briggs whisked her handkerchief out of her pocket at intervals of every few minutes and Hilary's forced cheerfulness was hardly less depressing. As for Rex himself, he was perfectly quiet and composed, but his voice had a hard, metallic ring, and his face looked drawn and old. Lettice could not bear to look at him, for it seemed to her that there was more evidence of suffering in his set composure than in all the demonstrative grief of his companions.

Conversation languished over tea, and at last Hilary suggested music as a last resort. If there were music there would be a chance of moving about, and putting an end to these death-like pauses, and Rex would also have an opportunity of speaking to Norah, which no doubt he was longing to do; but so soon as music was suggested, the curate begged eagerly to hear Miss Norah play, and she rose to get her violin with the usual ready acquiescence. Norah had made immense strides during the three last years, and was now a performer of no mean attainments. It was always a treat to hear her play, and this afternoon the wailing notes seemed to have an added tenderness and longing. Lettice bit her lips to keep back the tears, while she watched Rex's face with fascinated attention. He had pushed his chair into the corner when Norah began to play, and shaded his eyes with his hand, and beneath this shelter he gazed at her with the unblinking, concentrated gaze of one who is storing up a memory which must last through long years of separation. How often in the bungalow home in India the scene in this English drawing-room would rise before him, and he would see again the girlish figure in the blue serge dress, the pale face leant lovingly against the violin, the face which was generally so gay and full of life, but which was now all sad and downcast! Lettice followed Rex's example and turned to look at her sister. Dear Norie! there was no one in the world like her! How sweet and gentle she looked! No wonder Rex hated to say good- bye—he would never find another girl like Norah Bertrand.

The curate was loud in his expression of delight when Norah laid down her bow, but Rex neither spoke nor moved, and Hilary in despair called for a song. The curate had a pleasant little tenor pipe of his own, and could play accompaniments from memory, so that he was ready enough to accede to the request. His selection, however, was not very large, and chiefly of the ballad order, and this afternoon the sound of the opening bars brought a flush of nervousness to Hilary's cheeks—"The Emigrant's Farewell!" What in the world had induced the man to make such a choice? An utter want of tact, or a mistaken idea of singing something appropriate to the occasion? It was too late to stop him now, however, and she sat playing with the fringe of the tea-cloth, hardly daring to lift her eyes, as the words rang through the room—