Nevertheless, when Miss Madge Beresford came into the billiard-room, where her brother was patiently practising the spot stroke, her appearance seemed to produce a great effect.

'Well, we have got on a swagger dress this time!' cried Mr. Tom, who, though he had never been to Oxford, was a genuine free-trader in slang, and was ready to import it from anywhere.

He stared at her—at her dark Indian-red hat and skirt, and her long tight-fitting black sealskin coat—and she bore the scrutiny patiently.

'You are not going out on a morning like this?' he said, at length.

'There is no rain now; and the streets are quite dry,' pleaded Madge. 'I know it's going to be fine.'

'It's no use, Baby. There won't be a soul to admire your new dress. Better go and finish those slippers for me.'

He proceeded with his billiards.

'Won't you come, Tom?' she said. 'I went to the bazaar with you, when you wanted to see Kate Harman.'

'Wanted to see Kate Harman?' he said, contemptuously. 'Couldn't anybody see Kate Harman who paid half-a-crown at the door?'

'But I took you up and introduced you to her.'

'Introduced me to her! What introduction do you need at a stall at a bazaar, except to pay a couple of sovereigns for a shilling's worth of scent? Who told you I wanted to speak to Kate Harman? I'll tell you what it is, Baby; it's very unladylike to impute motives.'

'I never did anything of the kind,' said his sister, hotly. 'Never.'

She did not quite understand what accusation had been brought against her; but she did not like the sound of the word 'unladylike.'

'Very well,' said he, laying down his cue, 'since you say I am incapable of speaking the truth, I suppose I must go and walk up and down the pier with you. There's one thing sure: I shan't be stared at.'

So he went and got his hat and cane and gloves, and when he had buttoned himself all over into the smallest possible compass, he called for his sister, and together they went out into the gusty, clear, sea-scented morning.

They had the spacious thoroughfare nearly to themselves, though the pavements were fairly dry now. For the day was wild-looking still, the occasional gleam of sunlight was spectral and watery, and a black shadow melting into a soft gray told of showers falling far away at sea. At a great many drawing-room windows, coffee-room windows, club windows, were people standing, their hands behind their back, apparently uncertain whether or not to venture out. And no doubt some of these, remarking Tom and Madge Beresford pass, must have thought they formed a very handsome couple—the tall, well-built young fellow who looked three-and-twenty, though he was not so much, and the pretty girl of eighteen who also had a good figure and walked well. Their features were much alike too; most would have guessed them to be brother and sister.

'I observe,' remarked Mr. Tom, profoundly, as he gazed with admiration at his own boots, 'that when I come out with you, Baby, I have to do all the talking. When I go out with Nan, now, she does it all and I am amused. It isn't that I am selfish; but a girl come to your time of life—a woman indeed—ought to cultivate the art of amusing people. There is a want of originality about you——'

'There is a want of politeness about you,' said Miss Madge, calmly.

'There is not that flow of ideas that helps one to pass the time. Now that ought to be the business of women. Men who have the hard work of the world to get through require to be entertained, and women should make a study of it, and learn to be amusing——'

'You won't talk like that to your rich widow,' said his sister, 'when you have to go to her for a cheque.'

'Now, there's what I would call a sort of vacuity in your mind,' he continued, bending his cane from time to time on the pavement, 'that might be filled up with something. You might read the newspapers. You might get to know that a Conservative Government and a Liberal Government are not in office at the same time—not generally, at least.'

'Tom,' she said, 'do you think you could get Captain King to come to the Hunt ball?'

He glanced at her suspiciously.

'Captain King?' said he. 'How do you know I am going to see Captain King again? How do you know that he did not go back to town this morning?'

'Because,' she answered, with her eyes fixed on some distant object, 'because I can see him on the pier.'

Tom Beresford had a quick, dark suspicion that he had been made a fool of, even while he was lecturing his sister on her ignorance; but he was not going to admit anything of the kind.

'Yes,' he said, carelessly, 'I fancy that is King coming along. I hope he won't be gone before we get there; I want him to tell me where he gets his boots. Mine aren't bad, you know,' he said, glancing approvingly at these important objects, 'but there's a style about his that I rather fancy.'

'Don't forget about the ball, Tom,' said his sister; 'it would be very nice if we could get up a little party amongst ourselves.'

But Tom, as he walked along, continued to glance down at his glazed boots in a thoughtful and preoccupied manner; it was clear that his mind was charged concerning them.

Frank King was on the pier, and very few others besides, except the musicians in their box. He threw away a cigar, and came forward quickly. His face expressed much pleasure, though he regarded Madge Beresford with something of timidity.

'I was afraid you would not venture out on such a morning,' he said, looking at the clear blue-gray eyes that were immediately turned away.

Her manner was civil, but that was all. She shook hands with him, of course, and regarded him for half a second; but then she turned aside somewhat, so that he and Tom might talk together. For he was Mr. Tom's friend, and no doubt they might have something to say to each other about boots or cigars, or such things.

However, the three of them very soon found themselves walking together, up towards the end of the empty pier, and Tom was in an amazingly good humour, and did his best to amuse this new friend. They sat down where they were sheltered from the gusts of wind, and listened a little to the music, and talked a great deal—though Madge chiefly listened. Madge pretended to be mostly interested in the music, and in the few more people who had now been tempted to come down the pier; but she knew that while her brother and Captain King were very busy talking, the latter was very frequently regarding her. What she did not know was that he was trying to make himself believe that that was Nan who was sitting there.

Then they went for a stroll again, and they looked at the kiosques, and they took refuge from a few passing drops of rain; and they hurried to see a heavy fishing-smack go by the end of the pier, beating out against the south-westerly wind. And although Frank King again and again addressed her, as was demanded of him, she did not enter much into conversation with him. He was Tom's friend, she let it be understood. Nevertheless, she met his eyes once or twice, and she had a pleasant and amiable look.

She began to think that there must be something very striking and attractive about this young sailor, when even her brother Tom—who seemed to consider that the whole world should wait upon his highness—so clearly went out of his way to make himself agreeable. Not only that, but when they had had enough of the pier, and had taken a stroll or two along the King's Road, bringing the time to nearly one o'clock, what must Mr. Tom do but insist that Frank King should come in and lunch with them?

'Well, I will,' said he, 'if you will dine with me at the hotel in the evening. Dining by yourself at a hotel is not exhilarating.'

'But you'd far better dine with us too,' said Mr. Tom, boldly.

'Oh, I can't do that,' said Frank King—but with a slight increase of colour, which showed that he wished he could. 'Even as it is, I am afraid Lady Beresford will think it rather cool if I turn up again now.'

'Oh, you don't know what Brighton is at this time of year,' said Mr. Tom. 'All the resident people like ourselves keep open house, don't you know? and very glad to. We never know how many are coming in to lunch; but then they put up with anything; and it's great fun; it's an occupation for idle people. Then, when you've got a billiard-table, they can turn to that on wet days. Or Edith can give them some music; they say she's rather a swell at it. You see, everybody is in Brighton in December, with friends or in hotels; and, as I say, it's a case of open house and take your chance.'

'We are more formal, and a little duller, in Wiltshire,' said Frank King. 'I wish you'd come to Kingscourt for a few days. We haven't shot the best of the covers yet.'

Those who thought that Tom Beresford was a foolish youth knew nothing about him. Without a hum or a ha he said—

'Yes, I will. When?'

'I'm going back for Christmas. Of course you'll have to stay here with your sisters. As soon after that as you can manage.'

'I could come to you on the 27th or 28th.'

'That's settled then. I will write and let you know about trains and things.'

As luck, good or ill, would have it, there was no other visitor at lunch; the party consisting of Lady Beresford, her two daughters, Mr. Tom, and Captain Frank King. But Mr. Tom was in high spirits over this prospective visit to Kingscourt, and was most amiable to everybody and everything; he even said that he himself would go through to Lewes and fetch Nan home for Christmas.

Now this was odd: that, whenever Nan's name was mentioned, Frank King always glanced up with a quick look, as if he were surprised. Was he beginning to believe, then, as he had tried to make himself believe, that this was the real Nan Beresford now on the other side of the table? Was he surprised to be reminded of the other Nan far away—and now no doubt greatly altered from her former self? Madge Beresford was aware that her neighbour opposite regarded her very frequently—and she pretended not to be conscious of it; but once or twice when she looked up and her eyes met his, she thought there was an oddly wistful or even puzzled expression in those dark blue eyes that Edith was always talking about.

After luncheon Lady Beresford retired to her room, as was her wont; the two young ladies went upstairs to the drawing-room, and Captain King accompanied them, for Madge had asked him to advise her about the rigging of some boats she had been sketching. Mr. Tom remained below to practise the spot stroke.

In the drawing-room Miss Edith hoped that her playing a little would not interfere with their artistic pursuits; and Madge went and got her sketch-book and water-colours, and carried them to a small table at one of the windows, and sat down. Captain King remained standing.

The sketches, to tell the truth, were as bad as bad could be. They were all experimental things, done out of her own head, aiming at a land of the beautiful, unknown to anybody on earth but the chromo-lithographer. The actual sea was out there, staring her in the face, and there were boats on the beach and boats on the water; but instead of trying her hand at anything before her, she must needs imagine lovely pictures, mostly of blue and pink, with goats perched on brown crags, and an ill-drawn eagle soaring over an Alpine peak. There were, however, one or two sketches of mist or moonlight or thunderstorm that had certainly a weird and eerie effect; but it was not necessary to tell the spectator that these had been got in moments of impatience when, after laborious trials at brilliant-hued scenes, the angry artist had taken up a big brush and washed the whole thing into chaos—thereby, to her astonishment, reaching something, she did not know exactly what, that was at all events mysterious and harmonious in tone.

But it was the shipping about which she had sought his advice. The little white dots on blue lakes that were supposed to be feluccas or barchettas he passed; but when it came to a big sailing-boat lying on a beach, and that beach presumably Cornish, from the colour of the rocks, he made a civil and even timid remonstrance.

'I don't think I would have the mast quite in the middle of the boat, if I were you,' said he, gently.

'I thought it always was,' she said—and yet if she had gone to the window she might have seen.

'If it is a lugger, you see,' he continued, giving her all sorts of chances of escape, 'the mast would be at the bow. And if it is a cutter, you would still have to put the mast farther forward, and give her a boom and a bowsprit. Or if it is a yawl, then you would have a little jigger-mast astern—about there——'

'Oh, I can't be expected to know things like that,' she said. 'Scientific accuracy isn't wanted. They're only sketches.'

'Yes; oh yes,' he said.

'Won't that boat do?' she demanded.

'Oh yes, it will do,' he said, fearful of offending her. 'It isn't exactly where they put masts, you know; but then few people know about boats or care about them.'

She was not very well pleased; but she continued to show him more sketches, until Mr. Tom came up to see when they were coming to billiards.

'I shouldn't have shown you these at all,' she said, 'I don't take interest in them myself. I would far rather draw and paint flowers; but we never have any flowers now except those waxen-looking heaths and that flaming pointsettia over there.'

'What did you call it, Madge?' said Mr. Tom.

'I called it pointsettia,' she said, with dignity.

'Gamekeeper's Greek, I should say,' he remarked, with his hands in his pockets. 'A cross between a pointer and a setter. You shouldn't use long words, Madge. Come along down.'

But this mention of flowers put a new idea into the head of Captain Frank King. That very morning he had passed a window where he had seen all sorts of beautiful blossoms, many of them lying in cotton wool—pink and white camellias, white hyacinths, scarlet geraniums, lilies of the valley, and what not. Now might he not be permitted to send Miss Margaret a selection of these rare blossoms—not as a formal bouquet at all, but merely for the purposes of painting? They would simply be materials for an artist; and they would look well in a pretty basket, on a soft cushion of wool.



CHAPTER XV.

A MESSAGE.

Frank King could never exactly define what peculiarities of mind, or person, or manner it was that had so singularly attracted him in Nan Beresford, though he had spent many a meditative hour on board ship in thinking about her. In any case, that boyish fancy was one that a few years' absence might very well have been expected to cure. But the very opposite had happened. Perhaps it was the mere hopelessness of the thing that made him brood the more over it, until it took possession of his life altogether. He kept resolutely abroad, so that he had but few chances of falling in love with somebody else, which is the usual remedy in such cases. When at length he was summoned home, about the first news that reached him was of Nan's contemplated marriage. He was not surprised. And when he consented to go down to Brighton with her brother, it was that he might have just one more glimpse of one whom he always had known was lost to him. He had nothing to reproach her or himself with. It was all a misfortune, and nothing more. But his life had been changed for him by that mere boyish fancy.

Then came that wonderful new hope. Nan was away; Nan was impossible; but here was the very counterpart of Nan; and why should he not transfer all that lingering love and admiration from the one sister to the other who so closely resembled her? It was the prompting of despair as much as anything else. He argued with himself. He tried to make himself believe that this was really Nan—only grown a year or so older than the Nan whom he had last seen at Como. Of course there must be differences; people changed with the changing years. Sometimes he turned away, so that he might only hear her; and her voice was like Nan's.

Now, if Frank King was busy persuading himself that this transference of affection was not only natural and possible, but indeed the easiest and simplest thing in the world, it must be admitted that he obtained every help and encouragement from Madge Beresford herself. She was more than kind to him; she was attentive; she professed great respect for his opinions; and she did her best to conceal—or rather let us say subdue—her bad temper. And they were very much together during these two or three days. Frank King, being on such intimate terms of friendship with Mr. Tom, had almost become an inmate of the house. His being carried off to lunch, when they met him in the rooming, was a matter of course. Then he watched Madge paint, and listened to Edith's music; or they all went downstairs and played billiards, and by that time it was the hour for the afternoon promenade. It was no matter to them that December afternoons are short, and sometimes cold; one's health must be preserved despite the weather; and then again, Brighton looked very picturesque in the gathering dusk, with the long rows of her golden lamps. To observe this properly, however, you ought to go out on the pier; and although at that hour at that time of the year there is not a human being to be found there, that need not interfere with your appreciation of the golden-lit spectacle.

Moreover, Mr. Tom was a tyrant. When he had settled that Captain King might as well remain to dinner, instead of going away to dine by himself at his hotel, it was no use for Captain King to resist. And then Tom's invitation, for mere courtesy sake, had to be repeated by Lady Beresford, and prettily seconded by the two girls. No such favours, be it observed, were showered on the effervescent Roberts or on young Thynne; Mr. Tom had taken the sailor suitor under his protection; there was to be a distinction drawn.

One night, just after Frank King had left, Tom and his sister were by themselves in the billiard-room.

'I want to speak to you, Madge,' said he, in a tone that meant something serious.

'Very well, then.'

'Now, none of your airs and pretence,' he said. 'You needn't try to gammon me.'

'If you would talk English, one might understand you,' she said, spitefully.

'You understand me well enough. When you were on the pier, this morning your eyes were just as wide open as anybody's. And again this afternoon, when you were up on the Marine Parade.'

Madge flushed a little, but said nothing.

'You know as well as anybody that that fellow Hanbury is hanging about,' said Tom, regarding her with suspicion. 'He is always loitering round, dodging after you. And I won't have it. I'll write to the Chief Clerk if he doesn't mind.'

'I don't suppose the Chief Clerk and the Vice-Chancellor and the whole lot of them,' said Madge, pretending to be much interested in the tip of her cue, 'can expel a person from Brighton who is doing no harm.'

'Doing no harm? If you didn't encourage him, do you think he'd hang about like that? If he knew distinctly you wanted him to be off, do you think he'd spend his time slinking about the streets? I believe he has been writing to you again.'

This was quite a random shot, but it told.

'He sent me one letter—not in his own handwriting,' Madge confessed, diffidently.

'Show it to me!'

'I can't. I burned it. I was afraid. Tom, you wouldn't get the poor fellow into trouble!'

'I've no patience with you!' he said angrily. 'Why can't you be fair and aboveboard? Why don't you send the fellow about his business at once——'

'Well, I have.'

'Why don't you settle the thing straight? You know Frank King wants to marry you: anybody can see that. Why don't you have him, and be done with it?'

Madge turned away a little, and said with a very pretty smile,

'And so I would, if he would ask me.'

Well, Mr. Tom thought he knew something of the ways of womankind, from having been brought up among so many; but this fairly took his breath away. He stared at her. He laid down his cue.

'Well, I'm smashed,' he said at length. And then he added slowly, 'I'm glad I've got nothing to do with you women. I believe you'd roast any fellow alive, and then cut him into bits for fourpence-half-penny. It isn't more than three months since you were crying your eyes out about that fellow Hanbury——'

'You were as anxious as any one he should be sent away,' retorted Madge. 'It appears I can't please every one. Perhaps, on the whole, it would be as well to continue the game, for I only want three to be out.'

Tom gave up. He continued the game, and played so savagely and so well that poor Madge never got her three. And he did not recur to that subject except to say the last thing at night, as the girls were leaving—

'Look here, Madge, that fellow Hanbury had better take care.'

'I suppose he can look after himself,' said Madge. 'I have nothing to do with him. Only you can't expect me not to be sorry for him. And how am I to send him away when I dare not speak to him? And do you think the streets of Brighton belong to me?'

Tom again gave up, but was more convinced than ever that women were strange creatures, who could not be straightforward even when they tried. From that and similar generalisations, however, he invariably excepted Nan. Nan did not belong to womankind as considered as a section of the human race. Nan was Nan.

The next afternoon Captain King called to say good-bye. He found the girls very busy over Christmas cards. Madge was painting little studies of flowers for exceptionally favoured people, and she invited him to look over these.

'They are very pretty,' he said. 'I hope the people who are fortunate enough to get them will value them. I mean they are not like ordinary Christmas cards.'

'Oh, if you like them,' said Madge, modestly, 'you might take one for yourself.'

'May I?' he said, regarding her, 'and may I choose the one?'

'Oh yes, certainly,' she answered,

'I know the one I should like to take,' he said, still regarding her. 'This one.'

It was a little bit of forget-me-not, very nicely painted—from memory. He showed it to her.

'May I take this one with me?' he said.

'Yes,' she answered, in a very low voice, and with her eyes cast down.

After that there was a brief silence, only broken by the sound of Miss Edith's pen, that young lady being at the other side of the table addressing envelopes.

Captain Frank went back to Wiltshire, greatly treasuring that bit of cardboard, and making it the basis of many audacious guesses at the future. Nan came home from Lewes for Christmas; and Madge was particularly affectionate towards her.

'What pretty flowers you have!' Nan said, just after she had arrived—the first time, indeed, she went into the dining-room.

'Yes,' Madge answered, 'Captain King sent me flowers once or twice, and some of them have kept very well. But I wish they wouldn't wire them.'

Nan turned away quickly towards the window, and said nothing.

Then Tom went down to Wiltshire, and was most warmly received at Kingscourt. Also pretty Mary Coventry, who was still staying in the house, was kind to this handsome, conceited boy; and he was rather smitten; but he kept a tight hold on himself.

'No,' he said to himself, 'I'm not going to marry any woman; I know too much about them.'

He had a royal time of it altogether; but most of all he enjoyed the quieter days, when he and Frank King went shooting rabbits on the heath. It was sharp, brisk work in the cold weather, better than standing in wet ploughed fields outside woods and waiting until both toes and fingers got benumbed. There was no formality in this business, and no ladies turning up at lunch, and no heart-breaking when one missed. Frank King was excessively kind to him. Not caring very much for shooting himself, he was content to become Mr. Tom's henchman; and they got on very well together. Further, in the smoking-room at night these two were thrown on each other's conversation—for old Mr. King did not smoke—and it was remarkable how interesting Captain King found his friend's talk. It was mostly about Madge and her sisters; and Frank King listened eagerly, and always would have Mr. Tom have another cigarette, while he was busy drawing imaginative pictures, and convincing himself more and more that Madge was no other than Nan, and that life had begun again for him, with all sorts of beautiful possibilities in it. For he could not be blind to the marked favour that the young lady had shown him; and he had long ceased to have any fear of the shadowy Hanbury who was skulking somewhere unregarded in the background.

At length one night Captain Frank, in a burst of confidence, told Mr. Tom all about it, and asked him to say honestly what he thought the chances were. Would Lady Beresford have any objection? Would Miss Margaret consider he had not known her sufficiently long or intimately? What was Mr. Tom's own opinion?

Mr. Tom flushed uneasily.

'I—well, you see—I keep out of that kind of thing as a rule. Women have such confounded queer ways. You're sure to put your foot into it if you intermeddle. These girls are always worrying people about their sweethearts—all but Nan. I wish to goodness they were all married; my life is made a burden to me amongst them.'

'But what do you think, Beresford? Haven't you any opinion? What would you do in a similar case?'

'I?' said Mr. Tom, with a laugh, 'I suppose I should ask the girl; and if she didn't like to say yes, she could do the other thing.'

'But—do you think there would be a chance?'

'Write and see,' said Mr. Tom, with another laugh; further than that he would not interfere.

Frank King considered for a time; and at last boldly determined to act on this advice. He sat up late that night, concocting a skilful, cautious, appealing letter; and as he re-wrote it carefully, all by himself, in the silence, it seemed to him almost as if he were beseeching Nan to reconsider the verdict she had given at Bellagio more than three years before. Life would begin all over again if only she would say yes. Sometimes he found himself thinking of that ball in Spring Gardens; and of her startled shyness, and of her winning confidence, and anxious wish to please; until he recollected that it was Madge to whom he was writing, and that Madge had never been to the ball at all.

This fateful missive was left to be despatched the first thing in the morning; and at the very least there must needs be two or three days' interval. But it cannot be said that he passed this time in terrible anxiety. He was secretly hopeful; so much so that he had begged Mr. Tom, who ought to have gone back before this time, to wait another day or so. His private reason was that he hoped to accompany Madge's brother to Brighton.

All the same, the crisis of a man's life cannot approach without causing some mental disturbance, even in the most hopeful. Long before the Kingscourt family had assembled round the breakfast-table, Frank King had ridden over, on these two or three cold mornings, to the postal town, which was nearly two miles off, so that he should not have to wait for the arrival of the bag. And at last came a letter with the Brighton postmark. He glanced at the handwriting, and thought it was Madge's. That was enough. He put it in his pocket without opening it; went out and got on his horse; and went well outside the little town into the quietude of the lanes before putting his hand into his pocket again and taking the letter out.

No, he was not very apprehensive about the result, or he could not have carried the letter thus far unopened. But all the same the contents surprised him. He had expected, at the worst, some mild refusal on the ground of haste; and, at the best, an evasive hint that he might come to Brighton and talk to Lady Beresford. But all the writing on this sheet of paper consisted of two words, 'From Madge;' and what accompanied them was a bit of forget-me-not—not painted, this time, but a bit of the real flower. It was a pretty notion. It confessed much, without saying much. There was a sort of maiden reticence about it, and yet kindness, and hope. What Frank King did not know was this—that it was Nan Beresford who had suggested that answer to his letter.

He never knew how he got home that morning. He was all in a tempest of eagerness and delight; he scarcely lived in to-day—it was next day. It was the future that seemed to be around him. He burst into his friend's bed-room before the breakfast gong had sounded.

'Beresford, I'll go with you whenever you like now. Whenever you like. I'm going to Brighton with you, I mean.'

'Oh, that's it, is it?' said Mr. Tom, without looking up—he was tying his shoes.

'I've heard from your sister, you know——'

'I thought so. It's all right then, is it?'

'I hope so. I'm very glad it's settled. And you know I don't want to turn you out of the house; but you've been very kind, waiting a day or two longer; and I should like to get to Brighton at once.'

'I'll start in five minutes if you like,' said Mr. Tom, coolly, having finished with his shoes. 'And I suppose I ought to congratulate you. Well, I do. She's a very good sort of a girl. Only——'

He hesitated. It was inauspicious.

'What do you mean?' said Captain Frank.

'Well, I've seen a good deal about women and their goings on, don't you know?' said Mr. Tom, with a sort of shrug. 'They're always changing and chopping and twisting about. The best way is to marry them offhand, and take the nonsense out of them.'

Captain Frank laughed. This was not at all alarming. And when it became secretly known that Captain Frank was immediately going to Brighton to secure his promised bride, there was a great, though discreet rejoicing at Kingscourt; and even pretty Mary Coventry came with her demure and laughing congratulations; and Mr. Tom was made more of than ever during the few hours longer that he remained in the house. Frank King had not time to think about Nan now; it was Madge Beresford who had sent him that bit of forget-me-not.



CHAPTER XVI.

REVERIES.

No sooner had Nan come back to Brighton again, and been installed once more in her former position, than the whole house seemed to be pervaded by a quite new sense of satisfaction, the cause of which was not even guessed at. The wheels of the domestic machinery worked far more smoothly; even the servants seemed to partake of the general brightness and cheerfulness. Edith, the stupid sister, put it down to the Christmas-time, and congratulated herself on her evergreens on the walls. Mr. Tom observed that the house was far better managed when Nan was at home: that meant that he found his slippers when he wanted them, and that there was always a taper on the chimneypiece in the billiard-room. Lady Beresford had all her little whims attended to; and as for Madge, that young lady was greatly delighted to have a safe and sure confidante. For she was much exercised at this time both with her fears about Mr. Hanbury, who followed her about like a ghost, kept silent by the dread of Vice-Chancellors and tipstaffs, and her vain little hopes about Captain Frank King, whose intentions were scarcely a matter of doubt. Nan listened in her grave, sweet way that had earned for her, from Madge, the name of 'Old Mother Nan;' and then would say some nice thing to her sister; and then would carry her away on some charitable enterprise.

For this was the Christmas time; and what with continual choral services, and evergreens, and unearthly music in the still cold nights, there was a sort of exaltation in the air; and Nan wished to be practical. In consequence, Lady Beresford was gravely oppressed.

'I do believe, Nan,' she said, vexedly, one morning as she was writing out a cheque—'I do believe your only notion of Christianity is the giving away coals.'

'And a very good notion too,' said Tom, who would allow no one to say anything against Nan.

But then came that fateful letter from Frank King. It arrived on a January morning—on a clear and brilliant forenoon, just as Nan and her younger sister were going out for a walk, tempted by the sunlight and the colours of the sea. Madge herself took it from the postman at the door; glanced at the address, hastily opened the envelope, and guessed at, rather than read, the contents.

'Oh, Nan,' she said hurriedly, 'wait a moment. There is something—something I want to speak to you about—come into the dining-room—oh, do you know what this is, Nan?—Captain King has written.'

'Yes, dear,' said Nan, calmly and kindly, as she followed her into the empty dining-room.

'I must not show you the letter, must I?' said the younger sister, eagerly, though she was herself still reading and re-reading it. 'But you know what it is, Nan. And I must send an answer—oh, dear, what shall I do?'

'You ought to know, Madge,' her sister said. 'You were not unprepared, surely. I thought you expected it. I thought you would have had your mind made up.'

'But it is so dreadful—so sudden—so terrible! Look at my hands—I am all shaking. Oh, Nan, what would you do—what would you do if you were me?'

Nan seemed to be thinking of something far away; it was after a second that she recalled herself to this question, and then she answered with some astonishment—

'Don't you know your own mind, Madge?'

'Well, I do in a way,' said the younger sister, still staring at the letter. 'I like him well enough. I think it would do very well; and there would be no trouble with any one. I am sorry for that poor fellow Hanbury; but what is the use of his hanging about, and keeping one nervous? There is no use in it all—nothing but bother. And I know Captain King is very fond of me, and I think he would be very kind; and you know he is not going to sea again. And mamma would be pleased. Do you think I should go to her now?'

'What is the use of going to any one until you know what your mind is?'

If the unhappy Hanbury could only have seen his sweetheart at this moment—staring blankly at the open letter, with a doubt on her face which was most probably inspired by some vague and tender recollection of himself! What might not have happened if only he could have intervened at this crisis, and appealed to her with eyes and speech, and implored her to defy these terrible authorities in London? But Madge kept looking at the letter; and then she shut it together; and then she said with decision—

'I think it's the best thing I can do. Wait a minute, Nan; I'll go and tell mamma.'

When she came downstairs again she was quite radiant and eager in her joy.

'Oh, I'm so glad it's all settled and over. I'm so glad there'll be no more worry and bother. And really Captain King is one of the nicest-looking men we know—Edith has always said so—and he is so quiet and pleasant in his manner, and very amusing too: that is because he has no pretence. And grateful for small kindnesses; I suppose being so long at sea, and not seeing so many people, he hasn't got blase. Then he never pretends to be bored—but why are you so solemn, Nan; doesn't it please you?'

Nan kissed her sister.

'I hope you will be very happy, dear,' she said, in her grave, kind way.

'Then I suppose I must answer his letter at once,' continued Madge, in her excited way. 'But how am I to do it, Nan? See how my fingers are all shaking; I couldn't write. And it would take me a month to find out what to say—and here you are being kept in, when you are always wanting to be out in the open air——'

'Oh, don't mind me, Madge. I will stay in with pleasure, if you want me.'

'But you shan't stay in on my account, dear Mother Nan—not a bit of it—not for all the men in the world. And yet I ought to send him a message. I ought to write.'

'I think, Madge,' the elder sister said, slowly, 'if that is any trouble to you, you might send him a message he would understand, without your writing much—a flower, perhaps——'

'But what sort of flower?' said the younger sister, eagerly.

Nan's face flushed somewhat, and she seemed embarrassed and slow to answer.

'You—you should know yourself,' she said, turning her eyes aside. 'Any flower, perhaps—a bit of—of forget-me-not——'

'Of course that would do very well; but where could you get forget-me-nots just now?'

Nan again hesitated; she seemed to be forcing herself to speak.

'There's a little bit in a button-hole in ——'s window,' she said, at last; 'I saw it there yesterday at least.'

'Dear Mother Nan,' said Madge, enthusiastically, 'you are as clever as twenty Vice-Chancellors! We will walk along at once, and see if it is still there. And in the meantime I will write a word on a sheet of paper—I can manage that anyway—and you might address an envelope——'

'Oh no, I couldn't do that,' said Nan, inadvertently shrinking back.

'Very well, I will struggle through it,' said Madge, blithely; and she went and got writing-materials, and scrawled the few words necessary.

They went out into the beautiful clear cold morning, and walked along through the crowd of promenaders with their fresh-coloured faces and furs telling of the wintry weather. And in due course of time they arrived at the florist's window, and found the bit of forget-me-not still in the little nosegay. Madge made no secret of her intention. She opened up the nosegay on the counter of the shop; took out the piece of forget-me-not; put it in the folded sheet of paper; and then carefully—but with fingers no longer trembling—closed the envelope. When they had come out again, and gone and posted the letter, they found themselves at a standstill.

'Now I know you would like a longer walk, Nan,' said the younger sister, 'and I am sure you won't mind if I go back at once. I do so want to write a long letter to Mary. And I haven't told Edith yet, you know.'

To this also Nan consented; and so Madge departed. Nan, left to herself, looked for a moment or two, somewhat wistfully, at the far breadths of the shining water; and then turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully along one of the wider thoroughfares leading up from the sea. The world seemed too bright and eager and busy out here; she wished to be alone, and in the dusk; and in this thoroughfare there was a church, spacious and gloomy, that was kept open all the week round. Half unconsciously to herself she walked in that direction. So absorbed was she that, when she reached the entrance, she scarcely perceived that there were some persons standing about. From the clear light of the sun she passed into a long covered way that was almost dark; there was a low sound of music issuing from the building; it was a refuge she was seeking; and she vaguely hoped that there would be few people within.

But just as she gained the entrance proper, and was about to enter the dark and dusky place before her, behold! here was a great smiling throng coming along the aisle, headed by a bridegroom and a white-clothed bride. The music that was gaily pealing through the building was the 'Wedding March' that no familiarity robs of its majestic swing and melody. Nan had suddenly a sort of guilty self-consciousness. She felt she had no business even to look on at bridal processions. She passed in by another door into that space of dark and empty pews; and very soon the bridal people were all gone from the place, and apparently no one was left but the white-surpliced performers at the organ in the choir.

That choir was a beautiful thing away beyond the dusk. The sunlight entering by the stained-glass windows filled it with a softly golden glory; so that the splendours of the altar, and the tall brass candlesticks, and the seven swinging lamps, and the organ itself, were all suffused with it, and seemed to belong to some other world far away. And then, after the 'Wedding March' was over, there was a pause of silence, and a slight sound of feet in the echoing building behind; and then the music began again—something distant, and sad, and yearning, like the cry of a soul seeking for light in the dark, for comfort in despair. Nan, in her solitary pew, bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. This music was less picturesque, perhaps, than that she had heard in the cathedral at Lucerne, but it had more of a human cry in it; it was an appeal for guidance—for light—for light in the darkness of the world. The tears were running down Nan's face. And then there came into a neighbouring pew a woman dressed in a peculiar costume, all in black; and she, too, knelt down, and covered her face with her hands. And Nan would fain have gone to her and said—

'Oh, sister, take me with you and teach me. You have chosen your path in the world—the path of charity and good-will and peace; let me help you; let me give myself to the poor and the sick. There must be something somewhere for me to do in the world. Take me into your sisterhood; I am not afraid of hardship; let me be of some little use to those who are wretched and weary in heart.'

By and by that lady in black rose, went into the open space fronting the altar, knelt one knee slightly, and then left. Presently Nan followed her, her head bent down somewhat, and her heart not very light.

Just as she was leaving the interior of the church, some one stepped out of the vestry, followed her for a second, and then addressed her. She turned and recognised Mr. Jacomb. He had not been officiating; he was in ordinary clerical costume; and there was something in the primness of that costume that suited his appearance. For he was a singularly clean-looking man; his face smooth shaven; his complexion of the fairest white and pink; his hair yellow almost to whiteness; his eyes gray, clear, and kindly. For the rest, he was about six-and-thirty; of stoutish build; and he generally wore a pleasant and complacent smile, as if the world had treated him kindly, despite his experiences in that poor parish in the south-east of London, and as if, whatever might happen to him, anxiety was not likely to put a premature end to his existence.

'Dear me,' said he, 'what a coincidence! I saw your sister Madge about twenty minutes ago. She seemed very happy about something or other.'

'Mr. Jacomb,' said Nan, 'do you know the lady who left a minute ago?'

'No,' said he, wondering a little at the earnestness—or rather the absentness—of her manner. 'I only caught a glimpse of her. She belongs to one of the visiting sisterhoods.'

Nan was silent for a second or two.

'You came to the wedding, of course?' continued Mr. Jacomb, cheerfully. 'A capital match, that, for young De la Poer. She will have 18,000 pounds a year when her mother dies; and she is pretty too. She puts a little side on, perhaps, when she's talking to strangers; but that's nothing. His brother was at Oxford when I was there, I remember—an awfully fast fellow; but they say all the sons of clergymen are; the other swing of the pendulum, you know. There's a medium in all things; and if one generation gives itself over too much to piety, the next goes as far the other way. I suppose it's human nature.'

This air of agreeable levity—this odour of worldliness (which was in great measure assumed)—did not seem to accord well with Nan's present mood. She was disturbed—uncertain—yearning for something she knew not what—and the echoes of that strange cry in the music were still in her soul. Mr. Jacomb's airs of being a man of the world—of being a clergyman who scorned to attach any esoteric mystery to his cloth, or to expect to be treated with a particular reverence—might put him on easy terms of friendship with Nan's sisters; but they only made Nan regretful, and sometimes even impatient. Did he imagine the assumption of flippancy made him appear younger than he really was? In any case it was bad policy so far as Nan was concerned. Nan was a born worshipper. She was bound to believe in something or somebody. And the story she had heard of the Rev. Charles Jacomb's assiduous, earnest, uncomplaining labour in that big parish had at the very outset won for him her great regard. He did not understand how he was destroying her childlike faith in him by his saturnine little jokes.

'Mr. Jacomb,' said Nan, timidly, 'I should be so greatly obliged to you if you could find out something more for me about those sisterhoods. They must do a great deal of good. And their dress is such a protection; they can go anywhere without fear of rudeness or insult. I suppose it is not a difficult thing to get admission——'

He was staring at her in amazement.

'But not for you—not for you!' he cried. 'Why, it is preposterous for you to think of such a thing. There are plenty who have nothing else in the world to look forward to. You have all your life before you yet. My dear Miss Anne, you must not indulge in day-dreams. Look at your sister Madge. Oh, by-the-way, she said something about your mamma having sent me a note this morning, asking me to dine with you on Friday evening; and then remembering, after the note was posted, that on that evening you had taken a box for the pantomime. Well, there needs be no trouble about that, if I may join your party to go there also.'

Nan said nothing; but perhaps there was the slightest trace of surprise, or interrogation in her look. Immediately he said—

'Oh, I very much approve of pantomimes, from a professional point of view—I do, really. You see, the imagination of most people is very dull—it wants a stimulus—and I am perfectly certain, if the truth were known, that the great majority of people in this country have derived their pictorial notions of heaven from the transformation-scenes in pantomimes. I am certain of it. John Martin's pictures—the only other alternative—are not striking enough. So, on the whole, I very much approve of pantomimes; and I shall be very glad to go with you on Friday, if I may.'

Nan made some excuse, shook hands with him, and went. She walked home hurriedly, she knew not why; it almost seemed as though she wanted to leave something well behind her. And she was very kind to her sisters for the remainder of that day; but somewhat grave.

Meanwhile, Madge's letter to her married sister in London had been sent. And the first answer to it was contained in a postscript to a letter addressed by Mary Beresford to her mother. This was the postscript:—

'What is this nonsense Madge writes to me about herself and Holford King? Has Captain King got it into his head that he would like to marry his deceased wife's sister?'

Lady Beresford threw the letter aside with a sigh, wishing people would not write in conundrums.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE ACCEPTED SUITOR.

'Oh, Nan, here is the cab. What shall I say to him? What am I to say to him?'

'I think you ought to know yourself, dear,' said Nan, gently, and then she slipped away from the room, leaving Madge alone and standing at the window.

But after all it was not so serious a matter. Some one came into the room, and Madge turned.

'May I call you Madge?' said he, holding both her hands.

She answered, with her eyes cast down—

'I suppose I must call you Frank.'

That was all, for at the same moment Mr. Tom was heard calling to his mother and sisters that Captain King had arrived; and directly after, Lady Beresford and Edith entered the room, followed by Mr. Tom, who was declaring that they must have dinner put forward to six o'clock, if they were all to go to the pantomime.

There was a little embarrassment—not much. Frank King kept looking towards the door. He wondered why Nan had not come with the others. He was curious to see how much she had changed. Perhaps he should not even recognise her? Without scarcely knowing why, he was hoping she might not be quite like the Nan of former days.

Mr. Tom consulted his watch again.

'Shall I ring and tell them to hurry on dinner, mother?'

'We cannot alter the dinner hour now,' Lady Beresford said, plaintively. 'It has already been altered once. Both Mr. Roberts and Mr. Jacomb promised to come at half-past six, so that you might all go to the pantomime together in good time.'

'What?' cried Mr. Tom. 'Jacomb? Did you say Jacomb, mother?'

'I said Mr. Roberts and Mr. Jacomb,' said his mother.

'And what the etcetera is he doing in that gallery!' exclaimed Mr. Tom. 'Well, I guess we shall have a high old time of it at dinner. Soda-water and incense. But there's one thing they always agree about. Get them on to port-wine vintages, and they run together like a brace of greyhounds.'

Here Captain King begged to be excused, as there was but little time for him to go along to his hotel and get dressed for this early dinner. When—being accompanied to the door by Mr. Tom himself—he had left, Madge said—

'How do you like him, mamma? Are you pleased with him?'

'He has not spoken to me yet, you know,' said the mother, wearily; she had had to go through several such scenes, and they worried her.

'Oh, but it's all arranged,' Madge said, cheerfully. 'He won't bother you about a solemn interview. It's all arranged. How did you think he looked, Edith? I do hope he won't lose that brown colour by not going back to sea; it suits him; I don't like pastey-faced men. Now, Mr. Jacomb isn't pastey-faced, although he is a clergyman. By-the-way, what has become of Nan?'

Nan had been quite forgotten. Perhaps she was dressing early, or looking after the dinner-table; at all events, it was time for the other sisters to go and get ready also.

Punctual to the moment, Captain King arrived at the door, and entered, and went upstairs. He was not a little excited. Now he would see Nan—and not only her, but also this clergyman, whom he was also curious to see. At such a moment—arriving as Madge's accepted suitor—it was not Nan that he ought to have been thinking about. But it was Nan whom his-first quick glance round the drawing-room sought out; and instantly he knew she was not there.

Everybody else was, however. Mr. Roberts, with his conspicuous red opal and diamonds, was standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, talking to Lady Beresford, who was cushioned up in an easy-chair. Mr. Jacomb was entertaining the two sisters, Edith and Madge, who were laughing considerably. Mr. Tom was walking about with his hands in his pockets, ferocious, for dinner was already eighteen seconds late.

Frank King had not much time to study the looks or manners of this clergyman, to whom he was briefly introduced; for already his attention, which was at the moment exceedingly acute, was drawn to the opening of the door. It was Nan who slipped in, quietly. Apparently she had seen the others before; for when she caught sight of him, she at once advanced towards him, with a grave, quiet smile on her face, and an outstretched hand.

'Oh, how do you do, Captain King,' she said, in the most friendly way, and without the least trace of embarrassment.

Of course she looked at his eyes as she said so. Perhaps she did not notice the strange, startled look that had dwelt there for an instant as he regarded her—a look as if he had seen some one whom he had not expected to see—some one whom he almost feared to see. He could not speak, indeed. For the moment he had really lost command of himself, and seemed bewildered. Then he stammered—

'How do you do, Miss Anne? I am glad to see you looking so well. You—you have not altered much—anything—during these last three or four years.'

'Oh, Nan has altered a great deal I can tell you,' said Mr. Tom; 'and for the better. She isn't half as saucy as she used to be.'

But Nan had turned to her mother, to say privately—

'They are quite ready, mamma. The shades just came in time; and the candles are all lit now.'

Then she turned to Captain King again. If she was acting non-embarrassment, she was acting very well. The clear, friendly, gray-blue eyes regarded him with frankness; there was no touch of tell-tale colour in the fair, piquant, freckled face; she smiled, as if to one in whom she had perfect confidence.

'It is so kind of you,' she said, 'to have let my brother pay you a visit to Kingscourt; I am afraid he must be dull here sometimes. And he says he enjoyed it immensely, and that every one was so kind to him. I hope he didn't disgrace himself—I mean in the shooting; you see he has not had a great deal of practice.'

'Oh, he shot very well,' said Captain Frank King, somewhat hurriedly. 'Oh yes, very well. I should call him a very good shot. I am glad he liked his visit.' But Frank King was not looking into Nan's eyes as he spoke.

Then some one at the door said, 'Dinner is served, your Ladyship;' and the company arranged themselves according to order, and went downstairs. It fell to Captain King's lot to go down last, with Lady Beresford; but when they reached the dining-table he found that his neighbour was to be Madge, and he was glad of that.

Nan was opposite to him; he had discovered that at the first glance, and thereafter he rather avoided looking that way. He endeavoured to entertain Lady Beresford, and occasionally spoke a little to Madge; but he was somewhat preoccupied on the whole; and very frequently he might have been caught regarding the clergyman-guest with an earnest scrutiny. Mr. Jacomb, to do him justice, was making himself the friend of everybody. He could talk well and pleasantly; he had a number of little jokes and stories; and he was making himself generally agreeable. The efflorescent Roberts was anxious to know—as anxious, that is, as a very devoted regard for his menu would permit—the precise position held by a certain High Churchman who was being harried and worried by the law courts at this time; but Mr. Jacomb, with great prudence, would have nothing to say on such subjects. He laughed the whole matter off. He preferred to tell anecdotes about his Oxford days; and gave you to understand that these were not far removed from the present time. You might have guessed that he and his companions were the least little bit wild. The names of highly respectable dignitaries in the Church were associated with stories of scrapes that were quite alarming, and with sayings that just bordered here and there on the irreverent. But then, to a clergyman much is permitted; for it is his business to know where the line should be drawn; other people might not feel quite so safe.

All this time Captain Frank King was intently regarding Mr. Jacomb; and Nan saw it. The smile died away from her face. She grew self-absorbed; she scarcely lifted her eyes.

'Nan, what's the matter with you?' said her brother Tom to her, privately. 'You're not going to cry, are you?'

She looked up with her frank, clear eyes, and said—

'I was trying to remember some lines near the beginning of Faust. They are about a clergyman and a comedian.'

This was beyond Mr. Tom; and so he said nothing. But what Nan had meant had been uttered in a moment of bitterness, and was entirely unjust. Mr. Jacomb was not failing in any proper respect for his sacred calling. But he was among some young people; he hoped they would not think his costume coercive; he wished to let them know that his youth also had only been the other day, as it were, and that he appreciated a joke as well as any one. If his speech at the moment was frivolous—and, indeed, intentionally frivolous—his life had not been frivolous. He had never intrigued or cajoled for preferment, but had done the work that lay nearest him. At Oxford he had toadied no one. And his 'record,' as the Americans say, in that parish in the southeast of London, was unblemished and even noble.

But he made a hash of it that evening, somehow. Nan Beresford grew more and more depressed and disheartened—almost ashamed. If Frank King had not been there, perhaps she would have cared less; but she knew—without daring to look—that Frank King was regarding and listening with an earnest and cruel scrutiny.

When the time came for their starting for the theatre, Nan disappeared. Tom began to make a noise, and then the message came that, Please sir, Miss Anne had a headache, and might she be excused? Tom made a further noise, and declared that the whole thing must be put off. Go to see a pantomime without Nan he would not. Then a further message came from Miss Anne, saying that she would be greatly distressed if they did not go; and so, after no end of growling and grumbling, Mr. Tom put his party into two cabs and took them off. Nan heard the roll of the wheels lessen and cease.

It was about half-past eleven that night that someone noisily entered Nan's room, and lit the gas. Nan opening her eyes—for she was in bed and asleep—beheld a figure there, all white with snow.

'Oh, Nan,' said this new-comer, in great excitement, 'I must tell you all about it. There has been such fun. Never such a gale known on the south coast——'

'Child!' said the now thoroughly awakened sister, 'go at once and take off your things. You will be wet through!'

'Oh, this is nothing,' said Madge, whose pink cheeks showed what she had faced. 'I left a whole avalanche in the hall. The streets are a foot deep already. Not a cab to be got. We had to fight our way from the theatre arm in arm; the wind and snow were like to lift us off our feet altogether. Frank said it reminded him of Canada. All the gentlemen are below; Tom would have them come in to get them some mulled claret.'

Madge's ejaculatory sentences came to an end simply for want of breath. She was all panting.

'Such a laughing there was! Frank and I ran full tilt against a gentleman who was coming full sail before the wind. "Hard-a-port!" Frank cried. There was an awful smash. My hat blew off; and we hid in a doorway till Frank got it back again.'

At Nan's earnest entreaties, her younger sister at last consented to take off her outer garments and robe herself in some of Nan's—meantime shaking a good deal of snow on to the carpet. Then she came and sat down.

'I must tell you all about it, dear Nan,' she said, 'for I am so happy; and it has been such a delightful evening. You can't imagine what a splendid companion Frank is—taking everything free and easy, and always in such a good humour. Well, we went to the theatre; and of course Edith wanted to show herself off, so I had the corner of the box with the curtains, and Frank sat next me, of course—it was "Cinderella"—beautiful!—I never saw such brilliant costumes; and even Edith was delighted with the way they sang the music. Mind, we didn't know that by this time the storm had begun. It was all like fairyland. But am I tiring you, Nan?' said Madge with a sudden compunction. 'Would you rather go to sleep again?'

'Oh no, dear.'

'Is your headache any better?'

'A great deal.'

'Shall I get you some eau-de-cologne?'

'Oh no.'

'Does it sound strange to you that I should call him Frank? It did to me at first. But of course it had to be done; so I had to get over it.'

'You don't seem to have had much difficulty,' said Nan, with an odd kind of smile.

'Well,' Madge confessed, 'he isn't like other men. There's no pretence about him. He makes friends with you at once. And you can't be very formal with any one who is lugging you through the snow.'

'No, of course not,' said Nan gravely. 'I was not saying there could be anything wrong in calling him Frank.'

'Well, the pantomime; did I tell you how good it was? Mr. Roberts says he never saw such beautifully-designed dresses in London; and the music was lovely—oh! if you had heard Cinderella, how she sang, you would have fallen in love with her, Nan. We all did. Then we had ices. There's a song which Cinderella sings Frank promised to get for me; but I can't sing. All I'm good for is to show off Edith.'

'You ought to practise more, dear.'

'But it's no good once you are married. You always drop it. If I have any time I'll take to painting. You see you have no idea, in a house like this, the amount of trouble there is in keeping up a place like Kingscourt.'

'But you know, Madge, Mrs. Holford King is there.'

'She can't be there always; she's very well up in years,' said the practical Madge. 'And you know the whole estate is now definitely settled on Frank—though there are some heavy mortgages. We shan't be able to entertain much for the first few years, I daresay—but we shall always be glad to have you, Nan.'

Nan did not say anything; she turned her face away a little bit.

'Nan,' said her sister, presently, 'didn't Mary and Edith have a notion that Captain King was at one time rather fond of you?'

Nan's face flushed hastily.

'They—they—imagined something of that kind, I believe.'

'But was it true?'

Nan raised herself up, and took her sister's hand in her two hands.

'You see, dear,' she said, gently, and with her eyes cast down, 'young men—I mean very young men—have often passing fancies that don't mean very much. Later on they make their serious choice.'

'But,' said Madge, persistently, 'but I suppose he never really asked you to be his wife?'

'His wife!' said Nan, with well-simulated surprise. 'Recollect, Madge, I was just over seventeen. You don't promise to be anybody's wife at an age like that; you are only a child then.'

'I am only eighteen,' said Madge.

'But there is a great difference. And recollect that Captain King is now older, and knows better what his wishes are, and what way his happiness lies. You ought to be very proud, Madge; and you should try to make him proud of you also.'

'Oh, I will, Nan; I will really. I wish you would teach me a lot of things.'

'What things?'

'Oh, you know. All the sort of stuff that you know. Tidal waves and things.'

'But Captain King won't have anything more to do with tidal waves.'

'Then we'll go round the shops to-morrow, Nan; and you'll tell me about Chippendale furniture and blue china.'

'Don't you think there will be enough of that at Kingscourt; and just such things as you couldn't get to buy in any shops?'

'Then what am I to do, Nan?'

'You can try to be a good wife, dear; and that's better than anything.'

Madge rose.

'I'll let you off, Nan. But I do feel terribly selfish. I haven't said a single word about you——'

'Oh, but I don't want anything said about me,' said Nan, almost in alarm.

'Well, you know, Nan, everybody says this: that a clergyman's wife has more opportunities of doing good than any other woman; for, you see, they are in the middle of it all, and they can interfere as no one else can, and it is expected of them, and the poor people don't object to them as they might to others.'

'Oh, I think that is quite true,' said Nan, thoughtfully—perhaps with a slight sigh. 'Yes, I have often thought of that.'

'And you know, dear, that was what Providence meant you to be,' said Madge, with a friendly smile. 'That is just what you were made for—to be kind to other people. Good-night, old Mother Nan!'

'Good-night, dear.'

They kissed each other; and Madge turned off the gas and left. Presently, however, Madge returned, opened the door, and came in on tiptoe.

'Nan, you are not asleep yet?'

'Of course not.'

'I wanted to ask you, Nan; do you think he would like me to work a pair of slippers for him?'

'No doubt he would,' was the quiet answer.

'For I was thinking it would be so nice if you would come with me to-morrow and help me to choose the materials; and then, you see, Nan, you might sketch me some design, out of your own head, for you are so clever at those things, and that would be better than a shop pattern. And then,' added Madge, 'I should tell him it was your design.'

Nan paused for a second.

'I will do whatever you want, Madge—but you must not say that I made the design for you. It won't be worth much at the best. I would rather have nothing said about it, dear.'

'Very well, Nan; that's just like you.'



CHAPTER XVIII.

A WHITE WORLD.

Next morning it still snowed and blew hard; no one could go out; it was clearly a day to be devoted to indoor amusements. And then Frank King, despite the state of the streets and the absence of cabs, made his way along, and was eagerly welcomed. As Mr. Tom's companion he was to spend the whole day there. Billiards, music, lunch, painting—they would pass the time somehow. And meanwhile the gusts of wind rattled the windows; and the whirling snow blurred out the sea; and Mr. Tom kept on big fires.

Nan remained in her own room. When Madge went up to bring her down she found her reading Thomas a Kempis.

'Frank has asked twice where you were,' Madge remonstrated.

'But that is not a command,' said Nan, with a smile. 'I should have thought, judging by the sound, that you were being very well amused below.'

Madge went away, and in about an hour after came back. She found that her sister had put away De Imitatione Christi, and was at her desk.

'Writing! To whom?'

'To the Editor of the Times', said Nan, laughing at her sister's instantaneous dismay.

'The Times? Are you going to turn a blue-stocking, Nan?'

'Oh no; it's only about blankets. You can read the letter; do you think he will print it?'

This was the letter which Madge read, and which was written in a sort of handwriting that some editors would be glad to see oftener:—

'Dear Sir—The Government interfere to punish a milkman who adulterates milk with water; and I wish to put the question in your columns why they should not also punish the manufacturers who dress blankets with arsenic? Surely it is a matter of equal importance. Poor people can get along without milk, unless there are very small children in the house; but when they have insufficient food, and insufficient fire, and scant clothes, and perhaps also a leaky roof, a good warm pair of blankets is almost a necessity. You cannot imagine what a compensation it is, especially in weather like the present; but how are the charitably disposed to take such a gift to a poor household when it may become the instrument of death or serious illness? Dear Sir, I hope you will call upon the Government to put down this wicked practice; and I am, yours respectfully, AN ENGLISH GIRL.'

'Oh, that's all right,' said Madge, who had feared that her sister had taken to literature; 'that's quite the right thing for you. Of course, a clergyman's wife must know all about blankets, and soup-kitchens, and things.'

Nan flushed a little, and said quickly and with an embarrassed smile—

'I thought of putting in something about his "eloquent pen" or his "generous advocacy," but I suppose he gets a great deal of that kind of flattery, and isn't to be taken in. I think I will leave it as it is. It is really most shameful that such things should be allowed.'

'When are you coming down to see Frank?'

'By and by, dear. I am going now to get mamma her egg and port wine.'

'I know Frank wants to see you.'

'Oh, indeed,' she said, quietly, as she folded up the letter.

That memorable snowstorm raged all day; the shops fronting the sea were shut; the whole place looked like some vast deserted white City of the Dead. But towards evening the squalls moderated; that fine, penetrating, crystalline snow ceased to come in whirls and gusts; and people began to get about, the black figures making their way over or through the heavy drifts, or striking for such places as the force of the wind had driven bare. Here and there shovels were in requisition to open a pathway; it was clearly thought that the gale was over; the Beresfords and their guest began to speak of an excursion next day to Stanmer Park, lest peradventure it might be possible to have a lane or two swept on the ice for a little skating.

The next morning proved to be brilliantly beautiful; and they were all up and away betimes on their somewhat hopeless quest. All, that is to say, except Nan: for she had sundry pensioners to look after, who were likely to have fared ill during the inclement weather. Nan put on her thickest boots and her ulster, and went out into the world of snow. The skies were blue and clear; the air was fresh and keen; it was a relief to be out after that monotonous confinement in the house.

Nan went her rounds, and wished she was a millionaire, for the fine snow had penetrated everywhere, and there was great distress. Perhaps she was really trying to imagine herself a cleryman's wife; at all events, when she had grown tired, and perhaps a little heart-sick, it was no wonder that she should think of going into that church, which was always open, for a little rest, and solace, and soothing quiet.

This was what she honestly meant to do—and, moreover, it was with no expectation of meeting Mr. Jacomb there, for it was almost certain that he also would be off on a round of visitations. She had a craving for quiet; perhaps some slow, grateful music would be filling the air; there would be silence in the vast, hushed place.

Well, it was by the merest accident that her eyes happened to light on a vessel that was scudding up channel under double-reefed topsails, and she stood for a minute to watch it. Then she, also inadvertently, perceived that the coastguardsman over the way had come out of his little box, and was similarly watching the vessel—through his telescope. Nan hesitated for a second. The snow was deep, though a kind of path had been trodden a few yards farther along. Then she walked quickly on till she came to that path, crossed, went back to the coastguardsman, and addressed him, with a roseate glow on her cheek.

'Oh, I beg your pardon—but—but—I suppose you know Singing Sal?'

'Yes, Miss,' said the little Celtic-looking man with the brown beard. He was evidently surprised.

'Do you know where she is? I hope she wasn't in the storm yesterday? She hasn't been along this way lately?'

'No, Miss; not that I knows of.'

'Thank you, I am very much obliged.'

'Wait a minute, Miss—Wednesday—yes, it was last night, I believe, as Sal was to sing at a concert at Updene. Yes, it was. Some o' my mates at Cuckmere got leave to go.'

'Updene farm?'

'Yes, Miss,' said the wiry little sailor with a grin. 'That's promotion for Sal—to sing at a concert.'

'I don't see why she should not sing at a concert,' said Nan, regarding him with her clear gray eyes, so that the grin instantly vanished from his face. 'I've heard much worse singing at many a concert. Then, if she was at Updene last night, she would most likely come along here to-day.'

'I don't know, Miss,' said the man, who knew much less about Singing Sal's ways than did Miss Anne Beresford. 'Mayhap the concert didn't come off, along of the snow.'

Nan again thanked him, and continued on her way—eastward. She was thinking. Somehow she had quite forgotten about the church. The air around her was wonderfully keen and exhilarating; the skies overhead were intensely blue; out there on the downs the soft, white snow would be beautiful. Nan walked on at a brisker pace, and her spirits rose. The sunlight seemed to get into her veins. And then her footing required a great deal of attention, and she had plenty of active exercise; for though here and there the force of the wind had left the roads almost bare, elsewhere the snow had formed long drifts of three to five feet in depth, and these had either to be got round or plunged through. Then, up Kemp-Town way, where there is less traffic, her difficulties increased. The keen air seemed to make her easily breathless. But at all events she felt comfortably warm, and the sun felt hot on her cheek.

She had at length persuaded herself that she was anxious about Singing Sal's safety. Many people must have perished in that snowstorm—caught unawares on the lonely downs. At all events, she could ask at one or two of the coastguard stations if anything had been heard of Sal. It was just possible she might meet her, if the entertainment at Updene farm had come off.

At Black Rock station they had heard nothing; but she went on all the same. For now this was a wonderful and beautiful landscape all around her, up on these high cliffs; and the novelty of it delighted her, though the bewildering white somewhat dazzled her eyes. Towards the edge of the cliffs, where the wind had swept across, there was generally not more than an inch or two of snow—hard and crisp, with traceries of birds' feet on it, like long strings of lace; but a few yards on her left the snow had got banked up in the most peculiar drifts, resembling in a curious manner the higher ranges of the Alps. Sometimes, however, the snow became deep here also; so that she had to betake herself to the road, where the farmers' men around had already cut a way through the deeper stoppages; and there she found herself going along a white gallery—yellow-white on the left, where the sunlight fell on the snow, but an intense blue on the right, where the crystalline snow, in shadow, reflected the blue of the sky overhead. And still she ploughed on her way, with all her pulses tingling with life and gladness; for this wonder of yellow whiteness and blue whiteness, and the sunlight, and the keen air, all lent themselves to a kind of fascination; and she scarcely perceived that her usual landmarks were gone: it was enough for her to keep walking, stumbling, sinking, avoiding the deeper drifts, and farther and farther losing herself in the solitariness of this white, hushed world.

Then, far away, and showing very black against the white, she perceived the figure of a woman, and instantly jumped to the conclusion that that must be Singing Sal. But what was Sal—if it were she—about? That dark figure was wildly swaying one arm like an orator declaiming to an excited assemblage. Had the dramatic stimulus of the previous night's entertainment—Nan asked herself—got into the woman's brain? Was she reciting poetry to that extravagant gesturing? Nan walked more slowly now, and took breath; while the woman, whoever she was, evidently was coming along at a swinging pace.

No; that was no dramatic gesture. It was too monotonous. It looked more as if she were sowing—to imperceptible furrows. Nan's eyes were very long-sighted, but this thing puzzled her altogether. She now certainly looked like a farmer's man scattering seed-corn.

Singing Sal saw and recognised her young-lady friend at some distance, and seemed to moderate her gestures, though these did not quite cease. When she came up, Nan said to her,

'What are you doing?'

'Well, Miss,' she said, with a bright smile—her face was quite red with the cold air, and her hair not so smooth as she generally kept it—'my arm does ache, to tell the truth. And my barley's nearly done. I have tried to scatter it wide, so as the finches and larks may have a chance, even when the jackdaws and rooks are at it.'

'Are you scattering food for the birds, then?'

'They're starved out in this weather, Miss; and then the boys come out wi' their guns; and the dicky-laggers are after them too——'

'The what?'

'The bird-catchers, Miss. If I was a farmer now, I'd take a horsewhip, I would, and I'd send those gentry double quick back to Whitechapel. And the gentle-folks, Miss, it isn't right of them to encourage the trapping of larks when there's plenty of other food to be got. Well, my three-penn'orth o' barley that I bought in Newhaven is near done now.'

She looked into the little wallet that she had twisted round in front of her.

'Oh, if you don't mind,' said Nan, eagerly, 'I will give you a shilling—or two or three shillings—to get some more.'

'You could do better than that, Miss,' said Sal. 'Maybe you know some one that lives in Lewes Crescent?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, ye see, Miss, there's such a lot o' birds as won't eat grain at all; and if you was to get the key of the garden in Lewes Crescent, and get a man to sweep the snow off a bit of the grass, and your friends might throw down some mutton bones and scraps from the kitchen, and the birds from far and near would find it out—being easily seen, as it might be. Half the thrushes and blackbirds along this countryside 'll be dead before this snow gives out.'

'Oh, I will go back at once and do that,' said Nan, readily.

'Look how they've been running about all the morning,' said this fresh-coloured, dark-eyed woman, regarding the traceries on the snow at her feet. 'Most of them larks—you can see the spur. And that's a rook with his big heavy claws. And there's a hare, Miss—I should say he was trotting as light as could be—and there's nothing uglier than a trotting hare—he's like a race-horse walking—all stiff and jolting, because of the high aunches—haunches, Miss. They're all bewildered-like, birds and beasts the same. I saw the pad of a fox close by Rottingdean; he must have come a long way to try for a poultry-yard. And, what's rarer, I saw a covey of partridges, Miss, settle down on the sea as I was coming along by Saltdean Gap. They was tired out, poor things, and not driven before the wind either, but fighting against it, and going out to sea blind-like; and then I saw them sink down on to the water, and then the waves knocked them about anyway. I hear there was a wonderful sight of brent geese up by Berling Gap yesterday—but I'm keeping you standing in the cold, Miss——'

'I will walk back with you,' said Nan, turning.

'No, Miss. No, thank you, Miss,' said Sal, sturdily.

'But only as far as Lewes Crescent,' said Nan, with a gentle laugh. 'You know I am going to stop there for the mutton bones. I want to know what has happened to you since the last time I saw you—that's a good while ago now.'

'Two things, Miss, has happened that I'm proud of;' said Sal, as the two set out to face the brisk westerly wind. 'I was taking a turn through Surrey, and when I was at ——, they told me that a great poet lived close by there—Mr. ——'

'Of course every one knows Mr. ——,' said Nan.

'I didn't,' said Sal, rather shamefacedly. 'You see, Miss, the two I showed you are enough company for me; and I haven't got money to buy books wi'. Well, I was passing near the old gentleman's house, and he came out, and he spoke to me as we went along the road. He said he had seen me reading the afternoon before, on the common; and he began to speak about poetry; and then he asked me if I had read any of Mr. ——'s, without saying he was himself. I was sorry to say no, Miss, for he was such a kind old gentleman; but he said he would send me them; and most like they're waiting for me now at Goring, where I gave him an address. Lor', the questions he asked me!—about Shakespeare and Burns—you know, Miss, I had them in my bag; and then about myself. I shouldn't wonder if he wrote a poem about me.'

'Well, that's modest,' said Nan, with another quiet laugh.

Sal did not at all like that gentle reproof.

'It isn't my pride, Miss; it's what he said to me that I go by,' she retorted. 'I didn't ask him.'

'If he does, all England will hear about you then,' said Nan. 'And now, what was the other thing?'

Sal again grew shamefaced a little. She opened the inner side of her wallet, took out a soiled, weather-beaten copy of the Globe Shakespeare, and from it extracted a letter.

'Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss,' she suggested.

Nan took it, and had little difficulty in deciphering its contents, though the language was occasionally a trifle hyperbolical. It contained nothing less than an offer of marriage addressed to Sal by a sailor in one of Her Majesty's ironclads, who said that he was tired of the sea, and that, if Sal would give up her wandering life, so would he, and he would retire into the coastguard. He pointed out the sacrifices he was ready to make for her; for it appeared that he was a petty officer. No matter; he was willing to become simple A.B. again; for he had his 'feelin's;' and if so be as she would become his wife, then they would have a good weather-proof cottage, a bit of garden, and three-and-fourpence a day. It was a most business-like, sensible offer.

'And I'm sure I could do something for him,' Nan eagerly said. 'I think I could get him promotion. The Senior Naval Lord of the Admiralty is a friend of mine. And wouldn't it be better for you?'

'No, Miss,' said Sal, with an odd kind of smile. 'I was glad to get the letter, for it shows I'm respected. But I'm not going to be caged yet. I never saw or heard of the man I would marry—except it might have been Robbie Burns, if he was still alive. Sometimes when I've been reading a bit, coming along the downs all by myself like, I've seen somebody in the distance; and I've said to myself, "Well, now, if that was only to turn out to be that black-a-vised Ayrshire ploughman, it would be all over with me; it would be 'Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad.'" And then some shambling fellow of a labourer has come along, straw-haired, bent-backed, twisted-kneed, and scarcely enough spirit in him to say, "Marnin t' ye—good marnin t' ye, wench!"'

'You are very independent,' said the sage Nan. 'And that's all very well, as long as your health lasts. But you might become ill. You would want relatives and friends, and a home. And in the coastguard houses you would have a very comfortable home, and a garden to look after; and your husband might get promotion.'

'If ever I marry,' said Sal, shaking her head, 'it won't be one of the man-of-war's men. They've just as little spirit or independence as the day labourers. They've had it all crushed out of them by the hard usage of the officers.'

'Oh, how can you say so!' said Nan, warmly. 'The officers are English gentlemen. In former days there may have been cruelty, but I am certain that exists no longer. I know several officers: kinder-hearted men don't exist. Why, there is a captain in the navy——'

She stopped in great embarrassment. But Singing Sal, not heeding, said, laconically—

'It ain't the captain, Miss. He's too great a gentleman to interfere. It's the first lieutenant, who can make the ship a hell upon earth if he has a mind to. Ah! Miss, it's little you know of the discipline that goes on on board a man-o'-war. There's no human being could stand it who wasn't brought up to it. The merchantmen can't stand it, and won't stand it; that's where the officers find a difficulty when the Reserves are called out. You wouldn't find a man-o'-war's man marching up to the First Lord of the Admiralty with a lump of salt beef in his hand and asking him if it was fit to eat. And this Lord, Miss, being a civilian like, he never thought of having the man clapped in irons: "Throw it overboard," says he. "I will see that no more o' that kind of stuff is issued to Her Majesty's fleet." That was the story I heard, Miss; the men were laughing about it at Beachy Head. And then, in the merchantmen Jack has a better chance, if he is a smart fellow——'

And so forth. They had once more got on to the subject of sailors and officers, regarded from their different points of view; and it was not until they had reached Brighton that the sight of Lewes Crescent reminded Nan that she had now to part from her companion and go in search of mutton bones for the thrushes and blackbirds.



CHAPTER XIX.

BREAKING DOWN.

Not only was she successful in this work of charity, but she must needs also institute a similar system of outdoor relief at her own end of the town; so that it was nearly dusk when she re-entered the house in Brunswick Terrace. She did not think of asking if there were any visitors; she went upstairs; perceived that the drawing-room door was an inch or two open, and was just about to enter when she heard voices. Inadvertently she paused.

It was Mr. Jacomb's voice. Then her mother said—

'I married happily myself, and I have never tried to influence my daughters——'

Nan shrank back, like a guilty thing. She had only listened to discover whether it was some one she knew who had called; but these few words of her mother's made her heart jump. She stole away noiselessly to her own room. She sat down, anxious and agitated, fearing she scarcely knew what.

She was not long left in suspense. Her mother came into the room and shut the door.

'I thought I heard you come in, Nan,' she said; 'and it's lucky you have, for Mr. Jacomb is here.'

'But I don't want to see Mr. Jacomb, mamma,' she said, breathlessly.

'He wants to see you,' her mother said, quietly; 'and I suppose you know what it is about.'

'I—I suppose so—yes, I can guess——. Oh, mother, dear!' cried Nan, going and clinging to her mother. 'Do me this great kindness! I can't see him. I don't want to see him. Mother, you will go and speak to him for me!'

'Well, that is extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, who, however, had far too great a respect for her nerves to become excited over this matter or anything else. 'That's a strange request. I have just told him I would not interfere. Of course I don't consider it a good match; you might do a great deal better from a worldly point of view. But you have always been peculiar, Nan. If you think it would be for your happiness to become a poor clergyman's wife, I will not oppose it. At the same time, I have always thought you might do better——'

'Oh, mother, don't you understand?' Nan broke in. 'It's to ask him to go away! I'm so sorry. If he had spoken before, I would have told him before——'

'You mean you refuse him, and I am to take the message,' said her mother, staring at her. 'That is all?'

The girl was silent.

'I must say, Nan, you have been acting very strangely. You have lead us all to believe that you were going to marry him. Why did you let the man come about the house?'

'Don't speak like that to me, mother,' said Nan, with her under lip beginning to quiver. 'I—I tried to think of it. I knew he wanted me to be his wife; I thought it might be right; I thought I could do something that way; and—and I tried to persuade myself. But I can't marry him, mother—I can't—I don't wish to marry any one—I never will marry——'

'Don't talk nonsense, child!' said her mother, severely, for there was a sort of tendency towards excitement in the atmosphere. 'Let me understand clearly. I suppose you know your own mind. I am to go and tell this man definitely that you won't marry him?'

'Mother, don't put it in that harsh way. Tell him I am very sorry. Tell him I tried hard to think of it. Tell him I am sorry he has waited so long; but if he had asked sooner——'

'He would have had the same answer?'

The girl's faced flushed red, and she said in a strange sort of a way—

'Yes—perhaps so—I think it must have been the same answer at any time. Oh, I never, never could have brought myself to marry him! Mother, does it look cruel—does it look as if I had treated him badly?' she added, in the same anxious way.

'No, I would not say that,' answered her mother, calmly. 'A man must take his chance; and until he speaks he can't have an answer. I do not think Mr. Jacomb has any reason to complain—except, perhaps, that you don't go yourself and hear what he has to say——'

'Oh, mother, I couldn't do that. It would only be pain for both of us. And then I don't refuse him, you see, mother; that's something——'

Lady Beresford was uncertain. The truth was, she was not at all sorry to be the bearer of this message—even at the cost of a little trouble—for she did think that her daughter ought to marry into a better position in life. But she had just been listening to what Mr. Jacomb had to say for himself; and he had said a good deal, not only about himself but about Nan, and her disposition, and what would best secure her happiness, and so forth. Lady Beresford had been just a little bit impressed, and the question was whether Nan ought not to be invited to a fair consideration of the matter as represented by Mr. Jacomb himself.

'Well, Nan, if your mind is quite clear about it——'

'Oh it is, mother,' she answered eagerly, 'quite—quite——'

That was an end. Her mother left the room, slowly; Nan listened for her footsteps until she heard her go into the drawing-room and close the door. Her first thought was to lock herself in, so that there should be no appeal. Her next was that it was excessively mean and cruel of her to experience this wonderful sense of relief, now that the die was irrevocably cast.

'If there was anything I could do for him,' she was thinking—'anything—anything but that;' and then she listened again to the stillness until she heard a bell ring, and the drawing-room door open again, and some one descend the stairs into the hall. She felt guilty and sorry at the same time. She wished she could do something by way of compensation. He would not think it was mere heartlessness? For indeed she had tried. And would she not have done him a far greater wrong if she had married him without being able to give him her whole heart?

Nan went to the window; but it was too dark for her to see anything. She took it for granted he had gone away. She was glad, and ashamed of herself for being glad. She reproved herself. And then she had a vague sort of feeling that she would wear sackcloth and ashes—or try to be ten times kinder to everybody—or do something, anything, no matter what—to atone for this very unmistakable sense of gladness that seemed to pervade her whole being. She couldn't help it, because it was there; but she would do something by way of compensation. And the first thing she could think of was to go and brush the billiard-table with such thoroughness that Mr. Tom, when he came home should say he had never seen it in such good condition before.

That was a roaring party that somewhat later came in—all flushed faces and high spirits and delight; for they had walked all the way from Falmer over the downs, under the guidance of the Canadian experience of Frank King; and they had had wonderful adventures with the snow-drifts; and the night was beautiful—a crescent moon in the south, and high up in the south-east the gleaming belt of Orion. And Nan greatly entered into the joy of these adventurers, and wished to hear more of their futile efforts at skating; and was asking this one and the other about everything—until she found Mr. Tom's eyes fixed on her.

'Nan,' said he, with scrutiny and decision, 'you've been in the country to-day, walking.'

She admitted she had.

'And you had for your luncheon a bit of bread and an apple.'

'I generally take that as a precaution,' Nan said, simply.

'I thought so,' said Mr. Tom, with great satisfaction at his own shrewdness. 'I can tell in a minute. For you always come back looking highly pleased with yourself and inclined to be cheeky. I don't like the look of you when you're too set up. Your tongue gets too sharp. I'd advise you people to look out.'

Nan's conscience smote her. Was she so glad, then, that even outsiders saw it in her face? She became graver; and she vowed that she would be most reticent at dinner. Had she not promised to herself to try to be ten times kinder to everybody?

And she very soon, at dinner, had an opportunity of displaying her generosity. They were busy making havoc of the manner of a distinguished person who was much talked of at that time, and whom they had all chanced to meet. Now Nan ordinarily was very intolerant of affectation; but had she not promised to be ten times kinder to everybody? So she struck in in defence of this lady.

'But it is her nature to be affected,' said Nan. 'She is quite true to herself. That is her disposition. It wouldn't be natural for her to try not to be affected. She was born with that disposition. Look at the idiotic grimaces that infants make when they try to show they are pleased. And Mrs. —— wouldn't be herself at all if she wasn't affected. She might as well try to leave off her affectations as her clothes. She couldn't go about without any.'

'She goes about with precious little,' said Mr. Tom, who strongly disapproved of scanty ball-dresses. And then he added, 'But that's Nan all over. She's always for making the best of everything and everybody. It's always the best possible world with her.'

'And isn't that wise,' said Frank King, with a laugh, 'considering it's the only one we've got to live in at present?'

Nan was very bright and cheerful during this dinner, and Captain Frank King was most markedly attentive to her, and interested in her talking. When Nan began to speak, he seemed to consider that the whole table ought to listen; and his was the first look that approved, and the first laugh that followed. Then he discovered that she knew all sorts of out-of-the-way things that an ordinary young lady could by no possibility have been expected to know. It was more than ever clear to him that these solitary wanderings had taught her something. Where had she acquired all this familiarity, for example, with details about his own profession—or what had been his profession?

They went on to talk of the jeers of cabmen at each other, and how sharp some of them were. Then again they began to talk about other common sayings—the very origin of which had been forgotten; and Frank King spoke of a taunt which was an infallible recipe for driving a bargee mad—'Who choked the boy with duff?'—though nobody, not the bargees themselves, now knew anything whatever about the tragic incident that must have happened sometime and somewhere.

'Yes,' said Nan at once, 'and there is another like that that the collier-boats can't stand. If you call out to a collier, "There's a rat in your chains" he'd drive his schooner ashore to get after you.'

'I suppose you have tried,' said her mother, with calm dignity.

'I believe Nan spends most of her time,' said the Beauty, 'in making mud-pies with the boys in Shoreham Harbour.'

'Never you mind, Nan,' her brother said to encourage her. 'Next time we go to Newhaven, you'll call out to the colliers, "There's a rat in your chains," and I'll stop behind a wall and watch them beating you.'

All during that dinner Nan was both amused and amusing, until a trifling little incident occurred. She and Frank King on the other side of the table had almost monopolised the conversation, although quite unwittingly; and everybody seemed to regard this as a matter of course. Now it happened that Madge, who sat next her betrothed, made some slight remark to him. Perhaps he did not hear. At all events, he did not answer, but addressed Nan instead, with reference to something she had just been saying about lifeboats. Instantly, a hurt expression came over Madge's face, and as instantly Nan saw it. From that moment she grew more reserved. She avoided addressing herself directly to Captain Frank King. She devoted herself chiefly to her mother; and when, at the end of dinner, they adjourned in a body to the billiard-room (with the happy indifference of youth) she followed Lady Beresford up to the drawing-room and would herself make tea for her.

'Do you know, Nan,' she said, quite plainly, 'that whenever you are in the room Frank pays no attention to any one else?'