Miss Wilton took the broken ivory in her hand.

"Dear, dear," she said. "How disgracefully this miniature has been cracked and distorted. A child's face, I see, painted in a weak, washed-out style, and glass and ivory are both broken, and frame bent. This miniature must have been subjected to very rough usage. The miniature is yours, Miss Nelson?"

"Yes. It is a likeness of my—my sister. Give it back to me, please, Miss Wilton."

"And you say it was stolen from you?"

"Yes. It always hung over that mantelpiece. It was taken away the day after the boys came home from school."

Miss Wilton stood quite still for a moment; she was a very downright, practical sort of person. "Extraordinary as my question must seem, Basil," she said, turning suddenly to her nephew, "I am forced to ask it, as you appear to be mixed up in the affair. Did you take the miniature?"

"I? Certainly not," said Basil, coloring high.

"But you know something about it?"

"Yes; I know something about it."

"Who took it away?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you, Aunt Elizabeth."

Miss Nelson gazed anxiously into Basil's face. She had put the broken bits of ivory on the table. Now she tenderly laid the soft tissue-paper over them.

"You have brought me back the miniature, Basil," she said.

"I have," said Basil bluntly, "and that's about all. I don't know how it was broken, and what else I know I am not going to tell. I'm awfully sorry about the whole thing, but I thought you would rather have the miniature back as it is, than not get it at all, Miss Nelson."

"That is true," said Miss Nelson.

Basil was turning to leave the room, but Miss Wilton suddenly stepped before him to the door, and shut it.

"You shan't leave, sir, until you tell everything!" she said. "I know what mischievous creatures boys are. You took that miniature away out of wanton mischief; you fiddled with it, and broke it, and now you are afraid to confess. But I'll have no funking the truth. Tell what you have done, this minute, you bad boy!"

"I found the miniature, and I've returned it to Miss Nelson," replied Basil, in a quiet, still voice, which kept under all the anger which made his dark eyes glow.

"Yes, and you stole it in the first instance, and then broke it. Out with the truth; no half-measures with me," retorted Miss Wilton.

Basil laughed harshly.

"You're mistaken, Aunt Elizabeth; I neither stole the miniature nor broke it."

"I am sure Basil is speaking the truth," said Miss Nelson.

"And I am sure of the reverse," retorted Miss Wilton. "There is guilt in his face, in his manner. Naughty, defiant boy, you shall tell me what you know!"

"I am not naughty or defiant, Aunt Elizabeth, and I don't wish to be rude to you or anyone. I have told all I can about the miniature. May I go now please, Miss Nelson?"

"Highty-tighty!" exclaimed Miss Wilton; "this is insubordination with a vengeance. I shall call my brother here. Basil, I insist upon your remaining where you are until your father arrives."

Miss Wilton immediately left the room. Basil went and stood by the window. The blinds were up, and there was moonlight outside. He could see the path across which Ermengarde had hurried the night before.

Miss Nelson came suddenly up, and touched the boy's arm.

"Basil," she said, "I wish to tell you that I fully believe in you."

"Oh, thank you very much," he answered, glancing at her for an instant, and then gazing once more out of the window.

"But," continued the governess, "I wish you would trust me with the whole truth."

He shook his head. At this moment Mr. Wilton and his sister came in together.

"These are the circumstances, Roderick," began Miss Wilton at once. "Pray, Miss Nelson, allow me to speak. Here is the miniature, broken in two, disgracefully injured. Here, look at it—a deceased relative, I believe, of Miss Nelson's—stolen out of her room ten days ago. Basil, returns it this evening broken, says he does not know how it was broken and declines to tell how it got into his possession."

Mr. Wilton took the pieces of ivory into his hand, looked at the poor little distorted face, put the pieces back on the table, and turned to his son.

"Is your Aunt Elizabeth's version of this affair correct, Basil?" he inquired.

"Yes, father," replied Basil. "It is perfectly correct. I found the broken miniature, and I have just returned it."

"How did you find it?"

"I can't say, sir."

"You mean you won't say?"

"Very well, father; I won't say."

Mr. Wilton colored. Miss Wilton gave a triumphant "Humph!" and a muttered "I told you so." Miss Nelson nervously clasped and unclasped her thin hands.

"Basil," said his father after a pause, "you are a very good lad, and I have every trust in you. You have a reason for boldly defying your father's wishes. But when I, who am your father, and know a great deal better than you do what is right and wrong in this matter, desire you once again to tell me all you know, you will, of course, instantly obey me."

"I am deeply and truly sorry, father, but I can't obey you."

"T'ch! no more of this! go to my study this moment, and wait there till I come to you."



CHAPTER XIV.

I SERVE.

"Maggie," said her governess, early the next morning, "Maggie, dear, wake up at once."

Marjorie opened her sleepy gray eyes with a start, sprang up in bed, and began to rub them violently.

"Oh, Miss Nelson, is that you? What is the matter?"

"I want you to get up, and not to wake Ermengarde. Dress as quickly as possible, and then come to me to my room."

"What can be the matter? Isn't it awfully early? Aren't we going to Glendower to-day?"

"It is half-past six. Yes, you are going to Glendower by and by. Now dress, and come to me at once."

Miss Nelson left the room. Marjorie tumbled into her clothes in a most untidy manner, and joined her governess, looking what she was, very unkempt and tumbled.

"I have been quick, haven't I, Miss Nelson?"

"Yes, dear. Come over, my love, and sit by me on the sofa. Maggie, my dear, do you know that Basil is in trouble?"

"Basil!" exclaimed Marjorie. "How? Has he hurt himself?"

"He brought me back my miniature last night, Maggie, broken—injured; don't start so, my dear, dear child. He would not tell how it was broken, nor how it got into his possession, and your Aunt Elizabeth happened most unfortunately to come into the room at the moment, and she made a great fuss, and fetched your father; and the end of it is that they both believe Basil to have done something very wrong—in short, that he had something to say to the disappearance of the miniature, and he—he is in disgrace."

"Oh, Miss Nelson, how can father and Aunt Elizabeth be so cruel and unjust?"

"Hush, dear! whatever your father does, you must not speak of him so."

"But don't they both know him better? Did he ever in all his life do anything dishonorable or mean?"

"Maggie, I fully believe in him."

"Of course you do, dear darling Miss Nelson."

"I wish," continued Miss Nelson, "that we could really find out who took the miniature."

Miss Nelson was looking at Marjorie while she spoke, and now she was surprised to see a wave of crimson slowly dye the child's cheeks, and cover her brow.

"Why do you look like that, Maggie?" asked the governess. "Do you suspect anything?"

Maggie was silent for a moment. Then she looked up in her frank way.

"I don't really know anything," she said.

"But you have a suspicion."

"I'm not even sure that I have."

"Maggie dear, I would far rather never recover the miniature than get Basil into trouble. My conviction is that he is concealing some knowledge which has come to him for the sake of another. He is making a mistake, of course, but his motives are good. If you can help him, Maggie, if you have any clew by which we can get at the real truth, use it, and quickly, dear child."

Marjorie put on that little important air which sometimes made her brothers and sisters call her goody-goody.

"It seems a pity that I should be going away to-day," she said.

"Oh, you must not be disappointed, Maggie," said her governess. "You don't often get a treat, and you have been so looking forward to spending a few days with Lilias Russell."

"I do love Lily," replied Marjorie. "Only Ermengarde said——" then she stopped.

"What is it, dear?"

"I don't think I'll tell, Miss Nelson, please. I'm afraid, when Ermie said it, she was feeling awfully disappointed. I'll try to forget it. Now, Miss Nelson, what shall I do?"

"Put your wise little brains to work. Try to think how you can clear Basil from suspicion without doing anything shabby or underhand. I know your father is fearfully hurt with him. Much more hurt with him than with Ermengarde, for he has always had such a very high opinion of Basil. Now run away, Maggie, dear, and do your best; but remember I do not wish you to give up your visit. I called you early on purpose that you should have time to think matters over."

Miss Nelson kissed Marjorie, who went solemnly back to her own room.

The sun was now streaming in through the closed blinds, and some of his rays fell across the white bed where Ermengarde lay. The little girl was still fast asleep; all her long hair was tossed over her pillow, and one hand shaded her cheek. Ermengarde was a very pretty girl, and she looked lovely now in the innocent sweet sleep which visits even naughty children.

Marjorie went and stood at the foot of the bed.

"Poor Ermie," she said to herself, "I don't want to think that she could be mean, and yet—and yet—she was in Miss Nelson's room the day the miniature was stolen, and she did seem in a desperate state of trouble that time when she asked me to make an excuse for her to go back to the house. And then what funny words Susy did use that day in the cottage, although she explained them all away afterward. Dear, dear, dear, it's horrid to think that Ermie could do anything wrong. And she looks so sweet in her sleep. I wish Miss Nelson hadn't woke me, and told me to be a sort of spy. But oh, poor Basil! I'd do anything in all the world—I'd even be mean, to help Basil."

Marjorie sat down on her own little bed, which was opposite to Ermengarde's. The motto which her mother had given her long ago, the old sacred and time-honored motto, "I serve," floated back to her mind.

"It will be horrid if I have to give up going to Glendower," she whispered under her breath. "I am unlucky about treats, and I do love Lily. Still, I remember what mother said, 'When you are a servant to others, you are God's servant, Marjorie.' Mother died a week afterward. Oh dear, oh dear, I can't forget her words; but I should dearly like to go to Glendower all the same."

As Marjorie sat on her little bed, she was kicking her feet backward and forward, and not being a particularly gentle little mortal, she knocked over a box, which effectually wakened Ermengarde.

"What are you doing there?" asked the elder sister. "What in the world are you dressed for, Maggie? It surely is not seven o'clock yet?"

"Yes, it is; it's a quarter-past seven," replied Marjorie.

"Oh, I suppose you are so excited about your stupid old Glendower."

"I'm thinking about it but I'm not excited," answered Marjorie a little sadly.

"Well, for goodness' sake don't put on that resigned, pious, martyr sort of air. You are going to have your treat, and take it cheerfully. You know you are dying to go, and your heart is going pit-a-pat like anything."

"I wish you wouldn't be so cross with me, Ermie."

"Oh, of course, I'm always cross; no one ever has a good word for me. Now, Maggie, don't begin to argue the point. I wish to goodness you would stay in bed until it is your proper time to rise, and not wake me up before it is necessary. I might have had a quarter of an hour's more sleep if it had not been for you."

"I could not help myself this morning," answered Marjorie. "Miss Nelson came and woke me soon after six o'clock."

"Miss Nelson?" Ermengarde was suddenly aroused to interest. "Whatever for?"

"Oh, Ermie, you must hear about it—poor Basil."

Ermengarde half sat up in bed.

"I wish you'd speak right out, Maggie. Has Basil hurt himself? Is he ill? What is wrong?"

"Basil isn't ill in body, Ermie, only—oh, it's so dreadful. He found the miniature."

Ermengarde flung herself back again on her bed.

"How sick I am of that stupid miniature!" she muttered.

"Well, Ermie, you want to hear the story about it, don't you? Basil found it, and it had got cracked across, and the poor little sister, she does squint so fearfully now, and she——"

"Oh, never mind about that," retorted Ermengarde. With all her care there was a sort of breathless earnestness in her voice. "What did Basil do?"

"He gave the miniature back to Miss Nelson, and of course Miss Nelson was awfully cut up about it being broken, and just at the minute who should come in but Aunt Elizabeth! and she got into a rage, and she asked Basil how he had got the miniature, and how it was broken, and Basil refused to tell, and there was such a fuss, and father was sent for, and father asked Basil to tell, and Basil refused even to tell father, and father took Basil away to his study, and Miss Nelson doesn't know what happened there, only that dear darling Basil is in disgrace."

"Of course he didn't do it," murmured Ermengarde.

"Do it, Ermie! Basil wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone do such a shabby, shabby, cruel, mean thing as to take away Miss Nelson's dear picture. O Ermie, I thought you at least loved Basil more than anybody, more even than I love him."

"Yes, I do," said Ermengarde; "I love him more than anybody else in the world. Now Maggie, if you don't mind leaving the room, as you happen to be dressed, I'll get up."

"Yes," answered Marjorie, "I'll go away at once." She trotted out of the room.

"I must make up my mind to do it," she said to herself when she reached the landing. "Perhaps Ermie will believe then that I love her a little bit. There's no help for it at all. It's just a plain case of horrid duty, and there's no getting out of it."

Marjorie ran off in the direction of her father's room. She had to push aside the oak doors, and she had to go softly, for Aunt Elizabeth was now at home, and the part of the house behind the oak doors was no longer the children's property. Marjorie ran softly down the long corridor, and when she reached her father's door, she put her ear against the keyhole.

"I mustn't go in until he is up," she said to herself. "I must wait until I hear a little noise. Perhaps when he's shaving he'll have time to listen to me."

Marjorie's little heart was now beating fast enough, for she was dreadfully afraid that Aunt Elizabeth would come out of the bedroom at the other side of the passage, and order her back to the schoolroom regions.

"Oh, I do hope father won't be dreadfully lazy this morning," she murmured. At last welcome sounds from within reached her ears. Mr. Wilton had evidently retired into his bath-room. Presently steps were distinctly audible in the dressing-room; now Marjorie could venture softly to turn the handle of the great bedroom door, it yielded to her pressure, and she somewhat timidly entered. Mr. Wilton was in his dressing-room, the door of which was ajar, and Marjorie had come some distance into the outer room before he heard her.

"Who is there?" he asked suddenly.

"Please, father, it's me; it's Maggie."

"Come along in, and say good-morning, Maggie. I hope you are getting all your possessions together for our visit to Glendower. I shall take the twelve o'clock train. We'll arrive at four."

"Yes, father." Marjorie was now standing by her father's dressing-table. He was shaving, and in consequence his sentences were a little jerky.

"What a quiet Maggie," he said suddenly, looking down at her. "You're delighted to come, aren't you, little one?"

"I was—I loved it. Please, father, I don't want to go now."

"You don't want to go?" Mr. Wilton laid down his razor and looked almost severely into Marjorie's honest but now clouded face. "You don't want to go? Tut!" he repeated. "Don't talk nonsense—you know you are all agog to be off!"

"So I was, but I'm not now. I've changed my mind. That's why I've come in here, and why I'm bothering you while you are shaving."

"You don't bother me, Maggie; you're a good little tot. But about going to Glendower, it's all settled. You're to come, so run away and get Hudson to put up your finery."

"Father, I want you to let Ermie go instead of me."

"No, that I won't; she has been a very disobedient girl. Run away, now, Maggie; it's all settled that you are to go."

"But Ermie was asked in the first instance?"

"Yes, child, yes; but I've explained matters to Lady Russell."

"And Lilias is Ermie's friend."

"What a little pleader you are, Maggie. Ermie should be a good girl, and then she'd have the treats."

"Father, couldn't you punish me instead of her? That is sometimes done, isn't it?"

"Sometimes, Maggie, But I think Ermengarde would be all the better for going through the punishment she richly merits."

"Truly, father, I don't think so, and I know Ermie so well. I know, father, she's awfully unhappy, and she's getting so cross and hard, and perhaps this would soften her. I can't make out what's up with her, but I think this might soften her. Do try it, father; do, please, father."

"Come and sit by me for a moment on this sofa, Maggie. I see you're frightfully in earnest, and you're a dear good child. Everyone speaks well of you, Maggie, so I'm bound in honor to hear you out. You'll tell me the whole truth, whatever it is, won't you, Maggie?"

"Oh, won't I just! What a dear, darling father you are! Nearly as nice as the birthday father!"

"Nearly, puss? Not quite, eh? Well, you suit me uncommonly well, and it is a comfort to have an honest outspoken child. What with Ermengarde's disobedience, and Basil's disgraceful want of openness, I scarcely know what to do at times."

"Father, Basil has done nothing wrong."

"Oh, you take his part, eh? You wouldn't, if you had seen that obstinate young dog last night. I see you know all about it, and I may as well tell you, Maggie, that I am deeply displeased with Basil. I am much more angry with him than I am with Ermengarde, for somehow or other I measured him by his mother's standard, and she often said that Basil couldn't be underhand."

"Mother was right," said Marjorie; "he couldn't."

"My dear Maggie, events have proved the reverse. But now we won't discuss this matter. Here, pop under my arm; let's have a cozy five minutes while I listen to all your wonderful reasons for not going to Glendower."



CHAPTER XV.

LILIAS.

Ermengarde had just finished her morning toilet when the bedroom door was banged violently open. It shut with a loud report and Marjorie, breathless and triumphant, appeared before her.

"What will you give for some good news?" she said, dancing excitedly up and down. "There, you shall give three guesses. Something so good, so jolly. You will be delighted. Now guess! What's going to happen?"

Ermengarde was in one of her worst humors. Everything had gone wrong with her. There was a load of oppression and care on her heart, and now she was seriously uneasy about Basil. She was not brave enough to exonerate him by confessing her own sins, but it was torture to her to think that he should be unjustly suspected of anything mean and dishonorable.

"Do guess! It's something so delightful. You will be pleased," repeated Marjorie, continuing to dance wildly up and down.

"I do wish, Maggie, you'd understand that other people are not in the frantic state of bliss you are in. Your manners lately are too intolerable. I shall ask father if I cannot have a separate bedroom, for I will not have you banging in and out of the room in the horrid tomboy way you have. I don't want to hear your good news. It's nothing that can concern me, that I am sure."

"Oh, indeed, truly it concerns you."

"I don't want to hear it. I know you and your raptures. It will be a perfect comfort when you are at Glendower, and I can have a little peace!"

"That's just it! I'm not going to Glendower."

"Oh! You have got into a scrape too? Well, I must say I think it's time your righteous pride should have a fall. I have no patience with little girls who are always in everyone's good books, and who are set up as patterns. But what's the matter? You seem uncommonly delighted at losing your fine treat."

"I would be, if you'd speak ever so little kindly to me, Ermie, I really am not the horrid girl you think."

"I don't think anything about you, child."

"Well, you shouldn't say things about me. You shouldn't say what you don't think."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't begin to moralize! Was that the breakfast gong?"

"Yes. And you'd better be quick eating up your breakfast, Ermie, for you won't have too much time."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you'll have to tell Hudson about your dresses and things. You are going to Glendower!"

The dull look left Ermengarde's eyes. They began to sparkle. She stood quite still for a moment. Then she turned slowly round and faced her little sister. All Marjorie's soul was shining out of her face at this moment.

"Do you mean this, Maggie?" asked Ermengarde.

"Of course I mean it. Aren't you glad? Aren't you delighted?"

"But how has it been managed? Father said he'd punish me for talking to Susan Collins, and he said you were to go in my stead."

"Well, now, you are to go instead of me. It's just turned round. Aren't you very glad?"

"Well, I did want to see Lilias. She's more the sort of friend for me than for you; isn't she, Maggie?"

"I suppose so," said Marjorie, suppressing a quick sigh.

"And of course Lady Russell wanted me, not you."

"Yes, I told father I was sure she'd like you best."

"Oh, you spoke to father about it?"

"Why, of course, Ermie."

"Then you haven't got into disgrace yourself?"

"No, it wasn't that—it wasn't because I was in——" Marjorie turned her head away, and tears welled up slowly into her big wide-open gray eyes.

"You did it for me, then?" said Ermengarde. "You gave up your own pleasure for me? I didn't see it until this moment; I didn't really! or I wouldn't have been so cross. Kiss me, Maggie. I'm awfully obliged. But how did you come round father?"

"Oh, never mind now; it's done, and father's quite satisfied. He expects you to go with him, and he told me to tell you to be sure to be ready in good time, as he cannot miss the midday train."

"No fear. I'll be ready, I'm only too glad to get away from the Chase just now. Is that Hudson I see in the passage? Run to her, Maggie, I must speak to her about my white chiffon dinner dress."

Marjorie darted away; her face was looking perfectly contented again. She had not expected any more thanks from Ermengarde, and it was her nature when she did give, to give lavishly. Now she was all eagerness to assist in the necessary preparations for Ermie's sudden visit, and was much more inclined to make large proffers of help than was the somewhat offended Hudson.

"I had your clothes all ready, Miss Marjorie, and I have not got everything Miss Ermengarde requires at a moment's notice."

"Oh, but you will do your very best for Ermie, Hudson, and she can have all my clean handkerchiefs and sashes, and my Maltese gold cross, with the little chain. You will help to send her off nice, won't you, Hudson?"

"I'll do anything for your sake, my dear little lady," said the maid.

And Marjorie, well satisfied, trotted down to breakfast in Ermengarde's wake.

The usual party were assembled in the schoolroom, and Ermengarde once more found herself by Basil's side. He just nodded to her when she came in, and then bent his head over "Westward Ho!" which he was reading as he ate his breakfast.

"I wonder if he's coming with me, and if I'm to be treated to these sort of manners all the time," thought Ermengarde. "What will Lilias think?"

But just then Marjorie's voice arrested attention. "Don't poke me so, Eric; it isn't me—it's Ermie; she's going."

"Oh, galopshious! And you'll stay at the Chase! I was looking forward to a black time. You and Basil away, and Miss Sulky-face for my sole companion."

"Do hush, Eric; you say such horrid unkind things. I won't talk to you or be a bit nice."

Eric continued to chatter in a loud, aggravating whisper. His buzzing words were distinctly audible at the other end of the long table. Ermengarde heard herself spoken of as Miss Sulky-face, but she was far too contented with the present state of affairs to mind what such a very unimportant person as Eric said about her. Basil raised his head for a moment from his book.

"Are you going to Glendower instead of Maggie?" he asked, darting a quick glance at his sister.

Her heart swelled with sudden pain at his tone.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was humble and almost deprecating.

"Maggie has given up her wishes then?"

"I am going instead of Maggie," said Ermengarde, her manner once more proud and defiant.

Basil resumed his reading of "Westward Ho!" Miss Nelson called to him to say that his breakfast was getting cold. The moment she spoke, he shut up his book.

"I don't wish to eat anything more, Miss Nelson," he said. "And I want to know if you will excuse me, and let me leave the table now. I wish to say a word to father before he leaves the study."

"You can certainly go, Basil," replied the governess.

He went away at once. A moment later, Basil was standing in his father's presence.

"Do you expect me to go with you to-day to Glendower, father?" he asked.

Mr. Wilton was reading an important letter. He looked up impatiently.

"Yes," he said. "You and Marjorie—I mean you and Ermengarde are to come."

"But I have displeased you, and this is a—a pleasure trip."

Mr. Wilton threw down his letter.

"Look here, Basil," he said, "you are too old to be punished in the sort of way I punish Ermengarde, or Marjorie, or Eric."

"I am only a year older than Ermengarde,"

"Don't contradict me, sir. I repeat, you are too old, and you are different. I have regarded you hitherto as a manly sort of fellow, and even after last night I cannot treat you as a child. Come to Glendower; only understand that, until you explain yourself fully, you suffer from my displeasure."

"If that is so, father"—Basil's lips quivered, his dark eyes glowed with pain—"if that is so, I would rather stay at Wilton Chase."

"Then stay. Until you are once more the frank fellow I have always regarded you, your movements do not interest me."

"I will stay at home then, father."

"Very well."

Mr. Wilton opened another letter, and began to read it. Basil lingered for a moment, as if he hoped for another softer word; then he turned on his heel and left the room.

In due time Ermengarde and her father started on their journey. Ermengarde carried away with her every conceivable bit of finery which Marjorie could stow into her trunk, and Hudson, finding herself helpless to stem the tide of events, at last rose to the occasion, and did her best to send off her young lady suitably prepared for her visit.

Ermengarde looked very pretty and graceful as she seated herself beside her father in the carriage, and although the children were conspicuous by their absence, and there were no sorrowful looks to witness her exit, she did not concern herself very much over such trivial matters.

Marjorie's farewell was all that was warm and affectionate, and as it was Mr. Wilton's fashion to forgive absolutely when he did forgive, Ermengarde had a very comfortable journey.

The travelers arrived in good time at Glendower, and Ermengarde really forgot all the worries, the miseries, the sins of the last few days, when Lilias Russell threw her arms round her neck, and warmly bade her welcome.

Lilias was a very beautiful girl. She had that radiant sort of almost spiritual loveliness which is generally accompanied by a very sweet, noble, and upright nature. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes large, soft, and brown; her hair was the finest, palest gold. She was a slightly made girl, but she had no look of ill-health about her. On the contrary, her elastic young figure was full of strength and vigor. She was a great favorite with all her friends, for she was unselfish, loving, and straightforward. She was slow to think evil of people, and was generally affectionately rapturous over the girls and boys who came to visit her at Glendower. Although the only child of very wealthy parents, she was too simple-minded to be spoiled. She received lots of flatteries, but they did her no harm, because she failed to see them. Her beautiful face was praised to her many times, but no one yet had seen a conscious or conceited expression cross it.

"I'm delighted you have come, Ermie," she said, "but I scarcely expected you, for mother had a letter from your father, who said he was obliged to bring Maggie instead."

Ermengarde colored. There is no saying what reply she would have made, but at that moment Mr. Wilton stepped forward and answered Lilias's look of inquiry himself.

"Maggie gave up her pleasure to Ermie," he said. "She is an unselfish child, and she saw how very much Ermie wished to spend a few days with you, Lilias."

"How sweet of Maggie!" replied Lilias. "I do think she is one of the very dearest little girls in the world. Of course I'm delighted to have you with me, Ermengarde; but I only wish your father had brought Maggie, too."

"And where is my special favorite, Basil?" asked Lady Russell, who had been listening with an amused smile to the above conversation.

"Basil is not in my good graces at present," replied Mr. Wilton. "Pardon me. I make no complaints. He was free to come, but he elected to stay at home; under the circumstances, I think his choice was wise."

Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton walked slowly away together, and Lilias linked her hand affectionately through Ermengarde's arm.

"If there is a mystery, you will tell me about it presently," she said, "and I am not going to worry you now. I am so pleased to have you with me, Ermie, and there are a whole lot of things I am going to consult you about. But first of all, just come to my grotto. I want you to see in what a pretty pattern I have arranged the shells. Here we are; enter, fair and welcome guest! Oh, you must stoop your tall head a little, Ermie. Pride must bend when it enters a humble grotto like mine. Now then, look around you."

Ermengarde was feeling tired, hot, and thirsty. She had hoped to have been treated to nice grown-up tea in one of the drawing-rooms, and she felt just a little annoyed at being carried off at once to look at Lilias's stupid shells, or to behold the most charming grotto that was ever built. Ermengarde had no love for natural history, and fond as she was of Lilias, she felt just a wee bit cross.

But the moment she entered the grotto, the clouds fled like magic from her face. There were shells, of course, and sea-weeds, and a deep pool which contained sea-anemones; and into which a fountain continually dripped. But there was also tea on a charming little rustic table, and two rustic easy-chairs, and two egg-shell china cups and saucers, and a wee silver jug full of cream, and a dish of hot muffins, and a little basket full of grapes and peaches.

Lilias watched her friend's face.

"She wants her tea, poor Ermie does," she whispered to herself; "I know Maggie would have rushed at the shells first of all, and she'd have asked me a thousand questions about my sea-anemones and my fountain. Still, it's perfectly natural that Ermie should be thirsty and want her tea."

So the two little friends sat down, and had a very cozy and merry time together.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE BEAUTIFUL DRESS.

That evening, as Ermengarde was standing in her room, surveying with critical eyes the heaps of finery she had brought with her, Lilias knocked at her door.

"Come in," said Ermengarde.

Lilias had on a blue flannel dressing-jacket, and her long, bright, golden hair was streaming down her back.

"I've rushed in to tell you," she exclaimed excitedly, "we are both to come down to dinner to-night. Two guests have disappointed mother. She has just had a telegram; Colonel Vavasour is ill, and of course his wife can't leave him, so you and I are to fill the vacant places at table. I do hope you won't mind, Ermie."

"I?" said Ermengarde, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, no; I shan't mind; I like dining with grown people. I think it will be rather fun."

"It's sweet of you to take it in that way," said Lilias. "I had planned a lovely walk by the lake, and we might have got into the boat, and brought in some water-lilies. Late dinner takes a long, long time, and it will be much too dark to go to the lake when it is over."

"I don't mind, really," repeated Ermengarde. She did not want to tell her friend that her worldly little soul infinitely preferred late dinner and a talk with some of the grown-up guests to a ramble with Lilias by the side of the lake.

"We can go to the lake another time, Lilias," she said, "and it seems only right to oblige your mother now."

"Thank you for putting it in that way to me," said Lilias. She went up to Ermengarde and kissed her. "What have you got to wear?" she asked. "I know mother would like such young girls as we are to be dressed very simply. I shall just put on a white muslin, a white silk sash round my waist."

"Oh, I have a white dress, too," said Ermengarde, in a careless tone. "I am sure I shall manage very well."

Her dark eyes grew brighter and brighter as she spoke.

"I must not stay to chat with you, Ermie," said Lilias, looking at her friend with admiration. "Mother is so afraid you will miss your maid, you shall have as much of Petite's time as ever I can possibly spare."

"Who is Petite?" asked Ermengarde.

"Oh, she's my dear little maid. We brought her over from France last year. She was never out anywhere before, and I'm so fond of her. Her name is Lucile Marat, but I call her Petite, because she is on a small scale, and so neat in every way. It was she who unpacked your things. I'll send her to you in a minute."

Lilias ran out of the room, and Ermengarde, closing the door, opened a long drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, and taking out her white chiffon dress, viewed it with great complacency. This dress had been given to Ermengarde by Aunt Elizabeth; she had brought it from Paris, intending to wear it at a county ball herself, but finding it too juvenile, she had handed it on to her niece. The local dressmaker had cut it down to fit Ermengarde, and ever since she possessed it, Ermie had sighed and longed for the occasion when she might don the lovely robe.

The dress was in truth an exquisite one; it was delicately spangled with what looked like dewdrops, and had a great deal of rich soft silk introduced here and there, but if it was too young for Aunt Elizabeth, it was a great deal too old for Ermie. It's voluminous and graceful pillows of white were not suited to her slim little figure. It was a grown girl's dress, and Ermie was only a child.

Still the occasion, the longed-for, the sighed-for occasion, when she might dress herself in Aunt Elizabeth's white chiffon, had arrived.

Ermie pulled the dress out of the drawer, shook out its folds, and regarded it with rapture.

There came a modest knock at the room door, and Petite, got up in truly French fashion, entered. She was a rosy-cheeked, round-faced girl, with sparkling black eyes, and rolls of black hair, picturesquely arranged on the top of her head.

"I hope she understands English," thought Ermengarde. "French is not my strong point, and I really must get her to dress my hair in some grown-up fashion to-night."

Petite soon, however, relieved Ermengarde's fear.

"I have come to help you, ma'mselle," she said in her cheerful tones. "Will you let me brush out your hair?"

"Thank you," said Ermie. "I want you to dress it on the top of my head, please—high—something like an old picture—you understand?"

Petite's eyes sparkled.

"I know what you mean," she said. "Pouffed, ever so—like the pictures of the ancient ladies in the picture-gallery."

"Yes," said Ermengarde. "I want my hair to be arranged like a young grown-up lady. You understand?"

"Perfectly, ma'mselle. I will go and fetch hair-pins. But we haven't too much time; Ma'mselle Lilias is dressed. She wears her hair straight down her back."

Ermengarde said nothing. The mysteries of the toilet proceeded, and at the end of half an hour Lilias knocked at her friend's door.

Ermengarde was now arrayed in the white chiffon dress; it touched the ground, and swept away in a short train at the back. It was cut a little open at the neck, and the round childish arms were bare to the elbow. Round her throat Ermengarde had hung Marjorie's Maltese cross, and among the masses of her high piled-up hair reposed a lovely pearl butterfly. The dress was most unsuitable, but the childish face, colored high now with excitement and gratified vanity, looked quite radiant in its loveliness.

Petite was in ecstasies.

"Ma'mselle looks as if she had stepped out of one of the old picture-frames," she said. "Look how beautiful I have contrived her hair to sit."

Lilias did not say much. She was an intensely polite girl, and she crushed back the exclamation of dismay which rose to her lips. Her own appearance was the extreme of simplicity. Her muslin frock was short; her little white shoes and silk stockings were visible. Round her waist she wore a plain white sash, and her golden hair fell in masses down her back.

While Petite was dressing her, Ermengarde's silly heart was mounting on higher and higher wings of gratified delight. But when she looked at Lilias, an uneasy sensation came over her for the first time.

"Come," said Lilias in her gentle voice, "we'll go down to the drawing-room, and stay together near one of the windows. I don't suppose anyone will take us in to dinner; but that does not matter—we'll take one another in."

"Do you like my dress?" suddenly asked Ermengarde.

"Well, Ermie, isn't it just a little old?"

"Nonsense, Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me. She ought to know, I suppose."

Ermengarde did not care to mention then that the dress was a cast-off garment of her Aunt Elizabeth's.

The two girls went downstairs hand in hand. Ermie's long dress and train made her feel awkward. She began to be more and more sure that her evening attire, notwithstanding its great beauty, was unsuitable. She hoped no one would specially notice her. She felt uncomfortable as she saw several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, as she and Lilias walked across the drawing-room.

The two girls got behind the shelter of a curtain, and Ermengarde rejoiced in the fact that her father had not yet come downstairs.

A few more minutes went by; the guests arrived in twos and threes—then dinner was announced. As Lilias had foretold, she and Ermengarde were to take each other in to dinner. They were the last to enter the dining-room. Lady Russell had arranged that the two little girls were to sit together, but at the very last moment some change was made, and Ermie to her horror found herself between her father and a stout old gentleman, who was inclined to regard her as an overdressed, but pretty little doll.

Mr. Wilton never fussed about dress, but he had a keen eye for the proprieties. He saw at a glance that Lilias looked exactly as she ought, and that Ermengarde did not, but he could not tell where the difference lay. Ermie as a rule was one of the neatest of little maids. To-night she was not untidy, and yet—he could not tell why—she looked all wrong.

Mr. Wilton sighed, thought of his dead wife, wondered how he could ever manage his fast growing-up family, and then slightly turning his back on Ermie, tried to forget his cares in conversation with his neighbor on his other side.

The fat old gentleman began to talk to Ermengarde.

"Home for the holidays, eh, my dear?" he began, half-winking at her.

"I don't go to school," answered Ermengarde. She flushed angrily, and her reply was in her primmest voice.

The fat old gentleman finished his soup calmly. Ermie's prim indignation amused him. He glanced from her childish face to her grown up head, and then said in a semi-confiding whisper: "Tell me, do you consider a classical education essential to the development of women's brains?"

"Oh, I don't know," stammered poor Ermie.

"Then you're not a Girton girl?"

"No; why do you ask?" answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite grown-up.

"Well," he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, "I thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young face, you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls attend some of the colleges."

Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her chair, and toyed with her food.

"I'm not very old," she began.

"Not more than eighteen, I should think," replied the old gentleman.

Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.

"Eh? You're not more than that, are you?" asked her companion.

"No, sir," she answered. "I am not more than eighteen."

Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.

"Ermie!" he exclaimed, "what have you done to your head? My dear child, what a show you have made of yourself!"

His voice was quite clear enough for the old gentleman to hear him.

Ermengarde blushed painfully. She muttered something inaudible, and looked down.

"What possessed you to make such a guy of yourself?" continued her father, in a vexed tone, which was very low now. "A little girl like you aping young ladyhood! I am very much annoyed, Ermengarde; I did not think you could be so silly."

Then he turned his back once more, and addressed his neighbor on the other side.

Poor Ermie felt her eyes swimming in tears. The mortification to which her father had subjected her just at her moment of triumph was very bitter. She could not eat a delicious entree which was being offered to her at that moment, and it is possible that, notwithstanding her pride, she might have given way completely to her outraged feelings had not the old gentleman come to her rescue. He was sorry for the poor little maid who had aped the ways of the grown-up. He dropped his quizzical manner, and entered into a pleasant conversation. He drew Ermengarde on to speak of her home, and in especial of her brother Basil, and he thought the little girlish face very charming indeed when Ermie spoke eagerly of her favorite brother.

The rest of the dinner passed off fairly well, and Ermengarde hoped she might be able to retire into a corner when she got into the drawing-room, and so escape any more of her father's censure.

This, however, was difficult, for Lady Russell called both the girls forward, and in especial introduced Ermengarde to several friends of her own. Some of these ladies knew her mother, and they looked kindly at Ermie, and only whispered together behind her back about the extraordinary costume the poor little girl was got up in.

These ladies evidently blamed Ermengarde's father, and spoke of her as a sadly neglected child.

Ermie felt that the ladies were whispering about her, and she began to hate the beautiful chiffon dress, and to long to tear it off her back.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE MORE BEAUTIFUL FACE.

Two tall girls were standing near the piano; one had just sung a song in a very brilliant style, the other was complimenting her; the gentlemen had not yet come in.

"Flora, do look at that queer little personage over there!" exclaimed the singer, glancing in Ermengarde's direction. "Did you ever see such a little comicality? Why, she can't be more than twelve years old, and she is dressed in much older style than you or I."

"Stop, Kate, I'm sure she hears you," said Flora.

"I don't care if she does, conceited little monkey. Who in the world is she?"

"Her name is Ermengarde Wilton. Yes, of course, the dress is unsuitable, but small piece of gorgeousness that she is, I'd give a good deal to possess her handsome face; and so would you, for the matter of that, Kate."

Ermengarde was standing near a window. Now she pushed a muslin curtain aside, and hid herself behind its folds.

"There! She did hear you this time, Flora," said Kate.

"I meant her to," replied the other. "You were humiliating her so horribly, Kate."

The two girls whispered a little longer, then they parted company. Ermengarde stood behind the shelter of the window curtain. Her heart was beating fast, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes had a triumphant light in them.

Yes, she had heard what those horrid girls were saying. She had heard every word. They had abused her dress, but they had praised her face. This praise made up for all. What mattered the dress which could be so easily removed, compared with the face which would remain.

Ermengarde's heart thrilled within her at the delicious words of flattery. These grown-up girls envied her! Oh, she could bear anything after that.

She was standing thus, thinking her own thoughts, when the light swish of silken drapery near caused her to look round, and to her astonishment the girl who was called Flora stood in the shelter of the window by her side.

"I hope I am not crowding you," she said in a gracious voice to Ermengarde. "It is so hot in the drawing-room; I have just come here to get cool before the gentlemen come in."

"You don't disturb me at all," said Ermengarde.

"Thank you. Are you Miss Wilton? I think you must be. My mother knows your father very well."

"And your name is Flora something?" answered Ermengarde, looking up with proud defiance in her face. "And you were speaking about me to a girl called Kate, and you abused my dress, and said that I was a little piece of gorgeousness, and that I was only twelve years old. I am not twelve—I am fourteen and three months."

"Oh, my dear child, you should not have been eavesdropping."

"I wasn't. You spoke out very loud. I thought you knew I must hear you."

"Dear, dear, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt your feelings, really, Miss Wilton. Of course the dress is lovely. Catch Kate or me aspiring to anything half so fine. But then, you did look very young in it. Are you really fourteen! You don't look it."

"Yes, I am fourteen and three months."

"Of course that makes a great difference. Come, now, let's be friends. My name is Flora St. Leger, and mother and I are going to stay at Glendower for a couple of days. Are you staying here?"

"Yes, with my father. We came to-day."

"Oh, I suppose you are Lilias Russell's friend. Isn't she a prim little piece?"

"I don't know," answered Ermengarde angrily. "I only consider that she is the dearest and most beautiful girl in the world."

"Oh, folly! she can't hold a candle to you. I'd like to see you when you're dressed for your first drawing-room. You know, Ermengarde—I may call you Ermengarde, may I not—I did say something very nice about your face, even when I abused your dress. You heard that part too, didn't you, sly monkey?"

"Yes," said Ermie, in a low voice. Then she added, "But it is not true about my being more beautiful than Lilias, and I don't like you even to say it."

"Well, puss, you can't help facts: Lilias is very well in her way; you are twice as striking. Oh, there comes George Martineau. I promised to play his accompaniments for him; he will sing some German songs in a minute. You listen when he does. He has a remarkably fine tenor voice for an amateur."

Flora St. Leger glided away from the recess of the window, and Ermengarde was left alone. She did not mind this in the least, her meditations were so pleasant; and Flora had given her such agreeable food for thought that she was quite delighted to be able to have a quiet few minutes to think over everything. She had quite forgiven Flora's unkind words for the sake of her flattering words. Flora had said the sort of things that Susy had often regaled her with before, but how much more important were the honeyed speeches coming from the lips of this grown-up and beautiful young lady. Ermengarde felt herself quite in love with Flora. Poor Lilias was nothing, compared to the friend she had just made. She was glad to know that Flora was going to spend a couple of days at Glendower. She earnestly hoped that she might see a good deal of her during these few days.

The evening passed somehow, and Ermie managed to escape to her room without again meeting her father.

Petite was helping her to undress, when to her surprise Lady Russell herself came in.

"My dear little Ermengarde," she said. She went up to the young girl and kissed her affectionately. "You can leave us, Petite," said Lady Russell to the maid. When they were alone, she turned to Ermie.

"My love, I am sorry to appear interfering, but you are a motherless little girl. Your dress to-night was very unsuitable."

"Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me," said Ermengarde, pouting.

"Yes, my dear; but, pardon me, we won't go into the question of how you came by the dress. You are at least ten years too young to be dressed in a fanciful costume of that kind. Your father does not wish you to wear that dress again, Ermie, nor to arrange your hair as you did to-night. Have you got a simple white dress with you, my child?"

"No," said Ermie, still pouting and frowning; "I thought the white chiffon was exactly what I needed."

"Poor child, you sadly miss your mother. Well, my love, don't do it again; that's all. I will get Petite to alter one of Lilias's frocks for you to wear to-morrow evening. Now, good-night, dear; sleep sound. I am glad you have come to keep our Lilias company for a few days."

Lady Russell kissed Ermengarde and left her. She took no notice of the little girl's sullen face, nor of her rude manner. She went away looking what she was, a gracious motherly woman.

"I am deeply sorry, both for Ermengarde and her father," she said to herself. "Anyone can see that the poor man does not know how to manage all those children. Marjorie takes after her sweet mother, but Ermengarde! she is not an easy child to influence, and yet what a beautiful face she has!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE TOILS.

The summer at Glendower was always a gay time. The house was usually full of guests, and as there were horses and carriages, and a yacht and a sailboat, as well as two or three rowboats, the guests had certainly all possible advantages of locomotion.

The next morning was a glorious one, and Lilias and Ermie, after breakfasting together in Lilias's own special boudoir, put on their shady hats, and went out to walk about the grounds. The air was so delicious, and Lilias was so sweet and bright and unselfish, that it was impossible for Ermie not to feel in the best of spirits.

She ceased to desire to be grown up, and was satisfied to run races with Lilias in the simple pink cambric frock, which suited her infinitely better than the gorgeous chiffon.

Ermengarde's life was not without care just then, but at this moment she forgot her anxieties about Susy and Basil, and the broken miniature. She forgot her mortification of the night before, and looked what she was, a happy child.

Lilias was talking eagerly about the plans for the day's entertainment. The whole party were to drive to a certain point about eight miles from Glendower. There they were to picnic, and afterward, with the tide in their favor, would return home by water.

"And mother says I may drive my own ponies," said Lilias. "You haven't seen my Shetlands yet, have you, Ermie? Oh, they are such lovely pets, and father has given me real silver bells for their harness."

Ermengarde was about to make a reply, when a voice was heard calling Lilias.

"I'll be back in a minute, Ermie," said Lilias. "I suppose mother wants me to arrange about something. Don't go far away; I'll be with you directly."

She ran off, and Ermengarde, finding a rustic bench under a tree, sat down and looked around her. She had scarcely done so, when she was joined by Flora St. Leger.

"I saw you alone, and I rushed out to you, my love," said the young lady. "I want to speak to you so badly. Where can we go to be by ourselves?"

"But I am waiting here for Lilias," said Ermengarde.

"Oh, never mind. What does it matter whether Lilias finds you here when she comes back or not? She doesn't really want you, and I do."

Now this was all immensely flattering, for Flora was quite grown up, and Ermengarde had already lost her silly little heart to her.

"I should like to oblige you," she said.

"Well, do oblige me! Let us fly down this side-walk. There's a shrubbery at the farther end, where we shall be quite alone. Come, give me your hand."

Ermengarde could not resist. A moment later she and Flora were pacing up and down in the shrubbery.

"Ermengarde," said Miss St. Leger eagerly, "are you going to that stupid, stupid picnic to-day?"

"Why, of course," said Ermengarde, looking up in astonishment.

"You may call me Flora if you like, my dear love. What a sweet, pretty pet you are! Now that I look at you by daylight, I think it's a perfect sin that, with a face like yours, you should have to wear short frocks."

Ermie sighed. Miss St. Leger's tone was full of delicious sympathy, and when the next moment she slipped her arm round the little girl's waist, Ermie experienced quite a thrill of delight.

"I have fallen in love with you, that's a fact," said Miss St. Leger; "but now, about that picnic; you don't really want to go?"

"Oh, yes, Flora. Lilias is going to drive me in her pony-carriage."

"Lilias! Let her take a child like herself. You ought to be with the grown-ups."

"Everyone treats me exactly as if I were a child," said Ermengarde. "I do think it's a great shame, for I don't feel in the least like one."

"Of course you don't, pet. Now listen to me. I'm not going to this stupid, horrid picnic."

"Aren't you, Flora?"

"No, I'm going to stay at home, and I want you to stay with me. You won't be dull, I promise you."

"But what excuse can I give?"

"Oh, say you're tired, or have a headache, or something of that sort."

"But I'm not tired, and I haven't got a headache."

Flora pouted.

"After all, you are only a baby," she said. "I made a mistake; I thought you were different."

Ermengarde colored all over her face.

"Do you really, really want me, Flora?" she asked timidly.

"Of course I do, sweet pet; now you will oblige me, won't you?"

"I'd certainly like to, Flora."

"That's a darling. Go back to the house, and lie down on your bed and, when Lilias calls you at the last moment, say you're tired, and you'd like to stay quiet. Of course you are tired, you know; you look it."

"I suppose I am a little bit," said Ermengarde. Her heart felt like lead. Her gayety had deserted her, but she was in the toils of a much older and cleverer girl than herself.

She stole softly back to the house, and when Lilias found her lying on her bed, she certainly told no untruth when she said that her head ached, for both head and heart ached, and she hated herself for deceiving her sweet little friend.

The picnic people departed, quietness settled down over the house, and Ermie, who had cried with vexation at the thought of losing that delightful drive and day of pleasure, had dropped into a dull kind of dose, when a knock came to her room door, and Miss St. Leger entered.

"Now, little martyr," she said, in a cheerful voice, "jump up, make yourself smart, put on your best toggery, forget your headache, and come downstairs with me. We are going to have some fun on our own account, now, sweet."

"O Flora, what are you going to do?"

"First of all, we'll have some lunch, and afterward we'll stroll through some woods at the back of the house, and I'll tell you some of my adventures in London last season. Oh, my dear, I did have a time of it! Four entertainments often in one evening! That's what you'll be going through, Ermie, in a year or two."

"Is it?" said Ermengarde. Her eyes did not sparkle any more. Somehow Flora did not seem as fascinating to her as she had done an hour ago. Lilias's disappointed face would come back again and again to her memory. She rose, however, and under Flora's supervision put on the smartest of her morning frocks, and went downstairs to lunch.

When the meal had come to an end, and the servants had withdrawn, Ermie asked Flora another question.

"Are we only going to walk in the woods?" she said. "Is that all you asked me to stay at home for!"

"All, you silly puss? Well, no, it isn't quite all. We are going to have tea with some friends of mine. We are to meet them in the woods—very nice people—you'll be charmed with them. We're all going to have a gypsy tea together in the woods."

"But, Flora, I thought you hated picnics?"

"Oh, what a little innocent goose! I hate some kinds. Not the kind I'm going to take you to. Now run upstairs, and put on your hat. It is time for us to be strolling out."

"But, Flora——"

"No more of your 'buts'—go and get ready. Ah, my sweet child, frowns don't become that charming little face of yours. Now, off with you; put on your most becoming hat, and let us set forth."

Ermengarde walked upstairs as if her feet were weighted with lead. The uneasy feeling, which had begun to arise in her heart when Flora proposed that she should tell a lie in order to remain at home, deepened and deepened. Ermengarde had lots of faults, but she was a little lady by birth and breeding, and it suddenly occurred to her that Flora's flatteries were fulsome, and that Flora herself was not in what her father would call good style. She was not at all brave enough, however, now, to withstand her companion. She put on her white shady hat, drew gauntlet gloves over her hands, caught up her parasol, and ran downstairs.

Flora was waiting for her. Flora's eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed.

"Now come," she said. "You'll enjoy yourself so much, Ermie, and we must be quick, for we must be back again in the house before our friends return from their picnic."

"O Flora, are you doing anything wrong?"

Flora's face got crimson all over.

"I was mistaken in you, Ermengarde," she said. "I thought you were quite a different sort of girl. I thought you were the kind of girl I could make a friend of. I said so to Kate last night. I offended poor Kate. I made her cry when I said, 'If Ermengarde Wilton was only a year or two older, she'd sympathize with me. I never saw such sympathetic eyes in anyone's face.' Kate was mad with jealousy, but I only wish I had her here now, poor Kate!"

"O Flora, you know I don't mean to be unkind."

"Of course you don't, love; you were only a silly little goose. Now, come along, we have no time to lose."

Flora took Ermengarde's hand and the two girls soon found themselves in the magnificent woods at the back of Glendower. These woods covered many acres of land, and were the great pride of the beautiful old place. There were woods at Wilton Chase, but not like these, and Ermengarde stopped several times to exclaim and admire.

Oh, how Basil would have enjoyed this walk! How easily he would have climbed those trees! how merrily he would have laughed! how gay his stories would have been! And Basil might have been here to-day, but for Ermengarde; he might have been here, driving and riding with Lilias; enjoying the woods, and the sea, and the picnic fun.

Basil, who was the best of all boys, the best, and the most honorable, was at home in disgrace because of her. Ermie's heart beat heavily. Her footsteps slackened. She scarcely heard Flora's gay chatter.

After walking a mile or so, the girls found themselves in the midst of a clearing in the woods. Here some carriages and horses were drawn up, and a gay party of girls, one or two round-faced and stout matrons, and a few young men were standing together.

The girls and the young men raised a noisy shout when they saw Flora, and rushed to meet her.

"How good of you to come, Florrie! We were half afraid you couldn't manage it."

"Oh, I promised last night," said Flora hastily. "I thought George told you. How do you do, George? Maisie, let me introduce to you my great friend, Miss Wilton. Miss Wilton, Miss Burroughs." Then Flora tripped on in front by the side of the clumsy-looking George, and Ermie found herself standing face to face with Miss Burroughs. She was a loud-voiced, vulgar-looking girl.

"Come along," she said almost roughly to her little companion. "I wonder what Flora meant by walking off in that fashion. Well, I don't suppose you want me to chaperon you, Miss—I forget your name."

"Wilton," said Ermengarde, in a haughty voice.

"Miss Wilton! I don't know why Flora left you on my hands in that style. She just introduced us and rushed off—just like Florrie, so independent and selfish. I never knew anyone so selfish. But I have my own fun to see after. Oh, there's Florrie in the distance, I'll shout after her. Flora! Florrie! Flora St. Leger!"

Flora turned.

"What is it, Maisie?" she screamed back.

"What am I to do with Miss Wilton? I'm going for a long walk with the Slater girls. She can't possibly go so far, and besides, we don't want children."

"Isn't Fanny here?" screamed back Flora.

"Yes, and Tootsie."

"Well, let her stay with Fanny and Tootsie for a bit."

Flora turned and walked down the hill rapidly with her companion. Maisie caught hold of Ermengarde's hand, and began to run with her under the trees.

Presently she came across a stout little girl of about eleven, accompanied by a stouter little boy who might be a year older.

"Fanny," said Maisie, "this child's name is Wilton. She'll stay and play with you and Tootsie for a bit. Now be good children, all of you. Ta-ta! I'll be back in time for tea."

Maisie vanished round a corner, and Ermengarde found herself alone with Fanny and Tootsie.



CHAPTER XIX.

SOME PEOPLE WHO DID NOT FLATTER.

They were not an agreeable-looking pair; they had evidently been dining, and their faces were sticky. They had also been quarreling, for they cast scowling glances at each other, and were in far too bad a temper to be civil to the newcomer.

"I don't want her to play with us," said Tootsie, and he half turned his back.

"I'm sure then she shan't play with me," said Fanny. "I don't wish to play with anyone, I'm sick of play. It's just like that horrid Maisie."

"She isn't a bit more horrid than you and Tootsie!" suddenly remarked Ermengarde, finding her voice, and speaking with what seemed to the two children slow and biting emphasis. "You're all horrid together; I never met such horrid people. You are none of you ladies and gentlemen. I wouldn't play with you for the world! Good-by; I'm going home."

Ermengarde turned her back, and began to walk rapidly away from the picnic party. Whether she would have succeeded in finding her way back to Glendower remains a mystery, for she had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered a stout old lady, who spread out her arms as she approached, and made herself look like a great fan.

"Whither away, now, little maid of the woods?" she said. "Oh, I suppose you are the little girl called Wilton, whom Florrie brought over from Glendower with her. Maisie told me of you."

"I'm going home; please let me pass," said Ermengarde.

"Oh, highty-tighty! not a bit of you, dearie. You'll stay here till Florrie wants to go back. You'd get her into no end of a scrape if you were to leave her now. You must stick to her, my love. It would be unkind to desert poor Florrie in that fashion. I thought Maisie had left you with Fanny and Tootsie."

"Yes, but they are horrid rude children. I could not possibly play with them."

"Well, they are handfuls," said the stout lady. "I'm their mother, so I ought to know. You don't mind staying with me, then, love, do you?"

"I'd much rather go home," repeated Ermengarde.

"But you can't do that, my dear child, so there's no use thinking about it. Come, let us walk about and be cozy, and you tell me all about Glendower."

The old lady now drew Ermengarde's slim hand through her arm, and she found herself forced to walk up and down the greensward in her company.

Mrs. Burroughs was a downright sort of person. After her fashion she was kind to Ermie, but it never entered into her head to flatter her. She was a gossiping sort of body, and she wanted the child to recount to her all the tittle-tattle she knew about Glendower. Ermengarde had neither the power nor the inclination to describe the goings on at Glendower graphically. The stout lady soon got tired of her short answers, and began to survey her from head to foot in a critical and not too kindly spirit.

"Dear, dear!" she said, "what an overgrown poor young thing you are! But we must all go through the gawky age; we must each of us take our turn. Maisie is just through her bad time, but when she was fourteen, wasn't she a show just! You're fourteen, ain't you, my love?"

"Yes," said Ermengarde.

"Ah, I thought as much! I said so the moment I set eyes on you. I knew it by your walk. Neither fish, flesh nor good red herring is a maid of fourteen; she's all right once she passes seventeen, so you take heart, my love. I dare say you'll be a fine girl then."

"Mrs. Burroughs," interrupted Ermengarde, "I really must look for Flora. It is time for us to be going back. I must find her, and if she won't come, I'll go alone."

She wrenched her hand away from the stout lady's arm, and before she could prevent her, began running through the woods to look for Flora.

Miss St. Leger was nowhere in sight, so Ermie, feeling her present position past enduring, determined that, whatever happened, she would go back to Glendower. She was fortunate enough to meet one of the gamekeepers, and guided by his instructions presently found herself back in the house. Weary and stiff, her head aching, she crept up to her room, and threw herself on her bed. Oh, what horrid people Flora knew! Oh, what a horrid girl Flora really was!

Ermengarde wondered how she could ever have liked or admired Flora, or made a friend of such a girl. She lay on the bed and listened intently, wondering what would happen if the picnic party returned before Flora chose to put in an appearance. In that case, would she, Ermengarde, be blamed? Would suspicion attach to her? Would her father discover how deceitfully she had behaved?

"He would send me straight home if he knew it," thought Ermie. "Oh, what a lot of scrapes I've been getting into lately! What with Susy and the miniature, and Miss Nelson and Basil, and now this horrid mean Flora? Oh dear, oh dear? I'm sure I'm not a bit happy. I wish I could get straight somehow, only it's hopeless. I seem to get deeper and deeper into a dark wood every day. Oh dear! there is nothing whatever for me but to hope that things won't be found out."

There came a gentle knock at Ermengarde's door.

"Come in," she said, in a shaking voice. Her fears made her tremble at every sound.

Petite appeared, bringing in a tempting little tray, with tea, and bread-and-butter, and cake. She inquired if Ermengarde knew where Miss St. Leger was. Ermie murmured something which the French maid tried to interpret in vain.

"I'll look for ma'mselle in her room," she said.

She arranged the tea-tray comfortably for Ermie, and withdrew.

The little girl drank her tea; it soothed and comforted her, and she was just falling into a doze, when her room door was opened without any preliminary knock, and Flora, flushed, panting, and frightened, ran in.

"Ermengarde, they are all returning. They are in the avenue already. Oh, how cruel of you to come home without me! You might have got me into an awful scrape."

"I could not help it, Flora. You should not have left me with such people. They are not at all in our set. Father would not wish me to know them."

"Oh, nonsense! They are as good as anybody."

"They are not; they are not good at all. They are vulgar and horrid. I am surprised you should have taken me to see such people."

"Well, well, child, it's all over now. You'll never tell about to-day, will you, Ermengarde?"

"Oh, I suppose not, Flora."

"You suppose not? But you must promise faithfully. You don't know what mischief you'll make, if you tell. Promise now, Ermengarde; promise that you won't tell."

"Very well, I promise," replied Ermie, in a tired-out voice.

"That's a darling. I knew you were a pretty, sweet little pet. If ever I can do anything for you, Ermie, I will. Kiss me now, love. I hear their voices in the hall, and I must fly."

Flora rushed noisily out of the room, and Ermie breathed a sigh of relief.

That evening at dinner the stout old gentleman was very kind to the little girl who, with her hair down her back, and in a very simple muslin frock, sat by his side. In fact he took a great deal more notice of her than he did of the richly-attired young lady of the previous evening. In the course of the meal he imparted one piece of information to Ermengarde, which put her into extremely good spirits. He told her that Miss St. Leger and her mamma were leaving by a very early train on the following morning. Ermengarde quite laughed when she heard this, and the old gentleman gave her a quick pleased wink, as much as to say, "I thought you were too sensible to be long influenced by the flattery of that young person."

Flora herself avoided Ermengarde all through the evening. She left her entirely to the society of her child friend Lilias, and finally went to bed without even bidding her good-by.



CHAPTER XX.

WHAT DID BASIL MEAN?

It was rather late on the evening of the second day after Ermengarde and her father had gone to Glendower, that Marjorie, who had been playing with the nursery children, and dragging the big baby about, and otherwise disporting herself after the fashion which usually induces great fatigue, crept slowly upstairs to her room.

She was really awfully tired, for the day had been a hot one, and nurse had a headache, and Clara, the nursery-maid, was away on a holiday. So Marjorie had scarcely breathing time all day long. Now she was going to bed, and the poor little girl looked rather limp and abject as she crept along the passage to her room.

"I do hope Ermie is having a jolly time," she murmured to herself. "I can just fancy how delicious it is at Glendower now. It is such a beautiful, perfect place, just hanging over the sea. And there's going to be a moon. And the moon will shine on the sea, and make it silver."

Marjorie reached her room. She climbed up on the window-ledge and gazed out.

"Yes, the moon is getting up," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, which was one of her old-fashioned ways. "Oh, how beautiful the moon must look on the sea. I wonder if Ermie is looking at it. Not that poor Ermie cares for moons, or things of that sort; but Lilias does. Who's that? O Basil, is it you? Have you come to talk to me? How awfully jolly! There's lots of room for both of us on the window-ledge. Squeeze in, Basil; there, aren't we snug? Please, may I put my arm round your neck to keep myself tight?"

"All right, Mag. Only don't quite throttle me if you can help it. I thought you had some one with you. I heard you chattering."

"Only to myself. It's a way I have."

"Well, go on, never mind me; I'm nobody."

"Oh, aren't you, just! Why, you are Basil, you're the eldest of us all and the wisest, and the best."

"Hush, Maggie."

Basil's brow was actually contracted with pain.

"Yes, you are," repeated Marjorie, who saw the look, and began to feel her little heart waxing very hot. "O Basil, I meant to spend all to-day and yesterday clearing you; yes, I did, darling, I did! And I never thought, when it was made to be my plain duty to stay at home, that I was only to help in the nursery all day long. O Basil, I am so sorry."

"I don't know what you mean, Maggie, by clearing me," said Basil. "Clearing me of what?"

"Why, of course, you have been unjustly accused by father."

"Stop, Maggie. I have not been unjustly accused by anyone."

"Basil, you know you didn't break the little sister's miniature, nor steal it from Miss Nelson. You know you never did!"

Basil put his arm round Marjorie's waist.

"You think not?" he said with a slow, rather glad sort of smile.

"Think not? I know you didn't do it! You do anything mean and horrid and wicked and shabby like that! You? Look here, Basil, even if you told me you did it, I wouldn't believe you."

"All right, Mag; then I needn't say anything."

"Only you might just tell me——"

"What?"

"That you didn't do it. That you are shamefully and falsely suspected."

"No, I could not tell you that, Maggie. My father has every right to be annoyed with me."

"Basil!"

"I can't explain, my dear little Mag. You must just take it on trust with me. I am not falsely accused of anything."

Marjorie unlinked her hand from Basil's clasp. She sprang off the window-ledge on to the floor.

"Look here," she said, "I can't stand this! There's a mystery, and I'm going to clear you. Oh, yes, I will; I am determined!"

"No, Maggie, you are not to clear me. I don't wish to be cleared."

"Basil, what do you mean?"

"What I say. I don't wish to be cleared."

"Then father is to go on being angry with you?"

Basil suppressed a quick sigh.

"I'm afraid he will, for a bit, Maggie," he answered. "He'll get over it; I'm not the first fellow who has had to live a thing down."

"But when you never did the thing?"

"We won't go into that. I've got to live it down. Boys often have rough kinds of things to get through, and this is one. It doesn't matter a bit. Don't fret, Mag. I assure you, I don't feel at all bad about it."

"Oh, look at the moon!" suddenly exclaimed Marjorie. "Isn't she a lady? isn't she graceful? I wish those trees wouldn't hide her; she'd be so lovely, if we could have a good look at her."

"We can't half see her here," said Basil. "Let's come into father's room. We'll have a splendid view from one of his windows."

Marjorie had forgotten all about her fatigue now. She took Basil's hand, and in a silent ecstasy which was part of her emotional little nature, went with him into the big bedroom where Mr. Wilton slept. They could see splendidly all over the park from here, and as they looked, Marjorie poured out a good lot of her fervent little soul to her favorite brother.

Basil was never a boy to say much about his feelings. Once he stooped down and kissed Marjorie.

"What a romantic little puss you are," he said. Then he told her she must be sleepy, and sent her away to bed.

"But you won't stay in this great lonely room by yourself, Basil."

"This room lonely?" said Basil with a smile. "I used to sit here with mother. And her picture hangs there. I'm glad of the chance of having a good look at it in the moonlight."

"Basil, do let me stay and look at it with you."

"No, Maggie. I don't want to be unkind. You are a dear little thing, but it would help me best to be alone with mother's picture. You don't misunderstand me, Mag?"

"Of course I don't. Good-night, dear Basil; good-night, darling. This talk with you has been as good as two or three days at Glendower."

Marjorie ran off, and Basil was alone. He went and knelt down under the girlish picture of his dead mother. The moonbeams were shining full into the room, and they touched his dark head, and lit up his young mother's fair face. Basil said no words aloud. He knelt quietly for a moment; then he rose, and with tears in his eyes gave another long look at the picture as he turned to leave the room.



CHAPTER XXI.

SUSY'S FEVERISH DESIRE.

Hudson was waiting for Marjorie when she came back to her bedroom.

"I don't know what to do, miss," she said to the little girl. "I'm aware it's Mr. Wilton's orders, but still, what am I to do with the poor woman? She's crying fit to break her heart, and it do seem cruel not to sympathize with her. It's a shame to worry you, Miss Maggie, but you're a very understanding little lady for your years."

"Well, Hudson, I'll help if I can," said Marjorie. "Who's the poor woman? and what is she crying about?"

"It's Mrs. Collins, my dear. It seems that Susy isn't going on at all satisfactory. The doctor says she has a kind of low fever, no way catching, but very bad for the poor little girl. Susy cries quite piteous to see Miss Ermengarde, and it does seem cruel that under the circumstances there should be distinctions in rank."

"But Ermie is away," said Marjorie. "Susy can't see her, however much she wishes to. Did you tell Mrs. Collins that?"

"I did, dear, and she said she daren't go back to the poor child with a message of that sort; that she was so fretted, and contrary, and feverish as it was, that she quite feared what would happen."

"But what's to be done, Hudson? Ermie really is far away, and nothing, nothing that we can do can bring her back to-night."

"I know, Miss Maggie, but poor women with only children are apt to be unreasonable, and Mrs. Collins does go on most bitter. She says she knows there's a secret on Susy's mind, and she feels certain sure that the child will never take a turn for the better until she can let out what's preying on her. Mrs. Collins is certain that Miss Ermengarde knows something about Susy, and that they have had some words between them, and she says there'll be no rest for the poor little creature until she and Miss Ermie have made whatever is wrong straight."

Marjorie stood looking very thoughtful.

"It's late, my dear, and you're tired," said the servant. "It seems a shame to worry you. Hadn't you better go to bed?"

"Oh, don't, Hudson," said Marjorie. "What does it matter about my going to bed, or even if I am a bit tired? I'm thinking about poor Susy, and about Ermie. I've got a thought—I wonder—Hudson, I wish father hadn't said so firmly that Ermengarde was not to see Susy Collins."

"Well, missy, my master is in the right. Little ladies do themselves no good when they make friends and equals of children like Susy. They do themselves no good, and they do still more harm to the poor children, whose heads get filled up with vain thoughts. But that's neither here nor there, Miss Maggie, in the present case. Illness alters everything, and levels all ranks, and if Miss Ermengarde was at home, she ought to go and see Susy, and that without a minute's delay, and your good father would be the very first to tell her so, Miss Maggie."

"Then I know what I'll do," said Marjorie. "I'll go straight away this minute to Miss Nelson, and ask her if I may go and see Susy. I dare say she'll let me—I'll try what I can do, anyhow. You run down and tell Mrs. Collins, Hudson. I'm not Ermie, but I dare say Susy would rather see me than no one."

Miss Nelson was writing letters in her own room, when Marjorie with a flushed eager face burst in upon her. She made her request with great earnestness. Miss Nelson listened anxiously.

"I will see Mrs. Collins," she said at last. The poor woman was brought up to the governess's room, and at sight of her evident grief Miss Nelson at once saw that she must act on her own independent judgment, and explain matters by and by to Mr. Wilton.

"Ermengarde is away," she said to Mrs. Collins, "but if the case is really serious, she can be sent for, and in the meantime I will take Marjorie myself to the cottage, and if your little girl wishes to see her, she can do so. Fetch your hat, Marjorie, dear, and a warm wrap, for the dews are heavy to-night."

Marjorie was not long in getting herself ready, and twenty minutes later the poor anxious mother and her two visitors found themselves in the cottage.

"Look here, Mrs. Collins," said Marjorie, the moment they entered the house. "I want you not to tell Susy I have come. I'd like to slip upstairs very gently, and just see if I can do anything for her. I'll promise to be awfully quiet, and not to do her a scrap of harm."

Mrs. Collins hesitated for a moment. Marjorie was not the Miss Wilton Susy was asking for, and she feared exciting the poor refractory little girl by not carrying out her wishes exactly. But as Susy's tired feverish voice was distinctly heard in the upper room, and as Miss Nelson said, "I think you can fully trust Marjorie; she is a most tender little nurse," Mrs. Collins yielded.

"You must do as you think best, miss," she said.

Marjorie did not wait for another word. She ran lightly up the narrow stairs, and entered the room where the sick child was sitting up in bed.

"Is that you, Miss Ermie?" said Susy. "I thought you were never coming—never. I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad, and like to die."

"It's me, Susy," said Marjorie, coming forward. "Ermengarde's away, so I came."

"Oh, I don't want you, Miss Marjorie," said Susan.

She flung herself back on the bed, and taking up the sheet threw it over her face. Marjorie went up to the bedside.

"There ain't a bit of use in your staying, Miss Marjorie," continued Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. "You don't know nothing 'bout me and the picture. You ain't no good at all."

Marjorie's heart gave a great bound. The picture! That must surely mean the broken miniature. "Basil, dear Basil," whispered the little girl, "you may not have to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel suspicion after all."

"I wish you'd go away, Miss Marjorie," said Susy from under the bedclothes. "I tell you miss, you can't do me one bit of good. You don't know nothing about me and the picture."

"But I can hold your hand, Susy," said Marjorie; "and if your hand is hot, mine is lovely and cool. If you're restless, let me hold your hand. I often do so to baby if he can't sleep, and it quiets him ever so."

Susy did not respond for a minute or two, but presently her poor little hot hand was pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand, and softly rubbed the hot, dry fingers. Susy opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet, and looked at her quiet little visitor.

"You comfort me a bit, miss," she said. "I don't feel so mad with restlessness as I did when you came in."

"That's because I have got soothing hands," said Marjorie. "Some people have, and I suppose I'm one. The children at home always go to sleep when I hold their hands. Don't you think you could shut your eyes and try to go to sleep now, Susy?"

"Oh, miss, there's a weight on my mind. You can't sleep when you're ill and like to die, and there's a weight pressing down on you."

"I don't believe you'll die, Susy; and if you've a weight on your mind, you can tell God about it, you know."

"No, miss, God's awful angry with me."

"He's never angry with us, if we are sorry about things," answered Marjorie. "He's our Father, and fathers always forgive their children when they are sorry. If you are sorry, Susy, you can tell God, your Father, and he'll be sure to forgive you at once."

"I'm sorry enough, miss, but I think Miss Ermie is as bad as me. I'd never have done it, never, but for Miss Ermie. I think it's mean of her to keep away from me when I'm ill."

"Ermengarde is not at home, Susy; but if you want her very badly, if you really want her for anything important, I will write to her, and she shall come home—I know she will."

"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; I didn't think nothing at all about what I did when I was well, but now it seems to stay with me day and night, and I'm sorry I was so spiteful and mean to Miss Nelson. But it wasn't my fault, miss—no, that it wasn't—that the picture was broke. What is it, Miss Marjorie? How you start."

"Nothing," said Marjorie; "only perhaps, Susy, you'd rather tell Ermie the rest; and she shall come back; I promise you that that she shall come back."

"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; you are real good, and you comfort me wonderfully when you hold my hands."

"Well, I wish you'd let me put your sheets a little straight; there, that's better. Now I'm going to turn your pillow. And Susy, do let me push all that tangled hair out of your eyes. Now I'm going to kneel here, and you must shut your eyes. I promise you shall see Ermie. Good-night, Susy; go to sleep."

Miss Nelson waited quietly in the little kitchen downstairs. The voices in Susy's sickroom ceased to murmur; presently Mrs. Collins stole softly upstairs. She returned in a few minutes accompanied by Marjorie. There were tears in the poor woman's eyes.

"My Susy's in a blessed, beautiful sleep!" she exclaimed. "And it's all owing to this dear little lady; may Heaven reward her! I don't know how to thank you, Miss Marjorie. Susy hasn't been in a blessed healthful sleep like that since she broke her leg. It puts heart into me to see the child looking quiet and peaceful once again. And now I'll go upstairs and sit with her."

Miss Nelson and Marjorie walked quickly home together. When they reached the house, the little girl made one request of her governess.

"I want to write to Ermie. May I do it to-night?"

"No, my love, I must forbid that. You are much too tired."

"But it is so important—far more important than I can tell you, and I promised Susy."

"Maggie, do you want Ermengarde to come home?"

"Oh, yes; she must come home."

"Then you shall send her a telegram in the morning."

"But that seems cruel. My letter will be far, far better. I could explain things a little in a letter."

Miss Nelson considered for a moment.

"I have great trust in you, Maggie," she said. "I won't question you, for I daresay you have heard something from Susan Collins in confidence. I am sure you would not wish to recall Ermengarde unless there was great need."

"There is; oh, really, there is."

"Then you shall go to bed now, and I will send you to Glendower with Hudson by the first train in the morning."



CHAPTER XXII.

QUITE IN A NEW CHARACTER.

The day was lovely, and Ermengarde woke once more in the best of spirits. Notwithstanding her unhappy day, she had enjoyed herself much the night before. She had worn Lilias's simple white dress, and Marjorie's Maltese cross with its narrow gold chain had given to her appearance just that finish which best suited her youth.

Ermengarde had looked remarkably pretty, and many people had noticed the fact, and one or two of Mr. Wilton's gentlemen friends had congratulated him in quite audible tones on having such a charming and lovely little daughter. Ermengarde had herself heard these words, and had seen a glow, half of sadness half of pleasure, light up her father's dark eyes, and her own heart had swelled within her. She began to know the difference between real praise and flattery. She thought how fascinating it would all be when she was really grown up, and dull lessons were over, and Miss Nelson was no longer of the slightest consequence, when she could dress as she pleased, and do as she liked.

In the agreeable feelings which these thoughts gave her, she forgot about Basil's displeasure. She ceased to remember that the dearest friendship of her life was in danger of being broken, was so jeopardized that it was scarcely likely that the severed threads could ever be reunited with their old strength. Ermengarde was away from all unpleasant things, her fears about Flora were completely removed, and it was in her selfish and pleasure-loving nature to shut herself away from the memory of what worried her, and to enter fully into the delights of her present life. She rose gayly, and no one could have been merrier than she when she joined Lilias at the breakfast-table. The two girls had this meal again alone in Lilias Russell's pretty boudoir.

"Shall we ride, or go out in the yacht?" said Lilias to her companion. "I heard father making all arrangements for a sail last night, and I know he'll take us if we ask him. Which would you like best, Ermie? If you are a sailor, I can promise you a good jolly time on board the Albatross. I was so sorry you were not with us yesterday."

"Oh, I am a capital sailor," said Ermengarde. "We were at the Isle of Wight last year, and Basil and I sailed nearly every day. Maggie used to get sick, but we never did."

"There's just a lovely breeze getting up to-day," said Lilias. "I'm so glad you like sailing, Ermie, for I know we shall just have a perfect time. If you'll stay here for a few minutes, I'll run and ask father if he will take us with them."

Lilias stepped out through the open window, and Ermengarde leant against a trellised pillar in the veranda, and looked out over the peaceful summer scene, her pretty eyes full of a dreamy content. She was so happy at the thought that Flora was really gone that she felt very good and amiable; she liked herself all the better for having such nice, comfortable, kindly thoughts about everyone. Even Eric could scarcely have extracted a sharp retort from her at this moment.

Lilias came flying back. "It's all right!" she exclaimed. "The Albatross sails in an hour, and we are to meet father and Mr. Wilton, and the other gentlemen who are going to sail, on the quay at half-past eleven. I shall wear my white serge boating-costume. Have you anything pretty to put on, Ermie?"

"Nothing as nice as that," said Ermengarde with a jealous look. "There's my dark blue serge, but it will look dowdy beside your white."

"I have two white serge boating-dresses," said Lilias. "I will lend you one if you will let me. Our figures are almost exactly alike, and we are the same height. My dress had scarcely to be altered at all for you last night. Come, Ermie, don't look so solemn. You shall look charming, I promise, and I will make you up such a posy to wear in your button-hole. Now, shall we stroll about, or just sit here and be lazy?"