When now more than three-fourths of the lawn ground was passed, one of Dolly's side glances, intended to catch the beauty of the trees on the lawn in their evening illumination, revealed to her a disagreeable fact—that, namely, she was looked upon as an intruder by some of the cattle; and that in especial a young bull was regarding her with serious and ominous bearing and even advancing slowly towards her from the group of his companions. It seemed to Dolly not desirable to stand the question, and she set off to run; which proceeding, of course, confirmed the young bull's suspicions, whatever they were, and he followed on a run also. Dolly became aware of this, and now, with all the strength of muscle that remained to her, fled towards the house; no longer seeing its Gothic mouldings and picturesque lights and shadows, only trying very hard to get near. She thought perhaps the creature would be shy of the immediate neighbourhood of the house, and not choose to follow her so far. But just as she reached that desirable vicinity she longed for, she was met by another danger, coming from the quarter from whence she sought safety. An enormous staghound dashed out from his covert somewhere, with an utterance from his deep throat which sounded sufficiently awful to Dolly, an angry or a warning bay, and came springing towards her. Dolly stood still dismayed and uncertain, the dog before and the bull behind; then, even before the former could reach her, a voice was heard calling him off and directing him to the advancing bull. In another minute or two a woman had come over the grass and stood at Dolly's side. Dolly was on her feet no longer; with the first breath of respite she had sunk down on the grass; nerves and muscles all trembling with the exertion and with the fright.

The woman came up with a business air; then as she stood beside Dolly her look changed. This was no common intruder, she saw; this delicate-featured girl; and her dress too, simple as it was, was the dress of a lady. Dolly on her part looked up to a face not delicate-featured; far from it; solid and strong built as was the person to which it belonged; sense and capacity and kindliness, however, were legible even at that first glance.

"You've been rather badly frightened, ma'am, I'm afraid," she said, in a voice which precisely matched the face; strong and somewhat harsh, but kindly in accent.

"Very," said Dolly, whose face began to dimple now. "I am so much obliged to you!"

"Not in the vary least, ma'am. But you are worried with the fright, I fear?"

"No; I'll get up," said Dolly; "I'm only tired. I believe I'm a little weak too. I haven't quite got over trembling, I find."

"You haven't your colour yet again, ma'am. Would you come into my room and rest a bit?"

"Oh, thank you. You are very kind!" said Dolly with sincere delight at this proposition. For now she was upon her feet she felt that her knees trembled under her, and her footsteps were unsteady as she followed the woman over the grass. They went towards a small door in the long line of the building, the staghound coming back from his chase and attending them gravely. The woman opened the door, led Dolly through a passage or two, and ushered her into a cosy little sitting-room, neat as wax, nicely though plainly furnished. Here she begged Dolly to rest herself on the sofa; and while Dolly did so she stood considering her with a kindly, anxious face.

"I'm all right now," said Dolly, smiling.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but you're growing paler every minute. If you'll allow me, ma'am, I will fetch you a glass of wine."

"Wine? Oh, no," said Dolly. "I don't want any wine. I do not drink wine. I am just tired. If you'll let me rest here a few minutes"——

"Lie still, ma'am, and don't talk."

She left the room, and Dolly lay still, with shut eyes, feeling very much exhausted. It was inexpressibly good to be under shelter and on her back; how she was to get home she could not yet consider. Before that question fairly came up, her entertainer was back again; but Dolly kept her eyes shut. If she opened them, perhaps she would have to talk; and she wanted nothing on earth at that moment but to be still.

After a little interval, however, she heard the door open and a second person enter; and curiosity brought her eyes open then. The second person was a maid-servant with a tray. The tray was set upon a table, and Dolly heard the other woman say—

"You'll bring the tea, Kitty, when I ring."

Dolly took this as a signal that she must go; of course she was in the way; yet rest felt so very comfortable, that for a moment she still lay where she was; and lying there, she gave her hostess a more critical examination than she had hitherto bestowed on her. Who could she be? She was very well, that is very respectably, dressed; her manner and bearing were those of a person in authority; she was at home; but with gentle or noble blood she could have no connection unless one of service. Her features and her manner proved that. Nevertheless, both her face and bearing had a certain attraction for Dolly; a certain quiet and poise, an expression of acute intelligence and efficient activity, flavoured with good will, which was all very pleasant to see. Evidently she was not a person to be imposed upon. Dolly raised herself up at last to a sitting posture, preparatory to going.

"Are you recovered enough to be up, ma'am?" her hostess asked, standing still to survey her in her turn. "I'm afraid not."

"Oh, thank you, yes; I must go home. And I must ask you kindly to direct me; for I do not in the least know the way."

"Have you come far, ma'am? I couldn't make out by what direction it was or could have been; for when I saw you first, you seemed to be coming right from the middle of the lawn."

"Not quite that; but a little one side of the middle I did cross the lawn."

"I do not know, ma'am, anybody that lives in that direction, nor any village."

"Brierley Cottage? You know Brierley Cottage?"

"I ask your pardon, ma'am; I thought that was standing empty for months."

"It was, I suppose. We have just moved in. My mother wants country air, and Mr. St. Leger has let us the cottage. My mother and I are living there, and we came only a day or two ago. I wanted to see the beautiful ground and trees on this side the brook, and came over the bridge. I did not mean to have come so far; I had no notion of seeing the house or getting near it; but everything was so beautiful, I was drawn on from one point to another, till I found myself at the edge of the lawn. And then I saw the cattle, but I never thought of them."

"Why, ma'am," said the woman, looking surprised, "you must have walked a good bit. You must have come all through the plantations."

"I should not have minded the walk so much, if I had not had the fright at the end of it. But now the thing is, to get home. Can you tell me which way? for I am completely out of my reckoning."

"You will take a cup of tea first, ma'am," said the woman, ringing the bell. "I had it made on purpose for you. I am sure you'll be the better for it. I am the housekeeper here, ma'am, and my name is Jersey."

"The housekeeper?" said Dolly. "I thought the family were abroad."

"So they are, ma'am; and to be sure that makes me less to do; but enough still to take care of the place. Put the table up by the sofa, Kitty."

The girl had brought in the tea-pot, and Dolly saw some magnificent strawberries on the board. The table was shoved up, a cup of tea poured out, and Mrs. Jersey cut bread and butter.

"How kind you are!" Dolly cried. "You are taking a great deal of trouble for me; a stranger."

"Is it for somebody that loves my Master?" said Mrs. Jersey, looking at her with keen eyes.

Dolly's face dimpled all up at this, which would have completed her conquest of Mrs. Jersey's heart, if there had been by this time any ground in that region not already subjected.

"Your Master?" she said. "You mean—?"

"Yes, ma'am, I mean that. My Master is the Lord Jesus Christ; no other. One cannot have two masters; and I serve Lord Brierley only under Him."

"And what made you think—how did you know—that I am His servant too?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said the housekeeper, smiling. "I guessed it when I saw you sitting on the grass there. It seems to me, if the Lord don't just yet write His name in their foreheads, He does put a letter or two of it there, so one can tell."

"I am very glad to find I have a friend in the neighbourhood," said Dolly. "I am Dolly Copley; my father is American Consul at London, and a friend of Mr. St. Leger."

"I know Mr. St. Leger, ma'am; by name, that is."

By this time Dolly's tea was poured out. The housekeeper served her, and watched her as she drank it and eat her strawberries, both of which were refreshing to Dolly.

"I think, ma'am, if you'll allow me to say it, you should not try your strength with quite such long walks."

"I did not mean it. I was drawn on; and when I got a sight of the house from the other side of the lawn, I wanted to look at it nearer. I had no notion the distance was so much."

"Ay, ma'am, it's a good bit across the lawn. Perhaps you would like to come another day and see the house inside. I would show it to you with pleasure."

"Oh, may I?" said Dolly. "I should like it; oh, very much! But you are extremely kind, Mrs. Jersey!"

"It is only what I do for a great many indifferent people, ma'am. I would think it a privilege to do it for you. My lord and lady being away, I have plenty of time on my hands."

"I wonder anybody can stay away from so beautiful a home."

"They have no choice, ma'am; at least so the doctors say. Lady Brierley is delicate, and the air of England does not agree with her."

"And she must be banished from her own home!" said Dolly, looking out into the lovely landscape visible from the window. "How sad that is!"

"There's only one home one can always keep, ma'am," said the housekeeper, watching her.

"Heaven, you mean?"

"We are not in heaven yet. I meant what David says, 'Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations.'"

"I am not sure I understand it."

"Only love does understand it, ma'am."

"How do you mean, please?"

"Ma'am, it is only love that can live in the life of another; and when that other is God, one lives in a secure and wealthy abode. And then it does not much matter where one's body is. At least, so I find it."

Dolly looked very thoughtful for a minute; then she rose up.

"I am coming again," she said; "I am coming very soon, Mrs. Jersey. Now, will you tell me how I can get home? I must be as quick as I can."

"That is provided for, ma'am," said Mrs. Jersey. "It's a longish way round by the road, farther than even you came this afternoon; and you're not fit for it; far from it, I should say. I have ordered the dog-cart to take you home; and it's ready."

"How could you be so kind to a stranger?" said Dolly, giving her hand. But the housekeeper smiled.

"You're no stranger to me, ma'am," she said, clasping the hand Dolly had given. "It is true I never saw you before; but whenever I see one of my Lord's children, I say to myself, 'Jersey, there is another of the family, and the Lord expects you to do what you can for him, or for her, as the case may be.'"

Dolly laughed and ran away. The adventure was taking beautiful shape. Here she was to have a charming drive home, to end the day; a drive through the pretty country lanes. And they were charming in the evening light. And the dog-cart did not bring her to Brierley Cottage a bit too soon; for Mrs. Copley was already fidgeting about her.



CHAPTER XII.

THE HOUSE.

Dolly did not tell all her experiences of that afternoon. She told only so much as might serve to quiet and amuse her mother; for Mrs. Copley took all occasions of trouble that came in her way, and invented a few more. Mrs. Jersey had sent along in the dog-cart a basket of strawberries for the sick lady; so Dolly hoped her mother's impressions of this day at least would be favourable.

"Did you ever see such magnificent berries, mother? black and red?"

"Why haven't we berries in our garden?" Mrs. Copley returned.

"Mother, you know the garden has not been kept up; nobody has been living here lately."

"Then why did not your father get some other house, where the garden had been kept up, and we could have our own fruit and vegetables? I think, to be in the country and not have one's own garden and fresh things, is forlorn."

"There is one thing, mother; there are plenty of markets in this country."

"And plenty of high prices for everything in them. Yes, if you have no end to your purse, you can buy things, certainly. But to look at what is around us here, one would think your father didn't mean us to have much of anything!"

"Mother, he means you to have all you want. We thought you just wanted country air."

"And nothing to eat?"

"We are not starving yet," said Dolly, smiling, and arranging the strawberries.

"These are a gift. A gift I shouldn't think your father would like to take, or have us take, which comes to the same thing. We used to have enough for ourselves and our neighbours too, once, when we were at home, in America. We are nobody here."

"We are just ourselves, mother; what we always were. It does not make much difference what people think of us."

"Not much difference," cried Mrs. Copley, "about what people think of you! And then, what is to become of you, I should like to know? Nobody seeing you, and no chance for anything! I wonder if your father means you never to be married?"

"You do not want me married, mother; and not to an Englishman, anyhow."

"Why not? And how are you going to marry anybody else, out here? Can you tell me? But, O Dolly! I am tormented to death!"

"Don't, dear mother. That is what makes you ill. What is the matter? What troubles you?"

Mrs. Copley did not answer at once.

"You are as sweet as a honeysuckle," she said. "And to think that nobody should see you!"

Dolly's dimples came out here strong.

"Are you tormented to death about that?"

Another pause came, and Mrs. Copley finally left the table with the air of one who is thinking what she will not speak. She went to the honeysuckle porch and sat down, resting her head in her hand and surveying the landscape. Twilight was falling over it now, soft and dewy.

"I don't see a sign of anything human, anywhere," she remarked. "Is it because it is so dark?"

"No, mother; there are no houses in sight."

"Nor from the back windows?"

"No, mother."

"Where is the village you talk about?"

"Half a mile away; the woods and rising ground of Brierley Park hide it from us."

"And in this wilderness your father expects me to get well!"

"Why, I think it is charming!" Dolly cried. "My drive home to-night was perfectly lovely, mother."

"I didn't have it."

"No, of course; but the country is exceedingly pretty."

"I can't make your father out."

Dolly was hushed here. She was at a loss likewise on this point.

"He acts just as if he had lost his money."

Dolly did not know what to say. She had had the same impression. To her inexperience, this did not seem the first of evils; but she guessed it would wear another face to her mother.

"And if he has," Mrs. Copley went on, "I am sure I wish we were at home. England is no sort of a place for poor folks."

"Why should you think he has, mother?"

"I don't think he has," Mrs. Copley flamed out. "But if he hasn't, I think he has lost his wits."

"That would be worse," said Dolly, smiling, though she felt anything but merry.

"I don't know about that. Nobody'll ask about your wits, if you've got money; and if you haven't, Dolly, nobody'll care what else you have."

"Mother, I think it is good to have one's treasure where one cannot lose it."

"I thought I had that when I married your father," said Mrs. Copley, beginning to cry. This was a very strange thing to Dolly and very terrible. Her mother's nerves, if irritable, had always been wont to show themselves of the soundest. Dolly saw it was not all nerves; that she was troubled by some unspoken cause of anxiety; and she herself underwent nameless pangs of fear at this corroboration of her own doubts, while she was soothing and caressing and arguing her mother into confidence again. The success was only partial, and both of them carried careful hearts to bed.

A day or two more passed without any variation in the state of things; except that old Peters the gardener made his appearance, and began to reduce the wilderness outside to some order. Dolly spent a good deal of time in the garden with him; tying up rose trees, taking counsel, even pulling up weeds and setting plants. That was outside refreshment; within, things were unchanged. Mr. Copley wrote that he would run down Saturday, or, if he could not, he would send Lawrence. "Why shouldn't he come himself?" said Mrs. Copley; and, Why should he send Lawrence? thought Dolly. She liked it better without him. She was pleasing herself in her garden; finding little ways of activity that delighted her in and out of the house; getting wonted; and she did not care for the constraint of anybody's presence who must be treated as company. One thing she determined upon, however; Lawrence should not make the next visit with her at Brierley House; and to prevent it, she would go at once by herself.

She went that afternoon, and by an easier way of approach to the place. Mrs. Jersey was very glad to see her, and as soon as Dolly was rested a little, entered upon the fulfilment of her promise to show the house. Accordingly she took her visitor round to the principal entrance, in another side of the building from the one Dolly had first seen. Here, before she would go in, she stood to admire and wonder at the rich and noble effect; the beauty of turrets, oriels, mouldings, and arched windows, the wide and lofty pile which stretched away on two sides in such lordly lines. Mrs. Jersey told her who was the first builder; who had made this and that extension and addition; and then they went in. And the first impression here was a contrast.

The place was a great hall of grand proportions. There was nothing splendid here to be seen; neither furniture nor workmanship called for admiration, unless by their simplicity. There were some old paintings on the walls; there were some fine stags' horns, very large and very old; there were some heavy oaken settles and big chairs, on which the family arms were painted; the arms of the first builder; and there were also, what looked very odd to Dolly, a number of leather fire buckets, painted in like manner. Yet simple as the room was, it had a great charm for her. It was lofty, calm, imposing, superb. She was not ready soon to quit it; and Mrs. Jersey, of course, was willing to indulge her.

"It is so unlike anything at home!" Dolly exclaimed.

"That's in America?" said the housekeeper. "Have you no old houses like this there, ma'am?"

"Why, we are not old ourselves," said Dolly. "When this house was first begun to be built, our country was full of red Indians."

"Is it possible! And are there Indians there yet, ma'am?"

"No. Oh, yes, in the country, there are; but they are driven far off,—to the west—what there are of them.—This is very beautiful!"

"I never heard anybody call this old hall beautiful before," said the housekeeper, smiling.

"It is so large, and high, and so simple; and these old time things make it so respectable," said Dolly.

"Respectable! yes, ma'am, it is that. Shall we go on and see something better?"

But her young visitor had fallen to studying the ceiling, which had curious carvings and panellings, and paintings which once had been bright. There was such a flavour of past ages in the place, that Dolly's fancy was all alive and excited. Mrs. Jersey waited, watching her, smiling in a satisfied manner; and then, after a while, when Dolly would let her, she opened the door into another apartment. A great door of carved oak it was, through which Dolly went expectantly, and then stood still with a little cry. The first thing she saw was the great windows, down to the floor, all along one side of a large room, through which a view was given into the park landscape. The grand trees, the beautiful green turf, the sunlight and shadow, caught her eye for a minute; and then it came back to the view within the windows. Opposite this row of windows was an enormous marble chimney-piece; the family arms, which Dolly was getting to know, blazoned upon it in brilliant colours. Right and left of the fireplace hung old family portraits. But when Dolly turned next to give a look at the side of the hall from which she had entered, she found that the whole wall was of a piece with the great carved door; it was filled with carvings, figures in high relief, very richly executed. For a long while Dolly studied these figures. Mrs. Jersey could give her little help in understanding them, but having, as she fancied, got hold of a clue, Dolly pursued it; admiring the life and expression in the figures, and the richly-carved accessories. The whole hall was a study to her. On the further side went up the staircases leading to the next story. Between them opened the entrance into the dining-hall.

Further than these three halls, Mrs. Jersey almost despaired of getting Dolly that day. In the dining-hall was a portrait of Queen Elizabeth; and before it Dolly sat down, and studied it.

"Did she look like that?" she said finally.

"Surely, she must," said the housekeeper. "The picture is thought a deal of. It was painted by a famous painter, I've been told."

"She was very ugly, then!" said Dolly.

"Handsome is that handsome does," said the housekeeper, smiling; "and, to be sure, I never could make out that Her Majesty was altogether handsome in her doings; though perhaps that's the fault of my stupidity."

"She looks cold," said Dolly; "she looks cruel."

"I'm afraid, by all I have read of her, she was a little of both."

"And how she is dressed!—Who is that, the next to her?"

"Mary Stuart; Mary, Queen of Scotland; this lady's rival."

"Rival?" said Dolly. "No, I do not think she was; only Elizabeth chose to think her so. How lovely, how lovely!"

"Yes, and by all accounts the portrait tells truth. They say, so she was to be sure."

"She looks so innocent, so sweet," said Dolly, fixed before the two pictures.

"Do you think she wasn't?"

"One cannot feel quite comfortable about her. The story is ugly, Mrs. Jersey. But how a woman with that face could do anything fearfully wicked, it is hard to imagine. Poor thing!"

"You are very kind, I am sure, to a person of whom you hold such a bad opinion," said the housekeeper, amused.

"I am sorry for them both," said Dolly. "Life wasn't much good to either of them, I should think."

"Queen Elizabeth had power," said Mrs. Jersey; "and Queen Mary had admiration, I understand."

"Yes, but Elizabeth wanted the admiration, and Mary Stuart wanted the power," said Dolly. "Neither of them got what she wanted."

"Few people do in this world, my young lady."

"Do you think so?"

"Young people generally think they will," said the housekeeper;—"and old people know better."

"But why should that be?"

"Does Miss Dolly Copley know already what she wants?" the housekeeper asked.

"No," said Dolly, laughing out; "not at all. I do not know what I want. I do not think I want anything in particular, Mrs. Jersey."

"Keep so, my dear; that is best."

"Why? Because I should be so sure to be disappointed?"

"You might. But it is safe to let God choose for us, Miss Copley; and as soon as we begin to plan, we begin to work for our plans, generally; and if our plan is not His plan,—that makes trouble, you see, and confusion."

"Of course," said Dolly thoughtfully. "Yet it seems to me it would be pleasant to have some particular object that one was striving after. The days go by, one after another, one like another, and seem to accomplish nothing. I should like to have some purpose, some end in life, to be striving for and attaining."

"A servant of Christ need never want that," said the housekeeper.

"I have not anything in special to do," said Dolly, looking at her.

"Every servant has something special to do," the other answered.

"I have to take care of mother. But that is not work; it is not work for Christ, at least, Mrs. Jersey."

"Dear, it may be. Everything you do, you may do for Him; for He has given it to you to do for Him. That is, unless it is something you are choosing for yourself."

Dolly pondered.

"And if there be nothing ready to hand that you call work, there is always preparation for work to be done," Mrs. Jersey went on.

"What sort?"

"The knowledge of the Bible,—and the knowledge of Christ, to seek and win. That surely."

"The knowledge of the Bible? Mrs. Jersey, I know the Bible pretty well."

"And Christ also?"

Dolly mused again, with a very grave face.

"I do not quite know what you mean."

"Then, there is something to be gained yet."

"But,—of course I know what the Bible says about Him."

"That is one sort of knowledge," said the housekeeper; "but it is not the knowledge of Him."

"What then?"

"Only knowing about Him, dear."

"What more can we have?"

"Just Himself, Miss Copley; and till you have that, dear, you don't rightly know what the Bible means."

"I don't think I quite understand you."

"Suppose I told you all I could about my Lady Brierley; would that make you know her as I know her?"

"No, certainly; it would not make me really know her at all."

"That is what I was thinking."

"But for that there must be sight, and intercourse, and the power of understanding."

"All that," said Mrs. Jersey, smiling; "and the more of that power you speak of, the more and the nearer knowledge there will be."

"But in the case you are speaking of, the knowledge of Christ, sight is not possible."

"No, not sight with the bodily eyes. It is not; and if it were, it mightn't do. Did all the people know the Lord that saw Him with the bodily eyes? 'Ye have neither known My Father nor Me,' He said to the Jews. 'Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me, Philip?'"

"You are setting me a regular puzzle, Mrs. Jersey."

"I hope not, my dear. I do not mean it; and it is the last thing I wish."

"But without sight, how is such knowledge to be gained?"

"Do you remember, Miss Copley, it is written,—'The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him.' And Jesus promised to him that loves Him and keeps His commandments, 'I will manifest Myself to him.' Doubtless we must seek the fulfilment of the promise too."

"How?"

"The same way as with other things. We must ask, and expect, and use the means. And no doubt one must be single-eyed and true-hearted. But dear, there is no knowledge like that, once get it; and no friend to be had, that can equal the Lord Jesus Christ."

Dolly sat still and pondered, gazing at the two portraits.

"It is very hard to think that this world is nothing!" she said at last. "To most people it seems everything. Just look at those two faces! How they struggled and fought; and how little good their life was to them, after all."

"Ay, and folks can struggle and fight for less things than what divided them, and lose all just the same. So the Lord said, 'He that loveth his life, shall lose it;' but He said too, 'He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it.'"

"You are talking riddles again, Mrs. Jersey," said Dolly, laughing. "I thought I was beginning to understand you; but I do not understand that."

"No, dear; and surely it is a hard saying to many. But I'll give you a key. Just you give your life to the Lord Jesus, and He will show you what the losing it means, and the gaining it, too."

"Thank you. I will," said Dolly.

They went on again after that, through more rooms of the house; but the afternoon did not serve for the whole. Dolly must return to her mother. Mrs. Jersey sent her home again in the dog-cart. The evening was very bright and fair; the hedgerows sweet with flowers; the light glittered on the foliage of trees and copsewood and shrubbery; the sky was clear and calm. Dolly tasted and rejoiced in it all; and yet in the very midst of her pleasure an echo from Mrs. Jersey's words seemed to run through everything. It did not depress; on the contrary, it excited Dolly. With all the beauty and enjoyment of this very beautiful and very enjoyable world, there was something still better to be sought and found; somewhat still more beautiful, far more enjoyable; and the correlative fact that the search and attainment were, or might be, attended with some difficulty and requiring some effort or resolution, was simply an additional stimulus. Dolly breathed the air with intense taste of it. Yes, she thought, I will seek the knowledge Mrs. Jersey spoke of. That must be better than anything else.



CHAPTER XIII.

PREACHING AND PRACTICE.

"How long you have stayed, Dolly!" was Mrs. Copley's greeting. "I don't see what is to become of me in this lonely place, if you are always trotting about. I shall die!"

Dolly took this cold-water bath upon her pleasure with her usual sweetness.

"Dear mother, I did not know I was so long away. I will not go again, if it is bad for you."

"Of course it is bad for me. It is very bad for me. It is bad for anybody. I just think and think, till I am ready to fly.—What have you been doing?"

"Looking at Brierley House. So beautiful as it is, mother!"

This made a diversion. Mrs. Copley asked and received a detailed account of all Dolly had seen.

"It don't sound as if I should like it," was her comment. "I should never have those old chairs and things sticking about."

"O mother! yes, you would; they are most beautiful, and so old-fashioned; with the arms of the barons of Coppleby carved on them."

"I shouldn't want the arms of the barons of Coppleby on the chairs in my house, if I was the Earl of Brierley."

"But they are everywhere, mother; they are cut and painted over the fireplace in the baron's hall."

"I'd cut 'em out, then, and put up my own. Fire buckets, too! How ridiculous. What ornaments for a house!"

"I like them," said Dolly.

"Oh, you like everything. But, Dolly, what does your father think is to become of us? He in London, and we here! Such a way of living!"

"But you wanted country air, mother."

"I didn't; not in this way. Air isn't everything. Did he say, if he could not come down Saturday, he would send Mr. St. Leger?"

"I do not see why he should," said Dolly gaily. "We don't want him."

"Now, what do you say that for, Dolly?"

"Just because I don't want him, mother. Do you?"

"He's a very good young man."

Dolly was silent.

"And very rich."

Dolly said nothing.

"And I am sure he is very agreeable."

Then, as her utterances still met no response, Mrs. Copley broke out. "Dolly, why don't you say something? I have nobody to talk to but you, and you don't answer me! I might as well talk to the wall."

"Mother, I would rather have father come down to see us. If the choice lies between them, I would rather have father."

Mrs. Copley leaned her head on her hand. "Dolly," she began again, "your father acts exactly as if he had lost money."

Dolly again did not answer. The repeated words gave her a very startled thrill.

"As if he had lost a good deal of money," Mrs. Copley went on. "I can't get it out of my head that he has."

"It's no use to think about it, mother," Dolly said as lightly as she could. "Don't you trouble yourself, at any rate."

"That's foolish. How can I help troubling myself? And if it was any use to think about it, to be sure I needn't be troubled. Dolly, it torments me day and night!" And tears that were bitter came into Mrs. Copley's eyes.

"It need not, dear mother. Money is not the only thing in the world; nor the best thing."

"And that's silly, too," returned her mother. "One's bread and butter may not be the best thing in the world,—I am sure this bread ain't,—but you can't live without it. What can you do without money?"

"I never tried, you know," said Dolly; "but I should think it would be possible to be happy."

"Like a child!" said her mother. "Children always think so. What's to make you happy, when the means are gone? No, Dolly; money is everything, in this world. Without it you are of no consequence, and you are at everybody's mercy; and I can tell you one thing besides;—if the women could be happy without money, the men cannot. If you don't give a man a good breakfast, he'll be cross all day; and if his dinner don't suit him, you'll hear of it for a week, and he'll go off to the club besides."

"He cannot do that without money," said Dolly, trying to laugh.

"Then he'll stay at home, and torment you. I tell you, Dolly, life ain't worth having, if you haven't got money. That is why I want you to like"—— Mrs. Copley broke off suddenly.

"I should think one might have good breakfasts and dinners even if one was poor," said Dolly. "They say French women do."

"What French women do is neither here nor there. I am talking about you and me. Look at this bread,—and see that omelette. I can tell you, nothing on earth would keep your father down here if he couldn't have something better to eat than, that."

Dolly began to ponder the possibility of learning the art of cookery.

"What puzzles me," Mrs. Copley went on, "is, how he could have lost money? But I am sure he has. I feel it in all my bones. And he is such a clever man about business too!"

Dolly tried with all her might to bring her mother off this theme. At last she succeeded; but the question lingered in her own mind and gave it a good deal to do.

After a day or two more, Mr. St. Leger came as threatened. Dolly received him alone. She was in the garden, gathering roses, at the time of his arrival. The young man came up to her, looking very glad and shy at once, while Dolly was neither the one nor the other. She was attending to the business she had in hand.

"Well, how are you?" said her visitor. "How is Mrs. Copley? Getting along, eh?"

"When's father coming down, Mr. St. Leger?"

"To-morrow. He'll come down early, he said."

"Sunday morning?" cried Dolly, and stopped, looking at the young man.

"Oh yes. He'll come down early. He couldn't get off to-night, he told me. Some business."

"What business? Anything he could not put off? What kept him, Mr. St. Leger?"

"I don't know, 'pon my honour. He'll be down in the morning, though. What's the matter? Mrs. Copley isn't worse, I hope?"

"No, I think not," said Dolly, going back to her rose-pulling, with a hand that trembled.

"May I help you? What are all these roses for? Why, you've got a lot of 'em. How do you like Brierley, Miss Dolly? It likes you. I never saw you look better. How does your mother fancy it?"

"Mother has taken a fancy to travel. She thinks she would like that better than being still in one place."

"Travel! Where to? Where does she want to go?"

"She talks of Venice. But I do not know whether father could leave his post."

"I should say he couldn't, without the post leaving him. But, I say, Miss Dolly! maybe Mrs. Copley would let me be her travelling-courier, instead. I should like that famously. Venice—and we might run down and see Rome. Hey? What do you think of it?"

Dolly answered coolly, inwardly resolving she would have no more to say about travelling before Mr. St. Leger. However, in the evening he brought up the subject himself; and Mrs. Copley and he went into it eagerly, and spent a delightful evening over plans for a possible journey; talking of routes, and settling upon stopping places. Dolly was glad to see her mother pleased and amused, even so; but herself took no sort of part in the talk. Next day Mr. Copley in truth arrived, and was joyfully received.

"Well, how do you do?" said he, after the first rejoicings were over, looking from his wife to his daughter and back again. It was the third or fourth time he had asked the question. "Pretty jolly, eh? Dolly is. You are not, my dear, seems to me."

"You are not either, it seems to me, Mr. Copley."

"I? I am well enough."

"You are not 'jolly,' father?" said Dolly, hanging upon him.

"Why not? Yes, I am. A man can't be very jolly that has anything to do in this world."

"O father! I should think, to have nothing to do would be what would hinder jolliness."

"Anything to do but enjoy, I mean. I don't mean nothing to do. But it ain't life, to live for business."

"Then, if I were you, I would play a little, Mr. Copley," said his wife.

"So I do. Here I am," said he, with what seemed to Dolly forced gaiety. "Now, how are you going to help me play?"

"We help you," said his wife. "Why didn't you come yesterday?"

"Business, my dear; as I said. These are good berries. Do they grow in the garden?"

"How should strawberries grow in a garden where nobody has been living?" said his wife. "And what is your idea of play in an out-of-the-way place like this, Mr. Copley?"

"Well—not a catechism," said he, slowly putting strawberries in his mouth one after the other. "What's the matter with the place? I thought it would just suit you. Isn't the air good?"

"Breathing isn't quite the only necessary of life," said his wife; "and you were asking about play. I think a change would be play to me."

"Well, this is a change, or I don't know the meaning of the word. You've just come, and have not examined the ground yet. Must have a good market, if this fruit is any sign."

"There is no market or anything else, except what you can find in a little village. The strawberries come from Brierley House, where Dolly goes to get her play. As for me, who cannot run about, on my feet, or anyway, I sit here and wonder when she will be back again. Are we to have no carriage here, Mr. Copley?"

"We had better find out how you like it first, seems to me. Hardly worth while, if you're not going to stay."

Mr. Copley rose and sauntered out to the porch, and Dolly looked furtively at her mother. She saw a troubled, anxious face, lines of nervous unrest; she saw that her father's coming had not brought refreshment or relief; and truly she did not perceive why it should. Dolly was wholly inexperienced, in all but the butterfly life of very happy young years; nevertheless, she could not fail to read, or at least half read, some signs of another sort of life. She noticed that her father's manner wanted its ordinary careless, confident ease; there was something forced about it; his face bore tokens of loss of sleep, and had a trait of uneasiness most unwonted in Mr. Copley. Dolly sat still a little while, and then went out and joined her father in the porch. Mr. St. Leger had come in, so that she did not leave her mother alone. Dolly came close and laid her arm round her father's neck, her fingers playing with his hair; while he fondly threw one arm about her.

"How is it, Dolly?" he asked. "Don't you like it here?"

"I do, very much. But mother finds it very quiet. I think she would like to travel, father."

"Travel! But I can't go travelling. I cannot get away from London for more than a day. Quiet! I thought she wanted quiet. I heard of nothing but her want of quiet, till I got her down here; and now she wants noise."

"Not noise, exactly, but change."

"Well, what is this but change? as I said. I do not know what would please her."

"I know what would please me," said Dolly, with her heart beating; for she was venturing on unknown ground—"A little money."

"Money!" exclaimed her father. "What in the world do you want with money down here?"

"To pay the servants, father," Dolly said low. "Margaret asked me for her month's wages, and I said I would ask you. Can you give it to me?"

"She cannot do anything with money down here either. She don't want it. Her wages are safe, tell her. I'll take care of them for her."

"But, father, if she likes to take care of them for herself, she has the right. Such people like to see their money, I suppose."

"I have yet to find the people that don't," said her father. "But, really, she'll have to wait, my child. I have not brought so much in my pocket-book with me."

This also struck Dolly as very unusual. Never in her life, that she could remember, had her father confessed before to an empty purse.

"Then, could you send it to me, father, when you go back to London?"

"Yes, I'll send it. Or better, wait till I come down again. You would not know how to manage if I sent it. And Margaret really cannot be in a hurry."

Dolly stood still, fingering the locks of her father's thick hair, while her mental thermometer went down and down. She knew by his whole manner that the money was not at hand even were he in London; and where then was it? Mr. Copley had always till now had plenty; what had happened, or what was the cause of the change? And how far had it gone? and to what point might it go? and what should she do, if she could not soon pay Margaret? and what would become of her mother, if not only her travelling projects were shattered, but also her personal and household comforts should fail her where she was? What could Dolly do, to save money? or could she in any way touch the source of the evil, and bring about an essential bettering of this new and evil state of things? She must know more first; and how should she get more knowledge?

There came a sigh to her ears here, which greatly touched her. Nevertheless, for the present she could not even show sympathy, for she dared not seem aware of the need for it. Tears came to her eyes, but she commanded them back; that would not do either.

"Suppose we take a walk, Dolly, in that jolly old wood yonder?" Mr. Copley said. "That's Brierley Park, ain't it? We might go and see the house, if you like."

"It is Sunday, father."

"Well, what then? The world is pretty much the same thing Sunday that it is other days, eh?"

"Yes, father—the world; but not the day. That is not the same as the rest."

"Why not? We cannot go to church to-day, if that is what you are thinking of. I took church-time to come down here. And if you wanted to go to church, Dolly, you couldn't have a finer temple than over yonder."

"Oh, if you'll go to church there, father, I'll go."

"To be sure I will. Get your hat."

"And my Bible?"

"Bible?" Mr. Copley looked at her. "I didn't say anything about a Bible. We are going to take a walk. You don't want a book to carry."

"How are we going to church there, then?"

"Think good thoughts, and enjoy the works of the good Creator. That's all you can do in any church, Dolly. Come, little Puritan."

Dolly did not quite know what to do; however, she got her hat, finding that her mother was willing; and she and her father went down to the bridge. There, to her dismay somewhat, they were joined by Mr. St. Leger. But not to Mr. Copley's dismay; he welcomed the young man openly. Dolly would have gone back now, but she did not dare.

"Going to see the house?" Lawrence asked.

"It is Sunday," said Dolly. "You cannot."

"There's a way of opening doors, even on Sunday," said the other.

"No, not here. The housekeeper will not let you in. She is a Christian."

"She is a Methodist, you mean," said Mr. Copley.

"I believe she is a Methodist. She is a good friend of mine."

"What business have you to make friends with Methodists? we're all good Church people; hey, Lawrence? What grand old woods these are!"

"How old do you suppose these trees to be, father?"

"Can't guess; less than centuries would not do. Centuries of being let alone! I wonder how men would get on, if they could have as good a chance? Glorious! Go on, children, and take your walk; I will lie down here and rest. I believe I want that more than walking."

He threw himself down at full length on the turf in the shadow of a giant beech. Dolly and her remaining companion passed slowly on. This was not what she had reckoned upon; but she saw that her father wished to be left alone, and she did not feel, nevertheless, that she could go home and leave the party. Slowly she and Mr. St. Leger sauntered on, from the shadow of one great tree to another; Dolly thinking what she should do. When they were gotten out of sight and out of earshot, she too stopped, and sat down on a shady bank which the roots of an immense oak had thrown up around its base.

"What now?" said Lawrence.

"This is a good place to stay. Father wishes to be left to himself."

"But aren't you going any further?"

"There is nothing to be gained by going any further. It is as pretty here as anywhere in the wood."

"We might go on and see the pheasantry. Have you seen the pheasantry?"

"No."

"That does not depend on the housekeeper's pleasure; and the people on the place are not all Methodists. I fancy we should have no trouble in getting to see that. Come! It is really very fine, and worth a walk to see. I am not much of a place-hunter, but the Brierley pheasantry is something by itself."

"Not to-day," said Dolly.

"Why not to-day? I can get the gate opened."

"You forget it is Sunday, Mr. St. Leger."

"I do not forget it," said he, throwing himself down on the bank beside her. "I came here to have the day with you. It's a holiday. Mr. Copley keeps a fellow awfully busy other days, if one has the good fortune to be his secretary. I remember particularly well that it is Sunday. What about it? Can't a fellow have it, now he has got it?"

The blue eyes were looking with a surprised sort of complaint in them, yet not wholly discontented, at Dolly. How could they be discontented? So fair an object to rest upon and so curiosity-provoking too, as she was. Dolly's advantages were not decked out at all; she was dressed in a simple white gown; and there were none of the formalities of fine ladyism about her; a very plain little girl; and yet, Lawrence was not far wrong when he thought her the fairest thing his eyes had ever seen. Her eyes had such a mingling of the childlike and the wise; her hair curled in such an artless, elegant way about her temples and in her neck; the neck itself had such a pretty set and carriage, the figure was so graceful in its girlish outlines; and above all, her manner had such an inexplicable combination of the utterly free and the utterly unapproachable. Lawrence lay thinking all this, or part of it; Dolly was thinking how she should dispose of him. She could not well say anything that would directly seem to condemn her father. And while she was thinking what answer she should make, Lawrence had forgot his question.

"Do you like this park?" he began on another tack.

"Oh, more than I can tell you! It is perfect. It is magnificent. There is nothing like it in all America. At least, I never saw anything like it there."

"Why not?" said Lawrence. "I mean, why is there not anything like this there?"

Then Dolly's face dimpled all up in one of its expressions of extreme sense of fun.

"We are not old enough," she said. "You know when these trees were young, our land was filled with the red men, and overgrown with forests."

"Well, those forests were old."

"Yes, but in a forest trees do not grow like this. They cannot. And then the forest had to be cut down."

"Then you like England better than America?"

"I never saw in my life anything half so beautiful as Brierley Park."

"You would be contented with such a home, wherever it might be?"

"As far as the trees went," said Dolly, with another ripple of fun breaking over her face.

"Tell me," said Lawrence, "are all American girls like you?"

"In what way? We do not all look alike."

"No, no; I do not mean looks; they are no more like you in that, than you say America resembles Brierley Park. But you are not like an English girl."

"I am afraid that is not an equal compliment to me. But why should Americans be different from English people? We went over from England only a little while ago."

"Institutions?" Lawrence ventured.

"What, because we have a President, and you have a King? What difference should that make?"

"Then you see no difference? Am I like an American, now?"

"You are not like my father, certainly. But I do not know any American young men—except one. And I don't know him."

"That sounds very much like a riddle. Won't you be so good as to explain?"

"There is no riddle," said Dolly. "I knew him when I was at school, a little girl, and I have never seen him since."

"Then you don't know him now, I should say."

"No. And yet I feel as if I knew him. I should know him if we saw each other again."

"Seems to have made a good deal of an impression!"

"Yes, I think he did. I liked him."

"Before you see him again you will have forgotten him," said Lawrence comfortably. "Do you not think you could forget America, if somebody would make you mistress of such a place as this?"

"And if everybody I loved was here? Perhaps," said Dolly, looking round her at the soft swelling green turf over which the trees stretched their great branches.

"But," said Lawrence, lying on his elbow and watching her, "would you want everybody you love? The Bible says that a woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her husband."

"No; the Bible says that is what the man shall do; leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife."

"They work it the other way," said Lawrence. "With us, it is the woman who leaves her family to go with the man."

"Mr. St. Leger," said Dolly suddenly, "father does not look well. What do you think is the matter with him?"

"Oh—aw—yes! Do you think he doesn't look well?" Lawrence answered vaguely.

"Not ill—but not just like himself either. What is it?"

"I—well, I have thought that myself sometimes," replied the young man.

"What is the matter with him?" Dolly repeated anxiously.

"Oh, not much, he spends too much time at—at his office, you know!"

"He has no need to do that. He does not want the office—not for the money's sake."

"Most men want money," said Lawrence.

"But do you think he does?"

"Oh, why not? Why, my father wants money, always wants money; and yet you would say he has enough, too. Dolly"—— She interrupted him.

"But what did you mean? You meant to say he spends too much time at—at what? Say what you were going to say."

Lawrence rolled himself over on the bank so that he could look up straight into her face. It was a good look of his blue eyes. "Dolly," said he, "if you will leave father and mother for my sake, figuratively, I mean,—of course, figuratively,—I will take care that neither of them ever wants anything for the rest of their lives. And you shall have a place as good as Brierley Park."

Dolly's spirits must have taken one or two quick leaps, for her colour changed so; but happily Lawrence's speech was long enough to let her get possession of herself again. She answered with an a plomb which, born of necessity as it was, and natural, equalled that of the most practised fine lady which should show her artificial habit or skill. Like an instinct of self-preservation, I suppose; swift in action, correct in adjustment, taking its measures with unpremeditated good aim. She answered with absolute seeming calmness—

"You evade my question, I observe."

"I am sure you evade mine!" said the young man, much more hotly.

"Perhaps I do. Naturally, I want mine answered first."

"And then will you give me the answer to my question?" said he eagerly.

"That would seem to be no more than good manners."

"What do you want to know, Dolly? I am sure I can't tell what to say to you."

"Tell me what makes my father look unlike himself," said Dolly quietly. She spoke quietly; not as if she were greatly concerned to know the answer; yet if Lawrence had guessed how her heart beat he would have had still more difficulty with his reply. He had some, as it was; so much that he tried to turn the matter off.

"You are imagining things," he said. "Mr. Copley seems to me very much what I have always known him."

"He does not seem to me as I have always known him," said Dolly. "And you are not saying what you are thinking, Mr. St. Leger."

"You are terribly sharp!" said he, to gain time.

"That's quite common among American women. Go on, Mr. St. Leger, if you please."

"I declare, it's uncanny. I feel as if you could see through me, too. And no one will bear such looking into."

"Go on, Mr. St. Leger," Dolly repeated with an air of superiority. Poor child, she felt very weak at the time.

"I don't know what to say, 'pon my honour," the young man averred. "I have nothing to say, really. And I am afraid of troubling you, besides."

Dolly could not speak now. She preserved her calm air of attention; that was all.

"It's really nothing," St. Leger went on; "but I suppose, really, Mr. Copley may have lost some money. That's nothing, you know. Every man does, now and then. He loses, and then he gains."

"How?" said Dolly gravely.

"Oh, well, there are various ways. Betting, you know, and cards. Everybody bets; and of course he can't always win, or betting would stop. That's nothing, Miss Copley."

"Have you any idea how much he has lost?"

"Haven't an idea. People don't tell, naturally, how hard they are hit. I am sure it is nothing you need be concerned about."

"Are not people often ruined in that way?" Dolly asked, still preserving her outside calm.

"Well, that does happen, of course, now and then, with careless people. Mr. Copley is not one of that sort. Not that kind of man."

"Do not people grow careless, in the interest and excitement of the play?"

St. Leger hesitated, and laughed a little, casting up his blue eyes at Dolly as if she were a very peculiar specimen of young womanhood and he were not quite sure how to answer her.

"I assure you," he said, "there is nothing that you need be concerned about. I am certain there is not."

"Not if my father is concerned about it already?"

"He is not concerned, I am sure. Oh, well! there may be a little temporary embarrassment—that can happen to any man, who is not made of gold—but it will be all right. Now, Miss Copley"——

She put out her hand to stop him.

"Mr. St. Leger, can you do nothing to help? You are kind, I know; you have always been kind to us; can you do nothing to help now?"

The young man rather opened his eyes. Was this asking him for an advance? It was a very cool proceeding in that case. "Help?" he repeated doubtfully. "What sort?"

"There is only one way that you could help," said Dolly.

He saw she meant what she meant, if he could know what that was; her cheeks had even grown pale; the sweet, clear brown eyes sought his face as if they would reach his heart, which they did; but then,—to assume any of Mr. Copley's responsibilities—

"I'll assume all Mr. Copley's responsibilities, Dolly," he said with rash decision—"if you'll smile upon me."

"Assume?—Oh, did you think I meant that?" cried Dolly, while a furious flush came up into her face. "What a notion you must have of Americans, Mr. St. Leger! Do you think father would make over his responsibilities to another man? I did not mean anything so impossible as that."

"Forgive me Then what did you mean?"

"Perhaps something as impossible," said Dolly sadly, while the flush slowly paled. "I meant—couldn't you—could you—I don't know but it is just as impossible!"——

"Could I, what? I could do most things, if you wished it, Dolly."

"Then you must not call me that till I give you leave. I was going to say, could you perhaps do anything to get my father away from this habit, or pleasure"——

"Of betting?"

"Betting—and cards—it's all the same. He never used to do it. Can you help, Mr. St. Leger?"

Dolly's face was a sort of a marvel. It was so childlike, it was so womanly; it was so innocent, and it was so forceful. Lawrence looked, and would have liked to do the impossible; but what could he? It was specially at his own father's card-table, he knew, that Mr. Copley had lost money; it was wholly in his father's society that he had been initiated into the fascination of wagers—and of something else. Could he go against his own father? and how could he? and himself a player, though a very cautious one, how should he influence another man not to play?

"Miss Copley—I am younger than your father"—— Lawrence began.

"I know. But you might speak where I cannot. Or you might do something."

"Mr. Copley only does what my father does, and what everybody does."

"If you were to tell your father,—could not he perhaps stop it?—bring my father off the notion?" Dolly had reached the very core of the subject now and touched what she wanted to touch; for she had a certain assurance in her own mind that her father's intercourse with the banker and his circle of friends had led to all this trouble. Lawrence pondered, looked serious; and finally promised that he would "see what he could do." He would have urged his own question then; but to Dolly's great relief Mr. Copley found by this time that he had had enough of his own company; and called to them. However she could not escape entirely.

"I have answered your question, Miss Copley," Lawrence said as they were going down the slope towards the yet unseen caller. "Hallo! yes, we're coming.—Now am I not to have the promised answer to mine?"

"How did you put it? the question?" said Dolly, standing still and facing her difficulties.

"You know. I don't know how I put it," St. Leger said with a half laugh. "But I meant, Dolly, that you are more to me than everything and everybody in the world; and I wanted to know what I am to you?"

"Not that, Mr. St. Leger." Dolly was quiet, and did not shun his eyes; and though she did grow rosy, there were some suspicious dimples in her fair little face; very unencouraging, but absolutely irresistible at the same time.

"What then?" said the young man. "Of course, I could not be to you what you are to me, Dolly. Naturally. But I can take care of your father and mother, and I will; and I will put you in a place as good as Brierley Park. I am my father's only son, and his heir, and I can do pretty much what I like to do. But I care for nothing if you will not share it with me."

"I am not going to leave my father and mother at present," said Dolly, shaking her head.

"No, not at present," said he eagerly, catching at her words. "Not at present. But you do not love anybody else, Dolly?"

"Certainly not!"

"Then you will let me hope? You will let me hold myself your best friend, after them?"

"I believe you are that," said Dolly, giving him her hand;—"except my old Methodist acquaintance, Mrs. Jersey." Which addition was a little like a dash of cold water; but Lawrence was tolerably contented after all; and pondered seriously what he could do in the matter of Mr. Copley's gaming tendencies. Dolly was right; but it is awkward to preach against what you practise yourself.



CHAPTER XIV.

DIFFICULTIES.

Dolly on her part had not much comfort in the review of this afternoon. "It was no good," she said to herself; "I am afraid it has encouraged Lawrence St. Leger in nonsense. I did not mean that, but I am afraid he took it for encouragement. So much for going walking Sunday. I'll never do it again."

Lawrence had taken leave very cheerfully; that was certain. As much could not be said for his principal. Dolly had privately asked her father to send her down the money for the servants' wages; and Mr. Copley had given an offhand promise; but Dolly saw that same want of the usual ready ease in his manner, and was not surprised when days passed and the money did not come. The question recurred, what was she to do? She wrote to remind her father; and she took a fixed resolve that she would buy no more, of anything, that she could not on the spot pay for. This, however, was not a resolve immediately taken; it ensued when after several weeks the women again pressed for their money, and again in vain. Dolly started back then from the precipice she saw she might be nearing, and determined to owe no more debts. She wrote to her father once more, begging for a supply. And a supply came; but so meagre that Dolly could but partially pay her two servants and keep a little in hand to go to market with. Mr. Copley had not come down to Brierley in the meanwhile. Lawrence had.

Her unaccustomed burden of care Dolly had kept to herself; therefore it startled her when one day her mother began upon the subject.

"What's this about Margaret's wages, Dolly?"

"She asked me for some money the other day," Dolly answered as easily as she could.

"You didn't give it to her?"

"I have given her part; I had not the whole."

"Haven't you any?"

"Yes, mother, but not enough to give Margaret all she wants."

"Let her have what you've got, and write your father to send you some. I never like to keep servants waiting. What's theirs, isn't yours; and besides, they never serve you so well, and you're in their power."

"Mother, I want to keep a little in the house, for every day calls, till I get some more."

"Your father will send it immediately. Why he don't come himself, I don't see. I'm not gaining, all alone in this wilderness, with nothing but the trees of Brierley Park to look at. I can't think what your father is dreaming about!"

Dolly was silent, and hoped the subject had blown over. Yet it could not blow over for ever, she reflected. What was she to do? Then her mother startled her again.

"Dolly have you told your father that you want money?"

Dolly hesitated; had to say yes.

"And he did not give it to you?"

"Yes, mother; he sent me some."

"When?"

"It was—it must have been three weeks ago."

"How much?"

"Not enough to pay all that is due to Margaret."

Mrs. Copley laid down her face in her hands. A terrible pain went through Dolly's heart; but what could she say. It seemed as if pain pricked her like a shower of arrows, first on this side and then on that. She thought her mother had gained somewhat in the past weeks; how would it, or could it, be now? Presently Mrs. Copley lifted up her head with a further question.

"Is Sarah paid?"

"No, mother; not yet," said poor Dolly.

"Has Peter been paid anything?"

"Not by us. We do not pay Peter at all," replied Dolly, feeling as if the words were stabbing her.

"Who does?" said her mother quickly.

"Mr. St. Leger sent him here. He is their servant really, and they take care of him."

"I don't see how your father can content himself with that," said Mrs. Copley. "But I suppose that is one of the debts that you will pay, Dolly."

Dolly forced herself to speak very quietly, though every nerve and fibre was trembling and quivering. She said, "How, mother?"

"I suppose you know. Mr. St. Leger knows, at any rate; and your father too, it seems."

"Mother," said Dolly, sitting up a little straighter, "do you think I will pay debts in that way?"

"What other way will you pay them, then, child? what do you and your father expect? What can you do, if you have not the money?" Mrs. Copley spoke bitterly. Dolly waited a little, perhaps to bite down or swallow down some feeling.

"Mother," she said, somewhat lower, "do you think father would want me to pay his debts so?"

"Want to?" echoed Mrs. Copley. "I tell you, Dolly, when people get into difficulties the question is not what they want to do. They have to pocket their likings, and eat humble pie. But how has your father got into difficulties?" she burst out with an expression of frightened distress. "He always had plenty. Dolly!—tell me!—what do you know about it? what is it? How could he get into difficulties! Oh, if we had staid at home! Dolly, how is it possible? We have always had plenty—money running like water—all my life; and now, how could your father have got into difficulties?"

Perhaps the difficulty was but transient and would soon pass over, Dolly faintly suggested.

"It don't look like it," said Mrs. Copley miserably, "and your father don't look like it. Here we are down in this desert, you and I, to keep us out of the way, and where we will cost as near nothing as can be; and we can't pay that! Do you know nothing about it, Dolly? how it has come about?"

"I couldn't ask father such a question, mother, you know."

"And what is to become of me!" Mrs. Copley went on; "when travelling is the thing I need. And what is to become of you, Dolly? Nobody to be seen, or to see you, but St. Leger. Have you made up your mind to be content with him? Will you have him, Dolly? and is that the way your father is going to take care of you?"

Poor Mrs. Copley, having so long swallowed her troubles in secret, dreading to give pain to Dolly, now that her mouth was once opened poured them forth relentlessly. Why not? the subject was broached at last, and having spoken, she might go on to speak. And poor Dolly, full of her own anxieties, did not know where to begin to quiet those of her mother.

"Mr. St. Leger is nothing to me," she said, however, in answer to Mrs. Copley's last suggestions.

"He thinks he is."

"Then he is very foolish," said Dolly, reddening.

"It is you that are foolish, and you just do not know any better. I don't think, Dolly, that it would be at all a bad thing for you;—perhaps it would be the very best; though I'd rather have you marry one of our own people; but St. Leger is rich, very rich, I suppose; and your father has got mixed up with them somehow, and I suppose that would settle everything. St. Leger is handsome, too; he has a nice face; he has beautiful eyes; and he is a gentleman."

"His face wants strength."

"That's no matter. I begin to believe, Dolly, that you have wit enough for two."

"I am not speaking of wit; I mean strength; and I should never like any man that hadn't it; not like him in the way you mean, mother."

"Strength? what sort of strength?"

"I mean manliness; power to do right; power over himself and others; power over the wrong, to put it down, and over the right, to lift it up and give it play. I don't know that I can tell you what I mean, mother; but that is my notion of a man."

"You are romantic, I am afraid, Dolly. You have been reading novels too much."

"What novels, mother? I have not read any, except Scott's and Miss Austen's and 'The Scottish Chiefs.'"

"Well, you have got romantic ideas, I am afraid. Your talk sounds romantic. You won't find that sort of man."

"I don't care," said Dolly. "But if I don't, I'll never marry any other sort."

"And that is a delusion too," said Mrs. Copley. "You will do just as other girls do. Nobody marries her fancy. And besides, St. Leger thinks he has got you; and I don't know but he and your father will manage it so. He don't ask my advice."

Now this was not quite true; for the subject of Mr. St. Leger had been discussed more than once between Dolly's parents; though certainly Mrs. Copley did see that matters were out of her hand and beyond her guidance now. Dolly was glad to have the conversation turn to something else; but the several subjects of it hardly left her head any more.

It is blessedly true, that at seventeen there is a powerful spring of elasticity in the mind, and an inexhaustible treasury of hope; also it is true that Mrs. Copley was not wrong in her estimate of Dolly when she adjudged her to have plenty of "wit;" otherwise speaking, resources and acuteness. That was all true; nevertheless, Dolly's seventeen-year-old heart and head were greatly burdened with what they had to carry just now. Experience gave her no help, and the circumstances forbade her to depend upon the experience of her mother. Mrs. Copley's nerves must not be excited. So Dolly carried her burden alone, and found it very heavy; and debated her questions with herself, and could find an answer to never a one of them. How should she give her mother the rest and distraction of travelling? The doctor said, and Dolly believed, that it would be the best thing for her. But she could not even get speech of her father to consult over the matter with him Mr. Copley was caught in embarrassments of his own, worse than nervous ones. What could Dolly do, to break him off from his present habits, those she knew and those she dimly feared? Then when, as was inevitable, the image of Mr. St. Leger presented itself, as affording the readiest solution of all these problems, Dolly bounded back. Not that, of all possible outcomes of the present state of things. Dolly would neither be bought nor sold; would not in that way even be her parents' deliverer. She was sure she could not do that. What else could she do?

She carried these questions about with her, out into the garden, and up into her room; and many a hot tear she shed over them, when she could be long enough away from her mother to let the tears dry and the signs of them disappear before she met Mrs. Copley's eyes again. To her eyes Dolly was unfailingly bright and merry; a most sweet companion and most entertaining society; lively, talkative, and busy with endless plans for her mother's amusement. Meanwhile she wrote to her father, begging him to come down to Brierley; she said she wanted to talk to him.

Three days after that letter came Lawrence St. Leger. Mr. Copley could not spare the time, he reported.

"Spare the time from what?" Dolly asked.

"Oh, business, of course. It is always business."

"What sort? Not consul business."

"All sorts," said Lawrence. "He couldn't come. So he sent me. What is the thing, Miss Dolly? He said something was up."

"I wanted to talk to my father," Dolly said coldly.

"Won't I do?"

"Not at all. I had business to discuss."

"The journey, eh?"

"That was one thing," Dolly was obliged to allow.

"Well, look here. About that, I've a plan. I think I can arrange it with Mr. Copley, if you and your mother would be willing to set off with me, and let Mr. Copley join us somewhere—say at Baden Baden, or Venice, or where you like. He could come as soon as he was ready, you know."

"But you know," said Dolly quietly, "I specially want him, himself."

"But then your mother wants the journey. She really does. The doctor says so, you know, and I think he's right. And Mr. Copley won't leave London just now. He could send his secretary, you know. That's all right."

"I must see father before I can do anything," said Dolly evasively. "I will write a letter for you to carry back to him. And I will go do it at once."

"And I will take a look at what Peter is doing," said the young man. "Such fellows always want looking after."

Dolly had looked after Peter herself. She paused before an upper window in her way to her room, to cast a glance down into the garden. Old Peter was there, at some work she had set him; and before him stood Lawrence, watching him, and she supposed making remarks; but at any rate, his air was the air of a master and of one very much at home. Dolly saw it, read it, stood still to read it, and turned from the window with her heart too full of vexation and perturbation to write her letter then. She felt a longing for somebody to talk to, even though she could by no means lay open all her case for counsel; the air of the house was too close for her; her breath could not be drawn free in that neighbourhood. She must see somebody; and no one had poor Dolly to go to but the housekeeper, Mrs. Jersey. Nobody, near or far. So she slipped out of the house and took a roundabout way to the great mansion. She dared not take a straight way and cross the bridge, lest she should be seen and followed; so she made a circuit, and got into the park woods only after some time of warm walking through lanes and over fields. Till then she had hurried; now, safe from interruption, she went slowly, and pondered what she was going to do or say. Pondered everything, and could not with all her thinking make the confusion less confusion. It was a warm, still, sultry day; the turf was dry, the air was spicy under the great trees; shadow and sunshine alternately crossed her path, or more correctly, her path crossed them. A certain sense of contrast smote her as she went. Around her were the tokens of a broad security, sheltering protection, quiet and immovable possession, careless wealth; and within her a tumult of fear, uncertainty, exposure, and craving need. Life seemed a very unequal thing to the little American girl. Her step became slower. What was she going to say to Mrs. Jersey? It was impossible to determine; nevertheless, Dolly felt that she must see her and speak to her. That was a necessity.

Through the trees she caught at last sight of the grand old house. The dog knew her by this time and she did not fear him. She found the housekeeper busy with some sewing and glad to welcome her. Mrs. Jersey was that always. To-day she looked a little closer than usual at her visitor, discerning that Dolly's mind was not just in its wonted poise. And besides, she loved to look at her.

Yet it is not easy to describe that for which our eyes seek and dwell upon a face or form. It is easy to say brown eyes and lightly curled, waving, beautiful hair; but hair is beautiful in different ways, and so faces. Can we put Dolly's charm into words? Mrs. Jersey saw a delicate, graceful, active figure, to begin with; delicate without any suspicion of weakness; active, in little quick, gracious movements, which it was fascinating to watch; and when not in motion, lovely in its childlike unconsciousness of repose. Her hair was exceedingly beautiful, not on account of its mass or colour so much as for the great elegance of its growth and curly arrangement or disarrangement around the face and neck; and the face was a blending of womanly and childlike. It could seem by turns most of the one or most of the other; but the clear eyes had at all times a certain deep inwardness, along with their bright, intelligent answer to the moment's impression, and also a certain innocent outlook, which was very captivating. And then, at a moment's notice, Dolly's face from being grave and thoughtful, would dimple all up with some flash of fun, and make you watch its change back to gravity again, with an intensified sense both of its merry and of its serious charm. She smiled at Mrs. Jersey now as she came in, but the housekeeper saw that the eyes had more care in their thoughtfulness than she was accustomed to see in them.

"And how is the mother, dear?" she asked, when Dolly had drawn up a chair and sat down; for they were grown familiar friends by this time.

"She is not getting on much, Mrs. Jersey. I wanted to talk to you about her. The doctor says travelling would be the best thing."

"And you will go and travel? Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet whether we can go anywhere. Mother wants to go." Dolly looked out hard into the tree groups on the lawn. They barred the vision.

"That is one sign then that the doctor is right," said Mrs. Jersey. "It is good for sick folks to have what they like."

"Isn't it good for people that are not sick?"

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Jersey, smiling. "But sometimes not; or else the good Lord would let them have it, when He does not let them. What are you wanting, Miss Dolly?"

"I want everything different from what it is just now!" said Dolly, the tears starting to her eyes. The housekeeper was moved with a great sympathy; sympathy that was silent at first.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"Maybe you can help with your counsel," said Dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes; "that is what I came here for to-day. I wanted to speak to somebody; and I have nobody but you, Mrs. Jersey."

"Your mother, my dear?"

"I can't worry mother."

"True. You are right. Well, my dear? What do you want counsel about?"

"It is very difficult to tell you. I don't know if I can. I will try. One thing. Mrs. Jersey, is it right sometimes, is it a girl's duty ever—to sacrifice herself for her parents?".

The housekeeper had not expected this form of dilemma, and hesitated a few minutes.

"Sacrifice herself how, Miss Dolly?"

"Marrying, for instance."

"Marrying somebody she does not care for?"

"Yes."

"How 'for her parents'?"

"Suppose—I am just supposing,—suppose he has money, and they haven't. Suppose, for instance, they are in difficulties, and by her sacrificing herself she can put them out of difficulty? Such a case might be, you know."

"Often has been; or at least people have thought so. But, Miss Dolly, where is a young lady's first duty?"

"To God, of course; her first duty."

"And next after God?"

"To her parents, I suppose."

"And besides her parents?"

"I don't know; nobody, I think."

"Let us see. She owes something to herself."

"Does she?"

"And do you not think she owes something to the other party concerned? don't you think she owes something to the gentleman she is to marry?"

"Yes, of course," said Dolly slowly. "I do not know exactly what, though; nor exactly what she owes to herself."

"Before taking any course of action, in a matter that is very important, shouldn't she look all round the subject? and see what will become of all these duties?"

"Certainly. But the first comes first."

"The first comes first. How does the first look to you?"

"The first is her duty to God."

"Well. What does her duty to God say?"

"I don't know," said Dolly very gravely. "I am all in a puzzle. Something in me says one thing, and something else in me cries out against it. Mrs. Jersey, the Bible says, 'Honour thy father and thy mother.'"

"Yes, and it says, 'Children, obey your parents.' But the next words that come after, are—'in the Lord.'"

"How is that?"

"So as you can without failing in your duty to Him."

"Can duties clash?"

"No," said the housekeeper, smiling; "for, as you said, 'the first comes first.'"

"I do not understand," said Dolly. "It is my duty to obey His word; and His word says, obey them."

"Only not when their command or wish goes against His."

"Well, how would this?" said Dolly. "Suppose they wish me to marry somebody, and my doing so would be very good for them? The Bible says, 'Love seeks not her own.'"

"Most true," said the housekeeper, watching the tears that suddenly stood in Dolly's bright eyes. "But it says some other things."

"What, Mrs. Jersey? Do make it clear to me if you can. I am all in a muddle."

"My dear, I am not a very good hand to explain what I mean. But do you not think you owe it both to yourself and to God, not to do what would blast your life? you cannot serve Him so well with a blasted life."

"It seems to me," said Dolly, speaking slowly, "I have a right to give up my own happiness. I do not see the wrong of it."

"In anything else," said the housekeeper. "In anything else, my dear; only not in marriage! My dear, it is not simply giving up one's happiness; it is a long torture! No, you owe it to yourself; for in that way you could never grow to be what you might be. My dear, I have seen it tried. I have known a woman who married so, thinking that it would not matter so much; she fulfilled life's duties nobly, she was a good wife and mother and friend; but when I asked her once, after she had told me her story, how life had been to her?—I shall never forget how she turned to me and said, 'It has been a hell upon earth!' Miss Dolly, no good father and mother would buy anything at such a price; and no man that really loved a woman would have her at such a price; and so, if you follow the rule, 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them'—you will never marry in that way."

There was a little silence, and then Dolly said in an entirely changed tone, "You have cleared up the mist, Mrs. Jersey."

"Then there is another thing," the housekeeper went on. She heard the change in Dolly's voice, out of which the anxiety had suddenly vanished, but she was willing to make assurance doubly sure. "Did you ever think what a woman owes to the man she marries?"

"I never thought about it," said Dolly. "What a man asks for, is that she will marry him." How Dolly's cheeks flamed up. But she was very serious, and the housekeeper if possible yet more so.

"Miss Dolly, she owes him the best love of her heart, after that she gives to God."

"I don't see how she can," said Dolly. "I do not see how she can love him so well as her father and mother."

"He expects it, though, and has a right to it. And unless a woman can give it, she cannot be a true wife. She makes a false vow at the altar. And unless she do love him so, it may easily happen that she will find somebody afterwards that she will like better than her husband. And then, all is lost."

"After she is married?" said Dolly.

"Perhaps after she has been married for years. If she has not married the right man, she may find him when she cannot marry him."

"But that is dreadful!" cried Dolly.

"The world is a pretty mixed-up place," said the housekeeper. "I want your way to be straight and clear, Miss Dolly."

There was a pause again, at the end of which Dolly repeated, "Thank you, Mrs. Jersey. You have cleared up the mist for me."

"I hear it in your voice," said her friend, smiling. "It has got its clear, sweet ring again. Is all the trouble disposed of?"

"Oh no!" said Dolly, a shadow crossing her face anew; "but I am relieved of one great perplexity. That was not all my trouble;—I cannot tell you all. I wish I could! One thing,—I want to see my father dreadfully, to talk to him about mother's going travelling; and I cannot get sight of him. He stays in London. And time is flying."

"Write," said the housekeeper.

"Oh, I have written. And I have sent messages. I would go up to London myself, but I cannot go alone."

"Miss Dolly," said the housekeeper, after a minute's thought, "perhaps I can help here too. I have to go up to London for a few days, and was thinking to go next week. If you will trust yourself to me, I will take you, and take care of you."

Dolly was overjoyed at this suggestion. A little more conversation to settle preliminaries and particulars, and Dolly set off on her way home with a much lightened heart.

"Ah me!" thought the housekeeper, as she stood at the door looking after her, "how hard we do make it for each other in this world!"



CHAPTER XV.

THE CONSUL'S OFFICE.

Before Dolly had reached home she was joined by Mr. St. Leger. He was still in the park.

"Have you been for a walk?" said he in astonished fashion.

"I suppose that would be a natural conclusion," said Dolly. She spoke easily; it rejoiced her to find how easily she could now meet Mr. St. Leger. Yet the game was not all played out, either.

"Why didn't you let me know, that I might go with you?" he went on.

"That was not in my purpose," rejoined Dolly lightly.

"That is very unkind, Dolly."

"Truth is never unkind."

"Yes, indeed, it may be; it is now."

"Would you like falsehood better?"

"You need not be false."

"I must be either false or true, must I not? Which would you rather have, Mr. St. Leger?"

"It would be no good, my choosing," said he, with a half laugh; "for you would never give me anything but absolute truth, I know. I believe that is one of your attractions, Dolly. All other girls put on something, and a fellow never can tell what he is served to, the dish is spiced so cleverly. But you are like a piece of game, with no flavour but your own; and that is wild enough, and rare enough too."

"Mr. St. Leger," said Dolly gravely, "you ought to study rhetoric.''

"Have. Why?"

"I am afraid that last speech was rather mixed up."

"Look here,—I wish you'd call me Lawrence. We know each other quite well enough."

"Is that the custom in your country?"

"It is going to be your country, as well. You need not speak in that fashion."

"I am thinking of leaving the country," Dolly went on unconcernedly. "Mother is longing to travel; and I am going to bring it about."

"I have tried Mr. Copley on that subject, I assure you."

"I shall try now, and do it."

"Think so? Then we will consult about plans and routes again this evening. Mrs. Copley likes that almost as well as the thing itself. For, Dolly, you cannot get along without me."

Which assertion Dolly left uncontroverted.

A few days after Lawrence had gone back to town was the time for Mrs. Jersey's journey. Dolly told her mother her plan; and after a deal of doubts and fears and arguings on Mrs. Copley's part, it was finally agreed to. It seemed the hopefullest thing to do; and Mrs. Copley could be left well enough with the servants for a few days. So, early one morning Mrs. Jersey called for her, and Dolly with a beating heart kissed her mother and went off.

Some business reasons occasioned the housekeeper to make the journey in a little covered carriage belonging to the house, instead of taking the public post-coach. It was all the pleasanter for Dolly, being entirely private and quiet; though the time consumed was longer. They were then in the end of summer; the weather was delicious and warm; the country rich in flowers and grain fields and ripening fruit. Dolly at first was full of delight, the change and the novelty were so welcome, and the country through which they drove was so exceeding lovely. Nevertheless, as the day went by there began to creep over her a strange feeling of loneliness; a feeling of being out on the journey of life all by herself and left to her own skill and resources. It was not the journey to London; for that she was well accompanied and provided; it was the real undertaking upon which she had set out, the goal of which was not London but—her father. To find her father not only, but to keep him; to prevent his being lost to himself, lost to her mother, to life, and to her. Could she? Or was she embarked on an enterprise beyond her strength? A weak girl; what was she, to do so much! It grew and pressed upon her, this feeling of being alone and busy with a work too great for her; till gradually the lovely country through which she was passing ceased to be lovely; it might have been a wilderness, for all its cheer or promise to her. Dolly had talked at first, in simple, gleeful, girlish pleasure; little by little her words grew fewer, her eye lost its glad life; until she sat back, withdrawn into herself, and spoke no more unless spoken to.

The housekeeper noticed the change, saw and read the abstracted, thoughtful look that had taken place of the gay, interested delight of the morning. She perceived that Dolly had serious work on hand, of some sort; and she longed to help her. For the fair, sweet, womanly thoughtfulness was as lofty and lovely in its way, as the childlike simplicity of enjoyment before had been bewitching. She was glad when the day's ride came to an end.

The stoppage was made at a little wayside inn; a low building of grey stone, overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, with a neatly kept bit of grass in front. Here Dolly's interest and delight awoke again. This was something unlike all she had ever seen. Simple and plain enough the inn was; stone flooring and wooden furniture of heavy and ancient pattern made it that; but at the same time it was substantial, comfortable, neat as wax, and with a certain air of well-to-do thrift which was very pleasant. Mrs. Jersey was known here and warmly received. The travellers were shown into a cosy little room, brown wainscoted, and with a great jar of flowers in the chimney; and here the cloth was immediately laid for their dinner, or supper. For the supper itself they had to wait a little; and after putting off her bonnet and refreshing herself in an inner room, Dolly sat down by one of the small windows. The day was declining. Slant sunbeams shot across a wide plain and threw long shadows from the trees. The trees, especially those overhanging the inn, were old and large and fine; the lights and shadows were moveless, calm, peaceful; one or two neighbouring fields were stocked with beautiful cattle; and a flock of geese went waddling along over the green. It was removed from all the scenes of Dolly's experience; as unlike them as her being there alone was unlike the rest of her life; in the strangeness there was this time an element of relief.

"How beautiful the world is, Mrs. Jersey!" she remarked.

"You find it so here?" answered her friend.

"Why, yes, I do. Don't you?"

"I suppose I am spoiled, Miss Dolly, by being accustomed to Brierley."

"Oh, this is not Brierley! but I am not comparing them. This is very pretty, Mrs. Jersey! Why, Mrs. Jersey, you don't despise a daisy because it isn't a rose!"

"No," said her friend; "but I suppose I cannot see the daisy when the rose is by." She was looking at Dolly.

"Well," said Dolly, "the rose is not by; and I like this very much. What a neat house! and what a pleasant sort of comfort there is about everything. I would not have missed this, Mrs. Jersey, for a good deal."

"I am glad, Miss Dolly. I was thinking you were not taking much good of your day's ride—the latter part."

Dolly was silent, looking out now somewhat soberly upon the smiling scene; then she jumped up and threw off her gravity, and came to the supper-table. It was spread with exquisite neatness, and appetising nicety. Dolly found herself hungry. If but her errand to London had been of a less serious and critical character, she could have greatly enjoyed the adventure and its picturesque circumstances. With the elastic strength of seventeen, however, she did enjoy it, even so.

"How good you are to me, Mrs. Jersey!" she said, after the table was cleared and the two were sitting in the falling twilight. The still peace outside and inside the house had found its way to Dolly's heart. There was the brooding hush of the summer evening, marked, not broken, by sounds of insects or lowing of cattle, and the voices of farm servants attending to their work. It was yet bright outside, though the sun had long gone down; inside the house shades were gathering.

"I wish I could be good to you, Miss Dolly," was the housekeeper's answer.

"Oh, you are! I do not know what in the world I should have done, if you had not let me go with you to London now."

"What can I do for you when we get there?"

"Oh, nothing! thank you."

"You know exactly where to go and what to do?"

"I shall take a cab and go—let me see,—yes, to father's rooms. If I do not find him there, I must go to his office."

"In the City?"

"Yes. Will that be very far from your house? Why, yes, of course; we shall be at the West End. Well, all the same, near or far, I must see my father."

"You must be so good as to let me go in the cab with you," said Mrs. Jersey. "I cannot let you drive all about London alone by yourself."

"Oh, thank you!" said Dolly again, with an undoubted accent of relief. "But"——

That sentence remained unfinished. Dolly meditated. So did the housekeeper. She was wise enough to see that all was not exactly clear and fair in her young friend's path; of what nature the trouble might be she could only surmise.

"What if Mr. Copley should not be in London?" she ventured.

"Oh, he must be. At least he was there a very few days ago. He never is away from London, except when he goes to visit somewhere."

"It is coming towards the time now when the gentlemen go down into the country to shoot."

"Father does not care for shooting. I mean to get him to go to Venice instead, with mother and me."

"Suppose you should fail in that plan, Miss Dolly? is your business done then?"

"No. Oh no!" said Dolly, for a moment covering her face with her hands. "O Mrs. Jersey! if I could not manage that, I do not know what I should do!" Dolly's voice had a premonition of despair. "But I guess I can do it," she added with a resumption of cheerfulness. And she talked on from that time merrily of other things.

When they arrived in London next day, it was already too late for Dolly to do anything. She was fain to let Mrs. Jersey lodge her and feast her and pet her to her heart's content. She was put in a pretty room in the great house; she was entertained royally, as far as the viands went; and in every imaginable way the housekeeper was carefully kind. Well for Dolly; who needed all the help of kindness and care. The whole long day she had been brooding on what she had to do, and trying to imagine how things would be. Without data, that is a specially wearisome occupation; inasmuch as one may imagine anything, and there is nothing to contradict the most extravagant speculations. Dolly's head and heart were tired by the time night came, and her nerves in an excited condition, to which Mrs. Jersey's ministrations and the interest of the place gave a welcome relief. Dolly tried to put off thought. But everything pressed upon her, now that she was so near seeing her father; and seventeen-years-old felt as if it had a great load on its young shoulders.

"Mrs. Jersey," she began, after supper, "you are quite sure that it is never right for a girl to sacrifice herself for the sake of benefiting her parents?"

"In the way of marrying a man she does not love? Miss Dolly, a Christian man would never have a young lady marry him on those terms."

"Suppose he is not a Christian man?"

"Then he may be selfish enough to do it. But in that case, Miss Dolly, a Christian woman can have nothing to say to him."

"Why not? She might bring him to be Christian, you know."

"That isn't the Lord's way, Miss Dolly."

"What is His way, then?"

"You will find it in the sixth chapter of 2nd Corinthians. 'Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.'"

"But that means"——

"It says—Miss Dolly; it says,—do not be yoked up with one who is not following the Lord; neither in marriage, nor in business. Two oxen in a yoke, Miss Dolly, have to pull the same way; and if they don't want to, the weakest must go with the strongest."

"But might not the Christian one be the strongest?"

"His disobeyeing the Lord's command just shows he isn't that."

Dolly let the subject drop. She took a little cushion and sat down by her friend's side and laid her head in her lap; and they sat so a while, Mrs. Jersey looking fondly down upon the very lovely bright head on her knees, and marvelling sorrowfully at the fathers and mothers who prepare trouble for such tender and delicate creatures as their young daughters.

The next morning she admired her charge under a new view of her. Dolly appeared at breakfast with a calm, measured manner, which, if it were in part the effect of great pressure upon her spirits, had at the same time the grace of a very finished breeding. Mrs. Jersey looked and admired, and wondered too. How had the little American got this air? She could not put it on herself; but she had seen her mistresses in the great world wear it; a certain unconscious, disengaged dignity which sat marvellously well upon the gracious softness and young beauty of this little girl.

The breakfast was rather silent. The drive, which they entered upon immediately after, was almost wholly so. Mrs. Jersey, true to her promise, let her own affairs wait, and accompanied her young friend. Dolly had changed her plan, and went now first to Mr. Copley's office in the city. It was the hour when he should be there, and to go to his lodging would have taken them out of the way. So they drove the long miles from Grosvenor Square to the American Consul's office. Dolly's mood was eager and hopeful now; yet with too much pressure to allow of her talking.

The cab stopped opposite the entrance of a narrow covered way between two walls of houses. Following this narrow passage, Mrs. Jersey and Dolly emerged into a little court, very small, on one side of which two or three steps led to the American Consul's offices. The first one they entered was full of people, waiting to see the Consul or parleyeing with one or another of the clerks. Dolly left Mrs. Jersey there to wait for her, and herself went on into the inner room, her father's special private office. In those days the office of American Consul was of far more importance and dignity than to-day; and this room was a tolerably comfortable one and respectably furnished.

Here, however, her father was not; and it immediately struck Dolly that he had not been there very lately. How she gathered this impression is less easy to tell, for she could hardly be said to see distinctly any one of the characters in which the fact was written. She did not know that dust lay thick on his writing-table, and that even the papers piled there were brown with it; she did not know that the windows were fastened down this warm day, nor that an arm-chair which usually stood there for the accommodation of visitors was gone, having been slipped into the outer office by an ease-loving clerk. It was a general air of forsakenness, visible in these and in yet slighter signs, which struck Dolly's sense. She stood a moment, bewildered, hoping against sense, as it were; then turned about. As she turned she was met by a young man who had followed her in from the outer office. Dolly faced him.

"Where is Mr. Copley?"

"He ain't here." The Yankee accents of home were unmistakeable.

"I see he is not here; but where is he?"

"Couldn't say, reelly. 'Spect he's to his place. We don't ginerally expect ladies at this time o' day, or I guess he'd ha' ben on hand." The clerk grinned at Dolly's beauty, the like of which to be sure was not often seen anywhere at that, or any other, time of day.

"When was Mr. Copley here, sir?"

"Couldn't say. 'Tain't very long, nother. Was you wantin' to see him on an a'pintment?"

"No. I am Miss Copley. Where can I find my father? Please tell me as quick as you can."

"Sartain—ef I knowed it. Now I wisht I did! Mr. Copley, he comes and he goes, and he don't tell me which way; and there it is, you see."

"Where is Mr. St. Leger?"

"Mr. Silliger? Don't know the gentleman. Likely Mr. Copley doos. But he ain't here to say. Mebbe it 'ud be a good plan to make a note of it. That's what Mr. Copley allays says; 'make a note of it.'"

"You do not know, sir, perhaps, whether Mr. Copley is in London?"

"He was in London—'taint very long ago, for he was in this here office, and I see him; but that warn't yesterday, and it warn't the day before. Where he's betaken himself between whiles, ain't known to me. Shall I make a note, miss, against he comes?"

"No," said Dolly, turning away; "no need. And no use."

She rejoined Mrs. Jersey and they went back to the carriage.

"He is not there," she said excitedly; "and he has not been there for several days. We must go to his lodgings—all the way back almost!"