"My own Maggie,—(on the second day after we met at school Lorna and I decided to call each other 'Maggie'—short for 'magnetic attraction'— but we only do it when we write, otherwise it excites curiosity, and that is horrid in matters of the heart!)—My own Maggie,—It is ages since I heard from you, darling. Why didn't you answer my letter last week? But I know how occupied you are, poor angel, and won't scold you as you deserve. I think of you every moment of the day, and do so long to be able to help you to bear your heavy burden. How little we thought when you went home how soon the smiling future would turn into a frown! We both seem to have left our careless youth far behind, for I have my own trials too, though nothing to yours, my precious darling.

"I have heaps to tell you. I decided to have the blue dress, after all, and the dressmaker has made it sweetly, with dozens of little tucks. I wore it at an afternoon 'At Home' yesterday, and it looked lovely. Lots of people were there. Wallace took me. He is at home helping with the practice. Maggie, my darling, I am really writing to ask you the most awful favour. Would you, could you, come down to stay with us for a few weeks? I do long for you so. There is no one on earth but you to whom I can speak my utmost thoughts, and I feel all bottled up, for there are some things one can't write. I know you feel this, too, dearest, for there is a change in the tone of your letters, and I read between the lines that you have lots to tell me. We could have great sport with Wallace to take us about, and the people around are very hospitable, and always ask us out when we have a visitor. Wallace saw your photograph one day, and said you were 'ripping,' and he is quite keen on your coming, though, as a rule, he doesn't care for girls. Mother will write to Mrs Sackville if you think there is the slightest chance that you can be spared. Of course, darling, if you feel it your duty to stay at home I won't persuade you to come. You remember how we vowed to urge each other to do our best and noblest, but perhaps if you had a little change you would go back refreshed and able to help your people better than you can at present. Anyway, write soon, darling, and put me out of my suspense. I sha'n't sleep a wink till I hear. Oh, the bliss of having you all to myself! How we would talk!

"Your own Maggie."

Yes, it would indeed be bliss! I longed for Lorna, but it did not seem possible to go away and enjoy myself, and leave Vere so helpless and sad. I decided not to say a word about the invitation, but I couldn't help thinking about it. Lorna lived in a big town house in the middle of a street; her father is a busy doctor, and is not at all rich, but very jolly. She is the only unmarried girl, and has half-a-dozen brothers in all stages, from twelve up to Wallace, who is a doctor, and thinks my photograph is "ripping!" It all seemed so tempting, and so refreshingly different from anything I have known. I began imagining it all—the journey, meeting Lorna at the station, and tearing about with all those funny, merry boys, instead of tiptoeing about a sick-room; Wallace being nice and attentive to me, instead of in love with someone else, as all the men at home seem to be, and Lorna creeping into my bed at night, with her hair in a funny, tight little pigtail, and talking, talking, talking for hour after hour. Oh, I did want to go so badly! The tears came to my eyes for very longing. My resolution did not waver one bit, but I was dreadfully sorry for myself, all the same.

Suddenly I became aware that there was a dead silence in the room. How long it had lasted I can't tell, but when I looked up there were Vere and Will staring at me, and looking as if they had been staring for an age, and couldn't understand what on earth was the matter. I jumped and got red, and blinked away the tears, and Vere said—

"What is the matter, child? Have you had bad news? You look as if your heart was broken!"

"Oh, no—there's no news at all. I am tired, I think, and stupid, and wasn't thinking of what I was doing."

"You seemed to be thinking of something pretty deeply; and what business have you to be tired—a baby like you? I have been prescribing for her to-day, Mr Dudley. Have you noticed how thin she has grown? She hadn't discovered it herself until I told her, wonderful to relate."

"I don't think she has thought of herself at all these last few months," said Will, quietly.

He only just gave one glance at me, and then looked away, and I was thankful, for every drop of blood in my body seemed to fly to my face in the joy of hearing him praise me like that. Vere did not speak for a moment or two, and then she just asked who the letter was from.

"Lorna Forbes. She writes every week. I haven't written to her for an age—nearly a month."

They both knew about Lorna, and teased me about her when I quoted her opinion, and now, to my surprise, Will lifted his eyes from the carpet, and said, looking me full in the face—

"And she wants you to pay her a visit, and you think you ought not to go?"

How could he guess? I was so taken aback that at first I could only gasp and stare.

"How in the world did you know?" I asked at last, and he smiled and said—

"Your face was very eloquent. It was very easy to read, wasn't it, Miss Sackville?"

"I did not find it so transparent as you seem to have done; I suppose I am dense," Vere replied, with a laugh that sounded a little bit strained. "Is it true, Babs? Has Mr Dudley read the signs correctly?"

I had to confess, making as light of it as possible, but they weren't deceived a bit.

"You hardly looked as if you didn't 'care,'" Will remarked drily, and Vere said quite quickly and eagerly—

"You must go, Babs—of course you must go! It is the very thing you need. You have been a ministering angel to me, and I'm very grateful, but I don't want the responsibility of making you ill. Change and the beloved Lorna will soon bring back your roses, and it will be amusing to hear of your escapades when you return. Don't think of me! It is good for me to be quiet, and there are plenty of friends who will come in for an hour or two if I feel the need of society. You will take pity on me, won't you, Mr Dudley? You will come sometimes and have tea with mother and me?"

"I shall be delighted," said Will, gravely. As for me, I didn't know whether to be most pleased or depressed. I should pay my visit to Lorna, that was practically settled from the moment Vere approved of the proposal, which was one nice thing; and another was her remark that I had been an angel; but it seemed as if I could be very easily spared, and I had grown to think myself indispensable these last few weeks. We talked a little more about it, and then Will and I went downstairs. He didn't speak until we were nearly at the drawing-room door, when he said abruptly—

"You are very eager to get away! Are you so tired of this neighbourhood and all the people it contains?"

"Oh, so tired! so utterly, utterly tired!" I cried earnestly.

It sounded rude, perhaps, but at the moment I really felt it. I had reached the stage of tiredness when I had a perfect craving for a change. He didn't say a word, but stalked straight forward, and never spoke to me again except to say good-night. It doesn't concern me, of course, but I do hope for Rachel's sake that he hasn't a sulky nature.

Heigh-ho for Lorna! I am going at the end of next week. I am positively bursting with delight!



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

October 4th. Here I am! It is not a bit as I imagined, but ever so much nicer. Lorna looks sweet in grown-up things, and she thinks I look sweet in mine. She comes into my bed at nights, and we talk for hours. The house is right in the middle of the town, in a dingy old square, where the trees look more black than green. It is ugly and shabby, but there is plenty of room, which is a good thing, for I am sure it is needed. The doctor sits in his consulting-room all the morning seeing patients, who wait their turn in the dining-room, and if there are a great many you have to be late for lunch, but, as Lorna says, "That means another guinea, so we mustn't grumble!" They are not at all rich, because the six boys cost so much to educate. They are all away at school and college, except the oldest and the youngest, of whom more anon.

Dr Forbes is an old love. He has shaggy grey hair, and merry eyes, and the funniest way of talking aloud to himself without knowing what he is saying. At lunch he will keep up a running conversation like this: "Nasty case—yes, nasty case! Poor woman, poor woman! Very little chance—little chance—Very good steak, my dear—an admirable dinner you have given me! Am-pu-ta-tion at eleven—mustn't forget the medicine. Three times a day. A little custard, if you please," and so on, and so on, and the others never take any notice, but eat away as if no one were speaking.

Mrs Forbes is large and kind, and shakes when she laughs. I don't think she is clever, exactly, but she's an admirable mother, and lets them do exactly as they like.

Wallace isn't bad. He is twenty-four, and fairly good-looking, and not as conceited as men generally are at that age. Personally, I prefer them older, but he evidently approves of me, and that is soothing to the feelings. Julias, surnamed "Midas," is only twelve, and a most amusing character. I asked Lorna and Wallace how he got his nickname, as we sat together over a fire in the old schoolroom the first night. They laughed, and Wallace said—(of course, I call him Dr Wallace, really, but I can't be bothered to write it here)—

"Because everything he touches turns to gold, or, to speak more correctly, copper! He has a genius for accumulating money, and has what we consider quite a vast sum deposited in the savings bank. My father expects him to develop into a great financier, and we hope he may pension off all his brothers and sister, to keep them from the workhouse. To do Midas justice, he is not mean in a good cause, and I believe he will do the straight thing."

"But how can he make money? He is only twelve. I don't see how it is to be done," I cried. And they laughed and said—

"It began years ago—when he shed his front teeth. Mother used to offer us sixpence a tooth when they grew waggly, and we pulled them out without any fuss. We each earned sixpences in our turn, and all went well; but when Midas once began he was not content to stop, and worked away at sound, new double teeth, until he actually got out two in one afternoon. Then mother took alarm, and the pay was stopped. There was an interregnum after that, and what came next? Let me see—it must have been the sleeping sickness. Midas grew very rapidly, Miss Sackville, and it was very difficult to get him to bed at nights, so as the mater thought he was suffering from the want of sleep, she promised him threepence an hour for every hour he spent in bed before nine o'clock. After that he retired regularly every night at seven, and on half- holidays it's a solemn fact that he was in bed at four o'clock, issuing instructions as to the viands which were to be brought up for his refreshment! The mater stood it for a time, but the family finances wouldn't bear the strain, so she limited the hours and reduced the fee, and Midas returned to his old ways. What came after that, Lorna?"

"I don't know—I forget! Of course there was Biggs—"

"Ah, yes, Miss Biggs! Miss Biggs, you must know, Miss Sackville, is an ancient friend of the family, whom we consider it a duty to invite for a yearly visit. She is an admirable old soul, but very deaf, very slow, and incredibly boring. Her favourite occupation is to bring down sheaves of letters from other maiden ladies, and insist upon reading them aloud to the assembled family. 'I have just had a letter from Louisa Gibbings; I am sure you will like to hear it,' she will say calmly, when the poor old parents are enjoying a quiet read after dinner, and we youngsters are in the middle of a game. None of us have the remotest idea who Louisa Gibbings may be, and don't want to know, but we are bound to listen to three sheets of uninteresting information as to how 'My brother in China contemplates a visit home next year.' 'My garden is looking charming, but the peas are very poor this season.' 'You will be grieved to hear that our good Mary still suffers acutely from the old complaint,' etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Last time she paid her visit when Midas had his Easter holidays, and one day, seeing mother quite exhausted by her efforts at entertainment, he made the brilliant proposal that he should take Miss Biggs off her hands for the sum of fourpence an hour. Mother agreed with enthusiasm, and Midas made quite a fortune in the next fortnight, with equal satisfaction to all concerned. In the morning he took Miss Biggs out walking to see the sights, and gave her his advice in the purchase of new caps. In the afternoon the wily young wretch cajoled her into giving him an hour's coaching in French, and in the evening he challenged her to draughts and dominoes, and made a point of allowing her to win. Mother had a chance of attending to her work; father could read in peace; Midas was in a condition of such complacent good nature that he declared Miss Biggs was a 'ripping old girl,' and she on her part gave him the credit for being 'the most gentlemanly youth she had ever encountered.' I believe she is really attached to him, and should not wonder if she remembers him substantially in her will. Then Midas will have scored a double triumph!"

Wallace and Lorna laughed as heartily as I did over these histories. They really are a most good-natured family, and Wallace treats Lorna as politely as if she were someone else, and not his own sister, which is very different from some young men I could mention. I had put on my blue dress, and I knew quite well that he admired it and me, and that put me in such good spirits that I was quite sparkling and witty. He stayed talking to us until after nine, when he had to go downstairs to write some letters.

"Thank goodness! I thought he would never go. What a bore he is!" Lorna said, when the door closed behind him.

I didn't feel like that at all, but I disguised my feelings, and told her the details and the adventures of the last three months, and about Vere, and the house, and my own private tribulations, and she sympathised and looked at everything from my point of view, in the nice, unprejudiced way friends have. It was very soothing, and I could have gone on for a long time, but it was only polite to return the compliment, so I said—

"Now we must talk about you! You said in your last letter that you had many troubles of which you could not write. Poor, sweet thing, tell me about them! Begin at the beginning. What do you consider your very greatest trial?"

Lorna pondered. She is dark and slight, and wears her hair parted in the middle, and puffed out at the sides in a quaint fashion that just suits her style. She wrinkled her brows, and stared into space in a rapt, melancholy fashion.

"I think," she said, slowly, at last, "I think it is the drawing-room!"

I was surprised, but still not surprised, for the drawing-room is awful! Big and square, and filled with heavy furniture, and a perfect shopful of ugly ornaments and bead mats, and little tables, and milking-stools, and tambourines, and bannerettes, and all the kind of things that were considered lovely ages ago, but which no self-respecting girl of our age could possibly endure. Lorna told me thrilling tales of her experience with that room.

"When I first came home, mother saw that I didn't like it, so she said she knew quite well that she was old-fashioned and behind the times, and now that she had a grown-up daughter she would leave the arrangement of such things to her, and I could alter the room as much as ever I liked. So, my dear, I made Mary bring the biggest tray in the house, and I filled it three times over with gimcracks of all descriptions, and sent them up to the box-room cupboard. I kept about three tables instead of seven, with really nice things on them, and left a good sweep of floor on which you could walk about without knocking things down. I pulled out the piano from the wall, and lowered the pictures, and gathered all the old china together, and put it on the chimney-piece, and—and—oh, I can't tell you all the alterations, but you would hardly have known it for the same room! It looked quite decent. When all was finished, I sent for mother, and she came in and sat down, and, my dear, she turned quite white! She kept looking round and round, searching for things where she had been accustomed to find them, and she looked as if something hurt her. I asked her if she didn't like it, and she said—

"'Oh, yes, it looks much more—more modern. Yes, dear, you have been very clever. It is quite—smart! A little bare, isn't it—just a little bare, don't you think?'

"'No, mother,' I said sternly, 'not the least little bit in the world! It seems so to you because you have had it so crowded that there was no room to move, but you will soon get accustomed to the room as it is, and like it far better.'

"'Yes, dear,' she said meekly, 'of—of course. I'm sure you are quite right,' and will you believe it, Una, she went straight into her own room, and cried! I know she did, for I saw the marks on her face later on, and taxed her with it. She was very apologetic, but she said the little table with the gold legs had been father's first gift to her after they were married, and she couldn't bear to have it put aside; and the ivory basket under the glass shade had come from the first French Exhibition, and she had worked those bead bannerettes herself when I was teething, and threatened with convulsions, and she did not dare to leave the house. Of course, I felt a wretch, and hugged her, and said—

"'Why didn't you say so before? We will bring them back at once, and put them where they were; but you have not tender associations with all the things. You did not work that hideous patchwork cushion, for instance, and—'

"'No, but Aunt Mary Ryley did,' she cried eagerly, 'and it is made out of pieces of all the dresses we wore when we were girls together. I often look at it and remember the happy times I had in the grey poplin and the puce silk.'

"So, of course, the cushion had to come back too, and by the end of a week every single thing was taken out of the cupboard, and put in its former place! They all had memories, and mother loved the memories, and cared nothing for the appearance. I was sweet about it. I wouldn't say so to anyone but you, Una, but I really was quite angelic, until one day when Amy Reeve came to call. She was staying with some friends a few miles off, and drove in to see me. You know how inquisitive Amy is, and how she stares, and takes in everything, and quizzes it afterwards? Well, my dear, she sat there, and her eyes simply roved round and round the whole time, until she must have known the furniture by heart. I suffered," sighed Lorna plaintively, "I suffered anguish! I wouldn't have minded anyone else so much—but Amy!"

I said, (properly), that Amy was a snob and an idiot, and that it mattered less than nothing what she thought, but all the time I knew that I should have felt humiliated myself, and Lorna knew it, too, but was not vexed with me for pretending the contrary, for it is only right to set a good example.

"Of course," she said, "one ought to be above such petty trials. If a friendship hangs upon chiffoniers and bead mats, it can't be worth keeping. I have told myself so ever since, but human nature is hard to kill, and I should have liked the house to look nice when Amy called! I despise myself for it, but I foresee that that room is going to be a continual trial. Its ugliness weighs upon me, and I feel self-conscious and uncomfortable every time my friends come to call, but I am not going to attempt any more changes. I wouldn't make the dear old mother cry again for fifty drawing-rooms!"

I thought it was sweet of her to talk like that, and wanted so badly to find a way out of the difficulty. I always feel there must be a way, and if one only thinks long enough it can generally be found. I sat plunged in thought, and at last the inspiration came.

"Didn't you say this room was your own to do with as you liked?"

"Yes; mother said I could have it for my den. Nobody uses it now; but, Una, it is hideous, too!"

"But it might be made pretty! It is small, and wouldn't take much furnishing. You could pick up a few odds and ends from other rooms that would not be missed."

"Oh, yes, mother wouldn't mind that, and the green felting on the floor is quite nice and new; but the paint, and the paper-saffron roses—and gold skriggles—and a light oak door! How could you possibly make anything look artistic against such a background?"

"You couldn't, and it wouldn't be much fun if you could. I've thought of something far more exciting. Lorna, let us paper and paint it ourselves! Let us go to town to-morrow, and choose the very, very most artistic and up-to-date paper that can be bought, and buy some tins of enamel, and turn workmen every morning. Oh, do! I should love it; and you were saying only an hour ago that you did not know how to amuse me in the mornings. If we did the room together you would always associate me with it, and I should feel as if it were partly mine, and be able to imagine just where you were sitting. Oh, do, Lorna! It would be such ripping sport!"

She didn't speak for a good half-minute, but just sat staring up in ecstasy of joy.

"You angel!" she cried at last. "You simple duck! How can you think of such lovely plans? Oh, Una, how have I lived without you all these months? Of course, I'll do it. I'd love to! I am never happier than when I am wrapped up in an apron with a brush in my hand. I've enamelled things before now, but never hung a paper. Do you really think we could?"

"Of course! If the British workman can do it, there can't be much skill required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any difficulty," I said grandiloquently. "All we want is a pot of paste, and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on. I've seen it done scores of times."

"So have I," said Lorna. "And doesn't the paste smell! I expect, what with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. It will spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow, but that doesn't matter."

I thought it mattered a good deal. It was all very well for her, but she wasn't staying with a friend who had an interesting grown-up brother. Even the finest natures can be inconsiderate sometimes.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

September 23rd. The next morning we went to a paperhanger's shop and asked to see the very newest and most artistic designs in stock. There were lots of lovely things, but after great discussion we decided on a thick white paper, perfectly plain, except in each corner of the room, where there was a sort of conventional rose tree, growing up about seven feet high, with outstanding branches laden with the most exquisite pink roses. The white of the background was partly tinged with blue, with here and there a soft, irregular blue like a cloud. Looking up suddenly, you might imagine you were in the open air in the midst of a rose garden, and that would be a very pleasant delusion in Onslow Square.

The salesman asked how many pieces he should send, and whether we wished it hung at once. When I said we intended to hang it ourselves, he said—

"Oh, indeed, madam!" and looked unutterable things.

We were so quelled that we did not dare to ask him about the enamel and paste as we intended, but bought those at a modest little shop further on, and went home rejoicing.

Mrs Forbes had laughed and shaken all over in the most jovial manner when we told her of our plans, but she didn't approve of the white paper and paint, because, forsooth, it would get soiled. Of course it would get soiled! Things always do sooner or later. Old people are so dreadfully prudent that they get no pleasure out of life. When this paper is shabby Lorna can get a new one, or she may be married, or dead, or half a dozen different things. It's absurd to plan years ahead. I cheered up poor Lorna, who is of a sensitive nature and easily depressed, and when she recovered asked what she thought we ought to do next.

"The first thing to settle," she said decidedly, "is Midas! He can help us in a dozen ways if he will, for he is really wonderfully handy for a boy of his age. He will do nothing unless we consult him formally, and make a definite business arrangement, but it pleases him and won't hurt us, as it will be only a few coppers. He is saving up for a motor-car at the present moment, and Wallace says that by steady attention to business he really believes he will get one by the time he is sixty."

We called Midas in and consulted him professionally. He is tall and lanky, and has pale blue eyes with long light eyelashes. You would think to look at him that he was a gentle, unworldly creature, addicted to poetry, but he isn't! He sat astride the table and viewed the landscape o'er.

"The first thing will be to take every stick of furniture out of the room, and have the carpet up. I know what girls are when they do jobs of this kind. You will be up to your eyes in paste, and it won't be safe to leave anything within touching distance. The furniture must be removed and stored. I'll store it for you in my room. Then you'll need a ladder, and some planks for the lengths of paper to lie on, while you paste 'em. I'll hire you the old shutter from the drawing-room."

"The shutters are as much mine as yours," said Lorna. "I don't need to hire them; I can have them if I want!"

"That's where you show your ignorance, my dear. They are in my possession, and I won't give them up without compensation. Then you'll need a man to assist in the hanging!"

"Say a boy at once, and name your price, and be done with it. You are a regular Shylock!"

Midas grinned as if pleased with the compliment, drew a pocket-book and a stubby end of a pencil from his pocket, and began alternately stroking his chin and jotting down words and figures. Lorna grimaced at me behind his back, but kept a stern expression for his benefit. I suppose she knew that if he saw her smile prices would go up. Presently he drew a line, tore the leaf out of the book and handed it across with a bow.

"My estimate, ladies! It is always more satisfactory to have an agreement beforehand."

I peeped over Lorna's shoulder and read—

Estimate For Proposed Renovations.

======================================== To Removal of furniture 1 9 -- Storage of same at rate of 6 pence per day 1 6 -- Restoration of same 1 9 -- Impliments 1 0 -- Man's time 1 3 -- Sundrys 6 -- 7 9 ========================================

It was quite a formidable total, but Lorna was evidently accustomed to extortionate demands, and began beating him down without delay.

"Well, of all the outrageous pieces of impudence! Seven and ninepence, indeed! You must have taken leave of your senses. If you think I am going to pay you four or five shillings for carrying a few odds and ends of furniture along the passage, you are mightily mistaken! And we should have to help you, too, for you couldn't manage alone. If we asked Wallace he'd do it at once, without any pay at all."

"Drink to me only with thine eyes!" chanted the little wretch, folding his arms and gazing fixedly at me with a life-like assumption of Wallace's attitude and expression, which sent Lorna into fits of laughter, and made me magenta with embarrassment. "If you like to wait until Wallace has time to run your errands and see you through your difficulties, you will get your room finished by Christmas—with luck! I am sorry you think my charges high, but I'm afraid I don't see my way to reduce 'em."

"Midas, don't be a goose! We will pay you twopence an hour for your time, and twopence a day for storage—that's the limit. That disposes of the first four items. As for the rest, we had better understand each other before we go any further. Kindly distinguish between implements and sundries."

"Is this an Oxford local, or is it a conversation between a brother and sister?" Midas demanded, throwing back his head, and mutely appealing to an unseen arbiter in the corner of the ceiling. "If you can't understand a simple thing like that, it doesn't say much for your education. It is easily seen you were never a plumber! I thought we were going to come to a friendly agreement, but you are so close and grasping, there is no dealing with you. Look here, will you give me half-a-crown for the job?"

I gasped with surprise at this sudden and sweeping reduction of terms, but Lorna said calmly—

"Done! A halfpenny discount if paid within the hour!" and they shook hands with mutual satisfaction.

"Cheap at the price!" was Lorna's comment, as the contractor left the room, and before the next few days were over I heartily agreed with this opinion. Midas was an ideal workman, grudging neither time nor pains to accomplish his task in a satisfactory manner. His long arms and strong wrists made light of what would have been heavy tasks for us, and the dirtier he grew the more he enjoyed it. It must be dreadful to live in a town! Lorna assured me plaintively that the room had been thoroughly spring-cleaned at Easter, but I should have thought it had happened nearer the Flood. I swallowed pecks of dust, and my hands grew raw with washing before we began to paint. I thought we should never have finished enamelling that room. The first coat made hardly any impression on the background, and we had to go over it again and again before we got anything like a good effect. To a casual observer it looked really very nice, but we knew where to look for shortcomings, and I grew hot whenever anyone looked at a certain panel in the door.

Then we set to work on the paper. First you cut it into lengths. It seems quite easy, but it isn't, because you waste yards making the patterns meet, and then you haven't enough, and you go into town to buy more, and they haven't it in stock, and it has to be ordered, and you sit and champ, and can't get any further.

Then you make the paste. It smells horrid, and do what you will, cover yourself as best you can, it gets up to the eyes! We wore two old holland skirts of Lorna's, quite short and trig, and washing shirts, and huge print wrappers; but before we had been working for an hour our fingers were glued together; then we yawned or sneezed and put our hands to our faces, and they were stickied. Then bits of hair—"tendrils" as they call them in books—fell down, and we fastened them up, and our hair got as bad. We were spectacles!

A kettle was kept on the hob, and we were continually bathing our hands in hot water, for, of course, we dared not touch the outside of the paper unless they were quite clean, and the table wanted washing before each fresh strip was laid down, as the paste had always oozed off the edges of the last piece. There is one thing sure and certain: I shall never take up paper-hanging as a profession.

The hanging itself is really rather exciting. Midas climbed to the top of the ladder and held the top of the strip in position; Lorna crouched beneath, and guided it in the way it should go, so as to meet the edge of the one before, and I stood on a chair and smoothed it down and down with a clean white cloth. Doing it with great care like this, we got no wrinkles at all, and when the first side of the room was finished, it looked so professional that we danced—literally danced—for joy.

By the end of the afternoon it was done, and so were we! Simply so tired we could hardly stand, but mentally we were full of triumph, for that room was a picture to behold. We ran out into the passage and brought in everyone we could find, servants and charwoman included. Then they made remarks, and we stood and listened.

The cook said, "My, Miss Lorna, wouldn't the pattern go round?" The charwoman said, "I like a bit of gilding meself. It looks 'andsome." The parlourmaid said, "How will the furniture look against it, miss?" which was really the nastiest hit of all; only the little Tweeny stared and flushed, and rolled her hands in her apron, and said, "All them roses on the wall! It would be like a Bank-'oliday to sit aside 'em!"

Tweeny has the soul of a poet. I bought her some flowers the very next time I went out. Wallace came in and twiddled his moustache, and said—

"By Jove, is it really done! Aren't you dead beat? I say, Miss Sackville, don't do any more to-day. It's too bad of Lorna to work you like this. I shall interfere in my professional capacity."

He was far too much engrossed in Una Sackville to have any eyes for the paper.

Mrs Forbes thought, like the cook, that it was a pity that the pattern didn't go round; and the dear old doctor tip-toed up and down, jingled the money in his pockets, and said—

"Eh, what? Eh, what? Something quite novel, eh! Didn't go in for things of this sort in my young days. Very smart indeed, my dear, very smart! Now I suppose you will be wanting some new fixings," (his hand came slowly out of his waistcoat pocket, and my hopes ran mountains high). "Mustn't spoil the ship for a penn'orth of tar, you know. There, that will help to buy a few odds and ends."

He put something into Lorna's hand; she looked at it, flushed red with delight, and hugged him rapturously round the neck. After he had gone she showed it to me with an air of triumph, and it was—half-a- sovereign! I expected several pounds, and had hard work not to show my disappointment, but I suppose ten shillings means as much to Lorna as ten pounds to me. Well, I am not at all sure that you don't get more fun out of planning and contriving to make a little money go a long way, than in simply going to a shop and ordering what you want. Lorna's worldly wealth amounted, with the half-sovereign, to seventeen and six- pence, and with this lordly sum for capital we set to work to transform the room.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

I have told all our experiences in papering the room together, because they seemed to come better that way; but, of course, lots of other things have been happening at the same time. One evening we went to a concert, and another time some friends came in after dinner, and we played games and had music. I sang a great deal, and everyone seemed to like listening, and my dress was the prettiest in the room, and all the men wanted to talk to me, and it was most agreeable.

On Sunday we went to an ugly town church, but the vicar had a fine, good face, and I liked his sermon. He seemed to believe in you, and expect you to do great things, and that is always inspiring. Some clergymen keep telling you how bad you are, and personally that puts my back up, and I begin to think I am not half so black as I am painted; but when this dear man took for granted that you were unselfish and diligent, and deeply in earnest about good things, I felt first ashamed, and then eager to try again, and fight the sins that do so terribly easily beset me. I sang the last hymn in a sort of fervour, and came out into the cool night air, positively longing for a battle in which I could win my spurs, and oh dear, dear, in ten minutes' time, before we were half-way home, I was flirting with Wallace, and talking of frivolous worldly subjects, as if I had never had a serious thought in my life!

It's so terribly hard to remember, and keep on remembering when one is young, but God must surely understand. I don't think He will be angry. He knows that deep, deep down I want most of all to be good!

Wallace is nice and kind and clever, and I like him to like me, but I could never by any possibility like him—seriously, I mean! I can't tell why; it's just one of the mysterious things that comes by instinct when you grow up to be a woman. There is a great gulf thousands of miles wide between the man you just like and the man you could love; but sometimes the man you could love doesn't want you, and it is wrong even to think of him, and then it's a temptation to be extra nice to the other one, because his devotion soothes your wounded feelings.

I suppose Miss Bruce would call it love of admiration, and wish me to snub the poor fellow, and keep him at arm's length, but I don't see why I should. It would be conceited to take for granted that he was seriously in love, and I don't see why I shouldn't enjoy myself when I get a chance. It's only fun, of course, but I do enjoy playing off little experiments upon Wallace, to test my power over him, and then to watch the result! For example, at lunch-time I express a casual wish for a certain thing, and before four o'clock it is in my possession; or I show an interest in an entertainment, and tickets appear as if by magic. It is quite exciting. I feel as if I were playing a thrilling new game.

The room is almost furnished, and it looks sweet. One can hardly believe it is the same dreary little den that I saw on that first evening. We stole, (by kind permission), one or two chairs, a writing- table, and a dear little Indian cabinet from the overcrowded drawing- room, and with some help from Midas manufactured the most scrumptious cosy-corner out of old packing-cases and cushions covered with rose- coloured brocade. We put a deep frill of the same material, mounted on a thin brass rail, on the wall above the mantelpiece, and arranged Lorna's best ornaments and nick-nacks against this becoming background. It did not seem quite appropriate to the garden idea to hang pictures on the walls, which is just as well, as she hasn't got any, but I bought her a tall green pedestal and flower-pot and a big branching palm as my contribution to the room, and as she says, "It gives the final touch of luxury to the whole." I could wish for a new fender and fire-irons, and a few decent rugs, but you can't have everything in this wicked world, and really, at night when the lamp-light sends a rosy glow through the newly-covered shade, (only muslin, but it looks like silk!) you could not wish to see a prettier room.

Lorna is awfully sweet about it. She said to me, "It was your idea, Una. I shall always feel that it was your gift, and every pleasant hour I spend here will be another link in the chain which binds us together. This visit of yours will be memorable, in more ways than one!" and she looked at me in a meaning fashion which I hated. How more ways than one, pray? I hope to goodness she is not getting any foolish notions in her head. She might know me better by this time.

I don't know why it is, but I am always depressed after a letter from home. Mother reports that there is no improvement in Vere's health, and that her spirits are variable—sometimes low, sometimes quite bright and hopeful. Mr Dudley is very good in coming to see her, and his visits always cheer her up. He asked after me last time, hoped that I was enjoying myself and would not hurry back. I am not wanted there apparently, and here they all love having me, and implore me to stay on. I wasn't sure if I wanted to, but I've decided that I will since that last letter arrived. I told Mrs Forbes this morning that I would stay a fortnight longer, and she kissed me and looked quite unreasonably relieved. I can't see how it matters much to her!

Such a curious thing happened that night, when Wallace and I were talking about books, and discussing the heroine in a novel which he had given me to read.

"Did she remind you of anyone?" he asked, and when I said "No," "Why, she is you to the life! Appearance, manner, character—everything. It might have been meant for a portrait," he declared. "I was reading it over last night, and the likeness is extraordinary."

I privately determined to read the book over again on the first opportunity to discover what I seemed like to other people. The heroine is supposed to be very pretty and charming, but personally I had thought her rather silly, so I did not know whether to feel complimented or not. I determined to introduce the subject to Lorna, and see if she could throw any light upon it, and she did! More light than I appreciated!

"Oh, I liked Nan very well," she said, "but not nearly so much as Wallace did. He simply raved about her and declared that if he ever met a girl like that in real life he should fall desperately in love with her on the spot. She is his ideal of everything that a girl should be."

"Oh!" I said blankly. For a moment I felt inclined to tell Lorna everything, but something stopped me, and I am thankful that it did. It would be so horrid to feel she was watching all the time. For once in my life I was glad when she went away, and I was left alone to think.

"Desperately in love!" Can Wallace really be that, and with me? It makes me go hot and cold just to think of it, and my heart thumps with agitation. I don't feel happy exactly, but very excited and important. I have such a lonely feeling sometimes, and I do so long for someone to love me best of all. At home, though they are all kind enough, I am always second fiddle, if not third, and it is nice to be appreciated! I could never care for Wallace in that way, but I like him to like me. It makes things interesting, and I was feeling very flat and dejected, and in need of something to cheer me up. Of course, I don't want to do anything wrong, but Wallace is so young, only twenty-four, and has no money, so he couldn't think of being married or anything silly like that; besides, I've heard it is good for boys to have a fancy for a nice girl—it keeps them steady.

In any case, I have promised to stay on for another fortnight, and I couldn't alter my mind and go away now without making a fuss, and if I stay I can't be disagreeable, so I must just behave as if Lorna had never repeated that stupid remark. I dare say, if the truth were known, Wallace has fancied himself in love with half-a-dozen girls before now, and it would be ridiculous of me to imagine anything serious. Anyway, I don't care. I have thought of nothing but other people for months back, and they don't seem to miss me a bit, but only hope I won't hurry back. I'm tired of it. Now I am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what happens!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

It is ten days since I wrote anything in this diary, and to-night, when I opened it in my misery, hoping to find some comfort in writing down my thoughts, the first thing that met my eyes were those dreadful words, "I am going to enjoy myself, and I don't care what happens." Enjoy myself, indeed! I have never been so miserable in my life. I never knew before what misery meant, even on that awful night of the fire, when we didn't know whether Vere would live or die. Troubles with which one has nothing to do, which come, as it were, straight from God, can never make one feel like this. There is no remorse in them, and no guilt, and no burning, intolerable shame.

What would Miss Bruce think of her pupil now? What would father think? What would Rachel—"the best woman in the world"—think of me to-night?

I am going to make myself write it all down, and then, if I ever try to gloss it over to myself or others in the future, this written account will be here to give me the lie. Here it is, then, bold and plain—

"I have broken a man's heart for the sake of a little fun and excitement for myself, and as a sop to my wounded vanity!"

It makes me shiver to read the words, for I did not realise the full meanness of what I was doing until the end came, and I woke with a shock to see myself as I really am. All these last ten days I have been acting a part to myself as well as to others, pretending to be unconscious of danger, but I knew—oh, I knew perfectly well! I think a girl must always know when a man loves her. I knew it by the tone of Wallace's voice, by the light in his eyes, by the change which came over his looks and manner the moment I appeared. It was like a game, a horrible new game which fascinated me against my will, and I could not bear to end it. Every night when I said my prayers I determined to turn over a new leaf next day, but when the next day came I put on my prettiest clothes and did my hair the way he liked it best, and sang his favourite songs, and was all smiles and sweetness. Oh, what a Pharisee I am! In this very book I have denounced Vere for her flirtations and greed of admiration, and then I have succumbed to the very first temptation, without so much as a struggle. I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again. I feel too contemptible to live.

Last night things came to a crisis. Wallace and Lorna and I went to a party given by some intimate family friends. Wallace had asked me in the morning what colour I was going to wear, and just before dinner he came into the drawing-room and presented me with a spray of the most lovely pink roses. I think he expected to find me alone, but the whole family was assembled, and it was most embarrassing to see how seriously they took it. At home we have loads of flowers in the conservatories, but sometimes one of Vere's admirers sends her a lot of early violets, or lilies of the valley, great huge boxes which must cost a small fortune, but no one thinks anything of it, or pays any attention beyond a casual remark. Here, however, it was different.

"Roses!" ejaculated Lorna, in a tone of awe-stricken astonishment.

Midas whistled softly, and Mrs Forbes looked first at Wallace and then at me—in a wistful, anxious kind of way, which made me feel inclined to run home on the spot. I determined to make some excuse and depart suddenly some day soon, while Wallace was out on his rounds, but it was too late. I was not allowed to escape so easily as that.

During the evening Wallace took me into the conservatory to see the flowers, and it was not my fault that everyone went out and left us alone. I tried to be cold and chilling, but that only made him anxious to discover what was wrong.

"It is my fault! I know quite well it is my fault," he cried, bending over me, his face so drawn and puckered with anxiety that he looked quite old. "I am a stupid, blundering fellow, and you have been an angel to be so sweet and forbearing. I am not fit to come near you, but I would rather cut off my right hand than hurt you in any way. You know that, don't you, Una?"

He had never called me Una before, and he looked so different from the calm, complacent youth I had known a few weeks before—so much older and more formidable, that it was difficult to believe it could be the same person. I was frightened, but tried hard to appear cool and self- possessed.

"I am not vexed at all. On the contrary, I am enjoying myself very much. The flowers are lovely. I always—"

It was no use. He seized my hand, and cried pleadingly—

"Don't put me off, Una; don't trifle with me. It's too serious for that. You are cold to me to-night, and it has come to this, that I cannot live when you are not kind. What has changed you since this afternoon? Were you vexed with me for bringing you those roses?"

"Not in the least, so far as I am concerned; but your people seemed astonished. It made me feel a little awkward."

He looked at once relieved and puzzled. "But they know!" he cried. "They know quite well. They would not be astonished at my giving you anything. Has Lorna never told you that she knows?"

"I really fail to understand what there is to know," I said, sitting up very straight and stiff, looking as haughty and unapproachable as I possibly could. It was coming very close. I knew it, though I never had the experience before, and I would have given anything in the world to escape. Oh, how can girls like to have proposals from men whom they don't mean to accept? How can they bring themselves to boast of them as if they were a triumph and a pride? I never felt so humiliated in my life as I did when I sat there and listened to Wallace's wild words.

"What is there to know? Only that I love you with all my heart and strength—that I have loved you ever since the moment I first saw your sweet face. You did not seem like a stranger, for I had been waiting for you all my life. Oh, Una, these few weeks have been like a dream of happiness. I never knew what it was to live before. You are so—"

I haven't the heart to repeat all the praises the poor fellow lavished upon me while I sat listening in an agony of shame, feeling more and more miserable every moment, as I realised that, in spite of his agitation, he was by no means despondent as to the result of his wooing. He seemed more anxious to assure me of his devotion than to question me about mine, as if he imagined that my coldness was caused by pique or jealousy. I drew away my hands, and tried to stop him by vague murmurs of dissent, but it was no use, he only became more eager and determined.

"We all love you, Una. My mother thinks you the most charming girl she has ever met. She was speaking of you to me only last night; she feels naturally a little sad, poor mother! to know that she is no longer the first consideration to her boy, but she quite understands. And the pater, too—he is in love with you himself. Who could help it, darling?"

"Oh, stop, stop! I can't bear it. You must not talk like that," I cried desperately. "You are taking everything for granted, and it is impossible, quite impossible. I don't want to marry anyone. I'm too young. I must wait for years before I can even think of such a thing."

He looked actually relieved, instead of disappointed, as my words evidently removed one big difficulty from his path.

"I couldn't ask you to marry me yet, dearest. I have my way to make, and could not provide a home that would be worthy of you for some years to come; but as you say, we are both young, and can afford to wait; and oh, Una, I could work like ten men with such a prospect to inspire me. I will get on for your sake; it is in me, I know it is—I shall succeed!"

"I hope you may, I'm sure," I said, nearly crying with agitation and misery. "But you must not think of me. I have nothing to do with it. I like you very much, but I couldn't marry you now or ever—I never thought of such a thing—it's quite impossible. You must, please, please, never speak of it again!"

Even then he wouldn't understand, but preferred to think that I was shy, nervous, coy—anything rather than simply and absolutely truthful. He began again in a humble, pleading voice, which tore my heart.

"I know it seems presumption to ask so much. I am an insignificant nobody, and you might marry anyone you liked. In every sense of the word but one I am a wretched match for you, but love counts for something, and you will never find anyone to love you more. I'd give my very life to serve you, and I will give it, if you will trust yourself to me! My father was no older than I am when he became engaged, and he told me only the other day that he looked back on that hour as the beginning of his success. He would be glad to see me engaged also."

"Have you spoken about me to him, then, as well as to your mother?" I demanded testily. I felt so guilty about my own conduct that it was a relief to be able to find fault with someone else, and I worked myself up into quite a show of indignation. "You must have made very sure of my answer to be ready to discuss me in such a general fashion. It would have been more courteous to wait until you had my permission. You have placed us both in a most awkward position, for, as I said before, I could never marry you. It is quite impossible. I like you very much, but not in that way. Let us be friends, and forget everything else. We were so happy as we were—it is such a pity to spoil it all like this."

"Spoil it!" he repeated blankly. He had grown quite white while I was speaking, and his eyes had a dazed, startled expression. "Does it spoil things for you, Una, to know that I love you? But you have known that for a long time—everyone in the house found it out, and you could not have helped seeing it, too. You say I have made too sure of you. Forgive me, darling, but if I have done so it is only because I know you are too sweet and good to encourage a man when there was no hope. I am more sorry than I can say if I have annoyed you by speaking to my parents, but the mater naturally spoke to me when she saw how things were going, and I had to consult my father about ways and means. Una, darling, you don't mean it. You can't mean to break my heart after leading me on all these weeks?"

"I never led you on!" I cried vainly. "I was only nice to you as I would have been to anyone else. I knew you liked me; but everyone who is kind and attentive does not want to marry one as a matter of course. It would be horrid to expect it. Lorna is my friend, and you are her brother, so of course—"

He looked me full in the face and said slowly—

"It will be difficult to believe—but if you will tell me just once quite simply and plainly, I will take your word, Una. Don't protest, please—tell me truthfully, once for all: did you, or did you not, know I loved you with all my heart?"

I wanted to say "No." In a sense I could have said it truthfully enough, for I had no definite knowledge, but I remembered what Lorna had told me about the heroine in the novel; I remembered Mrs Forbes's wistful manner, and oh, a dozen little incidents too small to be written down, when Wallace's own manner had told the truth only too plainly. He was staring at me, poor boy, with his wan, miserable eyes, and I could not tell a lie. I began to cry in a feeble, helpless kind of way, and faltered out, "I—I thought you did, but I couldn't be sure. You know I couldn't be sure, and it was only for a little while! I am going home so soon that I didn't think it could matter."

He leant forward, leaning his head on his hands.

"Shall I tell you how much it matters?" he asked huskily. "It matters just this, that you have spoilt my life! There was not a happier, more contented fellow living than I was—before you came. I loved my work, and loved my home. I intended to succeed in my profession, and the future was full of interest. I would not have changed places with any man on earth. Now!" he held out his right hand and snapped his fingers expressively, "it is over; the zest is out of it all if you are not there. If I had met you anywhere else it might have been easier, but you have come right into the middle of my life, and if I would I shall not be able to forget you. Every morning when I come down to breakfast I shall look across the table and imagine you sitting facing me; I shall see you wherever I go—like a ghost—in every room in the house, in everything I do. That is the price I have to pay for your amusement. You have made a fool of me, you whom I thought the type of everything that was true and womanly. You knew that I loved you, but it didn't matter to you what I suffered. You were going home soon—you would not see it. It didn't matter!"

"No, no, no!" I cried in agony. "It isn't true. I am bad enough, but not a heartless monster. I will tell you the whole truth. I was miserable myself when I came here; ill and tired out, and sore because— because they didn't care for me at home as much as I wanted. I always want people to like me. I did at school—Lorna will tell you that I did; and when you were nice to me it cheered me up, and made me happy again. I never dreamt that it was serious until a little time ago—last week—and even then I did not think you could possibly want to marry me—you were too young—you had no home—"

"No, that is true. I am no match for Miss Sackville. I was a fool to forget it. Thank you for reminding me," he interrupted bitterly.

Poor boy—oh, poor boy, he looked so miserable—it made me ache to see his white, changed face. He looked so handsome, too; so much more of a man than he had ever done before. I looked at him and wondered why it was that I could not care for him as he wished. Had I been too hasty in deciding that it was impossible? He wanted me, and no one else did; and it would be nice to be engaged and have someone to love me best of all. Perhaps I should grow to love him too; I always do like people who like me; and Lorna would be so pleased. She would be my real sister, and could come and stay with me in my own home. I was so upset and miserable, so stung by Wallace's taunt about his poverty, that I was just in the mind to be reckless. His hand lay limply by his side, and in a sudden gush of tenderness and pity I slid my arm beneath it and said softly, "Don't be cross with me! I never thought for one moment if you were poor or rich. That doesn't matter a bit. If I have made you miserable, I am miserable too. If you want me to be engaged to you—I will, and I'll try to like you. Please, please do not look like that! If I promise it will be all right, and you will forgive me for being so thoughtless, won't you, Wallace?"

He turned his head and stared at me steadily. The anger died out of his face, but he looked dreadfully sad.

"Poor Una," he said, "how little you understand! Do you think I am such a cad as to accept such an offer as that? I love you and want you to be happy, not miserable as you would certainly be if you were engaged to a man you had to 'try to like.' Thank you for the offer all the same. It will comfort me a little to remember that at any rate you felt kindly towards me. It is no use saying any more. My dream is over, and I shall have to bear the awakening as well as I can. A fellow cannot expect to have everything his own way. I don't want to whine. Shall we go back to the house?"

"In a minute—one minute—only tell me first that you forgive me, and if there is nothing at all that I can do to help you, and show how wretchedly, wretchedly sorry I am!"

"Forgive you?" he repeated sadly. "I love you, Una. I can forgive you, I expect, a good deal more easily than you will forgive yourself. Yes, there is something you can do—if you ever discover that another poor fellow is in love with you—and you are the sort of girl whom men will love—remember me and spare him this experience. Don't go on being 'nice' to him. That kind of niceness is the worst form of cruelty."

I hung my head and could not answer. To think that "that boy," as I had contemptuously called him, should have behaved in such a manly, generous fashion! I felt utterly ashamed and despicable. It was he who is a thousand times too good for me!



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

We were very silent driving home in the brougham, and I refused to go into Lorna's room, as I always did before going to bed, saying that I was too tired to talk. She looked anxious, but did not try to persuade me. I afterwards learnt that she went to Wallace instead, and sat up with him for the greater part of the night.

I lay wide awake tossing and crying until five o'clock, when I fell asleep, and did not wake until nine. Lorna did not come to see me, and, though I dreaded her coming, I felt miserable because she stayed away. Every single morning she had come into my room and hugged and kissed me, and we had walked down to breakfast arm-in-arm. She must have been very, very angry to omit that ceremony!

I took a long time to dress, for I wanted Wallace to be safely started on his rounds before appearing downstairs, and at last, just as I was feeling that I could not respectably linger another moment, the door opened, and there, at last, stood Lorna.

She had been crying dreadfully. I could see that at a glance, for the eyelids were swollen and puffy, just as they used to be the first morning after our return to school. Mine were swollen, too, and we stood staring miserably at each other, but not approaching a step nearer, until at last she said coldly—

"Mother sent me upstairs to ask if you would prefer to have your breakfast in bed. She thought you were not up."

"Oh, yes, I have been waiting. Lorna, don't look at me like that!" I cried desperately. "I'm miserable too, and you ought not to turn against me—you are my friend."

"Wallace is my brother," said Lorna simply. Her lip quivered. "I sat up with him until four o'clock this morning. He has always been such a happy, cheerful boy. I did not know he could be so miserable. If you could have seen and heard him talk, you would have felt broken-hearted for him—even you!"

"Even you!" I repeated reproachfully. "Am I a monster, Lorna, that you talk to me like that? Can't you understand that I feel a hundred times worse than you can possibly do? I never, never thought that when I was in trouble you would be the first person to turn against me."

"Neither did I. I have been too fond of you, Una. I admired you so much, and was so proud of having you for my friend that I have been unjust to other people for your sake. I often took your part at school when I knew you were in the wrong, simply because I was afraid of making you angry. It was cowardly of me, and this is my reward! Oh, Una, you say you are sorry, but you knew it was coming! You are too clever not to have seen it long ago. If it had been another man I should have spoken out, but a brother is almost like oneself, so one can't interfere. But I hinted—you know I hinted, Una—and I saw by your face that you understood. If you didn't care for him, why didn't you go home when it was first arranged? We all took it as a good sign when you agreed to stay on, and Wallace was so happy about it. Poor boy! He will never be happy again. He says he will go abroad, and father has been looking forward all these years to his help. It will break his heart if he loses Wallace!"

Everyone was broken-hearted, it seemed, and they all blamed me, and said it was my fault. I felt inclined to jump out of the window, and put an end to it at once. I did turn towards it, and I must have looked pretty desperate, for Lorna came forward quickly, and took hold of me by the arm.

"Come down and talk to mother. She is all alone, and she is old and will understand better than I do. Oh, Una, I shall always love you! I shan't be able to help it, whatever you have done. I didn't mean to be unkind, but I am—so—miserable!"

I gripped her hand, but couldn't speak; we were both struggling not to cry all the way downstairs, and I couldn't eat any breakfast; I felt as if I could never eat again. Mrs Forbes came into the room just as I left the table, and Lorna went out at once, as if by a previous arrangement. It was awful! Mrs Forbes looked so old and ill and worried, and she was so kind. I could have borne it better if she had been cross to me.

"Sit down, dear. Come close to the fire, your hands feel cold," she said, pushing me gently into an easy chair, and poking the coals into a blaze. "You and I want a little talk to each other, I think, and we shall be quite uninterrupted here. My poor boy has told me of his disappointment, but, indeed, he did not need to tell me. I could see what had happened by his face. I am very disappointed, too. I thought he would have very different news to tell me, and I should have been very happy to welcome you as a daughter. We have known you by name for so many years that you did not seem like a stranger even when you first arrived, and we have been very happy together these five weeks—"

"Oh, very happy! I have had a lovely time. I shall never forget how happy I have been."

She looked at me anxiously, her eyebrows knitted together.

"Then if you have been so happy, I do not see why— Let us speak out, dear, and understand each other thoroughly. My boy and I have always been close friends, and if I am to be of help or comfort to him now I must understand how this trouble has come about. Wallace is not conceited—he has a very modest estimation of his own merits, but he seems to have expected a different answer. Sometimes in these affairs young people misunderstand each other, and little sorenesses arise, which a few outspoken words can smooth away. If I could act as peacemaker between you two, I should be very thankful. My children's happiness is my first consideration nowadays. If there is anything I can do, just tell me honestly. Speak out as you would to your own mother."

But I had nothing to tell. I shook my head, and faltered nervously—

"No, there is nothing—we have had no quarrels. I like Wallace very much, oh, very much indeed, but not—I could never—I couldn't be anything more than his friend."

"Is there then someone else whom you care for?"

There were several people, but I couldn't exactly say so to her—it seemed so rude. Wallace was a nice, kind boy, but he couldn't compare for interest with—Jim Carstairs, for instance, dear, silent, loyal, patient Jim, who gives all, and asks nothing in return, or even jolly little Mr Nash, who is always happy and smiling, and trying to make other people happy. I like them both better than Wallace, to say nothing of— And then a picture rose before me of a tall, lean figure dressed in a tweed shooting-suit, of a sunburnt face, out of which looked blue eyes, which at one moment would twinkle with laughter, and at the next grow stern and grave and cold. They could soften, too, and look wonderfully tender. I had seen them like that just once or twice when he looked at me, and said, "Una!" and at the remembrance, for some stupid reason the blood rushed to my face, and there I sat blushing, blushing, blushing, until my very ears tingled with heat.

I said nothing, and Mrs Forbes said nothing, but looking up at the end of a horrid silence, I saw that her face had entirely changed in expression since I had seen it last. All the softness had left it; she looked the image of wounded dignity.

"I understand! There is nothing more to say, then, except that if you were so very sure of your own feelings, I cannot understand how it is that you have allowed the matter to get this length. I am thankful to know that my boy's principles are strong enough to prevent his disappointment doing him any real harm. It might have been very different with many young men. At the best it is a hard thing for us to see his young life clouded, and you will understand that it is our duty to protect him from further suffering. You will not think me inhospitable if I suggest that your visit had better come to an end at once."

My cheeks burnt. It was humiliation indeed to be told to go in that summary fashion, but I knew I deserved it, and I should have been thankful to leave that very moment.

"I will go to-day. There is a train at one o'clock. I can send a telegram from the station, and tell mother I am coming. I will go up- stairs now and pack," I cried, and she never protested a bit, but said quite quietly that she would order a cab to take me to the station. Talk about feeling small! I simply cringed as I went out of that room.

————————————————————————————————————

The carriage was waiting for me at the station at the end of a miserable journey, but no one was in it. I had hoped that father would come to meet me. I could have spoken to him, and he would have understood. John said he was out for the day with a shooting-party, and when I reached the house another disappointment awaited me, for I was met by an announcement that mother also had been obliged to go out to keep an engagement.

"She hopes to be home by five o'clock," said the servant. "Miss Vere and Lady Mary are in the blue sitting-room. Mr Dudley has just come to call."

I had forgotten that Lady Mary was staying at the house, and it made me feel as if I were more superfluous than ever, for Vere would not need me when she had her best friend at hand, and, somehow or other, Will Dudley was just the last person in the world I wanted to see just then. There was nothing for it, however; I had to go upstairs and stand the horrible ordeal of being cross-questioned about my unexpected return.

"Don't tell me it is an outbreak of small-pox!" cried Lady Mary, huddling back in her chair, and pretending to shudder at my approach. "That's the worst of staying in a doctor's house—you simply court infection! If it's anything interesting and becoming, you may kiss me as usual, but if it's small-pox or mumps, I implore you to keep at the other end of the room! I'm not sure that mumps wouldn't be the worse of the two. I can't endure to look fat!"

"Has Lorna turned out a villain in disguise? Have you quarrelled and bidden each other a tragic farewell?" asked Vere laughingly.

She looked thinner than ever, but her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes as bright as stars. As for Will Dudley, he stared at the pattern of the carpet, and his eyebrows twitched in the impatient way I know so well. I think he saw that I was really in trouble, and was vexed with the girls for teasing me.

"Thank you, everyone was quite well when I left. You need not be afraid of infection, and Lorna is nicer than ever. We have certainly not quarrelled."

"Then why this thusness?" asked Lady Mary, and Vere burst into a laugh.

"Scalps, Babs, scalps! I see it all! My mind misgave me as soon as I heard of the fascinating Wallace. And was it really so serious that you had to fly at a moment's notice?"

I simply got up and marched out of the room. It was too much to bear. I sat in my own room all alone for over an hour, and hated everybody. Oh, I was miserable!

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11 PM. I have been thinking seriously over things, and have decided to put away this diary, and not write in it any more for six months or a year. It will be better so, for at present I am in such a wretched, unsettled state of mind that what I write would not be edifying, but only painful to read in time to come.

I've been reading over the first few pages to-night, and they seem written by quite a different person—a happy, self-confident, complacent Una, who felt perfectly satisfied of coming triumphantly through any and every situation. This Una is a very crestfallen, humble-minded creature, who knows she has failed, and dreads failing again; but I want to be good, through it all I long to be good! O dear God, who loves me, and understands, take pity on me, and show me the way!



CHAPTER TWENTY.

June 15th. To-day the first roses have opened in the garden, the rose-garden at the Moat; for we came home two months ago, and are still luxuriating in the old haunts and the new rooms, which are as beautiful as money and mother's beautiful taste can make them. I felt a sort of rush of happiness as I buried my face in the cool, fragrant leaves, and, somehow or other, a longing came over me to unearth this old diary, and write the history of the year.

It has been a long, long winter. We spent three months in Bournemouth for Vere's sake, taking her to London to see the specialist on our way home. He examined her carefully, and said that spinal troubles were slow affairs, that it was a great thing to keep up the general health, that he was glad we had been to Bournemouth, and that no doubt the change home would also be beneficial. Fresh air, fresh air—live as much in the fresh open air as possible during the summer— Then he stopped, and Vere looked at him steadily, and said—

"You mean that I am worse?"

"My dear young lady, you must not be despondent. Hope on, hope ever! You can do more for yourself than any doctor. These things take time. One never knows when the turn may come," he said, reeling off the old phrases which we all knew so well—oh, so drearily well—by this time.

Vere closed her eyes and turned her head aside with the saddest, most pitiful little smile. She has been very good on the whole, poor dear, during the winter—less cynical and hard in manner, though she still refuses to speak of her illness, and shrinks with horror from anything like pity.

The night after that doctor's visit I heard a muffled sound from her room next door to mine, and crept in to see what was wrong. She was sobbing to herself, great, gasping, heart-broken sobs, the sound of which haunt me to this day, and when I put my arms round her, instead of shaking me off, she clung to me with the energy of despair.

"What is it, darling?" I asked, and she panted out broken sentences.

"The doctor! I have been longing to see him; I thought I was better, that he would be pleased with my progress, but it's no use—I can see it is no use! He has no hope. I shall be like this all my life. Babs, think of it! I am twenty-three, and I may live until I am seventy— upon this couch! Oh, I shall go mad—I am going mad—I can't bear it a moment longer. The last ten months have seemed like a life-time, but if it goes on year after year; oh, Babs, year after year until I am old—an old, old woman with grey hair and a wizened face, left alone, with no one to care for me! Oh, yes, yes, I know what you would say, but father and mother will be dead, and you will be married in a home of your own, and Spencer very likely at the other end of the world, and—"

"And Jim?" I asked quietly.

"Ah, poor Jim! He must marry, too; it isn't fair to let him wreck his life. He does love me, poor fellow, but no one else does nowadays. Men don't like invalids. They are sorry for them, and pity them. Will Dudley, for instance—he only comes to see me as a charity—because I am ill, and need amusing—"

"He is engaged to another girl, Vere. Surely you don't want him to come for love?"

She flushed a little, but her face set in the old defiant fashion, and she said obstinately—

"He would have loved me if I had been well! Rachel Greaves will never satisfy him. He cares for her as a sister rather than as a wife. If I were well again, and gay and bright as I used to be—"

"He would care for you less than he does now. You don't understand, Vere; but I am certain that Mr Dudley will never desert Rachel for another girl. He may not be passionately in love with her, perhaps it is not his nature to be demonstrative, but he has an intense admiration for her character, and would rather die than disappoint her in any way."

"You seem to know a great deal about it. How can you be sure that you understand him better than I do?" she asked sharply, and I could only say in reply—

"I don't know; but I am sure! I think one understands some people by instinct, and he and I were friends from the moment we met. Besides, I know Rachel better than you do, and had more opportunity of watching her life at home. I say her life, but she has practically no life of her own—it is entirely given up for others. Think what she gives up, Vere! She could have been married years ago, and had a happy home of her own, but she won't leave her father, though he is so cross and disagreeable that most people would be thankful to get away. She has the dullest, most monotonous time one can imagine, and hardly ever sees Will alone; but she is quite happy—not resigned, not forbearing nor any pretence like that, but really and truly and honestly happy. I call it splendid! There are lots of people in the world who have hard things to bear, and who bear them bravely enough, but they are not happy in doing it. Rachel is—that's the wonderful thing about her!"

"I wonder if she could make me happy. I wonder if she could tell me how to like lying here!" said poor Vere with a sob, and the idea must have grown in her mind, for a week after our return home she said suddenly, "I want to see Rachel Greaves!" and nothing would satisfy her but that she must be invited forthwith.

Rachel came. I had not seen her for some months, and I thought she looked thin and pale.

As we went upstairs together our two figures were reflected in the big mirror on the first landing—one all grey and brown, the other all white, and pink, and gold. I felt ashamed and uncomfortable at the contrast in our appearance, but Rachel didn't; not a bit! She just looked round at me, and beamed in the sweetest way, and said—

"You are more like a flower than ever, Una! It is nice to see you again!" and she meant it, every word. She really is too good to live!

I took her to Vere's room, and was going to leave them alone, but Vere called me back, and made me stay. She said afterwards that she wanted me to hear what was said, so that I could remind her of anything which she forgot. There was only half an hour before tea, so Vere lost no time in stupid trivialities.

"I sent for you to come to see me, Rachel, because I wanted particularly to ask you a question. I have been ill nearly a year now, and I get no better. I am beginning to fear I shall never get better, but have to be like this all my life. I have lain here with that thought to keep me company until I can bear it no longer. I feel sometimes as if I am going out of my senses. I must find something to help me, or it may really come to that in the end. I keep up pretty well during the day, for I hate being pitied, and that keeps me from breaking down in public; but the nights—the long, long endless nights! Nobody knows what I endure in the nights! You are so good—everyone says you are so good— tell me how to bear it and not mind! Tell me what I am to do to grow patient and resigned!"

"Dear Vere, I have never been tried as you are. I have had only one or two short illnesses in my life—I have never known the weariness and disappointment—"

"No, but you have other trials. You have so much to bear, and it is so dull and wretched for you all the time," interrupted Vere quickly, too much engrossed in her own affairs to realise that it was not the most polite thing in the world to denounce another girl's surroundings. As for Rachel, she opened her eyes in purest amazement that anyone should imagine she needed pity.

"I? Oh, you are mistaken—quite, quite mistaken. I have the most happy home. Everyone is good and kind to me; I have no troubles, except seeing dear father's sufferings; and so many blessings—so much to be thankful for!"

"You mean your engagement? Mr Dudley is charming, and I am sure you are fond of him, but you can't be married while your father lives, and— and—one never knows what may happen. Suppose—changes came—"

Vere stopped short in the middle of her sentence, and, by a curious impulse, Rachel turned suddenly and looked at me. Our eyes met, and the expression in hers—the piteous, shrinking look—made me rush hotly into the breach.

"You are talking nonsense, Vere! You don't know Mr Dudley as Rachel does. You don't understand his character."

"No," said Rachel proudly, "you don't understand. It is quite possible that we may never marry—many things might happen to prevent that, but Will would never do anything that was mean and unworthy. The changes, whatever they were, could not affect my love for him, and it is that that makes my happiness—"

"Loving him! Not his loving you! Rachel, are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure. Think just for a moment, and you will see that it must be so. It is pleasant to be loved, but if you do not love in return you must still feel lonely and dissatisfied at heart. If you love, you care so much, so very, very much for the other's welfare, that there is simply no time left to remember yourself; or, if you did, what does it matter? What would anything matter so long as he were well and happy?"

Her face glowed with earnestness and enthusiasm—what a contrast from Vere's fretful, restless expression, which always seems asking for something more, something she has not got, something she cannot even understand. Even Vere realised the difference, and her fingers closed over Rachel's hand with an eloquent pressure. Vere never does things by halves, and even her apologies are graceful and pretty.

"Ah, Rachel," she said, "I see how foolish I was to expect you to answer my question in a few short words. We speak different languages, you and I, and I can't even understand your meaning. I wish I could, Rachel—I wish I could! The old life is out of reach, and there is nothing left to take its place. Can't you teach me your secret to help me along?"

Rachel flushed all over her face and neck. Now that she was asked a direct question she was obliged to answer, but her voice was very shy and quiet, as if the subject were almost too sacred to be discussed.

"I think the secret lies in the way we look at life—whether we want our own way, or are content to accept what God sends. If we love and trust Him, we know that what He chooses must be best, and with that knowledge comes rest, and the end of the struggle—"

"Ah," sighed Vere, "but it's not the end with me! I believe it, too, with my head, but when the pain comes on, and the sleepless nights, and the unbearable restlessness that is worst of all—I forget! I can't rest, I can't trust, it is all blackness and darkness. I must be very wicked, for even when I try hardest I fail."

"Dear Vere," said Rachel softly, "don't be too hard on yourself! When people are tired and worn with suffering they are not responsible for all they say and do. I know that with my own dear father. When he is cross and unreasonable we are not angry, we understand and pity, and try to comfort him, and if we feel like that, poor imperfect creatures as we are, what must God be, Who is the very heart of love! He is your kindest judge, dear, for He knows how hard it is to bear."

"Thank you!" whispered Vere brokenly. She put her hand up to her face, and I could see her tremble. She could not bear any more agitation just then, so I signalled to Rachel, and we gradually turned the conversation to ordinary topics.

Eventually Will arrived, and we had tea and some rather strained small talk, for Vere was quiet and absent-minded, and somehow or other Will rarely speaks to me directly nowadays. He is always perfectly nice and polite, but he does avoid me. I don't think he likes me half as much as he did at first.

How suddenly things happen in life! At the moment when you expect it least, the scene changes, and the whole future is changed. As we were sipping our tea and eating cakes, Burrows, the parlourmaid, opened the door, and announced in her usual expressionless voice—

"If you please, marm, a messenger has come to request Miss Greaves to return home at once. Mr Greaves has had a sudden stroke—"

We all stood up quickly, all save poor Vere, who has to be still whatever happens. Rachel turned very white, and Will went up to her, and took her hand in his. He looked at me, and I guessed what he meant, and said quickly—

"The motor-car! It shall come round at once, and you will be home in five minutes. I'll go round to the stables!"

I rushed off, thankful to be able to help, and to put off thinking as long as possible, but even as I ran the thought flew through my head. A stroke! That was serious—very serious in Mr Greaves's weakened condition. I could tell from Burrows' manner that the message had been urgent. Perhaps even now the end of the long suffering was at hand— the end of something else, too; of what had seemed an hour ago a practically hopeless engagement!



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

August 12th. It is a long time since I opened this diary, for I have grown out of the habit of writing, and it is difficult to get into it again.

Mr Greaves died the very night of his seizure, and immediately after his funeral Mrs Greaves collapsed and has been an invalid ever since. It seemed as if she had kept up to the very limit of her endurance, for as soon as the strain was over her nerves gave way in a rush, and instead of the gentle, self-controlled creature which she has been all her life, she is now just a bundle of fancies, tears and repinings. It is hard on Rachel, but she bears it like an angel, and is always patient and amiable. I wondered at first if she and Will would marry soon and take Mrs Greaves to live with them; I asked Rachel about it one day when we were having a quiet chat, and she answered quite openly:

"Will wished it. He thought he could help me to cheer mother, but she won't hear of it for the next twelve months at least, and, of course, I must do as she prefers. We have waited so long that another year cannot make much difference."

I wondered if Will were of the same opinion, but did not dare to ask him. As I said before, he avoids me nowadays and does not seem to care to talk to me alone. Perhaps it is better so, but I can't help being sorry. I have wondered sometimes if the dull, aching feeling which I have when he passes me by is anything like what poor Wallace Forbes felt about me. If it is, I am even more sorry for Wallace than before. Of course, I am not in love with Will—I couldn't be, for he is engaged to Rachel, and I have known it from the first, but I can't help thinking about him, and watching for him, and feeling happy if he comes, and wretched if he stays away. And I know his face by heart and just how it looks on every occasion. His eyes don't twinkle nearly so much as they did; he is graver altogether, except sometimes when I have a mad mood and set myself to make him frisky too. I can always succeed, but I don't try often, for I fancy Rachel doesn't like it. She can't frisk herself, poor dear, and it must feel horrid to feel left out in the cold by your very own fiance. I should hate it myself.