"You're in a brown study, ma. How much longer are you going to stay in the boat? We have all landed."

"Good gracious! mercy mother! Help me out quick, Sophy, quick! Bee, Beatrice, come and lend me your hand. You are bigger than my girls, and my legs are always a little unsteady in a boat. Oh, not you, Captain Bertram, I beg, I pray. You just go on with Matty to the house, and we'll follow presently. Go on like a good man, and don't bother yourself."

Here she winked broadly at Beatrice, who started and colored.

"I don't want to keep him back," she said, in a broad whisper to the young lady, who was helping her to alight on the steps. "He's over head and ears, and I thought we would give them their chance. You stay close to me, lovey. What a fine strong arm you have! There! Alice hasn't a bit of gumption—as if Matty wanted Alice to walk with her! Alice, come back and help your mother. I'm quite giddy from the motion of the water. Come back, child, I say!"

But it was not Alice who turned. Captain Bertram, with the most gracious gallantry, proffered his arm to the fat old lady, and while he helped her to the house looked again and again at Beatrice.



CHAPTER XIV.

AT HER GATES.

Mr. Bell was as thin as his wife was fat, and as quiet and unassuming as she was bumptious and talkative. On the occasion of this memorable supper he very nearly drove his better half into fits by his utter want of observation.

"It's that that worries me in Bell," the good woman was often heard to say. "When a thing is as plain as the nose on his face he won't see it. And not all my hints will make him see it. Hints!—You might hint forever to Bell, and he wouldn't know what you were driving at."

These remarks Mrs. Bell had made, times without number, concerning her spouse, but never had ehe more cause to give utterance to them than on the present occasion. For just when the whole party were seated at supper, and she by the boldest manoeuvres had placed Captain Bertram next to herself by the coffee-tray, and had planted Matty at his other side, so that he was in a measure hemmed in, and if he did not talk to Matty had no one to fall back on but herself, who, of course, would quickly, using the metaphor of battledore and shuttlecock, toss him back to her daughter—having arranged all this, what should Bell do but put his foot in it?

"Captain Bertram," he called in his thin voice across the table, "I hope you enjoyed your row, and I'm proud to see you at my humble board. But come up here, my good young sir; you're quite smothered by the missis and the teacups. We have fine room at this end, haven't we, Beatrice? You come away up here, Captain Bertram, where you'll have room to use your elbows; the missis mustn't keep you to herself altogether, that ain't fair play."

"Oh, we're as comfortable as possible, Peter," almost screamed Mrs. Bell.

But in vain. The captain was too acute a person not to seize this opportunity. He said a courteous word or two to Mrs. Bell, apologized for having already crowded her, smiled at Matty, and then with a light heart seated himself beside Beatrice.

After this, matters seemed to go wrong as far as the Bells were concerned. It is true that after supper Beatrice called Matty to her side, and looked over a photographic album with her, and tried hard to draw her into the gay conversation and to get her to reply to the light repartee which Captain Bertram so deftly employed. But, alas for poor Matty she had no conversational powers; she was only great at interjections, at ceaseless giggling, and at violent and uncontrollable fits of blushing. Even Beatrice felt a sense of repulsion at the very open way in which Matty played her innocent cards. Matty was in love, and she showed it by voice, look and gesture. Beatrice tried to shield her, she was mortified for her, and felt a burning sense of resentment against the captain.

In spite, however, of the resentment of the one girl, and the too manifest admiration of the other, this hero managed to have pretty much his own way. Beatrice had to reply to his sallies, she was forced to meet his eyes; now and then even he drew a smile from her.

When the time came for Miss Meadowsweet to go home, Albert Bell was eagerly summoned to accompany her.

"This is unnecessary," said the captain; "I will see Miss Meadowsweet back to the Gray House."

"Oh, now, Captain! Bee, don't you think it's really too much for him?"

"Of course I don't, dear Mrs. Bell," said Beatrice, stopping the good lady's lips with a kiss; "but Albert shall come too, so that I shall be doubly escorted."

She nodded and smiled to her hostess, and Mrs. Bell felt a frantic desire to send Matty with her brother, but some slight sense of decorum prevented her making so bare-faced a suggestion.

Albert Bell was very proud to walk with Beatrice, and Captain Bertram felt proportionately sulky. To Albert's delight, who wanted to confide his own love affairs to Bee, the captain said good-night at the top of the High Street.

"As you have an escort I won't come any further," he said. "When are we to see you again? Will you come to the Manor to-morrow?"

"I don't know," said Beatrice, "I've made no plans for to-morrow."

"Then come to us; Catherine told me to ask you. Our tennis court is in prime order. Do come; will you promise?"

"I won't quite promise, but I'll come if I can."

"Thanks; we shall look out for you."

He shook hands, gave her an earnest glance, nodded to Bell and turned away. His evening had been a partial success, but not a whole one. He left Beatrice, as he almost always did, with a sense of irritation. It was her frank and open indifference that impelled him to her side. Indifference when Captain Bertram chose to woo was an altogether novel experience to so fascinating an individual. Hitherto it had been all the other way. He had flirted many times, and with success. Once even he had fallen in love; he owned to himself that he had been badly hit, but there had been no doubt at all about his love being returned, it had been given back to him in full and abundant measure. He sighed to-night as he thought of that passionate episode. He remembered ardent words, and saw again a face which had once been all the world to him. Separation had come, however; his was not a stable nature, and the old love, the first love, had given place to many minor flirtations.

"I wonder where my old love is now," he thought, and then again he felt a sense of irritation as he remembered Beatrice. "She is quite the coolest girl I have ever met," he said to himself. "But I'll win her yet. Yes, I'm determined. Am I to eat the bread of humiliation in vain? Faugh! Am I to make love to a creature like Matty Bell in the vain hope of rousing the envy or the jealousy of that proud girl? I don't believe she has got either envy or jealousy. She seemed quite pleased when I spoke to that wretched little personage, although she had the grace to look a trifle ashamed for her sex when Miss Matty so openly made love to me. Well, this is a slow place, and yet, when I think of that haughty—no, though, she's not haughty—that imperturbable Beatrice Meadowsweet, it becomes positively interesting.

"Why has the girl these airs? And her father kept a shop, too! I found that fact out from Matty Bell to-day. What a spiteful, teasing little gnat that same Matty is, trying to sting her best friend. What a little mock ridiculous air she put on when she tried to explain to me the social status of a coal merchant (I presume Bell is a coal merchant) versus a draper."

As Bertram strolled along, avoiding the High Street, and choosing the coast line for his walk, he lazily smoked a pipe, and thought, in that idle indifferent way with which men of his stamp always do exercise their mental faculties, about his future. His past, his present, his possible future rose up before the young fellow. He was harassed by duns, he was, according to his own way of thinking, reduced to an almost degrading state of poverty. His mother had put her hand to a bill for a considerable amount to save him. He was morally certain that she would have to meet that bill, and when she met it that she would be half ruined. Nevertheless, he felt gay, and light at heart, for men of his class are seldom troubled with remorse.

Presently he reached the lodge gates. His mother's fad about having them locked was always religiously kept, and he grumbled now as he sought for a latch-key in his waistcoat-pocket.

He opened the side gate and let himself in; the gate had a spring, and was so constructed that it could shut and lock itself by the same act. Bertram was preparing to walk quickly up the avenue when he was startled by a sudden morement; a tall slim apparition in gray came slowly out of the darkness, caused by the shadow of the lodge, to meet him.

"Good God!" he said; and he stepped back, and his heart thumped hard against his breast.

"It's me, Loftus—I'm back again—I'm with you again," said a voice which thrilled him.

The girl in gray flung her arms around his neck, and laid her head of red gold on his breast.

"Good God! Nina! Josephine! Where have you come from? I was thinking of you only tonight. It's a year since we met. Where have you sprung from? Out of the sky, or the earth? Look at me, witch, look in my face!"

He put his hand under her chin, raised her very fair oval face; (the moonlight fell full on it—he could see it well); he looked long and hungrily into her eyes, then kissed her eagerly several times.

"Where have you come from?" he repeated. "My God! to think I was walking to meet you in such a calm fashion this evening."

"You never were very calm, Loftie, nor was I. Feel my heart—I am almost in a tempest of joy at meeting you again. I knew you'd be glad. You couldn't help yourself."

"I'm glad and I'm sorry. You know you intoxicate me, witch—I thought I had got over that old affair. What: don't flash your eyes at me. Oh, yes, Nina, I am glad, I am delighted to see you once again."

"And to kiss me, and love me again?"

"Yes, to kiss you and love you again."

"How soon will you marry me, Loftie?"

"We needn't talk about that to-night. Tell me why you have come, and how. Where is your grandfather? Do you still sing in the streets for a living?"

"Hush, you insult me. I am a rich girl now."

"You rich? What a joke!"

"No, it is a reality. Riches go by comparison, and Josephine Hart has an income—therefore she is rich compared to the Josephine who had none. When will you marry me, Loftie?"

"Little puss! We'll talk of that another day."

He stroked her cheek, put his arm around her waist and kissed her many times.

"You have not told me yet why you came here," he said.

She laughed.

"I came here because my own sweet will directed me. I have taken rooms here at this lodge. The man called Tester and his wife will attend on me."

"Good gracious! at my mother's very gates Is that wise, Nina."

"Wise or unwise I have done it."

"To be near me?"

"Partly."

"Nina, you half frighten me. You are not going to do me an injury? It will prejudice my mother seriously if she finds out my—my—"

"Your love for me," finished Josephine.

"Yes."

"Why will it prejudice her?"

"Need I—must I tell you? My mother is proud; she—she would almost disown me if I made a mesalliance."

Nina flung back her head.

"You talk like a boy," she said. "When you marry me you save, not degrade, yourself. Ah, I know a secret. Such a secret! Such a blessed, blessed, happy secret for me. It is turning me into a good girl. It causes my heart to sing. When I think of it I revel in delight; when I think of it I could dance: when I remember it I could shout with exultation."

"Nina, what do you mean?"

"Nothing that you must know. I rejoice in my secret because it brings me to you, and you to me. You degrade yourself by marrying me? You'll say something else some day. Now, goodnight. I'm going back to Tester. He's stone deaf, and he's waiting up for me. Good-night—good-night. No, Loftus, I won't injure you. I injure those I hate, not those I love."

She kissed her hand to him. He tried to catch the slim fingers to press them to his lips, but with a gay laugh she vanished, shutting the lodge door after her. Loftus Bertram walked up the avenue with the queerest sensation of terror and rejoicing.



CHAPTER XV.

JOSEPHINE LOOKED DANGEROUS.

In those days after her mysterious and secret visit to London Mrs. Bertram was a considerably altered woman. All her life hitherto she had enjoyed splendid health; she was unacquainted with headaches; neuralgia, rheumatism, gout, the supposed banes of the present day, never troubled her.

Now, however, she had absolutely an attack of the nerves. Mabel found her mother, on coming to wish her good-morning one day, shivering so violently that she could not complete her dressing. Loftus was not at home. He had rejoined his regiment for a brief spell, so Catherine and Mabel had to act on their own responsibility.

They did not hesitate to send for the local doctor.

Dr. Morris, who was calmly shaving in his bedroom was very much excited when his wife rushed in to tell him that he was summoned in haste to the Manor.

"And you might peep into the Manor drawing-room on your way downstairs, doctor," whispered the good lady, in her muffled tone, "and find out if the carpet is really felt. Mrs. Gorman Stanley swears that it is, but for my part I can scarce give credence to such an unlikely story, for surely no woman who could only afford a felt covering for the floor of her best sitting-room would give herself the airs Mrs. Bertram has done."

"Just see that my black bag is ready, Jessie," was the husband's retort to this tirade. "And you might hurry John round with the pony-chaise."

Dr. Morris felt intensely proud as he drove off to see his august patient. He drew up his rough pony once or twice to announce the fact to any stray passer-by.

"Good-day, Bell,—fine morning, isn't it? I'm just off to the Manor. Mrs. B. not quite the thing. Ah, I see Mrs. Jenkins coming down the street. I must tell her that I can't look in this morning."

He nodded to Mr. Bell, and drove on until he met the angular lady known by this name.

"Good-morning, good-morning," he called in his cheery tones, and scarcely drawing in the pony at all now. "I meant to look round in the course of the forenoon to see how the new tonic agrees with Miss Daisy; but I may be a little late; I'm summoned in haste to the Manor."

Here he touched his little pony's head with the whip, and, before Mrs. Jenkins could utter a word of either astonishment or interest, had turned the corner and was out of sight.

The fashionable disease of nerves had not yet become an epidemic at Northbury, and Dr. Morris was a little puzzled at the symptoms which his great patient exhibited. He was proud to speak of Mrs. Bertram as his "great patient," and told her to her face in rather a fulsome manner that he considered it the highest possible honor to attend her. He ordered his favorite tonic of cod liver oil, told her to stay in bed, and keep on low diet, and, having pocketed his fee drove away.

Mrs. Bertram was outwardly very civil to the Northbury doctor, but when he departed she scolded Catherine and Mabel for having sent for him, tore up his prescription, wrote one for herself, which she sent to the chemist to have made up, and desired Catherine to give her a glass of port wine from one of a treasured few bottles of a rare vintage which she had brought with her to Rosendale.

"It was a few days after her visit to the Meadowsweets that Mrs. Bertram had been taken ill. She soon became quite well again, and then rather astonished Catherine by telling her that she had herself seen Beatrice Meadowsweet; that she had found her daughter's judgment with regard to her to be apparently correct, and that, in consequence, she did not object to Beatrice visiting at the Manor.

"You may make Miss Meadowsweet your friend," she said to both girls. "She may come here, and you may sometimes go to see her. But remember, she is the only Northbury young lady I will admit into my society."

A few days afterwards, Loftus, who had again managed to obtain leave of absence from his military duties, reappeared on the scenes. As has been seen, Loftus would admit of no restrictions with regard to his acquaintances, and after the remarkable fashion of some young men, he tried to secure an interest in the affections of Beatrice by flirting with Matty Bell.

Mrs. Bertram knew nothing of these iniquities on the part of her son. It never entered even into her wildest dreams that any son or daughter of her could associate with people of the stamp of the Bells. Even had she been aware of it, however, she knew better than to try to coerce her captain.

She had quite worries enough of her own, poor woman, and not the least of them, in the eyes of the girls, was the fresh mania she took for saving. Meals had never been too plentiful at Rosendale. Now, the only remark that could be made in their favor was that they satisfied hunger. Healthy girls will eat any wholesome food, and when Loftus was not at home, Catherine and Mabel Bertram made their breakfast off porridge.

Mabel ate hungrily, and grumbled not a little. Catherine was also hungry, but she did not grumble. She was never one to care greatly for the luxuries of life, and all her thoughts now were taken up watching her mother. The effect of her mother's sudden confidence in her, the effect of the trouble which had undoubtedly come to her mother had altogether an extraordinary influence over Catherine. She ceased to be a wild and reckless tom-boy, she ceased to defy her mother in small matters; her character seemed to gain strength, and her face, always strong in its expression and giving many indications of latent power of character, looked now more serious than gay, more sweet and thoughtful than fastidious and discontented.

Catherine had plenty of tact, and she watched her mother without appearing to watch her. She was loyal, too, in heart and soul, and never even hinted to others of the confidence reposed in her.

It was a lovely summer's morning. Catherine and Mabel were up early; they were picking raspberries to add to the meagre provisions for breakfast. It was always difficult to manage a pleasant breakfast hour when Loftus was at home. Mrs. Bertram used to flush up painfully when Loftus objected to the viands placed before him, and Catherine was most anxious to spare her mother by satisfying the fastidious tastes of her brother.

"Why should Loftus have all the raspberries?" angrily queried Mabel. "I should like some myself, and so would you, Kate. Why should Loftus have everything?"

"Nonsense, May, he's not going to have everything. This plate of special beauties is for mother."

"Well, that's quite right. Loftus and you and I can divide the rest."

"May, I'm going to whisper a secret to you. Now, don't let it out, for the lords of creation would be so angry if they knew. But I do think in little things girls are much greater than men. Now what girl who is worth anything cares whether she eats a few raspberries or not. While as to the men—I consider them nothing but crybabies about their food. Here, Mab, race me to the house."

Mabel puffed and panted after her more energetic sister. It was a very hot morning, and it really was aggravating of Kate to fly on the wings of the wind, and expect her to follow.

"Kate has no thought," she muttered, as she panted along. "I shall feel hot and messy for the day now, and there's nothing nice for me to eat when I do get in. It's all very fine to be Kate, who, I don't think, is mortal at all about some things, but I expect I'm somewhat of a cry-baby too, when I see all the nice appetizing food disappearing down a certain manly throat. Hullo, what's the matter now, Kitty?"

Catherine was standing by the window of the breakfast-room waving an open note in her hand.

"Three cheers for you, Mabel! You may be as greedy as you please. The knight of the raspberry plantation has departed. Read this; I found it on my plate."

Catherine was about to toss the note to Mabel, when a hand was put quietly over her shoulder, and Mrs. Bertram took Loftus's letter to read.

"Mother, I didn't know you were down."

"I just came in, my dear, and heard you speaking to Mabel. What is this?"

She stood still to read the brief lines:

"Dearest Sis,—I have had a sudden recall to Portsmouth. Will write from there. Love to the mother and Mab.—Your affectionate brother,

"Loftus."

Mrs. Bertram looked up with a very startled expression in her eyes.

"Now, mother, there's nothing to fret you in this," said Kate, eagerly. "Was not Loftie always the most changeable of mortals?"

"Yes, my dear, but not quite so changeable as not to know anything at all about a recall in the afternoon yesterday, and to have to leave us before we are out of bed in the morning. Did anybody see Loftus go? Had he any breakfast?"

Catherine flew away to inquire of Clara, and Mabel said in an injured voice:

"I dare say Loftie had a telegram sent to him to the club. Anyhow, he has all the excitement and all the pleasure. I watched him through the spy-glass last night. He was in the Bells' boat, and Beatrice was all alone in hers. Beatrice was talking to Loftus and the boats were almost touching. Mother, I wish we could have a boat."

"Yes, dear, I must try and manage it for you at some future time. Well, Catherine, have you heard anything?"

"No, mother. Loftus must have gone away very, very early. No one saw him go; he certainly had no breakfast."

Mrs. Bertram was silent for a few moments; then, suppressing a sigh, she said, in a would-be cheerful tone:

"Well, my loves, we must enjoy our breakfasts, even without the recreant Loftus. Mabel, my dear, what delicious raspberries! They give me quite an appetite."

"Kitty picked them for you, mother," said Mabel. "She has been treasuring a special bush for you for a week past."

Mrs. Bertram looked up at her eldest daughter and smiled at her. That smile, very much treasured by Kate, was after all but a poor attempt, gone as soon as it came. Mrs. Bertram leant back in her chair and toyed with the dainty fruit. Her appetite was little more than a mockery.

"It was very thoughtful of Loftus not to waken any one up to give him breakfast," said Catherine.

Her mother again glanced at her with a shadow of approval on her worn face. Artful Kitty had made this speech on purpose; she knew that any praise of Loftus was balm to her mother.

After breakfast Mrs. Bertram showed rather unwonted interest in her daughters' plans.

"It is such a lovely day I should like you to go on the water," she said. "At the same time, I must not think of hiring a boat this summer."

"Are we so frightfully poor, mother?" asked Mab.

Mrs. Bertram's brow contracted as if in pain, but she answered with unwonted calm and gentleness:

"I have a fixed income, my dear Mabel, but, as you know, we have come to Northbury to retrench."

She was silent again for a minute. Then she said:

"I see nothing for it but to cultivate the Meadowsweets."

"Mother!" said Catherine. The old fire and anger had come into her voice. Unusual as it may be with any girl brought up in such a worldly manner, Catherine hated to take advantage of people.

"You mistake me, Kate," said her mother, shrinking back from her daughter's eyes, as if she had received a blow. "I want you to have the pleasure of Beatrice Meadowsweet's friendship."

"Oh, yes," replied Catherine, relieved.

"And," continued the mother, her voice growing firm and her dark eyes meeting her daughter's fully, "I don't mean to be out in the cold, so I shall make a friend of Mrs. Meadowsweet."

Mabel burst into a merry girlish laugh. Catherine walked across the grass to pick a rose. Mrs. Bertram took the rose from her daughter's hand, although she knew and Catherine knew that it was never intended for her. She smelt the fragrant, half-open bud, then placed it in her dress, with a simple, "Thank you, my dear."

"I am going to write a note to Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, after a minute or two. "I know Beatrice is coming here this afternoon. It would give me pleasure if her mother accompanied her."

"Shall we take the note to the Gray House, mother?" eagerly asked Mabel. "It is not too long a walk. We should like to go."

"No, my dear. You and Kate can amuse yourselves in the garden, or read in the house, just as you please. I will write my note quietly, and when it is written take it down to Tester at the lodge. No, thank you, my loves, I should really like the walk, and would prefer to take it alone."

Mrs. Bertram then returned to her drawing-room, sat down by her davenport, and wrote as follows:

"Rosendale Manor.

"Thursday.

"Dear Mrs. Meadowsweet,—Will you and Miss Beatrice join the girls and me at dinner this afternoon? Your daughter has already kindly promised to come here to play tennis to-day—at least I understand from Kate that such is the arrangement. Will you come with her? We old people can sit quietly under the shade of the trees and enjoy our tea, while the young folks exert themselves. Hoping to see you both,

"Believe me,

"Yours sincerely,

"Catherine de Clifford Bertram."

Mrs. Bertram put this letter into an envelope, directed it in her dashing and lady-like hand, and then in a slow and stately fashion proceeded to walk down the avenue to the lodge. She was always rather slow in her movements, and she was slower than usual to-day. She scarcely owned to herself that she was tired, worried—in short, that the strong vitality within her was sapped at its foundation.

A man or a woman can often live for a long time after this operation takes place, but they are never the same again. They go slowly, with the gait of those who are halt, through life.

Mrs. Bertram reached the lodge, and after the imperious fashion of her class did not even knock at the closed door before she lifted the latch and went in.

It was a shabby, little, tumble-down lodge. It needed papering, and white-washing, and cleaning; in winter the roof let in rain, and the rickety, ill-fitting windows admitted the cold and wind. Now, however, it was the middle of summer. Virginia creeper and ivy, honeysuckle and jasmine, nearly covered the walls. The little place looked picturesque without; and within, honest, hard-working Mrs. Tester contrived with plentiful scouring and washing to give a clean and cosy effect.

Mrs. Bertram, as she stepped into the kitchen, noticed the nice little fire in the bright grate (the lodge boasted of no range); she also saw a pile of buttered toast on the hob, and the tiny kitchen was fragrant with the smell of fresh coffee.

Mrs. Bertram was not wrong when she guessed that Tester and his wife did not live on these dainty viands.

"I'm just preparing breakfast, ma'am, for our young lady lodger," said good Mrs. Tester, dropping a curtsey.

"For your young lady lodger? What do you mean, Mrs. Tester?"

"Well, ma'am, please take a chair, won't you, Mrs. Bertram—you'll like to be near the fire, my lady, I'm sure." (The Testers generally spoke to the great woman in this way—she did not trouble herself to contradict them.) "Well, my lady, she come last night by the train. It was Davis's cab brought her up, and set her down, her and her bits of things, just outside the lodge. Nothing would please her but that we should give her the front bedroom and the little parlor inside this room and she is to pay us fifteen shillings a week, to cover board and all. It's a great lift for Tester and me, and she's a nice-spoken young lady, and pleasant to look at, too. Oh, yes, miss—-I beg your pardon, miss. I was just a bringing of your breakfast in, miss."

The door had been opened behind Mrs. Bertram. She started and turned, as a tall, slim girl with a head of ruddy gold hair, a rather pale, fair face, and big bright eyes, came in.

The girl looked at Mrs. Bertram quickly and eagerly. Mrs. Bertram looked back at her. Neither woman flinched as she gazed, only gradually over Mrs. Bertram's face there stole a greeny-white hue.

The girl came a little nearer. Old Mrs. Tester bustled past her with the hot breakfast.

"You!" said Mrs. Bertram, when the old woman had left the room, "you are Josephine Hart."

"I am Josephine; you know better than to call me Hart."

"Hush! that matter has been arranged between your grandfather and my solicitor. Do you wish the bargain undone?"

"I sincerely wish it undone."

"I think you don't," said Mrs. Bertram, slowly. She laughed in a disagreeable manner. "The old woman is coming back," she said suddenly; "invite me into your parlor for a moment, I have a word or two to say to you."

Josephine led the way into the little sitting-room; she offered a chair to Mrs. Bertram, who would not take it. Then she went and shut the door between the kitchen and the parlor, and standing with her back to the shut door turned and faced Mrs. Bertram.

"How did you guess my name?" she said, suddenly.

"That was not so difficult. I recognized you by the description my daughter gave of you. She saw you, remember, that night you hid in the avenue."

"I did not know it was that," said Josephine softly; "I thought it was the likeness. I am the image of him, am I not?"

She took a small morocco case out of her pocket and proceeded to open it.

Mrs. Bertram put her hand up to her eyes as if she would shut away a terrible sight.

"Hush, child! how dare you? Don't show me that picture. I won't look. What a wicked impostor you are!"

"Impostor! You know better, and my grandfather knows better. What is the matter, Mrs. Bertram?"

Mrs. Bertram sank down into the chair which at first she had obstinately refused.

"Josephine," she said, "I am no longer a young woman; I have not got the strength of youth. I cannot bear up as the young can bear up. Why have you come here? What object have you in torturing me with your presence here?"

"I won't torture you; I shall live quietly."

"But why have you come? You had no right to come."

"I had perfect right to live where I pleased. I had all the world to choose from, and I selected to live at your gates."

"You did very wrong. Wrong! It is unpardonable."

"Why so? What injury am I doing you? I have promised to be silent; I will be silent for a little. I won't injure you or yours by word or deed."

"You have a story in your head, a false story; you will spread it abroad."

"I have a story, but it is not false."

"False or true, you will spread it abroad."

"No, the story is safe. For the present it is safe, my lips are sealed."

"Josephine, I wish you would go away."

"I am sorry, I cannot go away."

"We cannot associate with you. You are not brought up like us. You will be lonely here, you will find it very dull, you had better go away."

"I am not going away. I have come here and I mean to stay. I shall watch you, and your son, and your daughters; that will be my amusement."

"I won't say any more to you, proud and insolent girl. My son, at least, is spared your scrutiny, he is not at Rosendale; and my daughters, I think, they can live through it."

Mrs. Bertram turned and left the little parlor. She gave her note to Mrs. Tester, desired it to be taken at once to the Gray House, and then returned quietly and steadily to the Manor. When she got in she called Catherine to her.

"Kate, the girl you saw hiding in the avenue has come to live at the lodge."

"Mother!"

"I have seen her and spoken to her, my dear daughter. She is nothing either to you or me. Take no notice of her."

"Very well, mother."

Meanwhile, in her little parlor, in the old lodge, Josephine stood with her hands clasped, and fiery lights of anger, disappointment, pain, flashing from her eyes. Were that woman's words true? Had Loftus Bertram gone away? If so, if indeed he had left because she had arrived, then—Her eyes flashed once more, and with so wicked a light that Mrs. Tester, who, unobserved, had come into the room, left it again in a fright. She thought Josephine Hart looked dangerous. She was right. No one could be more dangerous if she chose.



CHAPTER XVI.

A BRITISH MERCHANT.

Soon after four that afternoon, Davis's tumble-down cab might have been seen standing outside the gate of the Gray House. Immediately afterwards the door was opened, and Mrs. Meadowsweet, in her rose-colored satin, with a black lace shawl, and a bonnet to match made her appearance.

She stepped into the cab, and was followed by Beatrice, Jane, the little maid, handing in after them a small band-box, which contained the cap trimmed with Honiton lace.

Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks were slightly flushed, and her good-humored eyes were shining with contentment and satisfaction.

"Oh, there's Mrs. Morris!" she said to Beatrice. "I'd better tell her where we are going. She's always so interested in the Manor folks. Davis, stop the cab a minute! Call to him, Bee. Da-vis!"

The cap stopped, and Mrs. Morris, eager and bustling, drew nigh.

"How are you, dear?" she said. "How do you do, Beatrice? Isn't it bad for you, dear love," turning again to the elder lady, "to have the window of the fly open? Although it is summer, and the doctor makes a fuss about the thermometer being over eighty in the shade, I know for a positive fact that the wind is east, and very treacherous."

"I don't take cold easily, Jessie," replied Mrs. Meadowsweet. "No, I prefer not to have the windows up, poor Bee would be over hot. We must think of the young things, mustn't we, Jessie? Well, you'll wonder why I am in my best toggery! Bee and I are off to the Manor, no less, I assure you. And to dinner, too! There's news for you."

"Well, I'm sure!" responded Mrs. Morris. Envy was in every tone of her voice, and on every line of her face. As usual, when excited, she found her voice, which came out quite thin and sharp. "Well, I'm sure," she repeated. "I wish you all luck, Lucy. Not that it's such a condescension, oh, by no means. The doctor said the bedrooms were very shabby in their furniture, and such a meal as those poor girls were eating for breakfast. He said his heart quite ached for them. Nothing but stale bread, and the name of butter, and tea like water bewitched. He said he'd rather never have a child than see her put down to such fare."

"Dear, dear, you don't say so," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet. "Bee, my love, we must have those nice girls constantly to the Gray House, and feed them up all we can. I'm very sorry to hear your news, Jessie. But I'm afraid we can't wait to talk any longer now. Nothing could have been more affable than Mrs. Bertram's letter, sent down by special messenger, and written in a most stylish hand."

"You haven't got it in your pocket, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Morris.

"To be sure I have. You'd like to see it; well, here it is. You can let me have it back to-morrow. Now, good-bye. Drive on, Davis."

The cab jumbled and rattled over the paving stones, and Mrs. Meadowsweet lay back against the cushions, and fanned her hot face.

"I wonder if it's true about those poor girls being so badly fed," she inquired of her daughter. "Dear, dear, and there's nothing young things want like generous living. Well, it's grievous. When I think of the quarts of milk I used to put into you, Bee, and the pounds and pounds of the best beef jelly—jelly that you could fling over the house, for thickness and solidity, and the fowls I had boiled down for you after the measles—who's that coming down the street, Bee? Look, my love, I'm a bit short-sighted. Oh, it's Miss Peters, of course. How are you, Miss Peters? Hot day, isn't it? Bee and I are off to the Manor—special invitation—letter—I lent it to Mrs. Morris. Oh, yes, to dinner. I have my best cap in this band-box. What do you say? You'll look in to-morrow—glad to see you. Drive on, Davis."

"Really, mother, if you stop to speak to every one we won't get to the Manor to-night," gently expostulated Beatrice.

"Well, well, my love, but we don't go to see the Bertrams every day, and when one feels more pleased and gratified than ordinary, it's nice to get the sympathy of one's neighbors. I do think the people at Northbury are very sympathetic, don't you, Bee?"

"Yes, mother, I think they are," responded the daughter.

"And she took care not to tell her parent of any little lurking doubts which might come to her now and then with regard to the sincerity of those kind neighbors, who so often partook of the hospitality of the Gray House."

When they reached the lodge, old Mrs. Tester came out to open the gates. She nodded and smiled to Beatrice who had often been very kind to her, and Mrs. Meadowsweet bent forward in the cab to ask very particularly about the old woman's rheumatism. It was at that moment that Beatrice caught sight of a face framed in with jasmine and Virginia creeper, which looked at her from out of an upper casement window in Mrs. Tester's little lodge. The face with its half-tamed expression, the eager scrutiny in the eyes, which were almost too bold in their brightness, startled Beatrice and gave her a sense of uneasiness. The face came like a flash to the window and then disappeared, and at that same moment Davis started the cab forward with a jerk. It was to the credit of both Davis and his sorry-looking steed that they should make a good show in the avenue. For this they had been reserving themselves, and they went along now in such a heedless and almost frantic style that Mrs. Meadowsweet had her bonnet knocked awry, and the band-box which contained the precious cap absolutely dashed to the floor of the cab.

Beatrice had therefore no time to make any remark with regard to Mrs. Tester's unwonted visitor.

"This is delightful," said Mrs. Meadowsweet, as she clasped her hostess's hand, in the long, cool, refined-looking drawing-room. "I'm very glad to come, and it's most kind of you to invite me. Dear, dear, what a cool room! Wonderful! How do you manage this kind of effect, Mrs. Bertram? Dearie me—very pretty—very pretty indeed."

Here Mrs. Meadowsweet sank down on one of the sofas, and gazed round her with the most genuine delight.

"Where's Bee?" she said. "She ought to look round this room and take hints from it. We spent a lot of money over our drawing-room, but it never looks like this. Where are you, Beatrice?"

"Never mind now," responded Mrs. Bertram, whose voice, in spite of herself, had to take an extra well-bred tone when she spoke to Mrs. Meadowsweet. Miss Beatrice has just gone out with my girls, and I thought you and I would have tea here, and afterwards sit under the shade of that oak-tree and watch the children at their game."

"Very nice, I'm sure," responded Mrs. Meadowsweet. She spread out her fat hands on her lap and untied her bonnet-strings. "It's hot," she said. "Do you find the dog-days try you very much, Mrs. Bertram?"

"I don't feel the heat particularly," said Mrs. Bertram. She was anxious to assume a friendly tone, but was painfully conscious that her voice was icy.

"Well, that's lucky for you," remarked the visitor. "I flush up a good deal. Beatrice never does. She takes after her father; he was wonderfully cool, poor man. Have you got a newspaper of any sort about, that you'd lend me, Mrs. Bertram?"

"Oh, certainly," answered Mrs. Bertram, in some astonishment. "Here is yesterday's Times."

"I'll make it into a fan, if you have no objection. Now, that's better. Dear, dear, what a nice room!"

Mrs. Bertram fidgetted on her chair. She wondered how many more times Mrs. Meadowsweet would descant on the elegancies of her drawing-room. She need not have feared. Whatever Mrs. Meadowsweet was she was honest; and at that very moment her eyes lighted on the felt which covered the floor. Mrs. Meadowsweet had never been trained in a school of art, but, as she said to herself, no one knew better what was what than she did; above all, no one knew better what was comme il faut in the matter of carpets. Meadowsweet, poor man, had been particular about his carpets. There were grades in carpets as in all other things, and felt, amongst these grades, ranked low, very low indeed. Kidderminster might be permitted in bedrooms, although Mrs. Meadowsweet would scorn to see it in any room in her house, but Brussels was surely the only correct carpet for people of medium means to cover their drawing-room floors with. The report that Mrs. Bertram's drawing-room wore a mantle of felt had reached Mrs. Meadowsweet's ears. She had emphatically declined to believe in any such calumny, and yet now her own eyes saw, her own good-humored, kind eyes, that wished to think well of all the world, rested on that peculiar greeny-brown felt, which surely must have come to its present nondescript hue by the aid of many suns. The whole room looked immediately almost sordid to the poor woman, and she felt no longer anxious for Beatrice to appreciate its beauties.

At that moment Clara appeared with the tea. Now, if there was a thing Mrs. Meadowsweet was particular about it was her tea; she revelled in her tea; she always bought it from some very particular and exclusive house in London. She saw that it was served strong and hot; she was particular to have it made with what she called the "first boil" of the water. Water that had boiled for five minutes made, in Mrs. Meadowsweet's opinion, contemptible tea. Then she liked it well sweetened, and flavored with very rich cream. Such a cup of tea, as she expressed it, set her up for the day. The felt carpet had given Mrs. Meadowsweet a kind of shock, but all her natural spirits revived when she saw the tea equipage. She approved of the exquisite eggshell china, and noted with satisfaction that the teapot was really silver.

"What a refreshment a cup of tea is!" exclaimed the good woman. "Nothing like it, as I dare say you know, Mrs. Bertram."

Mrs. Bertram smiled languidly, and raising the teapot, prepared to pour out a cup for her guest. She was startled by a noise, which sounded something like a shout, coming from the fat lady's lips.

"Did you speak?" she asked.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bertram, but don't—it's cruel."

"Don't do what?"

"The tea isn't drawn. Let it rest a bit—why, it's the color of straw."

"This peculiar tea is always of a light color," replied Mrs. Bertram, her sallow face growing darkly red. "I hope you will appreciate it; but perhaps it is a matter of training. It is, however, I assure you, quite the vogue among my friends in London."

Mrs. Meadowsweet felt crushed. She received the cup of flavorless, half-cold liquid presented to her in a subdued spirit, sipped it with the air of a martyr, and devoutly wished herself back again in the Gray House.

Mrs. Bertram knew perfectly well that her guest thought the tea detestable and the cake stale. It was as necessary for people of Mrs. Meadowsweet's class to go in for strong tea and high living as it was for people of Mrs. Bertram's class to aspire to faded felt in the matter of carpets, and water bewitched in the shape of tea. Each after her kind, Mrs. Bertram murmured. But as she had an object in view it was necessary for her to earn the good-will of the well-to-do widow.

Accordingly, when the slender meal came to an end, and the two ladies found themselves under the shelter of the friendly oak-tree, matters went more smoothly. Mrs. Bertram put her guest into an excellent humor by bestowing some cordial praise upon Beatrice.

"She is not like you," continued the good lady, with some naivete.

"No, no," responded the gratified mother. "And sorry I'd be to think that Beatrice took after me. I'm commonplace. Mrs. Bertram. I have no figure to boast of, nor much of a face either. What he saw to like in me, poor man, has puzzled my brain a score and score of times. Kind and affectionate he ever was, but he couldn't but own, as own I did for him, that I was a cut below him. Beatrice features her father, Mrs. Bertram, both in mind and body."

Mrs. Bertram murmured some compliment about the mother's kind heart, and then turned to a subject which is known to be of infallible interest to all ladies. She spoke of her ailments.

Mrs. Meadowsweet beamed all over when this subject came on the tapis. She even laid her fat hand on Mrs. Bertram's lap.

"Now, did you ever try Eleazer Macjone's Pills of Life?" she asked. "I always have a lot of them in the house; and I assure you, Mrs. Bertram, they are worth all the doctor's messes put together; for years I have taken the pills, and it's a positive fact that they're made to fit the human body all round. Headaches—it's wonderful what Macjone's pills do for headaches. If you have a low, all-overish feeling, Macjone's pills pick you up directly. They are wonderful, too, for colds; and if there's any infection going they nip it in the bud. I wish you would try them, Mrs. Bertram; I know they'd pull you round, I'll send for a box for you with pleasure when I'm having my next chest of tea down from London. I always get my tea from London. I think what they sell here is little better than dishwater; so I say to Beatrice, 'Bee, my love, whatever happens, we'll get our tea from town."

"And your pills from town, too," responded Mrs. Bertram. "I think you are a very wise woman, Mrs. Meadowsweet. How well your daughter plays tennis. Yes, she is decidedly graceful. I have heard of many pills in my day, and patent pills invariably fit one all round, but I have never yet heard of Eleazer Macjone's Life Pills. You look very well, Mrs. Meadowsweet, so I shall recommend them in future. For my part, I think the less drugs one swallows the better."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Bertram, quite right. Except for the pills I never touch medicine. And now I'd like to give you a wrinkle. I wouldn't spend much money, if I were you, on Dr. Morris. He's all fads, poor man, all fads. He speaks of the Life Pills as poison, and his terms—I have over and over told his wife, Jessie Morris, that her husband's terms are preposterous."

"Then I am afraid he will not suit me," replied Mrs. Bertram, "I cannot afford to meet preposterous terms, for I, alas! am poor."

"Dear, dear, I'm truly sorry to hear it, Mrs. Bertram. And with your fine young family, too. That lad of yours is as handsome a young fellow as I've often set eyes on. And your girls, particularly Miss Catherine, are specially genteel."

"A great many people consider Catherine handsome," replied her mother, who began to shiver inwardly under the infliction of Mrs. Meadowsweet's talk. She tried to add something about Loftus, but for some reason or other words failed her. After a moment's pause she resumed:

"Only those who know what small means are can understand the constant self-denial they inflict.

"And that's true enough, Mrs. Bertram."

"Ah, Mrs. Meadowsweet, you must be only assuming this sympathetic tone. For, if all reports are true, you and Miss Beatrice are wealthy."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's eyes beamed lovingly on her hostess.

"We have enough and to spare," she responded. "Thank the good God we have enough and to spare. Meadowsweet saw to that, poor man."

"Your husband was in business?" gently in quired Mrs. Bertram.

"He kept a shop, Mrs. Bertram. I'm the last to deny it. He kept a good, thriving draper's shop in the High Street. The best of goods he had, and he sold fair. I used to help him in those days. I used to go to London to buy the Spring fashions, and pretty things I'd buy, uncommonly pretty, and the prettiest of all, you may be sure, for little Beatrice. Ah! you could get a stylish hat in Northbury in those days. Poor man, he had the custom of all the country round. There was no shop like Meadowsweet's. Well, he made his fortune in it, and he died full of money and much respected. What could man do more?"

"And your daughter Beatrice resembles her father?"

"She does, Mrs. Bertram. He was a very genteel man—a cut above me, as I said before. He was fond of books, and but for me maybe he'd have got into trade in the book line. But I warned him off that shoal. I said to him, scores of times, 'Mark my words, William, dress will last, and books won't. People must be clothed, but they needn't read.' He was wise enough to stick to my words, and he made his fortune."

"I suppose," said Mrs. Bertram, in a slow, meditative voice, "that a—um—merchant—in a small town like this, might, with care, realize, say, two or three thousand pounds."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's eyes almost flashed.

"Two or three thousand!" she said, "dearie me, dearie me. When people talk of fortunes, in Northbury, they mean fortunes, Mrs. Bertram."

"And your daughter will inherit?" asked the hostess of her guest.

"There's full and plenty for me, Mrs. Bertram, and when Beatrice comes of age, or when she marries with her mother's approval, she'll have twenty thousand pounds. Twenty thousand invested in the funds, that's her fortune, not bad for a shopkeeper's daughter, is it, Mrs. Bertram?" Mrs. Bertram said that it was anything but bad, and she inwardly reflected on the best means of absolutely suppressing the memory of the shopkeeper, and how, by a little judicious training, she might induce Mrs. Meadowsweet to speak of her late partner as belonging to the roll of British merchants.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE WITCH WITH THE YELLOW HAIR.

A corner is a very pretty addition to a room, and a cleft-stick has been known to present a more picturesque appearance than a straight one. But to find oneself, metaphorically speaking, pushed into the corner or wedged into the cleft of the stick is neither picturesque nor pleasant.

This was Mrs. Bertram's present position. She had suddenly, and at a moment when she least expected it, been confronted with the ghost of a long ago past. The ghost of a past, so remote that she had almost forgotten it, had come back and stared her in the face. This ghost had assumed terrible dimensions, and the poor woman was dreadfully afraid of it.

She had taken a hurried journey to London in the vain hope of laying it. Alas! it would not be laid. Most things, however, can be bought at a price, and Mrs. Bertram had bought the silence of this troublesome ghost of the past. She had bought it at a very heavy cost.

Her money was in the hands of trustees; she dared not go to them to assist her, therefore, the only price she could pay was out of her yearly income.

To quiet this troublesome ghost she agreed to part with four hundred a year. A third of her means was, therefore, taken away with one fell swoop. Loftus must still have his allowance, for Loftus of all people must know nothing of his mother's anxieties. Mrs. Bertram and her girls would, therefore, have barely five hundred a year to live on. Out of this sum she would still struggle to save, but she knew she could save but little. She knew that all chance of introducing Catherine and Mabel into society was at an end. She had dreamed dreams for her girls, and these dreams must come to nothing. She had hoped many things for them both, she had thought that all her care and trouble would receive its fruition some day in Catherine's establishment, and that Mabel would also marry worthily. In playing with her grandchildren by-and-bye, Mrs. Bertram thought that she might relax her anxieties and feel that her labors had not been in vain. She must put these hopes aside now, for her girls would probably never marry. They would live on at this dull old Manor until their youth had left them, and their sweet, fresh bloom departed.

Mrs. Bertram thought of the girls, but no compunctions with regard to them caused her to hesitate even for a moment. She loved some one else much better than these bright-eyed lasses. Loftus was the darling of his mother's heart. It was bad to sacrifice girls, but it was impossible to sacrifice the beloved and only son.

Mrs. Bertram saw her solicitors, confided to them her difficulties, and accepted the terms proposed to her by the enemy, who, treacherous and awful, had suddenly risen out of the ashes of the past to confront her.

With four hundred a year she bought silence, and silence meant everything for her. Thus she saved herself, and one at least belonging to her, from open shame.

She received Catherine's telegram, and was made aware that Josephine Hart had come down to spy out the nakedness of the land. She felt herself, however, in a position to defy Josephine, and she returned to the Manor fairly well pleased.

It was Loftus, for whom she had really sacrificed so much, who dealt her the final blow. This idle scapegrace had got into fresh debt and difficulty. Mrs. Bertram expostulated, she wrung her hands, she could almost have torn her hair. The young man stood before her half-abashed, half sulky.

"Can you help me, mother? That's the main point," was his reiterated cry.

Mrs. Bertram managed at last to convince him that she had not a farthing of ready money left.

"In that case," he replied, "nothing but ruin awaits me."

His mother wept when he told her this. She was shaken with all she had undergone in London, poor woman, and this man, who could cringe to her for a large dole out of her pittance, was the beloved of her heart.

He begged of her to put her hand to a bill; a bill which should not become due for six months. She consented; she was weak enough to set him, as he expressed it, absolutely on his feet. All debts would be paid at once, and he would never exceed his allowance again; and as to his mother's difficulty, in meeting a bill for six hundred pounds, it was not in Loftus Bertram's nature to trouble himself on this score six months ahead.

That bill, however was the proverbial last straw to Mrs. Bertram. It haunted her by day and night; she dreamt of it, sleeping, she pondered over it, waking. Six short months would speedily disappear, and then she would be ruined; she could not meet the bill, exposure and disaster must follow.

Even very honorable people when they get themselves into corners often seek for means of escape which certainly would not occur to them as the most dignified exits if they were, for instance, not in the corner, but in the middle of the room.

Mrs. Bertram was a woman of resources, and she made up her mind what to do. She made it up absolutely, and no doubts or difficulties daunted her for an instant. Loftus should marry Beatrice Meadowsweet long before the six months were out.

Having ascertained positively not only from her mother's lips, but also from those of Mr. Ingram, that the young girl could claim as her portion twenty thousand pounds on her wedding day, Mrs. Bertram felt there was no longer need to hesitate. Beatrice was quite presentable in herself; she was handsome, she was well-bred, she had a gracious and even careless repose of manner which would pass muster anywhere for the highest breeding. It would be quite possible to crush that fat and hopelessly vulgar mother, and it would be easy, more than easy, to talk of the wealthy merchant's office instead of the obnoxious draper's shop.

Bertram, who had just moved with the depot of his regiment to Chatham, on returning to his quarters one evening from mess saw lying on his table a thick letter in his mother's handwriting. He took it up carelessly, and, as he opened it, he yawned. Mother's letters are not particularly sacred things to idolized sons of Bertram's type.

"I wonder what the old lady has got to say for herself," he murmured. "Can she have seen Nina? And has Nina said anything. Not that she can seriously injure me in the mater's eyes. No one would be more lenient to a little harmless flirtation which was never meant to lead anywhere than my good mother. Still it was a great bore for Josephine to turn up when she did. Obliged me to shorten my leave abruptly, and see less of Miss Beatrice. What a little tiger Nina would be if her jealousy was aroused—no help for me but flight. Yes, Saunders, you needn't wait."

Bertram's servant withdrew; and taking his mother's letter out of its envelope, the young man proceeded to acquaint himself with its contents. They interested him, not a little, but deeply. The color flushed up into his face as he read. He made one or two strong exclamations, finally he laughed aloud. His laugh was excited and full of good humor.

"By Jove! the mother never thought of a better plot. Beatrice—and fortune. Beatrice, and an escape into the bargain from all my worries. Poor mater! She does not know that that six hundred of hers has only just scraped me through my most pressing liabilities. But a small dip out of Beatrice Meadowsweet's fortune will soon set me on my feet. The mater's wishes and mine never so thoroughly chimed together as now. Of course I'll do it. No fear on that point. I'll write off to the dear old lady, and set her heart at rest, by this very post. As to leave, I must manage that somehow. The mother is quite right. With a girl like Beatrice there is no time to be lost. Any fellow might come over to Northbury and pick her up. Why, she's perfectly splendid. I knew I was in love with her—felt it all along. Just think of my patrician mother giving in, though. Well, nothing could suit me better."

Bertram felt so excited that he paced up and down his room, and even drank off a brandy and soda, which was not in his usual line, for he was a sober young fellow enough.

As he walked up and down he thought again of that night when he had last seen Beatrice. How splendid she had looked in her boat on the water; how unreserved, and yet how reticent she was; how beautiful, and yet how unconscious of her beauty. What a foil she made to that dreadful little Matty Bell!

Bertram laughed as he remembered Matty's blushes and affected giggles and simpers. He conjured up the whole scene, and when he recalled poor Mrs. Bell's frantic efforts to get the white boat away from the green, his sense of hilarity doubled. Finally he thought of his walk home, of the meditations which had occupied his mind, and last of all of the girl in the gray dress who had put her arms round his neck, laid her head on his breast, and whose lips he had passionately kissed. That head! He felt a thrill now as he remembered the sheen of its golden locks, and he knew that the kisses he had given this girl had been full of the passion of his manhood. He ceased to laugh as he thought of her. A growing sense of uneasiness, of even fear, took possession of him, and chased away the high spirits which his mother's acceptable proposal had given rise to.

He sat down again in his easy chair and began to think.

"It is not," he said to himself, "that I have got into any real scrape with Nina. I have promised to marry her, of course, and I have made love to her scores and scores of times, but I don't think she has any letters of mine, and in any case, she is not the sort of girl to go to law with a fellow. No, I have nothing really to fear on that score. But what perplexes and troubles me is this: she has got a great power over me. When I am with her I can't think of any one else. She has an influence over me which I can't withstand. I want her, and her only. I know it would ruin me to marry her. She has not a penny; she is an uneducated poor waif, brought up anyhow. My God, when I think of how I first saw you, Nina! That London street, that crowd looking on, and the pure young voice rising up as it were into the very sky. And then the sound stopping, and the shout from the mob. I got into the middle of the ring somehow, and I saw you, I saw you, my little darling. Your hand was clenched, and the fellow who had dared to insult you went down with that blow you gave him to the ground. Didn't your eyes flash fire, and the flickering light from that fishmonger's shop opposite lit up your hair and your pale face. You looked half like a devil, but you were beautiful, you were superb. Then you saw me, and you must have guessed that I felt with you and for you. Our souls seemed to leap out to meet one another, and you were by my side in an instant, kissing my hand, and raining tears on it. We loved each other from that night; our love began from the moment we looked at each other, and I love you still—but I mustn't marry you, little wild, desperate, bewitching Nina, for that would ruin us both. My God! I wish I had never met you; I am afraid of you, and that is the fact."

Perhaps it was the unwonted beverage in which he had just indulged, which gave rise to such eager and impetuous thoughts in the breast of Captain Bertram. It is certain when he had slept over his mother's letter he felt much more cool and collected. If he still feared Josephine Hart, he was absolutely determined not to allow his fears to get the better of him. He ceased even to say to himself that he was in love with this pretty witch of the yellow hair, and his letter to his mother was as cool and self-possessed as the most prudent among parents could desire.

Bertram told his mother that he thought he could manage to exchange with a brother officer, so as to secure his own leave while the days were long and the weather fine. He said that if all went as he hoped, he would be at the Manor by the end of the following week, and he sent his love to his sisters, and hoped the mater was quite herself again.

Not once did he mention the name of Beatrice, but Mrs. Bertram read between the lines. She admired her son for his caution. Her heart leaped with exultation, her boy would not fail her.

If she had known that the old postman Benjafield had left a letter by the very same post for Miss Hart at the lodge, and that this letter in a disguised hand bore within the undoubted signature of her own beloved captain, her rejoicing would not have been so keen. But as people are very seldom allowed to see behind the scenes Mrs. Bertram may as well have her short hour of triumph undisturbed.



CHAPTER XVIII.

"WHEN DUNCAN GRAY CAME HOME TO WOO."

Most people go away for change of air in the month of August, but this was by no means the fashion in the remote, little old-world town of Northbury. In November people left home if they could, for it was dull, very dull at Northbury in November, but August was the prime month of the year.

It was then the real salt from the broad Atlantic came into the limpid waters of the little harbor. August was the month for bathing, for yachting, for trawling. Some denizens of the outside world even came to Northbury in August; the few lodging-houses were crammed to overflowing; people put up with any accommodation for the sake of the crisp air, and the lovely deep blue water of the bay. For in August this same water was often at night alight with phosphorescent substances, which gave it the appearance in the moonlight of liquid golden fire. It was then the girls sang their best, and the young men said soft nothings, and hearts beat a little more quickly than ordinary, and in short the mischievous, teasing, fascinating god of love was abroad.

In preparation for these August days Perry the draper did a roaring trade, for all the Northbury girls had fresh ribbons put on their sailor hats, and fresh frills in their blue serge dresses, and their tan leather gloves had to be neat and new, and their walking shoes trim and whole, for the entire little world would be abroad all day and half the night, in company with the harvest moon and the glittering golden waves, and all the other gay, bright things of summer.

This was therefore just the most fitting season for Captain Bertram to come back to Northbury, on wooing intent. More than one girl in the place rejoiced at his arrival, and Mrs. Bertram so far relaxed her rigid hold over Catherine and Mabel as to allow them to partake, in company with their brother and Beatrice Meadowsweet, of a certain portion of the general merry-making.

Northbury was a remarkably light-hearted little place, but it never had entered into quite so gay a season as this memorable August when Captain Bertram came to woo.

It somehow got into the air that this gay young officer had taken his leave for the express purpose of getting himself a wife. Nobody quite knew how the little gossiping whisper arose, but arise it did, and great was the commotion put into the atmosphere, and severe the flutterings it caused to arise in more than one gentle girl heart.

Catherine and Mabel Bertram were in the highest possible spirits during this same month of August. Their mother seemed well once more, well, and gay, and happy. The hard rule of economy, always a depressing regime, had also for the time disappeared. The meals were almost plentiful, the girls had new dresses, and as they went out a little it was essential for them in their turn to entertain.

Mrs. Bertram went to some small expense to complete the tennis courts, and she even endured the sight of the Bells and Jenkinses as they struggled with the intricacies of the popular game.

She herself took refuge in Mr. Ingram's society. He applauded her efforts at being sociable, and told her frankly that he was glad she was changing her mind with regard to the Northbury folk.

"Any society is better than none," he said. "And they really are such good creatures. Not of course in the matter of finish and outward manner to compare with the people you are accustomed to, Mrs. Bertram, but—"

"Ah, I know," interrupted Mrs. Bertram in a gay voice. "Rough diamonds you would call them. But you are mistaken, my dear friend; there is, I assure you, not a diamond in this motley herd, unless I except Miss Beatrice."

"I never class Beatrice with the other Northbury people," replied Mr. Ingram; "there is something about her which enables her to take a stand of her own. I think if she had been born in any rank, she would have kept her individuality. She is uncommon, so for that matter is Miss Catherine."

The two girls were standing together as Mr. Ingram spoke. They were resting after a spirited game, and they made a pretty picture as they stood under the shelter of the old oak tree. Both were in white, and both wore large drooping hats. These hats cast picturesque shadows on their young faces.

Mrs. Bertram looked at them with a queer half-jealous pang. Beatrice was the child of a lowly tradesman, Catherine the daughter of a man of family and some pretension; and yet Mrs. Bertram had to own that in any society this tall, upright, frank, young Beatrice could hold her own, that even Catherine whose dark face was patrician, who bore the refinement of race in every point, could scarcely outshine this country girl.

"It is marvellous," said Mrs. Bertram after a pause; "Beatrice is one of nature's ladies. There are a few such, they come now and then, and no circumstances can spoil them. To think of that girl's mother!"

"One of the dearest old ladies of my acquaintance," replied Mr. Ingram. "Beatrice owes a great deal of her nobleness of heart and singleness of purpose to her mother. Mrs. Bertram, I have never heard that woman say an unkind word. I have heard calumny of her, but never from her. Then, of course, Meadowsweet was quite a gentleman."

"My dear friend! A draper a gentleman?"

"I grant the anomaly is not common," said the Rector. "But in Meadowsweet's case I make a correct statement. He was a perfect gentleman after the type of some of those who are mentioned in the Sacred Writings. He was honest, courteous, self-forgetful. His manners were delightful, because his object ever was to put the person he was speaking to completely at his ease. He had the natural advantage of a refined appearance, and his accent was pure, and not marred by any provincialisms. He could not help speaking in the best English because he was a scholar, and he spent all his leisure studying the classics. Therefore, although he kept a draper's shop, he was a gentleman. By the way, Mrs. Bertram, do you know anything of the young girl who has been staying at your lodge? You—you are tired, my dear lady?"

"A little. I will sit on this bench. There is room for you too, Rector. Sit near me, what about the girl at my lodge?"

"She is no longer at your lodge. She has left. Do you happen to know anything about her?"

"Nothing."

"Ah, that seems a pity. She is the sort of young creature to excite one's sympathy. I called to see her a week ago, and she talked prettily to me and looked sorrowful. Her name, she says, is Hart."

"Really? I—I confess I am not interested."

"But you ought to be, my dear friend, you ought to be. The girl seems alone and defenceless. She is reserved with regard to her history, won't make confidences, although I begged of her to confide in me, and assured her that I, in my position, would receive what she chose to tell under the seal of secrecy. Her eyes filled with tears, poor little soul, but her lips were dumb."

"Oh, she has nothing to confide."

"Do you think so? I can't agree with you. Although my lot has been cast in this remote out-of-the-world town, I have had my experiences, Mrs. Bertram, and I never yet saw a face like Miss Hart's which did not conceal a history."

"May I ask you, Mr. Ingram, if you ever before saw a face like Miss Hart's?"

"Well, no, now that you put it to me, I don't think that I ever have. It is beautiful."

"Ugly, you mean."

"No, no, Mrs. Bertram. With all due deference to your superior taste I cannot agree with you. The features are classical, the eyes a little wild and defiant, but capable of much expression. The hair of the admired Rossetti type."

"Oh, spare me, Rector, spare me. I don't mean this low girl's outward appearance. It is that which I feel is within which makes her altogether ugly to me."

"Ah, poor child—women have intuitions, and you may be right. It would of course not be judicious for your daughters to associate with Miss Hart. But you, Mrs. Bertram, you, as a mother, might get at this poor child's past, and counsel her as to her future."

"She has gone away, has she not?" asked Mrs. Bertram.

"I regret to say she has, but she may return. She promised me faithfully to come to church on Sunday, and I called at the lodge on my way up to leave her a little basket of fruit and flowers, and to remind her of her promise. Mrs. Tester said she had left her, but might return again. I hope so, and that I may be the means of helping her, for the poor child's face disturbs me."

"I trust your wish may never be realized," murmured Mrs. Bertram, under her breath. Aloud she said cheerfully, "I must show you my bed of pansies, Rector. They are really quite superb."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE RECTOR'S GARDEN PARTY.

A few days after the tennis party at the Manor, at which Bertram had talked a good deal to Beatrice, and in a very marked way snubbed Matty Bell, the Rector gave his customary annual treat. He gave this treat every year, and it was looked upon by high and low alike as the great event of the merry month of August. The treat lasted for two days, the first day being devoted to the schools and the humble parishioners, the second to the lads and lasses, the well-to-do matrons and their spouses, who formed the better portion of his parishioners.

Every soul in the place, however, from the poorest fisherman's child to the wealthy widow, Mrs. Meadowsweet, wag expected to come to the Rectory to be feasted and petted, and made much of, at Mr. Ingram's treat.

With the small scholars and the fishermen and their wives, and all the humbler folk of the place, this story has nothing to do. But it would not be a true chronicle of Northbury if it did not concern itself with the Jenkinses and their love affairs, with Mrs. Gorman Stanley and her furniture, with Mrs. Morris and her bronchitis, with Mrs. Butler and her adorable sister, Miss Peters, and last, but not least, with that young, naive, and childish heart which beat in the breast of Matty Bell.

There are the important people in all histories, and such a place in this small chronicle must the Bertrams hold, and the Meadowsweets. But Matty, too, had her niche, and it was permitted to her to pull some not unimportant wires in this puppet show.

It is not too strong a word to say that Matty, Alice and Sophy Bell, received their invitation to play tennis at the Manor with a due sense of jubilation. Matty wore the shot silk which had been partly purchased by the sale of good Mrs. Bell's engagement ring. This silk had been made, at home, but, with the aid of a dressmaker young Susan Pettigrew, who had served her time to the Perrys. Susan had made valuable suggestions, which had been carried into effect, with the result that the shot silk was provided with two bodies—a high one for morning wear, and one cut in a modest, demi-style for evening festivities. The evening body had elbow-sleeves, which were furnished with raffles of coffee-colored lace, and, when put on, it revealed the contour of a rather nice plump little throat, and altogether made Matty Bell look nicer than she had ever looked in anything else before.

The wonderful Miss Pettigrew had also supplied the dress with a train, which could be hooked on with safety hooks and eyes for evening wear, and removed easily when the robe was to act as a tennis or morning costume. Altogether, nothing could have been more complete than this sinning garment, and no heart could have beat more proudly under it than did fair Matty's.

When the captain went suddenly away this little girl and her good mother had both owned to a sense of depression; but his speedy return was soon bruited abroad, and at the same time that little whisper got into the air with regard to the gallant captain, that, like Duncan Gray, he was coming back to woo. It did not require many nods of Mrs. Bell's head to assure all her acquaintances whom she considered the favored young lady. Matty once more blushed consciously, and giggled in an audible manner when the captain's name was mentioned. The invitation to play tennis at the Manor completed the satisfaction of this mother and daughter.

"There's no doubt of it," said Mrs. Bell; "I thought my fine lady would have to come down from her high horse. I expect the captain makes his mother do pretty much what he wishes, and very right, too, very right. He wants to show his little girl to his proud parent, and, whether she likes it or not, she'll have to make much of you, my love. Sophy and Alice, it's more than likely Matty will be asked to dine and spend the evening, at the Manor, and I think we'll just make up the evening body of her silk dress and her train in a bit of brown paper, and you can carry the parcel up between you to the Manor. Then, if it's wanted, it will come in handy, and my girl won't be behind one of them."

"Lor, ma, what are we to do with such a bulky parcel?" objected Sophy, who was not looking her best in a washed-out muslin of two years' date. "What can we do with the parcel when we get to the Manor?"

"Take it up, of course, to the house, child, and give it to the servant, and tell her it's to be kept till called for. She'll understand fast enough; servants always guess when there's a sweetheart in the question. Most likely she'll place the things ready for Matty in one of the bedrooms. I'll put in your best evening shoes too, Matty, love, and my old black lace fan, in case you should flush up dreadful when the captain is paying you attention. And now, Sophy, you'll just be good-natured, and leave the parcel with the parlor maid, so your sister will be prepared for whatever happens."

Sophy, having been judiciously bribed by the loan of a large Cairngorm brooch of her mother's, which took up a conspicuous position at her throat, finally consented to carry the obnoxious parcel. Alice was further instructed, in case Mrs. Bertram so far failed in her duty as to neglect to invite Matty to stay to dine at the Manor to try and bring Captain Bertram back with them to supper.

"You tell him that I'll have a beautiful lobster, and a crab done to a turn ready for him," whispered the mother. "You'll manage it, Alice, and look sympathetic when you speak to him, poor fellow. Let him know that I'll give him his chances, whether that proud lady, his mother, does or not. Now then, off you go, all three of you. Kiss me, Matty, my pet. Well, to be sure, you do look stylish."

The three little figures in their somewhat tight shoes toddled down the street. In the evening they toddled back again. The brown paper parcel tossed, and somewhat torn, was tucked fiercely under Sophy's arm, and Alice was unaccompanied by any brave son of Mars.

Sophy was the first to enter her expectant mother's presence.

"There, ma," she said, flinging the paper parcel on the table. "I hope we have had enough of those Bertrams and their ways. The fuss I had over that horrid parcel. I thought I'd never get it back again. In the end I had to see Mrs. Bertram about it, and didn't she crush me just! She's an awful woman. I never want to speak to her again all my life, and as to the captain caring for Matty!"

"Where is Matty?" here interrupted Mrs. Bell. "She was not asked to stay behind after all, then?"

"She asked to stay behind? You speak for yourself, Matty. For my part, I think it was very unfair to give Matty that silk. We might all have had nice washing muslins for the price of it. Where are you, Matty? Oh, I declare she has gone upstairs in the sulks!"

"You're in a horrid bad temper, Sophy; that I can see," expostulated the mother. "Well, Alice, perhaps you can tell me what all this fuss is about? I hope to goodness you gave the captain my message, child."

"I didn't see him to give it, mother," answered Alice. "He never spoke once to us the whole time. He just shook hands when we arrived, but even then he didn't speak."

"Captain Bertram never spoke to Matty during the entire evening?" gasped Mrs. Bell. "Child, you can't be speaking the truth, you must be joking me."

"I'm not, truly, mother. Captain Bertram didn't even look at Matty. He was all the time following Beatrice Meadowsweet about like a shadow."

Mrs. Bell gave her head a toss.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" she said. "I didn't think the captain would be so artful. Mark my word, girls, he behaved like that just as a blind to put his old mother off the scent."

But as Mrs. Bell spoke her heart sank within her. She remembered again how Beatrice had looked that evening in the green boat, and she saw once more Matty's tossed locks and sunburnt hands.

After a time she went upstairs, and without any ceremony entered her daughter's room.

Matty had tossed off the gaudy silk, and was lying on her bed. Her poor little face was blistered with tears, and, as Mrs. Bell expressed it, it "gave me a heart-ache even to look at her." She was not a woman, however, to own to defeat. She pretended not to see Matty's tears, and she made her tone purposely very cheerful.

"Come, come, child," she said, "what are you stretched on the bed for, as if you were delicate? Now, I wouldn't let this get to Captain Bertram's ears for the world."

"What do you mean, mother?" asked the astonished daughter.

"What I say, my love. I wouldn't let the captain know that you were so tired as to have to lie down after a game of tennis, for a ten pound note. Nothing puts a man off a girl so soon as to hear that she's delicate."

"Oh, he—he doesn't care," half sobbed Matty.

"Oh, doesn't he, though? I never knew anything more like caring than for him to be too shy to come near you. Things have gone pretty far when a man has to blind his mother by pretending to be taken up with another girl. I knew the captain was in love, Matty, but I did not suppose he was deep enough to play his cards after that fashion. You get up now, lovey, and come down, and have a nice hot cup of tea. It will revive you wonderfully, my pet."

Matty allowed her mother to coax her off the bed, and to assist her on with her every-day brown holland frock. She was a good deal comforted and inclined to reconsider the position which had seemed so hopeless half-an-hour ago.

"Only he did neglect me shamefully," she said, with a little toss of her head. "And I don't see why I should take it from him."

"That's right, my girl. You show Captain Bertram you've got a spirit of your own. There's nothing brings a man to the point like a girl giving him a little bit of sauce. Next time he speaks to you, you can be as stand-off as you please, Matty."

"Yes, mother," said Matty, in a languid tone.

She knew, however, that it was not in her nature to be stand-off to any one, and beneath all the comfort of her mother's words she could not help doubting if Captain Bertram would care how she behaved to him.

The next morning the Rector's invitation came for the annual treat, and the hopes of the Bells once more rose high. On this occasion Mrs. Bell was to accompany her daughters. Bell would also be present, but, as he was never of much account, this small fact scarcely rested on any one's mind. All the town was now in state of ferment. The Rector's party was the only thing spoken about, and many were the prognostications with regard to the weather.

The day of festival came at last; the sun arose gloriously, not a cloud was in the sky, all the merry-makers might go in their best, and all hearts might be jubilant. It was delightful to see Northbury on this day, for so gay were the costumes worn by its inhabitants that as they passed through the narrow old streets they gave the place of their birth a picturesque and even a foreign appearance.

The Rectory was just outside the town, and, of course, all the footsteps were bending thither. The Rector had invited his guests to assemble at three o'clock, and punctually at a quarter to that hour Miss Peters seated herself in her bay window, armed with a spy-glass to watch the gathering crowd.

Miss Peters was already arrayed in her festive clothes, but she and Mrs. Butler thought it ungenteel not to be, at least, an hour late. "The Bertrams will be sure to be late," remarked the good lady to her sister, "and we, too, Martha, will show that we know what's what."

"Which we don't," snapped Mrs. Butler. "We are sure and certain to be put in the wrong before we are half-an-hour there. However, I agree with you, Maria; we won't be among the hurryers. I hate to be one of those who snap at a thing. Now, what's the matter? How you do startle me!"

"It's Mrs. Gorman Stanley," gasped Miss Peters; "she's in red velvet, with a beaded bodice—and—oh, do look at her bonnet, Martha! Positively, it's hideous. A straw-green, with blue forget-me-nots, and those little baby daisies dropping over her hair. Well, well, how that woman does ape youth!"

Mrs. Butler snatched the spy-glass from her sister, and surveyed Mrs. Gorman Stanley's holiday attire with marked disapproval. She threw down her glasses presently with a little sniff.

"Disgusting," she said with emphasis. "That woman will never see fifty again, and she apes seventeen. For my part, I think, when women reach a certain age they should not deck themselves with artificial flowers. Flowers are for the young, not for poor worn-out, faded types of humanity. Now you, Maria——"

"Oh, don't," said Miss Maria, stepping back a few paces in alarm, and putting up her hand to her bonnet, "don't say that wallflowers aren't allowable, Martha; I always did think that wallflowers were so passe. That's why I chose them."

"Who's that now?" exclaimed Mrs. Butler. "My word, Maria, get quick behind the curtain and peep! Give me the spy-glass; I'll look over your head. Why, if it isn't—no—yes—it is, though—it's that young Captain Bertram, a most stylish young man! He looks elegant in flannels—quite a noble face—I should imagine him to be the image of Julius Caesar—there he comes—and Bee—Bee Meadowsweet with him."

"Just like her name," murmured Miss Peters; "just—just like her name, bless her!"

The poor, withered heart of the little old maid quite swelled with love and admiration as the beautiful girl, dressed simply all in white, with roses on her cheeks, and sparkles in her eyes, walked to the scene of the coming gayeties in the company of the acknowledged hero of the town.

"Poor Matty Bell, I pity her!" said Mrs. Butler. "Oh, it has been a sickening sight the way the mother has gone on lately, perfectly sickening; but she'll have her come down, poor woman, and I, for one, will say, serve her right."

"We may as well be going, Martha," said Miss Peters.

"Well, I suppose so, since our betters have led the way. Now, Maria, don't drag behind, and don't ogle me with your eyes more than you can help. I have made up my mind to have a seat next to Mrs. Bertram at the feast, and to bring her down a peg if I can. Now, let's come on."

The ladies left the house and joined the group of holiday-seekers, who were all going in the direction of the Rectory. When they reached the festive scene, the grounds were already thronged. Mr. Ingram was very proud of his gardens and smoothly-kept lawns. He hated to see his velvet swards trampled on and made bare by the tread of many feet. He disliked the pet flowers in his greenhouses being pawed and smelt, and his trim ribbon borders being ruthlessly despoiled. But on the day of the annual treat he forgot all these prejudices. The lawns, the glass-houses, the flower-beds, might and would suffer, he cared not. He was giving supreme pleasure to human flowers, and for two days out of the three hundred and sixty-five they were free to do as they liked with the vegetable kingdom over which on every other day he reigned as monarch supreme. Marquees now dotted the lawns, and one or two brass bands played rather shrill music. There were tennis-courts and croquet lawns, and fields set aside for archery. Luxurious seats, with awnings over them, were to be found at every turn, and as the grass was of the greenest here, the trees of the shadiest, and the view of the blue harbor the loveliest, the Rector's place, on the day of the feast, appeared to more than one enthusiastic inhabitant of Northbury just like fairyland.

Matty Bell thought so, as, accompanied by her sisters and mother she stepped into the enchanted ground. The girls were in white to-day, not well made, and very bunchy and thick of texture. But still the dresses were white, and round each modest waist was girdled a sash of virgin blue.

"It makes me almost weep to look at the dear children," whispered Mrs. Bell to her husband. "They look so innocent and lamb-like, more particularly Matty."

Here she sighed profoundly.

"I don't see why you should single out Matty," retorted the spouse. "She's no more than the others, as far as I can see, and Sophy has the reddest cheeks."

"That's all you know," said Mrs. Bell. Here she almost shook herself with disdain. "Well, Peter, I often do wonder what Pas are for—not for observation, and not for smoothing a girl's path, and helping an ardent young lover. Oh, no, no!"

"Helping an ardent young lover, Tilly! Whatever are you talking about? Where is he? I don't see him."

"You make me sick, Peter. Hold your tongue, do, and believe your wife when she says that's about all you are good for. Matty's on the brink, and that's the truth."

Poor Bell looked as mystified as he felt. Presently he slunk away to enjoy a quiet smoke with some congenial spirits in the coal trade, and Mrs. Bell marshalled her girls to as prominent a position as she could find.

It was her object to get on the terrace. The terrace was very broad, and ran not only the length of the front of the house, but a good way beyond at either side. At each end of the terrace was a marquee, decorated with colored flags, and containing within the most refined order of refreshments. On the terrace were many seats, and the whole place was a blaze of gay dresses, brilliant flowers, and happy, smiling faces.

It was here the elite of the pleasure-seekers evidently meant to congregate, and as Mrs. Bell intended, on this occasion at least, to join herself to the select few, her object was to get on the terrace. She had not at first, however, the courage to mount those five sacred steps uninvited. The battery of eyes which would be immediately turned upon her would be greater than even her high spirit could support. Mr. Ingram had already spoken to her, she did not know Mrs. Bertram, although she felt that if Catherine or Mabel were near she might call to one of them, and make herself known as Matty's mother.