## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Aldyth's inheritance

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Title: Aldyth's inheritance

Author: Eglanton Thorne

Release date: October 8, 2024 [eBook #74544]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1891

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74544

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

# ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IDA NICOLARI,"
"THE MANSE OF GLEN CLUNIE," "THE TWO CROWNS," ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164 PICCADILLY

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BUNGAY.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. THE BLAND FAMILY

II. A NOVEL INTRODUCTION

III. GUY LORRAINE

IV. A LECTURE ON POETRY

V. A DAY AT WYNDHAM HALL

VI. DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. A MISCHIEF-MAKER

VIII. GOSSIP AND MISCONCEPTION

IX. MR. STEPHEN LORRAINE COMES TO AN UNDERSTANDING WITH HIS HEIR

X. HILDA BLAND'S PARTY

XI. CHRISTMAS AT WYNDHAM

XII. MR. LORRAINE SENDS FOR HIS SOLICITOR

XIII. SORROW AND JOY

XIV. A LONG-DEFERRED HOPE IS REALIZED

XV. ALDYTH WAKES FROM A DREAM

XVI. CONTRASTS

XVII. HILDA IS HAPPY

XVIII. A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM

XIX. THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM

XX. UNWELCOME CHANGES COME IN FORTUNE'S TRAIN

XXI. GUY MAKES A DISCOVERY

XXII. A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR

XXIII. LOSSES AND GAINS

XXIV. A SECRET SORROW

XXV. HOW MRS. STANTON SPENT HER FIRST AFTERNOON AT WYNDHAM

XXVI. A FAREWELL

XXVII. AN ACCIDENT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD

XXVIII. KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER

XXIX. A MIND DISEASED

XXX. THE WRONG DISCLOSED

XXXI. HOW GUY WAS PACIFIED

XXXII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE.

### CHAPTER I.

THE BLAND FAMILY.

MRS. BLAND'S house stood in the High Street of the little town of Woodham. It was an old-fashioned, sedate-looking house, with a bow-window projecting on each side of the front door, and two rows of white-curtained windows above; but there was nothing prim about the garden which lay at the back of the house. This garden, with its wealth of sweet-scented flowers, its fruit trees, its sunflowers and hollyhocks standing out in rich contrast to the mellow red of the old walls, was a delightful place in which to spend a warm September afternoon.

About the middle of the garden, and bordering at its lower end the portion which, though not devoid of beauty, was obviously devoted to utility, was a strip of lawn shaded by trees. Here, on such an afternoon, Hilda Bland was lying, very much at her ease, in a hammock suspended between two sturdy trunks. She had a book in her hand, but reading was impossible, since Kate was on the path close by, chattering fast as she gathered flowers, and Gwen, her younger sister, was displaying great energy in her attempts to shake or knock down some of the ripe greengages that were visible at the top of the tall tree to which one end of the hammock was fastened.

"You won't get them that way, Gwen," cried Kate, as her sister threw a rake handle at the top of the tree, and it came rattling down through the branches.

"You are far more likely to break my head," said Hilda, from the hammock, "and you shake me dreadfully. You might have a little respect for my feelings."

"Nonsense; you are so lazy, Hilda! If you were anything of a sister, you would come and help me."

"Thanks for the suggestion, dear," said Hilda, sweetly, "but I prefer remaining where I am." And she threw herself back upon the cushions with an air of indolent grace.

At all times Hilda had rather a languid air. Of slender form, below the middle height, with a colourless complexion, and features regular and delicately formed, she had a frail appearance beside her more robust-looking sisters; but, in truth, her health was as good as theirs. Mrs. Bland used to boast that her girls were never ill, thanks to the care with which she had followed the common sense rules for the rearing of his children laid down by her deceased husband, who had practised as a surgeon at Woodham. There was a dreamy, absent look in Hilda's large blue eyes, which some persons found interesting, and others quite the reverse. To the unimaginative it was a sleepy, stupid look; but the more discerning saw in it the sign of a thoughtful, reflective nature.

There was but the faintest resemblance between Hilda and Kate, who was eighteen months older. No one could be less dreamy or indolent than Kate, or, as she was more often called, Kitty. With black hair, keen dark eyes, and a warm brown complexion, now, at the end of the summer, deepened to a gipsy-like hue, she looked very much alive. Her form was sturdy, though trim, her features of a decided character, the nose of the Roman type, the chin well rounded and somewhat prominent, the mouth firm, though ready enough to break into smiles. She was the eldest of Mrs. Bland's family of four, and had passed her twenty-second birthday, but strangers often took her for younger than Hilda, there was so much of the child about Kitty still. Hilda was the quiet one of the family, fond of reading and dreaming. Kitty was seldom still. She seemed made for a country life, and was as happy in the rigours of winter as in the summer's prime. Riding, rowing, skating, there were few healthy exercises in which she did not excel. Of the liveliest temperament, she was a great talker and rather satirical, but happily her nature was too sound and warm for her satire to be tinged with malice or envy.

"I wish Charlie would come," she said presently, as she flitted to and fro amongst the flowers; "it chimed four ever so long ago. There, the quarter is striking now."

"Did you ever know Charlie come straight home from school?" asked Hilda, as she turned over the leaves of her Browning. "Why are you in such a hurry to see him?"

"Oh, you know! I am dying to hear about that new master. The arrival of a stranger at Woodham is such an event."

"Is there a new master?" asked Hilda, indifferently.

"Oh, Hilda! How stupid you are! Don't you know that Mr. Ferris was to leave at the end of last term, and did you not hear Miss Lorraine say the other day that a gentleman from London was coming to take his place—a B.A. of Cambridge, she said he was?"

"I did not hear it," said Hilda; "but Miss Lorraine has always so much to say, I cannot pretend to listen to every word."

"Well, I should think you might have listened to that," returned Kate, whilst Gwen paused for a moment in her futile efforts to bring down the greengages, and turned to hear what her sisters were saying.

"Why? What about him? What is his name, and what has he to do with us?" asked Hilda, anxious to get information as speedily as possible, that she might resume her reading.

"I have not heard his name, and I do not know that he has anything to do with us," said Kate, rather lamely; "but I hope, for Charlie's sake, that he is nice; and, of course, I should like to know whether he goes in for boating and that sort of thing, and would be likely to join our tennis club."

"Oh, you are thinking of the tennis," said Hilda, languidly; but the next moment she started up with an exclamation of pleasure, as she saw who was coming down the path from the house, accompanied by Mrs. Bland.

The visitor was a tall, slight girl, wearing a fresh cotton gown and a wide straw hat, as simply dressed as a girl could be, yet with a certain becoming grace peculiar to the wearer. You might not have known at first sight whether Aldyth Lorraine was to be considered pretty; but you would have felt in an instant that she was charming.

Her features were neither regular nor delicately moulded. The chin was too long, the mouth too large, the lips perhaps a trifle too full for beauty; but when the lips parted they displayed the most white and perfect teeth, and her smile revealed the sweetness of a frank and loving nature. The large-brimmed hat hid the broad, finely-arched brow and the dark brown hair which rippled back from it, but could not dim the merry, happy light that shone in the grey eyes. There could be no question as to the beauty of those eyes, long in shape, of a deep violet-grey hue, and shaded by long dark lashes. But, whilst we may attempt to describe features, what words can give the charm of a sweet girl's face? Aldyth's had a charm which won many hearts. But perhaps the charm was rather in herself than in her face. That was winsome, because her heart was tender and true and sympathetic, full of kind feelings towards every one she met.

"To think of my finding you all at home!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I felt sure you would be at tennis this lovely afternoon, and that I should have a quiet chat with Mrs. Bland."

"I am sorry for your disappointment," said Kitty; "but there has been nothing to hinder your having a quiet talk with mother. The fact is, Clara Dawtrey has a party of her friends on the ground this afternoon." Kitty's lip curled as she spoke.

Aldyth's quick little nod expressed perfect comprehension.

"What a pity that girl is so loud in her manners," she remarked. "I feel sometimes as if I should like to give her a little hint, but I suppose it would do more harm than good. Aunt says that if she only knew the things that are said of her, even by the gentlemen she counts her admirers, she would alter her ways."

As she spoke, Aldyth was lifting a chair out of the summerhouse at the end of the lawn for Mrs. Bland.

"Gwen," cried Kitty, who had her hands too full of flowers to render assistance, "do you see what Aldyth is doing? How rude you are! It is time you went back to school."

"Never mind, Gwen," said Aldyth, laughing, as the girl rushed up too late to be of use; "it won't kill me to lift a chair. And it is cruel of Kitty to remind you that Monday is so near. Charlie has gone back to school to-day, has he not?"

"Oh, that is nothing; I wish I only went to a day-school," said Gwen, a big girl of fifteen; "but is not Kitty curious? She is dying to question Charlie about the new master. Do you know anything about him?"

"Some one else is curious, I think," said Aldyth, merrily. "All I know of him is that he is named John Glynne, and Aunt Lucy is trying to persuade herself that he is one of the Glynnes of Norfolk, and that she went to school with his mother. Ah, here is Charlie; now we shall hear."

A boy of twelve, satchel in hand, came bounding down the garden. But, boy-like, Charlie would yield but meagre replies to the questions with which the girls plied him.

Yes, he had seen Mr. Glynne, of course. He had taken their class for Latin, and they were to read Shakespeare with him on Friday afternoons. He did not know that Mr. Glynne was any different from other masters; he did not like him so well as Mr. Ferris. He had given them a lot to prepare, and he had come down "like a load of bricks" on one boy, whom he had caught with a book open beneath his desk. He said it was as bad as stealing to take the credit of knowing a lesson which had not been studied, and that he had hoped he was going to teach manly boys, and not "sneaks."

"He is quite right," said Mrs. Bland, warmly. "I hate to hear of boys doing such deceitful things. Charlie, it would grieve me beyond words to express if I thought you could act in such a way. But I am not afraid. I believe that my boy will always be true and straightforward in his conduct."

"All right, mother," said Charlie, hastily. "But, please, I want that half-crown you promised me. I'm off to Stubbs' now, about those rabbits." And no more information concerning the new master was to be drawn from him.

"Tiresome young monkey!" cried Kate, as Charlie ran off with his half-crown. "Aldyth, you have no idea how provoking a young brother can be. You have no brothers or sisters to trouble you."

"I have a brother and sisters," said Aldyth, "though they cannot certainly be said to trouble me."

"To be sure! I always forget those relatives of yours on the other side of the world," said Kate, carelessly. "I must say I could not feel much affection for half-brothers and sisters whom I had never seen."

"But I hope to see them some day," said Aldyth, colouring as she spoke; "and I write to them, and they write to me sometimes. I should be sorry to feel as if I did not belong to them. But I must be going. I only looked in to ask Mrs. Bland if I had bought the right kind of wool that mother wants me to send her."

"Oh, Aldyth, don't go yet!" exclaimed Hilda, springing up in the hammock, and well-nigh overbalancing herself. "Do try the hammock; it's delicious this afternoon. A thousand apologies for not asking you before."

"Not now, thank you, Hilda," said Aldyth; "I have my letter to finish for the mail."

Though Aldyth was on the friendliest terms with all the Bland family, Hilda was especially her friend. The two girls walked arm-in-arm to the garden door, and after a prolonged good-bye there, Hilda came back to her mother and sisters.

"Kitty," she said, "you should not have said that about Aldyth's relatives. I am sure you hurt her, for she thinks so much of them all. She is always writing to them, and she never forgets one of their birthdays, though they sometimes forget hers."

"I am very sorry," said Kitty; "but really it is absurd to suppose that she can care as much for her brother and sisters as if they had been brought up together."

"She may not care in the same way, but she certainly loves them; and as for her mother, it seems to me that Aldyth simply worships the mother whom she has never seen."

"She must have seen her," said Kate.

"Of course; but you need not be so absurdly literal, Kate. Aldyth was only two years old when her mother went to Australia. She cannot remember her."

"It always seems to me that Miss Lorraine is more truly Aldyth's mother," said Mrs. Bland. "She has had the care of her ever since she was a few months old, for shortly after Aldyth was born, Captain Lorraine's health began to fail, and then Mrs. Lorraine travelled about with him, and the baby was left with her aunt. I am sure Miss Lorraine feels that Aldyth is her child, and I believe she provides for her almost entirely."

"Yes, but Aldyth does not feel like that," said Hilda. "She is fond of her aunt, and very grateful to her; but she loves her mother best. She is always looking forward to her mother's coming to England. I wonder if she ever will come!"

"Poor Aldyth!" said Mrs. Bland, with a sigh.

"Why do you always say 'Poor Aldyth' when we speak of Aldyth's mother?" asked Hilda, quickly.

"Do I always say it?" replied Mrs. Bland.

"Yes, you do, mother, and I want to know why. I believe it is because you think that Aldyth's mother loves her eldest child less than her eldest child loves her. Is that it?"

"Well, perhaps," Mrs. Bland admitted. "I must confess I find it hard to understand how a mother could leave such a tiny child behind her in England, and let her grow up to womanhood without making an effort to see her. I can only suppose that the other children, born to her in Melbourne, have taken Aldyth's place in her heart, and that, absorbed in her home life, she thinks but little of her eldest daughter, and regards her rather as Miss Lorraine's adopted child than as her own."

"But she wants to come home, and her coming has often been talked of," said Hilda. "She tells Aldyth in her letters how she longs to see her."

"I dare say," said Mrs. Bland, drily; "but a mother's passionate yearning to see her child would have found out a way for them to meet before now, I think."

"You knew Aldyth's mother when she was a girl, did you not?" asked Kate. "Is Aldyth like her?"

"Yes and no," said Mrs. Bland; "Aldyth's mother was a lovely girl, and had most fascinating ways. Aldyth is more of a Lorraine, and yet she often reminds me of her mother. But there is a great difference—I hardly know how to explain it—but there is a great difference between them. Aldyth seems to have inherited her father's frank, loving nature together with her mother's brightness."

"Had not Mrs. Lorraine a loving nature?" Hilda asked.

"Well, not as a girl. She was the belle of this neighbourhood, and had many admirers, and that sort of thing makes same girls callous. Then her parents were poor and designing, and they hurried her into a marriage with Captain Lorraine, because they thought he was to be his uncle's heir. I do not believe she loved him, and she was too young to have an idea of the serious duties and responsibilities of married life. You know I think no girl should be married before she is one and twenty."

"And the marriage proved an unhappy one, I suppose?" said Kate.

"I fear so," said Mrs. Bland. "Stephen Lorraine strongly disapproved of it, and when his nephew married in spite of his disapproval, he would have nothing more to do with him. The captain was harassed with money difficulties, and, as his health failed, he grew morbid and depressed. I heard Mrs. Lorraine say once that living with him was like being continually with a wet blanket. She was easily consoled after his death, for within a year she married Mr. Stanton, and sailed for Australia."

"Poor Aldyth!" sighed Hilda. "It seems hard that her mother should desert her like that. Miss Lorraine is very kind; but she is so fussy and talkative; I should not like to live with her."

"I wonder if Aldyth will ever join her family," said Kitty, "and how she will like them if she does!"

"I almost hope that may never happen," said Mrs. Bland, "for I fancy it would mean disappointment for Aldyth."

"She will never know what it is to have such a dear little mother as you," cried Gwen, suddenly bestowing a warm hug on her mother.

Mrs. Bland laughed at Gwen's vehemence, but tears came into her eyes as she kissed Gwen.

The death of her husband, followed a year later by that of her eldest boy, three years younger than Hilda, had intensified the anxiety that almost invariably attends a mother's love; but Mrs. Bland was a wise woman, and kept most of her fears to herself, taking care not to worry her children. Thus it was that her girls grew up with the feeling that their mother was their best friend, and there was no constraint between them, though Hilda at times evinced a certain reserve of character which caused her mother some uneasiness.

Mrs. Bland's heart was so essentially that of a mother that its sympathies could not be bounded by her own home circle. The friends of her girls were her friends also, and responded gratefully to the kindness she showed them. As for Aldyth Lorraine, she was well-nigh as dear to Mrs. Bland as one of her own children. She had grown up with Kate and Hilda. They had been separated only during their school terms, Aldyth having been sent to a more expensive school than Mrs. Bland could afford for her daughters. Aldyth often said that Mrs. Bland was the most motherly woman she knew; and unconsciously the girl's thoughts of her absent mother, and her dreams of what their meeting would be, were largely coloured by what she saw of the love and confidence existing between Mrs. Bland and her daughters.

### CHAPTER II.

A NOVEL INTRODUCTION.

THE house in which Aldyth Lorraine lived with her aunt was scarcely ten minutes' walk from Mrs. Bland's. The High Street took a turn just above the Blands' door, and winding round to the left, ended at an open space where three roads met. To the left diverged the Tolleshunt and Longbridge roads. The road, which was almost a continuation of the High Street, was known as the London Road, and was the more fashionable part of Woodham. Here were the newest and smartest villas that the little town could boast; but here and there amongst them stood a house with a history, a history which went back through many generations, so that one might imagine the old dwelling to look with contempt on its modern, upstart neighbours.

Miss Lorraine's house was one of the old ones, and was known as Myrtle Cottage. It was not very convenient, but it was picturesque, having a thatched roof, and walls tapestried with ivy. It stood in a pretty garden, sheltered by a thick hawthorn hedge, and, as it was the last of the houses, and the road dipped sharply on the other side, it had a fine view of a wide expanse of flat country, green meadows and hedgerows, cornfields and copses, melting away into the exquisite blue of distance.

Leaving the Blands, Aldyth walked quickly to the cottage, but her haste did not prevent her pausing for a moment with her hand on the gate to gaze at the far-reaching prospect bathed in the mellow light of the lovely September afternoon. There was something to Aldyth very heart-satisfying in that broad, fair landscape, and she never wearied of looking at it.

But as she gazed now, she became aware that a young man was seated on the low bank at the other side of the road. For a moment she imagined that he was merely sitting there to enjoy the prospect, but another glance showed her that he was very pale, and there was blood on the handkerchief he was pressing to his temple; his cap lay in the dust, and leaning against the hedge, a few paces down the bill, was a bicycle, which seemed to have come to grief. Instantly Aldyth crossed the road, saying, kindly—

"I fear you have had an accident. Are you much hurt?"

"Oh, it is nothing, thank you," said the stranger, in refined, courteous tones; "I have had an awkward fall and cut my forehead, but the pain is nothing, if only it would stop bleeding."

"Won't you come in and let my aunt see what she can do for you?" said Aldyth. "This is her house, and she is rather clever at dressing wounds."

"You are very kind," said the young man, meeting Aldyth's glance with a pair of clear blue eyes that had a very penetrative gaze; "but I think there is no need to trouble your aunt; I shall be all right in a few minutes."

But a fresh spurt of blood from the wound made him press the handkerchief closer to his face, and the colour which had returned to it died away.

"Indeed, you had better come in," said Aldyth, earnestly. "You know you really cannot go home like that. People would stare at you so."

The last words had their effect. The young man's face broke into a merry smile.

"They would indeed," he said. "I had not thought of that. And the boys! What entertainment for them! Thank you, I will avail myself of your kindness."

"That is right," said Aldyth, making a movement as though she would pick up his cap, but he saw her intention and was before her, though stooping brought a return of the giddiness which he had at first experienced. She had to help him bring his bicycle within the garden, then she hurried on to the house, the stranger following with a slow and somewhat uncertain step.

Happily Miss Lorraine was at home. She was seated at her desk in the little drawing room which opened at one side of the front door. A great talker, Miss Lorraine was not less great as a correspondent. When not paying calls or entertaining visitors, she was generally to be found writing letters.

"Aunt Lucy, here is a gentleman I met at the gate. He has had an accident; he fell from his bicycle. Do come and see what you can do for him."

"My dear! An accident?" cried Miss Lorraine, springing up with alacrity.

She came bustling into the hall, a comely little woman, whose age it would have been difficult to determine, for her black hair was scarce touched with grey, her eyes bright; she moved and spoke briskly, and was always dressed in a dainty, becoming style. Of great energy, she loved to be of use in any way, and, as Aldyth knew well, was delighted by this unexpected call to render surgical aid.

Aldyth had not given a thought to the individuality of the stranger, but Miss Lorraine recognized the gentleman who had been pointed out to her that morning as the new master at the Woodham Grammar School. She welcomed him heartily, took him in hand at once in her quick, energetic fashion, and had soon sponged the wound and dressed it, not unskilfully, with lint and plaster.

"Now, Mr. Glynne, you must stay and take tea with me and Aldyth. Yes, indeed you must rest after such a shock, and the quieter you keep, the sooner the wound will heal."

"You are very kind," said John Glynne, feeling the attraction of the bright little home in which he found himself, and inclined to accept the invitation; "but you have the advantage of me, since you know my name, whilst I have yet to learn to whom I am indebted for such kind services."

"Oh, no one can be long a stranger at Woodham," said Miss Lorraine; "we have a curious faculty—have we not, Aldyth?—of finding out the history of everybody, and if you had been here more than one day, Mr. Glynne, you would have learned that I am Miss Lorraine, and this is my niece Aldyth. I am pretty well-known, having lived at Woodham all my life. And there are few persons in the neighbourhood who have not heard of my father, Dr. Lorraine, who practised as a physician here for many years. People would come miles to consult him."

"And did he leave no son to succeed to his practice?" asked Mr. Glynne.

"No," said Miss Lorraine, a shadow falling on her face; "I had but one brother, Aldyth's father, and he chose the army as his profession. Charlie Bland was my father's partner, and he succeeded him; but he died, poor fellow, a few years later. His widow and family live in that large house with bow-windows at the top of the High Street."

But Mr. Glynne had to confess that he was so new to Woodham that he had not yet observed the Blands' house.

"I fancy the name Bland has come before me to-day," he said. "Is there a boy at the school belonging to the family?"

"Yes, Charlie Bland goes to the school," said Aldyth. "He is a nice boy. I know him well, for the Blands are great friends of mine."

Miss Lorraine was moving to and fro between dining room and drawing room on hospitable thoughts intent. Nothing could please her better than that she should be the first lady at Woodham to make the acquaintance of the new master. As for John Glynne, he was beginning to regard his accident as a fortunate occurrence, since it had introduced him to this bright, good-natured woman and her charming niece. Aldyth felt considerable inward amusement as she talked to this wholly unexpected visitor.

"What will Kitty say?" she thought. "She will wish he had fallen from his bicycle at their door."

"Tea is ready. Will you come into the next room, Mr. Glynne?" said Miss Lorraine, rising to lead the way. "Now had you not better rest on the sofa? No, won't you really? Then you must take this easy-chair. There! You look quite interesting with your head bandaged."

At this remark the young man sprang to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror above the mantelshelf He coloured, and laughed as he saw the effect of the bandage.

"I hope it will not be necessary to appear before my pupils in this headgear," he said.

Catching his half-rueful, half-humorous expression, Aldyth broke into a merry laugh, in which her aunt joined.

"You need not fear that," said Miss Lorraine. "The wound will have stanched by and by, and I can remove that unsightly bandage. It really makes you look as if you had been fighting."

And the three laughed again.

"It is a punishment for reckless riding," said Mr. Glynne. "But I was unprepared for such a sudden descent. I thought Essex roads were guiltless of hills."

"So many persons suppose," said Miss Lorraine. "But Essex is really not so flat as it is represented to be. There are many hills about Woodham, are there not, Aldyth?"

"They seem considerable hills to us," replied Aldyth. "But I dare say people coming from hilly districts would not think much of them. From what part of the country do you come, Mr. Glynne?"

"I was brought up in Norfolk," he said, "but we have lived in London now for many years."

"Norfolk!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, eagerly. "Was your father a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth?"

"He was," said Mr. Glynne, looking surprised; "did you know him?"

"And your mother's name was Susan Staines before she married?" said Miss Lorraine, in her eagerness passing by his question.

"It was—then you know my mother?" said the young man, his face lighting up with pleasure. "How strange!"

"We were girls at school together; she was my great friend in those days," said Miss Lorraine; "but she went abroad to perfect herself in the foreign languages, and gradually our correspondence dropped. I heard some years later that she had married a clergyman, and was living near Yarmouth; then, after a while, I heard that her husband was dead. I have often longed to see her again. And now I see her son. How strange it seems!"

"My mother will be delighted to hear that I have met with an old friend of hers," said John Glynne. "I will tell her when I write to-morrow."

"Yes, do," said Miss Lorraine, "and give her my love—Lucy Lorraine's love. Tell her I mean to be your friend, if you will let me, for your mother's sake. For indeed you seem no stranger now."

"You have shown yourself a good friend to me already," said John Glynne; "but I am glad that you know my mother. It makes me feel at home with you."

"Are you her only child?" asked Miss Lorraine.

"No; there are three of us. I have a brother and a sister. I am the eldest. My mother was left with very limited means, and she has had a struggle to bring us up. But things are easier for her now, I am thankful to say."

"You have helped to make them easier," was Aldyth's quick thought, as she saw the expression his face wore when he spoke of his mother.

It was a good face, and more and more it won on her, despite the ugly bandage which concealed the square compact forehead, betokening a high order of intellect. The features were not handsome, but they were strong; the blue eyes had the kindest, frankest look in them, and the curves of the mouth and the peculiarly sweet smile told of a warm, true heart.

"He is a good son," was the conclusion at which Aldyth arrived intuitively, and the thought deepened the friendly regard in which she already held him. His age she judged to be about seven-and-twenty.

"So you have come to the Grammar School," said Miss Lorraine, after a moment's reflection. "Are you fond of teaching?"

"Yes," he said; but Aldyth saw that his face clouded a little. "I believe I like teaching, but I cannot say that I am very fond of the drudgery of teaching small boys. I had hoped to obtain a different kind of appointment, but it fell to another, and being offered this post at the Woodham School, I thought it right to take it. My mother does not like it for me, but I tell her the experience will be very salutary. I have lately been attempting University Extension Lectures."

"Have you?" exclaimed Aldyth, greatly interested. "Oh, I have heard of them—lectures on literature and science, with classes afterwards for those who are earnest students. How I wish we could have something of the kind here!"

"Why should you not?" he asked. "Surely there are enough people at Woodham to form a centre."

"There are people enough, no doubt," said Aldyth; "but I fear they are not sufficiently intellectual. They would not care to improve their minds. On what subjects do you lecture, Mr. Glynne?"

"Literature is my subject," he said. "I have lectured chiefly on Shakespeare and the poets."

"On Shakespeare! How delightful!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I would give anything to study Shakespeare with one who really understood him. I always feel my own narrowness and ignorance when I come to Shakespeare. And Wordsworth, I long to read him intelligently. I have always loved his poetry, though I hardly know why I love it so much. I should like to be able to appreciate it rightly. Some of his poems seem to me so much grander than others."

"There is no doubt that his work was unequal, and it is curious how unable he was to discern his own highest work," said Mr. Glynne; "but I am glad you love Wordsworth, Miss Lorraine, for I have a great enthusiasm for him, and it is but rarely I meet any one who shares the feeling. It is a bond of sympathy between us."

He looked at her with frank, boyish pleasure in his clear, bright eyes. Aldyth met his gaze unshrinkingly, but she too was conscious of a thrill of pleasure. To one whose life is bounded by a narrow circle, it is a great gain to find a friend who shares one's intellectual tastes and predilections.

"We must have some lectures this winter; I see no reason why we should not," said Miss Lorraine, in her quick, decisive way. "It would be a capital thing for the young people. Tell me how to set about it, Mr. Glynne, and I will see what I can do."

"Auntie!" cried Aldyth, in a tone of delight.

"You must get together a committee of ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Glynne. "Appoint a local secretary, hire a room for the lectures, choose your subject, and apply to the University Extension Society for a lecturer, arrange the terms for the course of lectures, making them as low as you can without incurring debt, and issue bill and circulars announcing the lectures."

"All that is not difficult," said Miss Lorraine. "I will speak to some of my friends on the subject to-morrow. But you must give the lectures, Mr. Glynne. I will only move in the matter on that condition."

But Mr. Glynne would make no promise, though he appeared not unwilling to fill the post of lecturer if he found that his other engagements would permit him to do so. He sat talking to Miss Lorraine and her niece till long after it grew dusk, and when at last he walked away to his lodgings, there was no fear of any one's seeing the patch upon his temple.

The day's incident had given a brighter colour to the prospect of his sojourn at Woodham. Already he had made friends in the little town, and he felt sure that its inhabitants were simple-hearted, good-natured people, acquaintance with whom could yield only pleasure.

As for Aldyth, after he had gone, she awoke to the fact that she had quite forgotten the long letter to her mother which should have been finished that evening.

### CHAPTER III.

GUY LORRAINE.

ALDYTH rose early the next morning, that her letter might be finished and posted ere the morning mail went out. The clock had not long struck seven, when she threw wide her casement, and let in the fresh, delicious air. Birds were chirping beneath the eaves, and fluttering to and fro; the dewy grass was sparkling in the sun, and the garden looked most tempting; but Aldyth turned resolutely from the window, and seated herself at her writing-table.

One may often gain insight into a girl's character by a glance round her room. Aldyth's room, in which she took some pride, as girls do in a place that is their very own, revealed that she had a refined and cultured mind. There was nothing luxurious in its arrangements, but it was a pretty room despite the disadvantage, that, owing to the old-fashioned construction of the house, the ceiling sloped sharply on one side. Flowers stood in glasses on the dressing-table, and bees were buzzing over the mignonette planted in a box on the window sill.

Water-colour drawings adorned the walls, some of them painted by Aldyth, and some the gifts of school friends, and here and there were photographs Of Aldyth's favourite heroes—Carlyle, Ruskin, and Charles Kingsley, Tennyson, and Browning. The little wooden bookcase held a selection of books any girl might be proud to possess. There were daintily-bound editions of all our greatest poets, with some of our noblest works of fiction, and standard works of prose, too, showing that Aldyth did not read for mere entertainment, though in reading she found one of the highest pleasures of her life. For Aldyth loved books; she stinted herself of many of the pretty things girls love, that she might spend her pocket money on books, and at any time a bookshop had more attraction for her than a milliner's.

In a handsome frame on the mantelshelf stood the latest portrait of her mother which Aldyth had received. A similar one, reduced in size, Aldyth wore constantly in a gold locket, suspended by a slender chain from her neck. It was the photograph of a lady who might have been thirty years of age, but looked no older, with a beautiful face, faultless in form and feature, and luxuriant masses of hair dressed high on the crown of the head, after the fashion of the day. The pose of the head was queenly, the exquisite lips had a somewhat disdainful curl, as though conscious of their beauty. It was a face which demanded admiration; whether it would as readily call forth love, the portrait did not reveal. It is never safe to judge a person from a photograph.

This was Aldyth's beautiful mother, of whom she had dreamed all her life. Often did her eyes rest on the portrait with a sense of hungry, yearning love, and she longed for the time when she could look into her mother's face, and meet the kiss of her sweet lips. With passing years the longing came to have somewhat of the bitterness of a deferred hope. There were hours when it was positive pain to Aldyth to think of the love she had missed through the long separation from her mother. But her nature was too bright and hopeful for this thought to sadden her long. She was more wont to look forward to the perfect joy of the long-deferred meeting, and dream of the happiness that would then be hers.

Near Mrs. Stanton's portrait were portraits of the two daughters who had been born to her in Australia. They were taken as children, but even these juvenile portraits showed that the elder one, a girl about thirteen, had inherited the beauty of her mother, while the little one, dark, heavy-browed, and somewhat stolid-looking, was unlikely to develop good looks.

Aldyth's eyes turned instinctively to her mother's picture as she laid down her pen, after signing herself, "Your ever-loving daughter."

"Oh, mother! When will you come to me?" she cried in her heart.

If she could have had her own way, Aldyth would long ago have sailed to join her mother at Melbourne, but Mrs. Stanton had reasons for wishing that Aldyth should remain at Woodham with her aunt. Five miles from Woodham lay Wyndham, the family estate of the Lorraines, and at Wyndham Hall lived Aldyth's grand-uncle, an old bachelor, strong-willed, crotchety, eccentric, and possessed of considerable wealth.

Stephen Lorraine was the eldest and the last of three brothers, who had been well-known in the neighbourhood of Woodham. His brother William had practised as a medical man there, winning much love and honour, but he died at the age of fifty, leaving two children, a son and a daughter. The son, a handsome young fellow, was a great favourite with his uncle Stephen, and was looked upon as his heir. With his uncle's approval, he made the army his profession. Stephen Lorraine had a decided notion that his heir must conform to his will in everything, and as long as the young man did so, all went well.

But a time came in Captain Lorraine's history, when love proved stronger than expediency, and he dared his uncle's anger by marrying into an Essex family for which old Stephen had a particular dislike. It was an offence not to be condoned, and Stephen Lorraine at once announced his intention of leaving his property to the only son of his brother James, who had taken holy orders, and after officiating for a while as a curate at Woodham, had been presented to a living in the north of England. At his uncle's request, this young man, Guy Lorraine by name, came to Woodham, and took up his abode at the Hall. He brought with him a delicate young wife and a bright boy of two years.

Meanwhile Captain Lorraine, the discarded heir, disappointed in his married life and depressed by disease, was wandering from place to place, seeking health, and vainly hoping that his uncle would relent towards him. If the news of his death stirred a too late regret within the heart of old Stephen Lorraine, he showed no sign of it, unless the increased bitterness of feeling he manifested towards his nephew's widow might be so regarded. He hated the very name of Aldyth's mother, but he expressed a wish to see the little girl who had been left in the care of her father's sister at Woodham, and as soon as he saw her, Aldyth won her way to his heart.

A few months after the death of Captain Lorraine, Guy Lorraine's young wife also passed away, so that when Aldyth's mother finally left her to her aunt's care, Miss Lorraine—or Lucy Lorraine, as every one called her in those days—had as good as two motherless children to love and cherish. Little Guy and Aldyth were constantly together. If Guy were not spending the day at Miss Lorraine's cottage, Aldyth would be playing with him at the Hall, to her childish mind the most delightful place in the world; for Stephen Lorraine made a great pet of the tiny daughter of his favourite nephew. He would walk about the house and garden with the little damsel seated on his shoulder, clinging to his rough, wiry locks; and Aldyth's earliest rides were taken on a little Shetland pony, attached by a rein to the stout cob ridden by her grand-uncle. The servants at the Hall whispered to each other that the squire cared more for the girl than for the boy, and they found the cause in Aldyth's strong resemblance to her father.

But as young Guy grew into a robust, high-spirited boy, he too won his grand-uncle's affection; and when by his father's sudden death from an accident in the hunting-field he was made, as it seemed, the heir to Wyndham, most persons in the neighbourhood believed that it was Stephen Lorraine's intention that the cousins should marry, and Wyndham thus become the home and inheritance of them both. But up to the time at which our story commences, when the young people were both of age, no one had heard old Stephen give the least hint of any such intention. So far he had been content to let things take their course, judging perhaps from his past experience, that by active interference, he might defeat his own ends.

The old man had long outlived his two brothers, and he had seen several of the younger generation of his family pass away; but he was still hale and hearty, though in his eightieth year. Aldyth continued very dear to him, and he liked to have her often at the Hall. And it was because of her uncle's affection for her that Mrs. Stanton wished Aldyth to remain at Woodham. When the girl in her letters pleaded to be allowed to join her mother, Mrs. Stanton would reply that she felt it would be wrong to take Aldyth from the poor old man, who evidently found such comfort in her society.

"Do all you can to please your uncle, darling," her mother wrote. "Make it your duty to cheer his old age, and by so doing you may atone for the harm I did when married your father, and so deprived him of his uncle's favour. Who knows? He may even come to forgive poor me for your dear sake."

But as yet, Stephen Lorraine had shown no sign of forgiving Mrs. Stanton. He preferred to regard her as one who had no connection with him whatever, having passed out of his family when she married her second husband. To Aldyth he never named her mother.

As Aldyth, having finished her letter, ran down stairs, a young man was entering the house with the air of one who felt at home there. He was a tall broad-chested fellow, and his shooting suit well became his fine proportions. Of fair complexion, which the sun had brought to a warm hue, with light hair curling crisply over his forehead, well-cut features, and eyes that might pass for blue, he was a typical specimen of an English country gentleman, and most persons considered him very good-looking. He was carrying several brace of partridges strung together. At the sight of Aldyth, he smiled brightly, and lifted his cap with easy grace.

"Good morning, Aldyth," he said; "I'm an early visitor. I had to drive a fellow up to catch the first train, so I took the opportunity to bring cousin some birds. There are some for Mrs. Bland too, but I could hardly call on them before breakfast."

"No, really? I should have thought your audacity might have carried you so far;" said Aldyth, merrily. "However, in consideration of your bringing us those birds, we'll give you some breakfast, and then, if you like, I will walk down with you to the Blands, for I want to see Kitty."

"Kitty! I thought Hilda was your particular friend."

"So she may be, but Kitty is my friend too. I have something to tell her that will interest her very much." And Aldyth's eyes shone with amusement as she pictured Kitty's excitement when she heard her news.

"What's up? What has happened?" asked Guy, looking at her with curiosity.

But Aldyth only laughed in a tantalizing manner, and at that moment Miss Lorraine made her appearance.

"This is good of you, Guy," she said, lifting her face for him to kiss, for Guy had the place of a nephew in Miss Lorraine's heart. "I thought we should see nothing of you whilst you had such a shooting-party at the Hall. What fine partridges! You must be having good sport."

"Pretty fair," replied the young man; "the birds are not so plentiful as last year; the wet spring thinned the broods. Still, we made tolerable bags yesterday."

"So it seems," said Miss Lorraine, eyeing the birds with admiration, and immediately beginning to plan a little supper-party, to which Mr. Glynne should be invited. "How good of you to remember me! But here is the coffee—come in and get your breakfast. You must need it after your drive."

"When are you and Aldyth coming to Wyndham again?" inquired Guy, as he helped himself to some of Miss Lorraine's excellent ham. "Uncle was saying yesterday what a time it was since we had seen you."

"Well, you see, Guy, we feel rather shy of coming whilst you have a house full of gentlemen," said Miss Lorraine. "You don't want ladies about when you are so busy with the shooting."

"You forget that we do not shoot in the evenings," replied Guy. "Why can't you and Aldyth come down to dinner one evening? I should like you to see Captain Walker and Marriott. Marriott's awfully fond of music, and sings well. You might ask the Blands to come with you, and then we could have quite a musical evening."

"Well, perhaps; I must think about it," said Miss Lorraine, dubiously. "But you must ask the Blands, Guy, not I."

"All right; that's easily managed," said Guy.

"Why should you not bring Captain Walker and young Marriott here one evening?" asked Miss Lorraine. "Then I would invite the Blands and Mr. Glynne to meet you."

"Who in the world is Mr. Glynne?" asked Guy, opening his eyes.

"The new master just come to the school," explained Miss Lorraine. "Aldyth and I made his acquaintance yesterday." And she related the circumstances that had led to the introduction.

Guy's lips curled satirically as he listened. To him the whole story was absurd, and his comments on the incident were not entirely agreeable to Miss Lorraine, who had taken a great fancy to John Glynne.

"How any man can make himself so ridiculous as to go grinding about the country on one of those trumpery machines is beyond my comprehension," he said. "A good horse is worth fifty of them. I should be very sorry to sit astride such a thing."

"There is no reason why you should, you have always a horse at your command," said Aldyth. "I have no doubt Mr. Glynne would think a horse preferable, if he could afford one; but a horse is expensive to buy and expensive to keep, whilst a bicycle is no trouble at all, and its rider is delightfully independent."

"Yes, especially when he falls off and cuts his head open," said Guy, laughing.

"Now, Guy, I will not have you laugh at Mr. Glynne's misfortune," said Miss Lorraine. "For my part, I was glad the accident happened when and where it did, since it made us acquainted with so nice a man. He is not one to ridicule, I assure you. He is a B.A. of Cambridge University, and a highly cultured man. I hope we may be able to induce him to give us a course of lectures during the winter."

"Lectures!" exclaimed Guy, lifting his brows. "What—to you and poor dear Aldyth?"

"Don't be absurd; you know that is not my meaning. We want him to give a course of lectures on literature at Town Hall, or some such place, which any lady or gentleman may attend, who chooses to take a ticket."

"Whatever is the good of that?" asked Guy, with a simplicity which made Aldyth laugh.

"The good is that we shall have a chance of improving our minds and gaining some fresh ideas," said Miss Lorraine. "It will be a great advantage to the young people, if we can arrange for such lectures. You must take a ticket, Guy."

"I will take a ticket with pleasure, to oblige you," he said. "But please do not ask me to sit for an hour on one of those hard benches in the Town Hall, and listen to a dry lecture. I could not do it really. What is the good of it?"

"Guy, you are shockingly lazy!" said Aldyth. "I am just longing for the lectures to begin; and I know that Hilda and Kitty Bland will be delighted when they hear of our grand scheme. I have no fear that the ladies of Woodham will not muster strong at the lectures. I believe we read and think more than the men do."

"Of course; you have nothing else to do," said Guy, who, like many persons who enjoy unlimited leisure, was able to persuade himself that he led a busy life. "But why women want to study so hard I cannot think. They are no more attractive, in my eyes, for knowing a good deal. Indeed, I dislike learned women."

"They are so much more difficult to talk to, are they not, Guy?" said Aldyth, mischievously. "But I see you want to be off, so I will get my hat."

As they walked to the Blands, Aldyth and her cousin met Mr. Glynne hurrying along on his way to the school. It was but a few steps from his lodgings, and he wore his gown and college cap, which made him rather an imposing spectacle in the High Street. As he lifted his cap, the patch of plaster on his brow was plainly visible. Aldyth smiled frankly as their eyes met, and received a bright smile in response. Guy looked at the new master with cold, critical eyes.

"How ridiculous to wear that mortar-board!" he said. "If that's your grand lecturer, I don't think much of his appearance."

"I never said that he was handsome," replied Aldyth; "but I think he looks strong in every way."

Breakfast was still on the table in the Blands' dining room, and Hilda sprang up with rather a shame-faced look as the Lorraines entered the room.

"Yes, Aldyth, it is very shocking, I know," she exclaimed, as her friend shook her head with affected gravity. "But every one cannot have your energy, and it is really mamma's fault that I am late, for she did not call me this morning."

"Oh, of course; it is always some one else's fault," remarked Kitty, running in from the garden with a basket of pears in her hand.

"And a very satisfactory thing that is," said Guy. "I never care as long as I can find some one to bear the blame of my misdeeds. Why should people make such a fuss about early rising? It is all very well to get up if there is shooting or anything to get up for; but otherwise I would rather stay in bed."

Every one laughed at this candid confession, and Hilda's face brightened. They strolled out through the open door into the garden.

"Aldyth has prime news for you, Kitty," said Guy. "It seems there is a new tutor come to the school, and he must needs prostrate himself at my cousin's gate last evening. Aldyth found him there—a gory spectacle. Being, as you know, one of the most strong-minded of her sex, she did not faint, but promptly conveyed him into the house, where she, and Cousin Lucy devoted themselves to binding up his wounds."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Kitty. "I never heard such a rigmarole. Aldyth, what does he mean?"

"It is quite true, I assure you," said Guy. "We met the wounded knight not five minutes ago, with his forehead plastered up, looking like the hero of a hundred fights."

"Do be sensible and tell me what you mean," pleaded Kitty. "Aldyth, is there a word of truth in what he says?"

"It is remotely 'founded on fact,' like the stories auntie used to read when she was a girl," said Aldyth, "and the facts are these: Mr. Glynne had a fall from his bicycle near our gate yesterday afternoon. He cut his forehead rather badly, and I persuaded him to come in and let aunt attend to it."

"You don't mean it! What a joke!" cried Kitty. "Do tell me about it, Aldyth."

"Indeed I will not, if you are going to make a joke of another's suffering—you unfeeling creature!" said Aldyth.

"Why, was he much hurt?" asked Kitty, quickly. "You might tell me, Aldyth."

"I think he will get over it," said Aldyth, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "He recovered sufficiently to talk a good deal to aunt and me before he left. And what do you think, girls? He is perhaps going to give a course of lectures during the winter."

"A course of lectures!" said Hilda, quickly. "On what subject?"

"Oh, on literature—the poets, perhaps," said Aldyth, vaguely. "Aunt is delighted with the idea; she means to do all she can to realize it."

"Then she will succeed," said Kitty. "I never yet knew Miss Lorraine fail to carry through any plan she had set her heart upon."

"The poets! That will be lovely!" cried Hilda.

"Then you will go to these lectures?" said Guy, his face clouding a little as he spoke.

They walked on down the garden path, leaving the others a little way behind. Hilda's slender form looked more fairylike than usual in contrast to Guy's height and breadth.

"Of course, if they are held, I shall attend them," said Hilda; "I would not miss them on any account. It will be a grand opportunity for self-improvement."

"Some persons do not need improvement," said Guy in a low voice, as his eyes rested admiringly on her. "I like you just as you are. You would be spoiled if you became very learned."

His look and words brought a warm flush to Hilda's face. She was embarrassed, but not annoyed. She gave a little nervous laugh, and said—

"I am sure I ought to feel much flattered. Fortunately there is little danger of my ever becoming very learned."

Aldyth was replying as best as she could to a volley of questions from Kitty concerning Mr. Glynne. She stayed talking for a while after Guy had excused himself and gone off to his shooting. As she quitted the house, she glanced down the High Street, and saw her aunt coming out of the bank. Aldyth went to meet her. Miss Lorraine's face was radiant with satisfaction.

"It is all right, Aldyth," she said. "Mr. Greenwood quite approves of the lectures, and he has promised me his support."

Aldyth could fully sympathize with her aunt's satisfaction. Mr. Greenwood, the banker, and his brother, Mr. Ralph Greenwood, the solicitor, were highly influential members of Woodham society.

### CHAPTER IV.

A LECTURE ON POETRY.

MISS LORRAINE succeeded in creating an interest in the literature lectures, and carried out her project with little difficulty, though not without encountering opposition. There were various individuals who, like Guy Lorraine, could not see what good the lectures were to do. Some of the elders declared that there were excitements enough for the young people as it was. If they wanted to improve their minds, why could they not read quietly at home instead of gadding out to lectures at the Town Hall? And the mention of Shakespeare in connection with the lectures alarmed these good people. Study Shakespeare, indeed! What could that foster but a love of play-acting and theatre-going?

Happily Miss Lorraine was not wanting in tact. She persuaded the friends who had formed themselves into a committee that Shakespeare must stand aside for the present. They must not begin by riding rough-shod over people's prejudices. No one could object to a course of lectures on Wordsworth and the poets of the Lake School. Let them begin with Wordsworth, and trust that in time the minds of certain persons at Woodham would become enlightened with respect to the value of Shakespeare as a teacher of truth.

Her advice was followed, and by the beginning of October, every available wall and hoarding about Woodham bore posters announcing the course of lectures on literature to be given at the Town Hall, on Thursday evenings, by John Glynne, B.A., of Trinity College, Cambridge. The novelty of the idea caused considerable excitement in the little town. Every one talked about the lectures, and the tickets were sold with a rapidity that surpassed the most sanguine hopes of the projectors of the scheme.

The first lecture proved a grand success. The Town Hall was full. Every person of importance at Woodham seemed to be there. Conspicuous in the front rank of seats, reserved for the committee, sat Miss Lorraine, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her whole face radiating satisfaction, as, with head turned towards the door, she watched the people pressing in, and welcomed her friends with nods and smiles.

Not far from her sat Aldyth, between Kitty and Hilda Bland. Aldyth's satisfaction was more quietly evinced; but her face was bright with subdued pleasure. She rather shrank from the eager whispers in which Kitty, whose head was turning in all directions, made her observations on every one who appeared.

To the no small astonishment of his cousin, Guy Lorraine was present, seated at the other side of Hilda, on whom he was bestowing a good deal of attention. Miss Lorraine had given her little musical party a fortnight earlier, and Guy had made Mr. Glynne's acquaintance. But the new tutor did not seem to have made a more favourable impression on him on that occasion than at first sight. Guy continued to find much to ridicule in him. Perhaps the interest which Aldyth and her friends manifested in Mr. Glynne, and their enthusiasm about the lectures, kindled in Guy some unconscious jealousy.

The lecturer had stepped on to the low platform; he had placed his manuscript on the reading desk, and was about to begin his lecture, when the arrival of a late-comer created such a stir in the audience as obliged him to wait for a few moments. A young lady, dressed in the most extreme style of fashionable attire, came sweeping down the room. She would have been pretty but for the elaborate "get up" by which she endeavoured to attract attention to herself. The mass of light, frizzy hair which shaded her eyes completely concealed any intellectual attraction her countenance might possess, and the pearl powder lavishly applied to it reduced her complexion to an unnatural deadness of hue, and rendered invisible the quick changes of colour, the subtle play of expression on which the charm of a woman's face largely depends.

But however others might criticize her, Miss Clara Dawtrey seemed fully satisfied with the result of the pains devoted to her toilet. It gave her pleasure to feel that all eyes were fixed on her as she passed down the room, pushing her way to the front, though it was obvious that there were no vacant seats in that direction. When at last she halted, with a dramatic air of dismay, within a few paces of the lecturer, a gentleman rose to give her his chair, and after a faint protest, she dropped languidly into it. The lecturer, who had been somewhat anxiously watching the movements of the young lady, cleared his brow and began to address the audience.

"Well," whispered Kitty, in Aldyth's ear, "I do hope Clara Dawtrey is satisfied with the sensation she has created. The idea of her coming to literature lectures!"

But Aldyth's eyes were on Mr. Glynne, and she was too anxious to lose no word to pay much heed to Kitty.

John Glynne was a good speaker. He had a full, deep, musical voice. He began his lecture in a calm, quiet manner, which was nevertheless impressive. But as he went on, he soon began to display the fire and energy of one who was keenly interested in the subject with which he had to deal. He was a young man, and might be expected to display some timidity in addressing a strange audience; but his manner was singularly fearless and unaffected. He appeared too much in earnest to be troubled with self-consciousness.

Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, no matter what the subject, and that one lecture was, to Aldyth Lorraine at least, a revelation of the man. It showed her that John Glynne was a religious man—religious in the highest and deepest meaning of the term, a large-hearted man, to whom all life was dear, one who could enjoy much, but one ever actuated by a strong, inflexible sense of duty.

The first lecture was introductory, dealing with the general character of the poetry of the age preceding the era of Wordsworth and Coleridge. There were a few earnest words concerning poetry, which stirred Aldyth's heart with delight.

"I will not attempt a definition of poetry," the lecturer said. "All definitions are alike inadequate; the subtle essence which makes the preciousness of poetry seems to escape us when we try to define it. But let it be said, once for all, that that cannot be poetry which is artificial in its nature, stilted, and affected. True poetry has an intimate relation to human life. It appeals to every heart of man, to the wayfarer as well as to the scholar; it touches the simplest details of homely life; it illumines the joys and sorrows which are the heritage of our common humanity. What would our life be worth if there were no poetry in it?

"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth, and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."

Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.

The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall. Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself, and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.

"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it dull."

"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest intellectual treat I have had for a long time."

"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."

"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot answer for Kitty."

"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."

"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?" cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.

But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.

Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.

Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.

Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.

It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for some minutes.

"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth Lorraine."

Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham. Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.

"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"

Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her to speak of her defects.

"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing sentimentality instead of true sentiments."

"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have often thought."

"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service, in doing his duty."

"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—

"'Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face.'"

They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere he said, in low, grave tones—

"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"

He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness? They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.

### CHAPTER V.

A DAY AT WYNDHAM HALL.

ALDYTH and Hilda were very busy during the next few days. They were writing their essays on the "Characteristics of Eighteenth Century Poetry," and whenever they met, they discussed the subject, and manifested considerable excitement as to the result of their work. Hilda, indeed, was so absorbed in this new interest that Kitty laughingly declared that she was lost to the nineteenth century, and would have been oblivious of every duty she owed to her contemporaries if she had not looked after her.

"It is well I am a prosaic mortal," Kitty would say as she arranged flowers, watered the plants in the conservatory, and attended to the various little details on which the beauty and comfort of a home depend; "not a room in the house would be fit to be seen if they were left to Hilda."

And Hilda would smile dreamily, and, with an untroubled conscience, devote all her time to reading and study. Kitty liked active duties, she had no intellectual tastes; why should Hilda interfere to prevent her performing as many such duties as possible?

Aldyth had no sister to relieve her of unwelcome tasks, and Miss Lorraine, who was so much engaged outside her home, expected her niece to assist her in domestic matters. Aldyth did not let her interest in the literature lectures lead her to slight these. Each duty was conscientiously discharged, but, by rising early and making the most of every opportunity, she managed to secure time for reading and writing.

Mr. Glynne's second lecture, which described the influence of the French Revolution on English literature, was even more interesting than the former one had been. Aldyth's paper was returned to her with a few words of commendation written on it. Hilda's, too, was marked "good," but it was criticized as being rather too diffuse, and in some respects not to the point. Hilda, who had spent hours over her essay, and flattered herself that it was well done, was disappointed to find it unequal to Aldyth's.

"Aldyth's is the best essay," said Kitty to Miss Lorraine, as they met near the door of the hall. She spoke in loud, clear tones, as she generally did, and her words were heard by Clara Dawtrey, to whom Miss Lorraine had just been speaking.

"That Miss Aldyth Lorraine should stand first is only what one would expect," Clara remarked with a simper.

Kitty gave her rather a haughty look of inquiry. But Miss Dawtrey had turned to greet an acquaintance, and Kitty's look was apparently lost on her.

"Now what did she mean by that, I wonder?" said Kitty, lowering her voice.

"I am sure I cannot say," replied Miss Lorraine, rather belying her words the next moment, however, by remarking, "I hope there will be no nonsense of that kind. There never was such a place for gossip as Woodham."

John Glynne no longer felt himself a stranger to people who gathered to hear him lecture. The society of a small country town is not usually reluctant to show hospitality to a young man of good family and high personal credentials, and Woodham was no exception to this rule.

The young tutor sometimes was embarrassed by the number of invitations he received, and had to use considerable tact in order to avoid offending any of the many persons who wished for the pleasure of his acquaintance. His frank, genial manner and good spirits made him popular in every home. He was not musical in the ordinary sense of the term; but he could appreciate good music, and so was a welcome addition to the musical parties for which the little town was famous.

There were two houses in which John Glynne felt perfectly at home, and an invitation to either was most acceptable to him. These were Mrs. Bland's and Miss Lorraine's. His lodgings being close by in the Longbridge Road, it was easy to drop into either. Needless to say, good Mrs. Bland's heart went out towards the lonely young man, and for the sake of his absent mother, she showed him many a motherly kindness. And he enjoyed the life and freedom he found in her home. He was sure that his sister would like the girls. Aldyth Lorraine, too; Mary could not help liking her. She was somehow different from any girl he had ever met before.

John Glynne little suspected that he never ran up the Blands' steps or stopped in the High Street to speak to the Bland girls or their friend Aldyth, without a pair of keen, dark eyes noting that he did so. The eyes were those of the Blands' neighbour, Miss Tabitha Rudkin, an elderly maiden lady, grand-aunt to Clara Dawtrey. Her house stood opposite to Mrs. Bland's, just at the bend of the High Street, where a narrow lane ran into it, and was so built that the windows commanded two directions. The use which its occupant made of these windows had led the Bland girls to name the house the "Observatory." Nothing that happened in the High Street could escape the observation of Miss Rudkin and her hired companion, Miss Purkiss.

In her way Miss Rudkin was a power in the little town, but, alas! it was a power for evil. She was one of those unhappy spinsters who have brought a slur upon the character of elderly single women. Of cold, selfish nature and ill-disciplined mind, without occupation or any close ties of affection, she had grown more and more unamiable, more suspicious, more prone to believe the worst of her fellow mortals with advancing years. Although it was no kindly interest she took in her neighbours, the interest was intense. No one knew so much as Miss Rudkin about all that happened or might happen at Woodham. She was the most arrant gossipmonger in the place, if, indeed, she might not be described as manufacturer of that commodity. All those who had a relish for the latest piece of scandal, and could enjoy hearing the character of a neighbour pulled to pieces, without being particular as to the accuracy of the statements made, were wont to frequent Miss Rudkin's house; and many others paid her attention, not because they liked her, but because they feared her.

It was said that long, long ago, when Miss Tabitha Rudkin was young, and perhaps good-looking, there had been a talk of her marrying Stephen Lorraine. No one knew more than that there had been "something between them"; no one could explain why the marriage had never taken place; but it was certain that Miss Rudkin had still considerable influence over old Stephen Lorraine.

Whether he were actuated by a sense of having wronged her in the past, or whatever the motive, he invariably treated her with great respect. On no day did he drive down the town without drawing up for a minute at Miss Rudkin's door to inquire after her health, or leave some little present of game or fruit. Not seldom he would go in to have a chat with her, and gather information concerning the townspeople, for he, too, had an appetite for gossip. It sometimes happened that these visits produced results exceedingly annoying to Miss Lorraine, who had never liked the Rudkins.

Aldyth's life had never been more busy or more full of interest than it was now. It seemed to Miss Lorraine, as she watched her niece with loving eyes, and marked the fresh animation in her look and bearing, that Aldyth was daily growing prettier. There is, indeed, no beautifier of the human face like the glow imparted to it by a noble, spiritual, and intellectual life. High thoughts leave their impress, and a pure, unselfish spirit will illumine the homeliest features.

Three lectures had been given, and Aldyth was looking forward with great interest to the fourth, which was to treat of Wordsworth's work as a poet. It was Tuesday morning, and having completed her round of domestic duties, Aldyth sat down to finish the paper she was writing for Mr. Glynne. She was just fairly launched into her task when she heard her aunt calling to her from below—

"Come down, Aldyth; Guy is here."

Aldyth laid down her pen with a sigh, and ran to obey the summons.

Guy was chatting with Miss Lorraine in the dining room. His dog-cart stood outside the house, with a boy holding the somewhat spirited horse. Since he appeared at the first lecture, Guy had not taken the trouble to attend another, but he had happened to be at Woodham on each Thursday evening, and the Blands had found him waiting on the steps of the Town Hall, apparently for the pleasure of watching the audience disperse.

"Guy has come to take us to Wyndham for the day," said Miss Lorraine, as Aldyth entered; "uncle wishes to see us."

Aldyth felt a pang of disappointment. The work in which she was so interested must be put aside, for Miss Lorraine always regarded her uncle's wishes as commands, and only absolute necessity would have led her to decline this invitation. But Aldyth would not allow it to be seen that she would prefer to remain at home.

"Thank you, Guy," she said brightly; "it is a lovely day for Wyndham. I suppose you would like us to get ready at once?"

"If you please," said Guy. "You will want your habit, Aldyth. Uncle has bought a new mare, one that carries a lady beautifully, and you are to try her paces this afternoon, if you will."

Aldyth's eyes brightened. She was fond of riding, and the prospect of the new mare was delightful. She ran to get ready, but, even with such a pleasure in anticipation, she cast a regretful glance at the books and papers scattered on her writing-table.

In a short time they were on their way to Wyndham. Aldyth sat on the back seat of the dog-cart, and was content to let the other two do the talking. For nearly five miles they followed the Longbridge Road, a dreary road, running on a dead level all the way, with nothing to break the monotony of flat fields save an occasional cottage, or a windmill slowly revolving its long arms. But it was a lovely October day. There was a crisp freshness in the air without its being cold. The sun was shining on the stubble fields and on the brown mud and gleaming water of the distant estuary. The hedges were bright with scarlet rose-hips, an abundance of haws, russet leaves, and here and there rich clusters of blackberries. Aldyth's eyes were quick to discern beauty wherever it lurked. She loved the country at all seasons and under all aspects. She had travelled little, and she often longed to visit the most beautiful parts of the world; but whilst she waited for the realization of this desire, she missed none of the beauty which Nature lavishes on every spot of earth.

As they approached Wyndham, Guy turned his horse sharply from the main road, and they entered upon a long carriage drive which crossed two fields. The gates were set open in anticipation of their arrival, and they drove straight on through a rather gloomy shrubbery till they emerged in front of a long, low, white house. A lawn stretched to the right of it, with flower-beds, rather untidily kept, and to the left lay a round pond with the broad leaves of water-lilies floating on its surface. At the sound of wheels, several dogs came running from the back of the house, barking joyously. They knew Aldyth well, and she called them by their names, and laughed as they made frantic efforts to spring up at the back of the dog-cart.

The commotion soon brought out the squire to welcome his guests. He was a fine old man, wonderfully upright and vigorous for his years. He wore a shabby velveteen shooting jacket, and on his head a soft black velvet cap, which he was scarcely ever known to lay aside. The hair which fell beneath it and almost touched his shoulders was snowy white, in vivid contrast to his cheek which had a ruddy glow like that of a winter apple, and testified to a life spent largely in the open air; his blue eyes were keen and bright; he had a large, handsome nose, a think-lipped, tightly-closed mouth, and a round, cleanly-shaven chin.

His eyes shone with their kindliest light as he grasped Aldyth's hand and helped her to spring from the dog-cart, while the others drove round to the front door.

"So you've come, miss," he said. "Why did you make me send for you? It seems you have no leisure to visit your poor old uncle nowadays."

"Indeed, uncle, we have talked of coming, but we have been very busy lately."

"Busy! Pooh! What can you have to be busy about, I should like to know?"

"Well, uncle, you know we are having literature lectures now at Woodham, and I have to study hard in order to get all the good that I can from them."

An impatient frown came to the old man's face.

"Lectures! Pshaw! What good can they do you?"

"A great deal, I think, uncle," said Aldyth, cheerfully; "I am learning many things I did not know before."

"Rubbish. You know enough. Did you not go to a first-class school?"

"Yes, uncle; but whilst I was there, I had little time for studying poetry."

"What do you want to study poetry for? It will only put ideas into your head that are better out of it. I never studied poetry or attended lectures, and I have got on very well without doing so."

It was difficult to reply to this emphatic statement. Aldyth left it undisputed, and turned to caress one of the dogs.

Miss Lorraine received but a cold greeting from her uncle; but she expected no other. Their intercourse had never been cordial since the time when he thought fit to disinherit the brother whom she passionately loved. Miss Lorraine took her brother's part, and had tried to make peace for him with her uncle; but she had only received the not infrequent reward of the peacemaker—her uncle's displeasure had been extended to her.

His love for Aldyth, and Miss Lorraine's love for both the children who claimed her affection, had tended to patch up this breach; but the patching was frail, and Miss Lorraine was ever aware that her uncle regarded her with coldness and suspicion. But for Aldyth's sake, she strove to preserve a friendly footing at the Hall, and was punctiliously attentive to her uncle's wishes.

These visits to the Hall were seldom agreeable to her. She was not afraid of the old man, but she could not enjoy his society. She believed that he took a secret pleasure in annoying her. He certainly had a knack of "rubbing her the wrong way," and sometimes he irritated her to such an extent that it was all she could do to resist the temptation to give him "a piece of her mind."

During luncheon the talk was about the mare which Aldyth was presently to mount. She knew that her uncle had purchased the animal entirely for her benefit, and she was grateful to him.

"It is very good of you, uncle, to give me so much pleasure," she said.

"Pooh, pooh!" he returned. "One must have a decent horse or two in one's stables, and as you like riding, you may as well ride her. Brown Bess is getting a little too old and staid for your ladyship!"

It was the very day for a ride; Aldyth was longing to be in the saddle. Soon after luncheon the horses were brought round. The new mare was a beautiful creature, pale-chestnut in hue, with one snowy fore-foot. Miss Lorraine, who flattered herself she knew something of horses, was loud in her admiration of her uncle's purchase. Stephen Lorraine said little in reply; but his face was bright with pleasure as he caught the look of Aldyth's. He came down the steps and assisted Aldyth to spring into the saddle.

"It is your right, I know, Guy," he said; "but you let an old man forestall you for once."

Guy laughed carelessly as he mounted his own steed.

Aldyth was a good rider, and she looked her best on horseback. The dark blue habit showed to perfection her graceful figure, and set off the pure paleness of her complexion. Her eyes shone with happiness, and there was a glad ring her voice as she bade good-bye to the two who stood on the steps to watch her ride away with Guy. Miss Lorraine felt less cheerful as she looked forward to spending the afternoon alone with her uncle.

"She is a dear girl," he remarked as his eyes followed two riding down the drive; "and she is growing a handsome girl. They make a fine pair. There will not be a better-matched couple in Essex."

Miss Lorraine turned a startled look upon him.

He met her glance, and arrested it for a moment with his keen old eyes.

"Yes," he said, significantly, "I mean it. Of course those two will marry. You cannot suppose that I contemplate anything else?"

Miss Lorraine grew hot and then cold. She was not exactly surprised. It was rather the realization of a dread that had long haunted her mind.

"The question is rather—what does Guy contemplate?" she said, quickly.

"Oh, as to that," said her uncle, coolly, "where could he find a more charming wife than Aldyth would make him? And would it not be the best thing possible for her?"

Miss Lorraine did not reply. As she followed her uncle across the wide oaken hall, she said to herself that many women would like to be the mistress of such a fine old house. What better position could she desire for Aldyth than that which she would win if she married her cousin, the heir of Wyndham? And yet there was something repugnant to her in the idea. Guy did not seem to her to possess the qualities that could make him a good husband for Aldyth.

They went back into the dining room. It was a large, handsome room; but its dark oaken furniture, dark hangings, and dark carpet made it appear gloomy. The whole house, indeed, had the dingy, uncared-for look that a home generally gets that has no lady as its presiding genius. The drawing room, a long, narrow room facing the garden, was rarely used.

Old Stephen stirred the fire into a blaze, seated himself in his armchair, folded his hands before him, and looked deliberately at his niece.

"You do not like the idea, it seems; but what better thing could there be for Aldyth?"

"That depends on how she would regard it," said Miss Lorraine, drily.

"She has no fortune," he continued, without heeding his niece's words. "Her mother has given her up; but if she had not done so, she has nothing to leave her daughter."

"Aldyth will not be penniless," said her aunt, quietly. "All that I have to leave will be hers when I am no more."

Stephen Lorraine made no comment on this statement. Evidently he thought the £300 a year Miss Lorraine had inherited from her father a poor thing in comparison with the joint possession of Wyndham and the fortune he had accumulated.

"It seems to me," said Miss Lorraine, with sudden boldness, "it seems to me a dangerous thing to make plans of this kind. If the two are drawn to each other, all well and good; but you cannot be sure that Aldyth would be Guy's choice, or, supposing it were so, that she could love him."

"Nonsense!" said the old man sharply. "I tell you she does love him. She'll be all right if you do not stuff her head with rubbish. What's all this about the literature lectures? Who's that young fellow they tell me is constantly at your house?"

Miss Lorraine coloured.

"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" she said within herself. "This is your doing."

But she replied calmly—

"I suppose you mean Mr. Glynne, the gentleman who is giving the lectures. He is not more often at my house than he is at other people's. He is a young man of good family, well-bred and highly cultured. I went to school with his mother."

"Whose nonsensical idea was it having these lectures? What good can they do?"

Miss Lorraine thought it vain to argue that question with her uncle.

"Aldyth enjoys them," she said; "she is very fond of poetry."

"More's the pity," returned the old man. "I don't approve of stuffing a girl's head with poetry and rubbish! There's Byron, for instance. Now what good can it do a girl to read Byron, I should like to know?"

Miss Lorraine was silent. She thought it probable that Byron was the only poet with whose writings her uncle was acquainted; but she did not dare to hint that he was perhaps hardly competent to judge of the value of poetry.

"No," he added; "I object to those lectures. They will do her no good. Tell her so from me; tell her that I wish her to give them up."

"Uncle!" His niece looked blankly at him. She could hardly believe that he was in earnest.

"I mean it," he said; "I wish her to give them up. Guy does not care for them; he does not attend them, and I would rather she did not."

"But Aldyth cares very much for them," said her aunt. "You cannot think what a disappointment it would be to her."

"Nonsense!" he said impatiently. "Aldyth is a good girl; she will do what I wish. You tell her what I say—do you hear?"

"I hear, certainly," said Miss Lorraine, greatly annoyed, "but I think you had better speak to her about it yourself."

"You refuse to do so?"

Miss Lorraine hesitated.

"I would rather not," she said; "but if you insist upon it, I will."

"Very well, then; I do insist upon it. Now I shall see whether Aldyth really cares to please me. There has been talk about her at Woodham which has displeased me. I wish to put it down."

"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" inwardly groaned Miss Lorraine.

Stephen Lorraine said little more to his niece as they sat together. Presently he took up his newspaper, and nodded a little behind it, though he would have scouted the idea of sleeping in the afternoon.

She sat knitting diligently, but stealing many a glance the while at the clock on the mantelpiece. She hated the disagreeable task imposed on her. What would Aldyth say? At last the long, dull afternoon wore to its close, and she heard Aldyth's happy voice as she dismounted at the front door.

### CHAPTER VI.

DISAPPOINTMENT.

ALDYTH came in fresh and bright from her ride, and her entrance seemed to bring a breath of new life into the dreary old house. She was delighted with the mare, and declared that she had never enjoyed a ride more. Guy, too, seemed in the best of spirits.

"We mean to ride twice a week, Cousin Lucy," he said. "We must get the Blands to join us sometimes. Hilda could ride Brown Bess."

"Hilda is nervous on horseback," said Miss Lorraine. "Kitty would enjoy it more."

"Kitty—oh, Kitty is afraid of nothing!" said Guy, lightly. "We could easily find a mount for her. But Hilda is not so nervous as you think. I am sure she would not be afraid to ride Brown Bess."

"I dare say not, if you were at hand to take care of her," said Aldyth, merrily.

Guy coloured slightly.

The evening passed pleasantly away. Nothing more was said about the lectures. The cousins were in the gayest mood, and old Stephen's eyes twinkled with amusement as he listened to their merry talk. It seemed to him that things were just as they should be, and he had not a doubt that the last, and perhaps the strongest, desire that his imperious will had conceived would be realized without difficulty.

Miss Lorraine was unusually silent during the remainder of her visit, but only her uncle, who had reason to know that she was not well pleased, observed her silence.

The night was so chill that the closed carriage—a very antiquated vehicle, which Guy was wont to designate as the "bathing machine,"—was ordered to convey the ladies back to Woodham.

"Let us see you again soon, Aldyth," said her uncle, in the best of humours as he kissed her. "Remember that your steed will need frequent exercise, or she will get too skittish even for so good a horsewoman as you are. What are you going to name her, by the by?"

"Oh, am I to give her a name? You should do that, I think, uncle."

"Not I; she is yours to all intents and purposes. You do not expect me to mount her?"

"No, indeed; I think she would hardly carry you," said Aldyth, smiling. "But you are too good to me; you spoil me with kindness. Well, I must think of a name for her. I have a great mind to call her Pansy; she is so glossy and bright."

"Pansy! That's the same as Heartsease, is it not? Not a bad name for her mistress, eh, Guy? But come, sir; surely you are going to escort these ladies to Woodham?"

"Oh, I don't mind if I do," said Guy, who had evidently not intended to accompany them.

"Mind, indeed!" repeated his uncle.

"I mean, I shall be happy to do so," he said.

"Ah, that's more like it," returned the old man.

"Pray do not trouble yourself to be so polite, Guy," said Aldyth.

"It is absurd to talk of an escort, when we have old John on the box to take care of us," called out Miss Lorraine, who had taken her place within the carriage.

But Guy seemed now to wish to come. "Wait one moment," he cried, and ran back into the house. In a minute he returned, carrying a long, odd-shaped bundle, wrapped in newspaper, which he laid carefully on the seat before him as he took his place.

"Whatever precious thing have you there, Guy?" asked Aldyth, as they drove off.

Guy looked slightly embarrassed by the question. He unrolled the paper a little, and displayed a number of fine bulrushes.

"I thought I would leave these for Hilda Bland," he said, awkwardly. "She was wanting some the other day, and asked me where they could be found. I got these down Pentlow way; there's some marshy land there."

"It is good to be Hilda," said Aldyth. "You never get bulrushes for me, Guy."

"I did not know you cared about them," he said.

Aldyth laughed mischievously. Guy's colour rose. Miss Lorraine looked from one to the other with an air of bewilderment.

"Don't forget to leave the bulrushes," were Aldyth's parting words to her cousin, as she sprang out of the carriage at her aunt's gate.

"I believe you want me to give you some of them, but I will not," he said. He got back into the carriage, having declined an invitation to enter the house, and drove off.

Aldyth came in, looking highly amused.

"What is it?" asked her aunt, seeing the fun sparkling in her eyes. "What is all this about Hilda and Guy? You surely do not think that there is anything between them?"

"What do you mean by anything, auntie?" asked Aldyth, laughing.

"Anything serious—anything more than silly trifling."

"It is difficult to imagine Guy serious about anything," said Aldyth; "but he really seems to have a great fancy for Hilda, and, what surprises me more, she appears to be falling in love, or fancies that she is, with him."

"Goodness me! You do not mean to tell me that, Aldyth?" exclaimed Miss Lorraine.

"Why, auntie, you look quite shocked. Do you think it would be a bad thing? I certainly think Hilda might do better. I cannot help being amused by it—Guy is odd and Hilda so romantic; still, it is not a thing to make fun of, I know."

"Certainly it is not," said Miss Lorraine, with a severity of tone that surprised her niece. "There would be a terrible to-do if such a thing were to happen. No, no, depend upon it, Guy is only trifling, Aldyth. Don't you do anything to encourage it."

"I should not think of doing so," said Aldyth, looking troubled in her turn. "Do you suppose that uncle would dislike it?"

"Dislike is not the word," replied her aunt; "he would be simply furious. But why do you say that Hilda might do better, Aldyth? Guy would make a good husband."

"Would he?" said Aldyth, doubtfully. "But surely not for Hilda. They have scarcely anything in common. I cannot understand how she can care for him."

"That is hardly a kind thing to say of your cousin, Aldyth."

"Oh, I do not mean it unkindly. I am fond of Guy," said Aldyth, innocently; "but I cannot help wishing he were rather different. I do not think he is the one for Hilda."

"How about yourself?" thought Miss Lorraine. And she sighed, feeling oppressed by a sense of coming troubles, which she had no power to avert.

Aldyth was busy arranging in a vase some flowers she had brought from Wyndham. She looked so happy as she bent over them, her long, slender fingers giving a touch to this stalk, or a pull to that leaf till she had got just the effect she desired, that Miss Lorraine shrank more than ever from the task of communicating Uncle Stephen's wish. But it had to be done.

"Aldyth," she said at last, "you will be dreadfully vexed at what I have to tell you; but it's not my fault. Your uncle has taken a strong dislike to the idea of these lectures, and he wants you to give them up."

"To give them up?" exclaimed Aldyth, flushing deeply in her surprise. "To give up the literature lectures because he dislikes them? That is most unreasonable."

"So I think," said Miss Lorraine; "but it was no use talking to uncle. He thinks the only knowledge desirable for girls is how to make puddings and keep a house in good order." And she repeated what Stephen Lorraine had said about poetry.

Aldyth was too hurt to find amusement in his words, as under other circumstances she might have done.

"And he asked you to tell me that he wishes me to give up the lectures?"

Her aunt nodded.

"I cannot see that he has any right to expect that I shall yield to his wish in this matter," said Aldyth, decidedly. "It is not as if he had any good reason to give. Why he wishes it I cannot imagine."

Miss Lorraine could understand it very well, but she was not going to enlighten her niece.

"I do not care," said Aldyth, giving her head a little toss; "I shall not give up the lectures. You cannot expect me to, aunt?"

"My dear, it would be very hard; but it is not wise, you know, to cross your uncle's will."

Aldyth's face said plainly that she did not care whether it were wise or not. She rose to bid her aunt good-night. All the brightness had gone from her manner.

Miss Lorraine kissed her with more warmth than usual.

"I am as sorry as I can be," she said. "I felt quite angry with uncle. It is a great pity, for Mr. Glynne's lectures are so good and you enjoy them so much."

"But, I am not going to give them up," said Aldyth. "You need not speak as if I were."

She went hastily from the room, that her aunt might not see the tears that had risen in her eyes. Whether she continued to attend the lectures or not, she felt that her enjoyment of them was spoiled.

As she entered her room, the sight of her writing-table reminded her of the essay she had meant to finish on the morrow. Would it ever be finished now? Oh, she wished she had not gone to Wyndham! The thought of her uncle's kindness in giving her the beautiful horse grew bitter to her. Since he had done so much to give her pleasure, had he not a right to expect that she would do as he desired?

Yes; in her secret heart, Aldyth knew that she could not adhere to her resolve and defy her uncle's anger. She knew it, but it came home to her forcibly as she glanced at her mother's portrait. It was her mother's wish that she should please her uncle. This was the most severe test to which Aldyth's love for the mother she did not know had ever been put. Her lips quivered as she looked at the beautiful face, and the tears which had been slowly gathering, began to fall fast. Ah, she was learning something now of the inexorable demands of duty! She turned away, sobbing to herself—"If only I could tell her all about it, if we could talk it over together! She would understand; she would help me."

But Aldyth needed no further incentive. Her love had stood the test. The voice of duty had not spoken in vain.

She came down to breakfast the next morning looking languid and heavy-eyed. "Auntie," she said, directly they had greeted each other, "I spoke too hastily last night. I was angry, but it is of no use to be angry; I shall have to submit. Mother would not like me to do anything that would vex uncle."

"No, she would not," said Miss Lorraine. "She thinks it of great importance that you should keep in favour with your uncle. You are acting in the way she would wish; but I am very sorry for you, my dear child. I know it is a great disappointment."

Aldyth was silent. She did not care to talk about the disappointment. What to many girls would have been but a trifling sacrifice of inclination, was to her, with her keen intellectual tastes, a very great loss.

"I suppose uncle would like me to give up the lectures also," said Miss Lorraine, with a little laugh; "but happily he did not suggest such a thing, for I am too deeply committed to the undertaking to abandon it now. I expect he owes me a grudge for starting the idea."

"I think you may attend them with safety," said Aldyth, making an effort to speak lightly. "There is little fear that the study of poetry will unfit you for practical life, render you incapable of making a pudding, for instance, if cook should fall ill."

Miss Lorraine laughed. "Men attach great importance to cookery," she said. "Perhaps if Mr. Glynne were lecturing on that subject, uncle would not object to your attending the lectures."

An hour later Kitty and Hilda Bland came in.

"Have you finished your essay, Aldyth?" Hilda asked.

"No," replied Aldyth.

"No? You are behindhand. I have written eighteen sheets. What length do you think yours will be?"

"I do not know," said Aldyth, quickly; "I shall finish it for my own satisfaction, but I shall not send it to Mr. Glynne. I am not going to any more of the lectures."

"Aldyth! What do you mean?" exclaimed the sisters together. Their astonishment could not have been greater.

"It is uncle's doing," said Aldyth, speaking with an effort. "He does not approve of the lectures; he has desired me to give them up."

"I am sure I would not give up the lectures if I cared for them as you do, Aldyth, for any cross-grained old uncle in the world," said Kitty, warmly. "I call Mr. Lorraine a thorough tyrant."

"It is not for his sake so much as for my mother's," said Aldyth. "She would not like me to vex uncle."

"I am afraid I should not respect my mother's wishes if she were all those miles away," remarked Hilda. "You might write and ask her about it, and by the time you got her reply, the lectures would be over."

Aldyth smiled. "Nonsense, Hilda," she said; "you would not do so if you were in my place."

"But you could write the essays and send them to Mr. Glynne, if you did not attend the lectures," said Hilda. "You shall have the benefit of my notes. Come, you might do that, Aldyth."

Aldyth shook her head. "It would not be straightforward," she said. "It would be obeying uncle in the letter but not in spirit. And I ought to treat him better than that, for he is very good to me. Do you know he has bought a beautiful chestnut mare on purpose for me to ride?"

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Kitty. "Well, you are a lucky girl, Aldyth. I would gladly give up the lectures if any one would give me a horse—would not you, Hilda? Oh, I forgot you are such a goose on horseback."

"Hilda must conquer her fears," said Aldyth, smiling, "for Guy has set his heart on our making a riding party one of these days, and Hilda is to ride Brown Bess."

Hilda's face flushed with pleasure. "Oh, I am not so nervous as I used to be," she said, quickly, "and Brown Bess is such a steady old creature. It is very kind of Guy to think of it. He is kind. Did you see the lovely bulrushes he brought us last night, Aldyth?"

"Yes, they were fine ones," said Aldyth; "but now, Hilda, please remember that since I am debarred from attending the lectures, I shall rely on you to tell me all you can about them. I am afraid aunt's memory is not very trustworthy where literature is concerned."

"I wonder what Mr. Glynne will think of your keeping away," said Kitty.

Aldyth winced at the remark. It was a thought which had occurred to her many times already.

"Never mind," said Kitty, good-humouredly, as she read her face; "if I have a chance, I will let him know that it's not your fault."

### CHAPTER VII.

A MISCHIEF-MAKER.

ALDYTH was feeling more out of temper than perhaps she had ever felt before. It was Thursday evening, and Miss Lorraine had gone to the lecture, leaving her alone. She had yielded to her uncle's wish from a sense of duty; but it was impossible to feel resigned to the deprivation his absurd crotchet was causing her. The absurdity, the unreasonableness of it struck Aldyth more and more as she sat dismally picturing Kitty and Hilda and her other friends enjoying the lecture from which she was shut out. She could settle to no occupation. It was impossible to feel her former interest in the course of reading prescribed by the lecturer. Needlework was still more distasteful. She began a letter to her sister Gladys, the beautiful daughter of whom her mother wrote with pride that she was creating quite a sensation in Melbourne society; but Aldyth dropped her pen in the middle of a sentence, and, springing up, began to poke the fire with far more vigour than its condition demanded. It was of no use trying to think of anything except the lecture from which she was so provokingly excluded. Would Mr. Glynne observe her absence? she wondered, with a little sigh.

"Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice."

What brought the words to her mind at that moment? Truly she had little of the spirit of self-sacrifice. Perhaps it was well that her will for once should be thwarted, that she might learn to sacrifice her own wishes without murmuring. John Glynne had been wise when he reminded her that Duty would not always wear a smile upon her face. He was one to obey Duty under any circumstances without a murmur. He was a strong man. She knew instinctively that he had already sacrificed his own inclinations many times for the sake of his mother. Would he, with his rare abilities, have taken such a post as that he held in the Woodham Grammar School, had he not been anxious by means of his salary to increase the comfort of his mother's life?

Aldyth felt ashamed of herself as she thought of one so much nobler. She turned to the piano, and began to practise diligently a difficult passage in a sonata, but her thoughts were at the lecture the while. The clock struck nine. Aunt Lucy should return soon, but she was one of those persons on whose punctual return to their homes it is never possible to depend. She would be sure to have much to say to everybody when the lecture was over, and various things might happen to detain her.

The neat little housemaid—Miss Lorraine was famous training young housemaids, whom, when their education was completed, she passed on to her friends—came to lay the supper, full of wonder why Miss Aldyth had remained at home instead of going out with her aunt, as she usually did on Thursday evenings. Just then the door-bell rang. Sarah hastened to open the door, and returning, ushered into the room Mr. Glynne.

Aldyth was so taken by surprise that she coloured deeply as she advanced to welcome the visitor. He was last person she expected to see at that hour. He too seemed surprised to find her there alone, having evidently passed the evening in solitude.

"Good evening, Miss Aldyth," he said, regarding her with grave, searching eyes. "Have I arrived before Miss Lorraine? I thought I should overtake her. She had left the hall when I came away."

"Perhaps she went into Mrs. Bland's," said Aldyth. "It is never certain that aunt will come straight home. But she will be in directly, no doubt, if you wish to see her."

"Oh, I was only going to ask her kindly to give you this," he replied, producing from his coat-pocket a small, rather ancient-looking book; "you said you would like to see it."

It was a copy of the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, of which he had become possessed. Aldyth was very pleased to see it, but she felt rather shame-faced as she turned over the leaves.

"You were not at the lecture to-night," he said, a minute later. "There is nothing amiss, I trust?"

"I am quite well, if that is what you mean," she replied, with nervous quickness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Glynne; it is a great disappointment to me; I shall not be able to attend any more of the lectures."

"Indeed!" he said, surprised in look and tone.

"Yes," said Aldyth, colouring deeply. "It is not my fault. I cannot help myself in the matter. It is uncle—he thinks it is not good for girls to study poetry. He thinks we should devote ourselves entirely to cooking and housekeeping."

"What a barbarian!" he exclaimed, so seriously that Aldyth burst into a laugh, and all her discontent seemed to melt away.

"Excuse me," he added, the next moment. "I ought not to speak so of your uncle. But are you obliged to renounce the study of poetry because he thinks in that way?"

"Yes," said Aldyth, firmly; "at least, I feel that I must give up the lectures. It will seem strange to you, but there are reasons why I am peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes."

"Is it so? Well, I am very sorry," he said, with sincere regret in his tones. "Your papers were so good. Miss Hilda Bland took charge of the one I returned this evening. It is marked 'Excellent,' like the others."

Aldyth's face glowed with pleasure.

"And now, I suppose, I must expect no more papers from you?" he added, in a tone of vexation.

Aldyth hesitated, as she thought of Hilda's suggestion. It would have been so easy to arrange still to write the papers. But after a moment she answered "Yes."

He observed her closely for a few moments, then he said—

"Well, I shall know that you still take an interest in the lectures, and I shall hope to see you sometimes and talk things over. But I wish very much that your uncle were—different."

There was something so droll in the way he uttered the last word that Aldyth laughed. She was feeling very happy just then, despite her uncle's prohibition. Ere her laugh was over, Miss Lorraine came in, and was surprised, and perhaps not altogether pleased, to find the lecturer entertaining her niece. It was not that her liking for John Glynne had diminished, but she had an uneasy consciousness that her uncle would strongly object to Mr. Glynne's being there on such friendly terms. Yet Miss Lorraine's hospitable feelings made it impossible for her to refrain from asking the young man to remain and take supper with them. The invitation was given so cordially that John Glynne accepted it without hesitation, and Aldyth enjoyed a talk with him, which, she told herself afterwards, was as good as hearing the lecture.

How Clara Dawtrey knew that John Glynne supped with the Lorraines that night it would be difficult to say. But by some species of espionage she discovered the fact, and reported it to her Aunt Tabitha. Clara's powers of observation were on the alert where John Glynne was concerned. She had set her heart on fascinating him, and pursued her end with an unmaidenly freedom of action which excited disgust rather than admiration in the mind of that gentleman.

But vanity rendered Clara obtuse in judging the effect of her attractions. Mr. Glynne's grave politeness did not check her hopes; his quiet, reserved manner did not restrain her from asking questions, or making flattering personal remarks, which he found particularly disagreeable. Clara had not a doubt that Mr. Glynne would find her society as attractive, if not more so, as that of Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, if only she had more opportunities of impressing him with her wit and gaiety and the charms in which she so confidently believed. She certainly lost no chance of bringing these to bear on him.

She always contrived to secure a seat close to the platform and to speak to him after each lecture, compelling him sometimes, when there were students waiting to consult him, to break away from her trivialities with scant courtesy. She managed to meet him almost every day as he passed to and fro between his lodgings and the Grammar School; she questioned his landlady concerning his habits; she frequented every place where there was the least chance of seeing him. In short, she pursued him to such an extent that John Glynne became as anxious to avoid her as she was to meet him.

It was a sore vexation to poor Clara Dawtrey to see how quickly John Glynne formed a friendship with Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, whilst towards her his manner continued only distantly polite. Her dislike for these girls became more bitter. She had a malicious desire to annoy or injure them in revenge for the indifference with which they regarded her and the way in which, as it seemed to her, they monopolized John Glynne.

One afternoon, Clara Dawtrey was at Cartmell's, the stationer's, one of the most important shops in the High Street, and a grand centre for gossip. There was a circulating library in connection with it. Clara had just obtained a fresh novel, and was leaning on the counter in easy conversation with Mr. Cartmell, when she saw John Glynne go past on his bicycle. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and he was off for a run in the country. She saw him too late for any chance of a greeting, and she was vexed with herself for lingering to talk with Mr. Cartmell, and thus missing John Glynne, whom she must have met had she quitted the shop a few minutes earlier.

She hurried out in time to see him go rapidly down the hill, almost as far as the old church, and then turn to the right. He was going down "the Hundreds," as the flat, uninteresting district lying to the east of Woodham was termed, through which ran a good, level road. Well, he could not be going far in that direction, and the November afternoon was short. She might yet manage to meet him, and give him an opportunity of admiring her appearance in the smart little crimson hat she had lately received from London.

Clara's father was a solicitor, a man of somewhat ill-repute in his profession, but well-to-do, and Clara, his favourite daughter, and the only one who remained unmarried, had a liberal allowance for her personal expenses. Yet, large as it was, her dressmaker's and milliner's bills often outran it. Clara's mother had died when she was a child, a fact Aldyth always remembered when others were disposed to judge Clara harshly. Her father had not married again, and the girl had grown up with little control save that of sisters as flighty and heedless as herself. If she considered herself to have any duties, they were such as made but the slightest demand upon her time, and she seemed to have no idea of any higher aim in life than that of her own gratification. Aldyth was perhaps right when, in her gentle charity, she spoke of Clara as one to be pitied rather than blamed.

It was a mild November afternoon. Clara sauntered slowly down the hill, and, turning to the left, came on to the bank of the river. It was a tidal river, and when, as now, it was high water, the red roofs of the houses and the barges on the river with their large ochre-coloured sails gave to the little town somewhat of the appearance of a Dutch village. The sky was grey but clear, and the subtle; melancholy charm of autumn pervaded the scene; but Clara was not conscious of its beauty as was Aldyth, who had just come out of one the cottages on the shore, and stood gazing up the river. So true is it that the eye perceives beauty only as the mind inspires its vision. Clara lacked the imagination that can behold—

"A light that never was on sea or land."

Aldyth heard a step on the shingle, but not till she turned rather suddenly, remembering that she had several cottages to visit that afternoon, did she see Clara. The girls came face to face within a few feet of each other. Aldyth moved by with a bow and the words:

"A lovely afternoon, is it not?"

"Very," responded Clara, coolly.

She was annoyed that Aldyth passed without saying more.

"She need not avoid me as if I had the plague," she said to herself.

She looked after Aldyth with a dislike that was born of envy. Aldyth in her simple serge suit and little felt hat looked such a lady that for a moment Clara hated her new adornments, and felt that they were gaudy and vulgar.

She wandered rather drearily by the river. In summer, when boating was general, its banks presented a lively scene; but now there were few boats out, the sunlight had faded, and a grey mist was beginning to gather over the distant marshes. Clara hardly knew how to fill up the time till she might expect John Glynne to be on his way home. She went back into the High Street and made a large purchase of sweetmeats at the chief confectioner's. Then a thought struck her. A road branched off from the Hundreds into the Longbridge Road. Mr. Glynne would very likely return to his lodgings by that. How annoying if she missed him after all! There was nothing for it but to walk as far as the junction of the two roads, and she started at once, much fearing she might be too late.

She walked briskly, but ere she had reached the turning into the Longbridge Road, she saw the individual she was anxious to meet. Could anything be more provoking? He was not one. He had alighted from his bicycle and was walking by the side of a lady. Could it be—yes—actually it was—Aldyth Lorraine!

There she was walking by Mr. Glynne's side on the quiet country road, and he was talking so earnestly to her that, despite the crimson hat, Clara had almost passed ere he saw her, and then he clutched mechanically at his cap, without seeming to have any clear notion to whom he was bowing.

Aldyth had seen her. Clara felt sure that she coloured as she met her glance, and no wonder.

Clara was scandalized. That Aldyth should be walking with Mr. Glynne in that lonely part of the road was shocking to her, though assuredly had Mr. Glynne overtaken her when she was there alone, she would not have hesitated to walk back to Woodham with him.

Aldyth Lorraine, who was so good and proper! Who would believe it? Of course it was a planned thing. Aldyth had seen him go down the Hundreds, she had waited about and come down that road for the chance of seeing him. Or else they had arranged to meet. Perhaps there was some secret understanding between them. It became increasingly clear to Clara that such must be the case, as, full of jealous rage and mortification, she walked on, it being impossible to turn back and show that she had been pursuing that road without a purpose.

After a few minutes, Clara ventured to look round. The straight, level road was visible for some distance. The two she wished to watch had almost reached the cottages. Ah, yes, they would part now. He was remounting his bicycle; he was off, and Aldyth was left walking alone.

There was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in Clara's eyes as she hastened back to Woodham by the Longbridge Road. It brought her out at the head of the High Street within a stone's throw of the dwelling of her amiable relative, Miss Tabitha Rudkin. Clara remembered that she had not visited her aunt for many days. She would call on her now; she had something to tell the old lady that would be sure to interest her.

Miss Rudkin's reception of her grand-niece was never gracious. Her greeting was generally a string of reproaches for past neglect.

"You don't mean to say it is you, Clara?" she exclaimed, with affected surprise. "I began to think I should never see you again. It would be a poor thing for me if I depended on you to comfort and cheer me. I am sure it is a month since you were here."

"Well, I'm here now, any way," said Clara, in a matter-of-fact tone, debating with herself how quickly she could impart her intelligence and make her escape. "How is your cough, aunt?"

"Much you care about my cough!" retorted her aunt. "What's that thing you have on your head? Another new hat! Dear! Dear! Your father need be rich to support your extravagance."

After a little of this delightful intercourse, Clara came to her point by saying, "By the by, aunt, have you seen your friend Stephen lately?"

"Of whom do you speak in that disrespectful way?" demanded Miss Rudkin.

"Oh, you know," returned Clara, coolly, "Mr. Stephen Lorraine."

"I cannot see that it concerns you whether or not I have seen Mr. Lorraine."

"No?" said Clara, indifferently. "Well, perhaps not. I only wanted to know whether he had told you of Aldyth's engagement."

"Aldyth's engagement! Aldyth Lorraine engaged! Who says so?" asked the old woman eagerly.

"I say so," boldly replied Clara; "I met her just now with Mr. Glynne down in the Hundreds, and if they are not engaged, I do not know what to think. You ask old Stephen, when next you see him, if Aldyth is not engaged to Mr. Glynne."

"I shall ask him no such question. Mr. Glynne, indeed! She is to marry Guy."

"So you've said before; but I do not believe it," returned Clara. "Of course I only know what I saw this afternoon, but that is enough for me."

She laughed gleefully as she spoke. She believed that she was getting Aldyth into a scrape, and the thought revived her spirits. She bade her aunt good-bye, and left her to ponder the matter. She had not a doubt that what she had said about Aldyth would be repeated to Aldyth's grand-uncle.

An hour later, Aldyth, as she sat drinking tea with her aunt, said quietly: "I went down the Hundreds this afternoon to see old Adam Drake. You know he likes me to call once a month for his club money. As I was coming back, Mr. Glynne overtook me on his bicycle. He got off and walked a little way with me. He has had bad news from home. His sister is ill, and they are afraid it is scarlet fever."

"Scarlet fever!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in dismay. "What a trouble that will be for poor Mrs. Glynne!"

"Yes; he seems very troubled on her account," said Aldyth; "and he is afraid it may prevent his going home for Christmas."

"I should not wonder," said Miss Lorraine. "He must run no risk of infection. And if he is wise, he will keep the matter to himself. The very mention of scarlet fever by a school master is enough to raise a panic amongst the parents."

"I said something of the kind to him," replied Aldyth with a smile, "and he promised to be prudent. As he was telling me about it, we met Clara Dawtrey, and she stared at me in such an insolent manner, that I felt quite uncomfortable."

"Oh, my dear, you don't mean to say that Clara Dawtrey saw you with Mr. Glynne!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in distressed tones. "Then your uncle will hear of it."

"What if he does?" asked Aldyth, drawing herself up, whilst her eyes suddenly flashed with pride. "Do you think I mind that uncle or any one should know that I have been walking with Mr. Glynne?"

### CHAPTER VIII.

GOSSIP AND MISCONCEPTION.

"MOTHER, is it true?" asked Charlie Bland, one afternoon in the following week, as he burst into the dining room, swinging a strapful of books. "Is it true that Mr. Glynne going to marry Aldyth?"

"My dear Charlie!" exclaimed his mother, looking up from her letter-writing in the greatest astonishment. "Whoever told you such a thing?"

"Oh, all the boys are talking about it. Tom Rudkin says he knows it's a fact. And old Glynne is in an awfully jolly temper to-day."

Kitty dropped her novel, and burst into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, you ridiculous creatures!" she exclaimed. "What will you boys conjure up next? You might have known it was not true, Charlie. If Aldyth were engaged, should not we know it as soon as any one at Woodham?"

"Well, I thought it could not be true," he replied, "but Tom Rudkin was so positive."

"Here comes Aldyth," exclaimed Kitty, who was seated in the window. "What fun! I shall ask her what she means by concealing her engagement from us."

Mrs. Bland was looking vexed—too vexed to be amused. Tom Rudkin was Clara Dawtrey's cousin, so it was easy to see in what quarter the report had originated.

"Take care how you tell her, Kitty," she exclaimed, as Kitty rushed to the door. "It will annoy her, I know."

"Talk of an angel, and her wings are heard," said Kitty, laughingly, as she opened the door to her friend.

"You were talking of me? What have you been saying, I wonder?" said Aldyth, as she came in. "Now, Charlie, you must be my friend, and tell me all. What have they been saying about me?"

"That you are engaged to Mr. Glynne," blurted out Charlie.

Aldyth looked amazed for a moment, then her face flushed.

"Oh, Charlie! How can you?" cried Kitty. "We never said that, I'm sure. It was your astonishing piece of news."

"What does he mean?" asked Aldyth, looking from one to the other in embarrassment.

"You must not mind it, Aldyth, dear," said Mrs. Bland, kindly. "I do believe boys are as fond of gossip as old maids. He has just brought us that surprising piece of intelligence from school."

"Tom Rudkin declared it was true," said Charlie, sturdily.

"After that, my declaration that it is not will go for nothing, I am afraid," said Aldyth, trying to laugh off her vexation, which was evidently great. "I wish people would not be so wise concerning me."

"It is most annoying to have such things said," observed Kitty. "Really, Woodham is a most detestable place for gossip."

"Come, come, child!" said her mother. "Don't run down your native place. All little towns are pretty much the same, as far as gossip is concerned."

"Of course it is easy to see who started this report," she added, as Charlie disappeared from the room. "It originated over the way, no doubt."

"That horrid old Tabitha!" exclaimed Kitty. "She is the bane of the town. She ought to have been born a century earlier, when she might have been drowned as a witch! Ne that I should wish her to be drowned: but, you know, there really is something witch-like about her."

Aldyth could not help laughing at Kitty's ideas respecting Miss Rudkin.

"It's Clara Dawtrey's doing," Aldyth said. "She met me the other day walking with Mr. Glynne. That was foundation enough for this fabrication. Oh, dear! I should like to tell her what I think of it. But it would do no good."

"No, no!" said Mrs. Bland. "The best way is to take no notice, and let the report die a natural death."

The talk turned to other matters; but Mrs. Bland could see that throughout her visit, Aldyth's mind was dwelling on the unpleasant fact she had learned. Mrs. Bland was sorry for her, and indignant with Clara Dawtrey. She knew that nothing is more trying for a girl, nothing more prejudicial to her happiness, than to have her name thus coupled with that of a gentleman whose friendship she values.

Two evenings later Kitty came in from attending a meeting of the Woodham Sewing Club in a state of considerable excitement.

"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked her mother, for Kitty's face was crimson, her eyes sparkling, and she burst into the room in a way which showed no respect for the nerves of those who occupied it.

Hilda, who had been dreaming rather than reading as she sat by the fire, looked up with a startled face.

"Oh, nothing," said Kitty, calming down as she saw the surprise she was causing; "nothing, except that I have had it out with Clara Dawtrey, and prevented her from telling any more stories about Aldyth."

"Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda. "Have you? Oh, do tell us!"

"Well, Clara, if you please, was at the meeting to-night. It is not often she troubles herself to attend. She was helping Mrs. Rayner to give out the work, and Miss Phipps was there too. The girls had gone, and we were putting things away when I saw their heads all close together, and heard Aldyth's name. Miss Clara did not mean me to hear, but I caught a word or two, and I spoke out at once, and said there was not an atom of truth in the report that Aldyth was engaged to Mr. Glynne. I looked straight at Clara, and said that I believed the report had originated with her; would she kindly tell me from whom she had received the information? You should have seen how taken aback she looked! She turned as red as possible, and could only say she was sure she thought it was true, or she would not have repeated it.

"'As an intimate friend of Aldyth's, I can assure you,' I said, 'that she is engaged to no one, and it is preposterous that such a thing should be said. I shall be obliged if you will contradict it, if you hear it again.'"

"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda, with admiration in her tones; but Mrs. Bland looked uneasy.

"I do not wonder that you spoke so, Kitty," she said, "but I doubt, my dear, if it were wise."

"Oh, I do not believe in letting people say just what they like," replied Kitty. "Anyhow, I've killed that rumour; but I dare say a fresh one will be started, for Miss Phipps began to say that she had always understood Aldyth was to marry her cousin."

"Poor Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Bland, whilst Hilda hastily took up her book, to hide the hot colour that was mounting in her cheeks. "Why will people talk about her so?"

"Mother, do you think that Aldyth will marry Guy?" asked Kitty.

"My dear, how can I say whom she will marry? I am no oracle. But I am sure that nothing would better please Stephen Lorraine. And in many respects it would be a good thing for Aldyth."

"Yes, of course," said Kitty, in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone, "she would be the mistress of Wyndham; she would have plenty of money, and could keep as many horses as she liked; but still I cannot fancy that Aldyth would care to marry Guy."

Kitty quitted the room as she spoke. Hilda bent over her book, apparently absorbed in its pages, but it was long ere the unwonted colour in her cheeks faded.

Needless to say, Kitty's encounter with Clara Dawtrey did not tend to soften the feelings with which that young lady regarded the Blands and their friend.

A few days later, Clara, who occasionally called on Mrs. Greenwood, although the banker's wife did not admit her into the inner circle of her friends, entered that lady's drawing room to find John Glynne there talking to her. Clara was delighted to meet him thus; and immediately began to display all the coquettish airs and graces by which she believed that she rendered herself charming to gentlemen.

Mr. Glynne would have retired after a few minutes, but as he rose, the servant appeared, carrying the tea-tray, and Mrs. Greenwood would not hear of his going before he had taken a cup of tea. Just then other visitors were announced, who engaged Mrs. Greenwood's attention, and Glynne found himself drawn into a talk with Miss Dawtrey. They were seated within the bow-window which commanded the High Street.

Clara, talking rapidly, looked up at her companion with what she believed to be an arch glance, when she perceived that he was paying little attention to what she said. His eyes did not meet hers; they were looking beyond her, down into the street. Clara turned quickly to see what was interesting him there. Her chagrin did not lessen when she saw that Aldyth Lorraine was riding past, accompanied by her cousin. The girl-rider looked trim and graceful in her dark blue habit and little felt hat with white plume.

"Aldyth Lorraine looks well on horseback," remarked Clara, studying Mr. Glynne's countenance with an intentness of which he became uncomfortably aware. "Some people call her pretty. Do you think she is pretty?"

"Really, Miss Dawtrey, that is hardly a fair question," he replied, laughingly. "Is not a gentleman bound to admire every young lady he meets?"

"Oh, that's rubbish," she said. "You can't admire ugly girls. Now, I call Guy Lorraine a very handsome fellow; you don't think so, of course; you men are so jealous of each other; but he is. He ought to have a pretty wife. Of course you know—" She paused, and looked at him significantly.

"Please do not take my knowledge for granted," he said, his heart beating more quickly as he spoke; "do you mean that Miss Aldyth will marry her cousin?"

"Oh, hush!" she said, putting her finger to her lips with a warning look, and then glancing at the other visitors. "I would not have said anything about it, but I made sure you knew."

"But surely—if they are engaged—Is it an engagement?"

"That is an awkward question, Mr. Glynne," said Clara, dropping her eyes. "I do not wish to tell you a story, and I am not at liberty to answer in the affirmative. Though really it is absurd to make a secret of it, for every one at Woodham has known since they were children that Guy and Aldyth were intended for each other. My great-aunt, Miss Rudkin, is in Mr. Stephen Lorraine's confidence, and he has told her that he looks forward to their union. But pray do not repeat what I have said; I should not have told you."

"It is safe with me," he said, quietly.

He was on his guard, and could maintain an air of indifference.

"There has been an absurd fuss lately," said Clara, in a carefully subdued tone, "because a rumour arose that Aldyth was engaged to another gentleman. I understand that she has been most indignant about it, and the Blands call it a preposterous idea. Aldyth is very proud; I suppose it does not please her that her name should be coupled with that of any one save her cousin."

"Naturally," said John Glynne, rising to put down his cup. His tone was cold and hard. With all his self-control, he could not help the colour rising in his face as Miss Dawtrey spoke.

It was impossible that in such a place as Woodham, he should fail to hear what people were saying about him and Miss Aldyth Lorraine. It had annoyed him almost as much as it had annoyed her; but his vexation was entirely on her account. He could not blame himself: He had done nothing that could give colour to such an assertion. He was certain that Clara Dawtrey meant to annoy him by her words. She could not have supposed that he was unaware that it was his name that people had linked to that of Aldyth. But for that he cared not. What stung him in her words was their suggestion that some disdain of him had mingled with Aldyth's indignation. He took his departure hastily, and went back to his lodgings in a depressed frame of mind.

His little sitting room, with its hard, horsehair furniture, its brilliantly coloured pictures, its quaint decorations of seaweed and shells, had never seemed so distasteful and unhomelike as it did to-night. His landlady's shoes had never creaked so horribly as when she was laying on the table his evening meal; the conversational efforts she made in her nasal monotone had never been so tiresome.

So Aldyth Lorraine was to marry her cousin! For he did not for a moment imagine that he was mistaken in the inference he had drawn from Miss Dawtrey's words. Well, it was not surprising, and yet he was surprised. They were so different. What he had seen of Guy Lorraine had led him to regard him with a sort of good-natured contempt. A fine human animal, he had thought him, a clever sportsman, and not without good qualities, but empty-headed and primed with the self-conceit that often accompanies a vacant mind. Aldyth Lorraine, with her intellectual tastes, her delicate perceptions, her exquisite refinement of mind, to share the life of such a man! What had they in common, except their horsemanship and their love of out-of-door life—in Guy's case it could scarcely be termed "love of Nature?"

Having taken his supper hastily and with little appetite, Glynne plunged into work, and tried to banish these thoughts from his mind. After all, it was no concern of his whom Aldyth might choose to marry. And yet—and yet—one thing had been made clear to him by the talk of the gossips—the fact that had he been in a position to contemplate marriage, Aldyth was the girl he would desire to win. Was she making a free choice in the matter? he asked himself with a sudden thrill.

He remembered how she had said, "I am peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes." Could it be that she was being forced into this marriage? No; impossible! She was not the woman to marry under compulsion. The words must have referred to her engagement. They were a confirmation of what Miss Dawtrey had said. Glynne's spirits sank lower as he thought this. Vainly he tried to absorb himself in his work; thoughts of Aldyth would come between him and it, and mingling with them came to mind scraps of "Locksley Hall."

"He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse."

### CHAPTER IX.

MR. STEPHEN LORRAINE COMES TO AN UNDERSTANDING WITH HIS HEIR.

JOHN GLYNNE would have been surprised could he have known how little Aldyth had enjoyed that ride with her cousin. She had been conscious of something unusual in Guy's manner towards her. He had been more assiduous in his attentions to her than he was wont to be, yet at the same time he had vexed her by contemptuous allusions to John Glynne, and the report that had been circulated in Woodham.

It had become a sore subject with Aldyth, and she was far from appreciating the witticisms in which Guy indulged at her expense. Yet Guy had no intention of annoying her. On the contrary, he meant to try his best to please his cousin. But it was not easy to substitute for the old, free and easy, cousinly intercourse, the new rôle he had taken upon himself. He had not succeeded in his endeavours, and he felt that he had not.

"I shall never be able to do it as I should," he said to himself, as he rode back to Wyndham, after lingering a while in the High Street, in the hope of seeing the Blands. "I wish I had not promised; but Wyndham is worth a sacrifice; though it is hard that a fellow may not choose his own wife." And Guy felt anything but comfortable as he surveyed the position in which he found himself.

A few days earlier Stephen Lorraine had ridden back from Woodham in the worst of humours. He had never accustomed himself to put any kind of restraint on his irritability, and he had no sooner returned, than his household had cause to know that something had "put him out."

Guy, who came into dinner a few minutes late, received his share of his uncle's wrath.

"You will be good enough to remember, sir, that my dinner hour is six. It is doubtless disagreeable to you to conform to my habits; but it cannot be for long now, and I think I have a right to expect that you will pay me that degree of respect."

Happily Guy, who was tolerably easy of temper, did not encourage his uncle's quarrelsome tendency.

"I am sorry to be late, uncle," he said. "I assure you I like my dinner at six; but that fellow Ames detained me. Is there any soup coming for me?"

"I believe so; but if you have any consideration for your throat, you will have nothing to do with it," said the old man, grimly. "Cook evidently considers pepper the chief ingredient in making soup."

"It is rather highly seasoned, certainly," said Guy, as he tasted the soup the servant placed before him. "How did you find things at Woodham? Much as usual, I suppose?"

An impatient sound escaped old Stephen's lips, but he said nothing, and Guy did not pursue the inquiry, though he was full of wonder as to the cause of his uncle's ill-temper. The few carefully-chosen remarks on which he ventured being ungraciously received, Guy finished his dinner in silence. As the dessert was placed on the table, the old man's manner brightened somewhat. He sent for a bottle of special port from the cellar, and having filled his own glass, pushed the black, cob-webbed bottle towards Guy.

"Fill up; you'll find it worth drinking," he said. "It's almost as good as the '54 will prove, I trust, which I am keeping for your wedding."

Guy laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Time enough to think of that, sir," he said, lightly.

"Nay, not so," said the old man, with repressed eagerness; "it is time you began to think about it seriously, my lad, if I am to have the pleasure of drinking the health of your pretty bride."

Guy coloured, and fell to studying his wine-glass to hide his embarrassment.

"I should be sorry to think that you would not see my wedding, sir," he replied, with becoming seriousness; "but happily you are a rare man for your years, and will, I trust, see many more, for I am but a young fellow to think of marrying."

"Nonsense," said the old man, sharply; "you are twenty-four, and in your case there is no reason why marriage should be delayed. Now, do not smile, Guy, if you please. I am in earnest, and I wish you to be."

"Certainly, uncle, I will consider what you say; but a fellow can hardly get married at a moment's notice."

"Pshaw! How you talk!" cried old Stephen, impatiently. "One would think you had to go far to seek a bride. Come, sir, do you know what is being said about Aldyth at Woodham? Do you know that the gossips will have it she is going to marry that jackanapes in cap and gown—the fellow who lectures—tush! I've forgotten his name, but you know whom I mean."

Guy had turned a startled look on his uncle, and his face grew a shade paler as he caught the drift of his speech; but he said, coolly—

"Mr. Glynne, you mean. Well, why should not Aldyth marry him if she fancies him?"

"Guy, are you beside yourself? Do you know what you are saying? How dare you suggest that such a marriage would be suitable for Aldyth? A beggarly usher—a fellow of no social position whatever! Would you tamely submit to see her throw herself away upon such an one?"

There was growing passion in the old man's tones. Guy was alarmed, but he took refuge in sulky indifference.

"I do not know what you mean by 'tamely submitting' to it. Of course it would be a pity. I should not admire Aldyth's taste; but I could not interfere in the matter."

"It is absurd for you to affect to misunderstand me," said Stephen Lorraine, growing more angry. "You must know perfectly well that I have always looked forward to your marrying Aldyth."

"Indeed, sir!" said Guy, looking blank. "This is the first time you have acquainted me with the fact."

"You should not have needed information. You might have seen it was the only thing to be thought of."

"But I have never thought of it," said Guy; "and I must confess that I do not like the idea. Aldyth is my cousin."

"Your second cousin," said his uncle.

"Second or first," said Guy, "it is the same. We have grown up together almost like brother and sister. I am fond of Aldyth, but I tell you honestly, sir, I have no wish to make her my wife."

"You will find that it is to your interest to do so," said his uncle, with a calmness born of intense passion. "Listen to me, sir. Aldyth is every whit as dear to me as you are. When I have looked on you as the heir to Wyndham, it has been with the thought that she would share your inheritance. I do not choose to divide my property between you; but neither do I mean that Aldyth should suffer loss. If you resolve to disregard my wish in this matter, I shall have to reconsider the disposition of my property. Now, I have given you fair warning."

Guy heard his uncle with feelings of the utmost dismay. "I don't know about the fairness of the matter," he muttered, then added in a louder tone: "You must allow that this has come upon me very suddenly. It is hard for a man to have it dictated to him whom he is to marry."

"Not at all," interrupted his uncle, "when the girl is such a fair, sweet girl as Aldyth."

"I don't believe she will have me," said Guy, with the air of having hit upon a happy solution of the difficulty. "You will not blame me, uncle, if she refuses me?"

"Yes, I shall," returned old Stephen, grimly. "If she refuses, it will be because you have wooed her in a sorry fashion. You ask her properly, and tell her that I wish it, and she will have you fast enough."

Guy devoutly hoped that his uncle might be mistaken in this belief. But he lacked the courage to withstand him, and boldly claim his right to act as he would in a matter that so closely concerned his happiness. Guy believed that Hilda Bland was the girl who could make him happy; but he was not one to deem the world well lost for love. The heirship of Wyndham was dear to him. Not for any girl's sake could he bear to be disinherited. So he temporized, and drifted into a sort of tacit promise that he would seek to win Aldyth for his wife.

It was with poor spirits that Guy set himself to carry out his purpose. He had little hope that Aldyth would really refuse his brilliant offer. A woman, he told himself in his youthful wisdom, regards marriage from a very different point of view from that of a man. Was it likely that one whose matrimonial chances were so limited and uncertain would reject, in one breath, himself and Wyndham?

But somehow Guy was not very successful in his efforts to act the part of a lover. He found it impossible to convince Aldyth of his sincerity. She would take purely as a joke his pretty speeches and the devoted airs he tried to assume. She laughed at him, and bantered him on what she believed to be mere affectations. The chief result of his endeavours was to raise doubt and jealousy in the mind of Hilda Bland, towards whom his friendliness was marked by strange fluctuations, and who was quick to perceive that Guy was more attentive to his cousin than he had formerly been. One day he would treat Hilda with such apparent indifference that her thoughts would turn with sympathy to Mariana in "The Moated Grange," and she would dream of dying early of a broken heart; then again he suffered himself to be betrayed into the old tenderness of voice and look, and Hilda's heart would beat with tumultuous delight, and life seemed to stretch before her again as a long, bright vista.

Meanwhile, poor Hilda grew daily more dreamy, and unpractical, more neglectful of home duties, more oblivious of all that lay outside the rosy curtains which screened her own inner world of self-conscious emotion. Even Aldyth felt impelled to take her to task sometimes.

"You are getting lazy, Hilda," she exclaimed one day when she was at Mrs. Bland's, and heard Hilda refuse to carry a soup ticket to a poor woman whom Mrs. Bland was desirous of helping.

Kitty, who was present, had at once volunteered to do the errand, and was now buttoning her boots by the fire.

"Oh, it is really too cold to go out this morning," said Hilda, lounging in her easy-chair by the fire, with her pretty little feet on the fender. "Kitty does not mind the cold, but I hate to go out before I have had time to get thoroughly warm."

"There is one kind of poetry Hilda does not appreciate," remarked Kitty—"the poetry of motion."

"And she has yet to learn that one should occasionally sacrifice one's own inclinations for the sake of helping others," said her mother, in rather a severe tone, as she quitted the room.

As soon as she was alone with her friend, Hilda burst into tears.

"That is always the way now," she said. "Mother is for ever finding fault with me. Kitty is her favourite daughter, and nothing that I do is right."

"Nonsense, Hilda," said Aldyth; "you fancy such things. I do not believe Mrs. Bland has a favourite, but Kitty is of course a great help to her."

"Yes; but then Kitty likes doing all sorts of things," said Hilda, vaguely. "She is so different from me. I do not get any sympathy from her. She laughs at my love of poetry; and as for mother, I am sure she grudges me the time I give to self-improvement. I suppose she wishes I were like Kitty, who scarcely ever reads anything except a novel."

"Now you are wronging your mother," said Aldyth, quickly. "I am sure she was very pleased that you and I should study together for the lectures. But talking of novels, what were you doing when I came in? Is not that a novel I see in your lap?"

"Certainly it is," said Hilda, "but such a novel!" And she held up "Romola" to view.

"Ah! That is a grand book," said Aldyth; "terribly sad, yet as true as it is sad. I can never lose the impression made on me by its revelation of the slow but sure decline into evil of Tito—so bright, and lovable, and unsullied as we see him at first that we love him almost as Romola does, and share the bitterness of her disappointment."

"Yes, it is very sad," said Hilda; "but what a splendid woman Romola is. I have just been reading how she devoted herself to those poor people dying of the pestilence. They might well take her for the Madonna. Oh, to go amongst the poor and suffering like that would be a life worth living; I often wish that I could be trained as a nurse, but mother would never hear of my leaving home. It is horrid to live in a place like Woodham, where there is nothing to be done."

"Only some poor people to be visited and supplied with soup tickets," said Aldyth, mischievously.

Hilda coloured. "Oh, that is nothing," she said.

"It is only a small thing, certainly," said Aldyth. "But I think the small duties may prepare us for great ones, if we should ever be called to undertake them. 'He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful also in much.' But, Hilda, I had no idea that you had any leaning towards a nurse's vocation. I should have thought that kind of work would not have been at all to your taste."

"Perhaps not," said Hilda, looking piqued; "but you do not know all the thoughts that I have."

And she said to herself that Aldyth understood her no better than did her mother and sister.

There was a pause, then Hilda asked, "Are you going to ride to-day?"

"No," said Aldyth. "Guy has gone to Colchester, but he proposes that we should all have a ride on Saturday—you on Brown Bess. You feel quite comfortable on her now, do you not?"

"Yes, indeed, I am not a bit afraid of her now," said Hilda, her face lighting up with pleasure. "I shall enjoy another ride. And oh Aldyth, what do you think? Mother says we may have a party on my twenty-first birthday. Won't that be lovely? Mind you keep yourself disengaged for the twenty-third."

"No doubt of that," said Aldyth. "Parties are not so numerous at Woodham that I am likely to have another invitation for that date. I will tell Guy to keep himself free, for I suppose you mean to invite him?"

"I dare say mother will send him an invitation," said Hilda, demurely. Then she laughed. "Perhaps he will not care to come; but I do hope it will be a nice party. Mother talks of sending out fifty invitations."

"Your parties always are nice," said Aldyth. "And this is the mother with whom you are not a favourite! Oh, Hilda, Hilda! You do not deserve to have such a mother."

As the days passed by and Christmas drew near, the proposed party in honour of Hilda's attaining her majority became a matter of absorbing interest to the three girls—an interest which, when the invitations had been issued, was shared by many others at Woodham.

Would Mr. Glynne accept or decline? Was there any possibility of his remaining at Woodham for Christmas? Aldyth could not answer these questions. She knew that Mr. Glynne's sister was recovering from her fever, but whether her convalescence had advanced to such a stage as to render it safe for him to return home for the holidays, she could not say. Somehow during the last few weeks, John Glynne had fallen out of the habit of paying frequent visits to Miss Lorraine's cottage; nor had the Blands seen much of him of late. But the examinations were taking place at the Grammar School. It was a busy time for the masters; there was no difficulty in accounting for the fact that Mr. Glynne had little leisure to bestow upon his friends.

### CHAPTER X.

HILDA BLAND'S PARTY.

THE party given in honour of Hilda's coming of age was an evening party of the good old-fashioned sort. Mrs. Bland's guests began to arrive about seven, and they knew that they were expected to retire shortly after midnight. The dining room was given over to the young people, who had planned some tableaux vivants for the entertainment of the company. The older and graver guests gathered in the drawing room. Supper was to be served in the breakfast room, part of the hall being curtained off cleverly as an addition to its limited space.

The evening passed brightly away. The tableaux proved a grand success. Kitty persuaded John Glynne, who was present, to take part in them, and his perfect self-control and remarkable immobility of feature made him a valuable addition to the actors. The tableaux in which he appeared as Charles VII., whilst Kitty made a spirited-looking Joan of Arc, was the most successful of the series. Sundry amusements succeeded to the tableaux, and no one looking on the gay, animated scene could have imagined that care lurked in a single bosom there.

Hilda, the heroine of the occasion, looked charming, attired in white with a necklace of pearls, her mother's gift, adorning a throat scarcely less milky in hue. Her slight form, in its snowy drapery, had a fairylike prettiness, and her mother might be pardoned if her eyes sometimes rested upon this fair daughter with looks of pride.

Hilda wore, pinned to her gown, a bunch of Christmas roses and azaleas, and her delight in these flowers, which Guy had sent her with his congratulations, was unbounded till she saw that a lovely cluster of Maréchal Niel roses adorned Aldyth's black lace bodice, and knew that they also were a gift from Guy. The sight of them caused her a throb of pain, and with it came a dreadful presentiment that the evening to which she had looked forward with such eager anticipation was to yield her only pain and disappointment.

As the evening passed on, Aldyth became aware that Guy was paying but slight attention to Hilda, whilst, rather to her annoyance, she found him constantly beside herself. What did it mean? Had any misunderstanding arisen between him and Hilda? If so, it was a pity, for Aldyth, who had the sympathetic insight of a loving soul, could see that Hilda, though she did her best to maintain a gay demeanour, was not really enjoying herself. She felt certain that she should hear the truth, sooner or later, from Guy, who was to stay the night at Miss Lorraine's. Meanwhile she made an attempt to rid herself of his unwelcome attentions.

"Nonsense, Guy," she said, when he came to ask her hand for a dance. "I am sure you would rather have Hilda for your partner. Why do you keep aloof from her to-night, of all nights? Surely you two have not quarrelled?"

Guy coloured and looked confused.

"I have danced once with Hilda," he said. "Politeness does not require more."

Aldyth was amazed. Then they must have had a quarrel. But she said no more, knowing that words are worse than useless in such cases.

There could be no doubt that Kitty was having a good time, and Miss Lorraine, whose capacity for enjoying such gatherings did not wane with advancing years, entered into the fun with scarcely less zest. She was an excellent performer of cheerful music, and she sat at the piano playing one lively air after another, pausing only to instruct the young folk as to the manner in which the old country dances should be executed.

Aldyth was conscious of some wonder that she herself did not find the evening more enjoyable. She was not over fond of dancing, and she soon wearied of the heat and bustle. Aldyth had rather a poor opinion of the young men of Woodburn, and this evening's experience did not raise it. She felt impatient of the vapid talk of some who engaged her in conversation, whilst John Glynne remained at a distance. She would have liked to talk with him, but he apparently had nothing to say to her.

Later in the evening, Aldyth, thoroughly wearied, slipped into the drawing room. Mrs. Bland welcomed her with a smile. Old Captain Clear, a retired naval officer, and one of the oldest inhabitants of Woodham, came across the room to ask her if it were possible that she was already weary.

She saw John Glynne at the further end of the room, playing at chess with Mr. Greenwood. As she watched them, he made a move which checkmated his adversary. Then he rose to make way for another player. His eyes fell on Aldyth, and he came down the room, as it seemed to her, with the intention of addressing her. But ere he reached her side, he suddenly halted, and began to study a Swiss view hanging on the wall, and at the same moment Aldyth, not without some secret irritation, heard Guy's voice beside her.

"So here you are at last, Aldyth. I have been hunting for you everywhere. What made you come in here?"

"I was tired, Guy. I do not wish to be there any longer: All right; then we'll stay here," he said, and seated himself by her side with an air of proprietorship which was not lost upon one person present.

Guy thought he was acting his part well that evening. It cost him something to keep away from Hilda, and he took credit to himself for thus sacrificing his inclinations. He had received some powerful hints from his uncle with respect to this party.

Old Stephen Lorraine had suggested that it was Guy's duty to provide some choice flowers for Aldyth to wear. He was not responsible for the fact that his suggestion had also conveyed to Guy's mind the idea of a birthday bouquet for Hilda, for of that he knew nothing.

Guy had been given to understand that his courtship was proceeding too slowly, and that his uncle would expect to hear something decisive by the beginning of the New Year. So he was trying to bring himself to make the necessary sacrifice of his happiness; and, strange to say, it never occurred to him that he had no right to sacrifice also the happiness of another, and that the action he contemplated might possibly have that result.

At midnight the guests began to depart. Mr. Glynne and the Greenwoods were amongst the first to go; Miss Lorraine, and consequently Aldyth, stayed to the very end. The elder lady was fresh as a flower and full of talk to the last. She stood on the doorstep saying good-night to friends, and Aldyth, just within the hall, was hastily fastening her fur-lined cloak when Guy detained her.

He had caught a rosebud falling from her gown.

"See, Aldyth, I shall keep this," he said; "it is precious to me since you have worn it."

"Oh, please don't be ridiculous," said Aldyth, conscious, as he was not, that Hilda stood within hearing, half-screened by the heavy curtain that had been drawn across the hall.

But Guy had his back towards the curtain. Having secured the flower, he laid his hand on Aldyth's cloak, saying, with an air of solicitude, as he drew it more closely about her, "Are you sure this is enough? It is a very cold night."

"Oh, really, Guy!" cried Aldyth, making a dash at the door, and then turning to utter a general "good-night" to those who yet lingered in the hall. As she did so, she caught sight of Hilda peeping round the curtain, her face white as her gown, her eyes full of trouble.

"Evidently they have fallen out," she thought; "and Guy, silly fellow, is trying to make her jealous by devoting himself to me. But how absurd of Hilda to let it trouble her for a moment!"

And Aldyth walked on quickly, feeling out of humour with Guy.

"Don't be in such a hurry, Aldyth," he said, and made an attempt to draw her hand within his arm; but Aldyth found that she required both hands for the management of her gown. "I scarcely ever get you to myself now."

Aldyth laughed in a way most suitors would have found discouraging.

"We see as much of each other as most cousins do," she said, the next minute, in the most matter-of-fact tone.

"Do you never think of me except as a cousin?" he asked.

"Why, no," said Aldyth, in as cold a tone as before. "I cannot say that I do. Why should I?"

"Aldyth," he said, quickly, "it is unkind to answer me so. You must know that I care very much how you think of me."

She looked at him in amazement; but the light of the clear frosty night did not enable her to read his face.

"Really, Guy," she said, "don't you think you have carried this nonsense far enough? Hilda is not here to be piqued by your pretended devotion to me."

"Pretended devotion! What can make you say that?" said Guy. "I do not know why you should bring in Hilda's name; it is you I desire to please. My happiness depends on my winning your love."

"Guy!"

"Why should you be so surprised, Aldyth? You must know that I love you, and that uncle and every one believes that we shall be married."

"Indeed!" said Aldyth, in a strange hard tone. "How long has it been so, I wonder? Was it uncle suggested the idea to you, Guy?"

"What do you mean, Aldyth? Of course it is my own wish."

"Oh, it is satisfactory to know that," replied Aldyth in a cold tone, not without a touch of sarcasm. "But uncle has spoken to you on the subject?"

"Why, yes, he has," answered Guy, at a loss what to say. "He told me how much he wished it."

"And it is at his dictation that you honour me with this expression of his and your wish?" persisted Aldyth.

"Well, yes—no—I should not put it in that way," faltered Guy; "I wish it very much indeed, Aldyth."

"I dare say," replied his cousin, coldly. "Uncle has a way of making other people's wishes concur with his own. But, Guy, I should have thought you would have been too manly to yield to him in such a matter as this. Perhaps you think there is no harm in asking a woman to marry you whom you do not love; but I can tell you, I look on the words you have spoken to me to-night as little less than an insult."

"An insult! Aldyth, what a word to use! And I do love you; you know I do."

"As a cousin, perhaps; but not as a husband should love his wife. Guy, do you think I have been blind to all that has been going on between you and Hilda Bland? Do you suppose I cannot see that her society has more attraction for you than mine?"

For a moment Guy was at a loss how to reply. He was confused and irritated under the consciousness that Aldyth understood him too well. He had hoped that she would reject him, yet now that she did so, he was vividly conscious of the annoying consequences that must ensue for him, and felt an obstinate desire to change her mind.

"You need not be jealous of Hilda," he began, but Aldyth checked him indignantly.

"How can you say such a thing? I 'jealous of Hilda,' indeed! You mistake me utterly if you think I could entertain such a feeling for a moment."

"Then I hope you will believe how much I care for you, and say that you will be my wife. Nothing would please uncle more; he told me to tell you so."

"As if that could make any difference," said Aldyth, impatiently.

"But you have always been anxious to please uncle," remarked Guy, feebly. "You gave up the lectures at his wish."

"Do you think the cases are parallel?" asked Aldyth, with scorn in her tone. "I will endeavour to please uncle in all that is right; but I will not do wrong for the sake of him or any one, and I should be doing a great wrong if I consented to marry you, feeling towards you as I do."

"You cannot love me?"

"Not in that way, certainly," replied Aldyth. "Please say no more about it, Guy. It is quite out of the question."

"Uncle will be very angry," said Guy.

"Let him be angry," said Aldyth, warmly. "And, Guy whatever you do, never try to make love to me again."

They were at the gate. Miss Lorraine stood at the open door looking for them. They hurried up the path and went inside. Guy lingered in the hall, divesting himself of his overcoat. Aldyth lighted her bedroom candle at once.

"You must be tired, auntie," she said; "we will talk it over to-morrow—good-night, Guy."

And she went up stairs without saying snore.

A bright little fire had been kindled in her room. Aldyth threw off her cloak and sat down before the fire. Her mind was in a confusion of shame and indignation, and a pain she could not understand. It was horrid of Guy to say what he had. He might have known better. Her face burned as she thought of the indignity she had received. She felt keenly annoyed both with Guy and with her great-uncle.

"But it can never be," she said to herself. "Uncle cannot settle that for me. Thank God, no one can force me into a marriage. Marry Guy! Never! I would rather die! Nothing shall make me marry a man I cannot love and reverence. I will content myself with no union that falls short of my ideal of what marriage should be. Rather than that I will remain single all my life. I am not afraid of being an old maid like auntie. Hers is by no means an unhappy life."

Here Aldyth's eyes, looking upwards, met the glance of her mother looking down on her from the portrait on the mantelshelf. The next minute a mist of tears dimmed Aldyth's vision.

"If only she were here, I could tell her," she murmured. "I shrink from speaking of it to auntie, but to mother it would be so different. I know she would feel as I do about it. One can always be sure of one's mother."

### CHAPTER XI.

CHRISTMAS AT WYNDHAM.

ONE of Aldyth's chief thoughts when she woke in the morning was that the morrow would be Christmas Day, and that she and her aunt were to dine, as usual, at Wyndham Hall. The prospect was far from agreeable to her. She was too annoyed with Guy to wish to see him again so soon, and she dreaded that her uncle might make some attempt to persuade her to do as he wished. She knew too well the iron strength of his will to suppose that he would easily resign himself to the frustration of his hopes.

But though Aldyth felt that it would be intensely unpleasant to have any words with him on the subject, she had no fear that anything her uncle might say could move her. She, too, was a Lorraine, and was not to be lightly coerced. She was certain that her feelings towards Guy could never change. Nothing could make it right for her to marry him; no argument could convince her of the contrary.

"I will do everything I can to please uncle," she said to herself; "but this is impossible. Mother could never wish this."

Christmas Day after all passed more pleasantly than Aldyth expected. She went to church with her aunt in the morning, and on coming out of church they walked a few steps with the Blands and Mr. Glynne, whom Mrs. Bland had invited to dine with her family. Hilda seemed out of spirits, and Aldyth fancied there was a difference in her friend's manner towards her. The thought made her uncomfortable. She hoped Hilda would never know of Guy's foolish conduct with regard to herself.

"She would be so hurt," thought Aldyth; "and, after all, he cares far more for her than for me. But I wish she did not think so much of him, for I doubt if he really deserves her love."

Soon after Aldyth and her aunt returned from church, the carriage arrived to take them to Wyndham. Miss Lorraine thought it strange that Guy had not come up to Woodham to fetch them. But Guy was otherwise engaged. He had had the forethought to invite his friend Captain Walker to come from Colchester to spend Christmas Day at Wyndham. He had given the invitation without consulting his uncle, and Mr. Lorraine was secretly annoyed at the introduction of this guest into the family party, though his pride would not suffer him to withhold from the captain a hospitable welcome.

To Aldyth the presence of Captain Walker was a relief. It made it easy for her to meet Guy as if nothing had happened. The long evening passed not unpleasantly for her. The captain was musical; he had brought his violin, and he was thoroughly happy as he accompanied Aldyth's playing on the piano. The same could not be said of the others who were present.

Stephen Lorraine was incapable of appreciating music, and he did not like the way in which Captain Walker monopolized his young niece. Guy had refrained from telling his uncle that Aldyth had rejected him; but old Stephen's keen eyes saw enough that evening to convince him that the matter was not progressing as he wished. He could hardly control his impatience, and Miss Lorraine grew uneasy as she observed the dark ill-humour that was settling on his countenance, and the irritable tones in which he addressed Guy.

That young gentleman was not slow to perceive that a storm was brewing; but he hoped to avoid having any words with his uncle that night. Aldyth and her aunt were to pass the night at Wyndham. When they had retired, Guy and his friend bade Mr. Lorraine "Good-night," and went off to the former's "den" for a smoke.

Guy congratulated himself that he had managed well; but there had been a peculiar grimness in his uncle's tone as he bade him "Good-night" which augured ill for the time when they should have to come to an understanding. Guy thought he had succeeded in deferring that evil hour at least till the morrow; but when, about midnight, having conducted his friend to his room, he was on his way to his own at the extreme end of the corridor, he perceived a stream of light radiating the darkness from his uncle's door, which stood ajar, and, as he approached it, heard his name called in sharp tones—

"Guy, Guy!"

"Yes, sir," said Guy, pushing back the door.

"It is not so late but that you can spare me a few minutes. Come in, if you please, and shut the door. I have something to say to you."

Guy, with a disagreeable prevision of what was coming, did as he was told.

His uncle, wrapped in an old red dressing-gown, his velvet cap still on his head, sat in a high-backed chair by the fire. The candles burning on the mantelshelf threw their light on his face, and showed it more yellow, sunken, and furrowed than it appeared by daylight.

Guy stood at the other side of the fire-place, tall and erect, looking down on him.

"Take a chair, can't you?" said the old man, irritably.

Guy drew up a chair.

"I want to know," said his uncle, going at once to the point, "whether anything is yet settled between you and Aldyth?"

"Yes, sir," said Guy, "it is so far settled that Aldyth has declined to be my wife."

"You have asked her, and she has refused you?"

"In the most decided manner. It is out of the question, she says."

Old Stephen's brow darkened.

"Bah! You have done your wooing badly," he said. "You must not take any notice of that. The next time you ask her, she will respond differently."

"I cannot ask her again," said Guy.

"Cannot! You must, I tell you."

"Excuse me, sir," said Guy. "She has told me the thing is impossible; she has even said that she regards my proposal as an insult. After that I cannot repeat it."

"Ah, you have let her see that you are a half-hearted suitor," said the old man, shrewdly. "That will never do. You must manage better next time."

"There can be no next time," said Guy, his temper and courage rising together. "To please you, I have asked my cousin to marry me, but since she refuses, I now claim a right to choose a wife for myself."

"And whom would you choose, pray?" asked his uncle, regarding him with a narrow, penetrating glance. "Come, tell me, for I can see you have some one in your mind."

Guy hesitated; but having dared so much, it seemed to him that he might as well dare all. Perhaps if he showed some spirit, and made it clear that he was determined to do as he liked, his uncle would yield to the inevitable.

"You are right, sir," he said. "Since Aldyth has refused me, I will own that Hilda Bland is the girl I should like to make my wife."

"Hilda Bland! That white-faced girl, hardly bigger than a full-sized doll! What folly!" exclaimed Stephen Lorraine, his indignation blazing forth at this confirmation of his suspicion. "Let me hear no more of this, Guy. Hilda Bland is, not one whom I could think of as the mistress of Wyndham."

Guy's face grew hot. He naturally resented his uncle's remarks. An angry reply rushed to his lips, but the mention of Wyndham checked it. Here was a thought that bid him pause.

"If you knew Hilda better, uncle, you would appreciate her more highly," he said, forcing himself to speak, calmly. "It is hard that you will not think of my happiness."

"I do think of your happiness, and I think of Aldyth's also," said his uncle, significantly. "You can, of course, make Hilda your wife, if you choose, but she will not be the mistress of Wyndham."

Guy had risen, and stood looking blankly at his uncle.

"Yes," said the old man, "I mean it. There is no need to say more. You understand me now. Good-night."

"Good-night," said Guy, mechanically, as he turned away, having received a poor preparation for a night's rest. He felt that he was being very hardly treated. It was characteristic of him that one effect of his uncle's opposition was to intensify his desire to wed Hilda. Another consequence of his present embarrassment was that he was beginning to feel towards Aldyth something like dislike in place of his old cousinly affection for her.

The remembrance of the words she had uttered, and the scorn she had been unable to conceal when he made his proposal, rankled in his mind, and he told himself that nothing should ever induce him to approach the subject with her again. And now his uncle's words respecting Wyndham had suggested a jealous dread of the old man's affection for Aldyth. Did they not mean that in the event of his marrying Hilda, Aldyth would be made heiress of Wyndham? Was ever the course of true love more blocked and barred? Guy did not doubt that his was a case to which the familiar quotation might be aptly applied.

Stephen Lorraine was content to visit his chagrin solely upon Guy. His manner towards Aldyth could not have been kinder than it was on the following day. He was indeed never really cross with her. The very sight of her seemed to charm away his ill-humour, and he was at his best when she was present. In spite of the strain to which it was often subjected, Aldyth had a genuine affection for her grand-uncle, and never failed to show him the tender reverence youth owes to age, so it was little wonder she exercised a softening influence on him.

The morning was clear and cold. A silvery rime sparkled on the grass and on the bare boughs of the trees; the pond was frozen so hard that skating seemed a near possibility; the tame birds fluttered to and fro before the house, eagerly picking up the crumbs scattered for them on the hard, glittering gravel. It was just the morning for a walk, and at a hint from her uncle, Aldyth ran to put on her strong boots, and the cosy sealskin jacket and cap which had been his present to her on the previous Christmas.

Old Stephen, fresh and ruddy despite his four-score years, minded the cold no more than a young man. Followed by his dogs, he made the round of the grounds with Aldyth, inspected the stables, and visited the stack-yard and farm buildings, which were at some distance from the Hall. She asked questions which drew forth long explanations from him; he pointed out sundry improvements he intended making, talking of his plans with the freedom of one who knows he has an interested listener. He told Aldyth much that she had heard before; but she was willing to listen to it again, especially when he began to go back, as old men are wont to do, to his early days and tell her tales of his boyhood, mingled with recollections of the mother whom it was evident he had tenderly loved.

"The old place looks well to-day," he remarked, as, returning by a side walk through the shrubbery, they came in view of the house shining in the full radiance of the morning sun; "there can be no place like it for me. Boy and man, I've known it for eighty years. There are not many men, I imagine, as old as I am, who can say they have lived in the same house all their days."

"No, indeed," said Aldyth, to whom such an unvarying experience seemed by no means desirable.

"My father and his father lived here before me," continued her uncle. "I should be sorry to think of any but Lorraines dwelling under that roof. Aldyth, I hope you will never change your name. I have always looked forward to your making your home at Wyndham some day."

Aldyth coloured hotly. Listening to talk of the kind familiar to her from her uncle, she had forgotten her dread of his touching upon this subject. She longed to say something that should make him understand how impossible was the idea he cherished, but no suitable words suggested themselves.

They entered the house by one of the drawing room windows which stood open. A fire had been kindled in the grate, and lent a little cheer to the melancholy, forsaken-looking room, with its faded drab furniture. There were no curtains to the windows; the room was guiltless of drapery of any kind, and lacked all the pretty, dainty decorations with which a lady adorns her sitting room. Old Stephen, glancing round, seemed suddenly to become aware of the barrenness and inelegance.

"Ah," he said, with an air of regret, "it was a pretty room once, but now it wants a little refurbishing badly. Somehow, only a woman seems to understand what a room requires to make it look right. And there has been no mistress at Wyndham since she passed away, and that's nigh upon fifty years now."

He pointed, as he spoke, to the portrait of his mother, hanging above the mantelshelf—a handsome, motherly woman, in the high mob-cap and snowy kerchief worn by matrons of her day. Aldyth had often looked at the picture of her great-grandmother, but she turned her eyes on it again with unfeigned interest.

"She was a good woman," he continued, his voice a little husky. "I should like to think that Wyndham would have another such mistress. She looked well to the ways of her household, and ate not the bread of idleness. Sometimes I fancy I see a resemblance to her in you, Aldyth. Well, well, if Guy wins a wife worthy to succeed her, she shall make what changes she likes in the old house. This room shall be refurnished for her, and made a pretty room again."

Aldyth's heart beat quickly. She was touched and pained, and at a loss what to say.

"Dear uncle," she said, hurriedly, "I am sure it would pain you to turn out the old furniture you have known all your life."

"Maybe it would," he admitted; "but what of that? My time here is almost over. We would have a new piano, Aldyth. Did not that fiddling man find fault with this?"

"He said it was below concert pitch," replied Aldyth, understanding her uncle to refer to Captain Walker.

"Well, then, we would have that set right. And, Aldyth, I have things in my keeping that I wish should come into no hands but yours. There are some trinkets my mother used to wear—jewels of real value, I believe. You could have them reset, I suppose, to suit your fancy."

"Oh, uncle, please do not speak of that!" cried Aldyth, in distress. She could not help seeing what her uncle had in his mind; but he expressed himself so vaguely that it was impossible for her to meet his words with a decided statement concerning herself.

"Do you not care for jewels?" he asked. "I thought all women loved them."

"Oh, I admire them, certainly," said Aldyth; "but there are many things I care more for."

"You are a good girl," said her uncle. "You care to make others happy, I know. You will try," he added significantly, as he kissed her on the forehead, "you will try to do what will add so greatly to the happiness of my last days on earth."

The colour mounted to Aldyth's forehead; her lips quivered; there was a nervous tremor in her voice as she spoke.

"Anything that I can do, uncle, anything that is right; but you might wish what would be impossible for me."

"Nonsense, Aldyth," returned her uncle, with his quick, impatient frown. "You should know me better, child, than to suppose that I could wish you to do anything that is not right. My wish is only for your happiness."

"I know, uncle, I know," Aldyth began; "but—"

He checked her with an impatient gesture, and hurried out into the hall, as though determined not to hear her words.

Aldyth lingered for a few moments by the drawing room fire, feeling baffled and helpless. Her uncle's ideas of what was right for her, of what would make her happiness, differed widely from her own. How could she make him understand? Was it not all but impossible that he, whose life had lacked the most tender ties, and into which, as far as she knew, no romance had entered, should comprehend how sacred a thing marriage appeared to her, and how she dare not desecrate the highest instincts of her womanhood by joining herself by that closest of all bonds to one who could never win her supreme love?

But Stephen Lorraine had gone away satisfied that his words would not fail to have the effect he desired.

"She is all right," he said to himself; "she does not mean to give herself to Guy too easily; that is all. It is his own fault that he has failed. Of course, she sees that he does not care enough about her. But I'll find means to make him care; I'll bring him to book somehow."

And the old man pondered fresh plans, convinced that his blundering efforts at matchmaking would be crowned at last with success.

Later in the day, at her uncle's suggestion, Aldyth took ride with her cousin and his friend. Assuredly the presence of a third person was never found more convenient. Captain Walker was bent on making himself agreeable, and succeeded so well that Guy's unusual moodiness did not spoil the pleasure of the ride. Pansy was so exhilarated by the keen air that it was all her mistress could do to restrain her sportiveness, and in the excitement of the exercise, Aldyth forgot every cause of uneasiness.

But troubled thoughts returned to her. As they drove home that evening, her aunt wondered that she was so grave and still.

"Is anything troubling you, Aldyth?" she asked at last.

"Yes," said Aldyth, "I am thinking about uncle. Do you know what is his wish concerning me—and Guy?"

"Yes, dear, I have known it for some time. You don't mean to say that uncle has spoken to you about it?"

"Not directly; but I could not help knowing what he meant. He asked me to try to do what would add so greatly to his happiness. But how can one try in such a case? If only he would see that it is impossible!"

"You think it so, then?" said her aunt, quickly.

"Auntie, do you need to ask the question? You might know me better than to suppose that I could marry Guy."

"Well, I thought not," said Miss Lorraine. "It does not surprise me to hear you say so. And yet—and yet—I am very sorry. This will make a deal of trouble."

"I can bear my share of the trouble," said Aldyth, "but I am sorry to disappoint uncle. He desires it so much, that for his sake, I almost wish it were possible."

Miss Lorraine sighed. Various aspects of the affair presented themselves to her which never entered into Aldyth's thoughts. She wondered whether the girl's mother would approve of the decision to which she had come. To Aldyth, the question was perfectly simple, and it never occurred to her as possible that her mother's opinion on the subject might not coincide with her own.

### CHAPTER XII.

MR. LORRAINE SENDS FOR HIS SOLICITOR.

IT was the last day of the year. A thaw had set in and disappointed the skaters, but now the ground was again hard with frost, and a cold, grey sky seemed to presage snow. Early in the afternoon, Aldyth went down to the Brands, to see if the girls were inclined for a walk, but found neither of them at home, so after a brief chat with their mother, she started alone, and turning into the Tolleshunt Road, set off for a brisk walk.

It was very cold, but to Aldyth's vigorous young frame, the cold brought only enjoyment. She was not sorry to take a solitary walk. The close of the year gave her much to think about. She liked to look back over its months, and recall all that had happened. There was pleasure, too, in conjecturing as to the coming year, for Aldyth's past had known no shadows that could make her look forward with dread to the unknown future. She did not cherish melancholy thoughts, and indulge in gloomy imaginations, like Hilda Bland. Aldyth's inner life was healthy and glad. She did not magnify her girlhood's trials, nor brood over past vexations. Already she could smile at Guy's folly on Hilda's birthday night, and persuade herself that her grand-uncle would soon learn how unreasonable was his expectation with regard to her. It was not in the power of such considerations to depress her long.

They seemed of such slight moment in comparison with all the beautiful things of life, which for her had still the "glory and the freshness of a dream." It was by virtue of her childlike joy in life that Aldyth helped to make life beautiful to others, who scarcely knew to what they should ascribe the charm they found in her sweet, genial presence.

Aldyth's mind in its retrospection had travelled along the year to the time of John Glynne's coming to Woodham. She was recalling her annoyance at having to give up the lectures, when, raising her eyes, she perceived the lecturer within a few yards of her. She smiled involuntarily. It seemed so strange that he should appear at that moment.

Mr. Glynne had several boys with him, Charlie Bland amongst the number, and they seemed to have had a long tramp in the country. He was a great favourite with his pupils, and even in the holidays they gathered about him. It was by no laxity of rule that he had won their liking, for he had the character of being the strictest of all the Grammar School masters. In no other class was such perfect discipline maintained as in his. A look, or at most a word, from him was sufficient to check all unruliness. The boys knew that he was not to be trifled with, for John Glynne had the sternness which, in a strong character, counterbalances gentleness and goodness of heart. No one could be more severe when the occasion was one which demanded severity. The boy detected in cramming or shamming was likely to receive a lesson he would not soon forget.

John Glynne met Aldyth's recognition with one of the full, sweet smiles which gave to his face, homely enough otherwise, a rare attraction. He paused to speak to her, and the boys trooped on, all except Charlie Bland, who felt as if Aldyth belonged to him, and he had a right to linger by her side.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "I was thinking of dropping in presently to say good-bye to your aunt. I am going up to town by the five o'clock train."

"Oh, are you really going home?" said Aldyth. "Then your sister is better?"

"She pronounces herself quite well now. She was to return with my mother from Brighton this morning. The house is ready, so we meet again as a united family to-night to begin the New Year together."

"Oh, that is nice," said Aldyth, heartily; "I am very glad your sister is all right again. You know I feel as if I knew her, although we have never met."

"I wish very much that she could meet you," said John Glynne, earnestly; "I am sure you two would be friends. Well, I must say good-bye, Miss Lorraine, though not for long. We shall soon be at work again, eh, Charlie?"

Charlie made such a comical grimace that Aldyth laughed.

"That is not a pleasant anticipation for Charlie, I am afraid," she said. "Do not trouble to call on aunt, Mr. Glynne; you would not find her at home."

"No? Then I must ask you to tell her of my intention. Good-bye, Miss Aldyth; I wish you a happy New Year."

"Thank you," said Aldyth. "And I wish you and your mother and sister the same. Somehow, I think it must be a happy New Year."

"For you, no doubt," he replied, looking a little enviously at the girl's glad face, glowing with health and happiness. "You have a bright prospect before you."

"Oh, I don't know," said Aldyth, a little sigh escaping as she spoke. "I begin every year with hope—the hope that it will bring my mother home to me. It seems to me that she will surely come next year; but I may be disappointed again. You cannot understand what it is to be separated from your mother all your life."

"No, I cannot," he said, his tone full of sympathy. "It must be hard. I do hope the New Year will bring you the great joy of her return."

Aldyth smiled; but her eyes grew moist. The very thought of that joy affected her like pain.

"It is a pity you are going away just as there is a chance of some skating," remarked Charlie to his tutor as they walked on. "You should see Aldyth skate. I think she is as clever on her skates as Kitty; though every one says Kitty is the best girl skater at Woodham. Guy was trying to teach Hilda last winter; but she is a duffer! She is too afraid of falling to do anything."

Glynne scarcely heard his words. He was lost in thought. Surely it was more than the hope of her mother's return which made Aldyth Lorraine speak so confidently of a happy New Year. Well, Guy Lorraine was a happy fellow. If only he had seemed a little more capable of appreciating the treasure he had won!

Finding his remarks met with no attention, Charlie ran on to overtake the other boys. His company was not missed. John Glynne walked slowly, and his vacant glance took no notice of two persons who were to be seen coming along a narrow lane which ran between the fields and led from the London Road to the Tolleshunt Road. In summer, the overhanging trees made the narrow walk delightfully shady, and wild flowers grew luxuriantly on either side; but now, when the trees were bare and not a flower to be seen, the lane had no attraction save such as its loneliness offered.

Glynne received an impression that the two walking there must be lovers; but he did not recognize the tall, squarely-built form nor the petite, girlish figure, which was such an extreme contrast to its height and strength. He could not suppose it to be of any consequence to him who the two were who found such pleasure in each other's society.

But a pair of eyes, very much on the alert to mark all that passed before them, had observed the two at the other end of the lane ere they passed into its shelter. Guy had been far from thinking, when he asked Hilda to meet him at Wood Corner that afternoon, that his uncle was likely to be anywhere in that neighbourhood. But Stephen Lorraine owned a farm not far from Wood Corner, and driving homewards from another direction, he remembered that his tenant had spoken to him about repairs. No time like the present, he decided, though to call at the farm would take him several miles out of his way.

Thus it happened that he suddenly appeared in the London Road, near the spot where Guy and Hilda had met. He was quick to recognize the tall, handsome form of his nephew, and the diminutive size of his companion revealed her identity. As soon as Guy perceived his uncle's gig coming along, he tried to escape observation by hurrying down the lane, an action which increased his uncle's displeasure.

What might have passed for a chance meeting had thus the appearance of a clandestine appointment.

"Little minx! Why does not her mother look after her?" he said to himself. "Well, I'll let her know, and she shall hear my mind on the subject, too."

"Straight down Woodham;" he said to the servant who was driving. "I have a call to make there."

Guy reached home before his uncle, who arrived late for dinner, after paying Mrs. Bland a visit that had greatly astonished and disturbed her. It was with some uneasiness that the young man took his place at the table. He had tried hard to persuade himself that it was impossible his uncle could have recognized him that afternoon, but he had not succeeded in dismissing every fear. His uncle's bearing afforded him no sure ground of confidence.

The old man ate his dinner in grim silence, broken only by brief but caustic rejoinders to the few remarks on which Guy ventured. He was obviously in an unamiable mood; but a variety of causes might have conduced to that not infrequent occurrence. Guy endeavoured to behave himself circumspectly, and avoid every reference likely to fan the smouldering flame. He seemed to have succeeded, and it was with rising spirits that he was about to leave the dining room, when a word from his uncle stayed him.

"Have you any engagement for to-morrow morning, Guy?"

"No, sir; I have nothing particular in hand to-morrow."

"Then I will trouble you to ride to Woodham for me the first thing. I want a note carried to Mr. Greenwood, and if you go, you can wait and bring back his answer."

"Certainly, sir. Mr. Greenwood at the bank, I suppose?"

"No; you are mistaken. It is Mr. Greenwood, my solicitor, I wish to see."

The emphasis put on the word solicitor made Guy uncomfortable.

"Very well, sir," he replied.

"I hope it may prove well," said old Stephen, suddenly breaking forth in anger. "I send for my solicitor, sir, because you have made me aware it is necessary I should reconsider my will. After what I have seen this afternoon, I have no alternative. I will not have your cousin's feelings trifled with; I will not have her made to suffer on your account. There are more ways than one of making her the mistress of Wyndham, and mistress of Wyndham I intend that she shall be."

Guy flushed and then paled. This revelation of his uncle's intentions was a shock to him. But he controlled himself, and after waiting for a few moments to see if his uncle had more to say, quietly left the room.

The two breakfasted together the next morning as usual. It was not a pleasant day for a ride. It had been snowing in the night, and a sparse white covering lay on the ground; every now and then the keen north wind would bring a shower of sleet. Neither of the gentlemen, however, remarked upon the weather as they took their breakfast. The squire gave his whole attention to the "Times," and Guy occupied himself with a sporting journal, and with a favourite dog that sat "begging" by his side and shared his meal.

On rising from the table, Stephen Lorraine went to his desk. Guy watched him as he selected a sheet of notepaper and then began to write in his small, neat hand. The servant entering to clear the table, Guy gave orders that his horse should be ready for him in half an hour.

"Ah," said old Stephen, half-turning as he spoke,—"it is rather a rough morning; perhaps you would prefer to have the carriage. You could put it up at Woodham, and wait till Mr. Greenwood was at liberty to return with you. You would have no difficulty in passing the time agreeably with your friends."

There was a sting in the last words for Guy. He coloured angrily as he replied—

"Thank you, sir, I prefer to ride. I shall be back in a little more than an hour, and I can bring you word what time will suit Mr. Greenwood if you like to send the carriage for him."

"Oh, very well," returned his uncle; and he proceeded slowly with his letter-writing, whilst Guy went off to prepare for his ride.

Guy would not have minded the biting wind had his errand been an agreeable one; but as it was, the ride could hardly have been more unpleasant. He stole a glance at the Blands' house as he went down the High Street; but no one was visible at the windows. Hilda, complaining of a headache, was still in bed. She had lain awake, crying and imagining herself the most unhappy of heroines, till long past midnight, and the morning found her weary in mind and body, and convinced that an early death would close her miserable life.

Mr. Greenwood had just arrived at his office, and welcomed Guy genially. He was a little man, with black hair and black "mutton chop" whiskers, small, shrewd, dark eyes, and a brisk, pleasant manner.

"Good morning, Mr. Guy. The New Year begins roughly, does it not? How is the weather at Wyndham? You do not find it too warm to-day, eh?"

"Scarcely," said Guy, who at that moment was by no means inclined to be effusively friendly. "My uncle asked me to bring you this note. He wishes to speak with you on business, I believe; but you will see what he says."

"And how is Mr. Lorraine?" inquired the lawyer, with an air of anxious interest. "How does he bear this severe weather, eh? It is very trying for elderly persons. They tell me that poor old Adam Drake—down the Hundreds, you know—was found dead in his bed this morning."

"Was he? Poor old chap!" said Guy, indifferently. "My uncle is all right, I believe, Mr. Greenwood. The cold does not seem to make any difference to him."

"No? But it may in the long run; he should be careful, indeed he should be careful, Mr. Guy. I was surprised to see him driving in his open gig yesterday. It was not the day for it, indeed."

Guy shrugged his shoulders with some impatience. It was anything but agreeable to him just then to be reminded of the uncertainty of his uncle's life. If he should alter his will and then die without giving him a chance of reinstating himself in his favour!

Mr. Greenwood had opened the note and was reading it. "Hem," he said, "Mr. Lorraine begs me to go out to Wyndham to-day. That is awkward. I happen to be particularly engaged to-day."

"Perhaps uncle could wait till to-morrow," suggested Guy, not without a gleam of hope.

The lawyer shook his head.

"I am afraid not," he said. "He speaks of 'a matter that admits of no delay.' You are sure, by the way, all is right with your uncle? He did not take a chill yesterday?"

"If he did, I have heard nothing of it," said Guy, impatiently. "If you can say at what hour you will be ready, we will send the carriage for you, Mr. Greenwood."

"Thank you," said that gentleman; "let me see."

He paused, stroking his chin meditatively. "Suppose we say four o'clock; I can hardly be ready before that hour."

"Very well," said Guy, "the carriage shall be here at four. Good-day for the present, Mr. Greenwood."

Mr. Greenwood was ready punctually at the hour named, and in due time arrived at Wyndham. Stephen Lorraine was awaiting him, and the two were closeted together until dinner-time, when the lawyer sat down at his client's table.

Guy, who then joined them, could scarcely conceal his restless irritation, and the squire contributed little to the conversation; but Mr. Greenwood's cheerful flow of small talk never failed.

And yet the solicitor, with whom Guy was a favourite, was anything but pleased with the business he had been called upon to effect. Ere leaving the house, he managed to draw Guy aside and say a few words to him.

"Look here, young man, whatever is wrong between you and your uncle, my advice to you is—patch it up as quickly as possible."

"That is more easily said than done," replied Guy, moodily.

"Oh, I don't know. I have known your uncle a good many years now, and he is not bad to deal with, if you only take him the right way."

"You mean if you let him have his own way," returned Guy.

"Well, surely you can humour an old man. I can tell you, Mr. Guy, it is worth your while to do so. I have said all I dare for you; but, but—it lies with you to set matters right."

"But suppose my uncle requires me to do something that I cannot do?" said Guy.

"Well, then, I can only say it is a very great pity. But surely you can find a way out of the difficulty. Depend upon it you make a great mistake if you quarrel with your uncle now. There, I must not say more, but I hope you will so manage things that I may soon be called to repeat my visit with a happier result. Do you understand?"

Guy understood too well for his peace of mind. How could he make things right? He could not and he would not marry his cousin, nor could he bear the thought of giving up Hilda Bland.

Mr. Greenwood passed on to the library to take his leave of Mr. Lorraine, and presently departed from Wyndham, carrying with him a rough draft of the new will his client had desired him to draw up.

### CHAPTER XIII.

SORROW AND JOY.

ON the afternoon of New Year's Day, Aldyth, coming down the London Road, met Kitty Bland and Gwendolen, then at home for her holidays, on their way to the river, carrying their skates.

"Oh, Aldyth, we were thinking of calling for you," said Kitty. "Charlie brings us word that the ice is splendid, so we are going to try it. Do come with us!"

"Oh, do," implored Gwen. "It will be so jolly to have you with us."

Aldyth hesitated. The sleet had long ceased, and the sun was making attempts to break forth. The prospect of skimming over the ice was very tempting.

"I was going to see Hilda," she said. "How is it she is not with you?"

"Oh, Hilda is good for nothing," replied Kitty. "She will not stir out to-day."

"Do you mean that she is ill?" asked Aldyth.

"Well, no, not exactly—she has a headache," said Kitty.

Gwen moved on a few paces; it was not pleasant to stand in the keen wind.

"The fact is, Aldyth," said Kitty, hurriedly, in lower tones, "Hilda has been crying till she is worn out. Your uncle came to see mother yesterday afternoon, and made a grand commotion. I never saw mother so upset. You know she does not often get put out, but when she is angry, she can be very warm, and I can tell you mother was angry with Hilda last evening."

"With Hilda!" said Aldyth, in surprise. "Why, what has Hilda done?"

"Oh, do not ask me," said Kitty; "you had better hear the story from her own lips. I must say I am disgusted with Hilda. Do try, Aldyth, to put a little common sense into her, if you see her. But won't you get your skates and come with us?"

"I think not, thank you," said Aldyth. "I had better go to Hilda, if she is in trouble. I suppose she would like to see me?"

"Of course she would," said Kitty; "she will get some sympathy perhaps from you. I am afraid I have not given her much. She says I cannot understand her, and really she is right."

In spite of a warm protest from Gwen, Aldyth went on her way, full of wonder as to what had occurred to disturb Mrs. Bland and make Hilda unhappy.

Mrs. Bland was engaged with visitors, so Aldyth went at once to her friend's room.

Hilda had risen by this time, but she wore her dressing-gown, which was a very becoming one of pale blue, so that she looked charmingly invalidish as she sat in her easy-chair by the fire. It would not be correct to say that she looked ill. Her face was not more colourless than it always was; but she leaned back in her chair with a listless, languid air, and her expression was melancholy in the extreme, whilst her reddened eyelids testified to past weeping. She uttered a faint exclamation of pleasure as her friend entered the room.

"Oh, I am glad to see you," she said; "how good of you to come!"

"Why, Hilda dear, what is the matter?" Aldyth asked. "I met Kitty, and she gave me a most bewildering account of you. Do tell me what it is all about."

"Oh, Aldyth, I am the most miserable girl in the world!" Hilda exclaimed, and again burst into tears.

"But why?" asked Aldyth, surprised and grieved. "Why do you speak so of yourself?"

"Because it is true," sobbed Hilda. "Oh, Aldyth, you do not know how unhappy I am. And four days ago I was so happy! I little thought the New Year was going to bring me such misery."

"But what is it, Hilda?" asked her friend. "Do tell me!"

Then, as Hilda continued to sob and utter incoherent ejaculations, Aldyth added, "Has it not something to do with Guy?"

"Yes, Aldyth; I thought you must guess it," replied Hilda, brokenly; "that you must see how he cared for me; though I did not know myself, for certain, till last Thursday. He came to call after the party, you know, and mother and Kitty had gone to Chelmsford, and I was alone, practising, and he told me that he could never care for any one but me, and he asked me to promise to marry him. But we were not to tell any one about it at present."

A startled exclamation broke from Aldyth.

"Ah, you think it was wrong!" said Hilda.

"I think it very wrong of Guy," said Aldyth, warmly; "I call it most dishonourable conduct—if I understand aright that he asked you to engage yourself to him without seeking your mother's consent."

"We only meant to keep it to ourselves for a little while," said Hilda. "Guy knew his uncle would be so angry; but we were most unfortunate. Guy asked me to meet him at Wood Corner yesterday afternoon, and unluckily Mr. Lorraine drove to the farm just at that time and saw us together. Ah, you are shocked at me, Aldyth."

"I really am surprised," Aldyth felt obliged to say; "I wonder you could do such a thing, Hilda."

"Oh, do not you find fault with me, please!" said Hilda, beseechingly. "If you only knew what I have gone through! Mr. Lorraine came here in such a rage, and told mother she did not look after her daughters properly. You should have seen how angry mother was. She told me I had no self-respect, that my deceit was detestable, that I had disgraced her, and, what pains me most, she will not hear of my being engaged to Guy. Mr. Lorraine told mother he meant to disinherit his nephew if he did not give me up, and mother declares she will never let me marry him unless his uncle gives his consent. And I know he never will do that. Oh, I feel as if my heart would break!"

Aldyth listened to her friend's confidence with mingled feelings. She was sorry for Hilda, but it was a shock to her friendship to discover that she could be so easily led into crooked conduct. Aldyth could feel some sympathy with Mrs. Bland in her indignation at the revelation of her daughter's duplicity. It was with a curious sensation, too, that she heard of Guy's profession of attachment to Hilda. What would be the effect upon her friend, she wondered, if she told her how recently Guy had asked her, Aldyth, to be his wife? But she had not the heart to inflict such a blow on Hilda.

After a minute she said, in a rallying tone—

"Nonsense, Hilda; hearts do not break so easily, and I am sure I would never break my heart for such a one as Guy."

"Aldyth," said Hilda, reproachfully, "why do you always speak so slightingly of your cousin? You seem unable to appreciate him."

It was impossible for Aldyth to resist laughing.

"Do I?" she said. "Well, truly, at the present moment I am vexed with Guy. I think he has behaved very badly to you, Hilda. A man has no right to ask a girl to engage herself to him without the knowledge of her friends."

"But he loves me," murmured Hilda. "It was because he loved me so. You do not know what love is, Aldyth."

"I am very glad I do not, if that is the kind of thing it does," said Aldyth, stoutly. "But I do not believe in the saying that all things are fair in love. A true and noble love, it seems to me, should make man or woman act worthily."

"Now, I will not have Guy found fault with," said Hilda. "He is dear to me, if not to you. Such a strong, brave fellow as he is!"

"Strong?" repeated Aldyth. "Ah, physically you mean; for although he is my cousin, and I have an affection for him, I cannot say that I think Guy is at all a strong character."

"Aldyth, it is too bad of you! I will not hear you!" protested Hilda, showing a disposition to relapse into tears. "You are not fair to your cousin."

"I hope I am not unfair to him," said Aldyth, thoughtfully. "I do not deny that he has good qualities. He is very kind-hearted and generous; and he is good-tempered too. I am often surprised to see how much he will put up with from uncle. The servants at the Hall are very fond of him. Hilda, dear, forgive me if I have vexed you; but I do wish you would try to look at this matter sensibly."

Hilda put up her hand to check Aldyth's words.

"It is of no use speaking so," she said. "You do not understand me; you do not know how deep my feelings are. Listen to me. I shall never cease to love Guy: and if my love is disappointed, I shall die. Now do not smile like that, Aldyth, for I shall. My father's sister died of consumption, and I shall go into a decline too, if I am made so unhappy. Indeed, I should not wish to live!"

All this was a great strain upon Aldyth's power of sympathy. She felt for her friend; but she could not avoid some secret amusement at the idea that it was Guy who had inspired such desperate feelings.

Hilda sank back into her chair, saying to herself, with a new pang of disappointment, that Aldyth understood her no better than Kitty.

"Why do you not find something to do, Hilda?" asked Aldyth, as she rose to take her departure. "It is a pity to sit there brooding over what has happened. Does your head ache too much for reading?"

"Oh, I cannot read!" said Hilda, wearily. "As soon as I begin, my thoughts fly off in one direction. Aldyth, mother is very unkind."

"I cannot think so," said Aldyth, loyally; "I cannot imagine Mrs. Bland unkind. She may seem so to you; but, depend on it, she has your real good at heart."

"I hate to hear about my 'real good!'" said Hilda, impatiently. "What good can life have for me if I am separated from Guy?"

It was vain to argue with her. Aldyth kissed her, begged her not to imagine herself more unhappy than she was, but to hope that the future might brighten; and then left her, with an uneasy sense that she had failed fully to meet Hilda's expectations in the matter of sympathy.

"I certainly do not understand what love is," she said to herself; "it may well be called blind, for Hilda can perceive none of Guy's faults. It has transformed him into a hero. Oh, dear! I shall never be able to love in that fashion."

It was too late to join the skaters. Aldyth did a little shopping in the High Street, and then turned homewards. As she entered the house, a letter lay on the hall table awaiting her. Aldyth recognized with delight the thin foreign envelope addressed by her mother's hand. She went into the dining room, and sat down to read her letter. She had not read far ere her heart gave a wild bound, and her face grew pale with sudden vivid emotion. The words which caused it were these:—

"Our long-talked-of visit to England is at last to be realized. We have arrived at a decision rather rapidly, and sail in a week's time, so that we shall be actually on our way home when you receive this. Mr. Stanton's health has of late caused me anxiety, but we hope the voyage will set him up. It is on his account that we start with so little preparation. We propose taking a furnished house in London as soon as we arrive, and shall probably remain at home for two years. I cannot tell you, my dearest child, how I look forward to our meeting, so long-deferred. You must come to us as soon as we arrive in London. We are all coming. Cecil is to study medicine at one of the hospitals. Your sisters are counting on seeing you at last."

There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read again and again, and yet seemed unable fully to grasp. All her being was thrilled with a shock of joy. Could it be true that her mother—her beautiful mother—the mother she had missed and yearned for through so many years—was coming home to her at last? There was awe mingling with her joy. She was glad beyond measure to think of her mother's return, and yet she was half afraid of her happiness. The unknown brother, and sisters too—she was to meet them at last. Was it any wonder that Aldyth's heart throbbed with a tumultuous emotion that had fully as much pain in it as pleasure? She was glad, and yet the tears would come. Faster and faster they came, till they rained down her cheeks.

"Why, Aldyth, my dear child! What is the matter?" cried Miss Lorraine, coming in briskly from the cold.

"Oh, auntie, such news!" exclaimed Aldyth, holding out the letter. "Mother is coming; she is on her way now."

"You don't mean it? Really coming at last! Well, it is startling, certainly; but I would not cry about it," said Miss Lorraine.

She laid her bag and her muff deliberately on the table, and took the letter from the girl. Any one less excited than Aldyth would have seen that the news did not give her aunt unmixed satisfaction.

"So," she said presently, "they are coming at last, and you will have your heart's desire, Aldyth; though no one would think it, to see you crying like that."

"Oh, aunt, I cried because I was so glad," said Aldyth, hastily drying her eyes. "You cannot think what it is—after so many years, to know that my mother is coming to me."

"I suppose not," said Miss Lorraine, drily. "Well, child, I am glad that you are so pleased."

But as she spoke her face had a wistful, pained expression. Aldyth, since her babyhood, had been her care, and the feelings of a mother had grown up in her heart towards the child she had cherished. Could Eleanor Stanton, simply because she had given her birth, be so much more to Aldyth than the aunt who had comforted her childish sorrows and nursed her through all her childish ailments? Would she be as likely to understand the girl? Miss Lorraine felt aggrieved by the emotion Aldyth displayed, even whilst she told herself it was wrong and unreasonable to feel so.

But Aldyth, thrilled and excited, had no thoughts to spare for her aunt, and failed to see that she was hurt.

And Miss Lorraine was thankful that for once her niece was so unobservant.

### CHAPTER XIV.

A LONG-DEFERRED HOPE IS REALIZED.

A FORTNIGHT later, on a raw, gloomy afternoon, Aldyth and her aunt stepped from a train on to the platform of Liverpool Street Station. A telegram received late on the previous evening had acquainted them with the fact that the Stanton family had arrived in London, and Aldyth was now on her way to meet her mother.

Aldyth's face was white and eager, and Miss Lorraine, too looked excited. Aldyth had been disposed to maintain silence all the way, and the journey had never seemed to her so tedious; but excitement had had the contrary effect on her aunt. Unchecked by her niece's reluctant rejoinders, she had talked the whole time, chiefly on matters of little or no importance. But when they were in a cab, driving to the West-end hotel where the Stantons were to be found, Miss Lorraine, too, became silent, and her eyes were often turned upon her niece with a rather anxious expression.

It was no new thing to Aldyth to be in London. She and her aunt not seldom came up for a day's shopping in town, or gave themselves a few days' enjoyment of sight-seeing. They found such delight in the pleasures of town as only country people can, to whose ordinary experience it offers so sharp a contrast.

But to-day Aldyth had no eyes for the shop windows, nor for the beautiful equipages they met as they drove westwards. She saw nothing that they passed. There was a strange combination of thoughts—if thoughts they could be called—in her heart. Every now and then tears would rise to her eyes as she told herself how happy she was going to be. Life must be different for her from henceforth. All she had known or read or dreamed of a mother's love was to be realized at last. She started as from a dream and flushed crimson when her aunt suddenly laid her hand on her arm.

"We are almost there, Aldyth. See, this is Charing Cross."

And, still with a dreamy sense of unreality, Aldyth recognized the wide space before her, the fountains, the lions, the statues, with the omnibuses taking up passengers, the carriages dashing to and fro, and all the bustle and stir of London life.

"Oh, Aldyth! Oh, my dear child!" said Miss Lorraine, taking the girl's hand in hers, and speaking in agitated tones.

Aldyth looked at her wonderingly; but whatever Miss Lorraine was about to say—if indeed she knew—was never said.

Their cab was making its way through a crowd of vehicles. There was a bump and a jar which startled Miss Lorraine, always somewhat nervous when driving in London. Happily there was no cause for alarm; all was right in a moment. But ere Miss Lorraine had recovered from her fright, they were at the door of the hotel, and an obsequious servant stood ready to help them to alight.

Aldyth made an effort to subdue her excitement as they followed a waiter up the steps; but in spite of her will, her heart beat uneasily, and she felt quite faint as the man threw open a door and announced them. She need not have experienced any nervousness, however. The room they entered was a large one, with three windows overlooking the Embankment, and at first sight it appeared to be empty; but a young lady rose hastily from the depths of a great easy-chair by the fire, and came forward with outstretched hand.

"Aldyth! Do we meet at last?" she said, and kissed her affectionately. "How strange it is to think that you are my sister, and we have never seen each other till now! And this is your aunt, I suppose? How do you do, Miss Lorraine? I cannot claim you as an aunt, although Aldyth is my sister. Pray come near the fire; you must be dreadfully cold. I never knew anything like the cold of London."

Aldyth sat down, but her eyes were fixed upon the door which communicated with the next room. Was her mother there? Why did she not come to her?

"You are Gladys, I suppose?" said Miss Lorraine, pitying Aldyth's suspense. "Mrs. Stanton is quite well, I hope?"

"Oh, perfectly well, thank you," said Gladys. "She will never forgive herself for not being here to welcome Aldyth; but papa wanted her to go out with him. I think they were going to inquire about a house, and of course we did not know exactly when you would arrive. But mamma will be very vexed."

Aldyth said nothing. She could not have spoken without betraying how disappointed she was. All the way to London she had had a vision of her mother awaiting her, eager for her coming, longing to clasp her in her arms. This reality was so different from her anticipations that she experienced a painful revulsion of feeling.

"Do come nearer the fire," said Gladys Stanton, seeing her turn pale and shiver. "And you will like some tea—tea is always refreshing after a journey." She rose and rang the bell as she spoke.

Aldyth now looked more attentively at her sister. She was very fair, with large blue eyes, and an abundance of pale, silky hair twisted in a sort of picturesque confusion about her head. Her tall, willowy form was almost too slim, but it was a pleasure to watch its easy, graceful movements. The small, oval face, framed by the masses of bright hair, had faulty features; but its expression was winsome, and the long blue eyes had a way of looking and the mouth a trick of smiling, the fascination of which Aldyth soon began to feel.

When the waiter appeared, she ordered tea, and then inquired where the ladies' rooms were, and if their luggage had been taken up.

"Did the ladies want rooms in the hotel?" asked the man, with an air of surprise. "I am afraid that is impossible; I believe every room is taken."

"Oh no, that cannot be," said Gladys; "Mrs. Stanton has engaged the rooms. You are making a mistake. Please go and inquire about them."

"Of course he must be mistaken," she said, when he had gone. "I know mamma meant to engage rooms for you."

But when the waiter reappeared with the tea, he brought word that there were indeed no rooms to be had. The clerk declared that no extra rooms had been engaged for Mrs. Stanton's party.

"Oh, dear! Then mamma must have forgotten it. How tiresome of her!" said Gladys. "What will you think of us?" she added, turning with a pretty, deprecating air to Aldyth. "But you know we only arrived yesterday, and mamma has had so much to think of. She lost one of her trunks, too, and that has put her out very much. What is to be done now, I wonder?"

"We must go to another hotel, of course," said Miss Lorraine, promptly; "there are several others in this neighbourhood."

Here the waiter interposed, and said that the ladies could have rooms in a private hotel on the opposite side of the street.

"Oh, that might do," said Gladys, as she poured out the tea; "you would be close by, and could be with us all the time. Would you mind that so very much?"

"Not at all; we should do very well there," said Aldyth, who by this time had conquered her wounded feelings and regained self-control.

"We must see the rooms before we agree to take them," said Gladys, promptly, with a business-like air. "Now do drink your tea whilst it is hot, and then I will go across with you and see if the place is fit for you."

Aldyth was beginning to feel much interested in her pretty sister. There was something surprising to her in the self-possession and savoir-faire of this girl of nineteen. She could have imagined that Gladys was older than herself, for Gladys' rich dress and the jewellery with which her person was lavishly adorned gave her a mature air. Her gown of ruby silk was more gorgeous than anything Aldyth ever wore, and had she possessed such a one, she would have deemed it only suitable for a dinner or evening party.

Aldyth was still on the watch for her mother's arrival; but Gladys did not appear to expect her immediate return.

"We are to dine here at seven, as a family party," she said, glancing round the room. "Mamma thought it would be nicer than going to the table d'hôte to-night. Perhaps you would like to go to your rooms now; you would wish to change your dress, I dare say—not but what you look as nice as possible."

Miss Lorraine assented with some eagerness. She was anxious to be assured of comfortable quarters for the night before it grew later.

Gladys caught up a handsome travelling cloak and a large hat with drooping feathers which lay on a chair, hastily arrayed herself in them, thrust her jewelled fingers into a tiny muff, and declared herself ready to accompany her visitors. They had but to walk a few steps, across the street, and they were in the other house.

The rooms were very nice. Gladys found some fault with them, perhaps because she felt duty bound not to be too easily satisfied on behalf of her friends. She lingered for a while, offering to help Aldyth to unpack and evidently anxious to do all she could for her new-found sister.

When at last Aldyth assured her there was nothing more she could do, Gladys threw her arms about her a gave her a loving little hug and kiss.

"I am sure I shall like you," she said, impetuously. "I am sure we shall get on well together, although you are older than I am."

"I should be very sorry to think that we should not get on together," said Aldyth, her heart going out in warm response to this welcome affection. "You do not know how I have longed for a sister. It has seemed so hard to have sisters whom I could never see."

"Oh, I hope you will not be disappointed," said Gladys, impressively. "I do hope you have not romantic ideas about sisterly affection; for, if so, I am sure we shall shock you, since Nell and I are for ever quarrelling. But now I will leave you. Be sure to come over as soon as you are ready."

"She seems a nice girl, although so over-dressed," said Miss Lorraine, popping her head into Aldyth's room as soon as her sister had gone; "I hope you will like her."

"I do like her; I am sure it will be easy to love her," said Aldyth, warmly.

"I wish you would come and see if you can open the register in my room," said her aunt; "I fancied the room felt stuffy when I entered, and now I find that the chimney is fast closed."

Aldyth went at once, soon had the chimney open, and rendered several other little services to her aunt. Miss Lorraine refrained from any comment on the fact of Mrs. Stanton being absent when her daughter arrived, and Aldyth was grateful for her silence.

When she went back to her room, Aldyth bolted her door, sat down and burst into tears. She was so disappointed; there was no disguising the truth, though she tried to persuade herself that she was unreasonably disappointed. It was but too clear that her coming was not to her mother what her mother's coming was to her. And how should it be? Aldyth asked herself, trying hard to rally her common sense Had not her mother three other children, and was there not for her all the excitement of returning to England after an absence of twenty years?

And yet—and yet, Aldyth could not argue away her pain. Something within her heart would say that their meeting should have been more to her mother than all beside. The one ray of pleasure that lightened Aldyth's disappointment came from the kindness of her sister Gladys. The warmth of her loving caress and frank, impulsive words seemed to remain with Aldyth.

Aldyth did not long give way to tears. She remembered that time was passing, and that she must prepare for the meeting with her mother. Slowly and with more deliberation than she often bestowed on it, she began to make her toilet. She took down and shook out her long, dark hair, brushed it till it shone like satin, then combed it straight back from her brows, and plaited it into a beautiful coil at the back of her head.

As she surveyed the effect, she smiled to think what a contrast her appearance presented to that of Gladys. "I should feel so untidy if I wore my hair in such a tangle," she thought; "and yet she looks very pretty so. I wonder if that is an Australian fashion."

With some anxiety, Aldyth put on her gown—a soft grey cashmere with a vest of pale pink. It had won much admiration from Hilda Bland, but now Aldyth felt doubtful about it. She looked wistfully at herself in the mirror.

"Shall I look old-fashioned beside Gladys?" she asked herself. "Oh, I do hope mother will like the look of me."

She smiled at the absurdity of the thought, but with the smile came tears. Were not mothers generally disposed to like their children's looks?

There was a tap at the door, and she opened it to admit her aunt. Miss Lorraine wore her best black silk and a dainty little head-dress of lace.

"Ah, you are ready," she said; "then we had better go across. It is half-past six."

"Shall I do, auntie?" asked Aldyth, anxiously.

"Do! You will always do, child," said Miss Lorraine, playfully. "Yes, indeed, you look very nice—far more suitably dressed than Gladys, in my opinion." And she kissed Aldyth.

After all, she told herself with secret pleasure, Aldyth was her child, and belonged to her far more truly than to that strange mother, just come across the sea.

Aldyth was trembling again as she went up the stairs of the hotel. Gladys met them in the corridor, took Miss Lorraine to their private sitting room, but drew Aldyth back as she was about to cross the threshold.

"Come with me," she said; "mamma hates scenes, and she would rather see you alone first. We will go to her room."

They passed along the corridor; but Aldyth was aware of nothing till a door was thrown open, and she found herself in the presence of a tall and handsome lady. Then she had a momentary bewildering sense that the photograph had deceived her, and this was not the form she had imaged to herself. But ere she could receive any distinct impression, the lady had folded her in her arms, and a voice exquisitely sweet, and full, and caressing said, tenderly—

"My dear child! Can it indeed be my little Aldyth come back to me like this?"

For a few moments Aldyth could not speak. It Was like a dream-the tender pressure, the soft kisses, the caressing tones, and mingling with them the subtle, sweet perfume that pervaded her mother's dress.

In that brief interval, Aldyth tasted the bliss for which she had yearned. But the next minute, Mrs. Stanton's arms loosened their clasp; she drew back a step or two, and stood looking at her daughter, evidently awaiting her inspection.

Aldyth looked at her mother with eager, wondering eyes. She could see a likeness to the portrait now; but she saw also great differences. The rich waving hair, abundant as ever, was now silvery grey—a change which gave a striking effect to the handsome, clear-cut features and the large, flashing dark eyes, which had lost little of the brilliancy which in youth had made them so irresistible. Few women of her years could have borne to wear their hair rolled high up above the brows as hers was; but, despite her grey hair, Mrs. Stanton had no look of age. Her cheeks were well rounded, her complexion fresh, and her full, red lips closed over perfect teeth. She had the appearance of a full-blown beauty of the period when it was the fashion for ladies to powder their hair, by way of accentuating their bloom. Her figure was full and well-formed; and the daring simplicity of her black velvet gown, with square-cut bodice showing the round, white throat, set it off to perfection. Her beautiful arms were bare from the elbow, and adorned with heavy gold bracelets.

A glow of admiration might well kindle in Aldyth's eyes as she observed her mother.

"Well," said Mrs. Stanton, at last, not ill-pleased with the expression she read on Aldyth's face; "am I at all what you expected? What do you think of me?"

"You are not what I expected," Aldyth replied, slowly, in a low, fervent tone; "but—you are very beautiful."

Mrs. Stanton laughed. She was well pleased with her daughter's simple, ingenuous remark.

"Ah, you are a flatterer, I fear," she said, lightly; "but really your appearance is not altogether flattering. I did not expect to see such a woman. You make me feel quite old. Let me see—what is your age, by the by?"

"I was twenty-one last March," said Aldyth, a little surprised that her mother should need to ask.

"Ah, to be sure, I had forgotten," said Mrs. Stanton, carelessly, "and Gladys is just nineteen. But now Mr. Stanton will be impatient to see you, and you have yet to make the acquaintance of Cecil and Nelly. Come, darling."

So saying she led the way to the sitting room.

Mr. Stanton did not look as if he were impatient to see Aldyth or any one. He was a weary-looking man, with bald head and stooping shoulders. His manner was singularly nervous and shy, and though he greeted Aldyth not unkindly, he seemed to have nothing to say to her. But his wife was well able to supply his lack of words. She talked both for him and for herself.

"I have been telling Aldyth how anxious you were to see her, Robert. Now, is she what you expected? Not at all like me, is she? No, she resembles her father. It is very strange that not one of my girls is really like me. Gladys resembles me most; but then she is fair, like your family, and her features are not like mine. I often wonder how it is that people will persist in saying she is like me. Oh, here is Nelly! Come, Nelly, and let me introduce you to your sister Aldyth."

Nelly appeared by no means desirous of the introduction. She was a big, awkward girl of fifteen, dark, heavy-browed and somewhat sullen-looking; but with good eyes, and a certain resemblance to her handsome mother, although she was undeniably plain. She seemed to have inherited her father's nervous, shy manner. She shook hands with Aldyth without looking at her, and rushed away to the further end of the room, where, hidden by a curtain, she leaned on a window sill and watched the outer world.

Cecil did not appear till dinner was on the table. He was a good-looking lad of seventeen, bright and pleasant in manner, though somewhat foppish in his person, and not without the conceit common to youths of his age. Still, Aldyth felt that she should like him when she knew him better. But all her impressions that evening seemed vague and unreal. She felt like one in a dream as she sat listening to the talk that went on, and replying to the remarks addressed to her.

Mrs. Stanton, as seemed to be her habit, not only spoke for herself, but said everything that her husband should said, whilst he, sitting opposite to her, silent and melancholy, occasionally murmured an assent. She had many questions to ask respecting Woodham and various families residing in the vicinity, to which Miss Lorraine was only too pleased to make full replies.

Gladys, whose vivacity seemed inexhaustible, chatted fast with her brother and Aldyth; Mr. Stanton and Nelly were the only silent ones. The latter, seated opposite to Aldyth, made good use of her opportunity of observing the appearance of her half-sister.

If Aldyth's glance met hers, she looked away hurriedly; but her eyes returned to the inspection, and Aldyth was conscious that they travelled over her, and that, apparently, no detail of her person escaped their notice. But as soon as dinner was over, Nelly buried herself in a book and made no attempt to converse with Aldyth.

"Aldyth," said her mother, coming up to her and laying her hand on her shoulder, "I am glad to hear that your uncle, at his great age, keeps so hale and well. To-morrow we must, have a quiet talk together, and you shall tell me all about him and your cousin Guy."

"Yes, I will," said Aldyth, her heart throbbing with joy at the thought of that confidential talk. "Oh, mother! I am so happy to think that I can talk to you at last."

"Darling!" said her mother, pressing her hand. "But don't call me 'mother' in that solemn way, Aldyth. It makes me feel so—I don't know what. Say 'mamma,' as Gladys does."

The lightly-spoken words jarred on Aldyth in her vivid emotion. But nothing could be more tender and caressing than her mother's manner to her throughout the evening; and when, on parting for the night, Aldyth found herself again folded in her mother's arms, her heart was too full of happiness to have any doubt.

"You are sure that you and your aunt will be quite comfortable there—you are sure you have everything you want?" asked Mrs. Stanton, with an air of maternal solicitude. "Mr. Stanton was so vexed—were you not, Robert? That he forgot to order rooms for you in the hotel."

Mr. Stanton looked slightly surprised at his wife's appeal to him, but replied to her words in the affirmative. Then, at her suggestion, he found his hat and coat, and escorted Aldyth and her aunt across the street to their lodgings.

### CHAPTER XV.

ALDYTH WAKES FROM A DREAM.

ALDYTH did not have the promised talk with her mother on the morrow.

Several days passed, all so full of occupation that Mrs. Stanton had no leisure hour to spare for her eldest daughter.

"When we get into our own house, we shall have more time with each other, darling," her mother would say with a smile and caress, and then drive away with her husband and Gladys to visit friends or inspect houses.

Aldyth and her aunt went about sight-seeing in London with Nelly and Cecil. Aldyth tried hard to win the favour of her younger sister, but for some time with poor success. Nelly's shyness was not to be overcome. When they were out, she kept as much with her brother as possible, and Aldyth thus often found herself her aunt's companion.

Nothing definite had been spoken on the subject, but the Stantons seemed to take it for granted that Aldyth would remain with her mother as long as she was in England. Miss Lorraine's appetite for town entertainments was not easily sated; but when a week had passed, she began to talk of returning to Woodham. Mrs. Stanton, however, begged her to remain with Aldyth till early in the following week, when they would move into the house which had been taken at Bayswater.

On the afternoon of the last day of her stay in town, Miss Lorraine decided that she would like to call on one or two friends, and, rather to Aldyth's surprise, did not invite her niece to accompany her. Aldyth went across to the hotel to find out what her sisters intended to do. She found Nelly by herself, hanging over the fire in the sitting room, and looking far from amiable.

"What, all alone, Nelly?" she said. "Where are the others?"

"Oh, mamma and Gladys have gone shopping. I never knew anything like their shopping; there is no end to it. And papa and Cecil have gone to the hospital to make arrangements for Cecil studying there."

"So! And you are left all alone. Well, I am in the same lonely condition, for auntie has gone off to pay visits, and never so much as asked me if I would like to go with her."

"Oh, I am used to that sort of thing," said Nelly, forlornly. "Mamma never cares to have me with her. I am too ugly and awkward."

"Oh, Nelly! How can you say such things of yourself?" exclaimed Aldyth.

"It is true," said Nelly. "Mamma feels that I am no credit to her, and she is ashamed for me to be seen. Oh, you need not look shocked, Aldyth. You do not know mamma yet."

"I hope you are mistaken in so judging her," said Aldyth, gently. "But now, Nelly, what shall we do, since we are left to ourselves?"

"I don't care," said Nelly, indifferently.

"Would you like to go across to the National Gallery? We seem to have neglected that just because it is so near. There are some of the finest pictures in the world to be seen there. But perhaps you do not care for looking at pictures."

"I care very much," said Nelly, brightening. "I really like pictures more than Gladys, only I do not make such a fuss about them as she does."

So they went to the Gallery, and spent a couple of hours there very pleasantly. Aldyth found that Nelly took a real and intelligent interest in the pictures. Aldyth, who was a devout disciple of Ruskin, had a profound admiration of Turner, and she soon kindled in Nelly a like enthusiasm for his paintings. Together they studied the slight sketches, which give such interesting indications of the gradual development of his genius.

As they talked them over, Nelly grew confidential, and told her sister of her great desire to study art—a desire which would not be quenched by the efforts of all her family to throw cold water upon it.

"I want mamma to let me study at South Kensington," she said; "but she says it is of no use, for I should never do anything worth doing. She is going to look for a school for me as soon as she can find time. I am to go as a weekly boarder. Is not that horrid?"

"Perhaps you will like it better than you expect," said Aldyth. "No doubt there will be a good drawing master."

"Ah, that would be nice," said Nelly. "But all mamma wants is to get me out of the way. You know mamma means to get Gladys married whilst we are over here."

"Nelly!" said Aldyth.

"Ah, you are shocked at my saying so; but it is perfectly true. Mamma is determined that Gladys shall marry well. As for me, I don't know what mamma will do with me. I am afraid no one will ever want to marry me, and mamma will think it so disgraceful to have a daughter an old maid."

Aldyth could not help laughing at the way her sister said this.

"Indeed, Nelly, there is no disgrace in being an 'old maid,' as you call it," she said quickly; "it is far better to remain single than to make an unhappy marriage. And there are many honourable careers open to women. You might be all artist, perhaps."

"Ah, that would be delightful," said Nelly, her eyes kindling; "a great deal better than being married."

When they returned to the hotel, Nelly declared that she had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon, and Aldyth was glad to feel that it had drawn them closer together. But she herself was far from experiencing perfect content. Day by day, in spite of her efforts to stifle it, a feeling of disappointment was growing stronger within her.

"You do not know mamma yet," Nelly had said. Was it so indeed? Had she yet to learn her mother's true character, and was it so totally different from all that she had conceived it to be? The thought was full of pain. Aldyth tried to put it away from her—tried to persuade herself that she was attaching too much importance to the words of a thoughtless, ill-tempered child; but with all her endeavours, the doubt was not to be dismissed.

And yet, as she watched her beautiful mother and marked her queenly movements, her graceful kindliness, Aldyth found it hard to believe that her charming appearance masked a selfish, worldly spirit; for she saw her mother at her best. Eleanor Stanton was delighted to be again in London; her husband was completely under her sway; there was no one to oppose her will, and she was enjoying herself thoroughly. It was easy for her, as for many another woman, to be charming and lovable as long as her life was what she wished it to be.

It was close upon the dinner hour ere Miss Lorraine returned from her visits.

"You will be surprised when I tell you where I have been," she said as her niece helped her to change her dress—"I have been to Highgate to see Mrs. Glynne."

"Auntie!" exclaimed Aldyth in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, I thought I should like to see Susie again; we were great friends at school, and now I know her son so well, I thought it would be nice to go and see her. And I am glad I went, for she seemed very pleased. I did not see Mr. Glynne, for he is at Woodham. The school reopened last week."

"Yes, I know," said Aldyth.

"She is a sweet woman," said Miss Lorraine, talking as fast as the exigencies of her toilet would permit. "They live in a tiny house; but everything is as neat and as nice as possible. Aldyth, what are you thinking of? Not that cap. And I saw the daughter, a pleasant girl, not pretty, but clever-looking."

"Oh, auntie, I wish you had taken me with you," exclaimed Aldyth.

"Oh, my dear, that would not have done at all," said her aunt, decidedly.

Aldyth coloured, and refrained from inquiring why it would not have done.

It was not without regret that she saw her aunt start for Woodham on the following day.

"It does seem strange that you should go home without me," she said. "If it were not that I am to be with mother, I should be sorry."

"I shall miss you dreadfully," said Miss Lorraine. "Home will seem strange without you. Now mind, you come down, Aldyth, whenever you can. Bring one of your sisters with you, if you like; but be sure to come when you want a little country air."

"Of course I will," said Aldyth. "Remember me to uncle and Guy, and do not forget my message to the Blands. Good-bye."

Then the train glided out of the station, and Aldyth went back to her new home and new life.

"Have you not a letter from your uncle?" Mrs. Stanton inquired of Aldyth one morning, a few days later, as they sat at the breakfast table.

By this time they were settled in the house at Bayswater, and beginning to feel at home there.

Aldyth replied in the affirmative.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Stanton. "I thought I could not be mistaken in the clear, old-fashioned writing, though it is, many years since I have seen it. Does he send me any message?"

"No, he does not," said Aldyth, a little embarrassed by the question.

"Oh, I did not expect it," said Mrs. Stanton with a laugh. "I know he is no friend to me. How is the poor old man?"

"He does not say how he is," replied Aldyth. "He tells me about the horses and dogs, and the meet last week at Wood Corner."

"Do you ever hunt?" asked Gladys, eagerly.

"No," said Aldyth; "Guy has often tried to persuade aunt to let me, but she does not like the idea of a lady's hunting. Kitty Bland has ridden after the hounds once or twice, but her mother is very nervous about it."

"I would not mind what your aunt thinks," said Gladys, coolly; "I would go if I were you, Aldyth."

"My dear Gladys," said Mrs. Stanton, reprovingly, "I am glad that Aldyth has a better notion than you of what is becoming conduct in a young lady towards her seniors."

Gladys shrugged her shoulders and made a grimace.

"Does not your cousin Guy write to you, Aldyth?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in so meaning a tone that it brought a quick flush to the girl's cheek.

"Oh dear no," she said, hurriedly, "that is the last thing Guy would think of doing. He will never write to any one unless he is obliged."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Stanton, and let the subject drop. She watched her daughter intently for a few seconds. She had already questioned Miss Lorraine pretty closely as to the relations subsisting between Aldyth and her cousin, and had drawn her own conclusions from that lady's reluctant replies.

Some time later, as Aldyth sat writing a letter in the breakfast room, her mother entered, her wool work in her hand, and settled herself in an easy-chair by the fire, evidently intending to remain there.

"How cold it is!" she said, holding out her hands towards the blaze. "I have sent Gladys to take a walk in the park with her father. He does not like walking alone, and it is better he should have company, for I am still anxious about him. To tell you the truth, Aldyth, he had a slight stroke of paralysis before he left Australia, and that, you know, is very alarming."

"Yes, indeed," said Aldyth, looking startled; "I had no idea his illness was so serious as that."

"It was, and after that, you know, one cannot tell what may happen," said Mrs. Stanton, in an easy, comfortable tone as she warmed her hands; "I am sure no one knows what anxiety I have gone through. He has had so much worry in his business; the doctor insisted on his giving up everything and coming away at once. He is in partnership with his brother; but they don't work well together, somehow. But I must not talk to you now, you are busy."

"Oh no; this letter is of no consequence," said Aldyth, laying down her pen. "I am only too happy to listen to you, mother—mamma, I mean."

She rose from her place at the table, and took a seat opposite to her mother.

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Stanton, sweetly, "that is right. Now we can have a nice cosy talk; but we will not discuss my troubles. Tell me about your life at Woodham, my dear child."

"I think you have heard all that there is to tell," said Aldyth; "you know it is a very quiet place."

"Detestably quiet," said Mrs. Stanton; "I never could bear Woodham. I always disliked it when as a girl I used to go over there from Colchester, and my great dread when I became engaged to your father was that he would want we to live at Woodham. Well, I have escaped that, have I not? Do you often go to Wyndham?"

"Almost every week," said Aldyth. "Uncle always complains if I let a week pass without his seeing me."

"Ah, you are a great favourite with your uncle; I am very glad of that," said her mother, fervently. "Now tell me about your cousin—what sort of a man is he?"

"He is tall," said Aldyth, with a sparkle of fun in her eyes, "and he has broad shoulders, and he is very strong. His hair is light, and his face ruddy; his eyes, I think, are blue; he has good features, and many people consider him good-looking. He rides well, is a bold hunter, a crack shot, and altogether a splendid specimen of a country gentleman."

"Oh, my dear! I don't want all these details," said her mother. "Tell me, do you like him? Are you great friends?"

"Yes, we are good friends," said Aldyth, carelessly; "you see, I have known him all my life; he is almost a brother to me."

"Now, that is nonsense, Aldyth," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "cousins cannot be brothers, and, after all, he is only your second cousin. What I want to know—and I think I as your mother have a right to ask—is whether he has ever given you cause to suppose that he wishes to marry you?"

Aldyth's farce grew crimson. She was silent. It was a curious proof of the subtle change that had taken place in her feelings with regard to her mother that whereas at the time of Guy's proposal, she had longed to tell it all to her mother. Now that the subject was thus introduced, she shrank from its discussion, and would gladly have evaded it altogether.

"Surely you can tell me, dearest," said her mother, seeing her hesitation. "Who can care for your welfare as I do? If your happiness is bound up with your cousin's, tell me so."

There was something so ludicrous to Aldyth in the idea suggested by her mother's words, that she could not help laughing.

"Oh, mamma, it is not so, I assure you," she said. "I should never care for Guy in that way. He did ask me to marry him a little while ago, but he quite understands now that it can never be."

"But why?" asked Mrs. Stanton, a look of vexation clouding her brow. "My dear Aldyth, I do hope you have not been misled by the foolish, romantic notions some girls have about love. How could you be so blind to your own interests as to refuse your cousin? Do you forget that he is the heir of Wyndham?"

"I do not see what that has to do with it, mamma," said Aldyth. "You would not have me marry a man whom I cannot truly love?"

"But you say that you like him, that you are good friends," persisted Mrs. Stanton; "what more would you have? What is this love you dream of? It is all very well in novels and poems, but in real life, one has to be guided by practical considerations. Does not your uncle desire this marriage?"

"Yes, he would like it," said Aldyth, in a low, pained tone.

"Then, my dear, how can you be so foolish? Do you not know how ready your uncle is to take offence? If you cross his will, you may lose your inheritance, as your poor father did. Stephen Lorraine has never said what were his intentions concerning you, but I always thought that he meant you should share Guy's fortune. Oh, dear! I would not have had you act so foolishly for the world; but perhaps it is not yet too late to set things right."

"You do not understand me, mamma," said Aldyth. "I am sorry to displease you, but I can never, never marry Guy. It would be most wrong of me to do so, feeling as I do."

"Then there is some one else you care for," said Mrs. Stanton, sharply.

Aldyth flushed. "You are mistaken," she said, coldly, "there is no one else; but I cannot see that makes any difference."

"Well, of all foolish, unpractical girls, you are the worst I could ever imagine!" said Mrs. Stanton, indignantly. "Why, most girls would jump at such an offer."

But Aldyth had risen, and was hurrying from the room. She ran up stairs with hot tears in her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat. She was indignant with her mother for uttering such words.

It was a sore wound to find that the mother whom unknown she had loved devotedly all her life was capable of giving her such low, worldly counsel. It was no longer possible to hide from herself the keen disappointment she was suffering. The truth was not to be disguised.

Her mother, beautiful, charming, gracious as she appeared, was not the mother of whom she had dreamed through long years. The hopes she had built on her home-coming were all delusive. The perfect sympathy, the mutual confidence and help to which she had looked forward, were not to be. As she recognized this fact, certain words of Christina Rossetti's kept repeating themselves in Aldyth's mind—

"The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake."

Were other things dreams too? Was she indeed foolishly, romantic, as her mother had said? Were her ideals mistaken? The glorious visions of the poets, were they illusive? The grand possibilities that life had seemed to her to hold, as she studied the inspiring utterances of the great teachers of mankind, were they too phantasmal? Was there indeed no poetry in life, and would she be wiser if she consented to follow the dictates of vulgar, worldly prudence?

In the heart-sickness caused by the shock of her first real disappointment, Aldyth questioned everything. What was the good of life if it were so low and sordid, so barren of all that is truly noble and elevating? But presently, healthier feelings returned to her.

She had taken refuge in her room, and was sitting gazing dully before her, when a ray of wintry sunshine entering through the window gleamed on a tiny bunch of violets which Nelly had placed on her dressing-table. Aldyth caught them up, and their beauty and sweetness comforted her. After all, the world was not the dreary place she had been imagining it.

God was in the world, God, working ever for righteousness and purity and loveliness, and God was love. Did not the poet Browning say that the grand lesson of life was to learn love—what love had been, what love might be?

"I believe in love and God," said Aldyth to herself; "and, God helping me, I will be true to my ideal of what my life should be. I will not love my mother less because she is not just what I had fancied she would be. Is not a certain amount of forbearance necessary in every human relationship? I will strive to be to my mother all that a daughter should be, and perhaps in time she will come to think as I do about things. I hope she did not see how impatient and angry I felt just now."

And Aldyth dried her eyes, and seeing that the sunshine looked inviting, put on her hat and jacket and set off to take her usual remedy for depression—a good walk.

### CHAPTER XVI.

CONTRASTS.

WHEN Nelly had been sent to school, Aldyth found herself more at leisure.

Gladys was always good-natured and bright; there was something very charming in her pretty, careless ways. It was impossible to help loving her, and yet after she had lived with her for weeks, Aldyth felt that she knew her no better than on the first day of their meeting. It seemed impossible to have a quiet talk with Gladys; she was always self-occupied, restless, eager about trifles. Apparently she did not know what serious thought was. She had inherited her mother's gift of fascination, and, like her, knew how to use it for the accomplishment of her own ends.

Aldyth could never have said that her sister treated her unkindly; yet again and again, she found herself gently pushed on one side that Gladys might take the lead.

Gladys had been first in the family for too many years to be willing now to resign her premiership in favour of Aldyth just because she, too, was her mother's daughter and nearly three years older than herself. But she did not assert her supremacy in any disagreeable manner, and Mrs. Stanton endeavoured to veil her preference for Gladys.

"You do not care for dancing, Aldyth, so I must not take you to this party;" or, "This entertainment is not intellectual enough for you," she would say, when invitations came in. And Aldyth, not without heartache, yet in all sincerity, would reply that she would rather remain at home.

Aldyth used to look forward to the Saturday of each week, for early on that day Nelly would come home from school.

She and her young sister had become the best of friends, and found much enjoyment in each other's company. It was good for Nelly to confide to so sympathetic a listener the details of her school life. Her mother had neither time nor inclination to interest herself in them. Her main anxiety concerning her youngest daughter's education was that she should learn to speak French and acquire a good deportment.

Nelly had good abilities, but she was naturally indolent. The training she had received had not taught her to love knowledge; but now, under Aldyth's influence, she began to take an interest in literature. She was working well at her drawing, and cherished the hope of being an artist; and when Aldyth pointed out to her the fact that every kind of knowledge may be of service to a painter, she bestowed more pains on her general school work.

Aldyth could not doubt that her stepfather was a man of wealth, for Mrs. Stanton and Gladys spent money lavishly, and the style of their home was most luxurious. There were so many servants that Aldyth could find no domestic duties to perform. She was at no loss how to employ her leisure.

Mudie's Library supplied her with the books she desired to read, and all the varied means of culture that London affords were open to her. But there were times when Aldyth's conscience smote her for leading a selfish, aimless life, and she longed for her poor people at Woodham, and the many occupations of her busy life there. However, work for others always comes to those who are willing to undertake it, and ere long it came to Aldyth.

One day, Gladys having a pleasanter engagement in prospect, Mrs. Stanton took Aldyth to visit some friends at Blackheath. There was a small party invited to meet them, and amongst the number were a clergyman and his wife, in whom Aldyth soon felt considerable interest. Mrs. Wheatley was a small, frail-looking woman, but full of life and energy. Her features were plain, but her countenance had a charm which beauties might envy, for it betokened rare intellectual power combined with all that is good and sweet and womanly. Aldyth felt drawn to her at once, and probably the attraction was mutual, for as soon as an opportunity occurred, Mrs. Wheatley moved to a chair beside Aldyth and began to talk with her.

How is it that half an hour's talk with some persons seems equal to months of intercourse with others? In an incredibly short time Aldyth felt perfectly at home with Mrs. Wheatley, and could talk to her as if she were an old friend. To her surprise, Aldyth learned that this delicate, refined-looking lady lived in one of the least desirable localities of the East-end of London, having resolutely determined, contrary to the advice of physicians and friends, that she would make her home in her husband's parish, and live among the poor people she desired to help and raise.

"You must not believe all that you hear about Whitechapel," she said brightly to Aldyth. "People talk of the impossibility of getting fresh air there; but even in Whitechapel there is a breeze sometimes, and when it is close and heavy in the streets, there is fresh air at the tops of the houses. Our rooms are on the fourth story of the house, and there is the flat roof of a tenement on which I can take a walk when I choose, and where I am trying to cultivate some plants. Nor is the moral atmosphere so hopeless as some would make out. I could show you brave men in Whitechapel, whose patient endurance of a hard and painful lot is absolutely heroic, and women whose pure, noble lives, under circumstances the most adverse, would put duchesses to shame. I know they have often taught me lessons I needed to learn."

Aldyth was much interested. It was vexatious that just then the lady of the house should come to her with a request that she would play something; but she could not refuse. She went at once to the piano, and played a bright little gavotte by Gluck; then, being urged to play again, she gave one of Schubert's exquisite, entrancing melodies. Mrs. Stanton was not without satisfaction in her daughter's performance and the admiration it won. She wished that Gladys could have been persuaded to give more attention to her practising.

Happily no one had taken Aldyth's place, so she was able to return to Mrs. Wheatley's side.

"You play very well; it is a pleasure to listen to you," said that lady, simply. "I wish you would come and play to my working girls some evening."

"Your working girls?" said Aldyth.

"Yes; we have established a club for girls employed in factories and workshops. It is open every evening from seven till ten. We have various amusements for them, and we try to teach them sewing and cooking. We have a good piano, and I am always glad to get some one to give us some music. Besides, it is so easy for a girl like you to win an influence over them."

"Indeed, I will gladly do anything I can," said Aldyth; "I should really like to help."

"I am sure you would," said Mrs. Wheatley; "it is a work that appeals to a girl's heart. These girls have to support themselves when quite young. Many of them have left their parents, and live in poor lodgings, sharing their room, perhaps, with several others, and when their work is done, they have no place of recreation save the streets or the music-halls. A warm, well-lighted room, where they can spend the evening pleasantly, is a great attraction to them. We have some rough, intractable girls to deal with; but we hope gradually to soften them by kindness, and I am sure you would be a great help in doing so."

"I will try what I can do," said Aldyth. "I will come next week, if mamma will let me."

Aldyth was sure that her mother would not allow her to go unattended to Whitechapel, so before naming the matter to her, she spoke of it to one of the servants, explained to her the kind of work in which she had been invited to join, and asked whether she would be willing to share it by accompanying her once a week to the East-end. The servant, an honest good-hearted girl, was proud and pleased that Miss Lorraine should seek her assistance, and gladly consented.

Mrs. Stanton made no objection to Aldyth's plan, though she thought it an incomprehensible whim of hers to wish to go to such a horrible place. It was a happy thing for Aldyth that her mother rarely interfered with her wishes, except when they were adverse to her own.

So Aldyth went to her work in Whitechapel, and made acquaintance with the factory girls of the East-end. It was work in which she soon became deeply interested, and it inspired her with many new solemn thoughts about life.

As Mrs. Wheatley had foreseen, the girls "took to her" at once, for women of the lower classes are quick to recognize a "real lady" when they see one, and to feel the charm of her gentleness and simplicity. Aldyth's pleasant look, her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, her fresh, pretty gowns, and the dainty, flower-like neatness of her person, could not have charmed any male admirer more than they charmed these girls. They clustered about her, they applauded the bright, well-chosen music she gave them, and they watched eagerly for the chance of a talk with her.

Aldyth had no difficulty in gaining their confidence. They could see that she liked to hear all they could tell her about themselves, and one by one they told her of the troubles and hardships of their lives, not complainingly, but in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, that was touching in its very unconsciousness.

One evening Aldyth, returning tired from Whitechapel, met Gladys alighting from a carriage at the door of their home. She had been spending the evening in a very different fashion at the house of some friends. She followed Aldyth into the dining room, where a light supper awaited her.

"I will sit with you while you take your chocolate," Gladys said, throwing off her cloak and sinking gracefully into an easy-chair by the fire. "The Andersons are so nice, Aldyth; I've had the most delightful time. You were a silly not to come with me instead of going to those stupid girls at Whitechapel."

Aldyth looked at her sister for a moment, ere she replied.

Gladys, dressed all in white, with her pretty neck uncovered and her coronal of golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, never looked more fair.

But Aldyth had a sudden painful sense of the contrast presented to her sister by the girls she had left, as young as Gladys, and some of them as fair, but with weary faces and thin, bent forms, whose clothes were shabby and tawdry, and whose lives had so little of what was bright and pleasant in them.

"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "Don't grudge our girls any pleasure I can give them by going. If you only knew what their lives are! If I were one of them, I think it would make me feel bad to look on a girl like you."

"And why, pray?" asked Gladys, with an air of surprise.

"Because you have so much to enjoy, and they so little," said Aldyth. "Most of them are as young, if not younger than you, and a few of them—forgive me, Gladys—are almost as pretty. I often long to try the effect of dressing them in fresh, becoming frocks. But their lives are hard and rough. Most of them toil from eight in the morning till eight at night, and some of them, who call themselves 'shop girls,' work till even later. There was a girl to whom I spoke to-night, a bright young girl of fifteen, and when I offered her a book, she told me she could not read because her eyes were so bad, owing to her having to do her work—stitching babies' bibs—under a strong gaslight all day long. Another girl, who has to go up and down many flights of stairs during the day, could not join in a game because her ankles were so dreadfully swollen. Does it not seem hard that some young girls should have to live so, whilst others have everything that heart can wish, and nothing to do but enjoy themselves? I am sure when I look on those girls, I am ashamed to think what an easy, self-indulgent life I have always led."

There was a passionate quiver in Aldyth's voice as she spoke, which showed that tears were not far from her eyes. Gladys was not unmoved by her earnest words.

"But they belong to the working class," she said. "They cannot expect to lead such lives as ours."

"Oh, they know that well enough," said Aldyth. "It is wonderful to me how patiently they bear their hard lot. 'Ladies have fine times of it; it is good to be born a lady,' I heard a girl say to-night; but it is rarely we hear such remarks. And yet, human nature is the same in every class, and these girls have the same feelings as you and I."

"Aldyth!" said Gladys, in a sceptical tone.

"Indeed they have," said Aldyth. "They yearn for happiness as we do, they feel the same eagerness for every attainable pleasure; they love things that are bright and pretty. Ah, you should have seen how eager they were for a few flowers I took to-day. The bunch was gone in no time, and the girls who could not get a flower were sadly disappointed. I had to promise that I would bring some more next week. I shall ask aunt to send me some from Woodham. The primroses must be coming out there now."

"It is very good of you to take so much trouble," said Gladys.

"Oh, I think we more fortunate girls are bound to do all we can to help and gladden our poor sisters," said Aldyth. "Do you know when I was with them to-night, I kept thinking of those words in the Bible—'Who maketh thee to differ from another? And what hast thou that thou didst not receive?' I think we are apt to forget that all the good things we have received—our education, accomplishments, personal attractions—are all trusts, given to us to be used for others, and not simply for our own enjoyment."

"Oh, don't be so dreadfully solemn!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly springing up. "Aldyth, you really must marry a parson, for at a pinch, you could make his sermons for him, and it would be a great pity such a talent should be wasted."

"Why not say at once that I should mount the pulpit and preach?" asked Aldyth laughing. "But, Gladys, I do wish you would come to Whitechapel with me some night. It would give the girls such pleasure to hear you sing."

But Gladys held up her hands in horror at the idea.

"I could not really, Aldyth. You frighten me by proposing such a thing. I should be afraid of catching smallpox or something dreadful if I went there. Oh, surely one martyr is enough in a family! Ah, yes, you may shake your head. I know I'm a sad girl—I know I care for nothing but pleasure—but that's my way, and you must take me as I am."

"Oh, Gladys, you do not mean that. It would be a poor thing to live only for pleasure," Aldyth said.

"I do mean it, you dear old mentor," said Gladys, stopping her mouth with a kiss; "and I do not find it a poor thing either, so there! But now it is time we got our beauty sleep, so, if you are ready, we will go up stairs."

Aldyth found in her room a letter from Hilda, and, tired though she was, she could not resist reading it ere she went to bed. The envelope felt thick, so she might expect a good budget of news, and with pleasurable anticipations, she tore it open and sat down to read the contents. This was what Hilda had written:—

"MY OWN DARLING ALDYTH,—Am I not very good to reply to your dear letter so soon? But you will not wonder when you hear the exciting story I have to tell. You know, I dare say, that since Sultan went lame, and the veterinary said he would need a long rest, your uncle has bought a new horse for the gig. He is a splendid animal as far as appearance goes, but Miss Lorraine said from the first that he had a vicious look. However, your uncle thought he had got a good bargain, and he must needs go out with John in the gig to try him. Guy wanted to drive him for the first time, but your uncle would not hear of it. He was still very displeased with poor Guy; nothing he did gave satisfaction. However, Guy occupied the back seat of the gig, and came into Woodham with them; but seeing that the horse was going all right, he got down at the post-office, and said he would walk home. To tell you the truth, Aldyth dear, he meant to linger about the town with the hope of seeing poor little me.
"Well, Mr. Lorraine called on his dear friend, Miss Rudkin, and John walked the horse up and down whilst he was there. Whether the delay irritated him, or whether he took fright at a tramp who was coming along the road with a sack on his back, it is impossible to say, but Mr. Lorraine had hardly taken his seat ere the horse began to plunge wildly, and when John whipped him, he bolted. Old John was powerless to hold him in, and he went down town like the wind. Kitty was at the window and saw the horse run away, and she says she shall never forget it. Fortunately the road was clear.
"The horse tore down the High Street till close upon the corner where the old church juts out, and what would have happened then no one dare say, if Guy—dear, brave, noble Guy!—had not come to the rescue. He was standing talking to some one outside the saddler's, and saw the horse coming. In a moment he was in the road, gave one bound, and caught the reins, and, hanging on with desperate strength, forced the animal to stop. How he did it, I cannot imagine, it makes me tremble even now to think of it; but you know how strong he is, and now he has proved that he is as bold as he is strong.
"Oh, Aldyth, you can never laugh at Guy again, or run him down. You ought to be very proud of your brave cousin. But I forget that you will be anxious to know how your uncle was after such a fright. He really bore it wonderfully well. He was a little faint at first, and they took him into Hall's and gave him some brandy. In half an hour he seemed all right, and oh, Aldyth! He thanked Guy before everybody, and said he had saved his life, and called him a brave fellow. And, only think, the next day he insisted on going for a drive again with the same horse, only Guy drove, so no harm came of it. But would any one except Mr. Lorraine have done such a thing?
"I met them as they were driving, and your uncle nodded to me quite pleasantly, and Guy looked so pleased. Oh, I hope it is not very foolish of me, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps after all, things will come right for us. Surely, Mr. Lorraine must be kind to Guy, now he has saved his life!
"Miss Lorraine has just been in on her way home from Wyndham, and she says she believes that her uncle is more affected by the shock than he will own. She thought him looking very shaky.
"Oh, Aldyth, how I wish you were here! There is so much I should like to tell you, and it is impossible to put everything in a letter. Mr. Glynne's sister has come to stay with him for a few weeks. She seems a very nice girl, and we have invited her to spend Tuesday with us. But I must not write more now. With fondest love, dearest Aldyth,—
"Your devoted friend,
"HILDA."

Here was news indeed! All desire of sleep vanished from Aldyth as she read it. She was moved both to thankfulness and to self-reproach as she thought of her uncle's danger and Guy's brave conduct.

"Perhaps I have been too hard on him," she said to herself. "Perhaps there is more in him than I suppose. Anyhow it was a brave deed, and I am glad, oh, so glad and thankful, that he had strength and courage to do it."

One effect of Hilda's letter was to awake in Aldyth a longing to return to Woodham. She had now been absent from the little town for several months, and it was with somewhat of home-sickness that she recalled all the varied interests of her life there. It was spring weather now, and amid the London streets and squares, she yearned for the country lanes and the woods and fields bright with primroses and cowslips.

And to think that Mr. Glynne's sister was now at Woodham! Aldyth would have given much to make her acquaintance, and to join in the long walks which she would be taking with the Blands. But she sagely reflected that we cannot have everything at once in this life. She had—what for years had been her heart's chief desire—the society of her mother and sisters, and she must be content to resign her old life at Woodham, which, as she now saw plainly, had been full of quiet happiness.

She was finding a niche in her new home, and learning daily that even in London there were many who needed her. Her stepfather, who whilst the days of his wife and Gladys were wholly occupied with gaiety, seemed to grow more and more weary and depressed, often sought her help in little matters for which his wife had no leisure and seemed glad of her company. Cecil came to her with tales of his hospital experiences, and found to his surprise that Aldyth knew more about surgery than most girls, and could listen with intelligent interest to the "horrors" at the very mention of which his mother and Gladys stopped their ears.

And Nelly looked forward with delight to the pleasant "outings" which Aldyth contrived that they should have together almost every Saturday afternoon. Even Gladys invariably sought Aldyth whenever she needed assistance of any kind. But to her mother, despite tender words and caresses, Aldyth could never feel that she was very near and dear. The long years of separation seemed to have left between them a void that could not easily be bridged over.

### CHAPTER XVII.

HILDA IS HAPPY.

THREE days had passed since Aldyth received Hilda's letter. Her aunt had sent her a full account of what had happened, and a few curt, but not unkind, words from her uncle had assured her that there was no need for her to feel any anxiety on his account.

It was about five o'clock on a bright afternoon, and Aldyth, having had occasion to go to a shop there, was walking in Oxford Street. She was near Regent Circus when, to her great astonishment, she perceived her grand-uncle a few yards in front of her, stepping cautiously from an omnibus. He did not perceive her, and she looked at him for a moment or two, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her uncle, who professed to dislike London so much, and had not been known to visit it for years!

Indeed, it was a great event for him at any time to go beyond twenty miles of his home. But there he was, in his old velveteen coat, his white hat, his drab gaiters, just as Aldyth was accustomed to see him at Woodham, but looking strangely out of place on the London pavement. She hurriedly made her way to his side.

"Uncle! I little expected to see you in Oxford Street."

He turned, surprised and pleased, yet his manner betrayed some discomposure.

"Ah, Aldyth, is it you? Well, it is a happy chance that we should meet thus. Yes, you may well be surprised to see me here; but business brought me to town. I came up on business."

Aldyth could not remember that her uncle had ever come up to London on business before. He was wont to manage all his business through the agency of Mr. Ralph Greenwood.

"Were you coming to see me, uncle?" she asked.

"Well, no, I was not," he answered, still with a shade of embarrassment in his manner; "I have finished my business, and I thought I would take a little look about town before going home by the evening train."

"Then you will come and see mamma?" said Aldyth, eagerly. "She will be so pleased to see you."

The old man did not at once reply. He only smiled a peculiar, grim smile, which said, as plainly as words could utter it, "But I should not be pleased to see her."

"Do you really think she would be pleased?" he asked sarcastically, after a few moments. "Suppose she had some of her fashionable friends with her, would she be delighted, do you think, to see a queer, old-fashioned countryman like me come into her fine drawing room?"

"I do not believe that would make any difference, uncle," Aldyth said.

He laughed sceptically.

"Ah, my dear, you must excuse me," he said; "I knew your mother before you were born."

Aldyth's cheeks were burning. She wished he would not speak of her mother in that contemptuous tone.

"I am glad I happened to meet you," she said, "since otherwise I should not have seen you at all. Shall we go into the Park and sit down for a little while? It is quite warm, and I want to have a talk with you."

He assented with evident pleasure. In a few minutes they were at the Marble Arch, and entering the Park found a quiet seat under some trees.

"Aldyth," said her uncle suddenly, "you will be good enough not to mention to your mother that you have seen me to-day; and do not name it when you are writing to Woodham. I do not wish my coming up to town to be talked about there."

Aldyth promised; but she could not but wonder that her uncle should think it possible to keep people at Woodham from knowing that he had made a journey to town.

Presently she expressed her thankfulness for his recent escape from danger.

"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, "it was a narrow escape,—a narrow escape indeed. And Guy acted like a hero. He saved my life at the risk of his own; there's no denying that. How he hung on to that brute of a horse I can't tell. His wrists feel the strain yet."

"Oh, uncle, I hope you do not drive that animal still," Aldyth said.

"Well, no, I suppose I shall have to give it up; he's not safe in the shafts. Guy can ride him. Guy is a good rider. Sometimes I think that perhaps I have been too hard on him; he is a good fellow, is Guy. I did hope I should have seen you married to him, Aldyth; but I suppose it cannot be."

"No, uncle, it can never be," Aldyth said.

"I had set my heart on it," he continued, sadly, not angrily; "but you young people have a way of thwarting all my plans. You must have your own way, however things go. I thought you cared for Wyndham; I thought you would have taken a pride in the old place."

"I do love Wyndham," Aldyth said.

"Yes, but you do not care to live there—at least, not as Guy's wife. Aldyth, tell me, you would not be one to pull down and alter the old place, if it were in your power to retain it as it is?"

"Certainly not," said Aldyth, wondering at the question; "I am not one to desire change. I like things to be as they have always been."

"Ah, yes," he said, musingly. "Well, there is no saying how things will be. Perhaps some other girl will be the mistress of Wyndham. Would you mind if it were so, Aldyth?"

"Why, no, uncle," said Aldyth, "I assure you, I have never thought of such a thing as being the mistress of Wyndham. Guy and I are really not at all suited to each other."

"Yes, but there are other ways," he said. There was a pause of some minutes, and then he asked, abruptly, "Are you and Hilda Bland as good friends as ever, Aldyth?"

"Oh, yes, uncle, indeed we are."

"Does she write to you?"

"Yes."

"Ah, well," he said, and his voice quavered as he spoke, "there is no saying how things will be at the last. I change my plans, and then I change them again. Sometimes I think I am getting old and weak, and do not know my own mind. But I mean it for the best. However things are, I mean it for the best. I suppose I have a right to do as I like with my own? They'll find fault with me, no doubt, when I'm gone; but I mean it for the best."

His voice had dropped, and as he rambled on thus it seemed to Aldyth that he had forgotten where he was and that she was by his side. She had fancied him unchanged when first she saw him; but now it seemed to her that there was a change in him, though it was one not easy to define.

She laid her hand on his, and he looked round with a startled air, but recovering himself slowly, he said, "I don't know why I should talk about going. I am not so very old. Several of my ancestors lived to be ninety, and why should not I? I have always lived temperately. Why should not I see ninety, please God?"

"I trust you will, uncle," Aldyth said, gently; "but now, at what time does your train leave for Woodham?"

"Eh? The time; half-past six, to be sure. What's the time now? Oh, I don't trust any of your London clocks." And he pulled out the huge gold repeater familiar to Aldyth from her childhood. "Ah, I must leave you, child. I am glad we met. When are you coming to Woodham again? You do not look so well as when you left us. Tell me, are you happy with your mother and sisters? Do they treat you properly?"

"Yes, indeed they are very kind to me; I have nothing to complain of," Aldyth said, but nevertheless there was a yearning in her heart for Woodham and its peaceful, pleasant ways.

"Well, if they do treat you badly, you know where to come," her uncle said.

As they walked through the Park to the nearest entrance, many a passer-by looked curiously at the quaint old squire and the tall, graceful girl by his side, whilst he on his part bestowed a fierce scrutiny and more or less unflattering comments on every person or equipage that met his gaze. When Aldyth had seen her uncle into a cab for Liverpool Street, she hurried homewards, and reached the house barely in time to change her dress and appear at the dinner-table as usual.

Her mind was full of her uncle during the evening, and she found it difficult to avoid mentioning him.

A few days later, Aldyth received a second letter from Hilda, the contents of which gave her both surprise and pleasure.

"Oh, Aldyth," Hilda wrote, "you will hardly believe the good news I have to tell you. I can hardly believe it myself, though it makes me so happy—I cannot tell you how happy I am. But I must explain. On Saturday mother had a most polite note from Mr. Lorraine, begging her to come on Monday with her two daughters to spend the day at Wyndham. The carriage should be sent for us at any hour that would suit our convenience. You may imagine how surprised we were, for Mr. Lorraine had been barely civil to us since the day he called here and behaved so rude, and I do not think mother had forgiven him for telling her she did not look after her daughters properly.
"However, I persuaded mother it was her duty to forget that now, and Kitty wanted to see the horses at Wyndham, and I—Ah, I need not tell you how I felt about it! Anyhow, mother accepted the invitation, and about noon we started for Wyndham.
"The dear old man—yes, I can call him dear now—received us with charming courtesy. He had arranged that Guy should take me and Kitty for a ride in the afternoon; was it not good of him? You can fancy how delighted Kitty was, nor was I less so; and as for Guy, I never saw him in such spirits. Kitty rode Pansy, and the lovely creature was so tricksy. She does not get exercise enough now you are away.
"But now for the most wonderful item of my news. It was easy to see that the squire was in a very good humour with Guy. Well, whilst we were riding, Mr. Lorraine had a long talk with mother, and told her he had decided to let Guy take his own way with regard to his marriage, and if he still wished to marry me, he was free to do so.
"And to make a short story of it, Aldyth, we are now engaged, and in a day or two, all Woodham will know it. But, of course, you must be the first friend to hear of it; I know how glad you will be. You can sympathize with me in my happiness as no one else can. Oh, I am happy. I can say with Juliet—

"My true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth."

"I wonder what people will say when they hear of my engagement? It will be a surprise, for it has always been said that you would marry your cousin. But, talking of gossip, what do you think is Miss Rudkin's latest piece of news? She declares that your uncle went to London by the first train on Wednesday morning, and that he drove all the way to Wickham, and took the train there, in order that people should not know that he went! Did you ever hear anything so absurd? I suppose you have not seen him in town?"

There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read several times. She was delighted to hear of Hilda's happiness, and inclined to esteem Guy more highly than she had ever done before. It never occurred to her that she had any cause to deplore the engagement, as likely to be detrimental to her own prospects. Aldyth was not wont to concern herself greatly about her future, and she had never felt anxious to know her uncle's intentions with respect to his property. A healthy, happy girlhood has no temptation to be greedy after wealth. It seemed to her a fortunate circumstance that her uncle's horse had run away, since Guy's gallant conduct had so softened the old man's feelings as to make him for once renounce a cherished wish.

And so people had said that she would marry Guy! It was not surprising, but it vexed her to think of it. Had Mr. Glynne heard it said? The colour deepened in her cheeks as she asked herself the question. Well, if so, he would now know that it was a mistake. Aldyth was glad to think this; she did not like the idea of his supposing that she would be willing to marry Guy.

Hilda's letter had put Aldyth into excellent spirits. But when she hastened to share the news with her mother and sister, the brightness of her mood was checked. Mrs. Stanton heard it with feelings that were beyond control.

"You can pretend to be pleased at this, Aldyth?" she asked, in a tragic tone.

"There is no pretence about it, mamma. I am unfeignedly glad that Hilda is to marry Guy. I used to doubt if he were good enough for her; but I think better of him now."

"You ought to be ashamed to talk so!" cried her mother, in tones sharp and high. "I have no patience with you. To think that you might have been the mistress of Wyndham! You should bewail your folly instead of rejoicing. One would think you had no sense."

Aldyth stood silent; but it was not without a strong effort that she kept herself from uttering hot, indignant words.

"Now you have crossed his wish, I dare say your uncle will not leave you a penny," continued Mrs. Stanton. "You might, for the sake of us all, have played your cards better than that. I hope you will not infect Gladys with your stupidly romantic notions."

Here the flow of Mrs. Stanton's eloquence ceased abruptly, for Aldyth turned without a word and quitted the room.

"You need not have dragged my name into the discussion, mamma," said Gladys, with scorn in her tones. "You might know that I belong to another order of being, and could never act like Aldyth."

"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Stanton, devoutly. "I trust you have more wisdom."

"I don't know about that," said Gladys; "though the Bible does say that 'the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light.' You and I belong this world, mamma. I rather fancy Aldyth must be one of the 'children of light.'"

"What do you mean by speaking in that absurd way? It is not like you, Gladys."

Aldyth had hurried from her mother's presence that she might not be over-mastered by an impulse to relieve her irritated feeling by quick, passionate words. She had a great dread—born of the sacred idea of motherhood she had ever cherished—of being driven to utter bitter, unbecoming words to her mother. It was no uncommon thing for Gladys to address her mother disrespectfully. Angry words sometimes passed between them, though they were good friends as a rule. But if Aldyth ever had a scene with her mother, she knew that the thought of it would leave an indelible stain upon her consciousness, and turn to bitterest irony the hopes of past years.

Mrs. Stanton did not again refer to Guy's engagement; but she treated Aldyth with marked coldness during the next few days. But, as if to atone for her mother's unkindness, Gladys' manner towards her sister was more affectionate than usual. It was she who insisted that Aldyth should accompany them to the Horticultural Gardens on Saturday afternoon. Aldyth consented with some reluctance, for she would have preferred to spend the time with Nelly, as usual. But she could hardly regret that she had come when they reached the gardens, which were looking their loveliest in the first fresh beauty of the spring.

Mr. and Mrs. Stanton seated themselves under the trees to listen to the band, but the girls preferred to move about, admiring the flowers and observing the well-dressed crowd. Some of the ladies were so fair and so charmingly dressed that they seemed to rival the flowers in beauty. Aldyth did not wonder that many eyes were directed towards her sister; she saw no one prettier than Gladys in her gown of palest blue and large white hat. But attractive as was the appearance of Gladys, Aldyth did not suffer total eclipse as she walked by her side. Several persons inquired the name of the tall girl who was Miss Stanton's companion, and decided that though she might not be called beautiful, there was something very interesting about her.

Aldyth went so little into society that she did not expect to meet any one she knew. Gladys stopped now and then to chat with acquaintances, and was careful to introduce her sister; but Aldyth felt herself amidst strangers, till suddenly, as she stood on the outskirt of a little group, a gentleman paused before her, bowing, and saying, in tones of pleasurable surprise—

"Miss Lorraine! This is an unexpected pleasure. Somehow one seems to forget that it is possible for Woodham people to come to London."

It was Captain Walker.

Aldyth greeted him with pleasure, and they entered at once into an enjoyable chat over Woodham affairs. He had not heard of Guy's engagement, and the news seemed greatly to please him. Aldyth was amused at the warmth with which he expressed himself on the subject.

Presently Aldyth introduced him to Gladys, and a little later to her mother, who, deciding at once that the young man had a distinguished appearance, received him most graciously. Captain Walker remained with them as long as they stayed in the gardens. As he saw them into their carriage, Mrs. Stanton informed him that they were always "at home" on Sunday evenings, and begged that he would give them the pleasure of his company on the following evening.

Aldyth had always liked Captain Walker, and it was a pleasure to her to see an old friend who knew all about Woodham and her life there. She was sorry that her mother had invited him for Sunday evening; for ever since her coming to London, she had made it a rule not to join the party gathered in the drawing room on that evening. The Lord's day was sacred and precious to Aldyth. She liked to feel that it was different from every other day. It was no hardship, but a pleasure to her, when at Woodham, to attend both services at the church, and to spend the afternoon with her class in the Sunday school.

But Sunday observances were deemed irksome in her mother's home. In her Australian life, Mrs. Stanton had forsaken the religious habits of earlier days. She had learned to laugh at the old-fashioned Sabbath of her childhood, and she considered that she had sufficiently recognized the sacred character of the day if she attended a short service in the forenoon. That over, the rest of the day might be given to pleasure and self-indulgence.

Aldyth could see little difference between Sundays and other days in her new home, but she could not bear so to waste the day she found so helpful if rightly spent. She had the courage to avow her convictions on the subject, and to make a point of attending an evening service. Mrs. Stanton laughed at her Puritanical notions, but left her free to do as she liked. Nor did she raise any objection when Nelly began to accompany her sister. Mrs. Stanton found her youngest daughter not easy to manage; she was apt to get cross and sulky if anything put her out, so that her absence when visitors were expected was rather a relief than otherwise.

Aldyth thought it probable that she would be urged to remain at home on the following evening, but, rather to her surprise, no notice was taken of the fact that Captain Walker was her friend. She went to church as usual, and afterwards remained quietly in her room till the visitors had departed. Coming down stairs then, she found her mother and Gladys in high good humour.

"It was a pity you took yourself off," Gladys said. "We have had a delightful evening. Captain Walker asked where you were."

"You never told me, Aldyth, that he was nephew to Sir Richard Courtenay," said Mrs. Stanton in a tone of reproof; "for aught I knew he might have been just anybody."

"I had forgotten it, mamma," said Aldyth. "Now you mention it, I remember hearing Guy say that he was related to Sir Richard Courtenay."

"You should remember such things," said Mrs. Stanton, frowning. "Why, Mrs. Gibson tells me it is not at all unlikely that the baronetcy may fall to him."

"Well, I never heard that," said Aldyth.

"Whatever he may be in the future, he is very nice now," said Gladys. "He understands music perfectly. He says my voice reminds him of Antoinette Sterling. He is going to bring his violin with him when next he comes."

It was not long ere the captain repeated his visit. Aldyth was at home, and, much to his satisfaction, she accompanied his violin on the pianoforte. As they played one favourite piece after another, it seemed like a return of the old days at Wyndham. But Aldyth was careful that Gladys should not feel herself excluded from the evening's entertainment. It was found that her voice went charmingly with the violin, and she was persuaded to sing several times. But however the captain might applaud, a quick ear would have detected that Gladys' musical performance lacked the accuracy and finish of Aldyth's.

It was a difference akin to that which distinguished the characters of the two girls. Aldyth had studied music with the thoroughness which marked her pursuit of every kind of knowledge; in her desire after perfection, she had spared herself no pains, shrunk from no sacrifice of time and pleasure, with the result that she had attained a beautiful touch, and played with rare power and expression. Gladys had studied in a superficial, half-hearted fashion, wishful only to acquire a certain effectiveness. It followed in consequence that Captain Walker, although he had likened her voice to that of Antoinette Sterling, was perfectly aware that her singing was very faulty, and her choice of songs poor.

"Captain Walker," said Aldyth, leaning back from the piano to address him when they had just finished a brilliant fantasia, in which he had played his part with great skill, "I wish you would come to Whitechapel some evening and play to my factory girls."

"To Whitechapel!" he repeated, with an air of surprise.

"My dear Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of rebuke. "How can you ask Captain Walker to go to that dreadful place? If you choose to go there yourself, you cannot expect that your friends will like to do so."

"No place can be too dreadful for me to which Miss Lorraine goes," said the captain. "I shall be only too happy to be of any service to her there."

"Oh, thank you," said Aldyth. "It would be so kind of you to come and play to the girls some evening. They are very fond of music."

"I call it a poor compliment to Captain Walker to ask him to play to a lot of low factory girls," said Gladys. "What can they know of good music?"

But Captain Walker did not appear to regard the request as uncomplimentary. He looked pleased, and listened with interest as Aldyth talked to him about the work at Whitechapel. He readily promised to help, and a day was fixed for his visit.

But there was a cloud on Mrs. Stanton's face as she heard the arrangement made, and Aldyth soon learned that she had given annoyance to her mother and sister.

### CHAPTER XVIII.

A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM.

CAPTAIN WALKER came to help to entertain the factory girls—not once only, but several times. He endured with a good grace hearing himself described as "the man with the fiddle," and played his best to a clamorous audience, who talked and squabbled through his finest passages, but showed their appreciation of his performance by applauding vociferously at the close.

Aldyth reflected that she had never given him credit for so much good nature as he now manifested. Fond as he was of high-class music, he could even condescend to play a festive jig for the amusement of the girls. Aldyth felt much gratitude for his willing assistance, and she was far from comprehending how sweet to him were her acknowledgments of the same. It never occurred to her that she was the attraction which drew him so often to Whitechapel. She gave him credit for feeling a genuine interest in the work, for she did not suppose that it was for her sake merely that he took so much trouble.

Yet in truth the motive which actuated Captain Walker was one which has drawn many another man into a temporary performance of good works. He had been charmed with Aldyth whenever he met her at Woodham or Wyndham; but he had shared the common belief that she was destined to marry her cousin, and had steeled his heart to resist the attraction she had for him. But now he knew she was free, there was no resisting the fascination of her society. He could hardly have explained wherein the strength of that fascination lay.

He had been much in society; he had seen many women who were prettier than Aldyth. He admired Gladys Stanton; it amused him to talk and laugh with her; but she never excited within him a painful sense of his own inferiority, nor caused him to approach her with timid, tender reverence. But Aldyth was different from any other girl he had ever known. She had all the freshness and brightness of girlhood, and yet she was a woman in her exquisite sympathy and kindness, her strong self-reliance, her unswerving pursuit of all that was good and true.

He had a new revelation of the gentleness and purity and kindness of her nature when he saw her surrounded by the rough, coarse girls who gathered about her at Whitechapel. Rough as they were, they grew gentle in her presence. A word, a glance even, from her was often enough to check a quarrel. Never had he felt more convinced of the womanly sweetness of Aldyth's character; yet, at the same time, there swept over him a feeling that his love was hopeless.

But the feeling did not last—how should it? Captain Walker's past experience had not prepared him to expect disappointment, so he made the most of his opportunities seeing Aldyth, and they were many; for Mrs. Stanton lavished invitations on the distinguished-looking captain, and seemed to think no party of pleasure complete without him. But her efforts were not crowned with the success she desired. As the hot, sultry days of July set in, and every one was planning a tour or talking of the seaside, Mrs. Stanton began to feel seriously dissatisfied with the result of her endeavours.

In vain she had thrown Gladys as much as possible into the company of Captain Walker. Nothing seemed likely to come of it. Mrs. Stanton began to suspect that it was Aldyth's fault. If only she had not that craze for factory girls! It was too bad of her to drag the captain to that horrid Whitechapel once every week.

One night, as Aldyth was brushing her hair preparatory to going to bed, her mother, who with Gladys had been spending the evening out, came into her room, looking sadly perturbed.

"Ah, you are not in bed," she said, as, all resplendent in satin and lace, she sank into a chair. "I want to have a talk with you about our plans, if you are not too tired."

"I am not very tired," said Aldyth, sitting down and shaking back her hair.

"Have you been to Whitechapel this evening?" asked Mrs. Stanton, abruptly.

"Yes, mamma," said Aldyth.

"And Captain Walker with you?"

Something in her mother's tones brought the colour into Aldyth's face.

"He was there," she replied, slowly, "and he kindly saw me home."

"Why did he not come in?" asked Mrs. Stanton.

"Really, I suppose, because I never thought of asking him," said Aldyth.

An expression of impatience escaped her mother's lips.

"I cannot understand you, Aldyth. I should have thought you would have wished to help and not hinder your sister's happiness. Have you not noticed how often Captain Walker comes here? And of course it is to see Gladys. You must have observed it."

"He comes here a great deal, certainly," said Aldyth, with some embarrassment.

A few days earlier she could have accepted her mother's explanation of the motive of the captain's frequent visits; but since then one little thing and another had occurred to put her on her guard, and to-night he had let fall a word which had forced her to receive a wholly unwelcome idea.

Mrs. Stanton was quick to see her embarrassment. "Surely you are not thinking of him for yourself, Aldyth?" she said, in a cold, suspicious tone.

"Mamma!" said Aldyth, flushing crimson.

"Oh, I suppose you are shocked at my outspokenness; but what is the use of mincing matters? I should like to know what you do mean, that I may act accordingly."

"I have no such meaning as you impute to me, mamma," said Aldyth, proudly.

"Well, then, I will be quite frank with you," said Mrs. Stanton. "I can see that Captain Walker greatly admires Gladys, and I should fail in my duty as a mother if I did not do all in my power to secure her a happy marriage."

"But can you be sure that it would prove a happy marriage?" Aldyth ventured to ask. "It seems to me that those only are true marriages which are arranged by Providence. If we girls are to marry, God will bring it about in His own good way. I do not believe in planning and scheming."

"Then it is because you are foolish and inexperienced," said Mrs. Stanton, sharply. "I have no patience with your ridiculous, old-maidish notions, Aldyth. Few girls would marry well if their mothers did not take some trouble on their behalf. If you like to throw away your own chances, you need not interfere with those of Gladys."

"I have no wish to do so," said Aldyth.

"Forgive me if I seem cross," said Mrs. Stanton in a gentler tone. "You do not know how worried I am. It is of the utmost importance to us that Gladys should marry well, and, soon too. The fact is, she is a great expense, and we are not nearly so well off as we appear. Mr. Stanton has had great losses in his business. Sometimes I fear we shall come utterly to grief. So, you see, Gladys must make a good marriage."

Aldyth was silent for a few moments. She pitied her mother as she noted her weary, harassed look. But the plotting and planning, the keeping up of pretences in which her mother trusted, seemed to her hateful.

"Would it not be better to reduce your expenses at once?" she suggested presently. "We should do very well in a smaller house and with fewer servants."

"Such a thing is out of the question," said Mrs. Stanton, hastily. "We must keep up appearances, at any cost, till Gladys is married. But I want you to understand how critical the position of things is; I want you to promise me that you will not stand in your sister's way."

"Mamma! As if I should!" said Aldyth, with some indignation.

"Well, then, I will say what I came to say," continued her mother. "We are thinking of going to Eastbourne at the end of the month. Captain Walker talks of going there too; but I thought, perhaps, you would rather return to Woodham for a few weeks. Your friends would be delighted to see you, and there is no air like one's native air. Besides, there it your uncle to be considered."

Aldyth did not at once reply. The idea of going to Woodham was welcome; but the way in which it was suggested gave her pain. It was too evident that her mother wished to be rid of her.

"Yes, I should like to go to Woodham, if you would rather not have me at Eastbourne," she said at last.

"My dear love! Of course we should like to have you with us. I was only thinking what would be best for you," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, and coming to kiss Aldyth and stroke her hair.

But Aldyth was beginning to know the value of her mother's graceful caresses.

"You might join us afterwards at Eastbourne," Mrs. Stanton said, still playing with Aldyth's hair; "but I think it would be well for you to go to Woodham first. Why should you not go at once? You look as if you needed a change. You are not used to London; the hot weather is trying you. Write to your aunt to-morrow, and say that you will come."

"I can scarcely start at a moment's notice," said Aldyth, in a voice unusually high and hard. "There are arrangements to be made at Whitechapel; you must please allow me time to settle things a little."

"Certainly, love, arrange it as you will," said her mother, dropping a light kiss on her brow. "I am only anxious for your welfare. Good-night." And she glided away, leaving Aldyth smitten with a tense of intolerable pain.

But Aldyth was not to have time for the arrangements she desired to make. Had Mrs. Stanton waited a few hours, she would have seen her end accomplished without the aid of artifice. Early on the following day a telegram was brought to Aldyth. The sender was Miss Lorraine, and the brief message ran thus:

"Your uncle seriously ill. Come at once."

In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help her from the carriage.

"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"

"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The telegram, of course, gave no particulars."

"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."

"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the last time I saw him."

"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.

"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her guard.

But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said, hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my knowledge."

"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."

He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.

"I shall see you again," he said. "You will stay some little while now you are here?"

"Oh yes," Aldyth said, smiling brightly on him.

He had said little, but his manner had told her how glad he was to see her. And despite the sad occasion of her coming, Aldyth was glad to find herself at Woodham.

After the noise and stir of London, the repose of the country was delightful. The old High Street had the same familiar aspect. There was Mrs. Bland in the bow-window, smiling and nodding. Miss Rudkin's high cap and sausage-like curls appeared above the wire blind on the opposite side of road.

And now they had turned from the town, and were on the long straight road to Wyndham. The scent of hay was wafted across the hedges; fields of mellowing corn, with poppies glowing here and there, bowed before the breeze; cattle rested beneath the trees, or cooled themselves in the ponds; all the broad, flat landscape seemed to breathe peace, And with a keen sense of contrast, Aldyth recalled to mind the dim, close streets of Whitechapel.

After she had gathered all that old John could tell her of her uncle's illness, she paid little heed to his garrulous repetition of the facts. She gazed lovingly on every familiar scene, and let the restful beauty of the day enter into her heart.

As they drove up to the Hall, Guy appeared on the steps to welcome her. He looked pale and excited, and he talked rapidly, though in subdued tones, as he led her into the house.

"He is no better," he said; "unconscious most of the time, though sometimes he seems to understand what we say. He keeps talking, but so incoherently it is difficult to understand him. But he has asked for you several times; he utters your name distinctly. No, you must not go up stairs till you have taken something. There is luncheon for you in the dining room. What will you have? Coffee? Wine? You shall have what you like, but you must take something."

"Poor uncle!" said Aldyth, sitting down and allowing Guy to wait on her. "Does he suffer much, do you think?"

"The doctor says not," Guy replied. "It is sad to see the poor old man lie in such a state; but still at his great age, it is not to be expected that he can recover. Eighty-one! Who would wish to live longer than that?"

Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay. She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt instinctively that this was the chamber of death.

Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands restlessly roamed over the coverlid.

"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth, and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear it?"

But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his incoherent utterances.

"Aldyth," he said.

"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him know you are here."

"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly; "uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."

"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."

"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to say to me?"

"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."

"Dear uncle, I am here," she said, and took hold of his hand. His fingers closed convulsively over hers.

"Don't leave me," he said, and it seemed that for the moment he recognized her. He made an eager movement, half raising himself in the bed, and began to talk rapidly and inarticulately. He appeared trying to tell her something, but scarce a word could Aldyth understand.

"There's something on his mind, if only he could make you understand," the housekeeper said. "There! 'My will,' he said—I heard the words quite plain."

"I did not hear it," said Guy, who had come into the room, and stood near Aldyth.

"You may fancy he says anything," observed Miss Lorraine.

"There was no mistake about that," said the housekeeper, with an air of superior sagacity. "Now he's talking about the farm—don't you hear?"

At that moment, the prolonged howl of a dog rose from beneath the windows, startling and affrighting the worthy old soul.

"You know what that means?" she whispered. "It's a sure sign. Not but what I knew before. There was a robin this morning singing close to the front door, and I knew that boded ill. Ah, me! The poor old master! But we must all go when our time comes."

Hour after hour passed wearily by, and brought no change but increased weakness and restlessness and more imperfect articulation. Life was slowly ebbing. The doctor paid his last visit and went away, with no expectation of seeing his patient again in life.

All night the laboured breathing, the sad struggle, so pitiful to witness, went on. Guy, unable to bear the scene, went away ere the end came; but Aldyth was not to be persuaded to quit her place beside her uncle. All night she and her aunt watched him, and her hand held the cold, heavy hand of the dying man till life had fled.

Then at last she broke down and wept from mingled sensations of relief and pain. Miss Lorraine had stood by too many deathbeds to be thrilled and unnerved as Aldyth was. She soothed the girl, and put her tenderly to bed.

Aldyth, oppressed by a sense of the gloom and mystery of death, presently sobbed herself to sleep, without giving a thought to any consequences her uncle's death might have for her. The hopes and fears that were alternating in Guy's mind, and causing him much inward agitation, lay quite outside her consciousness.

### CHAPTER XIX.

THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM.

"YOU do not surely mean that nothing is left to Guy?" said Miss Lorraine, in a troubled tone.

Some hours had passed since the squire breathed his last, and she was with Mr. Ralph Greenwood in the old-fashioned library. The blinds were down, and even the outside venetians closed, shutting out the July sunshine and making twilight in the room.

The lawyer, his pince-nez on his nose, sat before the squire's old bureau, turning over some papers in a quick, business-like manner.

"By no means," he said, briskly. "No, no, it is not so bad as that. Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner. Not a bad provision for a young man, but a poor equivalent for the heirship."

"When was this will made?" asked Miss Lorraine.

"At the beginning of the year. Guy had had a disagreement with his uncle. It was a great mistake, as I told him at the time. I did my best to soften Mr. Lorraine's feelings. I all but refused to make the will; but if I had done so, he would have sent for some one else. What a pity it is young people are so unpractical! Why could not those two have married now, as every one expected of them?"

"But uncle seemed to have got over that annoyance," said Miss Lorraine. "He received Hilda Bland kindly, and gave his consent to the engagement. I thought Guy was quite reinstated in his favour."

"It seemed so," said Mr. Greenwood. "I am sure I quite hoped to have the pleasure of setting this all right some day. I told the squire so when he signed the will; but you know the kind of man he was—a wee bit obstinate, don't you think? Nothing harder for him than to retract. It seems Guy was able to persuade himself, from something his uncle let fall, that the matter had been set right; but I know nothing of it. I suppose he delayed sending for me. There is nothing more common than for men to put off business connected with their wills. We lawyers are constantly meeting with such instances."

"Then you think he intended to make another will?" suggested Miss Lorraine.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "He never confided his intention to me," he said; "but it seems to me that after the brave way in which Guy saved his life—and he was evidently touched by it—he should have cherished some such intention. However, he did not do it; so we must make the best of things as they are. I am afraid it will be a sore disappointment to Guy."

"He will feel it, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine; "and, for one, I am sorry that things were not equally divided. Does all the rest come to Aldyth?"

"Well, not absolutely," said Mr. Greenwood. "Five hundred pounds go to Miss Tabitha Rudkin, and you, Miss Lorraine, receive the same sum. Then there are several small legacies and bequests to local charities. But Miss Aldyth has Wyndham and the bulk of the property. She will be a rich young lady when all is told."

"I never expected he would leave me a halfpenny," said Miss Lorraine, coolly; "and I cannot say I am glad Aldyth should be so rich. It will hardly increase her happiness."

"That's as it may be," said Mr. Greenwood. "I don't myself think it well to make girls too wealthy; there is danger of their fortunes falling into unworthy hands. But Mr. Lorraine was careful to take certain precautions. The man who marries Miss Aldyth will find that he has no control over his wife's fortune, and will touch none of it after her death, supposing he should survive her, unless he consent to take the name of Lorraine."

"Ah!" said Miss Lorraine, expressively. "That was like uncle, to try to order things as he would, even after his death. Well, Aldyth is not likely to be married at present—perhaps she never will be."

"And meanwhile," said the lawyer, "she is the mistress of Wyndham—not an unenviable position."

"I wonder what she will say when I tell her?" said Miss Lorraine, moving off in search of Aldyth.

"And what will Guy say?" asked the lawyer, looking troubled. "I suppose he had better know without delay. Will you say to him, if you come across him, that I should like to have a few words with him here?"

Aldyth had risen, refreshed by her sleep, and was in the dining room, talking with Guy, who had just returned from Woodham, whither he had ridden on business connected with his uncle's decease. Guy had still a haggard, excited look, but he was talking of Hilda as Miss Lorraine entered.

"Yes," he said, "it was wonderful how uncle came round after that day. Before he used to speak of Hilda in a way that made me wild; but when she came to luncheon, he began paying her compliments, to my great surprise, and he said to me afterwards that she was a perfect little lady, though it was a pity she was so small."

"I do not think so," said Aldyth, heartily. "Hilda is charming. I would not have her an inch taller. I am so glad uncle changed his opinion of her."

"Yes, she is not a bad little party," said Guy, complacently. "She suits me down to the ground."

Aldyth was amused to see that Guy had apparently forgotten his episodical wooing of herself.

"Guy," said Miss Lorraine, "Mr. Greenwood is in the library, and he would like to speak to you."

The colour flew into Guy's face. He rose and went away at once without a word.

"The forewoman from Spencer's will be here directly about our mourning," said Miss Lorraine, glancing at the clock. "You must have handsome mourning, Aldyth; it will be expected of you."

"Of course I will have what is proper," said Aldyth, a little wondering at this remark. "But must I wear heavy black this hot weather?"

"Certainly you must wear black, and I would have crape on my hat, if I were you," said Miss Lorraine, decisively; "but I forget, you do not yet understand your position."

"My position?" said Aldyth.

"Yes, my dear; you will be surprised when you hear. Mr. Greenwood has been telling me about uncle's will. Of course it must be formally read on Thursday; but there was no harm—indeed, it was better he should give me a hint as to its nature."

"Yes," said Aldyth, wondering to what all this might lead. "And it seems that Wyndham and most of the property is left to you."

"To me, auntie?" said Aldyth in amazement.

"Yes, dear, to you; I knew you would be very much surprised."

"But Guy—Guy is uncle's heir."

"He was to have been," said Miss Lorraine; "but uncle took offence with him at the beginning of the year, when he wanted to marry Hilda Bland, you know, and uncle meant him to marry you."

"Oh dear," said Aldyth, flushing hotly. "Do you mean to tell me I have been the cause of Guy losing his inheritance?"

"You are not to blame in the matter," said her aunt. "Hilda Bland might say she was the cause. It was just uncle's wilfulness."

"But it is very hard for Guy," said Aldyth. "It does not seem fair that I should have all and he nothing. Oh, he will be vexed!"

"Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner," said Miss Lorraine; "but of course that is very different from what he expected."

"Cannot it be altered, aunt?" said Aldyth. "Must I take Wyndham? I am sure if I had had the least idea uncle meant to do such a thing, I would have begged him not to do it."

At that moment there came to her recollection the talk she had had with her uncle as they sat together in Hyde Park. She remembered how he had spoken of Wyndham; how anxious he appeared that the old place should remain as it was, and the promise she had given to do all in her power to keep it unchanged. But he had spoken of another mistress of Wyndham; evidently his thoughts had turned to Hilda Bland.

Doubtless he was then in a state of indecision with respect to the disposition or his property. Had he finally decided to let his last will stand, or had death, coming so unexpectedly, settled the question for him? It was impossible to know.

"You cannot set aside your uncle's will," said Miss Lorraine. "He meant you to be the mistress of Wyndham. He has thought of everything, and made careful provision for your future. If you marry, your husband is to take the name of Lorraine."

Aldyth's colour deepened. "I shall never marry," she said with decision.

"It is a great pity—" said Miss Lorraine, musingly, "it is a great pity you and Guy were not suited to each other."

Aldyth did not reply. Her face looked so full of trouble that her aunt went to her and kissed her.

"Why, Aldyth," she said, playfully, "you look quite overwhelmed. Most girls would be elated by such good fortune. Think how pleased your mother will be."

"Yes, she will be pleased," said Aldyth, as if the idea had not occurred to her before. But her face did not brighten.

"I never wished to be rich," she said, presently; "it will not make me happier. Only," she added, as she thought of her poor, overworked girl friends in London, "it will give me the power to brighten other lives. That is the best thing about wealth, I think."

"Bless you, child," said her aunt, kissing her again, "you always have brightened the lives of others. You have made mine happier ever since you came to me as a tiny child."

Aldyth rose and threw her arms about her aunt, returning her kisses with interest.

"Aunt," she asked the next minute, in a frightened whisper, "shall I have to live here now?"

"I do not know, dear; but I suppose it must be your home," said Miss Lorraine, cheerfully.

"I can never bear to live here alone," said Aldyth, almost in tears. "You must live here with me, auntie."

"Well, well, dear, we will see; it is early yet to make plans," said Miss Lorraine, soothingly. She was not prepared to renounce on the instant her pretty cottage at Woodham.

Aldyth passed through the next few days with a strange sense of unreality. She went about the house and grounds, looked at all the quaint, old-fashioned belongings, so familiar to her, and told herself they were now her own; but it did not seem as if it could be true. She had not much time for solitary musing. There were many things to be arranged, and though nothing was said about the will till after the funeral, every one about the place soon seemed to know that Miss Aldyth's opinion was of the first importance, and everything must be referred to her.

Guy's bearing but too plainly proclaimed the disappointment of his hopes. It made Aldyth miserable to see him; but he would not allow her to express any feeling on the subject. He checked the faltering words she tried to utter with a cold profession that he was glad things had turned out so well for her.

"Women are better diplomatists than men," he said, sneeringly. "They are clever enough to win their ends without losing favour at court."

The words stung Aldyth, who felt that they were unjust. It hurt her, too, that Hilda sent her no word, nor took the slightest notice of her being at Wyndham.

She had an uncomfortable sense that most persons were treating her in a new manner. Mr. Greenwood, the banker, one of the executors of Mr. Lorraine's will, and his brother, Mr. Ralph, became quite ceremonious in their deference to her wishes. The servants, whom she regarded as old friends, showed an unusual assiduity in waiting on her. The rector of Woodham suddenly grew interested in her views on various questions, and the new curate in charge of the old church, actuated possibly by the hope of future subscriptions, called twice ere her uncle had been dead a week. As for her mother, it was with a bitter sense of amusement that Aldyth read her congratulations.

"My DARLING CHILD," Mrs. Stanton wrote—"It makes me so happy to know that your lifelong devotion to your grand-uncle has met with its right reward. You deserve to be rich and prosperous, for you have always been so good and unselfish, so willing to do all in your power to make others happy. I confess I trembled when I heard how you had disappointed his wish that you should marry your cousin; but it is plain now that you acted for the best. Of course he feels it, but he is a man, and can make his way in the world; it is much better you should be provided for.
"We miss you every day. How I wish you were coming to Eastbourne with us! Papa will not accompany us, after all. He has received such accounts of the state of his business that he has resolved to return to Melbourne at once. I am sorry, for he is hardly fit to go alone, and he will not hear of my returning so soon. But I must hope for the best. It is such a comfort to know of your good fortune. Do write again soon, and let me know when I shall see you.
"Your loving
"MOTHER."

So nothing now was to be said about her stupidity and folly. Her notions were no longer ridiculous. She was good and unselfish, and all she had done was right.

Gladys had added a few characteristic lines.

"You lucky girl!" she wrote. "So you have money and lands, horses, carriages, an establishment; all without the trouble of a husband! If I were you, I would never marry, but enjoy my liberty, and do as I liked. I, alas! can only get a fortune by selling myself. Fancy mamma's indignation—that tiresome Captain Walker is not going to Eastbourne after all! He feels bound instead to visit an aged relative in Essex. I believe he backed out of it because he found you were not going, but mamma says that is nonsense.
"I hope you will soon invite me to visit you in your new grandeur. You will let me have a gallop on one of your horses, won't you, Aldyth, dear? And I'll vow that you are the dearest sister that ever was."

Aldyth could smile over Gladys' words. She showed them to her aunt, who said at once—

"You see, you need not fear being solitary in this great house; your mother and sister are only waiting for an invitation."

"Oh, to be sure!" cried Aldyth, her face lighting up with unexpected pleasure. "I had not thought of that. Fancy my having mother and Gladys here as my guests! I should like that. And Nelly, too, must come; she is so fond of the country. And Cecil might come for the shooting. Oh, that is grand!"

Miss Lorraine was surprised to see what pleasure Aldyth derived from her suggestion. She wondered if it had ever occurred to old Stephen that Mrs. Stanton might largely benefit by Aldyth's inheritance. In his thoughts of what the future might bring forth, had he ever pictured that fair lady coming as a visitor to Wyndham? Probably not. But Miss Lorraine kept her reflections to herself. She would not cast a shadow on the first gleam of satisfaction Aldyth's fortune had caused her.

After a week full of strange and exciting experiences, the calm repose of Sunday was very welcome to Aldyth. She drove with her aunt to Woodham Church in the morning, and had an uneasy consciousness that she was much observed as she entered the building. Whilst at the close of the service, many of her acquaintances studied her furtively, but seemed shy of speaking to her.

She was glad to regain the shelter of the carriage, and was content to find herself passing once more along the straight, monotonous road between the quiet fields.

Miss Lorraine, fussily conscious of her fresh mourning, and the importance which their bereavement gave them in the eyes of their neighbours, had much to say, and had apparently observed every individual who had attended the service.

But Aldyth did not find it necessary to pay close attention to her aunt's remarks. A word now and then was enough to satisfy Miss Lorraine, and Aldyth's thoughts took their own course in the intervals, revolving chiefly about the query why Mr. Glynne, whom she had seen as she passed out of church, had chosen to stand at a distance, lifting his hat ceremoniously, when he might have come forward with a friend's greeting. He had been so kind and friendly the other day, was he going to be different now?

In the warm afternoon Aldyth wandered from the house, and crossing the garden and a meadow beyond, approached a knoll of trees, which seemed to promise a cool retreat. Seating herself in their shade, she threw down her hat and gave a little sigh of relief at finding herself in this cool, quiet spot. All about her lay the green, still country, breathing a calm which seemed to belong to the day. The fields an which she looked down were her fields, Aldyth told herself with a faint smile; those were her cows she saw going forth into the lane on their way to be milked; the woods to the right, rising against the sky, were her woods; yes, even that tiny rabbit, which whisked away as she raised her hand, belonged to her.

The thought of this great, unexpected inheritance weighed on Aldyth's mind. Her father had grown up with the expectation that at some future time it would be his; Guy, in his turn, had counted himself the heir; but she to whom Wyndham had fallen had never seriously imagined that such a possession would be hers. It brought with it a heavy burden of responsibility. Was it well to have so much, when many lives knew such want and privation?

His possessions had not brought her uncle happiness. He had been kind and generous to her; he had given Guy a liberal allowance; but in other quarters he had earned the reputation of being close-fisted, and it was certain that he had never spent much on his own pleasure. Aldyth had heard it said that he was in the habit of saving a third of his income each year, and it was owing to this fact that her own wealth was now so considerable. And he might have known so much of that best happiness which springs from making others happy! But there had been little love in his life. That was the pity of it. Aldyth could not but be aware that there were few persons in the neighbourhood who really regretted the death of her grand-uncle.

As she thought of it, there came home to her more powerfully than ever before the truth that love is the great secret of life; the vital lesson that the discipline of life is destined to teach us, a lesson written by God Himself in glowing characters for all time to read on the cross of Calvary.

"Life," Aldyth murmured to herself, in the words of her favourite poet—

"'Is energy of love,
Divine or human; exercised in pain,
In strife and tribulation; and ordained,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.'"

Then, beneath the rustling trees with the sweet, summer calm about her, Aldyth cast herself anew upon the Eternal Love, praying to be delivered from vulgar lust of acquisition, from worldly desires and aims, and to be made so pure and loving that she might not miss the vision of God here on this beautiful earth, nor fail to hear the voice of God speaking to her inmost soul.

### CHAPTER XX.

UNWELCOME CHANGES COME IN FORTUNE'S TRAIN.

"GOOD-BYE, Aldyth! I'm off."

"Off? Off whither, Guy?" asked Aldyth, in her astonishment looking at his outstretched hand without taking it.

She had but just finished breakfast. Guy apparently had breakfasted earlier, for he stood before her, hat and stick in hand. And now Aldyth perceived that his dog-cart stood at the door, and a servant was placing what seemed to be luggage at the back.

"I am going to my own house," said Guy, stiffly. "I was down there on Saturday, and made every arrangement."

The colour flew into Aldyth's face. "Oh, Guy, why should you!" she exclaimed, deeply pained. "Surely things cannot be comfortable enough for you at the Farm, and there is no reason why you should not remain here."

"Excuse me," he said, proudly; "you do not understand. I see strong reasons why this house can no longer be my home."

"Oh, Guy, you speak as if we were enemies," said Aldyth. "Is it my fault that Wyndham was left to me? You know I would rather it had not been."

To these words Guy made no reply whatever, and his silence was irritating to Aldyth. She felt that he wanted to put her in the wrong. But she controlled herself, and after a few moments' reflection sympathy overcame irritation.

"It is dreadfully trying for you, I know, Guy," she said. "How I wish I could set it all right! You are mistaken if you think I rejoice at what has happened."

A low, impatient exclamation escaped her cousin.

"Why cannot you stay on here with me and aunt?" asked Aldyth, with the kindest intentions. "You need not think of getting your own house ready till Hilda is prepared to share it."

"If I wait for that, I shall wait a long time," he said, bitterly. "Do you think I can contemplate marriage on the income I shall draw from that wretched farm? I am not such a fool. No, that dream is over."

"Guy!" exclaimed Aldyth, startled and distressed.

It had not struck her that Hilda's happiness might be imperilled by the new, wholly unlooked-for turn of affairs. She recoiled afresh from the position in which she found herself. Wild ideas of setting aside her uncle's will, of insisting upon an equal division of the property, of refusing to live at Wyndham, flitted through her brain, only to be followed by a keen sense of their impracticability.

Whilst these thoughts possessed her, Guy again held out his hand. She took it mechanically, and the next instant he hurried from the room. Three minutes later she saw him drive away from the house.

Aldyth burst into tears. It was hard to have to pay such a price for an inheritance she had never desired. She began to hate the wealth that was bringing such isolation into her life. Her cousin, the playmate of her childhood, was driven from the home in which he had been brought up; her dearest friend was alienated from her, and all through no fault of her own. It was hard. Aldyth needed not to be told that she had become a chief centre of interest in the little world of Woodham. Past experience made her perfectly aware that her name was constantly on the lips of the gossips, and that truth was likely to suffer in the rapid exchange of ideas regarding her that was going on.

But she would have smiled had she known the magnitude to which her fortune had been blown by the breath of Rumour. According to some persons, the savings of old Stephen Lorraine had been enormous, and his niece had come into possession of little short of half a million. And to make the contrast as striking as possible, Guy's bequest was proportionately reduced. He had been cut off with a shilling and the farm at Wood Corner, which every one knew did not comprise the most productive acres in the neighbourhood.

"Have you heard the news, Mr. Glynne?" asked Clara Dawtrey, brave in the consciousness of a fresh pink gingham, which he must admire, as she stopped that gentleman in the London Road.

"What news, Miss Dawtrey?" he asked, fixing on her his peculiarly earnest gaze.

John Glynne had the quality of being a thorough listener. Clara found the gravity of his expression and the close attention he was paying to her words rather disconcerting, as she said, rapidly—

"Oh, the news about Aldyth Lorraine, I mean. Do you know that she has become a great heiress? Old Stephen saved tremendously all his life, and she has come in for no end of money. He was as close as possible; they say he would not even buy a new suit when his brother died. But I do call it a shame that such a nice fellow as Guy should have nothing."

"Is it so?" asked Mr. Glynne, quietly. "Does Mr. Guy Lorraine inherit nothing?"

"Oh, he has that mean little farm at Wood Corner, but what is that when he expected to be the heir of Wyndham? I am sorry for Hilda, but I must say it is amusing to think of Mrs. Bland's disappointment. She must have congratulated herself that Hilda was going to make such a good match."

The young lady laughed gleefully, but not a muscle of John Glynne's face changed. It was impossible to judge how he was affected by the news just out in Woodham, for it was the evening of the day on which old Mr. Lorraine's funeral had taken place.

"I would not be Aldyth Lorraine for anything," continued Miss Dawtrey, still uneasy beneath Mr. Glynne's gaze. "I should feel odious, taking everything like that. And in many ways it must be hateful to be an heiress. I should feel sure that every man who asked me to marry him only wanted me for my money. But the man who marries Aldyth will find that he cannot do as he likes with her money; old Stephen has tied it up tightly. But she ought to have married her cousin. I shall always say that. Every one expected it of her."

"Is a young lady bound to fulfil the expectations other people have formed concerning her?" asked Mr. Glynne, with a slight smile.

"Not at all," said Clara, readily; "for my part, I make a point of doing the reverse; there is nothing I enjoy more than astonishing people. But Aldyth has always been so good and proper."

John Glynne lifted his hat and moved on without saying more, though he wondered at the idea of goodness suggested by Miss Dawtrey's words.

The next minute he was passing Myrtle Cottage, which, with its closely-drawn blinds, had a deserted air. Even the little housemaid looked forlorn as she stood in the front garden, watering the geraniums. The memory of pleasant evenings spent within those walls came to him with a painful reminder that the pleasure was not likely to be renewed. Aldyth would never return to make her home in the cottage. The vision of her, rich, courted, removed to a distance from himself, rose before his mind. The wealth she had inherited would be an impassable barrier dividing them.

The news had come as a blow to him; but he rallied himself to bear it bravely. Till this moment he had hardly been aware how strong were the new hopes that had sprung up in his heart from the hour when he knew that Guy Lorraine had chosen another bride. They must be crushed now.

"It is well that I know in time," he said to himself. "Well that she can have no idea of all that she is to me; for it would be preposterous for a poor tutor to approach as a suitor the heiress of Wyndham."

But it was impossible to resist the suggestion which came with the memory of her last glance as she drove from the station, that possibly under other circumstances he might have won her love. John paused, and, with his arms folded on the top of a gate, and his unseeing eyes gazing across the fields, pictured to himself in imagination what this change might mean for Aldyth. He could not imagine her elated by this sudden dower of wealth. It was easier to think of her as shrinking from its burden, and fearful of herself, lest she should fail to discharge aright the new responsibility.

Would it make her happier? Hardly, for she was not one to prize material prosperity. Her tastes were simple; she had a childlike enjoyment of the common things of life. He thought her one of the least worldly of women. Was there any real danger of her giving herself to a worthless fortune-hunter? He could not think it. Her pure, strong face rising before his mental vision seemed to declare the idea absurd. The man who won her must be worthy of her love and confidence.

"God bless her!" Glynne said within his heart. "Ay, and He will bless her, for she is as pure and good and unselfish as an angel, and, whatever her lot may be, she will make others better and happier."

But though he had so high an opinion of the woman he loved, though he held her exalted above all vulgar conventional notions and aspirations, one to prize her womanhood more highly than her wealth, his pride yet saw in her fortune an insurmountable obstacle to his ever offering her his love.

"Hilda," said Kitty Bland to her sister, two days later, "mother is going to drive to Wyndham this afternoon. I suppose you will go with her to see Aldyth?"

They were in the garden. Hilda was stretched comfortably in the hammock, and Kitty, seated on a chair under the trees, with a basin in her lap and a basket by her side, was enraged in the homely occupation of shelling peas.

"I shall do no such thing," said Hilda, pettishly. "It is like you to suggest it, Kitty. How do you suppose I can bear to go to Wyndham?"

"Very easily," said Kitty, in her most matter-of-fact tone. "You always have liked going there, and I should think you would like it better now that Aldyth is at Wyndham, and not that dreadful old Mr. Lorraine. Oh yes, I know it's bad form to speak the truth of people when they are dead; but he was horrid. He was for ever annoying people whilst he lived, and he did his best to make things uncomfortable all round when he was gone."

"He treated Guy shamefully!" said Hilda, with emphasis. "After the noble way in which Guy saved his life, it was too bad! I can never bear to see Wyndham again—the place that I used to think would be my home."

"You have not thought so long," said Kitty, coolly; "it is barely three months since you became engaged. And, as I so often tell you, you should not count your chickens before they are hatched."

"At that rate one should never look forward to anything," said Hilda, discontentedly.

"Well, it is better not," said Kitty. "But, really, the house at Wood Corner is very nice, Hilda; a much more cheerful place than Wyndham, which, with that pond and so many trees about the house, always strikes me as gloomy."

"Oh, Kitty, it is lovely at night to see the moon shining on the pond, and the nightingales sing so beautifully in the trees!"

"Ah, I forgot; you are romantic, and enjoy that sort of thing," remarked Kitty. "You would like to live like Mariana in a moated grange."

"Oh, don't speak of that!" said Hilda, with a shiver. "I hope I may never be as wretched as Mariana, though sometimes I think—"

She did not finish her sentence. Kitty saw that tears were in her sister's eyes, and tried to cheer her by saying, briskly—"Well, I mean to make the best of things. I am very sorry for Guy's disappointment, and all that; but since he was not to have the property, I am glad it has come to our dear old Aldyth. Fancy her owning all those horses! That's a good thing for me, I know. She will give me a mount whenever I want one. How I wish she went in for hunting, that we might follow the hounds together!"

"You think of nothing but your own pleasure, Kitty," said Hilda, impatiently. "For my part, I am disgusted with Aldyth; I can never feel towards her as I used."

"Why, what has Aldyth done?" asked Kitty, in the utmost astonishment. "It is not her fault that her uncle left her the property."

"I am not so sure of that," said Hilda. "Guy thinks she must have known, and she might have used her influence on his behalf."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Kitty, warmly. "When did you know Mr. Stephen Lorraine allow any one to influence him? He always did as he liked. I am surprised that you should say such a thing of Aldyth. After all your professions of friendship, too! You ought to know her better than to suppose that she would willingly supplant Guy!"

But Hilda would not take back her words, nor would she be persuaded to accompany their mother to Wyndham. She remained at home, sulky and miserable, whilst Kitty and Mrs. Bland went to see Aldyth.

Mrs. Bland would have been wanting in the natural feelings of a mother if she had not lamented Guy's altered prospects. She considered that the young man had been unfairly treated, for although old Stephen had been very guarded in the conversation he had with her, when he yielded his consent to an engagement between Hilda and Guy, his manner had conveyed to her the impression that he meant that his grandnephew should be his heir. The unexpected turn of affairs consequent on Mr. Lorraine's decease caused her considerable anxiety, but she never thought of blaming Aldyth in the matter. She rather felt that the girl was to be pitied, for she foresaw that Aldyth's inheritance would bring with it cares and difficulties which would weigh heavily on her young heart.

So Aldyth saw no change in the face of her old friend, and felt she was still dear to the motherly heart, which had taught her to place so high a value on the filial bond.

"Dear Mrs. Bland," she said at once, sure of her sympathy, "I don't think you need to be told that I would much rather not have had Wyndham. It is a real pain to me that Guy should go away, and I should be established here. I would reverse our positions if I could."

"I do not wish them reversed," said Mrs. Bland; "an equal division of the property would have been the right thing, in my opinion. I always thought you would have a handsome legacy, Aldyth, for your father was very dear to Mr. Lorraine and continued to be so to the end, I believe, in spite of that unhappy estrangement."

"Uncle once spoke to me about Wyndham," said Aldyth, "and I promised him I would use any influence I had to prevent the old place from being greatly altered after his death; but I am sure, although he spoke in that way, I never dreamed that he meant to leave the place to me."

"Of course not, my dear; how should you?" said Mrs. Bland. "Well, it is a great disappointment for Guy; but perhaps, after all, he will be none the worse for having to work harder and depend more upon himself. His marriage must be indefinitely postponed; but they are young, and a lengthened probation will be a good test of their love. Hilda, poor child, cannot see it in that light. But here come some more visitors—Clara Dawtrey and her father, I declare! You will have all Woodham out here this week, Aldyth."

"I could dispense with much of this civility," said Aldyth, smiling. "I hate to be treated us if I were somehow different from my former self. I do hope my friends will not change towards me."

"They are not likely to do that as long as you remain what you are," said Mrs. Bland, kissing her.

But Aldyth soon learned with sorrow that Hilda's love for her had cooled; and perhaps the change which she discerned in another friend cost her still deeper pain. Mr. Glynne was not amongst those who traversed the five straight miles of dusty road to pay their respects to the heiress of Wyndham. Aldyth hardly expected that he would come unless invited; but when some weeks later she chanced to meet him at Mrs. Greenwood's, there was such a lack of the old friendliness in his manner as made it impossible for her to respond to his grave politeness except with a courtesy equally distant.

Had any one told John Glynne that he had spoken coldly to Aldyth Lorraine, he would have been surprised. He was conscious of an inward excitement on seeing her that forced him to exercise strong self-control. Whilst talking to others he thought only of her, and nothing that she said or did escaped his notice. But it was impossible for Aldyth to know this. She was conscious only that he remained aloof from her, and when others were paying her considerable attention, appeared indifferent to her presence.

When he quitted the drawing room without having attempted to exchange a word with her, Aldyth's heart throbbed with painful resentment.

"Why should he be different to me now?" she asked herself. "I never needed a friend more than I do at this time, and he is so wise and good; he could advise me, he could help me. There are so many things I should like to say to him, but I cannot utter a word when he looks at me in that grave, severe way. Oh, I did think I could rest on his friendship; but that, too, is slipping away from me."

### CHAPTER XXI.

GUY MAKES A DISCOVERY.

ALDYTH did not remain at Wyndham for more than a week after her uncle's death. There was something oppressive in the quietness of the old house, where Guy's gay voice and whistle and the stir of his comings and goings were greatly missed, and Miss Lorraine, though she drove into the little town almost every day, pined for the neighbourly interests of her life at Woodham.

"Let us go back to the cottage, auntie," Aldyth said; "we shall feel so much more at home there, and we can come out here constantly to see that things are all right, though there is no doubt Mrs. Rogers will keep everything in perfect order. Yes, let me go home with you till mother and Gladys can come to me. Then I will return and endeavour to rightly discharge my duties as the mistress of Wyndham."

This suggestion was so entirely to Miss Lorraine's mind that she was at once convinced of its wisdom. Aldyth was in no way bound to take up her abode at the Hall forthwith. So a day or two later she was again domiciled in her aunt's home, occupying her old bedroom, and taking up with a new zest, born of a sense of impermanence, the simple, homely duties she had always performed. She was living the old life again; but the familiar surroundings only made her the more conscious of a certain change in herself. The last few months had enlarged her knowledge of life; some hopes had been disappointed, some illusions swept away, and certain grim realities belonging to human lives had been painfully thrust upon her notice.

As she sat at her writing-table, old thoughts, associated with the objects, that met her view, came back to her with somewhat of pain in their memory; the future, so different from anything she had expected, inspired her with some dread, yet, through all, her inner nature kept its deep calm. Her heart was too sound for any disappointment to render her cynical. Perhaps it is not too much to say that no experience can embitter the heart of a woman who is set upon living the highest life possible to her, and who thinks less of winning happiness for herself than of bestowing it on others.

Aldyth had not long returned to Woodham when an event occurred which cast a shadow on the social life of the little town. Mrs. Greenwood, the banker's bright, clever wife, had never been a strong woman, though her remarkable energy hid the fact from ordinary acquaintances. Her sudden death, from an unsuspected heart disease, was a sad shock to her friends. A woman of keen intellect and cultured tastes, she had taken the greatest interest in Mr. Glynne's lectures, and done her utmost to make them a success. She was ready to lend her help to any scheme that would promote the social welfare of the town. Without children of her own, she found intense enjoyment in the society of young people, and many a party of them she gathered in her large drawing room or in the fine old garden which lay behind the bank. Aldyth Lorraine had been a great favourite with her, and the girl felt that she had lost a friend whom she could ill spare.

Much sympathy was felt for Mr. Greenwood, a man verging upon sixty years of age, whose home must now be so desolate.

It was manifested on the funeral day, when many persons met in the pretty cemetery just beyond the town on the London road, to see the coffin, with its pall of flowers, lowered into the earth. Aldyth had come with her aunt, and, the brief service over, she caught sight of Kitty Bland standing at a little distance, who beckoned to her to join her.

"Let us wait till the others have gone," she said, as Aldyth approached her; "I don't want to walk back with them and hear them talking it over."

"Willingly," said Aldyth; and they turned to the more secluded part of the cemetery and sat down in the shade of some old elms.

Miss Lorraine, who did enjoy "talking it over," had walked on with acquaintances.

"So Hilda has not come?" said Aldyth.

"No," said Kitty, drily. "She says she cannot bear to go to a funeral, she is so sensitive, the impression remains with her for days."

"I did not wish to come," said Aldyth, "but aunt said she thought it would seem kind to Mr. Greenwood, though I am quite sure he could not notice who were here. I do not want to associate dear Mrs. Greenwood with the grave. She was so bright and good; she seemed all spirit, and I try to think of her as having entered upon a freer and more blessed state of existence."

"Yes, that is the right way to think of her," said Kitty. "I will tell you what Mr. Glynne said the other day; I thought it was so nice of him. He overtook me as I was coming up the street, and we walked a few steps together. We met little Dottie Greenwood and her nurse, and the child—you know how fond she is of him—ran up to him and said, with such a sorrowful look on her sweet little face,—

"'Dear Aunt Mary is so ill that she is dead.'

"'But she is not ill now,' he said as he kissed her; 'Aunt Mary is quite well now.'

"And Dottie, smiled and repeated, 'Yes, Aunt Mary is quite well now.'

"It touched me so, somehow; and yet he only said what we all profess to believe. Mr. Glynne is very good, don't you think?"

"I am sure of it," Aldyth said, and was silent. She never said many words about John Glynne.

"He must feel Mrs. Greenwood's death very much," continued Kitty. "She was a good friend to him, and he was often at her house."

Aldyth had more than once heard Mrs. Greenwood profess a high regard for John Glynne, but she did not remark on it.

"Mother says she is thankful Mr. Glynne came to Woodham," continued Kitty. "Charlie has so improved. It is wonderful how fond the boys are of Mr. Glynne, and what influence he has over them. He never seems to lecture them, but he has a knack of saying just the right word at the right time. And then I think his example impresses them. He is such a perfect gentleman, though really I believe it is higher praise to say that he is a thorough man—so strong, and true, and brave."

"His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, 'This was a man!'"

thought Aldyth. But she did not give Kitty the benefit of the quotation. She was content to contribute nothing to the conversation when it reached this point; but it was not because the subject of it was uninteresting to her.

"Guy was not here," remarked Kitty, after a pause. "I thought he would be. I wonder if he will honour Hilda with a visit this evening."

Kitty's manner of saying this was so peculiar that Aldyth looked at her in some surprise.

"Honour Hilda!" she said. "That's a strange expression to use, Kitty."

"I do believe he regards his visits as an honour," said Kitty, with scorn in her tone. "I would not put up with such a lover if I were Hilda."

"Why, what is amiss with him?" asked Aldyth, quickly.

"Oh, it makes me wild to see the way he treats Hilda," said Kitty, with sudden warmth. "He keeps away from her for days; he shows the utmost indifference to her wishes; he makes it only too plain that his feelings towards her have changed, and he means her to understand that it is so."

"Oh, Kitty! You don't say so!" exclaimed Aldyth, her voice full of pain. "You must be mistaken. Why, he was so fond of Hilda that he risked uncle's anger for her sake."

"Ah, yes; but he never expected to lose all for love," replied Kitty. "His love could not stand that trial. He has never been the same to Hilda since Mr. Lorraine died."

"Then his was not true love," said Aldyth, indignantly. "Such love is not worthy of the name."

"So I think," said Kitty. "If I were Hilda, I would soon tell my gentleman to march. I really believe he wants her to break off the engagement, but she will not see it."

"Poor Hilda!" said Aldyth. "Oh, it is disgraceful of Guy! I did think he really cared for Hilda."

Kitty shrugged her shoulders.

"Preserve me from such a lover!" she said. "I am sorry for Hilda, but really I feel out of patience with her sometimes. She ought to see the true state of things; but she only cherishes her wounded feelings, and thinks herself the most unhappy of girls. She said this morning she wished she were going to be laid in the grave instead of Mrs. Greenwood."

"Oh, it is very sad for her," said Aldyth, tears springing to her eyes. "I feel almost as if it were my fault; and yet—and yet—if Guy can so easily change, it is better she should know it now."

"That is what mother and I say," remarked Kitty; "but of course we dare not hint at such a thing to Hilda. We have to ignore that there is anything wrong. But I do wish she would pluck up spirit and act as she should. If she would talk to you about it, perhaps you could give her a little advice."

But Aldyth knew that Hilda was not likely to approach the subject with her. Confidences between them had ceased. With her return to Woodham, Aldyth had resumed the old friendly intercourse with the Blands, but she could not break down the barrier of coldness and constraint by which Hilda kept her at arm's length.

"Kitty," said Aldyth, a little later, as they took their way down the hill, "I am going to Wyndham early to-morrow. Could you go with me and spend the day? We would have a ride in the afternoon; the horses must need exercise."

"Oh, Aldyth, how good of you! Of course I can come," said Kitty, delighted. "I have been longing for a ride. And you won't tell mother if I try some of the fences, will you? I'll promise not to break my neck."

"That is more than you can promise," said Aldyth, laughing.

The hot July and August days passed pleasantly away, and were spent so much in the old manner that Aldyth was often able to forget that she was the heiress of Wyndham. Gwendolen Bland had come home for her holidays, determined to put as much enjoyment into them as possible. There were tennis-parties and picnics, boating on the river both in sunshine and by moonlight, school treats, flower shows, harvest festivals, and all the various entertainments common to country life to be participated in. It was a vexation to Clara Dawtrey that Mr. Glynne was not on the ground, to see how well she played her part in the annual tournament given by the Woodham Tennis Club; but he had left the town when the Grammar School holidays began, and would not return till September.

Aldyth received bright letters from Eastbourne, where her mother and Gladys were having a good time. Nelly, who missed Aldyth, and could hardly forgive her for refusing an invitation to join them, was less content. It had been decided that Mrs. Stanton and Gladys were to visit Wyndham in the autumn; but no date had been fixed for their coming, and at present they seemed disposed to stay on at Eastbourne into September. Aldyth was looking forward with pleasure to welcoming her mother, and took trouble to get the house and garden at Wyndham into as nice order as possible, so as to please her mother's eyes.

"Do you think I might have the furniture re-covered, auntie?" she said one afternoon, when she and Miss Lorraine were in the old drawing room at Wyndham. "I can't have a new carpet and new curtains without having something done to the chairs and sofas."

"I would buy new furniture if I were you," said Miss Lorraine. "Uncle often talked of refurnishing this room."

"Yes, when Guy was married," said Aldyth with a smile. "I don't think anything less than a wedding would justify such an outlay. But really I have no wish to banish these spindle-legged chairs; they are quite in correct 'high art' style, and as for that carved ebony chair, I believe it would fetch a hundred guineas at Christie's. When I get my blue-green upholstery and an Oriental carpet, you won't know the room."

"It will be a great improvement, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine; "there's some old blue china in the store-room you might make use of for decorative purposes."

"The very thing!" cried Aldyth, gleefully.

She was beginning to take some pleasure in her possessions. She had fine taste, and an artistic sense of colour; it was an enjoyment to her to plan the re-arrangement of her drawing room. She had dragged the large, old-fashioned settee from its place against the wall; she had pushed the ebony chair well into the light, and thrown the faded antimacassar which covered it on to the floor, when the sound of a quick, firm step in the hall surprised her.

"Why, that is never Guy," she said; "I fancied he had vowed not to cross the threshold of the Hall again."

"It certainly sounds like his step," said Miss Lorraine, and she hastily opened the door.

It was Guy, and the next moment he stood in the doorway.

Aldyth coloured. She would have preferred that he should not find her turning things about in the old drawing room. It must be painful to him to be thus reminded of her possession of Wyndham.

But Guy showed no annoyance, though he appeared a trifle embarrassed as he entered. He quickly recovered himself, however, and began to exhibit a good humour which astonished Aldyth, who had seen scarcely anything of her cousin since he quitted Wyndham. When they had happened to meet, he had maintained towards her a chilling courtesy; but now, here was the Guy of other days, as bright and kind as if nothing had happened to alienate them.

"I've come at the right time," he said, apparently unaware that there was anything surprising in his appearance. "I see you want a little help. Aldyth, don't attempt to move that chair; it's too heavy for you. Cousin Lucy, you want those curtains taken down, don't you? I'll tackle that. If you want a handy man to do your jobs, here I am."

Miss Lorraine laughed, and looked delighted to see him in this mood. It was impossible for her long to regard Guy with disapproval. She had told herself it was but natural he should resent Aldyth's acquisition of the property. His uncle had not dealt well with him. So she welcomed with joy this manifestation of the old friendliness, and was ready to do all in her power to cement the reconciliation.

And Aldyth, too, was pleased. It would have pained her to feel that any one regarded her as an enemy, and it had especially grieved her that her old playmate and cousin should look on her with coldness and suspicion. With one accord the two exerted themselves to "make much" of Guy, so that he found it easy to establish himself on the old footing at Wyndham.

"We shall have tea almost directly," said Miss Lorraine. "You will stay and take some with us?"

"Of course you will," said Aldyth, scarce letting him reply. "There is nothing more to be done here. I was only trying effects. Come into the garden and help me get some flowers for the vases."

"With pleasure," said Guy.

It was just what he wanted, to be alone with her. So, having found basket and scissors, they went forth. The late sun was sending its long rays across the newly-mown lawn, and lighting up the golden hearts of the water-lilies floating on their broad leaves in the centre of the pond. Beyond the garden, visible through an opening in the trees, a harvest field, with its busy workers gathered about the heaped-up cart, made a charming picture.

"And how is Hilda?" asked Aldyth, lightly. "I have not seen her for the last few days."

"She is very well, I believe," he said, but with something so unusual in his voice and manner that Aldyth looked at him curiously.

"When are you coming to the Farm?" he asked, the next minute. "You must pay me a visit some day. I have got things pretty tidy there, though not, of course, just as you would arrange them."

"Ah, you cannot expect the house to look quite as it should till Hilda reigns there as mistress," said Aldyth, with a smile. But the smile died away as, glancing at him, she saw the strange effect of her words.

Guy's face had grown crimson; he looked painfully confused, and seemed anxious to avoid her glance, as he stood beating the grass with his stick. But it was impossible to evade the consciousness that Aldyth's eyes were upon him, and that she waited for an explanation of his too evident confusion.

"You must not speak of that, Aldyth," he said, with an effort; "Hilda will never be the mistress of my home. In fact—I came here to tell you—our engagement is at an end."

"Oh, Guy!" was all Aldyth could say.

"Yes, it is so," he said, finding words more readily now. "And, on the whole—though, of course it has all been excessively trying—I believe it is for the best. We are not in the least suited to each other."

"I never thought that you were." The words slipped from Aldyth almost unawares. "But what a pity," she added quickly, "you did not find this out before; it would have spared Hilda so much suffering."

"It was a pity," he said gravely; "but you are hardly the one to reproach me, Aldyth, since it was mainly your fault."

"My fault! What do you mean?" she demanded.

"You know of whom I first thought," he said, insinuatingly; "I hoped I had overcome that feeling. I fancied I could love Hilda, but I found it was a mistake."

"Do not speak of that, if you please, Guy!" cried Aldyth, her eyes flashing indignation on him. "I will not hear such words. I cannot trust myself to say what I think of your conduct, it seems to me so unworthy a man, not to say a gentleman."

She turned from him in anger as Miss Lorraine appeared at the drawing room window, beckoning to them to come in. Aldyth had to fly to her room to cool her burning cheeks and recover self-possession ere she took her place at the tea-table.

"To think that men are like that!" she said to herself; with a feeling of general distrust. "And Hilda, I have not a doubt, is at this moment breaking her heart for his sake. Poor girl, how I pity her! And yet I can easily see that this sorrow may be a blessing in disguise."

Aldyth scarcely spoke to Guy during the remainder of his visit, but Miss Lorraine continued to pet him, and his self-complacency showed no reduction.

### CHAPTER XXII.

A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR.

"DO leave me to myself, Kitty; it is the only kindness you can do me now."

Hilda Bland was the speaker, and as she spoke, she turned her head on the pillow, so that her sister could see no more of her than a mass of loosened, disordered hair. Kitty stood by the bed holding a tray on which was set out a meal which might have tempted the most fastidious appetite. But Hilda would not so much as look at the dainty morsel of chicken, and Kitty's expression was a curious combination of pity and impatience.

"Really, Hilda, I cannot see any sense in starving yourself; you will not improve matters by falling ill."

"If I could only be ill enough," sighed Hilda; "if I could only die!"

"If you absolutely abstain from food, you will die," said Kitty, in a matter-of-fact tone; "but I should call it cowardly to put the extinguisher on yourself in that fashion, and it would be cruel to mother."

"It is easy for you to talk," murmured Hilda; "you have had no trouble; you do not know what it is to be deceived by one whom you loved and trusted. I feel that all happiness is over for me, and I can only drag out a hopeless, miserable existence. Do you wonder that I am sick of life?"

"Perhaps not, dear," said Kitty, gently. "You have been very badly treated, no doubt; but Guy has acted so mean a part that if I were you, I would pluck up heart and show that I did not think him worth caring about. There are many things in life to live for still."

"I am weary of them all," said Hilda. "'We are weary, my heart and I,' I keep thinking of those lines. Everything has become hateful to me. I only want to lie still and be let alone. I can never bear to walk out in Woodham again."

"You feel so now, but the feeling will pass," said Kitty. "If only you would rouse yourself and face your trouble bravely, it would be so much better. I know it is a trouble, but many another girl has had such a disappointment, and there are worse troubles."

"It is easy to say so," said Hilda, bitterly; "but you know nothing about it. You have never loved as I have."

"And I devoutly hope I never shall," Kitty could not help saying; "but if such trouble came to me, I think I should do my best to bear it bravely. It is God who sends us trouble, and He means it to work our good."

"I don't see that there can be any good in my trouble," said Hilda, "and I do not believe God sent it. It is Guy who has deceived me and made me wretched."

"Nothing can happen to us apart from the will of God," said Kitty, "and He will help us to bear our sorrows if we put our trust in Him. When trouble comes to me, as I know it must some day, I hope I may be able to resign myself to His will, and learn the lesson He means it to teach me."

It was rarely Kitty spoke thus seriously, and her doing so, showed how anxious she was to help her sister. No one gave Kitty credit for much thoughtfulness; but, as is the case with many a lively girl, the hidden currents of her life were deeper than her friends supposed. It was not by chance that she was always cheerful, good-tempered, and unselfish. At the root of her character lay a simple but strong religious faith, and she had never forgotten the resolve made at the time of her father's death, that she would be good, and do all in her power to cheer and help her mother.

But Hilda was not in a mood to profit by her sister's words.

"I dare say you think so," she said, impatiently; "but wait till your turn comes—though I am sure I hope you may never know such trouble as mine. Do take that tray away, Kitty; it is impossible for me to eat."

So Kitty went away, feeling that she had wasted words, and that probably the best thing for Hilda at present was to be left alone.

But, notwithstanding this reflection, scarce half an hour had passed when she again appeared in her sister's room.

"Aldyth is down stairs," she said. "She is so sorry, Hilda; she feels as we all do. Would you like to see her?"

"Oh no!" cried Hilda, excitedly. "The last person I should wish to see! I do not say she is to blame; but it is her having Wyndham which has caused all my misery."

"Really!" exclaimed Kitty, finding her sister incomprehensible. "I should rather think it was Guy being what he is. It seems to me well that you have found out in time, that he is one person in prosperity and another in adversity."

With that Kitty left her sister and descended to the drawing room, where Aldyth sat talking with Mrs. Bland. The mother's kindly face wore a look of care, but she spoke cheerfully.

"Poor child!" she said. "She feels it sorely now, but I thankful it is no worse. If she had married him under the impression he was a hero, and then found out, when it was too late, that he was of common clay, it would have been a far greater misfortune. I fear her love would not have borne that strain, and it is a terrible thing for a woman to find herself bound to a man whom she can neither love nor respect.

"I always felt they were not suited to each other. I fancy Guy did not know his own mind; it was a caprice, which opposition strengthened. I think few men are capable of making right choice of a wife before they are twenty-five. But it is hard that poor Hilda should have to suffer for his lack of discretion."

"She will not see you, Aldyth," Kitty said; "there is no rousing her anyhow."

"I am afraid she finds a kind of romantic satisfaction in cherishing and even exaggerating her unhappiness," said Mrs. Bland. "That is the way with you young things when trouble comes to you; you like to think that nothing can ever be the same again; you do not want to be comforted."

"Now, mother, you have never seen me in trouble," said Kitty, lightly; "you do not know how wise I should be."

"No, indeed, child," replied Mrs. Bland, with a tender glance at her eldest girl. "God grant I never may!"

"The best thing for Hilda would be a change," she added, turning to Aldyth. "I had a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Lancaster, a fortnight ago, asking me to let my girls go with her and her daughter for a tour in Brittany. Hilda did not care about it, so we refused the invitation; but I think perhaps she might be persuaded to go now, and as my cousin does not start till next week, I have written to ask if she is still willing to take the girls."

"Oh, that would surely be good for Hilda," said Aldyth. "She has never been abroad. Oh, I hope you will be able to arrange it."

"I should not wonder if Hilda positively refuses to go," said Kitty.

But her sister proved in this instance more tractable than Kitty expected. Life was strong in her after all; and, since it became every day more clear that she was not going to die: absence from Woodham seemed the only condition under which life could be endured. Hilda's pride was, perhaps, as deeply wounded as her affections. She dreaded to meet the observant, perhaps pitying, glances of her acquaintances; she hated the thought of the talk concerning her broken engagement that must be going on in Woodham.

But each wound was deep, and the disappointment was none the less keen that she had perhaps been more in love with love than with Guy Lorraine. She had cherished her love, she had brooded over it, she had fed it with all food of the imagination which she could draw from poet or romance writer. And the romantic love thus fostered was not the strong, clear-sighted love which discerns and comprehends every fact relating to the one beloved. The true Guy, Hilda had never known. The greater on this account was the pain she suffered when her lover began to treat her with carelessness and indifference; the more crushing the blow dealt by the coolly-written letter in which he informed her that he had discovered that he had "mistaken his feelings" when he thought that he loved her, but, was now convinced that they were "not, in the least suited to each other."

As she had brooded over her love, Hilda now brooded over her sorrow; nursing it, magnifying it, letting her fancy play over it, and desiring, not comfort, but due appreciation of the greatness of her misery.

Aldyth was glad when she knew that Kitty and Hilda had started to join the Lancasters in London. She believed that the thorough change and diversion afforded by a foreign tour must help Hilda to recover her spirits.

Aldyth felt deeply for Hilda, whose state of mind she understood perhaps better than Kitty did, for she had seen all along how completely Hilda had deceived herself with regard to the character of Guy Lorraine. It annoyed Aldyth to see how utterly Guy ignored that he had anything to be ashamed of in his treatment of Hilda Bland. He rather seemed to pride himself on the way in which he had acted. It commended itself to his sense of prudence; and he was not the only person at Woodham who regarded his action thus favourably, nor was Clara Dawtrey the only one who derived satisfaction from the thought of Hilda Bland's mortification. But Aldyth could only explain the irreproachable air with which Guy bore himself by the assumption that he was so constituted as to be incapable of certain thoughts and feelings which to her appeared natural and essential. She was destined to receive further proof of this theory ere long.

Aldyth comforted herself with the reflection that it was probably a happy thing for Hilda that the engagement had come to an end. Her sensitive, emotional nature must have suffered constant pain in daily association with one whose ideas were so matter-of-fact, and whose perceptions were obtuse to all that did not immediately concern himself. Aldyth's own feelings towards her cousin at this time were strangely mingled. In her disgust at his conduct towards Hilda, she had shrunk from him, and but for Miss Lorraine's efforts and Guy's persistence in trying to ingratiate himself with her, the reconciliation just effected might have been ruptured as soon as made.

But there was a motive which urged Aldyth to avoid another estrangement from her cousin. Although she was in no way to blame for the fact, she could never forget that her gain had been Guy's loss. It was not a gain that had brought her increased satisfaction; but she knew that his loss had caused Guy much chagrin, and that many persons pitied him on account of it. She was painfully conscious of this whenever she saw him, and it made her tolerant of his society and anxious to do all in her power to make amends to him for his loss.

Guy understood his cousin sufficiently well to divine that this would be her feeling; but whilst Aldyth was racking her brain to devise delicate and practicable modes of making up to him in some degree for what he had lost, he was looking forward to a means of restitution which never crossed her mind. People, seeing the cousins together again and apparently on the old terms, were quick to say that it was plain why Hilda Bland had been jilted. Guy did not trouble himself about what people might say; but to Aldyth, the idea was so impossible that she never conceived that others might entertain it.

She persuaded Guy to accept as a gift from her the horse which he had been wont to ride when he lived at Wyndham, she consulted him on various matters connected with the estate, and allowed him to help her; but at the same time, she treated him with the frankness and occasional severity of an elder sister, though in truth she was his junior. And there was nothing in her manner that could flatter his vanity or encourage the hope he was cherishing.

But the self-esteem of some persons requires little support, and the event which one will regard as impossible will strike another as highly probable. Guy had no idea that the purpose he had formed involved an astounding surprise for Aldyth, and perhaps she should have been better prepared for it than she was.

One warm afternoon Aldyth was in the library at Wyndham, worrying herself over some business details submitted to her by her bailiff, which she could not understand. Her head ached, the heat was stupefying, and her perplexity only increased the longer she studied the account. It was with a sense of relief that she heard Guy's step in the hall, and called him to her. There was a welcome in her glance ere she said brightly—

"Oh, I am glad to see you. Do come and tell me what this man means me to understand by this complicated document."

"Willingly, if I can," said Guy, as he drew a chair to her side. The matter was simple enough to him. He had been accustomed to look after his uncle's business affairs, and in a few minutes he had explained everything Aldyth found puzzling, and also given her a little advice with regard to the business under consideration.

"Tomlinson is a good fellow," he said; "but you must not let him have everything his own way. An agent should not have too much power."

"But how can I help it?" asked Aldyth. "He understands these things, and I do not."

"That's it," said Guy, seizing his opportunity. "You need some one by your side who knows how to manage an estate. Dear Aldyth, I wish you would let me help you."

"You do help me, Guy," she said, puzzled by his manner, but yet far from seeing his drift; "you are very good to help me as you do."

"Ah, but I could be so much more to you, if you would let me," he said, and now his voice took a tender tone which roused her to a sense of danger; "if only you would let share all your burdens and cares; if you would let things be as uncle always meant them to be."

Considering the circumstances of the case, Guy certainly expressed himself with much cleverness, and showed what imaginative language even commonplace minds can command under sufficient stimulus. But the effect of his words was not such as he desired.

Aldyth started up, a flush of anger on her cheek. "Guy, I cannot think what you mean by speaking in such a way!"

"Oh yes, you must know," he said. "I told you before that I loved you." He paused, checked by the scorn he read in her glance.

"I should think that would be a reason for not saying it again," she replied in cold, clear tones, which had an edge of contempt. "If I remember rightly, I made you aware then how I regarded your professions, and you cannot surely imagine that, after all that has happened, and Hilda Bland being my friend, I should regard them otherwise now, especially as—excuse me, Guy, the motive is so evident."

Guy looked down, and his face flushed, but he said doggedly—

"You may say what you like, but I think you owe something to me. You forget that what has happened makes a great difference to me."

"No, I do not forget it," said Aldyth, warmly; "I cannot forget it; I am oppressed by the knowledge that it is so. I would set matters right between us at once, if I knew how."

"There is but one way," he said.

"Then it is a way I shall never take!" she said, her eyes flashing on him. "I would not set a wrong right by committing a greater wrong. I would give you Wyndham to-morrow rather than do that."

"But that would be impossible," he said. "I could not in honour accept such a gift from you."

"I should not have thought considerations of honour would have troubled you, Guy," said Aldyth, unable to resist the retort.

But she was ashamed of it when it had passed her lips, and feeling that there was danger in her growing excitement, she turned to quit the room. Ere she could reach the door, it was opened by a servant, evidently looking for her. On the salver in his hand lay a telegram.

"For you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "A man has ridden from Woodham with it."

Aldyth passed into the hall as she tore the envelope open. The telegram was from Eastbourne, and the sender was Gladys. "We are in dreadful trouble; come to us," was all it said.

### CHAPTER XXIII.

LOSSES AND GAINS.

IT was shocking and terrible news Mrs. Stanton had received by telegram from Melbourne earlier in that day. The firm of Stanton Bros. had come to utter bankruptcy, such as reduced to poverty every one connected with the firm, and brought unlooked-for destitution upon many an innocent sufferer. But this was not the whole of the calamity.

The health-giving influences of the voyage had not so invigorated Mr. Stanton that he could sustain the shock of misfortune that awaited him on his arrival at Melbourne. He went to his office almost immediately on landing, and there learned from his brother the critical state of affairs. He had listened calmly, had made full inquiries, and satisfied himself that it was impossible to avoid hopeless, irretrievable failure. Then, without showing any marked signs of agitation, he had returned to his hotel; but on the threshold, his step faltered, a strange spasm passed over his face, and he fell heavily to the ground. It was the last fatal stroke of paralysis. Within three hours he was dead.

But as yet his wife and children knew no particulars, only the bare, cruel facts, conveyed with curt emphasis by the telegram. As they began to recover from the first stunning effect of the blow, their one wish was for Aldyth's presence. The trouble would be less bewildering, less overwhelming, if she were there. Comfort of some kind Aldyth would surely bring.

"Send for Aldyth," Mrs. Stanton whispered to Gladys, in one of the intervals between her fits of hysterical weeping; and Gladys lost no time in obeying.

The girls were very anxious for the coming of their sister, mid made many calculations as to how soon she could arrive, without attaining certainty that she could get to Eastbourne that day.

But the last train, just before midnight, brought Aldyth.

Gladys, watching at the window of their sitting room, saw the cab drive up to the door, and hurried down to meet her. Mrs. Stanton had retired to rest, and, worn out with weeping, was already asleep; Nelly was sitting beside her, so Gladys alone welcomed Aldyth. Gladys, with pale face, pink eyelids, and a weary, anxious expression, looked wholly different from the bright, radiant girl from whom Aldyth had parted a few weeks earlier. Sorrow seems the more pathetic when its shadow falls on one so young and gay.

"Oh, Aldyth, I am glad you have come," she said, clasping her sister in her arms. "Things will seem better now. But is it not dreadful?"

"You forget I do not know what the trouble is," said Aldyth, who had been full of wonder concerning it as she journeyed to Eastbourne.

"Poor papa is dead," said Gladys, "and we are beggars." The two facts were apparently of equal importance to Gladys; but Aldyth only heeded the former.

She was painfully startled: She had always been conscious of the failing appearance of the worn, nervous man, but she was not prepared to hear so soon of his decease, and it struck her as very sad that he should die far away from his wife and children.

"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "I am grieved for you. Poor mamma! What will she do? How was it?"

"Paralysis, the telegram says," replied Gladys; "but we know hardly anything. That was what mamma had feared. Here is the telegram."

And she spread it open before Aldyth, who read—

"Stanton Bros., bankrupt. Robert Stanton died yesterday, shock producing paralysis."

"Oh, how terrible!" said Aldyth. "How terrible the news seems, coming in these few cold words! What a shock for mamma! How did she bear it?"

"She almost fainted, and then she went into hysterics," said Gladys, with unconscious dryness; "but she is quieter now. Mamma says that things have been going wrong in the business for some time, and that papa said that if it came to bankruptcy, we must lose everything. She says she believes we have not a penny."

"Do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth, kindly; "your greatest loss can never be made up to you, but as far as the money goes, I have enough for us all. Oh, I am glad now that uncle made me rich."

And at that moment, Aldyth experienced the utmost satisfaction her fortune had brought her.

"I should have thought you would have been glad before this," said Gladys, "and you won't want a lot of poor relatives hanging on you."

"I should be much poorer if I had not the relatives," said Aldyth. "Where is Nelly?"

"She is with mamma; but I will go and relieve her now. You are to share her room. She has been longing for you to come."

Already Gladys's look had brightened, and she walked away with her usual quick, light step. She was not one to droop long under trouble. Like a bent flower, she could lift her head at the first break in the storm.

In a few minutes Nelly was in her sister's arms. The child's face looked worn and aged; the eyes were unnaturally bright, but showed no signs of weeping. At Aldyth's tender greeting, however, her composure gave way. She broke into heavy sobs as she clung to her sister.

"Oh, Aldyth, is it not dreadful? Poor papa!"

"Yes, dear, it is very sad," Aldyth said.

"I never thought—I never expected such a thing," sobbed Nelly. "Of course, I knew he was not well; but he had been out of sorts a long time, and mamma said the voyage would set him up. It is so sad that he should die away from us all. Aldyth, he should not have been allowed to go back alone."

Aldyth did not at once reply.

"Perhaps not," she said, presently; "but, Nelly, it is vain to think of that now."

"That is what makes it so dreadful!" cried Nelly. "Aldyth, I feel now that I never loved papa as I should. He was just papa, who found the money and saw we had everything we wanted. I took it all as a right, and never was a bit grateful. Do you know, one Saturday after you had gone to Woodham, he came in very tired, when mamma and Gladys were out, and I fetched his slippers and got some tea for him, just as you used to do. He seemed so surprised and pleased. He said, 'Why, Nelly, you are getting as thoughtful as Aldyth.' I felt reproached as he said it, though he did not mean it as a reproach."

"But you are thankful now, are you not, dear, that you did him that little service?" Aldyth said.

"Oh, but it was only that once!" replied Nelly, with a fresh burst of weeping. "He went away so soon after that there was not another opportunity. But I might have served him often, and now it is too late. He is gone from me—my father—and I did not love and value him whilst I had him!"

Aldyth did not attempt to check her tears. She felt that words could not soothe such grief as this. The thought that she had failed in her duty towards her father would long sting poor Nelly's heart; but the pain might be salutary; from it might spring the "peaceable fruit" of love and care for others.

After a pause, Aldyth said—

"Nelly, I am reminded of some words I read a while ago. I think they were Richter's, and to this effect, that the most beautiful wreath we can lay on the grave of our dead is woven of good deeds done to others. We should remember that now. We cannot undo the past; we cannot recall the lost opportunity or the careless word; but we can endeavour to show all the love and kindness in our power to those who still remain with us."

"I will try to be good," faltered Nelly; "but I have such a temper, and mamma and Gladys irritate me so."

"It is never easy to conquer oneself," said Aldyth; "but the victory is worth all the pains. And we have not to fight alone. There is One who will help us, if we put our trust in Him."

They went to their room, and Aldyth helped Nelly, who was quite worn out with the excitements of the day, to undress, and saw her into bed, where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Aldyth, too, was tired; but after she had extinguished the light she knelt long in the darkness ere she lay down to rest.

When Aldyth woke the next morning, she felt as if Woodham, Wyndham, the events of yesterday, were all removed to a great distance. The things which a few hours before had been of interest to her now seemed of no importance. Her mind was filled with the thought of her mother's great sorrow, and how she might best help and comfort her.

As soon as she knew that her mother was awake, she went to her room, and was received with a demonstrative affection for which she was hardly prepared.

"Thank God you are come, darling!" said Mrs. Stanton, embracing her. "I want you now, my eldest daughter! I have no one to lean on but you. My husband, my home, everything is taken from me."

And she sank back on her pillow sobbing.

"Mother, darling," cried Aldyth, bending over her with a tenderness almost maternal in her manner—it was as if the mother and child had changed places. "Mother, darling, do not cry so; I will take care of you. I have a home, you know; and that and everything I have is yours. Try to bear up for the sake of your children, who love you and will do all in their power to make you happy."

"Thank you, my darling child," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "You are so good." Then, with a fresh flow of tears—"But it is dreadful to lose my husband so—without a word; and I cannot even look upon his lifeless form. It is so hard."

Aldyth could not speak; it was all she could do to keep from weeping herself, but she kissed her mother and laid her cheek against hers, and the mute caresses were more soothing than words.

Later in the day, Cecil arrived from London, prepared to stay over Sunday with his mother and sisters. He appeared shocked by the news, but it was the pecuniary loss that most affected his spirits, as Aldyth could not but perceive. It touched her to think how slight a hold Robert Stanton had had on the hearts of his children. With whom did the fault lie? Had he lived too absorbed in business to find time for the culture of family affections, or did the infirmity of his extreme shyness and reserve raise a barrier even between him and his children? Aldyth was inclined to explain it by the latter supposition, for the little she had seen of her stepfather led her to credit him with a good heart, keenly responsive to kindness, but incapable, from physical hindrances, of giving ready expression to feeling.

Cecil's mind was in a state of indignant resistance to the calamity that had overtaken them. He was glad to express himself freely when he got an opportunity of talking to Aldyth alone.

"It is all my uncle's fault, I know," he said; "now, you see, when we get particulars, if it does not come out that the failure is entirely owing to some rash speculation my uncle has plunged into. My father let him have things too much his own way. It was a great mistake. It is all very well to talk about affliction, but this is my uncle's doing, and I mean to let him know what I think of his conduct."

"Will that be of any good?" asked Aldyth, gently. "I suppose he and his family are also reduced to poverty. He must deplore his action now as much as you do."

"Whether it is of any good or not, I mean to do it for my own satisfaction," replied Cecil. "It is no joke to have the whole of your income swept away. What am I to do? What is to become of mamma and the girls?"

"Oh, do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth. "Mamma and Gladys are coming with me to Wyndham—there is plenty of room for them there; indeed, I was in despair at the thought that I might have to live in that great place alone. Nelly will go back to school for the present; and you, I hope, will remain in your lodgings near the hospital."

"What, at your expense?" asked Cecil, flushing.

"No, at mamma's, if you like that better," said Aldyth, smiling. "I consider that mamma shares all my possessions."

"It is very good of you," said Cecil, looking relieved, and yet a little uneasy. "You are very generous. I don't believe Gladys would be so ready to let others spend her money."

"Don't say that—it is rather mean; for you cannot possibly tell what Gladys would do under the circumstances. And I cannot see that there is any generosity in giving away what you will never miss. I could not possibly spend on myself the income which is now mine. I don't know what I should have done if this had not happened, for I am not a fine lady. I have an inbred horror of extravagance."

Cecil laughed.

"You are not like Gladys, then. She will help you to spend your money fast enough, if you let her. But I think very differently of you, Aldyth, and I hope some day I may be able to repay you for what you do for me."

"Very well, sir," said Aldyth, laughing. "When I get a broken arm or a sprained ankle, I shall be happy for you to exercise your surgical skill upon it."

Aldyth remained with her mother and sisters for a week at Eastbourne, keeping almost in seclusion. Yet for her it was a busy time, for there were many arrangements to be made, letters to be written, friends to be seen, and every task from which her mother and Gladys shrank devolved upon her.

Mrs. Stanton gradually recovered from the shock of ill-tidings, and after a few days began to move less languidly, and to show some faint interest in the future that awaited her.

"To think that I should live at Wyndham after all," she said to Aldyth. "Your father used to talk of it at one time, when he hoped his uncle would forgive us; but that never came to pass. It is strange that I should go there now, after all these years and all that has happened. But it is rather a dreary old place, is it not?"

"I hope you will not find it so," said Aldyth. "I think it is very pretty in the summer."

Aldyth was glad that her preparations for her mother's visit to Wyndham were about finished ere she was summoned away.

She wrote to inform her aunt of the time when they might be expected, and to beg her to be at Wyndham to welcome them.

Unfortunately the September evening on which Aldyth with her mother and Gladys arrived at Woodburn was very wet, and under driving rain and a leaden sky the High Street and the long straight road to Wyndham looked far from interesting. Mrs. Stanton's countenance, its pale, delicate beauty strikingly set off by the folds of crape which framed it, wore a melancholy expression as she glanced from the carriage at the gloomy prospect.

"I always said I could not bear to live at Woodham," she remarked, with a shiver; "but it is my fate. Well, I am old and a widow now; it does not matter where I live."

This was not encouraging; but Aldyth could not wonder at her mother's depression.

"Not old; beautiful and dear," she said, pressing her mother's hand. "And brighter days will come. Woodham does not always look like this."

"I should hope not," said Gladys, throwing herself back with a yawn as they passed the last house belonging to Woodham. "So this is your carriage, Aldyth? It is rather an antiquated affair, and the springs might be easier. Does your coachman always drive so slowly?"

"Yes, old John has an objection to using the whip," said Aldyth. "He always lets the horses drop into this jog-trot. And it is of no use speaking to him; he is too old to alter his ways."

"Then I should look out for another coachman if I were you," said Gladys.

Aldyth shook her head.

"That would never do," she said. "It would break John's heart to be superseded."

Dripping trees, dripping eaves, a pool under the front windows, and a cloud of vapour rising from the pond, made Wyndham Hall appear anything but a desirable residence as the carriage drove up to the door. Aldyth was grieved that her mother should first see her future home in such an unfavourable aspect.

Mrs. Stanton, in her sable attire, had the air of a queen in exile as she mounted the steps, whilst a servant held an umbrella over her. But Miss Lorraine's cheery face, as she came forward to welcome them, seemed to defy the weather.

"What an evening!" she said. "You will think we have altogether too much water here. It is unfortunate. But we must make the best of it."

"The house is surely damp," said Mrs. Stanton, with a dreary anticipation of rheumatism.

"Not in the least," said Miss Lorraine, briskly; "the walls are too thick for that. There never was a warmer, drier house. They do not build such houses nowadays."

Certainly the dining room, where a bright fire was burning and a meal daintily set out, looked more cheerful.

But Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not begin to revive till Aldyth conducted her to her own room. This was a pleasant apartment with windows looking southwards and commanding a pretty view of the surrounding country. A new carpet had been put down; light fresh chintz draped windows and bed; there were flowers on the dressing-table, and glancing round, Mrs. Stanton could see that her tastes and comforts had been carefully studied. She appreciated comforts, and she gave a sigh of relief, not of despair, as she sank into an easy-chair by the wood fire.

"This is cosy," she said. "Yes, dear Aldyth, I cannot but be comfortable here, and if you will excuse me, I will not go down again to-night. Miss Lorraine is very kind, but I do not feel equal to her talk just now."

"You shall do as you like, mamma," said Aldyth, deftly removing her mother's bonnet and mantle. "I will bring you something to eat here, if you would rather."

"Yes, dear, much rather," Mrs. Stanton said.

And hastily removing her own things, Aldyth went down stairs to arrange a tray for her mother with the food most likely to tempt her appetite.

Miss Lorraine watched her as she set about the task, and was struck with the bright, happy look the girl's face wore.

"You look very happy, Aldyth," she said. "You are very glad to have your mother in your home."

"I am happy," replied Aldyth, with a sweet, glad smile, "and it is home now."

Miss Lorraine had a fleeting sense of discontent. She wondered what her uncle Stephen would have felt if he could have foreseen this result of Aldyth's inheritance, and smiled to think that, had such an idea occurred to him, he would assuredly have left Wyndham to Guy. She could imagine her uncle passing at midnight as a restless ghost through the old hall and groaning at the sight of the huge trunks, belonging to Mrs. Stanton and Gladys, which had just arrived in a cart from the station, and were piled up in the hall, till they could be emptied of their contents and consigned to the lumber room.

"Ah, me!" she reflected, sagely. "It is well we cannot know what is to come after us, and really it is time there was some fresh life about the old place."

### CHAPTER XXIV.

A SECRET SORROW.

"Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face."

THESE words were in Aldyth's mind as she sprang up the next morning. The new duty which had come to her, the duty of making a home for her mother and sisters, and doing all in her power to promote their happiness, was very pleasant to the girl's loving heart. It was an easy transition from Wordsworth's familiar ode to the thought of John Glynne. She remembered that he had once spoken to her of the poem. He had appeared to feel strongly the force of the epithet stern as applied to duty. But duty had no sternness for Aldyth at this moment; her inheritance had ceased to be a burden, now that she could share it with others.

The thought of John Glynne lingered in Aldyth's mind while she was dressing. She remembered that the date had passed at which the Grammar School usually reopened, so no doubt John Glynne had returned to Woodham. The year had almost come round to the period at which last year he began his course of lectures. Would he be persuaded to give another course this autumn? Aldyth hoped so, with all her heart. She felt eager to ask her aunt if any such arrangement had been made. If Mr. Glynne gave lectures, she meant to attend them. There was assuredly no good reason why she should not. The distance might be considered a difficulty, but she could have the carriage, and if old John objected to being kept out so late, she would ask her aunt to let her stay at the Cottage for the night.

The pleasant prospect suggested by the lectures heightened the good spirits in which Aldyth had awoke. As she drew up her blind she saw with satisfaction that, though clouds still hung low in the sky, the sun was shining on the soaked lawn and well-washed trees. She hastened to her mother's room.

Mrs. Stanton confessed to having slept "pretty well," but felt unequal to rising at present.

Aldyth next visited her sister.

That young lady still lay in her bed, looking charmingly at her ease and perfectly well, but she at once consented to Aldyth's proposal that her breakfast should be sent to her.

"What a curious old room this is!" Gladys said, looking about her with amused eyes. "Do you know I was horribly afraid last night that a ghost would walk out of that cupboard? And I never slept on a bedstead of this description before. It makes me feel as if I were Queen Elizabeth, or some one remarkable. Did Queen Elizabeth ever come to Wyndham?"

"Not that I am aware of," said Aldyth, smiling.

"Then I need not be afraid of her ghost," said Gladys. "Shall I always sleep here?"

"Not if there is another room you like better," said Aldyth. "I could not but give mamma and aunt the best rooms last night. If I had known you would be coming so soon, I would have had a room got ready for you in a style more to your taste. We could easily make a pretty room of this."

"Yes, we could," said Gladys, eagerly. "Get rid of this catafalque of a bed and that hideous looking-glass, which gives me the flat, square visage of a Dutchwoman, and have a pretty French bed with pale blue drapery—blue is so becoming to me."

"Very well, I'll remember that important fact," said Aldyth.

"I will plan all the room, and tell you how it must be when you come up again," said Gladys. "Ah, is that the sun shining? I am glad. When shall I have a ride, Aldyth?"

"Have you a habit with you?" asked her sister.

"Oh yes; it is in one of the trunks; I don't know which," Gladys replied. "I had a new one soon after you left us, Aldyth. It is dark blue cloth, and I look so nice in it. I rode in the Park several times. Mamma got Captain Walker to escort me once. But I forget that I am in mourning. I shall have to wear my old-black one, I suppose. What a bore!"

"Well, as soon as you can get your habit unpacked, we will see about a ride—weather permitting," Aldyth said.

And she went down stairs, leaving Gladys in the best of humours.

Aldyth and her aunt, who had stayed the night at Wyndham, breakfasted together.

"Auntie," said Aldyth, as she came back from carrying her mother's breakfast to her, "are there to be lectures at Wyndham this autumn?"

"Ah, I am afraid not," said Miss Lorraine, shaking her head. "I have not told you that we are going to lose Mr. Glynne."

"To lose Mr. Glynne!" repeated Aldyth, colouring and turning a startled look upon her aunt.

"Yes, indeed," said Miss Lorraine, "it is a great pity, but I always felt he was too good for Woodham. He has got a good appointment abroad—the head mastership of some school or college at the Cape, I believe."

Aldyth hastily seated herself behind the urn. She felt that she had grown white and cold; the news was affecting her in a way she could hardly understand.

"How soon does he leave?" she ventured to ask, after a minute.

"Oh, his connection with the Grammar School is already severed," said her aunt. "Dr. Wheeler allowed a friend of Mr. Glynne's to take his place. Of course the boys do not like it, and their parents are all sorry to lose Mr. Glynne."

Aldyth silently busied herself with the coffee. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cups.

"Then I shall see him no more," was the thought that pressed painfully on her mind.

"He is coming down here again for a day or two before he leaves the country," said Miss Lorraine, after a pause, "just to get his things and say good-bye to his friends, you know. He could hardly leave us without a word."

"I suppose not," said Aldyth, with a coolness which might have been mistaken for indifference.

"I am very sorry he is going away," said her aunt. "As you know, I took to him from the first. One does not meet with such a man every day. It will be a grief to his mother to part with him."

"Yes," said Aldyth, finding it easy to respond to this remark.

Miss Lorraine talked on, discussing the event from various points of view, and apparently quite satisfied with Aldyth's brief rejoinders.

Aldyth made but a pretence of breakfasting. She was oppressed by a strange heart-sickness, which took away all the joy of her return, and robbed Duty of the bright aspect it had worn to her that morning.

"I might have known he would not stay long at Woodham," she said to herself. "He was so different from any one else I ever knew."

There were various little matters at Wyndham awaiting Aldyth's attention. She went through the business of the morning with a weight of disappointment on her mind. About noon she helped her mother to dress. Gladys, who had been long up, and had made a tour of the house under the guidance of Miss Lorraine, might have waited on her mother; but Mrs. Stanton seemed to prefer the attentions of her eldest daughter, and Gladys willingly gave place to Aldyth.

The morning had been showery, but by the time they all met at luncheon the sun seemed to have conquered the clouds, and there was the prospect of a fine afternoon.

Aldyth asked her aunt, who was about to return to Woodham, if she would like to drive in an open carriage.

"Yes, certainly; it will be much pleasanter," said Miss Lorraine. "Will you not come with me, Aldyth?"

"I do not know whether mamma can spare me," said Aldyth, looking at her mother.

But ere Mrs. Stanton could speak, Gladys said, eagerly—"Oh, do let me go, Aldyth. I want to see what Woodham looks like in fine weather."

"Very well, you shall go," said Aldyth, "and I will stay with mamma."

"No, you go too, my dear," said her mother, "if there is room for you all in the carriage. The drive will do you good."

"The phaeton will take us all, if I drive," said Aldyth. "But I do not like to leave you alone, mamma. You will feel so dull."

"No, dear; it will be good for me to rest quietly," said her mother. "I would rather you went, indeed."

It had occurred to her that she would be glad to avail herself of the opportunity thus afforded to wander through the old house alone, or attended by the housekeeper, whom she wished to question on matters concerning old Mr. Lorraine, about which she was curious.

After a little more persuasion, Aldyth consented to leave her mother to herself, and half an hour later drove off with her aunt and sister to Woodham. Midway they met Guy on horseback.

Aldyth felt the colour rush into her face as she remembered the last talk she had had with her cousin. But Guy's sangfroid was equal to the occasion. No one could look more unconscious of any cause for constraint. He nodded and raised his hat in the easiest manner in greeting to Miss Lorraine and Aldyth, as he reined in his horse, thus compelling Aldyth to draw up also, then cast a quick, admiring glance at the pretty girl on the back seat, whose delicate complexion and sunny hair were thrown into strong relief by her sombre attire.

"So you have come back, Aldyth," he said, carelessly. "When did you arrive?"

"Last evening," said Aldyth. "Let me introduce you, Guy, to my sister, Miss Stanton."

The air of admiration with which Guy made his bow was agreeable to Gladys. She liked the glance that lingered upon her, and the smile with which he said—

"You must have thought you were coming into a second deluge when you arrived last night, Miss Stanton. I shudder to think what Wyndham must have looked to you with the fields about it all swamped."

Gladys gave a light little laugh. "It had a dismal appearance, I must confess," she said. "Aldyth had prepared me for a scene of desolation, but the reality surpassed all the efforts of my imagination. I thought of the prisoner of Chillon, and pictured myself spending weary days and nights within water-girt walls. But happily the sunshine has relieved me of that horror."

"Wyndham is a dismal hole, though," said Guy. "Woodham is bad enough, but Wyndham is a few degrees worse."

"Don't depress me," said Gladys. "I am on my way to discover all the excitements your town can afford."

"Not many excitements, I fear," said Miss Lorraine, whilst Guy shrugged his shoulders significantly. "After all the pleasures you have enjoyed in town and at the seaside, our amusements will seem very commonplace."

"But there are pleasures peculiar to a country life, are there not?" said Gladys with an air of simplicity. "Hay-making, for instance. I should like to try that. I can fancy myself in a great hat, with a pitchfork in my hand, tossing the hay. It would be so charmingly idyllic."

"It would be if you turned haymaker," said Guy, with a meaning glance; "unfortunately the hay-harvest is over, but there are other country occupations—there is the shooting now, you know. But I forget, ladies do not shoot. They hunt, though, occasionally."

"Ah, that is what I should like to do," said Gladys; "if we do not share it, we like to hear about your sport. Do come in sometimes and tell us how the shooting goes."

"With pleasure," said Guy, as Aldyth gave her horse a touch and it moved on.

Guy looked his best on horseback, and Gladys was much impressed by her introduction to him.

"You never told me, Aldyth," she said, "how very good-looking your cousin was."

"Do you think him so?" Aldyth said.

"There can be no doubt that Guy is a handsome man," said Miss Lorraine, decisively; "one seldom sees such regular, well-cut features."

"Handsome is that handsome does," Aldyth reminded herself, as she thought of the suffering that attractive person had inflicted on Hilda Bland.

Having driven to Myrtle Cottage, and seen Miss Lorraine and her packages duly received by the little housemaid, the girls drove on slowly down the High Street, Gladys glancing about her with amusement, and well aware that she was an object of attention.

"How the people do stare!" she said. "One would think they never saw a stranger. Really, this is quite bustling, Aldyth. I did not expect to see such a crowded thoroughfare. It reminds me of Bond Street in the season."

"It does not remind me of Bond Street," said Aldyth, smiling. "This large house on the right is the home of my friends, the Blands; but Kitty and Hilda are away just now."

"Is not Hilda Bland the girl to whom your cousin was engaged?" asked Gladys.

"Yes," said Aldyth, reluctantly, not wishing to discuss that subject with Gladys.

"Whose fault was it that the engagement came to nought?" asked Gladys. "Did she care much for him?"

"A great deal more than he deserved," said Aldyth, her tones, in spite of herself, expressing indignation.

"Girls are sillies," said Gladys, emphatically. "There never yet was a man worth breaking one's heart for. But who is this one coming towards us, Aldyth? He looks rather nice."

Aldyth had already recognized the individual in question, and her heart had given a leap at the sight of him; but she answered quietly enough—

"That is Mr. Glynne. He was one of the masters at the Grammar School; but he is about to leave the town."

"What a pity! I like the look of him," said Gladys. "He is not good-looking, but he has the air of a gentleman."

"He is a gentleman," Aldyth could not help saying.

She was drawing in her horse before the door of the library when he came in sight round a turn in the street. It would have been easy for him, as they were about to alight, to step across the street to speak to Aldyth; but the idea did not appear to occur to him. He lifted his hat courteously, and passed on along the opposite pavement.

A keen, cruel pain seized upon Aldyth. She hardly heard the remarks Gladys was making, or knew how she transacted the business that took her into the shop. One thought possessed her—the thought that John Glynne had only come for a day or two, and that he would go away without her having exchanged a word with him. And yet he could have spoken to her then; and he would not take the trouble to cross the road that he might do so! It was most mortifying to be treated so by one whom she had counted a friend.

With a sense of intolerable shame, Aldyth took herself to task for feeling more interest in John Glynne than he apparently felt in her. But though she was ashamed of it, the feeling was not to be crushed in a moment. Thoughts full of pain and disappointment occupied her mind as they drove home, making it difficult for her to pay proper attention to what Gladys was saying.

"It is growing cold," Gladys remarked, with a shiver, as they turned into the carriage drive to Wyndham; "the days are so short now. It will soon be winter."

Aldyth roused herself with an effort, and tried to recover a bright demeanour ere she saw her mother; but she felt as if winter had already begun.

### CHAPTER XXV.

HOW MRS. STANTON SPENT HER FIRST AFTERNOON AT WYNDHAM.

MRS. STANTON sat alone in the drawing room for an hour after the others had driven away. Aldyth had converted this into a very pretty room. Even Mrs. Stanton could find no fault with the taste she had displayed in bringing out all that was picturesque in the old furniture, and blending with it modern artistic draperies and various objects of modern antique. The chair in which Mrs. Stanton reclined was of the easiest, the long French window by which she sat looked out on a stretch of sunlit lawn, with some bright dahlias blooming against the box hedge, and some fine old trees rising beyond.

Mrs. Stanton's mood as she sat there was one of quiet, half-melancholy content. She was far from being crushed by her bereavement. Her affection for her husband had not been of such a clinging, penetrating nature as to make life seem impossible without him. She had taken the lead in their life, making his will give place to hers, and she now felt quite capable of ordering her own life and that of her children.

As she reviewed the past and looked forward to the future, her thoughts took the form of self-congratulation. She was moved to thankfulness that things were as they were. They might have been so different. What a fortunate circumstance it Was that Aldyth should inherit a fortune just when her mother was about to lose everything! For that all was gone Mrs. Stanton felt convinced from what her husband had told her of his affairs, though she was yet awaiting the particulars that the next mail would bring.

Mrs. Stanton had some fancy work in her lap, but she felt a distaste for any occupation. It was easier to lean back and give herself up to daydreams. Presently her imagination was filling the long drawing room with a party of visitors.

"The place is dull," she thought; "but our life here need not be dull. A country house is pleasant enough when it is full of guests. When a proper time has passed, we can invite whom we like. There are surely some nice people in the neighbourhood. We can give dinner parties and tennis-parties and dances. We must do so for Gladys's sake. Captain Walker could come over from Colchester; Cecil could bring some of his friends from London. We could go up to town for a few weeks in the season, perhaps. I suppose Aldyth could afford it. She has never told me what her income is; perhaps she does not yet know herself; but it can hardly be less than three thousand, and that would cover a good many expenses."

As she thought thus, Mrs. Stanton grew weary of inaction. She was naturally robust, and she was beginning to recover from the shock of trouble, which had not made her really ill. She bethought her that she should like to go through the house, and make herself thoroughly acquainted with what she already regarded as her own domain.

As she rose and crossed the room, she caught sight of the reflection of herself in a long mirror opposite, and was struck with the majestic grace of her tall fine figure in its flowing black robe. After all, she was not old or insignificant yet; life must still have pleasant things in store for her. And there was a revival of energy manifest in her look and bearing as she walked from the room.

She started on her tour of inspection alone, but presently found her progress barred by locked doors, so, returning to the drawing room, she rang the bell and summoned the house keeper to her presence.

Mrs. Rogers came readily, for she, in common with the other servants, felt much interest in the beautiful, elegant widow who had taken up her abode at the Hall. Mrs. Rogers was old enough to remember the time when this lady, then a lovely, high-spirited girl, had been the belle of Colchester, and how her marriage with Captain Lorraine and his consequent disfavour with his uncle had set every one talking. The housekeeper entered with an ingratiating smile on her face, and dropped an old-fashioned curtsey as she stood before the lady.

"I thought I should like to take a turn through the rooms; it would help to pass the time," said Mrs. Stanton; "but I find several of the doors locked."

"Ah, yes, ma'am; I keep the rooms locked that are not in use." replied the old woman. "Miss Aldyth being here so little, I thought it best to do so. There's one room full of Mr. Guy's things. And I have the key of the library, and the keys of the bureau too. Mr. Greenwood told me to lock the room the day after the squire died. When either of the Mr. Greenwoods came, I gave the key to them, and when they went away, they locked the door and brought it back to me. And Miss Aldyth, she said I'd better keep the keys of the bureau, too, in case they were wanted; for you see Miss Aldyth was not always here. She went home with Miss Lorraine a day or two after the funeral. But I'll fetch the keys for you, ma'am."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Stanton, seating herself with an air of leisure.

In a few moments, Mrs. Rogers returned with her key-basket. "Perhaps I had better go with you, ma'am," she suggested. "I fear you may find some of the locks rather stiff, and the rooms a bit dusty."

"No, thank you; I will not take up your time," replied Mrs. Stanton, languidly. "I dare say I shall not investigate very far, and I do not care to feel hurried."

"Very well, ma'am; but if so be you should want me, I'll come in a minute."

"You've been at the Hall a good many years, I believe," said Mrs. Stanton.

"More than thirty years, ma'am."

"Ah, then you've seen many changes. You would remember Captain Lorraine."

"Yes, indeed, ma'am. I remember him well. As nice a gentleman as ever was. And Miss Aldyth's as like him as can be. It seems only right that she should be here in his stead, though I am sorry for Mr. Guy."

"Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of his acquaintance," said Mrs. Stanton; "but from what I have heard I should imagine him an agreeable young man.

"He is that, ma'am. There's no one about here but is fond of Mr. Guy. It was a pity that he offended his uncle—not but what we're all very pleased to have Miss Aldyth here; though, if it could have been—But, there, things may come right yet. There's many a one says they will."

But here Mrs. Rogers saw something in the lady's expression that made her check her garrulous talk.

Mrs. Stanton was quick enough to read what was in the old woman's mind, but she showed no consciousness of it.

"Mr. Stephen Lorraine was one easily offended, was he not?" she asked.

"Ay, that he was, ma'am; and he was one that would never go from his word. If any servant offended him, that servant had to leave forthwith. It was of no use to try and persuade him to overlook a fault; he would not do that, though it vexed him to part with them. It seemed impossible for him to forgive."

"And when was it that Mr. Guy was so unfortunate as to displease his uncle?"

"At the end of last year, ma'am. We could all tell that there was something wrong between them, and when Mr. Greenwood came out on New Year's Day, I guessed what it meant."

Mrs. Stanton let the housekeeper talk on for some time, occasionally interrupting her with a question. But at last, wearying of her garrulity, she dismissed her, and set off again to go through the house.

The closed rooms proved old-fashioned and dingy, with the close, musty atmosphere unused chambers so soon acquire. Mrs. Stanton did not care to linger in them. She found little to interest her till she came to the library. The air of that apartment, too, was oppressive, and she hastened to open the long window which looked on to the lawn. The soft breeze which entered was refreshing, and she sank on to a chair by the window and fell to musing on what the old housekeeper had told her.

So there were those who thought that things would yet be made right for Guy by his marriage with his cousin. Was this the motive that had led him to break his engagement to Hilda Bland? Mrs. Stanton could easily believe that it was so. Indeed, as she pondered it, the case hardly seemed to admit of a doubt, nor was she inclined to blame him severely for what seemed to her a most natural line of action. But nothing now could be further from her desires than the fulfilment of the hope she attributed to him. If Guy wedded Aldyth, Wyndham Hall could no longer be the home of herself and daughters, and the delightful visions in which she had been indulging must come to nought; for it was not to be supposed that he would tolerate the constant presence in his home of his wife's mother, nor would she wish to remain under such circumstances.

But was it probable that Aldyth would be more inclined to accept Guy now than she had been before? Her mother could hardly fear it, as she remembered the emphatic way in which Aldyth had repudiated the idea.

"She will not, unless she is moved by some quixotic desire to restore the property to him," reflected Mrs. Stanton; "and I will do all in my power to prevent that."

With this resolve, she dismissed the unwelcome thought, and gave her attention to her surroundings.

The room in which she sat was that in which old Stephen Lorraine had spent most of his time when indoors. A glance round it sufficed to prove that his tastes were not literary. Though it was known as the library, the books it contained were few, and not of an inviting appearance. They looked as if they might have stood untouched on the shelves for the last fifty years. Above the mantelpiece hung tokens of the love of sport that had characterized Stephen Lorraine in earlier years. Various guns, not of the most modern construction, were to be seen there, a very old fishing-rod, and the brush of a fox. The portrait of a favourite hunter, painted by a local artist, hung on the opposite wall, pairing with the picture of a prize bull, from which it was divided by a large, highly imaginative sketch of a group of sheep which had thriven on a certain much-advertised food.

But what most attracted Mrs. Stanton's attention was a quaint, antique bureau which stood full in her view as she sat by the window. No upholsterer's shop could furnish such an article at the present time, so strongly made, so cunningly devised, with its hanging brass handles and lavishly-disposed brass nails. This surely must be the old bureau of which she remembered bearing her first husband speak. He had spoken of it as a most curious piece of furniture, with numerous pigeon-holes, sliding panels, strange, unexpected recesses.

As she looked at the bureau, a longing to explore it took possession of Mrs. Stanton's mind. Why not? Here in the basket she held was the key of the bureau. This long, curiously-formed key would open the main lock, and these small keys must belong to the inner drawers. Why should she not look into the bureau? Its owner for so many years had passed away; the bureau and all it contained was now Aldyth's property; there could be no harm in Aldyth's mother opening it. Aldyth would certainly be willing that she should.

But though she told herself this, Mrs. Stanton hesitated. In her inmost soul, she could not feel sure that it was right for her thus, alone, to examine the things that old Stephen Lorraine had kept hidden from others. She knew that if she did so, she would not like to speak of it to her daughter.

She turned from the bureau. She stepped through the open window on to the gravel path and took one or two turns up and down the length of the lawn. The temptation grew stronger as she lingered. All was still about her; there was not even a gardener in sight. Mrs. Rogers and the servants were in their own quarters; there seemed no cause to fear disturbance.

"You will never have so good an opportunity again," a voice said within her.

She re-entered the library. Like many another daughter of Eve, she looked at the forbidden fruit till it grew irresistible.

"Why should I not?" she asked herself again, as she drew a chair in front of the bureau and seated herself. "The lawyer must have looked at all it contains, so why should not I?"

She turned the key in the lock, and the bureau opened out easily. The sloping desk, dark with age and ink-stains, bore witness to a long term of service. Behind ran two rows of pigeon-holes. These contained receipted bills, invoices, business letters, nothing that could interest her. But a row of locked drawers at the side yielded more interesting matter. Here were newspaper cuttings, referring to events that she could remember, private letters, which she did not hesitate to scan, and presently, closely wrapped in white paper, she found a lock of a woman's hair.

She did not think of a like discovery in the desk of Swift, with its half-savage, wholly pathetic description: "Only a woman's hair," but she wondered at this revelation of a cherished sentiment in the breast of the old man, whom she had always regarded as harsh and unfeeling. Whose hair had this been—his mother's, or a gift from that Tabitha Rudkin whose name she had heard laughingly associated with his youth? And what was the meaning of this morocco case which lay in the same drawer? She opened it, and saw the miniature of a lovely girl with clear complexion, soft grey eyes, and masses of dark curls bunched on either side her forehead, after the fashion of her day. So young and fair she looked; but her youthful charms had long faded, and the years were many since, at a mature age, Death set his seal to her life, for a few words inscribed within the case told that this was the portrait of old Stephen's mother, who had died at the age of fifty-five.

Mrs. Stanton closed the case with a shiver. She did not like to be reminded of the inevitable lot, and the evanescence of beauty and joy. She tried to shut the drawer; but something was wrong, she could not get it back into its place. Then she saw that the framework of the drawers was somehow awry. Inadvertently she must have touched a hidden spring, for now, at a second pull, the whole nest of drawers swung to one side and revealed a hollow space behind fitted up with pigeon-holes. Here was one of the secret recesses of which she had heard.

But it was empty. No. What was that in the furthest partition? Mrs. Stanton put in her hand and drew forth a long blue roll. But as her eyes fell on certain words written on it, she started and recoiled as though a serpent had bitten her.

"Last Will and Testament of Stephen Lorraine." What had she found? Another will? But not a valid one—that was impossible.

As the thought flashed through her mind, she was unrolling the document with trembling hands. The date was April of the present year. And Mrs. Rogers had said that the other will was made on New Year's Day! This was a later will.

She grew cold and faint as the thought came to her that this will might alter everything—Wyndham might not be Aldyth's; it might not be in her power to give a home to her mother and sisters. Mrs. Stanton felt that she must read the will; she must get to know what its provisions were.

Forcing her mind to the task, she slowly read through the will, grasping with difficulty the meaning of the legal words. When she had finished her face was white and her breath came quickly. That first presentiment, alas! was confirmed. The will changed all. It made Wyndham and the bulk of the property, together with the farm at Wood Corner, over to Guy Lorraine, and left Aldyth with six thousand pounds.

Mrs. Stanton had an instantaneous perception of all that this fact meant for her. She did not doubt that Aldyth would still be willing to share her income with them, but how straitened their means would be! She saw herself and daughters living in a small, inconvenient house, like "common people," Gladys, perhaps, in her youth and beauty, reduced to the humiliation of taking a situation. And Cecil—what would become of Cecil's prospects?

"It is not right, it is not just," she murmured, feeling that arrangements so opposed to her interests could not but be wrong. But must it be so? Quickly came the tempting thought—"No one knows of it but me. Mr. Greenwood did not see it. Perhaps it would never have been found."

What a pity she had been so curious to examine the old bureau! And yet if she had not found this will, another might have done so. Quick came the thought, "I am glad it was not Aldyth who found it."

Yet why? What was she going to do with it, now it had come to light? Not to proclaim the fact at once, certainly. Should she thrust it back in the recess, and leave it for some one else to discover? She shrank from the idea. It would be like having a drawn sword for ever hanging above her head. What then? Destroy it? She turned hot and then cold as the evil suggestion presented itself. Was it not felony to destroy a will? That was a very ugly word. She could not do such a thing as that. And yet—she wished the will were destroyed. She would be glad to know that it would never have power to affect her welfare.

She glanced at it again. The names of the witnesses were strange to her. One had written "solicitor" and a London address after his name. Would he be likely to know that the will had not come into operation? Would it be safe to destroy it? The perspiration rose on Mrs. Stanton's forehead as she asked herself this question. Suddenly, to her consternation, she heard voices close at hand in the garden.

It was Aldyth and Gladys. Whilst she had been searching the bureau, the afternoon had worn away, and they had returned from their drive.

Gladys was planning a tennis-ground, which she wished to persuade Aldyth to have made; but at any moment they might turn their steps towards the open window. In an agony of fear, Mrs. Stanton thrust the will into her pocket. That receptacle was not large enough to hide it; she must hold the folds of her gown together if she would conceal the packet as she escaped to her room.

But first there were the drawers to push back into their place and lock, and the bureau to close. Mrs. Stanton did it all in nervous haste with trembling hands. One drawer would not lock, and she left it open in her alarm, as she heard the girls' steps approaching. She had but time to close her gown, ere the girls were at the window.

"Mamma! You here!" cried Aldyth, in surprise, as she glanced in at the window.

"Yes, dear; you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Stanton, faintly. "But I—thought I should like to look through the rooms—and—and Mrs. Rogers gave me the keys—but—but it has been too much for me."

"I am sure it has," said Aldyth, wondering to see how pale her mother was, and the tremulous way in which she spoke. "You should have waited till I could come with you. Why, your hand is quite cold. I cannot leave you again, if you not take better care of yourself."

"No, do not leave me again," cried Mrs. Stanton, beginning to sob. "It is better for me to have you near. I get thinking of things when I am alone, and I cannot bear it."

"Do not cry, dear mamma. I am here. I will not leave you," said Aldyth, throwing her arms about her mother. "But you must not stay in this chill room. Come into the drawing room."

"No, no; let me go to my own room," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, her right hand still holding the folds of her gown.

Aldyth would have taken the hand to draw within her arm, but Mrs. Stanton wheeled hastily round. "The other side, please, dear; I want to hold up my dress with this hand."

Supported by Aldyth, she moved slowly from the room. Gladys did not immediately follow them. She had not betrayed any anxiety on her mother's account. There was a satirical smile on her lips as she said to herself, glancing round the library—

"It was like mamma to make an inspection of the house when Aldyth was out of the way; but I wonder, did she chance upon a skeleton anywhere, that she was so upset?"

Mrs. Stanton, having gained her bedroom, seemed indisposed for further soothing, and only anxious to send Aldyth away.

"Leave me to myself now, dear," she said, sinking on to a couch in such a way that her pocket was hidden. "I only want quiet; I shall be better when I have rested awhile."

Aldyth did not reflect that her mother had been enjoying quiet all the afternoon. She, too, was glad to slip away to her own room. But no sooner had Aldyth left her, than Mrs. Stanton rose from the sofa, and, having locked the door, found a travelling desk which was fitted with a good patent lock. In this she placed the will, and having locked the desk, put the key away in a drawer, which she also locked; then, mounting on a chair, she pushed the desk out of sight on the top shelf of her wardrobe.

"Anyhow, I will do nothing in the matter till the mail brings me news," she said to herself.

### CHAPTER XXVI.

A FAREWELL.

ON the following morning Aldyth found her mother looking white and worn. And in response to her daughters anxious questioning, she confessed that she had hardly slept at all during the night. Yet she was not to be persuaded to rest longer in bed. She was eager to rise, and throughout the day, she showed a restlessness and irritability which was trying to those about her, but was not to be wondered at in one upon whom such heavy trouble had fallen.

In the afternoon Aldyth, who had been packing a hamper of flowers for the benefit of her girl friends at Whitechapel, wished to convey it to the railway station. It was a lovely autumn afternoon, so she proposed that her mother and Gladys should accompany her for the drive, and they should make a long round to Woodham, where she would leave them to return home in the care of old John, as she wished to call at her aunt's.

"But how will you get home if we go on in the carriage?" asked Gladys.

"Oh, I shall have a cup of tea with auntie, and then walk home," said Aldyth.

"Walk!" exclaimed Gladys. "All that long, dull road!"

"Oh, I shall not keep to the road," said Aldyth. "There is a shorter way across some fields. It is a pleasant walk, and I shall enjoy it this evening."

"What, all alone!" said Gladys. "I should be scared to walk by myself in the country."

"That is because you are not used to the country," said Aldyth. "I can assure you, the open fields have no terrors for me."

"But you will be very tired; surely it will not be wise of you to do so, Aldyth," said her mother, feeling more reluctance to the idea than she could easily have accounted for.

"I am not afraid of fatigue," said Aldyth. "I have often walked here from Woodham—sometimes with Guy, sometimes by myself. You will see I shall come in as fresh as a daisy."

Aldyth had set her heart upon having a talk with her aunt, and she was not disposed to lightly relinquish her plan.

Mrs. Stanton looked annoyed, and talked about remaining at home herself, in which case Aldyth would have felt constrained to keep her company. But in truth, Mrs. Stanton was longing to escape for a while from the house where her consciousness of the hidden will seemed an intolerable oppression. No doubt after awhile this nervous, restless feeling would pass, and she would cease to dread self-betrayal, or that strange reluctant impulse to confession which came to her in Aldyth's presence. But whilst she felt thus, it was impossible to sit inactive in rooms in which she had no right to sit. The long drive offered a relief which she could not reject, so she let Aldyth persuade her to get ready, and took her place in the carriage, whilst Aldyth arranged some cushions for her comfort, with more than ever of the air of a banished queen.

It was a pleasant day, and to Aldyth, whose heart had a burden which no one could share, the calm, restful beauty of the autumn day was soothing. Every peaceful country scene on which her eyes fell had its preciousness for her. Here the last load of a late harvest was being lifted, but for the most part the stubble fields lay white and bare, surrounded by the green pastures; here was a cottage orchard, with its gnarled trees bowing beneath a weight of rosy apples; there was an old moss-grown well, with its bucket and pulley; and there a woman whose bees had swarmed in a neighbouring elder-tree, and who was endeavouring to attract them to a hive by means of a jingling performance with a key and a frying-pan.

This last sight made Gladys laugh; but her mother looked on everything with a melancholy, indifferent gaze.

"How dreary this flat landscape is!" she said once. "Nothing to be seen but fields and windmills!"

Aldyth alighted at the railway station, and having consigned her hamper to the care of the station-master, walked up the town towards her aunt's cottage. But as she approached the Blands' house, Mrs. Bland smiled and beckoned to her from the bow-window, and it was impossible to pass without a word. The house door could always be opened from the outside. Aldyth opened it, and stepped in without ceremony.

"All alone?" she said, as she kissed her old friend; "how strange you must feel without one of the girls!"

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bland. "Gwen thought I ought to keep her home for half a term, to bear me company, and deemed me a hard-hearted parent because I would not listen to her suggestion. But I do not approve of broken work."

"And what news of the others?" asked Aldyth.

"Oh, fairly good," said Mrs. Bland. "Kitty seems to be enjoying herself very much, and she says Hilda is a little brighter. They are at Dinan. When they wrote, they had been to see the ruined castle in which 'the Lady of La Garraye' lived. Kitty has been reading the poem, and seems much impressed by it. I was surprised at the way in which she wrote. It was as if Kitty and Hilda had changed places. Hilda says little in her letters, poor child. I fancy she would be sorry for me to think she was at all more cheerful. If I can find Kitty's letter, you shall read it."

Mrs. Bland rose to hunt for Kitty's letter amidst the papers on her writing-table. At that moment Aldyth, seated by the window, saw John Glynne walk down the street. The girl was thankful Mrs. Bland's back was turned as she felt the colour rush into her face. That sudden thrill was followed by a deep sense of disappointment and depression. He was gone in the opposite direction to that she was taking; there was no likelihood of her seeing him, and in a day or two at the latest, he would leave Woodham.

Mrs. Bland failed to find Kitty's letter, and Aldyth left without seeing it. In a few minutes, she was at her aunt's. Miss Lorraine welcomed her with a little air of excitement.

"What a pity you did not come a few minutes earlier," she said. "Mr. Glynne was here. He asked after you. I think he would have liked to say good-bye to you."

Aldyth grew white. She could say nothing under the grasp of disappointment. Fate was hard upon her. If she had not seen Mrs. Bland at the window and gone into her house, she would have arrived in time to greet John Glynne. And it seemed to Aldyth at that moment that it would have been worth a great deal just to have said good-bye to him.

If Miss Lorraine noted the quick change of Aldyth's expression, she did not appear to do so. She chatted on with her usual volubility. There are times when it is convenient to have a companion with a faculty of small talk. Such a one is satisfied with the least modicum in the way of response.

"I can see that Mr. Glynne feels leaving Woodham," said Miss Lorraine. "He said he could hardly expect to meet with such kind friends anywhere else. Indeed, I do not think he likes leaving England at all; but it is for the sake of his mother he has accepted the appointment. It will make things easier for her, he says; and she has not been at all strong lately. I am sure I do not know how she will bear parting with him; but there is another brother, you know, who will be at home to take care of her."

"Yes," said Aldyth, faintly, as her aunt looked towards her.

"Mr. Glynne is very fond of his mother," continued Miss Lorraine. "If I were not already convinced of it, I should have known he was a good man, by the way in which he spoke of his mother this afternoon."

"When does he leave?" asked Aldyth, as her aunt paused to take breath.

"Leave Woodham? To-morrow morning, and he sails at the end of the week. But, Aldyth, if you are to walk home before it gets dark, we must have tea at once."

And Miss Lorraine summoned the little housemaid by a vigorous pull of the bell.

In half an hour, Aldyth was on her way home. She was one to enjoy a long, brisk walk; but now her sweet calm face had a weary look, and her step was less elastic than usual. She had started forth a few hours earlier with no definite hope in her heart, but she was bearing back with her an unmistakable weight of disappointment and pain. She did not attempt to analyse her feelings; she did not own to herself that mighty Love had laid his spell upon her—Love at which she had laughed—which had seemed to her more than half a folly, as she had seen it influencing the life of another. She only knew that a shadow had fallen on her heart, that some scarce-defined hope had died, and that life had lost the brightness it wore for her a little while ago.

She had passed out of the road, and was pursuing her way through a deep grassy meadow by the side of a stream, with round bushy pollards growing on its banks. Behind her lay the little town, its red roofs, old church tower, and the broad stretch of water, dotted with sails, forming a fair picture in the clear evening light. No sound broke the stillness save the scarce perceptible ripple of the stream, and the occasional hoarse croaking of a frog. The peace, the solitude was welcome to Aldyth.

But as she stepped round the trunk of a large ash-tree that made a break in the path, she perceived that she was not alone in her enjoyment of the place and the hour. On the rude stile before her, with a book on his knee, which he was not reading, sat John Glynne.

It would be difficult to say which was the more surprised. Aldyth was conscious of an agitation which she could not at once control. She felt that she was blushing and trembling, as he sprang down and advanced to meet her. But she saw a bright look of pleasure in his eyes as he smiled on her and said, with all the old friendliness—

"Miss Aldyth! I am glad! I thought I should have to leave Woodham without seeing you again."

"That would not have been my fault, Mr. Glynne," she could not help saying. "Wyndham is not at such a distance from Woodham as to make it impossible to visit a friend who lives there. Perhaps you do not know it, but you are almost halfway to Wyndham at the present moment."

"I know," he said, with a smile. "Well, I deserve that reproach; but indeed I could not persuade myself that I had any right to call on you in your new home."

"Any right?" repeated Aldyth, biting her lips to hide their trembling. "That is an unkind thing to say. What have I done that I must forfeit your friendship?"

It glanced through her mind that perhaps he blamed her for supplanting Guy at Wyndham. If only he could know what it had cost her to do so! Must the loss of his friendship be part of the price?

"Nothing. How could you suppose that I would willingly give up your friendship?" he said. "But there were reasons why it seemed to me that I should not seek you under your changed circumstances."

"What have my circumstances to do with it?" asked Aldyth, almost impatiently. "Do you think so poorly of me as to imagine that I must change with my circumstances?"

"I am far indeed from thinking poorly of you," he said, quietly.

"Then why," asked Aldyth, impetuously, "why did you hold aloof from me because I had inherited Wyndham? Does that make me any different from what I was before? Am I not the same girl I was when first you knew me?"

"No," he said, slowly; "you are not the same to me as when first I saw you."

Aldyth looked at him in wonder. She could not read his grave, set look.

"What do you mean?" she asked, in faltering tones. "How have I altered? Do you think I am elated at my new position? Oh, you mistake me indeed if you think so! It has brought me no happiness. I never needed a true friend more than I do now. But every one disappoints me."

Her last words dealt a wound to Glynne. It cost him an effort to reply calmly.

"Now you are mistaking me," he said. "When I said that, you were not the same to me, I did not mean that you had changed—far less that you were not worthy the highest reverence man can pay woman. It is my feeling that has become—it is because—"

His tones had grown unsteady. He checked himself abruptly. Glancing at him, Aldyth saw with alarm that he had grown pale, and was under the influence of some emotion which made self-control difficult.

"You cannot understand," he continued, after a moment, finding his words with difficulty; "and how can I explain? Of course I might have made a conventional call on you, like any ordinary acquaintance. Doubtless you have a right to reproach me for a breach of courtesy; but I shrank from it—you were more to me. And you must remember that though no change of circumstances can affect you, it makes a difference in the minds of others; it makes people Judge things differently."

As he spoke in broken, hesitating fashion, there dawned on Aldyth a perception of his meaning. Her face grew crimson, then white. She would have spoken, but what could she say? Words came to her lips, but it was impossible to utter them. Quick thoughts, visions of her mother, her sisters, passed before her mind. She felt like one bound and fettered. It seemed long, but it was but a few moments that they stood in silence, the words that had been spoken vibrating in the consciousness of each. He must have known that she understood him now; but the words he had uttered were followed by none of similar purport. He roused himself, and said, with an abrupt change of manner—

"I must not detain you longer. Will you let me walk with you the rest of the way?"

Aldyth made a sign of assent, and they passed on into the next field. She could hardly have told whether she were happy or wretched. There was a strange mingling of sensations within her, and she had but a confused apprehension of the remarks he was making or the green meadow-path followed. Now a bramble caught her dress, and he stooped to detach it; now he gathered for her a cluster of crimson berries from the mountain ash, and now some yellow marguerites, whilst they talked as best they could on ordinary topics. But presently this pretence at conversation failed, and the last field was crossed in silence.

"You will come in and see my mother and Gladys?" said Aldyth, as he halted at the gate of Wyndham.

"I must ask you to excuse me to-night," he said. "I should like to make your mother's acquaintance, but not to-night. It pleases me to think that you have your mother with you now. Your long-deferred hope is fulfilled at last."

"Yes, at last," said Aldyth.

"You will be happy—I pray God you may be happy!" he said fervently. "And now I must bid you good-bye—till we meet again."

"You are going away—so far," faltered Aldyth; "I shall never see you again."

"Do not say 'Never,' I cannot bear that word," he replied. "Some day—if I live—I shall come back. Do not make things harder for me. You cannot know how stern the duty seems that bids me go."

"Duty seems stern to me too," Aldyth said, with a quiver in her voice, whilst tears dimmed her vision.

She could not utter a good-bye, but she gave him her hand. He held it in his for a few moments, then released it and turned away without another word. She could not move from the spot. She stood gazing after him, till his figure grew indistinct in the gathering gloom. She could just see that he turned and looked back at the end of the path. She waved her hand. Could he see the movement? Probably not, for the next instant he was gone, and only the creeping grey mist met her gaze.

She moved on with slow, heavy step, and before her, in dim outline, with the grey mist gathering about it, stood Wyndham Hall.

Her inheritance—her home! But there was no joy in the thought. Regret filled her heart, stirred by a vision of what "might have been."

"Oh," she sighed to herself, "how I wish uncle had made another will!—how I wish it were not mine!"

But quickly followed the reflection that in that case, things would have been harder for her mother. She could not wholly regret that which gave her such power to comfort and cherish her mother.

### CHAPTER XXVII.

AN ACCIDENT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD.

IT was not surprising that Mrs. Stanton should seem sorely depressed after the arrival of the mail from Australia. The news it brought was of the worst. The bankruptcy of the large mercantile house was utter; nothing could be saved from the wreck for the widow and children of the senior partner. They might console themselves with the thought that they were not the only sufferers. Upon every one connected with the business, loss had fallen, and in most cases, it meant ruin.

It was easy to find cause for blame, and public opinion did not spare the principals. Mrs. Stanton might count it a fortunate circumstance that the broad seas now separated her from the social circle at Melbourne which had formerly courted and flattered her.

Aldyth could not wonder that her mother shed many tears over the letters which told all that could be told of her husband's last hours, and gave particulars of the interment. She could comprehend her mother's nervousness and irritability, the evidence of sleepless nights and wearing emotions. But she could not understand the aversion her mother seemed to have conceived for Guy Lorraine.

That gentleman made his call at the Hall not long after his introduction to Gladys. On the first occasion, Mrs. Stanton declined to see him, but Guy, considering himself one of the family, came again and again, bent on making himself agreeable, and eager to be of service to the new residents, so that it was not easy for Mrs. Stanton to avoid him. She sat on thorns whilst he was present, and his departure was the signal for an outbreak of bitter comments on his dulness, awkwardness, and general lack of social graces. Yet she always maintained an outward show of cordiality towards him. Indeed, it seemed to Aldyth that her mother was especially careful to fail in no courtesy with regard to Guy, and she interpreted this as a sign that her mother shared her regretful consciousness of the loss her inheritance had involved for Guy.

Gladys was ready enough to raise a laugh at Guy's expense, yet his visits were not disagreeable to her. It pleased her to play off upon him her most fascinating airs, with a result highly gratifying to her vanity. He had been struck with admiration at the first sight of her, and he readily succumbed to her fascinations. Ere Hilda Bland returned to her home, he was utterly, hopelessly enslaved by his new charmer. The fire kindled within him was, as Aldyth was quick to perceive, no spurious flame. He was genuinely in love at last, and Aldyth could almost pity him, little as he deserved pity, for she saw no hope of his wooing successfully. It was not to be supposed that Mrs. Stanton would allow her pretty Gladys to wed a mere farmer.

Yet Mrs. Stanton did not discourage the intimacy to the extent Aldyth expected. She was fretful with her daughter when she showed a preference for Guy's society; but she did not endeavour to prevent their meeting. Gladys would have found her days dull at Wyndham but for his frequent visits.

There were few other visitors during the early days of their bereavement. Mr. Greenwood, and his brother, the solicitor, came pretty frequently, and were welcome guests, although their visits were ostensibly on business. The banker's large house in the High Street seemed grievously large and vacant to him without the wife who had made it so cheerful a home. Aldyth was a great favourite with him, and he was perhaps, glad that his office of executor to Stephen Lorraine's will afforded him many pretexts for visiting her at Wyndham. The evenings spent in her pretty drawing room, with three charming women exerting themselves for his entertainment, were a pleasant contrast to those he passed in dreariness at home.

The rides which Gladys took almost daily were her chief source of pleasure in this quiet season. Dearly as she loved the exercise, Aldyth could seldom accompany her, for her mother, shrinking more and more from being left to her own thoughts, constantly required her companionship. Aldyth was content to forego her own pleasure; it was so sweet to feel that her mother needed her.

Meanwhile the pretty form of Gladys, mounted on Pansy—she nearly always rode Pansy—with a groom following on another horse, became a familiar sight at Woodham; for she loved the slight sensation she created when she rode down the High Street. Not seldom she returned from her ride accompanied by Guy, who was ever on the watch for a chance of meeting her. It vexed Mrs. Stanton to see her return so escorted; but if she gave expression to her annoyance, Gladys only laughed and told her mother not to be afraid, she knew what she was about.

"I do not think I am exactly the one to wed a country bumpkin," she said one day. "It would be different, would it not, mamma, if he had been the heir to Wyndham?"

It was an aimless shaft of satire, but it found a mark of which she little guessed. Her mother's face blanched; a spasm as of positive pain passed over it. Gladys saw and wondered. What had she said? Surely nothing worse than many of her careless speeches?

"It is not fair to call Guy a bumpkin," said Aldyth, who was present.

"Perhaps not," replied Gladys; "but he is a farmer, is he not? Can you fancy me a farmer's wife, with my sleeves turned up, making butter?"

"No, I cannot," said Aldyth, and laughed—it was impossible to take Gladys seriously—"but I do not think Guy will expect his wife to make the butter; there are few farmers wives who do that nowadays."

Mrs. Stanton breathed more freely as she heard their light talk. Had she betrayed herself? No, they could never suspect it; but the terrible pressure of her secret! At times it was insupportable.

Christmas was within hail ere Kitty and Hilda Bland came home. After their return from the Continent, they had made a long stay in London. Hilda's health and spirits had revived somewhat amidst fresh scenes and acquaintances; but the coming back was a trial to her, and she would not nerve herself to bear it bravely. It would be hard to face her little world again, and hers was a nature that seeks to avoid hardship.

"Oh, Aldyth, I cannot live here!" she cried when first they met. "Woodham is hateful to me now. Do try if you can persuade mother that I should be better away. If only she would let me be trained as a nurse!"

"Would you really like that?" Aldyth asked.

"As much as I could like anything; it would be something to do."

"You would find it very hard work, I fear. Hilda, I have an idea in my head of some work in which you might help me."

"What is it?" Hilda asked, without much interest.

"There is a cottage half a mile from Wyndham, on the edge of the common. A gamekeeper used to live in it; but it has been empty some time. There are three good rooms below and above. I am thinking of putting it in thorough repair and converting it into a country home for my factory girls. It would do some of those poor overworked girls so much good to spend a few weeks in the country. I can rely on Mrs. Wheatley to find out those who most need it, and send them down to me. Now, do you not think it a good idea?"

"Yes, it is," said Hilda, without, however, manifesting any enthusiasm.

"I shall have to find a good motherly woman to take charge of the home," said Aldyth too full of the matter to be chilled by Hilda's lack of interest. "Of course I cannot open it till the spring, but once started, I see no reason why we should not have guests there nearly all the year round. There is a pretty little garden before the house, and ground enough behind to grow all the vegetables that will be needed."

Aldyth checked herself she became aware that Hilda was paying no heed to what she said. They were seated in the bow-window of Mrs. Bland's drawing room, and Hilda's attention was arrested by two riders who were passing the house. The painful flush which had risen in Hilda's face proclaimed the individuality of the gentleman.

"Who is that with him?" she asked, in a hurried whisper.

"Gladys, my sister," Aldyth said.

"Oh, Aldyth, what does it mean?" poor Hilda asked.

"Don't distress yourself," replied Aldyth. "Their being together has no particular significance, only I will not disguise from you that Gladys's society has a strong attraction for Guy."

Hilda burst into tears.

"Oh, Aldyth, and you would have me stay at Woodham!"

After that, it was not surprising that Hilda abandoned herself afresh to melancholy, sank back into a semi-invalid state, resolutely refused all invitations, and in a variety of ways tried the patience of her mother and Kitty.

It was a pleasure to Aldyth to welcome Nelly, and Cecil also for a few days, to her home at Christmas.

Gwendolen Bland, too, was at home, and despite the distance of Wyndham Hall from Woodham, she and Kitty were often with Aldyth and her sisters. The girls made a lively party together. Gladys and Kitty took to each other and became good friends. They often rode together, dispensing with the attendance of the groom, which Mrs. Stanton insisted upon when Gladys rode alone.

Mrs. Stanton was well pleased that Kitty should be Gladys's companion, for Kitty held herself haughtily aloof from Guy Lorraine, resenting his conduct towards her sister, so that despite his sangfroid, he could hardly thrust his company upon her.

The hunting season brought the girls a new excitement. Gladys was an accomplished and fearless rider, and Kitty not a whit behind her in daring. They set their hearts upon following the hounds.

Mrs. Stanton expressed some disapproval, but did not forbid Gladys to hunt, perhaps being doubtful of her power to restrain her daughter from doing as she wished.

Mrs. Bland's consent was more difficult to win. She had a nervous dread of accident, and at first would not hear of such a thing. But in a weak hour, the combined persuasions of Gladys and Kitty overcame her better judgment. She was induced to consent for "just this once," and after that, Kitty contrived to follow the hounds as often as she desired. The two young ladies, Gladys charmingly equipped and fascinating all the gentlemen with her grace and spirit, were to be seen at most of the meets in the neighbourhood.

Admiring comments on their riding reached the ears of their mothers, and even Mrs. Bland felt some pride, for which she afterwards bitterly reproached herself, in her daughter's bold horsemanship. She ceased to feel much fear, remembering how well the girls rode, and that they had promised to do nothing rash.

"This is the last time, mother; really the last time," cried Kitty Bland, one bright morning in February, as she came down stairs in her riding habit and hat and met her mother's reproving shake of the head. Her words were truer than she knew.

The sun was shining in at the bay window, but the air outside was sharp with frost, and Hilda with a woollen shawl about her shoulders was hanging over the fire. A warm colour glowed in Kitty's face. The cold only exhilarated her. She looked so fresh and strong and glad as she stood at the window, impatiently flourishing her whip, eager to be in the saddle and off.

"I wish you would shut the door," said Hilda, in a pettish tone. "You never think that any one else is in the room."

"All right; here's Gladys. I'm off now," cried Kitty. "Good-bye!"

Hilda hardly took the trouble to respond. She had risen in a miserable humour, but had anything been needed to complete her dissatisfaction, the mention of Gladys would have been enough. It annoyed her to hear the girl's merry tones greeting Mrs. Bland, who stood at the door to watch Kitty mount.

"We shall have a lovely run; the day is perfect," Gladys said.

A burst of merry laughter followed some remark of Mrs. Bland's, and then the girls moved off. Hilda saw them pass the window, for the meet to-day was at an old manor form, "down the Hundreds." A low moan escaped her.

"Some girls have everything that heart can wish," she said to herself. "It is good to be Kitty. She is for ever off to some pleasure or other. She has never known a trouble; if she had, she might understand my feelings."

Ere the day was over Hilda recalled these thoughts with bitter pain. A terrible shock roused her from her self-absorption; for three hours later, Kitty was carried insensible across the threshold of her home. Her horse had fallen with her, and she was seriously injured—how seriously could not yet be ascertained; but her condition was such as gave rise to the worst fears.

Aldyth learned the news an hour later, when Gladys, white and shivering, came home attended by Guy, who had been at hand when the accident happened, and had rendered all the service in his power.

Gladys was too shocked and confused to give a clear account of what had happened. "I only know that the hounds were in full cry, and we were tearing after them. I saw a fence—it was not very high—and I never thought of there being a ditch the other side. 'Come, Kitty,' I cried, 'we can do this,' and went for it. I fancy some one called to me to stop."

"I shouted to you," said Guy. "I thought you must be mad to go at it like that."

He wished he could recall the words when he saw Gladys's face become convulsed with grief. He would not willingly have added to her pain.

"I was mad!" she sobbed, hysterically. "I was wild with excitement; I felt no fear even when I saw what a leap it was Pansy was taking. But the next moment there was a crash, a cry, and I saw that Kitty's horse had fallen in the ditch, and she was beneath him. Oh, the horror of it! I can never forget it. She looked like death when they lifted her."

"Oh, do not say so!" implored Aldyth. She turned to Guy in an agony of fear. "It is not so bad as that? She will recover?"

"God grant she may!" he murmured, more moved than she had ever seen him. "But—it was enough to kill her."

And that was all the comfort Aldyth could gleam from them.

### CHAPTER XXVIII.

KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER.

THE stroke of calamity which had fallen on her home roused Hilda Bland to an awful sense of the realities of life. She had been living in selfish dreams, nursing a sickly sentimentalism, with the assurance that she was altogether an exceptional being, exceptionally high-strung and sensitive, and wrapped in a misery which no one could understand. Self-pity had combined with self-admiration to blind her to the fact that there were other sorrows in the world besides her own. She had seen herself a patient sufferer, misconceived, slighted, unpitied; one singled out by fate for the endowment of peculiar sorrow.

And all the while she had been as one who dreams of storms in his warmly curtained bed. But now a real blast had awakened her to a sudden, pained perception of what human life is in a world where death and pain and loss are God's ministers to man.

There was nothing romantic in the blow that had shattered their happy home life. Hilda's heart sickened within her at the thought of the terrible injury, of the faint chance that Kitty would survive it, and the almost certain consequence that the life, if preserved, would be a helpless, maimed existence. And to think that on Kitty, of all persons, such a doom should fall—Kitty, always so full of life and energy, who liked to try her strength in every form of exercise, who never seemed to feel fatigue.

It was impossible to associate pain and helplessness with Kitty. Yet Hilda knew that many another bright young life had been blighted by a similar catastrophe. Such trials had been, and would be again. And it was vain to risk the why and wherefore.

"It is God's will," her mother was able to whisper in the midst of her anguish; but to Hilda that thought could yield no support. She had not learned to trust the will that embraces and controls all human life. If it were God's will so to afflict Kitty, then God was regardless of human agony, she said to herself.

Despite her cherished desire to become a nurse, Hilda was at first of little use in the sick-room. She lacked the nerve and self-control demanded of one who would serve there. But she was hardly needed, for nothing would induce Mrs. Bland to quit the bedside. Without flinching outwardly, she stood at her post, helping the surgeons, watching, waiting, praying, until the hour when the experienced surgeon summoned from London for consultation assured her that the patient would live—would live—guarding himself from using any expression that should convey the idea of restoration to health.

But at first it seemed enough to know that Kitty would not die. There was room for hope to flourish if life were granted. With tears in her eyes, Hilda told the good news to Aldyth, who came every day to see her, and was her chief comfort in this season of sorrow. Aldyth made the most of each gleam of hope, though in the background of her mind was the drear probability which the gossips of Woodham, finding something not unpleasantly thrilling in the contemplation of Kitty's crippled life, had decided must be the result of her accident.

"Mr. Russell Smith is coming down again in a few weeks' time," Hilda said. "Meanwhile it is such a comfort to know that the worst danger is over."

"And Kitty is conscious now?" Aldyth said.

"Yes, she knows us. We cannot tell how much she can remember. She gave me such a faint sad little smile this morning—it made me cry—and she said to mother, 'Cheer up, mother; I am not going to die.'"

"Does she suffer pain?"

"Terrible pain. They give her morphia to deaden it; but even so she suffers. I see her clench her hands and bite her lips to keep from crying out. She is so brave, poor Kitty!"

"Yes, she was always brave," said Aldyth.

"Oh, if this had happened to me, I could understand it," exclaimed Hilda, bursting into tears. "I deserve to suffer—I have led such a selfish, idle life. What were my troubles, after all? I was strong and well, and could enjoy everything; but to be stricken down like Kitty—oh, it is terrible!"

"Gladys cannot forgive herself because she led Kitty into danger," said Aldyth. "She feels it very much."

"I dare say; I keep thinking of how easily it all might have been prevented; and I know mother must reproach herself bitterly for yielding her consent to the hunting. But it is of no good to dwell on that now."

"No; it is too late," said Aldyth, sadly, as she rose to take her departure.

"Must you go?" said Hilda, clinging to her. "Well, it is good of you to come. Give my love to Gladys, and tell her she must not be hard on herself."

"Thank you. She and mother are going to London on Thursday to spend a few weeks. I trust the change will do them both good, for mother needs it as much as Gladys. She sleeps so badly, and is losing her appetite. I want her to consult a physician, but she declares that a doctor can do her no good."

"No doubt the change will set her up. So you will be alone; I am selfishly glad, for I hope to see the more of you."

"Auntie will be with me a great deal, but of course I shall often be at Woodham. Indeed, I cannot keep away now; I am always thinking of Kitty."

Miss Lorraine was pleased to stay at Wyndham with Aldyth whilst her mother was away. She was not a frequent visitor there at other times. She could chat more freely with her niece in her own home. She had never felt much affection for Mrs. Stanton, and often found her patience and tolerance severely tried when in her company. It vexed her to see how completely Mrs. Stanton made herself mistress of her daughter's house. Her tastes, her wishes ruled everything. The servants instinctively appealed to her on every matter; Aldyth's reign was merely nominal.

"I would not stand it, if I were Aldyth," Miss Lorraine would say to herself, perfectly aware, however, that this state of things was exactly what Aldyth desired. She never dreamed of maintaining her rights in opposition to her mother; the home was for her mother, and her pleasure, her comfort should be the chief consideration; she was ready to defer to her wishes in every possible way. But if a question of duty were involved, Aldyth could hold her own. When her mother denounced Aldyth's scheme for establishing a country home for factory girls as "Quixotic in the extreme, and an absurd waste of money," her words had surprisingly little effect.

"I am sorry you think it absurd, mamma," Aldyth said, calmly; "but I mean to try how the plan will work. I could not feel at ease in possessing so much if I made no effort to share my good things with some of my less fortunate sisters."

"I think you have managed to share them pretty considerably already," said Gladys, who was present. "I do not believe your old uncle would have left you Wyndham if he could have foreseen that we should all come and live here. Certainly you inherited it by rather a fluke, for Guy says he is sure that Mr. Lorraine meant to make another will."

"It is very bad taste of Guy to name such a thing to you. I wonder you let him!" cried Mrs. Stanton, with sudden passion in her voice.

"Oh, there was no harm in it," said Gladys, carelessly.

Aldyth looked at her mother in surprise.

Her eyes were ablaze, a crimson spot burned in each cheek, the hands which held her work trembled visibly. She met her daughter's wondering glance, and quailed before it. For a moment she could almost imagine that Aldyth read her guilty secret. She shuddered at the very thought of such a thing. It would be dreadful if Aldyth were to discover what she had done. Would it be better to make discovery impossible by destroying the will? From that hour, her mother left Aldyth free to spend her money as she would, carefully refraining from any comment that might provoke discussion of Aldyth's inheritance or her uncle's possible intentions.

By the end of March, the Cottage was in a habitable condition. And whilst her mother was absent, Aldyth busied herself, with her aunt's assistance, in fitting it up for the reception of her guests. It was pleasant work. Aldyth loved to imagine what would be the sensations of certain of those toil-worn working girls from the East-end, when they found themselves amidst the green fields and copses of Wyndham.

But ever her heart was shadowed by the thought of Kitty Bland. Her condition did not greatly improve. Again the eminent London surgeon was summoned to give his opinion. His words fell heavily on the hearts of Kitty's friends; yet he did not withhold all hope. The spine had received serious, perhaps permanent injury; but it was possible that Nature, aided by every means science could suggest, might in time effect a cure. Just possible, that was all; and no one could say how long the cure might be in progress. Only the faintest thread of hope to cling to amidst the present certainty of pain and helplessness.

Aldyth was deeply grieved when Hilda told her the state of the case. How could Kitty bear it?

"Does she know?" asked Aldyth.

"Yes; she insisted on knowing what the surgeon had said. Mother could hardly bear to tell her, but she took it so quietly; she even tried to smile, and said, in somewhat of her old funny way: 'You have me safe now, mother; I can never run away from you again.'"

"What a spirit she has!" said Aldyth.

"Ah, indeed! But you know I almost wish she would give way; it must be a terrible strain to bear up as she does, for I can see that her heart is breaking the while. It is for the sake of mother. Kitty was always so good to mother. She would like to see you, Aldyth; she said so this morning."

"Then I should like to see her," said Aldyth, but not without a sense of inward shrinking.

Hilda went away, but returned almost immediately to say that Kitty wished to see Aldyth at once.

"I am not to come in," Hilda said, as she opened the bedroom door. "Kitty wants to have you to herself."

A folding screen stood near the door. Aldyth had to advance to the other side of it ere she saw Kitty. Then she received a painful thrill. The pale, worn face, with its strained look of suffering, was so unlike the face of her old friend; the eyes, unnaturally large and dark in contrast to the shrunken features, met hers with a pathetic appeal for sympathy.

Kitty's lips moved, but no sound passed them. The sight of Aldyth was too much. Emotion could no longer be suppressed. A sudden rush of tears made speech impossible.

"Kitty!" was all Aldyth could say.

Then she cast herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping Kitty's hand and showering kisses on it.

Mrs. Bland's knitting lay upon a chair. It was well that she had been called away. Kitty's overburdened heart was relieving itself by passionate sobs; the tears rained down her cheeks as fast as Aldyth could wipe them away. Aldyth had no words to give her, only tears and kisses; but these were not without power to soothe. Gradually the storm passed. Kitty made an effort to quiet her sobs.

"Forgive me, Aldyth," she said brokenly. "You cannot know what it is."

"No, I cannot know," Aldyth's words faltered too; "but I feel for you so much."

"I know you do. Every one feels for me; I almost wish they did not. If I could cry out, it would be easier, but I cannot give way for their sake. It is hard enough for mother as it is."

"It is brave of you to bear it so, Kitty."

"Brave! Oh, Aldyth, you do not know; if you could read my heart, you would not call me brave. I have no courage to face the future. Always to be like this!"

"Not always, I trust. Remember, there is hope."

"I dare not cherish that hope," said Kitty, mournfully. "No; it is best to say always. I do not suppose it makes much difference to a prisoner, when the door of his prison closes on him, whether his imprisonment is for life or a long term of years."

"It must be good to hope," said Aldyth; "there will be alleviations."

"Will there? Oh, you mean that I may perhaps be wheeled about on an invalid couch, now to this room, and now to that, and taken into the garden once in a while. I! Who used to go anywhere and do anything. Aldyth, I cannot bear it!"

"Strength will be given you, dear Kitty. And you have always been so brave."

"Ah, but this requires a different sort of courage. Aldyth, did I ever tell you that when we were in Brittany we saw the old castle where the 'Lady of La Garraye' lived? Mrs. Lancaster bought the book, and I read it. The sad story made such an impression on me. I remember thinking on that bright morning, as we rambled about in the neighbourhood of the old castle, what a terrible thing it would be to have all the happiness swept out of one's life in that manner. Health, beauty, strength—all gone in a day! I felt that I could not bear it; and now it has come to me."

"If I remember rightly, the end of the story was not sad, Kitty," Aldyth said.

"No; she became resigned to the will of God; she found peace," Kitty said tremulously. "Oh, Aldyth, it is easy to talk of resignation when one is not tried."

"Yes, indeed; I have no right to speak of it," said Aldyth; "but—"

"Go on," said Kitty, as she hesitated: "say anything you like to me, Aldyth; I know you only want to help me."

"I was thinking that resignation is often the highest courage. To bear pain and weakness and loss of freedom with fortitude is a proof of bravery in no degree inferior to his who wins the Victoria Cross. You have read the 'History of a Short Life,' Kitty?"

"Yes, and I remember. I know what you mean; but I shall hardly win my Victoria Cross."

"You will; not in your own strength. You are not left to yourself. Kitty, I shall pray that you may be able to say: 'I can do or bear all things through Him that strengtheneth me.'"

Kitty gently pressed the hand that still held hers, but did not speak. Tears were gathering afresh in her eyes, but they were no longer bitter, hopeless tears. She lay for some time without speaking, and Aldyth, thinking her exhausted, kept silence also. Their hearts drew very close to each other, and to the Unseen Presence in the stillness.

Then Mrs. Bland entered, bringing some lovely flowers that a friend had sent.

Kitty roused herself to admire them. They must be brought close, that she might enjoy their perfume. She smiled on her mother as she bent over her. She charged Aldyth with a message for Gladys, then she whispered in Aldyth's ear as she kissed her—

"Come again soon—come often; you must help me to win my Victoria Cross."

Aldyth readily promised; she was so thankful to see a gleam of comfort on Kitty's face.

Mrs. Bland crone out of the room with her, and she too begged Aldyth to come often.

"You have done her good," she said; "she has opened her heart to you, and it has relieved her. But it is wonderful how she bears it. Such courage, such fortitude! She makes me ashamed of myself."

And Aldyth turned away with the thought that Kitty was proving herself a true heroine, although she had passed for a commonplace mortal.

### CHAPTER XXIX.

A MIND DISEASED.

MRS. STANTON came home looking little better for her month's stay in town. Her face had still a worn and harassed look, and she responded in a fretful tone to Aldyth's loving greeting.

"Yes, I am very tired. The train was late at Wickham; it is so tiresome having to wait there. Oh, what a dead-alive place Woodham looks after London! I really do not know how I can exist here."

Aldyth had brightened her mother's room with fresh draperies and spring flowers, but, pleasant as the room looked, Mrs. Stanton's heart sank within her as she entered it. The place was associated for her with sleepless nights, painfully insistent thoughts, and a heavy weight of dread. She shivered as her glance fell on the wardrobe in which, locked away in her travelling desk, was the will which she dared not destroy, dared not even look upon again, but desired to keep hidden for ever.

"You are cold," said Aldyth, hastening to give the fire a stir. "The wind is very chill, although the sunshine is so brilliant. But spring is advancing; you will be surprised to see how bright the garden looks."

Mrs. Stanton turned to the window, which commanded one side of the garden. On the path below were Gladys and Guy, searching the violet bed for flowers, and laughing and talking merrily the while.

"Here already!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of annoyance, as she drew back. "Guy might have spared us his company for this one evening. It is silly of Gladys to encourage him as she does."

"Sometimes I wonder if Gladys really cares for him," Aldyth ventured to say.

"Aldyth!" exclaimed her mother, in a tone of reproach. "What do you mean? Pray give your sister credit for some common sense. How is it possible that she could care for Guy?"

Aldyth might have replied that attachments are not invariably founded on common sense principles. Even the most prudent are occasionally betrayed by feeling. But she kept silence whilst her mother continued impatiently, "If your words mean what I suppose, you must know that such a thing is out of the question. I could never give my consent—unless, indeed, Guy's position were materially changed."

Mrs. Stanton's cheeks flushed as she uttered the last words. She might well shrink from seeing Guy Lorraine.

"Go down, Aldyth," she said, presently, "and see if that man is likely to stay long. I shall not come down whilst he is below."

"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth. "I am sorry he has come, since you dislike him so."

"I do dislike him," said Mrs. Stanton. "I dislike him more and more each time I see him."

The next moment the words seemed to her a dangerous admission, and she wished she could recall them.

Aldyth found that Gladys had already dismissed Guy, who had merely looked in on some slight pretext in order to ascertain if she had arrived. His visit had been highly entertaining to Gladys. His appearance, his words, his ways, all moved her to ridicule. She began to give Aldyth instances of his absurdity, laughing at him so heartily that Aldyth felt it was foolish of her to imagine for a moment that Gladys could seriously care for him. She launched her satire at him with such vehemence that Aldyth felt compelled to say a good word on his behalf.

"Come, come, Gladys," she said, "Guy is really not so bad as that. He is not lacking in physical courage. How is it that you and mamma dislike Guy so much?"

"Does mamma dislike him?" asked Gladys, changing colour.

"So she has just declared to me; but I think she is perhaps out of sorts. She does not look well, Gladys. The change has not apparently done her much good."

"She has been out of sorts, not to say cross, all the time," replied Gladys. "I fear I am rather a trial to mamma. The prince who is to make my fortune declines to appear. We met Captain Walker in town, Aldyth, and mamma had all kinds of plans for bringing him here; but, alas, he was about to sail for India with his regiment. That was a disappointment for mamma. He would have made such an aristocratic son-in-law."

"Gladys, it is very naughty of you to talk in that way."

"Now, Aldyth, you know it is true. Well, we have fresh schemes now. My mourning is to be slighted; mamma has bought me some charming grey and white gowns. We spent every penny of your cheque. There are to be dinner parties and tennis-parties and what not this summer. It is to be hoped they will have the desired result, and that I shall soon cease to be a pensioner on your bounty."

"How can you speak so!" said Aldyth, reproachfully. "It is unkind of you. As if I were not your sister! Gladys, promise me you will never allow any feeling of that kind to draw you into a marriage to which your heart does consent."

"You dear, romantic old thing!" cried Gladys, throwing arms about her sister and kissing her warmly. "No, I will promise nothing of the kind; it would not be fair to mamma." Suddenly relaxing her embrace, she ran off laughing.

At night, when Aldyth was helping her mother to undress, Mrs. Stanton said to her, "I wish you would stay with me to-night, Aldyth; I feel so nervous. I shall sleep better if I have a companion."

"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth, "that is easily arranged."

"I should like to have you always with me," said Mrs. Stanton, with more feeling than she often betrayed. "You must never leave me, Aldyth."

"I never will, if I can help it, mother dear."

"But perhaps you will marry, some day," said Mrs. Stanton, looking at her daughter.

"That is not likely, mamma."

"You have never seen any one for whom you could care?"

The colour rose in Aldyth's face, but she answered steadily, "I have not the least idea of marrying any one, mamma. All I want is to stay with you and take care of you."

Mrs. Stanton was content.

Aldyth had spoken in sincerity. Not that she had forgotten John Glynne. She could not wish to forget him. It would always be good to have known such a strong, true man. But she had resolutely striven to put from her any hope inspired by the memory of his parting words. The chance was so slight. He might never return; but if he did return, the circumstances of her life would still separate them. With her mother depending wholly upon her, the path of duty was plain; she could not turn aside from it, nor would she heed any selfish whisper that should suggest to her a happier way.

The springs were always cold at Woodham, but this season had more than its share of east wind. It was June ere the weather set in really warm. Mrs. Stanton grumbled continually at the climate, and really suffered from its severity. She was falling into a debilitated state of health, which rendered her very susceptible to chills. Aldyth did her best to relieve the gloom which weighed on her mother's mind. It seemed but a natural effect of the great change that had occurred in her life. Aldyth would remind herself of this when her mother was more than usually irritable and restless.

Mrs. Stanton could no longer reasonably complain of the dulness of her home. Visitors came frequently to Wyndham as the spring advanced. Mr. Greenwood found business to bring him to the Hall almost every week. It was discovered that the new tennis-ground at Wyndham was one of the best in the neighbourhood. Gladys, so pretty and gay, won admirers of both sexes, and had Aldyth been of a smaller nature she might have felt jealous of the amount of attention bestowed on her sister. Even as the heiress of Wyndham she had often to play a secondary part.

But Aldyth was not ambitious of social distinction, and the tennis-parties were spoiled for her by the thought of Kitty Bland, a champion player, lying helpless on her couch of pain. Aldyth spent many an hour with her friend, and Gladys too went frequently to see her. After that first meeting, Aldyth rarely saw Kitty give way to tears. Her cheerfulness was indeed a continual astonishment to Gladys. Gay, idle, as Gladys often appeared, Aldyth could perceive that she was not quite so thoughtless as she had been before Kitty's accident. The time spent with Kitty moved her to reflection. She gradually gained some insight into the secret of Kitty's brave endurance, with the result that she became dissatisfied with herself, and began to long for a higher life than the mere pursuit of pleasure which had hitherto contented her. Kitty's days of enforced idleness were not so fruitless as she imagined; she was exerting a lasting influence for good on other lives.

Spring gave place to summer, but Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not improve. She would exert herself and appear animated when visitors were present, but on their departure she sank back into a weary state of depression.

One evening Aldyth came back from a visit to Miss Lorraine, and found her mother alone in the drawing room. She had a book in her hand, but she was not reading, when Aldyth's sudden entrance caused her to start nervously. Aldyth sat down and began to draw off her gloves. She would enliven her mother with a piece of news she had learned. Clara Dawtrey was engaged to be married.

Miss Lorraine had told the news in her usual racy style, and Aldyth's eyes sparkled with fun as she recalled her aunt's words. She had not the least idea that Clara's engagement could make any difference to her.

"What is amusing you so, Aldyth?" her mother inquire in rather a fretful tone.

"I have heard some news," said Aldyth, nodding her head. "Who is engaged to be married, do you think?"

"Do not ask me to guess," said Mrs. Stanton, impatiently; "I hate guessing things."

"Well, then, it is Clara Dawtrey. As aunt says, 'her efforts are at last crowned with success.'"

"And who is the gentleman?"

"Oh, no one we know. A Mr. Gould, of London."

"What name did you say?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in such a quick, nervous tone that Aldyth looked at her in surprise.

"Gould is the name. He is a solicitor, and several years older than Clara. He is somehow connected with Essex, aunt says, and Clara Dawtrey told her that he had had some acquaintance with uncle."

"Uncle?" repeated Mrs. Stanton, feebly.

"Yes; Uncle Stephen, I mean. What is the matter, mamma? Do you know anything of this Mr. Gould?"

"Certainly not. How should I?" asked Mrs. Stanton, sharply, vexed with herself for betraying agitation.

"Something is the matter; you are feeling ill?" said Aldyth, rising, and looking anxiously at her mother's pallid, shrinking countenance.

"I am not well," said Mrs. Stanton, and a burst of tears relieved her. "My head aches. It is going to thunder, I believe. Yes, there must be thunder in the air."

"It does not feel to me like thunder-weather," said Aldyth, glancing at the sky.

But the storm Mrs. Stanton dreaded was of another kind. Gould. She could not mistake the name; it was too deeply impressed on her mind. She had read it on the hidden will. James Gould was the signature of one of the witnesses.

### CHAPTER XXX.

THE WRONG DISCLOSED.

"GOOD weather for the corn, Miss Aldyth, but not altogether comfortable for human beings."

The speaker was Mr. Ralph Greenwood, and he was alighting from a chaise at the entrance to Wyndham. Aldyth had just stepped into the road from a field to the left, and he chose to get down and walk with her.

"It is hot," said Aldyth, who, however, in her white and large hat looked by no means oppressed by the heat.

The broad flat fields were one blaze of sunlight, and only the faintest zephyr stirred the leaves. Aldyth smiled to see the little lawyer wiping his brow with an air of resignation. She was alone, save for her usual attendant, a beautiful Scotch collie.

"It was good of you to drive out on such a warm afternoon," she said; "there is no shade whatever along that road. But come this way; it is a nearer and pleasanter path to the house."

She opened a little gate into the grounds, and they followed a narrow, winding path through the shrubbery. The man in charge of the chaise drove slowly on along the carriage drive.

"Ah, this is pleasant," said Mr. Greenwood, recovering his usual brisk manner. "I have come, Miss Aldyth, because there is a little matter I must name to you."

"Oh, if it is business, please do not begin upon it till I have had a cup of tea," said Aldyth, imploringly; "this weather does not stimulate one's brains."

The lawyer laughed.

"Perhaps not," he said, "though your appearance gives a contrary impression. I feared my coming might rouse you from a siesta, but your energy is beyond everything. How many miles have you been walking in this fervent heat?"

"Not one," said Aldyth. "I have only been to the Cottage. A fresh party of girls came from London last evening. It is good to see their delight in the place. Despite the heat, it seems like a Paradise to them."

"They would hardly be conscious of the heat here after East London," he replied. "I shudder to think what those courts and alleys must be like on such a day as this. Then your plan is working well?"

"Yes, fairly well," said Aldyth. "Poor old Mrs. Dibbins was at first rather frightened of the girls, but she is learning how to manage them. They are rough, poor things; they have no idea of enjoying themselves quietly; but we shall tame them by degrees. I go down every day for a little while."

"It is very good of you," said Mr. Greenwood.

"No, it is not good," said Aldyth, shaking her head; "it is just my hobby. I can assure you few things have given me more pleasure than I have found in arranging this home. I am so glad I have the means of doing it."

"Then you have become reconciled to your riches?" he said, with one of his quick, shrewd glances.

"I believe so," said Aldyth, simply. "I value the power that money confers; I am afraid I should not like to lose it now."

"Strange things happen in life," observed the lawyer, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

His words had no particular significance for Aldyth. She supposed them to refer to her unexpected acquisition of the property. They were approaching the house. She led him across the lawn, and they entered by one of the drawing room windows.

Aldyth regretted the unceremonious entrance as she saw her mother rise, pale and dismayed, from the sofa. Yet Mrs. Stanton was not unprepared for visitors. She wore a black gown of some light diaphanous texture, elegantly made, and becoming well her tall, graceful form. She conquered her nervousness by an assumption of the most queenly dignity. Mr. Greenwood thought her demeanour absurdly "high and mighty;" but he was moved to pity by the look of suffering stamped on the pale, handsome features.

"This hot weather is trying you, I fear," he said, kindly. "You do not look strong."

"I am in my usual health, thank you," she replied, so haughtily that his remark seemed an impertinence.

"We must have some tea," said Aldyth, moving towards the bell; "that is what we want—Mr. Greenwood most of all, since he has driven along that hot, dusty road to speak with me on business."

"If it is business, I had better go," said Mrs. Stanton, half rising with a languid movement.

"Mamma!" cried Aldyth, reproachfully. "As if my business were not yours!"

Mrs. Stanton sank back into her place. She was longing yet dreading to hear the lawyer's business.

"It is nothing to make a mystery of," said Mr. Greenwood, in his easy, cheerful manner. "I only want Miss Aldyth to be kind enough to let me look through her uncle's papers once more. A curious fact has come to light."

The blood flew into Mrs. Stanton's face, her heart throbbed wildly, her breath came fast. What was he about to say?

"You have heard of Mr. Gould, Miss Dawtrey's fiancé? He is a solicitor, practising in London; his office is in Chancery Lane. Well, Mr. Guy Lorraine has lately made his acquaintance, and has heard from him a strange story. It seems that Mr. Stephen Lorraine, only a few months before his death—in April, I believe it was—went to London and called on him. He said he wished to make a will, and must have it drawn up at once, that he might sign it without delay. He gave certain clear, concise directions, and waited there in the office for three whole hours till the will was ready for his signature. Gould and his clerk were the witnesses. Mr. Lorraine insisted on carrying the will away with him. There was no time to make a copy."

"Then that was what brought uncle to London!" The words escaped Aldyth almost unawares.

"You knew of his being there?"

"Yes, I met him most unexpectedly in Oxford Street. I remember he had a small packet in his hand. He made me promise to tell no one of my meeting him—he did not want it talked about at Woodham."

"Ah, that was it," said the lawyer quickly; "he wanted to do it on the sly, without my knowing anything about it. He was ashamed to let me know that he had changed his mind. I had put things to him as strongly as I dared. But what a mistake it was! Why could he not have come to me, his own lawyer, and let me draw up another will for him?

"Now who is to say what has become of this last will? Did he change his mind a second time and destroy it, intending the former will to stand? Or have we overlooked this, his last will, and is it yet to be found? This is a vital question for you, Miss Aldyth. You understand, do you not, that the will by which you inherit was made in January of last year, and would be invalid if a later one were found?"

"I understand!" said Aldyth.

She was startled but not confused by the lawyer's words. In a moment her mind had grasped the whole situation. She saw all that it involved for Guy, for herself, for her mother. A few minutes before she had been rejoicing in the power her wealth gave her; now it seemed probable that the wealth had never been hers. Well, she had been happy without riches, and she could be happy without them again. Her mother would feel the change most.

For a few moments Aldyth dared not glance towards her mother; she wondered that no word or sound escaped her. Whilst these thoughts were passing through Aldyth's mind with lightning speed, the lawyer went on talking in courteously regretful tones.

"It is much to be deplored that there should be any question as to the validity of the will. Mr. Lorraine ought to have acquainted use with his intentions. It is a very awkward thing when a later will is discovered, after one has been proved and put into execution. Mr. Gould avers that this later will bequeathed Wyndham and most of the property to Mr. Guy Lorraine; he, naturally, is much excited by the intelligence. I told him I was sure you would have no objection to my instituting a thorough search for the missing document."

Aldyth's mind had taken a new flight during his deliberate utterances. She was recalling the words her uncle had said to her as they sat together in Hyde Park, recalling too the drear hour when she stood by his bedside, and he had vainly striven to say to her something which was believed to have reference to his will.

"Uncle did not destroy that will," she exclaimed aloud, in a tone of conviction; "it will be found somewhere in this house, I fully believe. Search for it by all means—search everywhere. How I wish we had known of it before!"

An exclamation from Mr. Greenwood startled her.

She turned to see her mother falling in a fainting fit to the floor.

During the next two hours, Aldyth had no thought of any one save her mother. Mrs. Stanton recovered from one swoon only to sink back into another. Her condition was so alarming that a messenger was despatched with all haste to seek the doctor.

Mr. Greenwood lingered in the drawing room, not knowing whether to go or to stay, and making vain offers of service to every one who came in his way, till Gladys took pity on him, and managed to get from Aldyth the keys of the library, after which he found plenty of occupation.

The medical man appeared to think seriously of Mrs. Stanton's condition. He inquired if she had sustained any shock that could account for it. It could hardly be called shock, Aldyth said; but she had heard what might well cause her anxiety. Perhaps, he suggested, it was the last of a series of mental disturbances—the "last straw" of the proverb. The symptoms indicated a shattered condition of the nerves and a complete prostration of strength. Aldyth could not say that her mother had of late had great worries; but she had certainly for some time seemed restless and unhappy, and doubtless the loss of her husband and the ruin of his firm were sufficient cause.

It was evening ere Aldyth found leisure to go down stairs and see what Mr. Greenwood was doing. She found him in the library. He had thoroughly ransacked the bureau, and in doing so had discovered the secret recess.

"Look!" he said, as he pointed it out to her. "This was what led me to the discovery. The third drawer was unlocked; it would not quite close. I searched for the cause, and saw this bit of white stuff caught at the back. Pulling out the drawer to free it, I saw a little nick in the wood, which let me into the secret of the hollow beyond. Now, that piece of stuff was never worn by Stephen Lorraine. Some one has been prying here. Was it one of the servants, do you think?"

"No," said Aldyth. "Mrs. Rogers kept the keys; she would not let one of the servants have them; and my trust in her is absolute."

"Yes?" said the lawyer, with a rather dubious air.

Aldyth bent to examine the fragment of linen. It was of the finest lawn, apparently torn from a frill, such as her mother had been wont to wear in the sleeves of her crape gown. Aldyth's colour rose with the thought. Various possibilities suggested themselves to her mind. She could not have told why it was, but from that moment, the idea that her mother was concealing some knowledge of the later will took possession of Aldyth's mind, and refused to be dislodged. She turned to Mr. Greenwood, speaking rather tremulously—

"Mrs. Rogers had nothing to do with this, I feel certain; but I will make inquiries, I will try to ascertain if any one has been to the bureau."

"It will be well, to do so," he replied.

"Will you search further to-night?" she asked.

"No, not now. I must be getting home," he said.

"You will have some dinner before you start?"

"No, thank you, I must not stay. Mrs. Greenwood will be expecting me. I shall be out again in a day or two. Mrs. Stanton will be better then, I trust."

"I hope so," Aldyth said. "But I feel uneasy, her pulse is so high."

It was indeed many days ere Mrs. Stanton could be pronounced on the way to recovery. She developed a kind of low fever, and though her life was never in actual danger, her condition was such that Aldyth suffered much anxiety.

Part of the time she was delirious, and the words she uttered in her delirium seemed to confirm the painful impression Aldyth had received. Something evidently weighed on the mind of the patient, something she was anxious to conceal.

Was it a wrong done to Guy, that his name was so often on her lips, uttered in tones of aversion and dread? What was it that she persistently declared to be "no crime under the circumstances?"

Crime! The word thrilled Aldyth with horror. Could it possibly be that her mother had destroyed the will by which Guy should have inherited Wyndham? Aldyth could not seriously entertain the idea, and yet the fear haunted her. Miserable was her anxiety and suspense as she watched beside her mother's bed, performing every duty with the tenderest care. The very thought of her inheritance had become a torture to her. What if she had no right to the home she occupied? What if she were daily spending money that was not hers?

Meanwhile search had been made throughout the house, in every possible and impossible place, for the missing will. Only the sick-room had not been searched. Aldyth longed for the day when she might satisfy herself with regard to that, but it would have been impossible for her to look through drawers and cupboards without her mother's permission.

The fever passed, but left the patient so reduced in strength, that her progress towards convalescence was of the slowest. Mind as well as body was sadly depressed. Aldyth did not need the doctor's hint to convince her that there was a burden on her mother's mind which retarded her recovery.

In vain Aldyth tried to discover its nature. It was impossible to give help whilst confidence was resolutely withheld. Mrs. Stanton never alluded to the lawyer's visit, nor inquired the result of his search. She might have forgotten all about it, yet Aldyth felt sure that she had not. Was not this the cause of her deep-drawn sighs, her weary movements, and the sleeplessness which defied the doctor's drugs?

One warm afternoon, Mrs. Stanton lay on the couch in her bedroom.

"We shall soon have you down stairs now, mamma," Aldyth had said, as she helped her into her dressing-gown.

But her mother only shook her head and sighed. The thought of resuming her old life was distasteful to her. She had taken a dislike to Wyndham, and her strongest desire at the present moment was to escape from the place. Yet her heart clung to the comforts and luxuries which Aldyth's inheritance had secured for her.

"It is very warm," she murmured, presently. "Where is that palm-leaf fan, Aldyth? It is lighter to hold than this one."

"I could not find it yesterday," Aldyth replied; "perhaps it is in the wardrobe."

She opened the doors as she spoke.

The next minute, Mrs. Stanton saw with a thrill of dread that Aldyth had mounted a chair, and was searching on the top shelf of the wardrobe. A hectic colour suddenly glowed in the cheeks of the invalid; her voice was sharp to shrillness, as she exclaimed—

"What are you doing, Aldyth? You will not find it there. Come down at once; you know I cannot bear people to turn over my things."

Startled by her mother's manner, Aldyth sprang down. "Why, mamma, I was doing no harm," she said; "there is hardly anything on that shelf except your travelling desk."

A shudder ran through Mrs. Stanton's weakened frame. She was ashamed to meet her daughter's eyes, full of wonder at her excessive agitation.

Aldyth's glance was penetrating; she half read, half guessed the cause of that agitation. Hence her next remark—"Mamma, I may soon have to ask you to let me look through your wardrobe and drawers."

"What do you mean?"

"I promised Mr. Greenwood I would look everywhere for that will. Do you remember about it?"

For a few moments Mrs. Stanton could not reply. Her face grew ashy white to the very lips. Then she rallied herself to utter the retort, "What right has he or any one to suppose that it can be amongst my things? That wardrobe contains only what is mine."

"He supposes nothing of the kind," said Aldyth; "I only want, for my own satisfaction, to be able to assure him that the will is nowhere in the house."

Mrs. Stanton's lips moved, but no sound passed them. She could not utter the untrue word. Something within her said that it was vain to struggle longer; further concealment was impossible. Yet she shrank from the disclosure that must be made.

"Mother, do you know anything about this will?"

Mrs. Stanton covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Mamma! Then it is so. Tell me—where is it?"

No reply. Mrs. Stanton began to sob.

"Mamma, I must know." There was sternness in Aldyth's voice now. "You have not destroyed the will?"

"No, no; not that!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "Nothing so bad as that. You will think it very wrong, I know; but I did it for the best."

"What did you do for the best?" asked Aldyth, trying hard to control herself, but with an inevitable hardness in her manner. "You found the will, I suppose. What have you done with it?"

"Yes, I found it," sobbed Mrs. Stanton, "and I have not had a happy moment since. It is up there, Aldyth. You were near it just now. In the travelling desk."

In another minute, Aldyth had the desk in her hands.

Directed by her mother, she found the key and opened the desk. There was the will, and a glance assured Aldyth it was the one that Mr. Gould had drawn up for her uncle.

"How long is it since you found this?" Aldyth inquired.

"Oh, a long time ago," sobbed Mrs. Stanton. "Aldyth, don't look at me like that. It cannot matter so very much."

"I must know when," said Aldyth, firmly.

"Well, then, it was the day after I came to Wyndham. Mrs. Rogers gave me the keys, and I thought I would amuse myself by looking through the bureau. It was in a secret recess behind some drawers. Oh, I wish I had never found it! It made me miserable."

"Wish rather that you had never concealed it," cried Aldyth, unable to suppress her indignation. "How could you bear to go on living so for nearly a year, living in a home which does not belong to us, on an income to which we have no right, living like common thieves and swindlers?"

"Aldyth, how can you speak so!"

"I cannot gloss it over, mamma," said Aldyth, coldly. "It was an act of dishonesty, look at it how you will. Guy was kept out of his property. But there shall be an end to it."

"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in a frightened tone, as Aldyth turned to quit the room.

"I shall send for Guy at once that he may hear what you have told me."

"Not from me!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "I could not tell him. And there is surely no need to tell him everything. It is enough that the will is found."

"It is not enough," said Aldyth, decidedly. "Guy has a right to know all. Nothing can justify further concealment. If I were you, I would make a full confession to him."

"That I can never do," sobbed her mother. "I could not bear the shame, the exposure."

"Then I will tell him," said Aldyth. "It may not be necessary for others to know, but I must insist upon Guy's being told all."

"You are unkind to me, Aldyth!" cried her mother, passionately. "You do not care how much I suffer."

The words smote Aldyth. Was her proud sense of the wrong done to herself as well as to Guy rendering her pitiless? She remembered her mother's weakness, her recent illness, and the doctor's fear of a relapse, all the suffering which her sin had caused her. She went back and spoke in a softer tone as she bent over her mother.

"Forgive me, mamma, if I seem harsh and cruel. You do not know what this is to me. I would not for the world have had you act so. But it cannot be helped now, and you have suffered greatly. It only remains for us to do all in our power to make amends to Guy. And we must begin by full confession. There is no other way to peace for those who have sinned. It is when we confess and forsake our sin that we find mercy."

"I never meant to do anything so very bad," sobbed Mrs. Stanton; "but I thought it would be so dreadful for us all to be poor. Gladys's prospects would be ruined, and Cecil's education stopped. I am sure I did it for the best."

Aldyth's face grew stern again.

"It can never be well, to do what is wrong," she said, abruptly. Then, feeling that words were of little use, she left the room, carrying the will with her.

Gladys was not to be found, so she sent Mrs. Rogers to take care of her mother, and sat down to write a few lines to Guy. They were quickly written and the note despatched.

Aldyth breathed more freely when this was done. She went to her room, and the first thing which met her eyes was the portrait of her mother, on which her affection had feasted through the long years of absence. Mrs. Stanton's wan, wasted countenance of to-day had little resemblance to the lovely contour of the photograph; and no less a contrast did her mother's character, as Aldyth now knew it, present to that of the ideal mother whom Aldyth had worshipped in her heart through all those years.

Ah, the pity of it! Aldyth's heart throbbed with pain as those fancies of the past came back to her recognized as illusions. It was her mother who had done this wrong, this dishonourable action. With what a burning sense of shame and degradation Aldyth realized the truth! She had not dreamed that she would ever be called to share the burden of her mother's sin. It pressed upon her cruelly. She felt as if she were the guilty one. How could she confess to Guy the wrong that had been done him? It was useless to ask. There was no evading the task, and she summoned all her resolution for performance of the painful duty.

### CHAPTER XXXI.

HOW GUY WAS PACIFIED.

GUY LORRAINE was filled with wonder as he read Aldyth's brief note—

"DEAR Guy,—Will you call to see me as early as possible to-morrow? A fact has come to my knowledge which is of importance to you, and you should know it without delay.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"ALDYTH."

His mind being much occupied with the subject of his uncle's will, his first guess touched the truth. Had another will come to light? His face flushed with pleasure at the thought.

He lost no time in obeying the summons. The morning was still fresh as he rode through the country lanes to Wyndham. His mind dwelt pleasantly on the change that the day's news might possibly create in his life. He was in such good humour that he indulged in some prospective pity for Aldyth, and resolved that if the case were as he supposed, he would deal generously with her and her family.

And Gladys—his heart beat faster at the thought—how would such a change affect his position towards her? It might be that the Stanton family need not be entirely losers by this turn of fortune.

Arriving at the Hall, he was ushered into the empty drawing room. The open windows gave a pleasant view of the sunlit lawn. Gladys's music was scattered untidily on the grand piano, her fan lay on a chair, and he spied, too, the quaint little bag in which she kept a pretence of fancy work. His quick eyes had but time to note these ere Aldyth entered.

She was very pale; her eyes had the strained look of sleeplessness, her expression was anxious. It struck Guy that Aldyth was losing her good looks; she looked older; her charms would not bear comparison with those of Gladys. Then he saw what her left hand held, and his heart leaped within him.

"Good morning, Guy," said Aldyth, without giving him her hand; "I am glad you came at once."

"You have news for me."

"Yes," said Aldyth, her lips trembling nervously, "I have a painful confession to make. We have wronged you sadly, Guy. We had no right to live at Wyndham; it was never mine. Here is uncle's latest will."

"You have found it!" he exclaimed with eagerness.

He took it from her and unfolded it with trembling hands. The colour rose in his face as he read. Aldyth, watching him, saw with a sinking heart that he had failed to take in the meaning of her words. All he had grasped was the fact of his heirship. At last he turned to her, his face glowing with a satisfaction he vainly tried to veil.

"This is a strange turning of the tables, Aldyth."

"Yes," she said uneasily.

He could not wonder that she looked ill and troubled. It was hard on her, of course. Yet in truth she had given no thought to the considerations which he imagined must disturb her. "I am sorry for your sake, Aldyth."

"Oh, do not be sorry for me," she said; "at least not till you know all."

"Ah, by the by, how did you find this? Mr. Greenwood assured me he had searched everywhere."

Aldyth was silent. Her face grew colourless. She could not bring herself to say, "It was found in my mother's bedroom, where she had concealed it."

Guy looked at her in amazement. "Where was it, Aldyth? Why do you not speak?"

"Because it hurts me to speak," she said unsteadily. "Yet it is right that you should know all. Guy, I told you I had a confession to make. You have been greatly wronged. The will has been kept back. Do you understand?"

"Kept back," he repeated, his manner changing. "Do you mean to tell me that this will has been deliberately suppressed? Who has dared to do such a thing?"

Aldyth could not answer. Her hands were tightly clasped before her. She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to beg for pity. But her silence only angered him.

"Aldyth, I insist upon knowing all. Who has dared to fool me thus? Do you not know that it is a deed that the law can punish? And whoever has done this thing—Tomlinson, Greenwood, whoever it is—I will have justice."

"Oh, Guy, do not say that!"

"I do say it, and I mean it too. Tell me all, if you please."

"I am trying to tell you. The will was found last September."

"September! And this is August. Who found it? Ah, you do not answer! Aldyth, have you been conspiring to keep me out of my property? I could never have believed it of you, though I know a woman's conscience is elastic."

"Guy! How dare you traduce our sex in that way!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly entering by the open window, her hands full of flowers.

She knew nothing of the cause of Guy's early visit. Aldyth had shrunk from informing her of their mother's wrong-doing. If she supposed the words she overheard to be playfully spoken, she was undeceived when she saw Guy's angry countenance, and Aldyth, standing before him, pale, trembling, with drooping head.

"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You two are never quarrelling! Aldyth, my own dear Aldyth, tell me what it is."

At the sound of her voice, Aldyth's composure gave way. She sank on to a couch and began to sob.

Gladys turned haughtily to Guy. "Perhaps you will give me an explanation of this extraordinary scene. I should like to know how you could think of addressing such words to my sister, as those I chanced to overhear."

Guy's colour deepened now from embarrassment. He shrank from Gladys's flashing eyes. It was like a bad dream to find himself in antagonism to her. But something forced him to answer sullenly—

"You are probably unaware of what has just been revealed to me. Here is a will, bearing my uncle's signature, duly attested, by which he left me Wyndham and most of his property. This will some dishonourable person found so long ago as last September, but has judged it her interest to conceal until now, and doubtless would have concealed it longer had not Gould put me on the scent by informing me that uncle had made a later will."

Gradually Gladys took in the meaning of his words. They caused her a shock of surprise, but she recovered herself and said—

"You cannot mean to insinuate that Aldyth is that dishonourable person! I am ashamed of you if you have entertained such a thought for a moment—you who have known Aldyth all your life."

"I do not say it was she," replied Guy awkwardly; "but I should like to know who did it."

Gladys threw herself on the sofa beside her sister.

"Aldyth, dear, tell me," she murmured, her lips close to Aldyth's face, "tell me all about it. Never mind him—he is horrid; whisper it to me."

"Oh, Gladys, can you not guess?"

"Guess what?"

"It was mamma who found the will—and hid it."

A change came over Gladys. Her colour faded; the lines of her face hardened.

"I might have known," she muttered, beneath her breath. Then she rose and stood before Guy. "You may despise me as much as you like," she said, "but not Aldyth. It is our mother who has tried to keep you out of your property—our mother, I say; but she is more mine than Aldyth's. We are of one kind—capable of any meanness. She has robbed you, and doubtless she would say she did it for my sake. Oh, we are a bad lot!"

"Gladys!"

"I mean it. You may heap any disgrace you like on us, only spare Aldyth. It is her misfortune to be connected with us."

Here Gladys's voice faltered. It was rarely she gave way to tears, but now she sank on to a chair, and hot tears of shame and sorrow rained down her checks.

The effect on Guy was electrical. In a moment, he was beside her, uttering passionate words. "Gladys, how can you speak of disgrace! There shall be none; no one shall ever know. Do you think I cannot, for your dear sake, forgive your mother any wrong she has done me? Despise you, indeed, when I love you like my life! Only say that you will share everything with me, and trust to me that all shall be well."

"No, Guy; not now," said Gladys, gently pushing him from her. "Mother would never have let me whilst you had only the farm, and now—now I cannot. I will not have it said that I changed my mind because Wyndham turned out to be yours."

"Would it be a change of mind?" Guy was happily inspired to ask. "Were you quite indifferent to me before? Darling, give me the right to call you my own, and we can keep our own counsel about Wyndham for the present. If you can love me, what does it matter how people talk?"

"You are very good; we do not deserve—" Gladys began.

But her lover would not listen to such words.

Meanwhile Aldyth had vanished, and neither of the two knew at what moment she slipped away.

As soon as she had regained composure, Aldyth went to her mother's room.

Mrs. Stanton's face wore an expression of pain. She looked anxiously at her daughter, saying only—

"Well!"

"I have told him," Aldyth replied. "It was hard, but—I felt—not undeserved. He was, of course, very indignant."

"Ah, what did he say? Will he turn us out at once?"

"I think not; his feelings were softened when I came away. Gladys was with him, and—I think—I suppose, mamma, you would not object to him as a suitor for Gladys now?" Almost involuntarily Aldyth's voice took an inflection of scorn as she asked the question; but Mrs. Stanton did not appear conscious of it, as she replied calmly—

"Certainly not: it would be the best thing possible under the circumstances."

Guy succeeded in overcoming Gladys's scruples, for in a few days the fact of their betrothal was the talk of Woodham. The more momentous news concerning the inheritance of Wyndham was for a time known only to Mr. Ralph Greenwood and his brother, the banker; but the legal processes which had to be taken rendered it impossible to keep the matter a secret long.

Great was the excitement it created amongst Aldyth's friends. The Blands at first refused to believe that it was more than an idle rumour; but they soon heard it confirmed by Aldyth herself.

"Yes, it is true," she said one afternoon, as she joined the group on the lawn in Mrs. Bland's garden, "it is true; I am no longer the mistress of Wyndham."

It was late in September, but the afternoon was warm and bright as that on which our story began. The garden was still gay with flowers; there were even a few late roses to be seen here and there. Kitty's conch had been wheeled on to the lawn, and she lay in the shade of an old apple-tree. Gwendolen, now finally released from her boarding-school, was lounging in the hammock; Hilda sat by Kitty, with a book on her lap, from which she had been reading aloud; Mrs. Bland, knitting in hand, was also seated near.

All faces turned with keen interest to Aldyth as she appeared. Hilda sprang to meet her. No question was asked; Aldyth's words were uttered in response to their eager glances.

"You are our own dear Aldyth, whatever has happened," said Mrs. Bland, as she warmly kissed her.

"But I am very sorry, Aldyth," said Hilda, in a commiserating tone; "I am indeed."

"Don't be sorry for me," said Aldyth, briskly, "I am not altogether sorry myself. If the truth had come to light a few weeks after I entered upon my inheritance, I should have been really glad. But now, of course, there are many things to regret. I wish, oh, I wish very much that I had known earlier!" She ended with a sigh.

"How was the will found, Aldyth?" asked Gwendolen, full of curiosity. "Is it true that it was in a secret drawer of old Mr. Lorraine's desk?"

"It was in a secret compartment of my uncle's bureau," Aldyth said, and moved, as she spoke, to Kitty's side, to ask how she was, and to express pleasure at finding her in the garden.

"Yes, it is good to be here," said Kitty, her face serene and bright; "I never loved our dear old garden as I do now. Sometimes I feel as if I wanted to kiss the flowers, they look so kindly at me—as if they were blooming just for me. Oh, I cannot tell you the good flowers do me; I could almost say they talk to me, Aldyth, for there is a language of flowers. I do not mean the silly meanings sentimental persons attach to certain flowers. What I want to say, if only I knew how to express it, is that flowers have a way of speaking to the heart."

"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,"

repeated Aldyth.

"Yes, that expresses it. Wordsworth understood the language of flowers. Do you remember his lines to the daisy?—

"'When smitten by the morning ray
I see thee rise, alert and gay:
Then, cheerful flower, my spirits play
With kindred gladness;
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.'

"Now look at that cluster of Michaelmas daisies: have they not an air of cheerfulness?"

"They have indeed," said Aldyth, smiling; "but, Kitty, it is something new to hear you quoting poetry."

"I dare say it is; but I am learning to appreciate Wordsworth. Hilda and I are studying literature together. I should not wonder if I were to become intellectual after all," said Kitty, with a merry light in her eyes.

"Kitty is finding what precious companions books can be," said Hilda. "There is nothing like them for lifting us out of ourselves, and helping us through weary hours."

"Oh, but they do more than that," said Aldyth. "The best literature helps us in a higher way than by simply making us forget our troubles. It teaches truths that inspire us with strength and courage to endure."

"You are right," said Kitty. "Aldyth, dear, I can see that you have needed that kind of help of late. There is a shadow on your face that tells tales."

"I have had many worries," said Aldyth, colouring.

"You must have had," said Mrs. Bland. "Your mother will feel this change very much."

"She does," said Aldyth, looking grave. "She is still far from strong, and that perhaps makes her more low-spirited than she would otherwise be."

"Have you made any plans yet?"

"Only for the immediate future. We all go to London on Saturday, to stay some weeks. There is Gladys's trousseau to be seen to, you know. Then mamma would like to go to Brighton for a while."

"To Brighton!" said Hilda. "That is where Mr. Greenwood talks of going."

"I know," said Aldyth. "I believe he suggested it to mamma."

Kitty and her mother exchanged quick glances.

"When will the wedding be?" asked Gwen.

"Some time before Christmas," said Aldyth. "We are to return to Wyndham for the wedding, as Guy wishes it to take place there. So you see we shall break off our connection with the Hall by degrees. I must say that Guy has behaved most kindly, most generously, in the whole affair. I have reason to be very grateful to him."

Aldyth spoke with unwonted emphasis. It seemed to her due to Guy, whom she had often disparaged, that she should make this statement which meant so much more to her than it could to those who heard it.

"I should think he ought to behave well to you!" cried Gwen. "He is one of the family now, since he is going to marry your sister."

A quick thought made Aldyth glance at Hilda. Her face showed no sign of disturbance. If the thought of the approaching wedding gave her pain, she was well able to hide the feeling. Presently she rose, and calling Gwen to help her, went into the house to prepare the afternoon tea. Kitty's eyes followed her lovingly, as she said in a low tone to Aldyth—

"Is not Hilda good and brave now? I am sure she must feel Guy's ready transference of his affections, but she will not let it depress her. Oh, she is becoming a grand girl."

"I know a grander," said Aldyth, bending to kiss her friend. "Dear Kitty, you gather so much brightness about your couch that we are apt to forget what it must mean for you."

"It means good," said Kitty, brightly. "Yes, indeed it is not so bad as you think; I will not be persuaded that I am a pitiable object."

Aldyth smiled as she turned away.

A pitiable object indeed! Kitty was rather one to be envied. She had learned the hardest lesson life can teach us—that of resignation, and had won the peace which is the reward of such attainment. Kitty had never been able to talk cleverly about poetry, she had seemed insensible to its beauties, but now she was making of her own life a poem.

### CHAPTER XXXII.

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.

"ALDYTH, I want to have a talk with you," said Gladys, that night, following Aldyth into her room as they were about to retire to rest; "I hope you are not very sleepy."

"I am not," said Aldyth, who of late had been driven to woo sleep with no happier result than usually attends such wooings; "let us talk by all means."

She drew forward the easiest chair for Gladys, who was never indifferent to her personal comfort, then seated herself by her sister's side, looking down admiringly on the pretty, flossy hair and the flushed cheek that rested against the chintz cushions. Gladys looked so bright and happy. She was well content with the prospect before her.

The girl who had entered with zest into the gaieties of town life, and won admiration in crowded assemblies, had adapted herself with remarkable ease to a country life. She had no illusions concerning the man she had promised to marry; but she had a genuine affection for him, nevertheless. She knew he was not heroic; had he been, he would probably not have suited her so well. They had kindred tastes, and Guy's easy good nature could be trusted to yield to her wishes when they did not exactly coincide with his own. Gladys would in all likelihood get her own way in the future as completely as she had in the past; but Guy would be quite happy in following her lead. Aldyth saw this with satisfaction.

"I have been talking with Guy about your home, Aldyth," Gladys said, "and he agrees with me that it must not be given up. He says that as long as the plan works well, and the girls behave themselves, the Cottage shall be used for no other purpose."

"That is very good of Guy, and good of you, Gladys," said Aldyth, flushing with pleasure. The thought that she would no longer be able to maintain this country home for her working girls had caused her much regret.

"It is not good at all; I shall never be good like you, Aldyth, though I mean to try," said Gladys, wistfully. "I want you to tell me how you manage, and I will try to do all I can for the girls. And if you will give me the address, I will send some flowers to London, whenever they are sufficiently plentiful."

"Oh, thank you!" said Aldyth, delighted. "That is very kind. You shall come with me to the Cottage to-morrow, if you like; and I will show you the little things I always look after myself. But the chief thing is to speak a kind word to the girls, and make them feel that they have a friend in you. That is not difficult."

"Not to you, perhaps; but I doubt if I can act such a part," said Gladys, shrugging her shoulders.

"Don't act it, be it," said Aldyth. "Begin to serve, and you will soon find it easy to love those you serve."

"Shall I?" said Gladys. "Well, I mean to try. You have often made me feel how selfish and useless a life I led—you and Kitty Bland. I am ashamed of myself when I see Kitty so brave and cheerful, thinking ever of others."

"You are learning to think of others," Aldyth said.

"I hope so," Gladys said; "but perhaps it is only a whim of mine, and I shall fall back into the old ways after a bit."

"You must not let it be a whim, Gladys."

"I'll try my best," said Gladys; "but, Aldyth, I hope you will still be able to do a good deal for the Home yourself. I hope you will not go far off. Have you any idea where you and mamma will live?"

"Not the least," said Aldyth.

She had tried more than once to approach the subject with her mother, but Mrs. Stanton had always evaded it.

"Well, perhaps it is best to leave it for the present," Gladys said. "You must come and see me very often. I shall want your help if I am to become a better woman."

"It is not my help you want, Gladys. The secret of a true life is to be found here, and God will give His help to all who ask it."

As she spoke, Aldyth laid her hand on the small neatly-bound copy of the New Testament that lay on her table. Gladys's face grew strangely grave. There was an earnest look in her blue eyes as she turned them on Aldyth. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then Gladys rose to say good-night. No other word was spoken, but the heart of each was thrilled with a new happiness as they clasped each other warmly ere they parted.

A few days later, Aldyth, her mother, and sister were in London. Visits to shops, dressmakers, and milliners filled up most of their time. Mrs. Stanton had agreed with Aldyth as to the necessity of making the preparations for Gladys's wedding as simple as possible, but it was evident that her idea of simplicity differed widely from that of Aldyth. She was driven to wonder uneasily how the bills were to be met which her mother ran up without the least hesitation. She could not but be aware that it would be a very difficult matter for her mother to keep her expenditure within the limits of the small income that was all Aldyth could now command—the interest of the six thousand pounds her uncle had bequeathed to her in his later will.

Aldyth was met by many practical difficulties as she tried to plan out their future. What was to be done with Nelly? She would leave school at Christmas, but she was too young and in no way suited to take the post of a governess. There seemed no possibility now of her having the art training on which her heart was set. Guy had promised to extend a helping hand to Cecil till he could stand alone, but it was not to be expected that he would do anything for Nelly. The main burden of anxiety seemed to rest on Aldyth. Mrs. Stanton complained and lamented, but never really pondered the problem of the future. And whilst Aldyth worried herself over ways and means, her mother calmly decided that the state of her health rendered it imperative that they should spend a few weeks at Brighton before they returned to Wyndham.

It was whilst at Brighton that Aldyth, taking up the "Times" one morning, saw an announcement which thrilled her heart with sympathetic pain. Mrs. Glynne was dead. Aldyth had not known her, but her aunt's account of her old friend and her simple, happy home at Highgate, as well as John Glynne's words respecting his mother, had conveyed to her mind a very vivid impression. It was almost like losing a personal friend. It grieved her to think of the sorrow of the bereaved. What a blow it would be to John Glynne! Was the mail carrying him the melancholy news, or had he heard of his mother's critical state in time to hasten to her side and receive her last farewell? His quiet, undemonstrative demeanour hid a heart of rare warmth and tenderness. Aldyth knew him well enough to know something of the strength of his love for his mother, and how deeply he would feel parting with her. She longed for fuller information than was afforded by the bare newspaper paragraph, but the longing remained unsatisfied, for, strange to say, Miss Lorraine in her letters made no allusion to her friend's death.

Towards the end of November Aldyth was again at Wyndham, and ere the month was out, Gladys's wedding took place. A simple wedding it was said to be, but it was a simplicity which required the richest white satin and the daintiest etcæteras. Mrs. Stanton could never have forgiven herself if she had allowed Gladys to be married in a common fashion.

The good people at Woodham appreciated the spectacle prepared for their delectation, and many were of opinion that a handsomer bridegroom or a prettier bride had never crossed the threshold of the parish church. Aldyth and Nelly were the bridesmaids, and looked exceedingly well in their cream cashmere and rose colour. But perhaps the most impressive figure in the little group gathered in the chancel was that of Mrs. Stanton. The strong sea air had driven away every trace of her illness; her fine form, her handsome features, her masses of silvery hair had never looked more imposing, and she bore herself with even more them her usual grace and dignity. Robed in silver-grey silk and wearing a bonnet of the same delicate hue, it was remarked that she looked almost like a bride herself. Perhaps it was soon to lay aside her widow's mourning, but a daughter's wedding was an exceptional occurrence.

The church bells clanged joyously throughout the day; but by four o'clock the excitement at Wyndham was over, and the happy pair had driven away to catch the London express. The usual sense of blankness which follows the departure of the bride made itself felt. Aldyth strove with the feeling, but it was inevitable that the parting with her sister and the ending of her brief experience of home life should cause her keen regret. No plan for the future had as yet been determined on. The time had come when her mother could no longer refuse to discuss the matter. Something must be decided.

Not till night came could Aldyth secure a quiet talk with her mother. A few of the guests were persuaded to spend the evening at the Hall. Mr. Greenwood and Miss Lorraine were the last to leave, the banker having offered that lady a seat in his brougham. Miss Lorraine drew her niece aside for a moment in the hall.

"Ah, Aldyth," she said, tenderly, "I can see how you feel losing Gladys and—all these changes. But you will try to make the best of things, and remember there is always a home for you with me whenever you want one."

Aldyth smiled and thanked her; but she wondered at her aunt's words. How could she want a home? Her home must be with her mother, and she hardly supposed that Miss Lorraine would be willing to receive them both for an indefinite period.

But the future was to take a form of which she had never dreamed.

As soon as the guests were gone, Mrs. Stanton dismissed Nelly to bed, then calling Aldyth to her, she said, with rather a nervous smile—

"Let us have a talk, Aldyth. Now the wedding is over, we can think of our own affairs."

"Willingly," said Aldyth, stirring up the fire and preparing for a cosy time. "Have you thought where you would like to live, mamma?"

"Well, hardly," said Mrs. Stanton, fingering nervously the gold bracelet which adorned her arm. "To tell the truth, some one has thought of that for me. You will be surprised when you hear what I have to tell you."

"You are not thinking of going to Melbourne again?" asked Aldyth, the thought suggesting itself that her mother might wish to return to the place where so many years of her life had been passed, and where was her late husband's grave.

"Oh no," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "what could make you say that? I suppose it is my fate to live at Woodham, for the fact is, Aldyth, I am going to marry Mr. Greenwood."

"Mamma!"

"Yes, it is true. Of course you are surprised. I felt certain you would be. But I believe I am acting for the best."

Aldyth was more than surprised, she was astounded. She could hardly believe her ears. And yet perhaps she should not have been so much surprised. Mr. Greenwood had been a frequent visitor at Wyndham; they had seen much of him at Brighton; she had often thought with pity of his dreary life in that large empty house. She had heard people say that he would do well to marry again. No, it was not altogether surprising; still, the possibility of her mother's contracting a third marriage had never crossed her mind.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Aldyth?"

"I hardly know what to say, mamma, I am so surprised."

"It is surely not an unheard-of thing," said Mrs. Stanton, in an aggrieved tone. "You might be glad. Mr. Greenwood is so kind, so generous. He is most anxious to receive us all into his home. He is very fond of you. He said especially that he hoped you would live there."

"He is very kind; but I could not do that," said Aldyth, quickly.

The banker was her dear old friend, yet she felt a singular dislike to the idea suggested.

"Why not?" asked her mother, with a frown. "You do not think what you are refusing—such a comfortable home, and he would be ready to indulge you in every way."

"I know he is very kind," said Aldyth; "but, mamma, when you cease to want me, I would rather go back to auntie. There is a home for me with her."

Mrs. Stanton was silent, pondering this proposition. On the whole, it commended itself to her.

"Well, it will be a good home for Nelly," she said, presently. "Mr. Greenwood will give her every advantage. She will be able to paint to her heart's content."

Yes, it might prove a happy thing for Nelly. Aldyth could see that; she could see all the attractions that this new scheme of the future must have for her mother. Perhaps she ought to be glad, but she could not be glad yet; she was half-stunned, and there was a dull pain at her heart.

"Are you vexed about it, Aldyth?"

"No, mamma, not vexed, I think; but I can't get over my surprise all at once."

"You will hardly get over it, I fear, before the prospect is realized," said her mother, with rather a forced laugh; "it would be foolish in our case to make much to do about it. We are to be married in London, in three weeks' time, and shall spend the winter in the south of France. Mr. Greenwood thinks that after my illness, I should not risk the cold of Woodham. I told Gladys of our plans, but I thought you had better not know till her wedding was over."

Mrs. Stanton spoke rapidly, being anxious to get through with all it was necessary to say.

Aldyth heard her with increased astonishment and some bitterness of feeling. Whilst she had been burdened with anxiety for the future, this plan had been her mother's cherished secret. It was a plan in which she had no part. Her mother's marriage, it seemed to her, must exclude her, to a great extent, from her mother's life. She was no longer to be her mother's guardian, she would hardly be needed by her mother now. She felt that she was thrust on one side.

"Will you not kiss me and wish me happiness?" asked Mrs. Stanton, when the silence between them was growing painful.

"Certainly, mamma; I wish you happiness now and always," said Aldyth, kissing her gravely.

Then she went away, and Mrs. Stanton breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that she had got through the disagreeable task of telling Aldyth.

Aldyth profited by her aunt's advice, and tried to make the best of this most unexpected turn of affairs. She hid the pain she felt, being aware that most persons would have judged that she had no cause for pain.

Even Mrs. Bland and Kitty, who could enter into her feelings as no other friends could, were inclined to think the event a fortunate one for Aldyth. As wife of the wealthy banker, her mother would have a position entirely to her mind. Such a home as Aldyth's limited means could provide would never have pleased her. But they breathed no hint of this to Aldyth. They knew too well how her heart clung to her mother with a love which still, in spite of every shock it had met, strove to excuse and, if possible, veil her cold selfishness and sad lack of principle.

Nelly received the news cheerfully. She liked Mr. Greenwood, and could look forward to the new home life. She was charmed to find that her future stepfather shared her enthusiasm for art, and delighted beyond measure when he promised that she should study at South Kensington. It was arranged that she should at once be enrolled as a student in the Art School, and should reside with friends in London till Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood returned from their sojourn abroad. And Miss Lorraine, with no slight satisfaction, looked forward to Aldyth's again making her home with her at Myrtle Cottage.

The New Year was not many days old when Aldyth returned to Woodham. She had seen her mother married at a West-end church, in all the glory of her silver-grey robe, surrounded by a little knot of well-wishing friends. She had bidden her a hurried farewell ere she drove away with her husband to Charing Cross, and then Aldyth and her sister had returned to the home of the friends with whom Nelly was to spend the next few months. Aldyth had yielded to their persuasions, warmly seconded by Nelly, to spend Christmas with them, and the season had not passed unhappily.

Now she came back to take up once more the old dropped threads of her former life at Woodham.

It so happened that Aldyth had been unable to inform her aunt by what train she would travel down, and there was no one at the station to meet her. It was a clear, cold afternoon, and leaving her luggage to be sent on, she walked the short distance to the Cottage. She met no friend on the way. The Blands' windows were deserted, but Miss Tabitha Rudkin, from her post of observation on the other side of the road, saw her pass, and connected her arrival with that of another visitor who had unexpectedly appeared at Miss Lorraine's on the previous day. But Miss Rudkin could not believe in the fortuitous nature of the visit. She was not so easily hoodwinked, she said. Of course it was a planned thing.

Arrived at her aunt's gate, Aldyth paused for a moment to gaze at the wide-stretching prospect she loved. The view was unusually clear. She could see the long arms of a distant windmill rising black against the sky, and the spire of Wickham Church standing forth from a background of pearly grey. Old thoughts, old memories swept back upon her with the sight, and their influence was saddening.

"'Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; it is her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy,'"

she murmured to herself as she entered the garden; but though she knew this source of joy her own, she was hardly able to rejoice at that moment.

The little maid who opened the door gave a start of surprise at seeing her. Not having been long in Miss Lorraine's service, she hardly knew Aldyth, and was dismayed at her early appearance.

"Miss Lorraine never thought you would be here till the evening," she said; "she will not be back herself till six."

And Aldyth remembered that it was the afternoon on which her aunt held her "mothers' meeting."

To arrive before one is expected is seldom a cheering experience. Although there was no house in which she should feel more at home, a sensation of dreariness and loneliness oppressed Aldyth as she went up stairs to her old room. The little maid followed her, uneasy and apologetic.

"Mistress told me to light the fire," she said; "but I didn't think there was any hurry."

"It does not matter," Aldyth said.

But the maid at once set about the neglected duty, with the result that the room was soon full of smoke.

Aldyth's depression increased. The room had not the old familiar aspect. She missed her books and pictures, which had been removed to Wyndham whilst she dwelt there, and were now lying in a large chest waiting to be unpacked. She was free to devote herself once more to the studies which she loved, but there was little joy in the thought. Hers was a nature which finds its highest freedom in the bonds of duty.

It grieved her that the ties that for a brief period had bound her so closely to her mother and sisters were snapped. The rapid changes of the last two years had left her restless and unsettled. There seemed no purpose in her life now. She hardly knew how she should settle again in her aunt's home.

But it would never do to begin thus. She fought with her despondency; she took herself to task. In a world where so many needed love and sympathy, was there not work for every one? Would not new duties come to her? God had a purpose in her life, a place for her to fill.

"I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,
Round our restlessness His rest."

Aldyth smiled, too, as the words came to mind. She shook off her discontent with the dust of travel, and having freshened her appearance, quitted the smoky room and ran down stairs.

There a surprise awaited her. The servant, bewildered by her sudden appearance, had not thought to mention the fact that Miss Lorraine had a guest. As Aldyth entered the drawing room, a gentleman rose quickly from a chair by the fire. Did her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed John Glynne?

"You are come!" he said, by no means surprised to see her. "Miss Lorraine assured me you would not arrive before six o'clock. I was coming to the station to meet you; I am sorry to have missed that pleasure."

And Aldyth had her welcome at last; but it took her some minutes to recover from her astonishment.

"You are the last person I expected to see," she said; "I thought you were a long way off."

"Ah, you did not know I had returned. I resigned my post and came home on account of my mother's illness."

"Then you were with her," Aldyth said, in tones soft with sympathy.

"Yes, I was with her. It is a great comfort to me to remember those last days."

And he told her about them, talking as he could not have talked to Miss Lorraine; indeed, to no other being could he so have opened his heart. Aldyth said little in response, but her sympathy made itself felt without words, and the few she uttered were dear to him.

"Your sister is well, I hope?" she said, after a pause.

"Quite well," he answered; "she is going to be married."

"That will be your loss," said Aldyth.

"It will; but she will be happy."

"Are you going abroad again?"

"No, I have found work in London."

Aldyth made no remark on this. She was silent, thinking of the evening when they had parted at the field gate, and of all that had happened since.

"Aunt has told you all the news, I suppose," she said at last. "You know what has happened to me—that my mother has gone from me—that our home is broken up?"

"I know," he said, looking earnestly at her; "you feel these changes very much?"

"I feel—some things," Aldyth replied, a strange tremor in her voice. "I don't mind losing Wyndham, but I do feel losing my mother. It is hard to think that she no longer wants me—that no one wants me now."

The words had scarcely passed her lips ere she would have recalled them. They sounded so weak, so selfish.

John Glynne did not deem them so. They seemed to make that possible which was his heart's most cherished desire. He rose; he moved to the window and stood there in silence a few moments. Then he came back and stood before Aldyth. She looked up and met his glance, which held hers spellbound.

"Aldyth, I want you," he said.

And she gave herself to him without a fear.

THE END.

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY.

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